always　preferred　because　people’s　makeup　would　be　fresh　and
  their　clothes　unwrinkled）；　and　whose　messages　got　through　（if
  your　name　wasn’t　on　the　Bulletin；　you　didn’t　exist）。
  So　when　either　of　us　needed　help；　the　rest　of　the　staff　were
  obliged　to　pull　through。　Yes；　of　course　there　was　something
  disconcerting　about　the　realization　that　if　we　didn’t　work　for
  Miranda　Priestly　these　same　people　would　have　no　punction
  in　running　over　us　with　their　chauffeured　Town　Cars。　As　it
  was；　when　called　upon；　they　ran　and　fetched　and　retrieved　for
  us　like　well…trained　puppies。
  Work　on　the　current　issue　ground　to　a　halt　as　everyone　rallied
  to　send　me　off　to　Paris　adequately　prepared。　Three　Clackers
  from　the　fashion　department　hastily　pulled　together　a　wardrobe
  that　included　every　single　item　that　I　could　conceivably
  require　for　any　event　Miranda　could　conceivably　call　on　me　to
  attend。　By　the　time　I　left；　Lucia；　the　fashion　director；
  promised　I　would　have　in　my　possession　not　only　an　assemblage
  of　clothing　appropriate　for　any　contingency；　but　also　a　full
  sketchbook　plete　with　professionally　rendered　charcoal
  sketches　depicting　every　imaginable　way　of　pairing　the
  aforementioned　clothing　in　order　to　maximize　style　and
  minimize　embarrassment。　In　other　words：　leave　nothing　to　my
  own　selection　or　pairing；　and　I’d　quite　possibly　have　a　shot
  in　hell—albeit　slim—of　looking　presentable。
  Might　I　need　to　acpany　Miranda　to　a　bistro　and　stand；
  mummylike；　in　the　corner　while　she　sipped　a　glass　of　Bordeaux？
  A　pair　of　cuffed；　charcoal　gray　Theory　pants　with　a　black　silk
  turtleneck　sweater　by　Celine。　Attend　the　tennis　club　where
  she’d　receive　her　private　lessons　so　that　I　could　fetch　water
  and；　if　required；　white　scarves　in　case　sheschvitzed　？　A
  head…to…toe　athletic　outfit　plete　with　bootleg　workout
  pants；　zip…up　hooded　jacket　（cropped　to　show　off　my　tummy；
  natch）；　a　185　wife…beater　to　wear　under　it；　and　suede
  sneakers—all　by　Prada。　And　what　if　maybe—just　maybe—I　actually
  did　make　it　to　the　front　row　of　one　of　those　shows　like
  everyone　swore　I　would？　The　options　were　limitless。　My
  favorite　so　far　（and　it　was　still　only　late　afternoon　on
  Monday）　was　a　pleated　school…girl　skirt　by　Anna　Sui；　with　a
  very　sheer　and　very　frilly　white　Miu　Miu　blouse；　paired　with　a
  particularly　naughty…looking　pair　of　midcalf　Christian
  Laboutin　boots　and　topped　with　a　Katayone　Adeli　leather　blazer
  so　fitted　it　bordered　on　obscene。　My　Express　jeans　and　Franco
  Sarto　loafers　had　been　buried　under　a　film　of　dust　in　my
  closet　for　months　now；　and　I　had　to　admit　I　didn’t　miss　them。
  I　also　discovered　that　Allison；　the　beauty　editor；　did；　in
  fact；　deserve　her　title　by　literallybeing　the　beauty　industry。
  Within　twenty…four　hours　of　being　“put　on　notice”　that　I　would
  be　needing　some　makeup　and　more　than　a　few　tips；　she　had
  created　the　Be…All；　End…All　Cosmetic　Catchall。　Included　in　the
  decidedly　oversize　Burberry　“toiletry　case”　（it　actually　more
  closely　resembled　a　wheeled　suitcase　slightly　larger　than
  those　approved　by　the　airlines　for　carry…on）　was　every
  imaginable　type　of　shadow；　lotion；　gloss；　cream；　liner；　and
  type　of　makeup。　Lipsticks　came　in　matte；　high…shine；
  long…lasting；　and　clear。　Six　shades　of　mascara—ranging　in
  color　from　a　light　blue　to　a　“pouty　black”—were　acpanied　by
  an　eyelash　curler　and　two　eyelash　bs　in　case　of　（gasp！）
  clumps。
  Powders；　which　appeared　to　account　for　half　of　all　the
  products　and　fixed/accentuated/accented/hid　the　eyelids；　the
  skin　tone；　and　the　cheeks；　had　a　color　scheme　more　plex　and
  subtler　than　a　painter’s　palette：　some　were　meant　to　bronze；
  others　to　highlight；　and　still　others　to　pout；　plump；　or　pale。
  I　had　the　choice　whether　to　add　that　healthy　blush　to　my　face
  in　the　form　of　a　liquid；　solid；　powder；　or　a　bination
  thereof。　The　foundation　was　the　most　impressive　of　all：　it　was
  as　if　someone　had　managed　to　remove　an　actual　sample　of　skin
  directly　from　my　face　and　custom…mix　a　pint　or　two　of　the
  stuff。　Whether　it　“added　sheen”　or　“covered　blemishes；”　every
  single　solitary　little　bottle　matched　my　skin　tone　better
  than；　well；　my　own　skin。　Packed　in　a　slightly　smaller　matching
  plaid　case　were　the　supplies：　cotton　balls；　cotton　squares；
