ire her,” Miranda had decreed when she met Annabelle, the twelfth girl I’d interviewed and one of only two that I’d decided were fit to even meet Miranda. Annabelle was a native French speaker (she actually spoke so little English I had to have the twins translate for me), a graduate of the Sorbonne, and the possessor of a long, hard body, with gorgeous brown hair. She had style. She wasn’t afraid to wear stilettos on the job and didn’t seem to mind Miranda’s brusque manner. In fact, she was rather aloof and brusque herself and never really seemed to make any sort of eye contact. Always kind of bored, a touch disinterested, and supremely confident. I was thrilled when Miranda wanted her, both because it saved me weeks more of meeting nanny wannabes and because it indicated—in some teeny, tiny way—that I was starting to get it.

Get what, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but things were going as smoothly as I could have hoped at this point. I’d pulled off the clothing order with only a few noticeable screwups. She hadn’t exactly been psyched when I’d shown her everything she’d ordered from Givenchy and accidentally pronounced it precisely as it appears—give-EN-chee. After much glaring and a few snide comments, I was informed of the correct pronunciation, and everything went reasonably well until she had to be told that the Roberto Cavalli dresses she’d requested hadn’t been made yet and wouldn’t be ready for another three weeks. But I’d handled that and had managed to coordinate fittings in the Closet with her tailor and had assembled nearly everything in the closet in her home dressing room, a space roughly the size of a studio apartment.

The party planning had continued in Miranda’s absence and picked up again full-force with her return, but there was surprisingly little panic—it appeared that everything was in order, and that the upcoming Friday was set to go off without a hitch. Chanel had delivered a one-of-a-kind, floor-length red beaded sheath while Miranda was in Europe, and I’d immediately sent it to the cleaners for a once-over. I’d seen a similar Chanel dress in black in the pages of the month before, and when I pointed it out to Emily, she’d nodded somberly.

“Forty thousand dollars,” she’d said, moving her head up and down, up and down. She double-clicked on a pair of black pants onstyle.com, where she’d spent months scouring for ideas for her upcoming trip to Europe with Miranda.

“Forty thousand WHAT?”

“Her dress. The red one from Chanel. It costs forty thousand dollars if you were to buy it retail. Of course, Miranda isn’t paying full price, but she didn’t get this one for free, either. Isn’t it wild?”

“Forty thousand DOLLARS?” I’d asked again, still unable to believe that I’d held a single item worth so much money in my hands just hours earlier. I couldn’t help a quick conceptualization of forty grand: two full years’ college tuition, a down payment on a new home, an average yearly salary for a typical American family of four. Or, at the very least, one hell of a lot of Prada bags. But one dress? I thought I’d seen it all at that point, but I was due another zinger when the dress came back from the couture dry cleaner with a calligraphic envelope that read Ms. Miranda Priestly. Inside was a hand-printed invoice on cream-colored cardstock that read:

Garment type:Evening gown. Designer:Chanel. Length:Ankle. Colour:Red. Size:Zero. Description:Hand-beaded, sleeveless with slight scoop neckline, invisible side zipper, heavy silk lining. Service:Basic, first-time cleaning. Fee:$670.

There was an additional note underneath the actual bill part from the shop’s owner, a woman I was sure paid both the rent for her store and her home with the money she received from Elias on behalf of Miranda’s extensive dry-cleaning addiction.

We were delighted to work on such a gorgeous gown and we hope you enjoy wearing it to your party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As directed, we will pick up the gown on Monday, May 24, for its post party cleaning. Please let us know if we may be of any additional service. All the best, Colette.

Either way, it was only Thursday and Miranda had a brand-new and newly cleaned gown resting gently in her closet, and Emily had located the exact silver Jimmy Choo sandals she’d requested. The hair stylist was due at her house at five-thirty P.M. on Friday, the makeup artist at five forty-five, and Uri was on call for exactly six-fifteen to take Miranda and Mr. Tomlinson to the museum.

Miranda had already left for the day to watch Cassidy’s gymnastics meet, and I was hoping to duck out early to surprise Lily. She’d just finished her last exam of the year and I wanted to take her out for a celebration.

“Hey, Em, do you think I could leave by six-thirty or seven today? Miranda said she didn’t need the Book because there really wasn’t anything new,” I added quickly, irritated that I had to beg my equal, my peer for permission to leave work after only twelve hours instead of the usual fourteen.

“Um, sure. Yeah, whatever. I’m leaving now.” She checked her computer screen and saw that it was a little after five. “Stay for another couple hours and then head out. She’s with the twins tonight, so I don’t think she should be calling much.” She had a date that night with the guy she’d met in LA over New Year’s. He’d finally made it to New York and, surprise of all surprises, he’d actually called. They were headed to Craftbar for drinks, at which point she would treat him to Nobu if he was behaving himself. She’d made the reservations five weeks earlier when he’d e-mailed that he might be in New York, but Emily still had to use Miranda’s name to score the time slot.

“Well, what are you going to do when you show up there and you’re clearly not Miranda Priestly?” I asked stupidly.

As usual, I received an expert eye-roll-deep-sigh combo. “I’ll simply tell them that Miranda had to be out of town unexpectedly, show them a business card, and tell them she wanted me to have her reservation. Hardly a big deal.”

Miranda called only once after Emily left to tell me that she wouldn’t be in the office until noon tomorrow, but she’d like a copy of the restaurant review she’d read today “in the paper.” I had the presence of mind to ask if she recalled the name of the restaurant or the paper in which she read about it, but this annoyed her greatly.

“Ahn-dre-ah, I’m already late for the meet. Don’t grill me. It was an Asian fusion restaurant and it was in today’s paper. That’s all.” And with that, she snapped her Motorola V60 shut. I hoped, as I usually did when she cut me off mid sentence, that one day the cell phone would simply clamp down on her perfectly manicured fingers and swallow them whole, taking special time to shred those flawless red nails. No luck yet.

I wrote a quick note to myself to find the restaurant first thing in the morning in the notebook I kept with Miranda’s myriad and ever-changing requests and bolted for the car. I called Lily from my cell and she picked up just as I was about to get out and go up to the apartment, and so I waved to John Fisher-Galliano (who had grown his hair a little longer and adorned his uniform with a few chains and looked more like the designer each and every day) but didn’t move.

