It seemed odd to Frankie that Judy’s very codified sense of social order couldn’t have protected her from a random accident. Judy’s world had far more rigid rules than even Jil’s old grammar manual. But ironically, the random accident that took Judy’s life may have somehow been caused by a scion of the social order Judy so admired. Frankie had no way of methodically proving her theory. She just based it on what she overheard sitting under a paper dragon in a Chinese restaurant.

Marilyn was now singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Frankie put down the paper and stood beside her father. Marilyn was sliding diamond bracelets up and down her wrist and imploring, “Speak to me, Harry Winston, speak to me.”

“Me, too,” Abraham suddenly answered.

“Dad, can I get something for you?”

Abraham turned his head toward his daughter and smiled broadly with pride as if she had just walked for the first time or told him she got into Harvard Medical School. He squeezed her hand, but his fingers were so thin and his hands so weak it felt as if he had only brushed it.

“I love you, Dad.” She kissed him on the forehead.

But the smile was gone. Abraham put his head back. He was immediately asleep.

Frankie knew that this would be the last time she’d see him smile or even respond. In a short time, he would forget how to touch, how to swallow, and how to breathe.

When Frankie left Abraham’s apartment she walked down Madison Avenue, passed the empty Whitney Museum, Carolina Herrera, Givenchy, and the Ralph Lauren shop in the former Rhinelander Mansion. She passed Judy’s street and thought of stopping in to see Albert but kept walking. She was no longer part of that world. She no longer had a lingering belief, like Jil, that they knew how to live better than anyone else. Or that by being in their light she’d become imbued with their glow.

She strode past the sleek and strangely quiet Armani, Valentino, and Krizia flagships. In some ways Frankie was now grateful for Samantha’s call at that Chinese restaurant. It made it clear to her that Charlie, like Samantha, was infatuated with his own self-image. She had been infatuated with it, too, but she hadn’t understood that the image was all that was left.

Samantha and Charlie were not unintelligent. They weren’t even aspirational like Judy or obfuscating like Jil. Looking at the window displays, Frankie realized that they were polished people, and ultimately destructive because they would maintain the entrenched ease of their lives at any cost. Ironically, unlike Judy or Jil, Samantha and Charlie had very small imaginations.