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By Elizabeth Bevarly

Copyright Elizabeth Bevarly

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition


What do you mean the chicken is still alive?”

Claire Willoughby gaped at her producer in stark-staring terror, her mind racing with all the ramifications the live chicken brought with it. And there were plenty.

It can’t still be alive,” she said. “I have to cook it on camera in thirty minutes. How’s it going to go from cage to frying pan, unless we...”

The rest of that statement didn’t even bear thinking about, let alone speaking aloud. Especially not by a woman wearing beige Ann Taylor separates and ivory Bandolino pumps.

Sorry, Claire, but there must have been a mix-up in the directions,” her producer, Nina Ritchie, replied without a hint of apology as she lit a new cigarette with the still-burning butt of her last one.

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