The Prada Paradox by Julie Kenner

scream therapy really isn’t welcome here.

    The bartender slides the check in front of us, and I make a grab for it. Lindy gets it first, but I manage to snag it between my thumb and forefinger. We’re locked in a desperate tug-of war to see who gets to fork over forty-two dollars.

    “You’re ignoring my question,” I accuse.

    “Um, yeah,” she says. “Duh.”

    “Fine,” I say, letting go of the bill. “You pay.”

    She snaps the paper toward her and pulls out her wallet, completely unperturbed. “I’ve already answered you. At least nine times at last count.”

    “Do me a favor and answer me again. Just one more time,” I plead. “It’s the neurotic actress in me. I need constant reassurance.” I also need food, but I’m not going to touch the bowl of nuts sitting just six inches away from me. Too many calories. Too much salt. My trainer would have a fit.

    What the hell.I snag a handful and pop them into my mouth before I can change my mind.

    I close my eyes, reveling in my little corner of cashew heaven. When I open them, I see Lindy grinning at me. “Protein,” I say.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Answer my question,” I demand, but she just smiles. I’m about to press the point when my cell phone rings. I snatch it up, check the caller ID, then ignore it.

    “Who is it?”

    “Larry,” I say, referring to my agent. “He’s calling about theNorth by Northwest thing. I just know it.”

    “So just tell him you don’t want to do it.”

    “I should,” I say. “But I’m still waffling.”

    I’ve been offered the lead in a big-budget remake of that famous Hitchcock film. Apparently the producers think I’d be great in the Eva Marie Saint role.I think it’s a sin to mess with Hitch. I would have assumed that after the whole Gus Van Sant psychosis, everyone knew that.

    At the same time, though, itis a big part. And Larry thinks that since my star is on the rise again withGivenchy, we need to jump on the role.

    He’s probably right, but my head hasn’t managed to convince my heart. Which is why I now tuck my phone back into my purse, ignoring the chirp that signals that he’s now left a voice mail.

    “So,” I say to Lindy. “Where were we?”

    “Time to shop,” she says brightly, completely ignoring the fact that five seconds ago I was elbow deep in angst. Then she heads out of the bar and into the ornate lobby.

    I sigh, then trot behind her, aiming needle-like glares at the back of her neck. I played a superhero two movies ago, and I had the power to force the truth out of my enemies with a single glance. That kind of power would come in real handy right about now.

    The doorman holds the door open for us, and we step out into a balmy Los Angeles afternoon. The hotel opens onto Wilshire Boulevard, just steps from where that street intersects the fabulous Rodeo Drive.

    I rummage in my purse for my sunglasses, then slip them on. Lindy does the same. We stand there for a moment. I don’t know about Lindy, but I’m taking stock. Because right in front of us is a shopper’s nirvana. “Shall we skip Via Rodeo?” I ask, referring to the ostentatious new walking street. Relatively new, anyway. And, in my opinion, tacky.

    You reach Via Rodeo by climbing a set of stairs that rise from Wilshire. Then the road curves around until it meets up with Rodeo Drive proper more or less at Dalton Way. It’s a nice piece of real estate—and home to some of the ritziest stores on the planet—but I happen to like what I call the “old” part of Rodeo Drive best. And the stores along Rodeo aren’t slouches by any means. Tiffany’s (technically on Rodeoand Via Rodeo), Harry Winston, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. You get the picture. And, of course, there’s Prada. Which, to my way of thinking, is the ultimate Beverly Hills destination.

    Since Lindy knows my personal agenda well, she doesn’t argue. We walk the fifty or so yards to the crosswalk, then wait for the light to change. (Alwayswait for the light in Los Angeles. We’re a car culture here. Pedestrians