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saying to know that she was barely responding at the appropriate
time。 Social graces were not her strength； as she had little
tolerance for small talk—but I knew she’d be on her best kiss…ass
behavior tonight。 I’d e to realize that her “friends” all fell
into one of two categories。 There were those she perceived as
“above” her and who must be impressed。 This list was short； but it
generally included people like Irv Ravitz； Oscar de la Renta；
Hillary Clinton； and any first…rate； A…list movie star。 Then there
were those “below” her； who must be patronized and belittled so they
don’t forget their place； which included basically everyone else：
allRunway employees； all family members； all parents of her
children’s friends—unless they coincidentally fell into category
number one—almost all designers and other magazine editors； and
every single solitary person in the service industry； both here and
abroad。 Tonight was sure to be amusing because these were category
two people who would have to be treated like category ones； merely
because of their association with Mr。 Tomlinson and his brother。 I
always enjoyed the rare occasions when I got to watch Miranda try to
impress those around her； mostly because she wasn’t naturally
charming。
I felt the first guests arrive before I saw them。 The tension in the
room was palpable。 Remembering my color printouts； I rushed over to
the couple and offered to take the woman’s fur wrap。 “Mr。 and Mrs。
Wilkinson； thank you so much for joining us this evening。 Please；
I’ll take that。 And Ilana here will show you to the atrium； where
cocktails are being served。” I hoped I wasn’t staring during my
monologue； but the spectacle was truly outrageous。 I’d seen women
dressed like hookers and men dressed like women and models not
dressed at all at Miranda’s parties； but never before had I seen
people dressed like this。 I knew it wasn’t going to be a trendy New
York crowd； but I was expecting them to look like something out
ofDallas ； instead； they looked like a dressier version of the cast
fromDeliverance 。
Mr。 Tomlinson’s brother； himself distinguished looking with silver
hair； made the horrible mistake of wearing white tails—in May； no
less—with a plaid handkerchief and a cane。 His fiancée had on an
emerald green taffeta nightmare。 It swirled and puffed and gathered
and forced her enormous bust up and over the top of the dress so
that it appeared her own silicon breasts might actually suffocate
her。 Diamonds the size of Dixie cups hung from her ears； and an even
larger one sparkled from her left hand。 Her hair was bleached white
with peroxide； as were her teeth； and her heels were so high and so
skinny； she walked as if she’d been a running back in the NFL for
the past twelve years。
“Dah…lings； I amso delighted you could join us for a little pah…ty！
Everyone loves pahties； now don’t they？” Miranda sang in a falsetto
voice。 The soon…to…be Mrs。 Tomlinson looked as if she’d pass out。
Right there before her was the one and only Miranda Priestly！ Her
glee embarrassed us all； and the whole wretched crowd moved into the
atrium with Miranda leading the way。
The rest of the night went on much like the beginning。 I recognized
all the guests’ names and managed not to utter anything too
humiliating。 The parade of white tuxes； chiffon； big hair； bigger
jewels； and barely postadolescent women ceased to amuse me as the
hours wore on； but I never grew tired of watching Miranda。 She was
the true lady and the envy of every woman in that museum that night。
And even though they understood that all the money in the world
could never buy them her class and elegance； they never stopped
wanting it。
I smiled genuinely when she dismissed me halfway through dinner； as
usual without a thank…you or a good…night。 （“Ahn…dre…ah； we won’t be
needing you anymore this evening。 See yourself out。”） I looked for
Ilana； but she had already sneaked out。 The car took only about ten
minutes to arrive after I called for it—I had briefly considered
taking the subway； but wasn’t sure how well the Oscar or my feet
would’ve held up—and I sunk； exhausted but calm； into the backseat。
When I walked past John on my way to the elevator； he reached under
his little table and pulled out a manila envelope。 “Just got this a
few minutes ago。 It says ‘Urgent。’ ” I thanked him and sat down in a
corner of the lobby； wondering who would be messengering me
something at ten o’clock on a Friday night。 I tore it open and
pulled out a note：
Dearest Andrea；
It was so great to meet you tonight！ Can we please get together next
week for sushi or something？ I dropped this off on my way Home—
figured you could use the pick…me…up after a night like the one we
just had。 Enjoy。
Xoxo；
Ilana
Inside was the picture of Miranda as Snake； only Ilana had enlarged
this one to a ten by thirteen size。 I looked at it carefully for a
few minutes； massaging the feet I’d finally pulled from the Manolos；
and looked into Miranda’s eyes。 She looked intimidating and mean and
just like the bitch I stared at every day。 But tonight she’d also
looked sad； and not a little lonely。 Adding this picture to my
fridge and making fun of it with Lily and Alex wasn’t going to make
my feet hurt any less； or give me back my Friday night。 I tore it up
and hobbled upstairs。
15
“Andrea； it’s Emily；” I heard a voice croak from the phone。
“Can you hear me？” It had been months since Emily had called
me at Home late at night； so I knew it had to be serious。
“Hi； sure。 You sound like hell；” I said； bolting upright in
bed； immediately wondering if Miranda had done something to
make her sound that way。 The last time Emily had called this
late was when Miranda had called her at eleven on a Saturday
night to demand that Emily charter her and Mr。 Tomlinson a
private jet to get Home from Miami since bad weather had
canceled their regularly scheduled flight。 Emily was just
getting ready to leave her apartment to attend her own
birthday party when the call came in； and she’d immediately
called me and begged me to deal with it。 I hadn’t gotten the
message until the next day； though； and when I called her
back； she was still in tears。
“I missed my own birthday party； Andrea；” she’d wailed the
second she picked up the phone。 “I missed my own birthday
party because I had to charter them a flight！”
“They couldn’t get a hotel room for one night and e back
the next day like normal people？” I’d asked； pointing out the
obvious。
“Don’t you think I thought of that？ I had penthouse suites
reserved for them at the Shore Club； the Albion； and the
Delano within seven minutes of her first phone call； figuring
she couldn’t possibly be serious—I mean； my god； it was a
Saturday night。 How the hell do you charter a flight on a
Saturday night？”
“I’m guessing she wasn’t so into that idea？” I’d asked
soothingly； feeling genuinely guilty that I hadn’t been around
to help her out and simultaneously ecstatic that I’d dodged
that particular bullet。
“Yeah。 Not so into it at all。 She called every ten minutes；
demanding to know why I hadn’t found her anything yet； and I
had to keep putting these people on hold to answer her call；
and when I went back to them； they’d hang up。” She gulped air。
“It was a nightmare。”
“So what finally happened？ I’m almost scared to ask。”
“What finally happened？ Whatdidn’t finally happen？ I called
every single private charter pany in the state of Florida
and； as you might imagine； they weren’t answering their phones
at midnight on a Saturday。 I paged individual pilots； I called
domestic airlines to see if they had any remendations； I
even managed to talk to some sort of supervisor at the Miami
International Airport。 Told him I needed a plane in the next
half hour to fly two people to New York。 Know what he did？”
“What？”
“He laughed。 Hysterically。 Accused me of being a front for
terrorists； for drug smugglers； everything。 Told me I had a
better chance of getting hit by lightning exactly twenty times
than I did of securing a plane and a pilot at that
hour—regardless of how much I was willing to pay。 And that if
I called back again； he’d be forced to direct my inquiry to
the FBI。 Do you believe it？” She was screaming at this point。
“Do you fucking believe it？ The FBI！”
“And I assume Miranda didn’t like that； either？”
“Yeah； sheloooooved that one。 She spent twenty minute