We pulled up alongside the towering white cupcake of a building that was the Plaza Hotel. The mayor, tall as a skyscraper himself and about as blocky, awaited us on the curb near a discreet entrance on the side street between the hotel and Bergdorf’s, and seeing him, I was suddenly seized by nerves. We’d gotten lucky that the sleazy photographer in Whistler had incited pity, but one more misstep and we’d burn through the goodwill we’d earned by being charming at the beginning of the tour. I didn’t want an expensive disaster on my hands, nor the blame for it laid at my feet.

The mayor, as befitting a professional, gave no indication he’d seen the photos—though it seemed as if he tried extra valiantly to block us from the paparazzi who’d gathered on the curb, as if he, too, was worried one of them might be the same jerk who’d cashed in on my body. Nick and I performed our standard song and dance of seeming surprised and delighted by the attention of the public, and we’d almost gotten to the door when someone at the back of the crush of spectators called out in a loud Brooklyn accent: “Don’t let the bastards get you down!”

Our smiles in those pictures are extremely genuine.

We rode up the private elevator to the fashion designer Tommy Hilfiger’s two-story penthouse atop the hotel, where he was hosting a welcome reception for us with, per our New York City Day One: Coming to America binder, “local luminaries, top businesspeople, and select influencers.” The penthouse was an enormous salute to Italian marble, with a deck overlooking the green expanse of Central Park, and a turret room hand-painted as a tribute to Eloise that felt like it was trying too hard. The mayor led us into a dramatic living room with black glossy lacquer walls and leopard-print marble columns, where everyone tried to pretend they didn’t jump ten feet when the doors opened. Some of the faces were strange to me, but many, I knew: our host, petite and preppy; the famous actor who owned half of Tribeca; the singer who hated Kanye, next to the other singer whose husband toured with Kanye; the bobbed British editrix of Vogue, whose handshake was warmer than I would have anticipated. Next to her stood a dark-haired young actress starring in an upcoming adaptation of Tess of the d’Urbervilles and her costar/boyfriend, both of whom seemed nice but also stoned.

The actress was the only one who broke protocol, pushing my outstretched hand away to envelop me in a warm hug. Behind her, I saw the Vogue editor blanch.

“You are a kindred spirit,” the actress said to me as the rest of the party struck up its own nervous chatter. “I saw that photo online, and I was like, Yeah, mama. I love the feeling of sun on my breasts.”