You know, I've never been possessive of my friends. Fuck that shit; let people do what they want.

Right now, however, I need to stage a serious intervention. I have suffered silently while Trace has disappeared every morning with Chelsea and they haven't waltzed back in until late. I mean, as much as I could have used some comfort and good counsel from my best friend after I had to run home from my vacation with my tail between my legs because paparazzi were literally peering in my windows, I let that go. Far be it from me to mention that he's supposed to be doing stuff for our label rather than following Chelsea around while she runs my errands. Just to demonstrate how a good a friend I am, I didn't even call him lame when he turned down basketball tickets to go cheer Kennedy on in some show with her.

But I am NOT standing for this shit, man, and especially not in my own home.

"I don't get it," Trace frowns at the TV screen. "Why's she so pissed if he has to move there to work? It's not like that's his fault."

"No," Chelsea explains patiently as she takes another gulp of red wine. "She's pissed because he didn't even think to mention the possibility to her until it's practically guaranteed that he's going. He just sprung this on her with no warning. I mean, if you'd been dating somebody seriously that long and you were thinking of emigrating you'd talk to them about it earlier than that, right?"

"Right," he nods sagely.

"See, but him… Big's just a commitment phobe. Can't cope with having to factor somebody else into his life." She shakes her head in disgust as she grabs the bottle and tops up her glass.

Yes, people, my very male best friend is sitting on my couch drinking my red wine with my crush, watching Sex and the City. Apparently this is her getting ready to go out ritual and he is indulging in it with her. My best friend has turned into a fucking woman. He is having a serious conversation about precisely why Mr Big can't commit to Carrie. This has GOT to stop.

"I'm sorry to interrupt folks but Chelsea could you knock whoever this sad ass is out of his head so I can have the real Trace back?"

"Hey!" Trace protests. "HEY!" He protests louder when Chelsea gives him an obliging slap upside his head.

"Dude, when the fuck did you turn into a girl?" I ask in disbelief.

Look, you may think I'm being harsh, but this is true. Chelsea, in the absence of having Kennedy to do the girly getting ready thing, has purloined my best friend and has swapped his Y chromosome for another X in the process. Apparently Sex and the City is stage five: 'We're Done And Have Time To Kill Before She Gets Here.' Stages one through four involve cosmetic product abuse. They're curled up on the couch with one of the most female oriented TV series ever, delicately supping glasses of my best Merlot while she fusses over which colour she should have painted her toe nails. Who's even going to be LOOKING at her toenails? Why doesn't Trace just do what he normally does and inform her that any guy will be too busy staring at her breasts or her ass to even clock that she HAS toenails, let alone what colour they are?

I'm still trying to pretend that I didn't hear him asking her which tie went best with his eyes. Next he's going to be asking her if those pants make his ass look fat.

"Dude," Trace smirks, "you're looking at this so wrong."

"Really?" I fold my arms over my chest and give him an unconvinced look. "Enlighten me."

"Hot women taking dirty and regularly naked or in underwear. It's like porn only kosher in front of women."

"I…" Damn it. I presumed I'd have a really good rebuttal there but I kind of see his point. I am told Samantha gets naked several times an episode and for an older chick she's not bad.

"I really wish I hadn't heard him say that," Chelsea groans. "He may have just ruined my show."

In lieu of an answer, I give a hefty sigh. "What time do we need to be at the restaurant?"

"Eight thirty," Chelsea automatically answers. Immediately she starts fidgeting a little, and I'm not sure I blame her.

Tonight's a big deal for her. In all technicalities it's just the run up to the really big deal, but she's still nervous. Tonight, I have graciously given Chelsea back for the evening (only because Sophie asked nicely) as they are doing a dummy run for this hugely important business dinner Sophie will be having in a couple of weeks' time. Sophie while asking to borrow her explained that since this will hugely affect Chelsea's job, she needs to be present and so she wanted her back just for the dummy run evening and the actual dinner. Of course, Chelsea can't keep away from such plans without winding up organising them because she's one of those types who if they want it done has to do it themselves or they fret, so I've been seeing little of her lately… though miraculously my dry cleaning's still always on time and I haven't missed a phone message or a meeting request yet.

I don't quite get the intricacies of it, but apparently the next step in the dazzling Lumos career is for her to set up a production company. This dinner is going to be a meeting of potential execs and investors and stuff; I think the crux of it is that they do the hard sell on these guys. Trace and I have been cordially invited to act as stand-ins for the execs. We have been instructed to critique everything about the restaurant - food, ambience, service - so that we can give them an idea of whether these guys will be suitably impressed. Sophie's logic is that we're more reasonable than her father but we've still got enough money it'll take a lot to impress us.