“Hey, what’s up? It’s me.”

“Hiiiiiiiiiii,”she sang, happier than I’d heard her in weeks, maybe months. “I am so done. Done! No early summer session, nothing but a little, insignificant proposal due for a master’s thesis that I can change ten times after the fact if I want. So that leaves nothing until mid-July. Do you believe it?” She sounded positively gleeful.

“I know, I’m so excited for you! You up for a celebratory dinner? Anywhere you want, it’s on Runway.”

“Really? Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. I’m downstairs and I have a car. Come down; we’ll go somewhere great.”

She squealed. “Fun! I’ve been meaning to tell you all about Freudian Boy. He’s beautiful! Hold on one second. I’m putting on jeans and I’ll be right down.”

She bounded out five minutes later looking trendier and happier than I’d seen her in a very long time. She wore a pair of tight, faded boot-cut jeans that hugged her hips, paired with a long-sleeve flowy white peasant blouse. A pair of flip-flops I’d never seen before—brown leather straps with turquoise beads—completed the look. She was even wearing makeup, and her curls looked as though they had seen a blow-dryer at some point in the last twenty-four hours.

“You look great,” I said as she bounded into the backseat. “What’s your secret?”

“Freudian Boy, of course. He’s amazing. I think I’m in love. So far, he’s going strong at nine-tenths. Do you believe it?”

“First, let’s decide where we’re going. I didn’t make a reservation anywhere, but I can call ahead and use Miranda’s name. Anywhere you want.”

She was rubbing on some Kiehl’s lip gloss and staring at herself in the driver’s rear view mirror. “Anywhere?” she said absentmindedly.

“Anywhere. Maybe Chicama for those mojitos?” I suggested, knowing that the way to sell Lily on a restaurant was by advertising its drinks, not its food. “Or there are those amazing Cosmos at Meet. Or the Hudson Hotel—maybe we can even sit outside? If you want wine, though, I’d love to try—”

“Andy, can we go to Benihana? I’ve been craving it forever.” She looked sheepish.

“Benihana? You want to go to Benihana ? Like, the chain restaurant where they seat you with tourists who have lots of whining children and unemployed Asian actors cook the food right on your table?That Benihana?”

She was nodding so enthusiastically, I had no choice but to call for the address.

“No, no, I have it right here. Fifty-sixth between Fifth and Sixth, north side of the street,” she called to the driver.

My weirdly excited friend didn’t seem to notice that I was staring. Instead, she chatted happily about Freudian Boy, aptly named because he was in his last year of a Ph.D. program in psychology. They’d met in the graduate student lounge in the basement of Low Library. I got the full rundown on all of his qualifications: twenty-nine years old (“So much more mature, but not at all too old”), originally from Montreal (“Such a cute French accent, but like, totally Americanized”), longish hair (“But not freaky ponytail long”), and just the right amount of stubble (“He looks just like Antonio Banderas when he doesn’t shave for three days”).

The samurai chef-actors did their thing, slicing and dicing and flipping cubes of meat all over the place while Lily laughed and clapped her hands like a little girl at her first circus. Although it seemed impossible to believe that Lily actually liked a guy, it appeared to be the only logical explanation for her obvious elation. Even more impossible to believe was her claim that she hadn’t slept with him yet (“Two and a half full weeks of hanging out constantly at school and nothing! Aren’t you proud of me?”). When I asked why I hadn’t seen him around the apartment at all, she’d smiled proudly and said, “He hasn’t been invited over to the apartment yet. We’re taking things slow.” We were standing directly outside the restaurant as she regaled me with all the funny stories he’d told her when Christian Collinsworth appeared in front of me.

“Andrea. The lovely Andrea. I have to say, I’m rather surprised to discover that you’re a fan of Benihana . . . What would Miranda think?” he asked teasingly, sliding his arm around my shoulder.

“I, uh, well . . .” The stammering was immediately all-consuming. There was no room for words when the thoughts were bouncing off each side of my head, pinging between my ears.Eating at Benihana. Christian knows it! Miranda at Benihana! Looks so adorable in leather bomber jacket! Must be able to smell the Benihana on me! Don’t kiss him on the cheek! Kiss him on the cheek! “Well, it’s not that, uh, that . . .”

“We were actually just discussing where we would be going next,” Lily stated crisply, extending her hand to Christian, who, it finally occurred to me, was alone. “We must’ve gotten so caught up that we didn’t even realize we’d stopped in the middle of the street! Hah, hah! How do like that, Andy? My name’s Lily,” she said to Christian, who shook her hand and then pushed a curl away from his eye, just like he’d done so many times at the party. Once again I had an odd feeling that I could be entranced for hours, maybe days, just watching him push that single, adorable curl away from his perfect face.

I stared at her and at him and became vaguely aware that I had to say something, but the two of them seemed to be holding up just fine on their own.

“Lily,” Christian rolled the name around on his tongue. “Lily.Great name. Almost as great as Andrea. ” I had the presence of mind to at least look at them, and I noticed that Lily was beaming. She was thinking to herself that this guy was not only older and hot, but he was also charming. I could see the wheels turning, weighing whether I was interested in him, if I’d actually do anything because of Alex, and, if so, if there was anything she could do to expedite it. She adored Alex because, really, how could you not, but she refused to understand how two people so young could spend so much time together—or, at least, that’s what she claimed, although I knew that it was only the monogamy part that really blew her away. If there was a speck of a chance of some drama between Christian and me, then Lily would die fanning the fire.

“Lily, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Christian, a friend of Andrea’s. Do you always stop in front of Benihana to talk?” His smile actually prompted a shooting-sinking feeling in my stomach.

Lily threw back her own brown curls with the back of her hand and said, “Well of course not, Christian! We just had dinner at Town and were trying to figure out a good place to get a drink. Any suggestions?”

Town! It was one of the hottest and most expensive restaurants in the city. Miranda went there. Jessica and her fiancé went there. Emily talked obsessively about wanting to go there. But Lily?

“Well, that’s weird,” Christian said, obviously buying the whole thing. “I just came from a dinner with my agent there. Strange that I didn’t see you two . . .”

