assistant atRunway 。 I learned more there that year than I did
in the next five。”
“It was a real experience。 I was lucky to have it。”
“What did you do there？”
“I was actually Miranda Priestly’s assistant。”
“Were you really？ You poor girl； I had no idea。 Wait a
minute—were you the one who was just fired in Paris？”
I realized too late that I had made a big mistake。 There’d
been a sizable blurb inPage Six about the whole messy thing a
few days after I got Home； probably from one of the Clackers
who’d witnessed my terrible manners。 Considering they quoted
me exactly； I couldn’t figure out who else it could’ve been。
How could I have forgotten that other people might have read
that？ I had a feeling that Loretta was going to be distinctly
less pleased with my story than she was three minutes ago； but
there was no escaping now。
“Um； yeah。 It wasn’t as bad as it seemed； really it wasn’t。
Things got totally blown out of proportion in thatPage Six
article。 Really。”
“Well； I hope not！ Someone needed to tell that woman to go
fuck herself； and if it was you； well； then； hats off！ That
woman made my life a living hell for the year I worked there；
and I never even had to exchange a single word with her。
“Look； I’ve got to run to a press lunch right now； but why
don’t we set up a meeting？ You need to e in and fill out
some of these papers； and I’d like to meet you anyway。 Bring
anything else you think might work for the magazine。”
“Great。 Oh； that sounds great。” We agreed to meet next Friday
at three； and I hung up still not believing what had happened。
Kyle and Jill had left the baby with Lily while they went to
dress and pack； and he had menced a sort of
crying…whimpering thing that sounded as though he was two
seconds away from all…out hysteria。 I scooped him out of his
seat and held him over my shoulder； rubbing his back through
his terry…cloth footie pajamas； and； remarkably； he shut up。
“You’ll never believe who that was；” I sang； dancing around
the room with Isaac。 “It was an editor atSeventeen
magazine—I’m going to be published！”
“Shut up！ They’re printing your life story？”
“It’s not my life story—it’s ‘Jennifer’s’ life story。 And it’s
only two thousand words； so it’s not the biggest thing ever；
but it’s a start。”
“Sure； whatever you say。 Young girl gets super caught up in
achieving something and ends up screwing over all the people
who matter in her life。 Jennifer’s story。 Uh…huh； whatever。”
Lily was grinning and rolling her eyes at the same time。
“Whatever； details； details。 The point is； they’re publishing
it in the February issue and they’re paying me three thousand
dollars for it。 How crazy is that？”
“Congrats； Andy。 Seriously； that’s amazing。 And now you’ll
have this as a clip； right？”
“Yep。 Hey； it’s notThe New Yorker； but it’s an OK first step。
If I can round up a few more of these； maybe in some different
magazines； too； I might be getting somewhere。 I have a meeting
with the woman on Friday； and she told me to bring anything
else I’ve been working on。 And she didn’t even ask if I speak
French。 And she hates Miranda。 I can work with this woman。”
I drove the Texas crew to the airport； picked up a good and
greasy Burger King lunch for Lily and me to wash down our
breakfast donuts with； and spent the rest of the day—and the
next； and the next after that—working on some stuff to show
the Miranda…loathing Loretta。
19
“Tall vanilla cappuccino； please；” I ordered from a barista I
didn’t recognize at the Starbucks on 57th Street。 It had been
nearly five months since I’d been here last； trying to balance
a whole tray of Coffees and snacks and get back to Miranda
before she fired me for breathing。 When I thought about it
like that； I figured it was far better to have gotten fired
for screaming “fuck you” than it was to get fired because I’d
brought back two packets of Equal instead of two raw sugars。
Same oute； but a totally different ballgame。
Who knew Starbucks had such huge turnover？ There wasn’t a
single person behind the counter who looked remotely familiar；
making all the time I’d spent there seem that much farther
away。 I smoothed my well…cut but nondesigner black pants and
checked to make sure that the cuffed bottoms hadn’t collected
any of the city’s muddy slush。 I knew there was an entire
magazine staff of fashionistas who would emphatically disagree
with me； but I thought I looked pretty damn good for only my
second interview。 Not only did I now know that no one wears
suits at magazines； but somewhere； somehow； a year’s worth of
high fashion had—by simple osmosis； I think—crammed itself
into my head。
The cappuccino was almost too hot； but it felt fantastic on
that chilly； wet day。 The darkened； late…afternoon sky seemed
to be misting the city with a giant Snow…Cone。 Normally； a day
like this would’ve depressed me。 It was； after all； one of the
more depressing days in the year’s most depressing month
（February）； the kind when even the optimists would rather
crawl under the covers and the pessimists didn’t stand a
chance of getting through without a fistful of Zoloft。 But the
Starbucks was warmly lit and just the right state of crowded；
and I curled up in one of their oversize green armchairs and
tried not to think of who had rubbed his dirty hair there
last。
In the past three months； Loretta had bee my mentor； my
champion； my savior。 We’d hit it off in that first meeting and
she’d been nothing but wonderful to me ever since。 As soon as
I’d walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that
she was—gasp！—fat； I had a weird feeling that I’d love her。
She sat me down and read every word of the stuff I’d been
working on all week： tongue…in…cheek pieces on fashion shows；
some snarky stuff on being a celebrity assistant； a hopefully
sensitive story about what it takes—and doesn’t take—to bring
down a three…year…long relationship with someone you love but
can’t be with。 It was storybook…like； nauseating； really； how
well we’d instantly hit it off； how effortlessly we shared our
nightmares aboutRunway （I was still having them： a recent one
had included a particularly horrid segment in which my own
parents were shot dead by Parisian fashion police for wearing
shorts on the street and Miranda had somehow managed to
legally adopt me）； how quickly we realized that we were the
same person； just seven years apart。
Since I’d just had the brilliant idea of dragging all myRunway
clothes to one of those snooty resale shops on Madison Avenue