Love the one youre with

Warhol. I feel my mind start to drift to Leo, and the last time I was in a trendy hotel bar, but push these thoughts away as Andy says with feigned formality, 'Care for an aperitif?'

I skim the cocktail menu and tell him the pineapple-and-cinnamon mojito looks interesting. He agrees and orders us two, to go, and a few minutes later, we are alone in our plush, jewel-toned room overlooking Gramercy Park, one of my favorite spots in the city, even though I've never been inside the locked gates-perhaps because I've never been inside.

'Gorgeous,' I say, sipping my mojito and taking in the view of the romantic, impeccably kept private park.

'I knew you always wanted to see inside,' he says, draping his arm around me. 'I thought it would be a nice way to say good-bye.'

'You always think of everything,' I say, feeling a wave of deep appreciation for my husband.

Andy gives me an 'aw, shucks' grin and takes a hearty gulp of his drink, before undressing down to his boxers and bursting into a stirring rendition of 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia.'

I laugh and shake my head. 'Get in the shower,' I say, vowing to be happy tonight. Even though I'm exhausted. Even though I hate being the center of attention. Even though I don't like good-byes. And even though a certain someone on Newton Avenue won't be in attendance and doesn't even have an inkling that I'm leaving.

One hour later our party at Blind Tiger, a microbrewery on Bleecker, is in full groove. The lights are dim, the music is just loud enough, and I'm well into my fourth beer of the night. My current selection, the Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball, is my favorite so far, although that might be purely a function of my ever-growing buzz. One thing is for sure-I've put all my worries aside and am having an even better time than I vowed, in large part because everyone else seems to be having so much fun, which is never a given when diverse groups come together at one event. My photographer friends really have little in common with Andy's lawyer crowd or the Upper East Side fashion torchbearers whom Margot and I used to hang with when she lived in the city. To this point, Margot actually deserves much of the credit for bringing everyone together and making things feel cohesive, as she is the single greatest asset you can have at any party. She is outgoing, gracious, and inclusive, finding a way to bring even the most awkward, peripheral guest into the fold. I watch her now, working the room, virgin daiquiri in hand, looking stunning in a pink, empire-waist sundress and strappy, silver stilettos. At nearly six months pregnant, she has a small, round bump right in front, but hasn't gained an ounce anywhere else, and her hair, nails, and skin are even more amazing than usual. She says it's due to the prenatal vitamins, although I don't think the battery of expensive spa treatments she had today have hurt her cause. In short, she's the cutest pregnant woman I've ever seen, a sentiment I've heard at least five people echo tonight, including one woman from Andy's firm who is exactly as far along as Margot but looks like she's been blown up with helium everywhere-nose, ankles, even her earlobes.

'Get away from me,' the girl jokingly said to Margot. 'You make me look bad.'

'She makes everyone look bad-pregnant or not,' I said.

Margot modestly waved us off and told us not to be ridiculous, but deep down she must know it's true. Fortunately, though, she's also more charming than the rest of us, so nobody ever really holds her looks against her, including her ghastliest of pregnant peers.

We make eye contact now as she joins me, Julian, and Julian's wife, Hillary, at a cracked-wood table in the back of the bar, just in time to hear Hillary gush about how much she admires Andy's decision to drop the big-firm culture. It is a common theme of the night among the disgruntled-lawyer crowd, and for Andy's sake, it makes me feel better about our move.

'I've been meaning to quit for over seven years now,' Hillary says, laughing as she tugs on her long, blond ponytail. 'Never quite happens, though.'

Julian shakes his head and says, 'If I had a dollar for every time she said she was going to do it, we could both retire… But what does she do instead?'

'What?' Margot and I ask in unison.

Julian flicks his wife's shoulder and proudly says, 'She goes and makes partner.'

'No way! Why didn't you tell me that?' I say to Julian, hitting his arm.

'She just found out yesterday,' he says, as I think about all the many tidbits of his life I'm going to miss now that we're no longer sharing a workspace. We have vowed to keep in touch-and I think we will e-mail and phone occasionally-but it won't be the same, and eventually, I fear that he, Sabina, and Oscar will all become holiday-card friends only. But I mentally put that on the list of things not to worry about tonight, and instead turn to Hillary and congratulate her. 'Andy says it's virtually impossible to make partner at a big firm.'

'Especially for a woman,' Margot says, nodding.

Hillary laughs and says, 'Well. I'm sure it'll be short-lived. At least I hope it will be… I'll hang in there only until he knocks me up… Then I'm going to take my maternity leave and run for the hills.'

I laugh and say, 'Sounds like a plan.'

'You think you'll have one soon?' Julian asks me.

It is a question Andy and I have gotten a lot since announcing our move, so I have my answer both prepared and well rehearsed. 'Not right away,' I say, smiling vaguely. 'Sometime soon, though…'

Hillary and Julian grin back at me, as everyone seems to like the 'soon' part of my response the best. Topping that list is Margot, who now nestles closer to me and links her arm through mine. I inhale her perfume as she explains that we want our kids to be close in age.

Hillary says, 'Oh, definitely. That's going to be so nice for you guys… I wish I had someone to go through the baby thing with, but I'm so far behind my other friends. They're already applying to preschools, in a whole different stage of life… You're so lucky to have each other and live so close to one another.'

Margot and I both murmur that we know, we are lucky, and for one satisfying moment, I feel the full weight and truth of it. Sure, the timing might not be ideal. I might not be quite ready to leave the city, and my children might be a few years behind Margot's, but those are minor details. The big picture is pretty darn wonderful. My relationship with Margot, my marriage to Andy, our house in Atlanta-all of it is wonderful.

And that is my final thought before my agent, Cynthia, bursts into the bar, scans the room, and makes a breathless beeline toward me. As a former plus-sized model and stage actress, Cynthia has a lush, larger-than-life quality and a slightly outlandish sense of style that causes people to stare and wonder if she's famous. In fact, she told me once that she frequently is mistaken for Geena Davis, and even occasionally signs fake autographs and fields questions about the filming of Thelma and Louise or Beetlejuice. I watch her pause to manhandle Andy with a double-cheek kiss and a tousle of his hair, before continuing her purposeful march toward me, my husband in tow.

'Just wait! Just wait until you see what I have,' I can hear her tell him from halfway across the room. One beat later, they are both beside me, and as I thank her for coming, I realize in an off-kilter, slow-motion panic, what she is about to unveil at our going-away party.

Sure enough, her full, magenta lips pucker dramatically as she pulls the oversized magazine from her fringed, white Balenciaga bag and then trills to her ever-growing audience, 'Platform magazine! Hot off the presses!'

'I thought it wasn't coming out until later this month,' I say, feeling numb and exposed as I envision not my photos of Drake that I toiled over and perfected for so many hours, but the byline of the piece.

'Well, you're right, it doesn't hit the newsstands for another couple weeks,' Cynthia says. 'But I worked my magic and got an early copy for you… Thought it would be the perfect going-away present for you, pookie.' She bends down and taps my nose twice with her index finger.

'Oh, man. Awesome,' Andy says. He rubs his hands together eagerly and calls a few more of his friends, including Webb, over to the table.

'You've already seen the shots,' I tell Andy in a small, worried voice, as if there is anything I can do to stop Cynthia's attention-grabbing tide.

'Yes, but not on a big, glossy cover,' Andy says, standing behind me and massaging my shoulders.

Another full, torturous minute passes as Cynthia continues her suspense-building mission by pressing the cover against her substantial cleavage and delivering a Shakespearean monologue about how gifted I am, and how proud she is to represent me, and how I'm headed for true greatness, no matter where I live.