“We were all the way in the back, kind of tucked behind the bar,” I said quickly, regaining a modicum of composure. Thankfully I’d paid attention when Emily had made me look at the tiny picture of the restaurant’s bar listed on city search.com when she was trying to decide if it was a good date place.

“Mmm.” He nodded, looking a little distracted and cuter than ever. “So, you girls are on your way to get a drink?”

I felt an overwhelming need to shower the Benihana stink from my clothes and hair, but Lily wasn’t giving me a chance. I briefly wondered if it was as obvious to Christian as it was to me that I was being whored out, but he was hot and she was determined, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Yep, we were just discussing where to go. Any suggestions? We’d both just love for you to join us,” Lily declared, tugging on his arm playfully. “What’s around here that you like?”

“Well, midtown isn’t exactly known for its bar scene, but I’m meeting my agent at Au Bar if you girls would like to come along. He just ran back to the office to pick up a few papers, but he should be there in a little. Andy, maybe you’d like to meet him—you never know when you’re going to need an agent. So, Au Bar, how about it?”

Lily was peering at me with an encouraging look, one that screamed,He’s beautiful, Andy! Beautiful! I may not know who the hell he is, but he wants you so pull yourself together and tell him how much you love Au Bar!

“I love Au Bar,” I said somewhat convincingly, even though I’d never been. “I think it’s perfect.”

Lily smiled and Christian smiled and together we set off for Au Bar. Christian Collinsworth and I were going to get a drink together. Did this qualify as a date?Of course not, don’t be ridiculous, I berated myself.Alex, Alex, Alex, I silently chanted, both determined to remember that I had a very loving boyfriend and disappointed with myself for having to force myself to remember that I had a very loving boyfriend.

Even though it was a random Thursday night, the velvet rope police were out in full force, and, while they had no problem letting the three of us in, no one was offering reduced admission of any sort: twenty bucks just to get in the door.

But before I could hand over my cash, Christian deftly peeled three twenties from a huge wad he pulled from his pocket and handed them over without a word.

I tried to protest, but Christian put two fingers to my lips. “Darling Andy, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” And before I could move my mouth out from underneath his touch, he reached his other hand behind my head and took my face in both hands. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my completely addled brain, the firing synapses were warning me that he was going to kiss me. I knew it, sensed it, but couldn’t move. He took my split-second hesitation to move away as permission, leaned over, and touched his lips to my neck. Just quickly, a brush, really, with perhaps a little tongue, right underneath my jaw and near my ear but still firmly on the neck, and then he reached for my hand and pulled me inside.

“Christian, wait! I, uh, I need to tell you something,” I started, not quite sure whether one uninvited, non lip, minimal-tongue kiss really demanded a whole long explanation of having a boyfriend and not meaning to send the wrong signals. Apparently Christian didn’t think it was necessary, because he had walked me to a couch in a dark corner and ordered me to sit. Which I did.

“I’m getting us drinks, OK? Don’t worry so much. I don’t bite.” He laughed, and I felt myself turn red. “Or, if I do, I promise you’ll enjoy it.” And he turned and walked toward the bar.

To keep from passing out or having to actually consider what had just transpired, I scanned the dark, cavernous room for Lily. We’d been there less than three minutes, but she was already deep in conversation with a tall black guy, hanging on his every word and throwing her head back with delight. I weaved through the throngs of international drinkers. How did they all know that this was the place to come if you didn’t have an American passport? I passed a group of men in their thirties shouting in what I think was Japanese, two women flapping their hands and talking passionately in Arabic, and a young, unhappy-looking couple glaring at each other and whispering angrily in something that sounded like Spanish but could have been Portuguese. Lily’s guy had his hand on the small of her back already and was looking utterly charmed. No time for niceties, I decided. Christian Collinsworth had just massaged my neck with his mouth. Ignoring the guy, I clamped my hand down on her right arm and turned to drag her back to the couch.

“Andy! Stop it,” she hissed, pulling her arm free but remembering to smile for her guy. “You’re being rude. I’d like to introduce you to my friend. William, this is my best friend, Andrea, who doesn’t usually act like this. Andy, this is William.” She smiled benevolently as we shook hands.

“So, may I ask why you’re stealing your friend from me, Ahn-dre-ah?” William asked in a deep voice that almost echoed in the subterranean space. Perhaps in another place or at another time or with another person I would’ve noticed his warm smile or the chivalrous way he’d immediately stood and offered his seat when I approached, but the only thing I could focus on was that British accent. Didn’t matter that this was a man, a large black man, who didn’t exactly resemble Miranda Priestly in any way, shape, or form. Just hearing that accent, the way he pronounced my name just like she did, was enough to literally make my heart beat a little faster.

“William, I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I have a little problem and I’d like to talk to Lily in private. I’ll bring her right back.” And with that, I grabbed her arm more firmly this time and yanked. Enough of this shit: I needed my friend.

Once we’d settled into the couch where Christian had placed me and I checked to ensure he was still trying to get the bartender’s attention (straight guy at the bar—he may be there all night), I took a deep breath.

“Christian kissed me.”

“So what’s the problem? Was he a bad kisser? Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? No quicker way to ruin a good fraction than—”

“Lily! Good, bad, what’s the difference?”

Her eyebrows reached up her forehead and she opened her mouth to talk, but I kept going.

“And not that it’s at all relevant, but he kissed my neck. The problem is not how he did, it’s that it happened at all in the first place. What about Alex? I don’t exactly go around kissing other guys, you know.”

“Don’t I ever,” she mumbled under her breath before speaking up. “Andy, you’re being ridiculous. You love Alex and he loves you, but it’s perfectly okay if you feel like kissing another guy once in a while. You’re twenty-three years old, for chrissake. Cut yourself a little slack!”

“But I didn’t kiss him . . . He kissed me!”

“First of all, let’s get something very clear. Remember when Monica went down on Bill and the whole country and all our parents and Ken Starr rushed to call that sex? That was not sex. In much the same way, some guy who probably means to kiss your cheek but gets your neck instead does not qualify as ‘kissing someone.’”

