time　we　made　it　back　to　her　apartment　on　Saturday；　we　were　exhausted
  and　happy　and　spent　the　rest　of　the　night　alternating　betweenWhen
  Harry　Met　Sally　on　TNT　andSaturday　Night　Live　。　It　was　so　thoroughly
  relaxing；　such　a　departure　from　the　misery　that　had　bee　my　daily
  routine；　I’d　forgotten　all　about　the　Harry　Potter　mission　until　I
  heard　a　phone　ring　on　Sunday。　Ohmigod；　it　was　Her！　I　overheard　Lily
  speaking　in　Russian　to　someone；　probably　a　classmate；　on　her　Cell
  Phone。　Thank　you；　thank　you；　thank　you；　dear　lord：　it　wasn’t　Her。
  But　that　still　didn’t　let　me　off　the　hook。　It　was　already　Sunday
  morning；　and　I　had　no　idea　if　those　stupid　books　had　found　their　way
  to　Paris。　I　had　enjoyed　my　weekend　so　much—had　actually　managed　to
  relax　enough—that　I　had　forgotten　to　check。　Of　course；　my　phone　was
  on　and　set　to　the　highest　ring　level；　but　I　never　should’ve　waited
  for　someone　to　call　me　with　a　problem；　when　of　course　it’d　be　too
  late　to　do　anything。　I　should’ve　taken　preemptive　action　and
  confirmed　with　everyone　involved　yesterday　that　all　the　steps　of　our
  highly　choreographed　plan　had　worked。
  I　dug　frantically　through　my　overnight　bag；　searching　for　the　cell
  phone　given　to　me　byRunway　that　would　ensure　I　was　always　only　seven
  digits　away　from　Miranda。　I　finally　freed　it　from　a　tangle　of
  underwear　at　the　bottom　of　the　bag　and　flopped　backward　on　the　bed。
  The　little　screen　announced　immediately　that　I　had　no　service　at
  that　point；　and　I　knew　immediately；　instinctively；　that　she　had
  called　and　it　had　gone　directly　to　voice　mail。　I　hated　that　Cell
  Phone　with　my　entire　soul。　I　even　hated　my　new　Bang　and　Olufsen　Home
  phone　by　this　point。　I　hated　Lily’s　phone；　mercials　for　phones；
  pictures　of　phones　in　magazines；　and　I　even　hated　Alexander　Graham
  Bell。　Working　for　Miranda　Priestly　caused　a　number　of　unfortunate
  side　effects　in　my　day…to…day　life；　but　the　most　unnatural　one　was
  my　severe　and　all…consuming　hatred　of　phones。
  For　most　people；　the　ringing　of　a　phone　was　a　wele　sign。　Someone
  was　trying　to　reach　them；　to　say　hello；　ask　about　their　well…being；
  or　make　plans。　For　me；　it　triggered　fear；　intense　anxiety；　and
  heart…stopping　panic。　Some　people　considered　the　many　available
  phone　features　to　be　a　novelty；　even　fun。　For　me；　they　were　nothing
  short　of　imperative。　Although　I’d　never　had　so　much　as　call　waiting
  before　Miranda；　a　few　days　into　my　tenure　atRunway　I　was　signed　up
  for　call　waiting　（so　she’d　never　get　a　busy　signal）；　caller　ID　（so　I
  could　avoid　her　calls）；　call　waiting　with　caller　ID　（so　I　could
  avoid　her　calls　while　talking　on　the　other　line）；　and　voice　mail　（so
  she　wouldn’t　know　I　was　avoiding　her　calls　because　she’d　still　hear
  an　answering　machine　message）。　Fifty　bucks　a　month　for　phone
  service—before　long　distance—seemed　a　small　price　to　pay　for　my
  peace　of　mind。　Well；　not　peace　of　mind　exactly；　more　like　early
  warning。
  The　Cell　Phone　afforded　me　no　such　barriers。　Sure；　it　had　all　the
  same　features　as　the　Home　phone；　but　from　Miranda’s　point　of　view
  there　was　simply　no　reasonwhatsoever　for　the　cell　to　ever　be　turned
  off。　It　could　never　go　unanswered。　The　few　reasons　for　such　a
  situation　that　I’d　thrown　out　to　Emily　when　she’d　first　handed　me
  the　phone—a　standardRunway　office　supply—and　told　me　to　always
  answer　it　were　quickly　eliminated。
  “What　if　you　were　sleeping？”　I　had　stupidly　asked。
  “So　get　up　and　answer　it；”　she’d　answered　while　filing　down　a
  scraggly　nail。
  “Sitting　down　to　a　really　fancy　meal？”
  “Be　like　every　other　New　Yorker　and　talk　at　the　dinner　table。”
  “Getting　a　pelvic　exam？”
  “They’re　not　looking　in　your　ears；　are　they？”　All　right　then。　I　got
  it。
  I　loathed　that　fucking　cell　but　could　not　ignore　it。　It　kept　me　tied
  to　Miranda　like　an　umbilical　cord；　refusing　to　let　me　grow　up　or　out
  or　away　from　my　source　of　suffocation。　She　calledconstantly；　and
  like　some　sick　Pavlovian　experiment　gone　awry；　my　body　had　begun
  responding　viscerally　to　its　ring。Brring…brring。　Increased　heart
  rate。Briiiing。　Automatic　finger　clenching　and　shoulder
  tensing。Brriiiiiiiiiiiing。　Oh；　why　won’t　she　leave　me　alone；　please；
  oh；　please；　just　forget　I’m　alive　—sweat　breaks　out　on　my　forehead。
  This　whole　glorious　weekend　I’d　never　even　considered　the　phone
