Microsoft Word - Lauren Weisberger - The Devil Wears Prada

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THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
LAUREN WEISBERGER
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Otimista e o diabo que acha que pode tornar o ser humano uma coisa ainda pior!!!Haheahehahehaheahehaheh
Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.—HENRYDAVID THOREAU,WALDEN, 1854
1
The light hadn't even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city streets. Clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?),release clutch , I repeated over and over in my head, the mantra offering little comfort and even less direction amid the screeching midday traffic. The little car bucked wildly twice before it lurched forward through the intersection. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. Without warning, the lurching evened out and I began to pick up speed. Lots of speed. I glanced down to confirm visually that I was only in second gear, but the rear end of a cab loomed so large in the windshield that I could do nothing but jam my foot on the brake pedal so hard that my heel snapped off. Shit! Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter lack of grace under pressure: this clocked in as my third such breakage this month. It was almost a relief when the car stalled (I'd obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to brake for my life). I had a few seconds—peaceful seconds if one could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word "fuck" being hurled at me from all directions—to pull off my Manolos and toss them into the passenger seat. There was nowhere to wipe my sweaty hands except for the suede Gucci pants that hugged my thighs and hips so tightly they'd both begun to tingle within minutes of my securing the final button. My fingers left wet streaks across the supple suede that swathed the tops of my now numb thighs. Attempting to drive this $84,000 stick-shift convertible through the obstacle-fraught streets of midtown at lunchtime pretty much demanded that I smoke a cigarette.

"Fuckin' move, lady!" hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair threatened to overtake the wife-beater he wore. "What do you think this is? Fuckin' dnvin' school? Get outtatheway!"
I raised a shaking hand to give him the finger and then turned my attention to the business at hand: getting nicotine coursing through my veins as quickly as possible. My hands were moist again with sweat, evidenced by the matches that kept slipping to the floor. The light turned green just as I managed to touch the fire to the end of the cigarette, and I was forced to leave it hanging between my lips as I negotiated the intricacies ofclutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?),release clutch, the smoke wafting in and out of my mouth with each and every breath. It was another three blocks before the car moved smoothly enough for me to remove the cigarette, but it was already too late: the precariously long line of spent ash had found its way directly to the sweat stain on the pants. Awesome. But before I could consider that, counting the Manolos, I'd wrecked $3,100 worth of merchandise in under three minutes, my cell phone bleated loudly. And as if the very essence of life itself didn't suck enough at that particular moment, the caller ID confirmed my worst fear: it was Her. Miranda Priestly. My boss.
"Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?" she trilled the moment I snapped my Motorola open—no small feat considering both of my (bare) feet and hands were already contending with various obligations. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and tossed the cigarette out the window, where it narrowly missed hitting a bike messenger. He screamed out a few highly unoriginal "fuck yous" before weaving forward.
"Yes, Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly."
"Ahn-dre-ah, where's my car? Did you drop it off at the garage yet?"
The light ahead of me blessedly turned red and looked as though it might be a long one. The car jerked to a stop without hitting anyone or anything, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm in the car right now, Miranda, and I should be at the garage in just a few minutes." I figured she was probably concerned that everything was going well, so I reassured her that there were no problems whatsoever and we should both arrive shortly in perfect condition.
"Whatever," she said brusquely, cutting me off midsentence. "I need you to pick up Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment before you come back to the office." Click. The phone went dead. I stared at it for a few seconds before I realized that she'd deliberately hung up because she had provided all of the details I could hope to receive. Madelaine. Who the hell was Madelaine? Where was she at the moment? Did she know I was to pick her up? Why was she going back to Miranda's apartment? And why on earth—considering Miranda had a full-time driver, housekeeper, and nanny—was I the one who had to do it?

Remembering that it was illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving in New York and figuring the last thing I needed at that moment was a run-in with the NYPD, I pulled into the bus lane and switched my flashers on.Breathe in, breathe out, I coached myself, even remembering to apply the parking brake before taking my foot off the regular one. It had been years since I'd driven a stick-shift car—five years, actually, since a high school boyfriend had volunteered his car up for a few lessons that I'd decidedly flunked—but Miranda hadn't seemed to consider that when she'd called me into her office an hour and a half earlier.
"Ahn-dre-ah, my car needs to be picked up from the place and dropped off at the garage. Attend to it immediately, as we'll be needing it tonight to drive to the Hamptons. That's all." I stood, rooted to the carpet in front of her behemoth desk, but she'd already blocked out my presence entirely. Or so I thought. "That'sail, Ahn-dre-ah. See to it right now," she added, still not glancing up.
Ah, sure, Miranda,I thought to myself as I walked away, trying to figure out the first step in the assignment that was sure to have a million pitfalls along the way. First was definitely to find out at which "place" the car was located. Most likely it was being repaired at the dealership, but it could obviously be at any one of a million auto shops in any one of the five boroughs. Or perhaps she'd lent it to a friend and it was currently occupying an expensive spot in a full-service garage somewhere on Park Avenue? Of course, there was always the chance that she was referring to a new car—brand unknown—that she'd just recently purchased that hadn't yet been brought home from the (unknown) dealership. I had a lot of work to do.
I started by calling Miranda's nanny, but her cell phone went straight to voice mail. The housekeeper was next on the list and, for once, a big help. She was able to tell me that the car wasn't brand-new and it was in fact a "convertible sports car in British racing green," and that it was usually parked in a garage on Miranda's block, but she had no idea what the make was or where it might currently be residing. Next on the list was Miranda's husband's assistant, who informed me that, as far as she knew, the couple owned a top-of-the-line black Lincoln Navigator and some sort of small green Porsche. Yes! I had my first lead. One quick phone call to the Porsche dealership on Eleventh Avenue revealed that yes, they had just finished touching up the paint and installing a new disc-changer in a green Carrera 4 Cabriolet for a Ms. Miranda Priestly. Jackpot!
I ordered a Town Car to take me to the dealership, where I turned over a note I'd forged with Miranda's signature that instructed them to release the car to me. No one seemed to care whatsoever that I was in no way related to this woman, that some stranger had cruised into the place and requested someone else's Porsche. They tossed me the keys and only laughed when I'd asked them to back it out of the garage because I wasn't sure I could handle a stick shift in reverse. It'd taken me a half hour to get ten blocks, and I still hadn't figured out where or how to turn around so I'd actually be heading uptown, toward the parking place on Miranda's block that her housekeeper had described. The chances of my making it to 76th and Fifth without seriously injuring myself, the car, a

biker, a pedestrian, or another vehicle were nonexistent, and this new call did nothing to calm my nerves.
Once again, I made the round of calls, but this time Miranda's nanny picked up on the second ring.
"Cara, hey, it's me."
"Hey, what's up? Are you on the street? It sounds so loud."
"Yeah, you could say that. I had to pick up Miranda's Porsche from the dealership. Only, I can't really drive stick. But now she called and wants me to pick up someone named Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment. Who the hell is Madelaine and where might she be?"
Cara laughed for what felt like ten minutes before she said, "Madelaine's their French bulldog puppy and she's at the vet. Just got spayed. I was supposed to pick her up, but Miranda just called and told me to pick the twins up early from school so they can all head out to the Hamptons."
"You're joking. I have to pick up a fuckingdog with this Porsche? Without crashing? It'snever going to happen ."
"She's at the East Side Animal Hospital, on Fifty-second between First and Second. Sorry, Andy, I have to get the girls now, but call if there's anything I can do, OK?"
Maneuvering the green beast to head uptown sapped my last reserves of concentration, and by the time I reached Second Avenue, the stress sent my body into meltdown.lt couldn't possibly get worse than this, I thought as yet another cab came within a quarter-inch of the back bumper. A nick anywhere on the car would guarantee I lose my job—that much was obvious—but it just might cost me my life as well. Since there was obviously not a parking spot, legal or otherwise, in the middle of the day, I called the vet's office from outside and asked them to bring Madelaine to me. A kindly woman emerged a few minutes later (just enough time for me to field another call from Miranda, this one asking why I wasn't back at the office yet) with a whimpering, sniffling puppy. The woman showed me Madelaine's stitched-up belly and told me to drive very, very carefully because the dog was "experiencing some discomfort." Right, lady. I'm driving very, very carefully solely to save my job and possibly my life—if the dog benefits from this, it's just a bonus.
With Madelaine curled up on the passenger seat, I lit another cigarette and rubbed my freezing bare feet so my toes could resume gripping the clutch and brake pedal.Clutch, gas, shift, release clutch, I chanted, trying to ignore the dog's pitiful howls every time I accelerated. She alternated between crying, whining, and snorting. By the time we reached Miranda's building, the pup was nearly hysterical. I tried to soothe her,

but she could sense my insincerity—and besides, I had no free hands with which to offer a reassuring pat or nuzzle. So this was what four years of diagramming and deconstructing books, plays, short stories, and poems were for: a chance to comfort a small, white, batlike bulldog while trying not to demolish someone else's really, really expensive car. Sweet life. Just as I had always dreamed.
I managed to dump the car at the garage and the dog with Miranda's doorman without further incident, but my hands were still shaking when I climbed into the chauffeured Town Car that had been following me all over town. The driver looked at me sympathetically and made some supportive comment about the difficulty of stick shifts, but I didn't feel much like chatting.
"Just heading back to the Ehas-Clark building," I said with a long sigh as the driver pulled around the block and headed south on Park Avenue. Since I rode the route every day—sometimes twice—I knew I had exactly eight minutes to breathe and collect myself and possibly even figure out a way to disguise the ash and sweat stains that had become permanent features on the Gucci suede. The shoes—well, those were beyond hope, at least until they could be fixed by the fleet of shoemakersRunway kept for such emergencies. The ride was actually over in six and a half minutes, and I had no choice but to hobble like an off-balance giraffe on my one flat, one four-inch heel arrangement. A quick stop in the Closet turned up a brand-new pair of knee-high maroon-colored Jimmy Choos that looked great with the leather skirt I grabbed, tossing the suede pants in the "Couture Cleaning" pile (where the basic prices for dry cleaning started at seventy-five dollars per item). The only stop left was a quick visit to the Beauty Closet, where one of the editors there took one look at my sweat-streaked makeup and whipped out a trunk full of fixers.
Not bad,I thought, looking in one of the omnipresent full-length mirrors. You might not even know that mere minutes before I was hovering precariously close to murdering myself and everyone around me. I strolled confidently into the assistants' suite outside Miranda's office and quietly took my seat, looking forward to a few free minutes before she returned from lunch.
"And-re-ah," she called from her starkly furnished, deliberately cold office. "Where are the car and the puppy?"
I leaped out of my seat and ran as fast as was possible on plush carpeting while wearing five-inch heels and stood before her desk. "I left the car with the garage attendant and Madelaine with your doorman, Miranda," I said, proud to have completed both tasks without killing the car, the dog, or myself.
"And why would you do something like that?" she snarled, looking up from her copy ofWomen's Wear Daily for the first time since I'd walked in. "I specifically requested that you bring both of them to the office, since the girls will be here momentarily and we need to leave."

"Oh, well, actually, I thought you said that you wanted them to—"
"Enough. The details of your incompetence interest me very little. Go get the car and the puppy and bring them here. I'm expecting we'll be all ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Understood?"
Fifteen minutes? Was this woman hallucinating? It would take a minute or two to get downstairs and into a Town Car, another six or eight to get to her apartment, and then somewhere in the vicinity of three hours for me to find the puppy in her eighteen-room apartment, extract the bucking stick shift from its parking spot, and make my way the twenty blocks to the office.
"Of course, Miranda. Fifteen minutes."
I started shaking again the moment I ran out of her office, wondering if my heart
could just up and give out at the ripe old age of twenty-three. The first cigarette I lit
landed directly on the top of my new Jimmys, where instead of falling to the cement it
smoldered for just long enough to burn a small, neat hole.Great, I muttered.That's just
fucking great. Chalk up my total as an even four grand for today's ruined merchandise—
a new personal best. Maybe she'd die before I got back, I thought, deciding that now was
the time to look on the bright side. Maybe, just maybe, she'd keel over from something
rare and exotic and we'd all be released from her wellspnng of misery. I relished a last
drag before stamping out the cigarette and told myself to be rational. You don't want her
to die, I thought, stretching out in the backseat. Because if she does, you lose all hope of
killing her yourself. And thatwould be a shame.
2
I knew nothing when I went for my first interview and stepped onto the infamous Ehas-Clark elevators, those transporters of all thingsen vogue . I had no idea that the city's most well-connected gossip columnists and socialites and media executives obsessed over the flawlessly made-up, turned-out, turned-in riders of those sleek and quiet lifts. I had never seen women with such radiant blond hair, didn't know that those brand-name highlights cost six grand a year to maintain or that others in the know could identify the colonsts after a quick glance at the finished product. I had never laid eyes on such beautiful men. They were perfectly toned—not too muscular because "that'snot sexy"—and they showed off their lifelong dedication to gymwork in finely ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather pants. Bags and shoes I'd never seen on real people shoutedPrada! Armani! Versace! from every surface. I had heard from a friend of a friend—an editorial assistant atChic magazine—that every now and then the accessories get to meet their makers in those very elevators, a touching reunion where Miuccia, Giorgio, or Donatella can once again admire their summer '02 stilettos or their spring

couture teardrop bag in person. I knew things were changing for me—I just wasn't sure it was for the better.
I had, until this point, spent the past twenty-three years embodying small-town America. My entire existence was a perfect cliche. Growing up in Avon, Connecticut, had meant high school sports, youth group meetings, "drinking parties" at nice suburban ranch homes when the parents were away. We wore sweatpants to school, jeans for Saturday night, ruffled puffiness for semiformal dances. And college! Well, that was a world of sophistication after high school. Brown had provided endless activities and classes and groups for every imaginable type of artist, misfit, and computer geek. Whatever intellectual or creative interest I wanted to pursue, regardless of how esoteric or unpopular it may have been, had some sort of outlet at Brown. High fashion was perhaps the single exception to this widely bragged-about fact. Four years spent muddling around Providence in fleeces and hiking boots, learning about the French impressionists, and writing obnoxiously long-winded English papers did not—in any conceivable way-prepare me for my very first postcollege job.
I managed to put it off as long as possible. For the three months following graduation, I'd scrounged together what little cash I could find and took off on a solo trip. I did Europe by train for a month, spending much more time on beaches than in museums, and didn't do a very good job of keeping in touch with anyone back home except Alex, my boyfriend of three years. He knew that after the five weeks or so I was starting to get lonely, and since his Teach for America training had just ended and he had the rest of the summer to kill before starting in September, he surprised me in Amsterdam. I'd covered most of Europe by then and he'd traveled the summer before, so after a not-so-sober afternoon at one of the coffee shops, we pooled our traveler's checks and bought two one-way tickets to Bangkok.
Together we worked our way through much of Southeast Asia, rarely spending more than $10 a day, and talked obsessively about our futures. He was so excited to start teaching English at one of the city's underprivileged schools, totally taken with the idea of shaping young minds and mentoring the poorest and the most neglected, in the way that only Alex could be. My goals were not so lofty: I was intent on finding a job in magazine publishing. Although I knew it was highly unlikely I'd get hired atThe New Yorker directly out of school, I was determined to be writing for them before my fifth reunion. It was all I'd ever wanted to do, the only place I'd ever really wanted to work. I'd picked up a copy for the first time after I'd heard my parents discussing an article they'd just read and my mom had said, "It was so well written—you just don't read things like that anymore," and my father had agreed, "No doubt, it's the only smart thing being written today." I'd loved it. Loved the snappy reviews and the witty cartoons and the feeling of being admitted to a special, members-only club for readers. I'd read every issue for the past seven years and knew every section, every editor, and every writer by heart.
Alex and I talked about how we were both embarking on a new stage in our lives, how we were lucky to be doing it together. We weren't in any rush to get back,

though, somehow sensing that this would be the last period of calm before the craziness, and we stupidly extended our visas in Delhi so we could have a few extra weeks touring in the exotic countryside of India.
Well, nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentery. I lasted a week in a filthy Indian hostel, begging Alex not to leave me for dead in that hellish place. Four days later we landed in Newark and my worried mother tucked me into the backseat of her car and clucked the entire way home. In a way it was a Jewish mother's dream, a real reason to visit doctor after doctor after doctor, making absolutely sure that every miserable parasite had abandoned her little girl. It took four weeks for me to feel human again and another two until I began to feel that living at home was unbearable. Mom and Dad were great, but being asked where I was going every time I left the house—or where I'd been every time I returned—got old quickly. I called Lily and asked if I could crash on the couch of her tiny Harlem studio. Out of the kindness of her heart, she agreed.
I woke up in that tiny Harlem studio, sweat-soaked. My forehead pounded, my stomach churned, every nerve shimmied —shimmied in a very unsexy way. Ah! It's back, I thought, horrified. The parasites had found their way back into my body and I was bound to suffer eternally! Or what if it was worse? Perhaps I'd contracted a rare form of late-developing dengue fever? Malaria? Possibly even Ebola? I lay in silence, trying to come to grips with my imminent death, when snippets from the night before came back to me. A smoky bar somewhere in the East Village. Something called jazz fusion music. A hot-pink drink in a martini glassoh, nausea, oh, make it stop. Friends stopping by to welcome me home. A toast, a gulp, another toast. Oh, thank god—it wasn't a rare strain of hemorrhagic fever, it was just a hangover. It never occurred to me that I couldn't exactly hold my liquor anymore after losing twenty pounds to dysentery. Five feet ten inches and 115 pounds did not bode well for a hard night out (although, in retrospect, it boded very well for employment at a fashion magazine).
I bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I'd been crashing on for the past week and concentrated all my energy on not getting sick. Adjustment to America— the food, the manners, the glorious showers—hadn't been too grueling, but the houseguest thing was quickly becoming stale. I figured I had about a week and a half left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely ran out of cash, and the only way to get money from my parents was to return to the never-ending circuit of second opinions. That sobering thought was the single thing propelling me from bed, on what would be a fateful November day, to where I was expected in one hour for my very first job interview. I'd spent the last week parked on Lily's couch, still weak and exhausted, until she finally yelled at me to leave—if only for a few hours each day. Not sure what else to do with myself, I bought a MetroCard and rode the subways, listlessly dropping off resumes as I went. I left them with security guards at all the big magazine publishers, with a halfhearted cover letter explaining that I wanted to be an editorial assistant and

gain some magazine writing experience. I was too weak and tired to care if anyone actually read them, and the last thing I was expecting was an interview. But Lily's phone had rung just the day before and, amazingly, someone from human resources at Ehas-Clark wanted me to come in for a "chat." I wasn't sure if it would be considered an official interview or not, but a "chat" sounded more palatable either way.
I washed down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and pants that did not match and in no way created a suit, but at least they stayed put on my emaciated frame. A blue button-down, a not-too-perky ponytail, and a pair of slightly scuffed flats completed my look. It wasn't great—in fact, it bordered on supremely ugly—but it would have to suffice.They're not going to hire me or reject me on the outfit alone, I remember thinking. Clearly, I was barely lucid.
I showed up on time for my elevenA .M. interview and didn't panic until I encountered the line of leggy, Twiggy types waiting to be permitted to board the elevators. Their lips never stopped moving, and their gossip was punctuated only by the sound of their stilettos clacking on the floor.Clackers, I thought.That's perfect. (The elevators! )Breathe in, breathe out, I reminded myself. You will not throw up. You will not throw up. You're just here to talk about being an editorial assistant, and then it's straight back to the couch. You will not throw up. "Why yes, I'd love to work at Reaction!Well, sure, I supposeThe Buzzwould be suitable. Oh, what? I may have my pick? Well, I'll need the night to decide between there and Maison Vous.Dehghtful!"
Moments later I was sporting a rather unflattering "guest" sticker on my rather unflattering pseudosuit (not soon enough, I discovered that guests in the know simply stuck these passes on their bags, or, even better, discarded them immediately—only the most uncouth losers actuallywore them) and heading toward the elevators. And then … I boarded. Up, up, up and away, hurtling through space and time and infinite sexiness en route to . . . human resources.
I allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift, quiet ride. Deep, pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather to turn those elevators from the merely functional to the almost erotic. We whisked between floors, stopping to let out the beauties atChic, Mantra, The Buzz, andCoquette . The doors opened silently, reverently, to stark white reception areas. Chic furniture with clean, simple lines dared people to sit, ready to scream out in agony if anyone—horror!—spilled. The magazines' names rested in bold black and identifiable, individual typeface along the walls that flanked the lobby. Thick, opaque glass doors protected the titles. They're names the average American recognizes but never imagines to be turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof.
While I'd admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen yogurt scooper, I'd heard enough stories from my newly minted professional friends to know that corporate life just didn't look like this. Not even close. Absent were the nauseating fluorescent lights, the never-shows-dirt carpeting. Where dowdy secretaries should have been ensconced, polished young girls with prominent cheekbones and power suits

presided. Office supplies didn't exist! Those basic necessities like organizers, garbage cans, and books were simply not present. I watched as six floors disappeared in swirls of white perfection before I felt the venom and heard the voice.
"She. Is. Such. A. Bitch! Icannot deal with her anymore. Who does that? I mean, really—WHO DOES THAT?" hissed a twenty-something girl in a snakeskin skirt and a very mini tank top, looking more suited for a late night at Bungalow 8 than a day at the office.
"I know. Iknooooooow. Like, what do you think I've had to put up with for the past six months? Total bitch. And terrible taste, too," agreed her friend, with an emphatic shake of her adorable bob.
Mercifully, I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid open.Interesting, I thought. If you're comparing this potential work environment to an average day in the life of a cliquey junior high girl, it might even be better. Stimulating? Well, maybe not. Kind, sweet, nurturing? No, not exactly. The kind of place that just makes you want to smile and do a great job? No, OK? No! But if you're looking for fast, thin, sophisticated, impossibly hip, and heart-wrenchingly stylish, Ehas-Clark is mecca.
The gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources receptionist did nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. She told me to sit and "feel free to look over some of our titles." Instead, I tried frantically to memorize the names of all the editors in chief of the company's titles—as if they were going to actually quiz me on them. Ha! I already knew Stephen Alexander, of course, forReaction magazine, and it wasn't too hard to rememberThe Buzz 's Tanner Michel. Those were really the only interesting things they published anyway, I figured. I'd do fine.
A short, svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon. "So, dear, you're looking to break into magazines, are you?" she asked as she led me past a string of long-legged model look-alikes to her stark, cold office. "It's a tough thing to do right out of college, you know. Lots and lots of competition out there for very few jobs. And the few jobs that are available, well! They're not exactly high-paying, if you know what I mean."
I looked down at my cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and wondered why I'd even bothered. Already deep in thought over how I was going to crawl back to that sofa bed with enough Cheez-Its and cigarettes to last a fortnight, I barely noticed when she almost whispered, "But I have to say, there's an amazing opportunity open right now, and it's going to go fast!"
Hmm. My antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye contact with me. Opportunity? Go fast? My mind was racing. She wanted to help me? She liked me? Why, I hadn't even opened my mouth yet—how could shelike me? And why exactly was she starting to sound like a car salesman?

