all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts full of shoes
and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped
to her。
When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their
wares in neat rows on the carpet for her to inspect； Miranda’s
office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar—one that just so happens
to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm…el…Sheik。 One editor
was presenting her with 2；000 snakeskin belts while another
tried to sell her a large Kelly bag。 A third hawked a short
Fendi cocktail dress； while someone else tried to sell her on
the merits of chiffon。 Stef had managed to assemble a
near…perfect run…through with only thirty seconds’ notice and
a whole lot of pieces missing； I saw she had filled the gaps
with things from past photo shoots； explaining to Miranda that
the accessories they were still waiting for were similar but
even better。 They were all masters at what they do； but
Miranda was the ultimate。 She was the ever…aloof consumer；
coolly moving from one gorgeous stall to the next； never
feigning any show of interest。 When she finally； blessedly；
did decide； she pointed and manded （much like a judge at a
dog show； “Bob； she’s chosen the Border Collie 。 。 。”）； and
the editors nodded obsequiously （“Yes； excellent choice；” “Oh；
definitely； the perfect choice”） and they wrapped up their
wares and scuttled back to their respective departments before
she inevitably changed her mind。
The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes； but by the
time it was over； we were all exhausted from anxiety。 She’d
already announced earlier in the day that she’d be leaving
early； around four； to spend a couple hours with the girls
before the big trip； so I canceled the features meeting； to
the relief of the entire department。 At precisely 3：58P 。M。
she began packing her bag to leave； a not…so…strenuous
activity； since I’d be bringing anything of any heft or
significance to her apartment later on that evening in time
for her flight。 Basically； it involved tossing her Gucci
wallet and her Motorola Cell Phone into that Fendi bag that
she kept abusing。 The past few weeks； the 10；000 beauty had
been serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads—in
addition to one of the handles—had snapped off。 Miranda had
dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me to have it fixed
or； if it was impossible to fix； to just throw out。 I’d
proudly resisted all temptation to tell her the bag was
unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a leatherworker
repair it for her for a mere twenty…five dollars。
When she finally walked out； I instinctively reached for the
phone to call Alex and whine about my day。 It wasn’t until I’d
dialed half of his number that I remembered we were taking a
break。 It hit me that this would be the first day in more than
three years that we wouldn’t talk。 I sat with the phone in my
hand； staring at an e…mail he’d sent the day before； one that
he’d signed “love；” and wondered if I’d made a horrible
mistake in agreeing to this break。 I dialed again； this time
ready to tell him that we should talk about everything； figure
out where we’d gone wrong； that I take responsibility for the
part I’d played in the slow and steady fading of our
relationship。 But before it even had a chance to ring； Stef
was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my
Paris trip； pumped up from her run…through with Miranda。 There
were shoes and bags and belts and jewelry and hosiery and
sunglasses to discuss； so I replaced the receiver and tried to
focus on her instructions。
Logically； it would seem that a seven…hour flight in steerage
decked out in a pair of skintight leather pants； open…toe
strappy sandals； and a blazer over a tank top would be the
utmost in hellish travel experiences。 Not so。 The seven hours
in flight were the most relaxing I could remember。 Since
Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same time on
different flights—she from Milan and me from New York—it
appeared I’d stumbled on the single situation where she could
not call me for seven straight hours。 For one blessed day； my
inaccessibility wasn’t my fault。
For reasons I still didn’t understand； my parents hadn’t been
nearly as thrilled as I thought they’d be when I’d called to
tell them about the trip。
“Oh； really？” my mother asked in that special way of hers that
implied so much more than those two little words really meant。
“You’re going to Paris now？”
“What do you mean； ‘now’？”
“Well； it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting
off to Europe； is all；” she said vaguely； although I could
tell that an avalanche of Jewish…mother guilt was ready to
begin its slide in my direction。
“And why is that？ Whenwould be a good time？”
“Don’t get upset； Andy。 It’s just that we haven’t seen you in
months—not that we’re plaining； Dad and I both understand
how demanding your job is—but don’t you want to see your new
nephew？ He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met
him yet！”
“Mom！ Don’t make me feel guilty。 I’m dying to see Isaac； but
