broke the ice, she’s been jabbering away with everyone since. She knows English. She
has an age-appropriate vocabulary. She’s completely and totally normal!” His obvious
elation made me smile, and all of a sudden I started to miss him. Miss him in the way that
you do when you’ve seen someone frequently and regularly but haven’t really connected
with him in any significant way. It had been great to surprise him the night before, but, as
usual, I’d been too frazzled to be much company. We both inherently understood that we
were just waiting out my sentence, waiting for me to complete my year of servitude,
waiting until everything went back to the way it was. But I still missed him. And I still
felt not a little guilty for the whole Christian situation.
“Hey, congratulations! Not that you needed a testament to the fact that you’re a great
teacher, but you got one anyway! You should be thrilled.”
“Yeah, it’s exciting.” I could hear the bell ring in the background.
“Listen, is that offer still open for a date tonight—just you and me?” I asked, hoping he
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hadn’t made plans yet but expecting that he had. As I’d pulled myself out of bed this
morning and dragged my exhausted and sore body into the shower, he’d called out that he
wanted to just rent a movie, order some food, and hang out. I’d mumbled something
unnecessarily sarcastic about it not being worth his time because I wouldn’t get home
until late and would just fall asleep, and at least one of us should have a life and enjoy
their Friday night. I wanted to tell him now that I was angry at Miranda, atRunway, at
myself, but not at him, and that there was nothing I’d rather do than curl up on the couch
and cuddle for fifteen straight hours.
“Sure.” He sounded surprised, but pleased. “Why don’t I just wait at your place and then
we can figure out what we want to do? I’ll just hang out with Lily until you get home.”
“Sounds absolutely perfect. You can hear all about Freudian Boy.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Listen, I’ve got to run. The Queen will wait for coffee no longer. See you
tonight—can’t wait.”
Eduardo allowed me upstairs after chanting only two refrains—my choice—of “We
Didn’t Start the Fire,” and Miranda was talking animatedly when I set down her coffee
spread on the left-hand corner of her desk. I spent the rest of the afternoon arguing with
every assistant and editor I could reach at theNew York Post, trying to insist that I knew
their paper better than they did, and could I please just have one little copy of the Asian
fusion restaurant review they’d run the day before?
“Ma’am, I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you again:we did not review any such
restaurant . I know Ms. Priestly is a crazy woman and I don’t doubt that she’s making
your life a living hell, but I just can’t produce an article that doesn’t exist. Do you
understand?” This had come finally from an associate who, even though he worked
onPage Six, had been assigned the task of finding my article to shut me up. He’d been
patient and willing, but he’d reached the end of his charity work. Emily was on the other
line with one of their freelance food writers, and I’d forced James to call one of his ex-
boyfriends who worked in the advertising department there to see if there was anything—
anything—he could do. It was already three o’clock the dayafter she’d requested
something, and this was the very first time I hadn’t gotten it immediately.
“Emily!” Miranda called from inside her deceptively bright office.
“Yes, Miranda?” we both answered, jumping up to see which one of us she would
motion to.
“Emily, I can hear that you just spoke to the people at thePost ?” she said, directing her
attention in my direction. The real Emily looked relieved and sat down.
“Yes, Miranda, I just hung up with them. I’ve actually spoken to three different people
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there and all of them insist that they haven’t reviewed a single new Asian fusion
restaurant in Manhattan at any point in the last week. Maybe it was before then?” I was
now tottering in front of her desk with my head bowed just enough so I could stare at the
black Jimmy Choo slingbacks with four-inch heels that Jeffy had provided so smugly.
“Manhattan?” She looked confused and pissed off all at once. “Who said anything about
Manhattan?”
It was my time to be confused.
“Ahn-dre-ah, I’ve told you at least five times now that the review was written about a
new restaurant inWashington . Since I’ll be there next week, I need you to make a
reservation.” She cocked her head and moved her lips into what can only be described as
a wicked smile. “What exactly about this project do you find so challenging?”
