Okay, what did you buy this time?” Libby asks. “And don't lie to me, I hear the Jumbotron in the background.”

That's Libby's nickname for my sixty-inch TV. She can't understand how I could spend more on a television than she did for her car, especially when the rest of my furniture could use updating. Early Thrift Shop is how my mother used to describe it.

I'd probably have an apartment full of new furniture if I could buy it from the shopping channel. After a long day of filming, I often fall prey to the product demos. The more stressed I am, the less I can resist the host's wiles, particularly if the product involves weight loss. Indeed, my apartment is full of many versions of “the only exercise machine” I'll ever need.

Knowing she won't drop the subject, I confess. “An ice cream maker.”

“Oh, come on, Rox, Cancel your order. You will never use it and you need the money in your filmmaking fund. And on that note, I've been thinking more about writing a script.”

Uh, oh. Libby's obviously taken the idea of making a short film to heart and it's only going to cause trouble. She'll expect me to read it, or worse, actually make the movie. I don't have the time or the inclination.

Besides, Libby and I have never seen eye to eye on the arts. She loves rock and roll, reads constantly and hates art galleries. I listen to European DJ compilations, visit art galleries often and collect coffee-table books on art and architecture. She abhors “art” films; I live for them. She adores romantic comedies; I detest them. We're a cultural Odd Couple.

I head into the bathroom and start brushing my teeth as I listen.

“I'm going to write a script about weddings,” she announces. “More like a send-up of traditional weddings, actually. Think Spinal Tap or Best in Show. It's the story of a single woman who's so fed up with spending money on wedding gifts for friends and family that she plans a big, traditional wedding for herself.”

This old chestnut again. Libby's obsession has eased somewhat since hooking up with Tim, but she still knows more than anyone should about the history and traditions of weddings. She's attended at least twenty, played bridesmaid in nearly half and written a book on Canadian weddings with her friend Lola.

“I'm thinking mockumentary,” she continues. “We'll follow the bride around as she orders flowers, tries on dresses, books the caterers, et cetera—all for a wedding without a groom. The final scene will of course be the ceremony. I'm calling it The Counterfeit Wedding.”

I caught the “we” she buried in there. “Sounds fun, Lib, but there's a lot on my plate right now. Besides, it's hard enough to be taken seriously by men in my business. If I made a film about weddings, they'd think I'm a bitter spinster.”

“More like clever and satirical. Besides, you're not single—you're seeing a hot director.”

“I'm not seeing Miguel.”

“Please. I know full well that you ignored me earlier when I told you not to call him. You're probably getting together tonight.”

“Can we discuss this later? I'm exhausted.”

“Of course,” she says. “As long as you promise to ask Miguel what he thinks about my script idea.”

I hang up, mentally kicking myself for taking her to the Seattle premiere party. That's where she got bitten by the glitter bug. At this very moment, she is sitting down at her computer to work on her opus.

And I'll bet there's a cameo in it for Oliver O'Brien.

© Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout