As the one at the table who was, by far, the least mentally stable and the one who had the most to lose, I took the lead. Out of my bag came a notebook, pen, pencil, legal pad, Fodor’s guide to Washington, two back issues of Washingtonian magazine, the classified section of that morning’s Washington Post, and an elastic band (I have no idea what the elastic band was for, but I was somehow comforted by its presence).

“Elise is an absolute genius at planning things,” Gayle said to Adrienne. “She’s so organized, and clear-thinking, and—”

“Neurotic,” I said. I tried to smile, give myself a lift (“Those who can laugh at themselves don’t get laughed at,” or however the saying went). “Go ahead,” I nodded at Gayle. “You can say it.”

“Well, yes, then,” Gayle said, a little too quickly for my liking. “Certainly neurotic.”

Adrienne raised an eyebrow, taking note.

“You’re in the best of hands, really, I promise you,” Gayle continued. “She leaves nothing to chance and thinks of everything. You’ll find a terrific apartment, buy some fabulous clothes, and have a wonderful tour of the city all before you leave tomorrow!”

I tried to kick Gayle under the table. She was, as usual, going way too far. She was starting to sound shifty, desperate, as if she were trying to sell ice to an Eskimo.

An Eskimo in an olive green faux-pony-skin coat who shopped at Bergdorf’s.

“That’s quite a buildup,” Adrienne said, with mock enthusiasm and unmistakable condescension, for Gayle had unwittingly made my “talents” sound silly and inane. Organized women (like me) were immediately dismissed by disorganized women (like Adrienne): it was an issue of power. Organized women were not leaders, creative thinkers, big-picture types. They were “support staff,” obsessed with details, mired in the micro—secretaries; assistants; household help; wives.

Speaking of which: “Donald’s very lucky to be marrying someone as capable as you.”

I looked down at the ridiculous array of day-planning materials spread out in front of me on the table and wished I could have made myself disappear. But I couldn’t. As Dr. Frond used to say, I had to learn to “sit with” my discomfort, endure it, transcend it.

“Anyway . . . ” I said, wanting desperately to bite Adrienne and to pretend the whole morning thus far hadn’t happened. “I’ve made a lunch reservation for us at the Hay-Adams dining room at one o’clock. It’s one of the prettiest rooms here, with a lovely view of Lafayette Park,” I said, like I cared, and like I knew for certain that it was Lafayette Park and not Lafayette Square I was talking about (it took me the whole day to remember that it was the square, actually). “So until then, we can run around and look at as many apartments as we need to.” I pulled out the Washington Post classifieds and slid them toward her. “I’ve made notes and circled some possibilities, so the search will be somewhat targeted.”