按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
“Well； you didn’t say good…bye； for one thing。 And you have that
look on your face。”
“That look？”
“Yes； that look of yours。 The one that tells everyone just how far
above this you are； just how much you hate it here。 That may fly
with me； but it won’t with Mr。 Tomlinson。 He’s Miranda’shusband ；
and you just can’t treat him like that。”
“Em； don’t you think he’s a little； I don’t know 。 。 。 weird？ He
never stops talking。 How can he be so nice when she’s such a 。 。 。
so not as nice？” I watched as she glanced inside Miranda’s office to
make sure that I’d set the newspapers correctly。
“Weird？ Hardly； Andrea。 He’s one of the most prominent tax attorneys
in Manhattan。”
It wasn’t worth it。 “Never mind； I don’t even know what I’m saying。
What’s going on with you？ How was your night？”
“Oh； it was good。 I went shopping with Jessica for gifts for her
bridesmaids。 Everywhere—Scoop； Bergdorf’s； Infinity； everywhere。 And
I tried on a bunch of stuff to get some idea for Paris； but it’s
still really too early。”
“For Paris？ You’re going to Paris？ Does that mean you’ll leave me
alone with her？” I hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud； but
it had slipped。
Again； a look like I was crazy。 “Yes； I’ll be going to Paris with
Miranda in October； for the spring ready…to…wear shows。 Each year
she takes her senior assistant to the spring shows so she can see
what it’s really like。 I mean； I’ve been to； like； a million at
Bryant Park； but the European shows are just different。”
I did a quick calculation。 “In October； as in seven months from now？
You were trying on clothes for a trip seven months from now？” I
hadn’t meant for it to sound as harsh as it did； and Emily
immediately got defensive。
“Well； yes。 I mean； obviously I wasn’t going to buy anything—so many
of the styles will have changed by then。 But I just wanted to start
thinking about it。 It’s a really huge deal； you know。 Stay in
five…star hotels； go to the craziest parties ever。 And my god； you
get to go to the hottest； most exclusive fashion shows in
existence。”
Emily had already told me that Miranda went to Europe three or four
times a year for the fashion shows。 She always skipped London； like
everyone did； but she went to Milan and Paris in October for spring
ready…to…wear； in July for winter couture； and in March for fall
ready…to…wear。 Sometimes she’d hit resort； but not always。 We’d been
working like crazy to get Miranda prepared for the shows ing up
at the end of the month。 I’d wondered briefly why she wasn’t
planning on bringing an assistant。
“So why doesn’t she take you to all of them？” I decided to just go
for it； even though the answer was sure to entail a lengthy
explanation。 I was excited enough that Miranda would be out of the
office for two whole weeks （she spent one in Milan and one in Paris）
and was giddy at the thought of getting rid of Emily for a week of
that。 Visions of bacon cheeseburgers and nonprofessionally ripped
jeans and flats—oh hell； maybe even sneakers—filled my head。 “Why
just in October？”
“Well； it’s not like she doesn’t have help over there。 Italian and
FrenchRunway always send some of their assistants for Miranda； and
most of the time the editors help her themselves。 But it’s at spring
RTW that she throws a huge party； the annual kick…off party that
everyone says is the biggest and best at all the shows； all year
long。 I’ll only go for the week while she’s in Paris。 So obviously
she would only trustme to help her there。” Obviously。
“Mmm； sounds like it’ll be a great time。 So that means I just hold
down the fort here； huh？”
“Yeah； pretty much。 But don’t think that it’ll be a joke。 That will
probably be the hardest week of all because she needs a lot of
assistance when she’s away。 She’ll be calling you a lot。”
“Oh； goody；” I said。 She rolled her eyes。
I slept with my eyes open； staring at a blank puter screen； until
the office began to fill up and there were other people to watch。
TenA 。M。 brought the first of the Clackers； the quiet sipping of
no…whip skim lattes to nurse the previous night’s champagne
hangovers。 James stopped by my desk； as he did whenever he saw