Chelsea's been twitchy about it ever since Trace pointed out it could be a real short cut into film producing for her.

I want to tell her to relax, but I have a feeling I'll get glared at so I just top up her glass some more and quickly grab the empty third one they left for me. I could use a drink. In all fairness I'd be a hypocrite telling her to relax - ever since that vacation got so suddenly cut short I too have been twitchy as all hell. I'm not as paranoid as Chelsea or my dear Ken Sunshine who insist they must have been after something if they were literally peering in at my windows, but it was still way too much for me to handle. I decided to cut my losses and come back to California and my big ass iron gates; there's no paparazzi getting in past those babies.

It would be nice if one of these days I didn't have to worry about such things, but never mind. I guess I should just be grateful that they missed the real scoop, which would be me having a new woman on the scene (sort of). There's only been one reoccurrence since we got back, but that was just a little kissing on the couch. That very couch she's sitting on, actually. Sometimes I half think she's going to say something to me about the whole situation with me and her, but she never does. So for now it's just simmering there waiting for shit to happen.

"You know, I'd totally do Charlotte," I announce to no-one in particular.

Chelsea squints at me in surprise. "Heh. I had you as more of a Carrie."

"Too neurotic," I say.

"Charlotte seems clingy," Trace responds.

Fuck, why did I let myself get into that conversation? I'm as bad as they are.

"Chelsea's kind of dressed like Charlotte," I observe.

"I am?"

Her hands fly to her dress in panic like I paid her some kind of insult. I don't know why, I just said I'd do Charlotte right? She's in this very fifties style strapless dress, white with little black polka dots on it, if she's wearing a lot of make up she did a very good job hiding it and she's in minimal jewellery. She looks pretty classy. In fact, she looks classy enough that she made me and Trace feel bad about planning to wear sneakers with our shirts and ties and we changed footwear. We didn't tell her that though.

"I see that," Trace says ponderously. "Though I still say you're gonna get food all down your nice white shit there if this place is Italian. Pasta sauce gets everywhere."

I can't help snorting. "If you were so concerned about her dress why'd you offer her red wine, dumb ass?"

Trace is saved by the door bell, and I guess it's probably Sophie. He leaps up to go get it, and I steal his spot on the sofa next to Chelsea. If I'm honest I didn't really want to go out tonight, least of all with Sophie. Chelsea chewed me out for speaking ill of her before and I promised I'd tone it down, but… what can I say? I now have the diva impression and once you have the diva impression it's hard to shake no matter how many nice stories Chelsea takes pains to tell.

"Umm… J?" She says quietly.

"Yep?" I sink into the sofa, wondering if I could disappear into it.

"Umm… you know Sophie has no idea about…" I'm guessing she means sleeping together but I'm going to make her say it. It takes her a few seconds, but she gets there. "You and me? Having sex?"

"I didn't but I do now." Well, okay, I kind of guessed she wasn't exactly broadcasting it.

"Not planning on mentioning it are you?"

"Not the kind of thing I'd normally bring up in casual conversation."

Okay, there has to be more to that sigh of relief than she's letting on, but I'm too tired to consider why. "Okay, fine. Just didn't want anything being blurted out is all. She gets pissy if she doesn't hear shit from me."

I want to respond to that, but instead a waft of pretty strong Chanel fills the room and Sophie bursts in, her usual exuberance moving about six feet ahead of her. I turn to smile and say hi, be polite and all, but I have to admit my jaw dropped because holy SHIT that dress is very red and very tight. Even if you'd never heard of her in your life you would know that woman was a movie star. She may constantly hog my PA but the woman fills out a dress nicely.

"Hey chica bonita!" She pushed right past me and flings herself at Chelsea, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Looking fabulous!"

"Right back at you," Chelsea says weakly. Maybe I'm over analysing, but I'd swear she just wilted a little. I can't believe this never occurred to me before but I wonder what it's like for her as a female, working for a woman who so completely overshadows you (deservedly or not). Makes me think back to what my momma said in that diner all that time ago, about her always seeming sad somehow.

"Hmm…" It's weird to watch, but Sophie takes a critical look at Chelsea for a minute and then goes digging in her purse. Before I know it she's pulled out one of those teeny hair grips and swept just a little off it back from the top of Chelsea's head and secured it there. Dude, I'd tell any one of my friends to fuck off if they did any male equivalent of that; is this what girls are like?

"Perfect!" Sophie declares with a bright grin. "Now I can see that pretty face you're so fond of hiding!" Uhh… actually, she's kind of got a point. Chelsea does hide behind her hair a lot.

Fuck. I'm officially a sad case who stares too much and notices too much. Maybe we should go to dinner where I can distract myself with food.

