Well, it turned out she could. Sitting in the makeup chair in early October in a trailer parked on the corner of Bleecker Street and the Bowery in the East Village of Manhattan, getting her hair blown out for the seven millionth time by a girl named Rita and the foundation sponged onto her face for the eight millionth time by a girl named Genevieve, Carmen knew it was just another mile on the hedonic treadmill. You could get sick of anything.

It was true. She'd read an article in Time magazine about it. 'You could even get sick of chocolate,' she'd told her mother on the phone the night before.

Her mother had made a doubting sound.

'That's what I read, anyway.'

Being an actress on a TV show, even a moderately good and successful TV show, involved a few minutes of acting for every few hours you spent in the makeup chair. And even when you were done with the makeup--temporarily, of course, you were never done with the makeup--there was still a whole lot of sitting around drinking lattes. That was the dirty secret of the entertainment industry: it was boring.

Granted, Carmen didn't have the biggest part in the show. She was Special Investigator Lara Brennan on Criminal Court. She showed up at least briefly at a crime scene in almost every episode and sometimes got to appear as a witness on the stand.

'Eyes up,' Genevieve said, coming in with a mascara wand. It was rare that Carmen needed a prompt. She knew exactly which way to turn her eyes for each portion of the mascara application. If she didn't stay ahead of it, Carmen feared she'd end up like one of the many dolls she'd mangled as a child with her constant brutal efforts at grooming.

Carmen studied her hair in the mirror. She'd never thought she'd get sick of that either. She squinted down the highlights. They were a little brassy, a little bright this time. She would have liked to go darker, but the director wanted her light. Probably because her character's surname was Brennan and not Garcia.

Carmen jiggled her phone in her hand and thought of who to call. She'd already spoken to Lena once and her agent twice. Her mind summoned a glimpse of Tibby's face, more out of loyalty than an expectation of actually talking to her. Since Tibby had moved to Australia with Brian almost two years before, Carmen had almost given up hope of reaching her in real time. Tibby's move had been hasty, somewhat disorganized, and just . . . far. The sixteen-hour time difference was a constant impediment. Tibby had gone from place to place at first and didn't get a landline until long after Carmen had given up on the idea. International calls between their cellphones were plagued by stupid complications, mostly on Tibby's side. In a couple of weeks. In a month. By next spring. Those were the times when Carmen told herself they'd resume regular contact. Carmen often thought of hauling over there for a visit. This past June she'd staked out a date on the calendar, and Bee and Lena had instantly agreed to the scheme. When she'd emailed Tibby about it, Tibby's return had come more quickly than usual. 'Now's not a good time.'

Carmen took it personally for once. 'Did I do something?' she'd asked in her next message.

'Oh, Carma, no. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. Just busy and unsettled here. It'll be soon. I promise. I want to see you and Len and Bee more than anything else in the world.'

And there was Bee. Carmen hadn't seen her since Bridget's last swing through New York over the Christmas holidays, but there were long periods when Bridget and Carmen talked every day--that is, as long as Bee hadn't lost her phone or neglected to pay her bill for too long. Bee was the best...