whole　career—he’d　be　crazy　to　turn　her　down。　I’m　sure　the　guy　was
  planning　to　do　it　all　along。　He　was　probably　just　rearranging　his
  travel　plans　or　something。　I　don’t　have　to　confirm　with　him；　because
  I’m　that　sure　he’ll　do　it。　How　could　henot　？　She’s　Miranda
  Priestly！”
  Now　I　thought　I　would　cry；　but　instead　I　just　said；　“So　what　do　I
  need　to　know　to　hire　this　new　nanny？　I　should　probably　get　started
  right　away。”
  “Yeah；”　she　agreed；　still　looking　delighted　with　her　own　cleverness。
  “That’s　probably　a　good　idea。”
  The　first　girl　I　interviewed　for　the　nanny　position　looked
  positively　shell…shocked。
  “Oh　my　god！”　she’d　howled　when　I　asked　her　over　the　phone　if　she’d
  mind　ing　to　the　office　to　meet　with　me。　“Oh　my　god！　Are　you
  serious？　Oh　my　god！”
  “Um；　is　that　a　yes　or　a　no？”
  “God；　yes。　Yes；　yes；　yes！　ToRunway　？　Oh　my　god。　Wait　until　I　tell　my
  friends。　They’ll　die。　They’ll　absolutely　die。　Just　tell　me　where　to
  be　and　when。”
  “You　understand　that　Miranda’s　away　right　now；　so　you　won’t　be
  meeting　with　her；　right？”
  “Yep。　Totally。”
  “And　you　also　know　that　the　job　is　being　a　nanny　to　Miranda’s　two
  daughters；　right？　That　it　won’t　have　anything　to　do　withRunway　？”
  She　sighed　as　if　to　resign　herself　to　the　sad；　unfortunate　fact。
  “Yes；　of　course。　A　nanny；　I　totally　get　it。”
  Well；　she　hadn’t　really　gotten　it；　because　even　though　she　looked
  the　part　（tall；　impeccably　groomed；　reasonably　well　dressed；　and
  seriously　underfed）；　she　kept　asking　which　parts　of　the　job　would
  require　her　to　be　at　the　office。
  I　shot　her　a　specialty　Withering；　but　she　didn’t　seem　to　notice。
  “Um；　none。　Remember；　we　talked　about　this？　I’m　just　doing　some
  initial　screening　for　Miranda；　and　we　just　happen　to　be　doing　it　in
  the　office。　But　that’s　it。　Her　twins　don’t　live　here；　you　know？”
  “Right；　right；”　she’d　agreed；　but　I’d　already　nixed　her。
  The　next　three　the　agency　had　waiting　in　the　reception　area　weren’t
  much　better。　Physically；　all　fit　the　Miranda　profile—the　agency
  really　did　know　exactly　what　she　wanted—but　not　one　had　what　I’d　be
  looking　for　in　a　nanny　who’d　be　taking　care　of　my　future　niece　or
  nephew；　the　standard　I’d　set　for　the　process。　One　had　a　master’s　in
  child　development　from　Cornell　but　glazed　over　when　I　tried　to
  describe　the　subtle　ways　this　job　might　be　different　from　others
  she’d　held。　Another　had　dated　a　famous　NBA　player；　which　she　felt
  gave　her　“insight　into　celebrity。”　But　when　I’d　asked　her　if　she’d
  ever　worked　with　the　children　of　celebrities；　she’d　instinctively
  wrinkled　her　nose　and　informed　me　that　“famous　people’s　kids　always
  have；　like；　major　issues。”　Nixed。　The　third　and　most　promising　had
  grown　up　in　Manhattan　and　had　just　graduated　from　Middlebury　and
  wanted　to　spend　a　year　as　a　nanny　to　save　some　money　for　a　trip　to
  Paris。　When　I　asked　if　that　meant　she　spoke　French；　she　nodded。　The
  only　problem　was　that　she　was　a　city　girl　through　and　through　and
  therefore　didn’t　have　a　driver’s　license。　Was　she　willing　to　learn？
  I’d　asked。　No；　she’d　answered。　She　didn’t　believe　that　the　streets
  needed　another　car　clogging　them。　Nix　number　three。　I　spent　the　rest
  of　the　day　trying　to　figure　out　a　tactful　way　of　telling　Miranda
  that　if　a　girl　is　attractive；　athletic；　fortable　with　celebrity；
  lives　in　Manhattan；　has　a　driver’s　license；　can　swim；　has　an
  advanced　degree；　speaks　French；　and　is　pletely　and　entirely
  flexible　with　her　time；　then　chances　are　she　does　not　want　to　be　a
  nanny。
  She　must　have　read　my　mind；　because　the　phone　rang　immediately。　I
  did　a　few　calculations　and　realized　that　Miranda　would　have　just
  landed　at　de　Gaulle；　and　a　quick　glance　at　the　second…by…second
  itinerary　Emily　had　so　painstakingly　constructed　showed　she　would
  now　be　in　the　car　on　her　way　to　the　Ritz。
  “Miranda　Pri—”
  “Emily！”　she　practically　shrieked。　I　wisely　decided　now　wasn’t　the
  time　to　correct　her。　“Emily！　The　driver　did　not　give　me　my　usual
  phone；　and　as　a　result　I　don’t　have　anyone’s　phone　number。　This　is
  unacceptable。　Entirely　unacceptable。　How　am　I　supposed　to　conduct
  Business　with　no　phone　numbers？　Connect　me　immediately　to　Mr。
  Lagerfeld。”
  “Yes；　Miranda；　please　hold　just　a　moment。”　I　jabbed　the　hold　button