“But—”

“Shut up and let me finish. More important than what actually happened is that you wanted it to happen. Just admit it, Andy. You wanted to kiss Christian regardless of whether that’s ‘wrong’ or ‘bad’ or ‘against the rules.’ And if you don’t admit it, you’re lying.”

“Lily, seriously, I don’t think it’s fair that—”

“I’ve known you for nine years, Andy. You don’t think I can see it written all over your face that you worship him? You know you shouldn’t—he doesn’t quite play by your rules, does he? But that’s probably exactly why you like him. Just go with it, enjoy it. If Alex is right for you, he’ll always be right for you. And now, you’ll have to excuse me, because I have found someone who’s right for me . . . for right now.” She literally jumped off the couch and skipped back to William, who looked undeniably happy to see her.

I felt self-conscious sitting on the oversize velvet couch alone and looked around to find Christian, but he wasn’t at the bar anymore. It would just take a little more time, I decided. Everything would just sort itself out if I just stopped worrying so much. Maybe Lily was right and I did like Christian—what was so wrong with that? He’s smart and undeniably gorgeous, and the whole take-charge confidence thing was incredibly sexy. Hanging out with someone who just happened to be sexy didn’t exactly translate as cheating. I’m sure there had been situations over the years in which Alex had worked with or studied with or gotten to know a cool, attractive girl, and he may have had thoughts. Did that make him disloyal? Of course not. With renewed confidence (and a now-desperate attempt to see, watch, hear, just be near Christian again), I began cruising the lounge.

I found him leaning on his right hand, talking intently to an older man, probably in his late forties, who was wearing a very dapper three-piece suit. Christian was gesturing wildly, hands flailing, with a look on his face that registered somewhere between amused and supremely annoyed, while the man with salt-and-pepper hair looked at him earnestly. I was still too far away to hear what they were discussing, but I must have been staring rather intently, because the man’s eyes locked on mine and he smiled. Christian pulled back a little, followed his gaze, and saw me watching them both.

“Andy, darling,” he said, his tone entirely different from what it had been just a few minutes earlier. I noticed he made the transition from seducer to friend of your parent quite smoothly. “Come here, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gabriel Brooks, my agent, business manager, and all-around hero. Gabriel, this is Andrea Sachs, currently of Runway magazine.”

“Andrea, a pleasure to meet you,” Gabriel said, extending a hand and taking mine in one of those annoyingly delicate I’m-not-shaking-your-hand-as-I-would-a-man’s-because-I’m-sure-I’d-just-snap-your-girly-little-bones-in-half clutches. “Christian has told me a lot about you.”

“Really?” I said, pressing a bit more firmly, which only caused him to loosen his already slack grip. “All good, I hope?”

“Of course. He said you’re an aspiring writer, like our mutual friend here.” He smiled.

I was surprised to hear that he actually had heard about me from Christian, since our conversation about writing had sounded like just small talk. “Yes, well, I love to write, so hopefully someday . . .”

“Well, if you’re half as good as some of the other people he’s sent my way, then I look forward to reading your work.” He dug around in an inside pocket and produced a leather case, from which he drew out a business card. “I know you’re not ready yet, but when it does come time to show your stuff to someone, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

It took every ounce of willpower and strength to remain standing upright, to make sure that my mouth had not flopped open or my knees had not just given out.Hope you’ll keep me in mind? The man who represented Christian Collinsworth, literary boy genius extraordinaire, had just asked if I would keep him in mind. This was craziness.

“Why thank you,” I croaked, tucking the card into my bag, from where I knew I would pull it out and examine every inch of it the first chance I got. They both smiled at me, and it took a minute for me to recognize this as my cue to leave. “Well, Mr. Brooks, um, Gabriel, it was really great meeting you. I’ve got to be getting home now, but hopefully we’ll cross paths soon.”

“My pleasure, Andrea. Congratulations again on scoring such a fantastic job. Right out of college and working at Runway. Very impressive.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Christian said, placing a hand on my elbow and motioning to Gabriel that he’d be right back.

We stopped at the bar so I could tell Lily that I was heading home, and she unnecessarily told me—in between William’s nuzzlings—that she wouldn’t be joining me. At the foot of the stairs that would take me back to street level, Christian kissed me on the cheek.

“Great running into you tonight. And I have a feeling I’m going to have to hear Gabriel talk about how great you are now, too.” He grinned.

“We barely exchanged two words,” I pointed out, wondering why everyone was being so complimentary.

“Yes, Andy, but what you don’t seem to realize is that the writing world is a small one. Whether you write mysteries or feature stories or newspaper articles, everyone knows everyone. Gabriel doesn’t have to know much about you to know that you have potential: you were good enough to get a job at Runway, you sound bright and articulate when you talk, and hell, you’re a friend of mine. He’s got nothing to lose by giving you his card. What does he know? He could have just discovered the next best-selling author. And trust me—Gabriel Brooks is a good man for you to know.”

“Hmm, I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, I’ve got to get home since I’ve got to be at work again in a few hours anyway. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, half expecting him to turn his face forward and half wanting him to, but he just smiled.

“More than my pleasure, Andrea Sachs. Have a good night.” And before I could come up with anything remotely clever to say, he was headed back to Gabriel.

I rolled my eyes at myself and headed to the street to hail a cab. It had started to rain-nothing torrential, just a light, steady stream—so of course there wasn’t a single cab free anywhere in Manhattan. I called the Elias-Clark car service, gave them my VIP number, and had a car screeching to the curb exactly six minutes later. Alex had left a voice mail asking me how my day was and saying that he’d be home all night writing lesson plans. It had been too long since I surprised him. It was time to make a little effort and be spontaneous. The driver agreed to wait as long as I needed, so I ran upstairs, jumped in the shower, took a little extra time making my hair look good, and threw together a bag with stuff for work the next day. Since it was already after eleven, traffic was tame and we made it to Alex’s apartment in Brooklyn in under fifteen minutes. He looked genuinely happy to see me when he opened the door, saying over and over and over again how he couldn’t believe that I’d come all the way to Brooklyn so late on a work night and it was the best surprise he could’ve hoped for. And as I lay with my head on my favorite spot on his chest, watching Conan and listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he played with my hair, I barely thought about Christian at all.

