the rich Southerners and their trophy wives to dine for a night at
the Met。 She was right。
“Yeah； there won’t be anyone we’d recognize right away； just a lot
of billionaires with homes below the Mason…Dixon line。 Usually when
I have to memorize the guests’ faces； they’re easier to find online
or inWWD or something。 I mean； you can generally locate a picture of
Queen Noor or Michael Bloomberg or Yohji Yamamoto if you have to。
But just try to find Mr。 and Mrs。 Packard from some rich suburb of
Charleston or wherever the hell they live and it’s not so easy。
Miranda’s other assistant was looking for these people while
everyone else was getting me ready； and she eventually found almost
everyone in the society pages of their Hometown newspapers or on
various panies’ web sites； but it was really annoying。”
Ilana continued to stare。 I think somehow I knew that I was sounding
like a robot； but I couldn’t stop。 Her shock only made me feel
worse。
“There’s only one couple I haven’t identified yet； so I guess I’ll
know them by default；” I said。
“Oh； my。 I don’t know how you do it。 I’m annoyed I have to be here
on a Friday night； but I can’t imagine doing your job。 How do you
take it？ How do you stand being spoken to and treated like that？”
It took me a moment to realize that this question caught me
off…guard： no one had really ever volunteered anything negative
about my job。 I’d always thought I was the only one—among the
millions of imaginary girls that would “die” for my job—who saw
anything remotely disturbing about my situation。 It was more
horrifying to see the shock in her eyes than it was to witness the
hundreds of ridiculous things I saw each and every day at work； the
way she looked at me with that pure； unadulterated pity triggered
something inside me。 I did what I hadn’t done in months of working
under subhuman conditions for a nonhuman boss； what I always managed
to keep suppressed for a more appropriate time。 I started to cry。
Ilana looked more shocked than ever。 “Oh； sweetie； e here！ I’m so
sorry！ I didn’t mean anything by it。 You’re a saint for putting up
with that witch； you hear me？ e with me。” She pulled me by the
hand and led me down another darkened hallway toward an office in
the back。 “Here； now sit for a minute and forget all about what
these stupid people look like。”
I sniffled and started to feel stupid。
“And don’t feel strange； you hear？ I have a feeling you kept that
inside for a long； long time and you have to have a good cry every
now and then。”
She was fumbling around in her desk for something while I tried to
wipe the mascara from my cheeks。 “Here；” she proclaimed proudly。
“I’m destroying this right after you see it； and if you even think
of telling anyone about it； I’ll wreck your life。 But just look；
it’s amazing。” She handed me a manila envelope sealed with a
“Confidential” sticker and smiled。
I tore off the sticker and pulled a green folder out。 Inside was a
photo—a color photocopy； actually—of Miranda stretched out on a
restaurant banquette。 I recognized it immediately as a picture taken
by a famous society photographer during a recent birthday party for
Donna Karan at Pastis。 It had already appeared on the pages ofNew
York magazine and was bound to keep showing up。 In it she was
wearing her signature brown and white snakeskin trench coat； the one
I always thought made her look like a snake。
Well； it seems I wasn’t alone； because in this version； someone had
subtly—expertly—attached a scaled…to…size cutout of a rattlesnake’s
rattle directly where her legs should have been。 The effect was a
fabulous rendition of Miranda as Snake： she rested her elbow on the
banquette； cradled her chiseled chin in her palm； and stretched out
across the leather； with her rattle curled in a semicircle and
hanging off the edge of the bench。 It was perfect。
“Isn’t it great？” Ilana asked； leaning over my shoulder。 “Linda came
into my office one afternoon。 She’d just spent the entire day on the
phone with Miranda； selecting which gallery they’d dine in。 Linda
naturally insisted on one gallery because it’s by far the best size
and most beautiful； but Miranda mandated that it be held in the
other one near the gift shop。 They went back and forth for a while
before Linda finally—after days of negotiations—got permission from
the board to hold it in Miranda’s gallery； and she was so excited to
call Miranda and tell her the great news。 Guess what happened when 。
。 。”
“She changed her mind； obviously；” I said quietly； feeling her
irritation。 “She decided to do exactly as Linda suggested in the
first place； but only once she was sure everyone would jump through
all her hoops。”
“Precisely。 Well； this irritated the hell out of me。 I’ve never seen
the entire museum turn itself upside down for anyone—I mean； christ；
the president of the United States could ask to have a State
Department dinner here and they wouldn’t let him！ And then your boss
thinks she can march in and order everyone around； make our lives a
living hell for days on end。 Anyway； I made this pretty little
picture as a pick…me…up for Linda。 You know what she did with it？
Shrunk it on the copier so she could have a little one for her
wallet！ I just thought you’d get a kick out of this。 Even if it’s
just to remind you that you’re not alone。 You’re definitely the
worst off； but you’re not alone。”
I stuck the picture back in its confidential envelope and handed it
back to Ilana。 “You’re the best；” I said； touching her shoulder。 “I
really； really appreciate it。 I promise to never； ever tell anyone
where I got this； but will you please send this to me？ I don’t think
it’ll fit in the Leiber bag； but I’d give anything if you’d send it
to me at Home。 Please？”
She smiled and motioned for me to write my address； and we both
stood up and walked （I hobbled） back to the museum’s foyer。 It was
just about seven； and the guests were due to arrive any minute。
Miranda and B…DAD were talking to his brother； the honored guest and
groom； who looked like he had played soccer； football； lacrosse； and
rugby at a Southern school—one where he was always surrounded by
cooing blondes。 The cooing blonde of twenty…six who was to bee
his bride was standing quietly by his side； gazing up at him
adoringly。 She was holding a snifter of something and chortling at
his jokes。
Miranda was hanging on to B…DAD’s forearm with the fakest of smiles
plastered across her face。 I didn’t have to hear what they were
saying to know that she was barely responding at the appropriate
time。 Soci