“Lots of time for crunches when you’re in prison.”

“That’s what I need.” Phoebe flushed as she realized what she’d said. “I mean—um—” she faltered.

I rescued her. “Remember how great Martha Stewart looked when she got out?”

“Yes!” She looked relieved. Prison wasn’t so great a barrier if we could bond over celebrity gossip. “We’re going to wear this home,” she said to the saleslady, nodding at the bra and panty set I was currently modeling. “Pack up the rest for delivery.”

Jeans and a sweater were on Phoebe’s list, albeit costing about ten times more than at the Gap. “We’ll wear these home, too,” she said, and, wrinkling her nose, she held out my own clothes to the saleslady. “Get rid of these, would you?”

The sneakers met the same fate after our visit to the shoe department. Kitten heels, stilettos, high-heeled booties. The tally was overwhelming.

Then came the biggest-ticket items: suits and silk blouses and sheath dresses that fit like a second skin. “This is too much,” I protested, each time more weakly than before. “I’ll never be able to repay this.”

“Don’t worry. Mark knows a good investment when he sees one.”

Phoebe brandished her credit card again—or, rather, Mark’s—and the purchases were wrapped up and dispatched with a promise of delivery within the hour.

MARK IVINS & Associates didn’t occupy space in a high-rise tower downtown. Its offices were on a tree-lined street on the Upper East Side, only a block away from Central Park. Lonnie pulled up to the curb in front of the limestone facade of a five-story townhouse. A wide set of marble steps led up to ornate double doors, while a second, narrower set of steps led to a separate below-grade office or apartment.

Phoebe took me by the hand and led me up the stairs and through the double doors. Inside was a vast reception hall with marble floors and soaring ceilings and a grand staircase leading to the upper floors. A young Latina woman even lovelier than Phoebe sat at a reception desk at the foot of the stairs. She had bright dark eyes and a mane of thick black hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders. She rose. “This must be Shay,” she said with a smile. “How do you do? I’m Luisa.”

“Any packages arrive?” Phoebe asked her.

“Yes. They’re all downstairs.”

“Mark?”

“In his office.”

“Buzz him for me, would you? I’m going to get Shay settled in downstairs.”

Phoebe pulled me along after her through the hall. The opulence was astounding, and my head swiveled to take it all in. Lacquered floors and red and gold trimmings and crystallized light that made rainbows dance through the air. The space was so heavy-laden with gilt and mirrors that I could almost imagine Louis XIV mincing through it in his high-heeled pumps. Instead a bevy of women were striding through in their own high-heeled pumps, each of them so poised and beautiful that it made me wonder if Mark Ivins used a modeling agency to staff his office.