Frankie opened her shopping bags and pulled out the pink poodle. “Venette, I have some great new toys.” She pulled out the poodle and the dog began to bark to the tune of “La Marseillaise.” The girl gave Frankie the baby and took the poodle’s leash.

“Thank you, Dr. Weissman.” Mrs. Caesar raced out the door.

As Frankie passed the baby to a nurse she was blocked by Mrs. Adrienne Strong-Rodman, whose fringed Balenciaga leather jacket was now vibrating. Frankie’s receptionist had once made the mistake of simply calling her Mrs. Rodman and was immediately rebuked. “Please make a point of using all three of my names and both of my degrees, if possible, when referring to me.” Adrienne Strong-Rodman, J.D., Ph.D., claimed to be both a lawyer and a child psychologist. Somehow after a brief stint as a Hollywood publicist she reemerged as a high-powered entertainment lawyer with an expertise in children’s advocacy rights. Her career profile changed again once she landed the multibillionaire Paul Rodman.

No longer able to contain her fury, Adrienne Strong-Rodman turned to Frankie. “Listen. No one did more to raise money for social welfare in this town last year than I did. Just ask Lunch for Children, Women for Women, or Bottomless Closet. I work my ass off for diversity! But we’ve been waiting here for over twenty minutes and that’s unacceptable.”

Frankie looked down at Mrs. Rodman’s $1,950 rust crocodile Manolo Blahnik mules. She wondered if she had been equally irritated waiting for them. Then Frankie corrected herself. Adrienne Strong-Rodman would have the Manolos delivered to her home for perusal. That way she could get upstairs to her yoga hut, which she had just installed on the roof of her twin town houses, without wasting valuable time. In between working her ass off, Adrienne was in deep pursuit of inner stillness and calm.

“Just sign this.” Adrienne pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her white ostrich Hermès Birkin bag and put it in front of Frankie. “Jessica needs a note for skydiving class.”

“But Jessica’s only ten.” Frankie signed her name.

“Her father wants her to be fearless. And these days you need to be prepared. Have a nice day.”

She grabbed Jessica, the royal nanny, turned on her crocodile slide, and walked out.

Pippa Rose was already on her cell phone with the fast-breaking story. “Adrienne Strong-Rodman just lost it in Dr. Francesca Weissman’s office. I guess all that yoga isn’t working. Personally, I don’t think she was entirely out of line. I love Frankie Weissman, but she should never have moved her practice.”

Frankie knew the move had been a gamble. She had made her reputation at Park Avenue Pediatrics, a well-heeled practice with a chic neighborhood clientele. But when she turned forty, Frankie began teaching preventive medicine at a series of day care centers and elementary schools in East Harlem. Moving her own practice to 102nd Street and Fifth Avenue was her attempt to accommodate both ends of her Upper East Side patient spectrum.