aware。”　Between　that　and　the　tracking　ID　cards；　I　was　quite　sure
  thatRunway　’s　surveillance　put　the　mob　to　shame。　TheRunway　Paranoid
  Turnaround　was　back。
  “Yeah；”　I　said；　trying　to　sound　casual　and　nonmittal。　“It’s　a
  strange　place。　I’m　not　so　into　fashion—I’d　actually　rather　be
  writing；　but　I　guess　it’s　not　a　bad　start。　What　do　you　do？”
  “I’m　a　writer。”
  “Oh；　you　are？　That　must　be　nice。”　I　hoped　I　didn’t　sound　quite　as
  condescending　as　I　felt；　but　it　got　to　be　really　annoying　when
  anyone　and　everyone　in　New　York　anointed　himself　or　herself　a　writer
  or　actor　or　poet　or　artist。I　used　to　write　for　the　paper　in　college；
  I　thought　to　myself；and　hell；　I　even　had　an　essay　published　in　a
  monthly　magazine　once　in　high　school。　Did　that　make　me　a　writer？
  “What　do　you　write？”
  “Mostly　literary　fiction　so　far；　but　I’m　actually　working　on　my
  first　historical　novel。”　He　took　another　swig　and　swatted　yet　again
  at　that　pesky　but　adorable　curl。
  “First　historical”　implied　that　there　other　were　nonhistorical
  novels。　Interesting。　“What’s　it　about？”
  He　thought　for　a　moment　and　then　said；　“It’s　a　story　told　from　the
  perspective　of　a　young　woman；　about　what　it　was　like　to　live　in　this
  country　during　World　War　Two。　I’m　still　finishing　my　research；
  transcribing　interviews　and　things　like　that；　but　the　little　writing
  I’ve　done　so　far　has　e　along。　I　think　。　。　。”
  He　continued　talking；　but　I’d　already　tuned　him　out。　Holy　shit。　I
  recognized　the　book　description　immediately　from　aNew　Yorker　article
  I’d　just　read。　It　seemed　the　entire　book　world　was　eagerly
  anticipating　his　next　contribution　and　couldn’t　shut　up　about　the
  realism　with　which　he　depicts　his　female　heroine。　I　was　standing　at
  a　party；　casually　chatting　with　Christian　Collinsworth；　the　boy
  genius　who’d　first　been　published　at　the　ripe　old　age　of　twenty　from
  a　Yale　library　cubicle。　The　critics　had　gone　crazy　over　his　first
  book；　hailing　it　as　one　of　the　most　significant　literary
  achievements　of　the　twentieth　century；　and　he’d　followed　it　up　with
  two　more　since　then；　each　spending　more　time　on　the　bestseller　list
  than　the　one　before　it。The　New　Yorker　piece　had　included　an
  interview　in　which　the　author　had　called　Christian　“not　only　a　force
  for　years　to　e”　in　the　book　industry；　but　one　with　“a　hell　of　a
  look；　a　killer　style；　and　enough　natural　charm　that　would　ensure—in
  the　unlikely　event　that　his　literary　success　did　not—a　lifetime　of
  success　with　the　ladies。”
  “Wow；　that’s　really　great；”　I　said；　all　of　a　sudden　feeling　too
  tired　to　be　witty　or　funny　or　cute。　This　guy　was　some　big…time
  author—what　the　hell　did　he　want　with　me；　anyway？　Probably　just
  killing　time　before　his　girlfriend　finished　up　her　10；000　per　day
  modeling　assignment　and　made　her　way　over。And　what　does　it　matter
  either　way；　Andrea？　I　asked　myself　harshly。In　case　you　conveniently
  forgot；　you　do　happen　to　have　an　incredibly　kind　and　supportive　and
  adorable　boyfriend。　Enough　of　this　already！　I　hastily　made　up　a
  story　about　needing　to　get　Home　right　away；　and　Christian　looked
  amused。
  “You’re　scared　of　me；”　he　stated　factually；　flashing　me　a　teasing
  smile。
  “Scared　of　you？　Why　on　earth　wouldI　be　scared　ofyou　？　Unless　there’s
  some　reason　I　should　be　。　。　。”　I　couldn’t　help　but　flirt　back；　he
  made　it　so　easy。
  He　reached　for　my　elbow　and　deftly　turned　me　around。　“e　on；　I’ll
  put　you　in　a　cab。”　And　before　I　could　say　no；　that　I　was　perfectly
  fine　to　find　my　own　way　home；　that　it　was　nice　to　meet　him　but　he’d
  better　think　again　if　he　thought　he　was　ing　Home　with　me；　I　was
  standing　on　the　red…carpeted　steps　of　the　Plaza　with　him。
  “Need　a　cab；　folks？”　the　doorman　asked　us　as　we　walked　outside。
  “Yes；　please；　one　for　the　lady；”　Christian　answered。
  “No；　I　have　a　car；　um；　right　over　there；”　I　said；　pointing　to　the
  strip　of　58th　Street　in　front　of　the　Paris　Theatre　where　all　the
  Town　Cars　had　lined　up。
  I　wasn’t　looking　at　him；　but　I　could　feel　Christian　smiling　again。
  One　ofthose　smiles。　He　walked　me　over　to　the　car　and　opened　the
  door；　swinging　his　arm　gallantly　toward　the　backseat。
  “Thank　you；”　I　said　formally；　not　a　little　awkwardly；　while
  extending　my　hand。　“It　was　really　nice　to　meet　you；　Christian。”