"Dear, can you tell me the name of the editor in chief ofRunway ?" she asked, looking pointedly at me for the first time since I'd sat down.
Blank. Completely and totally blank, I couldn't remember a thing. I couldn't believe she wasquizzing me! I'd never read an issue ofRunway in my life—she wasn't allowed to ask me aboutthat one. No one cared aboutRunway . It was afashion magazine, for chnssake, one I wasn't even sure contained any writing, just lots of hungry-looking models and glossy ads. I stammered for a moment or two, while the different names of editors I'd just before forced my brain to remember all swirled inside my head, dancing together in mismatched pairs. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I was sure I knew her name—after all, who didn't? But it wouldn't gel in my addled brain.
"Uh, well, it seems I can't recall her name right now. But I know I know it, of course I know it. Everyone knows who she is! I just, well, don't, uh, seem to know it right now."
She peered at me for a moment, her large brown eyes finally fixated on my now perspiring face. "Miranda Priestly," she near-whispered, with a mixture of reverence and fear. "Her name is Miranda Priestly."
Silence ensued. For what felt like a full minute, neither of us said a word, but then Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my crucial misstep. I didn't know then that she was desperate to hire another assistant for Miranda, couldn't know that she was desperate to stop this woman from calling her day and night, grilling her about potential candidates. Desperate to find someone, anyone, whom Miranda wouldn't reject. And if I might—however unlikely—stand even the smallest chance of getting hired and thereby relieve her, well, then attention must be paid.
Sharon smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda's two assistants.Two assistants?
"Why yes," she confirmed with an exasperated look. "Of course Miranda needs two assistants. Her current senior assistant, Allison, has been promoted to beRunway 's beauty editor, and Emily, the junior assistant, will be taking Allison's place. That leaves the junior position open for someone!
"Andrea, I know you've just graduated from college and probably aren't entirely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine world . . ." She paused dramatically, searching for the right words. "But I feel it's my duty, my obligation, to tell you what a truly incredible opportunity this is. Miranda Priestly . . ." She paused again just as dramatically, as though she were mentally bowing. "Miranda Priestly is the single most influential woman in the fashion industry, and clearly one of the most prominent magazine editors in the world. The world! The chance to work for her, to watch her edit and meet with famous writers and models, to help her achieve all she doeseach and every day, well, I shouldn't need to tell you that it's a job a million girls would die for."

"Urn, yeah, I mean yes, that does sound wonderful," I said, briefly wondering why Sharon was trying to talk me into something that a million other people would die for. But there wasn't time to think about it. She picked up the phone and sang a few words, and within minutes she'd escorted me to the elevators to begin my interviews with Miranda's two assistants.
I thought Sharon was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then came my meeting with Emily. I found my way down to the seventeenth floor and waited inRunway 's unnervingly white reception area. It took just over a half hour before a tall, thin girl emerged from behind the glass doors. A calf-length leather skirt hung from her hips, and her unruly red hair was piled in one of those messy but still glamorous buns on top of her head. Her skin was flawless and pale, not so much as a single freckle or blemish, and it stretched perfectly over the highest cheekbones I'd ever seen. She didn't smile. She sat next to me and looked me over, earnestly but with little apparent interest. Perfunctory. And then, unprompted and still having not introduced herself, the girl I presumed to be Emily launched into a description of the job. The monotone of her statements told me more than all of her words: she'd obviously gone through this dozens of times already, had little faith that I was any different from the rest, and as a result wouldn't be wasting much time with me.
"It's hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you know—not often, but often enough," she rattled on, still not looking at me. "And it's important to understand that there will be no editorial work. As Miranda's junior assistant, you'd be solely responsible for anticipating her needs and accommodating them. Now, that could be anything from ordering her favorite stationery to accompanying her on a shopping trip. Either way, it's always fun. I mean, you get to spend day after day, week after week, with this absolutely amazing woman. And amazing she is," she breathed, looking slightly animated for the first time since we started speaking.
"Sounds great," I said and meant it. My friends who'd begun working immediately after graduation had already clocked in six full months in their entry-level jobs, and they all sounded wretched. Banks, advertising firms, book publishing houses-it didn't matter—they were all utterly miserable. They whined about the long days, the coworkers, and the office politics, but more than anything else, they complained bitterly about the boredom. Compared with school, the tasks required of them were mindless, unnecessary, fit for a chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging numbers in databases and cold-calling people who didn't want to be called. Of listlessly cataloging years' worth of information on a computer screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months on end so their supervisors thought they were productive. Each swore she'd actually gotten dumber in the short amount of time since graduation, and there was no escape in sight. I might not particularly love fashion, but I'd sure rather do something "fun" all day long than get sucked into a more boring job.
"Yes. It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway, nice to meet you. I'm going to go get Allison for you to meet. She's great, too." Almost as quickly as

she finished and departed behind the glass in a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure appeared.
This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda's senior assistant who'd just been promoted, and I knew immediately that she was simplytoo thin. But I couldn't even focus on the way her stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I was captivated by the fact she exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank top strained across her breasts and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair was as dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers and toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from within, and her open-toe sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She managed to look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at the same time, but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all, November.
"Hi, I'm Allison, as you probably know," she started, picking some of the tank top fur from her barely there leather-clad thigh. "I was just promoted to an editor position, and that's the really great thing about working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the work is tough, but it's incredibly glamorous and a million girls would die to do it. And Miranda is such a wonderful woman, editor,person, that she really takes care of her own girls. You'll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working just one year for her; if you're talented, she'll send you straight to the top, and . . ." She rambled on, not bothering to look up or feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I didn't get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed over in the way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed. I had the distinct impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she wouldn't necessarily notice.
When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening so fast, spiralmg out of control, and yet I was excited. So what if I didn't know who Miranda Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. Yeah, so it's a fashion magazine and not something a little more interesting, but it's a hell of a lot better to work atRunway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of havingRunway on my resume was sure to give me even more credibility when I eventually applied to work atThe New Yorker than, say, havingPopular Mechanics there. Besides, I'm sure a million girlswould die for this job.
After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to the reception area. She told me her name but I couldn't focus on anything except her body. She wore a tight, shredded denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and manicured and exposed in such a way that normal people are not when there's snow on the ground. It wasn't until she actually motioned for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and utter lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of what I

wore—and that I carried something resembling abnefcase —continues to haunt me. I can feel my face flame red as I remember how very, very awkward I was among the most toned and stylish women in New York City. I didn't know until later, until I hovered on the periphery of being one of them, just how much they had laughed at me between the rounds of the interview.
After the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl Kerston's office,Runway 's executive editor and all-around lovable lunatic. She, too, talked at me for what seemed like hours, but this time I actually listened. I listened because she seemed to love her job, speaking excitedly about the "words" aspect of the magazine, the wonderful copy she reads and writers she manages and editors she oversees.
"I have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this place," she declared proudly, "so it's best to save those questions for someone else."
When I told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing, that I had no particular interest or background in fashion, her smile broadened to a genuine grin. "Well, in that case, Andrea, you might be just what we need around here. I think it's time for you to meet Miranda. And if I may offer a piece of advice? Look her straight in the eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself hard and she'll respect it."
As if on cue, Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda's office. It was only a thirty-second walk, but I could sense that all eyes were on me. They peered at me from behind the frosted glass of the editor's office and from the open space of the assistants' cubicles. A beauty at the copier turned to check me out, and so did an absolutely magnificent man, although he was obviously gay and intent on examining only my outfit. Just as I was about to walk through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants' suite outside of Miranda's office, Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed it under her desk. It took only a moment for me to realize that the message wasCarry that, lose all credibility. And then I was standing in her office, a wide-open space of huge windows and streaming bright light. No other details about the space made an impression that day; I couldn't take my eyes off of her.
Since I'd never seen so much as a picture of Miranda Priestly, I was shocked to see howskinny she was. The hand she held out was small-boned, feminine, soft. She had to turn her head upward to look me in the eye, although she did not stand to greet me. Her expertly dyed blond hair was pulled back in a chic knot, deliberately loose enough to look casual but still supremely neat, and while she did not smile, she did not appear particularly intimidating. She seemed rather gentle and somewhat shrunken behind her ominous black desk, and although she did not invite me to sit, I felt comfortable enough to claim one of the uncomfortable black chairs that faced her. And it was then I noticed: she was watching me intently, mentally noting my attempts at grace and propriety with what seemed like amusement. Condescending and awkward, yes, but not, I decided, particularly mean-spirited. She spoke first.

"What brings you toRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?" she asked in her upper-crust British accent, never taking her eyes away from mine.
"Well, I interviewed with Sharon, and she told me that you're looking for an assistant," I started, my voice a little shaky. When she nodded, my confidence increased slightly. "And now, after meeting with Emily, Allison, and Cheryl, I feel like I have a clear understanding of the kind of person you're looking for, and I'm confident I'd be perfect for the job," I said, remembering Cheryl's words. She looked amused for a moment but seemed unfazed.
It was at this point that I began to want the job most desperately, in the way people yearn for things they consider unattainable. It might not be akin to getting into law school or having an essay published in a campus journal, but it was, in my starved-for-success mind, a real challenge—a challenge because I was an imposter, and not a very good one at that. I had known the minute I stepped on theRunway floor that I didn't belong. My clothes and hair were wrong for sure, but more glaringly out of place was my attitude. I didn't know anything about fashion and I didn'tcare . At all. And therefore, I had to have it. Besides, a million girls would die for this job.
I continued to answer her questions about myself with a forthnghtness and confidence that surprised me. There wasn't time to be intimidated. After all, she seemed pleasant enough and I, amazingly, knew nothing to the contrary. We stumbled a bit when she inquired about any foreign languages I spoke. When I told her I knew Hebrew, she paused, pushed her palms flat on her desk and said icily, "Hebrew? I was hoping for French, or at least something moreuseful." I almost apologized, but stopped myself.
"Unfortunately, I don't speak a word of French, but I'm confident it won't be a problem." She clasped her hands back together.
"It says here that you studied at Brown?"
"Yes, I, uh, I was an English major, concentrating on creative writing. Writing has always been a passion."So cheesy! I reprimanded myself.Did I really have to use the word "passion"?
"So, does your affinity for writing mean that you're not particularly interested in fashion?" She took a sip of sparkling liquid from a glass and set it down quietly. One quick glance at the glass showed that she was the kind of woman who could drink without leaving one of those disgusting lipstick marks. She would always have perfectly lined and filled-in lips regardless of the hour.
"Oh no, of course not. I adore fashion," I lied rather smoothly. "I'm looking forward to learning even more about it, since I think it would be wonderful to write about fashion one day." Where the hell had I come up with that one? This was becoming an out-of-body experience.

Things progressed with the same relative ease until she asked her final question: Which magazines did I read regularly? I leaned forward eagerly and began to speak: "Well, I only subscribe toThe New Yorker andNewsweek, but I regularly readThe Buzz . SometimesTime, but it's dry, andU.S. News is way too conservative. Of course, as a guilty pleasure, I'll skimChic, and since I just returned from traveling, I read all of the travel magazines and . . ."
"And do you readRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?" she interrupted, leaning over the desk and peering at me even more intently than before.
It had come so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for the first time that day I was caught off-guard. I didn't lie, and I didn't elaborate or even attempt to explain.
"No."
After perhaps ten seconds of stony silence, she beckoned for Emily to escort me out. I knew I had the job.
3
"It sure doesn't sound like you have the job," Alex, my boyfriend, said softly, playing with my hair as I rested my throbbing head in his lap after the grueling day. I'd gone straight from the interview to his apartment in Brooklyn, not wanting to sleep on Lily's couch for another night and needing to tell him about everything that had just happened. I'd thought about staying there all the time, but I didn't want Alex to feel suffocated. "I don't even know why you'd want it." After a moment or two, he reconsidered. "Actually, it does sound like a pretty phenomenal opportunity. I mean, if this girl Allison started out as Miranda's assistant and is now an editor at the magazine, well, that'd be good enough for me. Just go for it."
He was trying so hard to sound really excited for me. We'd been dating since our junior year at Brown, and I knew every inflection of his voice, every look, every signal. He'd just started a few weeks earlier at PS 277 in the Bronx and was so worn down he could barely speak. Even though his kids were only nine years old, he'd been disappointed to see how jaded and cynical they already were. He was disgusted that they all spoke freely about blow jobs, knew ten different slang words for pot, and loved to brag about the stuff they stole or whose cousin was currently residing in a tougher jail. "Prison connoisseurs," Alex had taken to calling them. "They could write a book on the subtle advantages of Sing Sing over Rikers, but they can't read a word of the English language." He was trying to figure out how he could make a difference.

I slid my hand under his T-shirt and started to scratch his back. Poor thing looked so miserable that I felt guilty bothering him with the details of the interview, but I just had to talk about it with someone. "I know. I understand that there wouldn't be anything editorial about the job whatsoever, but I'm sure I'll be able to do some writing after a few months," I said. "You don't think it's completely selling out to work at afashion magazine, do you?"
He squeezed my arm and lay down next to me. "Baby, you're a brilliant, wonderful writer, and I know you'll be fantastic anywhere. And of course it's not selling out. It's paying your dues. You're saying that if you put in a year at Runway you'll save yourself three more years of bullshit assistant work somewhere else?"
I nodded. "That's what Emily and Allison said, that it was an automatic quid pro quo. Work a year for Miranda and don't get fired, and she'll make a call and get you a job anywhere you want."
"Then how could you not? Seriously, Andy, you'll work your year and you'll get a job atThe New Yorker . It's what you've always wanted! And it sure sounds like you'll get there a whole lot faster doing this than anything else."
"You're right, you're totally right."
"And besides, it would guarantee that you're moving to New York, which, I have to say, is very appealing to me right now." He kissed me, one of those long, lazy kisses it seemed we had personally invented. "But stop worrying so much. Like you said yourself, you're still not sure you have the job. Let's wait and see."
We cooked a simple dinner and fell asleep watching Letterman. I was dreaming about obnoxious little nine-year-olds having sex on the playground while they swigged forties of Olde English and screamed at my sweet, loving boyfriend when the phone rang.
Alex picked it up and pressed it to his ear but didn't bother to open his eyes or say hello. He quickly dropped it next to me. I wasn't sure I could muster the energy to pick it up.
"Hello?" I mumbled, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was 7:15A .M. Who the hell would call at such an hour?
"It's me," barked a very angry-sounding Lily.
"Hi, is everything OK?"
"Do you think I'd be calling you if everything was OK? I'm so hungover I could die, and I finally stop puking long enough to fall asleep, and I'm awakened by a scanly perky woman who says she works in HR at Elias-Clark. And she's looking for you.

Atseven-fifteen in the freakin' morning. So call her back. And tell her to lose my number."
"Sorry, Lil. I gave them your number because I don't have a cell yet. I can't believe she called so early! I wonder if that's good or bad?" I took the portable and crept out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door as I went.
"Whatev. Good luck. Let me know how it goes. Just not in the next couple hours, OK?"
"Will do. Thanks. And sorry."
I looked at my watch again and couldn't believe I was about to have a business conversation. I put on a pot of coffee and waited until it had finished brewing and brought a cup to the couch. It was time to call. I had no choice.
"Hello, this is Andrea Sachs," I said firmly, although my voice betrayed me with its deep, raspy, just-woke-up-ness.
"Andrea, good morning! Hope I didn't call too early," Sharon sang, her own voice full of sunshine. "I'm sure I didn't, my dear, especially since you'll have to be an early bird soon enough! I have some very good news. Miranda was very impressed with you and said she's very much looking forward to working with you. Isn't that wonderful? Congratulations, dear. How does it feel to be Miranda Priestly's new assistant? I imagine that you're just—"
My head was spinning. I tried to pull myself off the couch to get some more coffee, water, anything that might clear my head and turn her words back into English, but I only sank further into the cushions. Was she asking me if I would like the job? Or was she making an official offer? I couldn't make sense of anything she'd just said, anything other than the fact that Miranda Priestly had liked me.
"—delighted with this news. Who wouldn't be, right? So let's see, you can start on Monday, right? She'll actually be on vacation then, but that's a great time to start. Give you a little time to get acquainted with the other girls—oh, they're all such sweeties!" Acquainted? What? Starting Monday? Sweetie girls? It was refusing to make sense in my addled brain. I picked a single phrase that I'd understood and responded to it.
"Urn, well, I don't think I can start Monday," I said quietly, hoping I'd indeed said something coherent. Saying those words had shocked me into semiwakefulness. I'd walked through the Elias-Clark doors for the very first time the day before, and was being awakened from a deep sleep to listen to someone tell me that I was to begin work in three days. It was Friday—at seven o'clock in the goddamn morning—and they wanted me to start on Monday? It began to feel like everything was spiralmg out of control. Why the ridiculous rush? Was this woman so important that she needed me so badly? And why exactly did Sharon herself sound so scared of Miranda?

Starting Monday would be impossible. I had nowhere to live. Home base was my parents' house in Avon, the place I'd grudgingly moved back to after graduation, and where most of my things remained while I'd traveled during the summer. All of my interview-related clothes were piled on Lily's couch. I'd been trying to do the dishes and empty her ashtrays and buy pints of Haagen-Dazs so she wouldn't hate me, but I thought it only fair to give her a much-needed break from my unending presence, so I camped out on weekends at Alex's. That put all of my weekend going-out clothes and fun makeup at Alex's in Brooklyn, my laptop and mismatched suits at Lily's Harlem studio, and the rest of my life at my parents' house in Avon. I had no apartment in New York and didn't particularly understand how everyone knew that Madison Avenue ran uptown but Broadway ran down. I didn't actually know what uptown was. And she wanted me to start Monday?
"Urn, well, I don't think I can do this Monday because I don't currently live in New York," I quickly explained, clutching the phone, "and I'll need a couple days to find an apartment and buy some furniture and move."
"Oh, well, then. I suppose Wednesday would be OK," she sniffed.
After a few more minutes of haggling, we finally settled on November 17, a week from Monday. That left me a little more than eight days to find and furnish a home in one of the craziest real estate markets in the world.
I hung up and flopped back down on the couch. My hands were trembling, and I let the phone drop to the floor. A week. I had a week to start working at the job I'd just accepted as Miranda Pnestly's assistant. But, wait! That's what was bothering me … I hadn't actually accepted the job because it hadn't even been officially offered. Sharon hadn't even had to utter the words "We'd like to make you an offer," since she took it for granted that anyone with some semblance of intelligence would obviously just accept. No one had so much as mentioned the word "salary." I almost laughed out loud. Was this some sort of war tactic they'd perfected? Wait until the victim was finally deep into REM sleep after an extremely stressful day and then throw some life-altering news at her? Or had she just assumed that it would be wasted time and breath to do something as mundane as make a job offer and wait for acceptance, considering that this wasRunway magazine? Sharon had just assumed that of course I'd jump all over the chance, that I'd be thrilled with the opportunity. And, as they always were at Elias-Clark, she was right. It had all happened so fast, so frenetically, that I hadn't had time to debate and deliberate as usual. But I had a good feeling that thiswas an opportunity I'd be crazy to turn down, that this could actually be a great first step to getting toThe New Yorker . I had to try it. I was lucky to have it.
Newly energized, I gulped the rest of my coffee, brewed another cup for Alex, and took a quick, hot shower. When I went back into his room, he was just sitting up.
"You're dressed already?" he asked, fumbling for the tiny wire-rimmed glasses he was blind without. "Did someone call this morning, or did I dream that?"

"Not a dream," I said, crawling back under the covers even though I was wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. I was careful not to let my wet hair soak his pillows. "That was Lily. The HR woman from Elias-Clark called her place because that's the number I gave them. And guess what?"
"You got the j ob?"
"I got the job!"
"Oh, come here!" he said, sitting up and hugging me. "I'm so proud of you! That's great news, it really is."
"So you really think it's a good opportunity? I know we talked about it, but they didn't even give me a chance to decide. She just assumed that I'd want the job."
"It's an amazing opportunity. Fashion isn't the worst thing on earth—maybe it'll even be interesting."
I rolled my eyes.
"OK, so maybe that's going a little far. But withRunway on your resume and a letter from this Miranda woman, and maybe even a few clips by the time you're done, hell, you can do anything.The New Yorker will be beating down your door."
"I hope you're right, I really do." I jumped up and starting throwing my things in my backpack. "Is it still OK if I borrow your car? The sooner I get home, the sooner I can get back. Not that it really matters, because I'mmoving to New York . It's official!"
Since Alex went home to Westchester twice a week to babysit his little brother when his mom had to work late, his mom had given him her old car to keep in the city. But he wouldn't be needing it until Tuesday, and I'd be back before then. I had been planning to go home that weekend anyway, and now I'd have some good news to bring with me.
"Sure. No problem. It's in a spot about a half-block down on Grand Street. The keys are on the kitchen table. Call me when you get there, OK?"
"Will do. Sure you don't want to come? There'll be great food—you know my mom orders in only the best."
"Sounds tempting. You know I would, but I organized some of the younger teachers to get together tomorrow night for happy hour. Thought it might help us all work as a team. I really can't miss it."
"Goddamn do-gooder. Always doing good, spreading good cheer wherever you go. I'd hate you if I didn't love you so much." I leaned over and kissed him good-bye.

