emotions of the night boiling over into a simple, urgent need to scream at someone else.
“No, I didn’t say any of that. You did. I just assumed that of course you’d be coming
home to be with her as soon as possible. I’m not passing judgment on you, Andy—you
know that. I also know that it’s really late for you already and there’s nothing you can do
in the next couple hours, so why don’t you call me when you know what flight you’re on.
I’ll pick you up at the airport and we can come straight to the hospital.”
“Fine. Thanks for being there for her. I really appreciate it and I know Lily does, too. I’ll
call you when I know what I’m doing.”
“OK, Andy. I miss you. And I know you’ll do the right thing.” The line went dead before
I could pounce all over that one.
Do the right thing? Theright thing? What the hell did that mean? I hated that he had just
assumed I would jump on a plane and race home because he told me to. Hated his
condescending, preachy tone of voice that immediately made me feel like one of his
students who’d just been caught talking during class. Hated that he was the one who was
with Lily now even though she was my friend, that he was the one acting as a liaison
between my own parents and me, that he was once again sitting on his moral high horse
and calling the shots. Gone were the old days, when I might have hung up comforted by
his presence, knowing that we were in this together and would get through it together,
instead of as warring factions. When had things become like this?
There was no energy left to point out the obvious to him, namely, that if I left early to
come home, I’d be fired immediately and my entire year of servitude would have been
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for nothing. I had managed to suppress that awful thought before it took full form in my
mind: that my being there or not being there would mean absolutely nothing to Lily right
now, since she was unconscious and unaware in a hospital bed. The options swirled
around in my mind. Perhaps I would stay just long enough to help with the party and then
try to explain to Miranda what happened and make a plea for my job. Or, if it appeared
that Lily was awake and alert, someone could explain that I would be on my way as soon
as possible, at that point probably just a couple more days. And while both of these
explanations sounded somewhat reasonable in the dark hours of early morning after a
long night of dancing and many glasses of bubbly and a phone call telling me my best
friend was in a coma because of her own drunk driving, somewhere down deep I knew—
I knew—that neither of them was.
“Ahn-dre-ah, leave a message at Horace Mann that the girls will be missing school on
Monday because they’ll be in Paris with me, and make sure you get a list of all the work
they’ll need to make up. Also, push back my dinner tonight until eight-thirty, and if
they’re not happy about that, then just cancel it. Have you located a copy of that book I
asked you for yesterday? I need four copies—two in French, two in English—before I
meet them at the restaurant. Oh, and I want a final copy of the edited menu for
tomorrow’s party to reflect the changes I made. Make certain that there will be no sushi
of any kind, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Miranda,” I said, scribbling as quickly as possible in the Smythson notebook the
accessories department had thoughtfully included with my array of bags, shoes, belts, and
jewelry. We were in the car on our way to the Dior show—my first—with Miranda
spitting out rapid-fire instructions with no regard for the fact that I’d gotten less than two
hours of sleep. The knock on my door came at 7:45A .M. from one of Monsieur
Renaud’s junior concierges who was there personally to wake me up and see that I was
dressed in time to attend the show with Miranda, who had herself decided she’d like my
assistance just six minutes earlier. He had politely ignored my being quite obviously
passed out on the still made bed and had even dimmed the lights, which had blazed all
night. I had twenty-five minutes to shower, consult the fashion book, dress myself, and
do my own makeup, since my woman was not scheduled to come this early.
I awoke with a minor champagne headache, but the real jolt of pain came when the
previous night’s phone calls came flashing back. Lily! I needed to call Alex or my
parents and see if anything had happened in the last couple hours—god, it seemed like a
week ago—but now there was no time.
By the time the elevator had hit the first floor, I’d decided that I had to stay for one more
day, just one lousy day to tend to this party, and then I’d be home with Lily. Maybe I’d
even take a short leave of absence once Emily returned, to spend some time with Lil, help
her recuperate and deal with some of the inevitable fallout from the accident. My parents
and Alex would hold down the fort until I got there—it’s not as though she’s all alone,I
told myself. And this was my life. My career, my entire future, was on the line here, and I
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didn’t see how two days either way made all that much difference to someone who
wasn’t yet conscious. But to me—and certainly to Miranda—it made all the difference in
the world.