“Um, hi. May I speak with your food editor please? No? OK, maybe an editorial assistant, or someone who can tell me when a restaurant review ran?” I asked an openly hostile receptionist at the New York Times. She had answered the phone by barking, “What!” and was currently pretending—or perhaps not—that we didn’t speak a common language. Persistence paid off, though, and after asking her name three times (“We can’t tell our names, lady”), threatening to report her to her manager (“What? You think he cares? I’ll put him on right now”), and finally swearing rather emphatically that I would personally show up at their Times Square offices and do everything in my power to have her fired on the spot (“Oh, really? I’m not so worried”), she tired of me and connected me to someone else.

“Editorial,” snapped another hassled-sounding woman. I wondered if this is what I sounded like answering Miranda’s phone, and if not, then I aspired to it. It was such an enormous turnoff hearing a voice that was so incredibly, undeniably unhappy to hear from you that it almost made you just want to hang up.

“Hi, I just had a quick question.” The words tumbled out in a desperate attempt to be heard before she inevitably slammed down the phone. “I’m wondering if you ran any reviews of Asian fusion restaurants yesterday?”

She sighed as though I’d just asked her to donate one of her limbs to science and then sighed again. “Have you looked online?” Another sigh.

“Yes, yes, of course, but I can’t—”

“Because that’s where they would be if we’d done one. I can’t keep track of every word that goes in the paper, you know.”

I took a deep breath myself and tried to stay calm. “Your charming receptionist connected me to you since you work in the archives department. So it does in fact appear that it’s your job to keep track of every word.”

“Listen, if I had to try to track down every vague description that everyone called me with every day, I wouldn’t be able to do anything else. You really need to check online.” She sighed twice more, and I began to worry that she might hyperventilate.

“No, no, you just listen for a minute,” I started, feeling primed and ready to lay into this lazy girl who had a far better job than my own. “I’m calling from Miranda Priestly’s office, and it just so happens that—”

“I’m sorry, did you say you were calling from Miranda Priestly’s office?” she asked, and I could feel her ears perk up across the phone line. “Miranda Priestly . . . from Runway magazine?”

“The one and only. Why? Heard of her?”

It was here that she transformed from highly put-upon editorial assistant to gushing fashion slave. “Heard of her? Of course! Is anybody not familiar with Miranda Priestly? She is, like, the ultimate woman in fashion. What was it you said she was looking for?”

“A review. Yesterday’s paper. Asian fusion restaurant. I didn’t see it online, but I’m not sure I checked properly.” That was a bit of a lie. I had checked online and was quite sure there hadn’t been any reviews of Asian fusion restaurants in the New York Times any day in the past week, but I wasn’t telling her that. Maybe Schizophrenic Editorial Girl here would work a miracle.

So far I’d called the Times, the Post, and the Daily News, but nothing had turned up. I’d plugged in her corporate card number to access the Wall Street Journal ’s paid archives and had actually found a blurb on a new Thai restaurant in the Village, but I had to immediately discount it when I noticed that the average entrée price was only seven dollars and citysearch.com listed only a single dollar sign next to it.

“Well, sure, hold on just a second here. I’m going to check that right out for you.” And all of a sudden, Little Miss “I Can’t Be Expected to Remember Every Word That Goes in the Paper” was tapping away on a keyboard and humming excitedly to both of us.

My head ached from the debacle the night before. It had been fun to surprise Alex and amazingly relaxing to just laze around his apartment, but for the first time in many, many months, I couldn’t fall asleep. Over and over and over again, I had pangs of guilt, flashbacks of Christian kissing my neck and my then jumping in a car to see Alex but tell him nothing. Even though I tried to push it all out of my mind, they kept returning, each one more intense than the last one. When I finally did manage to fall asleep, I dreamed that Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and—even though in reality hers didn’t live in—he was to move in with the family. Whenever I wanted to see Alex in my dream, I would have to share a car home with Miranda and visit him in her apartment. She would insist on calling me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend. By the time morning had finally rolled around, Alex had fallen under Miranda’s spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and, even worse, Miranda had started dating Christian. Blessedly, my hell ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda, Christian, and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning and read theTimes and laughed while I prepared breakfast, served everyone, and cleaned up afterward. Sleep last night was about as relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning, and now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of having an easy Friday.

“Hmm, no, we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion. I’m trying to think, just personally, you know, if there are any new hot Asian fusion places. You know, places that Miranda would actually consider going?” she said, sounding like she’d do anything to prolong the conversation.

I ignored her transition into first-name familiarity with Miranda and worked on getting her off the phone. “OK, well, that’s what I thought. Thanks anyway, though. I appreciate it. Bye.”

“Wait!” she cried out, and even though the phone was already halfway to the base, her urgency made me listen again. “Yes?”

“Oh, well, I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if there’s, like, anything else I can do—or any of us here—feel free to call, you know? We love Miranda here, and we’d, like, uh, want to help with anything we could?”

You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be able to locate an article for the president, an article that included information crucial to an imminent war, and not an unnamed review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper. The saddest part of all was that I wasn’t surprised: I knew she’d come around.

“OK, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Thanks so much.”

Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said, “No luck there either?”

“Nope. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and apparently, neither does anyone else in this city. I’ve spoken to someone at every Manhattan paper she reads, checked online, talked to archivists, food writers, chefs. Not a single person can think of a suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the past week, never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past twenty-four hours. She’s clearly lost her mind. So what now?” I flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail. It still wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and already the headache had spread to my neck and shoulders.

“I guess,” she said slowly, regrettably, “you have no choice but to ask her to clarify.”

“Oh, no, not that! However will she react?”

Emily, as usual, didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “She’ll be in at noon. If I were you, I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead of time, because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that review. Especially since she asked for it last night,” she pointed out with a barely suppressed smile. She was clearly delighted that I was about to get abused.

There was little left to do but wait. It was my luck that Miranda was at her monthly marathon shrink session (“She just doesn’t have time to go all the way over there once a week,” Emily had explained when I asked why she went for three straight hours), the only chunk of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us and, of course, the only time I needed her to. A mountain of mail that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to topple off the desk, and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry cleaning was heaped under it, around my feet. Huge sigh to let the world know just how unhappy I was, and I dialed the cleaners.