***

"Oh my God oh my God oh my God…" Chelsea is barely breathing between syllables as she buries her face in her hands. She looks about ready to cry.

You know, I have officially decided that the only thing more awkward than bumping into the ex who broke your heart at a restaurant is watching while one of your companions has that dubious honour.

"Hey, hey," Sophie says soothingly as she reaches across the table and takes Chelsea's hands, linking their fingers together. Fuck this is so not a guy event; this is the time that Carrie needs to be surrounded by Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha. Guy witnesses are added embarrassment.

"Why the fuck did he have to be here?" The little blonde is seething her words out through her teeth, irritation flowing through some obvious pain. "I get that LA is a free city and he's allowed to attend people's weddings and all, but why did he have to walk into this restaurant and why did he have to be an ass and come over here?"

"Wanted to see Justin and Sophie," Trace says matter-of-factly. I give him a swift kick under the table, but he just looks at me defensively. "What? It's probably true."

"Little wifey probably wanted to come look see. Gloating over me was an added bonus," she grumbles.

"Hey." I put a hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair a second before remembering what she said earlier and that this might appear too familiar. "The guy's an ass and he clearly downgraded. You look about five times better than her."

"And might I say that the ring she was so obviously trying to flash everywhere was the biggest piece of tack I have ever seen," Sophie pulls a face and even manages to get a pained giggle out of Chelsea. "You have more taste in your little finger and might I add if that's the rock you would have got for staying with him, you did so well getting out of there."

"It was tacky, right?" Chelsea sniffs hopefully.

Trace snorts. "I have a tattoo on my arm calling myself Tennessee Trash and even I thought it was tacky."

Chelsea releases one of Sophie's hands to take another large gulp of red wine. "I know you guys are only saying this shit to make me feel better but did I mention I love you all right now?"

"Babe," Trace says as he leans casually back in his chair opposite mine. Being the sad case I am, I made sure I nabbed the seat next to the chick in the polka dots. "You're successful, you're beautiful and you're sitting here hanging with the stars making more money in six months than he makes in twelve. Don't sweat it."

I can't say much more than he did (damn it, why didn't I think to make that little speech first? I so think that), but I punctuate it for him with a quick arm around her shoulders and a squeeze. I don't know if she's forgetting herself for a second or if she just considers it Sophie friendly interaction, but she drops her head onto me for a second. I'm tempted to drop a kiss on her cheek but I won't.

"Thanks. I'll slip you that fifty later Ayala," she finally cracks a smile.

"I thought that was worth at least seventy."

Sophie doesn't say anything, but she's rubbing her thumb across their still entwined fingers and she's got her head tilted at Chelsea. The two of them are doing that weird female thing where they're having a silent conversation with their eyes. I have a suspicion that it's about things they both know but won't be said until those pesky boys are out of earshot. And… okay… I'll admit it, Sophie has been kind of cool this evening. She's been polite, friendly, totally without the diva 'tude and I'm now remembering all those times on set Sophie seemed grateful to have Chelsea instead of all the bossing around she's been doing via phone over my tour.

Looking at your PA like a friend and not a servant is a good start, but I'm still not forgiving her for all the PA hogging. She could still stand to call Chels a lot less.

"So back to business…" Trace asks, "what kind of films are you looking to make with this company?"

"I want to have all those really great films that everybody knows has Oscar written all over them just from hearing the plot," Sophie's eyes light up. "Stuff like the big period dramas you expect Keira Knightley to be in but all the really unique movies too, give some people a chance to make some more off the wall stuff. Kind of like… you know that movie Justin did with the girl chained to the radiator?"

"Black Snake Moan," I confirm.

"Yeah, stuff like that."

"You want to make Atonement and you want to make Black Snake Moan?"

"Weird mix, huh?" Sophie has the grace to look a little sheepish.

"I like that though," Chelsea says, seeming grateful for the change in topic. "You get a good mix and it keeps everything fresh. We've been doing too many romantic comedies lately."

"I know, right?" Sophie sighs. "Papa dearest insists. Speaking of which, Chels, have you yet worked out how I can tell him he's not joining in this little project without him killing me?"

"Do I look like a miracle worker?"

"Well hey," I tell her, "You did manage to get five cars cleaned inside out, get scripts copied, arrange flights and a closet full of dry cleaning done, a grocery shop and pick up call sheets for me from five different locations in one day. I never thought you'd do it all before somebody closed."

"So then why did you give me that long ass list of things to do in one day when you thought it'd be impossible for me?"

"Well…" Shit, now they're laughing at me. "Fuck, I didn't know my foot fit that far into my mouth."

