Читать книгу Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 26

‘Miranda Priestly’s room,’ I answered from my new Parisian office. My four glorious hours that were supposed to constitute a full night’s sleep had been rudely interrupted by a frantic call from one of Karl Lagerfeld’s assistants at six A.M., which is precisely when I’d discovered that all of Miranda’s phone calls were being routed directly to my room for answering. It appeared the entire city and surrounding area knew Miranda stayed here during the shows, and so my phone had been ringing incessantly since the moment I stepped inside. Never mind the two dozen messages that had already been left on the voice mail.

‘Hi, it’s me. How’s Miranda doing? Is everything OK? Did anything go wrong yet? Where is she and why aren’t you with her?’

‘Hey, Em! Thanks for caring. How are you feeling, by the way?’

‘What? Oh, I’m fine. A little weak, but getting better. Whatever. How is she?’

‘Yes, well, I’m fine, too, thanks for asking. Yes, it was a long flight to get here and I haven’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since the phone keeps ringing and I’m pretty sure it’s never going to stop, and, oh! I gave a completely impromptu speech – after writing an impromptu speech – to a group of people who wanted Miranda’s company but apparently weren’t interesting enough to warrant it. Looked like a giant fucking idiot, actually, and nearly gave myself a heart attack in the process, but hey, other than that, things are just great.’

‘Andrea! Be serious! I’ve been really worried about everything. There wasn’t a lot of time to prepare for this, and you know that if anything goes wrong over there she’s going to blame me anyway.’

‘Emily. Please don’t take this personally, but I can’t talk to you right now. I just can’t do it.’

‘Why? Is something wrong? How did her meeting go yesterday? Did she get there on time? Do you have everything you need? Are you making sure to wear appropriate clothes? Remember, you’re representing Runway over there, so you always have to look the part.’

‘Emily. I need to hang up now.’

‘Andrea! I’m concerned. Tell me what you’ve been doing.’

‘Well, let’s see. In all the free time I’ve had, I’ve gotten a half-dozen or so massages, two facials, and a few manicures. Miranda and I have really bonded over doing the whole spa thing together. It’s great fun. She’s really trying hard not to be too demanding, says she really wants me to enjoy Paris since it’s such a wonderful city and I’m lucky to be here. So basically we just hang out and have fun. Drink great wine. Shop. You know, the usual.’

‘Andrea! This is really not funny, OK? Now tell me what the hell is going on.’ With every degree more annoyed she sounded, my mood improved a notch.

‘Emily, I’m not sure what to tell you. What do you want to hear? How it’s been so far? Let’s see, I’ve spent most of my time trying to figure out how best to sleep through a phone that won’t stop ringing while simultaneously shoving enough food down my throat between the hours of two and six A.M. to sustain me for the remaining twenty hours. It’s like fucking Ramadan here, Em – no eating during daylight hours. Yeah, you should be really sorry you’re missing this one.’

The other line began blinking and I put Emily on hold. Every time it rang my mind went quickly, uncontrollably, to Alex, wondering if he just might call and say that everything was going to be just fine. I’d called twice on my international cell since I’d arrived and he’d answered both times, but like the expert prank caller I’d been in junior high, I’d hung up the moment I’d heard his voice. It’d been the longest we’d ever gone without talking and I wanted to hear what was going on, but I also couldn’t help feeling like life had gotten significantly simpler since we’d taken a break from the bickering and the guilt-mongering. Still, I held my breath until I heard Miranda’s voice screeching from across the wires.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, when is Lucia due to arrive?’

‘Oh, hello, Miranda. Let me just check the itinerary I have for her. Here it is. Let’s see, it says here that she was flying in directly from the shoot in Stockholm today. She should be at the hotel.’

‘Connect me.’

‘Yes, Miranda, just a moment, please.’

I put her on hold and switched back to Emily. ‘That’s her, hold on.’

‘Miranda? I just found Lucia’s number. I’ll connect you now.’

‘Wait, Ahn-dre-ah. I’ll be leaving the hotel in twenty minutes for the rest of the day. I’ll need some scarves before I return, and a new chef. He should have a minimum of ten years’ experience in mostly French restaurants and be available for family dinners four nights a week and dinner parties twice a month. Now connect me to Lucia.’

I knew I should’ve gotten hung up on the fact that Miranda wanted me to hire her a New York chef from Paris, but all I could focus on was that she was leaving the hotel – without me, and for the entire day. I clicked back to Emily and told her that Miranda needed a new chef.

‘I’ll work on it, Andy,’ she announced while coughing. ‘I’ll do some preliminary screening and then you can talk to a few of the finalists. Just find out if Miranda would like to wait until she gets home to meet them or if she’d prefer if you arranged for a couple to fly there and meet with her now, OK?’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Well, of course I’m serious. Miranda hired Cara when she was in Marbella last year. Their last nanny had just quit and she had me fly three finalists to her so she could find someone right away. Just find out, OK?’

‘Sure,’ I muttered. ‘And thanks.’

Just talking about those massages had sounded so good, I decided to book one for myself. There wasn’t an appointment available until early evening, so I called room service in the meantime and ordered a full breakfast. When the butler delivered it to me, I’d already crawled back into one of the plush robes, donned a pair of the matching slippers, and prepared myself to feast on the omelet, croissants, Danishes, muffins, potatoes, cereal, and crepes that arrived smelling so good. After devouring all the food and two cups of tea, I waddled back to the bed I hadn’t really slept in the night before and fell asleep so quickly that I wondered if someone had slipped something in my orange juice.

The massage was the perfect way to top off what had been a blessedly relaxed day. Everyone else was doing my work for me, and Miranda had only called and woken me once – once! – to request that I make her a lunch reservation the following day. This isn’t so bad, I thought, as the woman’s strong hands kneaded my twisted neck muscles. Not a bad perk at all. But just as I started to drift off once again, the cell phone that I’d grudgingly brought along began its persistent ring.

‘Hello?’ I said brightly, as if I weren’t lying naked on a table covered in oil, half-asleep.

‘Ahn-dre-ah. Move my hair and makeup earlier and tell the Ungaro people I can’t make it tonight. I’ll be attending a small cocktail party instead, and I expect you to come with me. Be ready to leave in an hour.’

‘Um, sure, uh, sure,’ I stammered, trying to process the fact that I was actually going somewhere with her. A flashback from yesterday – the last time I was told at the very last minute that I was to go somewhere with her – flooded my brain, and I felt as though I would hyperventilate. I thanked the woman and charged the massage to the room even though I’d made it through only the first ten minutes, and I ran upstairs to figure out how to best maneuver around this newest obstacle. This was getting old. Quickly.

