The tolling bells take us over to the Buckland Auction House. Well, that's what the sign out front says, at any rate. It actually appears to be a twelve-story office tower that happens to contain Buckland's on the top floor, and I don't know why the building's owner would identify the property with a sign for a single tenant, but you know what? Moving. On. Prue skitters through the lobby and pulls a Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan by dumping all of her belongings onto the floor and screaming for someone to hold the elevator until she can get her shit together. A British twerp who wishes he were Hugh Grant obliges her, and even stoops to help collect her things. When the twerp notes that her belongings include a folder on "eighteenth-century French art," he asks if she's a Buckland's employee. Prue gamely admits that she has a job interview, then overshares that she's running late as her cell phone rings. It's Andy, talkin' smoove, telling his baby that she shouldn't be ashamed they "made" the "love," and asking why she gotta be so cold, sneakin' out of his apartment the way she do. Probably because you call it "making love" with nary a shred of irony, you tool. Prue tries to play it cool as every male eye in the car ogles her all, "Hey! There's a slut in the elevator!" Fortunately for Prue, her cell connection wonks out before she can further humiliate herself in front of this carload of strangers, but the damage appears to have been done as she glances around to find all of the surrounding gentlemen staring at her ass. Prue grimaces and notes that every call button for every floor between the lobby and Buckland's has been pushed. She squints her eyes. The elevator skips straight up to the top. So much for those prohibitions on personal gain, huh? Hypocrite. Whore. Hypocrite whore. Prue flips a snark at the Grant manqué and bolts out of the elevator.
[boxcutt=ers]. Phoebe slides through the active lunch crowd to deliver a menu to a gentleman I shall call "Pecker," for we shortly learn that he's a world-renowned fashion photographer, and I can already tell that he's a prick. Phoebe instantly recognizes Pecker from her wild sojourn in New York City, and slobbers compliments all over him while Pecker's lunch date gives Phoebe the wicked side-eye. Long story short, Pecker's in town on a "Porsche shoot," and invites Phoebe to stop by for a "session," if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Evidently, Prue's earlier warning went in one of Phoebe's vapid little ears and out the other, for Phoebe immediately agrees, accepting with a smile the proffered bar napkin upon which Pecker has scrawled his studio's waterfront address. As Phoebe titters herself away from Pecker, Piper accosts her with an order she needs Phoebe to deliver. Phoebe agrees to help out, but asks Piper to first see if Pecker is still looking at her. Pecker, alas, has disappeared.