parties at Pastis and Float because they “had to check out what
people were wearing。”
Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space。 Sometimes they threw
promotional parties； but they were celebrity…free and therefore
boring to New York’s hipster scene （or so Emily had sneeringly told
me）。 My phone would ring off the hook on a day during aRunway ad
sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an
invite。 “Um； like； I hearRunway ’s having a party tonight。 Why am I
not invited？” I always found out from someone on the outside that
there was a party that night： editorial was never invited because
they wouldn’t go anyway。 As if it wasn’t enough for theRunway girls
to mock； terrorize； and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t
one of them； they had to create internal class lines as well。
The ad sales department gave way to a long； narrow hallway。 It
seemed to stretch forever before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the
left side。 Here were an assortment of Coffees and teas； a fridge for
stored lunches—all superfluous； since Starbucks had a monopoly on
employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully
selected in the dining room or ordered in from any one of a thousand
midtown takeout places。 But it was a nice touch； almost cute； it
said；“Hey； look at us； we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’N Lows
and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last
night’s dinner！ We’re just like everyone else！”
I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7：05； so tired I could
barely move。 But as with everything； there was yet another routine
that I never thought to question or alter； so I began in earnest。 I
unlocked her office and turned on all the lights。 It was still dark
outside； and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power
monger’s office； staring out at a flashing and restless New York
City and picturing myself in one of those movies （take your pick—any
that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his 6
million apartment with views of the river）； feeling on top of the
world。 And then the lights would blaze forth； and my fantasy was
over。 The anything…is…possible feel of New York at dawn vanished；
and the identical； grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all I
could see。
Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area； the place where
I hung her coat （and mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that
day—Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian wools hanging next
to her minks） and where we kept a number of supplies： castoff coats
and clothes that were worth tens of thousands of dollars； some new
dry cleaning that had been delivered to the office but not yet
brought up to Miranda’s apartment； at least two hundred of the
infamous white Hermès scarves。 I’d heard that Hermès had decided to
discontinue her particular style last year； a simple and elegant
white silk square。 Someone at the pany felt they owed Miranda an
explanation and actually called to apologize to her。 Unsurprisingly；
she’d coldly told them how disappointed she was and promptly
purchased their entire remaining stock。 About five hundred of the
scarves had been delivered to the office a couple years before I’d
gotten there； and we were now down to less than half。 Miranda left
them everywhere： restaurants； movies； fashion shows； weekly
meetings； taxis。 She left them on airplanes； at her daughters’
school； on the tennis court。 Of course； she always had one stylishly
incorporated into her outfit—I’d yet to see her outside her own Home
without one。 But that didn’t explain where they all went。 Perhaps
she thought they were handkerchiefs？ Or maybe she liked jotting
notes on silk instead of paper？ Whatever it was； she seemed to truly
believe they were disposable； and none of us knew how to tell her
otherwise。 Elias…Clark had paid a couple hundred dollars for each
one； but no matter： we handed them out to her as though they were
Kleenex。 At the rate she was going； in under two years； Miranda was
due to run out。
I’d arranged the stiff orange boxes on the ready…to…distribute shelf
of the closet； where they never remained for very long。 Every third
or fourth day； she’d prepare to leave for lunch and sigh；
“Ahn…dre…ah； hand me a scarf。” I forted myself with the thought
that I’d be long gone by the time she ran out of them pletely。
Whoever was unlucky enough to be around would have to tell her that
there were no more white Hermès scarves； and that none could be
made； shipped； created； formed； mailed； ordered； or mandated。 The
mere thought was terrifying。
Just as I got the closet and office opened； Uri called。
“Andrea？ Hello； hello。 It is Uri。 Could you e downstairs please？
I am on Fifty…eighth Street； closer to Park Avenue； right in front
of the New York sports Club。 I have things for you。”
This call was a good although imperfect way of telling me that
Miranda would be arriving somewhat soon。 Maybe。 Most mornings she
sent Uri ahead to the office with her things； an assortment of dirty
clothes that needed dry cleaning； any copy she’d taken Home to read；
magazines； shoes or bags that needed to be fixed； and the Book。 This
