lot of the stuff isn’t here. I mean, seriously! Right now we’re still waiting for one evening
bag, one clutch, three different fringed purses, four pairs of shoes, two necklaces, three—
”
“OK, OK, I’ll tell her. But wait by the phone and pick up if I call you back. And if I were
you, I’d get ready. I’m betting she doesn’t really care when it was scheduled for.”
Stef hung up on me without another word and I approached Miranda’s doors and waited
patiently for her to acknowledge me. When she looked in my general direction and
waited, I said, “Miranda, I just spoke with Stef and she said that since the run-through
wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, they’re still waiting for quite a few items. But they
should all be here by—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, I simply cannot visualize how these models will look in these clothes
without shoes or bags or jewelry and by tomorrow I’ll be in Italy. Tell Stef I want her to
give me a run-through of whatever she’s got and be prepared to show me photos of
whatever isn’t here yet!” She turned back to Lucia and together they returned to the
racks.
Conveying this to Stef gave new meaning to “don’t shoot the messenger.” She freaked.
“I cannot fucking pull a run-through together in thirty seconds, do you understand me?
It’s fucking impossible! Four of my five assistants aren’t here, and the only one who is
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here is a complete fucking idiot. Andrea, what the fuck am I going to do?” She was
hysterical, but there wasn’t much room for negotiation.
“OK, great then,” I said sweetly, eyeing Miranda, who had a knack of hearing
everything. “I’ll tell Miranda you’ll be right here.” I hung up before she dissolved into
tears.
I wasn’t surprised to see Stef arrive two and a half minutes later with her one fucking
idiot accessories assistant, a fashion assistant she’d borrowed, and James, also borrowed
from beauty, all looking terrified as they carried oversize wicker baskets. They stood
cowering by my desk until Miranda gave another imperceptible nod, at which point they
all shuffled forward for the genuflection exercises. Since Miranda obviously refused to
leave her office—ever—she required that all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts
full of shoes and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped to her.
When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their wares in neat rows on the
carpet for her to inspect, Miranda’s office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar—one that just
so happens to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm-el-Sheik. One editor was
presenting her with $2,000 snakeskin belts while another tried to sell her a large Kelly
bag. A third hawked a short Fendi cocktail dress, while someone else tried to sell her on
the merits of chiffon. Stef had managed to assemble a near-perfect run-through with only
thirty seconds’ notice and a whole lot of pieces missing; I saw she had filled the gaps
with things from past photo shoots, explaining to Miranda that the accessories they were
still waiting for were similar but even better. They were all masters at what they do, but
Miranda was the ultimate. She was the ever-aloof consumer, coolly moving from one
gorgeous stall to the next, never feigning any show of interest. When she finally,
blessedly, did decide, she pointed and commanded (much like a judge at a dog show,
“Bob, she’s chosen the Border Collie . . .”), and the editors nodded obsequiously (“Yes,
excellent choice,” “Oh, definitely, the perfect choice”) and they wrapped up their wares
and scuttled back to their respective departments before she inevitably changed her mind.
The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes, but by the time it was over, we were
all exhausted from anxiety. She’d already announced earlier in the day that she’d be
leaving early, around four, to spend a couple hours with the girls before the big trip, so I
canceled the features meeting, to the relief of the entire department. At precisely 3:58P
.M. she began packing her bag to leave, a not-so-strenuous activity, since I’d be bringing
anything of any heft or significance to her apartment later on that evening in time for her
flight. Basically, it involved tossing her Gucci wallet and her Motorola cell phone into
that Fendi bag that she kept abusing. The past few weeks, the $10,000 beauty had been
serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads—in addition to one of the
handles—had snapped off. Miranda had dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me
to have it fixed or, if it was impossible to fix, to just throw out. I’d proudly resisted all
temptation to tell her the bag was unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a
leatherworker repair it for her for a mere twenty-five dollars.
When she finally walked out, I instinctively reached for the phone to call Alex and
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whine about my day. It wasn’t until I’d dialed half of his number that I remembered we
were taking a break. It hit me that this would be the first day in more than three years that
we wouldn’t talk. I sat with the phone in my hand, staring at an e-mail he’d sent the day
before, one that he’d signed “love,” and wondered if I’d made a horrible mistake in
agreeing to this break. I dialed again, this time ready to tell him that we should talk about
everything, figure out where we’d gone wrong, that I take responsibility for the part I’d
played in the slow and steady fading of our relationship. But before it even had a chance
to ring, Stef was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my Paris trip,
pumped up from her run-through with Miranda. There were shoes and bags and belts and
jewelry and hosiery and sunglasses to discuss, so I replaced the receiver and tried to focus
on her instructions.
Logically, it would seem that a seven-hour flight in steerage decked out in a pair of
skintight leather pants, open-toe strappy sandals, and a blazer over a tank top would be
the utmost in hellish travel experiences. Not so. The seven hours in flight were the most
relaxing I could remember. Since Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same
time on different flights—she from Milan and me from New York—it appeared I’d
stumbled on the single situation where she could not call me for seven straight hours. For
one blessed day, my inaccessibility wasn’t my fault.
For reasons I still didn’t understand, my parents hadn’t been nearly as thrilled as I
thought they’d be when I’d called to tell them about the trip.
“Oh, really?” my mother asked in that special way of hers that implied so much more
than those two little words really meant. “You’re going to Paris now?”
“What do you mean, ‘now’?”
“Well, it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting off to Europe, is all,” she said
vaguely, although I could tell that an avalanche of Jewish-mother guilt was ready to
begin its slide in my direction.
“And why is that? Whenwould be a good time?”
