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Her smile this time was patronizing。 “Of course。 You just had to say
so。 Jessica Duchamps is； well； a Duchamps！ You know； as in the most
successful French restaurant in the city！ Her parents own it—isn’t
that crazy？ They are so unbelievably rich。”
“Oh； really？” I said； feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this
super…pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were
restaurateurs。 “That’s great。”
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s
office；” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself
would call and I wouldn’t know what to do。 Panic set in during a
call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a
strong British accent； and I threw the phone to Emily without
thinking to put it on hold first。
“It’s her；” I whispered urgently。 “Take it。”
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look。 Never one to
mince emotions； she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a
way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity。
“Miranda？ It’s Emily；” she said； a bright smile lighting up her face
as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her。
Silence。 A frown。 “Oh； Mimi； so sorry！ The new girl thought you were
Miranda！ I know； how funny。 I guess we have to work onnot thinking
every British accent is necessarily our boss！ ” She looked at me
pointedly； her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher。
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and
take messages for Emily； who would then call the people back—with
nonstop narration on their order of importance； if any； in Miranda’s
life。 About noon； just as the first hunger pangs were beginning； I
picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end。
“Hello？ Allison； is that you？” asked the icy…sounding but regal
voice。 “I’ll be needing a skirt。”
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide。
“Emily； it’s her； it’s definitely her；” I hissed； waving the
receiver to get her attention。 “She wants a skirt！”
Emily turned to see my panic…stricken face and promptly hung up the
phone without so much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good…bye。”
She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line； and plastered
on another wide grin。
“Miranda？ It’s Emily。 What can I do？” She put her pen to her pad and
began writing furiously； forehead furrowing intently。 “Yes； of
course。 Naturally。” And as fast as it happened； it was over。 I
looked at her expectantly。 She rolled her eyes at me for appearing
so eager。
“Well； it looks like you have your first job。 Miranda needs a skirt
for tomorrow； among other things； so we’ll need to get it on a plane
by tonight； at the latest。”
“OK； well； what kind does she need？” I asked； still reeling from the
shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic
simply because she’d requested it do so。
“She didn’t say exactly；” Emily muttered as she picked up the phone。
“Hi； Jocelyn； it’s me。 She wants a skirt； and I’ll need to have it
on Mrs。 de la Renta’s flight tonight； since she’ll be meeting
Miranda down there。 No； I have no idea。 No； she didn’t say。 I really
don’t know。 OK； thanks。” She turned to me and said； “It makes it
more difficult when she’s not specific。 She’s too busy to worry
about details like that； so she didn’t say what material or color or
style or brand she wants。 But that’s OK。 I know her size； and I
definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she’ll
like。 That was Jocelyn from the fashion department。 They’ll start
calling some in。” I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt
telethon with a giant scoreboard； drum role； and voilà！ Gucci and
spontaneous applause。
Not quite。 “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway
ridiculousness； although I do have to say that the process was as
efficient as a military operation。 Either Emily or myself would
notify the fashion assistants—about eight in all； who each
maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores。
The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public
relations contacts at the various design houses and； if appropriate；
at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly—yes；
Miranda Priestly； and yes； it was indeed for herpersonal use—was
looking for a particular item。 Within minutes； every PR account exec
and assistant working at Michael Kors； Gucci； Prada； Versace； Fendi；
Armani； Chanel； Barney’s； Chloé； Calvin Klein； Bergdorf； Roberto
Cavalli； and Saks would be messengering over （or； in some cases；
hand…delivering） every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly
could conceivably find attractive。 I watched the process unfold like
a highly choreographed ballet； each player knowing exactly where and
when and how their next step would occur。 While this near…daily
activity unfolded； Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that
we’d need to send with the skirt that night。
“Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty…eighth Street；” she said
while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on
a piece ofRunway stationery。 She paused briefly to toss me a Cell
Phone and said； “Here； take this in case I need to reach you or you
have any questions。 Never turn it off。 Always answer it。” I took the
phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the
building； wondering how I was ever going to find “my car。” Or even；
really； what that meant。 I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and
looked meekly around before a squat； gray…haired man gumming a pipe
approached。
“You Priestly’s new girl？” he croaked through tobacco…stained lips；
never removing the mahogany…colored pipe。 I nodded。 “I’m Rich。 The
dispatcher。 You wanna car； you talka to me。 Got it； blondie？” I
nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan。
He slammed the door shut and waved。
“Where you going； miss？” the driver asked； pulling me back to the
present。 I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from
my pocket。
First stop： Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St。； 6th Floor。
Ask for Leanne。 She’ll give you everything we need。
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window。 It was one
o’clock on a frigid winter afternoon； I was twenty…three years old；
and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan； on my way
to Tommy Hilfiger’s studio。 And I was positively starving。 It took
nearly forty…five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the
midtown lunch hour； my first glimpse of real city gridlock。 The
driver told me he’d circle the block until I came out again； and off
I went to Tommy’s studio。 When I asked for Leanne at the
receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor； an adorable girl not a day
older than eighteen came bounding down the stairs。
“Hi！” she called； stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds。
“You must be Andrea； Miranda’s new assistant。 We sure do love her
around here； so wele to the team！” She grinned。 I grinned。 She
pulled a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and
immediately spilled its contents on the floor。 “Here we have
Caroline’s favorite jeans in three colors； and we threw in some baby
T’s； too。 And Cassidy just adores Tommy’s khaki skirts—we gave them
to her in olive and stone。” Jean skirts； denim jackets； even a few
pair of socks came flying out of the bag； and all I could do was
stare： there were enough clothes to constitute four or more total
preteen wardrobes。Who the hell are Cassidy a