each time it rang for fear that it was Her； I flipped it open
immediately； knowing it was Alex。 I knew he couldn’t leave
things so unfinished。 This was the same guy who couldn’t fall
asleep without a good…night kiss and a verbal wish for sweet
dreams； there was no way he was just prancing out of here；
totally fine with the suggestion that we not talk for a few
weeks。
“Hi； baby；” I breathed； missing him already but still happy to
be on the phone with him and not necessarily having to deal
with everything in person right now。 My head ached and my
shoulders felt like they were glued to my ears； and I just
wanted to hear him say that the whole thing had been a big
mistake and he’d call me tomorrow。 “I’m glad you called。”
“‘Baby’？ Wow！ We’re making progress； aren’t we； Andy？ Better
be careful or I might have to consider the possibility that
you want me；” Christian said smoothly with a grin I could hear
over the phone line。 “I’m glad I called； too。”
“Oh。 It’s you。”
“Well； that’s not the warmest wele I’ve ever received！
What’s the matter； Andy？ You’ve been screening me lately；
haven’t you？”
“Of course not；” I lied。 “I’ve just had a bad day。 As usual。
What’s up？”
He laughed。 “Andy； Andy； Andy。 e on now。 You have no reason
to be so unhappy。 You’re on the fast…track to great things。
Speaking of which； I’m calling to see if you wanted to e to
a PEN award ceremony and reading tomorrow night。 Should be
lots of interesting people； and I haven’t seen you in a while。
Purely professional； of course。”
For a girl who had read way too many “How to Know if He’s
Ready to mit” articles inCosmo； one might think the warning
flags would’ve gone up on this one。 And they did—I just chose
to ignore them。 It had been a very long day； and so I allowed
myself to think—just for a few minutes—that he might； might；
MIGHT actually be sincere。 Screw it。 It felt good to talk to a
noncritical male for a few minutes； even if he did refuse to
accept that I was taken。 I knew I wouldn’t actually accept his
invitation； but a few minutes of innocent phone flirting
wouldn’t hurt anyone。
“Oh really？” I asked coyly。 “Tell me all about it。”
“I’m going to list all the reasons that you should e with
me； Andy； and the first one is the simplest： I know what’s
good for you。 Period。” God； he was arrogant。 Why did I find it
so endearing？
game on。 We were off and running； and it took only a few more
minutes until the trip to Paris and Lily’s nasty little vodka
habit and Alex’s sad eyes faded to the background of my
acknowledged…unhealthy…and…emotionally…dangerous…but…really…sexy…and…fun…nonetheless
conversation with Christian。
16
It was planned that Miranda would be in Europe for a week
before I was due to arrive。 She settled for using some local
assistants for the Milan shows—and would be arriving in Paris
the same morning I was so we could work out the details of her
party together； like old friends。 Hah。 Delta had refused to
simply change the name on the ticket from Emily’s to mine； so
rather than get even more frustrated and hassled than I
already was； I just charged a new one。 Twenty…two hundred
dollars because it was fashion week and I was buying at the
last minute。 I paused for one ridiculous minute before forking
over the corporate card number。Whatever； I thought。Miranda can
spend that in a week on hair and makeup alone 。
As Miranda’s junior assistant； I was the lowest…ranking human
being atRunway 。 However； if access is power； then Emily and I
were the two most powerful people in fashion： we determined
who got meetings； when they were scheduled （early morning was
always preferred because people’s makeup would be fresh and
their clothes unwrinkled）； and whose messages got through （if
your name wasn’t on the Bulletin； you didn’t exist）。
So when either of us needed help； the rest of the staff were
obliged to pull through。 Yes； of course there was something
disconcerting about the realization that if we didn’t work for
Miranda Priestly these same people would have no punction
in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars。 As it
was； when called upon； they ran and fetched and retrieved for
us like well…trained puppies。
Work on the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied
to send me off to Paris adequately prepared。 Three Clackers
from the fashion department hastily pulled together a wardrobe
that included every single item that I could conceivably
require for any event Miranda could conceivably call on me to
attend。 By the time I left； Lucia； the fashion director；
promised I would have in my possession not only an assemblage
of clothing appropriate for any contingency； but also a full
sketchbook plete with professionally rendered charcoal
sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the
aforementioned clothing in order to maximize style and
minimize embarrassment。 In other words： leave nothing to my
own selection or pairing； and I’d quite possibly have a shot
in hell—albeit slim—of looking presentable。
Might I need to acpany Miranda to a bistro and stand；
mummylike； in the corner while she sipped a glass of Bordeaux？
