Nigel put the finishing touches on his script for the ceremony and took the copies downstairs for Victoria to proofread. They sat at the table in the atrium, sharing a plate of cookies and coffee while she went to work, judiciously blue-penciling his copies.

"You seem to be finding a lot that's unsatisfactory," He said, sneaking a peek at the pages.

"Just making it a little less stilted, nephew. Wouldn't want you sounding like a Milo clone now, would we?" He pulled a face and bit into another cookie. "I've been in this town a long time," she said, tapping the pencil against the page, "and I don't recall ever hearing about this model... Galleria. Where did she spring from?"

"That was Susan. She found about her from Denise, and Felicity Proctor."

"Oh yes, she's that painter that just moved here. Hmmm. She has a show in town, have you seen it?"

"Nope."

Victoria drew little circles around the name, uncertain why this unknown person bothered her. "I see by this other list here that she's riding with Allen Gregorio."

"Yes," Nigel clucked, "that's a dangerous liaison, isn't it?"

"Only if Tiffany catches him liaising."

The coffee burned his tongue and he set it down quickly. "This town boggles my mind. It must have been the template for Peyton Place... or vise versa."

"Throwing stones from your glass house, are you?" Victoria wrinkled her face slyly at her nephew's sudden blush.

"No. And that's an entirely different situation."

"Of course it is." She picked up a new page and began reading.

He blew on his coffee and attempted another sip. "What time do you want to leave for the assembly?"

"I really don't think I need to go," she said, drawing a series of lines through an entire paragraph, "I was raised in the horse and buggy era, I think I can manage to climb aboard and find a comfortable seat without a rehearsal."

"Susan's just trying to be thorough, and what are you doing to my speech?"

"Making it more appealing. Here, go and practice this in front of your mirror." She jogged the pages together, handing them to him with a flourish. "And Susan is just a worrier, things will go fine. Now, off you go."

*****

"I can't tonight," Melaine said, returning the embrace with gusto, "we have that assembly for the seating arrangements." Cal nuzzled her neck hungrily, muttering his disappointment.

A sharp wrap at the door broke them apart; Melaine fiddled with her clothes, sat primly in front of the desk while Cal smoothed his hair, and called, "Come in."

Tilley marched across the office, stone-faced, and handed him a file. "This is the theatre account you wanted."

"Aaah, good. Well, Mrs. Braithwaite, now we can see how well your budgeting has gone." Tilley shed an 'Oh please,' look, purposely opening the office blinds on her way out the door.

"We're not fooling her, you know." Melaine said as he rounded the desk and sat down.

"I know. Tilley just loves to twist the screws now and then." He waved politely to his secretary through the blinds then opened the file, pretending to read. "What about after your meeting?"

"I don't know, Cal, Milo will be there and..."

"We could sneak back to my place and you could just skip across the garden later."

She plucked at the edge of his desk, thinking. "Let's just see how things go, okay?"

Cal closed the file and stood, glancing out at the ever vigilant, Tilley. "I'll drive by around nine, and if you can get away... I don't know... wave a hanky or something."

"Sort of like, surrendering, you mean." She let him help her up and lead her to the door, blushing suddenly as he clutched her bottom lustfully, bidding her an intentionally loud, good day.

*****

Ross rang up the sale and placed the bill in the bag for the elderly woman; a feeble smile, meant to apologize for the shouting they could hear from overhead. She jerked her shoulders, giving him a scandalizing glare, and he hopped around the counter to hold the door, enduring the muttered admonitions as she manoeuvred her walker out into the street. He listened to a moment of silence, and then nodded with jaded confirmation as another shout sounded, and went back to his magazine on the counter.

"You made up the list, for God's sake!" Tiffany huffed about the storeroom, arms crossed below her heaving chest. "She wasn't on the list then, Allen." For ten minutes, they had argued about his placid acceptance of having to share a coach with Galleria; Tiffany's intentional charade worthy of an Oscar. "Don't think for a minute I can't read your mind, Allen. You hear the word model, and your antenna starts twirling."

"Ti, I've never even seen the woman, give me a little credit here, would you." He slapped his hands against his sides and perched dejectedly on the corner of a cabinet. She considered him peripherally; gauging the moment to change tack, then sighed dramatically and went to sit beside him.

"I'm sorry baby. I know it isn't your fault, and I'm just being an old silly." He looked at her, perking up at her change of mood.

"I understand," he said, immediately recalculating his prospects. "I'd feel the same if it was you."

"If it was me what?"

"You know. In my place. In the wagon. With her." He searched her face for understanding.

"Allen, don't let it upset you. If you have to be with her in the wagon, and later in the theatre... well, I'll understand. You just do what's necessary and I'll be waiting for you when it's all over." He smiled uncertainly at the odd glint in her guiltless eyes.

*****

"Tiffany, you're awful." Patty giggled into the phone, listening to her new friend's account of how she baited Allen and how she could just hear the wheels turning when she told him to just do what he had to do, for the sake of the ceremony.

"It's going to be an interesting night, darling."

"What about uh, Daryl?"

"Screw Daryl. He's bunking at the store and as far as I'm concerned, he can stay there."

"But he is your husband, Ti. Shouldn't you maybe...?"

"And he'll stay my husband, the little rat." Tiffany's voice grew harsh. "There's no way I'm giving up half this house or settling for half his business."

"But if neither of you want to be together—"

"Patty dear, of course we still want to be together, it's a question of control," she waxed philosophically. "Daryl's place is under my thumb. My place is anywhere I want to be."

"Gee, I could never be that way with Peter," Patty confessed. "He would just have a fit."

"Fitting is all they're good for, sweetheart. That... and making money." Tiffany listened to the silence on the line for a moment. "You know, Patty, some marriages need a little poke in the butt sometimes. A little walk on the wild side adds spice, stirs the emotions. You follow?"

"I don't think I could ever... cheat..."

"You don't have to cheat, in that sense, darling, just a little coy flirting; a little bump and tickle. Works wonders for the libido. You wait until tonight, you'll see what I mean when Allen gets next to Galleria."

"But that's... Gavin! A man!"

Tiffany roared a laugh. "I know. Isn't it hilarious? When he finds out—if he does—he'll be stampeding back to old Tiffany so fast..." She coughed another ear-rattling laugh. "Aaah God, Allen will be so mortified, he'll do anything to prove his manhood. I'll have him eating—hah, hahhaaa—he'll do absolutely anything I want."

Patty curled her hair behind one ear and plucked at her lower lip thoughtfully. "You really think he- men, would act that way?"

"Trust me, darling. This old horse has been around the track. You stick with me tonight, you'll see. And wear something sexy. I gotta go kid. See ya tonight."

Patty listened to the dial tone, considering Tiffany's advice and wondering just what it might be like...