I walked up to her and looked into her gorgeous blue eyes, and I said, “I think that I love you.”

And then I took the tie of her robe and pulled it open.

I did it slowly. I did it so slowly that she could have stopped me a million times before it broke free. But she didn’t.

Instead, she sat up straighter, looked at me more boldly, and put her hand on my waist as I did it.

The sides of the robe broke free of each other the moment the tension slacked, and then there she was, naked and sitting in front of me.

Her skin was creamy and pale. Her breasts were fuller than I’d anticipated, her nipples pink. Her flat stomach rounded just the littlest bit underneath her belly button.

And when my eyes moved down to her legs, she parted them just the littlest bit.

Instinctively, I kissed her. I put my hands on her breasts, touching them the way I wanted to and then the way I liked my own to be touched.

When she moaned, I throbbed.

She kissed my neck and the top of my chest.

She pulled my shirt off over the top of my head.

She looked at me, my breasts exposed.

“You’re gorgeous,” she said. “Even more gorgeous than I imagined.”

I blushed and put my head in my hands, embarrassed by how out of control I felt, how out of my league it all was.

She took my hands off my face and looked at me.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I do.”

That night, Celia and I slept nude, holding each other. We no longer pretended to touch by accident. And when I woke up in the morning with her hair in my face, I inhaled, loudly and proudly.

Within those four walls, we were unashamed.

Sub Rosa

December 30, 1959

ADLER AND HUGO KAPUT!

Don Adler, Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelor?

Don and Evelyn are calling it quits! After two years of marriage, Don has filed for divorce from Evelyn Hugo.

We are sad to see the lovebirds part ways, but we’d be lying if we said we were surprised. We’ve heard rumblings that Don’s star is set to rise even higher, and Evelyn was getting jealous and catty.

Luckily for Don, he’s renewed his contract with Sunset Studios—which must have head honcho Ari Sullivan smiling wide—and has three films slated for release this year. That Don never misses a beat!

Meanwhile, while Evelyn’s newest movie, Little Women, showed boffo B.O. numbers and great critical reception, Sunset has pulled her out of the upcoming Jokers Wild and replaced her with Ruby Reilly.

Has the sun set on Evelyn’s time with Sunset?

HOW DID YOU REMAIN SO confident? So steadfast in your resolve?” I ask Evelyn.

“When Don left me? Or when my career went down the tubes?”

“Both, I guess,” I say. “I mean, you had Celia, so it’s a little different, but still.”

Evelyn cocks her head slightly. “Different from what?”

“Hm?” I say, lost in my own thoughts.

“You said I had Celia, so it was a little different,” Evelyn clarifies. “Different from what?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I was . . . in my own head.” I have momentarily let my own relationship problems seep into what should be a one-way conversation.

Evelyn shakes her head. “No need to be sorry. Just tell me different from what.”

I look at her and realize that I’ve opened a door that can’t really be shut. “From my own impending divorce.”

Evelyn smiles, almost like the Cheshire Cat. “Now things are getting interesting,” she says.

It bothers me, her cavalier attitude toward my own vulnerability. It’s my fault for bringing it up. I know that. But she could treat it with more kindness. I’ve exposed myself. I’ve exposed a wound.

“Have you signed the papers?” Evelyn asks. “Perhaps with a tiny heart above the i in Monique? That’s what I would do.”

“I guess I don’t take divorce as lightly as you,” I say. It comes out flatly. I consider softening, but . . . I don’t.

“No, of course not,” Evelyn says kindly. “If you did, at your age, you’d be a cynic.”

“But at your age?” I ask.

“With my experience? A realist.”

“That, in and of itself, is awfully cynical, don’t you think? Divorce is loss.”

Evelyn shakes her head. “Heartbreak is loss. Divorce is a piece of paper.”

I look down to see that I have been doodling a cube over and over with my blue pen. It is starting to tear through the page. I neither pick up my pen nor push harder. I merely keep running the ink over the lines of the cube.

“If you are heartbroken right now, then I feel for you deeply,” Evelyn says. “That I have the utmost respect for. That’s the sort of thing that can split a person in two. But I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.”

When Evelyn says this, I stop my pen in place. I look up at her. And I wonder why I needed Evelyn to tell me that.

I wonder why that sort of distinction has never crossed my mind before.

* * *

ON MY WALK to the subway this evening, I see that Frankie has called me for the second time today.

I wait until I’ve ridden all the way to Brooklyn and I’m heading down the street toward my apartment to respond. It’s almost nine o’clock, so I decide to text her: Just getting out of Evelyn’s now. Sorry it’s so late. Want to talk tomorrow?

I have my key in my front door when I get Frankie’s response: Tonight is fine. Call as soon as you can.

I roll my eyes. I should never bluff Frankie.

I put my bag down. I pace around the apartment. What am I going to tell her? The way I see it, I have two choices.

I can lie and tell her everything’s going fine, that we’re on track for the June issue and that I’m getting Evelyn to talk about more concrete things.

Or I can tell the truth and potentially get fired.

At this point, I’m starting to see that getting fired might not be so bad. I’ll have a book to publish in the future, one for which I’d most likely make millions of dollars. That could, in turn, get me other celebrity biography opportunities. And then, eventually, I could start finding my own topics, writing about anything I want with the confidence that any publisher would buy it.

But I don’t know when this book will be sold. And if my real goal is to set myself up to be able to grab whatever story I want, then credibility matters. Getting fired from Vivant because I stole their major headline would not bode well for my reputation.

Before I can decide what, exactly, my plan is, my phone is ringing in my hand.

Frankie Troupe.

“Hello?”

“Monique,” Frankie says, her voice somehow both solicitous and irritated. “What’s going on with Evelyn? Tell me everything.”

I keep searching for ways in which Frankie, Evelyn, and I all leave this situation getting what we want. But I realize suddenly that the only thing I can control is that I get what I want.

And why shouldn’t I?

Really.

Why shouldn’t it be me who comes out on top?

“Frankie, hi, I’m sorry I haven’t been more available.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Frankie says. “As long as you’re getting good material.”

“I am, but unfortunately, Evelyn is no longer interested in sharing the piece with Vivant.”

The silence on Frankie’s end of the phone is deafening. And then it is punctuated with a flat, dead “What?”

“I’ve been trying to convince her for days. That’s why I’ve been unable to get back to you. I’ve been explaining to her that she has to do this piece for Vivant.”

“If she wasn’t interested, why did she call us?”

“She wanted me,” I say. I do not follow this up with any sort of qualification. I do not say She wanted me and here is why or She wanted me and I’m so sorry about all this.

“She used us to get to you?” Frankie says, as if it’s the most insulting thing she can think of. But the thing is, Frankie used me to get to Evelyn, so . . .