‘Ahn-dre-ah, hand me a scarf.’ I comforted myself with the thought that I’d be long gone by the time she ran out of them completely. 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 come 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 to provide a few more details, only to be met with one of Emily’s withering looks. Questioning Miranda was apparently off-limits. Better to muddle through and wait to be told how off the mark our results were. To locate the vintage dresser that had caught Miranda’s eye, I had spent two and a half days in a limo, cruising around Manhattan, through the seventies on both sides of the park. I ruled out York Avenue (too residential) and proceeded up First, down Second, up Third, down Lex. I skipped Park (again, too residential) but continued up Madison, and then repeated a similar process on the West Side. Pen poised, eyes peeled, phone book open in my lap, ready to jump out at the first sight of a store that sold antiques. I graced every single antique store – and not a few regular furniture stores – with a personal visit. By store number four, I had it down to an art form.
‘Hi, do you sell any vintage dressers?’ I’d practically scream the second they buzzed me inside. By the sixth store I wasn’t even bothering to move in from the doorway. Some snotty salesperson inevitably looked me up and down – I couldn’t escape it! – sizing me up to decide if I was someone to be bothered with. Most would notice the waiting Town Car at this point and grudgingly provide me with a yes or no answer, although some wanted detailed descriptions of the dresser I was looking for.
If they admitted to selling something that fit my two-word requirement, I would immediately follow up with a curt ‘Has Miranda Priestly been here recently?’ If they hadn’t thought I was crazy at this point, they now looked ready to call security. A few had never heard her name, which was fantastic both because it was rejuvenating to see firsthand that there were still normally functioning human beings whose lives weren’t dominated by her, and also because I could promptly leave without further discussion. The pathetic majority who recognized the name became instantly curious. Some wondered which gossip column I wrote for. But regardless of whatever story I made up, no one had seen her in their shop (with the exception of three stores who hadn’t ‘seen Ms Priestly in months, and oh, how we miss her! Please do tell her that Franck/Charlotte/Sarabeth sends his/her love!’).
When I hadn’t located the shop by noon of the third day, Emily finally gave me the green light to come to the office and ask Miranda for clarification. I started sweating when the car pulled in front of the building. I threatened to climb over the turnstile if Eduardo didn’t let me pass without a performance. By the time I reached our floor, the sweat had soaked through my shirt. Hands started shaking the moment I entered the office suite, and the perfectly prepared speech (Hello, Miranda. I’m fine, thanks so much for asking. How are you? Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been trying very hard to locate the antique store you described, but I haven’t had much luck. Perhaps you could tell me whether it’s on the east or west side of Manhattan? Or maybe you even recall the name?) simply vanished into the fickle regions of my very nervous brain. Against all protocol, I didn’t post my question on the Bulletin; I requested permission to approach her at her desk and – probably because she was so shocked I’d had the nerve to speak without being spoken to – she granted it. To make a long story short, Miranda sighed and patronized and condescended and insulted in every delightful way of hers but finally opened her black leather Hermès planner (tied shut inconveniently but chicly with a white Hermès scarf) and produced … the business card for the store.
‘I left this information on the recording for you, Ahn-dre-ah. I suppose it would have been too much trouble to write it down?’ And even though the yearning to make decorative paper-cut designs all over her face with the aforementioned business card filled my entire being, I simply nodded and agreed. It wasn’t until I looked down at the card that I noticed the address: 244 East 68th Street. Naturally. East or west or Second Avenue or Amsterdam wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, because the store I’d just dedicated the past thirty-three working hours to locating wasn’t even in the seventies.
I thought of this as I wrote down the last of Miranda’s late-night requests before racing downstairs to meet Uri at our designated area. Every morning he described where he parked in great detail so I could theoretically meet him at the car. But every morning, no matter how fast I made it downstairs, he’d bring everything inside himself so I wouldn’t have to race up and down the streets searching for him. I was delighted to see that today was no exception: he was leaning against a lobby turnstile, holding bags and clothes and books in his arms like a benevolent, generous grandfather.
‘Don’t you run to me, you hear?’ he said in his thick Russian accent. ‘All day long, you run, run, run. She makes you work very, very hard. This is why I bring the tings to you,’ he said, helping me get a grip on the overflowing bags and boxes. ‘You be a good girl, you hear, and have a nice day.’
I shot him a grateful look, glared at Eduardo semijokingly – my way of saying, ‘I will fucking kill you if you even think of asking me to strike a pose right now’ – and softened a bit when he buzzed me through the turnstiles, comment-free. I miraculously remembered to stop by the lobby newsstand, where Ahmed piled all of Miranda’s requested morning papers into my arms. Although the mailroom delivered each to Miranda’s desk by nine each day, I was still to purchase a full second set every morning to help minimize the risk that she would spend a single second in her office without her papers. Same with the weekly magazines. No one seemed to mind that we charged nine newspapers a day and seven magazines a week for someone who read only the gossip and fashion pages.
I dumped all her stuff on the floor under my desk. It was time for the first round of ordering. I dialed the number I’d memorized long ago for Mangia, a gourmet takeout place in midtown, and, as usual, Jorge answered.
‘Hi, pumpkin, it’s me,’ I’d say, propping the phone against my shoulder so I could start logging into Hotmail. ‘Let’s get this day
