their Manolos knew what would work for Miranda Priestly。 Of course；
merely being made to the correct size wasn’t enough—when the clothes
did arrive at the magazine； they’d need to be cut and tucked to make
them appear custom…made。 Only when the entire wardrobe was
pletely ordered； shipped； snipped； and delivered expressly to her
bedroom closet by chauffeured limousine would Miranda relinquish
last season’s clothes and heaps of Yves and Celine and Helmut Lang
would find their way—in garbage bags—back to the office。 Most were
only four or six months old； stuff that had been worn once or twice
or； most often； not at all。 Everything was still so incredibly
stylish； so ludicrously hip； that it wasn’t yet available in most
stores； but once it was last season； it was about as likely to show
up on Miranda as a pair of pleather pants from Target’s new Massimo
line。
Occasionally I’d find a tank top or an oversize jacket I could keep；
but the fact that everything was in a size zero was a bit of a
problem。 Mostly we distributed the clothes to anyone with preteen
daughters； the only ones who had a shot in hell of actually fitting
into the stuff。 I pictured little girls with bodies like little boys
strutting around in Prada lipstick skirts and slinky Dolce and
Gabbana dresses with spaghetti straps。 If there was something really
dynamite； really expensive； I’d pull it from the garbage bag and
stash it under my desk until I could smuggle it Home safely。 A few
quick clicks on ebay or perhaps a little visit to one of the upscale
consignment shops on Madison Avenue； and my salary all of a sudden
wasn’t so depressing。 Not stealing； I rationalized； simply utilizing
what was available to me。
Miranda called six more times between the hours of six and nine in
the evening—midnight to threeA 。M。 her time—to have us connect her
to various people who were already in Paris。 I fielded them
listlessly； uneventfully； until I went to gather my things and try
to sneak out for the night before the phone rang again。 It wasn’t
until I was climbing exhaustedly into my coat that I caught a
glimpse of the note that I’d stuck to my monitor just so this very
thing wouldn’t happen： CALL A； 3：30P。M。 TODAY。 My head felt like it
was swimming； my contacts had long before dried to tiny； hard shards
covering my eyes； and at this point my head started to throb。 No
sharp pains； just that nebulous； dull kind of ache where you can’t
pinpoint the center but you know it will build and build in a slow；
burning intensity until you either manage to pass out or your head
just explodes。 In the frenzy of all the calls that had produced such
anxiety； such panic； from across an ocean； I had forgotten to take
the thirty seconds out of my day and call Alex when he’d asked me
to。 Simply up and forgotten to do something so simple for someone
who never seemed to need anything from me。
I sat down in the now darkened and silent office and picked up the
phone that was still a little wet from my sweaty hands during
Miranda’s last call a few minutes earlier。 His Home line rang and
rang until the machine picked up； but he answered on the first ring
when I tried his Cell Phone。
“Hi；” he said； knowing it was me from the caller ID。 “How was your
day？”
“Whatever； usual。 Alex； I’m so sorry I didn’t call you at
three…thirty。 I can’t even get into it—it’s just that things were so
crazy here； she just kept calling and—”
“Hey； forget it。 Not a big deal。 Listen； now’s not really a great
time for me。 Can I call you tomorrow？” He sounded distracted； his
voice taking on that faraway quality of someone talking from an
international payphone on the beach of a tiny village across the
world。
“Um； sure。 But is everything OK？ Will you just quickly tell me what
you wanted to talk about before？ I’ve been really worried that
everything’s not OK。”
He was quiet for a moment and then said； “Yeah； well it doesn’t seem
like you were all that worried。 I ask you one time to call me at a
time that’s convenient for me—not to mention that your boss isn’t
even in the country right now—and you can’t manage to do that until
six hours after the fact。 Not really a sign of someone who’s
genuinely concerned； you know？” He stated all of this with no
sarcasm； no disapproval； just a simple summary of the facts。
I was twisting the phone cord around my finger until it cut off the
circulation entirely； making the knuckle bulge out and the tip turn
white； there was also a brief； metallic taste of blood in my mouth；
the first realization that I had been gnawing on the inside of my
bottom lip。
“Alex； it’s not that I forgot to call；” I lied openly； trying to
extricate myself from his nonaccusatory accusation。 “I simply didn’t
have a single second free； and since it sounded like something
serious； I didn’t want to call just to have to hang up again。 I
mean； she must have called me two dozen times just this afternoon；
and each one is an absolute emergency。 Emily took off at five and
left me all alone with that phone； and Miranda just didn’t stop。 She
just kept calling and calling and calling； and every time I went to
call you； it’d be her again on the other line。 I； uh； you know？”
My rapid…fire list of excuses sounded pathetic even to me； but I
couldn’t stop。 He knew I had just forgotten； and so did I。 Not
because I didn’t care or wasn’t concerned； but because all things
non…Miranda somehow ceased to be relevant the moment I arrived at
work。 In some ways I still didn’t understand and certainly couldn’t
explain—never mind ask anyone else to understand—how the outside
world just melted into nonexistence； that the only thing remaining
when everything else vanished wasRunway 。 It was especially
difficult to explain this phenomenon when it was the single thing in
my life I despised。 And yet； it was the only one that mattered。
“Listen； I have to get back to Joey。 He has two friends over and
they’ve probably torn apart the entire house by this point。”
“Joey？ Does that mean you’re in Larchmont？ You don’t usually watch
him on Wednesdays。 Is everything OK？” I was hoping to steer him away
from the blatantly obvious fact that I had gotten too wrapped up at
work for six straight hours； and this seemed like the best path。
He’d tell me how his mom had gotten held up at work accidentally or
perhaps had to go see Joey’s teacher for conferences that night when
the regular babysitter canceled。 He’d never plain of course—that
just wasn’t his style—but he’d at least tell me what was going on。
“Yeah； yeah； everything’s fine。 My mom just had an emergency client
m