Fran was practically drooling. Racing back and forth from the racks to the dressing room (the only time I’d seen her move that fast was when she had to pee) and fetching bottled water (for Adrienne) and hot tea and cookies (for Gayle) from the back room (I’d never even known there was a back room, let alone that it contained beverages and provisions), the only thing she bothered to say to me was this:

“She’s a fucking knockout.”

Translation?

That Donald of yours must really be an asswipe to have let her get away.

And I can’t say I disagreed. Maybe he was a loser to have ended up with me.

Silent, sullen, and certain, now, that the dinner which lay ahead would only serve to showcase Adrienne’s excessive attributes even more than her excessive attributes had already been show-cased (simply by her being awake and standing), I decided to be proactive and put an end to this infernal afternoon.

First, I dropped Adrienne off at the Jefferson Hotel, politely declining her invitation to join her for afternoon tea off the lobby. Three doormen, two porters, and one parking valet fell all over each other as they lunged for the car door in order to be the one to escort her into the lobby (the parking valet won, since he was the only manservant over five and a half feet tall).

Typical.

Next, I dropped Gayle off in Georgetown. After having endured my silence all the way from the hotel to her house, she crawled out of the back seat and waved at me through the glass, obsequiously, apologetically, while mouthing the words “look” and “listen” in an attempt to explain her behavior, but I kept my window rolled up. What was there to explain? My best friend had sealed my fate in this unspoken competition: Adrienne had won the day, and would not take her victory lightly vis-à-vis tonight’s dinner with Donald. God only knew what lay in store for me! Pushier push-up bras? Glossier lip gloss? I catalogued the unthinkable as I lurched off down P Street.

Finally, I stopped at a liquor store on the way home far up on Connecticut Avenue. I stood there for a few long minutes, caressing a giant bottle of Jack Daniel’s and gazing lustfully at a wall of cigarettes. But I walked out empty-handed.

There wasn’t enough bourbon or tobacco in the world.

I returned home a few minutes past four (dinner would not be served until eight) and when I did I found Donald in the kitchen, surrounded by jars and books and containers of every shape and sort. The counters were a disaster (had he deliberately coated them in butter, or had it simply been an accident?); the refrigerator a mess (he’d obviously removed everything at least once, then put it all back in search of something as easy to find as mustard); the sink an inch deep in garlic peels, onion skins, scallion and chive and shallot butts. It was Williams-Sonoma on acid. I looked at the culinary tableau, the resplendent mess, with a heavy, heavy heart: our life, as I’d known it, would soon be over.