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said. “Is Ariel going to kill herself on the show?”
    â€œHoney, for all I know, Ariel could turn into the Easter Bunny and hop off to China. Actually, that would be more interesting than some of the stuff that’s come from the writers lately.”
    â€œOh, no.” My heart began to pound in my chest, the beginning of a minor panic attack. This couldn’t be happening to me, and on the heels of a minor heartbreak. My boyfriend, Walker, had just ended our relationship in a totally rotten way, not calling me back for three weeks. Three weeks of torture ended when I showed up at his office at lunchtime to confront him and he acted like he didn’t even owe me an explanation. “Sometimes, things just don’t work out,” he’d said with an awkward shrug.
    A shrug! After three months of intimacy, I had to stalk the guy to get a shrug. I have to admit, it weakened my spirit. I went on a bender with Diet Cokes, fat-free chips, and an armful of magazines, which didn’t really help because no one really reports on nonrelation-ships with irresponsible men who don’t even care enough to break up with you. I tell you this not to gain your sympathy; I only want to explain why I was feeling a few chinks in my armor when Stella hit me with the weird advice.
    â€œDon’t take it personally, Hailey.” Stella squeezed my hand, rubbing my wrist vigorously with that motherly vibe. “It doesn’t mean anything. Consider the source—Deanna. It’s a quick script fix to whomp up the drama for her, not necessarily a turn in the story line.”
    But I couldn’t let it go. “How can they cut me from the show? Did you see the guest spot I did on Soap Central two weeks ago?”
    â€œNot a worry,” Stella insisted. “It’s a quicky rewrite done to get today’s script past Deanna. Chances are, you’ll never hear the word ‘suicide’ again.”
    The pounding in my chest slowed. “Right.” I swallowed hard. “Unless they don’t renew my contract.”
    â€œOh, you!” Stella patted my shoulder as she escorted me back toward the living-room set. “Just wanted to give you the heads-up, so you don’t step on any toes.”
    â€œThanks for that,” I said. With the new panic beating inside my chest, I felt totally unprepared to do the show today, a little skittish about facing Deanna, but there was no way out of it. Sucking in a breath, I tried an old yoga trick I’d learned—energy in, tension out.
    Energy in, tension out ...
    The breathing exercise helped, as did the mental exercise of focusing on pleasant thoughts: the fragrant cosmetics counter at Bloomie’s, the splendid museum-lit jewelry cases at Tiffany’s, the racks of gourmet gadgets in Macy’s Cellar, the plush, brown-and-white-striped bathrooms at Henri Bendel’s with stalls bigger than most Upper West Side studios ...
    â€œPeople, I need you to focus here,” the director called, holding up her hands like a flight attendant flagging in a jumbo jet. “We’re going to rehearse before we send the cast off to makeup and wardrobe.”
    Oh, but I didn’t want to focus on the awful scene that might spell the death of my soap-opera career! I wanted to think of the retail territory Alana and I would conquer when she returned from Europe. My mind floated off to the fountain in the Trump Tower, its water flowing steadily like a zen poem ...
    â€œOh, goody,” Ian Horwitz said in his crisp British accent. A handsome, white-haired chain-smoker, Ian plays a doctor who mistakenly killed his evil twin last season. He put an unlit cigarette into his mouth and opened his script. “Let’s get this party started.”
    Reluctantly, I released my euphoric department store reveries and tried to memorize my new lines as Deanna and her entourage appeared on the set. This time she had brought her dog, a loud little