If Sophie looks at me like that one more time, I'm going to slap her. I love her, but I will slap her.

There have been a lot of improvements in the way she treats me. My time is much more respected, I'm not being given the grunt jobs any more and she's even stopped telling me that I eat too much sugar. Okay, I can see her thinking it, but she's at least shut up about it so that's good. I have only been asked to do the coffee run twice, and she even told her Dad off for saying my skirt was too short. Knee length is not too short, by the way. Knee length is nowhere near short. Asshole.

My problem with her right now is that she still has not learnt that I am a moody bitch and occasionally, I like to sulk. I need to sulk. Sulking is my way of coping and taking the time out from the world to heal myself. I know this sounds like total anti-social bitch logic, but if I'm moody then people leave me alone for a while and I have time to get it together. Healing in public is not something I have ever been good at - that's half the reason I moped over Will for so long, because I was so busy trying to be Ms Social Butterfly and act like it didn't bother me. Okay, I know that's like crazy person reasoning but it honestly works for me.

Right now, we're sitting at a benefit for the studio. We're only here to schmooze and make contacts. There are a lot of freelance types around here and if Sophie can sweet talk them, that means potential bodies that we can either hire on freelance basis or convince to sign up to us. Not to mention that this is the studio that is producing Sophie's next movie, so se really needs to kiss some ass. I'm just here for support. And also because she says I'm not allowed to mope. Pah. We had to get all dolled up and sit here at this really boring dinner and do you want to guess who the performer for the evening is?

Oh yeah. Can't get away from him. All I need is Will to show up and I will officially be having the Best Evening Hell Ever Dreamed Up.

"Gee, could you look any more miserable?" Sophie whispers to me through her applause and biggest fake smile. We just sat through yet another speech about how socially aware and concerned this studio is. I say if they were so environmentally aware and green as they claim they are their executives wouldn't all own five or six cars plus a private jet each.

"Everybody in here looks miserable," I shoot back under my breath. "This is so boring."

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Oh, so now you're pulling celebrity rank? Nice."

"I'm pulling friend rank. Don't be a bitch."

Great, now she's all pissed at me - though I suppose the up side of that would be that she'll stop talking and trying to make me feel all happy and fluffy. I'm sorry, I'm having a bad mood and I would like to be able to do that without being made to feel guilty for not being Ms Mary Sunshine.

I'm sat here with my hair curled nicely and wearing Dolce & Gabbana. The theme for this evening is - and I can't even believe this - Pimps and Hos. Clearly whoever thought up the theme has absolutely no class, as have a great many people in this room given the stripper outfits on show. I mean, I know it's the theme, but you can be a sexy Moulin Rouge kind of ho or you can be a cheap ho. Too many women have chosen the latter option. Sophie's pretty much totally ripped off Mya's outfit from the Lady Marmalade video, so she's well covered, and I decided that I would embrace my inner Pimp as an excuse to wear pants. Also, this fedora gives me something to hide under.

Ahh… I shouldn't be such a grump. It's just that… well… life sucks. Everything should be so much better, especially compared to where I was this time last year. I'm out of the sucky job and into a new one which is more in line with what I actually want to do. Sophie no longer treats me like a slave. Okay, she's not suddenly the most sensitive person in the world, but she's taking a little care with me and that doesn't go unnoticed. I'm getting paid more. Kennedy, on the basis of all this, is actually being a little nicer to Sophie. Not a lot, but it's better than it was. Even my mother seems to have chilled out lately - I have actually had perfectly pleasant conversations with her lately.

And yet the misery continues. A big chunk of it is that my niece is now scared shitless of me. Lisa's only just getting over what happened. Maybe it's only that the film me and Sophie were chasing after got sold to one of the big studios, maybe it's just all this upheaval, I don't know. I only know I hate it. I just feel like… all these changes that I've been wanting for so long have finally happened and none of it's making me happy. Am I just subconsciously determined to be miserable or something? I don't get it, why doesn't all of this good stuff mean anything any more?

Oh yay. It's time for the musical stylings of Justin Timberlake. Somebody shoot me.