“Don’t get upset, Andy. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in months—not that we’re
complaining, Dad and I both understand how demanding your job is—but don’t you want
to see your new nephew? He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met him
yet!”
“Mom! Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m dying to see Isaac, but you know I can’t just—”
“You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston, right?”
“Yes! You’ve told me four hundred times. I know it and I appreciate it, but it’s not the
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money. I can’t get any time off work and now with Emily out, I can’t just up and leave—
even on weekends. Does it make sense to you to fly across the country only to have to
come back if Miranda calls me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does
it?”
“Of course not, Andy, I just thought—we just thought—that you might be able to visit
them in the next couple weeks, because Miranda was going to be away and all, and if you
were going to fly out there, then Dad and I would go also. But now you’re going to
Paris.”
She said it in the way that implied what she was really thinking. “But now you’re going
to Paris” translated to “But now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family
obligations.”
“Mother, let me make something very, very clear here. I am not going on vacation. I
have not chosen to go to Paris rather than meet my baby nephew. It’s not my decision at
all, as you probably know but are refusing to accept. It’s really very simple: I go to Paris
with Miranda in three days for one week, or I get fired. Do you see a choice here?
Because if so, I’d love to hear it.”
She was quiet for a moment before she said, “No, of course not, honey. You know we
understand. I just hope—well, I just hope that you’re happy with the way things are
going.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked nastily.
“Nothing, nothing,” she rushed to say. “It doesn’t mean anything other than just what I
said: your dad and I only care that you’re happy, and it seems that you’ve really been,
um, well, uh, pushing yourself lately. Is everything OK?”
I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard. “Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine. I’m
not happy to be going to Paris, just so you know. It’s going to be a week of sheer hell,
twenty-four-seven. But my year will be up soon, and I can put this kind of living behind
me.”
“I know, sweetie, I know it’s been a tough year for you. I just hope this all ends up being
worth it for you. That’s all.”
“I know. So do I.”
We hung up on good terms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own parents were
disappointed in me.
The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare, but I found the elegantly dressed driver
who was waving a sign with my name on it when I exited customs, and the moment he
closed his own door, he handed me a cell phone.
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“Ms. Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival. I took the liberty of programming the
hotel’s number into the automatic dialing. She’s in the Coco Chanel suite.”
“Um, oh, OK. Thanks. I guess I’ll call right now,” I announced rather unnecessarily.
But before I could press the star key and the number one, the phone bleated and flashed a
frightening red color. If the driver hadn’t been watching me expectantly I would have
muted the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen it, but I was left with the distinct feeling
that he had been ordered to keep a close eye on me. Something about his expression
suggested that it was not in my best interest to ignore that call.
“Hello? This is Andrea Sachs,” I said as professionally as possible, already making
over/under bets with myself as to the chance it was anyone besides Miranda.
“Ahn-dre-ah! What time does your watch read at this moment?”
Was this a trick question? A preface to accusing me of being late?
“Um, let me see. Actually, it says that it’s five-fifteen in the morning, but obviously I
haven’t switched it yet to Paris time. Therefore, my watch should read that it’s eleven
fifteenA .M.” I said cheerily, hoping to start off the first conversation of our interminable
trip on as high a note as I dared.
“Thank you for that never-ending narrative, Ahn-dre-ah. And may I ask what, exactly,
you’ve been doing for the past thirty-five minutes?”
“Well, Miranda, the flight landed a few minutes late and then I still had—”
“Because according to the itineraryyou created for me, I’m reading that your flight
arrived at ten-thirty-five this morning.”
“Yes, that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, but you see—”
“I’ll not have you tell me what I see, Ahn-dre-ah. That is most certainly not acceptable
behavior for the next week, do you understand me?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” My heart began pounding what felt like a million beats a
minute, and I could feel my face grow hot with humiliation. Humiliation at being spoken
to that way, but more than anything, my own shame in pandering to it. I had just
apologized—most sincerely—to someone for not being able to make my international
flight land at the correct time and then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to
avoid French customs entirely.
I pressed my face rather uncouthly against the window and watched as the limo weaved
its way through Paris’s bustling streets. The women seemed so much taller here, the men
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so much more genteel, and just about everyone was beautifully dressed, thin, and regal in
their stance. I’d only been to Paris once before, but living out of a backpack in a hostel on
the wrong side of town didn’t quite have the same feel as watching the chic little clothing
boutiques and adorable sidewalk cafés from the backseat of a limousine.I could get used
to this, I thought, as the driver turned around to show me where I might find a few bottles
of water if I was so inclined.
When the car pulled up to the hotel entrance, a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing
what I guessed was a custom-made suit opened the back door for me.
“Mademoiselle Sachs, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Gerard Renaud.” His
voice was smooth and confident, and his silver hair and deeply lined face indicated he
was much older than I’d pictured when I spoke to the concierge over the phone.
“Monsieur Renaud, it’s great to finally meet you!” Suddenly all I wanted to do was
crawl into a nice, soft bed and sleep off my jet lag, but Renaud quickly quashed my
hopes.
“Mademoiselle Andrea, Madame Priestly would like to see you in her room
immediately. Before you’ve settled into yours, I’m afraid.” He had an apologetic
expression on his face, and for a brief moment I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself.
Clearly he didn’t enjoy conveying this news.
“That’s fucking great,” I muttered, before noticing how distressed this made Monsieur
Renaud. I plastered on a winning smile and began again. “Please excuse me, it was a
terribly long flight. Will someone please tell me where I may find Miranda?”
“Of course, mademoiselle. She is in her suite and from what I can gather, very eager to
