Adrienne disappeared into the office to sign the lease and discuss moving details; Gayle and I sank into a plush pink sofa by the window and waited.

“So! What do you think?” Gayle said, full of nervous energy beside me. We hadn’t had a minute alone since Adrienne had stepped off the plane, and she was desperate to compare notes.

“I think . . . ” I started slowly, tauntingly, mysteriously, “that you . . . ”

She nodded expectantly.

“. . . are . . . ”

More nodding, licking of the lips, wringing of the hands.

“. . . in big trouble.”

She laughed, poked my arm. Surely I was pulling her leg.

“Oh, I’m quite serious. I assure you.”

She looked shocked. “But why?”

“Why? You’re all over her! It’s like you’re in love with her! This was supposed to be the easy part of the day—this Donald-less part. But with all your mooning and swooning and incessant fawning, tonight will be a breeze.” I shook my head in disgust. “That’s right! Dinner tonight, in my home, with my fiancé who used to be her fiancé—the dinner which you were invited to not by me, the official hostess, but by her”—and I motioned heatedly toward my bust here—“the one with the most-ess—now looks like a fucking piece of cake, thanks to you!”

“God, I’m sorry! I had no idea I was doing anything wrong! It’s just that, well, you see, I’m nervous, very nervous—for you—and so it’s come out this way.”

“Well, stop it,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I mean it. Please. Cut it out.”

“Yes.”

I stared at her, making sure she understood what was at stake: her health and well-being; our friendship; my future with Donald.

“Yes,” she said, deeply, though fleetingly I knew, apologetic. “I—”

“You better follow.”

Adrienne returned then, slipping an envelope into her (Hermes Birkin) bag (I was dying to know where she got her money; I strongly suspected a trust fund). We three were silent again, momentarily; at a complete loss for words and for what should come next. It was only noon, and we were ahead of schedule. So out of complete desperation I suggested we head back downtown for lunch.

“I’m sure the Hay-Adams will seat us early,” I said, walking toward the car.

Adrienne agreed. “I’m sure they will,” she said, and just then her coat fell open.

I looked at her again. I was sure they would seat us on the moon.

13

“This is lovely, Elise,” Adrienne said as we walked through the lobby and into the dining room of the Hay-Adams Hotel. “Just lovely. What a perfect spot for lunch.”

Translation:

Dowdy. Boring. Historical. Dull.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. I looked around the pretty yellow room, filled with well-to-do mostly middle-aged tourists, businessmen, and ladies-who-lunch, and wanted to slap myself. What had I been thinking?

“A girl’s lunch! Yes, it’s absolutely perfect!” Gayle chimed in.

“Well, it’s not the Plaza, or the Mark, or the St. Regis, or the Royalton—” I could have gone on and on and on, rattling off hotels like an idiot, trying to impress her with my knowledge of Manhattan, but all it did was make me look desperate. I reached for my water glass and took a long, slow sip to cleanse my palate and ruminate. Just invoking the names of all those great hotels made me sad, and long for New York.