and　was　wearing　some　sort　of　skintight　football　jersey　with　the
  number　69　on　both　the　front　and　the　back。　As　always；　a　picture　of
  subtlety　and　understatement。
  Neither　of　us　so　much　as　glanced　at　him。　The　clock　said　it　was　only
  four；　but　it　felt　like　midnight。
  “OK　then；　let　me　guess。　Mama’s　been　calling　off　the　hook　because　she
  lost　an　earring　somewhere　between　the　Ritz　and　Alain　Ducasse　and　she
  wants　you　to　find　it；　even　though　it’s　in　Paris　and　you’re　in　New
  York。”
  I　snorted。　“You　think　that　would　put　us　in　this　condition？　That’s
  ourjob　。　We　do　that　every　day。　Give　us　something　difficult。”
  Even　Emily　laughed。　“Seriously；　James；　not　good　enough。　I　could　find
  an　earring　in　under　ten　minutes　in　any　city　in　the　world；”　she　said；
  all　of　a　sudden　inspired　to　join　in　for　reasons　I　didn’t　understand。
  “It’d　only　be　a　challenge　if　she　didn’t　tell　us　what　city　she’d　lost
  it　in。　But　I　bet　even　then　we　could　do　it。”
  James　was　backing　himself　away　from　the　office；　a　look　of　feigned
  horror　on　his　face。　“All　right；　then；　ladies；　you　have　a　great　day；
  you　hear？　At　least　she　hasn’t　fucked　you　both　up　for　good。　I　mean；
  seriously；　thank　god　for　that；　right？　You’re　bothtooootally　sane。
  Yeah。　Um；　have　a　great　day　。　。　。”
  “NOT　SO　FAST　THERE；　YOU　PANSY！”　shrieked　someone　very　loud　and　very
  high…pitched。　“I　WANT　YOU　TO　MARCH　YOUR　WAY　BACK　IN　THERE　AND　TELL
  THE　GIRLS　WHAT　YOU　WERE　THINKING　WHEN　YOU　PUT　THAT　SHMATA　ON　THIS
  MORNING！”　Nigel　grabbed　James　by　the　left　ear　and　dragged　him　into
  the　area　between　our　desks。
  “Oh；　e　on；　Nigel；”　James　whined；　pretending　to　be　annoyed　but
  obviously　delighted　that　Nigel　was　touching　him。　“You　know　you　love
  this　top！”
  “LOVE　THAT　TOP？　YOU　THINK　I　LOVE　THAT　FRATTY；　GAY…JOCK　LOOK　YOU’VE
  GOT　GOING？　JAMES；　YOU　NEED　TO　RETHINK　HERE；　OK？　OK？”
  “What’s　wrong　with　a　tight　football　jersey？　I　think　it　looks　hot。”
  Emily　and　I　nodded　in　quiet　alliance　with　James。　It　may　not　have
  been　exactly　tasteful；　but　he　did　look　incredibly　hip。　And　besides；
  it　was　kind　of　tough　to　be　taking　fashion　advice　from　a　man　who　was；
  at　that　precise　moment；　wearing　zebra…print　boot…cut　jeans　and　a
  black　V…neck　sweater　with　a　keyhole　cut　out　in　the　back　to　reveal
  rippling　back　muscles。　The　whole　ensemble　was　topped　off　with　a
  floppy　straw　hat　and　a　touch　（subtle；　I’ll　give　him　that！）　of　kohl
  eyeliner。
  “BABY　BOY；　fashion　IS　NOT　FOR　advertising　YOUR　FAVE　SEX　ACTS　ON　YOUR
  SHIRT。　UNH…UNH；　NO　IT’S　NOT！　YOU　WANNA　SHOW　A　LITTLE　SKIN？　THAT’S
  HOT！　YOU　WANNA　SHOW　SOME　OF　THOSE　TIGHT；　YOUNG　CURVES　OF
  YOURS？THAT’S　HOT。　CLOTHING　IS　NOT　FOR　TELLING　THE　WORLD　WHAT
  POSITION　YOU　PREFER；　BOYFRIEND。　NOW　DO　YOU　UNDERSTAND？”
  “But；　Nigel！”　A　look　of　defeat　was　carefully　constructed　to　disguise
  how　pleased　he　was　to　be　the　center　of　Nigel’s　attention。
  “DON’T　‘NIGEL’　ME；　HONEY。　GO　TALK　TO　JEFFY　AND　TELL　HIM　I　SENT　YOU。
