precious；　well…guarded　cool　was　precariously　close　to　collapsing。
  She　took　a　deep；　exaggerated　breath　and　said　calmly；　“Ahn…dre…ah。
  Are　you　aware　that　Mr。　Lagerfeld　is　in　Paris　this　week？”　I　felt　like
  we　were　doing　English　As　a　Second　Language　lessons。
  “Of　course；　Miranda。　Emily　has　been　trying　all　the　numbers　in—”
  “And　are　you　aware　that　Mr。　Lagerfeld　said　he’d　be　available　on　his
  mobile　phone　while　he　was　in　Paris？”　Every　muscle　in　her　throat
  strained　to　keep　her　voice　even　and　calm。
  “Well；　no；　we　don’t　have　a　cell　number　listed　in　the　directory；　so
  we　didn’t　know　that　Mr。　Lagerfeld　even　had　a　Cell　Phone。　But　Emily
  is　on　the　phone　with　his　assistant　right　now；　and　I’m　sure　she’ll
  have　that　number　in　just　a　minute。”　Emily　gave　me　the　thumbs…up
  right　before　she　scribbled　something　and　exclaimed；　“Merci；oh　yes；
  thank　you；　I　mean；merci　”　over　and　over　again。
  “Miranda；　I　have　the　number　right　here。　Would　you　like　me　to　connect
  you　now？”　I　could　feel　my　chest　puff　out　with　confidence　and　pride。
  A　job　well　done！　A　superior　performance　under　the　most
  pressure…filled　conditions。　Never　mind　that　my　really　cute　peasant
  blouse　that　had　been　plimented　by　two—not　one；　but　two—fashion
  assistants　was　now　sporting　sweat　stains　under　the　arms。　Who　cared？
  I　was　about　to　get　this　stark　raving　mad　lunatic　of　an　international
  caller　off　my　back；　and　I　was　thrilled。
  “Ahn…dre…ah？”　It　sounded　like　a　question；　but　I　was　only
  concentrating　on　trying　to　figure　out　a　pattern　for　indiscriminate
  name　mix…ups。　At　first　I’d　thought　she　did　it　deliberately　in　an
  attempt　to　belittle　and　humiliate　us　even　more；　but　then　I　figured
  out　that　she　was　probably　quite　satisfied　with　the　levels　of
  belittlement　and　humiliation　we　endured　and　so　she　did　it　only
  because　she　couldn’t　be　bothered　to　keep　straight　details　so　inane
  as　her　two　assistants’　names。　Emily　had　confirmed　this　by　saying
  that　she　called　her　Emily　about　half　the　time　but　called　her　a
  mixture　of　Andrea　and　Allison—the　assistant　before　her—the　other
  half。　I　felt　better。
  “Yes？”　Squeaking　again。　Dammit！　Wasn’t　it　possible　for　me　to　have
  just　a　tiny　bit　of　dignity　with　this　woman？
  “Ahn…dre…ah；　I　don’t　know　what　all　the　fuss　is　over　finding　Mr。
  Lagerfeld’s　mobile　number　when　I　have　it　right　here。　He　gave　it　to
  me　just　five　minutes　ago；　but　we　were　disconnected　and　I　can’t　seem
  to　dial　correctly。”　She　said　the　last　part　as　though　the　entire
  world　was　to　blame　for　this　irritation　and　inconvenience　except　for
  herself。
  “Oh。　You；　um；　you　have　the　number？　And　you　knew　he　was　on　that
  number　the　whole　time？”　I　was　saying　it　for　Emily’s　benefit；　and　it
  only　served　to　enrage　Miranda　even　more。
  “Am　I　not　making　myself　perfectly　clear　here？　I　need　you　to　connect
  me　to　03。55。23。56。67。89。　Immediately。　Or　is　that　too　difficult？”
  Emily　was　slowly　shaking　her　head　in　disbelief　as　she　crumpled　up
  the　number　we’d　both　just　fought　so　hard　to　get。
  “No；　no；　Miranda；　of　course　that’s　not　too　difficult。　I’ll　connect
  you　right　away。　Hold　just　a　minute。”　I　hit　“conference；”　dialed　the
  numbers；　heard　an　older　man　shout　“Allo！”　into　the　phone；　and　hit
  conference　again。　“Mr。　Lagerfeld；　Miranda　Priestly；　you’re
  connected；”　I　stated　like　one　of　those　manual　operators　from
  theLittle　House　on　the　Prairie　days。　And　instead　of　putting　the
  whole　call　on　mute　and　then　hitting　speaker　so　Emily　and　I　could
  listen　in　on　the　call　together；　I　just　hung　up。　We　sat　in　silence
  for　a　few　minutes　as　I　tried　to　refrain　from　badmouthing　Miranda
  immediately。　Instead；　I　mopped　some　dampness　from　my　forehead　and
  took　long；　deep　breaths。　She　spoke　first。
  “So；　let　me　just　get　this　straight。　She　had　his　number　the　entire
  time　but　just　didn’t　know　how　to　dial　it？”
  “Or　maybe　she　just　didn’t　feel　like　dialing　it；”　I　added　helpfully；
  always　enthusiastic　for　the　chance　to　team　up　against　Miranda；
  especially　considering　how　rare　the　opportunities　were　with　Emily。
  “I　should’ve　known；”　she　said；　shaking　her　head　like　she　was
  horribly　disappointed　with　herself。　“I　really　should’ve　known　that。
  She　always　calls　to　have　me　connect　her　to　people　who　are　staying　in
  the　next　room；　or　who　are　in　a　hotel　two　streets　over。　I　remember　I
