“I thought Jean's comments were very good, in relation to her character. And Ned's made sense, too,” Tanya said fairly, ignoring everything Douglas had said. She wasn't going to argue the point with him about whether she should be a housewife or not. He didn't get a vote, except for the duration of the film. After that, she didn't care what he thought. He had no power over her life, nor was he clairvoyant or a shrink. He was obsessed with Hollywood, and she was not. He was drunk on the power he had. She was learning that about him, even though he expressed it subtly at times, and showed his hand at others, depending on what worked best for him in the situation they were in. He was a pro to watch, like a tennis player at Wimbledon.

She went back to the hotel afterward, and worked on the script for hours that night. She managed to get some of the changes in. Others were harder to effect. She called Max several times the next day to discuss it with him, and he told her not to worry about some of it. Some of the changes and subtle alterations would happen on the set, farther down the road. Max was by far the mellowest person she was dealing with, and she appreciated his ever-calm perspective about everything. He was very easygoing, and supremely knowledgeable. It was a perfect combination, unlike Douglas, who exuded tension and an obsession with control, which she found difficult at times.

It was a busy week for her in L.A., and for Peter at the office. He was starting a trial the following week. And Tanya continued to meet with Max, Douglas, and the cast, and work on the script. Much to her chagrin, they scheduled meetings for all day Saturday that they said were important for her to attend, and on Thursday afternoon she had to call Peter and say she couldn't come home. She asked if he and the girls could come down instead.

“Damn, Tan …I wish we could. Molly has a big soccer game. I know Megan has plans. Some big deal she's going to in the city with John White, so she won't want to come. And I have so much work to take home this weekend, I'd be a nervous wreck, unless I was sitting in the room working the whole time. I don't think this is the right weekend.”

“Mine looks like that, too,” she said sadly. “I hate not seeing you and the girls. Maybe I should just fly up Friday and spend the night. I have to be back for a meeting on Saturday at nine A.M. Maybe I can take a six o'clock plane.”

“That's crazy,” he said sensibly. “You'd be exhausted. Just let it go. You'll be home next weekend.” She hadn't expected them to schedule weekend meetings quite this quickly, although she had been warned it could happen. But not this soon. It depressed her that she couldn't go home, no matter how much work she had to do.

She called the girls and apologized to them herself that night. Megan's phone was off, so she left a message on voice mail. Molly was in a rush and said it was fine. Tanya felt like hell, and Peter was on a conference call when she called him, and couldn't talk. Three strikes, you're out. She even called Jason after that, to see if he wanted to come to L.A. for the night, and he had a hot date and didn't want to come, although he thanked her for the thought and said he'd love to do it another time, just not that particular weekend.

She spent Friday and Saturday in meetings with Max, Douglas, and the cast, and individually with Jean to discuss the motivation of her character with her. Jean took her work very seriously, and wanted to get into the head and skin of the person she was playing. Tanya felt completely drained by Saturday night when she got back to the hotel at eight o'clock, and even more so when she found a message from Douglas, asking her to call him back. “Shit, what now?” she muttered to herself. She had seen a lot of him all week and had had enough. He was such a powerful persona that a little went a long way. But he was the producer of the film, so she had no choice. She called him back on his private line at home, which was the number he had given her to call. It was a compliment that he had. It made her a Hollywood insider instantly, not that she cared.

“Hi. I just got in and found your message,” she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. She missed Peter and the kids, and she knew that all of them were out. “What can I do for you?” she said, wanting to get off fast. She wanted to lie in the tub and soak. If it didn't seem so extravagant, she'd have asked for a massage. She'd earned it, but it seemed like a frivolous expense to her, and she didn't want to take advantage of her deal. A soak in the tub was enough.

