I wasn’t surprised to see Stef arrive two and a half minutes later with her one fucking idiot accessories assistant, a fashion assistant she’d borrowed, and James, also borrowed from beauty, all looking terrified as they carried oversize wicker baskets. They stood cowering by my desk until Miranda gave another imperceptible nod, at which point they all shuffled forward for the genuflection exercises. Since Miranda obviously refused to leave her office – ever – she required that all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts full of shoes and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped to her.
When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their wares in neat rows on the carpet for her to inspect, Miranda’s office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar – one that just so happens to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm-el-Sheik. One editor was presenting her with $2,000 snakeskin belts while another tried to sell her a large Kelly bag. A third hawked a short Fendi cocktail dress, while someone else tried to sell her on the merits of chiffon. Stef had managed to assemble a near-perfect run-through with only thirty seconds’ notice and a whole lot of pieces missing; I saw she had filled the gaps with things from past photo shoots, explaining to Miranda that the accessories they were still waiting for were similar but even better. They were all masters at what they do, but Miranda was the ultimate. She was the ever-aloof consumer, coolly moving from one gorgeous stall to the next, never feigning any show of interest. When she finally, blessedly, did decide, she pointed and commanded (much like a judge at a dog show, ‘Bob, she’s chosen the Border Collie …’), and the editors nodded obsequiously (‘Yes, excellent choice,’ ‘Oh, definitely, the perfect choice’) and they wrapped up their wares and scuttled back to their respective departments before she inevitably changed her mind.
The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes, but by the time it was over, we were all exhausted from anxiety. She’d already announced earlier in the day that she’d be leaving early, around four, to spend a couple hours with the girls before the big trip, so I canceled the features meeting, to the relief of the entire department. At precisely 3:58 P.M. she began packing her bag to leave, a not-so-strenuous activity, since I’d be bringing anything of any heft or significance to her apartment later on that evening in time for her flight. Basically, it involved tossing her Gucci wallet and her Motorola cell phone into that Fendi bag that she kept abusing. The past few weeks, the $10,000 beauty had been serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads – in addition to one of the handles – had snapped off. Miranda had dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me to have it fixed or, if it was impossible to fix, to just throw out. I’d proudly resisted all temptation to tell her the bag was unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a leatherworker repair it for her for a mere twenty-five dollars.
When she finally walked out, I instinctively reached for the phone to call Alex and whine about my day. It wasn’t until I’d dialed half of his number that I remembered we were taking a break. It hit me that this would be the first day in more than three years that we wouldn’t talk. I sat with the phone in my hand, staring at an e-mail he’d sent the day before, one that he’d signed ‘love,’ and wondered if I’d made a horrible mistake in agreeing to this break. I dialed again, this time ready to tell him that we should talk about everything, figure out where we’d gone wrong, that I take responsibility for the part I’d played in the slow and steady fading of our relationship. But before it even had a chance to ring, Stef was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my Paris trip, pumped up from her run-through with Miranda. There were shoes and bags and belts and jewelry and hosiery and sunglasses to discuss, so I replaced the receiver and tried to focus on her instructions.
Logically, it would seem that a seven-hour flight in steerage decked out in a pair of skintight leather pants, open-toe strappy sandals, and a blazer over a tank top would be the utmost in hellish travel experiences. Not so. The seven hours in flight were the most relaxing I could remember. Since Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same time on different flights – she from Milan and me from New York – it appeared I’d stumbled on the single situation where she could not call me for seven straight hours. For one blessed day, my inaccessibility wasn’t my fault.
For reasons I still didn’t understand, my parents hadn’t been nearly as thrilled as I thought they’d be when I’d called to tell them about the trip.
‘Oh, really?’ my mother asked in that special way of hers that implied so much more than those two little words really meant. ‘You’re going to Paris now?’
‘What do you mean, “now”?’
‘Well, it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting off to Europe, is all,’ she said vaguely, although I could tell that an avalanche of Jewish-mother guilt was ready to begin its slide in my direction.
‘And why is that? When would be a good time?’
‘Don’t get upset, Andy. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in months – not that we’re complaining, Dad and I both understand how demanding your job is – but don’t you want to see your new nephew? He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met him yet!’
‘Mom! Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m dying to see Isaac, but you know I can’t just—’
‘You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston, right?’
‘Yes! You’ve told me four hundred times. I know it and I appreciate it, but it’s not the money. I can’t get any time off work and now with Emily out, I can’t just up and leave – even on weekends. Does it make sense to you to fly across the country only to have to come back if Miranda calls me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does it?’
‘Of course not, Andy, I just thought – we just thought – that you might be able to visit them in the next couple weeks, because Miranda was going to be away and all, and if you were going to fly out there, then Dad and I would go also. But now you’re going to Paris.’
She said it in the way that implied what she was really thinking. ‘But now you’re going to Paris’ translated to ‘But now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family obligations.’
‘Mother, let me make something very, very clear here. I am not going on vacation. I have not chosen to go to Paris rather than meet my baby nephew. It’s not my decision at all, as you probably know but are refusing to accept. It’s really very simple: I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week, or I get fired. Do you see a choice here? Because if so, I’d love to hear it.’
She was quiet for a moment before she said, ‘No, of course not, honey. You know we understand. I just hope – well, I just hope that you’re happy with the way things are going.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked nastily.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she rushed to say. ‘It doesn’t mean anything other than just what I said: your dad and I only care that you’re happy, and it seems that you’ve really been, um, well, uh, pushing yourself lately. Is everything OK?’
I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard. ‘Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine. I’m not happy to be going to Paris, just so you know. It’s going to be a week of sheer hell, twenty-four-seven. But my year will be up soon, and I can put this kind of living behind me.’
‘I know, sweetie, I know it’s been a tough year for you. I just hope this all ends up being worth it for you. That’s all.’
‘I know. So do I.’
We hung up on good terms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own parents were disappointed in me.
The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare, but I found the elegantly dressed driver who was waving a sign with my name on it when I exited customs, and the moment he closed his own door, he handed me a cell phone.
‘Ms Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival.