“Mexican cheeseburger with everything, side of onion rings, and a strawberry shake.”

“It always amazes me, the way the other half lives,” said Vivienne, smiling fondly at Angela, her oldest and best friend in New York.

Angela Tredanari was a booker at Lens, the modeling agency which represented Vivienne, and she didn’t believe in counting calories. Vivacious and bright, she was at least forty pounds overweight. Her lustrous black hair, deep dark eyes, and creamy complexion made people who had just met her remark that “she’d be so pretty if only she’d drop a few pounds!” It didn’t seem likely. Over her office desk was a framed blow-up of an article from a trendy health-and-fitness magazine, sporting the headline “Carbohydrates Make You Happy.”

“A chef’s salad,” said Vivienne. “Dressing on the side. And iced tea with lemon, please.”

“You are what you eat,” said the waiter, and wandered off.

“Now, there’s a depressing thought,” said Angela.

“Did you ever think about how much of our lives revolves around food?” Vivienne asked.

“Uneaten food, in your case,” said Angela.

“True. Sad but true.”

“I guess that’s why you glamour pusses are always getting blood tests, huh? To make sure you still have some.”

“What? Oh, yes, this,” said Vivienne, glancing at the rather large bandage on the inside of her left elbow. “I had a test this morning for the marriage license.”

“I didn’t know they still did that,” said Angela. “Anyhow, the wedding’s months away.”

“I know, but Charles insisted.”

“And what Charles says . . .” Angela left the sentence unfinished. She understood Charles’s attraction but didn’t trust him somehow. Not fair, she knew, “May-Ann had a bandage just like that last week. Looked kinda big for a blood test, I thought. Still, they’re making all kinds of advances in medical science these days.”

Angela’s tone was scathing. May-Ann was the agency’s famous Hungarian discovery. Only eighteen years old, May-Ann had been earning in the seven figures for two years, and rumor had it that there was nothing illegal she hadn’t tried. If you booked her these days, you stood a fifty-fifty chance she’d actually show up.

“It was a little strange,” Vivienne admitted. “Charles insisted I go to his doctor, who’s nice enough really . . . he even insisted I call him Brian, but . . .”

She paused as their food was placed on the small marble-topped table in front of them.

Angela took a long swallow of milkshake. “Go on,” she said.

“Well,” Vivienne continued, “Dr. Arnold, uh, Brian that is, put up this sort of screen that my arm stuck through so I couldn’t see what he was doing.”

Angela paused in mid-bite. “He what?”

“Yes, I thought it was funny too. He said he didn’t want his patients fainting at the sight of their blood. I tried to tell him I wasn’t like that, but he was quite firm.”

“And then what?” asked Angela.

“Well, I guess he drew the blood. I mean, it felt like he sort of deadened the feeling in my arm first, so I couldn’t really tell. It felt kind of like scraping, and then I felt the needle go in, I think. Oh, I don’t know. I’m probably making a big thing out of nothing.”

“Does it hurt?”

Vivienne pressed experimentally with a forefinger. It did. She didn’t remember blood tests hurting like that.

“Well, eat up your lettuce and cucumber and replace some of that nice green blood the doctor took!”

“Green?” Vivienne smiled.

“You don’t think your body can make red blood with what you eat, do you? Now tell me about all the glamorous things you did this week and make me jealous!”

“Angie, you don’t have a jealous bone in your body.”

“That’s true,” mused Angela. “I don’t. I wonder why.”

After lunch, Vivienne skated home to change her clothes and replace her skates with sensible shoes. Stuffing her identity badge into the pocket of her jean jacket, she headed for the elevator again, both worried and excited. It had been several weeks since she’d had time for the Park Hill Hospital, and today she had a surprise planned - if only the others showed up as promised.

Much to her relief, they were waiting for her in the second-floor locker room, laughing and complaining.

“Do we really have to wear these?”

“I feel about ten years old!”

“Jeez, wouldn’t Vogue like a shot of us!”

Vivienne grinned. Four of the country’s highest-paid models were reluctantly buttoning themselves into the clunky pink-and-white “candy-striper” pinafores every hospital volunteer hates and most hospitals had by now discarded. Vogue would indeed love a shot of this, she thought. On them, the uniforms actually looked good.

“Pink isn’t my color. Does it come in mauve?”

“Hey, is this a bloodstain?”

“Only one little spot? They must have bought new uniforms. We volunteers usually get drenched in the stuff,” Vivienne answered. Then, seeing the fluffy blond turn pale, Vivienne laughed. “Coffee, Sharon,” she said. “Just coffee, I promise!”

