《时尚女魔头》《The Devil Wears Prada》《穿普拉达的恶魔》英文原版
[美]维斯贝格尔（Weisberger,L.）
时尚女魔头介绍：
畅销职场小说《时尚女魔头》《The Devil Wears Prada》，该书作者系全球顶级杂志《VOGUE》离职助理劳伦·魏丝伯格（Lauren Weisberger），以犀利幽默的笔触述了由一名大学毕业生跻身时尚圈内部的曲折离奇经历，影射出时尚界的众生百态，从某种程度上也揭示了时尚圈不为人知的内幕及真相。
劳伦·魏丝伯格本人就是一个从学校刚毕业不久的女孩，她在毕业之后进入了顶顶大名的美国《Vogue》杂志担任总编辑助理。大概在工作了一年后辞职，之后就写了这本书，把她自己的工作经历写了出来。书中那个号称是从 地狱里来的老板毫无疑问就是现实生活中的美国版《Vogue》主编Anna Wintour，由于“老百姓们对于名人及富人们的生活总是好奇的，如果这些家伙在光鲜外表之下还有那么些‘不太漂亮的事’那更是会掉足读者胃口。该书在国外一问世就引起广泛争议，尤其是时尚界反响强烈，雄踞《纽约时报》畅销排行近三十周。
本书作者是顶级杂志《VOGUE》离职助理，以笔触犀利的故事影射时尚真相。在国外一问世就引起广泛争议，尤其是时尚界反响强烈。小说中，刚刚大学毕业的安德里亚通过考试，进入挤满时尚杂志社的伊莱亚斯大楼，开始为这本美国销量最大、最有声望的《天桥》服务。她是主编米兰达的初级助理。不过帮助这个时尚界最有影响力的女人完成日常事务、看她编辑杂志、会见作家和模特到底意味着什么？米兰达是魔鬼一般的女人——她穿零号一线时装，吃熏肉、冰淇淋加喝星巴克却从不发胖，每天看九种报纸和七种杂志，嗜好爱玛仕纱巾，永远弄不清助理的名字。安德里亚任何时候都紧张焦虑。她终于发现自己没法再和男友保持正常关系，在巴黎的时装秀场，不知名的助理对时尚界的传奇人物说出了惊天动地的话……
1
The light hadn’t even officially turned green at the intersection of
17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared
past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city
streets.Clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to
second?),release clutch , I repeated over and over in my head, the
mantra offering little comfort and even less direction amid the
screeching midday traffic. The little car bucked wildly twice before
it lurched forward through the intersection. My heart flip-flopped
in my chest. Without warning, the lurching evened out and I began to
pick up speed. Lots of speed. I glanced down to confirm visually
that I was only in second gear, but the rear end of a cab loomed so
large in the windshield that I could do nothing but jam my foot on
the brake pedal so hard that my heel snapped off. Shit! Another pair
of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter
lack of grace under pressure: this clocked in as my third such
breakage this month. It was almost a relief when the car stalled
(I’d obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to
brake for my life). I had a few seconds—peaceful seconds if one
could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word “fuck”
being hurled at me from all directions—to pull off my Manolos and
toss them into the passenger seat. There was nowhere to wipe my
sweaty hands except for the suede Gucci pants that hugged my thighs
and hips so tightly they’d both begun to tingle within minutes of my
securing the final button. My fingers left wet streaks across the
supple suede that swathed the tops of my now numb thighs. Attempting
to drive this $84,000 stick-shift convertible through the
obstacle-fraught streets of midtown at lunchtime pretty much
demanded that I smoke a cigarette.
“Fuckin’ move, lady!” hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair
threatened to overtake the wife-beater he wore. “What do you think
this is? Fuckin’ drivin’ school? Get outta the way!”
I raised a shaking hand to give him the finger and then turned my
attention to the Business at hand: getting nicotine coursing through
my veins as quickly as possible. My hands were moist again with
sweat, evidenced by the matches that kept slipping to the floor. The
light turned green just as I managed to touch the fire to the end of
the cigarette, and I was forced to leave it hanging between my lips
as I negotiated the intricacies ofclutch, gas, shift (neutral to
first? Or first to second?),release clutch, the smoke wafting in and
out of my mouth with each and every breath. It was another three
blocks before the car moved smoothly enough for me to remove the
cigarette, but it was already too late: the precariously long line
of spent ash had found its way directly to the sweat stain on the
pants. Awesome. But before I could consider that, counting the
Manolos, I’d wrecked $3,100 worth of merchandise in under three
minutes, my Cell Phone bleated loudly. And as if the very essence of
life itself didn’t suck enough at that particular moment, the caller
ID confirmed my worst fear: it was Her. Miranda Priestly. My boss.
“Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?” she trilled
the moment I snapped my Motorola open—no small feat considering both
of my (bare) feet and hands were already contending with various
obligations. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and
tossed the cigarette out the window, where it narrowly missed
hitting a bike messenger. He screamed out a few highly unoriginal
“fuck yous” before weaving forward.
