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Nouveau Rich

Gabrielle's husband, Philip, served as the telephone point man between the hospital room and Marc Rich, who couldn't leave Switzerland to say good-bye to his dying daughter. "To tell you the truth?" says Denise. "I think that was payment enough." On one of the last days her daughter was conscious, Denise brought a string quartet to the hospital, lined them up in folding chairs outside her daughter's room, and asked them to play Tchaikovsky. Gabrielle died in her arms a few days later.

Today, she pulls out a note from her daughter. "You remind me of those rubber ducks that keep popping up and smiling . . ." Gabrielle wrote. "I love you so much, my brave little Mommy."

As Denise likes to say, "There's a reason for everything." Two nights after her big party, she is still in tears over the seating fiasco, but she will eventually come to the conclusion that this, too, was meant to be. "She thinks that maybe Gabrielle channeled the confusion," says Michele Laurent-Rella. "Yes, she would have loved the mix-up," says Denise, "because she always used to say to me, 'Mom, you're surrounded by such bullshit!' "

Nevertheless, Denise has spent the past 48 hours calling up her guests and apologizing. Even an onslaught of floral arrangements sent by guests doesn't have her convinced. She's already started "her thing where she starts sending flowers thanking people for the flowers," says Marty Richards. "I just got a Baccarat crystal angel. I said, 'Denise, we're on to 30 affairs since then. Get over it!' "

"I'm trying," says Denise.

She is off to a party to celebrate Ahmet Ertegun's 50 years in showbiz. A modest Town Car delivers her to Chelsea Piers (Denise doesn't do limos). Her boyfriend, she explains, had been supposed to join her but had "like, three deliveries tonight." As she steps onto the red carpet in the doorway, photographers begin screaming her name. During the course of the night, two dozen people will come up to her and gush about her party. One tells her she should lose the list again next year: "It's no fun when everything's organized!"

Shortly before midnight, Denise cuts out. She has an appointment at the Hit Factory, where Stevie J, the 23-year-old wunderkind producer (of Puffy and Whitney and Mariah and so forth) has summoned her. The Town Car drops her off and she takes the freight elevator up to the fifth floor, in her Pamela Dennis suit, golf-ball-size diamonds, and strappy silver Blahniks. The homeboys greet her at the door. "I'm a big fan of yours, Miss Rich," says one of Stevie J's posse.

Stevie, who's wearing almost as much jewelry as Denise, takes her in his buff arms and nibbles on her ear. Denise giggles. "Oh, I love him," says Denise. "Isn't he cuuute?"

"People think," says Stevie, "that just 'cause she gotta lotta money, you can't get close to her. Fuck that!"

"Yeah. Fuck that!" says the posse.

Stevie plays a song for Denise, then Denise plays one of her songs for Stevie. Then he sits back, readjusts his baseball cap, and declares that they will write a song together. "It's your time now!" he shouts. "You are the shit!"

"Oh, Stevie," says Denise. "That is straight from the heart."

As she leaves, he grabs her by the arm: "Don't forget to tell Dr. Niels I wanna donate to his sperm bank."

"That was sooo great," says Denise as she teeters back out onto 54th Street. "Sooo real." Minutes later, she is on the cell phone in the car. "Oh, Niels! I just had the greatest expeeerience, Niels. You know the one who's gonna donate the sperm . . . ?"

The following morning, the New York Times will report that among Niels Lauersen's deliveries that day was an indictment from the federal government for filing false insurance claims. Lauersen defenders will later point out that he is one of the few fertility doctors in the city who will treat poor women, and insist he was targeted by insurance firms. But tonight, Denise doesn't say a word about that. In the backseat, she kicks off her silver shoes and runs her fingers through her hair. "God, life is good," she sighs.