Whether those offers turned into an actual time slot depended largely on how I performed on this show. Spending a week learning from a master wouldn't hurt.

AT NINE, I was in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting ready for the welcome party and making sure my new dress fit as it should, not wrinkling or sagging unbecomingly as I moved. And, let's be honest, making sure I didn't wrinkle or sag in it. It was a daring choice for a woman my age-a Valentino silk peekaboo dress. It wasn't from this year's collection, but I'm not above shopping the sales rack.

The dress had come in deep golden yellow or black. I'd picked the yellow. Silk straps left my shoulders bare. The ruffled hem brushed my knees. Slits in the deep-cut shirred bodice showed off generous swatches of skin. Not something you'd wear if your triceps sagged or your thighs were dimpled with cellulite.

I was proud of my body. I worked damn hard for it. Paid for it, some said, the whispers growing louder with each passing year. But I hadn't had any work done and I didn't plan to, yet sometimes I suspected my resolve wouldn't outlast the first significant wrinkle or sag. Getting my own TV show wouldn't make it any easier to resist.

A rap at the door. "Ms. Vegas?"

I shook off thoughts of television and plastic surgery and gave my reflection one last mirror check. Then I was ready for my close-up.

THE WELCOME party for Death of Innocence was being held in the basement. An odd location, especially for a warm, dry fall night, but I'd heard the neighbors hadn't been thrilled with having a TV show moving in next door. Getting the permit couldn't have been easy. Palms probably had to be greased, favors pulled in and concessions made, including no outdoor parties.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I pulled back to let my escort-one of the security team-lead the way, and give me time to see what I was walking into.