wink。　“See　ya　late…night。”　He　had　no　idea　where　I　was　going；　of
  course；　but　it　was　forting　that　he　thought　I’d　at　least　be　ing
  Home。Maybe　it　won’t　be　that　bad；　I　thought　as　I　settled　into　the
  cushy　backseat　of　the　Town　Car。　But　then　my　dress　slid　up　over　my
  knees　and　the　back　of　my　legs　touched　the　ice…cold　leather　seats；
  and　I　lurched　forward。Or；　maybe；　it　will　suck　just　as　much　as　I
  think　it　will？
  The　driver　jumped　out　and　ran　around　to　open　the　door　for　me；　but　I
  was　standing　on　the　curb　by　the　time　he’d　made　it　around。　I’d　been
  to　the　Met　once　before；　on　a　day　trip　to　New　York　with　my　mom　and
  Jill　to　see　some　of　the　tourist　sights。　I　didn’t　remember　any　of　the
  actual　exhibits　we　saw　that　day—only　how　much　my　new　shoes　had　hurt
  by　the　time　we　got　there—but　I　recalled　the　never…ending　white
  staircase　out　front　and　the　feeling　that　I　could　climb　those　stairs
  forever。
  The　stairs　stood　where　I　remembered　them　but　looked　different　in　the
  haze　of　dusk。　Still　accustomed　to　the　short；　miserable　days　of
  winter；　I　thought　it　seemed　strange　that　the　sky　was　just　darkening
  and　it　was　already　six…thirty。　That　night　the　stairs　looked
  positively　regal。　They　were　prettier　than　the　Spanish　Steps　or　the
  ones　outside　the　library　at　Columbia；　or　even　the　awe…inspiring
  spread　at　the　Capitol　building　in　D。C。　It　wasn’t　until　I’d　made　it
  to　about　the　tenth　one　of　those　white　beauties　that　I　began　to
  loathe　them。　What　cruel；　cruel　sadist　would　make　a　woman　in　a
  skintight；　floor…length　gown　and　spiked　heels　climb　such　a　hill　of
  hell？　Since　I　couldn’t　very　well　hate　the　architect　or　even　the
  museum　official　who’d　missioned　him；　I　was　forced　to　hate
  Miranda；　who　could　usually　be　blamed　for　directly　or　indirectly
  causing　all　the　misery　and　bad　will　in　my　life。
  The　top　felt　like　a　mile　away；　and　I　flashed　back　to　the　spinning
  classes　I　used　to　take　when　I　still　had　time　to　go　to　the　gym。　Some
  Nazi　instructor　would　sit　atop　her　little　bike　and　bark　out　orders
  in　perfect　military　staccato：　“Pump；　pump；　and　breathe；　breathe！
  Climb；　people；　climb　that　hill。　You’re　almost　at　the　top！　Don’t　lose
  it　now！　Climb　for　your　life！”　I　closed　my　eyes　and　tried　to　envision
  pedaling　instead；　the　wind　in　my　hair；　running　over　the　instructor；
  but　climbing；　still　climbing。　Oh；　anything　to　forget　the　fiery　pain
  that　shot　from　little　toe　to　heel　to　back　again。　Ten　more　steps；
  that　was　all　that　was　left；　just　ten　more；　oh；　god；　was　that　wetness
  in　my　shoes　blood？　Would　I　have　to　walk　before　Miranda　in　a　sweaty
  Oscar　gown　and　bloody　feet？　Please；　oh　please；　say　that　I　was　almost
  there　and　。　。　。　there！　The　top。　The　feeling　of　victory　was　no　less
  than　that　of　a　world…class　sprinter　who’d　just　won　her　first　gold
  medal。　I　inhaled　mightily；　clenched　my　fingers　to　fight　off　the　urge
  for　a　victory　cigarette；　and　reapplied　my　Fudgsicle　Lipsmackers。　It
  was　time　to　be　a　lady。
  The　guard　opened　the　door　for　me；　bowed　slightly；　and　smiled。　He
  probably　thought　I　was　a　guest。
  “Hi；　miss；　you　must　be　Andrea。　Ilana　said　to　have　a　seat　right　over
  there；　and　she’ll　be　out　in　a　minute。”　He　turned　away　and　spoke
  discreetly　into　a　microphone　on　his　sleeve　and　nodded　when　he　heard
  a　response　through　his　earpiece。　“Yes；　right　over　there；　miss。
  She’ll　be　here　as　soon　as　she　can。”
  I　looked　around　the　enormous　entryway　but　didn’t　feel　like　going
  through　the　dress…adjustment　hassle　of　actually　sitting。　Besides；
  when　would　I　ever　again　have　the　chance　to　be　in　the　Metropolitan
  Museum　of　Art；　after　hours；　with　apparently　no　one　else　there？　The
  ticket　booths　were　empty　and　the　ground…level　galleries　dark；　but
  the　sense　of　history；　of　culture；　was　awesome。　The　silence　itself
  was　deafening。
  After　nearly　fifteen　minutes　of　peering　around；　being　careful　not　to
  wander　too　far　from　the　aspiring　Secret　Service　agent；　a　rather
  ordinary…looking　girl　in　a　long　navy　dress　crossed　the　massive　foyer
  and　walked　toward　me。　I　was　surprised　that　someone　with　a　job　as
  glamorous　as　hers　（working　in　the　special　events　office　of　the
  museum）　could　be　so　plain；　and　I　felt　instantly　ridiculous；　like　a
  girl　from　a　small　town　trying　to　dress　for　a　big…city　black…tie
  affair—which；　ironically　enough；　was　exactly　who　I　was。　Ilana；　on
