The other afternoon, as I was trying in vain to find a parking space, my cell phone rang. The caller I.D. told me it was Maya.

“Eve, you’ve got to get over here,” she said. “I need you.”

“Okay…” I said, my voice trailing off in the aural equivalent of a question mark.

“It’s a total nightmare,” she said, her tone a tense stage whisper. “My apartment’s been taken over by evil fashion people!”

My eyes bulged in recognition. Today was the day of Maya’s Vogue shoot. She’d been freaking out about it for weeks. Apparently, the magazine was running a series of shots of “up and coming” Brooklyn artists. The agent who’d been getting her art into movie apartments had set Maya up for it, and she’d been stressing ever since, even making me promise to be there for backup. I’d been in such a newly pregnant haze I’d completely forgotten.

But of course I couldn’t tell this to Maya.

“I was just going to call you. I’ll be there in a minute. I’m already in the car.” At least that part was true.

Soon enough, I found myself in Maya’s Dumbo loft. She was right; it had been taken over. There were racks of clothes and cases of Evian water in her makeshift kitchen, and a flurry of expensive-but-casual dressed young assistants scurrying around, managing to look both bored and harried. At the end of the loft next to the window, Maya stood looking tense in an olive green outfit with unfinished hems. Her hair had that Meg Ryan, just rolled out of bed look, complete with a lot of spray in it. A very good-looking guy stood a few feet in front of her. He wore a beat-up leather jacket, and his hair looked like a less-sprayed version of hers.

“If you and I were alone somewhere now,” he said in a British accent, “where would you want it to be?”

An adept flirt, Maya smiled and said, “I don’t know … warm or cold climate?” But the corners of her eyes betrayed a repulsed skepticism.

“I hate shoots like this,” I heard one rail-thin assistant say to another. Their arms were folded across their chests. “Novices are so freakin’ tedious. “A snort in agreement was the reply.

Total nightmare, indeed. I’d thought doing the shoot in her own apartment would make it better for Maya, but now it seemed to be making things worse. My friend was under fashion occupation.

As if reading my thoughts, a third wraith-like assistant appeared in the cluster. She was wearing what can only be described as a Big Bird-esque wig. “Someone needs to go get more toilet paper,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Our ‘artist’ friend’s out.”

The untold glamour of a Vogue shoot.

Just then, Maya noticed me. “Eve!” she said, her shoulders dropping in a tension release. The flirt started clicking away, causing her to look back and forth between him and me, as if to ask, “Could you stop for a sec while I go over there?”

Maya may have been a deer in the headlights, but I wasn’t. I’m a member of the press, too, after all. She had called me in for reinforcement, and I was going to show her she had control. They were snobs, but it was her apartment.

So, ignoring any sense of protocol, I barged over to the mini-studio they’d set up in her corner and gave my friend a hug.

This certainly made him stop clicking.

“This is my friend Eve,” Maya told him.

He said, “James, hello,” then stuck out his hand and gave me a cold-fish handshake. I was wearing Levi’s, a T-shirt, and a black zip-up sweatshirt, and, to top it all off, carrying a public radio tote. It was clear I barely registered on his radar. I did not feel slighted, but I did have a moment’s worry: Was I making Maya look even more unworthy?

“Nice to meet you,” I said, though it really wasn’t. “So,” I said, turning to Maya, “you look so great. All dolled up!”

“That’s – ,”the Toilet Paper dropped a Dutch-sounding name I assumed was the clothing designer’s.

“Well, it looks great on you,” I said, flashing an I-don’t-care-I’m-being-positive smile, which I hoped would bolster Maya. I then leaned into Maya’s ear and whispered, “Is that a hat, or a white-girl Afro?” At which Maya giggled and said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“So – Eve, was it?” James said, breaking up our huddle. “Are you just popping by, then?”

“No, actually,” I said with a smile. “I thought I’d stick around a while. That is, if it’s no trouble.”

He made a mental calculation. While I’m sure he didn’t want me there, my presence had clearly loosened Maya up.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth, “no trouble at all.”

“Great.” I gave Maya’s hand a good-luck squeeze, then headed for a seat at her kitchen table.

The picture-taking now resumed, I found myself listening in on the assistants’ conversation.

“I wish we were doing something like that again,” one of them said, pointing to an open page in the issue sprawled on the table.

“Well, she was an artist, but she could have been a model,” said another one, as if “could have been a model” were akin to “Nobel Laureate.”

“She’s amazing,” the first one said. “I even like her art.”

Curiosity piqued, I peered over their arms for a glimpse of the magazine. The title of the spread in big, red letters, was “Her Own Muse: The Artist as Concept in Conceptual Art.” The photograph was set against a stark white background, which looked to be an igloo made of cotton. Then, in front, stood a glamorous version of Little Bo Peep, complete with shepherdess stick, in braids and an elaborate dress. It was, I guessed, the artist. She looked familiar. I squinted and zoomed in.

“Is that Rebecca Salzburg?” I said, the recognition erasing any hint of selfconsciousness. We had gone to college together. Despite the fact she ran with the trust-funded crowd, we’d had many mutual friends – including the Gatsby-esque Alejandro.

I’d heard her career had taken off – and she was married to one of the city’s most renowned young sculptors – but it was strange to see her in Vogue as a cross between Georgia O’Keefe and Kate Moss. But, then again, she was the type of faintly glamorous, above-it-all person you half expected was waiting for her close-up. Still, she’d always struck me as genuinely nice. Good for her, I thought.

“Yes,” the shortest of the assistants said. (Of course, she was still 5 feet 8 inches tall.) “We were on that shoot. She’s brilliant.”

“Yeah,” I said, unsure if I actually agreed. “I know her.”

“You’re familiar with her work?” Big Bird Head said.

“Not really,” I answered, unfazed by her condescension. “I know her more socially.”

“Really?” said Big Bird Head.

“We went to college together. Actually,” I continued, less interested in telling her than in reminiscing, “my husband was closer with her. She painted a mural in his sophomore dorm room. I think Columbia fined him…”

Big Bird Head was clearly impressed.” And your husband – what does he do?”

“Medical research,” I said. “Seratonin and autism.”

“Oh,” said the shortest assistant. “Autism’s so sad. We just ran a spread on a ball to raise money for it.”

I nodded, as if we were all together in the cause.

“You know what,” Big Bird Head said, turning to Maya with narrowed eyes. “I think that outfit in plum would really bring out her eyes.”

Apparently, my presence had thawed the fashion frost.

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.