bee　like　this？
  There　was　no　energy　left　to　point　out　the　obvious　to　him；
  namely；　that　if　I　left　early　to　e　Home；　I’d　be　fired
  immediately　and　my　entire　year　of　servitude　would　have　been
  for　nothing。　I　had　managed　to　suppress　that　awful　thought
  before　it　took　full　form　in　my　mind：　that　my　being　there　or
  not　being　there　would　mean　absolutely　nothing　to　Lily　right
  now；　since　she　was　unconscious　and　unaware　in　a　hospital　bed。
  The　options　swirled　around　in　my　mind。　Perhaps　I　would　stay
  just　long　enough　to　help　with　the　party　and　then　try　to
  explain　to　Miranda　what　happened　and　make　a　plea　for　my　job。
  Or；　if　it　appeared　that　Lily　was　awake　and　alert；　someone
  could　explain　that　I　would　be　on　my　way　as　soon　as　possible；
  at　that　point　probably　just　a　couple　more　days。　And　while　both
  of　these　explanations　sounded　somewhat　reasonable　in　the　dark
  hours　of　early　morning　after　a　long　night　of　dancing　and　many
  glasses　of　bubbly　and　a　phone　call　telling　me　my　best　friend
  was　in　a　a　because　of　her　own　drunk　driving；　somewhere　down
  deep　I　knew—I　knew—that　neither　of　them　was。
  “Ahn…dre…ah；　leave　a　message　at　Horace　Mann　that　the　girls
  will　be　missing　school　on　Monday　because　they’ll　be　in　Paris
  with　me；　and　make　sure　you　get　a　list　of　all　the　work　they’ll
  need　to　make　up。　Also；　push　back　my　dinner　tonight　until
  eight…thirty；　and　if　they’re　not　happy　about　that；　then　just
  cancel　it。　Have　you　located　a　copy　of　that　book　I　asked　you
  for　yesterday？　I　need　four　copies—two　in　French；　two　in
  English—before　I　meet　them　at　the　restaurant。　Oh；　and　I　want　a
  final　copy　of　the　edited　menu　for　tomorrow’s　party　to　reflect
  the　changes　I　made。　Make　certain　that　there　will　be　no　sushi
  of　any　kind；　do　you　hear　me？”
  “Yes；　Miranda；”　I　said；　scribbling　as　quickly　as　possible　in
  the　Smythson　notebook　the　accessories　department　had
  thoughtfully　included　with　my　array　of　bags；　shoes；　belts；　and
  jewelry。　We　were　in　the　car　on　our　way　to　the　Dior　show—my
  first—with　Miranda　spitting　out　rapid…fire　instructions　with
  no　regard　for　the　fact　that　I’d　gotten　less　than　two　hours　of
  sleep。　The　knock　on　my　door　came　at　7：45A　。M。　from　one　of
  Monsieur　Renaud’s　junior　concierges　who　was　there　personally
  to　wake　me　up　and　see　that　I　was　dressed　in　time　to　attend　the
  show　with　Miranda；　who　had　herself　decided　she’d　like　my
  assistance　just　six　minutes　earlier。　He　had　politely　ignored
  my　being　quite　obviously　passed　out　on　the　still　made　bed　and
  had　even　dimmed　the　lights；　which　had　blazed　all　night。　I　had
  twenty…five　minutes　to　shower；　consult　the　fashion　book；　dress
  myself；　and　do　my　own　makeup；　since　my　woman　was　not　scheduled
  to　e　this　early。
  I　awoke　with　a　minor　champagne　headache；　but　the　real　jolt　of
  pain　came　when　the　previous　night’s　phone　calls　came　flashing
  back。　Lily！　I　needed　to　call　Alex　or　my　parents　and　see　if
  anything　had　happened　in　the　last　couple　hours—god；　it　seemed
  like　a　week　ago—but　now　there　was　no　time。
  By　the　time　the　elevator　had　hit　the　first　floor；　I’d　decided
  that　I　had　to　stay　for　one　more　day；　just　one　lousy　day　to
  tend　to　this　party；　and　then　I’d　be　Home　with　Lily。　Maybe　I’d
  even　take　a　short　leave　of　absence　once　Emily　returned；　to
  spend　some　time　with　Lil；　help　her　recuperate　and　deal　with
  some　of　the　inevitable　fallout　from　the　accident。　My　parents
  and　Alex　would　hold　down　the　fort　until　I　got　there—it’s　not
  as　though　she’s　all　alone；I　told　myself。　And　this　was　my　life。
  My　career；　my　entire　future；　was　on　the　line　here；　and　I
  didn’t　see　how　two　days　either　way　made　all　that　much
  difference　to　someone　who　wasn’t　yet　conscious。　But　to　me—and
  certainly　to　Miranda—it　made　all　the　difference　in　the　world。
  Somehow　I’d　made　it　to　the　backseat　of　the　limo　before　Miranda
  did；　and　even　though　her　eyes　were　currently　fixating　on　my
  chiffon　skirt；　she　hadn’t　yet　mented　on　any　one　part　of　the
  outfit。　I　had　just　tucked　the　Smythson　book　into　my　Bottega
  Venetta　bag　when　my　new；　international　Cell　Phone　rang。　It　had
  never　rung　in　Miranda’s　presence　before；　I　realized；　so　I
  scrambled　quickly　to　turn　off　the　ringer；　but　she　ordered　me
  to　answer　it。
  “Hello？”　I　kept　one　eye　on　Miranda；　who　was　paging　through　the