  the　other　hand；　looked　like　she　hadn’t　even　bothered　to　change　out
  of　work　clothes；　and　I　learned　later　that　she　hadn’t。
  “Why　bother？”　She’d　laughed。　“It’s　not　like　these　people　are　here　to
  look　at　me。”　Her　brown　hair　was　clean　and　straight　but　lacking　in
  style；　and　her　brown　flats　were　horrifically　unfashionable。　But　her
  blue　eyes　were　bright　and　kind；　and　I　knew　instantly　that　I　would
  like　her。
  “You　must　be　Ilana；”　I　said；　sensing　that　I　somehow　had　seniority　in
  the　situation　and　was　expected　to　take　charge。　“I’m　Andrea。　I’m
  Miranda’s　assistant；　and　I’m　here　to　help　in　any　way　I　can。”
  She　looked　so　relieved；　I　instantly　wondered　what　Miranda　had　said
  to　her。　The　possibilities　were　endless；　but　I　imagined　it　had
  something　to　do　with　Ilana’sLadies’Home　Journal　getup。　I　shuddered
  to　think　what　wicked　thing　she’d　uttered　to　such　a　sweet　girl　and
  prayed　she　wouldn’t　start　to　cry。　Instead；　she　turned　to　me　with
  those　big　innocent　eyes；　leaned　forward；　and　declared
  none…too…quietly；　“Your　boss　is　a　first…rate　bitch。”
  I　stared；　shocked；　for　just　a　moment　before　recovering。　“She　is；
  isn’t　she？”　I　said；　and　we　both　laughed。　“What　do　you　need　me　to　do？
  Miranda’s　going　to　be　able　to　sense　that　I’m　here　in　about　ten
  seconds；　so　I　should　look　like　I’m　doing　something。”
  “Here；　I’ll　show　you　the　table；”　she　said；　walking　down　a　darkened
  hallway　toward　the　Egyptian　exhibits。　“It’s　dynamite。”
  We　arrived　in　a　smaller　gallery；　perhaps　the　size　of　a　tennis　court
  with　a　rectangular；　twenty…four…seat　table　stretched　down　the
  middle。　Robert　Isabell　was　worth　it；　I　could　see。　He　was　the　New
  York　party　planner；　the　only　one　who　could　be　trusted　to　strike　just
  the　right　note　with　astonishing　attention　to　detail：　fashionable
  without　being　trendy；　luxe　but　not　ostentatious；　unique　without
  being　over　the　top。　Miranda　insisted　that　Robert　do　everything；　but
  the　only　time　I’d　ever　seen　his　work　before　was　at　Cassidy　and
  Caroline’s　birthday　party。　I　knew　he　could　manage　to　turn　Miranda’s
  colonial…style　living　room　into　a　chic　downtown　lounge　（plete
  with　soda　bar—in　martini　glasses；　of　course—ultra…suede；　built…in
  banquettes；　and　a　fully　heated；　tented　balcony　dance　floor　with　a
  Moroccan　theme）　for　ten…year…olds；　but　this　was　truly　spectacular。
  Everything　glowed　white。　Light　white；　smooth　white；　bright　white；
  textured　white；　and　rich　white。　Bundles　of　milky　white　peonies
  looked　as　if　they　grew　from　the　table　itself；　deliciously　lush　but
  low　enough　to　allow　people　to　talk　over　them。　Bone　white　china　（with
  a　white　checked　pattern）　rested　on　a　crisp　white　linen　tablecloth；
  and　high…backed　white　oak　chairs　were　covered　in　luscious　white
  suede　（the　danger！）；　all　atop　a　plush　white　carpet；　specially　laid
  for　the　evening。　White　votive　candles　in　simple　white　porcelain
  holders　gave　off　a　soft　white　light；　highlighting　（but　somehow　not
  burning）　the　peonies　from　underneath　and　providing　subtle；
  unobtrusive　illumination　around　the　table。　The　only　color　in　the
  entire　room　came　from　the　elaborate　multihued　canvases　that　hung　on
  the　walls　surrounding　the　table；　shocking　blues　and　greens　and　golds
  from　the　depictions　of　early　Egyptian　life。　The　white　table　as　a
  deliberate　contrast　to　the　priceless；　detailed　paintings　was
  exquisite。
  As　I　turned　my　head　around　to　take　in　the　wonderful　contrast　of　the
  color　and　the　white　（“That　Robert　really　is　a　genius！”）；　a　vibrant
  red　figure　caught　my　eye。　In　the　corner；　standing　ramrod　straight
  under　a　looming　painting　was　Miranda；　wearing　the　beaded　red　Chanel
  that　had　been　missioned；　cut；　fitted；　and　precleaned　just　for
  tonight。　And　although　it’d　be　a　stretch　to　say　that　it　had　been
  worth　every　penny　（since　those　pennies　added　up　to　tens　of　thousands
  of　dollars）；　she　did　look　breathtaking。　She　herself　was　anobjet
  d’art；　chin　jutted　upward　and　muscles　perfectly　taut；　a　neoclassical
  relief　in　beaded　Chanel　silk。　She　wasn’t　beautiful—her　eyes　were　a
  bit　too　beady　and　her　hair　too　severe　and　her　face　much　too　hard—but
  she　was　stunning　in　a　way　I　couldn’t　make　sense　of；　and　no　matter
  how　hard　I　tried　to　play　it　cool；　to　pretend　to　be　admiring　the
  room；　I　couldn’t　take　my　eyes　off　her。
  As　usual；　the　sound　of　her　voice　broke　my　reverie。　“Ahn…dre…ah；　yo