I found his little green Jetta on the first try and only spent twenty minutes trying to find the parkway that would take me to 95 North, which was wide open. It was a freezing day for November; the temperature was in the midthirties, and there were slick frozen patches on the back roads. But the sun was out, the kind of winter glare that causes unaccustomed eyes to tear and squint, and the air felt clean and cold in my lungs. I rode the entire way with the window rolled down, listening to the "Almost Famous-soundtrack on repeat. I worked my damp hair into a ponytail with one hand to keep it from flying in my eyes, and blew on my hands to keep them warm, or at least warm enough to grip the steering wheel. Only six months out of college, and my life was on the verge of bursting forward. Miranda Priestly, a stranger until yesterday but a powerful woman indeed, had handpicked me to join her magazine. Now I had a concrete reason to leave Connecticut and move—all on my own, as a real adult would—to Manhattan and make it my home. As I pulled into the driveway of my childhood house, sheer exhilaration took over. My cheeks looked red and windburned in the rearview mirror, and my hair was flying wildly about. There was no makeup on my face, and my jeans were dirty around the bottom from trudging through the city slush. But at that moment, I felt beautiful. Natural and cold and clean and crisp, I threw open the front door and called out for my mother. It was the last time in my life I remember feeling so light.
"A week? Honey, I just don't see how you're going to start work in a week," my mother said, stirring her tea with a spoon. We were sitting at the kitchen table in our usual spots, my mother drinking her usual decaf tea with Sweet'N Low, me with my usual mug of English Breakfast and sugar. Even though I hadn't lived at home in four years, all it took was an oversize mug of microwaved tea and a couple Reese's peanut butter cups to make me feel like I'd never left.
"Well, I don't have a choice, and, honestly, I'm lucky to have that. You should've heard how hard-core this woman was on the phone," I said. She looked at me, expressionless. "But, whatever, I can't worry about it. I did just get a job at a really famous magazine with one of the most powerful women in the industry. A job a million girls would die for."
We smiled at each other, but her smile was tinged with sadness. "I'm so happy for you," she said. "Such a beautiful, grown-up daughter I have. Honey, I just know this is going to be the start of a wonderful, wonderful time in your life. Ah, I remember graduating from college and moving to New York. All alone in that big, crazy city. Scary but so, so exciting. I want you to love every minute of it, all the plays and films and people and shopping and books. It's going to be the best time of your life—I just know it." She rested her hand on mine, something she didn't usually do. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thanks, Mom. Does that mean you're proud enough of me to buy me an apartment, furniture, and a whole new wardrobe?"

"Yeah, right," she said and smacked the top of my head with a magazine on her way to the microwave to heat two more cups. She hadn't said no, but she wasn't exactly grabbing her checkbook, either.
I spent the rest of the evening e-mailmg everyone I knew, asking if anyone needed a roommate or knew of someone who did. I posted some messages online and called people I hadn't spoken to in months. No luck. I decided my only choice—without permanently moving onto Lily's couch and inevitably wrecking our friendship, or crashing at Alex's, which neither of us was ready for—was to sublet a room short-term, until I could get my bearings in the city. It would be best to find my own room somewhere, and preferably one that was already furnished so I wouldn't have to deal with that, too.
The phone rang at a little after midnight, and I lunged for it, nearly falling off my twin-size childhood bed in the process. A framed, signed picture of Chris Evert, my childhood hero, smiled down from my wall, just below a bulletin board that still had magazine cutouts of Kirk Cameron plastered across it. I smiled into the phone.
"Hey, champ, it's Alex," he said with that tone of voice that meant something had happened. It was impossible to tell if it was something good or bad. "I just got an e-mail that a girl, Claire McMillan, is looking for a roommate. Princeton girl. I've met her before, I think. Dating Andrew, totally normal. You interested?"
"Sure, why not? Do you have her number?"
"No, I only have her e-mail, but I'll forward you her message and you can get in
touch with her. I think she'll be good."
I e-mailed Claire while I finished talking to Alex and then finally got some sleep in my own bed. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.
Claire McMillan: not so much. Her apartment was dark and depressing and in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, and there was a junkie propped up on the doorstep when I arrived. The others weren't much better. There was a couple looking to rent out an extra room in their apartment who made indirect references to putting up with their constant and loud lovemaking; an artist in her early thirties with four cats and a fervent desire for more; a bedroom at the end of a long, dark hallway, with no windows or closets; a twenty-year-old gay guy in his self-proclaimed "slutty stage." Each and every miserable room I'd visited was going for well over $1,000 and my salary was cashing in at a whopping $32,500. And although math had never been my strong suit, it didn't take a genius to figure out that rent would eat up more than $12,000 of it and taxes would take

the rest. Oh, and my parents were confiscating the emergencies-only credit card, now that I was an "adult." Sweet.
Lily pulled through after three straight days of letdowns. Since she had a vested interest in getting me off her couch for good, she e-mailed everyone she knew. A classmate from her Ph.D. program at Columbia had a friend who had a boss who knew two girls who were looking for a roommate. I called immediately and spoke to a very nice girl named Shanti, who told me she and her friend Kendra were looking for someone to move into their Upper East Side apartment, in a room that was mimscule but had a window, a closet, and even an exposed brick wall. For $800 a month. I asked if the apartment had a bathroom and kitchen. It did (no dishwasher or bathtub or elevator, of course, but one can hardly expect living in luxury their first time out). Bingo. Shanti and Kendra ended up being two very sweet and quiet Indian girls who'd just graduated from Duke, worked hellishly long hours at investment banks, and seemed to me, that first day and every day thereafter, utterly indistinguishable from each other. I had found a home.
4
I'd slept in my new room for three nights already and still felt like a stranger living in a very strange place. The room was minute. Perhaps slightly larger than the storage shed in the backyard of my house in Avon, but not really. And unlike most empty spaces that actually looked bigger with furniture, my room had shrunk to half its size. I had naively eyed the tiny square and decided that it had to be close to a normal-size room and that I'd just buy the usual bedroom set: a queen-size bed, a dresser, maybe a nightstand or two. Lily and I had taken Alex's car to Ikea, the postcollege apartment mecca, and picked out a beautiful light-colored wood set and a woven rug with shades of light blue, dark blue, royal blue, and indigo. Again, like fashion, home decorating was not my strong suit: I believe that Ikea was into its "Blue Period." We bought a duvet cover with a blue-flecked pattern and the fluffiest comforter they sold. She persuaded me to get one of those Chinese rice-paper lamps for the nightstand, and I chose some preframed black-and-white pictures to complement the deep red roughness of my much-hyped exposed brick wall. Elegant and casual, and not a little Zen. Perfect for my first adult room in the big city.
Perfect, that is, until it all actually arrived. It seems simply eyeing a room isn't quite the same as measuring it. Nothing fit. Alex put the bed together and by the time he'd pushed it against the exposed-brick wall (Manhattan code for "unfinished wall") it had consumed the entire room. I had to send the delivery men back with the six-drawer dresser, the two adorable nightstands, and even the full-length mirror. The men and Alex did lift up the bed, however, and I was able to slip the tn-blue rug under it, and a few blue inches peeked out from underneath the wooden behemoth. The rice-paper lamp had no nightstand or dresser on which to rest, so I simply placed it on the floor, wedged in the

six inches between the bed frame and the sliding closet door. And even though I tried special mounting tape, nails, duct tape, screws, wires, Krazy Glue, double-sided tape, and much cursing, the framed photos refused to adhere to the exposed brick wall. After nearly three hours of effort and knuckles rubbed bleeding and raw from the brick, I finally propped them up on the windowsill. It was for the best, I thought. Blocked a bit of the direct view the woman living across the airshaft had into my room. None of it mattered, though. Not the airshaft instead of a majestic skyline or the lack of drawer space or the closet that was too small to hold a winter coat. The room was mine—the first I could decorate all on my own, with no input from parents or roommates—and I loved it.
It was the Sunday night before my first day of work, and I could do nothing but agonize over what to wear the next day. Kendra, the nicer of my two apartmentmates, kept poking her head in and asking quietly if she could help at all. Considering the two of them wore ultraconservative suits to work each day, I declined any fashion input. I paced the living room as much as I could manage when each length only took four strides, and sat down on the futon in front of the TV. Just what does one wear to the first day working for the most fashionable fashion editor of the most fashionable fashion magazine in existence? I'd heard of Prada (from the few Jappy girls who carried the backpacks at Brown) and Louis Vuitton (because both of my grandmothers sported the signature-print bags without realizing how cool they were) and maybe even Gucci (because who hasn't heard of Gucci?). But I sure didn't own a single stitch of it, and I wouldn't have known what to do with it if the entire contents of all three stores resided in my miniature closet. I walked back to my room—or, rather, the wall-to-wall mattress that I called a room—and collapsed on that big, beautiful bed, banging my ankle on the bulky frame. Shit. What now?
After much agonizing and clothes-flinging, I finally decided on a light blue sweater and a knee-length black skirt, with my knee-high black boots. I already knew that a briefcase wouldn't fly there, so I was left with no choice but to use my black canvas purse. The last thing I remember about that night was trying to navigate around my massive bed in high-heeled boots, a skirt, and no shirt, and sitting down to rest from the exhaustion of the effort.
I must have passed out from sheer anxiety, because it was adrenaline alone that awakened me at 5:30A .M. I bolted from the bed. My nerves had been in perpetual overdrive all week, and my head felt like it would explode. I had exactly an hour and a half to shower, dress, and make my way from my fraternity-like building at 96th and Third to midtown via public transportation, a still sinister and intimidating concept. That meant I had to allot an hour for travel time and a half hour to make myself beautiful.
The shower was horrific. It made a high-pitched squealing noise like one of those dog-training whistles, remaining steadfastly lukewarm until just before I stepped out into the freezing-cold bathroom, at which point the water turned scalding. It took a mere three days ofthat routine before I began sprinting from my bed, turning on the shower fifteen minutes early, and heading back under the covers. When I snoozed three

more times with the alarm clock and went back for round two in the bathroom, the mirrors would be all steamed up from the gloriously hot—although trickling—water.
I got myself into my binding and uncomfortable outfit and out the door in twenty-five minutes—a record. And it took only ten minutes to find the nearest subway, something I should've done the night before but was too busy scoffing at my mother's suggestion to take a "run-through" so I wouldn't get lost. When I'd gone for the interview the week before I'd taken a cab, and I was already convinced that this subway experiment was going to be a nightmare. But, remarkably, there was an English-speaking attendant in the booth who instructed me to take the 6 train to 59th Street. She said I'd exit right on 59th and would have to walk two blocks west to Madison. Easy. I rode the cold train in silence, one of the only people crazy enough to be awake and actually moving at such a miserable hour in the middle of November. So far, so good—no glitches until it was time to make my way up to street level.
I took the nearest stairs and stepped out into a frigid day where the only light I saw was emanating from twenty-four-hour bodegas. Behind me was Bloomingdale's, but nothing else looked familiar. Ehas-Clark, Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark. Where was that building? I turned in my place 180 degrees until I saw a street sign: 60th Street and Lexington. Well, 59th can't be that far away from 60th, but which way should I walk to make the streets go west? And where was Madison in comparison to Lexington? Nothing looked familiar from my visit to the building the week before, since I'd been dropped off right in front. I strolled for a bit, happy to have left enough time to get as lost as I was, and finally ducked into a deli for a cup of coffee.
"Hello, sir. I can't seem to find my way to the Elias-Clark building. Could you please point me in the right direction?" I asked the nervous-looking man behind the cash register. I tried not to smile sweetly, remembering what everyone had told me about not being in Avon anymore, and how people here don't exactly respond well to good manners. He scowled at me, and I got nervous it was because he thought me rude. I smiled sweetly.
"One dollah," he said, holding out his hand.
"You're charging me for directions?"
"One dollah, skeem or bleck, you peek."
I stared at him for a moment before I realized he knew only enough English to converse about coffee. "Oh, skim would be perfect. Thank you so much." I handed over a dollar and headed back outside, more lost than ever. I asked people who worked at newsstands, as street sweepers, even a man who was tucked inside one of those movable breakfast carts. Not a single one understood me well enough to so much as point in the direction of 59th and Madison, and I had brief flashbacks to Delhi, depression, dysentery.No! I will find it.

A few more minutes of wandering aimlessly around a waking midtown actually landed me at the front door of the Elias-Clark building. The lobby glowed behind the glass doors in the early-morning darkness, and it looked, for those first few moments, like a warm, welcoming place. But when I pushed the revolving door to enter, it fought me. Harder and harder I pushed, until my body weight was thrust forward and my face was nearly pressed against the glass, and only then did it budge. When it did begin to move, it slid slowly at first, prompting me to push ever harder. But as soon as it picked up some momentum, the glass behemoth whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me to trip over my feet and shuffle visibly to remain standing. A man behind the security desk laughed.
"Tricky, eh? Not the first time I seen that happen, and won't be the last," he chortled, fleshy cheeks jiggling. "They getcha good here."
I looked him over quickly and decided to hate him and knew that he would never like me, regardless of what I said or how I acted. I smiled anyway.
"I'm Andrea," I said, pulling a knit mitten from my hand and reaching over the desk. "Today's my first day of work atRunway . I'm Miranda Pnestly's new assistant."
"And I'm sorry!" he roared, throwing his round head back with glee. "Just call me 'Sorry for You'! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hey, Eduardo, check this out. She's one of Miranda's newslaves ! Where you from, girl, bein' all friendly and shit? Topeka fuckin' Kansas? She is gonna eat you alive, hah, hah, hah!"
But before I could respond, a portly man wearing the same uniform came over and with no subtlety whatsoever looked me up and down. I braced for more mocking and guffaws, but it didn't come. Instead, he turned a kind face to mine and looked me in the eyes.
"I'm Eduardo, and this idiot here's Mickey," he said, motioning to the first man, who looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and ruined all the fun. "Don't make no never mind of him, he's just kiddin' with you." He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New York accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. "You just fill out this here information, and I'll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell 'em you need a card wit your pitcher on it from HR."
I must have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and shoved the book across the counter. "Well, go on now, fill 'er out. And good luck today, girl. You gonna need it."
I was too nervous and exhausted at this point to ask him to explain, and besides, I didn't really have to. About the only thing I'd had time to do in the week between accepting the job and starting work was to learn a little bit about my new boss. I had Googled her and was surprised to find that Miranda Priestly was born Miriam Prmchek, in London's East End. Hers was like all the other orthodox Jewish families in the town,

stunningly poor but devout. Her father occasionally worked odd jobs, but mostly they relied on the community for support since he spent most of his days studying Jewish texts. Her mother had died in childbirth with Miriam, and it washer mother who moved in and helped raise the children. And were there children! Eleven in all. Most of her brothers and sisters went on to work blue-collar jobs like their father, with little time to do anything but pray and work; a couple managed to get themselves into and through the university, only to marry young and begin having large families of their own. Miriam was the single exception to the family tradition.
After saving the small bills her older siblings would slip her whenever they were able, Miriam promptly dropped out of high school upon turning seventeen—a mere three months shy of graduation—to take a job as an assistant to an up-and-coming British designer, helping him put together his shows each season. After a few years of making a name for herself as one of the darlings of London's burgeoning fashion world and studying French at night, she scored a job as a junior editor at the FrenchChic magazine in Pans. By this time, she had little to do with her family: they didn't understand her life or ambitions, and she was embarrassed by their old-fashioned piety and overwhelming lack of sophistication. The alienation from her family was completed shortly after joining FrenchChic when, at twenty-four years old, Miriam Prmchek became Miranda Priestly, shedding her undeniably ethnic name for one with more panache. Her rough, cockney-girl British accent was soon replaced by a carefully cultivated, educated one, and by her late twenties, Miriam's transformation from Jewish peasant to secular socialite was complete. She rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the magazine world.
She spent ten years at the helm of FrenchRunway before Ehas transferred her to the number-one spot at AmencanRunway, the ultimate achievement. She moved her two daughters and her rock-star then husband (himself eager to gain more exposure in America) to a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue at 76th Street and began a new era atRunway magazine: the Priestly years, the sixth of which we were nearing as I began my first day.
By some stroke of dumb luck, I would be working for nearly a month before
Miranda was back in the office. She took her vacation every year starting a week before
Thanksgiving until right after New Year's. Typically, she'd spend a few weeks at the flat
she kept in London, but this year, I was told, she had dragged her husband and daughters
to Oscar de la Renta's estate in the Dominican Republic for two weeks before spending
Christmas and New Year's at the Ritz in Pans. I'd also been forewarned that even though
she was technically "on vacation," she'd still be fully reachable and working at all times,
and therefore, so should every single other person on staff. I was to be appropriately
prepped and trained without her highness present. That way, Miranda wouldn't have to
suffer my inevitable mistakes while I learned the job. Sounded good to me. So at 7:00A
.M. on the dot, I signed my name into Eduardo's book and was buzzed through the
turnstiles for the very first time. "Strike a pose!" Eduardo called after me, just before the
elevator doors swept shut.

Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but wrinkled sheer white T-shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants was waiting for me in the reception area, clutching a cup of Starbucks and flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were placed firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed obviously through the completely transparent cotton of her shirt. Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth by the coffee cup, and uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders made her look as though she'd spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.
"Hey, welcome," she muttered, giving me my first official up-down look-over by someone other than the security guard. "Nice boots."
My heart surged. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her tone made it impossible to tell. My arches ached already and my toes were jammed up against the front, but if I'd actually been complimented on an item of my outfit by aRunway –er, it might be worth the pain.
Emily looked at me a moment longer and then swung her legs off the table, sighing dramatically. "Well, let's get to it. It'sreally lucky for you that she's not here," she said. "Not that she's not great, of course, because she is," she added in what I would soon recognize—and come to adopt myself—as the classicRunway Paranoid Turnaround. Just when something negative about Miranda slips out from a Clacker's lips—however justified—paranoia that Miranda will find out overwhelms the speaker and inspires an about-face. One of my favorite workday pastimes became watching my colleagues scramble to negate whatever blasphemy they'd uttered.
Emily slid her card through the electronic reader, and we walked side by side, in silence, through the winding hallways to the center of the floor, where Miranda's office suite was located. I watched as she opened the suite's French doors and tossed her bag and coat on one of the desks that sat directly outside Miranda's cavernous office. "This is your desk, obviously," she motioned to a smooth, wooden, L-shaped Formica slab that sat directly opposite hers. It had a brand-new turquoise iMac computer, a phone, and some filing trays, and there were already pens and paper clips and some notebooks in the drawers. "I left most of my stuff for you. It's easier if I just order the new stuff for myself."
Emily had just been promoted to the position of senior assistant, leaving the junior assistant position open for me. She explained that she would spend two years as Miranda's senior assistant, after which she'd be skyrocketed to an amazing fashion position atRunway . The three-year assistant program she'd be completing was the ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world, but I was clinging to the belief that my one-year sentence would suffice forThe New Yorker . Allison had already left Miranda's office area for her new post in the beauty department, where she'd be responsible for testing new makeup, moisturizers, and hair products and writing them up.