“Yes, Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly.”
“Ahn-dre-ah, where’s my car? Did you drop it off at the garage yet?”
The light ahead of me blessedly turned red and looked as though it
might be a long one. The car jerked to a stop without hitting anyone
or anything, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m in the car right
now, Miranda, and I should be at the garage in just a few minutes.”
I figured she was probably concerned that everything was going well,
so I reassured her that there were no problems whatsoever and we
should both arrive shortly in perfect condition.
“Whatever,” she said brusquely, cutting me off midsentence. “I need
you to pick up Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment before
you come back to the office.” Click. The phone went dead. I stared
at it for a few seconds before I realized that she’d deliberately
hung up because she had provided all of the details I could hope to
receive. Madelaine. Who the hell was Madelaine? Where was she at the
moment? Did she know I was to pick her up? Why was she going back to
Miranda’s apartment? And why on earth—considering Miranda had a
full-time driver, housekeeper, and nanny—was I the one who had to do
it?
Remembering that it was illegal to talk on a Cell Phone while
driving in New York and figuring the last thing I needed at that
moment was a run-in with the NYPD, I pulled into the bus lane and
switched my flashers on.Breathe in, breathe out, I coached myself,
even remembering to apply the parking brake before taking my foot
off the regular one. It had been years since I’d driven a
stick-shift car—five years, actually, since a high school boyfriend
had volunteered his car up for a few lessons that I’d decidedly
flunked—but Miranda hadn’t seemed to consider that when she’d called
me into her office an hour and a half earlier.
“Ahn-dre-ah, my car needs to be picked up from the place and dropped
off at the garage. Attend to it immediately, as we’ll be needing it
tonight to drive to the Hamptons. That’s all.” I stood, rooted to
the carpet in front of her behemoth desk, but she’d already blocked
out my presence entirely. Or so I thought. “That’sall, Ahn-dre-ah.
See to it right now,” she added, still not glancing up.
Ah, sure, Miranda,I thought to myself as I walked away, trying to
figure out the first step in the assignment that was sure to have a
million pitfalls along the way. First was definitely to find out at
which “place” the car was located. Most likely it was being repaired
at the dealership, but it could obviously be at any one of a million
auto shops in any one of the five boroughs. Or perhaps she’d lent it
to a friend and it was currently occupying an expensive spot in a
full-service garage somewhere on Park Avenue? Of course, there was
always the chance that she was referring to a new car—brand
unknown—that she’d just recently purchased that hadn’t yet been
brought Home from the (unknown) dealership. I had a lot of work to
do.
I started by calling Miranda’s nanny, but her Cell Phone went
straight to voice mail. The housekeeper was next on the list and,
for once, a big help. She was able to tell me that the car wasn’t
brand-new and it was in fact a “convertible sports car in British
racing green,” and that it was usually parked in a garage on
Miranda’s block, but she had no idea what the make was or where it
might currently be residing. Next on the list was Miranda’s
husband’s assistant, who informed me that, as far as she knew, the
couple owned a top-of-the-line black Lincoln Navigator and some sort
of small green Porsche. Yes! I had my first lead. One quick phone
call to the Porsche dealership on Eleventh Avenue revealed that yes,
they had just finished touching up the paint and installing a new
disc-changer in a green Carrera 4 Cabriolet for a Ms. Miranda
Priestly. Jackpot!
I ordered a Town Car to take me to the dealership, where I turned
over a note I’d forged with Miranda’s signature that instructed them
to release the car to me. No one seemed to care whatsoever that I
was in no way related to this woman, that some stranger had cruised
into the place and requested someone else’s Porsche. They tossed me
the keys and only laughed when I’d asked them to back it out of the
garage because I wasn’t sure I could handle a stick shift in
reverse. It’d taken me a half hour to get ten blocks, and I still
hadn’t figured out where or how to turn around so I’d actually be
heading uptown, toward the parking place on Miranda’s block that her
housekeeper had described. The chances of my making it to 76th and
Fifth without seriously injuring myself, the car, a biker, a
pedestrian, or another vehicle were nonexistent, and this new call
did nothing to calm my nerves.
Once again, I made the round of calls, but this time Miranda’s nanny
picked up on the second ring.
“Cara, hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, what’s up? Are you on the street? It sounds so loud.”
“Yeah, you could say that. I had to pick up Miranda’s Porsche from
the dealership. Only, I can’t really drive stick. But now she called
and wants me to pick up someone named Madelaine and drop her off at
the apartment. Who the hell is Madelaine and where might she be?”
Cara laughed for what felt like ten minutes before she said,
“Madelaine’s their French bulldog puppy and she’s at the vet. Just
got spayed. I was supposed to pick her up, but Miranda just called
and told me to pick the twins up early from school so they can all
head out to the Hamptons.”
