Emily and I nodded in quiet alliance with James。 It may not have
been exactly tasteful； but he did look incredibly hip。 And besides；
it was kind of tough to be taking fashion advice from a man who was；
at that precise moment； wearing zebra…print boot…cut jeans and a
black V…neck sweater with a keyhole cut out in the back to reveal
rippling back muscles。 The whole ensemble was topped off with a
floppy straw hat and a touch （subtle； I’ll give him that！） of kohl
eyeliner。
“BABY BOY； fashion IS NOT FOR advertising YOUR FAVE SEX ACTS ON YOUR
SHIRT。 UNH…UNH； NO IT’S NOT！ YOU WANNA SHOW A LITTLE SKIN？ THAT’S
HOT！ YOU WANNA SHOW SOME OF THOSE TIGHT； YOUNG CURVES OF
YOURS？THAT’S HOT。 CLOTHING IS NOT FOR TELLING THE WORLD WHAT
POSITION YOU PREFER； BOYFRIEND。 NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND？”
“But； Nigel！” A look of defeat was carefully constructed to disguise
how pleased he was to be the center of Nigel’s attention。
“DON’T ‘NIGEL’ ME； HONEY。 GO TALK TO JEFFY AND TELL HIM I SENT YOU。
TELL HIM TO GIVE YOU THE NEW CALVIN TANK WE CALLED IN FOR THE MIAMI
SHOOT。 IT’S THE ONE THAT GORGEOUS BLACK MODEL—OH MY； HE’S AS TASTY
AS A THICK； CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE—IS ASSIGNED TO WEAR。 GO ON NOW；
SHOO。 BUT BE SURE TO E BACK HERE AND SHOW ME WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE！”
James scampered off like a recently fed bunny rabbit； and Nigel
turned to look at us。 “HAVE YOU PUT IN HER CLOTHING ORDER YET？” he
asked no one in particular。
“No； she won’t choose until she has the look…books；” Emily answered；
looking bored。 “She said she’ll do it when she gets back。”
“WELL； JUST BE SURE TO LET ME KNOW AHEAD OF TIME SO I CAN CLEAR MY
SCHEDULE FOR THAT PARTY！” He took off in the direction of the
Closet； probably to try to catch a glimpse of James changing。
I’d already lived through one round of Miranda wardrobe ordering；
and it hadn’t been pretty。 When at the shows； she went from runway
to runway； sketchbook in hand； preparing herself to e back to the
States and tell New York society what they would be wearing—and
middle America what they’d like to be wearing—via the only runway
that actually mattered。 Little did I know that Miranda was also
paying particular attention to the outfits cruising down the runways
because it was her first glance at what she herself would be wearing
in the uping months。
A couple weeks after returning to the office； Miranda had handed
Emily a list of designers whose look…books she’d like to see。 As the
usual suspects rushed to get their books put together for her—their
runway photographs often weren’t even developed； never mind
airbrushed and bound； before she demanded to see them—everyone
atRunway was put on alert that the books would be arriving。 Nigel
would need to be ready； of course； to help her flip through them all
and select her personal outfits。 An accessories editor should be on
hand to choose bags and shoes； and perhaps an extra fashion editor
to ensure that everyone was in agreement—especially if the order
included something big； like a fur coat or an evening gown。 When the
various houses had finally pieced together the different items she’d
requested； Miranda’s personal tailor would e toRunway for a few
days to fit everything。 Jeffy would pletely empty out the Closet；
and no one would really be able to get any work done at all； since
Miranda and her tailor would be holed up in there for hours on end。
On the first go…round of fittings； I’d walked by the Closet just in
time to hear Nigel shouting； “MIRANDA PRIESTLY！ TAKE THAT RAG OFF
THIS SECOND。 THAT DRESS MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A SLUT！ A MON WHORE！”
I’d stood outside with my ear pressed to the door—literally risking
life and limb if it were to swing open—and waited for her to upbraid
him in that special way of hers； but all I heard was a quiet murmur
of agreement and the rustling of the fabric as she removed the
dress。
Now that I had been there long enough； it seemed as though the honor
of ordering Miranda’s clothes would fall to me。 Four times a year；
like clockwork； she flipped through look…books like they were her
own personal catalogs and selected Alexander McQueen suits and
Balenciaga pants like they were T…shirts from L。L。Bean。 A yellow
sticky on this pair of Fendi pencil pants； another placed squarely
over the Chanel skirt suit； a third with a big “NO” plastered across
the matching silk top。 Flip； stick； flip； stick； on and on it went；
until she had selected a full season’s wardrobe directly from the
runway； clothes that had most likely not yet even been made。
I’d watched as Emily had faxed Miranda’s choices to the different
designers； omitting any size or color preference； since anyone worth
their Manolos knew what would work for Miranda Priestly。 Of course；
merely being made to the correct size wasn’t enough—when the clothes
did arrive at the magazine； they’d need to be cut and tucked to make
them appear custom…made。 Only when the entire wardrobe was
pletely ordered； shipped； snipped； and delivered expressly to her
bedroom closet by chauffeured limousine would Miranda relinquish
last season’s clothes and heaps of Yves and Celine and Helmut Lang