Dawn Brown, Park Hill’s coordinator of volunteers, had loved the idea when Vivienne had suggested surprising the medical and nursing staff with famous-faced candy-stripers for one day. “But you mustn’t tell anyone,” Vivienne had made her promise. “I want to see their expressions when we descend upon them in all our glory!” Now, as she handed out their temporary ID badges, Dawn was glad she’d kept quiet about it. How long would it take the busy staff to notice?

“What do we do, exactly?” asked Maura, a tall brunette who was known across the country as the Chanel Woman.

“First I’ll take you all on a little tour,” said Dawn. “So you know where things are, sort of. Then each of you will be assigned to a different area. We always need volunteers to read to the children in Pediatrics, and play with them. And someone has to ferry charts and papers to different departments. Most of our elderly patients appreciate it when a volunteer takes time to chat with them, maybe join them for a walk to the solarium. Viv’s real good at that,” she added.

“Somehow they all remind me of my grandparents,” said Viv, flushing at the compliment.

Dawn glanced down at the checklist on her clipboard. “The lab has asked if we have anyone who can help with their paperwork. And . . . oh yes, anyone want to assist in the autopsy room? Never mind, just kidding.”

“Don’t scare them away now,” Vivienne pleaded. “It took me weeks to persuade them to show up at all!”

Heads turned as the group made its way along the corridor. Even a young man strapped onto a gurney did a double-take as they crowded into the elevator beside him. “I may be sick,” he said, “but I ain’t dead!”

Starting on the fourth floor of the small private hospital, Dawn walked them through pertinent areas of the building, avoiding the infectious wards (which were off-limits to candy-stripers), and hurrying them past the intensive-care units. Everywhere, men and women glanced up and nodded, then looked again and grinned. Even the formidable chief of medicine, surprised on his way to a conference, smiled and chatted for a moment. But the most fun was watching a young intern pretend he wasn’t at all impressed by their arrival, no, not at all. He was far too busy for such frivolity, his expression said, as he stepped smartly into a wastebasket.

One by one, Vivienne’s friends were dropped off at their assigned workstations, Maura, in the children’s ward, the dark exotic Tara in the lab, Sharon in the communications center, and Chelsea, a pale English rose, at the nurses’ station in Pulmonary.

“Everyone’s really enjoying this,” Dawn told Vivienne. “It was sweet of you to organize it.”

“Well, I did have to twist a few arms,” Vivienne admitted. “But I think they’re all really glad they’re here today. Of course, you’ll probably never see them here again - let’s be realistic - but today they’re having fun.”

“Well, so are we. You wanted to work here in Cardiac Care again, right?”

Vivienne nodded.

“Kathy, Bianca, you remember Vivienne?” Dawn asked the two RN’s at the nurses’ station.

“How’re you doing?” Bianca asked, then turned to answer a shrilling phone.

“You’re in good hands,” said Dawn. “I’ll go check on the others, make sure we don’t lose any more interns!”

“See you later,” Vivienne called as Dawn headed rapidly toward the staff stairway.

“Hear you brought an entourage,” said Kathy. “We going to be in the movies or something?” A light on the callboard lit up, and a buzzer sounded.

Vivienne laughed. “No, I just thought I’d shake things up a little around here. It’s such a dull, quiet place!”

“Right!” said Kathy. “Excuse me, gotta go.” She flipped up a switch and the buzzer stopped. “Make yourself at home,” she called out as she headed down the corridor. “Oh, Mr. Kaplan’s been asking for you.”

“Five-oh-one,” said Bianca, holding a hand over the receiver.

Mr. Kaplan was one of Vivienne’s favorites. Talking to him, she often forgot that he was nearly ninety. His mind was young and alert, his spirit unquenchable. The trouble was, Mr. Kaplan’s heart was simply wearing out. He’d been in and out of the hospital three times during the past year, suffering from chronic fibrillation. The pacemaker they’d installed several months ago had probably saved his life during the onset of his recent heart attack. Now he was recovering, weak, angry at his body, yet determined to leave the hospital on his feet.

Vivienne knocked softly in case he was sleeping, but Mr. Kaplan’s voice, quiet yet firm, called, “Come on in!” so she did. Room 501 was small but cheerful, thanks to the constant influx of flowers from his large family. It smelled wonderful.

“Lilacs,” said Vivienne, spying the large branches set prominently in front of the window. “My favorite!”

“Take them, take them,” Mr. Kaplan said. “I got flowers I could open a flower store with them! Take!” He made a sweeping gesture toward the window, swiping his lunch tray with his sleeve.

Vivienne shook her head, smiling. “I can’t take your flowers, Mr. Kaplan. What if the person who sent them came to visit and didn’t see them?” He looks pale, she thought.

