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heel stuck in the carpeted hallway that connected my room to
hers。 Once again； a maid answered the door when I knocked。
“Ahn…dre…ah！ One of Briget’s assistants just rang me to see
how long my speech is for today’s brunch；” she announced。 She
was paging through a copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily that someone
from the office—probably Allison； who knew the drill from her
tenure in Miranda’s office—had faxed earlier； and two
beautiful men were working on her hair and makeup。 A cheese
plate sat on the antique table beside her。
Speech？ What speech？ The only thing besides shows that was on
the itinerary today was some sort of awards luncheon that
Miranda planned to spend her usual fifteen minutes at before
bolting out of sheer boredom。
“I’m sorry。 Did you say a speech？”
“I did。” She carefully closed the paper； calmly folded it in
half； and then tossed it angrily to the floor； narrowly
missing one of the men who knelt in front of her。 “Why the
hell was I not informed that I’d be receiving some nonsense
award at today’s luncheon？” she hissed； her face contorting
with a hatred I’d never seen before。 Displeasure？ Sure。
Dissatisfaction？ All the time。 Annoyance； frustration；
generalized unHappiness？ Of course； every minute of every day。
But I’d never seen her look so downrightpissed off 。
“Um； Miranda； I’m so sorry； but it was actually Briget’s
office that RSVP’d you to the event today； and they never—”
“Stop speaking。 Stop speaking this instant！ All you ever offer
me are excuses。You are my assistant；you are the person I
designated to work things out in Paris；you are the one who
should be keeping me abreast of these things。” She was nearly
shouting now。 One of the makeup guys asked softly in English
if we would like a moment alone； but Miranda ignored him
entirely。 “It’s noon right now and I’ll be needing to leave
here in forty…five minutes。 I expect a short； succinct； and
articulate speech legibly typed and waiting in my room。 If you
cannot acplish this； see yourself Home。Permanently 。 That’s
all。”
I fled down the hallway faster than I’d ever run in heels and
whipped open my international Cell Phone before I’d made it
into my room。 It was nearly impossible to dial Briget’s work
number since my hands were shaking so badly； but somehow the
call went through。 One of her assistants answered。
“I need Briget！” I shrieked； my voice breaking when I
pronounced her name。 “Where is she？Where is she？ I need to
talk to her。Now！ ”
The girl was momentarily shocked into silence。 “Andrea？ Is
that you？”
“Yes； it’s me and I need Briget。 It’s an emergency—where the
hell is she？”
“She’s at a show； but don’t worry； she always has her Cell
Phone on。 Are you at the hotel？ I’ll have her call you right
back。”
The phone on the desk rang a mere few seconds later； but it
felt like a week。 “Andrea；” she lilted in her lovely French
accent。 “What is it； dear？ Monique said you were hysterical。”
“Hysterical？ Damn right I’m hysterical！ Briget； how could you
do this to me？ Your office made the arrangements for this
fucking luncheon and no one bothered to tell me that she is
not only receiving an award but also expected to give a
speech？”
“Andrea； calm down。 I’m sure we told—”
“And I have to write it！ Are you listening to me？ I have
forty…five fucking minutes to write an acceptance speech for
an award I know nothing about in a language I don’t speak。 Or
I’m finished。 What am I going to do？”
“All right； relax； I’m going to walk you through this。 First
of all； the ceremony is right there； at the Ritz； in one of
the salons。”
“The what？ Which salon？” I hadn’t had a chance to look around
the hotel yet； but I was reasonably sure there weren’t any
pubs in the place。
“It is French for； oh； what do you call them？ Meeting rooms。
So； she will only need to go downstairs。 It is for the French
Council on Fashion； an organization here in Paris that always
has its awards during the shows because everyone is in
town。Runway will be receiving an award for fashion coverage。
It is not such a； how do you say； big deal； almost like a
formality。”
“Great； well at least I know what it’s for。 What exactly am I
supposed to write？ Why don’t you just dictate in English and I
can get Monsieur Renaud to translate it； OK？ You start。 I’m
ready。” My voice had regained some confidence； but I could
still barely grip the pen。 The bination of exhaustion；
stress； and hunger was making it hard to focus my eyes on the
Ritz stationery that was laid out on my desk。
“Andrea； you are in luck again。”
“Oh； really？ Because I’m not feeling so lucky right now；
Briget。”
“These things are always conducted in English。 There is no
need for translation。 So you can write it； yes？”
“Yes； yes I’ll write it；” I mumbled and dropped the phone。
There wasn’t even time to consider that this was my very first
chance to show Miranda that I was capable of doing something
more sophisticated than fetching lattes。
After I hung up and began typing away at sixty words a minute—
typing was the only useful class I’d taken in all of high
school—I realized the whole thing would only take two； maybe
three minutes for Miranda to read。 There was just enough time
to gulp some of the Pellegrino and devour a few of the
strawberries someone had thoughtfully left on my small bar。If
only they could’ve left a cheeseburger； I thought。 I
remembered that I had tucked a Twix bar in my luggage that had
been neatly piled in the corner； but there wasn’t time to look
for it。 Exactly forty minutes had passed since I’d received my
marching orders。 It was time to see if I’d passed。
A different—but equally as terrified—maid answered Miranda’s
door and ushered me into the living room。 Obviously； I
should’ve remained standing； but the leather pants I’d been
wearing since the day before felt like they were permanently
stuck to my legs； and the strappy sandals that hadn’t bothered
me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long；
flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes。 I chose to
perch on the overstuffed couch； but the moment my knees bent
and my butt made contact with the cushion； her bedroom door
flew open and I instinctively launched to my feet。
“Where’s my speech？” she asked automatically； while yet
another maid followed after her holding a single earring that
Miranda had forgotten to put in。 “You did write something； did
you not？” She was wearing one of her classic Chanel
suits—round collars with fur trim—and a looping strand of