Somehow I’d made it to the backseat of the limo before Miranda did, and even though
her eyes were currently fixating on my chiffon skirt, she hadn’t yet commented on any
one part of the outfit. I had just tucked the Smythson book into my Bottega Venetta bag
when my new, international cell phone rang. It had never rung in Miranda’s presence
before, I realized, so I scrambled quickly to turn off the ringer, but she ordered me to
answer it.
“Hello?” I kept one eye on Miranda, who was paging through the day’s itinerary and
pretending not to listen.
“Andy, hi honey.” Dad. “Just wanted to give you a quick update.”
“OK.” I was trying to say the bare minimum, since it seemed incredibly strange to be
talking on the phone in front of Miranda.
“The doctor just called and said that Lily is showing signs that indicate she may come
out of it soon. Isn’t that great? I thought you’d want to know.”
“That’s great. Definitely great.”
“Have you decided if you’re coming home or not?”
“Um, no, I haven’t decided. Miranda’s having a party tomorrow night and she definitely
needs my help, so . . . Listen, Dad, I’m sorry, but now’s not a great time. Can I call you
back?”
“Sure, call anytime.” He tried to sound neutral, but I could hear the disappointment in his
voice.
“Great. Thanks for calling. ’Bye.”
“Who was that?” Miranda asked, still peering at her itinerary. It had just begun raining
and her voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of water hitting the limo.
“Hmm? Oh, that was my father. From America.” Where the hell did I come up with this
stuff? FromAmerica ?
“And what did he want you to do that conflicted with your working at the party
tomorrow night?”
I considered a million potential lies in the course of two seconds, but there wasn’t
enough time to work out the details of any of them. Especially when she had turned her
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full attention to me now. I was left with no choice but to tell the truth.
“Oh, it was nothing. A friend of mine was in an accident. She’s in the hospital. In a
coma, actually. And he was just calling to tell me how she was doing and to see if I was
coming home.”
She considered this, nodding slowly, and then picked up the copy of theInternational
Herald Tribune paper the driver had thoughtfully provided. “I see.” No “I’m sorry,” or
“Is your friend OK?,” just an icy, vague statement and a look of extreme displeasure.
“But I’m not, I’m definitely not going home. I understand how important it is that I’m at
the party tomorrow, and I’ll be there. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I want you to know
that I plan to honor the commitment I’ve made to you and to my job, so I’ll be staying.”
At first Miranda said nothing. But then she smiled slightly and said, “Ahn-dre-ah, I’m
very pleased with your decision. It is absolutely the right thing to do, and I appreciate that
you recognize that. Ahn-dre-ah, I have to say, I had my doubts about you from the start.
Clearly, you know nothing about fashion and more than that, you don’t seem to care. And
don’t think I’ve failed to notice all the rich and varied ways you convey to me your
displeasure when I ask you to do something that you’d rather not. Your competency in
the job has been adequate, but your attitude has been substandard at best.”
“Oh, Miranda, please let me—”
“I’m speaking! And I was going to say that I’ll be much more willing to help you get
where you’d like to go now that you’ve demonstrated that you’re committed. You should
be proud of yourself, Ahn-dre-ah.” Just when I thought I’d faint from the length and
depth and content of the soliloquy—whether from joy or from pain, I wasn’t sure—she
took it one step further. In a move that was so fundamentally out of character for this
woman on every level, she placed her hand on top of the one I had resting on the seat
between us and said, “You remind me of myself when I was your age.” And before I
could conjure up a single appropriate syllable to utter, the driver screeched to a halt in
front of the Carrousel du Louvre and leapt out to open the doors. I grabbed my bag and
hers as well and wondered if this was the proudest or the most humiliating moment of my
life.