“You’re joking. I have to pick up a fuckingdog with this Porsche?
Without crashing? It’snever going to happen .”
“She’s at the East Side Animal Hospital, on Fifty-second between
First and Second. Sorry, Andy, I have to get the girls now, but call
if there’s anything I can do, OK?”
Maneuvering the green beast to head uptown sapped my last reserves
of concentration, and by the time I reached Second Avenue, the
stress sent my body into meltdown.It couldn’t possibly get worse
than this, I thought as yet another cab came within a quarter-inch
of the back bumper. A nick anywhere on the car would guarantee I
lose my job—that much was obvious—but it just might cost me my life
as well. Since there was obviously not a parking spot, legal or
otherwise, in the middle of the day, I called the vet’s office from
outside and asked them to bring Madelaine to me. A kindly woman
emerged a few minutes later (just enough time for me to field
another call from Miranda, this one asking why I wasn’t back at the
office yet) with a whimpering, sniffling puppy. The woman showed me
Madelaine’s stitched-up belly and told me to drive very, very
carefully because the dog was “experiencing some discomfort.” Right,
lady. I’m driving very, very carefully solely to save my job and
possibly my life—if the dog benefits from this, it’s just a bonus.
With Madelaine curled up on the passenger seat, I lit another
cigarette and rubbed my freezing bare feet so my toes could resume
gripping the clutch and brake pedal.Clutch, gas, shift, release
clutch, I chanted, trying to ignore the dog’s pitiful howls every
time I accelerated. She alternated between crying, whining, and
snorting. By the time we reached Miranda’s building, the pup was
nearly hysterical. I tried to soothe her, but she could sense my
insincerity—and besides, I had no free hands with which to offer a
reassuring pat or nuzzle. 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.
I managed to dump the car at the garage and the dog with Miranda’s
doorman without further incident, but my hands were still shaking
when I climbed into the chauffeured Town Car that had been following
me all over town. The driver looked at me sympathetically and made
some supportive comment about the difficulty of stick shifts, but I
didn’t feel much like chatting.
“Just heading back to the Elias-Clark building,” I said with a long
sigh as the driver pulled around the block and headed south on Park
Avenue. Since I rode the route every day—sometimes twice—I knew I
had exactly eight minutes to breathe and collect myself and possibly
even figure out a way to disguise the ash and sweat stains that had
become permanent features on the Gucci suede. The shoes—well, those
were beyond hope, at least until they could be fixed by the fleet of
shoemakersRunway kept for such emergencies. The ride was actually
over in six and a half minutes, and I had no choice but to hobble
like an off-balance giraffe on my one flat, one four-inch heel
arrangement. A quick stop in the Closet turned up a brand-new pair
of knee-high maroon-colored Jimmy Choos that looked great with the
leather skirt I grabbed, tossing the suede pants in the “Couture
Cleaning” pile (where the basic prices for dry cleaning started at
seventy-five dollars per item). The only stop left was a quick visit
to the Beauty Closet, where one of the editors there took one look
at my sweat-streaked makeup and whipped out a trunk full of fixers.
Not bad,I thought, looking in one of the omnipresent full-length
mirrors. You might not even know that mere minutes before I was
hovering precariously close to murdering myself and everyone around
me. I strolled confidently into the assistants’ suite outside
Miranda’s office and quietly took my seat, looking forward to a few
free minutes before she returned from lunch.
“And-re-ah,” she called from her starkly furnished, deliberately
cold office. “Where are the car and the puppy?”
I leaped out of my seat and ran as fast as was possible on plush
carpeting while wearing five-inch heels and stood before her desk.
“I left the car with the garage attendant and Madelaine with your
doorman, Miranda,” I said, proud to have completed both tasks
without killing the car, the dog, or myself.
“And why would you do something like that?” she snarled, looking up
from her copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily for the first time since I’d
walked in. “I specifically requested that you bring both of them to
the office, since the girls will be here momentarily and we need to
leave.”
“Oh, well, actually, I thought you said that you wanted them to—”
“Enough. The details of your incompetence interest me very little.
Go get the car and the puppy and bring them here. I’m expecting
we’ll be all ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Understood?”
Fifteen minutes? Was this woman hallucinating? It would take a
minute or two to get downstairs and into a Town Car, another six or
eight to get to her apartment, and then somewhere in the vicinity of
three hours for me to find the puppy in her eighteen-room apartment,
extract the bucking stick shift from its parking spot, and make my
way the twenty blocks to the office.
“Of course, Miranda. Fifteen minutes.”
