In any case, the two made up quickly when they found out that this article was in the works. To demonstrate their newfound fellowship, they co-hosted a party at the Independent in honor of Vanity Fair's George Wayne. "Lara is just a terrific girl," said Lizzie, giving her a hug. "I love Lizzie," beamed Lara. "She's a sister to me."

It's a humid late-August day at Bridgehampton Polo, and thin-waisted women in big straw hats are huddled under a white tent hiding from the sun. "Honey, isn't this party the greatest?" trills Shriftman, floating by arm-in-arm with Ally b., who stops to administer quick hugs to the event's organizers, Lauren London and Shari Misher.

A graduate of Dalton and the University of Pennsylvania, London, along with Misher -- a smiley Syracuse grad from Woodmere who grew up in a kosher home -- have amassed a roster of clients that includes Caroline's Comedy Club, tony charity events, and the superhot Lot 61. "These chicks are part of this unbelievable female mafia," marvels Amy Sacco, the 30-year-old former Jean Georges manager who owns the cavernous restaurant. "On my opening day, there were 600 of the most beautiful, chic, cool, powerful people in New York in my restaurant," says Sacco. "I knew not one of them; they were all Lauren and Shari's friends."

Today, London holds court in a group of young women and her dad, financier and club owner Stanley London. Standing perfectly straight in a lilac Prada dress-and-sweater set that complements her strawberry-blonde locks, London starts kvetching. "You have no idea about the number of crashers here today," she complains in a hoarse monotone, fanning herself with a program listing the jockeys' names. "I'm gonna catch myself a crasher." "This is her favorite part of the day," giggles Misher. London turns to me expectantly: "Wanna have some fun?"

We weave through the sweaty crowd, stopping here and there to air-kiss the sons and daughters of the rich: Rob Speyer, Jamie Patricof, David Lauren, Patricia Herrera -- all the faces that grin up from party pages and fashion spreads in magazines. Finally, we find what she's been looking for: a 65-year-old woman with wiry gray hair poking out of her upside-down-pineapple hat, an ill-fitting purple leather coat draped over her polka-dotted blouse. Noticing London, she jumps to her feet with enough time to escape -- but stops to look back longingly at the meal of seared tuna left on her plastic plate.

"What are you doing here?" demands London, color spreading from her throat to her cheekbones. She grabs her prey by the elbow and we begin a long trek to the door, with the woman protesting every step of the way that she's a TV reporter. "Now, don't let me ever, ever, ever lay eyes on you again!" London sputters as we near the edge of the tent. "Fine," says the woman, her eyes filling with tears. "You won't see me anymore because I don't have much longer to live! I have cancer!" She puffs up her chest and takes off through the lush green field.

Within moments, London has anecdotized the moment, recounting the incident to a ring of socialites in bright bonnets and their Polo-shirted dates: "And then listen to what she said . . ."

Like most of their counterparts, London and Misher got their start working with already established publicists, in their case Bobby Zarem, to whom they still express loyalty and respect. He doesn't return the favor -- "All these kids know how to do is make dinner reservations and shop at Prada," he sneers. "They're just in it to get laid."

Other publicists are more diplomatic. "Most of these girls are terrific, but I would be very careful who you put in this story," Siegal warned me. "Any 23-year-old can hook up a phone and buy a laptop and call themselves a publicist." "There's life after 'Page Six,' " adds the formidable Nadine Johnson, who should know: "A good publicist has to create real value for their clients, think about long-term strategy. It's more than throwing a party or placing an item." "Not everyone starts out with a trust fund," says Norah Lawlor. "I've had to work hard to build my business."

"These girls are kicking ass," says Jason Weinberg, the early-nineties P.R. wunderkind who has since moved on to managing artists, "because they know something the fogies don't -- you have to be nice to everyone. Today's assistant is tomorrow's editor." Shriftman has taken the advice to heart. She reportedly chants, "I will not be Peggy Siegal, I will not be Peggy Siegal," whenever she feels herself "getting the meanies."

After all, being nice to editors and journalists is the easiest path to coverage, as all the girls have learned. "The press are our buddies," says Misher. "We take care of them." Lifestyle writers and editors routinely receive steep discounts on clothes and accessories -- everything from Gucci watches to Hilfiger clothes.

When Motorola hired Harrison & Shriftman in September, it gave the firm strict directives: "I told the girls, 'I want to read about my phone in the fashion section of Vogue,' " says Motorola P.R. director David Pinsky. " 'I want a beauty story in Harper's Bazaar and a 'Styles' story in the New York Times.' " To this end, they dutifully dispensed free phones to dozens of journalists across the city and invited them to a luxe lunch at the Mercer Kitchen, where journalists slurped tomato bisque and chatted with the likes of Liv Tyler while listening to Motorola's sales pitch.

"It was like magic!" says Pinksy.

"They seduce you," sighs one magazine editor who is frequently on the receiving end of the publicists' largesse. "Every day, they send you this endless stream of free stuff, cell phones and facials and a month with a Mercedes, and all they want back is a tiny little item. Eventually, your whole social life starts to revolve around them. Let's face it: Most journalists are neither rich nor cool, and to sit at a table with an heiress on one side and a movie star on another -- it's hard not to fall for that."

Even Harrison admits that the line between press and publicists has become a bit blurry. "Journalists are no longer covering the scene -- they're part of the scene," she says. "But it's not our responsibility to maintain their integrity. It's theirs. We don't force anyone to accept a free phone."