"Unbelievable." Margo tore into her steak. She ripped off a huge hunk with her fork and shoved it into her mouth. The b.l.o.o.d.y juice dripped down her chin. "Absolutely unbelievable." With a grunt, she hacked off another bite.

"Would you prefer a meat cleaver?" Dane asked over his gla.s.s of Scotch. "They don't usually put them out on the tables at the Polo Lounge, but perhaps they could fetch us one from the kitchen."

"I mean, the nerve," Margo went on, as though she hadn't heard. It was funny, she thought. She used to hang on Dane's every word, hardly daring to believe that Dane Forrest, her erstwhile idol, was addressing her. But familiarity had bred if not quite contempt, then a decided lack of awe. It was getting easier and easier to ignore her fiance. Especially when he's been drinking like this. "The way she walked into the place? Giving orders to the salesgirls? Shoving herself into the front of every picture? Telling the cameramen how she wanted to be lit? I mean, my G.o.d."

Dane laughed. "Diana's been a star for a long time. She doesn't exactly understand what it is to play the second fiddle."

"Well, she better start learning. I'm the bride, and what I say is supposed to go. As far as this wedding goes, I'm Laurence Olivier. The star and the director. I'm in charge."

"Darling." Dane drained his gla.s.s and motioned to the waiter for another one. "If you were in charge, there wouldn't be any wedding."

Margo dropped her fork and knife on her half-empty plate with a clatter, her heart dropping into her stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Oh, come on, Margo." Dane rolled his eyes. "Relax. All I meant was that left to our own devices, we might have done things differently. We would have had more time to plan, for starters. Would have waited a little longer. Gotten to know each other a bit better."

"We know each other pretty well, if you ask me," Margo retorted. What is he talking about? Back in Pasadena, girls eagerly accepted proposals from boys with whom they'd shared no more than a handful of waltzes at a debutante ball, whereas Margo had been with Dane for months. What else could he possibly want to know? "Besides," she added crossly, "if we don't know each other well enough, it's not my fault. You're the one who's been keeping things from me."

"Like what?"

"Like Diana, for instance," Margo insisted. "Why didn't you tell me you asked her to be in the bridal party?"

At least Dane had the decency to look guilty at that. Finally. "I was going to."

"When? The wedding is only two weeks away!"

"I know, I'm sorry." Dane looked around anxiously for his drink. "But it just happened. We had dinner, and it seemed to mean so much to her, and I owe her. ..."

"You might have at least asked me first," Margo said. "I mean, how do you think it will look to have the woman everyone thinks is your great lost love standing there with us at the altar? It's humiliating! You're going to look like a bigamist, and I'm going to look like a fool."

Dane's drink arrived at last and he took a long, grateful sip. "Well, Larry Julius thinks it's a good idea."

"Larry Julius?" Margo cried. "You told Larry Julius before you told me?"

"Margo, please. The naivete is no longer charming or convincing. And actually, it was Diana who called him. But he was quite impressed with the idea. Thinks it will send a good message to the public that things are really over between Diana and me, that she's giving her blessing for them to abandon any reservations they might have about you and me. 'A stroke of genius' is the phrase I believe he used. And personally," he continued, after taking another long slug of Scotch, "I think it's all rather stylish. Wickedly urbane, like something out of a Noel Coward play. Usually that sort of thing appeals to you."

"Right, except the separated couple always gets back together in Noel Coward plays," Margo pointed out. "And the new wife is always some ghastly, undereducated twit her husband can't wait to be rid of. Is that what you think of me?"

"Margo." Dane leaned forward urgently, both palms flat on the table. His green eyes, lately dull with liquor, burned with their old fire. "Diana is my sister. I thought at least one of us should have some family at the wedding. Real family, that is."

Family. It was a word the two of them normally avoided like the plague, and yet here it was, unavoidable, the elephant in the Polo Lounge. As far as Margo knew, the girls Friday in the press office had mailed an invitation to the Pasadena address she had nervously provided just as soon as the thick, cream-colored, gold-lettered cards had come back from the engravers, but as yet there had been no response. Maybe they're just not coming. Maybe her disowning, which in her more honest moments she had to admit had not been without convenience in the past year, was truly permanent. Maybe they really were never going to forgive her for disobeying their wishes and coming to Hollywood.

Or maybe, Margo thought, staring down at the blood congealing on her plate, maybe they just don't care.

Dane seemed to sense just how deep his remark had cut. "Margo, I'm sorry."

"Never mind."

"No, that was wrong. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's fine. I don't want to talk about it."

"Still. I'm sure you'll hear from them soon."

Margo jerked away from his hands as he reached toward her. "I said, I don't want to talk about it!"

"Fine, then don't. That'll be a change." Dane sat back, averting his eyes from her as he flipped open his gold cigarette case inlaid with dark jade that matched his eyes. The one Diana gave him. "Finish your steak. It's getting cold."

