Audley clicked the snap shut on her suitcase, half hoping she wouldn't have to go.

"I'm late," she said aloud. "I'm going to miss that goddamned plane, I just know it."

Defiantly she ran upstairs to the loft, checking to see that everything was in good order. The bed was unmade.

Catching her reflection in the mirror, she acknowledged that at least on the surface everything was in good shape. The tailored grey traveling pantsuit and matching suede pumps would hold up well during the long flight. Her blouse was wrinkle-resistant; her deodorant, fail-safe.

"Where did you put your lighter?" she inquired of the naked green eyes. Her face, lightly made up, stared back at her.

"Outdoors?" Sweeping the air with her long brown hair, she swiftly turned to scan the eclectic studio apartment she had designed and created for herself. On the redwood deck, running along the front and east sides of the two-story beach front structure, freshly watered plants stood erect, shading smaller bowls of blooms. Her favorite, the California poppy, held its bright face to the sun, waved gently in the ocean breeze. Audley overlooked the chaise lounge, barrenly soaking up the sun's piercing rays, enticing her to come and partake of the Malibu balm. She could not, much as she would like to. The lighter was not outdoors.

From the loft, her eyes descended to the writing table that faced the high windows to the front, overlooking the blue Pacific, and holding ready her briefcase packed with fresh notebooks, pens and pencils, laptop, tapes and recorder, snapped tight and lying next to her recent gift from Brad: a new Nikon and myriad film.

Where was that lighter? As much as she smoked, it was as important as air that she find it. Glancing at her watch, her eyes sped again, looking for the lighter and lingering in the apartment that she loved and hated leaving.

In the center of the studio was a French Provincial sofa; in front of this, an authentic Chippendale table -- too tall to be a practical coffee table but aesthetically pleasing and esthetics were more important to Audley than practicality. On the table, in neat array, lay the latest issues of L'Amour, Architectural Digest, National Geographic, Playgirl and The Silent Majority. Snuggled next to these she spied the lighter.

"On the coffee table," she said, answering her own question. "Right where you left it."

Grabbing a silk green-grey paisley scarf and a last glimpse in the mirror, she descended almost leisurely, and reached for the lighter and yet another cigarette, her eye focusing on the slick glossy monthly for which she wrote: The Silent Majority.

"At five bucks a copy," she commanded of the inert magazine, "this better sell a lot of copies! How else can I expect to meet my expenses?" Audley would not settle for less than First Class.

In the kitchen, the telephone rang. "Damn that phone," she muttered, returning to her inventory and gathering her paraphernalia, one at a time, at the door …

(1) Suitcase: certainly enough clothes for a simple

weekend assignment.

… wondering who might be calling.

"Not Dad," she surmised. "I already talked to him this morning."

(2) Train case: cosmetics, necessary items of feminine hygiene, blow dryer.

(3) Briefcase: laptop, cell phone.

(4) Camera case: batteries, film.

(5) Purse: checkbook, ID, cash.

"It's probably Weinberger checking up on me."

(6) Lighter, cigarettes.

(7) Jacket. ("It's too hot for a jacket." "Take it!")

(8) Plane ticket.

(9) Keys. ("Where are your keys?" "In your purse.")

"Well, screw Weinberger," she said as the telephone continued to ring. "After being an Ace Reporter for three years, I can damned well take responsibility for my own assignments."

What else? Oh, yes, very important. Marijuana. Only two, neatly tucked into a film cartridge in the camera case. "That's more than enough. Brad doesn't like me to smoke, anyway."

The telephone trilled for perhaps the tenth time.

"Damn that phone!" She retrieved the receiver. "Audley Blackstone's residence."

"Aud? It's me. Sylvia." The voice was sultry. Obviously, Sylvia had just woken up. Audley automatically looked at her watch: 11:35. Thirty-five minutes before flight time. "I'm glad I caught you," Sylvia purred. "Haven't you gone yet?"

"Oh, yes, Sylvia," she replied dryly. "I left ten minutes ago, right on schedule. You're talking to a recording."

"Oh, Audley, you're too funny. But seriously, have you got a minute?"

"I've got all day, Sylvia. I'm not going."

"What? Why, of course you are! Listen, I won't keep you."

"Hold on a minute. Let me get a cigarette."

"You smoke too much," Sylvia said into the empty receiver. "You're practically a chain smoker."

"Okay," Audley said, inhaling, "I'm back."

"I just wanted to remind you to pick up my dress."

"I'm not going."

"You sound serious."

"I am serious. The Institute of Futurology can have their goddamned convention without me."

"But you have an assignment to do!" Sylvia objected. "What will you do about Weinberger?"

"Screw Weinberger."

Sylvia overlooked the vulgarity. "And what about Brad?"

"Screw Brad."

"Now, Audley, is that any way to talk about your fiancé?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Of course it isn't. And you haven't even seen him for over a month."

"I know it, but damn it, I don't like seeing him when he's involved with his work. Every time I get near those people and that damned computer, we end up in the most vile arguments."

Sylvia could not dispute that. She could only envision herself at her party in the dress that lay waiting for her at Bonwit-Teller in New York. She took a practiced deep breath.

Audley grinned. This practiced patience was so like Sylvia who had never done a stitch of work in her life -- not labor, anyway, but many calculated verbal efforts. Sylvia calculated correctly this time. "You need the money."

Audley scowled. Sylvia was right.

"Audley?"

"I hung up."

"No, you didn't. I can hear you smoking."

"I'm breathing!"

Sylvia knew she had conquered. She was as good as wearing that dress already. It now remained for her to activate the problem child. "Alright. Are you packed?"

"Yes," Audley half pouted.

"Good. Have you got your ticket?"

"Yes."

"Well," Sylvia paused. "You know what to do. I'll see you when you get back."

Audley was still scowling over the prospects of the next few days. Regardless of her financial circumstances, something inside her rebelled against going.

"And don't forget to stop at Bonwit-Teller. It's right on Fifth Avenue."

Audley cracked a grin. "Fifth Avenue! I thought it was Times Square!"

"Bitch."

Audley giggled.

"Give my love to Brad."