  thought　that　was　the　weirdest　thing；　calling　from　Paris　to　New　York
  to　have　someone　connect　you　to　someone　in　Paris。　Now　it　just　seems
  normal；　of　course；　but　I　can’t　believe　I　didn’t　see　that　one
  ing。”
  I　was　about　to　run　to　the　dining　room　for　lunch；　but　the　phone　rang
  again。　Operating　under　the　lightning…doesn’t…strike…twice　theory；　I
  decided　to　be　a　sport　and　answer　the　phone。
  “Miranda　Priestly’s　office。”
  “Emily！　I　am　standing　in　the　pouring　rain　on　the　rue　de　Rivoli　and
  my　driver　has　vanished。　Vanished！　Do　you　understand　me？　Vanished！
  Find　him　immediately！”　She　was　hysterical；　my　very　first　time
  hearing　her　that　way；　and　I　wouldn’t　have　been　surprised　to　learn　it
  was　the　only　time。
  “Miranda；　just　a　moment。　I　have　his　number　right　here。”　I　turned　to
  scan　my　desk　for　the　itinerary　I’d　set　down　a　moment　earlier；　but
  all　I　saw　were　papers；　old　Bulletins；　stacks　of　back　issues。　Only
  three　or　four　seconds　had　passed；　but　I　felt　as　if　I　were　standing
  right　next　to　her；　watching　as　the　rain　poured　down　on　her　Fendi　fur
  and　caused　the　makeup　to　melt　down　the　side　of　her　face。　Like　she
  could　just　reach　out　and　slap　my　face；　tell　me　I’m　a　worthless　piece
  of　shit　with　zero　talent；　no　skill　set；　a　plete　and　total　loser。
  There　wasn’t　time　to　talk　myself　down；　remind　myself　that　this　was
  merely　a　human　being　（theoretically）　who　wasn’t　happy　to　be　standing
  in　the　rain　and　was　taking　it　out　on　her　assistant　3；600　miles　away。
  It’s　not　my　fault。　It’s　not　my　fault。　It’s　not　my　fault。
  “Ahn…dre…ah！　My　shoes　areruined　。　Do　you　hear　me？　Are　you　even
  listening？　Find　my　drivernow！　”
  I　was　at　risk　of　some　inappropriate　emotion—I　could　feel　the　knot　in
  the　back　of　my　throat；　the　tightening　of　the　muscles　in　the　back　of
  my　neck；　but　it　was　too　early　to　tell　if　I　would　laugh　or　cry。
  Either　one：　not　good。　Emily　must　have　sensed　as　much；　because　she
  leapt　out　of　her　seat　and　handed　me　her　copy　of　the　itinerary。　She’d
  even　highlighted　the　driver’s　contact　numbers；　three　in　all；　one　for
  the　car　phone；　his　mobile　phone；　and　his　Home　phone。　Naturally。
  “Miranda；　I’m　going　to　need　to　put　you　on　hold　while　I　call　him。　Can
  I　put　you　on　hold？”　I　didn’t　wait　for　a　response；　which　I　knew　would
  drive　her　crazy；　and　threw　the　call　on　hold。　I　dialed　Paris　again。
  The　good　news　was　the　driver　picked　up　on　the　first　ring　of　the
  first　number　I　tried。　The　bad　news　was　he　didn’t　speak　English。
  Although　I’d　never　been　self…destructive　before；　I　couldn’t　help　but
  smash　my　forehead　firmly　into　the　Formica。　Three　times　of　this；　and
  Emily　had　picked　up　the　line　at　her　desk。　She’d　resorted　to
  screaming；　not　so　much　in　attempt　to　make　the　driver　understand　her
  own　bad　French；　but　simply　because　she　was　trying　to　impress　upon
  him　the　urgency　of　the　current　situation。　New　drivers　always　took　a
  little　breaking　in；　mostly　because　they　foolishly　believed　that　if
  Miranda　had　to　wait　forty…five　seconds　to　a　minute　extra；　she’d　be
  all　right。　This　was　precisely　the　notion　of　which　Emily　and　I　were
  to　disabuse　them。
  We　both　put　our　heads　down　a　few　minutes　later；　after　Emily　had
  managed　to　insult　the　driver　enough　that　he’d　hightailed　it　back　to
  where　he’d　left　Miranda　three　or　four　minutes　earlier。　I　wasn’t
  particularly　hungry　for　lunch　anymore；　a　phenomenon　that　made　me
  nervous。　WasRunway　rubbing　off？　Or　was　it　just　the　adrenaline　and
  nerves　mixing　together　to　guarantee　no　appetite？　That　was　it！　The
  starvation　so　endemic　atRunway　was　not；　in　fact；　self…induced；　it
  was　merely　the　physiological　response　of　bodies　that　were　so
  consistently　terrified　and　all…around　anxiety…ridden　that　they　were
  never　actually　hungry。　I　vowed　to　look　into　this　a　little　more　and
  perhaps　explore　the　possibility　that　Miranda　was　smarter　than　all　of
  this　and　had　deliberately　created　a　persona　so　offensive　on　every
  level　that　she　literally　scared　people　skinny。
  “Ladies；　ladies；　ladies！　Pick　those　heads　up　off　those　desks！　Can
  you　imagine　Miranda　seeing　you　now？　She　wouldn’t　be　very　happy！”
  James　sang　from　the　doorway。　He　had　slicked　back　his　hair　using　some
  greasy；　waxy　stuff　called　Bed　Head　（“Hot　name—how　can　you　resist？”）
  and　was　wearing　some　sort　of　skintight　football　jersey　with　the
  number　69　on　both　the　front　and　the　ba