  day’s　itinerary　and　pretending　not　to　listen。
  “Andy；　hi　honey。”　Dad。　“Just　wanted　to　give　you　a　quick
  update。”
  “OK。”　I　was　trying　to　say　the　bare　minimum；　since　it　seemed
  incredibly　strange　to　be　talking　on　the　phone　in　front　of
  Miranda。
  “The　doctor　just　called　and　said　that　Lily　is　showing　signs
  that　indicate　she　may　e　out　of　it　soon。　Isn’t　that　great？　I
  thought　you’d　want　to　know。”
  “That’s　great。　Definitely　great。”
  “Have　you　decided　if　you’re　ing　Home　or　not？”
  “Um；　no；　I　haven’t　decided。　Miranda’s　having　a　party　tomorrow
  night　and　she　definitely　needs　my　help；　so　。　。　。　Listen；　Dad；
  I’m　sorry；　but　now’s　not　a　great　time。　Can　I　call　you　back？”
  “Sure；　call　anytime。”　He　tried　to　sound　neutral；　but　I　could
  hear　the　disappointment　in　his　voice。
  “Great。　Thanks　for　calling。　’Bye。”
  “Who　was　that？”　Miranda　asked；　still　peering　at　her　itinerary。
  It　had　just　begun　raining　and　her　voice　was　nearly　drowned　out
  by　the　sound　of　water　hitting　the　limo。
  “Hmm？　Oh；　that　was　my　father。　From　America。”　Where　the　hell
  did　I　e　up　with　this　stuff？　FromAmerica　？
  “And　what　did　he　want　you　to　do　that　conflicted　with　your
  working　at　the　party　tomorrow　night？”
  I　considered　a　million　potential　lies　in　the　course　of　two
  seconds；　but　there　wasn’t　enough　time　to　work　out　the　details
  of　any　of　them。　Especially　when　she　had　turned　her　full
  attention　to　me　now。　I　was　left　with　no　choice　but　to　tell　the
  truth。
  “Oh；　it　was　nothing。　A　friend　of　mine　was　in　an　accident。
  She’s　in　the　hospital。　In　a　a；　actually。　And　he　was　just
  calling　to　tell　me　how　she　was　doing　and　to　see　if　I　was
  ing　Home。”
  She　considered　this；　nodding　slowly；　and　then　picked　up　the
  copy　of　theInternational　Herald　Tribune　paper　the　driver　had
  thoughtfully　provided。　“I　see。”　No　“I’m　sorry；”　or　“Is　your
  friend　OK？；”　just　an　icy；　vague　statement　and　a　look　of
  extreme　displeasure。
  “But　I’m　not；　I’m　definitely　not　going　Home。　I　understand　how
  important　it　is　that　I’m　at　the　party　tomorrow；　and　I’ll　be
  there。　I’ve　thought　a　lot　about　it；　and　I　want　you　to　know
  that　I　plan　to　honor　the　mitment　I’ve　made　to　you　and　to　my
  job；　so　I’ll　be　staying。”
  At　first　Miranda　said　nothing。　But　then　she　smiled　slightly
  and　said；　“Ahn…dre…ah；　I’m　very　pleased　with　your　decision。　It
  is　absolutely　the　right　thing　to　do；　and　I　appreciate　that　you
  recognize　that。　Ahn…dre…ah；　I　have　to　say；　I　had　my　doubts
  about　you　from　the　start。　Clearly；　you　know　nothing　about
  fashion　and　more　than　that；　you　don’t　seem　to　care。　And　don’t
  think　I’ve　failed　to　notice　all　the　rich　and　varied　ways　you
  convey　to　me　your　displeasure　when　I　ask　you　to　do　something
  that　you’d　rather　not。　Your　petency　in　the　job　has　been
  adequate；　but　your　attitude　has　been　substandard　at　best。”
  “Oh；　Miranda；　please　let　me—”
  “I’m　speaking！　And　I　was　going　to　say　that　I’ll　be　much　more
  willing　to　help　you　get　where　you’d　like　to　go　now　that　you’ve
  demonstrated　that　you’re　mitted。　You　should　be　proud　of
  yourself；　Ahn…dre…ah。”　Just　when　I　thought　I’d　faint　from　the
  length　and　depth　and　content　of　the　soliloquy—whether　from　joy
  or　from　pain；　I　wasn’t　sure—she　took　it　one　step　further。　In　a
  move　that　was　so　fundamentally　out　of　character　for　this　woman
  on　every　level；　she　placed　her　hand　on　top　of　the　one　I　had
  resting　on　the　seat　between　us　and　said；　“You　remind　me　of
  myself　when　I　was　your　age。”　And　before　I　could　conjure　up　a
  single　appropriate　syllable　to　utter；　the　driver　screeched　to
  a　halt　in　front　of　the　Carrousel　du　Louvre　and　leapt　out　to
  open　the　doors。　I　grabbed　my　bag　and　hers　as　well　and　wondered
  if　this　was　the　proudest　or　the　most　humiliating　moment　of　my
  life。
  My　first　Parisian　fashion　show　was　a　blur。　It　was　dark；　that
  much　I　remember；　and　the　music　seemed　much　too　loud　for　such
  understated　elegance；　but　the　only　thing　that　stands　out　from
  that　two…hour　window　into　bizarreness　was　my　own　intense
  disfort。　The　Chanel　boots　that　Jocelyn　had　so　lovingly
  selected　to　go　with　the　outfit—a　stretchy　and　therefore
  skintight　cashmere　sweater　by　Malo　over　a　chiffon　skirt—made
  my　feet　feel　like　confidential　documents　being　fed　through　a
  shredder。　My　head　ached　from　a　bination　of　hangover　and