in red and ecru and lavender； some with lace and others in cashmere。
A few were long enough to sweep gracefully along the ankles； and
others were so short they looked more like tube tops。 I picked up a
midcalf； brown silk beauty and held it up to my waist； but the
material covered only one of my legs。 The next one in the pile
reached to the floor in a swirl of tulle and chiffon and looked as
though it would feel most at Home at a Charleston garden party。 One
of the jean skirts was prefaded and came with a gigantic brown
leather belt already looped around it； and another had a crinkly；
silver…material overlay on top of a slightly more opaque silver
liner。 Where on earth were we going here？
“Wow； looks like Miranda has a thing for skirts； huh？” I said；
simply because I had nothing better to say。
“Actually； no。 Miranda has a slight obsession with scarves。” Emily
refused to make eye contact with me； as though she’d just revealed
that she herself had herpes。 “It’s just one of those cute； quirky
things about her you should know。”
“Oh； really？” I asked； trying to sound amused and not horrified。 An
obsession with scarves？ I like clothes and bags and shoes as much as
the next girl； but I wouldn’t exactly declare any of them an
“obsession。” And something about the way Emily was saying it wasn’t
so casual。
“Yes； well； she must need a skirt for something specific； but it’s
scarves that’s she’s really into。 You know； like her signature
scarves？” She looked at me。 My face must have betrayed my plete
lack of a clue。 “You do remember meeting her during the interview；
do you not？”
“Of course；” I said quickly； sensing it’d probably not be the best
idea to let this girl know that I couldn’t so much as remember
Miranda’s name during my interview； never mind remember what she was
wearing。 “But I’m not sure I noticed a scarf。”
“She always； always； always wears a single white Hermès scarf
somewhere on her outfit。 Mostly around her neck； but sometimes
she’ll have her hairdresser tie one in a chignon； or occasionally
she’ll use them as a belt。 They’re like； her signature。 Everyone
knows that Miranda Priestly wears a white Hermès scarf； no matter
what。 How cool is that？”
It was at that exact moment that I noticed Emily had a lime green
scarf woven through the belt loops on her cargo pants； just peeking
out from underneath the white T…shirt。
“She likes to mix it up sometimes； and I’m guessing that this is one
of those times。 Anyway； those idiots in fashion never know what
she’ll like。 Look at some of these； they’re hideous！” She held up an
absolutely gorgeous flowy skirt； slightly dressier than the rest
with its little flecks of gold shimmering from the deep tan
background。
“Yep；” I agreed； in what was to bee the first of thousands； if
not millions； of times I agreed with whatever she said simply to
make her stop talking。 “It’s horrendous…looking。” It was so
beautiful I thought I’d be happy to wear it to my own wedding。
Emily continued prattling on about patterns and fabrics and
Miranda’s needs and wants； occasionally interjecting a scathing
insult about a coworker。 She finally chose three radically different
skirts and set them aside to send to Miranda； talking； talking；
talking the whole time。 I tried to listen； but it was almost seven；
and I was trying to decide whether I was ravenously hungry； utterly
nauseated； or just plain exhausted。 I think it was all three。 I
didn’t even notice when the tallest human being I’d ever seen
swooped into the office。
“YOU！” I heard from somewhere behind me。 “STAND UP SO I CAN GET A
LOOK AT YOU！”
I turned just in time to see the man； who was at least seven feet
tall； with tanned skin and black hair； pointing directly at me。 He
had 250 pounds stretched over his incredibly tall frame and was so
muscular； so positively ripped； that it looked as though he might
just explode out of his denim 。 。 。 catsuit？ Ohmigod！ He was wearing
a catsuit。 Yes； yes； a denim； one…piece catsuit with tight pants and
a belted waist and rolled…up sleeves。 And a cape。 There was actually
a blanket…size fur cape tied twice around his thick neck； and shiny
black bat boots the size of tennis rackets adorned his mammoth
feet。 He looked around thirty…five years old； although all the
muscles and the deep tan and the positively chiseled jawbone could
have been hiding ten years or adding five。 He was flapping his hands
at me and motioning for me to get up off the floor。 I stood； unable
to take my eyes off him； and he turned to examine me immediately。
“WELL！ WHO DO WE HAVE HEEEEERE？” he bellowed； as best as one can in
a falsetto voice。 “YOU’RE PRETTY； BUT TOO WHOLESOME。 AND THE OUTFIT
DOES NOTHING FOR YOU！”
“My name’s Andrea。 I’m Miranda’s new assistant。”
He moved his eyes up and down over my body； inspecting every inch。
Emily was watching the spectacle with a sneer on her face。 The
silence was unbearable。
“KNEE…HIGH BOOTS？ WITH A KNEE…LENGTH SKIRT？ ARE YOU KIDDING ME？ BABY
GIRL； IN CASE YOU’RE UNAWARE—IN CASE YOU MISSED THE BIG； BLACK SIGN
BY THE DOOR—THIS ISRUNWAY MAGAZINE； THE FUCKINGHIIPPEST MAGAZINE ON
