for　it。　Exactly　forty　minutes　had　passed　since　I’d　received　my
  marching　orders。　It　was　time　to　see　if　I’d　passed。
  A　different—but　equally　as　terrified—maid　answered　Miranda’s
  door　and　ushered　me　into　the　living　room。　Obviously；　I
  should’ve　remained　standing；　but　the　leather　pants　I’d　been
  wearing　since　the　day　before　felt　like　they　were　permanently
  stuck　to　my　legs；　and　the　strappy　sandals　that　hadn’t　bothered
  me　so　much　on　the　plane　were　beginning　to　feel　like　long；
  flexible　razor　blades　affixed　to　my　heels　and　toes。　I　chose　to
  perch　on　the　overstuffed　couch；　but　the　moment　my　knees　bent
  and　my　butt　made　contact　with　the　cushion；　her　bedroom　door
  flew　open　and　I　instinctively　launched　to　my　feet。
  “Where’s　my　speech？”　she　asked　automatically；　while　yet
  another　maid　followed　after　her　holding　a　single　earring　that
  Miranda　had　forgotten　to　put　in。　“You　did　write　something；　did
  you　not？”　She　was　wearing　one　of　her　classic　Chanel
  suits—round　collars　with　fur　trim—and　a　looping　strand　of
  extraordinarily　large　pearls。
  “Of　course；　Miranda；”　I　said　proudly。　“I　think　this　will　be
  appropriate。”　I　walked　toward　her　since　she　was　making　no
  effort　to　retrieve　it　herself；　but　before　I　could　offer　her
  the　paper　she　snatched　it　from　my　hand。　I　didn’t　realize　until
  her　eyes　had　finished　moving　back　and　forth　that　I’d　been
  holding　my　breath。
  “Fine。　This　is　fine。　Certainly　nothing　groundbreaking；　but
  fine。　Let’s　go。”　She　picked　up　a　matching　quilted　Chanel　purse
  and　placed　the　chain　handle　over　her　shoulder。
  “Pardon？”
  “I　said；　let’s　go。　This　silly　little　ceremony　starts　in
  fifteen　minutes；　and　with　any　luck　we’ll　be　out　of　there　in
  twenty。　I　truly　loathe　these　things。”
  There　was　no　way　to　deny　that　I’d　heard　her　say　both　“let’s”
  and　“we”：　I　was　definitely　expected　to　go　with　her。　I　glanced
  down　at　my　leather　pants　and　fitted　blazer　and　figured　that　if
  she　had　no　problem　with　it—and　I　certainly　would’ve　heard　if
  she　had—then　what　did　it　really　matter？　There　would　probably
  be　fleets　of　assistants　roaming　around；　tending　to　their
  bosses；　and　surely　no　one　would　care　what　we　were　wearing。
  The　“salon”　was　exactly　what　Briget　had　said　it　would　be—a
  typical　hotel　meeting　room；　plete　with　a　couple　dozen　round
  luncheon　tables　and　a　slightly　raised　presentation　stage　with
  a　podium。　I　stood　along　the　back　wall　with　a　few　other
  employees　of　various　kinds　and　watched　as　the　president　of　the
  council　showed　an　incredibly　unfunny；　uninteresting；　wholly
  uninspired　movie　clip　on　how　fashion　affects　all　of　our　lives。
  A　few　more　people　hogged　the　mike　for　the　next　half　hour；　and
  then；　before　a　single　award　had　been　presented；　an　army　of
  waiters　began　bringing　out　salads　and　filling　wine　glasses。　I
  looked　warily　at　Miranda；　who　appeared　acutely　bored　and
  irritated；　and　tried　to　shrink　smaller　behind　the　potted　tree
  I　was　currently　leaning　against　to　keep　from　falling　asleep。　I
  can’t　be　sure　how　long　my　eyes　were　closed；　but　just　as　I　lost
  all　control　of　my　neck　muscles　and　my　head　started　to　nod
  forward　uncontrollably；　I　heard　her　voice。
  “Ahn…dre…ah！　I　don’t　have　time　for　this　nonsense；”　she
  whispered　loudly　enough　that　a　few　Clackers　from　a　nearby
  table　glanced　up。　“I　wasn’t　told　that　I　would　be　receiving　an
  award；　and　I　wasn’t　prepared　to　do　so。　I’m　leaving。”　And　she
  turned　around　and　began　striding　toward　the　door。
  I　hobbled　after　her　but　thought　better　of　grabbing　her
  shoulder。　“Miranda？　Miranda？”　She　was　clearly　ignoring　me。
  “Miranda？　Whom　would　you　like　to　accept　the　award　on　behalf
  ofRunway　？”　I　whispered　as　quietly　as　I　could　and　still　have
  her　hear　me。
  She　whipped　around　and　stared　me　straight　in　the　eyes。　“Do　you
  think　I　care？　Go　up　there　and　accept　it　yourself。”　And　before
  I　could　say　another　word；　she　was　gone。
  Oh　my　god。　This　wasn’t　happening。　I　would　surely　wake　up　in　my
  own；　unglamorous；　negative…thread…count…sheeted　bed　in　just　a
  minute　and　discover　that　the　entire　day—hell；　the　entire
  year—had　just　been　a　particularly　horrid　dream。　That　woman
  didn’t　really　expect　me—thejunior　assistant—to　go　up　there　and
  accept　an　award　forRunway　’s　fashion　coverage；　did　she？　I
