she dared to cross the threshold。
“Hi； Em。 I’ve got the skirts right here。 Sorry that took so long；
but no one’s around since it’s that weird time right before
Thanksgiving。 Anyway； hopefully you’ll find something she’ll like。”
She looked down at her basket full of folded skirts。
Emily looked up at her with barely disguised scorn。 “Just leave them
on my desk。 I’ll return the ones that won’t work。Which I imagine
will be most of them； considering your taste 。” The last part was
under her breath； just loud enough for me to hear。
The blond girl looked bewildered。 Definitely not the brightest star
in the sky； but she seemed nice enough。 I wondered why Emily so
obviously hated her。 It’d been a long day already； what with the
running mentary and errands all over the city and hundreds of
names and faces to try to remember； so I didn’t even ask。
Emily placed the large basket on her desk and looked down on it；
hands on her hips。 From what I could see from Miranda’s office
floor； there were perhaps twenty…five different skirts in an
incredible assortment of fabrics； colors； and sizes。 Had she really
not specified what she wanted at all？ Did she really not bother to
inform Emily whether she’d be needing something appropriate for a
black…tie dinner or a mixed…doubles match or perhaps to use as a
bathing suit cover…up？ Did she want denim； or would something
chiffon work better？ How exactly were we supposed to predict
whatmight please her？
I was about to find out。 Emily carried the wicker basket to
Miranda’s office and carefully； reverentially； placed it on the
plush carpeting beside me。 She sat down and began removing the
skirts one by one and laying them in a circle around us。 There was a
beautiful crocheted skirt in shocking fuchsia by Celine； a pearl
gray wraparound by Calvin Klein； and a black suede one with black
beads along the bottom by Mr。 de la Renta himself。 There were skirts
in red and ecru and lavender； some with lace and others in cashmere。
A few were long enough to sweep gracefully along the ankles； and
others were so short they looked more like tube tops。 I picked up a
midcalf； brown silk beauty and held it up to my waist； but the
material covered only one of my legs。 The next one in the pile
reached to the floor in a swirl of tulle and chiffon and looked as
though it would feel most at Home at a Charleston garden party。 One
of the jean skirts was prefaded and came with a gigantic brown
leather belt already looped around it； and another had a crinkly；
silver…material overlay on top of a slightly more opaque silver
liner。 Where on earth were we going here？
“Wow； looks like Miranda has a thing for skirts； huh？” I said；
simply because I had nothing better to say。
“Actually； no。 Miranda has a slight obsession with scarves。” Emily
refused to make eye contact with me； as though she’d just revealed
that she herself had herpes。 “It’s just one of those cute； quirky
things about her you should know。”
“Oh； really？” I asked； trying to sound amused and not horrified。 An
obsession with scarves？ I like clothes and bags and shoes as much as
the next girl； but I wouldn’t exactly declare any of them an
“obsession。” And something about the way Emily was saying it wasn’t
so casual。
“Yes； well； she must need a skirt for something specific； but it’s
scarves that’s she’s really into。 You know； like her signature
scarves？” She looked at me。 My face must have betrayed my plete
lack of a clue。 “You do remember meeting her during the interview；
do you not？”
“Of course；” I said quickly； sensing it’d probably not be the best
idea to let this girl know that I couldn’t so much as remember
Miranda’s name during my interview； never mind remember what she was
wearing。 “But I’m not sure I noticed a scarf。”
“She always； always； always wears a single white Hermès scarf
somewhere on her outfit。 Mostly around her neck； but sometimes
she’ll have her hairdresser tie one in a chignon； or occasionally
she’ll use them as a belt。 They’re like； her signature。 Everyone
knows that Miranda Priestly wears a white Hermès scarf； no matter
what。 How cool is that？”
It was at that exact moment that I noticed Emily had a lime green
scarf woven through the belt loops on her cargo pants； just peeking
out from underneath the white T…shirt。
“She likes to mix it up sometimes； and I’m guessing that this is one
of those times。 Anyway； those idiots in fashion never know what
she’ll like。 Look at some of these； they’re hideous！” She held up an
absolutely gorgeous flowy skirt； slightly dressier than the rest
with its little flecks of gold shimmering from the deep tan
background。
“Yep；” I agreed； in what was to bee the first of thousands； if
not millions； of times I agreed with whatever she said simply to
make her stop talking。 “It’s horrendous…looking。” It was so
beautiful I thought I’d be happy to wear it to my own wedding。
Emily continued prattling on about patterns and fabrics and
Miranda’s needs and wants； occasionally interjecting a scathing
insult about a coworker。 She finally chose three radically different
skirts and set them aside to send to Miranda； talking； talking；
talking the whole time。 I tried to listen； but it was almost seven；
and I was trying to decide whether I was ravenously hungry； utterly
nauseated； or just plain exhausted。 I think it was all three。 I
didn’t even notice when the tallest human being I’d ever seen
swooped into the office。
“YOU！” I heard from somewhere behind me。 “STAND UP SO I CAN GET A
LOOK AT YOU！”
I turned just in time to see the man； who was at least seven feet
tall； with tanned skin and black hair； pointing directly at me。 He
had 250 pounds stretched over his incredibly tall frame and was so
muscular； so positively ripped； that it looked as though he might
just explode out of his denim 。 。 。 catsuit？ Ohmigod！ He was wearing
a catsuit。 Yes； yes； a denim； one…piece catsuit with tight pants and
a belted waist and rolled…up sleeves。 And a cape。 There was actually
a blanket…size fur cape tied twice around his thick neck； and shiny
black bat boots the size of tennis rackets adorned his mammoth
feet。 He looked around thirty…five years old； although all the
muscles and the deep tan and the positively chiseled jawbone could
have been hiding ten years or adding five。 He was flapping his hands
at me and motioning for me to get up off the floor。 I stood； unable
to take my eyes off him； and he turned to examine me immediately。
“WELL！ WHO DO WE HAVE HEEEEERE？” he bellowed； as best as one can in
a falsetto voice。 “YOU’RE PRETTY； BUT TOO WHOLESO