parties　at　Pastis　and　Float　because　they　“had　to　check　out　what
  people　were　wearing。”
  Ad　sales　was　left　to　try　and　sell　ad　space。　Sometimes　they　threw
  promotional　parties；　but　they　were　celebrity…free　and　therefore
  boring　to　New　York’s　hipster　scene　（or　so　Emily　had　sneeringly　told
  me）。　My　phone　would　ring　off　the　hook　on　a　day　during　aRunway　ad
  sales　party　with　people　I　didn’t　know　really　well　looking　for　an
  invite。　“Um；　like；　I　hearRunway　’s　having　a　party　tonight。　Why　am　I
  not　invited？”　I　always　found　out　from　someone　on　the　outside　that
  there　was　a　party　that　night：　editorial　was　never　invited　because
  they　wouldn’t　go　anyway。　As　if　it　wasn’t　enough　for　theRunway　girls
  to　mock；　terrorize；　and　ostracize　any　and　every　person　who　wasn’t
  one　of　them；　they　had　to　create　internal　class　lines　as　well。
  The　ad　sales　department　gave　way　to　a　long；　narrow　hallway。　It
  seemed　to　stretch　forever　before　arriving　at　a　tiny　kitchen　on　the
  left　side。　Here　were　an　assortment　of　Coffees　and　teas；　a　fridge　for
  stored　lunches—all　superfluous；　since　Starbucks　had　a　monopoly　on
  employees’　daily　caffeine　fixes　and　all　meals　were　carefully
  selected　in　the　dining　room　or　ordered　in　from　any　one　of　a　thousand
  midtown　takeout　places。　But　it　was　a　nice　touch；　almost　cute；　it
  said；“Hey；　look　at　us；　we　have　Lipton　tea　packets　and　Sweet’N　Lows
  and　even　a　microwave　in　case　you　want　to　warm　up　some　of　last
  night’s　dinner！　We’re　just　like　everyone　else！”
  I　finally　made　it　to　Miranda’s　enclave　at　7：05；　so　tired　I　could
  barely　move。　But　as　with　everything；　there　was　yet　another　routine
  that　I　never　thought　to　question　or　alter；　so　I　began　in　earnest。　I
  unlocked　her　office　and　turned　on　all　the　lights。　It　was　still　dark
  outside；　and　I　loved　the　drama　of　standing　in　the　dark　in　the　power
  monger’s　office；　staring　out　at　a　flashing　and　restless　New　York
  City　and　picturing　myself　in　one　of　those　movies　（take　your　pick—any
  that　have　lovers　embracing　on　the　expansive　terrace　of　his　6
  million　apartment　with　views　of　the　river）；　feeling　on　top　of　the
  world。　And　then　the　lights　would　blaze　forth；　and　my　fantasy　was
  over。　The　anything…is…possible　feel　of　New　York　at　dawn　vanished；
  and　the　identical；　grinning　faces　of　Caroline　and　Cassidy　were　all　I
  could　see。
  Next　I　unlocked　the　closet　in　our　outer　office　area；　the　place　where
  I　hung　her　coat　（and　mine　if　she　wasn’t　wearing　a　fur　that
  day—Miranda　didn’t　like　Emily’s　or　my　pedestrian　wools　hanging　next
  to　her　minks）　and　where　we　kept　a　number　of　supplies：　castoff　coats
  and　clothes　that　were　worth　tens　of　thousands　of　dollars；　some　new
  dry　cleaning　that　had　been　delivered　to　the　office　but　not　yet
  brought　up　to　Miranda’s　apartment；　at　least　two　hundred　of　the
  infamous　white　Hermès　scarves。　I’d　heard　that　Hermès　had　decided　to
  discontinue　her　particular　style　last　year；　a　simple　and　elegant
  white　silk　square。　Someone　at　the　pany　felt　they　owed　Miranda　an
  explanation　and　actually　called　to　apologize　to　her。　Unsurprisingly；
  she’d　coldly　told　them　how　disappointed　she　was　and　promptly
  purchased　their　entire　remaining　stock。　About　five　hundred　of　the
  scarves　had　been　delivered　to　the　office　a　couple　years　before　I’d
  gotten　there；　and　we　were　now　down　to　less　than　half。　Miranda　left
  them　everywhere：　restaurants；　movies；　fashion　shows；　weekly
  meetings；　taxis。　She　left　them　on　airplanes；　at　her　daughters’
  school；　on　the　tennis　court。　Of　course；　she　always　had　one　stylishly
  incorporated　into　her　outfit—I’d　yet　to　see　her　outside　her　own　Home
  without　one。　But　that　didn’t　explain　where　they　all　went。　Perhaps
  she　thought　they　were　handkerchiefs？　Or　maybe　she　liked　jotting
  notes　on　silk　instead　of　paper？　Whatever　it　was；　she　seemed　to　truly
  believe　they　were　disposable；　and　none　of　us　knew　how　to　tell　her
  otherwise。　Elias…Clark　had　paid　a　couple　hundred　dollars　for　each
  one；　but　no　matter：　we　handed　them　out　to　her　as　though　they　were
  Kleenex。　At　the　rate　she　was　going；　in　under　two　years；　Miranda　was
  due　to　run　out。
  I’d　arranged　the　stiff　orange　boxes　on　the　ready…to…distribute　shelf
  of　the　closet；　where　they　never　remained　for　very　long。　Every　third
  or　fourth　day；　she’d　prepare　to　leave　for　lunch　and　sigh；
  “Ahn…dre…ah；　hand　me　a　scarf。”　I　forted　myself　with　the　thought