Washington? Five times she’d told me the restaurant was inWashington ? I don’t think
so. She was clearly losing her mind or just taking sadistic pleasure in watching me lose
mine. But being the idiot she took me for, I again spoke without thinking.
“Oh, Miranda, I’m fairly certain that theNew York Post doesn’t do reviews of restaurants
in Washington. It appears they only actually visit and review places new to New York.”
“Is that supposed to be funny, Ahn-dre-ah? Is that your idea of having a sense of
humor?” Her smile had disappeared and she was leaning forward in her seat, looking like
a hungry vulture that was impatiently circling its prey.
“Um no, Miranda, I just thought that—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, as I’ve made clear adozen times already, the review I’m looking for is in
theWashington Post . You’ve heard of that little newspaper, right? Just like New York
has theNew York Times, Washington, D.C., has its own paper, too. See how that works?”
Her voice was now beyond mocking: she was so incredibly patronizing that she was only
one step away from actually addressing me in baby talk.
“I’ll get it for you right away,” I stated as calmly as I could and quietly walked out.
“Oh, and Ahn-dre-ah?” My heart lurched and my stomach wondered if it could take
another “surprise.” “I expect you to attend the party tonight to greet the guests. That’s
all.”
I looked to Emily, who looked absolutely baffled, her crinkled forehead making her
appear as dumbfounded as I felt. “Did I hear her correctly?” I whispered to Emily, who
could do nothing but nod and motion for me to come to her side of the suite.
“I was afraid of this,” she whispered gravely, like a surgeon telling a patient’s family
member that they’d found something horrible upon opening the chest cavity.
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“She can’t be serious. It’s four o’clock on Friday. The party starts at seven. It’s black tie,
for chrissake—there is no way on earth she expects me to go.” I looked again at my
watch in disbelief and tried to remember her exact words.
“Oh, she’s quite serious,” she said, picking up the phone. “I’ll help you, OK? You go
find the review in theWashington Post and get her a copy before she leaves—Uri is
coming for her soon to take her home for her hair and makeup. I’ll get you a dress and
everything else you need for tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” She began rapid-
fire dialing and whispering urgent-sounding instructions into the phone. I stood and
stared, but she waved her hand without looking up and I snapped back to reality.
“Go,” she whispered, looking at me with a rare hint of sympathy. And I went.
14
“You can’t show up in a cab,” Lily said to me as I jabbed helplessly at my eyes with my
brand-new Maybelline Great Lash mascara. “This is black-tie. Call a car, for chrissake.”
She watched for a minute more and then grabbed the clumpy wand from my hand and
tapped my eyelids closed.
“I guess you’re right,” I sighed, still refusing to accept that my Friday night was to be
spent in a formal gown at the Met, greeting wealthy-but-still-rednecks from Georgia and
North and South Carolina and plastering fake smile after fake smile on my poorly made-
up face. The announcement had left me all of three hours to find a dress, buy makeup, get
ready, and revamp all my weekend plans, and in the craziness of the situation, I’d
forgotten to arrange transportation.
Luckily, working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the country (the job a
million girls would die for!) has its advantages, and by 4:40P .M. I was the proud
borrower of a knockout floor-length black Oscar de la Renta number, provided kindly by
Jeffy, Closet maven and lover of all things feminine (“Girl, you go black-tie, you go
Oscar, and that’s that. Now don’t be shy, take those pants off and try this on for Jeffy.” I
began to unbutton and he shuddered. I asked him if he really found my half-naked body
that repulsive, and he said of course not; it was merely my panty lines that he found so
disgusting). The fashion assistants had already called in a pair of silver Manolos in my
size, and someone in accessories had selected a flashy silver Judith Leiber evening bag
with a long, clanking chain. I’d expressed interest in an understated Calvin Klein clutch,
but she snorted at the suggestion and handed me the Judith. Stef was debating whether I
should wear a choker or a pendant, and Allison, the newly promoted beauty editor, was
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on the phone with her manicurist, who made office calls.
“She’ll meet you in the conference room at four forty-five,” Allison said when I picked
up my extension. “You’re wearing black, right? Insist on Chanel Ruby Red. Just tell her
to bill us.”
