After Paul dismissed myself from my office, I had two other clients to attend to. Luke Castellan - a hyperactive, dyslexic college heartthrob whose overt preppiness and hey-I'm-just-a-nice-guy-no-really-I-am smirk reminded me almost uncannily of Paul at his youthful, frolicsome best. Luke's family aimed to redefine 'dysfunctional' - a schizophrenic banshee of a mother and a commitmentphobic, always-on-the-run, kleptomaniac dad who paid neither visits nor child support and a brood of unruly, fiercely competitive half-siblings did not make for one, big, happy family. Plus, he had hinted darkly about his 'cousins' - a trigger-happy gaggle comprising succubi, axe murderors and obsfucatingly stupid geniuses. His best friend, some Thalia I gathered he still harbored a kindergarten crush on, was apparently 'in a vegetative state', as he delicately expressed it.

Actually, he called her 'an olive tree'. Maybe that's the tasteful way of saying someone's in a coma, these days? Maybe I should ask Carla.

After him, I entertained the complaints of a Miss Haruhi Fujioka, a pretty, five-foot-nothing Japanese lawyer with a gunmetal-hard brain and absolutely no sense of humor. Since the age of fifteen she had been harassed by the predatorial sexual advances of six dashing young men of considerable financial means (I remembered eleventh grade with Paul in tow, multiplied that by six and moaned in sympathy for her). One had the emotional intelligence of a particularly retarded six-year-old, one had a heart forged of solid titanium, two were into threesomes and twincest, one looked like an eight-year-old and subsisted on a diet of sweetmeats and the last was his cousin and madly, deeply and hopelessly (but stoically) in love with him. Oh, did I mention she happened to be a crossdresser? I suggested a sex change and her face brightened up immediately. She was charmed by my ingenuity. So was I. My own brilliance dazzles me at times.

Paul waltzed in just while I was packing up, with a Hermes scarf of appeasement. "Lunch?" he reminded me.

I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to bribe me, you know. But thanks anyway."

Paul bounced in the background while I speed-dialed 'J'. What can I say? I'm still a lovesick teenager at heart. You would be too if your man was as hot as my man.

Oh my God. Did I just refer to Jesse as 'my man'?

I'm turning into Kelly Prescott in my dotage.

He picked up on the second ring. "Susannah?"

"Hey," I said, a trifle breathily, because Paul had chosen just that moment to gallantly drape my newly-acquired scarf over my shoulders. Gallant? Paul? Hah, not in a million years. He probably just wanted to sniff my neck or something in his freaky stalkerish way. "Um, are you busy? See, an old friend-"

He snorted eloquently in the background and I glowered at him, making shushing motions with my fingers.

"-Dropped in and he's uh, taking me for lunch at-"

"The Origami," Paul said coolly, naming the most expensive and select restaurant in the vicinity. Times change, people don't.

"-The Origami and I was wondering if you could join us?"

Paul sounded a trifle put out as he said, "Suze, seriously, you're forty. It's a public spot. You don't need a chaperone. And you're not exactly in any danger of losing your virginity."

I put my hand on my hip and glared at him, temporarily forgetting Jesse was on the line. "Who's to say I haven't had hymen reconstructive surgery done?"

"Is it Paul?" Jesse sounded amused. Frankly, that was insulting. I'd expected - well, hoped - he'd sound more... possessive. Ah those were the good old days, when two hot young men used to fight, shirtless and sopping wet, for little old, twenty-five-inch-waisted me.

"How'd you guess?" I demanded.

"Prescience?" he suggested, chuckling throatily. "Yes, I think I can make it, querida. It's always pleasant to meet old friends. Goodbye."

"Bye," I said and for good measure I added, "Love you, Jesse."

He chuckled and with a last click, the line died. Paul meowed. "Catty, aren't we? Honestly, it's not like you're a great catch anymore, Simon."

I let my glance linger a moment too long on his teensy-weensy hint of a paunch. It was sure to blossom into a beergut, give it a decade or two. His smile quickly faded and he muttered, "Bitch," before wheeling out. Don't let constructive criticsm get to ya, kid.