It took just a few minutes to page Miranda’s hair and makeup people (who, incidentally, were different from my own – I was pieced together by an angry-looking woman whose look of despair on seeing me for the first time haunted me still, while Miranda had a pair of gay guys who looked like they stepped directly out of the pages of Maxim) and change her appointment.

‘No problem,’ Julien squealed in a thick French accent. ‘We will be there, how you say? Wearing bells! We clear our schedules this week just in the case that Madame Priestly need us at different times!’

I paged Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro people. Time to hit the wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my different ‘looks’ was displayed prominently on the bedside table, just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to turn to it for spiritual guidance. I flipped through the headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all.

Shows:

1 Daytime

2 Evening

Meals:

1 Breakfast meeting

2 LunchCasual (hotel or bistro)Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)

3 DinnerCasual (bistro, room service)Midrange (decent restaurant, casual dinner party)Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner party)

Parties:

1 Casual (champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)

2 Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties, ‘meet for drinks’)

3 Dressy (cocktail parties by major people, anything at a museum or gallery, postshow parties hosted by design team)

Miscellaneous:

1 To and from the airport

2 Athletic events (lessons etc.)

3 Shopping excursions

4 Running errandsTo couture salonsTo upscale shops and boutiquesTo the local food store and/or health and beauty aid

There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear when one was unable to establish the major-ness or non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was the opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the event down to ‘Parties,’ which was a good first step, but at that point things got gray. Was this party going to be a simple number 2, where I’d just pull out something chic, or was it really a 3, in which case I’d better pay attention to choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no instructions for ‘gray area’ or ‘uncertainty,’ but someone had helpfully included a last-minute handwritten note toward the bottom of the table of contents: When in doubt (and you never should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous than overdressed in something fabulous. Well, OK then, it looked like I now squarely fit into category, party; subcategory, stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on.

After a particularly embarrassing run-in with a feather-covered tank top and patent-leather thigh-high (as in yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected the outfit on page thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli with a baby-T and a pair of biker-chick black boots by D&G. Hot, sexy, stylish – but not too dressy – without actually making me look like an ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker. What more could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to choose a workable bag, the hair and makeup woman showed up to begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did.

‘Um, could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a little?’ I asked carefully, desperately trying not disparage her handiwork. It probably would’ve been better to have a go at the makeup myself – especially since I had more supplies and instructions than the NASA scientists commissioned to build the space shuttle – but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like clockwork whether I liked it or not.

‘No!’ she barked, clearly not striving for the same sensitivity as myself. ‘It looks better this way.’

She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to the lobby fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I could double-check that the driver was ready. Just as I was debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or actually use the same one and risk catching something from sharing a backseat with her assistant, she appeared. She looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining completely passive and indifferent. I’d passed! This was the first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t received a look of all-out disgust or, at the very least, a snarky comment, and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New York fashion editors, a collection of Parisian hair and makeup stylists, and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most expensive clothing.

‘Is the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?’ She looked stunning in a short, shirred velvet cocktail dress.

‘Yes, Ms Priestly, right this way,’ Monsieur Renaud interrupted smoothly, leading us past a group of what could only be other American fashion editors also there for the shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking crowd of über-Clackers when we walked past, Miranda two steps in front me, looking thin and striking and very, very unhappy. I nearly had to run to keep up, even though she was six inches shorter than me, and I waited until she gave me a ‘Well? What the hell are you waiting for?’ look before I ducked into the backseat of the limo after her.

Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going, because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing, choosing instead to chat with B-DAD on her cell phone, repeating over and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday night. He was flying over in his company’s private jet, and they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday, she didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it was exactly that I was supposed to do all night. She’d always been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her staff in public, which indicated – at least on some level – that she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her someone on the phone or have something dry-cleaned while we were standing there, what was I to do?

‘Ahn-dre-ah, this party is being hosted by a couple with whom I was friendly when we lived in Paris. They requested that I bring along an assistant to entertain their son, who generally finds these events rather dull. I’m sure the two of you will get along well.’ She waited until the driver opened her door, then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps. Before I could open my own door, she had climbed the three steps and was already handing her coat to the butler, who was clearly awaiting her arrival. I slumped back into the soft leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem of information she’d so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup, the rescheduling, the panicked consultation with the style book, the biker-chick boots, were all so I could spend the night babysitting some rich couple’s snot-nosed kid? And a French snot-nosed kid, no less.

I spent three full minutes reminding myself that The New Yorker was now only a couple months away, that my year of servitude was about to pay off, that I could surely make it through one more night of tedium to get my dream job. It didn’t help. All of a sudden, I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’ couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set up the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting, too, with baby Isaac, who would coo and smile when he saw me and Alex would call and tell me he loved me. No one would care that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate éclair. Not a single person would even know that there were fashion shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them. But all of that seemed incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to be a screaming, spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.

When I finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from the limo, the butler was no longer expecting anyone. There was music coming from a live band and the smell of scented candles wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I took a deep breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open. It’s safe to say that never, ever, in my young life had I been more surprised than I was that night: Christian was smiling back at me.

‘Andy, darling, so glad you could make it,’ he said, leaning in and kissing me full on the mouth – a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.

‘What are you doing here?’

He grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing? Because you seem to follow me everywhere I go, I’m going to have to assume you want to sleep with me.’

I blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, something like that. Actually, I’m not here as a guest, I’m just a very well dressed babysitter. Miranda asked me to come along and didn’t tell me until the last second that I’m supposed to be watching the hosts’ bratty son tonight. So, if you’ll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the milk and crayons he’ll need.’

‘Oh, he’s just fine, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll be needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter.’ And he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on, but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my mouth.

‘Christian!’ I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly Miranda would fire me if she caught me making out with some random guy at one of her own parties. ‘What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!’ I squirmed away, but he just continued to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.

‘Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this is my house. My parents are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide that for yourself?’

‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Please?’

‘Nope. Fun, right? Since I can’t seem to pin you down any other way, I thought this might work. My stepmother and Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at French Runway – she’s a photographer and does shoots for them all the time – so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely son wouldn’t mind a little company in the form of one attractive assistant. Worked like a charm. Come on, let’s get you a drink.’ He put his hand on the small of my back and led me toward a massive oak bar in the living room, which currently had three uniformed bartenders administering martinis and glasses of Scotch and elegant flutes of champagne.