The entire office had worked itself up to a nearly hysterical frenzy trying to make me
look appropriate for the night’s gala affair. It certainly wasn’t because they all adored me
so much and killed themselves trying to help me out; rather, they knew Miranda had
mandated the makeover and were eager to prove to her the high level of their taste and
class.
Lily finished her charity makeup lesson and I briefly wondered if I looked ridiculous
wearing a floor-length Oscar de la Renta gown and Bonne Belle Lipsmackers in
Fudgsicle. Probably, but I had turned down all offers of having a makeup artist come to
the apartment. Everyone on staff tried to insist—and none too subtly—but I adamantly
refused. Even I had limits.
I hobbled into the bedroom on my four-inch Manolo stilettos and kissed Alex on the
forehead. He barely looked up from the magazine he was reading.
“I’ll definitely be home by eleven, so we can go get some dinner or drinks then, OK? I’m
sorry I have to do this, I really am. If you do decide to go out with the guys, call so I can
come meet you, OK?” He had, as promised, come directly from school to spend the night
together, and hadn’t been all that thrilled when I’d arrived home with the news that he
could definitely have a relaxing night at home but that I wouldn’t be a part of the plans.
He was sitting on the balcony off my bedroom, reading an old copy ofVanity Fair we had
lying around and drinking one of the beers Lily kept in the fridge for guests. It wasn’t
until after I’d explained that I had to work tonight that I even noticed he and Lily weren’t
hanging out.
“Where is she?” I asked. “She has no classes, and I know she’s not working Fridays all
summer.”
Alex took a swig of his Pale Ale and shrugged. “I’m guessing she’s here. Her door’s
closed, but I saw some guy walking around before.”
“Some guy? Could you be a little more descriptive? What guy?” I wondered if someone
had broken in, or perhaps Freudian Boy had finally been invited over.
“I don’t know, but he’s scary-looking. Tattoos, piercings, wife-beater—the whole nine.
Can’t imagine where she met this one.” He took another nonchalant swig.
Icouldn’t imagine where she’d found him, either, considering I’d left her at eleven the
night before in the company of a very polite guy named William who, as far as I could
see, was not a wife-beater-wearing, tattoo-donning kind of guy.
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“Alex, seriously! You’re telling me there’s some thug cruising around my apartment—a
thug who may or may not have been invited over—and you don’t care? This is
ridiculous! We need to do something,” I said, getting up from the chair and wondering, as
always, if the weight shift was going to cause the balcony to fall off the side of the
building.
“Andy, relax. He’s definitelynot a thug.” He flipped a page. “He might be a punk-
grunge-freak, but he’s not a thug.”
“Great, that’s just fucking great. Now are you going to come see what’s going on, or are
you just going to sit there all night?”
He still refused to look at me, and I finally understood how annoyed he was about
tonight. Understandable, entirely, but I was just as irritated to have to work, and there
wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “Why don’t you call if you need me?”
“Fine,” I huffed and made a big production of storming inside. “Don’t feel guilty when
you find my dismembered body on the bathroom floor. Really, no big deal . . .”
I stomped inside and around the apartment for a little while, looking for evidence of this
guy’s presence. The only thing that seemed at all out of place was an empty bottle of
Ketel One in the sink. Had she really managed to buy, open, and drink an entire bottle of
vodka sometime after midnight last night? I knocked on her door. No response. I knocked
a little more insistently, and I heard a guy’s voice state the very obvious fact that
someone was knocking on the door. When still no one responded, I turned the doorknob.
“Hello? Anyone home here?” I called out, trying not to look inside the room but only
being able to hold out for about five seconds. My eyes skipped over the two pairs of jeans
that were tangled up on the floor and the bra that was hanging from the desk chair and the
overflowing ashtray that made the room stink like a frat house and went directly to the
bed, where my best friend was stretched out on her side, back to me, completely naked. A
sickly looking guy with a line of sweat above his lip and a head full of greasy hair
blended into her sheets: his dozens of snaking, winding, scary tattoos acted as the perfect