way； she could have me meet the car and carry up all of these rather
mundane things ahead of schedule and deal with them before she
stepped into the office。 She tended to follow her stuff by about a
half hour； since Uri would drop off her things and then go pick her
up from wherever she might be hiding that morning。
She herself could be anywhere； since； according to Emily； she never
slept。 I didn’t believe it until I started getting to the office
ahead of Emily and would be the first to listen to the voice mail。
Every night； without exception； Miranda would leave eight to ten
ambiguous messages for us between the hours of one and six in the
morning。 Things like； “Cassidy wants one of those nylon bags all the
little girls are carrying。 Order her one in the medium size and a
color she’d like；” and “I’ll be needing the address and phone number
of that antique store in the seventies； the one where I saw the
vintage dresser。” As though we knew which nylon bags were all the
rage among ten…year…olds or at which one of four hundred antique
stores in the seventies—east or west； by the way？—she happened to
spot something she liked at some point in the past fifteen years。
But each morning I faithfully listened to and transcribed those
messages； hitting “replay” over and over and over again； trying to
make sense of the accent and interpret the clues in order to avoid
asking Miranda directly for more information。
Once； I made the mistake of suggesting that we actually ask Miranda
to provide a few more details； only to be met with one of Emily’s
withering looks。 Questioning Miranda was apparently off…limits。
Better to muddle through and wait to be told how off the mark our
results were。 To locate the vintage dresser that had caught
Miranda’s eye； I had spent two and a half days in a limo； cruising
around Manhattan； through the seventies on both sides of the park。 I
ruled out York Avenue （too residential） and proceeded up First； down
Second； up Third； down Lex。 I skipped Park （again； too residential）
but continued up Madison； and then repeated a similar process on the
West Side。 Pen poised； eyes peeled； phone book open in my lap； ready
to jump out at the first sight of a store that sold antiques。 I
graced every single antique store—and not a few regular furniture
stores—with a personal visit。 By store number four； I had it down to
an art form。
“Hi； do you sell any vintage dressers？” I’d practically scream the
second they buzzed me inside。 By the sixth store I wasn’t even
bothering to move in from the doorway。 Some snotty salesperson
inevitably looked me up and down—I couldn’t escape it！—sizing me up
to decide if I was someone to be bothered with。 Most would notice
the waiting Town Car at this point and grudgingly provide me with a
yes or no answer； although some wanted detailed descriptions of the
dresser I was looking for。
If they admitted to selling something that fit my two…word
requirement； I would immediately follow up with a curt “Has Miranda
Priestly been here recently？” If they hadn’t thought I was crazy at
this point； they now looked ready to call security。 A few had never
heard her name； which was fantastic both because it was rejuvenating
to see firsthand that there were still normally functioning human
beings whose lives weren’t dominated by her； and also because I
could promptly leave without further discussion。 The pathetic
majority who recognized the name became instantly curious。 Some
wondered which gossip column I wrote for。 But regardless of whatever
story I made up； no one had seen her in their shop （with the
exception of three stores who hadn’t “seen Ms。 Priestly in months；
and oh； how we miss her！ Please do tell her that
Franck/Charlotte/Sarabeth sends his/her love！”）。
When I hadn’t located the shop by noon of the third day； Emily
finally gave me the green light to e to the office and ask
Miranda for clarification。 I started sweating when the car pulled in
front of the building。 I threatened to climb over the turnstile if
Eduardo didn’t let me pass without a performance。 By the time I
reached our floor； the sweat had soaked through my shirt。 Hands
started shaking the moment I entered the office suite； and the
perfectly prepared speech （Hello； Miranda。 I’m fine； thanks so much
for asking。 How are you？ Listen； I just wanted to let you know that
I’ve been trying very hard to locate the antique store you
described； but I haven’t had much luck。 Perhaps you could tell me
whether it’s on the east or west side of Manhattan？ Or maybe you
even recall the name？） simply vanished into the fickle regions of my
very nervous brain。 Against all protocol； I didn’t post my question
on the Bulletin； I requested permission to approach her at her desk
and—probably because she was so shocked I’d had the nerve to speak
without being spoken to—she granted it。 To make a long story short；
Miranda sighed and patronized and condescended and insulted in every
delightful way of hers but finally opened her black leather Hermès
planner （tied shut inconveniently but chicly with a white Hermès
scarf） and produced 。 。 。 the Business card for the store。
“I left this information on the recording for you； Ahn…dre…ah。 I
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