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to see Alex but tell him nothing。 Even though I tried to push it all
out of my mind； they kept returning； each one more intense than the
last one。 When I finally did manage to fall asleep； I dreamed that
Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and—even though in reality hers
didn’t live in—he was to move in with the family。 Whenever I wanted
to see Alex in my dream； I would have to share a car Home with
Miranda and visit him in her apartment。 She would insist on calling
me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her
repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend。 By the time
morning had finally rolled around； Alex had fallen under Miranda’s
spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and；
even worse； Miranda had started dating Christian。 Blessedly； my hell
ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda； Christian；
and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning
and read theTimes and laughed while I prepared breakfast； served
everyone； and cleaned up afterward。 Sleep last night was about as
relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning； and
now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of
having an easy Friday。
“Hmm； no； we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion。 I’m
trying to think； just personally； you know； if there are any new hot
Asian fusion places。 You know； places that Miranda would actually
consider going？” she said； sounding like she’d do anything to
prolong the conversation。
I ignored her transition into first…name familiarity with Miranda
and worked on getting her off the phone。 “OK； well； that’s what I
thought。 Thanks anyway； though。 I appreciate it。 ’Bye。”
“Wait！” she cried out； and even though the phone was already halfway
to the base； her urgency made me listen again。 “Yes？”
“Oh； well； I； uh； I just wanted to let you know that if there’s；
like； anything else I can do—or any of us here—feel free to call；
you know？ We love Miranda here； and we’d； like； uh； want to help
with anything we could？”
You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of
America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be
able to locate an article for the president； an article that
included information crucial to an imminent war； and not an unnamed
review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper。 The saddest
part of all was that I wasn’t surprised： I knew she’d e around。
“OK； I’ll be sure to pass that along。 Thanks so much。”
Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said；
“No luck there either？”
“Nope。 I have no idea what she’s talking about； and apparently；
neither does anyone else in this city。 I’ve spoken to someone at
every Manhattan paper she reads； checked online； talked to
archivists； food writers； chefs。 Not a single person can think of a
suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the
past week； never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past
twenty…four hours。 She’s clearly lost her mind。 So what now？” I
flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail。 It
still wasn’t yet nine in the morning； and already the headache had
spread to my neck and shoulders。
“I guess；” she said slowly； regrettably； “you have no choice but to
ask her to clarify。”
“Oh； no； not that！ However will she react？”
Emily； as usual； didn’t appreciate my sarcasm。 “She’ll be in at
noon。 If I were you； I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead
of time； because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that
review。 Especially since she asked for it last night；” she pointed
out with a barely suppressed smile。 She was clearly delighted that I
was about to get abused。
There was little left to do but wait。 It was my luck that Miranda
was at her monthly marathon shrink session （“She just doesn’t have
time to go all the way over there once a week；” Emily had explained
when I asked why she went for three straight hours）； the only chunk
of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us
and； of course； the only time I needed her to。 A mountain of mail
that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to
topple off the desk； and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry
cleaning was heaped under it； around my feet。 Huge sigh to let the
world know just how unhappy I was； and I dialed the cleaners。
“Hi； Mario。 It’s me。 Yeah； I know—two whole days； no talk。 Can I get
a pickup； please？ Great。 Thanks。” I hung up the phone and forced
myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap； where I would sort
through them and record them on the puterized list I kept of her
outgoing clothes。 When Miranda called the office at 9：45P 。M。 and
demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was； all I had to do was
open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day
before and were due to be delivered the following day。 I logged
today’s clothes in （one Missoni blouse； two identical pairs of
Alberta Ferretti pants； two Jil Sander sweaters； two white Hermès
scarves； and one Burberry trench coat）； threw them in a shopping bag
emblazoned withRunway； and called for a messenger to take them
downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up。
I was on a roll！ Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks； because
no matter how many times I had to do it； I was still repulsed to be
sorting through someone else’s dirty clothes。 After I finished
sorting and bagging every day； I had to wash my hands： the lingering
smell of Miranda was all…pervasive； and even though it consisted of
a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a
whiff of B…DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant； it
made me feel physically ill。 British accents； Bulgari perfume； white
silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were
forever ruined for me。
The mail was the usual； ninety…nine percent garbage that Miranda
would never see。 Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief”
went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages； but many
of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their
correspondence directly to Miranda。 It took me about four seconds to
skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a
charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long…lost friend； and
those I just threw aside。 Today there were tons。 Breathless notes
from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men （or； in all
fairness； maybe straight and just very fashion…conscious）： “Miranda
Priestly； you’re not only the darling of the fashion world； you’re
the Queen of my world！” one gushed。 “I couldn’t agree more with your
choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April
issue—it was ballsy； but genius！” another exclaimed。 A few letters
ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women
in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and
pressed their bodies together； and a few more decried the
sunken…eyed； starvation…wracked； heroine…chic models thatRunway had
used in its “health First： How to Feel Better” article。 One was a
standard…issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery
script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read； quite simply； on
the other： “Why？ Why do you print such a boring； stupid magazine？” I
laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my
collection of critical letters and postcards was growing； and soon
there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left。 Lily thought it was
bad karma to bring Home other people’s negative thoughts and
hostility； and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma
originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy。
The last letter of the massive pile before I’d begin tackling the
two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the
loopy； girly writing of a teenager； plete withi ’s dotted with
hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts。 I planned to only
skim it； but it wouldn’t allow itself to be skimmed： it was too
immediately sad and honest—it was bleeding and pleading and begging
all over the page。 The initial four…second period came and went and
I was still reading。
Dear Miranda；
My name is Anita and I am seventeen years old and I am a senior at
Barringer H。S。 in Newark； NJ。 I am so ashamed of my body even though
everyone tells me I’m not fat。 I want to look like the models you
have in your m