***

I've decided I prefer the white chocolate vodka, out of all the flavours Trace and I have tried this evening. He says that's girly and that the cherry is totally the way to go. I say that shit is way too sickly.

I also say I've tried way too many shots this evening. This gig has been a total bore from start to finish. All night there have been a ton of lame movie offers being pitched at me, and I've had to talk to a lot of really boring people. When I performed the audience had about as much energy as a corpse and to top it all off I am in a room with no less than three ex-girlfriends. Monica, Jessica and Chelsea are all running around this place and it's starting to get really awkward. Monica's avoiding me like the plague while trying not to look like she is in case it starts off those rumours again. Jessica said hi for two seconds and then ran off to go kiss up to some director. I haven't actually seen Chelsea yet, but I know she's here because we saw her and Sophie on the seating chart. I'm trying not to look too hard at any bustier clad blondes I see in case she's one of them. This whole Pimps and Hos theme is really lame - whoever organised this clearly didn't count on the fact that no woman over 30 (unless she's a Hollywood actress) can get away with any Ho costume.

"Oh that's nasty," Trace grimaces as some fat executive's forty something wife walks past with her shorts crammed up her butt cheeks and her ass squeezed into a pair of too-tight fishnets.

"Tell me about it," I grumble as I take another sip of my JD and Coke. "Why are we still here?"

"Because your driver's stuck in traffic," he responds, flipping his phone open for the millionth time in case he missed the 'I'm here' text. Of course he didn't because it's quiet over here and he's had the phone glued to his hand, but I guess it never hurts to check.

"This whole evening has sucked," I mutter under my breath.

"True that. I don't know why they bothered hiring you when everybody was just gonna be eating. Why didn't they get John Mayer or some shit like that?"

"Maybe they just wanted a name to boast about? I mean, not that John wouldn't be but…"

"Nah, I think that whoever picked this age inappropriate Pimps and Hos theme picked age inappropriate music too," Trace snorts. "Fucking morons. These people are all old; they want fruity jazz bands and crap like that. What the hell do they…" He's interrupted by his phone going. "Man, finally!"

For a moment I wonder when Trace got a Beatles ring tone, but I think nothing of it as he flips his phone open and checks his text. I only start thinking at all when his eyebrows shoot up and he starts laughing.

"What the fuck?" He turns around and shows me the phone. I don't recognise the number and clearly neither does he, but it's a message saying 'u slut.'

"Gee. Which hormonal bitch did you piss off?"

"Fuck if I know," he shrugs. He flips the phone back shut and ignores the text, focussing instead on his drink. "So what you want to do tomorrow about the fittings?"

We're getting closer and closer to our next unveiling, so Trace has been working double time on everything. I only dragged him out tonight instead of Rachael to give him a break. Of course, when we unveil new shit that means we have to wear it for pretty much the next month straight, so we go in and they measure everything they can think of. Trace's argument is that if we get ours custom fitted rather than off the rack, we'll be putting our best foot forward because I'll be looked at way more than our print ads. I have to admit, he's got a point. Our business partners always rub their hands in glee any time the magazine blurbs mention what label I'm wearing.

His phone goes off again, and Trace looks at it critically. "Same number. And that's so not my ring tone."

"Well did somebody else change it?" I ask. I doubt Hey Jude up and decided to make itself his ring. The phone's been going for a while too, when is his damn voicemail going to kick in?

"No. I had my phone all day, except when I… shit, this must be Chelsea's."

"Chelsea's?" I ask in confusion. "So when were you with Chelsea and who is calling her a slut?"

"Hey, Ayala!"

As if she knew she was being talked about, Chelsea appears out of nowhere. I'm glad she didn't go for the ass squishing booty shorts - she's actually dressed as a Pimp. Trust her to be different. That's probably why I never spotted her earlier; I was looking for somebody dressed as a Ho. There was me thinking I was just getting lucky and the Gods were letting me avoid her.

"I dropped some stuff at her place earlier and we got talking," Trace mutters. That's one question answered, but it's the far less interesting one. They have identical black Motorolas so it's easy to see how he'd grab the wrong one. I just want to know who's calling her a slut and why. Has she been seeing somebody?

