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Rochelle said.
    “Not so great. He turned out to be an insurance salesman. I bought $25,000 worth of term life before I found out he was married with three kids.”
    “Here’s to the life insurance salesman,” said 44
    Laura Levine
    Ashley. “May he catch the casting lady’s yeast infection.”
    And we all drank to that one, too.
    Pam was right about the club. I was enjoying myself immensely. I only hoped that I could get through the evening without having to talk about myself. As nice a bunch as they appeared to be, I wasn’t totally comfortable spilling my guts to them.
    Not yet, anyway. But it looked like I was going to be in the spotlight, after all. Because just then I saw Marybeth gazing at me appraisingly.
    “What about you, Julie? What’s going on in your life?”
    “Actually, it’s Jaine.”
    “Oh, gosh. Forgive me. I am so bad with names.
    I’m surprised I still have any clients left.”
    “Me, too,” I heard Colin mutter under his breath.
    Marybeth shot me a smile that was meant to be sympathetic. “Go on. Tell us what’s happening in your life. Any men?”
    Why did I get the feeling that she already knew the truth about me, that I was just another manless gal in L.A., whose last date was a distant memory, and an unpleasant one at that?
    “Actually, I’ve been dating an actor. He’s sort of famous. I really shouldn’t tell tales out of school, but what the hell? His initials are Denzel Washington.” Okay, so I didn’t say that. I just smiled and made a passing reference to the fact that the landscape of my social life resembled a nuclear wasteland, and the others turned their attention to Rochelle.
    “So, Rochelle,” Doris asked, “how are things with Marty?”
    Rochelle jumped up and started for the kitchen.
    “Who wants more empanadas?”
    “Rochelle,” Doris barked. “Get back here.” THE PMS MURDERS
    45
    Rochelle sat back down on the sofa with a sigh.
    Marybeth reached over and took her hand.
    “C’mon, honey,” she said. “You can tell us. That’s what we’re here for.”
    Rochelle shot her a grateful look, then took a deep breath.
    “Things with Marty aren’t so hot. He hardly talks to me. He comes home at all hours. Says he’s working late. I just don’t understand it. What sort of dentist works till midnight?” She shook her head unhappily and stared down at her nails, which I could see were bitten to the quick.
    “When he comes home, the first thing he does is head for the shower. I heard on Oprah the other day that’s a sign that your husband is having an affair.” She looked up from her nails.
    “What do you think?” she asked, her eyes wide with worry. “Do you think Marty’s having an affair?” Nobody said anything. Nobody had the heart to say what they were thinking, that of course he was having an affair, that she should wake up and smell the cappuccino and get the name of a good divorce attorney.
    “It’s hard to tell, Rochelle,” Pam finally managed to say.
    “Men.” Ashley stared morosely into her margarita.
    “What a bunch of bums. At least after I caught my husband cheating on me with our 17-year-old neighbor, he had the good grace to die and leave me a boatload of money.”
    She raised her glass in a toast.
    “Here’s to my husband Roger. If there are yeast infections in hell, I hope he gets one.”
    “Here, here!” said Pam, and we all raised our glasses.

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    Laura Levine
    Marybeth tsk-tsked in disapproval.
    “You guys are terrible. Such Negative Nellies. For your information, there are plenty of good men out there. In fact, it just so happens I’ve found not one, but two of them.”
    “I suppose you’re going to tell us all about them,” Pam sighed wearily.
    Marybeth reached for the bowl of macadamias, which I’d pretty much demolished. “Pass the nuts will you, June?”
    “I’m afraid I ate most of them,” I said, passing her the bowl.
    “That’s all right,” Rochelle said, jumping up.
    “I’ve got more in the