“I figured you'd be upset about not getting home this weekend. I was wondering if you'd like to come hang out by the pool tomorrow and lie in the sun, if you do that.” He laughed. She had a light tan, so he figured that she sat in the sun, either at home or in Tahoe. “Totally low-key. The Sunday Times, and no conversation if you don't want. It gets a little old being at a hotel.” He was right, it did, but she wasn't sure she wanted to spend the day with him. He was her boss, after all. And she couldn't just lie there and ignore him, although she had to admit a day at his pool sounded appealing. Being at the hotel pool with all the starlets and models trying to pick up men was a little wearing, and she felt totally out of place not wearing a thong and six-inch-high heels. She felt like a country bumpkin next to them, although she'd treated herself to a pedicure earlier in the week, one night while she was working, and paid for it herself. It had made her feel better, and the manicurist had worked while she read her revisions on the script, so it didn't interfere with her work, and was a boost to her spirits. Every woman she saw in L.A. had perfect manicures, and she felt a little less out of place.

“That's a very kind offer,” she said to Douglas. “I don't want to intrude on your Sunday though.” She hesitated, not sure whether to decline or accept. She never felt totally at ease with him, unlike Max, who was becoming more and more like a big brother. Douglas was anything but that. He was a power broker, and always on the make in some way. It was stressful to be with him. She couldn't imagine him relaxing on a lazy Sunday or any other time.

“You won't intrude. We'll ignore each other. I never talk to anyone on Sundays. Bring whatever you want to read. I'll provide the pool and the food. And whatever you do, don't comb your hair or wear makeup.” He had read her mind. She didn't want to get dressed up to come and see him. She couldn't imagine him sitting around with his hair sticking up though. Far from it. Max, yes. Douglas, never.

“I may take you at your word, if I come,” she said cautiously. “It's been a long week. I'm tired.”

“This is only the beginning, Tanya. Save your strength, you'll need it later. By January and February, you'll laugh at how easy these days were.”

“Maybe I should go home and jump off the bridge now,” she said, feeling daunted and slightly depressed. Not seeing Peter and her children made her feel even more down. And she was beginning to wonder if she was equal to the task.

“You'll be used to it by then. You'll take it in stride, believe me. And all you'll want when it's over is to do it again.” He always sounded certain of that, because it was true for him.

“Why is it that I don't believe you when you say that?”

“Trust me. I know. Maybe we'll work on another picture together one day,” he said, sounding confident and hopeful, as though it were a foregone conclusion. They hadn't even started this one yet. But everyone wanted to work on Douglas Wayne movies. Actors and writers begged to get hired for his films again and again. It was an almost sure way to get an Academy Award, which was what it was all about for the pros. It had a certain appeal to Tanya, too, but right now all she wanted to do was learn the ropes and survive it, not embarrass herself, and do a decent job. It had been a challenge for her all week, and she'd been discouraged more than once. “So, are you coming over tomorrow? How about eleven o'clock?”

She hesitated for a fraction of an instant and then gave in. It would have been too complicated to say no, so she didn't. “That would be fine. Thank you,” she said politely.

“See you then, and don't forget. No makeup. And don't comb your hair if you don't want.” Yeah, sure, she thought to herself, as Megan would have said. Whatever.

But the next day, she took him at his word, to some extent anyway. She wore her hair in a neat braid but didn't put on makeup. It felt good not to make any great effort, although she hadn't gotten particularly dressed up all week. No one did at the meetings, even the actors. But she had been more careful than she was now. She wore a faded T-shirt that was Molly's, flip-flops, and her oldest, most beatenup jeans. She took a stack of papers she wanted to read, a book she'd been meaning to start for a year, and the New York Times crossword puzzle, which was one of her favorite pastimes. And she took a cab to his house. She had given her driver the day off, it was Sunday after all.

Douglas let her in himself, and noticed the cab as it pulled away. He was wearing an immaculate T-shirt and perfectly pressed jeans and black alligator sandals. He didn't have a hair out of place, and the house was remarkably quiet. There were no servants around, unlike the night she had come to dinner, when there had been armies of them everywhere waiting on the guests. The house was silent and peaceful, and he walked her out to the pool and invited her to sit down, lie down, or do whatever she wanted. He had a stack of newspapers for her on a table next to a chaise longue. And he disappeared a moment later.

He reappeared, and without asking if she wanted it, he put a drink in her hand. It was champagne and peach juice, a Bellini, one of her favorite drinks, although it was a little early for that, but it was mild.