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aware。” Between that and the tracking ID cards； I was quite sure
thatRunway ’s surveillance put the mob to shame。 TheRunway Paranoid
Turnaround was back。
“Yeah；” I said； trying to sound casual and nonmittal。 “It’s a
strange place。 I’m not so into fashion—I’d actually rather be
writing； but I guess it’s not a bad start。 What do you do？”
“I’m a writer。”
“Oh； you are？ That must be nice。” I hoped I didn’t sound quite as
condescending as I felt； but it got to be really annoying when
anyone and everyone in New York anointed himself or herself a writer
or actor or poet or artist。I used to write for the paper in college；
I thought to myself；and hell； I even had an essay published in a
monthly magazine once in high school。 Did that make me a writer？
“What do you write？”
“Mostly literary fiction so far； but I’m actually working on my
first historical novel。” He took another swig and swatted yet again
at that pesky but adorable curl。
“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical
novels。 Interesting。 “What’s it about？”
He thought for a moment and then said； “It’s a story told from the
perspective of a young woman； about what it was like to live in this
country during World War Two。 I’m still finishing my research；
transcribing interviews and things like that； but the little writing
I’ve done so far has e along。 I think 。 。 。”
He continued talking； but I’d already tuned him out。 Holy shit。 I
recognized the book description immediately from aNew Yorker article
I’d just read。 It seemed the entire book world was eagerly
anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the
realism with which he depicts his female heroine。 I was standing at
a party； casually chatting with Christian Collinsworth； the boy
genius who’d first been published at the ripe old age of twenty from
a Yale library cubicle。 The critics had gone crazy over his first
book； hailing it as one of the most significant literary
achievements of the twentieth century； and he’d followed it up with
two more since then； each spending more time on the bestseller list
than the one before it。The New Yorker piece had included an
interview in which the author had called Christian “not only a force
for years to e” in the book industry； but one with “a hell of a
look； a killer style； and enough natural charm that would ensure—in
the unlikely event that his literary success did not—a lifetime of
success with the ladies。”
“Wow； that’s really great；” I said； all of a sudden feeling too
tired to be witty or funny or cute。 This guy was some big…time
author—what the hell did he want with me； anyway？ Probably just
killing time before his girlfriend finished up her 10；000 per day
modeling assignment and made her way over。And what does it matter
either way； Andrea？ I asked myself harshly。In case you conveniently
forgot； you do happen to have an incredibly kind and supportive and
adorable boyfriend。 Enough of this already！ I hastily made up a
story about needing to get Home right away； and Christian looked
amused。
“You’re scared of me；” he stated factually； flashing me a teasing
smile。
“Scared of you？ Why on earth wouldI be scared ofyou ？ Unless there’s
some reason I should be 。 。 。” I couldn’t help but flirt back； he
made it so easy。
He reached for my elbow and deftly turned me around。 “e on； I’ll
put you in a cab。” And before I could say no； that I was perfectly
fine to find my own way home； that it was nice to meet him but he’d
better think again if he thought he was ing Home with me； I was
standing on the red…carpeted steps of the Plaza with him。
“Need a cab； folks？” the doorman asked us as we walked outside。
“Yes； please； one for the lady；” Christian answered。
“No； I have a car； um； right over there；” I said； pointing to the
strip of 58th Street in front of the Paris Theatre where all the
Town Cars had lined up。
I wasn’t looking at him； but I could feel Christian smiling again。
One ofthose smiles。 He walked me over to the car and opened the
door； swinging his arm gallantly toward the backseat。
“Thank you；” I said formally； not a little awkwardly； while
extending my hand。 “It was really nice to meet you； Christian。”
“And you； Andrea。” He took the hand I’d intended him to shake and
instead pressed it to his lips； leaving it there just a fraction of
a second longer than he should have。 “I do hope we see each other
again soon。” And by then I’d somehow made it into the backseat
without tripping or otherwise humiliating myself and was
concentrating on not blushing even though I could already feel that
it was too late。 He slammed the door and watched as the car pulled
away。
It didn’t seem strange this time that even though I hadn’t so much
as seen the interior of a Town Car two months earlier； I had
personally had one chauffeuring me around for the past six hours；
and that even though I’d never really met anyone even remotely
famous before； I’d just rubbed elbows with Hollywood celebrities and
had my hand nuzzled—yes； that was it； he’d nuzzled it—by one of the
undisputed most eligible bachelors in New York City。No； none of that
really matters； I reminded myself over and over again。It’s all a
part of that world； and that world is no place you want to be。 It
might look like fun from here； I thought；but you’d be in way over
your head。 But I stared at my hand anyway； trying to remember every
last detail about the way he’d kissed it； and then thrust the
offending hand into my bag and pulled out my phone。 As I dialed
Alex’s number； I wondered what exactly； if anything； I would tell
him。
9
It took me twelve weeks before I gorged myself on the seemingly
limitless supply of designer clothes thatRunway was just begging to
provide for me。 Twelve impossibly long weeks of fourteen…hour work
days and never more than five hours of sleep at a time。 Twelve
miserable long weeks of being looked up and down from hair to shoes
each and every day； and never receiving a single pliment or even
merely the impression that I had passed。 Twelve horrifically long
weeks of feeling stupid； inpetent； and all…around moronic。 And so
I decided at the beginning of my fourth month （only nine more to
go！） atRunway to be a new woman and start dressing the part。
Getting myself awake； dressed； and out the door prior to my
twelve…week epiphany had sapped me pletely—even I had to concede
that it’d be easier to own a closetful of “appropriate” clothes。
Until that point； putting on clothes had been the most stressful
part of an already really lousy morning routine。 The alarm went off
so early that I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what time I actually
woke up； as though the mere mention of the words inflicted physical
pain。 Getting to work at sevenA 。M。 was so difficult it bordered on
funny。 Sure； I’d been up and out a few times in my life by
seven—perhaps sitting in an airport when I had to catch an early
flight or having to finish studying for an exam that day。 But mostly
when I’d seen that hour of daylight from the outside it was because
I hadn’t yet found my way to bed from the night before； and the time
didn’t seem so bad when a full day of sleep stretched out ahead。
This was different。 This was constant； unrelenting； inhumane sleep
deprivation； and no matter how many times I tried to go to bed
before midnight； I never could。 The past two weeks had been
particularly rough since they were closing one of the spring issues；
so I had to sit at work； waiting for the Book； until close to eleven
some nights。 By the time I would drop it off and get Home； it was
already midnight； and I still had to eat something and crawl out of
my clothes before passing out。
Blaring static—the only thing I couldn’t ignore—began at exactly
5：30A 。M。 I would force a bare foot out from under the forter and
stretch my leg in the general direction of the alarm clock （which
itself was placed strategically at the foot of my bed to force some
movement）； kicking aimlessly until I had made contact and the
shrieking ceased。 This continued； steadily and predictably； every
seven minutes until 6：04A 。M。； at which point I would inevitably
panic and spring from bed to shower。
A tangle with my closet came next； usually between 6：31 and 6：37A
。M。 Lily； herself not exactly fashion…conscious in her graduate
student uniform of jeans； ratty L。L。Bean sweaters； and hemp
necklaces； said every time I saw her； “I still don’t understand wha