I started shaking again the moment I ran out of her office,
wondering if my heart could just up and give out at the ripe old age
of twenty-three. The first cigarette I lit landed directly on the
top of my new Jimmys, where instead of falling to the cement it
smoldered for just long enough to burn a small, neat hole.Great, I
muttered.That’s just fucking great. Chalk up my total as an even
four grand for today’s ruined merchandise—a new personal best. Maybe
she’d die before I got back, I thought, deciding that now was the
time to look on the bright side. Maybe, just maybe, she’d keel over
from something rare and exotic and we’d all be released from her
wellspring of misery. I relished a last drag before stamping out the
cigarette and told myself to be rational.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 thatwould be a shame.
2
I knew nothing when I went for my first interview and stepped onto
the infamous Elias-Clark elevators, those transporters of all
thingsen vogue . I had no idea that the city’s most well-connected
gossip columnists and socialites and media executives obsessed over
the flawlessly made-up, turned-out, turned-in riders of those sleek
and quiet lifts. I had never seen women with such radiant blond
hair, didn’t know that those brand-name highlights cost six grand a
year to maintain or that others in the know could identify the
colorists after a quick glance at the finished product. I had never
laid eyes on such beautiful men. They were perfectly toned—not too
muscular because “that’snot sexy”—and they showed off their lifelong
dedication to gymwork in finely ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather
pants. Bags and shoes I’d never seen on real people shoutedPrada!
Armani! Versace! from every surface. I had heard from a friend of a
friend—an editorial assistant atChic magazine—that every now and
then the accessories get to meet their makers in those very
elevators, a touching reunion where Miuccia, Giorgio, or Donatella
can once again admire their summer ’02 stilettos or their spring
couture teardrop bag in person. I knew things were changing for me—I
just wasn’t sure it was for the better.
I had, until this point, spent the past twenty-three years embodying
small-town America. My entire existence was a perfect cliché.
Growing up in Avon, Connecticut, had meant high school sports, youth
group meetings, “drinking parties” at nice suburban ranch Homes when
the parents were away. We wore sweatpants to school, jeans for
Saturday night, ruffled puffiness for semiformal dances. And
college! Well, that was a world of sophistication after high school.
Brown had provided endless activities and classes and groups for
every imaginable type of artist, misfit, and computer geek. Whatever
intellectual or creative interest I wanted to pursue, regardless of
how esoteric or unpopular it may have been, had some sort of outlet
at Brown. High fashion was perhaps the single exception to this
widely bragged-about fact. Four years spent muddling around
Providence in fleeces and hiking boots, learning about the French
impressionists, and writing obnoxiously long-winded English papers
did not—in any conceivable way—prepare me for my very first
postcollege job.
I managed to put it off as long as possible. For the three months
following graduation, I’d scrounged together what little cash I
could find and took off on a solo trip. I did Europe by train for a
month, spending much more time on beaches than in museums, and
didn’t do a very good job of keeping in touch with anyone back Home
except Alex, my boyfriend of three years. He knew that after the
five weeks or so I was starting to get lonely, and since his Teach
for America training had just ended and he had the rest of the
summer to kill before starting in September, he surprised me in
Amsterdam. I’d covered most of Europe by then and he’d traveled the
summer before, so after a not-so-sober afternoon at one of the
Coffee shops, we pooled our traveler’s checks and bought two one-way
tickets to Bangkok.
Together we worked our way through much of Southeast Asia, rarely
spending more than $10 a day, and talked obsessively about our
futures. He was so excited to start teaching English at one of the
city’s underprivileged schools, totally taken with the idea of
shaping young minds and mentoring the poorest and the most
neglected, in the way that only Alex could be. My goals were not so
lofty: I was intent on finding a job in magazine publishing.
Although I knew it was highly unlikely I’d get hired atThe New
Yorker directly out of school, I was determined to be writing for
them before my fifth reunion. It was all I’d ever wanted to do, the
only place I’d ever really wanted to work. I’d picked up a copy for
the first time after I’d heard my parents discussing an article
they’d just read and my mom had said, “It was so well written—you
just don’t read things like that anymore,” and my father had agreed,
“No doubt, it’s the only smart thing being written today.” I’d loved
it. Loved the snappy reviews and the witty cartoons and the feeling
of being admitted to a special, members-only club for readers. I’d
read every issue for the past seven years and knew every section,
every editor, and every writer by heart.
Alex and I talked about how we were both embarking on a new stage in
our lives, how we were lucky to be doing it together. We weren’t in
any rush to get back, though, somehow sensing that this would be the
last period of calm before the craziness, and we stupidly extended
our visas in Delhi so we could have a few extra weeks touring in the
exotic countryside of India.
Well, nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentery.
I lasted a week in a filthy Indian hostel, begging Alex not to leave
me for dead in that hellish place. Four days later we landed in
Newark and my worried mother tucked me into the backseat of her car
and clucked the entire way home. In a way it was a Jewish mother’s
dream, a real reason to visit doctor after doctor after doctor,
making absolutely sure that every miserable parasite had abandoned
her little girl. It took four weeks for me to feel human again and
another two until I began to feel that living at Home was
unbearable. Mom and Dad were great, but being asked where I was
going every time I left the house—or where I’d been every time I
returned—got old quickly. I called Lily and asked if I could crash
on the couch of her tiny Harlem studio. Out of the kindness of her
heart, she agreed.
