I called her back and got her voicemail. Could she have turned her cell off that quickly if she were ... what? I thought of calling the police. But what would I say? I threw off the duvet. Pills scattered. Had I spilled them when I fell asleep? s.h.i.t. How many did I take?

Unsteady, I forced myself up and into my robe. The room tilted as I took Celia's house key from a china bowl on my dresser. Celia lived about ten houses down from mine. We had exchanged keys so that when we were traveling we could look after one another's place.

Lurching down the hall and into the living room, I opened the door to the deck. The cold wind jarred me. I gulped in air and shook my head, trying to clear my brain. I stumbled down the stairs, out onto the sand, and fell to my knees. I managed to get back up on my feet. Christ, I didn't have shoes on. Staggering along the water's edge, feeling lightheaded and queasy, I somehow made it onto Celia's terrace.

I pounded on the French doors. I pounded again. No response. I let myself in.

"Celia?" I called into the dark, too dazed and confused to think I might be in danger.

Stumbling into the sofa, I made my way around it, into her bedroom, and found the light switch. Her bed was made. Everything was where it should be. Breaking out into a damp sweat, I checked the rest of the house. She wasn't there. In the kitchen I opened the door that led to the garage. Her car was gone. I stared a moment, then closed the door, locked up the house, and left.

My teeth chattered. I wrapped my arms around me against the wet piercing wind. The ice-cold water bit at my bare feet as I trudged home. I noticed Ryan Johns was still sprawled on his lounge.

In my bedroom, I stared at the phone and the pills on my bed. The room began to swirl. I had to lie down. I had to get warm. Just for a minute, I promised myself, until the dizziness and nausea pa.s.sed. Then I'd think about what I should do. Collapsing onto the duvet, I closed my eyes. The awful sound of Celia's scream echoed in my head as my world spun around.

CHAPTER FIVE.

I slowly opened my eyes, then quickly closed them against the morning light seeping in around the edges of the shaded bedroom window. Turning on my side to snuggle in, I felt the grit of sand between my toes and on my calves. The nightmarish sound of Celia's scream came back to me.

Sitting up, I grabbed the phone and called her. Again I got her voicemail. s.h.i.t. With my head pounding, I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes. I finally found her house key on the floor where I must've dropped it last night.

I ran along the hard wet sand. Celia's house was a sprawling cottage with bougainvillea and roses clambering along her terrace. I knocked on the French door. No answer. Peering in, I saw her lying on the sofa. She was turned on her side, her back to me, wearing the clothes she'd had on yesterday. She was still.

I banged louder. "Celia, it's Diana. Let me in!"

Without moving, she yelled "Go away! I'll phone you later."

No woman screams the way Celia had last night without something being very wrong. Taking her key from my pocket, I opened the door.

"Oh h.e.l.l, Diana, somebody tells you to do something, and you always do the opposite." With a groan, Celia sat up, keeping her head lowered. Her long raven hair screened her face. Her orange skirt was rumpled, and her black chiffon blouse was ripped at the right shoulder seam. She was holding a bag of frozen organic peas.

Moving closer, I gently pushed her hair back from her face.

"Don't, Diana. Please," she mumbled.

A large bruise spread purple and yellow-green over her right eye and cheek bone. "What happened to you?" I asked.

Sighing, she lifted her head. Her lower lip was cut, the blood dried and brown.

"I don't want to talk about it." She pressed the bag of peas to the discolored area.

"I'm taking you to the emergency room."

"No!"

I sat down next to her. "Who did this to you?"

"n.o.body. It was a stupid accident. I ..."

"Before you go on you should know that your cell phone rang mine last night and I heard you scream. If you don't tell me who did this, I'm calling the police."

"You heard me?"

"Yes. Screaming."

"Oh, G.o.d, no."

"Tell me what happened, Celia."

"I can't." Her face was strained, terrified. "It could ruin me and my real estate business."

"Did Zaitlin do this?"

