But we immediately whisked upward； and I wasn’t even sure if she had
noticed we hadn’t been moving all along。
Five； six； seven 。 。 。 it felt as though it took ten minutes for the
elevator to pass each floor； and the silence had begun humming in my
ears。 When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda’s
direction； I discovered that she was looking me up and down。 Her
eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then
my pants and then my shirt； and continued upward to my face and
hair； all the while avoiding my eyes。 The expression on her face was
one of passive disgust； the way the desensitizedLaw & Order
detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and
bloodied corpse。 I did a quick review of myself and wondered what
exactly had triggered the reaction。 Short…sleeve； military…style
shirt； a brand…new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from their
PR department simply for working atRunway； and a pair of relatively
flat （two…inch heels） black slingbacks that were to date the only
nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four…plus
trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits。 I
usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me； but I
needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to
stop aching。 My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of
deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without ment；
and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped。
I had shaved under my arms within the last forty…eight hours。 At
least as far as the last time I’d checked； there were no massive
facial eruptions。 My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was
sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch
a glimpse of the brand； and a quick check with my right hand
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
he