“What about the interview with View?” Jean asked relentlessly. “They really need an answer from you this morning.”

“Why didn't they call my PR people?” Tanya asked, feeling increasingly stressed with every passing moment. “They're not supposed to be calling me directly. And why aren't you telling them that?”

“I tried, but they didn't want to hear it. You know how it is, Tanya, the minute they get your number, everyone wants to talk to you directly.”

“Yeah, and so do I.” It was Tony. He was back from playing golf, and he was standing in the doorway of her office, looking anything but happy. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Tan?”

“Sure,” she said, looking up at him, feeling suddenly nervous. She had to be at the studio in half an hour, but she didn't want to put him off. He didn't look as though he'd be willing to wait another minute. Whatever was bothering him seemed urgent.

Jean left them alone, and Tanya waited for him to sit down. He looked as though he had something major to say to her, and she wasn't sure she was ready to hear it. “Is something wrong?” she asked in an anxious whisper.

“Not really,” he sighed, and looked away from her out the window. “No more than usual. And I don't want you to get me wrong.” He turned and looked at her, but she could see in his eyes how angry he still was, how betrayed he felt, not just by her, or the story the bodyguard had told, but by the fact that their life required that kind of abuse, and there was never any way to escape the torture. As celebrities, they had no right to privacy, or even honesty, and every invented tale about her, every story made up by anyone, enjoyed the protection of the First Amendment. “I'm not angry about the thing in the paper today,” he lied to himself more than to her, but he liked to believe he was fair to her, even when he wasn't, “it's not much worse than anything else they've said about us.