he shrill chirp of the telephone startles her, and she nearly spills her nail polish.
Gallery X," Delia says, answering on the first ring.
No, I'm sorry, this is not Darla's Donuts. I'm afraid it's a modern art gallery," she says, her gravelly voice and muffled giggle echoing through the stark storefront. "Yes, sir, I'm positive we don't sell any sort of breakfast pastries whatsoever."
           Then she has an idea.
            "But wait, sir? We do have an exquisite William Tucker piece that looks very much like a bronze apple fritter."
            And, click, the caller's gone.
            Delia Flude, 28, associate director of a chic exhibition space on the most fashionable block of State Street, hasn't moved any art in weeks. With the exception of a Hope Ranch client who called to complain that her Hockney painting didn't arrive in time to fill her lunch guests with agonizing envy, she's spoken to only three people all day. One was the donut guy, and the other two were tourists who wandered in pretending to be interested in abstract sculptures just so they could use the restroom. They left an empty Ice Blended Mocha cup on the back of the toilet.
            Any other day, such dullness would have irked her, but Delia is too excited about the film festival gala tonight to let work get her down. Her friend Rodrigo, the only person she knew in town when she moved here four months ago, is working as an usher at "A Salute to Santa Barbara's Own," and offered to sneak her in the side door of the Arlington Theatre.
            Supposedly Carol Burnett and Tab Hunter will be there, but Delia hopes to run into hunky movie star Edward Burns, who she heard is in town for the festival. She figures since he broke off his engagement with supermodel Christy Turlington, he might be on the prowl for someone shorter and less obviously stunning - say, a petite art history major with black hair, green eyes and a kick-ass collection of old blues records?
            With only an hour until the event, Delia slaps a final coat of ice blue polish on her finger nails and tries to ignore a sudden intense craving for donuts. Recalling the omnipresent aroma of fried and frosted dough that pervades her hometown of Fullerton, she gets a pang of nostalgia for the last time she sank her teeth into a pink-frosted cruller. It was the week after her father's funeral, while she was loading the U-Haul for her move.
            Since then, it's been all spa bran muffins and sundried tomato bagels, the preferred a.m. indulgences of this sophisticated seaside utopia.
            With a grimace, Delia gulps down a handful of the unsalted soy nuts her boss keeps in the desk drawer, sets the gallery alarm, douses the lights and dashes next door to the upscale Green Jeans boutique.
            "Entrez-vous, darling," says Hanna, the obscenely attractive blond salesgirl. "I've got just the thing for you and it'll even work with your big, clunky Mary Janes."
            Hanna, who insists her name rhymes with iguana, not banana, finds Delia's vintage, post-goth fashion sense charming, and has graciously agreed to let her borrow one of the shop's haute-couture ensembles for the evening.
            "It's a hand-painted Betsy Johnson slip-dress that's going to be positively stunning on you," she says. "You don't need to be tall to pull it off. Or tan."
            Delia ducks into the dressing room as Jack Johnson's groovy "Bubble Toes" trickles out of the in-store stereo.
            "So what do you do when you're not baby-sitting statues and coveting designer wear?" Hanna hollers as she discreetly passes an embroidered cardigan and ruffled lace handbag through the curtain.
            "I read," Delia replies, instantly horrified by how lame it sounds. "Also, I love classic movies and - oh! - I garden. I mean, I don't actually have a garden, but there's this window box ... "
            "You ought to come hiking with me and my friends," Hanna interrupts. "A bunch of us meet up at Tucker's Grove every week. You'll love it."
            Delia doubts it. In a city of nature lovers and exercise nuts, she is a genuine misfit. But holing up with Circus Animal cookies and a worn-out tape of "Sex and the Single Girl" on her days off has not, so far, been advantageous to her social life. So she gratefully accepts Hanna's offer, promises not to sully the swanky duds and makes a mad dash for the Arlington - opting to leave her scooter in the parking garage and hoof the four blocks rather than incur helmet hair.
            Her eyes peeled for celebrities, she moseys around to the north side of the theater, trying to look inconspicuous. She descends a short stairwell and waits by a set of double green doors, as Rodrigo instructed her to - and waits, and waits. Has he forgotten?
            After 15 minutes, she knocks softly on the door and, within seconds, it opens.
            But it's not Rodrigo standing there. Not by a long shot.

Episode 2: A brush with fame »