“I’d say this qualifies as ‘Prenatal Pampering,'” my friend the Celebrity was saying. We were sitting in side-by-side whirlpool chairs getting sinfully indulgent pedicures.

“Umm,” I agreed. I was quite busy enjoying having my swollen Fred Flintstone-like ankles rubbed and found forming full sentences too much work.

I closed my eyes, swirled my other foot around in the rose petal-filled water, soaked in the sounds of the oddly not annoying New Age music, and thought about the onomatopoetic-ness of the word “spa.” “Spa”: It even sounds relaxing.

I didn’t think too much about what got me here – namely, the Celebrity’s celebrity. After months of establishing a normal, we-are-buddies-on- equal-footing-even-though-you-are-famous friendship, she’d come in to the adorable sandwich and smoothie shop and told me she had scored a free afternoon of “Prenatal Pampering” for two at a luxe SoHo spot. I jumped to take her up on it. If we all have a price, mine is apparently about $600 worth of lavender-scented rubbing. (If you’ve ever been this pregnant in this kind of heat, you know precisely what I’m talking about.)

“You know,” I said, placing a cooled gel mask on my eyelids, “I could really get used to this lifestyle.”

She said, “I wonder if they’ll let us keep these bathrobes.”

I laughed and said, “Mine barely fits around me anymore.” I was glad to see that the Celebrity was, as my grandmother would have said, also a schnorer.

Soon enough, our half-day of spa bliss was over. We changed into our normal maternity wear and headed back out to the mean, hot streets.

“I really like that skirt,” the Celebrity said as we exited.

“This?” I asked, tugging at the sides of it. I’d gotten the peasant skirt while on vacation in Mexico a few years back. When I came back to the hotel and tried it on for Andy, he said, “What is that, a tablecloth?” relegating the item to the deepest recess of my closet.

This summer, however, the BoHo trend and my pregnancy collided with its drawstring waist. So now the skirt, paired with a $10 Old Navy maternity tank top, has become a staple. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s not even maternity.” The Celebrity was wearing an embellished tunic and a cutoff white denim miniskirt.

We stepped to the curb and hailed a cab back to Brooklyn.

At nine the next morning, my phone rang.

“What are you doing on Page Six?” It was Hallie, and I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Go get the paper,” she commanded. “Then call me right back.”

Doing exactly as she told me, I headed for the deli two blocks down and picked up a copy of the tabloid. Sure enough, there it was in black and white: a picture of the Celebrity … and me. She looks on approvingly as I am caught, neck bent completely unattractively, mid-peasant skirt pull-out.

“X,” it said her name in bold, “enjoys an afternoon of pampering at” it named the spa, “with a very pregnant – we hope! – friend.”

Looking at myself in newsprint, my first thought was: That skirt does look like a tablecloth. My second was: Thank God I am actually pregnant. (I really did look huge.)

I called Hallie back and told her about my free spa afternoon, which didn’t seem quite as free now. “Am I really that huge?” I asked her.

“You should be psyched, sort of,” Hallie said. “Normally, they don’t even comment on the nobody.”

“Hmm,” I grumbled, not buying it. That kind of Oscar Wilde logic only works for Paris Hilton.

I spent the morning fielding calls from people who’d seen the picture. Secrets were out: Yes, I was friends with the Celebrity, and yes, I was a Celebrity swag schnorer. (And, no, I hadn’t gained that much weight – the angle was just unflattering!)

That afternoon, wanting a break from my ringing phone, I took my laptop to the adorable sandwich and smoothie shop. As I headed toward a vacant table, I noticed a fellow customer eyeing me from above his paper. I looked him head-on and smiled aggressively, as if to say, “Yes, that’s me, and no, I’m not that heavy,” then took my seat.

Sure enough, a little while later, the Celebrity came in. She made a beeline for my table. “I was hoping I’d find you here,” she said sheepishly. “I’m really sorry about that thing in the paper.”

“It’s okay,” I shrugged. “It’s not like you had any control over it.”

“No,” she said. “Not really. But I did know they were doing it for the press. I should have told you they might have tipped off some photographers.”

“Whatever,” I said, with a shoo of the hand. “It’s no big deal.” It wasn’t. The truth was, if the photo had been better, and the caption less bitchy, it would have been fun to be in the tabloids.

“Well,” she said, “now you can see why I live in Brooklyn.”

I nodded.

“Anyway,” she said, moving her arm to reveal a shopping bag, “I feel bad about this. So I want you to take this gift.”

I opened the bag to find one of the spa bathrobes. “You so do not have to do this,” I said. “The treatment itself was gift enough.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” she admitted. “They heard I wanted one, so they messengered it over to me this morning.”

I was a Celebrity swag schnorer. The world now knew it. There was no use pretending otherwise. “In that case,” I said, placing my new free bathrobe next to me, “thanks.”

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.