It is half-past 10 on another soullessly sun-kissed Los Angeles morning. And (promising young star) is late. I’ve been sitting for an hour in (boho-chic diner/farmers’ market/trendy hotel lobby) worrying that maybe I had gotten the time or place wrong, when suddenly (s/he) bursts in, all apologies and assuring me (s/he) is normally never late. (S/He) orders (meaningless, nonrevelatory menu item) and spends the next five minutes explaining how (s/he) would have been on time if (his/her) (pet/spouse/agent/publicist) who usually wakes (him/her) up reliably at 8 a.m., somehow failed to. “I’m going to kill him,” (s/he) whines. Immediately, I forgive (him/her).

It is just the kind of easy seduction (s/he) manages in (his/her) movies. I look around and note that all those observing are utterly smitten …

 

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