"He would never do such a thing. And you mustn't tell him."

"Then who?"

Her violet-colored eyes darted around the room as if someone dangerous was hiding among the pale blue linen-covered chairs, warmly polished chests, and striped silk drapes. The frozen bag of peas dropped from her hand to the floor and she began to cry. I put my arms around her. She leaned her head on my shoulder and sobbed. Calming, she pulled away, and I dug for Kleenex in my pocket and handed it to her.

"Do you remember how you and I met?" Sniffling, she dabbed at her face.

"I was standing in line waiting to see my mother's latest movie, and you cut in front of me." I picked the bag of peas off the floor and held it to her cheek.

"You didn't say a word. You just let me do it. And I told you that you would never get ahead if you let people cut in front of you. Do you remember what you told me?"

I shook my head.

"You said 'Maybe I don't want to get ahead.' That moment defined us, don't you think?"

"Maybe I just didn't want to see my mother's movie." It made my vacation time with Mother easier if I had seen her latest film.

"No, you wanted safety, and I wanted to be like Nora. You gave up acting, something you were very good at, to get married. To not be like your mother. I gave up acting because I was terrible at it."

Celia and I had been friends since we were sixteen. Back then, she had what I called a "normal" life-living in one home with one mother, one father, and a grandmother they called "big mama." She and her family had been a stabilizing force in my nomadic youth. Later, she, Zaitlin's wife Gwyn, and I were starlets together.

"I worked hard for all of this, Diana." Celia gestured at her room.

As if seeing it for the first time, I realized there were no family photos placed on the expensive bamboo side tables. There was nothing personal in the designer down-laden sofas and color-coordinated area rugs. There was no sign of Celia, of the young girl I once knew, or the woman she had become. But what do you display on your shelves if you're a long-time mistress-photos of Zaitlin, his wife, and their son?

"I don't want one night to destroy my life. Please don't make me tell you what happened to me," she added softly.

"But you've been beaten up, I heard you scream. I can't let that go."

"I'm really sorry, but is your fear important enough to you that you're willing to ruin my career?"

"I don't think that's the point. I would never do anything to harm your career. And it's not fear, it's concern. We're friends, Celia. You can't carry around what happened to you all by yourself. You need to talk about it."

"Then promise me you won't tell anyone. Not the police, not Robert, not anyone."

Staring at her desperate face, I took a deep breath. "I promise, but if it happens again, I'm dragging you to the emergency room."

"It won't happen again." She walked over to her French doors and stared out at the steel-gray ocean, hugging herself.

I joined her, watching the morning fog swirl, and waited.

Finally she spoke: "The man who was with me yesterday when we found you in the swimming pool."

"You mean Mr. Ward? The one who was looking at the house?"

"Yes. He wanted ... he wanted to meet me for a drink. He said there were some things he needed to discuss if he made an offer on the house."

"You thought he wasn't interested in it."

"I should have listened to my instincts." She pushed her fingers through her hair. "When I got there ..."

"Where?"

"A bar, that's all I'm telling you. We talked about the pros and cons of the house. Then we just began to chat in general. You saw him. He's handsome in that kind of off-kilter way. I enjoyed being with him. I got a little tipsy. Well, sloshed might be a better word. He said I was in no condition to drive and he'd take me home. He was parked on a quiet side street." She let out a weary sigh. "When we got in, he threw me back against the pa.s.senger door. His hands all over me. I struggled. That's when he hit me, hard." Tears rolled down over her bruise again.

"Did he rape you?"

She shook her head. "I somehow reached behind me and got the door open and I fell out onto the sidewalk, screaming. He drove off. Left me there like trash. I made it back to my car. At that point I was sober enough to drive." She forced a smile, then winced, touching her lip.

"Christ, Celia. I wish you'd report ..."

"Diana, you promised. You and I are never going to mention this again." She held my gaze.

"All right. What are you going to say to Robert when he sees you?"