would find their way—in garbage bags—back to the office。 Most were
only four or six months old； stuff that had been worn once or twice
or； most often； not at all。 Everything was still so incredibly
stylish； so ludicrously hip； that it wasn’t yet available in most
stores； but once it was last season； it was about as likely to show
up on Miranda as a pair of pleather pants from Target’s new Massimo
line。
Occasionally I’d find a tank top or an oversize jacket I could keep；
but the fact that everything was in a size zero was a bit of a
problem。 Mostly we distributed the clothes to anyone with preteen
daughters； the only ones who had a shot in hell of actually fitting
into the stuff。 I pictured little girls with bodies like little boys
strutting around in Prada lipstick skirts and slinky Dolce and
Gabbana dresses with spaghetti straps。 If there was something really
dynamite； really expensive； I’d pull it from the garbage bag and
stash it under my desk until I could smuggle it Home safely。 A few
quick clicks on ebay or perhaps a little visit to one of the upscale
consignment shops on Madison Avenue； and my salary all of a sudden
wasn’t so depressing。 Not stealing； I rationalized； simply utilizing
what was available to me。
Miranda called six more times between the hours of six and nine in
the evening—midnight to threeA 。M。 her time—to have us connect her
to various people who were already in Paris。 I fielded them
listlessly； uneventfully； until I went to gather my things and try
to sneak out for the night before the phone rang again。 It wasn’t
until I was climbing exhaustedly into my coat that I caught a
glimpse of the note that I’d stuck to my monitor just so this very
thing wouldn’t happen： CALL A； 3：30P。M。 TODAY。 My head felt like it
was swimming； my contacts had long before dried to tiny； hard shards
covering my eyes； and at this point my head started to throb。 No
sharp pains； just that nebulous； dull kind of ache where you can’t
pinpoint the center but you know it will build and build in a slow；
burning intensity until you either manage to pass out or your head
just explodes。 In the frenzy of all the calls that had produced such
anxiety； such panic； from across an ocean； I had forgotten to take
the thirty seconds out of my day and call Alex when he’d asked me
to。 Simply up and forgotten to do something so simple for someone
who never seemed to need anything from me。
I sat down in the now darkened and silent office and picked up the
phone that was still a little wet from my sweaty hands during
Miranda’s last call a few minutes earlier。 His Home line rang and
rang until the machine picked up； but he answered on the first ring
when I tried his Cell Phone。
“Hi；” he said； knowing it was me from the caller ID。 “How was your
day？”
“Whatever； usual。 Alex； I’m so sorry I didn’t call you at
three…thirty。 I can’t even get into it—it’s just that things were so
crazy here； she just kept calling and—”
“Hey； forget it。 Not a big deal。 Listen； now’s not really a great
time for me。 Can I call you tomorrow？” He sounded distracted； his
voice taking on that faraway quality of someone talking from an
international payphone on the beach of a tiny village across the
world。
“Um； sure。 But is everything OK？ Will you just quickly tell me what
you wanted to talk about before？ I’ve been really worried that
everything’s not OK。”
He was quiet for a moment and then said； “Yeah； well it doesn’t seem
like you were all that worried。 I ask you one time to call me at a
time that’s convenient for me—not to mention that your boss isn’t
even in the country right now—and you can’t manage to do that until
six hours after the fact。 Not really a sign of someone who’s
genuinely concerned； you know？” He stated all of this with no
sarcasm； no disapproval； just a simple summary of the facts。
I was twisting the phone cord around my finger until it cut off the
circulation entirely； making the knuckle bulge out and the tip turn
white； there was also a brief； metallic taste of blood in my mouth；
the first realization that I had been gnawing on the inside of my
bottom lip。
“Alex； it’s not that I forgot to call；” I lied openly； trying to
extricate myself from his nonaccusatory accusation。 “I simply didn’t
have a single second free； and since it sounded like something
serious； I didn’t want to call just to have to hang up again。 I
mean； she must have called me two dozen times just this afternoon；
and each one is an absolute emergency。 Emily took off at five and
left me all alone with that phone； and Miranda just didn’t stop。 She
just kept calling and calling and calling； and every time I went to
call you； it’d be her again on the other line。 I； uh； you know？”
My rapid…fire list of excuses sounded pathetic even to me； but I
couldn’t stop。 He knew I had just forgotten； and so did I。 Not
because I didn’t care or wasn’t concerned； but because all things
non…Miranda somehow ceased to be relevant the moment I arrived at
work。 In some ways I still didn’t understand and certainly couldn’t
explain—never mind ask anyone else to understand—how the outside
world just melted into nonexistence； that the only thing remaining
when everything el