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single word that woman utters？ It’s not me； Em。 I speak English；
always have。 I know she does it to personally drive me crazy。”
Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity。 “Since
the book es out tomorrow and they’re not here to buy it； she
wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro。 The jet
will take them to Paris；” she summed up coldly； daring me to ment
on the ludicrousness of the instructions。 I was reminded once again
that Emily would do anything—really； anything—if it meant making
Miranda a bit more fortable。 I rolled my eyes and kept quiet。
Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her
bidding； and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power
（hers） at my personal disposal； I spent the rest of the day
arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Paris。 First； a few
words for Julia at Scholastic。
Dearest Julia；
My assistant； Andrea； tells me that you’re the sweetheart to whom I
should address my most heartfelt appreciation。 She has informed me
that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies
of this darling book for me tomorrow。 I want you to know how much I
appreciate your hard work and cleverness。 Please know how happy
you’ll make my sweet daughters。 And don’t ever hesitate to let me
know if you need anything； anything at all； for a fabulous girl like
yourself。
XOXO；
Miranda Priestly
I forged her name with a perfect flourish （hour upon hour of
practicing with Emily standing over me； instructing me to make the
final “a” a little loopier； had finally paid off）； attached the note
to the latest issue ofRunway —one not yet on the newsstand—and
called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to
Scholastic’s downtown office。 If this didn’t work； nothing would。
Miranda didn’t care that we forged her signature—it saved her from
bothering with details—but she’d probably be livid to see that I’d
penned something so polite； soadorable； using her name。
Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if
Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the
weekends； but I was now experienced—and jaded—enough to bend the
rules a little。 Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be
at the airport in New Jersey whenHarry arrived the following day； I
saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him。 Acting under
the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with
a couple copies； I worked out some details。 Dial； dial； and within
an hour a plan had emerged。
Brian； a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic—whom I was
assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours—would
take Home two office copies ofHarry that evening； so he wouldn’t
have to go back to the office on Saturday。 Brian would leave the
books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building；
and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven。
Miranda’s driver； Uri； would then call me on my Cell Phone to
confirm that he’d received the package and was on his way to drop it
at Teterboro airport； where the two books would be transferred to
Mr。 Tomlinson’s private jet and flown to Paris。 I briefly considered
conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB
operation even more； but dropped that when I remembered that Uri
didn’t really speak regular English that well。 I had checked to see
how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there； but delivery
couldn’t be guaranteed until Monday； which was obviously
unacceptable。 Hence the private plane。 If all went as planned；
little Cassidy and Caroline could wake up in their private Parisian
suite on Sunday and enjoy their morning milk while reading about
Harry’s adventures—a full day earlier than all of their friends。 It
warmed my heart； it really did。
Minutes after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate
people put on alert； Julia called back。 Although it’d be a grueling
task and she was likely to get in trouble； she’d be happy to give
Brian two copies for Ms。 Priestly。 Amen。
“Do you believe he gotengaged ？” Lily asked as she rewound the copy
ofFerris Bueller we’d just finished。 “I mean； we’re twenty…three
years old for goodness sake—what’s the rush？”
“I know； it does seem weird。” I called from the kitchen。 “Maybe Mom
and Dad won’t let him have access to the massive trust fund until
he’s settled down？ That’d be enough motivation to put a ring on her
finger。 Or maybe he’s just lonely？”
Lily looked at me and laughed。 “Naturally； he can’t just be in love
with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her； right？ I
mean； we’ve established that that’s totally out of the question；
right？”
“Correct。 That’s not an option。 Try again。”
“Well； then； I’m forced to pick curtain number three。 He’s gay。 He
finally came to the realization himself—even though I’ve known
forever—and realizes that Mom and Dad won’t be able to handle it； so
he’ll cover by marrying the first girl he can find。 What do you
think？”
Casablancawas next on the list； and Lily fast…forwarded past the
opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny
kitchen of her nonalcove studio in Morningside Heights。 We lazed
around straight through Friday night—breaking only to smoke and make
another Blockbuster run。 Saturday afternoon found us particularly
motivated； and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours。
We each bought new tank tops for Lily’s uping New Year’s party
and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk café。 By the
time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday； we were exhausted
