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choice is there？ She is Miranda Priestly； you know。”
At about one Emily announced she was hungry and was heading
downstairs to get some lunch with a few of the girls in accessories。
I assumed she meant she would pick up her lunch； since that’s what
we’d been doing all week； so I waited for ten minutes； fifteen
minutes； twenty； but she never reappeared with her food。 Neither of
us had actually eaten in the dining room since I’d started in case
Miranda called； but this was ridiculous。 Two o’clock came and then
two…thirty and then three； and all I could think about was how
hungry I was。 I tried calling Emily’s Cell Phone； but it went
directly to voice mail。 Could she have died in the dining room？ I
wondered。 Choked on some plain lettuce； or simply slumped over after
downing a smoothie？ I thought about asking someone to pick something
up for me； but it seemed too prima donna–ish to ask a perfect
stranger to fetch me lunch。 After all；I was supposed to be the
lunch…fetcher：Oh； yes； darling； I’m simply too important to abandon
my post here wrapping presents； so I was wondering if you might pick
me up a turkey and brie croissant？ Lovely 。 I just couldn’t do it。
So when four o’clock rolled around and there was still no sign of
Emily and no call from Miranda； I did the unthinkable： I left the
office unattended。
After peeking down the hall and confirming that Emily was nowhere in
sight； I literally ran to the reception area and pushed the down
button twenty times。 Sophy； the gorgeous Asian receptionist； raised
her eyebrows and looked away； and I wasn’t sure if it was my
impatience or her knowledge that Miranda’s office was abandoned that
made her look at me that way。 No time to figure it out。 The elevator
finally arrived； and I was able to throw myself onboard even as a
sneering； heroin…thin guy with spiky hair and lime green Pumas was
pushing “Door Close。” No one moved aside to give me room even though
there was plenty of space。 And while this would’ve normally driven
me crazy； all I could concentrate on was getting food and getting
back； ASAP。
The entrance to the all…glass…and…granite dining room was blocked by
a group of Clackers…in…training； all leaning in and whispering；
examining each group of people who got off the elevator。 Friends of
Elias employees； I immediately recalled from Emily’s description of
such groups； obvious from their unmasked excitement to be standing
at the center of it all。 Lily had already begged me to take her to
the dining room since it’d been written up in nearly every Manhattan
newspaper and magazine for its incredible food quality and
selection—not to mention its gaggle of gorgeous people—but I wasn’t
ready for that yet。 Besides； due to the plex office…sitting
schedule Emily and I negotiated each day so far； I’d yet to spend
more time there than the two and a half minutes it took to choose
and pay for my food； and I wasn’t sure I ever would。
I pushed my way past the girls and felt them turn to see if I was
anyone important。 Negative。 Weaving quickly； intently； I bypassed
gorgeous racks of lamb and veal marsala in the entrees section and；
with a push of willpower； cruised right past the sundried tomato and
goat cheese pizza special （which resided on a small table banished
to the sidelines that everyone referred to as “Carb Corner”）。 It
wasn’t as easy to navigate around thepièce de résistance of the
room； the salad bar （also known just as “Greens；” as in “I’ll meet
you at Greens”）； which was as long as an airport landing strip and
accessible from four different directions； but the hordes let me
pass when I loudly assured them that I wasn’t going after the last
of the tofu cubes。 All the way in the back； directly behind the
panini stand that actually resembled a makeup counter； was the
single； lone soup station。 Lone because the soup chef was the only
one in the entire dining room who refused to make a single one of
his offerings low fat； reduced fat； fat…free； low sodium； or low
carb。 He simply refused。 As a result； his was the single table in
the entire room without a line； and I sprinted directly toward him
every day。 Since it appeared that I was the only one in the entire
pany who actually bought soup—and I’d only been there a week—the
higher…ups had slashed his menu to a solitary soup per day。 I prayed
for tomato cheddar。 Instead； he ladled out a giant cup of New
England clam chowder； proudly declaring it was made with heavy
cream。 Three people at Greens turned to stare。 The only obstacle
left was dodging the crowds around the chef’s table； where a
visiting chef in full whites was arranging large chunks of sashimi
for what appeared to be adoring fans。 I read the nametag on his
starched white collar： Nobu Matsuhisa。 I made a mental note to look
him up when I got upstairs； since I seemed to be the only employee
in the place who wasn’t fawning all over him。 Was it worse to have
never heard of Mr。 Matsuhisa or Miranda Priestly？
The petite cashier looked first at the soup and then at my hips when
she rang me up。 Or had she？ I’d already grown accustomed to being
looked up and down every time I went anywhere； and I could’ve sworn
she was looking at me with the same expression I would’ve given a
five…hundred…pound person with eight Big Macs arrayed in from of
him： the eyes raised just enough as if to ask； “Do youreally need
that？” But I brushed my paranoia aside and reminded myself that the
woman was simply a cashier in a cafeteria； not a Weight Watchers
counselor。 Or a fashion editor。
“So。 Not many people buying the soup these days；” she said quietly；
punching numbers on the register。
“Yeah； I guess not that many people like New England clam chowder；”
I mumbled； swiping my card and willing her hands to move faster；
faster。
She stopped and turned her narrowed brown eyes directly toward mine。
“No； I think it’s because the soup chef insists on making these
really fattening things—do you have any idea how many calories are
in that？ Do you have any idea how fattening that little cup of soup
is？ I’m just saying is； someone could put on ten pounds from just
looking at it—”And you’re not one who could afford to gain ten
pounds； she implied。
Ouch。 As if it hadn’t been hard enough convincing myself that I was
a normal weight for a normal height as all the tall； willowyRunway
blondes had openly examined me； now thecashier was—for all intents
and purposes—telling me I was fat？ I snatched my takeout bag and
pushed past the people； and walked into the bathroom that was
conveniently located directly outside the dining room； where one
could purge any