“Hi, Mario. It’s me. Yeah, I know—two whole days, no talk. Can I get a pickup, please? Great. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and forced myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap, where I would sort through them and record them on the computerized list I kept of her outgoing clothes. When Miranda called the office at 9:45P.M. and demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was, all I had to do was open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day before and were due to be delivered the following day. I logged today’s clothes in (one Missoni blouse, two identical pairs of Alberta Ferretti pants, two Jil Sander sweaters, two white Hermès scarves, and one Burberry trench coat), threw them in a shopping bag emblazoned with Runway, and called for a messenger to take them downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up.

I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks, because no matter how many times I had to do it, I was still repulsed to be sorting through someone else’s dirty clothes. After I finished sorting and bagging every day, I had to wash my hands: the lingering smell of Miranda was all-pervasive, and even though it consisted of a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a whiff of B-DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant, it made me feel physically ill. British accents, Bulgari perfume, white silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were forever ruined for me.

The mail was the usual, ninety-nine percent garbage that Miranda would never see. Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief” went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages, but many of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their correspondence directly to Miranda. It took me about four seconds to skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long-lost friend, and those I just threw aside. Today there were tons. Breathless notes from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men (or, in all fairness, maybe straight and just very fashion-conscious): “Miranda Priestly, you’re not only the darling of the fashion world, you’re the Queen of my world!” one gushed. “I couldn’t agree more with your choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April issue—it was ballsy, but genius!” another exclaimed. A few letters ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and pressed their bodies together, and a few more decried the sunken-eyed, starvation-wracked, heroine-chic models thatRunway had used in its “Health First: How to Feel Better” article. One was a standard-issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read, quite simply, on the other: “Why? Why do you print such a boring, stupid magazine?” I laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my collection of critical letters and postcards was growing, and soon there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left. Lily thought it was bad karma to bring home other people’s negative thoughts and hostility, and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy.

The last letter of the massive pile before I’d begin tackling the two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the loopy, girly writing of a teenager, complete with its dotted with hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts. I planned to only skim it, but it wouldn’t allow itself to be skimmed: it was too immediately sad and honest—it was bleeding and pleading and begging all over the page. The initial four-second period came and went and I was still reading.

The letter smelled like Jean Naté, that acrid-smelling toilet water– spray preferred by preteen girls the country over. But that wasn’t what was causing the tightness in my chest, the constriction in my throat. How many Anitas were there out there? Young girls with so little else in their lives that they measured their worth, their confidence, their entire existence around the clothes and the models they saw in Runway ? How many more had decided to unconditionally love the woman who put it all together each month—the orchestrator of such a seductive fantasy—even though she wasn’t worth one single second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the object of their worship was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent affection and attention?

I wanted to cry, for Anita and all her friends who expended so much energy trying to mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen, trying to impress and please and flatter the woman who would only take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her shoulders or toss them without a second thought to the girl who’d written down a piece of herself. Instead, I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and vowed to find a way to help Anita. She sounded even more desperate than the others who wrote, and there was no reason that with all the excess stuff around I couldn’t find her a decent dress for a date she would hopefully have soon.

“Hey, Em, I’m just going to run down to the newsstand and see if they have Women’s Wear yet. I can’t believe it’s so late today. Do you want anything?”

“Will you bring me a Diet Coke?” she asked.

“Sure. Just a minute,” I said, and weaved quickly through the racks and past the doorway to the service elevator, where I could hear Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and wondering who would be at Miranda’s Met party that night. Ahmed was finally able to produce a copy of Women’s Wear Daily, which was a relief, and I grabbed a Diet Coke for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me, but on second thought, I took a Diet for myself as well. The difference in taste and enjoyment wasn’t worth the disapproving looks and/or comments I was sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk.

I was so busy examining the front page’s color photo of Tommy Hilfiger, I didn’t even notice that one of the elevators had opened and was available. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick glimpse of green, a very distinct green. Particularly noteworthy because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny tweed, a color I’d never really seen before but liked a whole lot. And although my mind knew better, it couldn’t stop my eyes from looking up and into the elevator, where they were sort of not really surprised to find Miranda peering back. She stood ramrod straight, her hair pulled severely off her face as usual, her eyes staring intently at what must have been my shocked face. There was absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her.

“Um, good morning, Miranda,” I said, but it came out sounding like a whisper. The doors closed behind us: we would be the only two riding for the entire seventeen floors. She said nothing to me, but she pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping through the pages. We stood side by side, the depth of the silence increasing tenfold with every second that she didn’t respond.Does she even recognize me? I wondered. Was it possible that she was entirely unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven months—or perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn’t heard? I wondered why she didn’t immediately ask me about the restaurant review or whether I’d received her message about ordering new china, or if everything was in place for the evening’s party. But she acted as though she were all alone in that elevator, that there was not another human being—or, to be precise, not one worth acknowledging—inside that small vestibule with her.

It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren’t progressing through the floors. Ohmigod! She had seen me because she’d assumed that I would press the button, but I’d been too stunned to move. I reached forward slowly, fearfully, pressed the number seventeen, and instinctively waited for something to explode. But we immediately whisked upward, and I wasn’t even sure if she had noticed we hadn’t been moving all along.

Five, six, seven . . . it felt as though it took ten minutes for the elevator to pass each floor, and the silence had begun humming in my ears. When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda’s direction, I discovered that she was looking me up and down. Her eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then my pants and then my shirt, and continued upward to my face and hair, all the while avoiding my eyes. The expression on her face was one of passive disgust, the way the desensitized Law & Order detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and bloodied corpse. I did a quick review of myself and wondered what exactly had triggered the reaction. Short-sleeve, military-style shirt, a brand-new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from their PR department simply for working at Runway, and a pair of relatively flat (two-inch heels) black slingbacks that were to date the only nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four-plus trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits. I usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me, but I needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to stop aching. My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without comment, and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped. I had shaved under my arms within the last forty-eight hours. At least as far as the last time I’d checked, there were no massive facial eruptions. My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch a glimpse of the brand, and a quick check with my right hand indicated that no bra straps were visible. So what was it? What exactly had made her look at me that way?

