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Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter lack of grace under pressure:
So this was what four years of diagramming and deconstructing books, plays, short stories, and poems were for: a chance to comfort a small, white, batlike bulldog while trying not to demolish someone else's really, really expensive car. Sweet life. Just as I had always dreamed.
You don't want her to die, I thought, stretching out in the backseat. Because if she does, you lose all hope of killing her yourself. And that would be a shame.
It was at this point that I began to want the job most desperately, in the way people yearn for things they consider unattainable.
The women, or rather the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than thirty.
For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic.
She loved anyone and anything that didn't love her back, so long as it made her feel alive.
When in doubt (and you never should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous than overdressed in something fabulous.
The press loved to compare the antics and attitudes of Anna and Miranda, but I found it impossible to believe that anyone could be quite as unbearable as my boss.
