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obscuring her from his sight. But the thought of her haunted him all afternoon, and he was no longer sure what he wanted from her. If he wanted her for his new show, or for himself, or both. All he knew was that he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Chapter 3

    Warwick had gone to three auditions on the same afternoon that Sabina was strolling back toward the Beverly Wilshire to retrieve her car and go home to swim in her pool before reading Mel's script for Manhattan. And unlike Sabina and Mel, he was not in a pleasant mood, nor was he feeling sensual, or as though life had something exciting in store for him, be it a part or an affair. He had been turned down at all three auditions and the last thing on his mind was getting laid. All he wanted was to get work. Anything. All he had left was eight hundred dollars in the envelope in his desk drawer, a dog that ate too damn much, and a wife who hadn't worked in almost a year, although she'd had a good role in a sitcom when they got married the year before. But she'd gotten canned six weeks later, and she hadn't even tried to get work since then. Nothing. She just sat on her ass day and night, and got stoned all the time. They hadn't made love in almost two months and she was so thin now she looked anorexic. She had started with diet pills years before, gone to uppers and speed, and then downers and heroin, and finally cocaine, and these days she was into speedballs, a mixture of heroin and cocaine that kept her high but gave her the illusion of making sense, but the truth was she didn't. And she was so badly hooked, he wondered if she'd ever be free of it.
    He loosened his tie, and prepared to wait an hour for the bus, if he was lucky. They'd had to sell their car, a battered Volkswagen, and if he didn't pay the rent soon, they'd be out on their asses, which might be a relief in some ways. Maybe it would finally shake some sense into Sandy. She was twenty-five years old, and her life was going down the tubes in a hurry. And she'd been so damn cute when they met, all long black hair and big brown eyes, like a puppy. She was like a little girl. He still felt a gentle glow of tenderness when he thought of meeting her at a Hollywood party for the first time. She had looked like a lost child, and his heart melted the moment he saw her. She had seemed so helpless, and so unable to cope with the wolves who abounded in the business. The trouble was, she was still unable to cope with them, and in order to deal with the pressure, she got more and more addicted, and she expected Bill to solve all their problems. And now she expected him to make enough money to pay for her habit.
    What do you expect me to do? Street mime, for chrissake? He remembered the fight they'd had only that morning, and he was sick of fighting with her. They'd been fighting for so long, and he was beginning to wonder if his parents were right. According to them, acting was for children, morons, and totally unstable people. Sandy was certainly no tower of strength, and he was beginning to wonder if he didn't have what it took. His demo reel, which showed pieces of commercials and television shows he'd acted in, had made the rounds of every studio, producer, director, and ad agency in Hollywood, and he wasn't getting anything from it. He had even shouted at his agent that afternoon. He had wanted to put him on The Dating Game, and Bill exploded at the suggestion.
    God damn it, I'm married.
    So who knows that? You two have kept it such a big secret, no one knows. And besides, you think anyone cares?
    I do. But the question was, did Sandy? Did she care enough to clean up? He was beginning to wonder. She didn't seem to give a damn about anything, except her connection. All her money from the show had been blown, and she spent every dime of her unemployment on coke. It was a great life. And Harry was right, no one knew they were married because Sandy's agent thought it would ruin her ingenue image. So would the tracks on