Love the one youre with

of our selection.

Minutes later, after our champagne and appetizers arrive and Andy makes a toast to his 'beautiful, brilliant wife,' he launches right in with the nitty-gritty of the shoot. 'So what poses are you gonna put Drake in?' he begins.

I smile at the word poses, which hardly conjures a glossy, stylized magazine spread, but rather a Sears portrait sitting of the sort Suzanne and I endured growing up, complete with a white- picket fence, fake clouds in the background, and a nappy brown rug, rough against our elbows.

But I know what Andy's getting at-and the question, stated in a more technical way, has occurred to me dozens of times in the past few days. I tell him I've yet to talk to the art director or photo editor-so I'm not sure what they want, but that I have some definite ideas about the feel of the shoot. 'I'm thinking moody. Almost somber,' I say. 'Especially in light of Drake's AIDS work.'

'Will you shoot him inside or out?' Andy asks.

'You know I prefer natural light. Either near a lot of windows or outside. Maybe overpowered,' I say.

'What's overpowered?' Andy asks, the way I frequently ask him what are probably basic procedural, legal questions.

'It's a technique where the subject is well-lit, usually in the middle of the day, but the background sort of fades to black,' I explain. 'It's a pretty common way to shoot outside. You'd know it if you saw it.'

Andy nods and says, 'Well, maybe the hotel has a terrace. That'd be cool. Or you could go out by the pool. Or, hell, in the pool! You know-tossing a beach ball around, that kind of thing.'

I laugh, picturing Drake in a Speedo and thinking that as excited as I am, Andy seems even more so. In part, I think it's because he's remained a much more loyal and ebullient Drake fan over the years. But mostly, I think it's just due to his star-struck tendencies, which are in marked and amusing (although Margot would say mortifying) contrast to the way most Manhattanites completely downplay celebrity sightings, almost as a badge of honor. Like the more blase they are, the more they are making a statement that their own lives are just as fabulous, minus the hassle and tedium of fame, of course. But not Andy. I think of his wild enthusiasm when we spotted Spike Lee at an ATM on the West Side-and Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick running in the park ('two for the price of one!')-and Liv Tyler perusing stationery at Kate's Paperie-and the greatest score of all, Dustin Hoffman walking his black lab in East Hampton. After we passed the pair, Andy told me he had to use every bit of restraint not to burst out with that famous line from The Graduate-'Just one word… plastics!'- which cracked me up, but probably wouldn't have been quite as amusing to Dustin.

But Dustin Hoffman on the beach is one thing; Drake Watters at a photo shoot is quite another. So when Andy asks, only half in jest, if I'm going to get an autograph for him, I shake my head resolutely.

'Not a chance,' I say.

'C'mon,' he says, reaching across the table to steal another bite of my foie gras, which we both agree is the better selection by a very slim margin. 'Just have him write something short and sweet. Something like…'To Andy, my dear friend and great inspiration. Yours in melody, Drake Watters.' Or he can simply sign it 'Drake'… Or even 'Mr. Watterstein.' It all works.'

I laugh, having forgotten from my Teen Beat-purchasing days that Drake's real last name is Watterstein. I think of how I used to pore over those juicy details-Drake's real name! Rob Lowe's fave food! Ricky Schroder's love interest! River Phoenix's new puppy!

Andy looks crestfallen-or at least pretends to be. 'You really won't hook me up? Seriously?'

'Seriously,' I say. 'I really, really will not.'

'Okay, Annie,' he says. 'Be that way.'

It is about the third time that he's jokingly, but with a note of admiration, referred to me as Annie or Ms. Leibovitz, and every time I feel like a bit of an imposter. A fraud for not telling him the full truth of how I got the job. Otherwise, though, the assignment has begun to lose its Leo connotation, and I've been able to largely convince myself that it really was my talent alone that scored me the job. After all, I reassure myself, Leo's true intentions (to assuage guilt over how he once treated me? pure benevolence? because he's seen my work and truly thinks I'm talented? to seduce me, at least mentally?) are really completely beside the point now. The job is mine, and it is a job I know I can do well. I refuse to be intimidated by Drake or Platform. And I refuse to feel indebted to Leo, if that is, in fact, his aim.

As I take my final bite, I appease my husband. 'Fine. Fine,' I say. 'I'll play the autograph thing by ear… If Drake and I hit it off, and the shoot goes well, I'll tell him that my dorky husband wants his autograph. Deal?'

'Deal,' Andy says happily, ignoring my 'dorky husband' comment as only a very secure man would. I smile, thinking that there are few things sexier than a man who doesn't take himself too seriously.

Our waiter stops by our table to expertly refill our champagne glasses, the bubbles reaching the highest point possible without spilling over. Andy gestures to our nearly empty bottle, asking whether I'd like more. I nod, savoring the ease of marital, nonverbal communication and envisioning intoxicated, celebratory sex later this evening. Andy orders us another bottle, and we continue to talk about Drake and the shoot.

Then, sometime in the graceful interim between appetizers and our entrees, Andy's posture straightens and his expression becomes uncharacteristically grave.

'So,' he starts. 'I want to talk to you about something else.'

For one second, I panic, thinking that he saw my cell phone bill, or that he otherwise knows that I've been in touch with Leo.

'Yeah?' I say.

He fiddles with his napkin and gives me a slow, tentative smile, as I think that if he were the wife, and I the husband, I'd be certain that we were going to have a baby. That's how solemn, disquieted-and yet simultaneously excited-he looks.

'What?' I say, feeling grateful that I'm the one who gets to break that particular bit of news.

Andy leans across the table and says, 'I'm thinking about quitting my job.'

I give him an expectant look as this is hardly a newsflash. Andy has been talking about quitting since his very first day of work, which apparently is par for the course for large firm associates. 'What else is new?' I say.

'I mean imminently,' he says. 'I drafted a letter of resignation today, in fact.'

'Really?' I say. I've heard of this infamous letter many times before-but have never known him to actually write it.

He nods, running his hand along his water glass before taking a long swallow. He dabs his napkin to his lips and says, 'I really want to quit.'

'To do what?' I say, wondering if Andy would ever follow his brother James's path-and do essentially nothing but sleep, play golf, and party.

'Besides mooch off my famous wife?' Andy asks, winking.

'Yeah,' I say, laughing. 'Besides that?'

'Well,' he says. 'I'd like to continue practicing law… but I'd like to do so in a smaller, more low-key… family-oriented setting.'

I think I know what he's getting at, but wait for him to spell it out for me.

'In Atlanta,' he finally says. 'With my dad.'

I take a sip of champagne, feeling my heart race with a range of unprocessed emotions as I say, 'You think you'd be happy doing that?'

'I think so,' he says. 'And my dad would be thrilled.'

'I know,' I say. 'He only mentioned it five times when we were in town.'

Andy looks into my eyes and says, 'But what about you? How would you feel about it?'

'About you working with your dad?' I ask. I know that I'm being obtuse, that he's asking about something much greater than his job, but I'm not sure why.

'No. About Atlanta,' Andy says, fidgeting with his knife. 'About living in Atlanta?'

Obviously Andy and I have talked about the move before, especially since Margot left the city. We even drove around and looked at houses on our last visit, but this time feels different. This time feels real, not theoretical-and