I wasn't sure how being Miranda's assistant had prepared her for this task, but I was impressed nonetheless. The promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got places.
The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten, about fifty in all of editorial. The biggest department was fashion, of course, with close to thirty people, including all the accessories assistants. Features, beauty, and art rounded out the mix. Nearly everyone stopped by Miranda's office to schmooze with Emily, overhear any gossip concerning her boss, and check out the new girl. I met dozens of people that first morning, everyone flashing enormous, toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in meeting me.
The men were all flamboyantly gay, adorning themselves in second-skin leather pants and ribbed T's that stretched over bulging biceps and perfect pecs. The art director, an older man sporting champagne blond, thinning hair, who looked like he dedicated his life to emulating Elton John, was turned out in rabbit-fur loafers and eyeliner. No one batted an eye. We'd had gay groups on campus, and I had a few friends who'd come out the past few years, but none of them looked like this. It was like being surrounded by the entire cast and crew ofRent —with better costumes, of course.
The women, or rather the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than thirty. While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—or ever would. In and out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch skinny heels, sashaying over to my desk to extend milky-white hands with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves "Jocelyn who works with Hope," "Nicole from fashion," and "Stef who oversees accessories." Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of height. All weighed less than 110 pounds.
As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone's name, the prettiest girl I'd seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds. The most amazing, white hair swirled down her back. Her six-one frame looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright, but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks glowed, and her multi-carat, flawless diamond engagement ring emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she'd caught me staring at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.
"I created it," she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at me. I looked to Emily for an explanation, a hint as to who this might be, but she was on the phone again. I thought the girl was referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but then she said, "Isn't it a gorgeous color? It's one coat Marshmallow and one coat Ballet Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first, and then a topcoat to finish it off. It's perfect—light colored without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think I'll use this every time I get a manicure!" And she turned on her heels and walked

outAh, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too, I mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away.
I'd been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and sweet and, except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish fetish, they all appeared interested in getting to know me. Emily hadn't left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me something. She provided running commentary on who was really important, whom not to piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend because they threw the best parties. When I described Manicure Girl, Emily's face lit up.
"Oh!" she breathed, more excited than I'd heard her about anyone else yet. "Isn't she just amazing?"
"Urn, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn't really get a chance to talk, she was just, you know, showing me her nail polish."
Emily smiled widely, proudly. "Yes, well, you do know who she is, don't you?"
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie stars or singers or models, but I couldn't place her. So, she was famous! Maybe that's why she hadn't introduced herself—I was supposed to recognize her. But I didn't. "No, actually, I don't. Is she famous?"
The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust. "Um,yeah, " Emily said, emphasizing the "yeah" and squinting her eyes as if to say,You total fucking idiot . "That is Jessica Duchamps." She waited. I waited. Nothing. "You do know who that is, right?" Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect something with this new information, but I was quite sure I'd never, ever heard of her. Besides, this game was getting old.
"Emily, I've never seen her before, and her name doesn't sound familiar. Would you please tell me who she is?" I asked, struggling to remain calm. The ironic part was that I didn't even care who she was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she'd made me look like a complete and total loser.
Her smile this time was patronizing. "Of course. You just had to say so. Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it—isn't that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich."
"Oh, really?" I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were restaurateurs. "That's great."
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite "Miranda Pnestly's office," although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself would call and I wouldn't know what to do. Panic set in during a call when an unidentified woman barked

something incoherent in a strong British accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without thinking to put it on hold first.
"It's her," I whispered urgently. "Take it."
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to mince emotions, she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity.
"Miranda? It's Emily," she said, a bright smile lighting up her face as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her. Silence. A frown. "Oh, Mimi, so sorry! The new girl thought you were Miranda! I know, how funny. I guess we have to work onnot thinking every British accent is necessarily our boss! " She looked at me pointedly, her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher.
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and take messages for Emily, who would then call the people back—with nonstop narration on their order of importance, if any, in Miranda's life. About noon, just as the first hunger pangs were beginning, I picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end.
"Hello? Allison, is that you?" asked the icy-sounding but regal voice. "I'll be needing a skirt."
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide. "Emily, it's her, it's definitely her," I hissed, waving the receiver to get her attention. "She wants a skirt!"
Emily turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the phone without so much as "I'll call you later" or even "good-bye." She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line, and plastered on another wide grin.
"Miranda? It's Emily. What can I do?" She put her pen to her pad and began writing furiously, forehead furrowing intently. "Yes, of course. Naturally." And as fast as it happened, it was over. I looked at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for appearing so eager.
"Well, it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt for tomorrow, among other things, so we'll need to get it on a plane by tonight, at the latest."
"OK, well, what kind does she need?" I asked, still reeling from the shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic simply because she'd requested it do so.
"She didn't say exactly," Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
"Hi, Jocelyn, it's me. She wants a skirt, and I'll need to have it on Mrs. de la Renta's flight tonight, since she'll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea.

No, she didn't say. I really don't know. OK, thanks." She turned to me and said, "It makes it more difficult when she's not specific. She's too busy to worry about details like that, so she didn't say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But that's OK. I know her size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she'll like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. They'll start calling some in." I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voila! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not quite. "Calling in" the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military operation. Either Emily or myself would notify the fashion assistants—about eight in all, who each maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores. The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public relations contacts at the various design houses and, if appropriate, at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly—yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for herpersonal use—was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Barney's, Chloe, Calvin Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto Cavalli, and Saks would be messengermg over (or, in some cases, hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly could conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like a highly choreographed ballet, each player knowing exactly where and when and how their next step would occur. While this near-daily activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that we'd need to send with the skirt that night.
"Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street," she said while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece ofRunway stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, "Here, take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it." I took the phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the building, wondering how I was ever going to find "my car." Or even, really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe approached.
"You Pnestly's new girl?" he croaked through tobacco-stained lips, never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. "I'm Rich. The dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?" I nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the door shut and waved.
"Where you going, miss?" the driver asked, pulling me back to the present. I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from my pocket.

First stop: Tommy Hilfiger's studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for
Leanne. She'll give you everything we need.
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one o'clock on a frigid winter afternoon, I was twenty-three years old, and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan, on my way to Tommy Hilfiger's studio. And I was positively starving. It took nearly forty-five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the midtown lunch hour, my first glimpse of real city gridlock. The driver told me he'd circle the block until I came out again, and off I went to Tommy's studio. When I asked for Leanne at the receptionist's desk on the sixth floor, an adorable girl not a day older than eighteen came bounding down the stairs.
"Hi!" she called, stretching out the "I" sound for a few seconds. "You must be Andrea, Miranda's new assistant. We sure do love her around here, so welcome to the team!" She grinned. I grinned. She pulled a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and immediately spilled its contents on the floor. "Here we have Caroline's favorite jeans in three colors, and we threw in some baby T's, too. And Cassidy just adores Tommy's khaki skirts—we gave them to her in olive and stone." Jean skirts, denim jackets, even a few pair of socks came flying out of the bag, and all I could do was stare: there were enough clothes to constitute four or more total preteen wardrobes.Who the hell are Cassidy and Caroline? I wondered, staring at the loot. What self-respecting person wears Tommy Hilfiger jeans—in three different colors, no less?
I must've looked thoroughly confused, because Leanne quite purposely turned her back while repacking the clothes and said, "I just know Miranda's daughters will love this stuff. We've been dressing them for years, and Tommy insists on picking the clothes out for them himself." I shot her a grateful look and threw the bag over my shoulder.
"Good luck!" she called as the elevator doors closed, a genuine smile taking up most of her face. "You're lucky to have such an awesome job!" Before she could say it, I found myself mentally finishing the sentence—a million girls would die for it. And for that moment, having just seen a famous designer's studio and in possession of thousands of dollars worth of clothes, I thought she was right.
Once I got the hang of things, the rest of the day flew. I debated for a few minutes whether anyone would be mad if I took a minute to pick up a sandwich, but I had no choice. I hadn't eaten anything since my croissant at seven this morning, and it was nearly two. I asked the driver to pull over at a deli and decided at the last minute to get him one, too. His jaw dropped when I handed him the turkey and honey mustard, and I wondered if I had made him uncomfortable.

"I just figured you were hungry, too," I said. "You know, driving around all day, you probably don't have much time for lunch."
"Thank you, miss, I appreciate it. It's just that I've been driving around Ehas-Clark girls for twelve years, and they are not so nice. You are very nice," he said in a thick but indeterminate accent, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I smiled at him and felt a momentary flash of foreboding. But then the moment passed and we each munched our turkey wraps while sitting in gridlock and listening to his favorite CD, which sounded to me like little more than a woman shrieking the same thing over and over in an unknown language, the whole thing set to sitar music.
Emily's next written instruction was to pick up a pair of white shorts that Miranda desperately needed for tennis. I figured we'd be headed to Polo, but she had written Chanel. Chanel made white tennis shorts? The driver took me to the private salon, where an older saleswoman whose facelift had left her eyes looking like slits handed me a pair of white cotton-Lycra hot pants, size zero, pinned to a silk hanger and draped in a velvet garment bag. I looked at the shorts, which appeared as though they wouldn't fit a six-year-old, and looked back to the woman.
"Urn, do you really think Miranda will wear these?" I asked tentatively, convinced the woman could open that pit-bull mouth of hers and consume me whole. She glared at me.
"Well, I should hope so, miss, considering they're custom measured and cut, according to her exact specifications," she snarled as she handed the mimshorts over. "Tell her Mr. Kopelman sends his best "Sure, lady. Whoever that is.
My next stop was what Emily wrote as "way downtown," J&R Computer World near City Hall. Seemed it was the only store in the entire city that sold Warriors of the West, a computer game that Miranda wanted to purchase for Oscar and Annette de la Renta's son, Moises. By the time I made it downtown an hour later, I'd realized that the cell phone could make long-distance calls, and I was happily dialing my parents and telling them how great the job was.
"Urn, Dad? Hi, it's Andy. Guess where I am now? Yes, of course I'm at work, but that happens to be in the backseat of a chauffeured car cruising around Manhattan. I've already been to Tommy Hilfiger and Chanel, and after I buy this computer game, I'm on my way to Oscar de la Renta's apartment on Park Avenue to drop all the stuff off. No, it's not for him! Miranda's in the DR and Annette's flying there to meet them all tonight. On a private plane, yes! Dad! It stands for the Dominican Republic, of course!"
He sounded wary but pleased that I was so happy, and I came to decide that I was hired as college-educated messenger. Which was absolutely fine with me. After leaving the bag of Tommy clothes, the hot pants, and the computer game with a very distinguished-looking doorman in a very plush Park Avenue lobby so this is what people mean when they talk about Park Avenue!), I headed back to the Ehas-Clark building.

When I walked into my office area, Emily was sitting Indian-style on the floor, wrapping presents in plain white paper with white ribbons. She was surrounded by mountains of red-and-white boxes, all identical in shape, hundreds, perhaps thousands, scattered between our desks and overflowing into Miranda's office. Emily was unaware that I was watching her, and I saw that it took her only two minutes to wrap each individual box perfectly and an additional fifteen seconds to tie on a white satin ribbon. She moved efficiently, not wasting a single second, piling the wrapped white boxes in new mountains behind her. The wrapped pile grew and grew, but the unwrapped pile didn't shrink. I estimated that she could be at it for the next four days and still not finish.
I called her name over the eighties CD she had playing from her computer. "Urn, Emily? Hi, I'm back."
She turned toward me and for a brief moment appeared to have no idea who I was. Completely blank. But then my new-girl status came rushing back. "How'd it go?" she asked quickly. "Did you get everything on the list?"
I nodded.
"Even the video game? When I called, there was only one copy left. It was there?"
I nodded again.
"And you gave it all to the de la Rentas' doorman on Park? The clothes, the shorts, everything?"
"Yep. No problem. It went very smoothly, and I dropped it all off a few minutes ago. I was wondering, will Miranda actually wear those—"
"Listen, I need to run to the bathroom and I've been waiting for you to get back. Just sit by the phone for a minute, OK?"
"You haven't gone to the bathroom since I left?" I asked incredulously. It had been five hours. "Why not?"
Emily finished tying the ribbon on the box she had just wrapped and looked at me coolly. "Miranda doesn't tolerate anyone except her assistants answering her phone, so since you weren't here, I didn't want to go. I suppose I could have run out for a minute, but I know she's having a hectic day, and I want to make sure that I'm always available to her. So no, we do not go to the bathroom—or anywhere else—without clearing it with each other. We need to work together to make sure that we are doing the best job possible for her. OK?"
"Sure," I said. "Go ahead. I'll be right here." She turned and walked away, and I put my hand on the desk to steady myself. No going to the bathroom without a

coordinated war plan? Did she really sit in that office for the past five hours willing her bladder to behave because she worried that a woman across the Atlantic may call in the two and a half minutes it would take to run to the ladies' room? Apparently so. It seemed a little dramatic, but I assumed that was just Emily being overly enthusiastic. There was no way that Miranda actually demanded that of her assistants. I was sure of it. Or did she?
I picked up a few sheets of paper from the printer and saw that it was titled "X-Mas Presents Received." One, two, three, four, five,six single-spaced pages of gifts, with sender and item on one line each. Two hundred and fifty-six presents in all. It looked like a wedding registry for the Queen of England, and I couldn't take it in fast enough. There was a Bobby Brown makeup set from Bobby Brown herself, a one-of-a-kind leather Kate Spade handbag from Kate and Andy Spade, a Smythson of Bond Street burgundy leather organizer from Graydon Carter, a mink-lined sleeping bag from Miuccia Prada, a multistrand beaded Verdura bracelet from Aerin Lauder, a diamond-encrusted watch from Donatella Versace, a case of champagne from Cynthia Rowley, a matching beaded tank top and evening bag from Mark Badgley and James Mischka, a collection of Cartier pens from Irv Ravitz, a chinchilla muffler from Vera Wang, a zebra-print jacket from Alberto Ferretti, a Burberry cashmere blanket from Rosemane Bravo. And that was just the start. There were handbags in every shape and size from everyone: Herb Ritts, Bruce Weber, Giselle Bundchen, Hillary Clinton, Tom Ford, Calvin Klein, Annie Leibovitz, Nicole Miller, Adnenne Vittadini, Michael Kors, Helmut Lang, Giorgio Armani, John Sahag, Bruno Magh, Mario Testino, and Narcisco Rodriguez, to name a few. There were dozens of donations made in Miranda's name to various chanties, what must have been a hundred bottles of wine and champagne, eight or ten Dior bags, a couple dozen scented candles, a few pieces of Oriental pottery, silk pajamas, leather-bound books, bath products, chocolates, bracelets, caviar, cashmere sweaters, framed photographs, and enough flower arrangements and/or potted plants to decorate one of those five-hundred-couple mass weddings they have in soccer stadiums in China. Ohmigod! Was this reality? Was this actually happening? Was I now working for a woman who received 256 presents at Christmas from some of the world's most famous people? Or not so famous? I wasn't sure. I recognized a few of the really obvious celebrities and designers, but didn't know then that the others comprised some of the most sought-after photographers, makeup artists, models, socialites, and a whole slew of Elias-Clark executives. Just as I was wondering if Emily actually knew who all the people were, she walked back in. I tried to pretend I wasn't reading the list, but she didn't mind at all.
"Crazy, isn't it? She is the coolest woman ever," she gushed, snatching the sheets off her desk and gazing at them with what can only be described as lust. "Have you ever seen more amazing things in your life? This is last year's list. I just pulled it out so we know what to expect since the gifts have begun coming in already. That's definitely one of the best parts of the job—opening all her presents." I was confused. We opened her presents? Why wouldn't she open them herself? I asked as much.
"Are you out of your mind? Miranda won't like ninety percent of the stuff people send. Some of it is downright insulting, things I won't even show her. Like this,"

she said, picking up a small box. It was a Bang and Olufsen portable phone in their signature sleek silver with all rounded edges and the capability to remain clear for something like 2,000 miles. I had been in the store just a couple weeks earlier, watching Alex salivate over their stereo systems, and I knew the phone cost upward of five hundred dollars and could do everything short of holding a conversationfor you. "A phone? Do you believe someone had the nerve to send Miranda Priestly aphone ?" She tossed it to me. "Keep it if you want it: I would never even let her see this. She'd be annoyed that someone sent somethingelectromc ." She pronounced the word "electronic" as though it were synonymous with "covered in bodily fluids."
I tucked the phone box under my desk and tried to keep the smile off my face. It was too perfect! A portable phone was on my list of stuff that I still needed for my new room, and I'd just gotten a five-hundred-dollar one for free.
"Actually," she continued, flopping down again on the floor of Miranda's office, Indian-style, "let's put in a few hours wrapping some more of these wine bottles, and then you can open the presents that came in today. They're over there." She pointed behind her desk to a smaller mountain of boxes and bags and baskets in a multitude of colors.
"So, these are gifts that we're sending out from Miranda, right?" I asked her as I picked up a box and began wrapping it in the thick white paper.
"Yep. Every year, it's the same deal. Top-tier people get bottles of Dom. This would include Elias execs, and the big designers who aren't also personal friends. Her lawyer and accountant. Midlevel people get Veuve, and this is just about everyone—the twins' teachers, the hair stylists, Un, et cetera. The nobodies get a bottle of the Ruffino Chianti—usually they go to the PR people who send small, general gifts that aren't personalized for her. She'll have us send Chianti to the vet, some of the babysitters who fill in for Cara, the people who wait on her in stores she goes to often, and all the caretakers associated with the summer house in Connecticut. Anyway, I order about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of this stuff at the beginning of November, Sherry-Lehman delivers it, and it usually takes nearly a month to do all the wrapping. It's good she's out of the office now or we'd be taking this stuff home with us to wrap. Pretty good deal, because Elias picks up the tab."
"I guess it would cost double that to have the Sherry-Lehman place wrap them, huh?" I wondered, still trying to process the hierarchy of the gift-giving.
"What the hell do we care?" she snorted. "Trust me, you'll learn quickly that cost is no issue around here. It's just that Miranda doesn't like the wrapping paper they use. I gave them this white paper last year, but they just didn't look as nice as when we do it." She looked proud.
We wrapped like that until close to six, with Emily telling me how things worked as I tried to wrap my mind around this strange and exciting world. Just as she was

describing exactly how Miranda likes her coffee (tall latte with two raw sugars), a breathless blond girl I remembered as one of the many fashion assistants walked in carrying a wicker basket the size of a baby carriage. She hovered just outside Miranda's office, looking as though she thought the soft gray carpeting might turn to quicksand under her Jimmy Choos if she dared to cross the threshold.
"Hi, Em. I've got the skirts right here. Sorry that took so long, but no one's around since it's that weird time right before Thanksgiving. Anyway, hopefully you'll find something she'll like." She looked down at her basket full of folded skirts.
Emily looked up at her with barely disguised scorn. "Just leave them on my desk. I'll return the ones that won't work.Which I imagine will be most of them, considering your taste ." The last part was under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
The blond girl looked bewildered. Definitely not the brightest star in the sky, but she seemed nice enough. I wondered why Emily so obviously hated her. It'd been a long day already, what with the running commentary and errands all over the city and hundreds of names and faces to try to remember, so I didn't even ask.
Emily placed the large basket on her desk and looked down on it, hands on her hips. From what I could see from Miranda's office floor, there were perhaps twenty-five different skirts in an incredible assortment of fabrics, colors, and sizes. Had she really not specified what she wanted at all? Did she really not bother to inform Emily whether she'd be needing something appropriate for a black-tie dinner or a mixed-doubles match or perhaps to use as a bathing suit cover-up? Did she want denim, or would something chiffon work better? How exactly were we supposed to predict whatmight please her?
I was about to find out. Emily carried the wicker basket to Miranda's office and carefully, reverentially, placed it on the plush carpeting beside me. She sat down and began removing the skirts one by one and laying them in a circle around us. There was a beautiful crocheted skirt in shocking fuchsia by Celine, a pearl gray wraparound by Calvin Klein, and a black suede one with black beads along the bottom by Mr. de la Renta himself. There were skirts in red and ecru and lavender, some with lace and others in cashmere. A few were long enough to sweep gracefully along the ankles, and others were so short they looked more like tube tops. I picked up a midcalf, brown silk beauty and held it up to my waist, but the material covered only one of my legs. The next one in the pile reached to the floor in a swirl of tulle and chiffon and looked as though it would feel most at home at a Charleston garden party. One of the jean skirts was prefaded and came with a gigantic brown leather belt already looped around it, and another had a crinkly, silver-material overlay on top of a slightly more opaque silver liner. Where on earth were we going here?
"Wow, looks like Miranda has a thing for skirts, huh?" I said, simply because I had nothing better to say.

"Actually, no. Miranda has a slight obsession with scarves." Emily refused to make eye contact with me, as though she'd just revealed that she herself had herpes. "It's just one of those cute, quirky things about her you should know."
"Oh, really?" I asked, trying to sound amused and not horrified. An obsession with scarves? I like clothes and bags and shoes as much as the next girl, but I wouldn't exactly declare any of them an "obsession." And something about the way Emily was saying it wasn't so casual.
"Yes, well, she must need a skirt for something specific, but it's scarves that's she's really into. You know, like her signature scarves?" She looked at me. My face must have betrayed my complete lack of a clue. "You do remember meeting her during the interview, do you not?"
"Of course," I said quickly, sensing it'd probably not be the best idea to let this girl know that I couldn't so much as remember Miranda's name during my interview, never mind remember what she was wearing. "But I'm not sure I noticed a scarf."
"She always, always, always wears a single white Hermes scarf somewhere on her outfit. Mostly around her neck, but sometimes she'll have her hairdresser tie one in a chignon, or occasionally she'll use them as a belt. They're like, her signature. Everyone knows that Miranda Priestly wears a white Hermes scarf, no matter what. How cool is that?"
It was at that exact moment that I noticed Emily had a lime green scarf woven through the belt loops on her cargo pants, just peeking out from underneath the white T-shirt.
"She likes to mix it up sometimes, and I'm guessing that this is one of those times. Anyway, those idiots in fashion never know what she'll like. Look at some of these, they're hideous!" She held up an absolutely gorgeous flowy skirt, slightly dressier than the rest with its little flecks of gold shimmering from the deep tan background.
"Yep," I agreed, in what was to become the first of thousands, if not millions, of times I agreed with whatever she said simply to make her stop talking. "It's horrendous-looking." It was so beautiful I thought I'd be happy to wear it to my own wedding.
Emily continued prattling on about patterns and fabrics and Miranda's needs and wants, occasionally interjecting a scathing insult about a coworker. She finally chose three radically different skirts and set them aside to send to Miranda, talking, talking, talking the whole time. I tried to listen, but it was almost seven, and I was trying to decide whether I was ravenously hungry, utterly nauseated, or just plain exhausted. I think it was all three. I didn't even notice when the tallest human being I'd ever seen swooped into the office.