EARTH。 ON EARTH！ BUT NO WORRIES； HONEY； NIGEL WILL GET RID OF THAT
JERSEY MALL…RAT LOOK YOU’VE GOT GOING SOON ENOUGH。”
He put both his massive hands on my hips and twirled me around。 I
could feel his eyes looking at my legs and tush。
“SOON ENOUGH； SWEETIE； I PROMISE YOU； BECAUSE YOU’RE GOOD RAW
MATERIAL。 NICE LEGS； GREAT HAIR； AND NOT FAT。 I CAN WORK WITH NOT
FAT。 SOON ENOUGH； SWEETIE。”
I wanted to be offended； to pull myself away from the grip he had on
my lower body； to take a few minutes and mull over the fact that a
plete stranger—and a coworker； no less—had just provided an
unsolicited and unflinchingly honest account of my outfit and my
figure； but I wasn’t。 I liked his kind green eyes that seemed to
laugh instead of taunt； but more than that； I liked that I had
passed。 This was Nigel— single name； like Madonna or Prince—the
fashion authority whom even I recognized from TV； magazines； the
society pages； everywhere； and he had called me pretty。 And said I
had nice legs！ I let the mall…rat ment slide。 Iliked this guy。
I heard Emily tell him to leave me alone from somewhere in the
background； but I didn’t want him to go。 Too late； he was already
heading for the door； his fur cape flapping behind him。 I wanted to
call out； tell him it had been nice to meet him； that I wasn’t
offended by what he said and was excited that he wanted to redo me。
But before I could say a thing； Nigel whipped around and covered the
space between us in two strides； each the length of a long jump。 He
planted himself directly in front of me； wrapped my entire body with
his massive； rippling arms； and pressed me to him。 My head rested
just below his chest； and I smelled the unmistakable scent of
Johnson’s Baby Lotion。 And just as I had the presence of mind to hug
him back； he flung me backward； engulfed both of my hands in his；
and screeched：
“WELE TO THE DOLLHOUSE； BABY！”
5
“He said what？” Lily asked as she licked a spoonful of green tea ice
cream。 She and I had met at Sushi Samba at nine so I could update
her on my first day。 My parents had grudgingly forked over the
emergencies…only credit card again until I got my first paycheck。
Spicy tuna rolls and seaweed salads certainly felt like an
emergency； and so I silently thanked Mom and Dad for treating Lily
and me so well。
“He said； ‘Wele to the dollhouse； baby。’ I swear。 How cool is
that？”
She looked at me； mouth hung open； spoon suspended in midair。
“You have the coolest job I’ve ever heard of；” said Lily； who always
talked about how she should’ve worked for a year before going back
to school。
“It does seem pretty cool； doesn’t it？ Definitely weird； but cool；
too。 Whatever；” I said； digging in to my oozing chocolate brownie。
“It’s not like I wouldn’t rather be a student again than doing any
of this。”
“Yeah； I’m sure you’d just love to work part…time to finance your
obscenely expensive and utterly useless Ph。D。 You would； wouldn’t
you？ You’re jealous that I get to bartend in an undergrad pub； get
hit on by freshmen until fourA 。M。 every night； and then head to
class all day； aren’t you？ All of it knowing that if—and that’s a
big； fat if—you manage to finish at some point in the next seventeen
years； you’ll never get a job。 Anywhere。” She plastered on a big；
fake smile and took a swig of her Sapporo。 Lily was studying for her
Ph。D。 in Russian Literature at Columbia and working odd jobs every
free second she wasn’t studying。 Her grandmother barely had enough
money to support herself； and Lily wouldn’t qualify for grants until
she’d finished her master’s； so it was remarkable she’d even e
out that night。
I took the bait； as I always did when she bitched about her life。
“So why do you do it； Lil？” I asked； even though I’d heard the
answer a million times。
Lily snorted and rolled her eyes again。 “Because I love it！” she
sang sarcastically。 And even though she’d never admit it because it
was so much more fun to plain； she did love it。 She’d developed a
thing for Russian culture ever since her eighth…grade teacher told
her that Lily looked how he had always pictured Lolita； with her
round face and curly black hair。 She went directly Home and read
Nabokov’s masterpiece of lechery； never allowing the whole
teacher…Lolita reference to bother her； and then read everything
else Nabokov wrote。 And Tolstoy。 And Gogol。 And Chekhov。 By the time
college rolled around； she was applying to Brown to work with a
specific Russian lit professor who； upon interviewing
seventeen…year…old Lily； had declared her one of the most well read
and passionate students of Russian literature he’d ever
met—undergrad； graduate； or otherwise。 She still loved it； still
studied Russian grammar and could read anything in its original； but
she enjoyed whining about it more。
“Yeah； well； I definitely agree that I have the best gig around。 I
mean； Tommy Hilfiger？ Chanel？ Oscar de la Renta’s apartment？ Quite a
first day。 I have to say； I’m not quite sure how all of this is
going to get me any closer toThe New Yorker； but maybe it’s just too
early to tell。 It’s just not seeming like reality； you know？”
“Well； anytime