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stirred the studio audience into a sing-along frenzy with an impromptu rendition of “Wild Thing” on his harmonica. And to Rosie, when pressed, Avery humbly admitted, “I can count on one hand all my sex partners—including the hand.”
    That summer away from the show, Joanne Lane became the fifth woman in Avery’s life. With lustrous shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, Joanne had an undefinable star quality. Though no great beauty, she had a sultry voice and a toned, taut body. She oozed sex appeal. The Broadway actress had landed a role in Avery’s first “starring” feature film, a forgettable romantic comedy called Five Feet of Heaven . She played his slutty sister, and outside of falling in love with her screen brother, she found film acting incredibly tedious. Joanne ran back to Broadway, and Avery reluctantly returned to Los Angeles and Crazy to Work Here . But they couldn’t stay away from each other. Avery used his clout to get Joanne some guest shots on the show. He spent summers and holidays on the East Coast; she took breaks between plays to be with him in Hollywood. All the traveling and scheduling became quite complicated. So they kept the wedding simple. They were married in a small chapel in Avery’s hometown of Fairfax, Virginia.
    One advantage to Avery and Joanne’s bicoastal marriage was that the relationship never had a chance to grow stale. After two years, they still acted like newlyweds. If anything had grown stale it was all the traveling and the time apart. Before this recent theatrical misfire had lured Joanne back to Broadway, they’d been trying to have a baby—without much luck.
    “I made us another appointment with the fertility specialist on Wednesday, the eighth,” Joanne told him on the answering machine. “Also I committed us to another public service announcement for handgun control. They won’t film until late December, so we can put that on the back burner for now. I miss you, sweetie. I wish it were next week already so we could be together. It’s midnight here. I’m hitting the sheets. Good night, love.”
    Joanne had left the message an hour ago. Avery decided not to call and possibly wake her. Instead, he went to his suitcase in the closet. He snapped open the locks, and took out a video—a sexually explicit video starring Mr. and Mrs. Avery Cooper.
    Several months back, he’d been concerned about his first R-rated love scene—in this movie with Traci Hadyn. Joanne had playfully suggested they “rehearse” together. At her urging, he’d broken out the video camera and tripod to tape their lovemaking. After some initial shyness, they began to have fun, and eventually forgot the camera was there. The resulting video was more silly than sexy. Avery stashed the tape in his underwear drawer, and pretty much forgot about it.
    But his first night on location here in Vancouver, he’d unpacked his bags, and found Joanne had taken their little sex epic out of mothballs. She’d hidden the video in his suitcase—along with a Post-It note: Dear Husband, Keep Rehearsing! Your Loving Wife . She’d left for New York that same day.
    Now Avery popped the cassette in the VCR connected to the hotel TV. He sat at the end of his bed and watched. He ignored his own video image: that dumb wiry guy with the erection and the birthmark on his butt. Instead, he focused on Joanne’s lithe body, the way she smiled and giggled. He felt himself grow hard.
    Someone knocked on the door. Avery stood up and tried to adjust his erection. His first thought was: God, please don’t let it be Traci Haydn . He ejected the video and turned off the TV. There was another knock.
    “Mr. Cooper? Turn down your bed?”
    Stashing the video back in his suitcase, Avery went to the other room and checked the peephole. It was the old lady who pulled back the bedcovers every night. As far as Avery was concerned, her job was the most useless service a hotel could provide. But, hell, she was a