I read the card.

Alixe Carter.

invites you to a DIVORCE SHOWER.

for Lauren Blount.

Sat.u.r.day, October 2nd.

Midnight.

The Penthouse, Hotel Rivington Gifts: For one Dress: For a date.

Bring: Eligible Man.

Prohibited: Husbands.

That was very Lauren, I thought. To have a "shower" thrown for her just at the moment when every thirty-two-year-old girl in New York had sworn off wedding and baby showers, due to an allergy to the phrase "dilated ten centimeters." "Dilated" is a horrific word. They should change it. I noticed there was something else in the envelope: another engraved card, this one with gray type on a white card. It read: Lauren is registered at:.

Condomania, 351 Bleecker Street, Tel 212-555-9442.

Agent Provocateur, 133 Mercer Street, Tel 212-222-0229.

As usual, no one had heard a word from Lauren in days. I'd tried to call her a couple of times to thank her for her birthday party, and had always been greeted by the words 'This. Voicemail Box. Is. Full." You couldn't even leave a message. And then out of the blue she'd come up with this divorce shower thing that everyone thought was hysterical.

Although no one was quite sure exactly what it meant, that didn't really matter. After all, no one's quite sure about Lauren Blount's anything. The only thing, in fact, that anyone is certain about is that Lauren's life is beautifully arranged: she's very rich, very young, very thin, very pretty-and very, very divorced.

Professional Friends are the newest kind of acquaintance to have in New York-subconsciously, that is. In that, if you have one you are 100 percent unaware of it, it being the nature of Professional Friends to act as genuinely warm and smoochy as Real Friends. Interior designers, art consultants, financial advisers, gyrotonics masters, or party decorators, Professional Friends lurk invisibly on the payroll of the Manhattan heiress, spending her money, skimming off their 15 percent commission, and being the ultimate best buddy. Who else understands "how stressful everything is" and will understand it at half past five in the morning, the hour at which New York princesses generally start to freak out about "how stressful everything is"?

Feared by their married counterparts, unable to trust straight men, frequently in need of a walker, the Debutante Divorcee is easy prey. Charming Milton, I soon realized, is the most professional of the Professional Friends. You'd never have a clue that he's not a real friend. Fairly often he messengers little baskets of vitamins to all his girlfriends with a note saying he's "worried" about them. Milton even telephones Lauren, and his other benefactresses, if it's chillier than usual and warns them, "Don't go out. It's cold." Naturally, they feel like they'd die of frostbite, or rickets, without him.

It was no coincidence that the day after Hunter left for his long trip to Paris, a spectacularly elegant parcel arrived at our apartment early in the morning. It was wrapped in glossy black paper and had a white grosgrain bow tied around it with geometrical precision. I tore the envelope on the top open. Inside was a thick white card with gold edging and the name Milton Holmes engraved in orange across the top. Written in beautiful sepia ink were the words, Dearest Sylvie, A little piece of Paris for One Fifth Avenue.

Adored meeting you. I'll be over at six to see you.

Hugs, Milton Over at six? How did Milton know where I lived? Maybe Lauren had told him. But what did he want?

I unwrapped the package between sips of espresso. Inside was an a.s.souline book ent.i.tled Paris Living Rooms. Several pages were marked with powder blue Post-it notes. I opened the book to one of them. The page showed a huge, white paneled drawing room filled with antique white chairs, tables, Deco gla.s.s lamps, and vases filled with lilacs. Underneath the photograph the text read, "Ines de la Fressange, fashion designer, Elysee district." On the Post-it, Milton had scribbled, "I like the wide herringbone flooring."

I was fully aware that I was being professionally stalked for an interior decorating job. Before we had moved to New York, we had found this charming, fairly large, and very old-fashioned apartment on the fifth floor at One Fifth Avenue, a 1920s building. Our apartment looked over Washington Square Park, and even though it was still only half-decorated, I loved it. Milton would be expecting me to be vulnerable to his charms now that Hunter was out of town. But, I reminded myself, I wasn't the kind of girl who went out and hired a decorator. I'd never had that kind of money in the past, and even if we did now, that didn't change things as far as I was concerned. I did things myself. I often think that girls in New York generally don't do enough things for themselves, and I wasn't interested in that kind of life. This is twenty-first-century New York, not eighteenth-century Florence, though many women here seem blissfully unaware of that fact. Apparently there are still girls on the Upper East Side who don't even brush their own hair.

I had no idea when I'd have time to finish doing up our place, but I'd figure something out. I had weekends, and now that Hunter was away, I definitely had fewer distractions. Still, I realized as I walked from the hall out into the drawing room, we had a lot of s.p.a.ce to make beautiful. I had to admit to myself that it was intimidating.

Just then the phone rang. It was Milton.

"Are you obsessed with the book?" he said perkily.

"Milton, I loved it-"

"-could you just move the chaise, maybe...six and a half inches to the right? No, a little more, yes, a smidgeola toward the terrace...that's it. Stop! Sto-o-op!!!" he howled. "Sorry, I'm on site."

"Shall I call you back?" I asked.

