"So I heard you wrote about me," Ximu says to Lulu.

Lulu doesn't deny a thing. "Yes. Do you mind?"

"No. Not at all." Ximu sounds happy. "As a matter of fact, I'd prefer you to use my real name."

"But the character is not an honorable man, as you may know better than anybody else," Lulu mocks.

"It's flattering to be written about by a young, beautiful, and very promising writer. I'd rather be notorious than normal. If you want, I can help you find investors who might be interested in turning the book into a movie. Our story might become a legend!"

Hearing his words, the editor gives Lulu an I-told-you-so expression.

"You're treating my book like free advertising for your fashion designs," says Lulu, displeased. Despite all his flaws, Lulu still can't believe that the artist Ximu would promote himself so shamelessly.

"Why not? Nowadays the most difficult thing is to be taken seriously. Movie actors, fashion designers, and pop singers reinvent their love stories to promote themselves. We have a real one – why not go for it? Lulu, let's make some noise and sell our past together to the public!"

For a moment, Lulu says nothing. The she regains her confidence and replies, "What do you mean, 'we'? You didn't have any trouble going your own way before. You wanted to write some new chapters in your life without me. Now, I'm the one writing it, so I'll be the one selling it. Bye-bye!"

Lulu's debut novel Lover ' s Socks is published with a first printing of 100,000 copies. Lulu is sent on a ten-city book tour. In every city, with every journalist and interviewer, she repeats the tales of her sad love story with Ximu who cheated on her and only wanted to take her as a lover, not a wife. She's heard on radio, seen on TV, and written about in newspapers.

Although Lulu enjoys the stardom of a rising new author, she cannot help but feel a sense of irony about the whole thing: Her relationship with Ximu almost destroyed her and made her look like a failure in front of her family and friends. But now, she is going to achieve some fame and make a fortune out of this story. She needs to smile at her readers as she signs her name on the flyleaf of the sad book they have purchased.

She calls me: "Niuniu, believe it or not, I'm selling my own pain. I guess everything is commercialized nowadays. The market is what counts."

I recently just finished reporting a story on the Chinese literature scene. I know exactly what she is talking about. I comfort her: "Nothing is wrong about making a living off one's pain. Mo Yan, the author of The Republic of Wine always writes about hungry peasants in his stories. Jung Chang, the author of Wild Swans, tells the stories of the three generations of women's suffering. Amy Tan is another successful writer who made a bundle by selling sorrowful Chinese stories to the West. Look at Hollywood – movies about the Holocaust always tend to win the awards. Selling pain is a good business model."

Lulu feels more at ease on the other end of the line. "After all, everybody else is doing it. What the heck? It's karma perhaps. I was wronged and now I'm getting paid back."

A few days later, I hook her up with a Hollywood-based Chinese film agent named Doug who is looking for cross-cultural projects.

We meet at Factory 798.

"The story line is great. A Chinese man is dumped in France by his Chinese wife and then he goes back to China and becomes a womanizer who takes revenge on Chinese women. You have done a great job exploring the psyche of Chinese women who abandon their Chinese husbands after moving to the West and the sense of defeat that Chinese men have in the West. But your story is not sad enough!" Doug tells this to Lulu as soon as we sit down, showing his American impatience.

"What do you mean?" Lulu asks.

Doug continues. "From Hollywood 's perspective, if a movie is about China and it is not about kung fu, it needs to have some cultural flavor. The sad cultural and political situations in other countries often make American audiences feel guilty about their own comfortable lifestyle. As long as you can pull on Americans' heartstrings, it will sell. So I suggest that you add in more about the low status of Chinese women. It's best to include the topics of prostitution and foot binding."

"But my story is a modern-day story. How can I write about foot binding? It's no longer practiced in China?"

Doug laughs. "What about creating an older woman whose feet were bound – the male character's grandmother or great-grandmother, for example. The whole point is to show how backward China was. "

"What about prostitution? Why is it needed?" Lulu asks.

"Nowadays, even a Nobel laureate says that prostitutes inspire him. You see, many Western men come to Asia to get cheap sex. So create an intriguing Chinese prostitute."

Lulu's anger is quite visible as she gets to her feet. "Doug, Richard Mason wrote The World of Suzie Wong fifty years ago. You Hollywood dream merchants need to update your collections."

Lulu then gives me a broad wink as she says, "Let's go, girl. We have to meet Beibei at the opium den."

The two of us giggle as we walk off arm in arm.

People say that making friends becomes more difficult as we grow older. Friendship between women is tricky. Women can be compassionate, sympathetic, and giving, but at the same time, we can be catty, jealous, and moody. At a certain point in our lives, we all crave friendship to some degree. When it comes to friends, there have never been too many.

Beibei, CC, Lulu, and I are four girlfriends who have been confidantes for some time. We talk, listen, and help one another. One reason that we get along so well, according to Beibei, is that we come from similar family, financial, and educational backgrounds.

But lately, I have a burning desire to make friends outside of my own clique – even among people who are opposite to me. I don't know why. Perhaps friendship also has a seven-year-itch cycle.

Twenty-something May May, one of my interviewees who works as a secretary at a foreign enterprise, wants to be my friend.

We start to hang out.

May May likes to talk about herself. Being a journalist, I enjoy being a good listener. May May thinks she is fashionable and likes to criticize me from time to time.

"Your clothes make you look fat," she comments out of nowhere.

"Your hair is wrong. Short hair doesn't go well with your facial structure."

At first, I take it as constructive criticism. After all, I'm tired of the superficial, meaningless compliments of Americans. But I soon find out that every time May May scolds me, she adds, "You should look like me." The latter part annoys me sometimes.

Nevertheless, I want to test my limit. Although I don't think of May May as gorgeous, I never object when May May becomes self-indulgent. But there was one time that I felt very awkward. As we are having dinner, she tells me, "Niuniu, can we switch seats? That weird guy has been staring at me since we walked in. I don't know why this type of thing always happens to me."

I agree. As I sit in May May's seat, I notice a man who is looking this way. But it is so obvious that he is looking at the clock on the wall. No doubt, May May is a narcissist. But, I think, who is not? Every young woman is a bit like that. If I want to make friends with her, I should look at her positive side.

But apparently, May May is not only narcissistic but also competitive. If I wear a Bebe T-shirt to dinner, next time May May wears the same T-shirt in a different color. If I carry a new cell phone, May May will make sure to bring a newer model next time. Once I take May May to the Rose Garden, where she has never been before. A few weeks later, she brings me back to the Rose Garden. "You should thank me for taking you to this in place," she says, as if doing me a favor.