was deafening。
After nearly fifteen minutes of peering around； being careful not to
wander too far from the aspiring Secret Service agent； a rather
ordinary…looking girl in a long navy dress crossed the massive foyer
and walked toward me。 I was surprised that someone with a job as
glamorous as hers （working in the special events office of the
museum） could be so plain； and I felt instantly ridiculous； like a
girl from a small town trying to dress for a big…city black…tie
affair—which； ironically enough； was exactly who I was。 Ilana； on
the other hand； looked like she hadn’t even bothered to change out
of work clothes； and I learned later that she hadn’t。
“Why bother？” She’d laughed。 “It’s not like these people are here to
look at me。” Her brown hair was clean and straight but lacking in
style； and her brown flats were horrifically unfashionable。 But her
blue eyes were bright and kind； and I knew instantly that I would
like her。
“You must be Ilana；” I said； sensing that I somehow had seniority in
the situation and was expected to take charge。 “I’m Andrea。 I’m
Miranda’s assistant； and I’m here to help in any way I can。”
She looked so relieved； I instantly wondered what Miranda had said
to her。 The possibilities were endless； but I imagined it had
something to do with Ilana’sLadies’Home Journal getup。 I shuddered
to think what wicked thing she’d uttered to such a sweet girl and
prayed she wouldn’t start to cry。 Instead； she turned to me with
those big innocent eyes； leaned forward； and declared
none…too…quietly； “Your boss is a first…rate bitch。”
I stared； shocked； for just a moment before recovering。 “She is；
isn’t she？” I said； and we both laughed。 “What do you need me to do？
Miranda’s going to be able to sense that I’m here in about ten
seconds； so I should look like I’m doing something。”
“Here； I’ll show you the table；” she said； walking down a darkened
hallway toward the Egyptian exhibits。 “It’s dynamite。”
We arrived in a smaller gallery； perhaps the size of a tennis court
with a rectangular； twenty…four…seat table stretched down the
middle。 Robert Isabell was worth it； I could see。 He was the New
York party planner； the only one who could be trusted to strike just
the right note with astonishing attention to detail： fashionable
without being trendy； luxe but not ostentatious； unique without
being over the top。 Miranda insisted that Robert do everything； but
the only time I’d ever seen his work before was at Cassidy and
Caroline’s birthday party。 I knew he could manage to turn Miranda’s
colonial…style living room into a chic downtown lounge （plete
with soda bar—in martini glasses； of course—ultra…suede； built…in
banquettes； and a fully heated； tented balcony dance floor with a
Moroccan theme） for ten…year…olds； but this was truly spectacular。
Everything glowed white。 Light white； smooth white； bright white；
textured white； and rich white。 Bundles of milky white peonies
looked as if they grew from the table itself； deliciously lush but
low enough to allow people to talk over them。 Bone white china （with
a white checked pattern） rested on a crisp white linen tablecloth；
and high…backed white oak chairs were covered in luscious white
suede （the danger！）； all atop a plush white carpet； specially laid
for the evening。 White votive candles in simple white porcelain
holders gave off a soft white light； highlighting （but somehow not
burning） the peonies from underneath and providing subtle；
unobtrusive illumination around the table。 The only color in the
entire room came from the elaborate multihued canvases that hung on
the walls surrounding the table； shocking blues and greens and golds
from the depictions of early Egyptian life。 The white table as a
deliberate contrast to the priceless； detailed paintings was
exquisite。
As I turned my head around to take in the wonderful contrast of the
color and the white （“That Robert really is a genius！”）； a vibrant
red figure caught my eye。 In the corner； standing ramrod straight
under a looming painting was Miranda； wearing the beaded red Chanel
that had been missioned； cut； fitted； and precleaned just for
tonight。 And although it’d be a stretch to say that it had been
worth every penny （since those pennies added up to tens of thousands
of dollars）； she did look breathtaking。 She herself was anobjet
d’art； chin jutted upward and muscles perfectly taut； a neoclassical
relief in beaded Chanel silk。 She wasn’t beautiful—her eyes were a
bit too beady and her hair too severe and her face much too hard—but
she was stunning in a way I couldn’t make sense of； and no matter
how hard I tried to play it cool； to pretend to be admiring the
room； I couldn’t take my eyes off her。
As usual； the sound of her voice broke my reverie。 “Ahn…dre…ah； you
do know the names and faces of our guests this evening； do you not？
I assume you have properly studied their portraits。 I expect you
won’t humiliate me tonight by failing to greet someone by name；” she
announced； looking nowhere； with only my name indicating that her
words might somehow be directed toward me。
“Um； yes； I’ve got it covered；” I answered； suppressing the urge to
