“Sounds interesting.” The therapist tried not to engage Samantha’s dismissive tone.

“Well, it would be entertaining, fashion, and decorating, so it may be superficial but at least it’s not limited. It has diverse superficiality. And I could tie it in with another coffee-table book since I never wrote the last one.” Samantha scratched her palm. “It’s for Plum TV. Ever hear of that?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s the cable station in the Hamptons. It was my friend Adrienne Strong-Rodman’s idea. She has a house there and she thought we could do it together. Her husband Paul is the one who just got indicted.”

The therapist leaned back in her chair. “Yes, I know who Paul Rodman is. He makes the Enron people look like philanthropists. You didn’t used to like Adrienne Strong-Rodman.”

“Oh, who the hell knows who I like or dislike. I thought her sexuality was crass and manipulative.” Samantha ran her hand through her hair. “But who am I to make comments about anyone else’s sexuality. I’m the Whore of Babylon!”

“You’re certainly down on yourself today.”

“Sorry.” Samantha nodded.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Sorry.” Samantha smiled. “Anyway, turns out Adrienne just makes a lousy first impression. But she’s actually very impressive and very smart. She really does have all these degrees—she went to UCLA night school and took adult extension courses in child psychology while she was still a Hollywood publicist. I think because she’s actually worked she knows what’s real. We’ve gone out for drinks a few times and she’s very loyal when it comes to gossip and all that crap.”

“She sounds like a good friend for you.”

“I’m not really sure what she gets out of it. I think I’m boring as hell.”

“Did something happen?” the therapist asked.

“Well, I’m telling you that I’m seriously considering becoming a cable TV host who has serious discussions about napkin rings. That sort of gives it away, doesn’t it. I do have an M.A. in art history. I have, in fact, been a real influence at the Whitney.”

“So don’t do it,” the therapist said quickly.

“And what do you propose I do instead? Sit around at the Sherry Netherland and wait for Barry to call?” Samantha was getting increasingly agitated. “Or read about benefits I refused to go to because I didn’t want to watch my boyfriend kiss the hem of his sainted wife, Clarice. She used to be another skinny mother with blown-straight hair on the Upper East Side and now she’s the Martyr of Madison Avenue. Look, I have nothing against the woman but she’s dull as dishwater. She’s a shopper and a professional playdate scheduler.” Samantha stopped her train of thought. “I’ve turned into such a fuckin’ bitch.”