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time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday； we were exhausted
and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating betweenWhen
Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday Night Live 。 It was so thoroughly
relaxing； such a departure from the misery that had bee my daily
routine； I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I
heard a phone ring on Sunday。 Ohmigod； it was Her！ I overheard Lily
speaking in Russian to someone； probably a classmate； on her Cell
Phone。 Thank you； thank you； thank you； dear lord： it wasn’t Her。
But that still didn’t let me off the hook。 It was already Sunday
morning； and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way
to Paris。 I had enjoyed my weekend so much—had actually managed to
relax enough—that I had forgotten to check。 Of course； my phone was
on and set to the highest ring level； but I never should’ve waited
for someone to call me with a problem； when of course it’d be too
late to do anything。 I should’ve taken preemptive action and
confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our
highly choreographed plan had worked。
I dug frantically through my overnight bag； searching for the cell
phone given to me byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven
digits away from Miranda。 I finally freed it from a tangle of
underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed。
The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at
that point； and I knew immediately； instinctively； that she had
called and it had gone directly to voice mail。 I hated that Cell
Phone with my entire soul。 I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen Home
phone by this point。 I hated Lily’s phone； mercials for phones；
pictures of phones in magazines； and I even hated Alexander Graham
Bell。 Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate
side effects in my day…to…day life； but the most unnatural one was
my severe and all…consuming hatred of phones。
For most people； the ringing of a phone was a wele sign。 Someone
was trying to reach them； to say hello； ask about their well…being；
or make plans。 For me； it triggered fear； intense anxiety； and
heart…stopping panic。 Some people considered the many available
phone features to be a novelty； even fun。 For me； they were nothing
short of imperative。 Although I’d never had so much as call waiting
before Miranda； a few days into my tenure atRunway I was signed up
for call waiting （so she’d never get a busy signal）； caller ID （so I
could avoid her calls）； call waiting with caller ID （so I could
avoid her calls while talking on the other line）； and voice mail （so
she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear
an answering machine message）。 Fifty bucks a month for phone
service—before long distance—seemed a small price to pay for my
peace of mind。 Well； not peace of mind exactly； more like early
warning。
The Cell Phone afforded me no such barriers。 Sure； it had all the
same features as the Home phone； but from Miranda’s point of view
there was simply no reasonwhatsoever for the cell to ever be turned
off。 It could never go unanswered。 The few reasons for such a
situation that I’d thrown out to Emily when she’d first handed me
the phone—a standardRunway office supply—and told me to always
answer it were quickly eliminated。
“What if you were sleeping？” I had stupidly asked。
“So get up and answer it；” she’d answered while filing down a
scraggly nail。
“Sitting down to a really fancy meal？”
“Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table。”
“Getting a pelvic exam？”
“They’re not looking in your ears； are they？” All right then。 I got
it。
I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it。 It kept me tied
to Miranda like an umbilical cord； refusing to let me grow up or out
or away from my source of suffocation。 She calledconstantly； and
like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry； my body had begun
responding viscerally to its ring。Brring…brring。 Increased heart
rate。Briiiing。 Automatic finger clenching and shoulder
tensing。Brriiiiiiiiiiiing。 Oh； why won’t she leave me alone； please；
oh； please； just forget I’m alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead。
This whole glorious weekend I’d never even considered the phone
might not have service and had just assumed it would’ve rung if
there was a problem。 Mistake number one。 I roamed the couple hundred
square feet until AT&T decided to work again； held my breath； and
dialed into my voice mail。
Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily。 A friend
from San Francisco found himself on Business in New York that week
and wanted to get together。 My sister called to remind me to send a
birthday card to her husband。 And there it was； almost unexpected
but not quite； that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears。
“Ahn…dre…ah。 It’s Mir…ahnda。 It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in
Pah…ris and the girls have not yet received their books。 Call me at
the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly。 That’s all。”
Click。
The bile began to rise in my throat。 As usual； the message lacked
all niceties。 No hello； good…bye； or thank you。 Obviously。 But more
than that； it had been left nearly half a day ago； and I had still
not called her back。 Grounds for dismissal； I knew； and there was
nothing I could do about it。 Like an amateur； I’d assumed my plan
would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized that Uri had never
called to confirm the pickup and drop…off。 I scanned through the
address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s Cell Phone number；
another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well。
“Hi； Uri； it’s Andrea。 Sorry to bother you on Sunday； but I was
wondering if you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty…seventh
and Amsterdam？”
“Hi； Andy； eet’s so nice to hear your woice；” he crooned in the
thick Russian accent I always found so forting。 He’d been calling
me Andy like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met；
and ing from him—as opposed to B…DAD—I didn’t mind it。 “Of course
I pick up the bouks； just like you say。 You tink I don’t vant to
help you？”
“No； no； of course not； Uri。 It’s just that I got a message from
Miranda saying that they hadn’t received them yet； and I’m wondering
what went wrong。”
He was quiet for a moment； and then offered me the name and number
of the pilot who was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon。
“Oh； thank you； thank you； thank you；” I said； scribbling the number
down frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful。 “I’ve
got to run。 Sorry I can’t talk； but have a great weekend。”
“Yes； yes； good veekend to you； Andy。 I tink the pilot man will help
you trace the bouks。 Nice luck to you；” he said merrily and hung up。
Lily was making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her； but I
had to deal with this now or I was out of a job。 Or maybe I’d
already been fired； I thought； and no one had even bothered to tell
me。 Not outside the realm ofRunway possibility； remembering the
fashion editor who’d been fired while on her honeymoon。 She herself
stumbled across her change in job status by reading about it in a
copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily in Bali。 I quickly called the number that
Uri had given me for the pilot and thought I’d pass out from
frustration when an answering machine picked up。
“Hi； Jonathan？ This is Andrea Sachs fromRunway magazine。 I’m Miranda
Priestly’s assistant； and I needed to ask you a question about the
flight yesterday。 Oh； e to think of it； you’re probably still in
Paris； or maybe on your way back。 Well； I just wanted to see if the
books； and uh； well； you of course； made it to Paris in one piece。
Can you call my cell？ 917…555…8702。 Please； as soon as possible。
Thanks。 ’Bye。”
I thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he’d
remember receiving the car that would have brought the books from
the private airport on the outskirts of Paris but quickly realized
that my cell didn’t dial internationally。 It was quite possibly the
only task it was not programmed to handle； and it was； of course；
the only one that mattered。 At that moment； Lily announced that she
had a plate of waffles and a cup of Coffee for me。 I walked into the
kitchen and took the food。 She was sipping a Bloody Mary。 Ugh。 It
was a Sunday morning。 How could she be drinking？
“Having a Miranda moment？” she asked with a look of sympathy。
I nodded。 “Think I screwed up pretty badly this time；” I said；