shock　that　a　skirt　would　be　traveling　to　the　Dominican　Republic
  simply　because　she’d　requested　it　do　so。
  “She　didn’t　say　exactly；”　Emily　muttered　as　she　picked　up　the　phone。
  “Hi；　Jocelyn；　it’s　me。　She　wants　a　skirt；　and　I’ll　need　to　have　it
  on　Mrs。　de　la　Renta’s　flight　tonight；　since　she’ll　be　meeting
  Miranda　down　there。　No；　I　have　no　idea。　No；　she　didn’t　say。　I　really
  don’t　know。　OK；　thanks。”　She　turned　to　me　and　said；　“It　makes　it
  more　difficult　when　she’s　not　specific。　She’s　too　busy　to　worry
  about　details　like　that；　so　she　didn’t　say　what　material　or　color　or
  style　or　brand　she　wants。　But　that’s　OK。　I　know　her　size；　and　I
  definitely　know　her　taste　well　enough　to　predict　exactly　what　she’ll
  like。　That　was　Jocelyn　from　the　fashion　department。　They’ll　start
  calling　some　in。”　I　pictured　Jerry　Lewis　presiding　over　a　skirt
  telethon　with　a　giant　scoreboard；　drum　role；　and　voilà！　Gucci　and
  spontaneous　applause。
  Not　quite。　“Calling　in”　the　skirts　was　my　very　first　lesson　inRunway
  ridiculousness；　although　I　do　have　to　say　that　the　process　was　as
  efficient　as　a　military　operation。　Either　Emily　or　myself　would
  notify　the　fashion　assistants—about　eight　in　all；　who　each
  maintained　contacts　within　a　specified　list　of　designers　and　stores。
  The　assistants　would　immediately　begin　calling　all　of　their　public
  relations　contacts　at　the　various　design　houses　and；　if　appropriate；
  at　upscale　Manhattan　stores　and　tell　them　that　Miranda　Priestly—yes；
  Miranda　Priestly；　and　yes；　it　was　indeed　for　herpersonal　use—was
  looking　for　a　particular　item。　Within　minutes；　every　PR　account　exec
  and　assistant　working　at　Michael　Kors；　Gucci；　Prada；　Versace；　Fendi；
  Armani；　Chanel；　Barney’s；　Chloé；　Calvin　Klein；　Bergdorf；　Roberto
  Cavalli；　and　Saks　would　be　messengering　over　（or；　in　some　cases；
  hand…delivering）　every　skirt　they　had　in　stock　that　Miranda　Priestly
  could　conceivably　find　attractive。　I　watched　the　process　unfold　like
  a　highly　choreographed　ballet；　each　player　knowing　exactly　where　and
  when　and　how　their　next　step　would　occur。　While　this　near…daily
  activity　unfolded；　Emily　sent　me　to　pick　up　a　few　other　things　that
  we’d　need　to　send　with　the　skirt　that　night。
  “Your　car　will　be　waiting　for　you　on　Fifty…eighth　Street；”　she　said
  while　working　two　phone　lines　and　scribbling　instructions　for　me　on
  a　piece　ofRunway　stationery。　She　paused　briefly　to　toss　me　a　Cell
  Phone　and　said；　“Here；　take　this　in　case　I　need　to　reach　you　or　you
  have　any　questions。　Never　turn　it　off。　Always　answer　it。”　I　took　the
  phone　and　the　paper　and　headed　down　to　the　58th　Street　side　of　the
  building；　wondering　how　I　was　ever　going　to　find　“my　car。”　Or　even；
  really；　what　that　meant。　I　had　barely　stepped　on　the　sidewalk　and
  looked　meekly　around　before　a　squat；　gray…haired　man　gumming　a　pipe
  approached。
  “You　Priestly’s　new　girl？”　he　croaked　through　tobacco…stained　lips；
  never　removing　the　mahogany…colored　pipe。　I　nodded。　“I’m　Rich。　The
  dispatcher。　You　wanna　car；　you　talka　to　me。　Got　it；　blondie？”　I
  nodded　again　and　ducked　into　the　backseat　of　a　black　Cadillac　sedan。
  He　slammed　the　door　shut　and　waved。
  “Where　you　going；　miss？”　the　driver　asked；　pulling　me　back　to　the
  present。　I　realized　I　had　no　idea　and　pulled　the　piece　of　paper　from
  my　pocket。
  First　stop：　Tommy　Hilfiger’s　studio　at　355　West　57th　St。；　6th　Floor。
  Ask　for　Leanne。　She’ll　give　you　everything　we　need。
  I　gave　the　driver　the　address　and　stared　out　the　window。　It　was　one
  o’clock　on　a　frigid　winter　afternoon；　I　was　twenty…three　years　old；
  and　I　was　riding　in　the　backseat　of　a　chauffeured　sedan；　on　my　way
  to　Tommy　Hilfiger’s　studio。　And　I　was　positively　starving。　It　took
  nearly　forty…five　minutes　to　go　the　fifteen　blocks　during　the
  midtown　lunch　hour；　my　first　glimpse　of　real　city　gridlock。　The
  driver　told　me　he’d　circle　the　block　until　I　came　out　again；　and　off
  I　went　to　Tommy’s　studio。　When　I　asked　for　Leanne　at　the
  receptionist’s　desk　on　the　sixth　floor；　an　adorable　girl　not　a　day
  older　than　eighteen　came　bounding　down　the　stairs。
  “Hi！”　she　called；　stretching　out　the　“I”　sound　for　a　few　seconds。
  “You　must　be　Andrea；　Miranda’s　new　assistant。　We　sure　do　love　her
  around　here；　so　wele　to　the　team！”　She　grinned。　I　grinned。　She
