It is a truth universally acknowledged that an LA glamour model in possession of a good husband who plays football must be in want of a dude who plays baseball instead, innit?
"Oh Cal," Angel wept furiously. "I'm a glamorous model, not a glamour model, innit? If you truly loved me, you wouldn't keep making that mistake."
But Cal did.
So Angel swanned off into the Californian sunset with Ethan. Ah bliss, innit?
But wait. "Ethan, you can't be facing financial ruin," wailed Angel. "Who's going to pay for my weave?"
Ethan was a hard, throbbing, muscular, manly man. He took Angel in his throbbing arms and murmured: "Two words, baby -- reality TV show."
"Oh, Ethan," sighed Angel. "You're like a genius, innit?"
But even though Ethan was way smart, like that dude in the wheelchair, except a surftastically cool baseball player too, Angel felt tingles when she thought of Cal the footballer.
"I'm having a stroke," she whispered to herself as she brushed her long, flaxen, blonde weave in the mirror. "Or is it ... Ohmigod, lust?"
Just then, Angel's Barbie-phone rang. It was someone she'd mentioned for the first time two pages ago, some family person or other, calling from England.
"Oh please, please, please don't tell me my father has fallen dangerously ill," Angel whispered helplessly into the Barbie-phone.
But he had.
"Alright, Cal the footballer," said Angel, after touching down at Heathrow. "Wot you doing in Engerland, eh?"
"Your father is dangerously ill, cupcakes," said Cal the footballer. "You need me now."
"I love Ethan," said Angel.
"Are you sure Ethan isn't secretly that stalker you're terrified of?" asked Cal the footballer.
"Ohmigod," said Angel. "you're right. Do you love me?"
"Let's go see your dangerously ill father," said Cal the footballer.
They walked off together into the London sunset.
The digested read, in a line: I'm Angel, fly me.