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“A toast!” Doug stands, actually stands , and raises his third glass of wine.  “Sit down! Oh my god, I can’t believe you.” I meant for it to come out as a hiss, because we really don’t need any more eyes turned our way, but I end up giggling instead. There are plenty of people already turned in their seats, taking in our spectacle. There’s no helping it now.  Doug is blissfully oblivious to it all. He just gestures his drink in my direction, meets my eyes, and continues as if

A month of peace.  Runway  is hectic, but no more so than any normal day. Disasters happen, problems are solved, and another issue is published. All is well in the Queendom.  Well, I still need to talk to Nigel. I think he’s avoiding me.  But other than that, Runway  is good. The rest of life is pretty good, too. Yes, the custody battle is dragging on, but the girls clearly take after their mom - they push through. It helps that Miranda isn’t quiet about what she’s willing to

Don’t. Poke. Your. Eye.  No matter how many times I wield a mascara wand, I’m still convinced something is going to spook me, and I’ll end up stabbing myself in the eye. It wouldn’t take much. A rogue breeze would probably do it.  But I really don’t have time for any mascara wand induced medical disasters today. I have about three minutes to finish getting ready, and then it’s off to the Gala.  With one last stroke, I put the mascara away and straighten, taking in the finishe

Twelve days until the Gala.  Twelve days to memorize all the potential guests, whether they’d RSVP-ed or not, and to make sure Lark memorizes them, too. Just in case.  Twelve days doesn’t feel like nearly enough when I’m also coordinating all the planning for the event.  “No,” I snap into the receiver. “That is not acceptable. How many times has Runway  commissioned you for flowers? And how many times have we told you specifically no freesias ?” I tap my fingers impatiently o

Nearly two weeks later, I put my hand on the doorknob and stumble forward as the door is flung open.  “She’s here!” Cassidy yells, grabbing my hand and hauling me into the townhouse and toward the stairs. Caroline locks the door and scrambles after us. We’re maybe four steps up the stairs when she appears in the doorway to the den. Of course she’s casually devastating. It’s the same thing she was wearing at the office, but unlike me, she still looks as fresh as she did when I

I wait at the elevator doors, my toe tapping in time with my pounding heart.  Here we go. Again. A week ago, I stood in this exact spot, waiting for Miranda’s elevator to ding, after sharing a fantastic Sunday together. A week ago, I was filled with hope I didn’t even realize I had until it was frozen solid and shattered. Today, I’m squashing down my puddle of hope, like if I hide it deep enough, it’ll escape unscathed.  Next to me, Nigel slides his glasses off and polishes t

I stumble through the apartment door, and it’s like snapping awake after the deepest dream. After we left Central Park, Roy drove us back to the townhouse. I’d expected I’d say goodbye to Miranda and Patricia on the steps and head for the subway, but before I could open my mouth, Miranda just said, “Come along.” So I did. By the time I’d gone through another round of panic-breathe-accepting, I was sitting in my usual chair in the den. Miranda placed a glass of ice water on a

My stay in Wonderland doesn’t end after breakfast.  Like the good houseguest my mom raised me to be, I offer to help with dishes when we’re done. I expect Miranda to let me deal with them while she goes off and does whatever she does on a normal Sunday morning.  Instead, I catch the sound of her footsteps following me to the kitchen sink. With a hopefully subtle glance behind me, I see she’s carrying our coffee mugs.  I guess my glance isn’t subtle enough, because we lock eye

I always say that the key to my job is paying attention. Not that anybody asks, but in the imaginary press interviews I hold in my head, that’s what I say. Every glance, each random comment, any magazine left open on a specific page. Absolutely anything and everything. Sure, some of it (okay, the vast majority of it) ends up being useless. But on the rare occasions when I need it? Priceless. I know Miranda appreciates how closely I pay attention—how I clock the smallest detai

There’s crust in my eyes.  I slide a hand out from under my head to wipe them away, but a ghost sensation is left behind and doesn’t leave, no matter how hard I rub. I drop my hand with a defeated sigh.  Instead of landing against the mattress, it slides to hang off the bed.  Huh?  My bed sits against the far wall of my room, and I tuck myself as close to that wall as possible, still convinced my tossing and turning will send me tumbling to my doom if I sleep too close to the

There’s a white van parked in front of the townhouse. Thank God — they’re here. I can’t get Miranda’s voice on that phone call out of my head. Choked, like she was forcing it not to wobble.  I’ve never heard her like that before.  “Andrea,” was the first thing she said. “Andrea, it’s Patricia.”  As soon as she’d said the words, I had my phone on speaker and was googling the nearest vet willing to do an emergency house call.  “The vet is on their way,” I told her as I finalize

“Andy.”  We had a good time at lunch after the movie.  “Hey, Andy.” At least, I thought we did. Then she dropped me off at my place.  “Aaaaannndddyyyy.”  And then I went to sleep.  “Hellooooo, Earth to Andy.” Ok, well I didn’t go to sleep immediately. I actually stayed up later than I should’ve, going over every moment of the day again and again in my head, too wired to sleep.  “Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy.” And then it was Monday morning, and everything was just … weird.  “Andrea

Miranda’s right: what you wear matters. And today, my outfit is here to solve a mystery. Because really—has a detective ever cracked a case without a trench coat, boots, gloves, and a scarf for dramatic effect? Miranda’s wrong if she thinks I’m going to let this cold front slide. I might not be able to change it, but I’ll be damned if I don’t figure it out. I snap my sunglasses shut and get to work. ***  Case Notes: The Blizzard Subject: Miranda Priestly, alias “The Boss” Inv

The first time I got my period post-makeover, I was a mess, emotionally and physically.  Miranda can snub my cheap, thrift store clothes all she wants, but at least I never had to worry too much about if they got stained. But a Valentino skirt? That’s a very different story.  Today, just like every day Aunt Flow is in town, I walk out of the elevator convinced that everyone developed X-ray vision overnight, and they can see past my well made up facade, to the granny panties a

I shouldn’t be surprised the theater is packed on a Sunday afternoon. Still, the crowd is a bit overwhelming.  “Mom, can we get popcorn?” Cassidy bounces on her toes. We all turn our attention to the concessions line. It’s a warzone.  Moms trying to herd children, comforting screaming toddlers in their arms.  Their husbands shuffle forward like zombies—eyes on their phones, barking into Bluetooth headsets. Somehow, over all of it, I can still hear the sticky squelch of shoes

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