I walked east on 57th from Sixth to Fifth, then-passing right by Tiffany’s, of all places!-headed south toward 54th, hoping against hope that Smythe wouldn’t have gone out to lunch yet. The sidewalks of this ultra elegant stretch of Fifth Avenue were completely free of snow and ice (God forbid a rich person should slip and fall down!), but so crowded with lunchgoers and partygoers and Christmas shoppers that the going was still pretty slow. Smythe’s office was just three blocks away, though, so it didn’t take me too long to get there.

The building was large and imposing, with a façade of glistening pinkish sandstone blocks, and a pair of heavy glass doors that led to a sleek yellow marble corridor. One side of the corridor was lined with potted trees and marble busts of the twelve Caesars, the other with elevators of gleaming aluminum. Despite the fact that many people were in the hallway, walking down the passage to the exit or milling about waiting for an elevator, the overall atmosphere was hushed and quiet. Very quiet.

I pushed the UP button on the closest elevator and stood waiting with a small group of men and women who were so perfectly primed and polished they looked as if they were on their way to have lunch with Ike and Mamie at the White House. Every hair was in place, every cheek was in bloom, every fingernail was manicured, every trouser leg was sharply creased, and every stocking seam was as straight as the edge of a ruler. The silent air was thick with the mingling aromas of aftershave and Chanel.

I felt conspicuously out of place-like a barn swallow in an aviary of exotic birds. My coat was camel’s hair, not mink. My neck was adorned with red chiffon instead of pearls. My purse was leather, not lizard, and my snowboots were designed for a working, walking woman-not a lady of leisure and limousines. Most conspicuous of all was the fact that I was unescorted-i.e., by myself, all alone-not draped on the expensively tailored arm of a well-fed man wearing burnished wingtips and an onyx pinkie ring. (And, considering the fact that I live on top of a fish store, I don’t even want to think about what kind of fragrance I might have been casting into that rarefied air.)

One of the well-tended women was staring at me-looking me over from beret to snowboots with a grimace of shock and horror on her face. Luckily, my green flare skirt was extra long-long enough to cover my mangled and swollen knees and shins. Otherwise, she might have fainted.

When the elevator doors swooshed open, I swept inside and swished to the back, telling the handsome young operator in his spiffy maroon uniform (complete with brass buttons and gold braid epaulets) to let me off on six. I wasn’t sure that was the right floor, but where else would suite 600 be?

Good guess. As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I saw the entrance to Farnsworth Fiduciary. I couldn’t have missed it if I’d tried. The enormous hand-carved wooden door was positioned directly across from the elevator, and the name of the company was spelled out in large, raised, gold metal letters. Looked like real gold to me. I walked across the wide marble hall and went inside.

The dignified young woman sitting at the receptionist’s desk-a colossal wooden structure situated at least thirty feet from the entrance-looked up when I walked in. She smiled and nodded, but she didn’t say anything to me until I had made my way across the vast lawn of ankle-deep moss green carpeting and arrived in front of the desk. Then she smoothed her champagne-blonde chignon, raised her ice blue eyes, widened her scarlet smile, and said, in a voice so soft it fairly whispered, “Welcome to Farnsworth Fiduciary. How may we help you today?”

She was beautiful and perfect. A dead ringer for Grace Kelly.

“I’m here to see Gregory Smythe,” I announced, in the strongest, steadiest voice I could muster. I was trying to look strong and steady, too, which wasn’t at all easy since-standing there in front of that beautiful blonde bird of paradise-I felt reduced to the meekest depths of barn swallowdom.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No,” I said, squaring my shoulders, straightening my spine to its fullest extent. “But please tell him Paige Turner is here. I think he’ll want to see me.” Given the possibility that Roscoe Swift, or Elsie Londergan (or anybody else, for that matter) had told Smythe about me, I figured my most judicious and effectual approach would be to use my real name.

“Paige Turner?” the receptionist repeated. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows were raised in amusement and disbelief. I could tell from the way her lips were twitching she was struggling not to laugh.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said with a cocky toss of my head. I was determined to stay strong, to stand tall and proud in spite of my silly name. And I might have accomplished this goal, too, if, when I tossed my head, my beret hadn’t flown off and flopped to the floor like a misflipped flap-jack.

Well, that did it. Grace Kelly totally lost her cool. She started laughing like a horse. And, though I’ve never actually heard a horse laugh, I’d be willing to bet the sounds produced by such an equine outburst would mimic exactly the loud snorts and whinnies then emanating from the nose and mouth of Farnsworth Fiduciary’s refined receptionist.

Face burning with embarrassment, I picked up my errant beret and repositioned it on my head. And then, when I turned back to look at the receptionist’s contorted face, I started laughing, too. What else was there to do? Besides, I found the whole scene really funny, like a skit straight out of Your Show of Shows-with me in the Imogene Coca role. And Grace Kelly’s horsey laugh was a scream.

When we finally settled down, the ice had been thoroughly broken. Our pretensions had crumbled, and our shared crack-up had made us pals. “I’ll see if Mr. Smythe is in,” she said, giving me a collaborative wink and picking up the phone. She punched a button on one side of the phone and, taking a quick glance at the gold-plated clock on her desk, said to the person who answered, “Hello, Margaret. Please tell Mr. Smythe that his twelve-thirty appointment is here.” After a short pause, she said, “Yes, that’s right. Her name is Paige Turner and Mr. Smythe is expecting her.” She pronounced my name carefully, with a perfectly straight face.

Hanging up the phone, she let out a little giggle, then returned (reluctantly, I thought) to her well-mannered receptionist’s routine, and her whispery receptionist’s voice. “Please take off your coat and have a seat, Miss Turner,” she said, gesturing toward the brass coat rack and long green leather couch at the far side of the room. “Mr. Smythe’s secretary will be out in a moment to show you to his office.”

I gave her a very polite and refined (okay, gushing and effusive) thank-you and waded through the carpet to the waiting area.

THERE’S NO PLAINER WAY TO SAY IT: GREGory Smythe was a fool. A very tall, handsome, distinguished-looking, silver-haired fool, to be sure, but a fool nonetheless. I knew it the minute he stood up and welcomed me into his office by grabbing hold of my hand-and caressing it and fondling it and patting it passionately!-and then raising it to his mustached lips for a prickly kiss.

“So good of you to come, Miss Turner,” he said, rolling his big, hazel puppy-dog eyes in ecstasy. “And right on time, too!” The man was obviously accustomed to covering up forgotten appointments.

“It’s Mrs. Turner,” I blurted, and not a moment too soon. I could tell from his daft, voracious expression he was about to start nibbling on my fingers.

“Oh,” he said, deflated, lowering my hand and letting it go with a look of sheer bereavement on his face. He seemed so sad I actually felt sorry for him. (Who was being the fool now?) Luckily for both of us, Smythe’s recovery was speedy.