  pulled　a　massive　plastic　bag　out　from　underneath　a　table　and
  immediately　spilled　its　contents　on　the　floor。　“Here　we　have
  Caroline’s　favorite　jeans　in　three　colors；　and　we　threw　in　some　baby
  T’s；　too。　And　Cassidy　just　adores　Tommy’s　khaki　skirts—we　gave　them
  to　her　in　olive　and　stone。”　Jean　skirts；　denim　jackets；　even　a　few
  pair　of　socks　came　flying　out　of　the　bag；　and　all　I　could　do　was
  stare：　there　were　enough　clothes　to　constitute　four　or　more　total
  preteen　wardrobes。Who　the　hell　are　Cassidy　and　Caroline？　I　wondered；
  staring　at　the　loot。　What　self…respecting　person　wears　Tommy
  Hilfiger　jeans—in　three　different　colors；　no　less？
  I　must’ve　looked　thoroughly　confused；　because　Leanne　quite　purposely
  turned　her　back　while　repacking　the　clothes　and　said；　“I　just　know
  Miranda’s　daughters　will　love　this　stuff。　We’ve　been　dressing　them
  for　years；　and　Tommy　insists　on　picking　the　clothes　out　for　them
  himself。”　I　shot　her　a　grateful　look　and　threw　the　bag　over　my
  shoulder。
  “Good　luck！”　she　called　as　the　elevator　doors　closed；　a　genuine
  smile　taking　up　most　of　her　face。　“You’re　lucky　to　have　such　an
  awesome　job！”　Before　she　could　say　it；　I　found　myself　mentally
  finishing　the　sentence—a　million　girls　would　die　for　it。And　for　that
  moment；　having　just　seen　a　famous　designer’s　studio　and　in
  possession　of　thousands　of　dollars　worth　of　clothes；　I　thought　she
  was　right。
  Once　I　got　the　hang　of　things；　the　rest　of　the　day　flew。　I　debated
  for　a　few　minutes　whether　anyone　would　be　mad　if　I　took　a　minute　to
  pick　up　a　sandwich；　but　I　had　no　choice。　I　hadn’t　eaten　anything
  since　my　croissant　at　seven　this　morning；　and　it　was　nearly　two。　I
  asked　the　driver　to　pull　over　at　a　deli　and　decided　at　the　last
  minute　to　get　him　one；　too。　His　jaw　dropped　when　I　handed　him　the
  turkey　and　honey　mustard；　and　I　wondered　if　I　had　made　him
  unfortable。
  “I　just　figured　you　were　hungry；　too；”　I　said。　“You　know；　driving
  around　all　day；　you　probably　don’t　have　much　time　for　lunch。”
  “Thank　you；　miss；　I　appreciate　it。　It’s　just　that　I’ve　been　driving
  around　Elias…Clark　girls　for　twelve　years；　and　they　are　not　so　nice。
  You　are　very　nice；”　he　said　in　a　thick　but　indeterminate　accent；
  looking　at　me　in　the　rearview　mirror。　I　smiled　at　him　and　felt　a
  momentary　flash　of　foreboding。　But　then　the　moment　passed　and　we
  each　munched　our　turkey　wraps　while　sitting　in　gridlock　and
  listening　to　his　favorite　CD；　which　sounded　to　me　like　little　more
  than　a　woman　shrieking　the　same　thing　over　and　over　in　an　unknown
  language；　the　whole　thing　set　to　sitar　music。
  Emily’s　next　written　instruction　was　to　pick　up　a　pair　of　white
  shorts　that　Miranda　desperately　needed　for　tennis。　I　figured　we’d　be
  headed　to　Polo；　but　she　had　written　Chanel。　Chanel　made　white　tennis
  shorts？　The　driver　took　me　to　the　private　salon；　where　an　older
  saleswoman　whose　facelift　had　left　her　eyes　looking　like　slits
  handed　me　a　pair　of　white　cotton…Lycra　hot　pants；　size　zero；　pinned
  to　a　silk　hanger　and　draped　in　a　velvet　garment　bag。　I　looked　at　the
  shorts；　which　appeared　as　though　they　wouldn’t　fit　a　six…year…old；
  and　looked　back　to　the　woman。
  “Um；　do　you　really　think　Miranda　will　wear　these？”　I　asked
  tentatively；　convinced　the　woman　could　open　that　pit…bull　mouth　of
  hers　and　consume　me　whole。　She　glared　at　me。
  “Well；　I　should　hope　so；　miss；　considering　they’re　custom　measured
  and　cut；　according　to　her　exact　specifications；”　she　snarled　as　she
  handed　the　minishorts　over。　“Tell　her　Mr。　Kopelman　sends　his
  best。”Sure；　lady。　Whoever　that　is。
  My　next　stop　was　what　Emily　wrote　as　“way　downtown；”　J&R　puter
  World　near　City　Hall。　Seemed　it　was　the　only　store　in　the　entire
  city　that　sold　Warriors　of　the　West；　a　puter　game　that　Miranda
  wanted　to　purchase　for　Oscar　and　Annette　de　la　Renta’s　son；　Moises。
  By　the　time　I　made　it　downtown　an　hour　later；　I’d　realized　that　the
  Cell　Phone　could　make　long…distance　calls；　and　I　was　happily　dialing
  my　parents　and　telling　them　how　great　the　job　was。
  “Um；　Dad？　Hi；　it’s　Andy。　Guess　where　I　am　now？　Yes；　of　course　I’m　at
  work；　but　that　happens　to　be　in　the　backseat　of　a　chauffeured　car
  cruising　around　Manhattan。　I’ve　already　been　to　Tommy　Hilfiger　and
  Chanel；　and　after　I　buy　th