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that I make her a lunch reservation the following day。This
isn’t so bad； I thought； as the woman’s strong hands kneaded
my twisted neck muscles。 Not a bad perk at all。 But just as I
started to drift off once again； the Cell Phone that I’d
grudgingly brought along began its persistent ring。
“Hello？” I said brightly； as if I weren’t lying naked on a
table covered in oil； half…asleep。
“Ahn…dre…ah。 Move my hair and makeup earlier and tell the
Ungaro people I can’t make it tonight。 I’ll be attending a
small cocktail party instead； and I expect you to e with
me。 Be ready to leave in an hour。”
“Um； sure； uh； sure；” I stammered； trying to process the fact
that I was actually going somewhere with her。 A flashback from
yesterday—the last time I was told at the very last minute
that I was to go somewhere with her—flooded my brain； and I
felt as though I would hyperventilate。 I thanked the woman and
charged the massage to the room even though I’d made it
through only the first ten minutes； and I ran upstairs to
figure out how to best maneuver around this newest obstacle。
This was getting old。 Quickly。
It took just a few minutes to page Miranda’s hair and makeup
people （who； incidentally； were different from my own—I was
pieced together by an angry…looking woman whose look of
despair on seeing me for the first time haunted me still；
while Miranda had a pair of gay guys who looked like they
stepped directly out of the pages ofMaxim ） and change her
appointment。
“No problem；” Julien squealed in a thick French accent。 “We
will be there； how you say？ Wearing bells！ We clear our
schedules this week just in the case that Madame Priestly need
us at different times！”
I paged Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro
people。 Time to hit the wardrobe。 The sketchbook with all my
different “looks” was displayed prominently on the bedside
table； just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to
turn to it for spiritual guidance。 I flipped through the
headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all。
Shows：
1。 Daytime
2。 Evening
Meals：
1。 Breakfast meeting
2。 Lunch
A。 Casual （hotel or bistro）
B。 Formal （The Espadon in the Ritz）
3。 Dinner
A。 Casual （bistro； room service）
B。 Midrange （decent restaurant； casual dinner party）
C。 Formal （Le Grand Vefour restaurant； formal dinner
party）
Parties：
1。 Casual （champagne breakfasts； afternoon teas）
2。 Stylish （cocktail parties by nonmajor people； book parties；
“meet for drinks”）
3。 Dressy （cocktail parties by major people； anything at a
museum or gallery； postshow parties hosted by design team）
Miscellaneous：
1。 To and from the airport
2。 Athletic events （lessons； tournaments； etc。）
3。 Shopping excursions
4。 Running errands
A。 To couture salons
B。 To upscale shops and boutiques
C。 To the local food store and/or health and beauty aid
There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear
when one was unable to establish the major…ness or
non…major…ness of the hosts。 Clearly； there was the
opportunity to make a big mistake here： I could narrow the
event down to “Parties；” which was a good first step； but at
that point things got gray。 Was this party going to be a
simple number 2； where I’d just pull out something chic； or
was it really a 3； in which case I’d better pay attention to
choose something from the more elegant choices？ There were no
instructions for “gray area” or “uncertainty；” but someone had
helpfully included a last…minute handwritten note toward the
bottom of the table of contents：When in doubt （and you never
should be）； better to be underdressed in something fabulous
than overdressed in something fabulous。 Well； OK then； it
looked like I now squarely fit into category； party；
subcategory； stylish。 I turned to the six looks that Lucia had
sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out
what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on。
After a particularly embarrassing run…in with a
feather…covered tank top and patent…leather thigh…high （as in
yes； over the knee） boots； I finally selected the outfit on
page thirty…three； a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli
with a baby…T and a pair of biker…chick black boots by D&G。
Hot； sexy； stylish—but not too dressy—without actually making
me look like an ostrich； an eighties throwback； or a hooker。
What more could you ask for？ Just as I was attempting to
choose a workable bag； the hair and makeup woman showed up to
begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not
look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did。
“Um； could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a
little？” I asked carefully； desperately trying not disparage
her handiwork。 It probably would’ve been better to have a go
at the makeup myself— especially since I had more supplies and
instructions than the NASA scientists missioned to build
the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like
clockwork whether I liked it or not。
“No！” she barked； clearly not striving for the same
sensitivity as myself。 “It looks better this way。”
She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom
lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived； I grabbed my
bag （alligator Gucci bowling bag） and headed to the lobby
fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I
could double…check that the driver was ready。 Just as I was
debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to
each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or
actually use the same one and risk catching something from
sharing a backseat with her assistant； she appeared。 She
looked me up and down very slowly； her expression remaining
pletely passive and indifferent。 I’d passed！ This was the
first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t
received a look of all…out disgust or； at the very least； a
snarky ment； and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New
York fashion editors； a collection of Parisian hair and makeup
stylists； and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most
expensive clothing。
“Is the car here； Ahn…dre…ah？” She looked stunning in a short；
shirred velvet cocktail dress。
“Yes； Ms。 Priestly； right this way；” Monsieur Renaud
interrupted smoothly； leading us past a group of what could
only be other American fashion editors also there for the
shows。 A deferential hush fell over the super…hip…looking
crowd ofüber …Clackers when we walked past； Miranda two steps
in front me； looking thin and striking and very； very unhappy。
I nearly had to run to keep up； even though she was six inches
shorter than me； and I waited until she gave me a “Well？ What
the hell are you waiting for？” look before I ducked into the
backseat of the limo after her。
Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going；
because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would
turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was
being held。 She did turn to me； but she said nothing； choosing
instead to chat with B…DAD on her Cell Phone； repeating over
and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time
to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday
night。 He was flying over in his pany’s private jet； and
they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline
and Cassidy； since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday； she
didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school。 It
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