It was 3:30 in the afternoon and Bernadette still hadn't had a chance to talk to Agnes all day. Bernadette had phoned Agnes that morning before work to tell her -- in broad strokes, as Jim Hillyer would say -- what had happened. That is, that, following Bernadette's having given Hollis Burns the $100,000 loan, he had seemingly disappeared. Bernadette was still frantic over it, and in a quandary as to what to do. She just knew Agnes would have a level head about it, if they could only find a moment to quietly discuss it.

But what with the Chewy Crumbly Cookies lawsuit, the P.R. fallout over the disastrous Ad Age cover story on Jim Hillyer, and a speaking engagement at lunch time that Bernadette had completely forgotten about at the Waldorf Astoria -- a meeting of the Advertising Woman of New York, of which she was a longtime member and officer -- Bernadette literally hadn't had five minutes free all day.

Not that Agnes was exactly doing her nails, meanwhile. She had had Lucien inform her at 10:45 that morning that a group of five people from the client-side -- executives of Cummings Footwear from the New Jersey headquarters -- were driving in for a noon meeting. That meant that Agnes had to frantically clean up the large conference room -- full of Dunkin' Donuts boxes and styrofoam coffee cups left behind from a morning meeting of the Media Department -- and order lunch in for seven (including Lucien and Jill Campbell). And, per Lucien's strict orders, lunch could only be from the perennially mobbed "Mangia," the gourmet sandwich shop of choice. And Agnes was to call all five visitors from Cummings and ask, in advance, whether they preferred the baked ham and Brie on pumpernickel with honey mustard, or the dill chicken salad on a baguette with basil mayonnaise.

Unfair, Duh! You know what kills ever practical Agnes about ordering lunch? These guys could easily be eating tuna sandwiches sent up from the Greek diner with the revolving pastry case on the corner, at a quarter of the cost of what they spend on these conference room lunches ... AND bill back to the client. And yet Agnes has to practically get on her knees once a year for a lousy 4% cost of living raise, and write an explanatory note every time she takes a Commuicar home from the office late at night. No wonder this place is going to hell. But come the revolution ...

By late afternoon, though, things had quieted to a dull roar, and it was exactly 3:30 when Agnes got Sydney to take over the reception desk for a few minutes so she could go in and speak with Bernadette.

Leaving Sydney to juggle incoming calls at the switchboard, Agnes went down the thickly carpeted hall to Bernadette's office and knocked on the half-open door.

"Can I come in, Bernie?" she said, peering in the office.

Bernadette was sitting at the computer doing Internet searches for Hollis Burns, desperately trying to drum up an e-mail address for the guy, since she'd given up trying to contact him by phone. So far, she'd searched on Yahoo, Webcrawler, Lycos, and Alta Vista, and she was beginning to feel perfectly ridiculous. Stalking somebody on the Internet, for god's sake. But that was how desperate she was.

"Yeah, come on in Agnes," Bernadette said absently, closing her web-browser application, and pushing back her chair. Agnes sat down on the sofa opposite her, her arms folded across her chest and her legs crossed at the knees in a body-language position that said, "Okay, let's deal with this."

"Agnes, you were right," Bernadette began, pulling off the khaki cashmere sweater she'd been wearing over her sleeveless Calvin Klein black tissue-linen sleeveless dress, a defense against the aggressive air-conditioning that blew throughout 475 Madison Avenue for what seemed like ten months of the year. She leaned around and draped the sweater on the back of her leather swivel chair, and turned back to Agnes. "You were absolutely right. You said to me 'Are you crazy? You don't lend that kind of money to your mother!'"

"Bernie, if nothing else you have the best memory for detail I've ever known. I did say that when you came to me about the money. And I was right. I knew it then, and I know it now. But stop beating yourself up. That's not going to get us anywhere."

Bernadette stood up and walked over to the window, glancing out at the view of midtown Manhattan. The afternoon had darkened, and a light rain had begun to fall, dampening the streets. Far below, Bernadette could see multicolored umbrellas opening along the sidewalks, adding splotches of brightness here and there. She turned around to face Agnes, her back to the window.

"What kills me is that I've always prided myself on my sophistication. I may not have three kids and a picket fence and a Donna Reed kitchen, but I've been around the block, Agnes. I'm from the Bronx! To think that some two-bit operator in cowboy boots like Hollis Burns screwed me over and walked off with $100,000 of my money makes me crazy. I feel like I've been ... raped!"

In a way, it's funny. Part of Bernadette wants to laugh uncontrollably about the pickle she's gotten herself into. Lesson: no matter how tightly you organize your life ... you're never really in control, are you? Maybe Bernie should just forget about the damn money, save up some vacation time, fly, to Aruba, and get over herself!

"Bernie, bite your tongue. Come on, now, honey. It's only money." Agnes stood, walked across the room, and hugged Bernadette, who was much more like a daughter to her than a bigshot lady exec. Bernadette wiped a tear from her cheek and began to laugh. "I can't believe I'm hearing that from you of all people, Agnes! Look at me, I'm acting like a 16-year-old even now." Bernadette pulled self-consciously away from Agnes and sat back down at her desk, while Agnes remained standing at the window. "You know what we've got to do, don't you?" Agnes asked. "What?" responded Bernadette. "The police?"

"No," Agnes said. "That'll be a mess. I'm talking about a private investigator."

"Are you serious?" Bernadette asked, immediately.

"Absolutely," said Agnes. "We've got to have this guy traced. I mean, he's somewhere. He didn't just disappear off the face of the earth."

Agnes put her index finger to her lips and stared into space. "You know," she said, "I never thought of that. I was just so intent on nobody at Hillyer, Jones finding out; I never thought of a private investigator. But isn't it a little ... cloak and dagger?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. But what are your options: one, kiss the money goodbye; and two, go out and stalk the forests of Wyoming yourself."

"Montana, Agnes," Bernadette corrected, compulsively picking dead leaves off the inevitably dying ficus tree in the corner of her office.

"Whatever," Agnes said, smiling sympathetically at Bernadette, who walked over to the rattan wastebasket next to her desk and tossed in the dead leaves. Neat and tidy to the end. If only her life weren't such a mess.