aren’t　also　personal　friends。　Her　lawyer　and　accountant。　Midlevel
  people　get　Veuve；　and　this　is　just　about　everyone—the　twins’
  teachers；　the　hair　stylists；　Uri；　et　cetera。　The　nobodies　get　a
  bottle　of　the　Ruffino　Chianti—usually　they　go　to　the　PR　people　who
  send　small；　general　gifts　that　aren’t　personalized　for　her。　She’ll
  have　us　send　Chianti　to　the　vet；　some　of　the　babysitters　who　fill　in
  for　Cara；　the　people　who　wait　on　her　in　stores　she　goes　to　often；
  and　all　the　caretakers　associated　with　the　summer　house　in
  Connecticut。　Anyway；　I　order　about　twenty…five　thousand　dollars’
  worth　of　this　stuff　at　the　beginning　of　November；　Sherry…Lehman
  delivers　it；　and　it　usually　takes　nearly　a　month　to　do　all　the
  wrapping。　It’s　good　she’s　out　of　the　office　now　or　we’d　be　taking
  this　stuff　Home　with　us　to　wrap。　Pretty　good　deal；　because　Elias
  picks　up　the　tab。”
  “I　guess　it　would　cost　double　that　to　have　the　Sherry…Lehman　place
  wrap　them；　huh？”　I　wondered；　still　trying　to　process　the　hierarchy
  of　the　gift…giving。
  “What　the　hell　do　we　care？”　she　snorted。　“Trust　me；　you’ll　learn
  quickly　that　cost　is　no　issue　around　here。　It’s　just　that　Miranda
  doesn’t　like　the　wrapping　paper　they　use。　I　gave　them　this　white
  paper　last　year；　but　they　just　didn’t　look　as　nice　as　when　we　do
  it。”　She　looked　proud。
  We　wrapped　like　that　until　close　to　six；　with　Emily　telling　me　how
  things　worked　as　I　tried　to　wrap　my　mind　around　this　strange　and
  exciting　world。　Just　as　she　was　describing　exactly　how　Miranda　likes
  her　Coffee　（tall　latte　with　two　raw　sugars）；　a　breathless　blond　girl
  I　remembered　as　one　of　the　many　fashion　assistants　walked　in
  carrying　a　wicker　basket　the　size　of　a　baby　carriage。　She　hovered
  just　outside　Miranda’s　office；　looking　as　though　she　thought　the
  soft　gray　carpeting　might　turn　to　quicksand　under　her　Jimmy　Choos　if
  she　dared　to　cross　the　threshold。
  “Hi；　Em。　I’ve　got　the　skirts　right　here。　Sorry　that　took　so　long；
  but　no　one’s　around　since　it’s　that　weird　time　right　before
  Thanksgiving。　Anyway；　hopefully　you’ll　find　something　she’ll　like。”
  She　looked　down　at　her　basket　full　of　folded　skirts。
  Emily　looked　up　at　her　with　barely　disguised　scorn。　“Just　leave　them
  on　my　desk。　I’ll　return　the　ones　that　won’t　work。Which　I　imagine
  will　be　most　of　them；　considering　your　taste　。”　The　last　part　was
  under　her　breath；　just　loud　enough　for　me　to　hear。
  The　blond　girl　looked　bewildered。　Definitely　not　the　brightest　star
  in　the　sky；　but　she　seemed　nice　enough。　I　wondered　why　Emily　so
  obviously　hated　her。　It’d　been　a　long　day　already；　what　with　the
  running　mentary　and　errands　all　over　the　city　and　hundreds　of
  names　and　faces　to　try　to　remember；　so　I　didn’t　even　ask。
  Emily　placed　the　large　basket　on　her　desk　and　looked　down　on　it；
  hands　on　her　hips。　From　what　I　could　see　from　Miranda’s　office
  floor；　there　were　perhaps　twenty…five　different　skirts　in　an
  incredible　assortment　of　fabrics；　colors；　and　sizes。　Had　she　really
  not　specified　what　she　wanted　at　all？　Did　she　really　not　bother　to
  inform　Emily　whether　she’d　be　needing　something　appropriate　for　a
  black…tie　dinner　or　a　mixed…doubles　match　or　perhaps　to　use　as　a
  bathing　suit　cover…up？　Did　she　want　denim；　or　would　something
  chiffon　work　better？　How　exactly　were　we　supposed　to　predict
  whatmight　please　her？
  I　was　about　to　find　out。　Emily　carried　the　wicker　basket　to
  Miranda’s　office　and　carefully；　reverentially；　placed　it　on　the
  plush　carpeting　beside　me。　She　sat　down　and　began　removing　the
  skirts　one　by　one　and　laying　them　in　a　circle　around　us。　There　was　a
  beautiful　crocheted　skirt　in　shocking　fuchsia　by　Celine；　a　pearl
  gray　wraparound　by　Calvin　Klein；　and　a　black　suede　one　with　black
  beads　along　the　bottom　by　Mr。　de　la　Renta　himself。　There　were　skirts
  in　red　and　ecru　and　lavender；　some　with　lace　and　others　in　cashmere。
  A　few　were　long　enough　to　sweep　gracefully　along　the　ankles；　and
  others　were　so　short　they　looked　more　like　tube　tops。　I　picked　up　a
  midcalf；　brown　silk　beauty　and　held　it　up　to　my　waist；　but　the
  material　covered　only　one　of　my　legs。　The　next　one　in　the　pile
  reached　to　the　floor　in　a　swirl　of　tulle　and　chiffon　and　looked　as
  though　it　would　feel　most　at　Home　at　a　Charleston　garden　party。　One