Not that it would bother me.

"Hey Chels," he greets her as they do the whole hug and air kiss thing. She pretends I'm not here, which is probably a good thing.

"I got your phone." She holds it up and he takes it from her whole handing hers over. "I didn't realise until it went off just now and I got an earful of Hannah Montana."

"What?!" Trace yells out in horror as I crack up laughing.

"I kid, I kid, it was your lame old Snoop or whatever. You got a text by the way."

"So did you, but, uhh…" The munchkin is visibly squirming and she's not stupid. She's not even saying anything, just tapping that pointy toed boot of hers and giving him the 'out with it' look. I used to hate that look. Rachael gets that look too. It's either a PA thing or a woman thing. "It wasn't very nice," he finishes feebly.

With a frown, Chelsea flips open her phone. "I got a voicemail alert… you listened to my voicemail?"

"No, he just read the text below that one thinking it was our ride," I butt in. "I guess they left the voicemail after the text because the phone went off again straight after.

Umm… wow, why did I just speak up? Not that it matters, because by now Chelsea has obviously read that text and she looks very confused. I guess she's dialling her voicemail, because she's immediately got the phone to her ear.

"Dude, our ride's here," Trace says as he checks out the message he missed.

His words register, and yet I make no movement. My limbs seem strangely rigid as I watch the look on Chelsea's face. You can actually see the subtle progression across it as she listens to the voicemail. First, we 'what the fuck' with scrunched up eyebrows and a little disbelief. Then her face slackens off into a more shocked expression, a little paler than it was. Next, outrage flashes crimson in her cheeks for a brief moment before full horror sets in and she signs off the call. Back when I was with her, I struggled to figure her out. Every other moment I was having to readjust my view of her, because something new would come out or we'd go one step forward and two steps back.

Now, a child could work out what's going on. She just got bad news in extremis.

"What?" Trace asks.

"That was Michelle."

"Who?" He asks. I'm glad he did that, I wanted to but couldn't.

"Will's wife. How in God's name did she get my damn number?"

WHAT? Her ex's wife is calling her a slut? Fuck, has she gone back to that asshole? That would totally explain why she screwed me over.

"What did she say?" Trace asks. Again, that was an excellent question from the short dude.

"She… I…" Her hands are gesticulating wildly, but unless this is some weird sign language the two of them have developed I don't think it's an answer. "Will's left her and told her it was because he's still in love with me and is leaving her for me. Naturally she assumes I must have been boning him. GOD it's like that bastard is out to screw up my entire life. He's going to be doing this when I'm fucking fifty!"

Wow, she got really high pitched - kind of loud, too. A few people have started looking at us. She picks up her phone and calls somebody.

"Hi, Michelle, this is Chelsea returning your call. I have no idea what the fuck Will has said to you but I haven't seen or spoken to him in weeks and I will be happy to never see him again in my entire life. Don't worry sweetheart, the bastard's all yours. I have NOT been sleeping with him and I wouldn't even if you paid me like a bazillion dollars. So, you can take your nasty little assumptions and shove them where the sun don't shine, because I have NOT been screwing your husband. If you send me any more abusive messages I will bring every last one of Sophie's highly paid lawyers down on your ass. Hope all that work you did stealing him from me seems worth it now. Buh bye."

From the sounds it, I guess she got voicemail too. Or maybe she didn't try to actually speak to her, I know Trace tried to show me how to send voicemail instead of just calling somebody but there was this really hot girl walking past and I didn't pay much attention. There's some conflict brewing within me right now. Part of me wants to laugh, but the other… no, actually, that part wants to laugh too. I'm sure she doesn't find it funny but that last little jab about him being worth it was classic. Like I told everybody, what goes around comes all the way back around.

"GOD." She flings her arms in the air and sends a glass flying back off the bar, leaving it to shatter on the floor. "Sorry!" She winces as the bartender immediately whips around to see what happened.

