Bad Influence

Thea Masterson glanced at her watch and grinned. “All right, I proclaim this meeting of Sex & the Supper Club officially in session.”

“How long’d we take?” asked Trish.

“Five minutes. Slow for us, don’t you think?”

“That’s only because we spent the first four minutes ordering drinks,” Trish said.

There were some conversations, Paige thought, that you could only have with girlfriends you’d known forever. The group of them had met in college while working behind the scenes on a play. Days spent slaving over sets and costumes and scripts turned into late-night pizza sessions and bonds that had survived the years.

Paige laughed. “You know, it’s been—what?—eight years since we graduated? One of these days we could start talking about other things besides sex.”

“Name one that’s even remotely as interesting.” Delaney looked up as the waiter appeared with a tray of drinks.

“Oh, the state of the world? Religion? The economy? The environment?” Paige picked up her pinot grigio. “Some people would say sex should take a back seat to them, at least occasionally.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking with Jim the Diplomat again,” Delaney said.

Paige looked at her as if she had a screw loose. “Trust me, I don’t chitchat about sex with my father.”

“He probably disapproves of all of us anyway,” Sabrina said.

“Pretty much since the sophomore-year play that had the lead actor standing buck naked in front of God and everyone, yeah,” Paige agreed cheerfully. “He wasn’t hot on the full-frontal-nudity thing.”

“It wasn’t full-frontal nudity,” Cilla protested. “I designed those costumes out of flesh-colored mesh.”

“I’m not sure a flesh-colored athletic sock counts as a costume,” Paige said. “Especially when it slips off during the first act.”

“That part specifically was not in the script, I’ll just point out.” Trish took a drink of her Cosmopolitan. “I had no part in that.”

“Was it my fault that Perry refused to even consider using double-sided sticky tape?” Cilla’s voice was aggrieved.

Sabrina hooted. “You’re surprised about that? You know how guys are. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to have a special costume for the understudy if you find out he’s a different size than the lead?”

Cilla glowered at her. “That was a conversation I had no interest in having, thank you very much. Perry should have warned me that we might have a problem.”

“When you’re an understudy trying to, er, measure up to the leading man, it’s sometimes hard to admit.” Paige stuck her tongue in her cheek.

“So it caused a little bit of a stir,” Delaney said. “The first rule of marketing—there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“There is when your father’s the United States Ambassador to Romania,” Paige reminded her. “Of course, I told him that you guys were the perverts. All I did was dress the set.”

“You still almost had to quit the play over it,” Thea said.

“Things were sensitive then,” Paige defended. “The Iron Curtain was coming down, I was his kid. It could have reflected badly on everyone.”

Delaney tipped her head consideringly. “What about now?”

“What do you mean?”

“When do you get to stop living to ensure Jim the Diplomat’s job security and start enjoying life?”

Paige frowned. “I enjoy life.”

Delaney snorted. “You just told us you preferred missionary. Look at all of the two-month wonders you date. What about the Ken doll you brought to Cilla’s wedding?”

“His name is Ross and he’s a very bright man.”

“He’s a wonk,” Delaney snorted. “Talking with him was as exciting as watching paint dry.

“Maybe he’s got other qualities,” Trish offered.

“You’re exactly right, Trish.” Paige raised her chin. “Ross is doing some pretty important work in the mayor’s office, even if he is kind of a dud as a date. Was,” she corrected herself.

“Was?”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“And he was a carbon copy of—who’s it?—Marty?”

“Mitch,” Thea contributed.

“Mark,” Paige corrected drily. “No, Marcus,” she amended.

“See, you can’t even remember their names,” Delaney said.

“So what if I can’t? Mark—”

“Marcus—”

“Marcus was six months ago.”

“And let me guess—he was the U.S. delegate to Free-donia.”

“I don’t think dating intelligent men is a crime,” Paige defended. “You have to sleep with the guy’s head as well as his body.”

“And you have to sleep with the guy’s personality and body as well as his brains,” Delaney countered. “Come on, Paige. You deserve to get out and have some fun. Your guys may be bright boys in training, but they usually have about as much character as tapioca pudding.”

“There’s nothing wrong with tapioca pudding,” Trish objected. “I like tapioca pudding.”

Delaney gave her an alarmed look. “Trish, sweetie, don’t ever say that at one of those Hollywood power dinners you go to or they’ll kick you out of the club.”

“Comfort food is all the rage in Hollywood these days, haven’t you heard?” observed Sabrina, who had reason to know, as one half of the hottest couples—and teams—in documentary circles. “Meat loaf, tapioca pudding, mac and cheese. Besides, they’d never dream of kicking Trish out of the club, not with the film of her first screenplay hitting the box office top ten.”

Paige remembered the premiere and the party afterward. It had started off merely celebratory but rapidly degenerated into raucous singing and dancing. Not that Marty—Marcus, she amended—had wanted to stick around.

Just then Kelly Vandervere, the missing member of their group, showed up bright-eyed and out of breath. “Cranberry juice,” she told the waiter as she took off her jacket and sat.

“About time you got here,” Sabrina said.