‘So, let me just get this straight: I don’t have to babysit for anyone tonight? You don’t have a baby brother or anything like that, do you?’ It was incomprehensible that I had driven to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities for the entire night except to hang out with a Hot Smart Writer. Maybe they’d invited me because they were planning to make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they were really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the easiest last-minute fill-in? Or maybe we were headed to the coat check, where I would relieve the girl who sat there now, looking bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself around Christian’s story.

‘Well, I’m not saying you don’t have to babysit at all tonight, because I plan on needing lots and lots of attention. But I think it’ll be a better night than you’d anticipated. Wait right here.’ He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd of partygoers, mostly distinguished-looking men and sort of artsy, fashionable women in their forties and fifties, what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine people, with a few designers, photographers, and models thrown in for good measure. There was a small, elegant stone patio in the back of the townhouse, all lit by white candles, where a violinist played softly, and I peeked outside. Immediately I recognized Anna Wintour, looking absolutely ravishing in a cream-colored silk slip dress and beaded Manolo sandals. She was talking animatedly to a man I presumed to be her boyfriend, although her giant Chanel sunglasses prevented me from being able to tell if she was amused, indifferent, or sobbing. The press loved to compare the antics and attitudes of Anna and Miranda, but I found it impossible to believe that anyone could be quite as unbearable as my boss.

Behind her stood what I presumed to be a few Vogue editors, eyeing Anna warily and wearily like our own Clackers eye Miranda, and next to them was Donatella Versace.

I sipped my glass of champagne (and I thought I wouldn’t be having any!) and made small talk with an Italian guy – one of the first ugly ones I’d ever met – who spoke in florid prose about his innate appreciation for the female body, until Christian reappeared again.

‘Hey, come with me for a minute,’ he said, once again navigating me smoothly through the crowd. He was wearing his uniform: perfectly faded Diesels, a white T-shirt, a dark sport coat, and Gucci loafers, and he blended into the fashion crowd seamlessly.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, keeping my eyes peeled for Miranda, who, no matter what Christian said, was still probably expecting me to be banished to the corner, faxing or updating the itinerary.

‘First, we’re getting you another drink, and maybe another for me as well. Then, I’m going to teach you how to dance.’

‘What makes you think I don’t know how to dance? It just so happens that I’m a gifted dancer.’

He handed me another glass of champagne that seemed to appear out of thin air and led me into his parents’ formal living room, which was done in gorgeous shades of deep maroon. A six-piece band was playing hip music, of course, and the couple dozen people under thirty-five had congregated here. As if on cue, the band started playing Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ and Christian pulled me against him. He smelled of masculine, preppy cologne, something old-school like Polo Sport. His hips moved naturally to the music, no thinking involved, we just moved together all over the makeshift dance floor, and he sang quietly in my ear. The rest of the room became fuzzy – I was vaguely aware there were others dancing, too, and somewhere someone was making a toast to something, but at that moment the only thing with any definition was Christian. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, there was a tiny but insistent reminder that this body against mine was not Alex’s, but it didn’t matter at all. Not now, not tonight.

It was after one when I actually remembered that I was there with Miranda; it had been hours since I’d last seen her, and I was certain she’d forgotten all about me and headed back to the hotel. But when I finally pulled myself away from the couch in his father’s study, I saw her happily chatting with Karl Lagerfeld and Gwyneth Paltrow, all of them apparently oblivious to the fact that they would all be waking up for the Christian Dior show in just a few hours. I was debating whether or not I should approach her when she spotted me.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! Come over here,’ she called, her voice sounding almost merry over the din of the party that had become noticeably more festive in the last few hours. Someone had dimmed the lights, and it was abundantly clear that the partyers who remained had been well taken care of by the smiling bartenders. The annoying way she pronounced my name didn’t even bother me in my warm and fuzzy champagne buzz. And even though I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, she was clearly calling me over to introduce me to her celebrity friends.

‘Yes, Miranda?’ I cooed in my most ingratiating, thank-you-for-bringing-me-to-this-fabulous-place tone. She didn’t even look in my general direction.

‘Get me a Pellegrino and then make sure the driver’s out front. I’m ready to leave now.’ The two women and one man standing next to her snickered, and I felt my face turn bright red.

‘Of course. I’ll be right back.’ I fetched the water, which she accepted without a thank-you, and made my way through the thinning crowd to the car. I considered finding Christian’s parents to thank them but thought better of it and headed straight toward the door, where he was leaning up against the frame with a smugly satisfied expression.

‘So, little Andy, did I show you a good time tonight?’ he slurred just a little bit, and it seemed nothing short of adorable at that moment.

‘It was all right, I suppose.’

‘Just all right? Sounds to me like you wish I would’ve taken you upstairs tonight, huh, Andy? All in good time, my friend, all in good time.’

I smacked him playfully on the forearm. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Christian. Thank your parents for me.’ And, for once, I leaned over first and kissed him on the cheek before he could do anything else. ‘G’night.’

‘A tease!’ he called, slurring just a little bit more. ‘You’re quite the little tease. Bet your boyfriend loves that about you, doesn’t he?’ He was smiling now, and not cruelly. It was all part of the flirty game for him, but the reference to Alex sobered me for a minute. Just long enough to realize that I’d had a better time tonight than I could remember having had in many years. The drinking and the close dancing and his hands on my back as he pulled me against him had made me feel more alive than in all the months since I’d been working at Runway, months that had been filled with nothing but frustration and humiliation and a body-numbing exhaustion. Maybe this was why Lily did it, I thought. The guys, the partying, the sheer joy of realizing you’re young and breathing. I couldn’t wait to call and tell her all about it.

Miranda joined me in the backseat of the limo after another five minutes, and she even appeared to be somewhat happy. I wondered if she’d gotten drunk but ruled that out immediately: the most I’d ever seen her drink was a sip of this or that, and then only because a social situation demanded it. She preferred Perrier to champagne and certainly a milkshake or a latte to a cosmo, so the chances she was actually drunk right now were slim.

After grilling me about the following day’s itinerary for the first five minutes (luckily I’d thought to tuck a copy in my bag), she turned and looked at me for the first time all evening.

‘Emily – er, Ahn-dre-ah, how long have you been working for me?’