Well, me and Trace are both standing here like complete dicks because neither of us has a clue what to say or do. It's giving me some trouble, I have to admit - why would he say he was leaving his wife for Chelsea when clearly Chelsea hasn't spoken to him in an age? Sophie's the actress, not her. Besides, if it had been true then she wouldn't have told us what was in the voicemail or made that call in front of us, she'd have just lied and run (yes, sadly, I have been the victim of and also perpetrated a few such decoys so I know one when I see one - that wasn't one). So what the hell's he up to? If he's planning to come crying to Chelsea he's in for a nasty surprise, because she doesn't look too thrilled about all this.

Heh. So if she was this over Will, why'd she still treat me like shit? I thought that was all residual issues.

***

So I know that this totally contradicts my continual insistence that I'm over her, but… okay, I'm eavesdropping again. It's Rachael's fault really, she's the one who has her on speakerphone. If she was using the handset I couldn't eavesdrop no matter how hard I tried.

(Yes, I'm blaming my innocent cousin for my misdemeanours. Like nobody else has ever done that. Not like I pinned her for murder).

"He was actually there when you got home?"

"I know! I have to chew the super out in the morning because he gave out a key for the building and he's not supposed to do that, nobody visitors are supposed to get in unless they're buzzed in, I had to fill out a ton of forms just to be able to get Trace a spare. At least the bastard wasn't stupid enough to let him into my place."

"What was he even doing there; I thought he lived in New York?"

"The bastard ran out while he knew Michelle would be away for the weekend and left her a note on the fridge, caught a flight here."

"Asshole! That's so low, breaking up with your wife over a note!" Rachael exclaims as she spoons up some Cheerios. It was like she spoke my thoughts.

"At least I got dinner," Chelsea bitches acerbically down the phone. The whole time she's been dishing this out to Rachael it sounds like she's going between sobbing and fits of sarcastic rage. "I just… God, he honestly thought he could swan right back in and I'd just open my arms back up! It's been like three and a half years and he stills thinks my life is nothing without him!"

"What did he say?"

"God, he…" Yep, that was a sniffle. We're about to switch back to the crying. "He was going on about how he knew I'd been so down and lonely, talking like he knows a damn thing about what's going on with me, and how bad my job was and how he was back to take care of me… and he was talking in this sweet tone like this was all really comforting and romantic instead of being totally insulting, that bastard…"

"God, that ass."

See, this is the weird difference between men and girls. Men would be suggesting practical solutions to this and then expect the conversation to end. Rachael's role in this seems to be to let Chelsea ramble and then make sympathetic statements every so often.

"What did you do?"

"Told him that my crappy job makes me more in a month than his bags him in a year, that while he's writing parking tickets and getting bitch slapped by drunks I'm with the Hollywood A list, and that your cousin was way better in bed than he was."

"Good God woman, did you have to tell me that last part?" Rachael giggles.

Wow, Chelsea finally admitted our relationship to somebody. Who thought her capable? Also, for a moment there I almost forgave her completely on the strength of that better in bed comment. I got the skills. Maybe she threw me around like a cheap plaything, but at least she recognises my prowess.

"You asked," Chelsea lets out a strained laugh. "Anyway, I called security and had him kicked out. Told him never to darken my doorstep again and to go home to his wife. Then I called Lisa and my mom and made sure that they're going to tell every last one of our mutual acquaintances the real story before he tries to claim I was trying to jump him or something, I don't know how I was in a relationship with him that long without noticing he's a compulsive liar."

"So what are you going to do?" My cousin is dangling her foot from the bar stool, rocking it too and fro with a thoughtful frown on her face as she listens (and eats).

"Nothing, I guess. Refuse to take any of his or Michelle's calls and go on with my life, only with some new seething resentment for the way he treats me like I'm nothing."

"To be honest, babe, I think…"

I don't hear the rest of my cousin's response because I've been hauled backwards by the collar. I nearly fall on my ass, but when I manage to get my feet back under me I turn around and Trace is there, shaking his head. He may be shorter than me, but when he gets his eyes blazing he's got a pretty wicked little stare on him that gives him a more intimidating aura than his short ass would otherwise have. He looks like he's ready to bust a cap in my ass.

"Grow a backbone and go get the girl back." With another light shove to my chest, he pushes me back through the door and shuts it behind us. "Oh, and stop eavesdropping like an eleven year old girl you pussy."