  TELL　HIM　TO　GIVE　YOU　THE　NEW　CALVIN　TANK　WE　CALLED　IN　FOR　THE　MIAMI
  SHOOT。　IT’S　THE　ONE　THAT　GORGEOUS　BLACK　MODEL—OH　MY；　HE’S　AS　TASTY
  AS　A　THICK；　CHOCOLATE　MILKSHAKE—IS　ASSIGNED　TO　WEAR。　GO　ON　NOW；
  SHOO。　BUT　BE　SURE　TO　E　BACK　HERE　AND　SHOW　ME　WHAT　YOU　LOOK　LIKE！”
  James　scampered　off　like　a　recently　fed　bunny　rabbit；　and　Nigel
  turned　to　look　at　us。　“HAVE　YOU　PUT　IN　HER　CLOTHING　ORDER　YET？”　he
  asked　no　one　in　particular。
  “No；　she　won’t　choose　until　she　has　the　look…books；”　Emily　answered；
  looking　bored。　“She　said　she’ll　do　it　when　she　gets　back。”
  “WELL；　JUST　BE　SURE　TO　LET　ME　KNOW　AHEAD　OF　TIME　SO　I　CAN　CLEAR　MY
  SCHEDULE　FOR　THAT　PARTY！”　He　took　off　in　the　direction　of　the
  Closet；　probably　to　try　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　James　changing。
  I’d　already　lived　through　one　round　of　Miranda　wardrobe　ordering；
  and　it　hadn’t　been　pretty。　When　at　the　shows；　she　went　from　runway
  to　runway；　sketchbook　in　hand；　preparing　herself　to　e　back　to　the
  States　and　tell　New　York　society　what　they　would　be　wearing—and
  middle　America　what　they’d　like　to　be　wearing—via　the　only　runway
  that　actually　mattered。　Little　did　I　know　that　Miranda　was　also
  paying　particular　attention　to　the　outfits　cruising　down　the　runways
  because　it　was　her　first　glance　at　what　she　herself　would　be　wearing
  in　the　uping　months。
  A　couple　weeks　after　returning　to　the　office；　Miranda　had　handed
  Emily　a　list　of　designers　whose　look…books　she’d　like　to　see。　As　the
  usual　suspects　rushed　to　get　their　books　put　together　for　her—their
  runway　photographs　often　weren’t　even　developed；　never　mind
  airbrushed　and　bound；　before　she　demanded　to　see　them—everyone
  atRunway　was　put　on　alert　that　the　books　would　be　arriving。　Nigel
  would　need　to　be　ready；　of　course；　to　help　her　flip　through　them　all
  and　select　her　personal　outfits。　An　accessories　editor　should　be　on
  hand　to　choose　bags　and　shoes；　and　perhaps　an　extra　fashion　editor
  to　ensure　that　everyone　was　in　agreement—especially　if　the　order
  included　something　big；　like　a　fur　coat　or　an　evening　gown。　When　the
  various　houses　had　finally　pieced　together　the　different　items　she’d
  requested；　Miranda’s　personal　tailor　would　e　toRunway　for　a　few
  days　to　fit　everything。　Jeffy　would　pletely　empty　out　the　Closet；
  and　no　one　would　really　be　able　to　get　any　work　done　at　all；　since
  Miranda　and　her　tailor　would　be　holed　up　in　there　for　hours　on　end。
  On　the　first　go…round　of　fittings；　I’d　walked　by　the　Closet　just　in
  time　to　hear　Nigel　shouting；　“MIRANDA　PRIESTLY！　TAKE　THAT　RAG　OFF
  THIS　SECOND。　THAT　DRESS　MAKES　YOU　LOOK　LIKE　A　SLUT！　A　MON　WHORE！”
  I’d　stood　outside　with　my　ear　pressed　to　the　door—literally　risking
  life　and　limb　if　it　were　to　swing　open—and　waited　for　her　to　upbraid
  him　in　that　special　way　of　hers；　but　all　I　heard　was　a　quiet　murmur
