Suddenly, I heard Gayle squeal with delight. For a split second I thought she’d found the perfect dress.

“Look who’s here!” she sighed.

I couldn’t believe my ears, eyes. But there she was, Adrienne, looking unbelievably sexy in black spandex athletic pants, a black spandex long-sleeve T-shirt, and a perfect black leather car coat thrown over it. On her feet were the highest-tech sneakers I’d ever seen.

Great shock and surprise were expressed by all. Then, cheeks were kissed (Adrienne and Gayle; Adrienne and Fran); fingers were silently pointed (mine at Gayle); blame ascribed (Gayle, Gayle, Gayle).

“I was climbing—wall climbing—over at the gym at Chelsea Piers,” she said, still breathless. “So I came straight from there.”

“How did you know we were here?” I asked, certain she was going to nail Gayle.

“Donald had called me first thing this morning and he told me you were all coming up today to go dress shopping. I knew Bergdorf’s had to be one of your stops. So I figured if I got lucky, I’d surprise you and say hello.”

(Wait a minute: Donald had called her? He’d said that she had called him.)

“You can do more than that,” Fran said. “You can help us find a dress.”

“Nothing here?” she said, looking around. A translucent film of (athletic, fit, adventurous) sweat glazed her face, upper lip. I wished a giant mud slide would swallow me up, sweep me away, then deliver me to the nearest forensic pathologist who would find one person—and one person only—responsible for my demise.

“Nothing,” Fran answered. “Nothing at Saks. Nothing at Barneys—”

“Did you try Morgane Le Fay?” Adrienne asked.

“Nothing at Morgane Le Fay. I don’t know where else to look.”

“What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

Fran made a face, and Adrienne knew exactly what she meant.

“I know. The perfect, indescribable, nothing-else-quite-like-it-in-the-world kind of dress.”

“Exactly,” Fran said, sighing with relief. Finally. Someone who truly understood her vision.

Adrienne looked around, coolly assessed the severity of the situation, then dug around in her huge black nylon messenger-style gym bag. Peering into the bag over her shoulder I couldn’t help noticing two small Ziploc baggies of chocolate miniatures— Krackels, Mr. Goodbars, Reese’s cups—amidst the athletic gear. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Had Donald given her that candy?

“Well, given the fact that this is an emergency,” Adrienne said, “there’s only one thing to do.” She pulled out her cell phone, flipped it open, and commenced to speed-dial. “Let’s call Dries. He owes me a favor.”

Fran’s jaw dropped.

Gayle blinked madly.

I died a thousand deaths. (For starters: Who had international service on their cell phone besides Adrienne?)

Listening to the beeping of her phone as it tried, then succeeded in, connecting the call, Adrienne turned to us.