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the point.
    “I’m sure it’s worth the price,” I assure her. “I just can’t afford it.”
    She looks disappointed in me. Very disappointed. I am clearly no longer worth her time and she can barely bring herself to point her chin toward the back of the store in a vague indication that I might find something there.
    Heading back, I spy a single rack of lacy bits, hung slightly closer together so I actually have to move the hangers to see them. I go through each one carefully, finally finding a bra that looks as much like my $18 Maidenform as possible, only it costs $185 and has a fancy French label. Now that’s an idea. Maybe they’ll just sell me a label.
    Since this is obviously the lowest-priced bra in the store, I go to the front, prepared to admit defeat. Lucy has her back to me and is holding up something I can’t yet see while the saleswoman—who wisely abandoned me for Lucy ages ago—nods approvingly.
    “Do you think it’s too much for the first time?” Lucy asks.
    “I think it’s perfect,” the saleswoman says. “For the first time or anytime.”
    I stop. The first time? Hasn’t Lucy shopped here before?
    And then I get it.
    The first time.
    Okay, I’m an idiot. We’re not in this store to shop for me. Lucy has a
reason
to be here. She’s been sending signals for days that something’s up, and I’ve been ignoring them. The popping champagne corks in L.A. The whispered call on the cell phone. The need for a girls’ night so she could tell me something private. Now she’s going to spend a small fortune on sexy lingerie because a man … well, because a man is going to see her in it. And it hits me over the head like a ton of bricks that the man isn’t Dan.
    Lucy turns around and holds out the skimpy black undergarment for my approval. Her face is glowing. “Like it?” she asks.
    I feel light-headed. Woozy. Like I’ve swallowed a glass of champagne too fast. I sway very slightly on my heels.
    “Are you all right?” asks the saleswoman, who is rapidly getting on my nerves. When I don’t answer, she says, “Why don’t you sit down while your friend tries this on?”
    I obediently follow Lucy into her fitting room, which looks like a small, jewel-box bedroom with muted lighting, flattering antique mirrors, and a soft pale pink love seat. I can’t help thinking that it’s the perfect spot for
monsieur
to
regarder
his mistress while she models lingerie for him.
    I think I’m going to be sick.
    “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper urgently to Lucy.
    She holds up the black whatever-it-is. “Don’t you like it?” she asks.
    “I don’t like why you’re buying it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    I’m too flustered to be subtle and the words just come tumbling out. “For heaven’s sake, Lucy. You’re having an affair. Or planning to have an affair. I finally got it. I’m so stupid, I didn’t put it together before. And now you’re trying to get me to say it’s okay by pretending this ridiculous lingerie is worth it.”
    Lucy plops down on the love seat and drops her head into the six hundred dollars’ worth of lace that she’s holding in her hands.
    “Oh, Jess, it’s not like that,” she says softly. “There is someone … a guy I work with. I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
    “Who is he?” I ask stoically. I’m usually pretty good at knowing what’s expected of me, but this is uncharted territory. Best friend of a woman who’s thinking of having an affair. Do I nod my head and listen supportively? Do I express outrage and dredge up Dan and the children? Or do I just admit that I’m completely confused? Somehow, the only words I hear coming out of my mouth are, “Who is he?”
    “That doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s someone you probablyknow. I mean, not know, know. But you’ve heard of him. You could guess who it is. He’s kind of semi-famous.”
    Swell. This is like being back in Dr. Paulo’s apartment. What’s with