Frankie wondered what the seals thought of Samantha’s ballgown. She continued to read.

“Her entertaining is like her guest list—her mix of friends from young downtown artists to social heavyweights and corporate players is irresistible. She is credited by everyone with having the foresight to abandon vertically stacked sashimi and reintroduce roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Finally, the signature of a truly A-list New York party is having Samantha Acton singing barefoot before the last guest departs.”

“‘She has a very sexy easygoing style,’ says society pal art dealer Jil Taillou. ‘But the truth is every move, every smile, every table setting is calculated with the precision of a four-star general. Her classic, carefree appearance requires remarkable dedication and discipline. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that she’s unbelievably smart.’”

Frankie put down her diet iced tea and leaned back in her chair. She liked the idea of a four-star general in charge of table settings. She imagined Norman Schwarzkopf organizing a frontal attack with roast beef carts. Samantha’s joie de vivre seemed so untimely now, so much even of the previous century, that Frankie found it anachronistically comforting.

·CHAPTER TWO·

Judy

Judy Tremont came to the Frédéric Fekkai Salon twice a week for maintenance. She accepted this schedule as part of her social contract. But between her grooming, running and redecorating her two homes, her four children, and her husband, Albert, Judy was stretched to the max. Even with a personal assistant, a calligrapher, a dog walker, two housekeepers, a driver, and a cook, she still honestly felt she couldn’t get everything done. Or, more important, she couldn’t get anything done right.

In a concerted effort to multitask, Judy usually had a mani-pedi while her individual hair strands were highlighting, or just a manicure during a blow-dry. Judy maintained her thick black hair in a chic geometric blunt cut and prided herself on a strand never being out of place. Although Judy also knew most fashionable women maintained shorter nails, she was consistent in sticking with a square-shaped longer look with deep red Chanel or Dior polish. This way her hands always appeared long and lean just like her figure. Unfortunately today her favorite Thai manicurist, Kim, was off duty, and she certainly wasn’t going to take a chance on one of the Russians. Making the best of a bad situation, she ordered in a Cobb salad: hold the bacon, hold the dairy, dressing on the side.

Having already devoured Harper’s Bazaar, Town & Country, and W at the facialist’s, Judy picked up Manhattan magazine from the nearby salon stash. As soon as she noticed “The Fashionable Mrs. Acton” in the table of contents she reached into her purse for an Ativan antianxiety tablet to place beneath her tongue. Her internist had first prescribed the drugs the week after 9/11 just to take the edge off. But they seemed to come in handy for other unexpectedly stressful occasions like this one. It wasn’t that Judy didn’t like Samantha Acton. Samantha was, in fact, her idol. But she was also her competition. And what angered Judy most was that she didn’t even really know Samantha. They weren’t in the same league.