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members of the group allowed this intimate moment to pass before Martha spoke up again. “Let me see that fax, Belle.”
    Belle handed it over. It was the cast list of Anatomy of a Crossword.
    Martha’s shrewd eyes ran down the names. “Louis Gable … who knew that pompous old coot was still around? Plus he’s one of DeDero’s exes, too. Number four, I think, maybe … or is it five? I get so confused with that dame’s amours … Anyway, having Gable around will probably make things real dicey on the set. Nan’s not one to appreciate having her leftovers around when she’s on the warpath for her new soul mate … Dan Millray plays the victim? That’s sure a waste of his talent and looks, if you ask me … Carol Von Deney … Oh, she was to die for as the rich witch on that nighttime soap that folded last year … Andy Hofren. Now, he’s a curious choice for her husband—or anybody’s husband, if you ask me … Ginger Bradmin. What an absolute sweetheart! Too bad her marriage to Quinton Hanny didn’t work out …”
    â€œActually—” Belle tried to interrupt, but Martha was on a roll.
    â€œâ€¦ On the other hand, she’s definitely better off without Quint, especially now that he’s taken up with … No, wait, that fling’s over, too.” A sudden gasp put an end to Martha’s monologue. “Jes Nadema’s doing Big Al!”
    Four pairs of eyes regarded her without comprehension. Unlike Martha, the rest of the Breakfast Bunch had not educated themselves regarding either personal relationships or performance credits of Hollywood’s current talent pool.
    â€œJes Nadema, the ex-pro wrestler …! Mr. I-take-off-my-shirt-in-all-my-close-ups! You guys must know who he is! He does all the ‘muscle man’ ads on TV … You’ve seen the jackhammer one? Where he gets a headache? Boy, did they ever goof on that particular bit of typecasting!” Martha pointedly moved her gaze to Al’s less-than-trim waistline while her laughter rose in a gleeful hoop.
    â€œVery funny, Martha,” Al muttered.
    Sara murmured a conciliatory, “Well, I think you should take the choice as a compliment, Albert. After all, the studio or whomever it is out there wouldn’t have—”
    But Sara’s kind effort was also interrupted as Martha gulped back her own hoots of amusement. The sound she made was similar to someone choking on a large and dangerous object. “Me! I’m in it, too! I’m Madeline Richter! Madeline ‘Gorgeous Legs’ Richter! Hey, everyone, listen up!” Martha turned to the company at large, brandishing the fax as she did so. “Listen up, you all! Guess who’s playing yours truly in a TV movie? Madeline Richter, herself!”
    At that moment, Belle who had taken Rosco’s hand, realized there was no stopping this particular train. Hollywood—or, in this case, Culver City—had apparently appropriated not only her life but everyone with whom she shared it. How could she possibly bring herself to disappoint her friends?

CHAPTER 4
    True to Chick Darlessen’s promise, the invasion of the Polaroid People took place a mere thirty-six hours after Belle’s tenuous and apprehensive “yes” to the screenwriter’s request. The design team’s “one hour max” visit was heralded by the arrival of a luxury-size rental car. It roared up historic Captain’s Walk and lurched to a halt in Belle’s and Rosco’s narrow driveway. A second later, the vehicle’s four doors flew open, and five people of indeterminate gender spilled forth. Obviously, they ascribed to Darlessen’s credo that time was of the essence. All five members of the team wore tight black jeans; tight, black, quilted jackets; and rose- or blue-tinted glasses, and sported short, dark hair streaked mustard-blond, or vice versa. Opening