按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
him in that special way of hers； but all I heard was a quiet murmur
of agreement and the rustling of the fabric as she removed the
dress。
Now that I had been there long enough； it seemed as though the honor
of ordering Miranda’s clothes would fall to me。 Four times a year；
like clockwork； she flipped through look…books like they were her
own personal catalogs and selected Alexander McQueen suits and
Balenciaga pants like they were T…shirts from L。L。Bean。 A yellow
sticky on this pair of Fendi pencil pants； another placed squarely
over the Chanel skirt suit； a third with a big “NO” plastered across
the matching silk top。 Flip； stick； flip； stick； on and on it went；
until she had selected a full season’s wardrobe directly from the
runway； clothes that had most likely not yet even been made。
I’d watched as Emily had faxed Miranda’s choices to the different
designers； omitting any size or color preference； since anyone worth
their Manolos knew what would work for Miranda Priestly。 Of course；
merely being made to the correct size wasn’t enough—when the clothes
did arrive at the magazine； they’d need to be cut and tucked to make
them appear custom…made。 Only when the entire wardrobe was
pletely ordered； shipped； snipped； and delivered expressly to her
bedroom closet by chauffeured limousine would Miranda relinquish
last season’s clothes and heaps of Yves and Celine and Helmut Lang
would find their way—in garbage bags—back to the office。 Most were
only four or six months old； stuff that had been worn once or twice
or； most often； not at all。 Everything was still so incredibly
stylish； so ludicrously hip； that it wasn’t yet available in most
stores； but once it was last season； it was about as likely to show
up on Miranda as a pair of pleather pants from Target’s new Massimo
line。
Occasionally I’d find a tank top or an oversize jacket I could keep；
but the fact that everything was in a size zero was a bit of a
problem。 Mostly we distributed the clothes to anyone with preteen
daughters； the only ones who had a shot in hell of actually fitting
into the stuff。 I pictured little girls with bodies like little boys
strutting around in Prada lipstick skirts and slinky Dolce and
Gabbana dresses with spaghetti straps。 If there was something really
dynamite； really expensive； I’d pull it from the garbage bag and
stash it under my desk until I could smuggle it Home safely。 A few
quick clicks on ebay or perhaps a little visit to one of the upscale
consignment shops on Madison Avenue； and my salary all of a sudden
wasn’t so depressing。 Not stealing； I rationalized； simply utilizing
what was available to me。
Miranda called six more times between the hours of six and nine in
the evening—midnight to threeA 。M。 her time—to have us connect her
to various people who were already in Paris。 I fielded them
listlessly； uneventfully； until I went to gather my things and try
to sneak out for the night before the phone rang again。 It wasn’t
until I was climbing exhaustedly into my coat that I caught a
glimpse of the note that I’d stuck to my monitor just so this very
thing wouldn’t happen： CALL A； 3：30P。M。 TODAY。 My head felt like it
was swimming； my contacts had long before dried to tiny； hard shards
covering my eyes； and at this point my head started to throb。 No
sharp pains； just that nebulous； dull kind of ache where you can’t
pinpoint the center but you know it will build and build in a slow；
burning intensity until you either manage to pass out or your head
just explodes。 In the frenzy of all the calls that had produced such
anxiety； such panic； from across an ocean； I had forgotten to take
the thirty seconds out of my day and call Alex when he’d asked me
to。 Simply up and forgotten to do something so simple for someone
who never seemed to need anything from me。
I sat down in the now darkened and silent office and picked up the
phone that was still a little wet from my sweaty hands during
Miranda’s last call a few minutes earlier。 His Home line rang and
rang until the machine picked up； but he answered on the first ring
when I tried his Cell Phone。
“Hi；” he said； knowing it was me from the caller ID。 “How was your
day？”
“Whatever； usual。 Alex； I’m so sorry I didn’t call you at
three…thirty。 I can’t even get into it—it’s just that things were so
crazy here； she just kept calling and—”
“Hey； forget it。 Not a big deal。 Listen； now’s not really a great
time for me。 Can I call you tomorrow？” He sounded distracted； his
voice taking on that faraway quality of someone talking from an
international payphone on the beach of a tiny village across the
world。
“Um； sure。 But is everything OK？ Will you just quickly tell me what
you wanted to talk about before？ I’ve been really worried that
everything’s not OK。”
He was quiet for a moment and then said； “Yeah； well it doesn’t seem
like you were all that worried。 I ask you one time to call me at a
time that’s convenient for me—not to mention that your boss isn’t
even in the country right now—and you can’t manage to do that until
six hours after the fact。 Not really a sign of someone who’s
genuinely concerned； you know？” He stated all of this with no
sarcasm； no disapproval； just a simple summary of the facts。
I was twisting the phone cord around my finger until it cut off the
circulation entirely； making the knuckle bulge out and the tip turn
white； there was also a brief； metallic taste of blood in my mouth；
the first realization that I had been gnawing on the inside of my
bottom lip。
“Alex； it’s not that I forgot to call；” I lied openly； trying to
extricate myself from his nonaccusatory accusation。 “I simply didn