“So, I’ll say I gave them to a beautiful woman. Good for my image!” He squeezed her hand. “How you doing?”

“Fine, Mr. Kaplan. I’m doing just great, How about you?” She glanced at the lunch tray. “You didn’t eat much.”

“Pahhh! This stuff!” He waved at the tray disdainfully. “I told them, ‘Bring me a pastrami on rye, you’ll see me eat!’“

“You know you’re not allowed . . .”

“I know, I know! So sit already, tell me about your glamorous life. My daughter, she saw your picture in some magazine last week, she got so excited!”

Vivienne smiled. “Nice to be appreciated,” she said. “Actually it’s not that glamorous while you’re doing it. The lights are hot, the makeup clogs your pores, and the money’s only fabulous!” Kaplan chortled appreciatively.

Viv reached for the newspaper that an earlier visitor had abandoned on one of the guest chairs.

“Want me to read you the news? I used to read the paper to my grammy when I was little. I’d slip in silly parts I’d make up, and see how long it took her to catch on.” Viv smiled at the memory. “She’d say, ‘Girl, you sure you readin’ that right?’“

“The paper I can live without,” said Mr. Kaplan. “Troubles, nothing but troubles. At my age, I want to hear good news.”

“At any age, Mr. Kaplan.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when you’re young. You have time on your side. You read something, and first you say, ‘How terrible!’ But then you say, ‘Hey, I have an idea how to fix it, make it work better.’“

“Sometimes I think nobody can do anything anymore,” Vivienne said. “We’ve been disenfranchised. No one has the power to make a difference.”

“Little ways,” Mr. Kaplan said. “Little things. You change a little here, a little there, soon you’ve changed a lot.” He grinned at her. “Anyhow, you’re a big shot, and people listen to big shots.”

“They do? Then how about some more lunch? A little here, a little there. . . .”

“Very funny,” said Mr. Kaplan. “No.”

“A walk?”

Kaplan shook his head. “Truth is,” he confided, “I’m a little tired. I wouldn’t want you should think it’s the company, but I feel like a nap.”

Vivienne pushed away the bed table holding the lunch tray and straightened the white cotton blanket. “Sweet dreams,” she said and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“Sweet dreams,” he repeated, grinning wickedly. “At my age, what else?”

It isn’t fair, she thought as she closed the door gently behind her. Only one part of him is failing; why does the rest have to go too?

Through the closing door she heard his voice, already slurred with sleep. “You forgot the lilacs,” he called softly. “Believe me, I got flowers I could open a flower store. . . .”

Back at the nurses’ station, the renowned cardiologist and bridge player Dr. Alfred Mitchell, chart in hand, was deep in discussion with Kathy. His round face, framed by tufts of unruly white hair, radiated the calm intelligence which patients and colleagues alike found so reassuring. He was one of the few doctors Vivienne had met who treated her as an equal, not a servant.

Vivienne hovered in the corridor until they were finished. Kathy noticed her first and beckoned her over.

“How’s Mr. K?” she asked Vivienne.

“Quite perky at first. Then he got tired. He’s asleep now.”

Dr. Mitchell finished his notations and handed the chart to Kathy. “My favorite striper,” he said to Vivienne. “You’re looking very glamorous today,”

“Who wouldn’t, in these uniforms? Listen, how’s Mr. Kaplan doing? Really?”

“The man is ninety years old. How should he be doing?”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Vivienne told him.

“You think that’s not fair? I have a forty-four-year-old man, keeps in shape, eats right, doesn’t smoke, all of a sudden he keels over in his office. Right now, he’s in worse shape than Mr. Kaplan. Fibrillating all over the place, lots of damage to the heart muscle. Has two young kids too. Shit happens.”

“What will you do for him?”

“What we can. And that’s a lot more than it was twenty years ago. But it isn’t always enough.” He checked his wristwatch against the large wall clock, then reached across the desk and chose another chart. “You know, for forty years I’ve been bringing my patients’ troubles home with me,” he told Vivienne. “Finally my wife made me a sampler to hang in my office. It says . . .”

“‘Shit Happens’?”

“In the office of a man who charges three hundred dollars a visit?” said Mitchell in mock horror. “No, it says ‘Life Isn’t Fair.’“

“And does it make your patients feel better?”

Mitchell smiled wryly. “It’s not for them,” he said. “It’s for me.”

Later, back at her apartment, Vivienne served the women white wine spritzers and green pasta salad as they talked about their afternoon.

“It was fun,” Maura decided, spearing a shard of carrot. “It was kind of sad, all those sick kids, but a lot of them are getting better. Anyhow, doing it made me feel good.”