Obediently, Margo picked up her knife and fork. "Aren't you going to order something to eat?" she asked.

"Actually, I've got to run. I'm supposed to meet Clark Gable at the Clover Club in half an hour to play cards with some of the fellows."

"Gable!" Margo exclaimed, her mouth full of steak. "Isn't he on his honeymoon?"

Dane gave her a watery smile. "Honeymoon? Don't make me laugh. He married Carole in Arizona on a weekend, and Selznick had him back on the Wind set Monday morning."

"But I thought we were supposed to have the whole night together." Margo pouted. "Can't I come with you?"

"I'm afraid it's a bit of a boys' night. Belated bachelor party, really."

"You might have told me."

"When? You've been ranting about Diana since the moment we sat down. I didn't think it was gentlemanly to interrupt." If his grin was supposed to show he wasn't annoyed, it wasn't working.

"But I haven't seen you in days," she protested. "We've got so much still to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Like where we're going to live after the wedding, for one."

"I thought we were going on some sort of romantic Parisian sojourn. Just you, me, and a small battalion of Olympus flacks."

"After that," Margo said impatiently, "we need to find a house."

Dane looked puzzled. "What's wrong with my house in Malibu?"

"Malibu?" Margo almost laughed. Sometimes she didn't know if Dane was making fun of her or if he was really that clueless. "It's a million miles away, for a start. From the studio, from the city, from all of our friends-"

"I know. That's why I like it."

"And besides," she continued, pretending not to hear him, "it's totally unsuitable for our needs. After we're married, we're going to be expected to properly set up house, to have parties and dinners and things. The place in Malibu barely has a dining room, let alone rooms for entertaining, or for staff. Or a nursery."

"A nursery?" Dane bolted upright in his chair. "Now I'm really getting out of here."

"Please, Dane," Margo begged. "Please say you'll at least go and see a few places with me this week. Mr. Karp's realtor has a new house in Bel Air he thinks might be just perfect for us, and there are some things in Holmby Hills. ..."

"I'll think about it." Dane tossed off the rest of his Scotch and stood up. "Now I've got to go. I'll leave the car here and take a taxi, okay?" He kissed her forehead. "Be a good girl and I'll call you in the morning."

Margo watched him go.

He didn't even tell me he loves me.

She looked around the room at the small groups of glamorously dressed luminaries ensconced in the Polo Lounge's famous dark green booths, slurping down plates of the famous spaghetti Bolognese, shouting remotely at unfortunate underlings on one of the famous tableside telephones. Everything in Hollywood is famous, Margo thought, even if n.o.body's ever heard of it before. There was a time when she would have been thrilled at the scene, and a bit later on, thrilled at how little it thrilled her.

Now she just felt nothing.

Maybe it was the stress of the wedding. It had all happened so fast, and from the proposal on, nothing had been at all the way she had imagined it would be. Despite their differences, no matter what had happened between them, she had always expected her mother to be by her side as she puzzled over all the delicious little decisions she had always daydreamed about making: the pink flowers versus the white, the lamb chops versus the lobster. Whatever maternal failings Helen Frobisher might have had, you could count on her knowing precisely the way things ought to be done. She'd have known just how to handle Diana Chesterfield that afternoon at the bridal shop, matched her icy stare for icy stare, withering put-down for withering put-down. "Wallis Simpson?" her mother would have thundered. "Do you really propose to appear at my daughter's wedding in the raiment of a known adulteress?" And a knockoff, at that. Poor Florence Pendergast would have melted in a puddle on the floor. Gabby and Amanda would have been lucky to escape with their lives.

So absorbed was Margo in imagining this amusing scene that she hardly noticed Perdita Pendleton, the most senior and consequently the most feared gossip columnist in town, sweep down upon her table. She wore a vivid orange turban with a single dyed feather affixed to the front, making her look like a particularly frivolous bird of prey.

"If it isn't the gorgeous Margo Sterling!" she exclaimed. "Hollywood's favorite blushing bride." Perdita spoke as she wrote, in captions.

"Perdita," Margo said. "h.e.l.lo."

"Don't tell me I just saw the divine Dane dash out on you? Not a lovers' quarrel, I hope?" Her beady eyes glittered in antic.i.p.ation of a scoop.

"Not at all," Margo cooed. "He simply had to run. He's playing cards with Clark Gable tonight at the Clover Club."

"Without you? The beast."

"Not really. I'm relieved, honestly." Margo tried to laugh gaily. "You know what those boys can get up to."

"I certainly do." Perdita nodded sagely. "Well, I'm here dining with Gary Cooper. William Powell is supposed to meet us. Still licking his wounds over the Gable-Lombard union, poor thing." Her lipsticked mouth stretched in the customary wide smile that somehow never seemed to reach her eyes. "You're welcome to join us."

"That's ever so sweet of you," Margo said, "but I've just finished, and anyway, I really must go."

