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thirty, forty, and even fifty years ago.
    Sam had told Anna that everyone made an appearance at the Governor's Ball, even if half the room cleared out before dinner was served in order to attend one of the many hipper parties held at various clubs, restaurants, and private homes across the city, away from the watchful eye of the Los Angeles Police Department. Those parties didn't start until an hour or so after the ceremony, so the Governor's Ball was a good way to kill some time. Anna and Sam joined an endless line by one of the bars that was serving the evening's signature drink, a rum-and-grenadine concoction that had been hastily renamed the “Miracle.”
    “Fucking British wankers,” a silver-haired man in front of Anna groused to his date—or maybe it was his wife—about the
Miracles
sweep. She was at least twenty years younger than he was, with a cascade of diamonds dripping into her saline-assisted cleavage. “I hate those sons of bitches. Americans still have an inferiority complex about that shit. Fucking members of the fucking Academy. In fact, what the hell are we doing at this party? Let's go home.”
    As the man dragged the woman away toward the main doors, Sam nodded knowingly. “That's Peter Marx. He wrote
A Heart Divided
.”
    Anna nodded. She recalled that
A Heart Divided
, taken from a young-adult novel about a Confederate flag controversy at a Southern high school, had lost out for Best Adapted Screenplay.
    “Notice how he reeks of loser now,” Sam observed as they watched Marx and the blonde depart, without a single other guest taking notice. “He's not going home; he knows he has to show his face tonight or some studio exec will mention it in an anonymous blog in the morning. He'll go to some after party and pretend to be thrilled to be nominated. Then he'll go home and post anonymously on some Web site about how he got robbed. Speaking of after parties, you still want to do Morton's?”
    The Governor's Ball was the official Oscars after party—appearances were mandatory. But the
Vanity Fair
bash at Morton's restaurant on Melrose Avenue was the most exclusive of all the post-Oscar festivities—it was where the Hollywood A-list ended up after they'd hung out sufficiently at the Governor's Ball and at least made it through the coconut-shrimp appetizer. Sam and Anna had planned to go to Morton's, but that had been when Jackson was still an Oscar contender.
    “I don't know. I don't suppose your father can be happy with the it-was-an-honor-just-to-be-nominated point of view?”
    “Politically correct horseshit,” Sam decreed as the drinks line edged forward. “No one really feels that way. My father and Poppy will stop there for like ten minutes so that he looks like a gracious loser; then they'll head home and cry into their low-carb beer.”
    Anna smiled. “You may be the last honest girl in Hollywood.”
    “Please. I'm only honest with you.”
    “Anna? Is that you?”
    Anna swung around and recognized the slicked-back silver hair and chiseled features of Dr. Dan Birnbaum, Hollywood's most renowned cosmetic surgeon. Also, father to Ben Birnbaum.
Her
Ben. Well, at least he'd been her Ben for a while. Just thinking about him caused a pain in the area of her heart. She'd never, ever felt about a boy the way she'd felt about Ben.
Still
felt about Ben. Admitting that, if only to herself, caused the pain to deepen.
    “Nice to see you again, Dr. Birnbaum,” Anna said politely. She'd met him at the wedding where Jackson Sharpe had married Sam's stepmother, Poppy, and a few other times, too. He looked better now—his hair, which he'd allowed to gray perfectly at the temples, was neatly swept back, and he'd clearly been working out. Ben had told her that his father had nearly killed himself back in January due to gambling debts. She hoped that those problems were long over. But Ben had intimated that his father wasn't all that stable, so she was a bit wary. “This is my friend—”
    “Sam