"I'm always on site. Anyway," Milton asked, "do I get the job?"

"I'm sure you don't have time," I said, trying to put him off politely.

"How are you ever going to do that place alone?" said Milton. "It's huge, and you won't be able to get a yard of decent fabric unless I take you to the D&D building. Are you awfully lonely without Hunter-"

"He calls all the time," I said.

He did. Hunter had only been gone twenty-four hours, but he'd called from JFK and from Charles de Gaulle, and he even left a sweet love-you-miss-you message in the early hours this morning on my cell. I couldn't have wished for a more attentive husband.

"Anyway, I'm coming for coffee later. There's nothing you can do. See you at six."

With that, he put the phone down. What was I doing at six o'clock tonight? I quickly flicked through my diary: I had a meeting with Thack and the senior buyer from Neiman Marcus this afternoon. It would be heavy going-I was sure Neimans would barely order a thing from the new collection. Maybe it was a good thing Milton was coming over later, I thought. He would definitely cheer me up after that meeting. It didn't mean I had to hire him.

"We love the gowns," said Bob Bulton, the Neiman Marcus buyer, wrapping up his order and flicking the elastic around his folder.

Bob Bulton was one of the most influential fashion buyers at Neiman Marcus, though his appearance would not necessarily have led one to that conclusion. He was extremely large, nearing retirement, and clad in a bespoke Thom Browne suit, the most noticeable feature of which was the way the cuff of the pants stopped far enough above the ankle to reveal his lilac cashmere socks. Despite the fact that Thack's Chrystie Street studio was crammed with stock, sewing machines, F.I.T. interns, and Chinese seamstresses, Bob hadn't seemed to mind the chaos at all. He delicately eased his squishy behind off the dainty antique chair he had been sitting on.

"But we can't commit to more than fifteen looks until we start to see some press," he added. Then he looked Thackeray in the eye and said, "You gotta get press."

"Absolutely not an issue," said Thackeray coolly.

Thack was smiling in an easy way, perched on the edge of the old French sofa at one end of the studio. He looked completely relaxed, dressed in a 1960s Saville Row suit and a sharp, white, handmade shirt. A diamond and pearl rose brooch, which had once belonged to his mother, was pinned to the lapel of his jacket. Suddenly he looked at me, saying, "Sylvie here is very connected in New York. She's already got at least three really beautiful young girls who have signed on to wear gowns at...Alixe Carter's New Year's ball."

Like many fashion designers, Thackeray was more deserving of an Oscar than most actors. What an absolute, wretched lie, I thought, nodding and smiling and saying, "Isn't that great news?"

No doubt I would be punished for perjuring myself later.

"Well, I have to congratulate you," said Bob, looking impressed. "You've nailed those girls down very early. We'll add two of each of the dresses that will be worn at the party for our pre-spring order." He seemed to be opening his folder again. "If they're photographed they'll fly out of the store. Do you think Alixe herself will wear a dress?"

"Her fitting's in two weeks," said Thackeray, in an inspired spurt of fibbing.

"Well," said Bob, "I will have to congratulate Alixe on her taste. She's an extremely close friend of my wife's, you know."

"How lovely," I said, feeling slight chest pains. "So will you be at the ball then?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Congratulations, Thackeray," said Bob warmly.

Alas, I thought, alas.

The minute Bob had gone, I dragged Thackeray into the very humble restroom. It was the only place we could speak in private. It was so grotty we lit it only with candles so clients couldn't see how utterly hovel-like it was in there.

"My G.o.d, Thackeray! What was that?" I blurted in the dark.

"You can get me those girls, can't you?" he said. "We've doubled the order based on those girls wearing my gowns at Alixe Carter's party-"

"Thackeray. Can I remind you of something? No one is wearing your dresses at Alixe's party. You made that up."

"Sylvie, this is serious. You can carry it off."

This was typical Thackeray. He promised his buyers the earth and then always somehow persuaded me to deliver it. Much as I didn't want to spend my time squeezing thin women into sample-size dresses that made even the size zeros feel obese, Thackeray was right about business. He had just sold another six gowns. We had to dress as many girls as possible at Alixe's fancy New Year's party. Suddenly I had an inspiration.

"Lauren!" I exclaimed. "Alixe is having this crazy divorce shower thing for her. I just got the invitation. Lauren must be really close with Alixe."

"Not Lauren Hamill Blount?" said Thackeray. "G.o.d, she's glamorous."

"Exactly."

"Lauren's so chic. Could you arrange for me to dress her too?"

"I'll try," I sighed.

If I could ever get hold of her, that was.

I'd called Lauren again after getting the divorce shower invitation. Although I'd been able to leave a message this time, she'd never called back. I'd almost given up on her, but with this ThackerayAlixe business I tried again. I left her another message later on that day but expected to hear nothing, and went home, as I'd predicted, having not heard a peep from her. However, I imagined that Milton, being her "best friend," would be able to pin her down. I zipped home from work to find Milton already installed on the one, shameful-looking sofa in my drawing room. He was wearing a heavy orange kaftan thrown over white linen pants, in the manner of a 1970s Palm Beach hostess. When I walked in, he raised his eyebrows pitifully, inclining his head toward the dismal seating arrangement.

