Victory lives in a brownstone, free spirit that she is, and she spent the night sleeping on her couch, which I guess is also a free-spirited thing to do. A call from her new suitor, Joe (that's Andrew McCarthy), wakes her up. He starts right in with the obnoxious-rich-guy let-me-sweep-you-off-your-feet thing, which I'd barely be able to tolerate in the best of circumstances. Before my morning coffee, I would definitely hang up on him. Victory just explains that she can't do lunch in Miami today, private jet or no, because she has to cope with her collapsing business. "I just pink-slipped fifteen employees! I moved my office to my house!" Joe is bored by this, because he couldn't care less about the things that matter to Victory. He also doesn't care about the traffic he's holding up by meandering very slowly across the street while he whines into his cell. I am rooting for the angry driver behind Joe to accelerate and break his legs, but for some reason, Victory agrees to have dinner with him that night. "He's the devil," she sighs as she hangs up the phone. No, Victory, he's just an asshole. The devil doesn't bother with people who have no self-respect to lose.