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . . the elevator stopped and swept open to yet another stark white reception area. A woman of around thirty-five stepped forward to board, but stopped two feet from the door when she saw Miranda standing inside.

“Oh, I, uh . . .” she stammered loudly, looking frantically around her for an excuse not to enter our private hell. And although it would’ve been nicer for me to have her come aboard, I privately rooted for her to escape. “I, um, oh! I forgot the photos I need for the meeting,” she finally managed, whipping around on a particularly unsteady Manolo and high-tailing it back toward the office area. Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice, and once again, the doors swept shut.

Fifteen, sixteen, and finally—finally!—seventeen, where the doors opened to reveal a group of Runway fashion assistants on their way to pick up the cigarettes, Diet Coke, and mixed greens that would constitute their lunch. Each young, beautiful face looked more panicked than the next, and they almost trampled one another trying to move out of Miranda’s way. They parted directly down the middle, three to one side and two to the other, and she deigned to walk past them. They were all staring after her, silent, as she made her way across the reception area, and I was left with no choice but to follow her. Wouldn’t notice a thing, I figured. We’d just spent what felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a five-by-three-foot box, and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my presence. But as soon as I stepped onto the floor, she turned around.

“Ahn-dre-ah?” she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence that filled the entire room. I didn’t respond since I figured it was rhetorical, but she waited.

“Ahn-dre-ah?”

“Yes, Miranda?”

“Whose shoes are you wearing?” She placed one hand lightly on a tweed-swathed hip and peered over at me. By now the elevator had left without the fashion assistants, since they were too engrossed in actually getting to see—and hear!—Miranda Priestly in the flesh. I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet, which, although they had been quite comfortable mere moments before, were now beginning to burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants and one fashion guru.

The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain, so when Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing, I thought that perhaps she thought I was not wearing my own.

“Um, mine?” I said, without realizing until the words had been spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful, but downright obnoxious. The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter, until Miranda turned her wrath on them.

“I’m wondering why the vast majority of my fashion assistants appear as though they have nothing better to do than gossip like little girls.” She began singling them out by pointing at each one, since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if you put a gun to her head.

“You!” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably seeing Miranda for the first time. “Did we hire you for this or did we hire you to call in clothes for the suits shoot?” The girl hung her head and opened her mouth to apologize, but Miranda barreled on.

“And you!” she said, walking over and standing directly in front of Jocelyn, the highest-ranking among them and a favorite of all the editors. “You think there aren’t a million girls who want your job and who understand couture just as well as you?” She took a step back, slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies, lingering just long enough to make each feel fat, ugly, and inappropriately clad, and commanded them all to return to their desks. They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads bowed. A few murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly back to the fashion area. It wasn’t until they’d all left that I realized we were alone. Again.

“Ahn-dre-ah? I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my assistant,” she declared, walking toward the door that would lead us to the hallway. I was unsure whether I should follow her or not, and I briefly hoped that either Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion girls had warned Emily that Miranda was on her way back.

“Miranda, I—”

“Enough.” She paused at the door and looked at me. “Whose shoes are you wearing?” she asked again in a none-too-pleased voice.

I checked out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the most stylish woman in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a pair of shoes I’d purchased at Ann Taylor Loft. Another glance at her face and I knew I couldn’t.

“I bought them in Spain,” I said quickly, averting my eyes. “It was at some adorable boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that carried this new Spanish designer’s line.” Where the hell had I pulled that one from?

She folded her hand into a fist, put it over her mouth, and cocked her head. I saw James approaching the glass door from the other side, but as soon as he saw Miranda he turned and fled. “Ahn-dre-ah, they’re unacceptable. My girls need to represent Runway magazine, and those shoes are not the message I’m looking to convey. Find some decent footwear in the Closet. And get me a coffee.” She looked at me and looked at the door, and I understood I was to reach forward and open it for her, which I did. She walked through without saying thank you and headed back to the office. I needed to get money and my cigarettes for the coffee run, but neither was worth having to walk behind her like an abused but loyal duckling, and so I turned to walk back toward the elevator. Eduardo could spot me the five bucks for the latte, and Ahmed would just charge a new pack toRunway ’s house account, as he’d been doing for months now. I hadn’t counted on her even noticing, but her voice hit the back of my head like a shovel.

“Ahn-dre-ah!”

“Yes, Miranda?” I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her.

“I expect the restaurant review I asked you for is on my desk?”

“Um, well, actually, I’ve had a little trouble locating it. You see, I’ve spoken to all the papers and it seems none of them have run a review of an Asian fusion restaurant in the past few days. Do you, uh, happen to remember the name of the restaurant?” Without realizing it, I was holding my breath and bracing for the onslaught.

It appeared my explanation held little interest for her, because she had resumed walking toward her office. “Ahn-dre-ah, I already told you that it was in the Post-is it really that difficult to find?” And with that, she was gone. The Post? I’d spoken to their restaurant reviewer just that morning and he had sworn there were no reviews that fit my description—nothing noteworthy had opened that week whatsoever. She was cracking up, for sure, and I was the one who was going to get blamed.

The coffee run took only a few minutes since it was midday, so I felt free to tack on an extra ten minutes to call Alex, who would be having lunch at exactly twelve-thirty. Thankfully, he answered his cell phone, so I didn’t have to deal with any of the teachers again.

“Hey babe, how’s your day going?” He sounded cheerful to the point of excess, and I had to remind myself not to be irritated.

“Awesome so far, as always. I really do love it here. I’ve spent the past five hours researching an imaginary article that was dreamed up by a delusional woman who would probably rather take her own life than admit she’s wrong. What about you?”

“Well, I’ve had a great day. Remember I told you about Shauna?” I nodded into the phone even though he couldn’t see me. Shauna was one of his little girls who had yet to utter a single word in class, and whether he threatened her or bribed her or worked with her one on one, Alex couldn’t get her to talk. He’d been near-hysterical the first time she’d shown up in his class, placed there by a social worker who’d discovered that even though she was nine years old she’d never been in the inside of a school, and he’d been obsessed with helping her ever since.