"I was tipsy and stumbled in my five-inch heels and fell flat on my face. He's always predicted one day I would, so he'll believe it. I need to lie down."

I stayed while she showered and got into bed. Her hair fanned out like an ink spill on her snowy white pillows. "Thank you for being a good friend, Diana."

"Get some sleep." I wondered whether keeping quiet about what had happened was really being a good friend. But Celia was right-in real estate an attempted rape by a client could jeopardize her career and reputation maybe more than his.

"Are you going to the party tonight?" she asked.

I stopped in the doorway and turned. "What party?"

"Robert said they were having some kind of celebration."

"Oh, G.o.d, I forgot. I think it's a birthday party for their son. I don't suppose you're going."

"Of course not."

"Why do you stay with him, Celia? It's not like you're kept by him."

She stared down at the delicate laced edge of the sheet. "I don't want to end up like my parents did. When my father got home from work he would lie on the sofa expecting to be waited on by 'big mama' and my mother. Both women vying for his attention and arguing over who was in control of the kitchen. G.o.d, I hated it."

I smiled. "I loved your life."

"I loved your mother's. Robert comes here to see me because he wants to, not because he has to. And if I don't want to see him, I don't. I'm not dependent on anyone. I like my life the way it is." Then she added, "And I want to keep it."

"I'll call you later to see how you're doing."

She closed her eyes, and I left her looking vulnerable tucked among the ma.s.s of her pristine bedding.

Walking back home, I noticed Ryan was still splayed on his lounge, snoring with his mouth open. The golden hair on his legs glistened in the sunlight. He must've slept there all night. G.o.d, he's going to get sunburned.

"Ryan!" I yelled up from the beach. "Wake up!"

He kicked his feet and turned onto his side.

Climbing the steps to my house, I thought of Ryan, Celia, and me. Ryan got so drunk he pa.s.sed out on the walkway, a man battered Celia, and I drank a bottle of wine and took sleeping pills. Just another Monday night in Malibu.

CHAPTER SIX.

When I'm acting in a scene and the director tells me to stop and do nothing, I never question it. While the other actors are chewing the scenery and flapping their arms, a good actor can draw the audience to her by simply not moving. I don't mean doing an imitation of a statue. She has to find something real, a true emotion that shadows her face, revealing why she has chosen to stop. But that's in the movies. In real life, we're all afraid of stopping. Even Celia. Even Ryan. Even me.

Now standing in my kitchen, I downed four Advils. It's always the charming ones, I thought. The men your instinct, your gut, tells you to watch out for, tells you they don't like women. But then the charming ones smile, talk you into their world. Your protective instinct falters, and you let them seduce you until they hurt you. I knew guys like Ward well. My mother had a string of them. Christ, what was Celia thinking?

After drinking two cups of coffee and eating scrambled eggs, I went back to bed and slept for three hours. Then I got up and dressed in good jeans and a tailored white shirt. The last thing I wanted to do today was read lines with Jenny Parson, but I'd be d.a.m.ned if she was going to ruin our movie.

Putting on my makeup, I a.s.sessed my face in the bathroom mirror with an objectivity that only an actress can have. When you spend your life staring into a mirror trying to be who you are not, believe me, you know exactly what you look like-not to be confused with knowing who you are. My face was still beautiful, but it was becoming set. Less optimistic. Less adaptable. My blue eyes were no longer beguiling. Now they had a matter-of-fact quality to them. I had put on a little weight, but my body was still firm, tending to voluptuous. And the easy soft s.e.xuality I had once exuded had disappeared. Somewhere.

The phone rang and I hurried to answer it, thinking it might be Celia.

"Is this Ms. Diana Poole? Nora Poole's daughter?"

"Yes."

"This is the Hotel Bel Air. There has been an unfortunate mix-up. The crematorium sent your mother's ashes to us. It seems n.o.body picked them up, and the hotel was the only address they had for her."