I woke up in that tiny Harlem studio, sweat-soaked. My forehead
pounded, my stomach churned, every nerve shimmied —shimmied in a
very unsexy way. Ah! It’s back, I thought, horrified. The parasites
had found their way back into my body and I was bound to suffer
eternally! Or what if it was worse? Perhaps I’d contracted a rare
form of late-developing dengue fever? Malaria? Possibly even Ebola?
I lay in silence, trying to come to grips with my imminent death,
when snippets from the night before came back to me. A smoky bar
somewhere in the East Village. Something called jazz fusion music. A
hot-pink drink in a martini glassoh, nausea, oh, make it stop.
Friends stopping by to welcome me Home. A toast, a gulp, another
toast. Oh, thank god—it wasn't a rare strain of hemorrhagic fever,
it was just a hangover. It never occurred to me that I couldn’t
exactly hold my liquor anymore after losing twenty pounds to
dysentery. Five feet ten inches and 115 pounds did not bode well for
a hard night out (although, in retrospect, it boded very well for
employment at a fashion magazine).
I bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I’d been
crashing on for the past week and concentrated all my energy on not
getting sick. Adjustment to America—the food, the manners, the
glorious showers—hadn’t been too grueling, but the houseguest thing
was quickly becoming stale. I figured I had about a week and a half
left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely ran
out of cash, and the only way to get money from my parents was to
return to the never-ending circuit of second opinions. That sobering
thought was the single thing propelling me from bed, on what would
be a fateful November day, to where I was expected in one hour for
my very first job interview. I’d spent the last week parked on
Lily’s couch, still weak and exhausted, until she finally yelled at
me to leave—if only for a few hours each day. Not sure what else to
do with myself, I bought a MetroCard and rode the subways,
listlessly dropping off résumés as I went. I left them with security
guards at all the big magazine publishers, with a halfhearted cover
letter explaining that I wanted to be an editorial assistant and
gain some magazine writing experience. I was too weak and tired to
care if anyone actually read them, and the last thing I was
expecting was an interview. But Lily’s phone had rung just the day
before and, amazingly, someone from human resources at Elias-Clark
wanted me to come in for a “chat.” I wasn’t sure if it would be
considered an official interview or not, but a “chat” sounded more
palatable either way.
I washed down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and
pants that did not match and in no way created a suit, but at least
they stayed put on my emaciated frame. A blue button-down, a
not-too-perky ponytail, and a pair of slightly scuffed flats
completed my look. It wasn’t great—in fact, it bordered on supremely
ugly—but it would have to suffice.They’re not going to hire me or
reject me on the outfit alone, I remember thinking. Clearly, I was
barely lucid.
I showed up on time for my elevenA .M. interview and didn’t panic
until I encountered the line of leggy, Twiggy types waiting to be
permitted to board the elevators. Their lips never stopped moving,
and their gossip was punctuated only by the sound of their stilettos
clacking on the floor.Clackers, I thought.That’s perfect. (The
elevators!)Breathe in, breathe out, I reminded myself.You will not
throw up. You will not throw up. You’re just here to talk about
being an editorial assistant, and then it’s straight back to the
couch. You will not throw up. “Why yes, I’d love to work at
Reaction!Well, sure, I supposeThe Buzzwould be suitable. Oh, what? I
may have my pick? Well, I’ll need the night to decide between there
and Maison Vous.Delightful!”
Moments later I was sporting a rather unflattering “guest” sticker
on my rather unflattering pseudosuit (not soon enough, I discovered
that guests in the know simply stuck these passes on their bags, or,
even better, discarded them immediately—only the most uncouth losers
actuallywore them) and heading toward the elevators. And then . . .
I boarded. Up, up, up and away, hurtling through space and time and
infinite sexiness en route to . . . human resources.
I allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift,
quiet ride. Deep, pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh
leather to turn those elevators from the merely functional to the
almost erotic. We whisked between floors, stopping to let out the
beauties atChic, Mantra, The Buzz, andCoquette . The doors opened
silently, reverently, to stark white reception areas. Chic furniture
with clean, simple lines dared people to sit, ready to scream out in
agony if anyone—horror!—spilled. The magazines’ names rested in bold
black and identifiable, individual typeface along the walls that
flanked the lobby. Thick, opaque glass doors protected the titles.
They’re names the average American recognizes but never imagines to
be turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof.
While I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen
yogurt scooper, I’d heard enough stories from my newly minted
professional friends to know that corporate life just didn’t look
like this. Not even close. Absent were the nauseating fluorescent
lights, the never-shows-dirt carpeting. Where dowdy secretaries
should have been ensconced, polished young girls with prominent
cheekbones and power suits presided. Office supplies didn’t exist!
