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“Um； could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a
little？” I asked carefully； desperately trying not disparage
her handiwork。 It probably would’ve been better to have a go
at the makeup myself— especially since I had more supplies and
instructions than the NASA scientists missioned to build
the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like
clockwork whether I liked it or not。
“No！” she barked； clearly not striving for the same
sensitivity as myself。 “It looks better this way。”
She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom
lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived； I grabbed my
bag （alligator Gucci bowling bag） and headed to the lobby
fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I
could double…check that the driver was ready。 Just as I was
debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to
each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or
actually use the same one and risk catching something from
sharing a backseat with her assistant； she appeared。 She
looked me up and down very slowly； her expression remaining
pletely passive and indifferent。 I’d passed！ This was the
first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t
received a look of all…out disgust or； at the very least； a
snarky ment； and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New
York fashion editors； a collection of Parisian hair and makeup
stylists； and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most
expensive clothing。
“Is the car here； Ahn…dre…ah？” She looked stunning in a short；
shirred velvet cocktail dress。
“Yes； Ms。 Priestly； right this way；” Monsieur Renaud
interrupted smoothly； leading us past a group of what could
only be other American fashion editors also there for the
shows。 A deferential hush fell over the super…hip…looking
crowd ofüber …Clackers when we walked past； Miranda two steps
in front me； looking thin and striking and very； very unhappy。
I nearly had to run to keep up； even though she was six inches
shorter than me； and I waited until she gave me a “Well？ What
the hell are you waiting for？” look before I ducked into the
backseat of the limo after her。
Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going；
because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would
turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was
being held。 She did turn to me； but she said nothing； choosing
instead to chat with B…DAD on her Cell Phone； repeating over
and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time
to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday
night。 He was flying over in his pany’s private jet； and
they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline
and Cassidy； since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday； she
didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school。 It
wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex
apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it
was exactly that I was supposed to do all night。 She’d always
been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her
staff in public； which indicated—at least on some level—that
she knew she was doing it in the first place。 So if she
couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her
someone on the phone or have something dry…cleaned while we
were standing there； what was I to do？
“Ahn…dre…ah； this party is being hosted by a couple with whom
I was friendly when we lived in Paris。 They requested that I
bring along an assistant to entertain their son； who generally
finds these events rather dull。 I’m sure the two of you will
get along well。” She waited until the driver opened her door；
then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps。
Before I could open my own door； she had climbed the three
steps and was already handing her coat to the butler； who was
clearly awaiting her arrival。 I slumped back into the soft
leather seat for just a minute； trying to process this new gem
of information she’d so coolly relayed。 The hair； the makeup；
the rescheduling； the panicked consultation with the style
book； the biker…chick boots； were all so I could spend the
night babysitting some rich couple’s snot…nosed kid？ And
aFrench snot…nosed kid； no less。
I spent three full minutes reminding myself thatThe New Yorker
was now only a couple months away； that my year of servitude
was about to pay off； that I could surely make it through one
more night of tedium to get my dream job。 It didn’t help。 All
of a sudden； I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’
couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set
up the Scrabble board。 Jill and even Kyle would be visiting；
too； with baby Isaac； who would coo and smile when he saw me
and Alex would call and tell me he loved me。 No one would care
that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully
unpedicured or that I was eating a big； fat chocolate éclair。
Not a single person would even know that there were fashion
shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic； and they sure as
hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them。 But all of
that seemed incredibly far away； a lifetime actually； and
right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived
and died on the runway。 That； and what was sure to be a
screaming； spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish。
When I finally pulled my scantily…but…stylishly clad self from
the limo； the butler was no longer expecting anyone。 There was
music ing from a live band and the smell of scented candles
wafted outside from a window above the small garden。 I took a
deep breath and reached up to knock； but the door swung open。
It’s safe to say that never； ever； in my young life had I been
more surprised than I was that night： Christian was smiling
back at me。
“Andy； darling； so glad you could make it；” he said； leaning
in and kissing me full on the mouth—a bit intimate considering
my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief。
“What are you doing here？”
