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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 e 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 eventhink of asking me to
strike a pose right now”—and softened a bit when he buzzed me
through the turnstiles； ment…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
started。” Jorge and I were friends。 Talking three； four； five times
a morning had a funny way of bonding two people rather quickly。
“Hey； baby； I’ll send one of the boys over right away。 Is she there
yet？” he asked； understanding that “she” was my lunatic boss and
that she worked forRunway； but not quite understanding who exactly
would be consuming the breakfast I had just ordered。 Jorge was one
of my morning men； as I liked to call them。 Eduardo； Uri； Jorge； and
Ahmed gave a decent as possible start to my day。 They were
deliciously unaffiliated withRunway； even though their separate
existences in my life were solely meant to make its editor’s life
more perfect。 Not a single one of them truly understood Miranda’s
power and prestige。
Breakfast number one would be on its way to 640 Madison in seconds；
and the chances were good I’d have to throw it out。 Miranda ate four
slices of greasy； fatty bacon； two sausage links； and a soft cheese
Danish every morning； and washed it down with a tall latte from
Starbucks （two raw sugars； remember！）。 As far as I could tell； the
office was divided on whether she was permanently on the Atkins diet
or just lucky enough to