Those basic necessities like organizers, garbage cans, and books
were simply not present. I watched as six floors disappeared in
swirls of white perfection before I felt the venom and heard the
voice.
“She. Is. Such. A. Bitch! Icannot deal with her anymore. Who does
that? I mean, really—WHO DOES THAT?” hissed a twenty-something girl
in a snakeskin skirt and a very mini tank top, looking more suited
for a late night at Bungalow 8 than a day at the office.
“I know. Iknooooooow. Like, what do you think I’ve had to put up
with for the past six months? Total bitch. And terrible taste, too,”
agreed her friend, with an emphatic shake of her adorable bob.
Mercifully, I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid
open.Interesting, I thought. If you’re comparing this potential work
environment to an average day in the life of a cliquey junior high
girl, it might even be better. Stimulating? Well, maybe not. Kind,
sweet, nurturing? No, not exactly. The kind of place that just makes
you want to smile and do a great job? No, OK? No! But if you’re
looking for fast, thin, sophisticated, impossibly hip, and
heart-wrenchingly stylish, Elias-Clark is mecca.
The gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources
receptionist did nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of
inadequacy. She told me to sit and “feel free to look over some of
our titles.” Instead, I tried frantically to memorize the names of
all the editors in chief of the company’s titles—as if they were
going to actually quiz me on them. Ha! I already knew Stephen
Alexander, of course, forReaction magazine, and it wasn’t too hard
to rememberThe Buzz ’s Tanner Michel. Those were really the only
interesting things they published anyway, I figured. I’d do fine.
A short, svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon. “So, dear,
you’re looking to break into magazines, are you?” she asked as she
led me past a string of long-legged model look-alikes to her stark,
cold office. “It’s a tough thing to do right out of college, you
know. Lots and lots of competition out there for very few jobs. And
the few jobs that are available, well! They’re not exactly
high-paying, if you know what I mean.”
I looked down at my cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and
wondered why I’d even bothered. Already deep in thought over how I
was going to crawl back to that sofa bed with enough Cheez-Its and
cigarettes to last a fortnight, I barely noticed when she almost
whispered, “But I have to say, there’s an amazing opportunity open
right now, and it’s going to go fast!”
Hmm. My antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye
contact with me. Opportunity? Go fast? My mind was racing. She
wanted to help me? She liked me? Why, I hadn’t even opened my mouth
yet—how could shelike me? And why exactly was she starting to sound
like a car salesman?
“Dear, can you tell me the name of the editor in chief ofRunway ?”
she asked, looking pointedly at me for the first time since I’d sat
down.
Blank. Completely and totally blank, I couldn’t remember a thing. I
couldn’t believe she wasquizzing me! I’d never read an issue
ofRunway in my life—she wasn’t allowed to ask me aboutthat one. No
one cared aboutRunway . It was afashion magazine, for chrissake, one
I wasn’t even sure contained any writing, just lots of
hungry-looking models and glossy ads. I stammered for a moment or
two, while the different names of editors I’d just before forced my
brain to remember all swirled inside my head, dancing together in
mismatched pairs. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I was
sure I knew her name—after all, who didn’t? But it wouldn’t gel in
my addled brain.
“Uh, well, it seems I can’t recall her name right now. But I know I
know it, of course I know it. Everyone knows who she is! I just,
well, don’t, uh, seem to know it right now.”
She peered at me for a moment, her large brown eyes finally fixated
on my now perspiring face. “Miranda Priestly,” she near-whispered,
with a mixture of reverence and fear. “Her name is Miranda
Priestly.”
Silence ensued. For what felt like a full minute, neither of us said
a word, but then Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my
crucial misstep. I didn’t know then that she was desperate to hire
another assistant for Miranda, couldn’t know that she was desperate
to stop this woman from calling her day and night, grilling her
about potential candidates. Desperate to find someone, anyone, whom
Miranda wouldn’t reject. And if I might—however unlikely—stand even
the smallest chance of getting hired and thereby relieve her, well,
then attention must be paid.
Sharon smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda’s
two assistants.Two assistants?
“Why yes,” she confirmed with an exasperated look. “Of course
Miranda needs two assistants. Her current senior assistant, Allison,
has been promoted to beRunway ’s beauty editor, and Emily, the
junior assistant, will be taking Allison’s place. That leaves the
junior position open for someone!
“Andrea, I know you’ve just graduated from college and probably
aren’t entirely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine
world . . .” She paused dramatically, searching for the right words.
“But I feel it’s my duty, myobligation, to tell you what a truly
incredible opportunity this is. Miranda Priestly . . .” She paused
again just as dramatically, as though she were mentally bowing.
“Miranda Priestly is the single most influential woman in the
fashion industry, and clearly one of the most prominent magazine
editors in the world. The world! The chance to work for her, to
watch her edit and meet with famous writers and models, to help her
achieve all she doeseach and every day, well, I shouldn’t need to
tell you that it’s a job a million girls would die for.”
