Dear old Google gives us Emmanuelle’s address, courtesy of a search for Emmanuelle St. Pierre, Trump, recent real estate transactions, Manhattan.

We find on-street parking—a sign, Kathleen says, that God has blessed our mission—and go in the lobby. The thing is, it’s a big building. I have no idea what to do now.

“Can I help you?” says the doorman.

“Um...uh...” Shoot. I have no game.

“We’re interested in moving here,” Kathleen says. “Is there an empty apartment we can see?”

“You’ll have to make an appointment with the manager,” he says.

“Oh, I get it. You discriminate against lesbians.”

Wow. She definitely has game.

“Uh, no!” the doorman says. “No, we don’t. We have several same-sex couples here.”

“Sure, you do. But you can’t even let us look at an apartment,” Kathleen says. “Good thing I’m a civil liberties attorney.”

“Look, lady, don’t bust my balls, okay?”

“You immediately assume that because I’m a lesbian, I’m also a ball-buster. Interesting.” Kathleen puts her arm around me. “I can’t wait to file suit, babe. They wouldn’t even let us see an apartment.”

The doorman throws up his hands. “Fine, fine. Sign in here. I need to see your licenses.”

“I’m French,” I say, not bothering with a fake accent. There’s no way I’m putting my name on any list in Emmanuelle’s building. “I don’t have a license.”

Kathleen signs in, shows her license, grinning at me.

The doorman makes a call, and within a minute, a tiny little man comes into the lobby. The doorman speaks to him in Spanish, glares at Kathleen and off we go.

Our tiny guide leads us to the elevators, swipes his card and pushes the button for the eighteenth floor. My ears pop. Kathleen gives me a gleeful look, which I return. My heart is leaping with an almost-unfamiliar sensation—fun.

I told her everything on the way here. Somehow, I know she won’t gossip.

The maintenance person lets us into Apartment 1819. He holds the door for us but doesn’t come in.

The apartment is very nice. Unfurnished, of course. An amazing view of the skyline. Parquet floors, a small but elegant—and boring—kitchen with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. The walls are white. It’s sleek and impressive and sterile. Oh, sure, someone could make it cozy. But call me a reverse snob; I doubt anyone who lives in this building is going for cozy.

“Any idea which floor she lives on?” Kathleen asks.

“No. This was all very spontaneous. But how cool that we get to see this, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“You ever wonder what it would be like to be the person who called this home? Like, what if we didn’t have kids and we were single and got to look out over this skyline every night?”

Kathleen smiles. “I lived in an apartment like this,” she says. “When I was a news producer. Had the great view and the white couch and all that. And I tell you, I didn’t do a lot of looking out over the skyline. It was more come home, work and collapse into bed at one o’clock in the morning. All my friends were self-important assholes, more or less—I was, too, mind you.” She sits on a stool at the breakfast counter. “All I really wanted was to pop out a couple of kids and live in the suburbs.”

I nod. “Well, somewhere in this building is Emmanuelle.”

“I bet she has a white couch.”

“Yeah. And really expensive vodka.” My Chardonnay seems so provincial.

“Oh, yeah. Drinks it straight up, no doubt.”

“Wears a thong every day.”

“And Christian Louboutins.”

“She actually does have those,” I say.

“And a giant vibrator,” Kathleen says, and suddenly we’re laughing and snorting till tears run down our faces. Then our little friend comes in, and says, “All done, si?”

“Yes,” Kathleen says. “Thank you. Gracias.”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” I say. “There’s a great little Italian place in the Village that’s been around forever. I haven’t been there in ages.”

“Sounds perfect.”

And then, as we’re walking back to the car, I see Emmanuelle, half a block away and coming straight for us.

“Shit,” I hiss, grabbing Kathleen’s arm and dragging her across the street. “It’s her. Get down, get down!”

We crouch behind a Mercedes, then peek.

There she is. My husband’s lover.

She’s wearing yoga pants and sneakers and a T-shirt. Her red hair is in a ponytail. A canvas Whole Foods bag dangles from one hand, a plastic Duane Reade bag from the other. A brown leather purse is slung over one shoulder.

She looks...ordinary. Without the clothes and red lipstick and postmodern shoes, she’s not quite the Angelina Jolie femme fatale I picture every time I think of her.

“Duane Reade,” Kathleen murmurs. “Bet she’s on drugs for syphilis.”

I start giggling again. God, I haven’t laughed like this in ages.

Then Emmanuelle stops, and Kathleen says, “Shit!” and pulls me down lower so we’re sitting on the sidewalk, both of us wheezing with laughter.

I peek out again.

Emmanuelle has stepped in gum. Or dog shit. At any rate, she’s scraping off her shoe on the curb.