It came out of left field, and my mind couldn’t work fast enough to figure out the ulterior motive for this sudden question. It felt strange to be the object of any question of hers that wasn’t explicitly asking why I was such a fucking idiot for not finding, fetching, or faxing something fast enough. She’d never actually asked about my life before. Unless she remembered the details of our hiring interview – and it seemed unlikely, considering she’d stared at me with utterly blank eyes my very first day of work – then she had no idea where, if anywhere, I’d attended college, where, if anywhere, I lived in Manhattan, or what, if anything, I did in the city in the few precious hours a day I wasn’t racing around for her. And although this question most certainly did have a Miranda element to it, my intuition said that this might, just maybe, be a conversation about me.

‘Next month it will be a year, Miranda.’

‘And do you feel you’ve learned a few things that may help you in your future?’ She peered at me, and I instantly suppressed the urge to start rattling off the myriad things I’d ‘learned’: how to find a single store or restaurant review in a whole city or out of a dozen newspapers with few to no clues about its genuine origin; how to pander to preteenage girls who’d already had more life experiences than both my parents combined; how to plead with, scream at, persuade, cry to, pressure, cajole, or charm anyone, from the immigrant food delivery guy to the editor in chief of a major publishing house to get exactly what I needed, when I needed it; and, of course, how to complete just about any challenge in under an hour because the phrase ‘I’m not sure how’ or ‘that’s not possible’ was simply not an option. It had been nothing if not a learning-rich year.

‘Oh, of course,’ I gushed. ‘I’ve learned more in one year working for you than I could’ve hoped to have learned in any other job. It’s been fascinating, really, seeing how a major – the major – magazine runs, the production cycle, what all the different jobs are. And, of course, being able to observe the way you manage everything, all the decisions you make – it’s been an amazing year. I’m so thankful, Miranda!’ So thankful that two of my molars had been aching for weeks, too, but I wasn’t ever able to get in to see a dentist during working hours, but whatever. My newfound, intimate knowledge of Jimmy Choo’s handicraft had been well worth the pain.

Could this possibly sound believable? I stole a glance, and she seemed to be buying it, nodding her head gravely. ‘Well, you know, Ahn-dre-ah, that if ah-fter a year my girls have performed well, I consider them ready for a promotion.’

My heart surged. Was it finally happening? Was this where she told me that she’d already gone ahead and secured a job for me at The New Yorker? Never mind that she had no idea I would kill to work there. Maybe she had just figured it out because she cares.

‘I have my doubts about you, of course. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of enthusiasm, or those sighs or faces you make when I ask you to do something that you quite obviously don’t feel like doing. I’m hoping that’s just a sign of your immaturity, since you do seem reasonably competent in other areas. What exactly are you interested in doing?’

Reasonably competent! She may as well have announced I was the most intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, and capable young woman she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. Miranda Priestly had just told me I was reasonably competent!

‘Well, actually, it’s not that I don’t love fashion, because of course I do. Who wouldn’t?’ I rushed on to say, keeping a careful appraisal of her expression, which, as usual, remained mostly unchanged. ‘It’s just that I’ve always dreamt of becoming a writer, so I was hoping that might, uh, be an area I could explore.’

She folded her hands in her lap and glanced out the window. It was clear that this forty-five-second conversation was already beginning to bore her, so I had to move quickly. ‘Well, I certainly have no idea if you can write a word or not, but I’m not opposed to having you write a few short pieces for the magazine to find out. Perhaps a theater review or a small writeup for the Happenings section. As long as it doesn’t interfere with any of your responsibilities for me, and is done only during your own time, of course.’

‘Of course, of course. That would be wonderful!’ We were talking, really communicating, and we hadn’t so much as mentioned the words ‘breakfast’ or ‘dry cleaning’ yet. Things were going too well not to just go for it, and so I said, ‘It’s my dream to work at The New Yorker one day.’

This seemed to catch her now drifting attention, and once again she peered at me. ‘Why ever would you want to do that? No glamour there, just nuts and bolts.’ I couldn’t decide if the question was rhetorical, so I played it safe and kept my mouth shut.

My time was about twenty seconds from expiring, both because we were nearing the hotel and her fleeting interest in me was fading fast. She was scrolling through the incoming calls on her cell phone, but still managed to say in the most offhanded, casual way, ‘Hmm, The New Yorker. Condé Nast.’ I was nodding wildly, encouragingly, but she wasn’t looking at me. ‘Of course I know a great many people there. We’ll see how the rest of the trip goes, and perhaps I’ll make a call over there when we return.’

The car pulled up to the entrance, and an exhausted-looking Monsieur Renaud eclipsed the bellman who was leaning forward to open Miranda’s door and opened it himself.

‘Ladies! I hope you had a lovely evening,’ he crooned, doing his best to smile through the exhaustion.

‘We’ll be needing the car at nine tomorrow morning to go to the Christian Dior show. I have a breakfast meeting in the lobby at eight-thirty. See that I’m not disturbed before then,’ she barked, all traces of her previous humanness evaporating like spilled water on a hot sidewalk. And before I could think how to end our conversation or, at the very least, kiss up a little more for having had it at all, she walked toward the elevators and vanished inside one. I shot a weary, understanding look to Monsieur Renaud and boarded an elevator myself.

The small, tastefully arranged chocolates on a silver tray on my bedside table only highlighted the perfection of the evening. In one random, unexpected night, I’d felt like a model, hung out with one of the hottest guys I’d seen in the flesh, and had been told by Miranda Priestly that I was reasonably competent. It felt like everything was finally coming together, that the past year of sacrifice was showing the first early signs of potentially paying off. I collapsed on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and gazed at the ceiling, still unable to believe that I’d told Miranda straight up that I wanted to work at The New Yorker, and she hadn’t laughed. Or screamed. Or in any way, shape, or form freaked out. She hadn’t even scoffed and told me that I was ridiculous for not wanting to get promoted somewhere within Runway. It was almost as though – and I might be projecting here, but I don’t think so – she had listened to me and understood. Understood and agreed. It was almost too much to comprehend.

I undressed slowly, making sure to savor every minute of tonight, going over and over in my mind the way Christian had led me from room to room and then all over the dance floor, the way he looked at me through those hooded lids with the persistent curl, the way Miranda had almost, imperceptibly, nodded when I’d said what I really wanted was to write. A truly glorious night, I had to say, one of the best in recent history. It was already three-thirty in the morning Paris time, making it nine-thirty New York time – a perfect time to catch Lily before she went out for the night. Although I should’ve just dialed with no regard for the insistent, blinking light that announced – surprise, surprise – that I had messages, I cheerfully pulled out a pad of the Ritz stationery and got ready to transcribe. There were bound to be long lists of irritating requests from irritating people, but nothing could take away my Cinderella-esque evening.

