Turn Me On

Sabrina took a sudden, quick breath and backed away from him. “I grew out of something else in the last eight years, Stef.”

“What?”

“You.” She opened the door to the reception room and looked at him impassively. “First shoot is in Glendale. A stripper who teaches lap dancing to housewives at lunch.”

“That’s pathetic.”

“Give it a chance. This isn’t your kind of documentary, Stef. It’s mine.”

“Your kind would change topics every five minutes.”

Sabrina’s gaze chilled. “Leave your card with Laeticia. I’ll e-mail you the details. And Stef?” She paused. “Don’t think you know me just because I made the mistake of sleeping with you a long time ago.”

4

“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK, the green or the cream?” Kelly asked, nibbling on her thumb as she stared at the couches arrayed across the showroom at Civilization.

Sabrina sat on the cream couch experimentally, running her hand over the woven cotton fabric. “You know me, I’d probably go for the leopard one. You should ask Paige. Or better yet, get her to take you to the Pacific Design Center.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Kelly dropped down beside her. “Paige would blow my budget on a single coffee table, then tell me the way to decorate was to invest in one signature piece at a time. And five years later, I’d actually have a completed living room.”

Sabrina fought a smile. “Well, it’s not going to be perfect overnight.”

“I don’t want perfect. I just want a room that’s not furnished in Early American Garage Sale. You know Cilla offered to let me pick what I wanted from the Danforth home shop at cost,” she asked with a grin.

“Why didn’t you take her up on it?”

“Uh, right. Like I could even afford that at cost.”

Sabrina turned and looked across the room at the array of couches. “What color are you doing the walls in again?”

“Sage.” Kelly handed over the paint chip. “Cream trim. The coffee table’s blond wood.”

Sabrina rose and began stalking between the couches, glancing at the chip in her hand.

Kelly trailed her anxiously. “Just don’t do a Paige on me. Nothing in the back three rows.”

“I should get myself some furniture one of these days,” Sabrina muttered.

“Why don’t you? What I don’t understand is why you live in Venice when you could live anywhere.”

Sabrina shrugged and leaned over to inspect the fabric of a floral couch. “What’s wrong with Venice?”

“Why not Brentwood? Or the Westwood Corridor?”

“It’s not like it’s a wreck. I like Venice. I like the canals. It feels right to me.”

“But you’ve got all of L.A. at your fingertips,” Kelly protested.

“I suppose,” Sabrina said absently. “But I’m happy where I am.”

“I wish I could say that.”

“But you’ve got a great little flat,” Sabrina protested, thinking of Kelly’s little 1940s courtyard apartment.

“Sure, if you don’t count the triple-X movie theater on the main boulevard.”

“At least you’ve got entertainment nearby.”

“Sorry, I’ll take my porn at home like everyone else, thanks. Anyway, it’s not the flat. I just wish the neighborhood were better. Next promotion, I’m moving.” She smiled faintly.

“What about a roommate?”

Kelly shook her head again, more definitely. “No way. I like living alone. I mean, it was one thing to share a house with all you guys when we were in college, but it’s different now. I like my privacy.”

“Are you sure? You could move in with me.”

Kelly nodded. “Naw, I like being able to come home and have wild sex on the kitchen counter if I feel like it. But if you move to Brentwood sometime, you can ask me again.”

“Okay.” Sabrina slowed, then walked purposefully to a couch set up next to a distressed armoire. “That one.”

It was an overstuffed sofa in a deep plum, with a slight deco flare to the arms.

“You’re out of your mind. It’s a green room. Why would I want to go with purple?”

“It’ll look ravishing, trust me.” Sabrina’s tone was brisk. “Green is too matchy matchy, cream is boring, slate is predictable. This will be just the bit of shock that you need.”

Kelly frowned. “This isn’t one of your bizarre design statements, is it? I don’t want bohemian chic, I want something that looks stylish.”

“Trust me,” Sabrina said simply and held out the paint chip.

“OKAY, A GLASS OF the ten-year tawny and one cosmopolitan,” said the waitress. “I’ll be right back with your cheese plate.”

They sat at a patio table at Morels in the Grove, watching people walk by. A cross between Disney’s Main Street USA and the Mall of America, spiced with a snip of Paris, the Grove had sprung up next to the L.A. Farmers’ Market and had quickly become a place to be. Kids loved it for the old-fashioned streetcar that ran down pavement untouched by a car. Parents liked it because it was safe and contained, and full of goodies to buy.

Sabrina liked it because it held Morels, the only restaurant in town that boasted a cheese list as long as its wine list.

Sabrina raised her glass of port. “To your new furniture.”

“To you, for helping me choose,” Kelly countered, clicking her glass against Sabrina’s.

“The living room’s going to look great.”

“I’m actually excited about the kitchen table. I’m just trying not to think about the fact that I just killed my savings account. How in the hell do people make themselves buy houses,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink.

“Oh, come on, remember your promotion. You should be rolling in it now.”

“I don’t know about that, although certainly senior writers make better money than associate editors.”