Love the one youre with

that I could have photographed Drake Watters. I smile to myself, feeling strong and happy and righteous, and then belt out the only uplifting line from 'Crossroads' in my dreadful, tone-deaf singing voice: When the light breaks, baby, I'll be gone for good.

Several unmemorable days later, after I've almost completely purged Leo from my system, I am working in my lab on the fifth floor of an industrial warehouse on Twenty-fourth and Tenth Avenue. Sharing the space, along with the rent, are Julian and Sabina, photographers who work as a team, and Oscar, a solo printer, paper conservationist, and fine-art publisher. The four of us have been together in the bare-bones workroom for over two years now, and as such, have become very close friends.

Sabina, a pale, wispy woman whose anemic looks don't match her brash personality, does most of the talking, rivaling only Oscar's BBC radio that he keeps at a frustrating volume, one that I can't quite hear and yet can't quite tune out. She is now regaling us with a story of her three-year-old triplets' latest stunt: flushing her husband's entire vintage cufflink collection down the toilet, causing a flood in her fourth-floor walk-up and extensive water damage to the apartment below. She laughs as she tells the gory details because in her words, 'What else can you do but laugh?' I happen to think she secretly delights in the tale, as she often accuses her husband of being materialistic and uptight. I enjoy Sabina's stories, particularly during mindless retouching projects, which I'm in the middle of now. Specifically, I'm removing a constellation of acne from the face of a skateboarding teen for a print ad for a small record label.

'What do you think, guys? Should I give this kid a slight chin implant?' I ask.

Oscar, a somber Brit with a streak of dry humor, barely glances up from one of his many small drawers filled with lead, antimony, and wooden typefaces. I know from standing over his shoulder when I arrived that he is working on an artist's book using Etrurian, his favorite Victorian font. I love watching Oscar work, perhaps because his craft is so different from mine, but more likely because of his graceful, almost old-fashioned manner.

'Leave the poor kid be,' he says as he dampens paper and then mutters something about 'digital-plastic- surgery malarkey.'

'Yeah, Ellen. Quit being so shallow, would ya?' Julian, who just returned from his umpteenth smoking break of the day, chimes in, as if he, himself, hasn't shaved down the thighs on many a size-zero woman.

I smile and say, 'I'll try.'

Of my three workspace colleagues, I probably like Julian the best of all-at the very least, we have the most in common. He is about my age, and is also married to a lawyer-a lively, cool girl named Hillary.

Sabina tells Julian to hush as she scurries toward me in tight blue jeans, ripped at the knee, her long, sixties-style hair swishing behind her. She apologizes in advance for the garlic on her breath, mumbling something about going overboard on an herbal supplement, and then peers down at the print in question.

'Great movement there,' she says, pointing to a blurred-out board in mid-air.

I consider movement my single greatest weakness as a photographer so I really appreciate this comment. 'Thanks,' I say. 'But what about his chin?'

She holds the print to the light and says, 'I see what you mean, but I almost think his chin makes him look more surly… Does surly work for the ad?'

I nod, 'Yeah. They're called Badass Records. So I think surly will do just fine.'

Sabina takes one last look and says, 'But I might make his nose a bit smaller. That's more distracting than his weak chin… Have you ever noticed how often weak chins and big honkers go hand in hand? Why is that, anyway?'

My cell phone interrupts Sabina in mid-thought.

'One sec,' I say, expecting it to be Margot who has called twice in the last hour. Yet when I glance down, I see that it's Cynthia, my agent.

I answer, and as usual, she shouts into the phone. 'Sit down. You're not going to believe this one!'

Leo streaks across my mind, but I am still dumbfounded as I listen to her gush the rest of the news.

'Platform magazine called,' she says. 'And get this, girlfriend, they want you to shoot Drake Watters for their April cover story!'

'That's fantastic,' I say, feeling a mix of emotions wash over me. For starters, I simply can't believe Leo went ahead with his lead, although in hindsight, I can see clearly that I left a huge, rather convenient back door open for him to orchestrate everything through my agent. Still, I honestly didn't think he'd be so selfless. I thought-and perhaps even hoped-that the Drake bone was more of a power play, a design to lure me back in and force my hand in a borderline inappropriate friendship. Now I'm forced to see the gesture, if not Leo, in a new light. And of course, overshadowing all of this is the simple, giddy, unmitigated thrill of photographing an icon.

'Fantastic?' Cynthia says. 'Fantastic is an understatement.'

'Incredibly fantastic,' I say, now grinning.

Sabina, always nosy but never in an offensive way, whispers, 'What? What?'

I scribble the words Platform and Drake Watters on a notepad. Her eyes widen as she does a comical exotic dance around a pole connecting raw ceiling to cement floor and then rushes over to give Julian the news. He looks up and flips me off with a smile. We're not competitive, but definitely keep a friendly score. Before this, he and Sabina had the solid lead with a Katie Couric shoot for Redbook out in the Hamptons where Julian used to do all his work before he married Hillary and she lured him into the city full time.

'Did they say how they got my name?' I calmly ask Cynthia after she runs through a few details of the shoot-namely that it will take place in L.A.; the magazine will pay three thousand dollars, plus airfare, equipment rental, expenses, and a stay at the Beverly Wilshire.

'No,' she says. 'And who really cares? You should be celebrating right now, not asking questions!'

'Right,' I say, wanting so much to believe this very thing. After all, I think, as I thank her, hang up, and field a round of congratulations, there is principle, and then there is stubborn, prideful foolishness. Malarkey, as Oscar would say. And surely anyone, even Andy, would have to agree that Drake Watters isn't worth sacrificing for a bunch of ex-boyfriend malarkey.

twelve

About a week later, after much informal revelry, Andy and I are officially celebrating my upcoming Drake assignment at Bouley, one of our favorite restaurants in the city. Beyond the exquisite food and warm atmosphere, Bouley has sentimental meaning for us, as it is where we dined the night we first made love, which was, incidentally, exactly one month after our first date. The morning after, I teased Andy that it took Chef David Bouley's New French fare to inspire him to want to sleep with me.

'You're right,' he snapped back playfully. 'It was the venison. I will never forget that venison. Best I've ever had by a long shot.'

I laughed, knowing the truth-that the wait had everything to do with Andy's romantic, respectful ways. Aside from the high stakes of my friendship with Margot, Andy cared about me enough to want to do things right rather than rush into bed after one too many drinks, the methodology most men favored on the New York dating scene-or at least the two I had slept with after Leo. And although some might have criticized our first time as lacking spontaneity, I wouldn't have changed a thing about it. And still wouldn't.

Which makes it an even nicer surprise tonight when we are seated at the same intimate corner table in the vaulted dining room. I raise my eyebrows and say, 'Coincidence?'

Andy smirks with a shrug.

Clearly, this is no coincidence. I smile at my husband's unwavering thoughtfulness. Sometimes he really does seem too good to be true.

In the next few minutes, after an extensive review of the wine list and menu, we decide on our appetizers- the foie gras with a fricassee of cremini for me and the eggplant terrine for Andy-along with Bouley's best bottle of champagne. Andy stumbles over the pronunciation when ordering the latter, despite having taken at least ten years of French growing up. Our waiter murmurs his wholehearted approval, if not of Andy's clumsy accent, then at least