Miranda wasn’t at hers； and proclaimed he’d met his future husband
at Balthazar the night before。
“He was just sitting at the bar； wearing the greatest red leather
jacket I’d ever seen—and let me tell you； he could pull it off。 You
should have seen how he slipped those oysters on his tongue 。 。 。”
He audibly groaned。 “Oh； it was just magnificent。”
“So’d you get his number？” I asked。
“Get his number？ Try get his pants。 He was butt…ass naked on my
couch by eleven； and boy； let me tell you—”
“Lovely； James。 Lovely。 Not one for playing hard to get； are you？
Sounds a little slutty of you； to be honest。 This is the age of
AIDS； you know。”
“Sweetie； even you； Miss High and Mighty
I…Date…the…World’s…Last…Angel； would’ve been on your knees without a
second thought if you saw this guy。 He’s absolutely amazing。
Amazing！”
By eleven everyone had checked everyone else out； making notations
of who had scored a pair of the new Theory “Max” pants or the
latest； impossible…to…find Sevens。 Time for a break at noon； when
conversation centered around particular items of clothing and
usually took place by the racks lined up against the walls。 Each
morning Jeffy would pull out all the racks of dresses and bathing
suits and pants and shirts and coats and shoes and everything else
that had been called in as a potential item to shoot for one of the
fashion spreads。 He lined up each rack against a wall； weaving them
throughout the entire floor so the editors could find what they
needed without having to fight their way through the Closet itself。
The Closet wasn’t really a closet at all。 It was more like a small
auditorium。 Along the perimeter were walls of shoes in every size
and color and style； a virtual Willy Wonka’s factory for
fashionistas； with dozens of slingbacks； stilettos； ballet flats；
high…heeled boots； open…toe sandals； beaded heels。 Stacked drawers；
some built…in and others just shoved in corners； held every
imaginable configuration of stockings； socks； bras； panties； slips；
camisoles； and corsets。 Need a last…minute leopard…print push…up bra
from La Perla？ Check the Closet。 How about a pair of flesh…colored
fishnets or those Dior aviators？ In the Closet。 The accessories
shelves and drawers took up the farthest two walls； and the sheer
amount of merchandise—not to mention its value—was staggering。
Fountain pens。 Jewelry。 Bed linens。 Mufflers and gloves and ski
caps。 Pajamas。 Capes。 Shawls。 Stationery。 Silk flowers。 Hats； so
many hats。 And bags。 The bags！ There were totes and bowling bags；
backpacks and under…arms； over…shoulders and minis； oversize and
clutches； envelopes and messengers； each bearing an exclusive label
and a price tag of more than the average American’s monthly mortgage
payment。 And then there were the racks and racks of clothes—pushed
so tightly together it was impossible to walk among them—that
occupied every remaining inch of space。
So during the day Jeffy would attempt to make the Closet a
semi…usable space where models （and assistants like myself） could
try on clothes and actually reach some of the shoes and bags in the
back by pushing all of the racks into the halls。 I’d yet to see a
single visitor to the floor—whether writer or boyfriend or messenger
or stylist—not stop dead in his or her tracks and gape at the
couture…lined hallways。 Sometimes the racks were arranged by shoot
（Sydney； Santa Barbara） and other times by item （bikinis； skirt
suits）； but mostly it just seemed like a haplessly casual mishmash
ofreally expensive stuff 。 And although everyone stopped and stared
and fingered the butter…soft cashmeres and the intricately beaded
evening gowns； it was the Clackers who hovered possessively over
“their” clothes and provided constant； streaming mentary on each
and every piece。
“Maggie Rizer is the only woman in theworld who can actually wear
these capris；” Hope； one of the fashion assistants—weighing a
whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six…one—loudly announced
outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her
legs and sighing。 “They would make my ass look even more gigantic
than it already is。”
“Andrea；” called her friend； a girl I didn’t know very well who
worked in accessories； “please tell Hop