ultimate　guarantee　of　going　places　in　the　fashion　world；　but　I　was
  clinging　to　the　belief　that　my　one…year　sentence　would　suffice
  forThe　New　Yorker　。　Allison　had　already　left　Miranda’s　office　area
  for　her　new　post　in　the　beauty　department；　where　she’d　be
  responsible　for　testing　new　makeup；　moisturizers；　and　hair　products
  and　writing　them　up。　I　wasn’t　sure　how　being　Miranda’s　assistant　had
  prepared　her　for　this　task；　but　I　was　impressed　nonetheless。　The
  promises　were　true：　people　who　worked　for　Miranda　got　places。
  The　rest　of　the　staff　began　streaming　in　around　ten；　about　fifty　in
  all　of　editorial。　The　biggest　department　was　fashion；　of　course；
  with　close　to　thirty　people；　including　all　the　accessories
  assistants。　Features；　beauty；　and　art　rounded　out　the　mix。　Nearly
  everyone　stopped　by　Miranda’s　office　to　schmooze　with　Emily；
  overhear　any　gossip　concerning　her　boss；　and　check　out　the　new　girl。
  I　met　dozens　of　people　that　first　morning；　everyone　flashing
  enormous；　toothy　white　smiles　and　appearing　genuinely　interested　in
  meeting　me。
  The　men　were　all　flamboyantly　gay；　adorning　themselves　in
  second…skin　leather　pants　and　ribbed　T’s　that　stretched　over　bulging
  biceps　and　perfect　pecs。　The　art　director；　an　older　man　sporting
  champagne　blond；　thinning　hair；　who　looked　like　he　dedicated　his
  life　to　emulating　Elton　John；　was　turned　out　in　rabbit…fur　loafers
  and　eyeliner。　No　one　batted　an　eye。　We’d　had　gay　groups　on　campus；
  and　I　had　a　few　friends　who’d　e　out　the　past　few　years；　but　none
  of　them　looked　like　this。　It　was　like　being　surrounded　by　the　entire
  cast　and　crew　ofRent　—with　better　costumes；　of　course。
  The　women；　or　rather　the　girls；　were　individually　beautiful。
  Collectively；　they　were　mind…blowing。　Most　appeared　to　be　about
  twenty…five；　and　few　looked　a　day　older　than　thirty。　While　nearly
  all　of　them　had　enormous；　glimmering　diamonds　on　their　ring　fingers；
  it　seemed　impossible　that　any　had　actually　given　birth　yet—or　ever
  would。　In　and　out；　in　and　out　they　walked　gracefully　on　four…inch
  skinny　heels；　sashaying　over　to　my　desk　to　extend　milky…white　hands
  with　long；　manicured　fingers；　calling　themselves　“Jocelyn　who　works
  with　Hope；”　“Nicole　from　fashion；”　and　“Stef　who　oversees
  accessories。”　Only　one；　Shayna；　was　shorter　than　five…nine；　but　she
  was　so　petite　it　seemed　impossible　for　her　to　carry　another　inch　of
  height。　All　weighed　less　than　110　pounds。
  As　I　sat　in　my　swivel　chair；　trying　to　remember　everyone’s　name；　the
  prettiest　girl　I’d　seen　all　day　swooped　in。　She　wore　a　rose…colored
  cashmere　sweater　that　looked　like　it　was　spun　from　pink　clouds。　The
  most　amazing；　white　hair　swirled　down　her　back。　Her　six…one　frame
  looked　as　though　it　carried　only　enough　weight　to　keep　her　upright；
  but　she　moved　with　the　surprising　grace　of　a　dancer。　Her　cheeks
  glowed；　and　her　multi…carat；　flawless　diamond　engagement　ring
  emanated　an　incredible　lightness。　I　thought　she’d　caught　me　staring
  at　it；　since　she　flung　her　hand　under　my　nose。
  “I　created　it；”　she　announced；　smiling　at　her　hand　and　looking　at
  me。　I　looked　to　Emily　for　an　explanation；　a　hint　as　to　who　this
  might　be；　but　she　was　on　the　phone　again。　I　thought　the　girl　was
  referring　to　the　ring；　meant　that　she　had　actually　designed　it；　but
  then　she　said；　“Isn’t　it　a　gorgeous　color？　It’s　one　coat　Marshmallow
  and　one　coat　Ballet　Slipper。　Actually；　Ballet　Slipper　came　first；
  and　then　a　topcoat　to　finish　it　off。　It’s　perfect—light　colored
  without　looking　like　you　painted　your　nails　with　White　Out。　I　think
  I’ll　use　this　every　time　I　get　a　manicure！”　And　she　turned　on　her
  heels　and　walked　out。Ah；　yes；　a　pleasure　to　meet　you；　too；　I
  mentally　directed　toward　her　back　as　she　strutted　away。
  I’d　been　enjoying　meeting　all　my　coworkers；　everyone　seemed　kind　and
  sweet　and；　except　for　the　beautiful　weirdo　with　the　nail　polish
  fetish；　they　all　appeared　interested　in　getting　to　know　me。　Emily
  hadn’t　left　my　side　yet；　seizing　every　opportunity　to　teach　me
  something。　She　provided　running　mentary　on　who　was　really
  important；　whom　not　to　piss　off；　whom　it　was　beneficial　to　befriend
  because　they　threw　the　best　parties。　When　I　described　Manicure　Girl；
  Emily’s　face　lit　up。
