“Well；　you　didn’t　say　good…bye；　for　one　thing。　And　you　have　that
  look　on　your　face。”
  “That　look？”
  “Yes；　that　look　of　yours。　The　one　that　tells　everyone　just　how　far
  above　this　you　are；　just　how　much　you　hate　it　here。　That　may　fly
  with　me；　but　it　won’t　with　Mr。　Tomlinson。　He’s　Miranda’shusband　；
  and　you　just　can’t　treat　him　like　that。”
  “Em；　don’t　you　think　he’s　a　little；　I　don’t　know　。　。　。　weird？　He
  never　stops　talking。　How　can　he　be　so　nice　when　she’s　such　a　。　。　。
  so　not　as　nice？”　I　watched　as　she　glanced　inside　Miranda’s　office　to
  make　sure　that　I’d　set　the　newspapers　correctly。
  “Weird？　Hardly；　Andrea。　He’s　one　of　the　most　prominent　tax　attorneys
  in　Manhattan。”
  It　wasn’t　worth　it。　“Never　mind；　I　don’t　even　know　what　I’m　saying。
  What’s　going　on　with　you？　How　was　your　night？”
  “Oh；　it　was　good。　I　went　shopping　with　Jessica　for　gifts　for　her
  bridesmaids。　Everywhere—Scoop；　Bergdorf’s；　Infinity；　everywhere。　And
  I　tried　on　a　bunch　of　stuff　to　get　some　idea　for　Paris；　but　it’s
  still　really　too　early。”
  “For　Paris？　You’re　going　to　Paris？　Does　that　mean　you’ll　leave　me
  alone　with　her？”　I　hadn’t　meant　to　say　the　last　part　out　loud；　but
  it　had　slipped。
  Again；　a　look　like　I　was　crazy。　“Yes；　I’ll　be　going　to　Paris　with
  Miranda　in　October；　for　the　spring　ready…to…wear　shows。　Each　year
  she　takes　her　senior　assistant　to　the　spring　shows　so　she　can　see
  what　it’s　really　like。　I　mean；　I’ve　been　to；　like；　a　million　at
  Bryant　Park；　but　the　European　shows　are　just　different。”
  I　did　a　quick　calculation。　“In　October；　as　in　seven　months　from　now？
  You　were　trying　on　clothes　for　a　trip　seven　months　from　now？”　I
  hadn’t　meant　for　it　to　sound　as　harsh　as　it　did；　and　Emily
  immediately　got　defensive。
  “Well；　yes。　I　mean；　obviously　I　wasn’t　going　to　buy　anything—so　many
  of　the　styles　will　have　changed　by　then。　But　I　just　wanted　to　start
  thinking　about　it。　It’s　a　really　huge　deal；　you　know。　Stay　in
  five…star　hotels；　go　to　the　craziest　parties　ever。　And　my　god；　you
  get　to　go　to　the　hottest；　most　exclusive　fashion　shows　in
  existence。”
  Emily　had　already　told　me　that　Miranda　went　to　Europe　three　or　four
  times　a　year　for　the　fashion　shows。　She　always　skipped　London；　like
  everyone　did；　but　she　went　to　Milan　and　Paris　in　October　for　spring
  ready…to…wear；　in　July　for　winter　couture；　and　in　March　for　fall
  ready…to…wear。　Sometimes　she’d　hit　resort；　but　not　always。　We’d　been
  working　like　crazy　to　get　Miranda　prepared　for　the　shows　ing　up
  at　the　end　of　the　month。　I’d　wondered　briefly　why　she　wasn’t
  planning　on　bringing　an　assistant。
  “So　why　doesn’t　she　take　you　to　all　of　them？”　I　decided　to　just　go
  for　it；　even　though　the　answer　was　sure　to　entail　a　lengthy
  explanation。　I　was　excited　enough　that　Miranda　would　be　out　of　the
  office　for　two　whole　weeks　（she　spent　one　in　Milan　and　one　in　Paris）
  and　was　giddy　at　the　thought　of　getting　rid　of　Emily　for　a　week　of
  that。　Visions　of　bacon　cheeseburgers　and　nonprofessionally　ripped
  jeans　and　flats—oh　hell；　maybe　even　sneakers—filled　my　head。　“Why
  just　in　October？”
  “Well；　it’s　not　like　she　doesn’t　have　help　over　there。　Italian　and
  FrenchRunway　always　send　some　of　their　assistants　for　Miranda；　and
  most　of　the　time　the　editors　help　her　themselves。　But　it’s　at　spring
  RTW　that　she　throws　a　huge　party；　the　annual　kick…off　party　that
  everyone　says　is　the　biggest　and　best　at　all　the　shows；　all　year
  long。　I’ll　only　go　for　the　week　while　she’s　in　Paris。　So　obviously
  she　would　only　trustme　to　help　her　there。”　Obviously。
  “Mmm；　sounds　like　it’ll　be　a　great　time。　So　that　means　I　just　hold
  down　the　fort　here；　huh？”
  “Yeah；　pretty　much。　But　don’t　think　that　it’ll　be　a　joke。　That　will
  probably　be　the　hardest　week　of　all　because　she　needs　a　lot　of
  assistance　when　she’s　away。　She’ll　be　calling　you　a　lot。”
  “Oh；　goody；”　I　said。　She　rolled　her　eyes。
  I　slept　with　my　eyes　open；　staring　at　a　blank　puter　screen；　until
  the　office　began　to　fill　up　and　there　were　other　people　to　watch。
  TenA　。M。　brought　the　first　of　the　Clackers；　the　quiet　sipping　of
  no…whip　skim　lattes　to　nurse　the　previous　night’s　champagne
  hangovers。　James　stopped　by　my　desk；　as　he　did　whenever　he　saw
  Miranda　wasn’t　at　hers；　and　proclaimed　he’d　met　his　future　husband
