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elliptical machines。 The locker rooms had saunas； hot tubs； steam
rooms； and attendants in maids’ uniforms； and a salon offered
emergency manicures； pedicures； and facials。 There was even
plimentary towel service； or so I’d heard—not only did I not have
the time； the place was always too damn crowded between the hours of
sixA 。M。 and tenP 。M。 to so much as walk around。 Writers and editors
and sales assistants called three days ahead of time to book
themselves into the yoga or kick…boxing classes； and even then they
lost their place if they didn’t get there fifteen minutes in
advance。 Like nearly everything at Elias…Clark designed to make
employees’ lives better； it just stressed me out。
I’d heard a rumor that there was a daycare center in the basement；
but I didn’t know anyone who actually had children； so I still
wasn’t entirely positive。 The real action began on the third floor
with the dining room； where so far Miranda had refused to eat among
the peons unless she was lunching with Irv Ravitz； Elias’s CEO； who
liked to eat there in a show of unity with his employees。
Up； up； up we went； past all the other famous titles。 Most of them
had to share floors； with one flanking each side of the
receptionist’s desk； facing off behind separate glass doors。 I
hopped off at the seventeenth floor； checking my butt in the
reflection of the door’s glass。 In a stroke of empathy and genius；
the architect had kindly left mirrors out of the elevators in 640
Madison。 As usual； I’d forgotten my electronic ID card—the very same
one that tracked all our movements； purchases； and absences in the
building—and had to break onto the floor。 Sophy didn’t e in until
nine； so I had to bend down under her desk； find the button that
would release the glass doors； and sprint from the middle of the
reception area to the doors and yank them open before they snapped
locked again。 Sometimes I’d have to do this three or four times
until I finally caught it； but today I made it on my second attempt。
The floor was always dark when I arrived； and I took the same route
to my desk every morning。 To my left when I walked in was the
advertising department； the girls who most loved adorning themselves
in Chloé T…shirts and spike…heeled boots while handing out Business
cards that screamed “Runway。” They were removed； wholly and
entirely； from anything and everything that took place on the
editorial side of the floor： it was editorial that picked the
clothes for the fashion spreads； wooed the good writers； matched the
accessories to the outfits； interviewed the models； edited the copy；
designed the layouts； and hired the photographers。 Editorial
traveled to hot spots around the world for shoots； got free gifts
and discounts from all the designers； hunted for trends； and went to
parties at Pastis and Float because they “had to check out what
people were wearing。”
Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space。 Sometimes they threw
promotional parties； but they were celebrity…free and therefore
boring to New York’s hipster scene （or so Emily had sneeringly told
me）。 My phone would ring off the hook on a day during aRunway ad
sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an
invite。 “Um； like； I hearRunway ’s having a party tonight。 Why am I
not invited？” I always found out from someone on the outside that
there was a party that night： editorial was never invited because
they wouldn’t go anyway。 As if it wasn’t enough for theRunway girls
to mock； terrorize； and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t
one of them； they had to create internal class lines as well。
The ad sales department gave way to a long； narrow hallway。 It
seemed to stretch forever before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the
left side。 Here were an assortment of Coffees and teas； a fridge for
stored lunches—all superfluous； since Starbucks had a monopoly on
employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully
selected in the dining room or ordered in from any one of a thousand
midtown takeout places。 But it was a nice touch； almost cute； it
said；“Hey； look at us； we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’N Lows
and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last
night’s dinner！ We’re just like everyone else！”
I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7：05； so tired I could
barely move。 But as with everything； there was yet another routine
that I never thought to question or alter； so I began in earnest。 I
unlocked her office and turned on all the lights。 It was still dark
outside； and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power
monger’s office； staring out at a flashing and restless New York
City and picturing myself in one of those movies （take your pick—any
that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his 6
million apartment with views of the river）； feeling on top of the
world。 And then the lights would blaze forth； and my fantasy was
over。 The anything…is…possible feel of New York at dawn vanished；
and the identical； grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all I
could see。
Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area； the place where
I hung her coat （and mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that
day—Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian wools hanging next
to her minks） and where we kept a number of supplies： castoff coats
and clothes that were worth tens of thousands of dollars； some new
dry cleaning that had been delivered to the office but not yet
brought up to Miranda’s apartment； at least two hundred of the
infamous white Hermès scarves。 I’d heard that Hermès had decided to
discontinue her particular style last year； a simple and elegant
white silk square。 Someone at the pany felt they owed Miranda an
explanation and actually called to apologize to her。 Unsurprisingly；
she’d coldly told them how disappointed she was and promptly
purchased their entire remaining stock。 About five hundred of the
scarves had been delivered to the office a couple years before I’d
gotten there； and we were now down to less than half。 Miranda left
them everywhere： restaurants； movies； fashion shows； weekly
meetings； taxis。 She left them on airplanes； at her daughters’
school； on the tennis court。 Of course； she always had one stylishly
incorporated into her outfit—I’d yet to see her outside her own Home
without one。 But that didn’t explain where they all went。 Perhaps
she thought they were handkerchiefs？ Or maybe she liked jotting
notes on silk instead of paper？ Whatever it was； she seemed to truly
believe they were disposable； and none of us knew how to tell her
otherwise。 Elias…Clark had paid a couple h