Maya and I met up for lunch earlier this week.

I hadn’t seen her in what seemed forever, as she’d been away a lot during the summer. She gone to a bunch of weddings and, since her illegally sublet Dumbo loft had no air conditioning, she’d ended up spending most of August at a Rhinebeck summer share.

I was looking forward to catching up, but also sort of dreading it. Maya’d been carrying on an ill-conceived romance with a nice but clueless guy whom I’d dubbed the Youngster – which would have been fine, or at least not my problem, had he not recently become the sixth roommate in my cousin’s Bushwick loft. I am way too entangled with whatever was going on.

We met up at the adorable new sandwich and smoothie shop.

“This place is so cute,” Maya said, gazing up at the chalkboard to figure out her order. It was her first time here. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Hey, Eve! Back for lunch, again?” the scruffy counter attendant called out, answering Maya’s question.

I considered briefing Maya on my fellow sandwich and smoothie shop regular, the star of an HBO series who it seemed wanted to make friends with me. But I decided not to. For one thing, the actress could show up at any minute, leaving me with no choice but to muffle my voice and blush embarrassingly. For another, Maya didn’t have a television.

Once seated, Maya and I began our catch-up. I told her about work. There’s nothing quite like describing your job to a friend you haven’t seen in months to make you realize how same-old, same-old it is. It’s pretty boring, especially when that friend doesn’t have a “real” job.

Maya was an artist who did voiceover work to pay the bills. The instability of this might have been stressful had Maya not inherited money from, I think, her grandfather. I had the impression that it was a small but not insubstantial amount – the kind of money that could buy unlimited yoga class cards and designer clothes, but only at Century 21.

But just how small but not insubstantial was the kind of question I could never ask Maya. At our stage in life, family money is one of the hedgiest, dodgiest subjects around. I knew plenty of people who had bought “their” apartments with down-payments received entirely from their parents, or whose writing careers were supplemented by sources of income so nebulous they could only be familial. But it seemed imperative to keep money questions vague, as if clarity on these matters would be an insult to every one’s sense of keepin’-it-real-dom.

Once through with my work, we moved on to hers, an area in which there were some exciting developments. It seemed she’d signed with some kind of art agent who specialized in placing people’s work in movies. So far, one of Maya’s paintings had been placed in the high-powered law office of a Michael Douglas character, and it looked as if one of her installation sculptures was to have a cameo in an upcoming apartment inhabited by a character played by Nicole Kidman.

“Wow,” I said. Maybe I would tell her about the actress. It now seemed apropos somehow. “You’re really creating a niche for yourself: artist to the movies.” “I know,” she said, then sort-of grumbled. “Maybe too much of a niche.”

I gave her the quizzical eyebrow, and she sighed and explained.

Apparently, the art agent had a friend at Vogue who wanted to do a spread on up-and-coming young artists. “They want to shoot me in my apartment in two weeks,” she said. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

“What?” I said. “That’s great!”

“I don’t know, Eve,” she said. “I mean, yeah – of course it is. But already the stylist’s assistant has called to ask me my size and for a list of designers. I could tell she had no concept of a woman with a chest. And if the pictures don’t look good – that is, if the clothes don’t look good in the pictures – they won’t even run them. I can’t see how this is going to be anything but a nightmare.”

“Are you crazy?” I said. “You’re getting your picture taken for Vogue. How cool is that?”

“It’s cool in theory,” she said, “but stressful in practice.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’ll be fun.” She shot me a look.

“You mean to tell me if it were you, you’d be psyched and not think it was a total disaster waiting to happen?” Posing for my wedding pictures had been enough of a nightmare for me: A photo taken for Vogue? Forget it. But I couldn’t tell her that.

“Of course I’d be psyched!” I said. “It’s their job to make you gorgeous. You’ll have hair and make-up people. It’ll be totally glamorous!”

“I don’t know, Eve,” she said. “I should think of it as fun, but it’s just so intimidating.”

“Think of it this way,” I said. “You don’t even have to leave your apartment.” Maya shrugged, conceding I had a point.

“I just wish there was something to make me feel more comfortable. I just know I’ll come out looking all tense.” I was about to suggest she drink copious amounts of alcohol, but, as if she’d had a light bulb moment, Maya continued. “Can you be there, Evie?” I was about to say, “What good could I be at a Vogue shoot?,” but my friend gave me a puppy-dog look and said, “Please?” So I did the only thing I could do.

“Alright,” I said, “I’ll be there.” It was one way to dodge the bullet of Maya’s love life.

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