"Of course. You need your beauty sleep, after all. Have a good night, dear. We're all looking forward to next week. Imagine, a real Pasadena society girl marrying one of our gypsy breed." The smile widened into a grimace. "Your lovely parents must be so proud."

"They are," Margo said firmly. "Bursting."

The white stretch limo was idling by the curb, waiting for her. Say what you will about stardom, Margo thought, sliding across the rich leather seat as the uniformed chauffeur closed the door smartly behind her, it certainly does have its perks.

"Going back to the studio, Miss Sterling?" the driver asked.

"Actually, no," Margo replied. Her heart was pounding from the thought of what she was about to do. "I need you to take me to Pasadena."

In the rearview mirror, she could see his eyes go big with surprise. "Pasadena, miss?"

"Yes. Forty-Six Twenty-One Orange Grove Boulevard. Just go east and I'll show the way."

"Very good, miss."

G.o.d, she was nervous. She had to have something to help her calm down or she was going to be sick. If only she'd ordered a Scotch of her own before she left. "You're new, aren't you?" she called out to the driver, her voice trembling slightly. "What's your name?"

"Saunders, Miss. And yes, just started driving for the studio about a week ago."

Saunders. Margo smiled to herself. Leave it to Dane to snag a proper English chauffeur for himself. "Did Mr. Forrest leave anything to drink in the car, Saunders?"

"Try the bar, miss. He likes to keep it stocked."

"The bar?"

"Under the divider, by the floor. It's a hidden panel."

Margo ran her hands over the highly polished wooden panel in front of her. The baseboard sprang open at her touch, revealing a neat row of cut-crystal decanters filled with liquids of varying shades of brown. She picked up the one that looked like brandy, poured a generous amount into a heavy tumbler etched with the Olympus logo, the thunderbolt encircled by a wreath of laurel leaves, and took a steadying sip.

"Find it all right, Miss Sterling?" Saunders called.

"Yes, thank you. It's quite cleverly hidden, isn't it?"

"This is an old car, miss. Mr. Julius had it fitted with the bar back during Prohibition. Designed it himself."

Of course he did, Margo thought. n.o.body can hide something better than Larry. "Well, he did an awfully good job. I never would've guessed it was there if you hadn't told me."

"Apparently-or so Mr. Forrest tells me-there used to be a special b.u.t.ton to press that could dump the whole thing out onto the road at a moment's notice, decanters and all. But that's since been removed, of course."

"Yes, I can see how that would be impractical."

Margo drank the rest of her brandy in one gulp and reached forward to pour herself another very small one. She was beginning to feel better. Settling back in her seat, she peered out the tinted windows at the familiar landscape. The lights of Hollywood receded as the limo began the slow climb into the hills. Margo had made this trip only once since she'd first come to Hollywood for good, and yet it felt so familiar, so inescapable, the way the first day back at school used to feel.

Like the summer never happened, Margo thought. Like you'd never been gone at all.

They were beginning to make their way downhill again, back toward a world of green lawns and palm trees. It looks so much like Beverly Hills, Margo thought, yet the two towns might as well be separated by an ocean, for all the people had in common. "Stay left," she told Saunders. "This road will turn into Orange Grove, and then you just keep going straight."

"Yes, miss."

It was too dark to see past the tinted gla.s.s now. Margo rolled down the window to watch the familiar houses. The Pierreponts' sedate redbrick colonial. The big California Tudor where Timmy Mulvaney, the little boy she used to babysit, lived. The Winthrops' Spanish-style mansion with the red tile roof, where she and Doris used to creep out on clear nights to look at the stars.

Doris. Margo felt a little pang in her heart at the thought of her former friend. Whenever she'd fantasized about planning her wedding with her mother, in her heart of hearts she'd always imagined that Doris would be there too. Doris, her maid of honor, the sister Margo, a lonesome only child, had never had.

But Doris and all the others were gone now. Margo Sterling had never met them. They were just a bunch of people Margaret Frobisher used to know.

Saunders pulled up at the curb of a large white house half hidden by a pair of wildly flowering jacaranda trees. "Is this it, miss?"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to wait outside?"

"Actually, would you mind terribly circling around for a bit?" A white stretch limo was terribly conspicuous. She didn't want to run the risk of anyone noticing it out front.

"Very good, miss."

Margo climbed out of the car. The night air was chilly for April. The fresh outdoor scent she had always a.s.sociated with her childhood, of orange blossom and freesia and something else, something indefinable and gra.s.sy, flooded her nose. Anxiously, she looked at the walkway to the house, wondering what to do next. Should she walk straight up to the front door and knock?

Better not, she thought. Her father had a tendency to answer the door himself on his nights in, and she couldn't handle him slamming it in her face.

Slipping out of her shoes, she crept silently around the side of the house, ducking behind the hedges and flowering trees to be sure she was out of sight. When she was safely at the back of the house, she rapped on the kitchen door, tentatively at first, then louder, until she rattled the blinds that hung down over the panes of latticed gla.s.s.