  “And　you；　Andrea。”　He　took　the　hand　I’d　intended　him　to　shake　and
  instead　pressed　it　to　his　lips；　leaving　it　there　just　a　fraction　of
  a　second　longer　than　he　should　have。　“I　do　hope　we　see　each　other
  again　soon。”　And　by　then　I’d　somehow　made　it　into　the　backseat
  without　tripping　or　otherwise　humiliating　myself　and　was
  concentrating　on　not　blushing　even　though　I　could　already　feel　that
  it　was　too　late。　He　slammed　the　door　and　watched　as　the　car　pulled
  away。
  It　didn’t　seem　strange　this　time　that　even　though　I　hadn’t　so　much
  as　seen　the　interior　of　a　Town　Car　two　months　earlier；　I　had
  personally　had　one　chauffeuring　me　around　for　the　past　six　hours；
  and　that　even　though　I’d　never　really　met　anyone　even　remotely
  famous　before；　I’d　just　rubbed　elbows　with　Hollywood　celebrities　and
  had　my　hand　nuzzled—yes；　that　was　it；　he’d　nuzzled　it—by　one　of　the
  undisputed　most　eligible　bachelors　in　New　York　City。No；　none　of　that
  really　matters；　I　reminded　myself　over　and　over　again。It’s　all　a
  part　of　that　world；　and　that　world　is　no　place　you　want　to　be。　It
  might　look　like　fun　from　here；　I　thought；but　you’d　be　in　way　over
  your　head。　But　I　stared　at　my　hand　anyway；　trying　to　remember　every
  last　detail　about　the　way　he’d　kissed　it；　and　then　thrust　the
  offending　hand　into　my　bag　and　pulled　out　my　phone。　As　I　dialed
  Alex’s　number；　I　wondered　what　exactly；　if　anything；　I　would　tell
  him。
  9
  It　took　me　twelve　weeks　before　I　gorged　myself　on　the　seemingly
  limitless　supply　of　designer　clothes　thatRunway　was　just　begging　to
  provide　for　me。　Twelve　impossibly　long　weeks　of　fourteen…hour　work
  days　and　never　more　than　five　hours　of　sleep　at　a　time。　Twelve
  miserable　long　weeks　of　being　looked　up　and　down　from　hair　to　shoes
  each　and　every　day；　and　never　receiving　a　single　pliment　or　even
  merely　the　impression　that　I　had　passed。　Twelve　horrifically　long
  weeks　of　feeling　stupid；　inpetent；　and　all…around　moronic。　And　so
  I　decided　at　the　beginning　of　my　fourth　month　（only　nine　more　to
  go！）　atRunway　to　be　a　new　woman　and　start　dressing　the　part。
  Getting　myself　awake；　dressed；　and　out　the　door　prior　to　my
  twelve…week　epiphany　had　sapped　me　pletely—even　I　had　to　concede
  that　it’d　be　easier　to　own　a　closetful　of　“appropriate”　clothes。
  Until　that　point；　putting　on　clothes　had　been　the　most　stressful
  part　of　an　already　really　lousy　morning　routine。　The　alarm　went　off
  so　early　that　I　couldn’t　bear　to　tell　anyone　what　time　I　actually
  woke　up；　as　though　the　mere　mention　of　the　words　inflicted　physical
  pain。　Getting　to　work　at　sevenA　。M。　was　so　difficult　it　bordered　on
  funny。　Sure；　I’d　been　up　and　out　a　few　times　in　my　life　by
  seven—perhaps　sitting　in　an　airport　when　I　had　to　catch　an　early
  flight　or　having　to　finish　studying　for　an　exam　that　day。　But　mostly
  when　I’d　seen　that　hour　of　daylight　from　the　outside　it　was　because
  I　hadn’t　yet　found　my　way　to　bed　from　the　night　before；　and　the　time
  didn’t　seem　so　bad　when　a　full　day　of　sleep　stretched　out　ahead。
  This　was　different。　This　was　constant；　unrelenting；　inhumane　sleep
  deprivation；　and　no　matter　how　many　times　I　tried　to　go　to　bed
  before　midnight；　I　never　could。　The　past　two　weeks　had　been
  particularly　rough　since　they　were　closing　one　of　the　spring　issues；
  so　I　had　to　sit　at　work；　waiting　for　the　Book；　until　close　to　eleven
  some　nights。　By　the　time　I　would　drop　it　off　and　get　Home；　it　was
  already　midnight；　and　I　still　had　to　eat　something　and　crawl　out　of
  my　clothes　before　passing　out。
  Blaring　static—the　only　thing　I　couldn’t　ignore—began　at　exactly
  5：30A　。M。　I　would　force　a　bare　foot　out　from　under　the　forter　and
  stretch　my　leg　in　the　general　direction　of　the　alarm　clock　（which
  itself　was　placed　strategically　at　the　foot　of　my　bed　to　force　some
  movement）；　kicking　aimlessly　until　I　had　made　contact　and　the
  shrieking　ceased。　This　continued；　steadily　and　predictably；　every
  seven　minutes　until　6：04A　。M。；　at　which　point　I　would　inevitably
  panic　and　spring　from　bed　to　shower。
  A　tangle　with　my　closet　came　next；　usually　between　6：31　and　6：37A
  。M。　Lily；　herself　not　exactly　fashion…conscious　in　her　graduate
  student　uniform　of　jeans；　ratty　L。L。Bean　sweaters；　and　hemp
  necklaces；　said　every　time　I　saw　her；　“I　still　don’t　understand　wha