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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 the right look on your own； do you？”
“No； of course not。 It’s definitely better that I have
professional help for this。 Thank you。”
Then Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until
she was satisfied that if any of the fourteen hair and makeup
appointments I had scheduled over the course of the week fell
through； I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by smearing the mascara
across my lips or shaving the sides of my head and spiking the
center into a mohawk。 When we were through； I thought I’d
finally get a moment to race down to the dining room and grab
some calorie…enriched soup； but Allison picked up Emily’s
extension—her old phone line—and dialed Stef in the
accessories department。
“Hi； I’m done with her and she’s here right now。 You want to
e over？”
“Wait！ I need to go get lunch before Miranda es back！”
Allison rolled her eyes just like Emily。 I wondered if it was
something about that particular position that inspired such
expert demonstrations of irritation。 “Fine。 No； no； I was
talking to Andrea；” she said into the phone； raising her
eyebrows at me—surprise； surprise—just like Emily。 “It seems
that she’shungry 。 I know。 Yes； I know。 I told her that； but
she seems intent on 。 。 。eating 。”
I walked out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream
of broccoli with cheddar cheese and returned within three
minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk； holding the phone
receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches。
She was due to fly to Milan that very evening but I wasn’t
sure I’d survive to see it happen。
“The phone rings； Andrea； but when I pick it up—because you’re
apparently not interested in doing so—no one’s there。 Can you
explain this phenomenon？” she asked。
Of course I could explain it； just not to her。 On the rare
occasion that Miranda was in her office alone； she sometimes
picked up the phone when it rang。 Naturally callers were so
shocked to hear her voice on the other end that they promptly
hung up。 No one was actually prepared tospeak with her when
they called； since the likelihood of being put through was
next to nil。 I’d gotten dozens of e…mails from editors or
assistants informing me—as if I didn’t know—that Miranda was
answering the phone again。 “Where are you guys？？？” The
panicked missives would read； one after another。 “She’s
answering her own phone！！！！”
I mumbled something about how I； too； received hang…ups every
now and then； but Miranda had already lost interest。 She was
peering not at me but at my cup of soup。 Some of the creamy
green fluid was dripping slowly down the side。 Her gaze turned
to one of disgust when she realized I was not only holding
something edible； but that I had clearly planned to consume it
as well。
“Dispose of that immediately！” she barked from fifteen feet
away。 “The smell of it alone is enough to make me ill。”
I dropped the offending soup in the garbage can and gazed
wistfully after the lost nourishment before her voice jerked
me back to reality。
“I’m ready for the run…throughs！” she screeched； settling back
into her chair more easily now that the food she’d spotted
atRunway had been discarded。 “And the moment we’re through
here； call the features meeting。”
Each word caused another adrenaline surge； since I was never
sure what exactly she’d be requesting； I was never sure if I’d
be able to handle it or not。 Since it was Emily’s job to
schedule the run…throughs and the weekly meetings； I had to
race over to her desk and check her appointment book。 In the
three o’clock slot she had scribbled：Sedona Shoot run…through；
Lucia/Helen 。 I jabbed Lucia’s extension and spoke as soon as
she picked up the phone。
“She’s ready；” I stated； like a military mander。 Helen；
Lucia’s assistant； hung up without saying a word； and I knew
she and Lucia were already halfway to the office。 If they
didn’t arrive within twenty to twenty…five seconds； I would be
sent out to hunt them down and remind them in person—just in
case they might have forgotten—that when I’d called thirty
seconds before and said that Miranda was ready right then； I
meant rightthen 。 Generally this was a mere annoyance； yet
another reason why the enforced footwear of spiky stilettos
made life even more miserable。 Running through the office；
frantically searching for someone who was most likely hiding
from Miranda was never fun； but it was only really miserable
when that person happened to be in the bathroom。 Whatever one
does in a men’s or ladies’ room； however； is no excuse for not
being available at the exact moment your presence is expected；
and so I had to charge right in—sometimes checking underneath
the stalls for recognizable footwear—and politely ask in
whatever humiliated way I could manage that they finish up and
head to Miranda’s office。 Immediately。
Luckily for everyone involved； Helen arrived within seconds；
pushing an overflowing； off…kilter wheeled rack in front of
her and pulling another behind her。 She hesitated briefly
outside Miranda’s French door before she received one of
Miranda’s imperceptible nods and then dragged the racks
through the thick carpeting。
“This is all of it？ Two racks？” Miranda asked； barely looking
up from the copy she was reading。
Helen was clearly surprised at being addressed； since； as a
rule； Miranda didn’t speak to other people’s assistants。 But
Lucia hadn’t shown up with her own racks yet； so there was
little choice。
“Um； uh； no。 Lucia will be here in just a moment。 She has the
other two。 Would you like me to； uh； begin showing you what
we’ve called in？” Helen asked nervously as she pulled her
ribbed tank top down over her prairie skirt。
“No。”
And then： “Ahn…dre…ah！ Find Lucia。 By my watch it’s three
o’clock。 If she’s not prepared； then I have better things to
do than sit here and wait for her。” Which wasn’t exactly true；
since it appeared she hadn’t yet stopped reading copy and it
was now only approximately thirty…five seconds since I’d made
the initial phone call。 But I wasn’t about to point this out。
“No need； Miranda； I’m right here；” sang a breathless Lucia；
herself pushing and pulling racks past me just as I stood to
begin the search。 “So sorry。 We were waiting for one last coat
from the YSL people。”
She arranged the racks； which were organized by clothing type
（shirts； outerwear； pants/skirts； and dresses） in a
half…circle in front of Miranda’s d