“Let’s see, it’s six hours ahead there now.” She checked her Cartier Tank Française. “It’s just after ten his time. I’m sure he’s still at the atelier. He always works late.” She turned away, smiled, spoke loudly into the phone.

“Dries!” And that was the last I understood, because the rest of the conversation took place in their common language: (what else?) French.

Fran, who didn’t speak French (“I barely speak good English,” she’d say), watched in awe. I jabbed Gayle in the ribs with my elbow. “Okay Miss Cambridge, start translating,” I ordered.

She cleared her throat and began to paraphrase:

After some initial prêt-à-porter small talk (Adrienne had absolutely loved the samples he’d sent her from his forthcoming fall line, but they were actually just a little big—she’d lost some weight what with the emotional stress of the Francesco breakup and her impending move and new job), Adrienne got to the purpose of her call. She needed a favor. A very close friend (Me? A close friend?) was in a terrible fix. She was getting married in three months and needed something fabulous to wear.

A minute or so transpired; much (much too much) French was exchanged. Adrienne nodded, smiled, winked over at us. Then, after a few hundred je t’aimes, d’accords, and bonsoirs, she flipped her phone closed and rejoined us.

“He said he’d be happy to help. I told him we’d get your measurements, take a photo, and send it out DHL early next week. He promised to start on it as soon as possible.”

The enormity of what was happening was just starting to hit me:

My fiancé’s ex-fiancée was arranging for (controlling) the procurement of my wedding dress.

This dress, to be designed by Dries Van Noten himself, would cost a fortune.

I shook my head, waved my hands. Stop the world, I want to get off.

“Thank you so much, Adrienne, for calling him,” I started, “but I couldn’t possibly let him do this.”

“Yes you can,” Fran said.

“She can?” Gayle asked.

“She can,” Adrienne finalized, then turned to me. “Dries and I are friends. Dear, dear friends. He’d do anything for me. This is a favor he’s happy to do.”

I shifted my weight.

Okay, so even if I was prepared to allow my fiancé’s ex-fiancée to arrange for the procurement of my wedding dress, there was still the matter of the cost of a Dries Van Noten original.

“But what about . . . ?”

Adrienne waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. He would never expect to be paid for a gift to me. So, in turn, it is my gift to you. Consider it an early wedding present.”

I swallowed a big gulp of air.

Did this mean she expected to be invited to the wedding now (assuming there actually was a wedding)?

“Or a heartfelt thank-you.”