told and when and try to get everyone there in one piece. But it’s sure not often I end up
flying overseas with nothing onboard but a package. Must’ve been something real
important, I imagine, like an organ for a transplant or maybe some classified documents.
So yes, I took real good care of that package and I gave it to the driver, just like I was
told. Nice fella from the Ritz. No problems.”
I thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged for a driver to meet
Mr. Tomlinson’s private plane at de Gaulle and transfer Harry back to the hotel. If
everything went as planned, Miranda should’ve had those books by seven in the morning
local time, and considering it was already late afternoon there, I couldn’t imagine what
had gone wrong. There was no choice: I had to call the concierge, and since my cell
wouldn’t dial internationally, I had to find a phone that did.
I took the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped them in the garbage.
Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep. I hugged her good-bye and told her I’d
call her later and headed out to hail a cab back to the office.
“What about today?” she whined. “I haveThe American President all lined up and ready
to go. You can’t leave yet—our weekend’s not over!”
“I know, I’m sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There’s nothing I’d rather do than
stay here, but she’s got me on a pretty short leash right now. I’ll call you later?”
The office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely brunching at Pastis with their
investment banker boyfriends. I sat in my darkened area, took a deep breath, and dialed.
Blissfully, Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz concierges, was available.
“Andrea, dear, how are you? We’re simply delighted to have Miranda and the twins back
with us again so soon,” he lied. Emily told me that Miranda stayed at the Ritz so
frequently that the entire hotel staff knew her and the girls by name.
“Yes, Monsieur Renaud, and I know she’s just thrilled to be there,” I lied back. No
matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Miranda found fault with his every
move. To his credit, he never stopped trying, and he never stopped lying about how much
he loved her, either. “Listen, I’m wondering if that car you sent to meet Miranda’s plane
made it back to the hotel already?”
“Well of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must’ve returned here before eight
o’clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on staff,” he said proudly. If only he
knew what his best driver had been sent to shuttle around town.
“Well, that’s so strange, because I got a message from Miranda saying that she never
received the package, but I’ve checked with the driver here who swears he dropped it at
the airport, the pilot who swears he flew it to Paris and gave it to your driver, and now
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you who remember it arriving at the hotel. How could she not have received it?”
“It seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself,” he trilled in a fake-happy
voice. “Why don’t I connect you?”
I had hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t come to this, that I’d be able to identify and
fix the problem without having to speak to her. What would I tell her if she still insisted
that she’d never received the package? Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the
table in her suite, where it was inevitably left hours earlier? Or was I supposed to go
through the whole thing, private jet and all, and get her two more copies by the end of the
day? Or perhaps I should hire a secret service agent next time to accompany the books on
their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their safe arrival? Something
to think about.
“Sure, Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help.”
A few clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from the tension, so I
wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to think what would happen if Miranda
saw me wearing sweatpants in her office.Be calm, be confident, I coached myself.She
can’t disembowel me over the phone .
“Yes?” I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my self-help thoughts. It was
Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had perfected her mother’s brusque phone manner
perfectly. Cassidy at least had the courtesy to answer the phone with a “hello.”
“Hi, sweetie,” I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child. “It’s Andrea, from the
office. Is your mom there?”
“You mean mymum ?” she corrected as she always did when I used the American
pronunciation. “Sure, I’ll get her.”
A moment or two later, Miranda was on the line.
“Yes, Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel about being
interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls,” she stated in her cold, clipped
way.You know how I feel about being interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls?
I wanted to scream.Are you fucking kidding me, lady? You think I’m calling for my
goddamn health? Because I couldn’t bear to go a single weekend without hearing your
miserable voice? And what about me spending time with mygirls? I thought I’d pass out
from anger, but I took a deep breath and dove right in.
“Miranda, I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but I’m calling to ensure that you received the
Harry Potter books. I heard your message saying that you hadn’t yet received them, but
I’ve spoken to everyone and—”
She interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely. “Ahn-dre-ah. You should
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really listen more closely. I said no such thing. We received the package early this
morning. Incidentally, it came so early that they woke us all up for the silly thing.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t dream that she’d left the message, did I? I
was still too young even for early-onset Alzheimer’s, right?
“What I said was that we didn’t receiveboth copies of the book, as I had requested. The
package included only one, and I’m sure you can imagine just how disappointed the girls
are. They were really looking forward to each having theirown copy, as I had requested. I
need you to explain why my orders weren’t followed.”
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. I was definitely dreaming now,
living some sort of alternate-universe existence where anything resembling rationality
and logic were suspended indefinitely. I wouldn’t even let myself consider the absurdity
of what was unfolding.
“Miranda, I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered two,” I stammered,
hating myself yet again for pandering. “I spoke to the girl at Scholastic and am quite sure
that she understood that you needed two copies of the book, so I can’t imagine—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I’m not particularly interested in
hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again, correct? That’s
all.” She hung up.