The first three were from Monsieur Renaud and his assistants, confirming various drivers and appointment for the next day, always remembering to wish me a good night as though I were actually a person instead of just a slave, which I appreciated. Between the third and the fourth message I found myself both wishing and not wishing that one of the messages to come was from Alex, and as a result, was both delighted and anxious when the fourth was from him.

‘Hi, Andy, it’s me. Alex. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you over there, I’m sure you’re incredibly busy, but I need to talk to you, so please call me on my cell phone as soon as you get this. Doesn’t matter how late it is, just be sure to call, OK? Uh, OK. ’Bye.’

It was so strange that he hadn’t said he loved me or missed me or was waiting for me to get back, but I guess all those things fall squarely into the ‘inappropriate’ category when people decide to ‘take a break.’ I hit delete and decided, rather arbitrarily, that the lack of urgency in his voice meant I could wait until tomorrow – I just couldn’t handle a long ‘state of our relationship’ conversation at three o’clock in the morning after as wonderful a night as I’d just had.

The last and final message was from my mom, and it, too, sounded strange and ambiguous.

‘Hi, honey, it’s Mom. It’s about eight our time, not sure what that makes it for you. Listen, no emergency – everything’s fine – but it’d be great if you could call me back when you hear this. We’ll be up for a while, so anytime is fine, but tonight is definitely better than tomorrow. We both hope you’re having a wonderful time, and we’ll talk to you later. Love you!’

This was definitely strange. Both Alex and my mother had called me in Paris before I’d gotten a chance to call either of them, and both had requested that I call them back regardless of what time I got the message. Considering my parents defined a late night by whether or not they managed to stay awake for Letterman’s opening monologue, I knew something had to be up. But at the same time, no one sounded particularly panicked or even a little frantic. Perhaps I’d take a long bubble bath with some of the Ritz products provided and slowly work up the energy to call everyone back; the night had just been too good to wreck by talking to my mother about some petty concern or to Alex about ‘where we stand.’

The bath was just as hot and luxurious as you’d expect it to be in a junior suite adjacent to the Coco Chanel suite at the Ritz Paris, and I took a few extra minutes to apply some of the lightly scented moisturizer from the vanity to my entire body. Then, finally wrapped in the plushest terry-cloth robe I’d ever pulled around me, I sat down to dial. Without thinking, I dialed my mother first, which was probably a mistake: even her ‘hello’ sounded seriously stressed out.

‘Hey, it’s me. Is everything OK? I was going to call you guys tomorrow, it’s just that things have been so hectic. But, wait until I tell you about the night I just had!’ I knew already that I’d be omitting any romantic references to Christian, since I hadn’t felt like explaining the entire Alex scenario to my parents, but I knew they’d both be thrilled to hear that Miranda seemed to respond well when I’d brought up the idea of The New Yorker.

‘Honey, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but something’s happened. We got a call today from Lenox Hill Hospital, which is on Seventy-seventh Street, I think, and it seems that Lily’s been in an accident.’

And although it’s quite conceivably the most clichéd expression in the English language, my heart stopped for just a moment. ‘What? What are you talking about? What kind of an accident?’

She had already switched into worried-mom mode and was clearly trying to keep her voice steady and her words rational, following what was sure to have been my dad’s suggestion of passing along to me a feeling of calm and control. ‘A car accident, honey. A rather serious one, I’m afraid. Lily was driving – there was also a guy in the car, someone from school, I think they said – and she turned the wrong way down a one-way street. It seems she hit a taxicab head-on, going nearly forty miles an hour on a city street. The police officer I spoke with said it was a miracle she’s alive.’

‘I don’t understand. When did it happen? Is she going to be OK?’ I had started choke-crying at some point, because as calm as my mother was trying to remain, I could hear the severity of the situation in her carefully chosen words. ‘Mom, where is Lily now, and is she going to be OK?’

It wasn’t until this point that I noticed my mom was crying also, just quietly. ‘Andy, I’m putting Dad on. He spoke to the doctors most recently. I love you, honey.’ The last part came out like a squeak.

‘Hi, honey. How are you? Sorry we have to call with news like this.’ My dad’s voice sounded deep and reassuring, and I had a fleeting feeling that everything was going to work out. He was going to tell me that she’d broken her leg, maybe a rib or two, and someone had called in a good plastic surgeon to stitch up a few scrapes on her face. But she was going to be just fine.

‘Dad, will you please tell me what happened? Mom said Lily was driving and hit a cab going really fast? I don’t understand. None of this makes any sense. Lily doesn’t have a car, and she hates to drive. She’d never be cruising around Manhattan. How did you hear about this? Who called you? And what’s wrong with her?’ Again, I’d worked myself up to nearly hysterical, but again his voice was commanding and soothing all in one.

‘Take a deep breath – I’ll tell you everything I know. The accident happened yesterday, but we just found out about it today.’

‘Yesterday! How could this have happened yesterday and no one called me? Yesterday?’

‘Sweetie, they did call you. The doctor said that Lily had filled out the front information page in her daily planner and had listed you as her emergency contact, since her grandmother’s really not doing all that well. Anyway, I guess the hospital called you at home and on your cell, but of course you weren’t checking either one. When no one called them back or showed up in twenty-four hours, they went through her planner and noticed that we have the same last name as you, and so the hospital called here to see if we knew how to reach you. Mom and I couldn’t remember where you were staying, so we called Alex for the name of the hotel.’

‘Oh my god, it was a day ago. Has she been alone this whole time? Is she still in the hospital?’ I couldn’t ask the questions fast enough, but I still felt like I wasn’t getting any answers. All I knew for sure was that Lily had decided on me as the primary person in her life, the emergency contact you always had to list but never, ever took seriously. And here she’d really needed me – didn’t have anyone else, in fact – and I’d been nowhere to be found. My choking had subsided, but the tears continued to pour down my cheeks in hot, angry streaks, and my throat felt as though it had been scraped raw with a pumice stone.

‘Yes, she’s still in the hospital. I’m going to be very honest with you, Andy. We’re not sure if she’s going to be all right.’

‘What? What are you saying? Will someone just tell me something concrete already?’

‘Honey, I’ve spoken to her doctor a half-dozen times already, and I have complete confidence that she’s getting the best attention. But Lily’s in a coma, sweetie. Now, the doctor did reassure me that—’

‘A coma? Lily is in a coma?’ Nothing was making sense anymore; the words were refusing to take on meaning.

