Phoebe regarded him through her Annie Sullivan sunglasses and saw that he was a harmless yuppie type. He took in her clingy, lime green dress, and his eyes quickly found their way to the crisscross lacing at the open bodice. His jaw dropped.

“Say? Aren’t you Madonna?”

“Not this week.”

Phoebe sailed by. Once she reached the opposite curb, she whipped off her sunglasses so no one would make that mistake again. Lord . . . Madonna, for Pete’s sake. One of these days, she really had to start dressing respectably. But her friend Simone, who had designed this dress, was going to be at the party Viktor was taking her to tonight, and Phoebe wanted to encourage her.

She and Pooh left Fifth Avenue behind for the quieter streets of the upper Eighties. Oversized hoops swung at her ears, gold bangles clattered at both wrists, her chunky-heeled sandals tapped the sidewalk, and men turned to look as she passed by. Her curved hips swayed in a sassy walk that seemed to have a language all its own.

Hot cha cha

Hot cha cha

Hot hot

Cha cha cha cha

It was Saturday evening, and affluent New Yorkers dressed for dinner and the theater were beginning to emerge from the fashionable brick and brownstone town houses that lined the narrow streets. She neared Madison Avenue and the gray granite building that held the co-op she was subleasing at bargain rates from a friend of Viktor’s.

Three days ago, when she’d returned to the city from Montauk, she’d found dozens of phone messages waiting for her. Most of them were from the Stars’ office, and she ignored them. None were from Molly saying she’d changed her mind about going directly from camp to boarding school. She frowned as she remembered their strained weekly phone calls. No matter what she said, she couldn’t seem to make a dent in her sister’s hostility.

“Evening, Miss Somerville. Hello, Pooh.”

“Hi, Tony.” She gave the doorman a dazzling smile as they walked into the apartment building.

He gulped, then quickly leaned down to pat Pooh’s pom-pom. “I let your guest in just like you said.”

“Thanks. You’re a prince.” She crossed the lobby, her heels tapping on the rose marble floor, and punched the elevator button.

“Can’t get over what a nice guy he is,” the doorman said from behind her. “Somebody like him.”

“Of course he’s a nice guy.”

“It makes me feel bad about the names I used to call him.”

Phoebe bristled as she followed Pooh into the elevator. She had always liked Tony, but this was something she couldn’t ignore. “You should feel bad. Just because a man is gay doesn’t mean he isn’t a human being who deserves respect like everyone else.”

Tony looked startled. “He’s gay?”

The doors slid shut.

She drummed the toe of her sandal on the floor as the elevator rose. Viktor kept telling her not to be such a crusader, but too many of the people she cared about were gay, and she couldn’t turn a blind eye to the discrimination so many of them faced.