as her two assistants’ names。 Emily had confirmed this by saying
that she called her Emily about half the time but called her a
mixture of Andrea and Allison—the assistant before her—the other
half。 I felt better。
“Yes？” Squeaking again。 Dammit！ Wasn’t it possible for me to have
just a tiny bit of dignity with this woman？
“Ahn…dre…ah； I don’t know what all the fuss is over finding Mr。
Lagerfeld’s mobile number when I have it right here。 He gave it to
me just five minutes ago； but we were disconnected and I can’t seem
to dial correctly。” She said the last part as though the entire
world was to blame for this irritation and inconvenience except for
herself。
“Oh。 You； um； you have the number？ And you knew he was on that
number the whole time？” I was saying it for Emily’s benefit； and it
only served to enrage Miranda even more。
“Am I not making myself perfectly clear here？ I need you to connect
me to 03。55。23。56。67。89。 Immediately。 Or is that too difficult？”
Emily was slowly shaking her head in disbelief as she crumpled up
the number we’d both just fought so hard to get。
“No； no； Miranda； of course that’s not too difficult。 I’ll connect
you right away。 Hold just a minute。” I hit “conference；” dialed the
numbers； heard an older man shout “Allo！” into the phone； and hit
conference again。 “Mr。 Lagerfeld； Miranda Priestly； you’re
connected；” I stated like one of those manual operators from
theLittle House on the Prairie days。 And instead of putting the
whole call on mute and then hitting speaker so Emily and I could
listen in on the call together； I just hung up。 We sat in silence
for a few minutes as I tried to refrain from badmouthing Miranda
immediately。 Instead； I mopped some dampness from my forehead and
took long； deep breaths。 She spoke first。
“So； let me just get this straight。 She had his number the entire
time but just didn’t know how to dial it？”
“Or maybe she just didn’t feel like dialing it；” I added helpfully；
always enthusiastic for the chance to team up against Miranda；
especially considering how rare the opportunities were with Emily。
“I should’ve known；” she said； shaking her head like she was
horribly disappointed with herself。 “I really should’ve known that。
She always calls to have me connect her to people who are staying in
the next room； or who are in a hotel two streets over。 I remember I
thought that was the weirdest thing； calling from Paris to New York
to have someone connect you to someone in Paris。 Now it just seems
normal； of course； but I can’t believe I didn’t see that one
ing。”
I was about to run to the dining room for lunch； but the phone rang
again。 Operating under the lightning…doesn’t…strike…twice theory； I
decided to be a sport and answer the phone。
“Miranda Priestly’s office。”
“Emily！ I am standing in the pouring rain on the rue de Rivoli and
my driver has vanished。 Vanished！ Do you understand me？ Vanished！
Find him immediately！” She was hysterical； my very first time
hearing her that way； and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it
was the only time。
“Miranda； just a moment。 I have his number right here。” I turned to
scan my desk for the itinerary I’d set down a moment earlier； but
all I saw were papers； old Bulletins； stacks of back issues。 Only
three or four seconds had passed； but I felt as if I were standing
right next to her； watching as the rain poured down on her Fendi fur
and caused the makeup to melt down the side of her face。 Like she
could just reach out and slap my face； tell me I’m a worthless piece
of shit with zero talent； no skill set； a plete and total loser。
There wasn’t time to talk myself down； remind myself that this was
merely a human being （theoretically） who wasn’t happy to be standing
in the rain and was taking it out on her assistant 3；600 miles away。
It’s not my fault。 It’s not my fault。 It’s not my fault。
“Ahn…dre…ah！ My shoes areruined 。 Do you hear me？ Are you even
listening？ Find my drivernow！ ”
I was at risk of some inappropriate emotion—I could feel the knot in
the back of my throat； the tightening of the muscles in the back of
my neck； but it was too early to tell if I would laugh or cry。
Either one： not good。 Emily must have sensed as much； because she
leapt out of her seat and handed me her copy of the itinerary。 She’d
even highlighted the driver’s contact numbers； three in all； one for
the car phone； his mobile phone； and his Home phone。 Naturally。
“Miranda； I’m going to need to put you on hold while I call him。 Can
I put you on hold？” I didn’t wait for a response； which I knew would
drive her crazy； and threw the call on hold。 I dialed Paris again。
The good news was the driver picked up on the first ring of the
first number I tried。 The bad news was he didn’t speak English。
Although I’d never been self…destructive before； I couldn’t help but
smash my forehead firmly into the Formica。 Three times of this； and
Emily had picked up the line at her desk。 She’d resorted to
screaming； not so much in attempt to make the driver understand her
own bad French； but simply because she was trying to impress upon
him the urgency of the current situation。 New drivers always took a
little breaking in； mostly because they foolishly believed that if
Miranda had to wait forty…five seconds to a minute extra； she’d be
all right。 This was precisely the notion of which Emily and I were
to disabuse them。
We both put our heads down a few minutes later； after Emily had
managed to insult the driver enough that he’d hightailed it back to
where he’d left Miranda three or four minutes earlier。 I wasn’t
particularly hungry for lunch anymore； a phenomenon that made me
nervous。 WasRunway rubbing off？ Or was it just the adrenaline and
nerves mixing together to guarantee no appetite？ That was it！ The
starvation so endemic atRunway was not； in fact； self…induced； it
was merely the physiological response of bodies that were so
consistently terrified and all…around anxiety…ridden that they were
never actually hungry。 I vowed to look into this a little more and
perhaps explore the possibility that Miranda was smarter than all of
this and had deliberately created a persona so offensive on every
level that she literally scared people skinny。
“Ladies； ladies； ladies！ Pick those heads up off those desks！ Can
you imagine Miranda seeing you now？ She wouldn’t be very happy！”
James sang from the doorway。 He had slicked back his hair using some
greasy； waxy stuff called Bed Head （“Hot name—how can you resist？”）
and was wearing some sort of skintight football jersey with the
number 6