table；　just　waiting　for　a　lost　fashion　victim　like　myself　to
  turn　to　it　for　spiritual　guidance。　I　flipped　through　the
  headings　and　subheadings　and　tried　to　make　sense　of　it　all。
  Shows：
  1。　Daytime
  2。　Evening
  Meals：
  1。　Breakfast　meeting
  2。　Lunch
  A。　Casual　（hotel　or　bistro）
  B。　Formal　（The　Espadon　in　the　Ritz）
  3。　Dinner
  A。　Casual　（bistro；　room　service）
  B。　Midrange　（decent　restaurant；　casual　dinner　party）
  C。　Formal　（Le　Grand　Vefour　restaurant；　formal　dinner
  party）
  Parties：
  1。　Casual　（champagne　breakfasts；　afternoon　teas）
  2。　Stylish　（cocktail　parties　by　nonmajor　people；　book　parties；
  “meet　for　drinks”）
  3。　Dressy　（cocktail　parties　by　major　people；　anything　at　a
  museum　or　gallery；　postshow　parties　hosted　by　design　team）
  Miscellaneous：
  1。　To　and　from　the　airport
  2。　Athletic　events　（lessons；　tournaments；　etc。）
  3。　Shopping　excursions
  4。　Running　errands
  A。　To　couture　salons
  B。　To　upscale　shops　and　boutiques
  C。　To　the　local　food　store　and/or　health　and　beauty　aid
  There　didn’t　appear　to　be　any　suggestions　for　what　to　wear
  when　one　was　unable　to　establish　the　major…ness　or
  non…major…ness　of　the　hosts。　Clearly；　there　was　the
  opportunity　to　make　a　big　mistake　here：　I　could　narrow　the
  event　down　to　“Parties；”　which　was　a　good　first　step；　but　at
  that　point　things　got　gray。　Was　this　party　going　to　be　a
  simple　number　2；　where　I’d　just　pull　out　something　chic；　or
  was　it　really　a　3；　in　which　case　I’d　better　pay　attention　to
  choose　something　from　the　more　elegant　choices？　There　were　no
  instructions　for　“gray　area”　or　“uncertainty；”　but　someone　had
  helpfully　included　a　last…minute　handwritten　note　toward　the
  bottom　of　the　table　of　contents：When　in　doubt　（and　you　never
  should　be）；　better　to　be　underdressed　in　something　fabulous
  than　overdressed　in　something　fabulous。　Well；　OK　then；　it
  looked　like　I　now　squarely　fit　into　category；　party；
  subcategory；　stylish。　I　turned　to　the　six　looks　that　Lucia　had
  sketched　for　that　specific　description　and　tried　to　figure　out
  what　might　look　less　ridiculous　once　it　was　actually　on。
  After　a　particularly　embarrassing　run…in　with　a
  feather…covered　tank　top　and　patent…leather　thigh…high　（as　in
  yes；　over　the　knee）　boots；　I　finally　selected　the　outfit　on
  page　thirty…three；　a　flowy　patchwork　skirt　by　Roberto　Cavalli
  with　a　baby…T　and　a　pair　of　biker…chick　black　boots　by　D&G。
  Hot；　sexy；　stylish—but　not　too　dressy—without　actually　making
  me　look　like　an　ostrich；　an　eighties　throwback；　or　a　hooker。
  What　more　could　you　ask　for？　Just　as　I　was　attempting　to
  choose　a　workable　bag；　the　hair　and　makeup　woman　showed　up　to
  begin　her　frowning　and　disapproving　attempts　at　making　me　not
  look　half　as　horrific　as　she　clearly　thought　I　did。
  “Um；　could　you　maybe　lighten　the　stuff　under　my　eyes　just　a
  little？”　I　asked　carefully；　desperately　trying　not　disparage
  her　handiwork。　It　probably　would’ve　been　better　to　have　a　go
  at　the　makeup　myself—　especially　since　I　had　more　supplies　and
  instructions　than　the　NASA　scientists　missioned　to　build
  the　space　shuttle—but　the　Makeup　Gestapo　showed　up　like
  clockwork　whether　I　liked　it　or　not。
  “No！”　she　barked；　clearly　not　striving　for　the　same
  sensitivity　as　myself。　“It　looks　better　this　way。”
  She　finished　painting　on　the　thick　black　paint　along　my　bottom
  lashes　and　vanished　as　quickly　as　she’d　arrived；　I　grabbed　my
  bag　（alligator　Gucci　bowling　bag）　and　headed　to　the　lobby
  fifteen　minutes　before　our　estimated　time　of　departure　so　I
  could　double…check　that　the　driver　was　ready。　Just　as　I　was
  debating　with　Renaud　whether　Miranda　would　prefer　for　us　to
  each　take　separate　cars　so　she　wouldn’t　have　to　speak　to　me　or
  actually　use　the　same　one　and　risk　catching　something　from
  sharing　a　backseat　with　her　assistant；　she　appeared。　She
  looked　me　up　and　down　very　slowly；　her　expression　remaining
  pletely　passive　and　indifferent。　I’d　passed！　This　was　the
  first　time　since　I’d　started　working　there　that　I　hadn’t
  received　a　look　of　all…out　disgust　or；　at　the　very　least；　a
  snarky　ment；　and　all　it　had　taken　was　a　SWAT　team　of　New
  York　fashion　editors；　a　collection　of　Parisian　hair　and　makeup
  stylists；　and　a　hefty　selection　of　the　world’s　finest　and　most
