there； but couldn’t the same be said of supersuccessful people in
every industry？ Tell me； how many CEOs or managing partners or movie
directors or whatever don’t have to be tough sometimes？ It’s part of
the job。”
I could tell we weren’t going to see eye to eye on this one。 It was
clear that Emily was deeply invested in Miranda； inRunway； in all of
it； but I just couldn’t understand why。 She wasn’t any different
from the hundreds of other personal assistants and editorial
assistants and assistant editors and associate editors and senior
editors and editors in chief of fashion magazines。 But I just didn’t
understand why。 From everything I’d seen so far； each one was
humiliated； degraded； and generally abused by their direct superior；
only to turn around and do it to those under them the second they
got promoted。 And all of it so they could say； at the end of the
long and exhausting climb； that they’d gotten to sit in the front
row at Yves Saint…Laurent’s couture show and had scored a few free
Prada bags along the way？
Time to just agree。 “I know；” I sighed； surrendering to her
insistence。 “I just hope you know that you’re doing her the favor by
putting up with her shit； not the other way around。”
I expected a quick counter…attack； but Emily grinned。 “You know how
I just told her like a hundred times that her Thursday hair and
makeup were confirmed？”
I nodded。 She looked positively giddy。
“I was totally lying。 I didn’t call a single person or confirm
anything！” She practically sang the last part。
“Emily！ Are you serious？ What are you going to do now？ You just
swore up and down that you’d personally confirmed it。” For the first
time since starting work； I wanted to hug the girl。
“Andy； be serious。 Do you honestly think that any sane person is
going to say no to doing her hair and makeup？ It could make his
whole career—he’d be crazy to turn her down。 I’m sure the guy was
planning to do it all along。 He was probably just rearranging his
travel plans or something。 I don’t have to confirm with him； because
I’m that sure he’ll do it。 How could henot ？ She’s Miranda
Priestly！”
Now I thought I would cry； but instead I just said； “So what do I
need to know to hire this new nanny？ I should probably get started
right away。”
“Yeah；” she agreed； still looking delighted with her own cleverness。
“That’s probably a good idea。”
The first girl I interviewed for the nanny position looked
positively shell…shocked。
“Oh my god！” she’d howled when I asked her over the phone if she’d
mind ing to the office to meet with me。 “Oh my god！ Are you
serious？ Oh my god！”
“Um； is that a yes or a no？”
“God； yes。 Yes； yes； yes！ ToRunway ？ Oh my god。 Wait until I tell my
friends。 They’ll die。 They’ll absolutely die。 Just tell me where to
be and when。”
“You understand that Miranda’s away right now； so you won’t be
meeting with her； right？”
“Yep。 Totally。”
“And you also know that the job is being a nanny to Miranda’s two
daughters； right？ That it won’t have anything to do withRunway ？”
She sighed as if to resign herself to the sad； unfortunate fact。
“Yes； of course。 A nanny； I totally get it。”
Well； she hadn’t really gotten it； because even though she looked
the part （tall； impeccably groomed； reasonably well dressed； and
seriously underfed）； she kept asking which parts of the job would
require her to be at the office。
I shot her a specialty Withering； but she didn’t seem to notice。
“Um； none。 Remember； we talked about this？ I’m just doing some
initial screening for Miranda； and we just happen to be doing it in
the office。 But that’s it。 Her twins don’t live here； you know？”
“Right； right；” she’d agreed； but I’d already nixed her。
The next three the agency had waiting in the reception area weren’t
much better。 Physically； all fit the Miranda profile—the agency
really did know exactly what she wanted—but not one had what I’d be
looking for in a nanny who’d be taking care of my future niece or
nephew； the standard I’d set for the process。 One had a master’s in
child development from Cornell but glazed over when I tried to
describe the subtle ways this job might be different from others
she’d held。 Another had dated a famous NBA player； which she felt
gave her “insight into celebrity。” But when I’d asked her if she’d
ever worked with the children of celebrities； she’d instinctively
wrinkled her nose and informed me that “famous people’s kids always
have； like； major issues。” Nixed。 The third and most promising had
grown up in Manhattan and had just graduated from Middlebury and
wanted to spend a year as a nanny to save some money for a trip to
Paris。 When I asked if that meant she spoke French； she nodded。 The
only problem was that she was a city girl through and through and
therefore didn’t have a driver’s license。 Was she willing to learn？
I’d asked。 No； she’d answered。 She didn’t believe that the streets
needed another car clogging them。 Nix number three。 I spent the rest
of the day trying to figure out a tactful way of telling Miranda
that if a girl is attractive； athletic； fortable with celebrity；