  of　agreement　and　the　rustling　of　the　fabric　as　she　removed　the
  dress。
  Now　that　I　had　been　there　long　enough；　it　seemed　as　though　the　honor
  of　ordering　Miranda’s　clothes　would　fall　to　me。　Four　times　a　year；
  like　clockwork；　she　flipped　through　look…books　like　they　were　her
  own　personal　catalogs　and　selected　Alexander　McQueen　suits　and
  Balenciaga　pants　like　they　were　T…shirts　from　L。L。Bean。　A　yellow
  sticky　on　this　pair　of　Fendi　pencil　pants；　another　placed　squarely
  over　the　Chanel　skirt　suit；　a　third　with　a　big　“NO”　plastered　across
  the　matching　silk　top。　Flip；　stick；　flip；　stick；　on　and　on　it　went；
  until　she　had　selected　a　full　season’s　wardrobe　directly　from　the
  runway；　clothes　that　had　most　likely　not　yet　even　been　made。
  I’d　watched　as　Emily　had　faxed　Miranda’s　choices　to　the　different
  designers；　omitting　any　size　or　color　preference；　since　anyone　worth
  their　Manolos　knew　what　would　work　for　Miranda　Priestly。　Of　course；
  merely　being　made　to　the　correct　size　wasn’t　enough—when　the　clothes
  did　arrive　at　the　magazine；　they’d　need　to　be　cut　and　tucked　to　make
  them　appear　custom…made。　Only　when　the　entire　wardrobe　was
  pletely　ordered；　shipped；　snipped；　and　delivered　expressly　to　her
  bedroom　closet　by　chauffeured　limousine　would　Miranda　relinquish
  last　season’s　clothes　and　heaps　of　Yves　and　Celine　and　Helmut　Lang
  would　find　their　way—in　garbage　bags—back　to　the　office。　Most　were
  only　four　or　six　months　old；　stuff　that　had　been　worn　once　or　twice
  or；　most　often；　not　at　all。　Everything　was　still　so　incredibly
  stylish；　so　ludicrously　hip；　that　it　wasn’t　yet　available　in　most
  stores；　but　once　it　was　last　season；　it　was　about　as　likely　to　show
  up　on　Miranda　as　a　pair　of　pleather　pants　from　Target’s　new　Massimo
  line。
  Occasionally　I’d　find　a　tank　top　or　an　oversize　jacket　I　could　keep；
  but　the　fact　that　everything　was　in　a　size　zero　was　a　bit　of　a
  problem。　Mostly　we　distributed　the　clothes　to　anyone　with　preteen
  daughters；　the　only　ones　who　had　a　shot　in　hell　of　actually　fitting
  into　the　stuff。　I　pictured　little　girls　with　bodies　like　little　boys
  strutting　around　in　Prada　lipstick　skirts　and　slinky　Dolce　and
  Gabbana　dresses　with　spaghetti　straps。　If　there　was　something　really
  dynamite；　really　expensive；　I’d　pull　it　from　the　garbage　bag　and
  stash　it　under　my　desk　until　I　could　smuggle　it　Home　safely。　A　few
  quick　clicks　on　ebay　or　perhaps　a　little　visit　to　one　of　the　upscale
  consignment　shops　on　Madison　Avenue；　and　my　salary　all　of　a　sudden
  wasn’t　so　depressing。　Not　stealing；　I　rationalized；　simply　utilizing
  what　was　available　to　me。
  Miranda　called　six　more　times　between　the　hours　of　six　and　nine　in
  the　evening—midnight　to　threeA　。M。　her　time—to　have　us　connect　her
  to　various　people　who　were　already　in　Paris。　I　fielded　them
  listlessly；　uneventfully；　until　I　went