"YOU!" I heard from somewhere behind me. "STAND UP SO I CAN GET A LOOK AT YOU!"
I turned just in time to see the man, who was at least seven feet tall, with tanned skin and black hair, pointing directly at me. He had 250 pounds stretched over his incredibly tall frame and was so muscular, so positively ripped, that it looked as though he might just explode out of his denim . . . catsuit? Ohmigod! He was wearing a catsuit. Yes, yes, a denim, one-piece catsuit with tight pants and a belted waist and rolled-up sleeves. And a cape. There was actually a blanket-size fur cape tied twice around his thick neck, and shiny black combat boots the size of tennis rackets adorned his mammoth feet. He looked around thirty-five years old, although all the muscles and the deep tan and the positively chiseled jawbone could have been hiding ten years or adding five. He was flapping his hands at me and motioning for me to get up off the floor. I stood, unable to take my eyes off him, and he turned to examine me immediately.
"WELL! WHO DO WE HAVE HEEEEERE?" he bellowed, as best as one can in a falsetto voice. "YOU'RE PRETTY, BUT TOO WHOLESOME. AND THE OUTFIT DOES NOTHING FOR YOU!"
"My name's Andrea. I'm Miranda's new assistant."
He moved his eyes up and down over my body, inspecting every inch. Emily was watching the spectacle with a sneer on her face. The silence was unbearable.
"KNEE-HIGH BOOTS? WITH A KNEE-LENGTH SKIRT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? BABY GIRL, IN CASE YOU'RE UNAWARE—IN CASE YOU MISSED THE BIG, BLACK SIGN BY THE DOOR—THIS ISRUNWAY MAGAZINE, THE FUCKINGHIIPPEST MAGAZINE ON EARTH. ON EARTH! BUT NO WORRIES, HONEY, NIGEL WILL GET RID OF THAT JERSEY MALL-RAT LOOK YOU'VE GOT GOING SOON ENOUGH."
He put both his massive hands on my hips and twirled me around. I could feel his eyes looking at my legs and tush.
"SOON ENOUGH, SWEETIE, I PROMISE YOU, BECAUSE YOU'RE GOOD RAW MATERIAL. NICE LEGS, GREAT HAIR, AND NOT FAT. I CAN WORK WITH NOT FAT. SOON ENOUGH, SWEETIE."
I wanted to be offended, to pull myself away from the grip he had on my lower body, to take a few minutes and mull over the fact that a complete stranger—and a coworker, no less—had just provided an unsolicited and unflinchingly honest account of my outfit and my figure, but I wasn't. I liked his kind green eyes that seemed to laugh instead of taunt, but more than that, I liked that I had passed. This was Nigel— single name, like Madonna or Prince—the fashion authority whom even I recognized from TV, magazines, the society pages, everywhere, and he had called me pretty. And said I had nice legs! I let the mall-rat comment slide. Hiked this guy.

I heard Emily tell him to leave me alone from somewhere in the background, but I didn't want him to go. Too late, he was already heading for the door, his fur cape flapping behind him. I wanted to call out, tell him it had been nice to meet him, that I wasn't offended by what he said and was excited that he wanted to redo me. But before I could say a thing, Nigel whipped around and covered the space between us in two strides, each the length of a long jump. He planted himself directly in front of me, wrapped my entire body with his massive, rippling arms, and pressed me to him. My head rested just below his chest, and I smelled the unmistakable scent of Johnson's Baby Lotion. And just as I had the presence of mind to hug him back, he flung me backward, engulfed both of my hands in his, and screeched:
"WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE, BABY!"
5
"He said what?" Lily asked as she licked a spoonful of green tea ice cream. She and I had met at Sushi Samba at nine so I could update her on my first day. My parents had grudgingly forked over the emergencies-only credit card again until I got my first paycheck. Spicy tuna rolls and seaweed salads certainly felt like an emergency, and so I silently thanked Mom and Dad for treating Lily and me so well.
"He said, 'Welcome to the dollhouse, baby.' I swear. How cool is that?"
She looked at me, mouth hung open, spoon suspended in midair.
"You have the coolest job I've ever heard of," said Lily, who always talked about how she should've worked for a year before going back to school.
"It does seem pretty cool, doesn't it? Definitely weird, but cool, too. Whatever," I said, digging in to my oozing chocolate brownie. "It's not like I wouldn't rather be a student again than doing any of this."
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd just love to work part-time to finance your obscenely expensive and utterly useless Ph.D. You would, wouldn't you? You're jealous that I get to bartend in an undergrad pub, get hit on by freshmen until fourA .M. every night, and then head to class all day, aren't you? All of it knowing that if—and that's a big, fat if— you manage to finish at some point in the next seventeen years, you'll never get a job. Anywhere." She plastered on a big, fake smile and took a swig of her Sapporo. Lily was studying for her Ph.D. in Russian Literature at Columbia and working odd jobs every free second she wasn't studying. Her grandmother barely had enough money to support herself, and Lily wouldn't qualify for grants until she'd finished her master's, so it was remarkable she'd even come out that night.

I took the bait, as I always did when she bitched about her life. "So why do you do it, Lil?" I asked, even though I'd heard the answer a million times.
Lily snorted and rolled her eyes again. "Because I love it!" she sang sarcastically. And even though she'd never admit it because it was so much more fun to complain, she did love it. She'd developed a thing for Russian culture ever since her eighth-grade teacher told her that Lily looked how he had always pictured Lohta, with her round face and curly black hair. She went directly home and read Nabokov's masterpiece of lechery, never allowing the whole teacher-Lolita reference to bother her, and then read everything else Nabokov wrote. And Tolstoy. And Gogol. And Chekhov. By the time college rolled around, she was applying to Brown to work with a specific Russian lit professor who, upon interviewing seventeen-year-old Lily, had declared her one of the most well read and passionate students of Russian literature he'd ever met— undergrad, graduate, or otherwise. She still loved it, still studied Russian grammar and could read anything in its original, but she enjoyed whining about it more.
"Yeah, well, I definitely agree that I have the best gig around. I mean, Tommy Hilfiger? Chanel? Oscar de la Renta's apartment? Quite a first day. I have to say, I'm not quite sure how all of this is going to get me any closer toThe New Yorker, but maybe it's just too early to tell. It's just not seeming like reality, you know?"
"Well, anytime you feel like getting back in touch with reality, you know where to find me," Lily said, taking her MetroCard out of her purse. "If you get a craving for a little ghetto, if you're just dying to keep it real in Harlem, well, my luxurious two-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot studio is all yours."
I paid the check and we hugged good-bye, and she tried to give me specific instructions on how to get from Seventh Avenue and Christopher Street to my own sublet all the way uptown. I swore up and down that I understood exactly where to find the L-train and then the 6, and how to walk from the 96th Street stop to my apartment, but as soon as she left, I jumped in a cab.
Just this once,I thought to myself, sinking into the warm backseat and trying not to breathe in the driver's body odor.I'm a Runwaygirl now
I was pleased to discover that the rest of that first week wasn't much different than the first day. On Friday, Emily and I met in the stark white lobby again at sevenA .M., and this time she handed me my own ID card, complete with a picture that I didn't remember taking.
"From the security camera," she said when I stared at it. "They're everywhere around here, just so you know. They've had some major problems with people stealing

stuff, the clothes and jewelry called in for shoots; it seems the messengers and sometimes even the editors just help themselves. So now they track everyone." She slid her card down the slot and the thick glass door clicked open.
"Track? What exactly do you mean by 'track'?"
She moved quickly down the hallway toward our offices, her hips swishing back and forth, back and forth in the skintight tan Seven cords she was wearing. She'd told me the day before that I should seriously consider getting a pair or ten, as these were among the only jeans or corduroys that Miranda would permit people to wear in the office. Those and the MJ's were OK, but only on Friday, and only if worn with high heels. MJ's? "Marc Jacobs," she had said, exasperated.
"Well, between the cameras and the cards, they kind of know what everyone's doing," she said as she dropped her Gucci logo tote on her desk. She began unbuttoning her very fitted leather blazer, a coat that looked supremely inadequate for the late-November weather. "I don't think they actually look at the cameras unless something's missing, but the cards tell everything. Like, every time you swipe it downstairs to get past the security counter or on the floor to get in the door, they know where you are. That's how they tell if people are at work, so if you have to be out—and you never will, but just in case something really awful happens—you'll just give me your card and I'll swipe it. That way you'll still get paid for all the days you miss, even if you go over. You'll do the same for me—everyone does it."
I was still reeling from the "and you never will" part, but she continued her briefing.
"And that's how you'll get food in the dining room also. It's a debit card: just put on some money and it gets deducted at the register. Of course, that's how they can tell what you're eating," she said, unlocking Miranda's office door and plopping herself on the floor. She immediately reached for a boxed bottle of wine and began wrapping.
"Do they care what you eat?" I asked, feeling as though I'd just stepped directly into a scene fromShver.
"Urn, I'm not sure. Maybe? I just know they can tell. And the gym, too. You have to use it there, and at the newsstand to buy books or magazines. I think it just helps them stay organized."
Stay organized? I was working for a company who defined good "organization" as knowing which floor each employee visited, whether they preferred onion soup or Caesar salad for lunch, and just how many minutes they could tolerate the elliptical machine? I was a lucky, lucky girl.
Exhausted from my fourth morning of waking up at five-thirty, it took me another five full minutes to work up the energy to climb out of my coat and settle down at

my desk. I thought about putting my head down to rest for just a moment, but Emily cleared her throat. Loudly.
"Urn, you want to get in here and help me?" she asked, although it was clearly no question. "Here, wrap something." She thrust a pile of white paper my way and resumed her task. Jewel blasted from the extra speakers attached to her iMac.
Cut, place, fold, tape:Emily and I worked steadily through the morning, stopping only to call the downstairs messenger center each time we'd finished with twenty-five boxes. They'd hold them until we gave the green light for them to be fanned out all over Manhattan in mid-December. We'd already completed all of the out-of-town bottles during my first two days, and those were piled in the Closet waiting for DHL to pick them up. Considering each and every one was set to be sent first-day priority, arriving at their locations at the earliest possible time the very next morning, I wasn't sure what the rush was—considering it was only the end of November—but I'd already learned it was better not to ask questions. We would be FedExing about 150 bottles all over the world. The Priestly bottles would make it to Pans, Cannes, Bordeaux, Milan, Rome, Florence, Barcelona, Geneva, Brugges, Stockholm, Amsterdam, and London. Dozens to London! FedEx would jet them to Beijing and Hong Kong and Capetown and Tel Aviv and Dubai (Dubai!). They would be toasting Miranda Priestly in Los Angeles, Honolulu, New Orleans, Charleston, Houston, Bndgehampton, and Nantucket. And those all before any went out in New York—the city that contained all of Miranda's friends, doctors, maids, hair stylists, nannies, makeup artists, shrinks, yoga instructors, personal trainers, drivers, and personal shoppers. Of course, this was where most of the fashion-industry people were, too: the designers, models, actors, editors, advertisers, PR folks, and all-around style mavens would each receive a level-appropriate bottle lovingly delivered by an Elias-Clark messenger.
"How much do you think all of this costs?" I asked Emily, while snipping what felt like the millionth piece of thick white paper.
"I told you, I ordered twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of booze."
"No, no—how much do you think it costs altogether? I mean, to overnight all these packages all over the world, well, I bet that in some cases the shipping costs more than the bottle itself, especially if they're getting a nobody bottle."
She looked intrigued. It was the first time I'd seen her look at me with anything other than disgust, exasperation, or indifference. "Well, let's see. If you figure that all the domestic FedExes are somewhere in the twenty-dollar range, and all the international are about $60, then that equals $9,000 for FedEx. I think I heard somewhere that the messengers charge eleven bucks a package, so sending out 250 of those would be $2,750. And our time, well, if it takes us a full week to wrap everything, then added together, that's two full weeks of both our salaries, which is another four grand—"

It was here I flinched inwardly, realizing that both of our salaries together for an entire week's work was by far the most insignificant expense.
"Yeah, it comes to around $16,000 in total. Crazy, huh? But what choice is there? She is Miranda Priestly, you know."
At about one Emily announced she was hungry and was heading downstairs to get some lunch with a few of the girls in accessories. I assumed she meant she would pick up her lunch, since that's what we'd been doing all week, so I waited for ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty, but she never reappeared with her food. Neither of us had actually eaten in the dining room since I'd started in case Miranda called, but this was ridiculous. Two o'clock came and then two-thirty and then three, and all I could think about was how hungry I was. I tried calling Emily's cell phone, but it went directly to voice mail. Could she have died in the dining room? I wondered. Choked on some plain lettuce, or simply slumped over after downing a smoothie? I thought about asking someone to pick something up for me, but it seemed too prima donna-ish to ask a perfect stranger to fetch me lunch. After all,I was supposed to be the lunch-fetcher:Oh, yes, darling, I'm simply too important to abandon my post here wrapping presents, so I was wondering if you might pick me up a turkey and brie croissant? Lovely . I just couldn't do it. So when four o'clock rolled around and there was still no sign of Emily and no call from Miranda, I did the unthinkable: I left the office unattended.
After peeking down the hall and confirming that Emily was nowhere in sight, I literally ran to the reception area and pushed the down button twenty times. Sophy, the gorgeous Asian receptionist, raised her eyebrows and looked away, and I wasn't sure if it was my impatience or her knowledge that Miranda's office was abandoned that made her look at me that way. No time to figure it out. The elevator finally arrived, and I was able to throw myself onboard even as a sneering, heroin-thin guy with spiky hair and lime green Pumas was pushing "Door Close." No one moved aside to give me room even though there was plenty of space. And while this would've normally driven me crazy, all I could concentrate on was getting food and getting back, ASAP.
The entrance to the all-glass-and-granite dining room was blocked by a group of Clackers-in-training, all leaning in and whispering, examining each group of people who got off the elevator. Friends of Elias employees, I immediately recalled from Emily's description of such groups, obvious from their unmasked excitement to be standing at the center of it all. Lily had already begged me to take her to the dining room since it'd been written up in nearly every Manhattan newspaper and magazine for its incredible food quality and selection—not to mention its gaggle of gorgeous people—but I wasn't ready for that yet. Besides, due to the complex office-sitting schedule Emily and I negotiated each day so far, I'd yet to spend more time there than the two and a half minutes it took to choose and pay for my food, and I wasn't sure I ever would.
I pushed my way past the girls and felt them turn to see if I was anyone important. Negative. Weaving quickly, intently, I bypassed gorgeous racks of lamb and veal marsala in the entrees section and, with a push of willpower, cruised right past the

sundned tomato and goat cheese pizza special (which resided on a small table banished to the sidelines that everyone referred to as "Carb Corner"). It wasn't as easy to navigate around thepiece de resistance of the room, the salad bar also known just as "Greens," as in "I'll meet you at Greens"), which was as long as an airport landing strip and accessible from four different directions, but the hordes let me pass when I loudly assured them that I wasn't going after the last of the tofu cubes. All the way in the back, directly behind the panim stand that actually resembled a makeup counter, was the single, lone soup station. Lone because the soup chef was the only one in the entire dining room who refused to make a single one of his offerings low fat, reduced fat, fat-free, low sodium, or low carb. He simply refused. As a result, his was the single table in the entire room without a line, and I sprinted directly toward him every day. Since it appeared that I was the only one in the entire company who actually bought soup—and I'd only been there a week—the higher-ups had slashed his menu to a solitary soup per day. I prayed for tomato cheddar. Instead, he ladled out a giant cup of New England clam chowder, proudly declaring it was made with heavy cream. Three people at Greens turned to stare. The only obstacle left was dodging the crowds around the chefs table, where a visiting chef in full whites was arranging large chunks of sashimi for what appeared to be adoring fans. I read the nametag on his starched white collar: Nobu Matsuhisa. I made a mental note to look him up when I got upstairs, since I seemed to be the only employee in the place who wasn't fawning all over him. Was it worse to have never heard of Mr. Matsuhisa or Miranda Priestly?
The petite cashier looked first at the soup and then at my hips when she rang me up. Or had she? I'd already grown accustomed to being looked up and down every time I went anywhere, and I could've sworn she was looking at me with the same expression I would've given a five-hundred-pound person with eight Big Macs arrayed in from of him: the eyes raised just enough as if to ask, "Do youreally need that?" But I brushed my paranoia aside and reminded myself that the woman was simply a cashier in a cafeteria, not a Weight Watchers counselor. Or a fashion editor.
"So. Not many people buying the soup these days," she said quietly, punching numbers on the register.
"Yeah, I guess not that many people like New England clam chowder," I mumbled, swiping my card and willing her hands to move faster, faster.
She stopped and turned her narrowed brown eyes directly toward mine. "No, I think it's because the soup chef insists on making these really fattening things—do you have any idea how many calories are in that? Do you have any idea how fattening that little cup of soup is? I'm just saying is, someone could put on ten pounds from just looking at it—"And you're not one who could afford to gain ten pounds, she implied.
Ouch. As if it hadn't been hard enough convincing myself that I was a normal weight for a normal height as all the tall, willowyRunway blondes had openly examined me, now thecashier was—for all intents and purposes—telling me I was fat? I snatched my takeout bag and pushed past the people, and walked into the bathroom that was

conveniently located directly outside the dining room, where one could purge any earlier bingeing problems. And even though I knew that the mirror would reveal nothing more or less than it had that morning, I turned to face it head on. A twisted, angry face stared back at me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Emily all but shouted at my reflection. I whipped around in time to see her hanging her leather blazer through the handle of the Gucci logo tote, as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. It occurred to me that Emily had meant what she'd said three and a half hours before quite literally: she'd gone out for lunch. As in, outside. As in, left me all alone for three straight hours with no warning, practically tethered to a phone line with no hopes of food or bathroom breaks. As in, none of that mattered because I still knew I was wrong to leave and I was about to get screamed at for it by someone my own age. Blessedly, the door swung open and the editor in chief ofCoquette strode in. She looked us both up and down as Emily grabbed my arm and steered me out of the bathroom and toward the elevator. We stood like that together, her clutching my arm and me feeling as though I'd just wet the bed. We were living one of those scenes where the kidnapper puts a gun to a woman's back in broad daylight and quietly threatens her as he leads her to his basement of torture.
"How could you do this to me?" she hissed as she pushed me throughRunway 's reception-area doors and we hurtled together back to our desks. "As the senior assistant, I am responsible for what goes on in our office. I know you're new, but I've told you from the very first day: we do not leave Miranda unattended."
"But Miranda's not here." It came out as a squeak.
"But she could've called while you were gone and no one would've been here to answer the goddamn phone!" she screamed as she slammed the door to our suite. "Our first priority—our only priority—is Miranda Priestly. Period. And if you can't deal with that, just remember that there are millions of girls who would die for your job. Now check your voice mail. If she called, we're dead. You're dead."
I wanted to crawl inside my iMac and die. How could I have screwed up so badly during my very first week? Miranda wasn't even in the office and I'd already let her down. So what if I was hungry? It could wait. There were genuinely important people trying to get things done around here, people who depended on me, and I'd let them down. I dialed my mailbox.
"Hi, Andy, it's me." Alex. "Where are you? I've never heard you not answer. Can't wait for dinner tonight—we're still on, right? Anywhere you want, your pick. Call me when you get this, I'll be in the faculty lounge anytime after four. Love you." I immediately felt guilty, because I'd already decided after the whole lunch debacle that I'd rather reschedule. My first week had been so crazy that we'd barely seen each other, and we'd made a special plan to have dinner that night, just the two of us. But I knew I wouldn't be any fun if I fell asleep in my wine, and I kind of wanted a night to unwind and be alone. I'd have to remember to call and see if we could do it the next night.

Emily was standing over me, having already checked her own voice mail. From her relatively calm face, I guessed that Miranda had not left her any death threats. I shook my head to indicate that I hadn't gotten one from her yet.
"Hi, Andrea, it's Cara." Miranda's nanny. "So, Miranda called here a little while ago"—heart stoppage—"and said she's tried the office and no one was picking up. I figured something was going on down there, so I told her that I'd spoken to both you and Emily just a minute before, but don't worry about it. She wanted aWomen's Wear Daily faxed to her, and I had a copy right here. Already confirmed that she got it, too, so don't stress. Just wanted to let you know. Anyway, have a good weekend. I'll talk to you later. 'Bye."
Lifesaver. The girl was an absolute saint. It was hard to believe I'd only known her a week—and not even in person, only over the phone—because I thought I was in love with her. She was the opposite of Emily in every regard: calm, grounded, and entirely fashion-oblivious. She recognized Miranda's absurdity but didn't begrudge her it; she had that rare, charming quality of being able to laugh at herself and everyone else.
"Nope, not her," I told Emily, lying sort of but not really, smiling triumphantly. "We're in the clear."
"You'rein the clear, this time," she said flatly. "Just remember that we're in this together, but I am in charge. You'll cover for me if I want to go out to lunch once in a while—I'm entitled. This will never happen again, right?"
I bit back the urge to say something nasty. "Right," I said. "Right."
We'd managed to finish wrapping the rest of the bottles and get them all to the messengers by seven that night, and Emily didn't mention the office-abandonment issue again. I finally fell into a taxi (just this one time) at eight, and was spread-eagle, still fully dressed, on top of my covers at ten. And I still hadn't eaten because I couldn't bear the thought of going out in search of food and getting lost again, as I had the past four nights, in my own neighborhood. I called Lily to complain on my brand-new Bang and Olufsen phone.
"Hi! I thought you and Alex had a date tonight," she said.
"Yeah, we did, but I'm dead. He's fine with doing it tomorrow night, and I think I'll just order. Whatever. How was your day?"
"I have one word: screwed up. OK, so that was two. You'll never imagine what happened. Well, of course you will, it happens all the—"

"Cut to it, Lil. I'm going to pass out any minute."
"OK. Cutest guy ever came to my reading today. Sat through the whole thing looking absolutely fascinated, and waited for me afterward. Asked if he could take me for a drink and hear all about the thesis I had published at Brown, which he'd already read."
"Sounds great. What was he?" Lily went out with different guys almost every night after getting off work, but had yet to complete her fraction. She had founded the Scale of Fractional Love one night after listening to a few of our guy friends rate the girls they were dating on their own invention, the Ten-Ten Scale. "She's a six, eight, B-plus," Jake would declare of the advertising assistant he'd been set up with the night before. It was assumed everyone knew that it was a ten-point scale, with face always being the first numerical ranking, body the second, and personality coming in last with a slightly more generalized letter grade. Since there were clearly more factors at work in judging guys, Lily devised the Fractional Scale, which had a total often pieces that each earned a point. The Perfect Guy would obviously have all five of the primary pieces: intelligence, sense of humor, decent body, cute face, and any sort of job that fell under the generous umbrella of "normal." Since it was next to impossible to find The Perfect Guy, someone could up their fraction by earning points on the secondary five, which included a definitive lack of psycho ex-girlfriends, psycho parents, or date-rapist roommates, and any sort of extracurricular interests or hobbies that weren't sports– or porn-related. So far, the highest anyone had received was a nine-tenths, but he had broken up with her.
"Well, at first he was going strong at seven-tenths. He was a theater major at Yaleand he's straight, and he could discuss Israeli politics so intelligently that he never once suggested that we 'just nuke 'em,' so that was good."
"Sure sounds good. I can't wait for the clincher. What was it? Did he talk about his favorite Nintendo game?"
"Worse." She sighed.
"Is he thinner than you?"
"Worse." She sounded defeated.
"What on earth could be worse than that?"
"He lives on Long Island—"
"Lily! So he's geographically undesirable. That doesn't make him undateable! You know better than to—"
"With his parents," she interrupted.
Oh.