  and　called　out　to　Emily　for　help；　although　I　would’ve　had　better
  luck　simply　eating　the　receiver　whole　than　actually　locating　Karl
  Lagerfeld　in　less　time　than　it　took　Miranda　to　get　so　annoyed　that
  she’d　smash　down　the　phone　and　keep　calling　to　ask；　“Where　the　hell
  is　he？　Why　can’t　you　find　him？　Do　you　not　know　how　to　use　a　phone？”
  “She　wants　Karl；”　I　called　over　to　Emily。　The　name　immediately　sent
  her　flying；　racing；　tearing　through　papers　all　over　her　desk。
  “OK；　listen。　We　have　twenty　to　thirty　seconds。　You　take　Biarritz　and
  the　driver；　I’ll　get　Paris　and　the　assistant；”　she　called；　her
  fingers　already　flying　across　the　keypad。　I　double…clicked　on　the
  thousand…plus　name　contact　list　that　we　shared　on　our　hard　drives
  and　found　exactly　five　numbers　I’d　have　to　call：　Biarritz　main；
  Biarritz　second　main；　Biarritz　studio；　Biarritz　pool；　and　Biarritz
  driver。　A　quick　glance　over　the　other　listings　for　Karl　Lagerfeld
  indicated　that　Emily　had　a　grand　total　of　seven；　and　there　were
  still　more　numbers　for　New　York　and　Milan。　We　were　dead　before　we
  started。
  I’d　tried　Biarritz　main　and　was　in　the　middle　of　dialing　Biarritz
  second　main　when　I　saw　that　the　flashing　red　light　had　stopped
  blinking。　Emily　announced　that　Miranda　had　hung　up；　in　case　I　hadn’t
  noticed。　Only　ten　or　fifteen　seconds　had　passed—she　was　feeling
  particularly　impatient　today。　Naturally；　the　phone　rang　again
  immediately；　and　Emily　responded　to　my　pleading　puppy　eyes　and
  answered　it。　She　didn’t　get　halfway　through　her　canned　greeting
  before　she　was　nodding　gravely　and　trying　to　reassure　Miranda。　I　was
  still　dialing　and　had—miraculously—made　it　to　Biarritz　pool；　where　I
  was　currently　talking　to　a　woman　who　didn’t　speak　a　single　word；　a
  single　syllable；　of　English。　Maybe　this　was　the　obsession　with
  speaking　French？
  “Yes；　yes；　Miranda。　Andrea　and　I　are　calling　right　now。　It　should
  only　be　a　few　more　seconds。　Yes；　I　understand。　No；　I　know　it’s
  frustrating。　If　you’ll　allow　me　to　just　put　you　on　hold　for　ten
  seconds　or　so；　I’m　sure　we’ll　have　him　on　the　line。　OK？”　She　punched
  “hold”　and　kept　right　on　jabbing　numbers。　I　heard　her　trying　in　what
  sounded　like　horrifically　accented　and　broken　French　to　talk　to
  someone　who　appeared　to　not　know　the　name　Karl　Lagerfeld。　We　were
  dead。　Dead。　I　was　getting　ready　to　hang　up　on　the　crazy　French　woman
  who　was　shrieking　into　the　receiver　when　I　saw　the　flashing　red
  light　go　out　again。　Emily　was　still　frantically　dialing。
  “She’s　gone！”　I　called　with　the　urgency　of　an　EMT　performing
  emergency　CPR。
  “Your　turn　to　get　it！”　she　screamed　back；　fingers　flying；　and　sure
  enough；　the　phone　rang　again。
  I　picked　it　up　and　didn’t　even　attempt　to　say　anything；　since　I　knew
  the　voice　on　the　other　end　would　speak　up　immediately。　It　did。
  “Ahn…dre…ah！　Emily！　Whoever　the　hell　I’m　talking　to　。　。　。　why　is　it
  that　I’m　speaking　with　you　and　not　with　Mr。　Lagerfeld？　Why？”
  My　first　instinct　was　to　remain　silent；　since　it　didn’t　appear　that
  the　verbal　barrage　was　over；　but　as　usual；　my　instincts　were　wrong。
  “Hell…ooo？Anyone　there？　Is　the　process　of　connecting　one　phone　call
  to　another　really　too　difficult　forboth　my　assistants？”
  “No；　Miranda；　of　course　not。　I’m　sorry　about　this—”　My　voice　was
  shaking　a　little；　but　I　couldn’t　get　it　under　control。　“—it’s　just
  that　we　can’t　seem　to　find　Mr。　Lagerfeld。　We’ve　already　tried　at
  least　eight—”
  “Can’t　seem　to　find　him？”she　mimicked　in　a　high…pitched　voice。　“What
  do　you　mean；　you　‘can’t　seem　to　find’　him？”
  What　part　of　that　simple　five…word　sentence　did　she　not　prehend；
  I　wondered。　Can’t。　Seem。　To。　Find。　Him。　Seemed　rather　clear　and
  precise　to　me：　We　can’t　fucking　find　him。　That　is　why　you’re　not
  talking　to　him。　Ifyou　can　find　him；　thenyou　can　talk　to　him。　A
  million　barbed　responses　raced　around　my　head；　but　I　could　only
  sputter　like　a　first…grader　who’d　been　singled　out　by　the　teacher
  for　talking　in　class。
  “Um；　well；　Miranda；　we’ve　called　all　of　the　numbers　we　have　listed
  for　him；　and　he　doesn’t　appear　to　be　at　any　of　them；”　I　managed。
  “Well　of　course　he’s　not！”　She　was　almost　screaming　now；　that
  precious；　well…guarded　cool　was　precariously　close　to　collapsing。