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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
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