"I can't believe you persuaded the doorman to let you in." I said when I saw him. I flung my bag on the floor and collapsed next to him.

"I would describe your furniture as exhausted, but this place is..." Milton paused and looked around the airy drawing room, taking in the high ceilings and the original fireplace, "chicenstein. Totally chicenstein."

The apartment might have been empty, but it was indeed chicenstein, to quote Milton. Aside from the huge drawing room, there were three bedrooms, a maid's room, several bathrooms, a dining room, a library, and a good-size kitchen.

"What a s.p.a.ce." said Milton, rising and pacing the room. "Three exposures! Good lord. What do you want herringbone floors for when you've got original terrazzo down here?"

"I don't really know where to start in here," I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the work ahead.

"This is a beautiful room with great bones. What about eighteenth-century-Italian-inspired pale celadon wallpaper, hand blocked with silver bouquets of roses?"

"That sounds lovely...but maybe a little over the top for us." I replied, trying to be polite. I felt a little perturbed: hand blocked anything sounded alarmingly pricey. "What else can we do?"

"Sylvie, I have a better idea. Farrow and Ball Pink Ground-I'm obsessed with it. It's the softest pink paint from England, it would look so...Chatsworth in here. We shall not go wallpapering in this room. The view is the decor. Look at it!"

Milton, of course, was completely right. I walked across the room and unlocked the French windows, which open onto three delightful little ornamental balconies. From there all you see is the breezy, sun-blanched treetops of Washington Square Park and, above that, endless blue sky. Still, this had gone too far, I thought. I did not want a decorator, I reminded myself.

"Milton," I said, "I don't think I can afford you." Surely that would put him off.

No answer. I turned to find that Milton had left the room. A few moments later I found him wafting like an orange cloud around the master bedroom.

"I think that look-done but not done-undone done-is what you want. Unstudied. Like you did it yourself. But you did it yourself with utter perfection. You need an antique headboard in here, hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, and Jan Sen side tables-"

"-Milton, I can't possibly hire a decorator," I said. "I love your ideas, but I'm just not that kind of girl."

"Well, I'm a gift from Lauren, so you have no choice about it anyway," he replied, heading toward the kitchen.

"What?" I said, following him in an alarmed fashion.

"I'm decorating your apartment. Lauren knew you'd never hire me yourself, so she's hired me for you. Isn't that adorable of her? Not to boast, but I'm brilliant at it, so it works for all of us. Gla.s.s of champagne?" he said, opening the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Without waiting for an answer he popped the cork on a bottle. He poured two drinks. We clinked gla.s.ses.

I took a sip, resigned: the Milton Effect was operating at a high level. It's amazing, isn't it, how little it takes to be persuaded that something you have long opposed is actually the best idea ever. Milton had me seduced within minutes, mainly by convincing me how lovely it would be for Hunter if he came back from Paris to at least three properly finished rooms-the kitchen, master bedroom, and the drawing room-and pointing out that I couldn't possibly achieve that myself in under a month. He was right. Milton, I knew, was manipulating that part of me that wanted to surprise Hunter with some old-fashioned, non-career-girl, newlywed-style homemaking. I knew a comfortable home would make Hunter happy, particularly if he wasn't expecting it, but I also knew that I didn't have the time to pull it off. I had to admit to myself that the Chinese wallpaper did sound divine, and Milton told me he had the most amazing secret sources for wonderful furniture. In my head I was already planning a surprise birthday party here for Hunter-it would be a great entertaining s.p.a.ce when it was finished.

"Well," said Milton, draining his gla.s.s, "this is going to be a breeze. It's really just a cosmetic job. I think we can complete the main rooms by the time your husband gets back. Where is Hunter, anyway?"

"He's in Paris. He's working on locations for this new show," I replied.

"How marvelous," said Milton. "I must hook up with him when I'm over there next week. I'm going on a buying trip and then to visit Sophia. She has the most fabulous family place on the Ile St. Louis."

"I'm sure," I said.

"She's going to show me the Bourbon Palace in the countryside. No one's been in it for forty years, but she is secretly a Bourbon, so she's arranged it. You know she'd be queen of France if it wasn't for all that ghastly business in 1789."

"Milton, are you seeing Lauren at all?" I asked, changing the subject. The mention of Sophia was an unwelcome one, and I had other things on my mind.

"I'm going over there tonight before I leave for Paris."

"Can you get her to call me?" I said. "I really need her help with something for work, but I can never get hold of her."

"I'll tell her to call the second I see her," said Milton. "She's probably sitting in her house at this very moment all lonely, not returning calls."

5.

Friends You Can't Count On.

That night my cell phone started ringing at something like half past G.o.d knows what time. Maybe it was 3 A.M., I don't know. I dozily picked it up, hoping it was Hunter calling from Paris.

It was Lauren. She sounded wired.

"G.o.d, he's just left," she gasped. She was wide awake.