"For the past four years."
Oh, my.
"And he absolutely loves it. Says he can't imagine wanting to live alone in such a big city when his mom and dad are such great company."
"Whoa! Say no more. I don't think we've ever had a seven-tenths fall all the way to a zero after the first date. Your guy set a new record. Congratulations. Your day was officially worse than mine." I leaned over to kick my bedroom door closed when I heard Shanti and Kendra come home from work. I heard a guy's voice with them and wondered if either of my roommates had boyfriends. I'd seen them a combined total of only ten minutes in the last week and a half, because they seemed to work longer hours than I did.
"That bad? How could your day be bad? You work infashion, " she said.
There was a quiet knocking on the door.
"Hold on a sec, someone's here. Come in!" I called to the door, much too loud for the tiny space. I waited for one of my quiet roommates to timidly ask if I'd remembered to call the landlord to put my name on the lease (no) or bought more paper plates (no) or had taken down any phone messages (no), but Alex appeared.
"Hey, can I call you back? Alex just showed up." I was thrilled to see him, so excited that he'd surprised me, but a small part of me had been looking forward to just taking a shower and crawling into bed.
"Sure. Tell him I say hi. And remember what a lucky girl you are for having completed the fraction with him, Andy. He's great. Hold on to that one."
"Don't I know it. The kid's a goddamn saint." I smiled in his direction.
'"Bye."
"Hi!" I willed myself to first sit up, then stand up and walk over to him. "What a great surprise!" I went to hug him but he backed away, keeping his arms behind his back. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing at all. I know you've had such a long week, and, knowing you, I figured you hadn't bothered to eat yet, so I brought the food to you." He pulled a huge brown paper bag from behind his back, one of the old-school grocery style ones, and it already had some delicious-smelling grease stains on it. All of a sudden, I was starving.
"You did not! How'd you know that I was sitting here this very second, wondering how I was going to motivate to find food? I was just about to give up."

"So come here and eat!" He looked pleased and pulled open the bag, but we both couldn't fit on the floor of my bedroom together. I thought about eating in the living room since there was no kitchen, but Kendra and Shanti had both collapsed in front of the TV together, their untouched takeout salads open in front of them. I thought they were waiting until theReal World episode they were watching was over, but then I noticed that they'd both already fallen asleep. Sweet lives we all had.
"Hold on, I have an idea," he said and tiptoed to the kitchen. He came back with two oversize garbage bags and spread them out over my blue comforter. He dug into the greasy bag and brought out two giant burgers with everything and one extra-large order of fries. He'd remembered ketchup packets and tons of salt for me, and even the napkins. I clapped I was so excited, although a quick visual of the imagined disappointment on Miranda's face appeared, one that said,You? You're eating a burger?
"I'm not done yet. Here, check it out." And out of his backpack came a fistful of tiny vanilla tea lights, a bottle of screw-top red wine, and two waxy paper cups.
"You're kidding," I said softly, still not believing that he'd put all this together after I'd canceled our date.
He handed me a cup of wine and tapped it with his. "No, I'm not. You think I was going to miss hearing about the first week of the rest of your life? To my best girl."
"Thank you." I said, slowly taking a sip. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
6
"Ohmigod, is it the fashion editor herself?" Jill mock-shrieked when she opened the front door. "Come on over here and let your big sister genuflect a li'l."
"Fashion editor?" I snorted. "Hardly. Try fashion mishap. Welcome back to civilization." I hugged her for what felt like ten minutes and didn't want to let go. It was hard when she'd started at Stanford and left me all alone with our parents when I was a mere nine years old, but it was even harder when she'd followed her boyfriend—now husband—to Houston. Houston! The whole placed seemed drenched in humidity and infested with mosquitoes to the point of unbearably, and if that wasn't bad enough, my sister—my sophisticated, beautiful big sister who loved neoclassical art and made your heart melt when she recited poetry—had developed a southern accent. And not just a slight accent with a subtle, charming southern lilt, but an all-out, unmistakable, hke-a-dnll-through-the-eardrum redneck drawl. I'd yet to forgive Kyle for dragging her to that wretched place, even if he was a pretty decent brother-in-law, and it didn't help when he opened his mouth.

"Hey there, Andy darlin', you're looking more beautiful every time I see you."Yer lookin' more beeyootiful avery time I see ya . "What are they feeding y'all atRunway, huh?"
I wanted to stick a tennis ball in his mouth to keep him from talking anymore, but he smiled at me and I walked over and hugged him. He might sound like a hick and grin a little too openly and often, but he tried really hard and he clearly adored my sister. I vowed to make a sincere effort not to visibly cringe when he spoke. "It's not really what I'd call a feeding-friendly kind of place, if you know what I mean. Whatever it is, it's definitely in the water and not the food. But never mind. Kyle, you look great yourself. Keeping my sister busy in the city of misery, I hope?"
"Andy, just come and visit, sweetie. Bring Alex along and y'all can make it a li'l vacation. It's not that bad, you'll see." He smiled first at me and then at Jill, who smiled back and brushed the back of her hand across his cheek. They were disgustingly in love.
"Really, Andy, it's a culture-rich place with a whole lot to do. We both wish you'd come visit us more often. It's just not right that the only time we see each other is in this house," she said, waving expansively around our parents' living room. "I mean, if you can stand Avon, you can certainly stand Houston."
"Andy, you're here! Jay, the big New York City career girl is here, come say hi," my mom called as she rounded the corner coming from the kitchen. "I thought you were going to call when you got to the train station."
"Mrs. Myers was picking Enka up from the same train, so she just dropped me off. When are we eating? I'm starving."
"Now. Do you want to clean up? We can wait. You look a little ragged from the train. You know, it's fine if—"
"Mother!" I shot her a warning look.
"Andy! You look dynamite. Come here and give your old man a hug." My dad, tall and still very handsome in his midfifties, smiled from the hallway. He was holding a Scrabble box behind his back that he only let me see by flashing it quickly by the side of his leg. He waited until everyone looked away from him and pointed to the box and mouthed, "I'll kick your ass. Consider yourself warned."
I smiled and nodded my head. Contrary to all common sense, I found myself looking forward to the next forty-eight hours with my family more than I had in the four years since I'd left home. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday, and this year I was set to enjoy it more than ever.
We gathered in the dining room and dug into the massive meal that my mother had expertly ordered, her traditional Jewish version of a mght-before-Thanksgiving feast.

Bagels and lox and cream cheese and whitefish and latkes all professionally arranged on rigid disposable serving platters, waiting to be transferred to paper plates and consumed with plastic forks and knives. My mother smiled lovingly as her brood dug in, with a look of pride on her face as if she'd been cooking for a week to sustain and nurture her babies.
I told them all about the new job, tried as best as I could to describe a job that I didn't yet fully understand myself. Briefly I wondered if it sounded ridiculous to tell them how the skirts were called in and all the hours I'd logged wrapping and sending presents, and how there was a little electronic ID card that tracked everything you did. It was hard to fit into words the sense of urgency each of these had taken on at the time, how when I was at work it seemed that my job was supremely relevant, even important. I talked and talked, but I didn't know how to explain this world that may have been only two hours away geographically but was really in a different solar system. They all nodded and smiled and asked questions, pretending to be interested, but I knew it was all too foreign, too absolutely strange sounding and different to make any sense to people who—like me until a few weeks earlier—had never even heard the name Miranda Priestly. It didn't make much sense to me yet, either: it seemed overly dramatic at times and more than a little Big Brother-esque, but it was exciting. And cool. It was definitely, undeniably a supercool place to call work. Right?
"Well, Andy, you think you'll be happy there for your year? Maybe you'll even want to stay longer, huh?" My mom asked while smearing cream cheese on her salt bagel.
In signing my contract at Elias-Clark, I'd agreed to stay with Miranda for a year—if I didn't get fired, which at this point seemed like a big if And if I fulfilled my obligation with class and enthusiasm and some level of competence—and this part was not in writing but implied by a half-dozen people in HR, and Emily, and Allison—then I would be in a position to name the job I'd like next. It was expected, of course, that whichever job that may be would be atRunway or, at the very least, at Elias-Clark, but I was free to request anything from working on book reviews in the features department to acting as a liaison between Hollywood celebrities andRunway . Out of the last ten assistants who had made it through their year in Miranda's office, a full hundred percent had chosen to move to the fashion department atRunway , but I didn't let that concern me. A stint in Miranda's office was considered to be the ultimate way to skip three to five years of indignity as an assistant and move directly into meaningful jobs in prestigious places.
"Definitely. So far everyone seems really nice. Emily's a little, urn, well,committed, but otherwise, it's been great. I don't know, to listen to Lily talk about her exams or Alex talk about all the shitty things he has to deal with at work, I think I got pretty lucky. Who else gets to drive around in a chauffeured car on their first day? I mean, really. So yeah, I think it'll be a great year, and I'm excited for Miranda to come back. I think I'm ready."

Jill rolled her eyes and shot me a look as if to say,Cut the bullshit, Andy. We all know you're probably working for a psycho bitch surrounded by anorexic fashionistas and are trying to paint this really rosy picture because you're worried you're in over your head, but instead she said, "It sounds great, Andy, it really does. Amazing opportunity."
She was the only one at the table who could possibly understand, since, before moving to the Third World, she'd worked for a year at a small private museum in Pans and had developed an interest in haute couture. Hers was more of an artistic and aesthetic hobby than a consumer one, but she still had some exposure, at least, to the fashion world. "We have some great news, too," she continued, reaching across the table for Kyle's hand. He had set down his coffee and extended both his hands.
"Oh, thank god," my mother instantly exclaimed, slumping over as if someone had finally lifted the two-hundred-pound dumbbell that had rested on her shoulders for the last two decades. "It's about time."
"Congratulations, you two! I have to say you've had your mother really worried. You're certainly not newlyweds anymore, you know. We were beginning to wonder . . ." From the head of the table my dad raised his eyebrows.
"Hey guys, that's great. It's about time I get to be an aunt. When's the little one due?"
They both looked dumbfounded, and for a moment I worried that we'd gotten it all wrong, that their "good" news was that they were building a newer, bigger home in that swamp they lived in, or that Kyle had finally decided to leave his father's law firm and was going to join my sister in opening the gallery she'd always dreamed of. Maybe we'd jumped the gun on this one, been just a little too eager to hear that a future niece or grandson was on the way. It was all my parents could talk about lately, incessantly hashing and rehashing the reasons why my sister and Kyle—already in their thirties and with four years of marriage behind them—had yet to reproduce. In the past six months, the subject had progressed from time-consuming family obsession to perceived crisis.
My sister looked worried. Kyle frowned. My parents looked as though they might both pass out from the silence. The tension was palpable.
Jill got out of her chair and walked over to Kyle, where she plopped herself in his lap. She wrapped her arm behind the back of his neck and leaned her face next to his, whispering in his ear. I glanced at my mother, who looked about ten seconds away from unconsciousness, the worry causing the small lines near her eyes to grow as deep as trenches.
Finally, finally, they giggled, and turned toward the table, and announced unanimously, "We're going to have a baby." And then there was light. And shrieking. And hugging. My mother flew out of her seat so fast that she knocked it over and, in turn, tipped over a potted cactus that rested by the sliding-glass door. My dad grabbed Jill and

kissed her on both cheeks and the top of her head, and for the first time I could remember since their wedding day, he kissed Kyle, too.
I rapped my Dr. Brown's black cherry can with a plastic fork and announced that we needed a toast. "Please raise your glasses, everyone, raise your glasses to the brand-new Sachs baby that will be joining our family." Kyle and Jill looked at me pointedly. "OK, I guess technically it's a Harrison baby, but it will be a Sachs at heart. To Kyle and Jill, future perfect parents to the world's most perfect child." We all clinked soda cans and coffee mugs and toasted the grinning couple and my sister's twenty-four-inch waist. I cleaned up by throwing the entire contents of the table directly into a garbage bag while my mom tried to pressure Jill to name the baby after various dead relatives. Kyle sipped coffee and looked pleased with himself, and just before midnight my dad and I sneaked off to his study for a game.
He turned up the white-noise machine he used when he had patients during the day, both to block out the sounds of the household from them and to keep anyone else in the house from hearing what was discussed in his office. Like any good shrink, my dad had placed a gray leather couch in the far corner, so soft I liked to rest my head on the armrest, and three chairs that angled forward and held a person in a kind of fabric sling. Womblike, he assured me. His desk was sleek and black and topped with a flat-screen monitor, and the matching black leather chair was high-backed and very plush. A wall of psychology books encased in glass, a collection of bamboo stalks in a very tall crystal vase on the floor, and some framed colorblock prints—the only real color in the room-completed the futuristic look. I flopped on the floor between the couch and his desk, and he did the same.
"So, tell me what's really going on, Andy," he said as he handed me a little wooden tile holder. "I'm sure you're feeling really overwhelmed right now."
I picked my seven tiles and carefully arranged them in front of me. "Yeah, it's been a pretty crazy couple weeks. First moving, then starting. It's a weird place, hard to explain. It's like, everyone's beautiful and thin and wearing gorgeous clothes. And they really do seem nice enough—everybody's been really friendly. Almost like they're all on serious prescription drugs. I don't know . . ."
"What? What were you going to say?"
"I can't put my finger on it. There's just this feeling that it's all a house of cards that's going to come crashing down around me. I can't shake the feeling that it's ridiculous to be working for afashion magazine, you know? The work's been a little mindless so far, but I don't even care. It's challenging enough because it's all new, you know?"
He nodded.

"I know it's a 'cool' job, but I keep wondering how it's preparing me forThe New Yorker . I must just be looking for something to go wrong, because so far it seems too good to be true. Hopefully, I'm just crazy."
"I don't think you're crazy, sweetie. I think you're sensitive. But I have to agree, I think you lucked out with this one. People go their entire lives and don't see the things you'll see this year. Just think! Your first job out of college, and you're working for the most important woman at the most profitable magazine at the biggest magazine publishing company in the entire world. You'll get to watch it all happen, from the top down. If you just keep your eyes open and your priorities in order, you'll learn more in one year than most people in the industry will see in their entire careers." He placed his first word in the middle of the board, JOLT.
"Not bad for an opening move," I said and counted its worth, doubled it because the first word always went on a pink star, and started a scorecard. Dad: 22 points, Andy: 0. My letters weren't showing much promise. I added an A, M, and E to the L and accepted my paltry six points.
"I just want to make sure you give it a fair shake," he said, switching his tiles around on his holder. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced this is going to mean big things for you."
"Well, I sure hope you're right, because I have enough paper cuts from wrapping to last a long, long time. There better be more to the whole thing than that."
"There will be, sweetie, there will be. You'll see. It might feel like you're doing silly stuff, but trust me, you're not. This is the start of something fantastic, I can feel it. And I've studied up on your boss. This Miranda sounds like a tough woman, no doubt about it, but I think you're going to like her. And I think she's going to like you, too."
He placed the word TOWEL down using my E and looked satisfied.
"I hope you're right, Dad. I really hope you're right."
"She's the editor in chief of Runway —you know, the fashion magazine?" I whispered urgently into the phone, trying valiantly not to get frustrated.
"Oh, I know which one you mean!" said Julia, a publicity assistant for Scholastic Books. "Great magazine. I love all those letters where girls write in their embarrassing period stories. Are those for real? Do you remember reading the one where—"

"No, no, not the one for teenagers. It's most definitely for grown women." In theory, at least. "Have you really never seenRunway ?"Is it humanly possible that she hasn't? I wondered. "Anyway, it's spelled P-R-I-E-S-T-L-Y. Miranda, yes," I said with infinite patience. I wondered how she'd react if she knew I actually had someone on the line who'd never heard of her. Probably not well.
"Well, if you could get back to me as soon as possible, I'dreally appreciate it," I told Julia. "And if a senior publicist gets in anytime soon,please have her call me."
It was a Friday morning in the middle of December and the sweet, sweet freedom of the weekend was only ten hours away. I had been trying to convince a fashion-oblivious Julia at Scholastic that Miranda Priestly really was someone important, someone worth bending rules and suspending logic for. This proved significantly more difficult than I had anticipated. How could I have known that I'd have to explain the weight of Miranda's position to influence someone who'd never even heard of the most prestigious fashion magazine on earth—or its famous editor? In my four short weeks as Miranda's assistant, I'd already figured out that such weight-throwing and favor-currying was merely part of my job, but usually the person I was attempting to persuade, intimidate, or otherwise pressure yielded completely at the mere mention of my infamous boss's name.
Unfortunately for me, Julia worked for an educational publishing house where someone like Nora Ephron or Wendy Wasserstein was much likelier to get VIP treatment than someone known for her impeccable taste in fur. I inherently understood this. I tried to remember all the way back to a time before I had ever heard of Miranda Priestly—five weeks earlier—and couldn't. But I knew that such a magical time had existed. I envied Julia's indifference, but I had a job to do, and she wasn't helping.
The fourth book in that wretched Harry Potter series was due to be released the next day, a Saturday, and Miranda's ten-year-old twin daughters each wanted one. The first copies wouldn't arrive in stores until Monday, but I had to have them in my hands on Saturday morning—mere minutes after they were released from the warehouse. After all, Harry and the crew had to catch a private flight to Pans.
My thoughts were interrupted by the phone. I picked it up as I always did now that Emily trusted me enough to speak to Miranda. And boy, did we speak—probably in the vicinity of two dozen times a day. Even from afar, Miranda had managed to creep into my life and completely take over, barking orders and requests and demands at a rapid-fire pace from sevenA .M. until I was finally allowed to leave at nineP .M.
"Ahn-dre-ah? Hello? Is anyone there? Ahn-dre-ah!" I jumped out of my seat the moment I heard her pronounce my name. It took a moment to remember and accept that she was not, in fact, in the office—or even in the country, and for the time being, at least, I was safe. Emily had assured me that Miranda was completely unaware that Allison had been promoted or I had been hired, that these were insignificant details lost on her. As

long as someone answered the phone and got her what she needed, that person's actual identity was irrelevent.
"I simply do not understand what takes you so long to speak after you pick up the phone," she stated. From any other person on earth that would have sounded whiny, but from Miranda it sounded appropriately cold and firm. Just like her. "In case you haven't been here long enough to notice, when I call, you respond. It's actually simple. See? I call. You respond. Do you think you can handle that, Ahn-dre-ah?"
I nodded like a six-year-old who'd just been reprimanded for throwing spaghetti on the ceiling, even though she couldn't see me. I concentrated on not calling her "ma'am," a mistake I'd made a week earlier that had almost gotten me fired. "Yes, Miranda. I'm sorry," I said softly, head bowed. And for that moment Iwas sorry, sorry that her words hadn't registered in my brain three-tenths of a second faster than they had, sorry that my tardiness in saying "Miranda Pnestly's office" had taken a fraction of a second longer than absolutely necessary. Her time was, as I was constantly reminded, much more important than my own.
"All right then. Now, after wasting all that time, may we begin? Did you confirm Mr. Tomlinson's reservation?" she asked.
"Yes, Miranda, I made a reservation for Mr. Tomlinson at the Four Seasons at one o'clock."
I could see it coming a mile away. A mere ten minutes earlier she'd called and ordered me to make a reservation at the Four Seasons and call Mr. Tomlinson and her driver and the nanny to inform them of the plans, and now she'd want to rearrange them.
"Well, I've changed my mind. The Four Seasons is not the appropriate venue for his lunch with Irv. Reserve a table for two at Le Cirque, and remember to remind the maitre d' that they will want to sit in theback of the restaurant. Not on display in the front. The back. That'sail."
I had convinced myself when I first spoke with Miranda on the phone, that by uttering "that's all," she really intended those words to mean "thank you." By the second week I'd rethought that.
"Of course, Miranda.Thank you, " I said with a smile. I could sense her pausing on the other end of the line, wondering how to respond. Did she know I was calling attention to her refusal to say thank you? Did it seem odd to her that I was thanking her for ordering me around? I had recently begun thanking her after every one of her sarcastic comments or nasty phone-in commands, and the tactic was oddly comforting. She knew I was mocking her somehow, but what could she say?Ahn-dre-ah, I never want to hear you thank me again. I forbid you to express your gratitude in such a manner! Come to think of it, that might not be that much of a stretch.