  that　I’d　be　long　gone　by　the　time　she　ran　out　of　them　pletely。
  Whoever　was　unlucky　enough　to　be　around　would　have　to　tell　her　that
  there　were　no　more　white　Hermès　scarves；　and　that　none　could　be
  made；　shipped；　created；　formed；　mailed；　ordered；　or　mandated。　The
  mere　thought　was　terrifying。
  Just　as　I　got　the　closet　and　office　opened；　Uri　called。
  “Andrea？　Hello；　hello。　It　is　Uri。　Could　you　e　downstairs　please？
  I　am　on　Fifty…eighth　Street；　closer　to　Park　Avenue；　right　in　front
  of　the　New　York　sports　Club。　I　have　things　for　you。”
  This　call　was　a　good　although　imperfect　way　of　telling　me　that
  Miranda　would　be　arriving　somewhat　soon。　Maybe。　Most　mornings　she
  sent　Uri　ahead　to　the　office　with　her　things；　an　assortment　of　dirty
  clothes　that　needed　dry　cleaning；　any　copy　she’d　taken　Home　to　read；
  magazines；　shoes　or　bags　that　needed　to　be　fixed；　and　the　Book。　This
  way；　she　could　have　me　meet　the　car　and　carry　up　all　of　these　rather
  mundane　things　ahead　of　schedule　and　deal　with　them　before　she
  stepped　into　the　office。　She　tended　to　follow　her　stuff　by　about　a
  half　hour；　since　Uri　would　drop　off　her　things　and　then　go　pick　her
  up　from　wherever　she　might　be　hiding　that　morning。
  She　herself　could　be　anywhere；　since；　according　to　Emily；　she　never
  slept。　I　didn’t　believe　it　until　I　started　getting　to　the　office
  ahead　of　Emily　and　would　be　the　first　to　listen　to　the　voice　mail。
  Every　night；　without　exception；　Miranda　would　leave　eight　to　ten
  ambiguous　messages　for　us　between　the　hours　of　one　and　six　in　the
  morning。　Things　like；　“Cassidy　wants　one　of　those　nylon　bags　all　the
  little　girls　are　carrying。　Order　her　one　in　the　medium　size　and　a
  color　she’d　like；”　and　“I’ll　be　needing　the　address　and　phone　number
  of　that　antique　store　in　the　seventies；　the　one　where　I　saw　the
  vintage　dresser。”　As　though　we　knew　which　nylon　bags　were　all　the
  rage　among　ten…year…olds　or　at　which　one　of　four　hundred　antique
  stores　in　the　seventies—east　or　west；　by　the　way？—she　happened　to
  spot　something　she　liked　at　some　point　in　the　past　fifteen　years。
  But　each　morning　I　faithfully　listened　to　and　transcribed　those
  messages；　hitting　“replay”　over　and　over　and　over　again；　trying　to
  make　sense　of　the　accent　and　interpret　the　clues　in　order　to　avoid
  asking　Miranda　directly　for　more　information。
  Once；　I　made　the　mistake　of　suggesting　that　we　actually　ask　Miranda
  to　provide　a　few　more　details；　only　to　be　met　with　one　of　Emily’s
  withering　looks。　Questioning　Miranda　was　apparently　off…limits。
  Better　to　muddle　through　and　wait　to　be　told　how　off　the　mark　our
  results　were。　To　locate　the　vintage　dresser　that　had　caught
  Miranda’s　eye；　I　had　spent　two　and　a　half　days　in　a　limo；　cruising
  around　Manhattan；　through　the　seventies　on　both　sides　of　the　park。　I
  ruled　out　York　Avenue　（too　residential）　and　proceeded　up　First；　down
  Second；　up　Third；　down　Lex。　I　skipped　Park　（again；　too　residential）
  but　continued　up　Madison；　and　then　repeated　a　similar　process　on　the
  West　Side。　Pen　poised；　eyes　peeled；　phone　book　open　in　my　lap；　ready
  to　jump　out　at　the　first　sight　of　a　store　that　sold　antiques。　I
  graced　every　single　antique　store—and　not　a　few　regular　furniture
  stores—with　a　personal　visit。　By　store　number　four；　I　had　it　down　to
  an　art　form。
  “Hi；　do　you　sell　any　vintage　dressers？”　I’d　practically　scream　the
  second　they　buzzed　me　inside。　By　the　sixth　store　I　wasn’t　even
  bothering　to　move　in　from　the　doorway。　Some　snotty　salesperson
  inevitably　looked　me　up　and　down—I　couldn’t　escape　it！—sizing　me　up
  to　decide　if　I　was　someone　to　be　bothered　with。　Most　would　notice
  the　waiting　Town　Car　at　this　point　and　grudgingly　provide　me　with　a
  yes　or　no　answer；　although　some　wanted　detailed　descriptions　of　the
  dresser　I　was　looking　for。
  If　they　admitted　to　selling　something　that　fit　my　two…word
  requirement；　I　would　immediately　follow　up　with　a　curt　“Has　Miranda
  Priestly　been　here　recently？”　If　they　hadn’t　thought　I　was　crazy　at
  this　point；　they　now　looked　ready　to　call　security。　A　few　had　never
  heard　her　name；　which　was　fantastic　both　because　it　was　rejuvenating
  to　see　firsthand　that　there　were　still　normally　functioning　human
  beings　whose　lives　weren’t　dominated　by　her；　and　also　because　I
  co