idiot for not finding； fetching； or faxing something fast
enough。 She’d never actually asked about my life before。
Unless she remembered the details of our hiring interview—and
it seemed unlikely； considering she’d stared at me with
utterly blank eyes my very first day of work—then she had no
idea where； if anywhere； I’d attended college； where； if
anywhere； I lived in Manhattan； or what； if anything； I did in
the city in the few precious hours a day I wasn’t racing
around for her。 And although this question most certainly did
have a Miranda element to it； my intuition said that this
might； just maybe； be a conversation about me。
“Next month it will be a year； Miranda。”
“And do you feel you’ve learned a few things that may help you
in your future？” She peered at me； and I instantly suppressed
the urge to start rattling off the myriad things I’d
“learned”： how to find a single store or restaurant review in
a whole city or out of a dozen newspapers with few to no clues
about its genuine origin； how to pander to preteenage girls
who’d already had more life experiences than both my parents
bined； how to plead with； scream at； persuade； cry to；
pressure； cajole； or charm anyone； from the immigrant food
delivery guy to the editor in chief of a major publishing
house to get exactly what I needed； when I needed it； and； of
course； how to plete just about any challenge in under an
hour because the phrase “I’m not sure how” or “that’s not
possible” was simply not an option。 It had been nothing if not
a learning…rich year。
“Oh； of course；” I gushed。 “I’ve learned more in one year
working for you than I could’ve hoped to have learned in any
other job。 It’s been fascinating； really； seeing how a
major—themajor—magazine runs； the production cycle； what all
the different jobs are。 And； of course； being able to observe
the way you manage everything； all the decisions you make—it’s
been an amazing year。 I’m so thankful； Miranda！” So thankful
that two of my molars had been aching for weeks； too； but I
wasn’t ever able to get in to see a dentist during working
hours； but whatever。 My newfound； intimate knowledge of Jimmy
Choo’s handicraft had been well worth the pain。
Could this possibly sound believable？ I stole a glance； and
she seemed to be buying it； nodding her head gravely。 “Well；
you know； Ahn…dre…ah； that if ah…fter a year my girls have
performed well； I consider them ready for a promotion。”
My heart surged。 Was it finally happening？ Was this where she
told me that she’d already gone ahead and secured a job for me
atThe New Yorker ？ Never mind that she had no idea I would
kill to work there。 Maybe she had just figured it out because
she cares。
“I have my doubts about you； of course。 Don’t think I haven’t
noticed your lack of enthusiasm； or those sighs or faces you
make when I ask you to do something that you quite obviously
don’t feel like doing。 I’m hoping that’s just a sign of your
immaturity； since you do seem reasonably petent in other
areas。 What exactly are you interested in doing？”
Reasonably petent！ She may as well have announced I was the
most intelligent； sophisticated； gorgeous； and capable young
woman she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting。 Miranda Priestly
had just told me I was reasonably petent！
“Well； actually； it’s not that I don’t love fashion； because
of course I do。 Who wouldn’t？” I rushed on to say； keeping a
careful appraisal of her expression； which； as usual； remained
mostly unchanged。 “It’s just that I’ve always dreamt of
being a writer； so I was hoping that might； uh； be an area
I could explore。”
She folded her hands in her lap and glanced out the window。 It
was clear that this forty…five…second conversation was already
beginning to bore her； so I had to move quickly。 “Well； I
certainly have no idea if you can write a word or not； but I’m
not opposed to having you write a few short pieces for the
magazine to find out。 Perhaps a theater review or a small
writeup for the Happenings section。 As long as it doesn’t
interfere with any of your responsibilities for me； and is
done only during your own time； of course。”
“Of course； of course。 That would be wonderful！” We were
talking； really municating； and we hadn’t so much as
mentioned the words “breakfast” or “dry cleaning” yet。 Things
were going too well not to just go for it； and so I said；
“It’s my dream to work atThe New Yorker one day。”
This seemed to catch her now drifting attention； and once
again she peered at me。 “Why ever would you want to do that？
No glamour there； just nuts and bolts。” I couldn’t decide if
the question was rhetorical； so I played it safe and kept my
mouth shut。
My time was about twenty seconds from expiring； both because
we were nearing the hotel and her fleeting interest in me was
fading fast。 She was scrolling through the ining calls on
her Cell Phone； but still managed to say in the most
offhanded； casual way； “Hmm；The New Yorker 。 Condé Nast。” I
was nodding wildly； encouragingly； but she wasn’t looking at
me。 “Of course I know a great many people there。 We’ll see how