Le Cirque, Le Cirque, Le Cirque,I said over and over in my head, determined to make that reservation ASAP so I could get back to the significantly more difficult Harry Potter challenge. The Le Cirque reservationist immediately agreed to have a table ready for Mr. Tomlinson and Irv whenever they arrived.
Emily walked in a from a stroll around the office and asked me if Miranda had called at all.
"Only three times, and she didn't threaten to fire me during any of them," I said proudly. "Of course, she did intimate it, but she didn't all-out threaten. Progress, no?"
She laughed in the way she did only when I made fun of myself, and she asked what Miranda, her guru, had wanted.
"Just wanted me to switch around B-DAD's lunch reservation. Not sure why I'm doing that when he has his own assistant, but hey, I don't ask questions around here." Mr. Blind, Deaf, and Dumb was our nickname for Miranda's third husband. Although to the general public he appeared to be none of those, those of us in the know were quite confident he was all three. There was, quite simply, no other explanation for how a nice guy like him could tolerate living withher .
Next, it was time to call B-DAD himself. If I didn't call soon, he may not be able to get to the restaurant in time. He'd flown back from their vacation for a couple days of business meetings, and this lunch with Irv Ravitz—Ehas-Clark's CEO—was among the most important. Miranda wanted every detail perfect—as though that were something new. B-DAD's real name was Hunter Tomlinson. He and Miranda had gotten married the summer before I started working, after what I'd heard was a rather unique courtship: she pursued, he demurred. According to Emily, she'd chased him relentlessly until he'd yielded from the mere exhaustion of ducking her. She'd left her second husband (the lead singer of one of the most famous bands from the late sixties and the twins' father) with absolutely no warning before her lawyer delivered the papers, and was married again precisely twelve days after the divorce was finalized. Mr. Tomlinson followed orders and moved into her penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. I'd only met Miranda once and I'd never met her new husband, but I'd logged enough phone hours with each that I felt, unfortunately, like they were family.
Three rings, four rings, five rings . . .hmm, I wonder where his assistant is? I prayed for an answering machine, since I wasn't in the mood for the mindless, friendly chitchat of which B-DAD seemed so fond. Instead, I got his secretary.
"Mr. Tomlinson's office," she trilled in her deep southern drawl. "How may I help you today?"How mah I hep ya tuhday?
"Hi, Martha, it's Andrea. Listen, I don't need to talk to Mr. Tomlinson, can you just give him a message for me? I made a reservation for—"

"Darlin', you know Mr. T. always wants to talk to you. Hold just a sec." And before I could protest, I was listening to the elevator version of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrm. Perfect. It was fitting that B-DAD had picked the most annoyingly optimistic song ever written to entertain callers when they were put on hold.
"Andy, is that you, sweetheart?" He asked quietly in his deep, distinguished voice. "Mr. Tomlmson is going to think you're avoiding him. It's been ages since I've had the pleasure of speaking with you." A week and a half, to be precise. In addition to his blindness, deafness, and dumbness, Mr. Tomlmson had the added irritating habit of constantly referring to himself in the third person.
I took a deep breath. "Hello, Mr. Tomlmson. Miranda asked me to let you know that lunch is at one today at Le Cirque. She said that you'd—"
"Sweetheart," he said slowly, calmly. "Enough with all that plan-making for just a second. Give an old man a moment of pleasure and tell Mr. Tomlmson all about your life. Will you do that for him? So tell me, dear, are you happy working for my wife?" Was I happy working for his wife? Hmm, let's see here. Are little baby mammals squealing with glee when a predator swallows them whole?Why of course, you putz, I'm deliriously happy working for your wife. When neither of us is busy, we give each other mud masks and gossip about our love lives. It's a lot like a slumber party among friends, if you must know. The whole thing is just one big laugh not.
"Mr. Tomlmson, I love my job and I adore working for Miranda." I held my breath and prayed that he'd give it up.
"Well, Mr. T. is just thrilled that things are working out."Great, asshole, but are youthnlled?
"Sounds great, Mr. Tomlmson. Have a great lunch," I cut him off before he inevitably asked about my weekend plans, and hung up.
I sat back in my chair and gazed across the office suite. Emily was engrossed in trying to reconcile another one of Miranda's $20,000 American Express bills, her highly waxed brow furrowed in concentration. The Harry Potter project loomed ahead of me, and I had to get moving on it immediately if I ever wanted to get away this weekend.
Lily and I had planned a movie marathon weekend. I was exhausted from work and she was stressed out from her classes, so we'd promised to spend the whole weekend parked on her couch and subsist solely on beer and Dontos. No Snackwells. No Diet Coke. And absolutely no black pants. Even though we talked all the time, we hadn't spent any real time together since I'd moved to the city.
We'd been best friends since eighth grade, when I first saw Lily crying alone at a cafeteria table. She'd just moved in with her grandmother and started at our school, after it became clear that her parents weren't coming home any time soon. They'd taken

off a few months before to follow the Dead (they'd had her when they were both nineteen and were more into bong hits than babies), leaving her behind to be watched over by their whacked-out friends at the commune in New Mexico (or as Lily preferred, the "collective"). When they hadn't returned almost a year later, Lily's grandmother took her from the commune (or as Lily's grandmother preferred, the "cult") to live with her in Avon. The day I found her crying alone in the cafeteria was the day her grandmother had forced her to chop off her dirty dreadlocks and wear a dress, and Lily was not happy about it. Something about the way she talked, the way she said, "That's so Zen of you," and "Let's just decompress," charmed me, and we immediately became friends. We'd been inseparable through the rest of high school, had roomed together for all four years at Brown. Lily hadn't yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or hemp necklaces and was still a little too "quirky" to do anything totally mainstream, but we complemented each other well. And I missed her. Because with her first year as a graduate student and my being a virtual slave, we hadn't seen a whole lot of each other lately.
I couldn't wait for the weekend. My fourteen-hour workdays were registering in my feet, my upper arms, my lower back. Glasses had replaced the contacts I'd worn for a decade because my eyes were too dry and tired to accept them anymore. I smoked a pack a day and subsisted solely on Starbucks (expensed, of course) and takeout sushi (further expensed). I'd begun losing weight already. The weight I'd lost from the dysentery had returned briefly, but after my stint atRunway it had begun to disappear again. Something in the air there, I suppose, or perhaps it was the intensity with which food was eschewed in the office. I'd already weathered a sinus infection and had paled significantly, and it had been only four weeks. I was only twenty-three years old. And Miranda hadn't even been in the office yet. Fuck it. I deserved aweekend .
Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I wasnot pleased. Miranda had called this morning. It took only a few moments for her to outline what she wanted, although it took me forever to interpret it. I learned quickly that in the Miranda Priestly world, it was better to do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix it than to admit you didn't understand her convoluted and heavily accented instructions and ask for clarification. So when she mumbled something about getting the Harry Potter books for the twins and having them flown to Pans, intuition alone told me this was going to interfere with my weekend. When she hung up abruptly a few minutes later, I looked to Emily with panic.
"What, oh, what, did she say?" I moaned, hating myself for being too scared to ask Miranda to repeat herself. "Why can I not understand a single word that woman utters? It's not me, Em. I speak English, always have. I know she does it to personally drive me crazy."
Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity. "Since the book comes out tomorrow and they're not here to buy it, she wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro. The jet will take them to Pans," she summed up coldly, daring me to comment on the ludicrousness of the instructions. I was reminded once

again that Emily would do anything—really, anything—if it meant making Miranda a bit more comfortable. I rolled my eyes and kept quiet.
Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her bidding,
and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power (hers) at my personal
disposal, I spent the rest of the day arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Pans.
First, a few words for Julia at Scholastic.
Dearest Julia,
My assistant, Andrea, tells me that you're the sweetheart to whom I should address my most heartfelt appreciation. She has informed me that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies of this darling book for me tomorrow. I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work and cleverness. Please know how happy you'll make my sweet daughters. And don't ever hesitate to let me know if you need anything, anything at all, for a fabulous girl like yourself.
xoxo,
Miranda Priestly
I forged her name with a perfect flourish (hour upon hour of practicing with Emily standing over me, instructing me to make the final "a" a little loopier, had finally paid off), attached the note to the latest issue ofRunway —one not yet on the newsstand—and called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to Scholastic's downtown office. If this didn't work, nothing would. Miranda didn't care that we forged her signature—it saved her from bothering with details—but she'd probably be livid to see that I'd penned something so polite, soadorable, using her name.
Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the weekends, but I was now experienced—and jaded—enough to bend the rules a little. Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be at the airport in New Jersey whenHarry arrived the following day, I saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him. Acting under the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with a couple copies, I worked out some details. Dial, dial, and within an hour a plan had emerged.
Brian, a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic—whom I was assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours—would take home two office

copies ofHarry that evening, so he wouldn't have to go back to the office on Saturday. Brian would leave the books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building, and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven. Miranda's driver, Un, would then call me on my cell phone to confirm that he'd received the package and was on his way to drop it at Teterboro airport, where the two books would be transferred to Mr. Tomlinson's private jet and flown to Pans. I briefly considered conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB operation even more, but dropped that when I remembered that Un didn't really speak regular English that well. I had checked to see how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there, but delivery couldn't be guaranteed until Monday, which was obviously unacceptable. Hence the private plane. If all went as planned, little Cassidy and Caroline could wake up in their private Parisian suite on Sunday and enjoy their morning milk while reading about Harry's adventures—a full day earlier than all of their friends. It warmed my heart, it really did.
Minutes after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate people put on alert, Julia called back. Although it'd be a grueling task and she was likely to get in trouble, she'd be happy to give Brian two copies for Ms. Priestly. Amen.
"Do you believe he gotengaged ?" Lily asked as she rewound the copy ofFerns Bueller we'd just finished. "I mean, we're twenty-three years old for goodness sake— what's the rush?"
"I know, it does seem weird." I called from the kitchen. "Maybe Mom and Dad won't let him have access to the massive trust fund until he's settled down? That'd be enough motivation to put a ring on her finger. Or maybe he's just lonely?"
Lily looked at me and laughed. "Naturally, he can't just be in love with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her, right? I mean, we've established that that's totally out of the question, right?"
"Correct. That's not an option. Try again."
"Well, then, I'm forced to pick curtain number three. He's gay. He finally came to the realization himself—even though I've known forever—and realizes that Mom and Dad won't be able to handle it, so he'll cover by marrying the first girl he can find. What do you think?"
Casablancawas next on the list, and Lily fast-forwarded past the opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny kitchen of her nonalcove studio in Mormngside Heights. We lazed around straight through Friday night—breaking only to smoke and make another Blockbuster run. Saturday afternoon found us particularly

motivated, and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours. We each bought new tank tops for Lily's upcoming New Year's party and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk cafe. By the time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday, we were exhausted and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating betweenWhen Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday Night Live . It was so thoroughly relaxing, such a departure from the misery that had become my daily routine, I'd forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I heard a phone ring on Sunday. Ohmigod, it was Her! I overheard Lily speaking in Russian to someone, probably a classmate, on her cell phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear lord: it wasn't Her. But that still didn't let me off the hook. It was already Sunday morning, and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way to Pans. I had enjoyed my weekend so much—had actually managed to relax enough—that I had forgotten to check. Of course, my phone was on and set to the highest ring level, but I never should've waited for someone to call me with a problem, when of course it'd be too late to do anything. I should've taken preemptive action and confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our highly choreographed plan had worked.
I dug frantically through my overnight bag, searching for the cell phone given to me byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven digits away from Miranda. I finally freed it from a tangle of underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed. The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at that point, and I knew immediately, instinctively, that she had called and it had gone directly to voice mail. I hated that cell phone with my entire soul. I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen home phone by this point. I hated Lily's phone, commercials for phones, pictures of phones in magazines, and I even hated Alexander Graham Bell. Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate side effects in my day-to-day life, but the most unnatural one was my severe and all-consuming hatred of phones.
For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic. Some people considered the many available phone features to be a novelty, even fun. For me, they were nothing short of imperative. Although I'd never had so much as call waiting before Miranda, a few days into my tenure atRunway I was signed up for call waiting (so she'd never get a busy signal), caller ID (so I could avoid her calls), call waiting with caller ID (so I could avoid her calls while talking on the other line), and voice mail so she wouldn't know I was avoiding her calls because she'd still hear an answering machine message). Fifty bucks a month for phone service—before long distance—seemed a small price to pay for my peace of mind. Well, not peace of mind exactly; more like early warning.
The cell phone afforded me no such barriers. Sure, it had all the same features as the home phone, but from Miranda's point of view there was simply no reasonwhatsoever for the cell to ever be turned off. It could never go unanswered. The few reasons for such a situation that I'd thrown out to Emily when she'd first handed me the phone—a standardRunway office supply—and told me to always answer it were quickly eliminated.

"What if you were sleeping?" I had stupidly asked.
"So get up and answer it," she'd answered while filing down a scraggly nail.
"Sitting down to a really fancy meal?"
"Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table."
"Getting a pelvic exam?"
"They're not looking in your ears, are they?" All right then. I got it.
I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it. It kept me tied to Miranda like an umbilical cord, refusing to let me grow up or out or away from my source of suffocation. She calledconstantly, and like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry, my body had begun responding viscerally to its ring.Brring-bmng. Increased heart rate.Brhhng. Automatic finger clenching and shoulder tensing.Brriiiiiiiiiihng. Oh, why won't she leave me alone, please, oh, please, just forget I'm alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead. This whole glorious weekend I'd never even considered the phone might not have service and had just assumed it would've rung if there was a problem. Mistake number one. I roamed the couple hundred square feet until AT&T decided to work again, held my breath, and dialed into my voice mail.
Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily. A friend from San Francisco found himself on business in New York that week and wanted to get together. My sister called to remind me to send a birthday card to her husband. And there it was, almost unexpected but not quite, that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears. "Ahn-dre-ah. It's Mir-ahnda. It's nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ns and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That's all." Click.
The bile began to rise in my throat. As usual, the message lacked all niceties. No hello, good-bye, or thank you. Obviously. But more than that, it had been left nearly half a day ago, and I had still not called her back. Grounds for dismissal, I knew, and there was nothing I could do about it. Like an amateur, I'd assumed my plan would work perfectly and hadn't even realized that Un had never called to confirm the pickup and drop-off I scanned through the address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri's cell phone number, another Miranda purchase so that he'd be on call 24/7 as well.
"Hi, Un, it's Andrea. Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was wondering if you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty-seventh and Amsterdam?"
"Hi, Andy, eet's so nice to hear your woice," he crooned in the thick Russian accent I always found so comforting. He'd been calling me Andy like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met, and coming from him—as opposed to B-DAD—I

didn't mind it. "Of course I pick up the bouks, just like you say. You tink I don't vant to help you?"
"No, no, of course not, Un. It's just that I got a message from Miranda saying that they hadn't received them yet, and I'm wondering what went wrong."
He was quiet for a moment, and then offered me the name and number of the pilot who was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," I said, scribbling the number down frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful. "I've got to run. Sorry I can't talk, but have a great weekend."
"Yes, yes, good veekend to you, Andy. I tink the pilot man will help you trace the bouks. Nice luck to you," he said merrily and hung up.
Lily was making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her, but I had to deal with this now or I was out of a job. Or maybe I'd already been fired, I thought, and no one had even bothered to tell me. Not outside the realm ofRunway possibility, remembering the fashion editor who'd been fired while on her honeymoon. She herself stumbled across her change in job status by reading about it in a copy ofWomen's Wear Daily in Bali. I quickly called the number that Un had given me for the pilot and thought I'd pass out from frustration when an answering machine picked up.
"Hi, Jonathan? This is Andrea Sachs fromRunway magazine. I'm Miranda Pnestly's assistant, and I needed to ask you a question about the flight yesterday. Oh, come to think of it, you're probably still in Pans, or maybe on your way back. Well, I just wanted to see if the books, and uh, well, you of course, made it to Pans in one piece. Can you call my cell? 917-555-8702. Please, as soon as possible. Thanks. 'Bye."
I thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he'd remember receiving the car that would have brought the books from the private airport on the outskirts of Pans but quickly realized that my cell didn't dial internationally. It was quite possibly the only task it was not programmed to handle, and it was, of course, the only one that mattered. At that moment, Lily announced that she had a plate of waffles and a cup of coffee for me. I walked into the kitchen and took the food. She was sipping a Bloody Mary. Ugh. It was a Sunday morning. How could she be drinking?
"Having a Miranda moment?" she asked with a look of sympathy.
I nodded. "Think I screwed up pretty badly this time," I said, gratefully accepting the plate. "This one just might get me fired."
"Oh, sweetie, you always say that. She won't fire you. She hasn't even seen you hard at work yet. At least, she better not fire you—you have the greatest job in the world!"

I looked at her warily and willed myself to remain calm.
"Well, you do," she said. "So she sounds difficult to please and a little crazy. Who isn't? You still get free shoes and makeovers and haircuts and clothes. The clothes! Who on earth gets free designer clothes just for showing up at work each day? Andy, you work atRunway, don't you understand? A million girls would kill for your job."
I understood. I understood right then that Lily, for the first time since I met her nine years before,didn't understand. She, like all my other friends, loved hearing the crazy work stories I'd accumulated in the past weeks—the gossip and the glamour—but she didn't really understand just how hard each day was. She didn't understand that the reason I continued to show up, day after day, was not for the free clothes, didn't understand that all the free clothes in the world wouldn't make this job bearable. It was time to bring one of my best friends into my world, where, I was quite certain, shewould understand. She just needed to be told. Yes! It was time to share with someone exactly what was going on. I opened my mouth to start, excited at the prospect of having an ally, but my phone rang.
Dammit! I wanted to throw it against the wall, tell whoever was on the other end to go to hell. But a small part of me hoped it was Jonathan with some information. Lily smiled and told me to take my time. I nodded sadly and answered.
"Is this Andrea?" asked a man's voice.
"Yes, is this Jonathan?"
"It is indeed. I just called home and got your message. I'm flying back from Pans right now, somewhere over the Atlantic as we speak, but you sounded so worried I wanted to call you back right away."
"Thank you! Thank you! I really appreciate it. Yes, I am a bit worried, because I got a call from Miranda earlier today and it seems strange that she hadn't yet received the package. You did give it to the driver in Pans, right?"
"Sure did. You know, miss, in my business I don't ask any questions. Just fly where I'm told and when and try to get everyone there in one piece. But it's sure not often I end up flying overseas with nothing onboard but a package. Must've been something real important, I imagine, like an organ for a transplant or maybe some classified documents. So yes, I took real good care of that package and I gave it to the driver, just like I was told. Nice fella from the Ritz. No problems."
I thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged for a driver to meet Mr. Tomlinson's private plane at de Gaulle and transfer Harry back to the hotel. If everything went as planned, Miranda should've had those books by seven in the morning local time, and considering it was already late afternoon there, I couldn't

imagine what had gone wrong. There was no choice: I had to call the concierge, and since my cell wouldn't dial internationally, I had to find a phone that did.
I took the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped them in the garbage. Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep. I hugged her good-bye and told her I'd call her later and headed out to hail a cab back to the office.
"What about today?" she whined. "I haveThe American President all lined up and ready to go. You can't leave yet—our weekend's not over!"
"I know, I'm sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There's nothing I'd rather do than stay here, but she's got me on a pretty short leash right now. I'll call you later?"
The office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely brunching at Pastis with their investment banker boyfriends. I sat in my darkened area, took a deep breath, and dialed. Blissfully, Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz concierges, was available.
"Andrea, dear, how are you? We're simply delighted to have Miranda and the twins back with us again so soon," he lied. Emily told me that Miranda stayed at the Ritz so frequently that the entire hotel staff knew her and the girls by name.
"Yes, Monsieur Renaud, and I know she's just thrilled to be there," I lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Miranda found fault with his every move. To his credit, he never stopped trying, and he never stopped lying about how much he loved her, either. "Listen, I'm wondering if that car you sent to meet Miranda's plane made it back to the hotel already?"
"Well of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must've returned here before eight o'clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on staff," he said proudly. If only he knew what his best driver had been sent to shuttle around town.
"Well, that's so strange, because I got a message from Miranda saying that she never received the package, but I've checked with the driver here who swears he dropped it at the airport, the pilot who swears he flew it to Pans and gave it to your driver, and now you who remember it arriving at the hotel. How could she not have received it?"
"It seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself," he trilled in a fake-happy voice. "Why don't I connect you?"
I had hoped against all hope that it wouldn't come to this, that I'd be able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to her. What would I tell her if she still insisted that she'd never received the package? Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the table in her suite, where it was inevitably left hours earlier? Or was I supposed to go through the whole thing, private jet and all, and get her two more copies by the end of the day? Or perhaps I should hire a secret service agent next time to

accompany the books on their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their safe arrival? Something to think about.
"Sure, Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help."
A few clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from the tension, so I wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to think what would happen if Miranda saw me wearing sweatpants in her office.Be calm, be confident, I coached myself. She can't disembowel me over the phone .
"Yes?" I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my self-help thoughts. It was Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had perfected her mother's brusque phone manner perfectly. Cassidy at least had the courtesy to answer the phone with a "hello."
"Hi, sweetie," I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child. "It's Andrea, from the office. Is your mom there?"
"You mean mymum ?" she corrected as she always did when I used the American pronunciation. "Sure, I'll get her."
A moment or two later, Miranda was on the line.
"Yes, Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel about being interrupted when I'm spending time with the girls," she stated in her cold, clipped way. You know how I feel about being interrupted when I'm spending time with the girls? I wanted to scream.Are you fucking kidding me, lady? You think I'm calling for my goddamn health? Because I couldn't bear to go a single weekend without hearing your miserable voice? And what about me spending time with mygirls? I thought I'd pass out from anger, but I took a deep breath and dove right in.
"Miranda, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I'm calling to ensure that you received the Harry Potter books. I heard your message saying that you hadn't yet received them, but I've spoken to everyone and—"
She interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely. "Ahn-dre-ah. You should really listen more closely. I said no such thing. We received the package early this morning. Incidentally, it came so early that they woke us all up for the silly thing."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I didn't dream that she'd left the message, did I? I was still too young even for early-onset Alzheimer's, right?
"What I said was that we didn't receiveboth copies of the book, as I had requested. The package included only one, and I'm sure you can imagine just how disappointed the girls are. They were really looking forward to each having theirown copy, as I had requested. I need you to explain why my orders weren't followed."