  might　not　have　service　and　had　just　assumed　it　would’ve　rung　if
  there　was　a　problem。　Mistake　number　one。　I　roamed　the　couple　hundred
  square　feet　until　AT&T　decided　to　work　again；　held　my　breath；　and
  dialed　into　my　voice　mail。
  Mom　left　a　cute　message　wishing　me　lots　of　fun　with　Lily。　A　friend
  from　San　Francisco　found　himself　on　Business　in　New　York　that　week
  and　wanted　to　get　together。　My　sister　called　to　remind　me　to　send　a
  birthday　card　to　her　husband。　And　there　it　was；　almost　unexpected
  but　not　quite；　that　dreaded　British　accent　ringing　in　my　ears。
  “Ahn…dre…ah。　It’s　Mir…ahnda。　It’s　nine　in　the　morning　on　Sunday　in
  Pah…ris　and　the　girls　have　not　yet　received　their　books。　Call　me　at
  the　Ritz　to　assure　me　that　they　will　arrive　shortly。　That’s　all。”
  Click。
  The　bile　began　to　rise　in　my　throat。　As　usual；　the　message　lacked
  all　niceties。　No　hello；　good…bye；　or　thank　you。　Obviously。　But　more
  than　that；　it　had　been　left　nearly　half　a　day　ago；　and　I　had　still
  not　called　her　back。　Grounds　for　dismissal；　I　knew；　and　there　was
  nothing　I　could　do　about　it。　Like　an　amateur；　I’d　assumed　my　plan
  would　work　perfectly　and　hadn’t　even　realized　that　Uri　had　never
  called　to　confirm　the　pickup　and　drop…off。　I　scanned　through　the
  address　book　on　my　phone　and　quickly　dialed　Uri’s　Cell　Phone　number；
  another　Miranda　purchase　so　that　he’d　be　on　call　24/7　as　well。
  “Hi；　Uri；　it’s　Andrea。　Sorry　to　bother　you　on　Sunday；　but　I　was
  wondering　if　you　picked　up　those　books　yesterday　from　Eighty…seventh
  and　Amsterdam？”
  “Hi；　Andy；　eet’s　so　nice　to　hear　your　woice；”　he　crooned　in　the
  thick　Russian　accent　I　always　found　so　forting。　He’d　been　calling
  me　Andy　like　a　favorite　old　uncle　would　since　the　first　time　we　met；
  and　ing　from　him—as　opposed　to　B…DAD—I　didn’t　mind　it。　“Of　course
  I　pick　up　the　bouks；　just　like　you　say。　You　tink　I　don’t　vant　to
  help　you？”
  “No；　no；　of　course　not；　Uri。　It’s　just　that　I　got　a　message　from
  Miranda　saying　that　they　hadn’t　received　them　yet；　and　I’m　wondering
  what　went　wrong。”
  He　was　quiet　for　a　moment；　and　then　offered　me　the　name　and　number
  of　the　pilot　who　was　flying　the　private　jet　yesterday　afternoon。
  “Oh；　thank　you；　thank　you；　thank　you；”　I　said；　scribbling　the　number
  down　frantically　and　praying　that　the　pilot　would　be　helpful。　“I’ve
  got　to　run。　Sorry　I　can’t　talk；　but　have　a　great　weekend。”
  “Yes；　yes；　good　veekend　to　you；　Andy。　I　tink　the　pilot　man　will　help
  you　trace　the　bouks。　Nice　luck　to　you；”　he　said　merrily　and　hung　up。
  Lily　was　making　waffles　and　I　desperately　wanted　to　join　her；　but　I
  had　to　deal　with　this　now　or　I　was　out　of　a　job。　Or　maybe　I’d
  already　been　fired；　I　thought；　and　no　one　had　even　bothered　to　tell
  me。　Not　outside　the　realm　ofRunway　possibility；　remembering　the
  fashion　editor　who’d　been　fired　while　on　her　honeymoon。　She　herself
  stumbled　across　her　change　in　job　status　by　reading　about　it　in　a
  copy　ofWomen’s　Wear　Daily　in　Bali。　I　quickly　called　the　number　that
  Uri　had　given　me　for　the　pilot　and　thought　I’d　pass　out　from
  frustration　when　an　answering　machine　picked　up。
  “Hi；　Jonathan？　This　is　Andrea　Sachs　fromRunway　magazine。　I’m　Miranda
  Priestly’s　assistant；　and　I　needed　to　ask　you　a　question　about　the
  flight　yesterday。　Oh；　e　to　think　of　it；　you’re　probably　still　in
  Paris；　or　maybe　on　your　way　back。　Well；　I　just　wanted　to　see　if　the
  books；　and　uh；　well；　you　of　course；　made　it　to　Paris　in　one　piece。
  Can　you　call　my　cell？　917…555…8702。　Please；　as　soon　as　possible。
  Thanks。　’Bye。”
  I　thought　about　phoning　the　concierge　at　the　Ritz　to　see　if　he’d
  remember　receiving　the　car　that　would　have　brought　the　books　from
  the　private　airport　on　the　outskirts　of　Paris　but　quickly　realized
  that　my　cell　didn’t　dial　internationally。　It　was　quite　possibly　the
  only　task　it　was　not　programmed　to　handle；　and　it　was；　of　course；
  the　only　one　that　mattered。　At　that　moment；　Lily　announced　that　she
  had　a　plate　of　waffles　and　a　cup　of　Coffee　for　me。　I　walked　into　the
  kitchen　and　took　the　food。　She　was　sipping　a　Bloody　Mary。　Ugh。　It
  was　a　Sunday　morning。　How　could　she　be　drinking？
  “Having　a　Miranda　moment？”　she　asked　with　a　look　of　sympathy。
  I　nodded。　“Think　I　screwed　up　pretty　badly　this　time；”　I　said；