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waitress。 My grandmother bought it for me years ago to wear to
Eric’s wedding。 I can’t decide if it’s gorgeous or hideous； but it’s
black…tie enough and it’s Chanel； so it should do。”
I hugged her。 “Just promise if Miranda kills me for saying the wrong
thing that you’ll burn this dress and make sure I’m buried in my
Brown sweatpants。 Promise me！” She grabbed the mascara wand I was
waving about and started working on me。
“You look great； Andy； really you do。 Never thought I’d see you in
an Oscar gown going to one of Miranda Priestly’s parties； but； hey；
you look the part。 Now go。”
She handed me the dangling； obnoxiously bright Judith Leiber bag and
held the door as I walked into the hallway。 “Have fun！”
The car was waiting outside my building and John—who was shaping up
to be a first…class pervert—whistled as the driver held the door
open for me。
“Knock ’em dead； hottie；” he called after me with an exaggerated
wink。 “See ya late…night。” He had no idea where I was going； of
course； but it was forting that he thought I’d at least be ing
Home。Maybe it won’t be that bad； I thought as I settled into the
cushy backseat of the Town Car。 But then my dress slid up over my
knees and the back of my legs touched the ice…cold leather seats；
and I lurched forward。Or； maybe； it will suck just as much as I
think it will？
The driver jumped out and ran around to open the door for me； but I
was standing on the curb by the time he’d made it around。 I’d been
to the Met once before； on a day trip to New York with my mom and
Jill to see some of the tourist sights。 I didn’t remember any of the
actual exhibits we saw that day—only how much my new shoes had hurt
by the time we got there—but I recalled the never…ending white
staircase out front and the feeling that I could climb those stairs
forever。
The stairs stood where I remembered them but looked different in the
haze of dusk。 Still accustomed to the short； miserable days of
winter； I thought it seemed strange that the sky was just darkening
and it was already six…thirty。 That night the stairs looked
positively regal。 They were prettier than the Spanish Steps or the
ones outside the library at Columbia； or even the awe…inspiring
spread at the Capitol building in D。C。 It wasn’t until I’d made it
to about the tenth one of those white beauties that I began to
loathe them。 What cruel； cruel sadist would make a woman in a
skintight； floor…length gown and spiked heels climb such a hill of
hell？ Since I couldn’t very well hate the architect or even the
museum official who’d missioned him； I was forced to hate
Miranda； who could usually be blamed for directly or indirectly
causing all the misery and bad will in my life。
The top felt like a mile away； and I flashed back to the spinning
classes I used to take when I still had time to go to the gym。 Some
Nazi instructor would sit atop her little bike and bark out orders
in perfect military staccato： “Pump； pump； and breathe； breathe！
Climb； people； climb that hill。 You’re almost at the top！ Don’t lose
it now！ Climb for your life！” I closed my eyes and tried to envision
pedaling instead； the wind in my hair； running over the instructor；
but climbing； still climbing。 Oh； anything to forget the fiery pain
that shot from little toe to heel to back again。 Ten more steps；
that was all that was left； just ten more； oh； god； was that wetness
in my shoes blood？ Would I have to walk before Miranda in a sweaty
Oscar gown and bloody feet？ Please； oh please； say that I was almost
there and 。 。 。 there！ The top。 The feeling of victory was no less
than that of a world…class sprinter who’d just won her first gold
medal。 I inhaled mightily； clenched my fingers to fight off the urge
for a victory cigarette； and reapplied my Fudgsicle Lipsmackers。 It
was time to be a lady。
The guard opened the door for me； bowed slightly； and smiled。 He
probably thought I was a guest。
“Hi； miss； you must be Andrea。 Ilana said to have a seat right over
there； and she’ll be out in a minute。” He turned away and spoke
discreetly into a microphone on his sleeve and nodded when he heard
a response through his earpiece。 “Yes； right over there； miss。
She’ll be here as soon as she can。”
I looked around the enormous entryway but didn’t feel like going
through the dress…adjustment hassle of actually sitting。 Besides；
when would I ever again have the chance to be in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art； after hours； with apparently no one else there？ The
ticket booths were empty and the ground…level galleries dark； but
the sense of history； of culture； was awesome。 The silence itself
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