and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating betweenWhen
Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday Night Live 。 It was so thoroughly
relaxing； such a departure from the misery that had bee my daily
routine； I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I
heard a phone ring on Sunday。 Ohmigod； it was Her！ I overheard Lily
speaking in Russian to someone； probably a classmate； on her Cell
Phone。 Thank you； thank you； thank you； dear lord： it wasn’t Her。
But that still didn’t let me off the hook。 It was already Sunday
morning； and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way
to Paris。 I had enjoyed my weekend so much—had actually managed to
relax enough—that I had forgotten to check。 Of course； my phone was
on and set to the highest ring level； but I never should’ve waited
for someone to call me with a problem； when of course it’d be too
late to do anything。 I should’ve taken preemptive action and
confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our
highly choreographed plan had worked。
I dug frantically through my overnight bag； searching for the cell
phone given to me byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven
digits away from Miranda。 I finally freed it from a tangle of
underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed。
The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at
that point； and I knew immediately； instinctively； that she had
called and it had gone directly to voice mail。 I hated that Cell
Phone with my entire soul。 I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen Home
phone by this point。 I hated Lily’s phone； mercials for phones；
pictures of phones in magazines； and I even hated Alexander Graham
Bell。 Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate
side effects in my day…to…day life； but the most unnatural one was
my severe and all…consuming hatred of phones。
For most people； the ringing of a phone was a wele sign。 Someone
was trying to reach them； to say hello； ask about their well…being；
or make plans。 For me； it triggered fear； intense anxiety； and
heart…stopping panic。 Some people considered the many available
phone features to be a novelty； even fun。 For me； they were nothing
short of imperative。 Although I’d never had so much as call waiting
before Miranda； a few days into my tenure atRunway I was signed up
for call waiting （so she’d never get a busy signal）； caller ID （so I
could avoid her calls）； call waiting with caller ID （so I could
avoid her calls while talking on the other line）； and voice mail （so
she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear
an answering machine message）。 Fifty bucks a month for phone
service—before long distance—seemed a small price to pay for my
peace of mind。 Well； not peace of mind exactly； more like early
warning。
The Cell Phone afforded me no such barriers。 Sure； it had all the
same features as the Home phone； but from Miranda’s point of view
there was simply no reasonwhatsoever for the cell to ever be turned
off。 It could never go unanswered。 The few reasons for such a
situation that I’d thrown out to Emily when she’d first handed me
the phone—a standardRunway office supply—and told me to always
answer it were quickly eliminated。
“What if you were sleeping？” I had stupidly asked。
“So get up and answer it；” she’d answered while filing down a
scraggly nail。
“Sitting down to a really fancy meal？”
“Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table。”
“Getting a pelvic exam？”
“They’re not looking in your ears； are they？” All right then。 I got
it。
I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it。 It kept me tied
to Miranda like an umbilical cord； refusing to let me grow up or out
or away from my source of suffocation。 She calledconstantly； and
like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry； my body had begun
responding viscerally to its ring。Brring…brring。 Increased heart
rate。Briiiing。 Automatic finger clenching and shoulder
tensing。Brriiiiiiiiiiiing。 Oh； why won’t she leave me alone； please；
oh； please； just forget I’m alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead。
This whole glorious weekend I’d never even considered the phone
might not have service and had just assumed it would’ve rung if
there was a problem。 Mistake number one。 I roamed the couple hundred
square feet until AT&T decided to work again； held my breath； and
dialed into my voice mail。
Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily。 A friend
from San Francisco found himself on Business in New York that week
and wanted to get together。 My sister called to remind me to send a
birthday card to her husband。 And there it was； almost unexpected
but not quite； that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears。
“Ahn…dre…ah。 It’s Mir…ahnda。 It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in
Pah…ris and the girls have not yet received their books。 Call me at
the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly。 That’s all。”
Click。
The bile began to rise in my throat。 As usual； the message lacked
all niceties。 No hello； good…bye； or thank you。 Obviously。 But more
than that； it had been left nearly half a day ago； and I had still
not called her back。 Grounds for dismissal； I knew； and there was
nothing I could do about it。 Like an amateur； I’d assumed my plan
would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized that Uri had never
called to confirm the pickup and drop…off。 I scanned through the
address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s Cell Phone number；
another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well。
“Hi； Uri； it’s Andrea。 Sorry to