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. I was definitely dreaming now, living some sort of alternate-universe existence where anything resembling rationality and logic were suspended indefinitely. I wouldn't even let myself consider the absurdity of what was unfolding.
"Miranda, I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered two," I stammered, hating myself yet again for pandering. "I spoke to the girl at Scholastic and am quite sure that she understood that you needed two copies of the book, so I can't imagine—"
"Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I'm not particularly interested in hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again, correct? That's all." She hung up.
I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced, full of questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I concluded— everybody, at least atRunway, had a motive. Do I really have the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow, agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure—what would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?
I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message
when I listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the messages."Ahn-
dre-ah. It's Mir-ahnda. It's nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ns and the girls have
not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly.
That's all." Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of two,
but she deliberately gave me the impression that I'd made a tremendous, career-ending
mistake. She'd called with no concern that her nineA .M. call would have reached me at
threeA .M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She'd called to drive me a little
crazier, push me a little bit harder. She'd called to dare me to defy her. She'd called to
make me hate her that much more.
7
Lily's New Year's party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper cups of champagne at Lily's place with a bunch of people from college and some others they managed to drag along. I was never a big fan of the holiday. I don't remember who first called it "Amateur Night" (I think it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went out the other 364 days a year, but I tend to agree. All that forced drinking and merry-making did not a good time guarantee. So Lily had stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the $150 tickets to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of actually

freezing in Times Square. We'd each brought a bottle of something not too poisonous, and she had passed out noisemakers and glittery tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the New Year on her rooftop overlooking Harlem. Although we'd all had way too much to drink, Lily was pretty much nonfunctional by the time everyone else had left. She had already thrown up twice, and I was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex and I had packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed at my place, Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for a big brunch the next day.
I was glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on with my life and get started—really started—on my new job. Even though it felt like I'd been working for a decade, I was technically just beginning. I had a lot of hope that things would improve once Miranda and I started working together day to day. Anyone could be a cold-hearted monster over the phone, especially someone who was uncomfortable with vacations and being so far away from work. But I was convinced that the misery of that first month would give way to a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all unfold.
It was a little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was actually happy to be at work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some guy she met at a New Year's party in LA, some "superhot, up-and-coming songwriter" who had promised to come visit her in New York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting with the associate beauty editor who sat down the hall, a really sweet guy who'd graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn't yet know—even despite the college choice and the fact that he was abeauty editor at afashion magazine—that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.
"Oh, come with me, please? It'll be so fun, I promise. I'll introduce you to some real hotties, Andy, you'll see. I have some gorgeous straight friends. Besides, it'sMarshall 's party—it's got to be great," James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my e-mail. Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite, detailing her rendezvous with the long-haired singer.
"I would, you know I would, but I've had these plans with my boyfriend tonight since before Christmas," I said. "We've been planning on going out to a really nice dinner together for weeks, and I canceled on him last time."
"So see him after! Come on, it's not every day you get a chance to meet the single most talented colonst in the civilized world, is it? And there will be loads of celebrities and everyone will look gorgeous, and, well, I just know it'll be the most glamorous party of the week! Harrison and Shnftman is putting it on, for chnssake—you can't beat that. Say yes." He squinted his face into exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.
"James, I'd really, really like to—I've never even been to the Plaza! But I really can't change these plans. Alex made reservations at this little Italian place right by his apartment and there's no way I can reschedule." I knew I couldn't cancel, and I didn't

want to—I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new after-school program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be the same night as this party. I'd been reading about it in the papers for the past week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was ecstatically waiting for Marshall Madden, hair colonst extraordinaire, to host his annual post-New Year's blowout. They were saying that this year was going to be even bigger than usual because Marshall had just published a new book,Color Me Marshall . But I wasn't going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some star party.
"Well, OK, but don't say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don't come crying to me when you read inPage Six tomorrow that I was spotted with Manah or J-Lo. Just don't." And he huffed away, half joking that he was angry, half not, since he seemed to be in a perpetual smt anyway.
So far, the week after New Year's had been easy. We were still unwrapping and cataloging presents—I had gotten to unveil the most stunning pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos this morning—but there were none left to send and the phones were quiet since many people were still away. Miranda would be returning from Pans at the end of the week but wouldn't be in the office until Monday. Emily felt confident that I was ready to handle her, and so was I. We'd run through everything, and I'd taken nearly an entire legal pad full of notes. I glanced down at it, hoping I'd remember everything. Coffee: Starbucks only, tall latte, two raw sugars, two napkins, one stirrer. Breakfast: Mangia delivery, 555-3948, one soft cheese Danish, four slices bacon, two sausage links. Newspapers: newsstand in lobby,New York Times, Daily News, New York Post, theFinancial Times, theWashington Post, USA Today, theWall Street Journal, Women's Wear Daily, and theNew York Observer on Wednesdays. Weekly magazines, available Mondays:Time, Newsweek, U.S. News, The New Yorker (!),Time Out New York, New York, theEconomist . And on and on it went, listing her favorite flowers and her most-hated flowers, her doctors' names and addresses and home phone numbers, her household help, her snack preferences, her preferred bottled water, every size she wore in every article of clothing from lingerie to ski boots. I made lists of people she wanted to talk to (Always), and separate lists for people she never wanted to talk to (Never). I wrote and wrote and wrote as Emily revealed these things throughout our weeks together, and when we were finished, I felt there was nothing I did not know about Miranda Priestly. Except, of course, what exactly made her so important that I'd filled a legal pad with likes and dislikes. Why, exactly, was I supposed to care?
"Yeah, he's amazing," Emily was sighing, twisting the phone cord round and round her forefinger. "It was the most romantic weekend I think I've ever had."
Ping! You have a new e-mail from Alexander Fineman. Click here to open. Oooh, fun. Elias-Clark had firewalled instant messenger, but for some reason I could still receive instant notifications that I'd received a new e-mail. I'd take it.

Hey baby, how's your day?? Things are crazy here, as usual. Remember I told you that Jeremiah had threatened all the little girls with a box cutter he'd brought from home? Well, it seems he was serious—he brought another one to school today and sliced one of the girls' arms at recess and called her a bitch. Not a deep cut at all, but when the teacher on duty asked him where he'd gotten such an idea, he said he saw his mom's boyfriend do it to his mom. He's six years old, Andy, can you believe it? Anyway, the principal called an emergency faculty meeting tonight, so I'm afraid I can't make dinner. I'm so sorry! But I have to say, I'm happy that they're responding to this at all—it's more than I had hoped for. You understand, don't you? Please don't be mad. I'll call you later, and I promise to make it up to you. Love, A
Please don't be mad? I hope you understand? One of his fourth-graders hadslashed another student and he was hoping I'd be OK with him canceling dinner? I'd canceled on him my first week because I'd thought my week of riding around in a hmo and wrapping presents had been too demanding. I wanted to cry, to call him and tell him it was more than OK, that I was proud of him for caring about these kids, for taking the job in the first place. I hit "reply" and was just about to write as much when I heard my name.
"Andrea! She's on her way in. She'll be here in ten minutes," Emily announced loudly, obviously struggling to remain calm.
"Hmm? I'm sorry, I didn't hear what—"
"Miranda is on her way into the office this moment. We need to get ready."
"On her way into the office? But I thought she wasn't even coming back to the country until Saturday . . ."
"Well, clearly she changed her mind. Now, move! Go downstairs and get her papers and lay them out just the way I told you. When you're done, wipe down her desk and leave a glass of Pellegrmo on the left-hand side, with ice and a lime. And make sure that her bathroom is stocked, OK? Go! She's already in the car, so she should be here in less than ten minutes, depending on traffic."
As I raced out of the office, I could hear Emily rapid-fire dialing four-digit extensions and all but screaming, "She's on her way—tell everyone." It took me only three seconds to wind through the hallways and pass through the fashion department, but I already heard panicked cries of "Emily said she's on her way in" and "Miranda's coming!" and a particularly blood-curdling cry of "She'sbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack !" Assistants were frantically straightening clothes on the racks that lined the halls, and editors were racing into their offices, where I could see one changing from her kitten-

heeled shoes to four-inch stilettos while another lined her lips, curled her lashes, and adjusted her bra strap without so much as slowing down. As the publisher walked out of the men's room, I glanced past him and saw James, looking frenzied, checking his black cashmere sweater for lint while spastically popping Altoids in his mouth. Unless the men's room was wired with loudspeakers for these very occasions, I wasn't even sure how he'd heard yet.
I was dying to stop and watch the scene unfold, but I had less than ten minutes to prepare for my first meeting with Miranda as her actual assistant, and I wasn't going to blow it. Until then I'd been trying not to appear as if I'd been actually running, but upon witnessing the utter lack of dignity everyone else had demonstrated, I broke into a sprint.
"Andrea! You know Miranda's on her way here, don't you?" Sophy called from the reception desk as I flew by.
"Yeah, I know, but how do you know?"
"Sweetie pie, I know everything. Now I suggest you get your butt in gear. One thing's for sure: Miranda Priestly doesnot like to be kept waiting."
I leapt onto the elevator and called out a thank you. "I'll be back in three minutes with the papers!"
The two women on the elevator stared at me in disgust, and I realized that I had been screaming.
"Sorry," I said, trying to catch my breath. "We just found out that our editor in chief is on her way to the office and we weren't prepared, so everyone's a little edgy now. "Why am I explaining myself to these people?
"Ohmigod, you must work for Miranda! Wait, let me guess. You're Miranda's new assistant? Andrea, right?" The leggy brunette flashed what must've been four dozen teeth and moved forward like a piranha. Her friend instantly brightened.
"Urn, yeah. Andrea," I said, repeating my own name as though I wasn't entirely sure it was mine. "And yes, I'm Miranda's new assistant."
At that moment the elevator hit the lobby and the doors opened to the stark white marble. I moved ahead of the women and bolted through before the doors had opened entirely and heard one of them call, "You're a lucky girl, Andrea. Miranda's an amazing woman, and a million girls would die for your job!"
I tried not to slam into a group of very unhappy-looking lawyers, and nearly flew into the newsstand in the corner of the lobby, where a little Kuwaiti man named Ahmed presided over a sleek display of glossy titles and a noticeably sparser array of mostly sugar-free candy and diet sodas. Emily had introduced Ahmed and me to each

other before Christmas as part of my training, and I was hoping he could be enlisted to help me now.
"Stop right there!" he cried as I began pulling newspapers out of their wire racks by the register. "You are Miranda's new girl, right? Come here."
I swiveled to see Ahmed lean down and ferret under the register, his face turning a bit too red under the strain. "Ah-ha!" he cried again, springing to his feet with all the agility of an old man with two broken legs. "For you. So you don't make a mess of my display, I keep them aside for you each day. And maybe to make sure I don't run out, too." He winked.
"Ahmed, thank you. I can't even tell you how much this helps me. Do you think I should get the magazines now, too?"
"I sure do. Look, it's already Wednesday and they all came out on Monday. Your boss probably don't like that so much," he said knowingly. And again he reached under the register and again he rose with an armful of magazines, which, after a quick glance, I confirmed were all the ones on my list—no more, no less.
ID card, ID card, where the hell was that goddamn ID card? I reached inside my starched white button-down and found the silk lanyard that Emily had fashioned for me out of one of Miranda's white Hermes scarves. "Never actually wear the card when she's around, of course," she had said, "but just in case you forget to take it off, at least you won't be wearing it on a plastic chain." She had practically spit out the last two words.
"Here you go, Ahmed. Thank you so much for your help, but I'm in a big, big rush. She's on her way in."
He swiped my card down the reader on the side of the machine and placed the scarf lanyard around my neck like a lei. "Run, now. Run!"
I grabbed the overflowing plastic bag and ran, pulling my ID card out again to swipe against the security turnstiles that would allow me to enter the Ehas-Clark elevator bank. I swiped and pushed. Nothing. I swiped and pushed again, this time harder. Nothing.
"Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they're okay-ay,"Eduardo, the round and slightly sweaty security guard, began singing in a high-pitched voice from behind the security desk. Shit. I already knew without looking that his smile, conspiratorial and enormous, demanded again—as it had every single day for the past few weeks—that I play along. It seems he had a never-ending supply of annoying tunes that he loved to sing, and he wouldn't let me through the turnstiles until I acted them out. The day before was "I'm Too Sexy." As he sang,'T'm too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York and Japan," I had to walk down the lobby's imaginary runway. It could be fun when I was in a decent mood. Sometimes it even made me smile. But it was my

very first day with Miranda, and I couldn't be late getting her things set up, I just couldn't. I wanted tohurt him for holding me up as everyone else breezed past the security desk in the turnstiles on each side of me.
"If they don't give me proper credit, I just walk away-ay,"I muttered, allowing the words to stretch and fade, just like Madonna.
He raised his eyebrows. "Where's the enthusiasm, girlfriend?"
I thought I'd do something violent if I heard his voice again, so I dropped my bag of papers on the counter, threw both arms up in the air and thrust my hips to the left, while pursing my lips into a dramatic pout."A material! A material! A material! A material . . . WORLD!" I all but screamed, and he cackled and clapped andwhoosh ! He buzzed me through.
Mental note: Discuss with Eduardo when and where it is appropriate to make a complete ass of me. Once again, I dove onto the elevators and raced past Sophy, who kindly opened the doors to the floor without my even asking. I even remembered to stop in one of the mimkitchens and put some ice in one of the Baccarat goblets we kept in a special cabinet over the microwave just for Miranda. Glass in one hand, newspapers in another, I peeled around the corner and smashed directly into Jessica, a.k.a. Manicure Girl. She looked both annoyed and panic-stricken.
"Andrea, are you aware that Miranda is on her way to the office?" she asked, looking me up and down.
"Sure am. I've got her newspapers right here and her water right here, and now I just need to get them back to her office. If you'll excuse me . . ."
"Andrea!" she called as I ran past her, an ice cube flying out of the glass and landing outside the art department. "Remember to change your shoes!"
I stopped dead in my tracks and looked down. I was wearing a pair of funky street sneakers, the kind that weren't designed to do anything but look cool. The rules of dress—unspoken and otherwise—were obviously relaxed when Miranda was away, and even though every single person in the office looked fantastic, each was wearing something they would swear up and down that they'd never, ever wear in front of Miranda. My bright red, mesh sneakers were a prime example.
I had broken a sweat by the time I made it back to our suite. "I've got all the papers and I bought the magazines, too, just in case. The only thing is, I don't think I can wear these shoes, can I?"
Emily tore the headset from her ear and flung it down on her desk. "No, of course you can't wear those." She picked up the phone, dialed four digits, and announced, "Jeffy, bring me a pair of Jimmy's in a size . . ." She looked at me.

"Nine and a half." I pulled a small bottle of Pellegnno out of the closet and filled the glass.
"Nine and a half. No, now. No, Jeff, I'm serious. Right now. Andrea is weanngsneakers for chnssake,red sneakers, and She's going to be here any minute. OK, thanks."
It was then I noticed that in the four minutes I'd been downstairs, Emily had managed to switch her faded jeans to leather pants and her own funky sneakers to open-toe stilettos. She'd also cleaned up the entire office suite, sweeping the contents of both our desks into drawers and stashing all of the incoming gifts that hadn't yet been transferred to Miranda's apartment in the closet. She had slicked on a fresh coat of lip gloss and added some color to her cheeks and was presently motioning for me to get moving.
I grabbed the bag of newspapers and shook them out in a pile on the lightbox in her office, a sort of underlit table where Emily said Miranda would stand for hours on end and examine film that had come in from photo shoots. But it was also where she liked her papers arranged, and once again, I consulted my legal pad for the correct order. First, theNew York Times, followed by theWall Street Journal, and then theWashington Post . And on and on the order went in a pattern I couldn't distinguish, each placed slightly on top of the one before it until they fanned out across the table in formation.Women's Wear Daily was the single exception: this was to be placed in the middle of her desk.
"She's here! Andrea, come out here! She's on her way up," I heard Emily hiss from the outer area. "Unjust called to tell me he just dropped her off."
I putWWD on her desk, placed the Pellegnno on a corner of her desk on a linen napkin which side? I couldn't remember which side it was supposed to go on), and darted from the office, taking one last look around to ensure that everything was in order. Jeffy, one of the fashion assistants who helped organize the fashion closet, tossed me a shoe box with a rubber band around it and bolted. I pulled it open immediately. Inside were a pair of Jimmy Choo heels with straps made of camel hair going every which way and buckles nestled in the middle of it all, probably worth around eight hundred dollars. Shit! I had to get these on. I yanked off my sneakers and my now sweaty socks and tossed them under my desk. The right one went on rather easily, but I couldn't work my stubby fingernail to free the buckle on the left one until—there! I pried it open and thrust my left foot into it, watching the straps bite into the already swollen flesh. In another few seconds I had it buckled and was returning to an upright sitting position just as Miranda walked in.
Frozen. I was absolutely frozen in midmotion, my mind working fast enough to understand how ridiculous I must look, but not quite fast enough to move. She noticed me immediately, probably because she was expecting Emily to still be sitting at her old desk, and walked over. She leaned on the counter that ran over my desk, leaned over it

and even closer to me, until she was able to see my entire body as I sat, immobilized, in the chair. Her bright blue eyes moved up and down, side to side, all over my white button-down, my red corduroy Gap miniskirt, my now buckled camel-hair Jimmy Choo sandals. I felt her examine every inch of me, skin and hair and clothes, her eyes moving so quickly but her face remaining frozen. She leaned closer still, until her face was only a foot from mine and I could smell the fantastic aroma of salon shampoo and expensive perfume, so close that I could see the very fine lines around her mouth and eyes that were invisible from a more comfortable distance. But I couldn't look too long at her face, because she was intently examining mine. There wasn't the slightest indication that she recognized that a) we had, in fact, met before; b) I was her new employee; or c) I was not Emily.
"Hello, Ms. Priestly," I squeaked impulsively, even though somewhere in the back of my head I knew that she hadn't uttered a word yet. But the tension was unbearable, and I couldn't help but barrel forward. "I'm so excited to be working for you. Thank you so much for the opportunity to . . ."Shut up! Just shut your stupid mouth! Talk about no dignity.
She walked away. Finished looking me up and down, pushed backward off the counter, and just walked away while I was stuttering mid-sentence. I could feel heat coming off my face, a flush of confusion and pain and humiliation all wrapped into one, and it didn't help that I could feel Emily glaring at me. I pulled my hot face upward and confirmed that Emily was indeed glaring at me.
"Is the Bulletin updated?" Miranda asked to no one in particular as she walked into her office and, I noticed happily, directly to the light table where I'd arranged her papers.
"Yes, Miranda. Here it is," Emily said obsequiously, racing in behind her and handing her the clipboard where we kept all of Miranda's messages typed as they come in.
I sat quietly, watching Miranda move deliberately around her office in the picture frames that hung on her wall: if I looked at the glass instead of at the photos themselves, I could see her reflection. Emily immediately busied herself at her desk, and silence prevailed.Do we never get to talk to each other or anyone else if she's in the office? I wondered. I wrote a quick e-mail to Emily, asking her as much, which I saw her receive and read. Her answer came back right away:You got it, she wrote.If you and I have to talk, we whisper. Otherwise, no talking. And don't EVER speak to her unless she speaks to you. And do not EVER call her Ms. Priestly—it's Miranda. Got it? I felt again as if I had been slapped, but I looked up and nodded. And it was then I noticed the coat. It was right there, a great big pile of fabulous-looking fur, all bunched up on the end of my desk, with one arm dangling off the edge. I looked at Emily. She rolled her eyes, waved her hand toward the closet, and mouthed, "Hang it up!" It was as heavy as a wet down comforter coming out of the washing machine, and I needed both hands to keep it from

dragging on the floor, but I gingerly hung it on one of the silk hangers and gently, quietly, closed the doors.
I hadn't even sat back down when Miranda appeared next to me, and this time her eyes were free to roam over my entire body. Impossible as it seemed, I could feel each body part ignite as she eyed it, but I was frozen, unable to dive back to my chair. Just as my hair was about to catch fire, those relentless blue eyes finally stopped on mine.
"I'd like my coat," she said quietly, looking directly at me, and I wondered if she wondered who I was, or if she didn't notice or care that there was a relative stranger posing as her assistant. There wasn't so much as a glimmer of recognition, even though my interview with her had taken place a few weeks earlier.
"Surely," I managed, and moved toward the closet again, which was an awkward maneuver because she was currently standing between it and me. I turned my body sideways to keep from bumping into her and tried to slide myself past her, reaching to pull open the door I had just shut. She didn't move a single inch to let me pass, and I could feel that the eyes had continued their roving. Finally, blessedly, my hands closed around the fur, and I pulled it carefully to freedom. I wanted to throw it at her and see if she'd catch it, but I restrained myself at the last second and held it open as a gentleman would for a lady. She shrugged into it with one graceful motion and picked up her cell phone, the only item she had brought with her to the office.
"I'd like the Book tonight, Emily," she said as she walked confidently out of the office, probably not even noticing that a cluster of three women standing in the hall outside the suite scattered immediately upon seeing her, chins to their chests.
"Yes, Miranda. I'll have Andrea bring it up."
That was that. She left. And the visit that had inspired office-wide panic,
frenzied preparations, even makeup and wardrobe adjustments, had lasted just under four
minutes, and had taken place—as far as my inexperienced eyes could see—for absolutely
no reason whatsoever.