the rest of the trip goes； and perhaps I’ll make a call over
there when we return。”
The car pulled up to the entrance； and an exhausted…looking
Monsieur Renaud eclipsed the bellman who was leaning forward
to open Miranda’s door and opened it himself。
“Ladies！ I hope you had a lovely evening；” he crooned； doing
his best to smile through the exhaustion。
“We’ll be needing the car at nine tomorrow morning to go to
the Christian Dior show。 I have a breakfast meeting in the
lobby at eight…thirty。 See that I’m not disturbed before
then；” she barked； all traces of her previous humanness
evaporating like spilled water on a hot sidewalk。 And before I
could think how to end our conversation or； at the very least；
kiss up a little more for having had it at all； she walked
toward the elevators and vanished inside one。 I shot a weary；
understanding look to Monsieur Renaud and boarded an elevator
myself。
The small； tastefully arranged chocolates on a silver tray on
my bedside table only highlighted the perfection of the
evening。 In one random； unexpected night； I’d felt like a
model； hung out with one of the hottest guys I’d seen in the
flesh； and had been told by Miranda Priestly that I was
reasonably petent。 It felt like everything was finally
ing together； that the past year of sacrifice was showing
the first early signs of potentially paying off。 I collapsed
on top of the covers； still fully dressed； and gazed at the
ceiling； still unable to believe that I’d told Miranda
straight up that I wanted to work atThe New Yorker； and she
hadn’t laughed。 Or screamed。 Or in any way； shape； or form
freaked out。 She hadn’t even scoffed and told me that I was
ridiculous for not wanting to get promoted somewhere
withinRunway 。 It was almost as though—and I might be
projecting here； but I don’t think so—she had listened to me
andunderstood 。 Understood andagreed 。 It was almost too much
to prehend。
I undressed slowly； making sure to savor every minute of
tonight； going over and over in my mind the way Christian had
led me from room to room and then all over the dance floor；
the way he looked at me through those hooded lids with the
persistent curl； the way Miranda had almost； imperceptibly；
nodded when I’d said what I really wanted was to write。 A
truly glorious night； I had to say； one of the best in recent
history。 It was already three…thirty in the morning Paris
time； making it nine…thirty New York time—a perfect time to
catch Lily before she went out for the night。 Although I
should’ve just dialed with no regard for the insistent；
blinking light that announced—surprise； surprise—that I had
messages； I cheerfully pulled out a pad of the Ritz stationery
and got ready to transcribe。 There were bound to be long lists
of irritating requests from irritating people； but nothing
could take away my Cinderella…esque evening。
The first three were from Monsieur Renaud and his assistants；
confirming various drivers and appointment for the next day；
always remembering to wish me a good night as though I were
actually a person instead of just a slave； which I
appreciated。 Between the third and the fourth message I found
myself both wishing and not wishing that one of the messages
to e was from Alex； and as a result； was both delighted and
anxious when the fourth was from him。
“Hi； Andy； it’s me。 Alex。 Listen； I’m sorry to bother you over
there； I’m sure you’re incredibly busy； but I need to talk to
you； so please call me on my Cell Phone as soon as you get
this。 Doesn’t matter how late it is； just be sure to call； OK？
Uh； OK。 ’Bye。”
It was so strange that he hadn’t said he loved me or missed me
or was waiting for me to get back； but I guess all those
things fall squarely into the “inappropriate” category when
people decide to “take a break。” I hit delete and decided；
rather arbitrarily； that the lack of urgency in his voice
meant I could wait until tomorrow—I just couldn’t handle a
long “state of our relationship” conversation at three o’clock
in the morning after as wonderful a night as I’d just had。
The last and final message was from my mom； and it； too；
sounded strange and ambiguous。
“Hi； honey； it’s Mom。 It’s about eight our time； not sure what
that makes it for you。 Listen； no emergency—everything’s
fine—but it’d be great if you could call me back when you hear
this。 We’ll be up for a while； so anytime is fine； but tonight
is definitely better than tomorrow。 We both hope you’re having
a wonderful time； and we’ll talk to you later。 Love you！”
This was definitely strange。 Both Alex and my mother had
called me in Paris before I’d gotten a chance to call either
of them； and both had requested that I call them back
regardless of what time I got the message。 Considering my
parents defined a late night by whether or not they managed to
stay awake for Letterman’s opening monologue； I knew something
had to be up。 But at the same time； no one sounded
particularly panicked or even a little frantic。 Perhaps I’d
take a long bubble bath with some of the Ritz products
provided and slowly work up the energy to call everyone back；