“Hello？　This　is　Andrea　Sachs；”　I　said　as　professionally　as
  possible；　already　making　over/under　bets　with　myself　as　to　the
  chance　it　was　anyone　besides　Miranda。
  “Ahn…dre…ah！　What　time　does　your　watch　read　at　this　moment？”
  Was　this　a　trick　question？　A　preface　to　accusing　me　of　being
  late？
  “Um；　let　me　see。　Actually；　it　says　that　it’s　five…fifteen　in
  the　morning；　but　obviously　I　haven’t　switched　it　yet　to　Paris
  time。　Therefore；　my　watch　should　read　that　it’s
  eleven…fifteenA　。M。”　I　said　cheerily；　hoping　to　start　off　the
  first　conversation　of　our　interminable　trip　on　as　high　a　note
  as　I　dared。
  “Thank　you　for　that　never…ending　narrative；　Ahn…dre…ah。　And
  may　I　ask　what；　exactly；　you’ve　been　doing　for　the　past
  thirty…five　minutes？”
  “Well；　Miranda；　the　flight　landed　a　few　minutes　late　and　then
  I　still　had—”
  “Because　according　to　the　itineraryyou　created　for　me；　I’m
  reading　that　your　flight　arrived　at　ten…thirty…five　this
  morning。”
  “Yes；　that’s　when　it　was　scheduled　to　arrive；　but　you　see—”
  “I’ll　not　have　you　tell　me　what　I　see；　Ahn…dre…ah。　That　is
  most　certainly　not　acceptable　behavior　for　the　next　week；　do
  you　understand　me？”
  “Yes；　of　course。　I’m　sorry。”　My　heart　began　pounding　what　felt
  like　a　million　beats　a　minute；　and　I　could　feel　my　face　grow
  hot　with　humiliation。　Humiliation　at　being　spoken　to　that　way；
  but　more　than　anything；　my　own　shame　in　pandering　to　it。　I　had
  just　apologized—most　sincerely—to　someone　for　not　being　able
  to　make　my　international　flight　land　at　the　correct　time　and
  then　for　not　being　savvy　enough　to　figure　out　how　to　avoid
  French　customs　entirely。
  I　pressed　my　face　rather　uncouthly　against　the　window　and
  watched　as　the　limo　weaved　its　way　through　Paris’s　bustling
  streets。　The　women　seemed　so　much　taller　here；　the　men　so　much
  more　genteel；　and　just　about　everyone　was　beautifully　dressed；
  thin；　and　regal　in　their　stance。　I’d　only　been　to　Paris　once
  before；　but　living　out　of　a　backpack　in　a　hostel　on　the　wrong
  side　of　town　didn’t　quite　have　the　same　feel　as　watching　the
  chic　little　clothing　boutiques　and　adorable　sidewalk　cafés
  from　the　backseat　of　a　limousine。I　could　get　used　to　this；　I
  thought；　as　the　driver　turned　around　to　show　me　where　I　might
  find　a　few　bottles　of　water　if　I　was　so　inclined。
  When　the　car　pulled　up　to　the　hotel　entrance；　a
  distinguished…looking　gentleman　wearing　what　I　guessed　was　a
  custom…made　suit　opened　the　back　door　for　me。
  “Mademoiselle　Sachs；　what　a　pleasure　to　finally　meet　you。　I　am
  Gerard　Renaud。”　His　voice　was　smooth　and　confident；　and　his
  silver　hair　and　deeply　lined　face　indicated　he　was　much　older
  than　I’d　pictured　when　I　spoke　to　the　concierge　over　the
  phone。
  “Monsieur　Renaud；　it’s　great　to　finally　meet　you！”　Suddenly
  all　I　wanted　to　do　was　crawl　into　a　nice；　soft　bed　and　sleep
  off　my　jet　lag；　but　Renaud　quickly　quashed　my　hopes。
  “Mademoiselle　Andrea；　Madame　Priestly　would　like　to　see　you　in
  her　room　immediately。　Before　you’ve　settled　into　yours；　I’m
  afraid。”　He　had　an　apologetic　expression　on　his　face；　and　for
  a　brief　moment　I　felt　sorrier　for　him　than　I　did　for　myself。
  Clearly　he　didn’t　enjoy　conveying　this　news。
  “That’s　fucking　great；”　I　muttered；　before　noticing　how
  distressed　this　made　Monsieur　Renaud。　I　plastered　on　a　winning
  smile　and　began　again。　“Please　excuse　me；　it　was　a　terribly
  long　flight。　Will　someone　please　tell　me　where　I　may　find
  Miranda？”
  “Of　course；　mademoiselle。　She　is　in　her　suite　and　from　what　I
  can　gather；　very　eager　to　see　you。”　When　I　looked　over　at
  Monsieur　Renaud　I　thought　I　detected　a　slight　eye…roll　and
  even　though　I’d　always　found　him　oppressively　proper　over　the
  phone；　I　reconsidered。　Although　he　was　much　too　professional
  to　show　it；　never　mind　actually　say　anything；　I　considered
  that　he　might　loathe　Miranda　as　much　as　I　did。　Not　because　of
  any　real　proof　I　had；　but　simply　because　it　was　impossible　to
  imagine　anyonenot　hating　her。
  The　elevator　opened　and　Monsieur　Renaud　smiled　and　ushered　me
  inside。　He　said　something　in　French　to　the　bellman　who　was
  escorting　me　upstairs。　Renaud　bid　me　adieu　and　the　bellman　led
  me　to　Miranda’s　suite。　He　knocked　on　the　door　and　then　fled；
