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indicated that no bra straps were visible。 So what was it？ What
exactly had made her look at me that way？
Twelve； thirteen； fourteen 。 。 。 the elevator stopped and swept open
to yet another stark white reception area。 A woman of around
thirty…five stepped forward to board； but stopped two feet from the
door when she saw Miranda standing inside。
“Oh； I； uh 。 。 。” she stammered loudly； looking frantically around
her for an excuse not to enter our private hell。 And although it
would’ve been nicer for me to have her e aboard； I privately
rooted for her to escape。 “I； um； oh！ I forgot the photos I need for
the meeting；” she finally managed； whipping around on a particularly
unsteady Manolo and high…tailing it back toward the office area。
Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice； and once again； the doors swept
shut。
Fifteen； sixteen； and finally—finally！—seventeen； where the doors
opened to reveal a group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to
pick up the cigarettes； Diet Coke； and mixed greens that would
constitute their lunch。 Each young； beautiful face looked more
panicked than the next； and they almost trampled one another trying
to move out of Miranda’s way。 They parted directly down the middle；
three to one side and two to the other； and she deigned to walk past
them。 They were all staring after her； silent； as she made her way
across the reception area； and I was left with no choice but to
follow her。 Wouldn’t notice a thing； I figured。 We’d just spent what
felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a
five…by…three…foot box； and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my
presence。 But as soon as I stepped onto the floor； she turned
around。
“Ahn…dre…ah？” she asked； her voice cutting through the tense silence
that filled the entire room。 I didn’t respond since I figured it was
rhetorical； but she waited。
“Ahn…dre…ah？”
“Yes； Miranda？”
“Whose shoes are you wearing？” She placed one hand lightly on a
tweed…swathed hip and peered over at me。 By now the elevator had
left without the fashion assistants； since they were too engrossed
in actually getting to see—and hear！—Miranda Priestly in the flesh。
I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet； which； although they had
been quite fortable mere moments before； were now beginning to
burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants
and one fashion guru。
The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride （a first） and
the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain； so when
Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing； I thought that perhapsshe
thought I was not wearing my own。
“Um； mine？” I said； without realizing until the words had been
spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful； but downright
obnoxious。 The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter； until Miranda
turned her wrath on them。
“I’m wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants
appear as though they have nothing better to do than gossip like
little girls。” She began singling them out by pointing at each one；
since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if
you put a gun to her head。
“You！” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably
seeing Miranda for the first time。 “Did we hire you for this or did
we hire you to call in clothes for the suits shoot？” The girl hung
her head and opened her mouth to apologize； but Miranda barreled on。
“And you！” she said； walking over and standing directly in front of
Jocelyn； the highest…ranking among them and a favorite of all the
editors。 “You think there aren’t a million girls who want your job
and who understand couture just as well as you？” She took a step
back； slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies；
lingering just long enough to make each feel fat； ugly； and
inappropriately clad； and manded them all to return to their
desks。 They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads
bowed。 A few murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly
back to the fashion area。 It wasn’t until they’d all left that I
realized we were alone。 Again。
“Ahn…dre…ah？ I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my
assistant；” she declared； walking toward the door that would lead us
to the hallway。 I was unsure whether I should follow her or not； and
I briefly hoped that either Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion
girls had warned Emily that Miranda was on her way back。
“Miranda； I—”
“Enough。” She paused at the door and looked at me。 “Whose shoes are
you wearing？” she asked again in a none…too…pleased voice。
I checked out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the
most stylish woman in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a
pair of shoes I’d purchased at Ann Taylor Loft。 Another glance at
her face and I knew I couldn’t。
“I bought them in Spain；” I said quickly； averting my eyes。 “It was
at some adorable boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that
carried this new Spanish designer’s line。” Where the hell had I
pulled that one from？
She folded her hand into a fist； put it over her mouth； and cocked
her head。 I saw James approaching the glass door from the other
side； but as soon as he saw Miranda he turned and fled。 “Ahn…dre…ah；
they’re unacceptable。 My girls need to representRunway magazine； and
those shoes are not the message I’m looking to convey。 Find some
decent footwear in the Closet。 And get me a coffee。” She looked at
me and looked at the door； and I understood I was to reach forward
and open it for her； which I did。 She walked through without saying
thank you and headed back to the office。 I needed to get money and
my cigarettes for the Coffee