  at　Balthazar　the　night　before。
  “He　was　just　sitting　at　the　bar；　wearing　the　greatest　red　leather
  jacket　I’d　ever　seen—and　let　me　tell　you；　he　could　pull　it　off。　You
  should　have　seen　how　he　slipped　those　oysters　on　his　tongue　。　。　。”
  He　audibly　groaned。　“Oh；　it　was　just　magnificent。”
  “So’d　you　get　his　number？”　I　asked。
  “Get　his　number？　Try　get　his　pants。　He　was　butt…ass　naked　on　my
  couch　by　eleven；　and　boy；　let　me　tell　you—”
  “Lovely；　James。　Lovely。　Not　one　for　playing　hard　to　get；　are　you？
  Sounds　a　little　slutty　of　you；　to　be　honest。　This　is　the　age　of
  AIDS；　you　know。”
  “Sweetie；　even　you；　Miss　High　and　Mighty
  I…Date…the…World’s…Last…Angel；　would’ve　been　on　your　knees　without　a
  second　thought　if　you　saw　this　guy。　He’s　absolutely　amazing。
  Amazing！”
  By　eleven　everyone　had　checked　everyone　else　out；　making　notations
  of　who　had　scored　a　pair　of　the　new　Theory　“Max”　pants　or　the
  latest；　impossible…to…find　Sevens。　Time　for　a　break　at　noon；　when
  conversation　centered　around　particular　items　of　clothing　and
  usually　took　place　by　the　racks　lined　up　against　the　walls。　Each
  morning　Jeffy　would　pull　out　all　the　racks　of　dresses　and　bathing
  suits　and　pants　and　shirts　and　coats　and　shoes　and　everything　else
  that　had　been　called　in　as　a　potential　item　to　shoot　for　one　of　the
  fashion　spreads。　He　lined　up　each　rack　against　a　wall；　weaving　them
  throughout　the　entire　floor　so　the　editors　could　find　what　they
  needed　without　having　to　fight　their　way　through　the　Closet　itself。
  The　Closet　wasn’t　really　a　closet　at　all。　It　was　more　like　a　small
  auditorium。　Along　the　perimeter　were　walls　of　shoes　in　every　size
  and　color　and　style；　a　virtual　Willy　Wonka’s　factory　for
  fashionistas；　with　dozens　of　slingbacks；　stilettos；　ballet　flats；
  high…heeled　boots；　open…toe　sandals；　beaded　heels。　Stacked　drawers；
  some　built…in　and　others　just　shoved　in　corners；　held　every
  imaginable　configuration　of　stockings；　socks；　bras；　panties；　slips；
  camisoles；　and　corsets。　Need　a　last…minute　leopard…print　push…up　bra
  from　La　Perla？　Check　the　Closet。　How　about　a　pair　of　flesh…colored
  fishnets　or　those　Dior　aviators？　In　the　Closet。　The　accessories
  shelves　and　drawers　took　up　the　farthest　two　walls；　and　the　sheer
  amount　of　merchandise—not　to　mention　its　value—was　staggering。
  Fountain　pens。　Jewelry。　Bed　linens。　Mufflers　and　gloves　and　ski
  caps。　Pajamas。　Capes。　Shawls。　Stationery。　Silk　flowers。　Hats；　so
  many　hats。　And　bags。　The　bags！　There　were　totes　and　bowling　bags；
  backpacks　and　under…arms；　over…shoulders　and　minis；　oversize　and
  clutches；　envelopes　and　messengers；　each　bearing　an　exclusive　label
  and　a　price　tag　of　more　than　the　average　American’s　monthly　mortgage
  payment。　And　then　there　were　the　racks　and　racks　of　clothes—pushed
  so　tightly　together　it　was　impossible　to　walk　among　them—that
  occupied　every　remaining　inch　of　space。
  So　during　the　day　Jeffy　would　attempt　to　make　the　Closet　a
  semi…usable　space　where　models　（and　assistants　like　myself）　could
  try　on　clothes　and　actually　reach　some　of　the　shoes　and　bags　in　the
  back　by　pushing　all　of　the　racks　into　the　halls。　I’d　yet　to　see　a
  single　visitor　to　the　floor—whether　writer　or　boyfriend　or　messenger
  or　stylist—not　stop　dead　in　his　or　her　tracks　and　gape　at　the
  couture…lined　hallways。　Sometimes　the　racks　were　arranged　by　shoot
  （Sydney；　Santa　Barbara）　and　other　times　by　item　（bikinis；　skirt
  suits）；　but　mostly　it　just　seemed　like　a　haplessly　casual　mishmash
  ofreally　expensive　stuff　。　And　although　everyone　stopped　and　stared
  and　fingered　the　butter…soft　cashmeres　and　the　intricately　beaded
  evening　gowns；　it　was　the　Clackers　who　hovered　possessively　over
  “their”　clothes　and　provided　constant；　streaming　mentary　on　each
  and　every　piece。
  “Maggie　Rizer　is　the　only　woman　in　theworld　who　can　actually　wear
  these　capris；”　Hope；　one　of　the　fashion　assistants—weighing　a
  whopping　105　pounds　and　clocking　in　at　six…one—loudly　announced
  outside　our　office　suite　while　holding　the　pants　in　front　of　her
  legs　and　sighing。　“They　would　make　my　ass　look　even　more　gigantic
  than　it　already　is。”
  “Andrea；”　called　her　friend；　a　girl　I　didn’t　know　very　well　who
  worked　in　accessories；　“please　tell　Hop