  looked　around　the　room　frantically　to　see　if　anyone　else
  fromRunway　was　attending　the　lunch。　No　such　luck。　I　slumped
  down　in　a　seat　and　tried　to　figure　out　whether　I　should　call
  Emily　or　Briget　for　advice；　or　whether　I　should　just　leave
  myself　since　Miranda　apparently　cared　nothing　about　receiving
  this　honor。　My　Cell　Phone　had　just　connected　to　Briget’s
  office　（who　I　was　hoping　could　make　it　over　there　in　time　to
  take　the　goddamn　award　herself）　when　I　heard　the　words　“。　。　。
  extend　our　deepest　appreciation　to　AmericanRunway　for　its
  accurate；　amusing；　and　always　informative　fashion　coverage。
  Please　wele　its　world…famous　editor　in　chief；　a　living
  fashion　icon　herself；　Ms。　Miranda　Priestly！”
  The　room　erupted　into　applause　at　precisely　the　same　moment　I
  felt　my　heart　stop　beating。
  There　was　no　time　to　think；　to　curse　Briget　for　letting　this
  all　happen；　to　curse　Miranda　for　leaving　and　taking　the　speech
  with　her；　to　curse　myself　for　ever　accepting　this　hateful　job
  in　the　first　place。　My　legs　moved　forward　on　their
  own；left…right；　left…right；　and　climbed　the　three　steps　to　the
  podium　with　no　incident　whatsoever。　Had　I　not　been　utterly
  shell…shocked；　I　might　have　noticed　that　the　enthusiastic
  clapping　had　given　way　to　an　eerie　silence　as　everyone　tried
  to　figure　out　who　I　was。　But　I　didn’t。　Instead；　some　greater
  force　prompted　me　to　smile；　reach　out　to　take　the　plaque　from
  the　severe…looking　president’s　hands；　and　place　it　shakingly
  on　the　podium　in　front　of　me。　It　wasn’t　until　I　lifted　my　head
  and　saw　hundreds　of　eyes　staring　back—curious；　probing；
  confused　eyes；　all　of　them—that　I　knew　for　sure　I　would　cease
  breathing　and　die　right　there。
  I　imagine　I　stood　like　that　for　no　longer　than　ten　or　fifteen
  seconds；　but　the　silence　was　so　overwhelming；　so
  all…consuming；　that　I　wondered　if　I　had；　in　fact；　died
  already。　No　one　uttered　a　word。　No　silver　scraped　plates；　no
  glasses　clinked；　no　one　even　whispered　to　a　neighbor　about　who
  was　standing　in　for　Miranda　Priestly。　They　just　watched　me；
  moment　after　moment；　until　I　was　left　with　no　choice　but　to
  speak。　I　didn’t　remember　a　word　of　the　speech　that　I　had
  written　an　hour　earlier；　so　I　was　on　my　own。
  “Hello；”　I　began　and　heard　my　voice　reverberate　in　my　ears。　I
  couldn’t　tell　if　it　was　the　microphone　or　the　sound　of　blood
  pounding　inside　my　head；　but　it　didn’t　matter。　The　only　thing
  I　could　hear　for　sure　was　that　it　was　shaking—uncontrollably。
  “My　name　is　Andrea　Sachs　and　I’m　Mir—uh；　I’m　on　staff　atRunway
  。　Unfortunately；　Miranda；　um；　Ms。　Priestly　had　to　step　out　for
  a　moment；　but　I　would　like　to　accept　this　award　on　her　behalf。
  And；　of　course；　on　behalf　of　everyone　atRunway　。　Thank　you；
  um”—I　couldn’t　remember　the　name　of　the　council　or　the
  president　here—“all　so　much　for　this；　uh；　this　wonderful
  honor。　I　know　I　speak　for　everyone　when　I　say　that　we　are　all
  so　honored。”　Idiot！　I　was　stuttering　and　um…ing　and　shaking；
  and　I　was　even　conscious　enough　at　this　point　to　notice　that
  the　crowd　had　begun　to　twitter。　Without　another　word；　I　walked
  in　as　dignified　a　manner　as　I　could　manage　from　the　podium　and
  didn’t　realize　until　I’d　reached　the　back　doors　that　I’d
  forgotten　the　plaque。　A　staffer　followed　me　to　the　lobby；
  where　I’d　just　collapsed　in　a　fit　of　exhaustion　and
  humiliation；　and　handed　it　to　me。　I　waited　until　she　left　and
  asked　one　of　the　janitors　to　throw　it　out。　He　shrugged　and
  tossed　it　in　his　bag。
  That　bitch！I　thought；　too　angry　and　tired　to　conjure　up　any
  really　creative　names　or　methods　of　ending　her　life。　My　phone
  rang　and；　knowing　it　was　her；　I　turned　off　the　ringer　and
  ordered　a　gin　and　tonic　from　one　of　the　front　desk　people。
  “Please。　Please　just　have　someone　send　one　out。　Please。”　The
  woman　took　one　look　at　me　and　nodded。　I　sucked　the　entire
  thing　down　in　just　two　long　gulps　and　headed　back　upstairs　to
  see　what　she　wanted。　It　was　only　two　in　the　afternoon　of　my
  first　day　in　Paris；　and　I　wanted　to　die。　Only　death　was　not　an
  option。
  17
  “Miranda　Priestly’s　room；”　I　answered　from　my　new　Parisian
  office。　My　four　glorious　hours　that　were　supposed　to
  constitute　a　full　night’s　sleep　had　been　rudely　interrupted　by
  a　frantic　c