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Hips working, Christina Ricci saunters across the lobby wearing low-slung jeans and highish heels, a well-read woman of twenty-six who recently emptied all the books from the shelves in her house to make room for her collection of designer shoes. Her stride is overlong for her five-foot frame, a little slutty, a postmodern Betty Boop, reminiscent of so many of the characters she has created—the zaftig, sexually adventurous teenybopper in The Ice Storm; the manipulative jailbait trollop in The Opposite of Sex; Woody Allen's ripe embodiment of vagina dentate in Anything Else; and, soon in theaters, the writhing, damaged, sex-addicted white-trash antiheroine Rae in Black Snake Moan, during which she spends much of her considerable screen time in dirty underwear, chained to a radiator in Samuel L. Jackson's rundown Tennessee farmhouse. She removes her oversized sunglasses to reveal her large and devastating hazel eyes, which are set like twin navels beneath the porcelain swell of her expansive, pale, Buddha's belly of a forehead. Her hand is small and fluttery and childlike, the nails without polish, the grip unsure, as if she is not entirely positive that she wishes to be here, even though she has committed to this bit of necessary business, the hour and location being convenient to her next appointment, one of her twice-weekly sessions with her therapist, which she calls "the best thing that I do. The last time she was here, at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood, dining at this very same restaurant, she'd excused herself to go to the ladies' room only to encounter a trendy unfortunate in a stall with her two girlfriends, the apparent victim of an overdose, heroin from the look of it—the lolling head, the eyelids at half-mast, the drool—a scene Ricci will later recall in a pitch-perfect, party-girl singsong: "Ohmigod!