A pair of cuffed； charcoal gray Theory pants with a black silk
turtleneck sweater by Celine。 Attend the tennis club where
she’d receive her private lessons so that I could fetch water
and； if required； white scarves in case sheschvitzed ？ A
head…to…toe athletic outfit plete with bootleg workout
pants； zip…up hooded jacket （cropped to show off my tummy；
natch）； a 185 wife…beater to wear under it； and suede
sneakers—all by Prada。 And what if maybe—just maybe—I actually
did make it to the front row of one of those shows like
everyone swore I would？ The options were limitless。 My
favorite so far （and it was still only late afternoon on
Monday） was a pleated school…girl skirt by Anna Sui； with a
very sheer and very frilly white Miu Miu blouse； paired with a
particularly naughty…looking pair of midcalf Christian
Laboutin boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather blazer
so fitted it bordered on obscene。 My Express jeans and Franco
Sarto loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my
closet for months now； and I had to admit I didn’t miss them。
I also discovered that Allison； the beauty editor； did； in
fact； deserve her title by literallybeing the beauty industry。
Within twenty…four hours of being “put on notice” that I would
be needing some makeup and more than a few tips； she had
created the Be…All； End…All Cosmetic Catchall。 Included in the
decidedly oversize Burberry “toiletry case” （it actually more
closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than
those approved by the airlines for carry…on） was every
imaginable type of shadow； lotion； gloss； cream； liner； and
type of makeup。 Lipsticks came in matte； high…shine；
long…lasting； and clear。 Six shades of mascara—ranging in
color from a light blue to a “pouty black”—were acpanied by
an eyelash curler and two eyelash bs in case of （gasp！）
clumps。
Powders； which appeared to account for half of all the
products and fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids； the
skin tone； and the cheeks； had a color scheme more plex and
subtler than a painter’s palette： some were meant to bronze；
others to highlight； and still others to pout； plump； or pale。
I had the choice whether to add that healthy blush to my face
in the form of a liquid； solid； powder； or a bination
thereof。 The foundation was the most impressive of all： it was
as if someone had managed to remove an actual sample of skin
directly from my face and custom…mix a pint or two of the
stuff。 Whether it “added sheen” or “covered blemishes；” every
single solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better
than； well； my own skin。 Packed in a slightly smaller matching
plaid case were the supplies： cotton balls； cotton squares；
Q…tips； sponges； somewhere in the vicinity of two dozen
different…size application brushes； washcloths； two different
types of eye makeup remover （moisturizing and oil…free）； and
no less than twelve—TWELVE—kinds of moisturizer （facial； body；
deep…conditioning； with SPF 15； glimmering； tinted； scented；
nonscented； hypoallergenic； with alpha…hydroxy； antibacterial；
and—just in case that nasty October Parisian sun got the best
of me—with aloe vera）。
Tucked in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal…size
pieces of paper with preprinted faces rendered on each one；
enlarged to fit the page。 Each face bragged an impressive
makeover： Allison had applied the actual makeup she’d included
in the kit to the paper faces。 One face was eerily labeled
“Relaxed Evening Glamour” but had a caveat under it in big；
bold marker that read： NOT FOR BLACK…TIE！！ TOO CASUAL！！ The
nonformal face had a light covering of the matte foundation
under a slight brush of bronzing powder； a light dab of liquid
or “crème” blush； some very sexy； dark…lined and heavily
shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d lashes； and
what appeared to be a quick； casual swipe of high…gloss lip
color。 When I’d mumbled under my breath to Allison that this
would be utterly impossible for me to recreate； she looked
exasperated。
“Well； hopefully you won’t have to；” she said in a voice that
sounded so taxed； I thought she might collapse under the
weight of my ignorance。
“No？ Then why do I have nearly two dozen ‘faces’ suggesting
different ways to use all this stuff？”
Her withering glance was worthy of Miranda。
“Andrea。 Be serious。 This is for emergencies only； in case
Miranda asks you to go somewhere with her at the last minute；
or if your hair and makeup person can’t make it。 Oh； that
reminds me； let me show you the hair stuff I packed。”
As Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of
round brushes to blow my hair straight； I tried to make sense
of what she’d just said。 I would have a hair and makeup
person； too？ I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me when I’d
booked all of Miranda’s people； so who had？ I had to ask。
“The Paris office；” Allison replied with a sigh。 “You’re
representingRunway； you know； and Miranda is very sensitive to
that。 You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous events in
the world alongside Miranda Priestly。 You don’t think you
could achieve t