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Welcome to the Dollhouse

A month after the Kluge-Cahan divorce, Shriftman and Kluge are buzzing up the West Side Highway in a 1999 red Mercedes convertible, drinking copious amounts of Evian and singing along to Sade. Squinting in bright noontime sun, Shriftman sets the cruise control to 90 mph in hopes of catching up with the 30 identical Mercedeses that are a half-hour ahead on the highway, racing to a holistic spa on the Hudson. The convoy is part of a promotional event to introduce the "fashion and lifestyle" press to the new Mercedes CLK Cabriolet, and she of all people can't be late.

Speeding into a sandy parking lot filled with new cars, the convertible jerks to the curb and Shriftman leaps out in a plume of dust. "Sammy Sam Sam is our No. 1 favorite best VIP today," she announces to the gathered crowd, leaning her head on Kluge's Ralph Lauren-clad shoulder.

A buxom debutante with thick blonde hair that she has straightened three times a week, Shriftman grew up "just, like, totally normal" in Jacksonville, Florida, the daughter of a natural-food-company CEO; she kept a horse at the country club, served as secretary of her pre-debutante society, and usually ended up the designated driver in her Mercedes 190E. As an NYU sophomore, she made a name for herself throwing parties for young socialites at the Merc Bar, Park Avalon, and Tatou with her well-connected friend Liz Cohen. The Miller sisters, Tracee Ross, the de Kwiatkowskis would mix it up with Bruce Willis and Kate Moss, and W would cover.

Grabbing a Dooney & Burke satchel out of the backseat, her eyes perpetually flicking to her Gucci watch, Shriftman takes quick, short steps in her Sergio Rossi pumps -- a walking billboard for her clients. "These are my favey-fave designers!" she shrugs. "So what if I represent all of them?"

Joining the magazine editors and other "important friends" for a lunch of lobster and champagne under a big white tent, Shriftman coos over the six-months-pregnant belly bulging out of the tight black halter top worn by her petite, raven-haired partner. Harrison, a lifetime Upper West Sider whose grandfather founded Anne Klein, has already been at the spa for three hours, meticulously setting up the event. "My baby only drinks champagne," she jokes. "She's going to be a party girl." At 32, Harrison is the oldest of the clique, a savvy, slightly stiff businesswoman who fled to flackdom after a stint at Elle. While Shriftman is the public face of the company, Harrison is the behind-the-scenes coordinator, the deal-maker, the balance to Shriftman's bouncy id. She prefers it that way. "I'm getting too old for all the parties," she says with a smile. "I let Lara do that."

After lunch, the invited guests take meditation classes, are Thai- and Swedish- and deep-lymphatically massaged, get rowed around in gondolas by men with beards, and paint watercolors under a pretty maplewood gazebo. Everything is taken care of -- ten golf carts even whisk attendees around to their various activities, since organizers knew that most of the girls would be wearing fall's "in" stiletto heels.

Lounging on Mercedes-Benz towels under a cloudless sky, some editors nibble blackberries with one hand. Others call the office on their tiny StarTacs, thoughtfully supplied by Shriftman at the Motorola luncheon a week earlier.

"God, this is just so fun," sighs Shriftman, setting her Gucci sunglasses on top of her head. She looks out at the still lake. "I'm with all my best friends in the world."

'I am so gifted by everyone in this room," says Ally b., clinking champagne glasses with Tommy Hilfiger, Mark Eisen, Carmen D'Alessio, and Joan Osborne. "God, the energy is unbelievable tonight! It's like we're all part of a river, flowing the same way." Ally and her partner, Jennifer Posner, have just arrived at the Central Park Boathouse for a disco-dance party to benefit AmFAR; earlier in the evening, they had a "killer brainstorming session" at Asia de Cuba with their client Hilfiger and his brother Andy, then the whole group grabbed a limo over to the West Side's Hit Factory to check out the new track from Wyclef Jean, which features Osborne on vocals. "Everyone's just been giving out such an intense amount of love tonight," Ally declares. She hugs an uncharacteristically chipper Osborne, who plants a smacker on her cheek. Suddenly, Shriftman appears. "Joan, have you met my little sister?" she says, pushing Dylan Lauren toward Osborne.

Life in the big city is still thrilling to Ally b., a perpetually tanned Floridian and University of Arizona graduate who says she always felt a connection with Manhattan. Her real last name is Bernstein, but after moving to the city three years ago she shortened it and lowercased the B, k. d. lang-style. "As a teenager, I'd watch Breakfast at Tiffany's over and over and I knew, totally knew, that I would get there someday," she declares, sitting down at a picnic table next to Cynthia Rowley. "I worshiped Audrey Hepburn. And now I'm just like her -- I have the fur-lined coats and the big glasses and the glamorous life."