  Q…tips；　sponges；　somewhere　in　the　vicinity　of　two　dozen
  different…size　application　brushes；　washcloths；　two　different
  types　of　eye　makeup　remover　（moisturizing　and　oil…free）；　and
  no　less　than　twelve—TWELVE—kinds　of　moisturizer　（facial；　body；
  deep…conditioning；　with　SPF　15；　glimmering；　tinted；　scented；
  nonscented；　hypoallergenic；　with　alpha…hydroxy；　antibacterial；
  and—just　in　case　that　nasty　October　Parisian　sun　got　the　best
  of　me—with　aloe　vera）。
  Tucked　in　a　side　pocket　of　the　smaller　case　were　legal…size
  pieces　of　paper　with　preprinted　faces　rendered　on　each　one；
  enlarged　to　fit　the　page。　Each　face　bragged　an　impressive
  makeover：　Allison　had　applied　the　actual　makeup　she’d　included
  in　the　kit　to　the　paper　faces。　One　face　was　eerily　labeled
  “Relaxed　Evening　Glamour”　but　had　a　caveat　under　it　in　big；
  bold　marker　that　read：　NOT　FOR　BLACK…TIE！！　TOO　CASUAL！！　The
  nonformal　face　had　a　light　covering　of　the　matte　foundation
  under　a　slight　brush　of　bronzing　powder；　a　light　dab　of　liquid
  or　“crème”　blush；　some　very　sexy；　dark…lined　and　heavily
  shadowed　eyelids　accented　by　jet　black　mascara’d　lashes；　and
  what　appeared　to　be　a　quick；　casual　swipe　of　high…gloss　lip
  color。　When　I’d　mumbled　under　my　breath　to　Allison　that　this
  would　be　utterly　impossible　for　me　to　recreate；　she　looked
  exasperated。
  “Well；　hopefully　you　won’t　have　to；”　she　said　in　a　voice　that
  sounded　so　taxed；　I　thought　she　might　collapse　under　the
  weight　of　my　ignorance。
  “No？　Then　why　do　I　have　nearly　two　dozen　‘faces’　suggesting
  different　ways　to　use　all　this　stuff？”
  Her　withering　glance　was　worthy　of　Miranda。
  “Andrea。　Be　serious。　This　is　for　emergencies　only；　in　case
  Miranda　asks　you　to　go　somewhere　with　her　at　the　last　minute；
  or　if　your　hair　and　makeup　person　can’t　make　it。　Oh；　that
  reminds　me；　let　me　show　you　the　hair　stuff　I　packed。”
  As　Allison　demonstrated　how　to　use　four　different　types　of
  round　brushes　to　blow　my　hair　straight；　I　tried　to　make　sense
  of　what　she’d　just　said。　I　would　have　a　hair　and　makeup
  person；　too？　I　hadn’t　arranged　for　anyone　to　do　me　when　I’d
  booked　all　of　Miranda’s　people；　so　who　had？　I　had　to　ask。
  “The　Paris　office；”　Allison　replied　with　a　sigh。　“You’re
  representingRunway；　you　know；　and　Miranda　is　very　sensitive　to
  that。　You’ll　be　attending　some　of　the　most　glamorous　events　in
  the　world　alongside　Miranda　Priestly。　You　don’t　think　you
  could　achieve　the　right　look　on　your　own；　do　you？”
  “No；　of　course　not。　It’s　definitely　better　that　I　have
  professional　help　for　this。　Thank　you。”
  Then　Allison　kept　me　cornered　an　additional　two　hours　until
  she　was　satisfied　that　if　any　of　the　fourteen　hair　and　makeup
  appointments　I　had　scheduled　over　the　course　of　the　week　fell
  through；　I　wouldn’t　humiliate　our　boss　by　smearing　the　mascara
  across　my　lips　or　shaving　the　sides　of　my　head　and　spiking　the
  center　into　a　mohawk。　When　we　were　through；　I　thought　I’d
  finally　get　a　moment　to　race　down　to　the　dining　room　and　grab
  some　calorie…enriched　soup；　but　Allison　picked　up　Emily’s
  extension—her　old　phone　line—and　dialed　Stef　in　the
  accessories　department。
  “Hi；　I’m　done　with　her　and　she’s　here　right　now。　You　want　to
  e　over？”
  “Wait！　I　need　to　go　get　lunch　before　Miranda　es　back！”
  Allison　rolled　her　eyes　just　like　Emily。　I　wondered　if　it　was
  something　about　that　particular　position　that　inspired　such
  expert　demonstrations　of　irritation。　“Fine。　No；　no；　I　was
  talking　to　Andrea；”　she　said　into　the　phone；　raising　her
  eyebrows　at　me—surprise；　surprise—just　like　Emily。　“It　seems
  that　she’shungry　。　I　know。　Yes；　I　know。　I　told　her　that；　but
  she　seems　intent　on　。　。　。eating　。”
  I　walked　out　of　the　office　and　picked　up　a　large　cup　of　cream
  of　broccoli　with　cheddar　cheese　and　returned　within　three
  minutes　to　find　Miranda　sitting　at　her　desk；　holding　the　phone
  receiver　away　from　her　face　like　it　was　covered　in　leeches。
  She　was　due　to　fly　to　Milan　that　very　evening　but　I　wasn’t
  sure　I’d　survive　to　see　it　happen。
  “The　phone　rings；　Andrea；　but　when　I　pick　it　up—because　you’re
  apparently　not　interested　in　doing　so—no　one’s　there。　Can　you
  explain　this　phenomenon？”　she　asked。
  Of　course　I　could　explain　it；　just　not　to　her。　On　the　rare
  ?