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locked again。 Sometimes I’d have to do this three or four times
until I finally caught it； but today I made it on my second attempt。
The floor was always dark when I arrived； and I took the same route
to my desk every morning。 To my left when I walked in was the
advertising department； the girls who most loved adorning themselves
in Chloé T…shirts and spike…heeled boots while handing out Business
cards that screamed “Runway。” They were removed； wholly and
entirely； from anything and everything that took place on the
editorial side of the floor： it was editorial that picked the
clothes for the fashion spreads； wooed the good writers； matched the
accessories to the outfits； interviewed the models； edited the copy；
designed the layouts； and hired the photographers。 Editorial
traveled to hot spots around the world for shoots； got free gifts
and discounts from all the designers； hunted for trends； and went to
parties at Pastis and Float because they “had to check out what
people were wearing。”
Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space。 Sometimes they threw
promotional parties； but they were celebrity…free and therefore
boring to New York’s hipster scene （or so Emily had sneeringly told
me）。 My phone would ring off the hook on a day during aRunway ad
sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an
invite。 “Um； like； I hearRunway ’s having a party tonight。 Why am I
not invited？” I always found out from someone on the outside that
there was a party that night： editorial was never invited because
they wouldn’t go anyway。 As if it wasn’t enough for theRunway girls
to mock； terrorize； and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t
one of them； they had to create internal class lines as well。
The ad sales department gave way to a long； narrow hallway。 It
seemed to stretch forever before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the
left side。 Here were an assortment of Coffees and teas； a fridge for
stored lunches—all superfluous； since Starbucks had a monopoly on
employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully
selected in the dining room or ordered in from any one of a thousand
midtown takeout places。 But it was a nice touch； almost cute； it
said；“Hey； look at us； we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’N Lows
and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last
night’s dinner！ We’re just like everyone else！”
I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7：05； so tired I could
barely move。 But as with everything； there was yet another routine
that I never thought to question or alter； so I began in earnest。 I
unlocked her office and turned on all the lights。 It was still dark
outside； and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power
monger’s office； staring out at a flashing and restless New York
City and picturing myself in one of those movies （take your pick—any
that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his 6
million apartment with views of the river）； feeling on top of the
world。 And then the lights would blaze forth； and my fantasy was
over。 The anything…is…possible feel of New York at dawn vanished；
and the identical； grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all I
could see。
Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area； the place where
I hung her coat （and mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that
day—Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian wools hanging next
to her minks） and where we kept a number of supplies： castoff coats
and clothes that were worth tens of thousands of dollars； some new
dry cleaning that had been delivered to the office but not yet
brought up to Miranda’s apartment； at least two hundred of the
infamous white Hermès scarves。 I’d heard that Hermès had decided to
discontinue her particular style last year； a simple and elegant
white silk square。 Someone at the pany felt they owed Miranda an
explanation and actually called to apologize to her。 Unsurprisingly；
she’d coldly told them how disappointed she was and promptly
purchased their entire remaining stock。 About five hundred of the
scarves had been delivered to the office a couple years before I’d
gotten there； and we were now down to less than half。 Miranda left
them everywhere： restaurants； movies； fashion shows； weekly
meetings； taxis。 She left them on airplanes； at her daughters’
school； on the tennis court。 Of course； she always had one stylishly
incorporated into her outfit—I’d yet to see her outside her own Home
without one。 But that didn’t explain where they all went。 Perhaps
she thought they were handkerchiefs？ Or maybe she liked jotting
notes on silk instead of paper？ Whatever it was； she seemed to truly
believe they were disposable； and none of us knew how to tell her
otherwise。 Elias…Clark had paid a couple hundred dollars for each
one； but no matter： we handed them out to her as though they were
Kleenex。 At the rate she was going； in under two years； Miranda was
due to run out。
I’d arranged the stiff orange boxes on the ready…to…distribute shelf
of the closet； where they never remained for very long。 Every third
or fourth day； she’d prepare to leave for lunch and sigh；
“Ahn…dre…ah； hand me a scarf。” I forted myself with the thought
that I’d be long gone by the time she ran out of them pletely。
Whoever was unlucky enough to be around would have to tell her that
there were no more white Hermès scarves； and that none could be
made； shipped； created； formed； mailed； ordered； or mandated。 The
mere thought was terrifying。
Just as I got the closet and office opened； Uri called。
“Andrea？ Hello； hello。 It is Uri。 Could you e downstairs please？
I am on Fifty…eighth Street； closer to Park Avenue； right in front
of the New York sports Club。 I have things for you。”
This call was a good although imperfect way of telling me that
Miranda would be arriving somewhat soon。 Maybe。 Most mornings she
sent Uri ahead to the office with her things； an assortment of dirty
clothes that needed dry cleaning； any copy she’d taken Home to read；
magazines； shoes or bags that needed to be fixed； and the Book。 This
way； she could have me meet the car and carry up all of these rather
mundane things ahead of schedule and deal with them before she
stepped into the office。 She tended to follow her stuff by about a
half hour； since Uri would drop off her things and then go pick her
up from wherever she might be hiding that morning。
She herself could be anywhere； since； according to Emily； she never
slept。 I didn’t believe it until I started getting to the office
ahead of Emily and would be the first to listen to the voice mail。
Every night； without exception； Miranda would leave eight to ten
ambiguous messages for us between the hours of one and six in the
morning。 Things like； “Cassidy wants one of those nylon bags all the
little girls are carrying。 Order her one in the medium size and a
color she’d like；” and “I’ll be needing the address and phone number
of that antique store in the seventies； the one where I saw the
vintage dresser。” As though we knew which nylon bags were all the
rage among ten…year…olds or at which one of four hundred antique
stores in the seventies—east or west； by the way？—she happened to
spot something she liked at some point in the past fifteen years。
But each morning I faithfully listened to and transcribed those
messages； hitting “replay” over and over and over again； trying to
make sense of the accent and interpret the clues in order to avoid
asking Miranda directly for more information。
Once； I made the mistake of suggesting that we actually ask Miranda