After short stints in fashion P.R. at Jill Stuart and Showroom Seven, Ally met Loud music mogul Steve Rifkind over dinner with friends. He signed PB&J even though they had no experience with musicians; a month later, the pair were waterskiing with the Wu-Tang Clan in Hawaii. Sweet-natured and excitable, Ally is considered the "party girl" of the clique, the one who goes out dancing all night with rap stars and D.J.'s and ends up cuddling with rappers like Method Man and RZA. "She's totally down with her clients like Funkmaster Flex," says Cohen, impressed. "Whereas I'm like, 'Yo, Soundmaster Flex, whassup!' "

"All my dreams have come true," says Ally, peering over a half-full Cosmopolitan. "I feel like a real princess. Now I just need to find my prince, 'cause I've sure kissed a lot of frogs. I can definitely see myself as part of a media power couple." She smiles toothily at this, then claps her hand over her mouth. "People say I smile too much," she whispers. "Do I smile too much?"

Her partner, Posner, runs by in hot pursuit of a pouting Wyclef Jean, who wants to go home, pulling on his arm with one hand and gabbing intently on her butterfly-decorated StarTac with the other. Finally, he gives her a peace sign, says "Stay sexy, baby," and is out the door. She flips up the phone and takes my hand. "It's so hard to control these artists," she says mournfully, making her blue eyes even bigger than usual. "They used to have a black publicist doing this," she jokes. "But they needed two bigmouthed Jewish girls to tell it to these guys straight -- 'Shut up, sit down, and do what I say!' "

A pretty blonde who dreamed of movie stardom but got no further than an extra's role on Central Park West, Posner grew up in the Upper East Side universe of kids of the rich and famous. One night at Moomba, ex-Seinfeld squeeze Shoshanna Lonstein, Quincy Jones's daughter Kidada Jones, and China Chow -- the latter two are PB&J clients -- sat down with me in a secluded banquette to explain how much they care about her.

"If I have a best friend in the world, I would consider it to be Jen," said Chow in a soft, sweet voice. "But we're more like sisters than anything else." The three became animated as they described Posner's 10th birthday, where they videotaped themselves moonwalking to Michael Jackson's "Beat It" in rhinestone sweatshirts and wigs supplied by another childhood pal, Lulu Johnson.

"I don't want to sound intellectual, like Jen and I talk about all these deep things," said Chow evenly. "But we talk about very real feelings, and where we are in our lives." She cocks her head. "Like, it was funny -- tonight we were in a taxi, and I said, 'Jen, we're young ladies now. I feel like somehow we're little kids playing dress-up in fancy clothes, but we're not. We're at that age where we're real people.' And she said, 'I know! I know! How did that happen?' "

"This thing with Ally and Jen is not a bogus P.R. situation," says Jones solemnly. "This is a family situation. When I see my girls, I feel instant love."

It's 10:30 in the morning at Lizzie Grubman's seventh-floor office on Spring Street. Standing behind a massive maple desk, Grubman snaps her fingers loudly to speed up her dozen employees, who chatter and compliment one another's outfits as they slowly drag black fold-out chairs into a messy semi-circle around her desk. In an effort to ward off the sunlight streaming into the room, they have left their sunglasses on; what with the shades, Vamp lipstick, kitten-heeled Manolos, and black BCBG cocktail dresses, they look like L.A. club-hoppers on their way to the Viper Room.

"C'mon, people, let's do this," says Grubman, snapping her fingers again. Wincing collectively, the group quiets down, noisily slurping on iced coffees from Starbucks.

"Jesus, I'm hung -- um, tired," says Grubman, shooting a glance my way. "So, who went out last night?" A few hands go up. "I can tell Brenda went out, 'cause I can see it in her eyes." Brenda rolls them.

"I hooked up with T.M. Tommy Mottola at Veruka," reports an assistant with close-cropped hair, crossing long legs. "Just checked out what was up. He seemed psyched. It was a cool vibe, everyone was hanging out, it was totally legit. No one bothered him."

"Good!" says Grubman.

The door opens, and sandy-haired Bad Boy vice-president Josh Taekman comes in. He's here for a meeting about an event for Puffy's charity, Daddy's House. Grubman takes a gulp of coffee. "Listen, honey, there's a lot of work here. Is Puffy psyched about this?" she asks.

"He's extremely stoked," says Taekman.

"Good," says Grubman energetically. "Skyy will sponsor it. Will Smith and Jada Pinkett are down. I'm gonna get AOL involved, I'll get Mark Ronson to D.J., and I told David Blaine last night that I want him to do a magic show. Also, my client JFax will get involved."

"J who?" asks Taekman.

"He's this rich German guy who's like 24," declares Grubman.

"Twenty-seven," corrects an assistant.

"Who knows how old he is -- whatever age he picks for the day," says Grubman.

"Anyway, JFax just moved to the city, and his deal is that he wants to go out. He'll get involved financially, but he wants to hang with Puffy. And if Puffy charms him to death," she says, snapping again, "he might underwrite the whole thing."

"Right on, dude," says Taekman, chewing on the end of his pencil.

"What about Trump?" Taekman asks.

"Nah, he's wack, forget about him, we don't need him," growls Grubman. "He'll hog all the press."