He grinned and pushed that ever…present curl off his forehead。
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing？ Because you seem to
follow me everywhere I go； I’m going to have to assume you
want to sleep with me。”
I blushed and； always the lady； snorted loudly。 “Yeah；
something like that。 Actually； I’m not here as a guest； I’m
just a very well dressed babysitter。 Miranda asked me to e
along and didn’t tell me until the last second that I’m
supposed to be watching the hosts’ bratty son tonight。 So； if
you’ll excuse me； I better go make sure he has all the milk
and crayons he’ll need。”
“Oh； he’s just fine； and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll
be needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter。” And
he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again。 I opened
my mouth to protest； to ask him what the hell was going on；
but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my
mouth。
“Christian！” I was hissing quietly； wondering just how quickly
Miranda would fire me if she caught me making out with some
random guy at one of her own parties。 “What the hell are you
doing？ Let go of me！” I squirmed away； but he just continued
to grin that annoyingly adorable smile。
“Andy； since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here；
this ismy house。My parents are hosting this party； and I was
clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along。
Did she tell you I was ten years old； or did you just decide
that for yourself？”
“You’re joking。 Tell me you’re joking。 Please？”
“Nope。 Fun； right？ Since I can’t seem to pin you down any
other way； I thought this might work。 My stepmother and
Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at
FrenchRunway —she’s a photographer and does shoots for them
all the time—so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely
son wouldn’t mind a little pany in the form of one
attractive assistant。 Worked like a charm。 e on； let’s get
you a drink。” He put his hand on the small of my back and led
me toward a massive oak bar in the living room； which
currently had three uniformed bartenders administering
martinis and glasses of Scotch and elegant flutes of
champagne。
“So； let me just get this straight： I don’t have to babysit
for anyone tonight？ You don’t have a baby brother or anything
like that； do you？” It was inprehensible that I had driven
to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities
for the entire night except to hang out with a Hot Smart
Writer。 Maybe they’d invited me because they were planning to
make me dance or sing to entertain the guests； or perhaps they
were really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the
easiest last…minute fill…in？ Or maybe we were headed to the
coat check； where I would relieve the girl who sat there now；
looking bored and tired？ My mind refused to wrap itself around
Christian’s story。
“Well； I’m not saying you don’t have to babysit at all
tonight； because I plan on needing lots and lots of attention。
But I think it’ll be a better night than you’d anticipated。
Wait right here。” He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared
into the crowd of partygoers； mostly distinguished…looking men
and sort of artsy； fashionable women in their forties and
fifties； what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine
people； with a few designers； photographers； and models thrown
in for good measure。 There was a small； elegant stone patio in
the back of the townhouse； all lit by white candles； where a
violinist played softly； and I peeked outside。 Immediately I
recognized Anna Wintour； looking absolutely ravishing in a
cream…colored silk slip dress and beaded Manolo sandals。 She
was talking animatedly to a man I presumed to be her
boyfriend； although her giant Chanel sunglasses prevented me
from being able to tell if she was amused； indifferent； or
sobbing。 The press loved to pare the antics and attitudes
of Anna and Miranda； but I found it impossible to believe that
anyone could be quite as unbearable as my boss。
Behind her stood what I presumed to be a fewVogue editors；
eyeing Anna warily and wearily like our own Clackers eye
Miranda； and next to them was a screeching Donatella Versace。
Her face was so caked with makeup； her clothes were so
phenomenally tight； that she actually looked like a caricature
of herself。 Like the first time I visited Switzerland and
couldn’t help thinking how much it resembled the mock…up town
in EPCOT； Donatella actually looked more like the character
onSaturday Night Live than herself。
I sipped my glass of champagne （and I thought I wouldn’t be
having any！） and made small talk with an Italian guy—one of
the first ugly ones I’d ever met—who spoke in florid prose
about his innate appreciation for the female body； until
Christian reappeared again。
“Hey； e with me for a minute；” he said； once again
navigating me smoothly through the crowd。 He was wearing his
uniform： perfectly faded Diesels； a white T…shirt； a dark
sport coat； and Gucci loafers； and he blended into the fashion
crowd seamlessly。
“Where are we going？” I asked； keeping my eyes peeled for
Miranda； who； no matter what Christian said； was still
probably expecting me to be banished to the corner； faxing or
updating the itinerary。
“First； we’re getting you another drink； and maybe another for
me as well。 Then； I’m going to teach you how to dance。”
“What makes you think I don’t know how to dance？ It just so
happens that I’m a gifted dancer。”
He handed me another glass of champagne that seemed to appear
out of thin air and led me into his parents’ formal living
room； which was done in gorgeous shades of deep maroon。 A
six…piece band was playing hip music； of course； and the
couple dozen people under thirty…five had congregated here。 As
if on cue； the band started playing Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get
It On” and Christian pulled me against him。 He smelled of
masculine； preppy cologne； something old…school like Polo
Sport。 His hips moved naturally to the music； no thinking
involved； we just moved together all over the makeshift dance
floor； and he sang quietly in my ear。 The rest of the room
beca