Maybe the Moon

probably.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “How’s your weight these days?”
    If you remember, the last time Leonard mentioned this, it was just a generic cheap shot, an easy excuse for my unemployment, callously disguised as a friend’s concern. This time it felt different, fraught with significance, completely pertinent to that “something kind of big” percolating out there in the pipeline.
    “It’s good,” I lied. “Down a lot.”
    “Great.”
    “I’ve been on a diet that Cher uses.” This felt like much less of a lie somehow, even though I haven’t touched one of those god-awful shakes for at least three months now. “I’ve got a real waistline now…and a boyfriend.” The second part was way out of line, I know, since Neil likes me the way I am, but I thought it would help convince Leonard of my total dedication to the New Me. Anyway, I can always go on a diet, if something really important is at stake.
    “Well, look, doll, I’ll get back to you, OK?”
    “I’m singing now, you know. I have an act and everything. In case they can use that, I mean.”
    “Hey, good for you,” he said, but I could tell he was only half listening. His secretary, the latest of a long line of male bimbettes, was murmuring to him solicitously in the background. My time was obviously up.
    I asked him, a bit too desperately, if he could give me at least a hint.
    “’Fraid not, doll. I’ll get back to you soon, though.”
    Soon, in Leonard’s lexicon, can mean anywhere from a week to never.
    I thanked him and hung up and went back to painting my nails.

    Three days ago Renee and I had Jeff and Callum over for dinner. I’d been meaning to do this for weeks, partly out of curiosity about the progress of their relationship and partly because Renee hadn’t stopped badgering me for another session with her second-favorite movie star. When I finally told her that Callum liked boys—and Jeff in particular—I thought she might lose interest in a reunion, but she rallied admirably and threw herself headlong into preparations. She made spaghetti and a nice salad and surprised us all at dessert with rum raisin ice cream—the very thing, if you remember, that Jeremy used to lure Mr. Woods from his hiding place in the oak tree.
    “It’s Baskin-Robbins,” she announced shyly as she set a bowl in front of Callum. “I wasn’t sure what brand it was in the movie.”
    “It looks great,” said Callum.
    “It wasn’t any brand,” I told her.
    “How come?”
    “Because it was wax, Renee. Or some synthetic shit. Real ice cream would melt under the lights.”
    “Oh.” She was openly crestfallen. “I didn’t think of that.”
    Callum, being a good sport, told her he preferred the real stuff, anyway, but shot a subtle glance to Jeff after he’d said it that made me think they’d already discussed Renee at length and found her lacking in the smarts department. She didn’t catch it, thankfully.
    “What was that you ate, then?”
    I thought she was addressing me in my elfin persona, so I told her they’d used the robot in that particular scene, that I hadn’t been on the set at all when it was shot.
    “I meant him,” she said, indicating Callum. “You tasted it before you gave it to him, remember? To show him how good it was?”
    “Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “You’re right.”
    “That wasn’t wax, was it?”
    “No.” He smiled at her without malice and scratched his boyish head, now becomingly short and fuzzy for his new movie. “I can’t remember what it was, actually. Ice cream, I guess. It was a long time ago.”
    “Yes,” I said, and gave Renee a pointed look that said to please spare us any further strolls down Memory Lane. I was pissed at her about the ice cream stunt, since she’d promised me repeatedly she’d keep the fawning to a minimum. She widened her eyes in exaggerated innocence, then stared down bleakly into her ice cream.
    Callum picked up the slack by turning to me. “Jeff says you stole the show on Catalina.”
    “Stole the funeral.”
    He chuckled. “Wish I’d seen it.”
    I replied with a shrug and a modest smile. I wondered how much Jeff had told Callum about me and Neil and whether he, Callum, found our affair droll or, worse yet, bizarre. He grew up in New England, after all, in a family that would make the Bushes look Jewish. I’d almost asked Neil to join us all that night, until I realized he’d have to bring his little boy along. I haven’t met Danny yet, and a dinner party