“‘As the actress said to the bishop,’” said Chelsea in her clipped British accent.

“Some of the doctors were cute,” offered Sharon. “Doesn’t Charles get jealous?”

“Not of the doctors,” said Vivienne darkly. “Maybe of Mr. Kaplan.”

“Who’s he?” asked Tara.

“A cute fella of about ninety,” said Vivienne. Then, seeing their confusion, she added, “I mean, Charles doesn’t like the whole idea. It’s too . . . real, or something.”

“Real it is,” said Sharon, her blue eyes big and round. “I was terrified somebody was going to start bleeding or something right in front of me. Doesn’t that terrify you, Viv?”

“Not really,” Vivienne replied. “I’ve had more skinned knees than you’ve had hot dinners, as they say. Blood doesn’t scare me.” She thought a minute. “Actually,” she said, “I kind of like the realness of it. We, all of us here, lead very rarefied lives, don’t you think? When was the last time any of you were on the subway?”

“I took the subway to a booking a few weeks ago - couldn’t find a cab,” said Chelsea. “Believe me, I do not recommend the experience!”

“Neither do I,” Vivienne agreed. “But my point is, we’re the lucky ones. And it’s so easy to forget about the rest of the world. Doing volunteer work now and then makes me feel less . . . I don’t know, not guilty exactly, but . . .”

“It’s a way of giving something back, is that what you mean?” Maura asked.

“Yes,” said Vivienne gratefully. “I think it is.”

“Bullshit,” said Chelsea.

“Well,” offered Tara, “it was an experience, I’ll grant you that. But you’ll never get me back in there again!”

“Nor me,” Chelsea agreed.

“Fair enough,” Vivienne told them. “Once was all you signed on for.”

“It wasn’t really so bad,” said Sharon. “And some of the patients were cute!”

“Anyway, I’m glad we did it,” Maura said. “I might even do it again sometime . . .”

“Really? That would be great!”

“. . . in about twenty years!”

* * *

After the women left, Vivienne checked her answering machine and felt faintly guilty to discover that the message light was blinking. Reaching for a pencil, she hit the playback button.

“You, yes you, have won an all-expense-paid trip to New Mexico!” Angela’s high-energy voice boomed out at her. “Not much money, but these editorial spreads never are. However, there is a cover in it! To claim your prize, call Angela. Uh, as soon as possible, Viv, okay?”

Mmmm, nice, thought Vivienne.

The rest of the messages weren’t nearly as interesting, but she noted them down before she reset the machine, then called the agency.

“Vogue,” Angela told her. “Four days starting the twelfth. It’s insane here today. The money sucks - what else is new? - but Hervé is shooting. You want it?”

In the background, Vivienne could hear about a thousand phones ringing and people shouting back and forth. Just another normal day at Lens.

“Sure I want it,” she said. “Tell ‘em yes and call me with details when you can.”

“You got it!” said Angela, and disconnected.

Vivienne went into the oversize kitchen and refilled her glass from the seltzer bottle in the Sub Zero refrigerator. On second thought, she decided to take the bottle with her.

The apartment, a classic seven-room prewar layout with high ceilings and a central hallway, had been completely restored, rewired, and replumbed by the previous owner just before his Wall Street firm had gone belly-up. There was a Jacuzzi in the master bedroom, a walk-in closet in place of the maid’s room, and a gourmet kitchen from which you could cater a dinner for 150 of your closest friends. These days it primarily dispensed salads, grilled fish, and vegetable juice.

Carrying the glass and bottle, she went down the central hallway to the spacious, bright living room and slid the glass doors open to the second terrace, a large square space fringed with plants and trees and paved with terra-cotta tile. She stood for a moment looking out. Behind her, a warm breeze ruffled the pages of the magazines on the marble coffee table inside.

Turning back, she set the bottle on the table and curled up on the sleek silk-covered sofa, glass in hand, enjoying the room. It was part decorator, part her, and although the decorator did not agree, she liked the clash of ideas. It would be too “white bread,” she thought, without that funny temperance banner I picked up in London, or that touristy brass elephant table.

Only the pale sofa she now sat on felt out-of-place to her. Expensive, fragile, easily stained, it made her faintly nervous, like a child visiting a rich aunt. Feeling slightly silly, she resettled herself in a homey Victorian wicker rocker, spray-painted a soft blue-green and filled with flowered chintz cushions. She smiled, remembering the look of horror on the decorator’s face when she’d refused to relegate this old favorite to the spare bedroom.

Late sun streamed in through the filmy curtains, striping her with warmth as it fell across her legs. The evening stretched before her, full of interesting possibilities.