‘Honey, try to calm down. I know this is shocking for you and I hate to do this over the phone. We considered not telling you until you got back, but since that’s still half a week away, we figured you had a right to know. But also know that Mom and I are doing everything we can to make sure that Lily gets the best help. She’s always been like a daughter to us, you know that, so she’s not going to be alone.’

‘Oh my god, I have to come home. Dad, I have to come home! She doesn’t have anybody but me, and I’m across the Atlantic. Oh, but that fucking party is the night after tomorrow and it’s the sole reason she brought me and she’ll definitely fire me if I’m not there. Think! I need to think!’

‘Andy, it’s late there. I think the best thing you could do is get some sleep, take a little time to think things over. Of course I knew you’d want to come home right away, because that’s the kind of person you are, but keep in mind that for right now Lily is not conscious. Her doctor assured me that the chances are excellent that she’ll come out of this in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, that her body is just using this as an extended and deeper sleep to help itself heal. But nothing is certain,’ he added, softly.

‘And if she does come out of it? I’m assuming she could have all sorts of brain damage and horrible paralysis and things like that? Oh my god, I can’t stand it.’

‘They just don’t know yet. They said that she is responsive to stimuli in her feet and legs, which is a good indication that there’s no paralysis. But there’s a lot of swelling around her head, and it won’t be possible to know anything for sure until she comes out of this. We just need to wait.’

We spoke for a few minutes longer before I hung up abruptly and called Alex’s cell phone.

‘Hi, it’s me. Have you seen her?’ I asked without so much as a hello. I was now a mini-Miranda.

‘Andy. Hi. So you know?’

‘Yeah, I just got off the phone with my parents. Have you seen her?’

‘Yes, I’m at the hospital now. They won’t let me in her room right now since it’s not visiting hours and I’m not family, but I wanted to be here just in case she wakes up.’ He sounded very, very far away, completely lost in his own thoughts.

‘What happened? My mom said something about how she was driving and hit a cab or something? None of it makes any sense to me.’

‘Uch, it’s a nightmare,’ he sighed, clearly unhappy that no one else had told me the story yet. ‘I’m not sure I know exactly, but I did talk to the guy she was with when it happened. You remember Benjamin, that guy she was seeing in college who she walked in on having a threesome with those girls?’

‘Of course, he works in my building now. I see him sometimes. What the hell was she doing with him? Lily hates him – she’s never gotten over that.’

‘I know, that’s what I thought, too, but it seems they’ve been hanging out lately and they were together last night. He says they had gotten tickets to see Phish at Nassau Coliseum and drove out there together. I guess Benjamin smoked too much and decided he shouldn’t drive his car home, so Lily volunteered. They made it back to the city with no problems until Lily ran a red light and then turned the wrong way down Madison, straight into oncoming traffic. They hit a cab head-on, on the driver’s side, and, well, uh, you know.’ He choked up at this point, and I knew things must be worse than anyone had let on.

I’d done nothing but ask questions the last half hour – to my mom, my dad, and now Alex – but I couldn’t bring myself to ask the most obvious one: Why had Lily run a red light and then tried to drive south on an avenue that only ran north? But I didn’t need to, because Alex, as always, knew exactly what I was thinking.

‘Andy, her blood alcohol level was nearly twice the legal limit.’ He stated this matter-of-factly, trying not to swallow the words so I wouldn’t ask him to repeat them.

‘Oh my god.’

‘If – when – she wakes up, she’s going to have even more to deal with than her health: she’s in a lot of trouble. Luckily, the cabbie was OK, just a few bumps and bruises, and Benjamin’s left leg is completely smashed up, but he’ll be fine, too. We just need to wait for Lily. When are you coming home?’

‘What?’ I was still trying to process the fact that Lily had been ‘seeing’ a guy I’d always thought she hated, that she’d ended up in a coma because she was so drunk when she was with him.

‘I said, when are you coming home?’ When I was silent for a moment, he continued. ‘You are coming home, aren’t you? You’re not seriously considering staying there while your best friend on earth lies in a hospital bed, are you?’

‘What are you suggesting, Alex? Are you suggesting that this is my fault because I didn’t see it coming? That she’s lying in that hospital bed because I’m in Paris right now? That if I had known she was hanging out with Benjamin again none of this would have happened? What? What exactly are you saying?’ I shrieked, all of the confusing emotions of the night boiling over into a simple, urgent need to scream at someone else.

‘No, I didn’t say any of that. You did. I just assumed that of course you’d be coming home to be with her as soon as possible. I’m not passing judgment on you, Andy – you know that. I also know that it’s really late for you already and there’s nothing you can do in the next couple hours, so why don’t you call me when you know what flight you’re on. I’ll pick you up at the airport and we can come straight to the hospital.’

‘Fine. Thanks for being there for her. I really appreciate it and I know Lily does, too. I’ll call you when I know what I’m doing.’

‘OK, Andy. I miss you. And I know you’ll do the right thing.’ The line went dead before I could pounce all over that one.

Do the right thing? The right thing? What the hell did that mean? I hated that he had just assumed I would jump on a plane and race home because he told me to. Hated his condescending, preachy tone of voice that immediately made me feel like one of his students who’d just been caught talking during class. Hated that he was the one who was with Lily now even though she was my friend, that he was the one acting as a liaison between my own parents and me, that he was once again sitting on his moral high horse and calling the shots. Gone were the old days, when I might have hung up comforted by his presence, knowing that we were in this together and would get through it together, instead of as warring factions. When had things become like this?

There was no energy left to point out the obvious to him, namely, that if I left early to come home, I’d be fired immediately and my entire year of servitude would have been for nothing. I had managed to suppress that awful thought before it took full form in my mind: that my being there or not being there would mean absolutely nothing to Lily right now, since she was unconscious and unaware in a hospital bed. The options swirled around in my mind. Perhaps I would stay just long enough to help with the party and then try to explain to Miranda what happened and make a plea for my job. Or, if it appeared that Lily was awake and alert, someone could explain that I would be on my way as soon as possible, at that point probably just a couple more days. And while both of these explanations sounded somewhat reasonable in the dark hours of early morning after a long night of dancing and many glasses of bubbly and a phone call telling me my best friend was in a coma because of her own drunk driving, somewhere down deep I knew – I knew – that neither of them was.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, leave a message at Horace Mann that the girls will be missing school on Monday because they’ll be in Paris with me, and make sure you get a list of all the work they’ll need to make up. Also, push back my dinner tonight until eight-thirty, and if they’re not happy about that, then just cancel it. Have you located a copy of that book I asked you for yesterday? I need four copies – two in French, two in English – before I meet them at the restaurant. Oh, and I want a final copy of the edited menu for tomorrow’s party to reflect the changes I made. Make certain that there will be no sushi of any kind, do you hear me?’