My first Parisian fashion show was a blur. It was dark, that much I remember, and the
music seemed much too loud for such understated elegance, but the only thing that stands
out from that two-hour window into bizarreness was my own intense discomfort. The
Chanel boots that Jocelyn had so lovingly selected to go with the outfit—a stretchy and
therefore skintight cashmere sweater by Malo over a chiffon skirt—made my feet feel
like confidential documents being fed through a shredder. My head ached from a
combination of hangover and anxiety, causing my empty stomach to protest with
threatening waves of nausea. I was standing in the very back of the room with assorted C
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list reporters and others who didn’t rank high enough to warrant a seat, keeping one eye
on Miranda and the other scoping out the least humiliating places to be sick if the need
arose.You remind me of myself when I was your age. You remind me of myself when I
was your age. You remind me of myself when I was your age . The words kept
reverberating over and over, keeping tune to the steady and persistent pounding of my
forehead.
Miranda managed not to address me for nearly an hour, but after that she was off and
running. Even though I was standing in the same room she was, she called my cell phone
to request a Pellegrino. From that moment on, the phone rang in ten-to twelve-minute
increments, each request sending another shock of pain directly to my head.Brrring. “Get
Mr. Tomlinson on his air phone on the jet.” (B-DAD didn’t answer on his air phone when
I tried calling it sixteen times.)Brrring. “Remind all theRunway editors in Paris that just
because they’re here does not mean they can neglect their responsibilities at home—I
want everything in by original deadline!” (The couple ofRunway editors I had gotten in
touch with at their various hotels in Paris had simply laughed at me and hung up.)Brrring.
“Get me a regular American turkey sandwich immediately—I’m tiring of all this ham.” (I
walked more than two miles in painful boots and with an upset stomach, but there was no
turkey to be found anywhere. I’m convinced she knew, since she’d never once before
asked for a turkey sandwich while in America—even though, of course, they’re available
on every street corner.)Brrring. “I expect dossiers prepared on the three best chefs you’ve
found thus far to be waiting in my suite by the time we return from this show.” (Emily
hacked and whined and bitched but promised that she’d fax over whatever information
she had on the candidates so far and I could make them into “dossiers.”)Brrring! Brrring!
Brrring! You remind me of myself when I was your age .
Too nauseated and crippled to watch the parade of anorexic models, I ducked outside for
a quick cigarette. Naturally, the moment I flicked on my lighter, my cell phone shrilled
again. “Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Where are you? Where the hell are you right now?”
I tossed out my still unlit cigarette and raced back inside, my stomach churning so
violently that I knew I would be sick—it was just a matter of when and where.
“I’m right in the back of the room, Miranda,” I said, sliding through the door and
pressing my back against the wall. “Right to the left of the door. Do you see me?”
I watched as she swiveled her head back and forth until her eyes finally rested on mine. I
was about to hang up the phone, but she was still stage whispering into it. “Don’t move,
do you hear me? Do not move! One would think that my assistant would understand
she’s here to assist me, not to gallivant around outside when I need her. This is
unacceptable, Ahn-dre-ah!” By the time she’d made it to the back of the room and
positioned herself in front of me, a woman in a glimmering floor-length silver gown with
an empire waist and slight flare was sashaying through the reverent crowds, and the
music switched from some sort of bizarre Gregorian chants to all-out heavy metal. My
head began pounding almost in tune to the change in music. Miranda didn’t stop hissing
when she reached me, but she did, finally, flip her cell phone closed. I did the same.
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“Ahn-dre-ah, we have a very serious problem here.You have a very serious problem. I
just received a call from Mr. Tomlinson. It seems Annabelle brought it to his attention
that the twins’ passports expired last week.” She stared at me, but all I could do was
concentrate on not throwing up.
“Oh, really?” was all I could manage, but that clearly wasn’t the right response. Her
hand tightened around her bag and her eyes began to bulge with anger.
