TWENTY-FOUR

FIVE minutes later, the cab lurched to a stop, and we piled onto the sidewalk next to the Parkview’s garage.

Beep, beep, beeeeep!

The insistent car horn had us all turning to find a stylish woman waving at us from the window of an odd-looking SUV. Her long arm was flapping so excitedly, I thought she might actually lift the hunk of metal off the pavement.

“Whoa!” Dante gushed. “Look at that pimped-up G-Wagen!”

I’d never heard of the model. Heavily detailed in glittering gold, it looked more like a Vegas-ready Jeep with a shiny front grille about as subtle as the smile of a saber-toothed tiger.

The trendy contraption, which Mr. Dante informed me was a G-Class Mercedes, squealed to a dead stop in front of us. Then another screech assaulted our ears, this one through the driver’s open window.

“Blaaaaanche! Sweeeeeetie! What a surpriiiiise!”

The car door flew open to reveal the driver, a striking older woman who reminded me a little of Carol Channing—with some Ethel Merman thrown in for volume.

Wrapped in a gold lamé car coat, she sported a platinum blond bob, highlighted with bright streaks of canary yellow, adding memorable shock to her already theatrical appearance. Her enthusiasm was dampened a moment as she detached herself from a tangle of bedazzled seat belts. Then she burst out of her luxury vehicle with a Broadway grin.

Once on her feet, her low-heeled booties—gold, of course—clicked across the sidewalk, running right up to Madame. With open arms, she lifted her friend off the ground in a big bear hug. And I do mean big. Compared to Madame (who stood taller than I did without shoes), the woman in gold was like a soaring statue in the flesh, literally enveloping Madame in her embrace.

I recognized her, not from memory, but because I’d just seen her caricature upstairs in the hotel’s Gotham Suite. She was Nora Arany, former fashion adviser to rock and hip-hop stars, now a clothing and apparel designer—with an obvious fetish for all things gold.

In the process of greeting my former mother-in-law, Nora had completely abandoned her G-Wagen at the entrance to the garage ramp. With its door open and the keys in the ignition, the incessant beep-beep-beeping alert went completely ignored by the owner.

“Nora, what a delight to see you,” Madame said, breathless from the clinch. “How have you been faring since our last Gotham brunch?”

Nora was positively giddy.

“I’m doing fabulously, Blanche. You won’t believe this, but The Crazy-Rich Cougars of Parma are going to wear my apparel next season! I just sealed the deal this morning. The show’s debut will coincide with the grand opening of my Cleveland store.”

“That’s wonderful,” Madame replied, forcing a smile.

“You said it,” Nora gushed. “With The MILFs of Minneapolis and The Bickering Trophy Brides of Bridgeport, I’ve got product placement blanketing half the country.”

Madame struggled to suppress a visible shudder as Nora paused to take a breath. Meanwhile, a more conventional Mercedes pulled up behind Nora’s. After waiting a millisecond (the median length of time a New York driver remained patient), he honked loudly.

Nora didn’t appear to notice—or care. Instead, she pointed to the matching jackets that Esther and I wore. “I see you brought some of the Poetry in Motion people with you.” As she said this, Nora focused her attention on me, her stare lingering long enough to make me sweat.

Can she tell I’m wearing a disguise?

“I’m sorry I missed your citywide poetry slam at Cooper Union last month,” Nora said. “Being an angel donor, I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Oh, no,” Esther quickly replied. “We have one every quarter. You’re welcome to see it next time—and thanks for your generous support, Ms. Arany!”

“It’s nothing. Happy to.” She fluttered her fingers. “What good is money, if not to support the arts!”

Finally, the impatient driver had endured enough. “Lady!” he shouted over the unceasing beeping from the G-Wagen’s flung-open door. “Move your car!”

Nora narrowed her eyes at the outraged driver and turned to address Mr. Dante. “You there!”

The barista pointed at himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you, handsome boy! Be a darling and drive my car down to my designated spot. It’s on the right after you go through the gate—” Gold booties clicking across the sidewalk, she reached out to shove a tip into his hand. “You can’t miss it. Look for the sign with my name: Nora Arany . . .”

As Nora continued giving him instructions, Madame leaned close to me and Esther. “That’s odd,” she whispered. “Why would Nora suddenly have her own designated spot? Annette and Nora always act like friends, but we all know they can’t stand each other.”

“You mean they’re frenemies?” Esther said.

“Frenemies . . .” Madame’s gaze returned to Nora. “Is that what they call it now?”

“Historically, the term’s been around since the 1950s,” Esther noted. “Lately, it’s made a comeback.”

“It’s a new word for me, too,” I admitted.

“But a very old idea,” Madame murmured.

As Nora returned to us, Esther smirked at Mr. Dante. “Here’s your big chance to drive your dream car. Don’t blow it.”