  “Oh！”　she　breathed；　more　excited　than　I’d　heard　her　about　anyone
  else　yet。　“Isn’t　she　just　amazing？”
  “Um；　yeah；　she　seemed　nice。　We　didn’t　really　get　a　chance　to　talk；
  she　was　just；　you　know；　showing　me　her　nail　polish。”
  Emily　smiled　widely；　proudly。　“Yes；　well；　you　do　know　who　she　is；
  don’t　you？”
  I　wracked　my　brain；　trying　to　remember　if　she　looked　like　any　movie
  stars　or　singers　or　models；　but　I　couldn’t　place　her。　So；　she　was
  famous！　Maybe　that’s　why　she　hadn’t　introduced　herself—I　was
  supposed　to　recognize　her。　But　I　didn’t。　“No；　actually；　I　don’t。　Is
  she　famous？”
  The　stare　I　received　in　response　was　part　disbelief；　part　disgust。
  “Um；yeah；　”　Emily　said；　emphasizing　the　“yeah”　and　squinting　her
  eyes　as　if　to　say；You　total　fucking　idiot　。　“That　is　Jessica
  Duchamps。”　She　waited。　I　waited。　Nothing。　“You　do　know　who　that　is；
  right？”　Again；　I　ran　lists　through　my　mind；　trying　to　connect
  something　with　this　new　information；　but　I　was　quite　sure　I’d　never；
  ever　heard　of　her。　Besides；　this　game　was　getting　old。
  “Emily；　I’ve　never　seen　her　before；　and　her　name　doesn’t　sound
  familiar。　Would　you　please　tell　me　who　she　is？”　I　asked；　struggling
  to　remain　calm。　The　ironic　part　was　that　I　didn’t　even　care　who　she
  was；　but　Emily　was　clearly　not　going　to　give　this　up　until　she’d
  made　me　look　like　a　plete　and　total　loser。
  Her　smile　this　time　was　patronizing。　“Of　course。　You　just　had　to　say
  so。　Jessica　Duchamps　is；　well；　a　Duchamps！　You　know；　as　in　the　most
  successful　French　restaurant　in　the　city！　Her　parents　own　it—isn’t
  that　crazy？　They　are　so　unbelievably　rich。”
  “Oh；　really？”　I　said；　feigning　enthusiasm　for　the　fact　that　this
  super…pretty　girl　was　worth　knowing　because　her　parents　were
  restaurateurs。　“That’s　great。”
  I　answered　a　few　phone　calls　with　the　requisite　“Miranda　Priestly’s
  office；”　although　both　Emily　and　I　were　worried　that　Miranda　herself
  would　call　and　I　wouldn’t　know　what　to　do。　Panic　set　in　during　a
  call　when　an　unidentified　woman　barked　something　incoherent　in　a
  strong　British　accent；　and　I　threw　the　phone　to　Emily　without
  thinking　to　put　it　on　hold　first。
  “It’s　her；”　I　whispered　urgently。　“Take　it。”
  Emily　gave　me　my　first　viewing　of　her　specialty　look。　Never　one　to
  mince　emotions；　she　could　raise　her　eyebrows　and　drop　her　chin　in　a
  way　that　clearly　conveyed　equal　parts　disgust　and　pity。
  “Miranda？　It’s　Emily；”　she　said；　a　bright　smile　lighting　up　her　face
  as　if　Miranda　might　be　able　to　seep　through　the　phone　and　see　her。
  Silence。　A　frown。　“Oh；　Mimi；　so　sorry！　The　new　girl　thought　you　were
  Miranda！　I　know；　how　funny。　I　guess　we　have　to　work　onnot　thinking
  every　British　accent　is　necessarily　our　boss！　”　She　looked　at　me
  pointedly；　her　overtweezed　eyebrows　arching　even　higher。
  She　chatted　a　bit　longer　while　I　continued　to　answer　the　phone　and
  take　messages　for　Emily；　who　would　then　call　the　people　back—with
  nonstop　narration　on　their　order　of　importance；　if　any；　in　Miranda’s
  life。　About　noon；　just　as　the　first　hunger　pangs　were　beginning；　I
  picked　up　a　call　and　heard　a　British　accent　on　the　other　end。
  “Hello？　Allison；　is　that　you？”　asked　the　icy…sounding　but　regal
  voice。　“I’ll　be　needing　a　skirt。”
  I　cupped　my　hand　over　the　receiver　and　felt　my　eyes　open　wide。
  “Emily；　it’s　her；　it’s　definitely　her；”　I　hissed；　waving　the
  receiver　to　get　her　attention。　“She　wants　a　skirt！”
  Emily　turned　to　see　my　panic…stricken　face　and　promptly　hung　up　the
  phone　without　so　much　as　“I’ll　call　you　later”　or　even　“good…bye。”
  She　pressed　the　button　to　switch　Miranda　to　her　line；　and　plastered
  on　another　wide　grin。
  “Miranda？　It’s　Emily。　What　can　I　do？”　She　put　her　pen　to　her　pad　and
  began　writing　furiously；　forehead　furrowing　intently。　“Yes；　of
  course。　Naturally。”　And　as　fast　as　it　happened；　it　was　over。　I
  looked　at　her　expectantly。　She　rolled　her　eyes　at　me　for　appearing
  so　eager。
  “Well；　it　looks　like　you　have　your　first　job。　Miranda　needs　a　skirt
  for　tomorrow；　among　other　things；　so　we’ll　need　to　get　it　on　a　plane
  by　tonight；　at　the　latest。”
  “OK；　well；　what　kind　does　she　need？”　I　asked；　still　reeling　from　the
  shock　that　a　skirt　would　be　traveling　to　the　Dominican　Republic
  simply　because　she’d　requested　it　do　so。
  “She　didn’t