Judy allowed the tablet to dissolve, felt her pulse slow, and began reading.

“Samantha Acton, in the style-blazing tradition of Mrs. Astor or Babe Paley, defines the social order.” Judy skimmed ahead. Her eye landed on “If there’s still a Mrs. Astor’s 400, then Samantha Acton is number one.”

Judy was truly agitated. Unlike other aspirational Upper East Siders she could name, Judy Tremont didn’t need to define the social order. But she certainly deserved an honorable mention. No one cared more about New York society than Judy. It had become, in a real way, her life’s work.

Judy’s mother had worked in a jewelry and novelty shop in Modesto and her father was a cop. They lived in a white two-bedroom ranch home in a postwar development. Judy’s mother subscribed to Good Housekeeping, Ladies’ Home Journal, and, for her business, Town & Country. By age eight Judy had zeroed in on Town & Country and neglected the others. More than the ballgowns and the jewels, Judy coveted the lives of the women photographed at charity balls or opening-night galas. In Judy’s eyes these magical women glided into rooms and never took public transportation. Their skin glowed from facials and never from the perspiration of a ridiculous summer job. By senior year of high school Judy knew the names of every woman at the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute Benefit Gala. By the time she graduated Fresno City College, she had memorized the history of New York’s four hundred richest families.

When Judy first came to New York, she began a successful career as an editor at Mademoiselle. But she had no intention of maintaining a five-figure editorial career. Her destiny was in the lifestyle she had long ago imagined for herself. As soon as the new accessories editor mentioned in passing that she was Albert Tremont’s best friend from Deerfield, Judy became her best friend too. Within a month, all three were having dinner together, and exactly a year later Judy was debating between bridesmaid dresses at Bergdorf Goodman and Vera Wang.

“Judy, I can take you now.” William, the hair colorist, came to retrieve her.

As Judy got up she saw one of the Piel sisters walk into the salon. Although Judy was forty-one and this Piel sister was twenty-six, Judy took some pride that their bodies were in surprisingly similar shape, both probably around five foot eight and a size 4. This affirmation that her daily Pilates class was clearly the right way to go, plus the aftereffects of the Ativan, put Judy in a far more tolerant mood.

She decided she’d get Frédéric to cut her hair and keep her mind off Samantha Acton and anything else remotely distressing. Ever since 9/11 Judy was making a real effort to channel positive energy. Today she was even picking her daughter Charlotte up from her flu shot at Dr. Weissman’s. It would be easier for the nanny to bring her home but Judy was, honest to God, trying.

Judy’s car was waiting at the Fifty-seventh Street entrance. If it had been up to her, Judy would have preferred a Mercedes sedan, but her husband, Albert, insisted that with the kids it made much more sense to have the Mercedes G500 SUV. Albert didn’t seem to care that when Judy got out of that car, onlookers were disappointed she wasn’t the rapper Jay-Z.