lives in Manhattan； has a driver’s license； can swim； has an
advanced degree； speaks French； and is pletely and entirely
flexible with her time； then chances are she does not want to be a
nanny。
She must have read my mind； because the phone rang immediately。 I
did a few calculations and realized that Miranda would have just
landed at de Gaulle； and a quick glance at the second…by…second
itinerary Emily had so painstakingly constructed showed she would
now be in the car on her way to the Ritz。
“Miranda Pri—”
“Emily！” she practically shrieked。 I wisely decided now wasn’t the
time to correct her。 “Emily！ The driver did not give me my usual
phone； and as a result I don’t have anyone’s phone number。 This is
unacceptable。 Entirely unacceptable。 How am I supposed to conduct
Business with no phone numbers？ Connect me immediately to Mr。
Lagerfeld。”
“Yes； Miranda； please hold just a moment。” I jabbed the hold button
and called out to Emily for help； although I would’ve had better
luck simply eating the receiver whole than actually locating Karl
Lagerfeld in less time than it took Miranda to get so annoyed that
she’d smash down the phone and keep calling to ask； “Where the hell
is he？ Why can’t you find him？ Do you not know how to use a phone？”
“She wants Karl；” I called over to Emily。 The name immediately sent
her flying； racing； tearing through papers all over her desk。
“OK； listen。 We have twenty to thirty seconds。 You take Biarritz and
the driver； I’ll get Paris and the assistant；” she called； her
fingers already flying across the keypad。 I double…clicked on the
thousand…plus name contact list that we shared on our hard drives
and found exactly five numbers I’d have to call： Biarritz main；
Biarritz second main； Biarritz studio； Biarritz pool； and Biarritz
driver。 A quick glance over the other listings for Karl Lagerfeld
indicated that Emily had a grand total of seven； and there were
still more numbers for New York and Milan。 We were dead before we
started。
I’d tried Biarritz main and was in the middle of dialing Biarritz
second main when I saw that the flashing red light had stopped
blinking。 Emily announced that Miranda had hung up； in case I hadn’t
noticed。 Only ten or fifteen seconds had passed—she was feeling
particularly impatient today。 Naturally； the phone rang again
immediately； and Emily responded to my pleading puppy eyes and
answered it。 She didn’t get halfway through her canned greeting
before she was nodding gravely and trying to reassure Miranda。 I was
still dialing and had—miraculously—made it to Biarritz pool； where I
was currently talking to a woman who didn’t speak a single word； a
single syllable； of English。 Maybe this was the obsession with
speaking French？
“Yes； yes； Miranda。 Andrea and I are calling right now。 It should
only be a few more seconds。 Yes； I understand。 No； I know it’s
frustrating。 If you’ll allow me to just put you on hold for ten
seconds or so； I’m sure we’ll have him on the line。 OK？” She punched
“hold” and kept right on jabbing numbers。 I heard her trying in what
sounded like horrifically accented and broken French to talk to
someone who appeared to not know the name Karl Lagerfeld。 We were
dead。 Dead。 I was getting ready to hang up on the crazy French woman
who was shrieking into the receiver when I saw the flashing red
light go out again。 Emily was still frantically dialing。
“She’s gone！” I called with the urgency of an EMT performing
emergency CPR。
“Your turn to get it！” she screamed back； fingers flying； and sure
enough； the phone rang again。
I picked it up and didn’t even attempt to say anything； since I knew
the voice on the other end would speak up immediately。 It did。
“Ahn…dre…ah！ Emily！ Whoever the hell I’m talking to 。 。 。 why is it
that I’m speaking with you and not with Mr。 Lagerfeld？ Why？”
My first instinct was to remain silent； since it didn’t appear that
the verbal barrage was over； but as usual； my instincts were wrong。
“Hell…ooo？Anyone there？ Is the process of connecting one phone call
to another really too difficult forboth my assistants？”
“No； Miranda； of course not。 I’m sorry about this—” My voice was
shaking a little； but I couldn’t get it under control。 “—it’s just
that we can’t seem to find Mr。 Lagerfeld。 We’ve already tried at
least eight—”
“Can’t seem to find him？”she mimicked in a high…pitched voice。 “What
do you mean； you ‘can’t seem to find’ him？”
What part of that simple five…word sentence did she not prehend；
I wondered。 Can’t。 Seem。 To。 Find。 Him。 Seemed rather clear and
precise to me： We can’t fucking find him。 That is why you’re not
talking to him。 Ifyou can find him； thenyou can talk to him。 A
million barbed responses raced around my head； but I could only
sputter like a first…grader who’d been singled out by the teacher
for talking in class。
“Um； well； Miranda； we’ve called all of the numbers we have listed
for him； and he doesn’t appear to be at any of them；” I managed。
“Well of course he’s not！” She was almost screaming now； that
precious； well…guarded cool was precariously close to collapsing。