When Judy hung up, Samantha had no idea why she couldn’t muster the effort to stop Judy and Barry from sending cars and arranging her life. The phone rang again and Samantha got out of bed. She had no intention of talking to Barry again. If she wanted to do something self-indulgent, she’d tag along with Judy Tremont for two hours. Shopping would just have to satisfy her craving.

When Samantha got into the car, Judy had her agenda ready. “I thought we’d do Oscar, stop in at Monica Noel, then Carolina, and pop into Prada if we have time.”

As the car began its way up Madison, Samantha thought of her mother in her sensible Belgian loafers and her couture Bill Blass suits. Her mother’s style never varied. It was her uniform. Clothes, according to Samantha’s mother, should be well made and flattering. This quick trip up Madison with the chauffeured SUV waiting was something her mother would disdainfully say was brought to New York by the Hollywood people.

When Judy walked into the suite at the Carlyle Hotel where Monica Noel was showing her children’s line for private clients, the salesgirl practically sprang out of her seat.

“Bonjour, bonjour.” The salesgirl and Judy kissed. Once the bonjours and kisses were done, Samantha watched Judy drop at least ten thousand dollars on hand-embroidered satin party dresses and twin sets.

“This is so fun,” Judy said. “And my girls really need these. I can’t stand when all these nine-year-olds dress like sluts. Jessica Rodman looks like she’s the happy hooker.”

Samantha laughed. The morning with Judy was surprisingly relaxing and it kept Samantha’s mind off Barry’s lunch invitation.

“We need to get you something. I mean, not here. But you haven’t gotten a thing.”

“I don’t really need anything.” Samantha looked at Judy.

“Who really needs anything? That’s not the point of shopping,” Judy answered, and turned to the salesgirls. “Just send it to me.”

When they left the Carlyle, Bill was waiting downstairs.

“I think Carolina Herrera’s next, Bill.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Tremont.”

Judy started whispering to Samantha. “I like Carolina Herrera because at least it’s a little sexy, a little zippy. I mean, women like Clarice Santorini dress like they’re in Greenwich in 1952. She’s got a great figure, but no flair. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t really know her,” Samantha mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t really know her either.” Judy touched Samantha’s arm. “I’m just a terrible person.”

“No you’re not.” Samantha looked at her.

“Hey, if the world’s in such a lousy mess, we might as well have a good time, right?” Judy shrugged.

“Yes.” Samantha smiled at Judy with affection. “I guess that’s true.”

When Judy entered Carolina Herrera’s showroom, the routine was the same. The shopgirls came fluttering out with waves and kisses.