you know I can’t just—”
“You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston；
right？”
“Yes！ You’ve told me four hundred times。 I know it and I
appreciate it； but it’s not the money。 I can’t get any time
off work and now with Emily out； I can’t just up and
leave—even on weekends。 Does it make sense to you to fly
across the country only to have to e back if Miranda calls
me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning？ Does it？”
“Of course not； Andy； I just thought—we just thought—that you
might be able to visit them in the next couple weeks； because
Miranda was going to be away and all； and if you were going to
fly out there； then Dad and I would go also。 But now you’re
going to Paris。”
She said it in the way that implied what she was really
thinking。 “But now you’re going to Paris” translated to “But
now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family
obligations。”
“Mother； let me make something very； very clear here。 I am not
going on vacation。 I have not chosen to go to Paris rather
than meet my baby nephew。 It’s not my decision at all； as you
probably know but are refusing to accept。 It’s really very
simple： I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week；
or I get fired。 Do you see a choice here？ Because if so； I’d
love to hear it。”
She was quiet for a moment before she said； “No； of course
not； honey。 You know we understand。 I just hope—well； I just
hope that you’re happy with the way things are going。”
“What’s that supposed to mean？” I asked nastily。
“Nothing； nothing；” she rushed to say。 “It doesn’t mean
anything other than just what I said： your dad and I only care
that you’re happy； and it seems that you’ve really been； um；
well； uh； pushing yourself lately。 Is everything OK？”
I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard。 “Yeah；
Mom； everything’s fine。 I’m not happy to be going to Paris；
just so you know。 It’s going to be a week of sheer hell；
twenty…four…seven。 But my year will be up soon； and I can put
this kind of living behind me。”
“I know； sweetie； I know it’s been a tough year for you。 I
just hope this all ends up being worth it for you。 That’s
all。”
“I know。 So do I。”
We hung up on good terms； but I couldn’t shake the feeling
that my own parents were disappointed in me。
The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare； but I found
the elegantly dressed driver who was waving a sign with my
name on it when I exited customs； and the moment he closed his
own door； he handed me a Cell Phone。
“Ms。 Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival。 I took the
liberty of programming the hotel’s number into the automatic
dialing。 She’s in the Coco Chanel suite。”
“Um； oh； OK。 Thanks。 I guess I’ll call right now；” I announced
rather unnecessarily。
But before I could press the star key and the number one； the
phone bleated and flashed a frightening red color。 If the
driver hadn’t been watching me expectantly I would have muted
the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen it； but I was left
with the distinct feeling that he had been ordered to keep a
close eye on me。 Something about his expression suggested that
it was not in my best interest to ignore that call。
“Hello？ This is Andrea Sachs；” I said as professionally as
possible； already making over/under bets with myself as to the
chance it was anyone besides Miranda。
“Ahn…dre…ah！ What time does your watch read at this moment？”
Was this a trick question？ A preface to accusing me of being
late？
“Um； let me see。 Actually； it says that it’s five…fifteen in
the morning； but obviously I haven’t switched it yet to Paris
time。 Therefore； my watch should read that it’s
eleven…fifteenA 。M。” I said cheerily； hoping to start off the
first conversation of our interminable trip on as high a note
as I dared。
“Thank you for that never…ending narrative； Ahn…dre…ah。 And
may I ask what； exactly； you’ve been doing for the past
thirty…five minutes？”
“Well； Miranda； the flight landed a few minutes late and then
I still had—”
“Because according to the itineraryyou created for me； I’m
reading that your flight arrived at ten…thirty…five this
morning。”
“Yes； that’s when it was scheduled to arrive； but you see—”
“I’ll not have you tell me what I see； Ahn…dre…ah。 That is
most certainly not acceptable behavior for the next week； do
you understand me？”
“Yes； of course。 I’m sorry。” My heart began pounding what felt
like a million beats a minute； and I could feel my face grow
hot with humiliation。 Humiliation at being spoken to that way；
but more than anything； my own shame in pandering to it。 I had
just apologized—most sincerely—to someone for not being able
to make my international flight land at the correct time and
then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to avoid
French customs entirely。
I pressed my face rather uncouthly against the window and
watched as the limo weaved its way through Paris’s bustling
streets。 The women seemed so much taller here； the men so much
more genteel； and just about everyone was beautifully dressed；
thin； and regal in their stance。 I’d only been to Paris