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desk. I had a feeling that the meeting she’d just had with Mr Ravitz hadn’t gone so well, although it could have just been her lingering resentment at having to leave her office to go see someone else in theirs. Mr Ravitz was, so far, the only person in the entire building whom Miranda rushed to accommodate.
‘Ahn-dre-ah! What is this? Please tell me, what on earth is this?’
I raced into her office and stood before her desk, where we both looked down at what was, quite obviously, the same lunch she ate whenever she didn’t go out. A quick mental checklist revealed that nothing was missing or out of place or on the wrong side or cooked incorrectly. What was her problem?
‘Um, it’s, uh, well, it’s your lunch,’ I said quietly, making a genuine effort not to sound sarcastic, which was difficult, considering my statement was supremely obvious. ‘Is something wrong?’
In all fairness, I think she just parted her lips, but to my near-delirious self, it looked like she was baring actual pointed fangs.
‘Is something wrong?’ she mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like my own, nothing human. She narrowed her eyes to slits and leaned closer, still refusing, as always, to raise her voice. ‘Yes, there’s something wrong. Something very, very wrong. Why do I have to come back to my office to find this sitting on my desk?’
It was like trying to solve one of those twisted riddles. Why did she have to come back to her desk to find this sitting on it, I wondered. Clearly, the fact that she had requested it an hour earlier was not the correct answer, but it was the only one I had. Did she not like the tray it was on? No, that wasn’t possible: she’d seen it a million times and hadn’t ever complained about it. Had they accidentally given her the wrong cut of meat? No, that wasn’t it, either. The restaurant had once mistakenly sent me off with a wonderful-looking filet, thinking that she was sure to enjoy it more than the tough ribeye, but she’d almost had a full-fledged heart attack. She’d made me call the chef personally and scream at him over the phone while she stood over me and told me what to say.
‘I’m so sorry, miss, really I am,’ he’d said softly, sounding like the nicest guy in the world. ‘I really just thought that since Ms Priestly is such a good customer that she’d prefer to have our best. I didn’t charge her extra, but don’t worry, it won’t happen again, I promise.’ I felt like crying when she ordered me to tell him that he would never be a real chef anywhere besides some second-rate steak emporium, but I had done it. And he had apologized and agreed, and from that day on she’d always gotten her bloody ribeye. So it wasn’t that, either. I had no idea what to say or do.
‘Ahn-dre-ah. Did Mr Ravitz’s assistant not tell you that we had lunch together in that wretched dining room just a few moments ago?’ she asked slowly, as though she were trying to keep herself from losing control completely.
She what? After all of that, after all the running and the Sebastian ridiculousness, and the angry phone calls, and the ninety-five-dollar meal, and the Tiffany song, and the food arranging, and the dizziness, and the waiting to eat until she came back, and she’d already eaten?
‘Uh, no, we didn’t get a call from her at all. So, uh, does that mean you don’t want this?’ I asked, motioning to the tray.
She looked at me as if I had just suggested she eat one of the twins. ‘What do you think that means, Emily?’ Shit! She’d been doing so well with my name.
‘I guess that, uh, well, that you don’t want it.’
‘That’s very perceptive of you, Emily. I’m lucky you’re such a quick study. Now remove it. And make sure this does not happen again. That’s all.’
A quick fantasy flashed forward, one in which I would, just like in the movies, sweep my arm across the desk and send the whole tray flying across the room. She would watch and, shocked into contriteness, apologize profusely for speaking to me like that. But the clicking of her nails against the desk brought me back to reality, and I quickly picked up the tray and carefully walked out of her office.
‘Ahn-dre-ah, close the door! I need a moment!’ she called. I guess that having a gourmet lunch appear on her desk that she didn’t feel like eating had been a really stressful part of her day.
Emily had just returned with a can of Diet Coke and a package of raisins for me. This was supposed to be the snack to tide me over to lunch, and of course there wasn’t a single calorie or gram of fat or ounce of added sugar in the whole thing. She dropped them on her desk when she heard Miranda calling and ran over to shut her French doors.
‘What happened?’ she whispered, eyeing the untouched tray of food that I was holding, frozen to the spot near my desk.
‘Oh, it seems our charming boss already had her lunch,’ I hissed through clenched teeth. ‘And she just reamed me out for not predicting, not divining, not being able to look directly inside her stomach and know that she wasn’t hungry anymore.’
‘You’re kidding me,’ she said. ‘She yelled at you because you ran to get her lunch – just like she asked – and then couldn’t possibly have known that she’d already eaten somewhere else? What a bitch!’
I nodded. It was a phenomenal change of pace to have Emily actually take my side for once, not to lecture me on all the ways I Just Don’t Get It. But, wait! It was too good to be true. Like a sun that falls out of the sky, leaving only pink and blue streaks where it had shone seconds before, Emily’s face flashed from angry to contrite. The Runway Paranoid Turnaround.
‘Remember what we talked about before, Andrea.’ Oh, yes, here it comes. RPT, twelve o’clock. ‘She doesn’t do it to hurt you. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just way too important to get held up on the little stuff. So don’t fight it. Just throw out the food, and let’s move on.’ Emily fixed her features in a determined look and took a seat in front of her computer. I knew she was wondering right then and there if Miranda had had our outer office areas bugged and had heard the whole thing. She was red and flustered and very obviously displeased with her lack of control. I didn’t know how she had survived as long as she had.
I thought about eating the steak myself, but the mere thought that it had been on Miranda’s desk only moments earlier made me feel nauseated. I took the tray to the kitchen and tilted it so every single item would just slide directly into the garbage – all the expertly cooked and seasoned food, the china plate, the metal butter container, the salt box, the linen napkin, the silver, the steak knife, and the Baccarat glass. Gone. All gone. What did it matter? I’d get it all over again the next day, or whenever it was that she may again be hungry for lunch.
By the time I’d made it to Drinkland, Alex looked annoyed and Lily looked wasted. I immediately wondered if Alex somehow knew that I’d been asked out on a date today, by a guy who was not only famous and older, but also a complete and total dickhead. Could he tell? Did he sense it? Should I tell him? No, no need to get into it with him when it was so insignificant. It wasn’t like I was admitting to being interested in some other guy, not like I would actually ever act on it. So there was nothing to gain by mentioning the conversation at all.
‘Hey there, fashion girl,’ Lily slurred, waving her gin and tonic toward me in a salute. Some of it splashed down the front of her cardigan, but she didn’t seem to notice. ‘Or should I say, future roomie? Get a drink. We need to have a toast!’ It came out sounding like ‘toath.’
I kissed Alex and sat down next to him.
‘Don’t you look hot today!’ he said, eyeing my Prada outfit appreciatively. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Oh, today. Right around the time it was all but spelled out that if I didn’t fix my look I might not have a job anymore. Pretty insulting stuff, but I have to say, if you’ve got to put something on every day, this stuff isn’t half bad.
‘Hey, listen, guys. I’m really, really sorry I’m late. The Book took forever tonight, and as soon as I dropped it off at Miranda’s she had me run to the corner deli and pick up some basil.’
‘I