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ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world； but I was
clinging to the belief that my one…year sentence would suffice
forThe New Yorker 。 Allison had already left Miranda’s office area
for her new post in the beauty department； where she’d be
responsible for testing new makeup； moisturizers； and hair products
and writing them up。 I wasn’t sure how being Miranda’s assistant had
prepared her for this task； but I was impressed nonetheless。 The
promises were true： people who worked for Miranda got places。
The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten； about fifty in
all of editorial。 The biggest department was fashion； of course；
with close to thirty people； including all the accessories
assistants。 Features； beauty； and art rounded out the mix。 Nearly
everyone stopped by Miranda’s office to schmooze with Emily；
overhear any gossip concerning her boss； and check out the new girl。
I met dozens of people that first morning； everyone flashing
enormous； toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in
meeting me。
The men were all flamboyantly gay； adorning themselves in
second…skin leather pants and ribbed T’s that stretched over bulging
biceps and perfect pecs。 The art director； an older man sporting
champagne blond； thinning hair； who looked like he dedicated his
life to emulating Elton John； was turned out in rabbit…fur loafers
and eyeliner。 No one batted an eye。 We’d had gay groups on campus；
and I had a few friends who’d e out the past few years； but none
of them looked like this。 It was like being surrounded by the entire
cast and crew ofRent —with better costumes； of course。
The women； or rather the girls； were individually beautiful。
Collectively； they were mind…blowing。 Most appeared to be about
twenty…five； and few looked a day older than thirty。 While nearly
all of them had enormous； glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers；
it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—or ever
would。 In and out； in and out they walked gracefully on four…inch
skinny heels； sashaying over to my desk to extend milky…white hands
with long； manicured fingers； calling themselves “Jocelyn who works
with Hope；” “Nicole from fashion；” and “Stef who oversees
accessories。” Only one； Shayna； was shorter than five…nine； but she
was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of
height。 All weighed less than 110 pounds。
As I sat in my swivel chair； trying to remember everyone’s name； the
prettiest girl I’d seen all day swooped in。 She wore a rose…colored
cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds。 The
most amazing； white hair swirled down her back。 Her six…one frame
looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright；
but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer。 Her cheeks
glowed； and her multi…carat； flawless diamond engagement ring
emanated an incredible lightness。 I thought she’d caught me staring
at it； since she flung her hand under my nose。
“I created it；” she announced； smiling at her hand and looking at
me。 I looked to Emily for an explanation； a hint as to who this
might be； but she was on the phone again。 I thought the girl was
referring to the ring； meant that she had actually designed it； but
then she said； “Isn’t it a gorgeous color？ It’s one coat Marshmallow
and one coat Ballet Slipper。 Actually； Ballet Slipper came first；
and then a topcoat to finish it off。 It’s perfect—light colored
without looking like you painted your nails with White Out。 I think
I’ll use this every time I get a manicure！” And she turned on her
heels and walked out。Ah； yes； a pleasure to meet you； too； I
mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away。
I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers； everyone seemed kind and
sweet and； except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish
fetish； they all appeared interested in getting to know me。 Emily
hadn’t left my side yet； seizing every opportunity to teach me
something。 She provided running mentary on who was really
important； whom not to piss off； whom it was beneficial to befriend
because they threw the best parties。 When I described Manicure Girl；
Emily’s face lit up。
“Oh！” she breathed； more excited than I’d heard her about anyone
else yet。 “Isn’t she just amazing？”
“Um； yeah； she seemed nice。 We didn’t really get a chance to talk；
she was just； you know； showing me her nail polish。”
Emily smiled widely； proudly。 “Yes； well； you do know who she is；
don’t you？”
I wracked my brain； trying to remember if she looked like any movie
stars or singers or models； but I couldn’t place her。 So； she was
famous！ Maybe that’s why she hadn’t introduced herself—I was
supposed to recognize her。 But I didn’t。 “No； actually； I don’t。 Is
she famous？”
The stare I received in response was part disbelief； part disgust。
“Um；yeah； ” Emily said； emphasizing the “yeah” and squinting her
eyes as if to say；You total fucking idiot 。 “That is Jessica
Duchamps。” She waited。 I waited。 Nothing。 “You do know who that is；
right？” Again； I ran lists through my mind； trying to connect
something with this new information； but I was quite sure I’d never；
ever heard of her。 Besides； this game was getting old。
“Emily； I’ve never seen her before； and her name doesn’t sound
familiar。 Would you please tell me who she is？” I asked； struggling
to remain calm。 The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she
was； but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d
made me look like a plete and total loser。
Her smile this time was patronizing。 “Of course。 You just had to say
so。 Jessica Duchamps is； well； a Duchamps！ You know； as in the most
successful French restaurant in the city！ Her parents own it—isn’t
that crazy？ They are so unbelievably rich。”
“Oh； really？” I said； feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this
super…pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were
restaurateurs。 “That’s great。”
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s
office；” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself
would call and I wouldn’t know what to do。 Panic set in during a
call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a
strong British accent； and I threw the phone to Emily without
thinking to put it on hold first。
“It’s her；” I whispered urgently。 “Take it。”
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look。 Never one to
mince emotions； she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a
way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity。
“Miranda？ It’s Emily；” she said； a bright smile lighting up her face
as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her。
Silence。 A frown。 “Oh； Mimi； so sorry！ The new girl thought you were
Miranda！ I know； how funny。 I guess we have to work onnot thinking
every British accent is necessarily our boss！ ” She looked at me
pointedly； her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher。
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and
take messages for Emily； who would then call the people back—with
nonstop narration on their order of importance； if any； in Miranda’s
life。 About noon； just as the first hunger pangs were beginning； I
picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end。
“Hello？ Allison； is that you？” asked the icy…sounding but regal
voice。 “I’ll be needing a skirt。”
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide。
“Emily； it’s her； it’s definitely her；” I hissed； waving the
receiver to get her attention。 “She wants a skirt！”
Emily turned to see my panic…stricken face and promptly hung up the
phone without so much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good…bye。”
She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line； and plastered
on another wide grin。
“Miranda？ It’s Emily。 What can I do？” She put her pen to her pad and
began writing furiously； forehead furrowing intently。 “Yes； of
course。 Naturally。” And as fast as it happened； it was over。 I
looked at her expectantly。 She rolled her eyes at me for appearing
so eager。
“Well； it looks like you have your first job。 Miranda needs a skirt
for tomorrow； among other things； so we’ll need to get it on a plane
by tonight； at the latest。”
“OK； well； what kind does she need？” I asked； still reeling from the
shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic
simply because she’d requested it do so。
“She didn’t