  leaving　me　to　face　Miranda　alone。
  I　briefly　wondered　if　Miranda　herself　would　answer　the　door；
  but　it　was　impossible　to　imagine。　In　the　eleven　months　I’d
  been　letting　myself　in　and　out　of　her　apartment；　I’d　yet　to
  catch　her　doing　anything　that　even　resembled　work；　including
  such　pedestrian　tasks　as　answering　the　phone；　removing　a
  jacket　from　a　closet；　or　pouring　a　glass　of　water。　It　was　as
  if　her　every　day　wasShabbat　and　she　was　once　again　the
  observant　Jew；　and　I　was；　of　course；　herShabbes　goy　。
  A　pretty；　uniformed　maid　opened　the　door　and　ushered　me
  inside；　her　sad　eyes　moist　and　staring　directly　at　the　floor。
  “Ahn…dre…ah！”　I　heard　from　somewhere　in　the　deep　recesses　of
  the　most　magnificent　living　room　I’d　ever　seen。　“Ahn…dre…ah；
  I’ll　need　my　Chanel　suit　pressed　for　tonight；　since　it　was
  practically　ruined　with　wrinkles　on　the　flight　over。　You’d
  think　the　Concorde　would　know　how　to　handle　luggage；　but　my
  things　look　dreadful。　Also；　call　Horace　Mann　and　confirm　that
  the　girls　made　it　to　school。　You’ll　be　doing　that　every　day—I
  just　don’t　trust　that　Annabelle。　Make　sure　you　speak　to　both
  Caroline　and　Cassidy　each　night　and　write　out　a　list　of　their
  Homework　assignments　and　uping　exams。　I’ll　expect　a　written
  report　in　the　morning；　right　before　breakfast。　Oh；　and　get
  Senator　Schumer　on　the　phone　immediately。　It’s　urgent。　Lastly；
  I　need　you　to　contact　that　idiot　Renuad　and　tell　him　I　expect
  him　to　supply　me　with　petent　staff　during　my　stay；　and　if
  that’s　too　difficult　I’m　sure　the　general　manager　would　be
  able　to　assist　me。　That　dumb　girl　he　sent　me　is　mentally
  challenged。”
  My　eyes　swiveled　to　the　sorrowful　girl　who　was　currently
  cowering　in　the　foyer；　looking　as　fearful　as　a　cornered
  hamster　as　she　trembled　and　tried　not　to　cry。　I　had　to　assume
  she　understood　English；　so　I　shot　her　my　best　sympathetic
  look；　but　she　just　continued　to　shake。　I　looked　around　the
  room　and　tried　desperately　to　remember　everything　Miranda　had
  just　rattled　off。
  “Will　do；”　I　called　in　the　general　direction　of　her　voice；
  past　the　baby　grand　piano　and　the　seventeen　separate　flower
  arrangements　that　had　been　lovingly　placed　around　the
  house…size　suite。　“I’ll　be　back　in　just　a　moment　with
  everything　you’ve　asked　for。”　I　quietly　berated　myself　for
  ending　a　sentence　with　a　preposition　and　took　one　last　look
  around　the　magnificent　room。　It　was；　undoubtedly；　the
  plushest；　most　luxurious　place　I’d　ever　seen；　with　its　brocade
  curtains；　thick；　cream…colored　carpeting；　richly　woven　damask
  bedspread　on　the　king…size　bed；　and　gold　painted　figurines
  tucked　discreetly　on　mahogany　shelves　and　tables。　Only　a
  flat…screen　TV　and　a　sleek；　silver　stereo　system　gave　any
  indication　that　the　entire　place　hadn’t　been　created　and
  designed　in　the　previous　century　by　highly　skilled　craftsmen
  plying　their　trade。
  I　ducked　past　the　quaking　maid　and　into　the　hallway。　The
  terrified　bellman　had　reappeared。
  “Could　you　show　me　to　my　room；　please？”　I　asked　as　kindly　as　I
  could；　but　he　clearly　thought　that　I　would　be　abusing　him　as
  well；　and　so　once　again　he　scurried　ahead　of　me。
  “Here；　mademoiselle；　I　hope　this　is　acceptable。”
  About　twenty　yards　down　the　hall　was　a　door　without　a　separate
  number　on　it。　It　opened　to　a　minisuite；　nearly　an　exact
  replica　of　Miranda’s　but　with　a　smaller　living　room　and　a
  queen…size　bed　instead　of　a　king。　A　large　mahogany　desk
  outfitted　with　a　multiline　corporate…style　phone；　sleek
  desktop　puter；　laser　printer；　scanner；　and　fax　machine　had
  taken　the　place　of　the　baby　grand　piano；　but　otherwise　the
  rooms　were　remarkably　similar　in　their　rich；　soothing　décor。
  “Miss；　this　door　leads　to　the　private　hallway　connecting　your
  room　and　Ms。　Priestly’s；”　he　explained　as　he　moved　to　open　the
  door。
  “No！　It’s　fine；　I　don’t　need　to　see　it。　Just　knowing　it’s
  there　is　good　enough。”　I　glanced　at　the　engraved　nametag
  placed　discreetly　on　the　pocket　of　his　well…pressed　uniform
  shirt。　“Thank　you；　uh；　Stephan。”　I　rooted　around　in　my　bag　for
  cash　to　tip　him　but　realized　that　I’d　never　thought　to　change
  my　American　dollars　to　euros　and　hadn’t　yet　stopped　at　an　ATM。
  “Oh；　I’m　sorry；　I；　uh；　only　have　American　dollars。　Is　that
  OK？”
  ?