Over the next ten minutes, a single hair was plucked from my right eye and none from my left, then Anoushka saw fit to declare, ‘Finish!’

Sitting up, I looked into the mirror: my nose was red and my eyes were rheumy, as though I’d been crying for a week. I reminded myself of someone. Who? Oh, myself. Last February. But my eyebrows were lovely, no doubt about it.

‘Better than a facelift,’ Anoushka said. Now where had I heard that before? And once again, it was almost as expensive.

When we got back into Lara’s pick-up truck, a change occurred. All of a sudden, she was uncomfortable, and the feeling filled the small space. ‘There’s something I’ve got to say to you,’ she said, then picked up my hand. Alert, I stared into her blue eyes. Oh God, here it comes. Lezzer snog! Senses instantly heightened, I noticed that she smelt of strawberries, that her legs were so long her car seat was as far back as it could go… She pulled my hand to her face. Was she going to kiss it? And then me?

‘I feel bad saying this,’ she sighed, ‘but you have the worst nails. You have got to get to a nail bar.’

It took me a perplexed moment to realize she’d returned my hand to me. No lezzer snog. Just another instalment in Lara’s mission to groom me to LA standards.

‘Have you, like, ever had a manicure?’

‘Of course I have.’ I’d had one when I’d got married, hadn’t I? And other times too, I’d say.

‘But not in a while, right? OK, there’s a place in Santa Monica, on the corner of Arizona and Third. Nail Heaven, Taiwanese girls, they’re the best! Tell them I sent you.’ I waited for her to grab her palm pilot and book me in, but she didn’t.

‘You’re not…’ I tried to sound normal, ‘getting me an appointment?’

‘You don’t need one, not for nails. This is a civilized country! Hey, you don’t hate me, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Phew! So what’ll we do now? Go for a drink, or get some dinner, or…’

Before we could decide, her cellphone rang. ‘Yes –’ Her eyes slid to me, ‘I’ve got her.’

It was Troy! Tracking me down! Mad for sex with me!

But it wasn’t. It was Justin. Emily had called him and he was under instructions to take care of me that evening.

‘Can I come too?’ Lara asked.

‘No Nadia tonight?’

‘No.’ Suddenly subdued, she switched on the ignition, and we drove over to Justin’s house – a red-roofed mini-hacienda, with lots of Spanish archways and wrought-iron window shutters. He wore a blue and green Hawaiian shirt that I hadn’t seen before. He must have hundreds.

‘Hi, how are you?’ I asked.

‘Pretty sore,’ he answered, his voice even higher than usual.

‘Why, sweetie?’ Lara asked with concern.

‘Some other guy keeps getting the parts I’m up for. Look at him!’ He hit a copy of Daily Variety with the back of his hand, then showed us a little photo of the other guy. It was uncanny – he was so similar to Justin, they could have been brothers, but this guy was just that little bit plumper and cuter and his face was even more open and uncomplicated than Justin’s.

‘All I can do is be fat and expendable,’ Justin said, slumped in depression. ‘If I can’t do that, I’ve no job. I’m a total loser.’

Lara and I pitched in, reminding him he could give great foot massages and was an excellent cook (according to Lara), until eventually he perked up. ‘Aw, I’m sorry, guys. So what’ll we do? We could catch a movie?’

‘Suits me.’ Going to a film was always a great opportunity to eat loads of confectionery under cover of darkness.

‘How about Flying Pigs?’ Lara said.

‘Nah, I hated his last one,’ Justin said.

‘Which? Introspection?’

‘No, Washday Blues.’

‘Did he do that?’

I tuned out as the pedigrees of the many, many films currently showing in greater Los Angeles were discussed – this is the one complaint I’d have about hanging around with people who work in the film industry, they know too much – and tuned back in only when they’d finally nominated a candidate. Something called Seven Feet Under.

‘A black comedy,’ Justin explained. ‘Directed by the guy who made –’

‘Grand, whatever.’ I was more interested in the bag of M&M’s I’d be eating while I watched it.

On our way out of the house, I noticed the name on Justin’s mailbox: Thyme.

‘Justin Thyme? That’s a great name. Is it –?’

‘No.’ He beat me to it. ‘Not my real surname. I made it up to try and stand out from the thousands of other expendable fat guys out there.’

By Sunday morning, I was itching for Emily to come home.

And for Troy to ring me.

When was he likely to? What were the rules? Perhaps it was way too soon – it had been less than a day. Then I checked my watch – OK, just over a day. Nothing, no length of time. I could ring him, of course. That’s what people did, normal people that I had to start behaving like. But I didn’t have his number.

Aimlessly, I opened a couple of cupboards, found nothing of interest, then sat staring at the floor, wishing Emily would come home from her sexathon with Lou. Sundayitis – the same wherever you are.

When the phone rang, the adrenalin rush felt like a heart attack. Nerves a-jangle, I picked up on the second ring. But it wasn’t Troy, it was my mother.

Are you all right?’ she asked.

I nodded assent, too disappointed to speak.

‘Is it nice there?’

Quickly, I got it together. ‘Lovely, lovely!’ I so didn’t want any pressure to go home. ‘Nice people, gorgeous weather –’

‘Is it sunny?’ she cut in.

‘Sunny? Splitting the stones!’

‘I’d love a bit of sun,’ she said wistfully.

I got a strange little inkling and began backtracking. ‘Mind you, it can be smoggy too. Very overcast. And there’s always the chance of an earthquake.’

‘It hasn’t stopped raining here since the day you left. I’d prefer an earthquake.’

‘Ahaha,’ I laughed nervously, changed the subject, then said goodbye and resumed staring at the floor.