I took a last look at myself. For a forty-something, I'm in pretty good shape, even if I do say so myself. Straight, silky, shoulder-length copper-brown hair that I shampooed everyday with guava-scented shampoo to get that special texture and luscious smell ('You might not be pretty, but your hair sure smells good,' Ethan assures me). Green eyes tastefully ringed with eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara and any other eye-products you might care to name, all pilfered from Carla's dressing table. Curvy hot-mamma curves stretching luxuriantly under my pristine white linen shirt and knee-length skirts to hide the cellulite. Mineral-based MAC dust-on powder and bronzer that hid nearly all the wrinkles and spots. The ones that weren't quite hidden just gave character to my face. I was pitchfork red, I'd been around the block, I was the older woman all the young men wanted a piece of...

Yep, I wouldn't need to resort to Botox for at six years.

Paul honked. Grabbing my Louis Vuitton tote I stumbled out of my office, my stilettos clickety-clacketying all the way until I hopped into his black Porsche. "Smooth," he said dryly.

I stuck out my tongue at him and slipped on my Ray Bans. "Just drive." The wind in my hair, a Porsche to bring out the sheen of my swanky-new silk scarf and a hottie at the wheel... I was so deliciously happy that I had to remind myself to cross my fingers for luck. God resents happiness, you see. For all I knew, if I hadn't taken the precaution of crossing my fingers against Fate, I'd have probably gotten a phonecall just then, from Ethan's school telling me that he'd vomitted Frooti Loops and milk all over the classroom and that I needed to pick him up.

Yes, it's happened before. Jesse assures me that it runs in the family - he was into serial vomitage back in Ye Olde Schoolhouse.

We drew up before The Origami and I sailed in, on Paul's arm. It's a beautiful place, The Origami, the ambience almost being worth the cost. Think floor-to-ceiling glass walls and sun-splashed black marble, flame-bright marigolds swimming in bowls of cool jade bowls, rice-paper walls with tastefully erotic silk wall-hangings of languorous geisha in bird-of-paradish kimonos and amorous samurai, haiku carved into the lacy woodwork.

Paul was smiling down at me. "Like it?" he asked in a stage whisper. But then, being Paul, he had to ruin it by adding, "I bet Rico Suave doesn't take you here that often."

Because we have three growing kids, maybe? Do you remember anything about college tuition, Slater? "So it's still a sore spot?" I asked sweetly. "Seems like some people just can't grow up."

The maitre directed us to a little table set for three. Since Jesse hadn't arrived yet, I looked around a bit. There was a table set for a large group of twenty-somethings. A large group of very photogenic, very professionally touched-up, very familiar-looking twenty-somethings.

Yep, The Origami attracts a large celebrity clientele.

I let my eyes feast on them for a couple of seconds, just like Dom and Ethan did at animals at the zoo. There was Princess Mia, every PR agency's wet dream, every monarchy's jackpot. She was a Disneyesque, blond, pro-Greenpeace vegan with the 5'11-110 pounds frame of a supermodel. She wasn't into drugs, drunk-driving or crotch-flashing at nightclubs and she was going to be married in a fairytale ceremony soon. What was not to love?

A good-looking, dark-haired boy with a prominently Jewish nose and gorgeous shoulders hovered around her. Ah yes, Michael Moscovitz - the young genius who'd built a robotics empire and with the help of a few millions successfully wooed the imperious Dowager Princess's consent. Michael Moscovitz was all kinds of wonderful, I was sure, but looking at him depressed me. He reminded me too much of Michael Meducci. Christ they had the same first names, the same initials, they'd both been genius hotbods (though Meducci's face didn't hold a candle to Moscovitz's)... and there was where the resemblance ended. Meducci was serving a lifetime sentence for a quadruple homicide (and attempted murder of five). And Moscovitz kind-of wasn't.

I wondered what would have happened if Lila Meducci hadn't gone to that poolside party... would things have spiralled out of control the way they had? Christ, Michael was a kid. Sixteen is too young to be held responsible, you start to realize that when you're forty. Would that Michael have been the same as this Michael, given the same opportunities? Come to think of it, what would Moscovitz do if his little sister, Lilly (the coincidences were freakish), ended up in a coma? Would he have wanted revenge? Well, hell yeah, he would have but... but would he have gone the whole way?

I read in a book once: You can never tell what a person has in him until you start taking things away, one by one.

It's true. You never can tell.

A girl who was almost obscenely like a caricature of Kelly Prescott at sixteen stepped out from the Princess's table and marched over to us. She had the cheerleader walk - perky, bouncing boobs, sculpted, bouncing ass, rolling hips, head held high, chiselled chin outthrust, long, blonde hair splashing all over the place. She even talked freakishly like Kelly. "Paw-wol," she sang, managing to imbue that word with two syllables.

