That happens, of course, after she's given up her apartment in New York, where good real estate generally has to be pried from a body's cold, dead fingers. The problem is that she's called on to cry again and again in the picture. It's as if director Tony Goldwyn knew he had a good thing going and decided, stupidly, to jerk it. He's likable as a cad and a cutie, but he's at his very best when he's playing up the role of wicked playboy. He's a snarky, deadpan dreamboat.
Modern babes do have it tough, and they do cry.
But you can sum most of that up, beautifully, with the unspoken joke of the dusty diaphragm.