“For what?”

“For all your help with my move.”

Speechless, boxed into a corner, and unable to get out of such a ridiculously shocking and completely unexpected situation, I nodded meekly.

“Thank you, Adrienne,” I tried. “Thank you for . . .” I looked helplessly at Fran.

“. . . for saving me from looking like an asswipe at my own wedding,” she finished.

As we all left Bergdorf’s together, filing onto the escalator one at a time, I purposely lagged behind. Watching Fran and Gayle on either side of Adrienne, still positively gushing over the stunt she’d pulled with Dries, and watching her perfect ass in those tight spandex pants (she’d taken off her leather coat right before she’d made the phone call) we descended floor by floor, as if into my own private hell.

Standing on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, buttoning our coats against the late afternoon January wind (the sun had disappeared; the temperature had plummeted; the cold grayness was an uncannily accurate mirror for my mood), I remained silent as the three of them discussed dinner plans. The consensus? That instead of getting all dressed up and going somewhere fabulous, we would get into comfortable clothes and go someplace where we could talk, get to know each other, eat like pigs.

“I know the perfect place,” Adrienne said.

Of course she did.

“Kaplan’s deli. At the Delmonico, right off Park, a block down from the Regency. They have the most unbelievable corned beef sandwiches.”

Like she’d ever actually eaten one.

“Let me run home and change, and I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Adrienne disappeared into a taxi; Gayle, Fran, and I headed over to our hotel, and after we’d checked in, we got our bags and headed up to the room. On the way there, Fran clapped me on the back again.

“Well, you’re quiet.”

“I’m in shock.”

“You should be. Not everyone gets such an amazing windfall in the dress department.”

I shoved the room key into the slot, pushed the door open, stared at Fran in disbelief. “How can you be so obtuse about this?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Dense. Clueless. Stupid,” I said.

She hit me again. “I know what obtuse means.”