  expensive　clothing。
  “Is　the　car　here；　Ahn…dre…ah？”　She　looked　stunning　in　a　short；
  shirred　velvet　cocktail　dress。
  “Yes；　Ms。　Priestly；　right　this　way；”　Monsieur　Renaud
  interrupted　smoothly；　leading　us　past　a　group　of　what　could
  only　be　other　American　fashion　editors　also　there　for　the
  shows。　A　deferential　hush　fell　over　the　super…hip…looking
  crowd　ofüber　…Clackers　when　we　walked　past；　Miranda　two　steps
  in　front　me；　looking　thin　and　striking　and　very；　very　unhappy。
  I　nearly　had　to　run　to　keep　up；　even　though　she　was　six　inches
  shorter　than　me；　and　I　waited　until　she　gave　me　a　“Well？　What
  the　hell　are　you　waiting　for？”　look　before　I　ducked　into　the
  backseat　of　the　limo　after　her。
  Thankfully　the　driver　appeared　to　know　where　he　was　going；
  because　I’d　been　paranoid　for　the　past　hour　that　she　would
  turn　to　me　and　ask　me　where　the　unknown　cocktail　party　was
  being　held。　She　did　turn　to　me；　but　she　said　nothing；　choosing
  instead　to　chat　with　B…DAD　on　her　Cell　Phone；　repeating　over
  and　over　that　she　expected　him　to　arrive　with　plenty　of　time
  to　change　and　have　a　drink　before　the　big　party　on　Saturday
  night。　He　was　flying　over　in　his　pany’s　private　jet；　and
  they　were　currently　debating　whether　or　not　to　bring　Caroline
  and　Cassidy；　since　he　wouldn’t　be　returning　until　Monday；　she
  didn’t　want　the　girls　to　have　to　miss　a　day　of　school。　It
  wasn’t　until　we’d　actually　pulled　up　in　front　of　a　duplex
  apartment　on　Boulevard　Saint　Germain　that　I　wondered　what　it
  was　exactly　that　I　was　supposed　to　do　all　night。　She’d　always
  been　rather　good　about　not　abusing　Emily　or　me　or　any　of　her
  staff　in　public；　which　indicated—at　least　on　some　level—that
  she　knew　she　was　doing　it　in　the　first　place。　So　if　she
  couldn’t　really　order　me　to　fetch　her　drinks　or　find　her
  someone　on　the　phone　or　have　something　dry…cleaned　while　we
  were　standing　there；　what　was　I　to　do？
  “Ahn…dre…ah；　this　party　is　being　hosted　by　a　couple　with　whom
  I　was　friendly　when　we　lived　in　Paris。　They　requested　that　I
  bring　along　an　assistant　to　entertain　their　son；　who　generally
  finds　these　events　rather　dull。　I’m　sure　the　two　of　you　will
  get　along　well。”　She　waited　until　the　driver　opened　her　door；
  then　she　daintily　stepped　out　in　her　perfect　Jimmy　Choo　pumps。
  Before　I　could　open　my　own　door；　she　had　climbed　the　three
  steps　and　was　already　handing　her　coat　to　the　butler；　who　was
  clearly　awaiting　her　arrival。　I　slumped　back　into　the　soft
  leather　seat　for　just　a　minute；　trying　to　process　this　new　gem
  of　information　she’d　so　coolly　relayed。　The　hair；　the　makeup；
  the　rescheduling；　the　panicked　consultation　with　the　style
  book；　the　biker…chick　boots；　were　all　so　I　could　spend　the
  night　babysitting　some　rich　couple’s　snot…nosed　kid？　And
  aFrench　snot…nosed　kid；　no　less。
  I　spent　three　full　minutes　reminding　myself　thatThe　New　Yorker
  was　now　only　a　couple　months　away；　that　my　year　of　servitude
  was　about　to　pay　off；　that　I　could　surely　make　it　through　one
  more　night　of　tedium　to　get　my　dream　job。　It　didn’t　help。　All
  of　a　sudden；　I　desperately　wanted　to　curl　up　on　my　parents’
  couch　and　have　my　mom　microwave　me　some　tea　while　my　dad　set
  up　the　Scrabble　board。　Jill　and　even　Kyle　would　be　visiting；
  too；　with　baby　Isaac；　who　would　coo　and　smile　when　he　saw　me
  and　Alex　would　call　and　tell　me　he　loved　me。　No　one　would　care
  that　my　sweatpants　were　stained　or　my　toes　were　frightfully
  unpedicured　or　that　I　was　eating　a　big；　fat　chocolate　éclair。
  Not　a　single　person　would　even　know　that　there　were　fashion
  shows　going　on　somewhere　across　the　Atlantic；　and　they　sure　as
  hell　wouldn’t　be　interested　in　hearing　about　them。　But　all　of
  that　seemed　incredibly　far　away；　a　lifetime　actually；　and
  right　now　I　had　to　contend　with　a　coterie　of　people　who　lived
  and　died　on　the　runway。　That；　and　what　was　sure　to　be　a
  screaming；　spoiled　little　boy　speaking　some　French　gibberish。
  When　I　finally　pulled　my　scantily…but…stylishly　clad　self　from
  the　limo；　the　butler　was　no　longer　expecting　anyone。　There　was
  music　ing　from　a　live　band　and　the　smell　of　scented　candles
  wafted　outside　from　a　window　above　the　small　garden。　I　took　a
  deep　breath　and　reached　up　to　knock；　but　the　door　swung　open。
  It’s