a profile in courage; Jennifer Aniston emerges from the maelstrom with two new films-and her sense of humor intact.

Byline: Jonathan Van Meter

The Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel is just about as old as old Hollywood gets. Though it is still a place where power breakfasts are played out and celebrities meet their agents for lunch, it is also undeniably anachronistic and tourist-trappy, especially during the dinner hour. The pink-and-green color scheme, the perfumed ladies with facelifts and set hair, the meticulously elaborate settings of crystal and silver-it all screams bygone era. It is not hard to imagine that Debbie Reynolds came to this very room to nurse her wounds while projecting chin-up determination after that minx Elizabeth Taylor stole Eddie Fisher away. So I am not a little perplexed when Jennifer Aniston decides that this is where we are to meet one Thursday afternoon for lunch in early February.

When I arrive at the maItre'd station at the appointed time and announce that I'm here to see Aniston, I am whisked away to table 46-the table-a large, round corner booth all the way in the farthest corner of the room. So this is J.A.'s secret hideout. Ingenious! Who would ever think to look for her here? Still, I am puzzled. It is a beautiful, sunny day, and sitting in the dark swank of a hotel bar is not exactly Aniston's style. The first time I met her, in May 2002, she showed up in cutoffs and a tank top, flip-flops, and toe rings. Despite the lurky presence of paparazzi, we window-shopped on Beverly and ate pizza at some random little Italian joint. The next time we met, in the fall of 2003, we sat out on the patio of Il Sole, a supercasual hipster spot on Sunset, smoking cigarettes and drinking too much wine while, again, photographers lay in wait for her. Has the woman who famously loves cheap Mexican food and margaritas grown up and gone fancy? Or perhaps she's taken her new role as divorcee a step too far. I half expect her to make an entrance in a fur coat and Laura Biagiotti sunglasses.

Just then, I see Aniston breeze past the window as she is being led through a ripple of whispers and head-turns to a

table . . . outside. She's wearing tight, low-cut jeans, black boots, and a long black sweater over a dark-green T-shirt. I gather my things and head out to look for her, and as I'm walking across the patio toward her table she lights up with a big smile and waves. Phew. Despite the fact that she is just getting over a four-week-long bout with the flu, she looks fantastic-tanned and fit and youthful-and is in an ebullient, expansive mood. I, too, am in an inexplicably good mood, and she notices it right away. "Why are you so chipper?" she says with mock suspicion. "How long has this mood lasted, and what are you taking?" She laughs. "I'm teasing." She orders an iced tea-lemonade concoction. "I am in a good mood today," she says, "but I have not been in a good mood lately." It is right here, at this comment, that we begin our little dance, talking in ever-smaller circles around the elephant in the room. Not once during our two-and-a-half-hour lunch are Their names ever mentioned. Which is not to say that we don't, in some strange way, talk about Them. Or that thing that happened to all three of them last year.

Aniston is resolute about not getting specific. She will not give those weekly gossip rags another sound bite or plot line in the never-ending saga that plays out like some kind of tacky telenovela, week in and week out, on their covers. Not a single scrap will go to the vultures! I mention to Aniston that my mother happened to call me on my cell phone just before I came to meet her and asked what I was doing in L.A. I'm interviewing Jennifer Aniston, I said. "Oh, that poor girl," she said, and then, regretting having said that: "It's just awful to be the person that everyone is feeling sorry for." When I tell Aniston this, she shoots me a withering look. "I agree with your mother," she says. "There's nothing worse. I hate it. It makes my skin crawl." Here she slips into the simpering tone of fake sympathy. "How's Jen doing? Please! Don't feel sorry for me. Don't make me your victim. I don't want it. I'm so tired of being part of this sick, twisted Bermuda Triangle. As long as it's scandalous, it's a story. And that's kind of what it's been. It's just stupid. It's ridiculous. There's nothing to do about it. All I can do is go on and live my life. ...