Gayle was right.

The coat was fantastic.

God only knew what lay beneath it.

I inched forward along the ramp, managing, somehow, for once, by sheer divine intervention, to downshift the five-speed ultimate driving machine, pull it over to the curb directly in front of Adrienne, and bring it to a complete stop without stalling and with only minimal lurching. I wanted to weep, suddenly, with gratitude for the feats of German auto engineering which had made such a miracle possible.

But then, I wanted to weep, period.

For there before me, in all her absolute prettier-than-me, sexier-than-me, taller-than-me glory, she stood. Adrienne. Close up. Finally. After all this time.

The human mind, when experiencing a shocking event, processes it as best it can: the eyes close; the brain shuts down; memory splits, divides, breaks itself into shards. There is only so much trauma one can absorb in a single instant. Fragments are what you remember: bits, pieces, flashes illuminating indelible horrors, crime scene camera bulbs going off. But what you remember, you’ll never forget. Never ever ever.

I remember all those images with complete clarity, if in slow motion: the unspeakable idiocy on my part (staring, slurring of words, eyes bugging out of my head at the first sight of that unforgettable push-up bra and what it was pushing up beneath the aforementioned fantastic coat); the supreme serenity on hers (unbridled sexuality).

This was going to be far far worse than I’d already thought, I realized suddenly. And with sickening dread.

And she knew it.

Her face, as I approached, seemed to glow with the knowledge that she was watching my worst nightmare unfold before her very eyes.

I looked down at my stupid five-hundred-dollar Eskandar sweater and marveled at my stupidity. I had underestimated my opponent. I had underdressed. I had done myself in.

I knew I should have gone to New York to shop!

I remember a barrage of quick, involuntary thoughts (wishfulfillment fantasies) taking over then: I wished that Donald’s 740 had a mind of its own and would spontaneously accelerate, jump the curb, and run Adrienne over; I wished Donald and I had never met; I wished that I was anywhere in the world but where I was at that exact moment. But there was no escape. Not now. It was too late.

Having spotted us, Adrienne flashed a big, confident I-LOVE-myself-because-everyone-else-does smile, which was almost as blinding as the mid-morning sun. I smiled (or tried desperately to, anyway) back, feverishly feeling up the door in search of the handle.

“Stay here!” I ordered Gayle, as I started to climb out of the car, but she had already leapt out on her side. We both approached the curb awkwardly, at the exact same time, and Adrienne looked at both of us, confused for a split second, it seemed, about who was who.

“You . . . must . . . be . . . Elise,” she said eventually, extending her slender leather-gloved hand to me. “I’m Adrienne.”