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fashion spreads。 He lined up each rack against a wall； weaving them
throughout the entire floor so the editors could find what they
needed without having to fight their way through the Closet itself。
The Closet wasn’t really a closet at all。 It was more like a small
auditorium。 Along the perimeter were walls of shoes in every size
and color and style； a virtual Willy Wonka’s factory for
fashionistas； with dozens of slingbacks； stilettos； ballet flats；
high…heeled boots； open…toe sandals； beaded heels。 Stacked drawers；
some built…in and others just shoved in corners； held every
imaginable configuration of stockings； socks； bras； panties； slips；
camisoles； and corsets。 Need a last…minute leopard…print push…up bra
from La Perla？ Check the Closet。 How about a pair of flesh…colored
fishnets or those Dior aviators？ In the Closet。 The accessories
shelves and drawers took up the farthest two walls； and the sheer
amount of merchandise—not to mention its value—was staggering。
Fountain pens。 Jewelry。 Bed linens。 Mufflers and gloves and ski
caps。 Pajamas。 Capes。 Shawls。 Stationery。 Silk flowers。 Hats； so
many hats。 And bags。 The bags！ There were totes and bowling bags；
backpacks and under…arms； over…shoulders and minis； oversize and
clutches； envelopes and messengers； each bearing an exclusive label
and a price tag of more than the average American’s monthly mortgage
payment。 And then there were the racks and racks of clothes—pushed
so tightly together it was impossible to walk among them—that
occupied every remaining inch of space。
So during the day Jeffy would attempt to make the Closet a
semi…usable space where models （and assistants like myself） could
try on clothes and actually reach some of the shoes and bags in the
back by pushing all of the racks into the halls。 I’d yet to see a
single visitor to the floor—whether writer or boyfriend or messenger
or stylist—not stop dead in his or her tracks and gape at the
couture…lined hallways。 Sometimes the racks were arranged by shoot
（Sydney； Santa Barbara） and other times by item （bikinis； skirt
suits）； but mostly it just seemed like a haplessly casual mishmash
ofreally expensive stuff 。 And although everyone stopped and stared
and fingered the butter…soft cashmeres and the intricately beaded
evening gowns； it was the Clackers who hovered possessively over
“their” clothes and provided constant； streaming mentary on each
and every piece。
“Maggie Rizer is the only woman in theworld who can actually wear
these capris；” Hope； one of the fashion assistants—weighing a
whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six…one—loudly announced
outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her
legs and sighing。 “They would make my ass look even more gigantic
than it already is。”
“Andrea；” called her friend； a girl I didn’t know very well who
worked in accessories； “please tell Hope she’s not fat。”
“You’re not fat；” I said； my mouth on autopilot。 It would’ve saved
me many； many hours to have a shirt printed up that said as much； or
perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed directly on my forehead。 I
was constantly called on to assure variousRunway employees that they
weren’t fat。
“Ohmigod； have you seen my gut lately？ I’m like the fucking
Firestone store； spare tires everywhere。 I’m huge！” Fat was on
everyone’s minds； if not actually their bodies。 Emily swore that her
thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia。” Jessica
believed that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s。
Even James plained that his ass had looked so big that morning
when he got out of the shower that he’d “contemplated calling in fat
to work。”
In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am…I…fat questions with
what I thought to be an exceedingly rational reply。 “If you’re fat；
Hope； what does that make me？ I’m two inches shorter than you and I
weigh more。”
“Oh； Andy； be serious。I am fat。You’re thin and gorgeous！”
Naturally I thought she was lying； but I soon came to realize that
Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office；
and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people’s
weight。 It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that
everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back。
Of course； as much as I tried to keep it at bay； to remind myself
over and over that I was normal and they weren’t； the constant fat
ments had made an impression。 It’d only been four months I’d been
working； but my mind was now skewed enough—not to mention
paranoid—that I sometimes thought these ments were directed
intentionally to me。 As in： I； the tall； gorgeous； svelte fashion
assistant； am pretending to think I’m fat just so you； the lumpy；
stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat
one。 At five…ten and 115 pounds （the same weight as when my body was
racked with parasites）； I’d always considered myself on the thinner
side of girls my age。 I’d also spent my life until then feeling
taller than ninety percent of the women I met； and at least half the
guys。 Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know
what it was like to feel short and fat； all day； every day。 I was
easily the troll of the group； the squattest and the widest； and I
wore a size six。 And just in case I failed to consider this for a
moment； the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me。
“Dr。 Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit；
too； you know；” Jessica added； joining the conversation by plucking
a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez rack。 Newly engaged to one of
the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs； Jessica was feeling
the pressures of