“I’m not an asswipe. I’m trying to have a little control over the situation. Operate from a position of strength, not weakness.” Dr. Frond certainly would have had a field day with this particular instance of my “situational need for control.”

“Like in The Godfather? ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?”

“Exactly.” Finally, my mission had been articulated.

“I see your point, but I’m not sure you’re tough enough to handle that kind of game.”

I swallowed. This was going worse than I’d thought it would. Seeing my discomfort, she softened her approach. Slightly.

“This Adrienne,” she said. “Is she really that gorgeous?”

I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, though as we both knew, it did. Much too much. “Of course.”

She got up, went to the racks, and started in on me.

“Here,” she said, opening the deep purple velvet curtain to my dressing room. “Put this [diaphanous Dries Van Noten silk blouse, long slim black wool Dries Van Noten skirt, Robert Clergerie boots] on.”

So I did.

Then I pushed open the curtain, stepped out, posed uncomfortably (head down; whole body slouched, curved inward; arms stiff with hands out helplessly and fingers splayed; left foot and toes curled under, dragging behind) as she regarded me. I wanted to die.

“Take it off. It looks horrible.”

Off to a good start, as always.

“Try this [Biella Collezioni black wool pantsuit, crisp white Comme des Garçons blouse, same Clergerie boots].”

Again, I did.

“Better. But I don’t love it.”

Neither did I.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m not sure these outfits are me. I mean, I’m not sure they’re saying what I want to say. I think, in fact, they’re saying too much. They make me feel overdressed, like I’m trying too hard. And the last thing I want her to think is that I spent hours and hours picking out what I’m going to wear.”

“Even if you did.”

“Right.”

“So you want something simple, classic, chic. Something that looks like you just threw it on because you couldn’t give a fuck.”

“Exactly.”

“Like, ‘Go ahead. Steal my boyfriend.’ ”

“Fiancé.”

“Whatever.” She stared at me, then at the racks. “Here,” she said, holding up an enormously oversized luxurious black sweater and shoving it through the curtain.

I grabbed it from her, slipped it over my head, fell in love with it immediately. I knew instantly that it was Adrienne-worthy.

“Let me see,” she ordered, whipping open the curtain. She regarded me carefully. “I love it.”

“Me too,” I said, running my hands over the expanse of impossibly soft wool, and angling around toward the mirror. “What is it?”

“Eskandar. Cashmere.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Oh.” I stepped back, looked again, tried to talk myself out of it. Which was impossible: I had to have the sweater. And after a few seconds of creative justificatory mathematics (I’d saved money by not going to New York to shop; anything I’d have bought there combined with the airfare, taxis, lunch, and miscellaneous expenses would have been at least as much as the sweater; if I paid it off by fifty dollars a month, over, say, two years, I’d barely notice it), I’d even melted away the guilt.