‘It’s not that I have any issue with drinking,’ I said, trying to keep the conversation relatively peaceful. ‘Clearly, I’m not antidrinking. I just wonder if it’s gotten a little bit out of control lately, you know? Has everything been OK at school?’
She opened her mouth to say something, but Alex popped his head in the door and handed me my shrieking cell phone. ‘It’s her,’ he said and left again. Argghhh! The woman had a very special gift for wrecking my life.
‘Sorry,’ I said to Lily, looking at the phone warily as the display screamed MP CELL over and over again. ‘It usually only takes a second for her to humiliate or reprimand me, so hold that thought.’ Lily set down her brush and watched me answer.
‘Miran—’ Again, I’d almost answered the line as though it were her own. ‘This is Andrea,’ I corrected, bracing for the barrage.
‘Andrea, you know I expect you there at six-thirty tonight, do you not?’ she barked into the phone without a greeting or identification of any sort.
‘Oh, um, you had said seven o’clock earlier. I still need to—’
‘I said six-thirty before and I’m saying it again now. Siiiiix-thiiiiirty. Get it?’ Click. She’d hung up. I looked at my watch. 6:05 P.M. This was a problem.
‘She wants me there in twenty-five minutes,’ I stated out loud to no one in particular.
Lily looked relieved for the distraction. ‘Let’s get you moving then, OK?’
‘We’re midconversation here, and this is important. What were you going to say before?’ The words were right, but it was clear to both of us that my mind was already a million miles away. I’d already decided there was no time to shower, as I now had fifteen minutes to zip myself into black-tie and get into a car.
‘Seriously, Andy, you’ve got to move. Go get ready – we’ll do this later.’
And once again I was left with no choice but to move quickly, heart racing, climbing into my gown and running a brush through my hair and trying to match some of the names with the pictures of the evening’s guests that Emily had helpfully printed out earlier. Lily watched the whole thing unwind with mild amusement, but I knew she was worrying about the incident with Freak Boy, and I felt terrible I couldn’t deal with it right then. Alex was on his phone with his little brother, trying to convince him that he really was too young to go to a movie at nine o’clock and that their mother wasn’t cruel in forbidding him to do so.
I kissed him on the cheek as he whistled and told me that he’d probably meet some people for dinner but to call him later if I wanted to meet up, and ran as best one can in stilts back to the living room, where Lily was holding a gorgeous piece of black silk fabric. I looked at her questioningly.
‘A wrap, for your big night,’ she sang, shaking it out like a bedsheet. ‘I want my Andy to look just as sophisticated as all the big-money Carolina rednecks she’ll be serving tonight like a common waitress. My grandmother bought it for me years ago to wear to Eric’s wedding. I can’t decide if it’s gorgeous or hideous, but it’s black-tie enough and it’s Chanel, so it should do.’
I hugged her. ‘Just promise if Miranda kills me for saying the wrong thing that you’ll burn this dress and make sure I’m buried in my Brown sweatpants. Promise me!’ She grabbed the mascara wand I was waving about and started working on me.
‘You look great, Andy, really you do. Never thought I’d see you in an Oscar gown going to one of Miranda Priestly’s parties, but, hey, you look the part. Now go.’
She handed me the dangling, obnoxiously bright Judith Leiber bag and held the door as I walked into the hallway. ‘Have fun!’
The car was waiting outside my building and John – who was shaping up to be a first-class pervert – whistled as the driver held the door open for me.
‘Knock ’em dead, hottie,’ he called after me with an exaggerated wink. ‘See ya late-night.’ He had no idea where I was going, of course, but it was comforting that he thought I’d at least be coming home. Maybe it won’t be that bad, I thought as I settled into the cushy backseat of the Town Car. But then my dress slid up over my knees and the back of my legs touched the ice-cold leather seats, and I lurched forward. Or, maybe, it will suck just as much as I think it will?
The driver jumped out and ran around to open the door for me, but I was standing on the curb by the time he’d made it around.
I’d been to the Whitney once before, on a day trip to New York with my mom and Jill to see some of the tourist sights. The museum itself didn’t look familiar now, but I instantly flashed back when I saw the bridge-like entrance. As a thirteen-year-old, I’d stood on that walkway for nearly twenty minutes, gazing over the side down below, where the well-heeled Upper East Side crowd mingled with the well-heeled suburban day-trippers over lemonades and espressos. They all seemed so confident, so breezy in their discussions of the revolutionary architectural exhibit or the racy black-and-white prints by a young, gay photographer. They spoke to each other with ease and moved with the kind of assurance I’d never felt as a teenager and was sure I never would.
How right I’d been. It may have been ten years later, but the only difference between then and now was the cost of my outfit. And the height of my heels, of course. I briefly considered hurtling first the shoes and then myself over the walkway, but a quick calculation confirmed that I’d only shatter a kneecap or smash a collarbone – not enough to get me out of the evening’s festivities. Lacking any alternatives, I inhaled mightily, clenched my fingers to fight off the urge for one last cigarette, and reapplied my Fudgsicle Lipsmackers. It was time to be a lady.
The guard opened the door for me, bowed slightly, and smiled. He probably thought I was a guest.
‘Hi, miss, you must be Andrea. Ilana said to have a seat right over there, and she’ll be out in a minute.’ He turned away and spoke discreetly into a microphone on his sleeve and nodded when he heard a response through his earpiece. ‘Yes, right over there, miss. She’ll be here as soon as she can.’
I looked around the entryway but didn’t feel like going through the dress-adjustment hassle of actually sitting. Besides, when would I ever again have the chance to be in the Whitney Museum – or any museum, really – after hours, with apparently no one else there? The ticket tables were empty and the ground-floor bookshop was deserted, but the sense that exciting things were happening somewhere upstairs was palpable.
After nearly fifteen minutes of peering around, being careful not to wander too far from the aspiring Secret Service agent, a rather ordinary-looking girl in a long navy dress crossed the sleek lobby and walked toward me. I was surprised that someone with a job as glamorous as hers (working in the special events office of the museum) could be so plain, and I felt instantly ridiculous, like a girl from a small town trying to dress for a big-city black-tie affair – which, ironically enough, was exactly who I was. Ilana, on the other hand, looked like she hadn’t even bothered to change out of work clothes, and I learned later that she hadn’t.
‘Why bother?’ she’d laughed. ‘It’s not like these people are here to look at me.’ Her brown hair was clean and straight but lacking in style, and her brown flats were horrifically unfashionable. But her blue eyes were bright and kind, and I knew instantly that I would like her.
‘You must be Ilana,’ I said, sensing that I somehow had seniority in the situation and was expected to take charge. ‘I’m Andrea. I’m Miranda’s assistant, and I’m here to help in any way I can.’
She looked so relieved, I instantly wondered what Miranda had said to her. The possibilities were endless, but I imagined it had something to do with Ilana’s Ladies’ Home Journal getup. I shuddered to think what wicked thing she’d uttered to such a sweet girl and prayed she wouldn’t start to cry. Instead, she turned to me with those big innocent eyes, leaned