“So how’d it go?” the Celebrity asked me when I entered our mutual hangout, the adorable sandwich and smoothie place. She was referring to the real-life meeting of fellow pregnant Citybaby message-boarders I’d recently attended. The Celebrity had convinced me to go, and I knew she would want all the details.

“Well,” I said, “it was interesting. But I wasn’t there long. Turns out, I knew the person organizing it. “When the Celebrity said “Oh,” I explained that Courtney was the wife of an old platonic friend of mine, and that she and I weren’t exactly buddies.

“Aha,” the Celebrity nodded, stabbing the straw into her smoothie. “You have a frenemy.”

The frenemy – half friend, half enemy – concept was hardly new to me, but I didn’t think it applied. A level of artifice was involved with frenemies. With Courtney and me there was no guise. As I told the Celebrity, “There’s really no freh involved here.”

“Okay,” she said, though I could tell she wasn’t convinced. “I have a major frenemy,” she told me. “Another actress. We’re always up for the same parts. We see each other at auditions, and we’re both like, ‘Hi-I … ,’ all the while looking each other up and down.” I nodded, familiar with the maneuver. In high school we called it an “elevator look.” Does anyone ever really outgrow high school?

“Do you want to know who it is?” the Celebrity said, leaning in conspiratorially.

As usual, I was amazed by the two-sided coin of narcissism and astuteness involved in this statement. Who wouldn’t want to hear a celebrity’s celebrity gossip? But, at the same time, I felt myself resist. Maybe the Celebrity and I got along so well because I seemed not that interested in her celebrity. Would too much curiosity kill our friendship’s cat?

A second later, I decided not to care. The Celebrity and I would never stay friends if I overanalyzed our relationship. And, if I kept doing so, didn’t it mean she had the upper hand? I vowed to continue to try and block out the Celebrity’s celebrity.

“Who is it?” I asked, hoping I sounded curious but not mouth-frothy.

She said the name of an indie film queen, and I tilted my head, bemused, and said, “Really?” I wondered if I had to dislike the other actress now, out of loyalty. It wouldn’t be so hard, in this particular case. “She always struck me as a bit pretentious,” I told the Celebrity.

“Exactly!” she said, clearly pleased. I felt I’d passed a test and was too flushed with pride to bristle at taking one.

“Well, it’s too bad the mom-to-be group was a bust,” she said.”We’ll just have to form our own group when our babies are born.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat surprised. I thought the Celebrity was only laying low here in Brooklyn until her baby was born. “So you’re thinking of sticking around for a while then?”

She shrugged and said, “Maybe. We like it here. I have to go back to L.A. for a bit to shoot the show,” she said, meaning her HBO series, “but we’re thinking afterwards we’ll come back. A friend of my husband’s just moved here. Another Aussie,” she said, darting her head to the side. “An actor,” she added with a nod. “Okay,” the Celebrity said, as if I’d dragged it out of her. She leaned in and said, “Heath Ledger.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding along with her.

“And, you know,” she added, “his girlfriend is pregnant. Perfect addition to our budding mothers’ group.”

“Great,” I said. I seemed to recall he was dating the female former “Dawson’s Creek” star who wasn’t engaged to Tom Cruise, but made a mental note to go home and Google this. Details aside, it was becoming clear: I was going to be in a Celebrity Mommies’ group. Take that, Courtney!

But, unfortunately, any further mothers’ group plans would have to wait; I had a doctor’s appointment to get to. When I told the Celebrity, she said, “I’ll walk you out.”

As the Celebrity and I exited the sandwich and smoothie shop together, we said our good-byes to the counter kids, and I made a sotto voce remark to her about their Hobbit-like tendencies. “You’re so right,” she said, laughing, then grasping my shoulder. I thought for a second about how we must look – two hugely pregnant women in tight tank tops and peasant skirts worn under the belly (though mine was H & M and hers, I guessed, was Donna Karan). We must have been a sight there on the corner.

Which was perfect, since someone sure saw us.

“Eve?” The voice rang out. It was none other than my nemesis, Courtney. I turned and saw her looking me up and down. Noting that she was in a more loosely fitting maternity halter dress, I could sense her style disapproval. I warmed up to give her my usual frosty hello.

But before I did, I noticed Courtney noticing the Celebrity. It was hard not to; Courtney looked back and forth between the two of us, her mouth slightly, confusedly open. So much for her fashion police moment.

“Oh, hi there, Courtney,” I said. “Do you know my friend … ” I said the Celebrity’s first name, since we were so on a first name basis.

“Yes,” she said. “I mean – no. I mean,” she said, regaining her composure and sticking out her hand, “it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Well, I’m sorry we can’t chat any longer, but I’m off to my OB now. … ” Courtney took the hint, and we said our good-byes hastily. Once she was gone, the Celebrity turned to me.

“I’m sorry,” she said matter-of-factly, “but you, my dear, have a frenemy.”

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.