“Um, yeah, I mean yes, that does sound wonderful,” I said, briefly
wondering why Sharon was trying to talk me into something that a
million other people would die for. But there wasn’t time to think
about it. She picked up the phone and sang a few words, and within
minutes she’d escorted me to the elevators to begin my interviews
with Miranda’s two assistants.
I thought Sharon was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then
came my meeting with Emily. I found my way down to the seventeenth
floor and waited inRunway ’s unnervingly white reception area. It
took just over a half hour before a tall, thin girl emerged from
behind the glass doors. A calf-length leather skirt hung from her
hips, and her unruly red hair was piled in one of those messy but
still glamorous buns on top of her head. Her skin was flawless and
pale, not so much as a single freckle or blemish, and it stretched
perfectly over the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen. She didn’t
smile. She sat next to me and looked me over, earnestly but with
little apparent interest. Perfunctory. And then, unprompted and
still having not introduced herself, the girl I presumed to be Emily
launched into a description of the job. The monotone of her
statements told me more than all of her words: she’d obviously gone
through this dozens of times already, had little faith that I was
any different from the rest, and as a result wouldn’t be wasting
much time with me.
“It’s hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you
know—not often, but often enough,” she rattled on, still not looking
at me. “And it’s important to understand that there will be no
editorial work. As Miranda’s junior assistant, you’d be solely
responsible for anticipating her needs and accommodating them. Now,
that could be anything from ordering her favorite stationery to
accompanying her on a shopping trip. Either way, it’s always fun. I
mean, you get to spend day after day, week after week, with this
absolutely amazing woman. And amazing she is,” she breathed, looking
slightly animated for the first time since we started speaking.
“Sounds great,” I said and meant it. My friends who’d begun working
immediately after graduation had already clocked in six full months
in their entry-level jobs, and they all sounded wretched. Banks,
advertising firms, book publishing houses—it didn’t matter—they were
all utterly miserable. They whined about the long days, the
coworkers, and the office politics, but more than anything else,
they complained bitterly about the boredom. Compared with school,
the tasks required of them were mindless, unnecessary, fit for a
chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging numbers in
databases and cold-calling people who didn’t want to be called. Of
listlessly cataloging years’ worth of information on a computer
screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months on
end so their supervisors thought they were productive. Each swore
she’d actually gotten dumber in the short amount of time since
graduation, and there was no escape in sight. I might not
particularly love fashion, but I’d sure rather do something “fun”
all day long than get sucked into a more boring job.
“Yes. It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway,
nice to meet you. I’m going to go get Allison for you to meet. She’s
great, too.” Almost as quickly as she finished and departed behind
the glass in a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure
appeared.
This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda’s
senior assistant who’d just been promoted, and I knew immediately
that she was simplytoo thin. But I couldn’t even focus on the way
her stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I
was captivated by the fact she exposed her stomach at work at all.
She wore black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a
fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank top strained across her breasts
and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair was as
dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket.
Her fingers and toes were polished with a luminescent white color,
appearing to glow from within, and her open-toe sandals gave her
already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She managed to
look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at the same time,
but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all,
November.
“Hi, I’m Allison, as you probably know,” she started, picking some
of the tank top fur from her barely there leather-clad thigh. “I was
just promoted to an editor position, and that’s the really great
thing about working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the
work is tough, but it’s incredibly glamorous and a million girls
would die to do it. And Miranda is such a wonderful woman,
editor,person, that she really takes care of her own girls. You’ll
skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working
just one year for her; if you’re talented, she’ll send you straight
to the top, and . . .” She rambled on, not bothering to look up or
feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I
didn’t get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were
glazed over in the way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed.
I had the distinct impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or
simply leave and she wouldn’t necessarily notice.
When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another
interviewer, I nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area
sofas. It was all happening so fast, spiraling out of control, and
yet I was excited. So what if I didn’t know who Miranda Priestly
was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. Yeah, so it’s
a fashion magazine and not something a little more interesting, but
it’s a hell of a lot better to work atRunway than some horrible
trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of havingRunway on
my résumé was sure to give me even more credibility when I
eventually applied to work atThe New Yorker than, say, havingPopular
Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girlswould die for this
job.
After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly
thin girl came to the reception area. She told me her name but I
couldn’t focus on anything except her body. She wore a tight,
shredded denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy
silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and manicured and
exposed in such a way that normal people are not when there’s snow
on the ground. It wasn’t until she actually motioned for me to
follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I
became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp
hair, and utter lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this
day, the thought of what I wore—and that I carried something
resembling abriefcase —continues to haunt me. I can feel my face
flame red as I remember how very, very awkward I was among the most
toned and stylish women in New York City. I didn’t know until later,
until I hovered on the periphery of being one of them, just how much
they had laughed at me between the rounds of the interview.
