When you have a Ren, you can go to a fancypants ninety-nine-dollar lunch at Maison de Fontaine on Scotts Road, where you will order the trout tartare, and the salad of greens and figs and proscuitto and roasted cherry tomatoes, and then the chocolate-ginger mousse and stewed pear, and the white chocolate–raspberry tart with dried fig ice cream. Because girls like to chow down, each time more food arrives, you will forget what you were talking about just a half-second before. Ren’s scallops will be served in shells, in a dish shaped like a shell. The maître d’ will wear shiny pants buckled tightly around his little waist. The tea will be a Twinings tea bag, which will make you scoff “Ch!” because you really do expect more from the most expensive lunch in the world. Somehow, luckily, you will be the only ones in the room, and over a languid two hours you will bitch and natter and laugh loudly and longly, and the waiters will leave you well alone.

After, there was Mowmy for an excursion to the Print Institute, where I bought a gorgeous Suzanne Ramberg etching in which a bird is telling a girl a secret, and the girl has a secret smile of secret sweetness, and she is blushing a little blush, and maybe, quietly, she is saying, Hee-hee-hee. And there is a flower blooming here, and there is a flower blooming there. And then because it was tea time, there was a second excursion to Blood Café, where there were capuccinos and orange cake with orange compote. Blood Café has a respectable selection of magazines, and I said, Mowmy, what will we read today?, and she said, Something gossipy, and then popped over to the magazine rack and came back with a British Vogue and a Vanity Fair. Hurrah for Saturday afternoons.