TUESDAY AFTERNOON

“What are we doing today, love? More of the same?”

I smile in thanks at the girl who just brought me a glass of champagne before turning my attention to Stefan, the guy who’s been doing my hair for the past three years.

“Same old,” I confirm, taking a sip of the Moët et Chandon. “The tiniest bit off the bottom to keep the ends fresh, touch up the honey highlights.”

Now, I don’t want to be vain. But if I were going to be vain . . .

My hair’s totally my best feature.

See, truthfully, I’m barely passably pretty. Attractive, sure, but not stop-traffic gorgeous like my mom. My features are in the right spot and all. But my boobs, butt, eyes, mouth . . . more or less, average.

So while I may not wake up looking like a Park Avenue princess, when you have a mother who started a beauty empire, you learn your way around a contour palette and a Tom Ford eyeshadow pan at an early age.

My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.”

You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?

I chat with Stefan about who’s likely to be the next Bachelorette while he applies my color, then his assistant brings me a big old stack of Us Weeklys to peruse while my highlights take hold. After scanning the “Who Wore It Better” section (Beyoncé, always), I turn my attention to my phone and begin to put together my evening plans.

There’s a black-tie fundraiser at the Met, but my parents will probably be there, and I’m not in the mood to listen to my mom critique my dress while my dad tries desperately to drag me into business talk with his colleagues. Pass.

A friend of a friend is having a birthday dinner at Babbo, but she’s one of those girls who likes to talk about who she knows rather than actually getting to know anybody. Not in the mood for that either.

I bite my lip and mull over a text message from Evan. He’s hot. We hooked up a few times a couple months back, and I’m pretty sure that his “get together at my place” is a polite booty call. And though it’s been a long, long time since I’ve gotten any of that . . .

Hmm, no. Not in the mood for that either.

I text my best friend. Marley Hamlen’s the daughter of a brainiac angel investor who pretty much dominated Silicon Valley before moving to New York. Marley’s been my right-hand girl ever since she transferred to Trinity in the third grade and promptly punched Sena Corlin in the nose after Sena called Marley “new money.”

Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with that? I claimed that feisty goodness as my BFF.

(And don’t go feeling too bad for Sena. When she was sixteen, she disappeared for a week and came back with a slimmer, much-improved nose. Told everyone it was because she had a deviated septum courtesy of Marley’s punch. Everyone together now—let’s lift a skeptical eyebrow.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Texting Marley.

You back in town? Plans tonight?

I flip through the magazine while I wait for Marley to confirm whether or not she’s returned from her cousin’s extended bachelorette weekend in Vegas.

I’m baaaaaack, Marley texts. Definitely want to get out, but count me in for dinner only, nothing late night. Vegas nearly killed me. When did we get OLD?

It’s been downhill since 22. In the mood for a filet. STK? Wolfgang? Del Frisco?

Marley sends the thinky-face emoji back, followed by, Del Frisco. If we go early enough we can catch some of the hot after-work guys in suits.

What about Jon? I ask, referring to her on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship with a tattoo artist who I’m pretty sure she’s dating only to piss off her dad. When it comes to her love life, Marley is twenty-seven going on thirteen.

Cheated. Again, she texts. Moving on. Need a clean-cut grown-up who doesn’t think biting his fingernails counts as personal grooming.

Gross. We will martini-solve the problem tonight. 7?

Perfect, she confirms, followed by the kiss-face emoji that I’ve learned is her “conversation over” send-off.

I put my phone away as Stefan’s assistant comes to rinse the dye out of my hair, and then for the next half hour Stefan and I analyze whether his boyfriend’s refusal to turn the home office into a nursery means he’s baby-never or baby-not-right-now as he trims my ends.

I’m firmly in camp just ask him, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.

I usually style my own hair in loose waves with a big-barrel curling iron, but Stefan likes it blown out super-straight and sleek, so I let him do his thing. By the time I’m done, it’s past six. Just enough time to run a quick errand before heading over to the restaurant to meet Marley.

The salon I go to, John Barrett (duh), is conveniently right atop Bergdorf Goodman. Primping and shopping all in one place—heaven.

I head to the baby section, which I’m becoming increasingly familiar with as more and more of my friends start popping out kids.

I make a beeline for the Burberry onesie I mentioned to Ramon this morning.

Despite Andrew Mulroney’s snide remarks about babies and designer clothing, we all know that it’s not really about the babies. It’s about the moms. And Marta will love this for her daughter, I know she will.

“Gift-wrapped?” the girl behind the counter asks.

“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”

“Of course.”

As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.

I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit . . .

I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.

“Forty-ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.

It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.

Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.

It’s only . . . it’s just . . .

Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.

I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.

And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.

It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.

Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.

I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss . . .

Okay, for real? I’m not even gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.

I like making my own schedule.

I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.

But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat . . .

It’s getting old.

Or maybe I’m getting old.

The most annoying thing about all this is I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.

I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now . . . well, I don’t know.

You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.

I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.

I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in her martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.

“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”

She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.

His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.

“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.

“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.

“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.

He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”

Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.

“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.

“Liv Dotson.”

“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”

Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.

She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.

Liv and I used to be kind of close a couple of years ago, but she and Marley were after the same guy for a while and it got tense. Since I ended up on Team Marley, obviously, Liv sort of keeps me at arm’s length. She’s friendly, but I’m not exactly holding out hope for making a cameo on her show.

“No cameras,” Marley says, craning her neck to get a better look.

Just as I’m about to turn and check out the situation for myself, the hostess finds us to tell us our table’s ready.

“Perfect,” Marley says, dropping a few bills for the bartender. “I asked for a seat by the window, so we’ll walk right by Liv’s table and can say hi. Got to bury the hatchet sometime, right?”

Marley and I follow the hostess, and I’m still scanning for Liv’s red hair, trying to spot her for myself.

“Oh. My. Gawd,” Marley hisses, grabbing my arm with her free hand. “You’ll never guess who she’s having dinner with!”

“I take it by the scandalized tone that it’s not her husband,” I say, still scanning the crowd while also trying not to look too celebrity-stalkerish.

“Um, try the most famous divorce attorney in the city,” Marley says.

My mouth drops open. “No. They can’t be getting divorced. They’re so happy!”

“Obviously not,” Marley murmurs.

I’m still hoping Marley’s wrong when another thought hits.

“Wait. Wait,” I whisper urgently. “How do you know who the most famous divorce lawyer in New York is? Who is it?” I start scrutinizing the tables more closely.

“Um, because I read TMZ like a proper citizen of this city. And because he’s practically as famous as the celebrities themselves.”

No. No. I know the name before Marley has a chance to respond.

Sitting across from the gorgeous Liv Dotson is one Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.