"You just limber?" Sophie jokes with a wink.

I jump a little bit when I feel a finger poke into my thigh and realise it was Chelsea. I look at her quizzically and her expression is a little too knowing; I take it that was an allusion to how limber she thinks I've proved to be. I don't get this woman. Dirty one second and totally disinterested the next. I need a map to follow her.

***

I always say you can tell how swanky a place is (or aspires to be) by the bathrooms. Considering that the freaking urinals have a lion's head fountain in them to wash stuff away, I'm thinking this place wants to be pretty damn swanky. I think it's kind of overdone, but as I said to Sophie at the table the food is good and it's sufficiently pricey for business meetings. It's got good hype around it too, so it'll seem like she's pushing the boat out for these guys.

I stare at myself in the ornate, Renaissance styled mirrors (I bet they were recently made in Taiwan). I look pretty neat and tidy, beard is kept at low grade neat stubble and the hair's grown out into a mini Mohawk. I miraculously haven't spilt any shit down my nice white shirt, but otherwise my black waistcoat, tie and pants blend me perfectly into the black marble floor. I think I'm only visible in the room because of my nuclear white glow - I need a tan.

Everything in this place seems to be black marble and low lighting though. Maybe it's just that they're catering to the Saturday night date market and they'd be brighter during the week, but it's almost a little too low lit. Ignoring the attendant and choosing instead to wipe off my freshly washed hands on my pants as I leave, I'm surprised to see Chelsea leaning against the wall in the corridor. It's out of view of the restaurant, so I'm guessing she escaped the table just to look pissed for a second.

"You okay?" I ask her, worried. I thought she'd been a while in the bathroom.

"Will asked me out."

"What?" I'm a little louder and higher pitched than I'd like, but what the fuck?

"I bumped into him before I got to the ladies. He… he's in town for a week and he was talking like it was a catch up drink but he… he kept eyeing me up." She looks about as comfortable with this prospect as most women would with being slipped a roofie. "Am I being paranoid?"

"What did he say?"

"Really innocuous, 'wouldn't make his wife even a little suspicious even if I repeated it verbatim' stuff."

"What did he say with his eyes?"

"I might be over-reacting but I was getting 'I'm picturing you naked' from him. He just kept running his eyes on me, and I know he's told people he thinks he could have me any time."

"Asshole," I spit murderously. Part of this is because I think that's asshole behaviour whoever it's directed at, but mostly I'm just jealous. See, I can be a man and admit it, I'm insanely jealous.

"I don't know, maybe he does mean it in a more innocent way, but I can't see why else he'd want to speak to me unless it was just to pull his usual better than me crap and that's not a great notion either." She keeps alternately folding her arms and clutching at her skirt. Clearly she's been made extremely uncomfortable by this whole thing. Then again, being set upon by the ex who is supposed to be the opposite side of the country is never exactly a picnic. "I knew this dress was too slutty…"

"What the fuck?" I'm sorry, maybe I should be more delicate or diplomatic or whatever but she's talking bull. "Did you not listen to me and Trace? You look like Charlotte this evening. Charlotte is demure."

I finally pull her arms from her chest because she's driving me nuts constantly moving them like she is, and I wrap mine around her waist in what I hope is a reassuring hug. She seems grateful because she buries herself right into it, almost like she thinks I'll hide her from the Big Bad Ex.

"I thought you said no self respecting man watched Sex and the City so how would you know?"

"Sometimes self respecting men have girlfriends obsessed with it and have to suffer through."

"Oh."

"So what did you say back?" I ask her as we continue to stand and hold each other. You know, for two people so continually skirting around our issue we can be pretty touchy-feely.

"Told him you were busy."

"You told him I was busy?" I'm confused.

"If you're busy that means your PA is busy. That would be me."

"Oh." Now I'm less confused.

It seems that Officer Whatever hasn't had enough time worrying his ex, because he rounds the corner again. Chelsea has her back to him and her face in my shoulder, so she can't see him. I, however, am having a John Wayne stare down with him right now. She's wrapped around me, I'm clutching her and I'm glaring at him, and I think the message is very much 'keep your hands off.' He can assume she's my girlfriend or just that I'm concerned as her boss slash friend, I don't give a shit, but if he doesn't heed the back off signal I'm going to have Randy or Tiny rearrange his face or something, I don't know. Either way, he slinks off quietly; I guess if he needed the bathroom he'll hold it. God, and the asshole's married. If he'd do this now I have no problem believing he cheated on Chels or whatever back then. The guy screams sleaze to me.

Of course this might just be that Chelsea was so freaked she read too much into it and I'm just too willing to believe he's scum, but considering a thing like that would be fair to the guy. Fuck that.