‘Yes, Miranda,’ I said, scribbling as quickly as possible in the Smythson notebook the accessories department had thoughtfully included with my array of bags, shoes, belts, and jewelry. We were in the car on our way to the Dior show – my first – with Miranda spitting out rapid-fire instructions with no regard for the fact that I’d gotten less than two hours of sleep. The knock on my door came at 7:45 A.M. from one of Monsieur Renaud’s junior concierges who was there personally to wake me up and see that I was dressed in time to attend the show with Miranda, who had herself decided she’d like my assistance just six minutes earlier. He had politely ignored my being quite obviously passed out on the still made bed and had even dimmed the lights, which had blazed all night. I had twenty-five minutes to shower, consult the fashion book, dress myself, and do my own makeup, since my woman was not scheduled to come this early.

I awoke with a minor champagne headache, but the real jolt of pain came when the previous night’s phone calls came flashing back. Lily! I needed to call Alex or my parents and see if anything had happened in the last couple hours – god, it seemed like a week ago – but now there was no time.

By the time the elevator had hit the first floor, I’d decided that I had to stay for one more day, just one lousy day to tend to this party, and then I’d be home with Lily. Maybe I’d even take a short leave of absence once Emily returned, to spend some time with Lil, help her recuperate and deal with some of the inevitable fallout from the accident. My parents and Alex would hold down the fort until I got there – it’s not as though she’s all alone, I told myself. And this was my life. My career, my entire future, was on the line here, and I didn’t see how two days either way made all that much difference to someone who wasn’t yet conscious. But to me – and certainly to Miranda – it made all the difference in the world.

Somehow I’d made it to the backseat of the limo before Miranda did, and even though her eyes were currently fixating on my chiffon skirt, she hadn’t yet commented on any one part of the outfit. I had just tucked the Smythson book into my Bottega Venetta bag when my new, international cell phone rang. It had never rung in Miranda’s presence before, I realized, so I scrambled quickly to turn off the ringer, but she ordered me to answer it.

‘Hello?’ I kept one eye on Miranda, who was paging through the day’s itinerary and pretending not to listen.

‘Andy, hi honey.’ Dad. ‘Just wanted to give you a quick update.’

‘OK.’ I was trying to say the bare minimum, since it seemed incredibly strange to be talking on the phone in front of Miranda.

‘The doctor just called and said that Lily is showing signs that indicate she may come out of it soon. Isn’t that great? I thought you’d want to know.’

‘That’s great. Definitely great.’

‘Have you decided if you’re coming home or not?’

‘Um, no, I haven’t decided. Miranda’s having a party tomorrow night and she definitely needs my help, so … Listen, Dad, I’m sorry, but now’s not a great time. Can I call you back?’

‘Sure, call anytime.’ He tried to sound neutral, but I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

‘Great. Thanks for calling. ’Bye.’

‘Who was that?’ Miranda asked, still peering at her itinerary. It had just begun raining and her voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of water hitting the limo.

‘Hmm? Oh, that was my father. From America.’ Where the hell did I come up with this stuff? From America?

‘And what did he want you to do that conflicted with your working at the party tomorrow night?’

I considered a million potential lies in the course of two seconds, but there wasn’t enough time to work out the details of any of them. Especially when she had turned her full attention to me now. I was left with no choice but to tell the truth.

‘Oh, it was nothing. A friend of mine was in an accident. She’s in the hospital. In a coma, actually. And he was just calling to tell me how she was doing and to see if I was coming home.’

She considered this, nodding slowly, and then picked up the copy of the paper the driver had thoughtfully provided. ‘I see.’ No ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘Is your friend OK?,’ just an icy, vague statement and a look of extreme displeasure.

‘But I’m not, I’m definitely not going home. I understand how important it is that I’m at the party tomorrow, and I’ll be there. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I want you to know that I plan to honor the commitment I’ve made to you and to my job, so I’ll be staying.’

At first Miranda said nothing. But then she smiled slightly and said, ‘Ahn-dre-ah, I’m very pleased with your decision. It is absolutely the right thing to do, and I appreciate that you recognize that. Ahn-dre-ah, I have to say, I had my doubts about you from the start. Clearly, you know nothing about fashion and more than that, you don’t seem to care. And don’t think I’ve failed to notice all the rich and varied ways you convey to me your displeasure when I ask you to do something that you’d rather not. Your competency in the job has been adequate, but your attitude has been substandard at best.’

‘Oh, Miranda, please let me—’

‘I’m speaking! And I was going to say that I’ll be much more willing to help you get where you’d like to go now that you’ve demonstrated that you’re committed. You should be proud of yourself, Ahn-dre-ah.’ Just when I thought I’d faint from the length and depth and content of the soliloquy – whether from joy or from pain, I wasn’t sure – she took it one step further. In a move that was so fundamentally out of character for this woman on every level, she placed her hand on top of the one I had resting on the seat between us and said, ‘You remind me of myself when I was your age.’ And before I could conjure up a single appropriate syllable to utter, the driver screeched to a halt in front of the Carrousel du Louvre and leapt out to open the doors. I grabbed my bag and hers as well and wondered if this was the proudest or the most humiliating moment of my life.

My first Parisian fashion show was a blur. It was dark, that much I remember, and the music seemed much too loud for such understated elegance, but the only thing that stands out from that two-hour window into bizarreness was my own intense discomfort. The Chanel boots that Jocelyn had so lovingly selected to go with the outfit – a stretchy and therefore skintight cashmere sweater by Malo over a chiffon skirt – made my feet feel like confidential documents being fed through a shredder. My head ached from a combination of hangover and anxiety, causing my empty stomach to protest with threatening waves of nausea. I was standing in the very back of the room with assorted C-list reporters and others who didn’t rank high enough to warrant a seat, keeping one eye on Miranda and the other scoping out the least humiliating places to be sick if the need arose. You remind me of myself when I was your age. You remind me of myself when I was your age. You remind me of myself when I was your age. The words kept reverberating over and over, keeping tune to the steady and persistent pounding of my forehead.