salute and still acutely aware that I was staring。 “I’ll take a few
minutes now and make sure I’m positive。” She looked at me as if to
sayYou sure will； you idiot； and I forced myself to look away and
walk out of the gallery。 Ilana was right behind me。
“What’s she talking about？” she whispered； leaning toward me。
“Portraits？ Is she crazy？”
We sat down on an unfortable wooden bench in a darkened hallway；
both of us overwhelmed with the need to hide。 “Oh； that。 Yeah；
normally I would’ve spent the last week trying to find pictures of
the guests tonight and memorizing them so I could greet them by
name；” I explained to a horrified Ilana。 She stared at me
incredulously。 “But since she just told me I had to e today； I
only had a few minutes in the car to look them over。
“What？” I asked。 “You thinkthis is strange？ Whatever。 It’s standard
stuff for a Miranda party。”
“Well； I thought there wouldn’t be anyone famous here tonight；” she
said； referring to Miranda’s past parties at the Met。 Since she was
a huge contributor； Miranda was often granted the very special
privilege of renting out； oh； THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART for
private parties and cocktail hours。 Mr。 Tomlinson had had to ask
only once； and Miranda was scrambling to make her brother…in…law’s
party the best the Met had ever seen。 She figured it would impress
the rich Southerners and their trophy wives to dine for a night at
the Met。 She was right。
“Yeah； there won’t be anyone we’d recognize right away； just a lot
of billionaires with homes below the Mason…Dixon line。 Usually when
I have to memorize the guests’ faces； they’re easier to find online
or inWWD or something。 I mean； you can generally locate a picture of
Queen Noor or Michael Bloomberg or Yohji Yamamoto if you have to。
But just try to find Mr。 and Mrs。 Packard from some rich suburb of
Charleston or wherever the hell they live and it’s not so easy。
Miranda’s other assistant was looking for these people while
everyone else was getting me ready； and she eventually found almost
everyone in the society pages of their Hometown newspapers or on
various panies’ web sites； but it was really annoying。”
Ilana continued to stare。 I think somehow I knew that I was sounding
like a robot； but I couldn’t stop。 Her shock only made me feel
worse。
“There’s only one couple I haven’t identified yet； so I guess I’ll
know them by default；” I said。
“Oh； my。 I don’t know how you do it。 I’m annoyed I have to be here
on a Friday night； but I can’t imagine doing your job。 How do you
take it？ How do you stand being spoken to and treated like that？”
It took me a moment to realize that this question caught me
off…guard： no one had really ever volunteered anything negative
about my job。 I’d always thought I was the only one—among the
millions of imaginary girls that would “die” for my job—who saw
anything remotely disturbing about my situation。 It was more
horrifying to see the shock in her eyes than it was to witness the
hundreds of ridiculous things I saw each and every day at work； the
way she looked at me with that pure； unadulterated pity triggered
something inside me。 I did what I hadn’t done in months of working
under subhuman conditions for a nonhuman boss； what I always managed
to keep suppressed for a more appropriate time。 I started to cry。
Ilana looked more shocked than ever。 “Oh； sweetie； e here！ I’m so
sorry！ I didn’t mean anything by it。 You’re a saint for putting up
with that witch； you hear me？ e with me。” She pulled me by the
hand and led me down another darkened hallway toward an office in
the back。 “Here； now sit for a minute and forget all about what
these stupid people look like。”
I sniffled and started to feel stupid。
“And don’t feel strange； you hear？ I have a feeling you kept that
inside for a long； long time and you have to have a good cry every
now and then。”
She was fumbling around in her desk for something while I tried to
wipe the mascara from my cheeks。 “Here；” she proclaimed proudly。
“I’m destroying this right after you see it； and if you even think
of telling anyone about it； I’ll wreck your life。 But just look；
it’s amazing。” She handed me a manila envelope sealed with a
“Confidential” sticker and smiled。
I tore off the sticker and pulled a green folder out。 Inside was a
photo—a color photocopy； actually—of Miranda stretched out on a
restaurant banquette。 I recognized it immediately as a picture taken
by a famous society photographer during a recent birthday party for
Donna Karan at Pastis。 It had already appeared on the pages ofNew
York magazine and was bound to keep showing up。 In it she was
wearing her signature brown and white snakeskin trench coat； the one
I always thought made her look like a snake。
Well； it seems I wasn’t alone； because in this version； someone had
subtly—expertly—attached a scaled…to…size cutout of a rattlesnake’s
rattle directly where her legs should have been。 The effect was a
fabulous rendition of Miranda as Snake： she rested her elbow on the
banquette； cradled her chiseled chin in her palm； and stretched out
across the leather； with her r