  of　the　jean　skirts　was　prefaded　and　came　with　a　gigantic　brown
  leather　belt　already　looped　around　it；　and　another　had　a　crinkly；
  silver…material　overlay　on　top　of　a　slightly　more　opaque　silver
  liner。　Where　on　earth　were　we　going　here？
  “Wow；　looks　like　Miranda　has　a　thing　for　skirts；　huh？”　I　said；
  simply　because　I　had　nothing　better　to　say。
  “Actually；　no。　Miranda　has　a　slight　obsession　with　scarves。”　Emily
  refused　to　make　eye　contact　with　me；　as　though　she’d　just　revealed
  that　she　herself　had　herpes。　“It’s　just　one　of　those　cute；　quirky
  things　about　her　you　should　know。”
  “Oh；　really？”　I　asked；　trying　to　sound　amused　and　not　horrified。　An
  obsession　with　scarves？　I　like　clothes　and　bags　and　shoes　as　much　as
  the　next　girl；　but　I　wouldn’t　exactly　declare　any　of　them　an
  “obsession。”　And　something　about　the　way　Emily　was　saying　it　wasn’t
  so　casual。
  “Yes；　well；　she　must　need　a　skirt　for　something　specific；　but　it’s
  scarves　that’s　she’s　really　into。　You　know；　like　her　signature
  scarves？”　She　looked　at　me。　My　face　must　have　betrayed　my　plete
  lack　of　a　clue。　“You　do　remember　meeting　her　during　the　interview；
  do　you　not？”
  “Of　course；”　I　said　quickly；　sensing　it’d　probably　not　be　the　best
  idea　to　let　this　girl　know　that　I　couldn’t　so　much　as　remember
  Miranda’s　name　during　my　interview；　never　mind　remember　what　she　was
  wearing。　“But　I’m　not　sure　I　noticed　a　scarf。”
  “She　always；　always；　always　wears　a　single　white　Hermès　scarf
  somewhere　on　her　outfit。　Mostly　around　her　neck；　but　sometimes
  she’ll　have　her　hairdresser　tie　one　in　a　chignon；　or　occasionally
  she’ll　use　them　as　a　belt。　They’re　like；　her　signature。　Everyone
  knows　that　Miranda　Priestly　wears　a　white　Hermès　scarf；　no　matter
  what。　How　cool　is　that？”
  It　was　at　that　exact　moment　that　I　noticed　Emily　had　a　lime　green
  scarf　woven　through　the　belt　loops　on　her　cargo　pants；　just　peeking
  out　from　underneath　the　white　T…shirt。
  “She　likes　to　mix　it　up　sometimes；　and　I’m　guessing　that　this　is　one
  of　those　times。　Anyway；　those　idiots　in　fashion　never　know　what
  she’ll　like。　Look　at　some　of　these；　they’re　hideous！”　She　held　up　an
  absolutely　gorgeous　flowy　skirt；　slightly　dressier　than　the　rest
  with　its　little　flecks　of　gold　shimmering　from　the　deep　tan
  background。
  “Yep；”　I　agreed；　in　what　was　to　bee　the　first　of　thousands；　if
  not　millions；　of　times　I　agreed　with　whatever　she　said　simply　to
  make　her　stop　talking。　“It’s　horrendous…looking。”　It　was　so
  beautiful　I　thought　I’d　be　happy　to　wear　it　to　my　own　wedding。
  Emily　continued　prattling　on　about　patterns　and　fabrics　and
  Miranda’s　needs　and　wants；　occasionally　interjecting　a　scathing
  insult　about　a　coworker。　She　finally　chose　three　radically　different
  skirts　and　set　them　aside　to　send　to　Miranda；　talking；　talking；
  talking　the　whole　time。　I　tried　to　listen；　but　it　was　almost　seven；
  and　I　was　trying　to　decide　whether　I　was　ravenously　hungry；　utterly
  nauseated；　or　just　plain　exhausted。　I　think　it　was　all　three。　I
  didn’t　even　notice　when　the　tallest　human　being　I’d　ever　seen
  swooped　into　the　office。
  “YOU！”　I　heard　from　somewhere　behind　me。　“STAND　UP　SO　I　CAN　GET　A
  LOOK　AT　YOU！”
  I　turned　just　in　time　to　see　the　man；　who　was　at　least　seven　feet
  tall；　with　tanned　skin　and　black　hair；　pointing　directly　at　me。　He
  had　250　pounds　stretched　over　his　incredibly　tall　frame　and　was　so
  muscular；　so　positively　ripped；　that　it　looked　as　though　he　might
  just　explode　out　of　his　denim　。　。　。　catsuit？　Ohmigod！　He　was　wearing
  a　catsuit。　Yes；　yes；　a　denim；　one…piece　catsuit　with　tight　pants　and
  a　belted　waist　and　rolled…up　sleeves。　And　a　cape。　There　was　actually
  a　blanket…size　fur　cape　tied　twice　around　his　thick　neck；　and　shiny
  black　bat　boots　the　size　of　tennis　rackets　adorned　his　mammoth
  feet。　He　looked　around　thirty…five　years　old；　although　all　the
  muscles　and　the　deep　tan　and　the　positively　chiseled　jawbone　could
  have　been　hiding　ten　years　or　adding　five。　He　was　flapping　his　hands
  at　me　and　motioning　for　me　to　get　up　off　the　floor。　I　stood；　unable
  to　take　my　eyes　off　him；　and　he　turned　to　examine　me　immediately。
  “WELL！　WHO　DO　WE　HAVE　HEEEEERE？”　he　bellowed；　as　best　as　one　can　in
  a　falsetto　voice。　“YOU’RE　PRETTY；　BUT　TOO　WHOLESOME。　AND　THE　O