Miranda managed not to address me for nearly an hour, but after that she was off and running. Even though I was standing in the same room she was, she called my cell phone to request a Pellegrino. From that moment on, the phone rang in ten- to twelve-minute increments, each request sending another shock of pain directly to my head. Brrring. ‘Get Mr Tomlinson on his air phone on the jet.’ (B-DAD didn’t answer on his air phone when I tried calling it sixteen times.) Brrring. ‘Remind all the Runway editors in Paris that just because they’re here does not mean they can neglect their responsibilities at home – I want everything in by original deadline!’ (The couple of Runway editors I had gotten in touch with at their various hotels in Paris had simply laughed at me and hung up.) Brrring. ‘Get me a regular American turkey sandwich immediately – I’m tiring of all this ham.’ (I walked more than two miles in painful boots and with an upset stomach, but there was no turkey to be found anywhere. I’m convinced she knew, since she’d never once before asked for a turkey sandwich while in America – even though, of course, they’re available on every street corner.) Brrring. ‘I expect dossiers prepared on the three best chefs you’ve found thus far to be waiting in my suite by the time we return from this show.’ (Emily hacked and whined and bitched but promised that she’d fax over whatever information she had on the candidates so far and I could make them into ‘dossiers.’) Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! You remind me of myself when I was your age.

Too nauseated and crippled to watch the parade of anorexic models, I ducked outside for a quick cigarette. Naturally, the moment I flicked on my lighter, my cell phone shrilled again. ‘Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Where are you? Where the hell are you right now?’

I tossed out my still unlit cigarette and raced back inside, my stomach churning so violently that I knew I would be sick – it was just a matter of when and where.

‘I’m right in the back of the room, Miranda,’ I said, sliding through the door and pressing my back against the wall. ‘Right to the left of the door. Do you see me?’

I watched as she swiveled her head back and forth until her eyes finally rested on mine. I was about to hang up the phone, but she was still stage whispering into it. ‘Don’t move, do you hear me? Do not move! One would think that my assistant would understand she’s here to assist me, not to gallivant around outside when I need her. This is unacceptable, Ahn-dre-ah!’ By the time she’d made it to the back of the room and positioned herself in front of me, a woman in a glimmering floor-length silver gown with an empire waist and slight flare was sashaying through the reverent crowds, and the music switched from some sort of bizarre Gregorian chants to all-out heavy metal. My head began pounding almost in tune to the change in music. Miranda didn’t stop hissing when she reached me, but she did, finally, flip her cell phone closed. I did the same.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, we have a very serious problem here. You have a very serious problem. I just received a call from Mr Tomlinson. It seems Annabelle brought it to his attention that the twins’ passports expired last week.’ She stared at me, but all I could do was concentrate on not throwing up.

‘Oh, really?’ was all I could manage, but that clearly wasn’t the right response. Her hand tightened around her bag and her eyes began to bulge with anger.

‘Oh, really?’ she mimicked in a hyena-like howl. People were beginning to stare at us. ‘Oh, really? That’s all you have to say? “Oh, really?”’

‘No, uh, of course not, Miranda. I didn’t mean it like that. Is there something I can do to help?’

‘Is there something I can do to help?’ she mimicked again, this time in a whiny child’s voice. If she had been any other person on earth, I would have reached out and slapped her face. ‘You damn well better believe it, Ahn-dre-ah. Since you’re clearly unable to stay on top of these things in advance, you’ll need to figure out how to renew them in time for their flight tonight. I will not have my own daughters miss this party tomorrow night, do you understand me?’

Did I understand her? Hmm. A very good question indeed. I was thoroughly unable to understand how it was my fault that her ten-year-olds had expired passports when they, theoretically, had two parents, a stepfather, and a full-time nanny to oversee such things, but I also understood it didn’t matter. If she thought it was my fault, it was. I understood that she would never understand when I told her that those girls were not getting on that plane tonight. There was virtually nothing I couldn’t find, fix, or arrange, but securing federal documents while in a foreign country in less than three hours was not happening. Period. She had finally made her very first request of me in a full year that I could not accommodate – regardless of how much she barked or demanded or intimidated, it was not happening. You remind me of myself when I was your age.

Fuck her. Fuck Paris and fashion shows and marathon games of ‘I’m so fat.’ Fuck all the people who believed that Miranda’s behavior was justified because she could pair a talented photographer with some expensive clothes and walk away with some pretty magazine pages. Fuck her for even thinking that I was anything like her. And most of all, fuck her for being right. What the hell was I standing here for, getting abused and belittled and humiliated by this joyless she-devil? So maybe, just maybe, I, too, could be sitting at this very same event thirty years from now, accompanied only by an assistant who loathes me, surrounded by armies of people who pretend they like me because they have to.

I yanked out my cell phone and punched in a number and watched as Miranda became increasingly more livid.

‘Ahn-dre-ah!’ she hissed, much too ladylike to ever make a scene. ‘What do you think you’re doing? I’m telling you that my daughters need passports immediately, and you decide it’s a good time to chat on your phone? Are you under the very mistaken impression that’s why I brought you to Paris?’

My mother picked up on the third ring, but I didn’t even say hello.

‘Mom, I’m getting on the next flight I can. I’ll call you when I get to JFK. I’m coming home.’ I clicked the phone shut before she could respond and looked up to see Miranda, who appeared genuinely surprised. I felt a smile break through the headache and nausea when I realized that I’d rendered her momentarily speechless. Unfortunately, she recovered quickly. There’s a small chance I wouldn’t have gotten fired if I’d immediately pleaded and explained and lost the defiant attitude, but I couldn’t seem to muster one single, tiny shred of self-control.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, you realize what you’re doing, do you not? You do know that if you simply leave here like this, I’m going to be forced—’

‘Fuck you, Miranda. Fuck you.’

She gasped audibly while her hand flew to her mouth in shock, and I felt not a few Clackers turn to see what the commotion was. They’d begun pointing and whispering, themselves as shocked as Miranda that some nobody assistant had just said that – and none too quietly – to one of the great living fashion legends.

‘Ahn-dre-ah!’ She grabbed my upper arm with her clawlike hand, but I wrenched it out of her grip and plastered on an enormous smile. I also figured it’d be an appropriate time to stop whispering and let everyone in on our little secret.

‘So sorry, Miranda,’ I announced in a normal voice that for the first time since I’d landed in Paris wasn’t shaking uncontrollably, ‘but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party tomorrow. You understand, don’t you? I’m sure it’ll be lovely, so please do enjoy it. That’s all.’ And before she could respond, I hitched my bag higher up on my shoulder, ignored the pain that was searing from heel to toe, and strutted outside to hail a cab. I couldn’t remember feeling better than that particular moment. I was going home.