She bent low, so we both got a good look at her tanned cleavage, pushed sky-high by her Wonderbra and adventurously, intimidatingly skimpy Betsey Johnson minidress. This was more than explicit. I wanted a handkerchief.

"Lana, babe," he greeted her. "This is Susannah De Silva, an old friend of mine."

Miss Look-My-Boobs-Don't-Sag-Yours-Do spared me the barest glance. "Hello, I'm Lana Weinberger," she said coldly, thrusting one manicured, scarlet-taloned hand at me.

"What are you doing here?" Paul asked her.

She rolled her big blue eyes at him, thickly-mascared eyelashes fluttering exaggeratedly. "You're such a dork - I'm here for Mia's wedding of course! And you are..." Her glance trailed suspiciously over me. So I'm still vampish even for the Prom Queen to glower at me and sink her predatorial talons into her man? Sweet.

"Business." He didn't elaborate, but a trace of mocking smile lingered on his face. Paul's good at juggling women. Midlife crisis comes to men in many ways, see? Beerguts, football, cybersex, SUVs, nubile arm-candy... I've heard of them all. Shuddered too.

"Oh," she said, sulkily. Then, remembering her manners, she said brightly, "Have fun. I'm staying at the Pebble Beach Resort. I'll be expecting you tonight." Touche. She blew him an air kiss and sauntered off, clearly elated with herself.

"Girlfriend?" I asked dryly, after she'd returned to her rightful table.

He waggled his eyebrows. "She wishes. Nah, she's a little too... virginal for my taste. Too fresh, too perky, too... well, you get it. She's my plastic surgeon's daughter."

"What?" I gaped at him, scrutinizing his face. Paul didn't plastic surgeory! If Paul needed plastic surgeory, then I needed a complete makeover.

The faintest blush crept over his cheeks. "Botox," he said quietly. "Don't look at me like that, Suze. You're going to need it in a couple of years."

"You should have invested in some abdominoplasty as well," I retorted crisply. "And a tanning bed as well."

"Excuse me, Mrs De Silva, but you're not in great shape either."

"But atleast it's all au naturel. Don't you wish you could say the same for yourself?"

"Well excuse me-"

"Querida." He swept down upon me with a kiss.

Paul rolled his eyes expressively. I winked at him. "Get a room," he gritted out, looking mildly insulted that we were going at it with such gusto. I didn't think he was jealous, just resentful that there was a better kisser than him around, someone who really knew how to give a girl her money's worth.

Did I just make Jesse sound like a gigolo?

The plates were black and - oh all shapes - square. Very classy too, with a delicate pattern of bamboo leaves painted in stark white on the side and a different haiku, in spidery Japanese characters (the translation in English beneath them) for every plate. Mine read,

Summer grass

All that remains

Of soldier's dreams.

Talking about cheery. I browsed through the hand-stitched silk pamphlets - with the universal motif of geisha and samurai locked in compromising positions running through it - that served as menus.

"So, Jesse, what have you been doing with yourself?" Paul said, his voice as bright and false as Lana's had been. "A doctor? How nice and socially appropriate of you, helping those in need, but does it pay?"

"Oh please," I snapped. "I don't care if you're paying for this lunch, just drop it, OK? We're not particularly interested in the details of your salary and how many thousand dollars you rake in every minute just by lying your ass off and looking pretty."

"I'm pretty?" he said gleefully.

"You're plastic. Barbie's plastic," I told him. "So, yeah, I guess you're pretty. Until the Botox starts melting."

Jesse shuddered for effect. Yep, we have this awesomely awesome telepathic connection of awesomeness.

Paul chose a different tack. "How're your stepbrothers?" he asked. "Jake, Brad? I know about Dave, of course."

I grinned. Everyone knew of Dave (he'd hit the hotness jackpot during puberty and after ninth grade, he was strictly a Dave, not a David, to the rest of the world) Ackerman. Chairman of his own Forbes 500 Company, gazillionaire, philanthropist. He'd had the cutest marriage ever, with his middle-school sweetheart, Shannon. The press milked that human interest piece for weeks, the Awwwww factor being just about irresistable. They're going to have their first baby in three months.

Jake, after months of denial and a week of dating our vapid, vampish twelfth-grade Homecoming Queen finally came to terms with the true nature of his sexual orientation. Amidst rain, lightning and the sound of a thousand fangirls' hearts breaking, he'd confessed his undying love to his best friend - Neil Jankow. Yeah, Craig's brother. Now, Jake did something with cars, Neil did something with his family bars and they were as happy as a pair of partridges in a pear tree.