“Well, it seems she won’t shut up! All it took was a little singing. I had a folk singer come in today to play the guitar for the kids, and Shauna was singing away. And once she broke the ice, she’s been jabbering away with everyone since. She knows English. She has an age-appropriate vocabulary. She’s completely and totally normal!” His obvious elation made me smile, and all of a sudden I started to miss him. Miss him in the way that you do when you’ve seen someone frequently and regularly but haven’t really connected with him in any significant way. It had been great to surprise him the night before, but, as usual, I’d been too frazzled to be much company. We both inherently understood that we were just waiting out my sentence, waiting for me to complete my year of servitude, waiting until everything went back to the way it was. But I still missed him. And I still felt not a little guilty for the whole Christian situation.

“Hey, congratulations! Not that you needed a testament to the fact that you’re a great teacher, but you got one anyway! You should be thrilled.”

“Yeah, it’s exciting.” I could hear the bell ring in the background.

“Listen, is that offer still open for a date tonight—just you and me?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t made plans yet but expecting that he had. As I’d pulled myself out of bed this morning and dragged my exhausted and sore body into the shower, he’d called out that he wanted to just rent a movie, order some food, and hang out. I’d mumbled something unnecessarily sarcastic about it not being worth his time because I wouldn’t get home until late and would just fall asleep, and at least one of us should have a life and enjoy their Friday night. I wanted to tell him now that I was angry at Miranda, at Runway, at myself, but not at him, and that there was nothing I’d rather do than curl up on the couch and cuddle for fifteen straight hours.

“Sure.” He sounded surprised, but pleased. “Why don’t I just wait at your place and then we can figure out what we want to do? I’ll just hang out with Lily until you get home.”

“Sounds absolutely perfect. You can hear all about Freudian Boy.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Listen, I’ve got to run. The Queen will wait for coffee no longer. See you tonight—can’t wait.”

Eduardo allowed me upstairs after chanting only two refrains—my choice—of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and Miranda was talking animatedly when I set down her coffee spread on the left-hand corner of her desk. I spent the rest of the afternoon arguing with every assistant and editor I could reach at the New York Post, trying to insist that I knew their paper better than they did, and could I please just have one little copy of the Asian fusion restaurant review they’d run the day before?

“Ma’am, I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you again:we did not review any such restaurant. I know Ms. Priestly is a crazy woman and I don’t doubt that she’s making your life a living hell, but I just can’t produce an article that doesn’t exist. Do you understand?” This had come finally from an associate who, even though he worked on Page Six, had been assigned the task of finding my article to shut me up. He’d been patient and willing, but he’d reached the end of his charity work. Emily was on the other line with one of their freelance food writers, and I’d forced James to call one of his ex-boyfriends who worked in the advertising department there to see if there was anything-anything—he could do. It was already three o’clock the day after she’d requested something, and this was the very first time I hadn’t gotten it immediately.

“Emily!” Miranda called from inside her deceptively bright office.

“Yes, Miranda?” we both answered, jumping up to see which one of us she would motion to.

“Emily, I can hear that you just spoke to the people at the Post ?” she said, directing her attention in my direction. The real Emily looked relieved and sat down.

“Yes, Miranda, I just hung up with them. I’ve actually spoken to three different people there and all of them insist that they haven’t reviewed a single new Asian fusion restaurant in Manhattan at any point in the last week. Maybe it was before then?” I was now tottering in front of her desk with my head bowed just enough so I could stare at the black Jimmy Choo slingbacks with four-inch heels that Jeffy had provided so smugly.

“Manhattan?” She looked confused and pissed off all at once. “Who said anything about Manhattan?”

It was my time to be confused.

“Ahn-dre-ah, I’ve told you at least five times now that the review was written about a new restaurant in Washington. Since I’ll be there next week, I need you to make a reservation.” She cocked her head and moved her lips into what can only be described as a wicked smile. “What exactly about this project do you find so challenging?”

Washington? Five times she’d told me the restaurant was in Washington ? I don’t think so. She was clearly losing her mind or just taking sadistic pleasure in watching me lose mine. But being the idiot she took me for, I again spoke without thinking.

“Oh, Miranda, I’m fairly certain that the New York Post doesn’t do reviews of restaurants in Washington. It appears they only actually visit and review places new to New York.”

“Is that supposed to be funny, Ahn-dre-ah? Is that your idea of having a sense of humor?” Her smile had disappeared and she was leaning forward in her seat, looking like a hungry vulture that was impatiently circling its prey.

“Um no, Miranda, I just thought that—”

“Ahn-dre-ah, as I’ve made clear adozen times already, the review I’m looking for is in the Washington Post. You’ve heard of that little newspaper, right? Just like New York has the New York Times, Washington, D.C., has its own paper, too. See how that works?” Her voice was now beyond mocking: she was so incredibly patronizing that she was only one step away from actually addressing me in baby talk.

“I’ll get it for you right away,” I stated as calmly as I could and quietly walked out.

“Oh, and Ahn-dre-ah?” My heart lurched and my stomach wondered if it could take another “surprise.” “I expect you to attend the party tonight to greet the guests. That’s all.”

I looked to Emily, who looked absolutely baffled, her crinkled forehead making her appear as dumbfounded as I felt. “Did I hear her correctly?” I whispered to Emily, who could do nothing but nod and motion for me to come to her side of the suite.

“I was afraid of this,” she whispered gravely, like a surgeon telling a patient’s family member that they’d found something horrible upon opening the chest cavity.

“She can’t be serious. It’s four o’clock on Friday. The party starts at seven. It’s black tie, for chrissake—there is no way on earth she expects me to go.” I looked again at my watch in disbelief and tried to remember her exact words.

“Oh, she’s quite serious,” she said, picking up the phone. “I’ll help you, OK? You go find the review in the Washington Post and get her a copy before she leaves—Uri is coming for her soon to take her home for her hair and makeup. I’ll get you a dress and everything else you need for tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” She began rapid-fire dialing and whispering urgent-sounding instructions into the phone. I stood and stared, but she waved her hand without looking up and I snapped back to reality.

“Go,” she whispered, looking at me with a rare hint of sympathy. And I went.