I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking off-
the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced, full of
questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught.
Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I concluded—everybody, at
least atRunway, had a motive. Do I really have the emotional wherewithal to watch her
die a long, slow, agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure—what
would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?
I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message when I
listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the messages.“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.” Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of two, but she
deliberately gave me the impression that I’d made a tremendous, career-ending mistake.
She’d called with no concern that her nineA .M. call would have reached me at threeA
.M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She’d called to drive me a little crazier,
push me a little bit harder. She’d called to dare me to defy her. She’d called to make me
hate her that much more.
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7
Lily’s New Year’s party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper cups of champagne at
Lily’s place with a bunch of people from college and some others they managed to drag
along. I was never a big fan of the holiday. I don’t remember who first called it “Amateur
Night” (I think it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went out the other 364 days a year,
but I tend to agree. All that forced drinking and merry-making did not a good time
guarantee. So Lily had stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the $150 tickets
to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of actually freezing in Times
Square. We’d each brought a bottle of something not too poisonous, and she had passed
out noisemakers and glittery tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the
New Year on her rooftop overlooking Harlem. Although we’d all had way too much to
drink, Lily was pretty much nonfunctional by the time everyone else had left. She had
already thrown up twice, and I was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex
and I had packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed at my place,
Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for a big brunch the next day.
I was glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on with my life and get
started—really started—on my new job. Even though it felt like I’d been working for a
decade, I was technically just beginning. I had a lot of hope that things would improve
once Miranda and I started working together day to day. Anyone could be a cold-hearted
monster over the phone, especially someone who was uncomfortable with vacations and
being so far away from work. But I was convinced that the misery of that first month
would give way to a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all
unfold.
It was a little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was actually happy to be at
work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some guy she met at a New Year’s party in LA,
some “superhot, up-and-coming songwriter” who had promised to come visit her in New
York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting with the associate beauty editor who sat
down the hall, a really sweet guy who’d graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn’t
yet know—even despite the college choice and the fact that he was abeauty editor at
afashion magazine—that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.
“Oh, come with me, please? It’ll be so fun, I promise. I’ll introduce you to some real
hotties, Andy, you’ll see. I have some gorgeous straight friends. Besides, it’sMarshall ’s
party—it’s got to be great,” James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my e-
mail. Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite, detailing her
rendezvous with the long-haired singer.
“I would, you know I would, but I’ve had these plans with my boyfriend tonight since
before Christmas,” I said. “We’ve been planning on going out to a really nice dinner
together for weeks, and I canceled on him last time.”
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“So see him after! Come on, it’s not every day you get a chance to meet the single most
talented colorist in the civilized world, is it? And there will be loads of celebrities and
everyone will look gorgeous, and, well, I just know it’ll be the most glamorous party of
the week! Harrison and Shriftman is putting it on, for chrissake—you can’t beat that. Say
yes.” He squinted his face into exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.
“James, I’d really, really like to—I’ve never even been to the Plaza! But I really can’t
change these plans. Alex made reservations at this little Italian place right by his
apartment and there’s no way I can reschedule.” I knew I couldn’t cancel, and I didn’t
want to—I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new after-school
program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be the same night as this party. I’d been
reading about it in the papers for the past week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was
ecstatically waiting for Marshall Madden, hair colorist extraordinaire, to host his annual
post–New Year’s blowout. They were saying that this year was going to be even bigger
than usual because Marshall had just published a new book,Color Me Marshall . But I
wasn’t going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some star party.
“Well, OK, but don’t say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don’t come crying to
me when you read inPage Six tomorrow that I was spotted with Mariah or J-Lo. Just
don’t.” And he huffed away, half joking that he was angry, half not, since he seemed to
be in a perpetual snit anyway.
So far, the week after New Year’s had been easy. We were still unwrapping and
cataloging presents—I had gotten to unveil the most stunning pair of Swarovskiencrusted
stilettos this morning—but there were none left to send and the phones were
quiet since many people were still away. Miranda would be returning from Paris at the
end of the week but wouldn’t be in the office until Monday. Emily felt confident that I
was ready to handle her, and so was I. We’d run through everything, and I’d taken nearly
an entire legal pad full of notes. I glanced down at it, hoping I’d remember everything.
Coffee: Starbucks only, tall latte, two raw sugars, two napkins, one stirrer. Breakfast:
Mangia delivery, 555–3948, one soft cheese Danish, four slices bacon, two sausage links.
Newspapers: newsstand in lobby,New York Times, Daily News, New York Post,
theFinancial Times, theWashington Post, USA Today, theWall Street Journal, Women’s
Wear Daily, and theNew York Observer on Wednesdays. Weekly magazines, available
Mondays:Time, Newsweek, U.S. News, The New Yorker (!),Time Out New York, New
York, theEconomist . And on and on it went, listing her favorite flowers and her most-