Dopey, being too dumb and too hot (gag) to be anything else, was a gym trainer. He was actually fairly good at it - he'd managed to reduce Miss Mancuso of the Montana-sized butt to a size four from a size... oh I don't know. Size fifty?

The food arrived, slivers of color and wafting fragrance photogenically arranged, immaculate in their miniscularity. The Origami must have the highest price-per-ingredient rating on the West Coast. While I concentrated on elegantly toying with my food - trade me a cheeseburger over sushi any day - the conversation went something like this:

Paul: "So, Jesse, I know you're a busy man, don't get much quality time for the kids-"

Me: "We manage perfectly fine, Paul. Eat your vegetables."

Paul: "-I wasn't talking to you, Suze. Playing doctor-"

Jesse: "I prefer to think of it as more in the line of 'saving lives', Paul. I am a neurosurgeon."

Paul: "I suppose you are, but does it pay? Tell me, Jesse, where was the last place you vacationed in? Not the Swiss Alps, I'll bet. Understandable, considering your meagre-"

Me: "For your information, it was in Barbados, and at least we don't have to siphon millions paying alimony."

Ad nauseum. That man could do with a few kids - he needs some major growing up to do. Maybe I could sic Carla and Dom on him for the weekend?

Snatches of conversation floated by as Ferragamo-heeled, Dior-draped patrons, Ricci-scented patrons glided in. A tall, pale, aristocratically ferret-faced young man and his pretty, blue-eyed girlfriend with wavy reddish-brown hair settled down next to us. She had a British accent and the pedantic, eager-to-dispense-information tone of voice I'd always associated with editors of school newspapers, "-Japanese cuisine, an exquisite testimony to the-"

The boy drawled out languidly, "A Malfoy bride's purpose is not to enlighten or educate, but to entertain. I thought we'd already gone over that, Rose?"

She laughed. "Mum would just freak if she heard you saying something that chauvinistic, Scorpius."

"I think your Dad's doing enough freaking out for both of them." Abruptly, his voice switched - he was clearly mimicking Rose's dad, and judging from her giggles it was a dead-on imitation. "Rosie! How could you! A Malfoy, a Slytherin! Where did we go wrong with you?"

My cellphone bleeped and rummaging through tissues, sunglasses, paperback porn, lipsticks, spare change and car keys I wrestled it out of my Vuitton handbag. A message from Carla.

Major WTF moment. What was she doing messaging her Mom in the middle of school? Something, she'd once assured me, she'd never be caught dead doing? Was she in trouble? Was it a hostage situation? An earthquake?

Jesse had read the sender's ID and, exploiting his semi-telepathic connection to me, had read my mind. "Querida," he said gently, reaching out and patting my hand. "It'll be fine. Just read it. I'm sure she's not in any-"

"You don't know," I assured him darkly while Paul occupied himself looking clueless.

There's this ghost-dude at school who says he knows you, Mom. I think you'd better come over and talk to him when you're picking up Dom? I told him to wait for you at the school gates, cause I'm not dealing with him. Toodles.

Yes, Carla's a mediator. What'd you expect?

"A ghost-dude who knows you?" Jesse repeated suspiciously. "Perhaps I had better join you and check-"

I rolled my eyes. "Jesse. I'm capable of looking after some things myself, you know. Give me some credit."

He didn't look entirely convinced. That is so not my fault. "I think-"

I looked at him until he fidgeted a trifle guiltily. "Stop playing the responsible-and-mature card on me. That grew old a look time ago. Besides, overprotective doesn't look so good on you." I touched his hand gently. "I'll be fine."

He smiled uneasily. "If you're sure-"

"I am," I assured him, leaning over to kiss his cheek and getting a refreshing whiff of that familiar soapy smell he exudes. You wouldn't believe how comforting soap can smell. "Besides, I have you for backup, just in case things get rough don't I?"

"Of course."

Paul chose that moment to display his innate lack of maturity by gagging and muttering, "Get a room, you two."

"Jealous, much?"

"You wish."

A/N: Luke Castellan is kind of the Paul Slater of the Percy Jackson series. Haruhi Fujioka is the awesomely unass-kicking (but still badass) heroine of the manga 'Ouran High School Host Club'. Both of them are to be loved to pieces.