After the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl
Kerston’s office,Runway ’s executive editor and all-around lovable
lunatic. She, too, talked at me for what seemed like hours, but this
time I actually listened. I listened because she seemed to love her
job, speaking excitedly about the “words” aspect of the magazine,
the wonderful copy she reads and writers she manages and editors she
oversees.
“I have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this
place,” she declared proudly, “so it’s best to save those questions
for someone else.”
When I told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing,
that I had no particular interest or background in fashion, her
smile broadened to a genuine grin. “Well, in that case, Andrea, you
might be just what we need around here. I think it’s time for you to
meet Miranda. And if I may offer a piece of advice? Look her
straight in the eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself hard and she’ll
respect it.”
As if on cue, Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda’s
office. It was only a thirty-second walk, but I could sense that all
eyes were on me. They peered at me from behind the frosted glass of
the editor’s office and from the open space of the assistants’
cubicles. A beauty at the copier turned to check me out, and so did
an absolutely magnificent man, although he was obviously gay and
intent on examining only my outfit. Just as I was about to walk
through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants’ suite
outside of Miranda’s office, Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed
it under her desk. It took only a moment for me to realize that the
message wasCarry that, lose all credibility. And then I was standing
in her office, a wide-open space of huge windows and streaming
bright light. No other details about the space made an impression
that day; I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
Since I’d never seen so much as a picture of Miranda Priestly, I was
shocked to see howskinny she was. The hand she held out was
small-boned, feminine, soft. She had to turn her head upward to look
me in the eye, although she did not stand to greet me. Her expertly
dyed blond hair was pulled back in a chic knot, deliberately loose
enough to look casual but still supremely neat, and while she did
not smile, she did not appear particularly intimidating. She seemed
rather gentle and somewhat shrunken behind her ominous black desk,
and although she did not invite me to sit, I felt comfortable enough
to claim one of the uncomfortable black chairs that faced her. And
it was then I noticed: she was watching me intently, mentally noting
my attempts at grace and propriety with what seemed like amusement.
Condescending and awkward, yes, but not, I decided, particularly
mean-spirited. She spoke first.
“What brings you toRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?” she asked in her upper-crust
British accent, never taking her eyes away from mine.
“Well, I interviewed with Sharon, and she told me that you’re
looking for an assistant,” I started, my voice a little shaky. When
she nodded, my confidence increased slightly. “And now, after
meeting with Emily, Allison, and Cheryl, I feel like I have a clear
understanding of the kind of person you’re looking for, and I’m
confident I’d be perfect for the job,” I said, remembering Cheryl’s
words. She looked amused for a moment but seemed unfazed.
It was at this point that I began to want the job most desperately,
in the way people yearn for things they consider unattainable. It
might not be akin to getting into law school or having an essay
published in a campus journal, but it was, in my starved-for-success
mind, a real challenge—a challenge because I was an imposter, and
not a very good one at that. I had known the minute I stepped on
theRunway floor that I didn’t belong. My clothes and hair were wrong
for sure, but more glaringly out of place was my attitude. I didn’t
know anything about fashion and I didn’tcare . At all. And
therefore, I had to have it. Besides, a million girls would die for
this job.
I continued to answer her questions about myself with a
forthrightness and confidence that surprised me. There wasn’t time
to be intimidated. After all, she seemed pleasant enough and I,
amazingly, knew nothing to the contrary. We stumbled a bit when she
inquired about any foreign languages I spoke. When I told her I knew
Hebrew, she paused, pushed her palms flat on her desk and said
icily, “Hebrew? I was hoping for French, or at least something
moreuseful .” I almost apologized, but stopped myself.
“Unfortunately, I don’t speak a word of French, but I’m confident it
won’t be a problem.” She clasped her hands back together.
“It says here that you studied at Brown?”
“Yes, I, uh, I was an English major, concentrating on creative
writing. writing has always been a passion.”So cheesy! I reprimanded
myself.Did I really have to use the word “passion”?
“So, does your affinity for writing mean that you’re not
particularly interested in fashion?” She took a sip of sparkling
liquid from a glass and set it down quietly. One quick glance at the
glass showed that she was the kind of woman who could drink without
leaving one of those disgusting lipstick marks. She would always
have perfectly lined and filled-in lips regardless of the hour.
“Oh no, of course not. I adore fashion,” I lied rather smoothly.
“I’m looking forward to learning even more about it, since I think
it would be wonderful to write about fashion one day.” Where the
hell had I come up with that one? This was becoming an out-of-body
experience.
Things progressed with the same relative ease until she asked her
final question: Which magazines did I read regularly? I leaned
forward eagerly and began to speak: “Well, I only subscribe toThe
New Yorker andNewsweek, but I regularly readThe Buzz .
SometimesTime, but it’s dry, andU.S. News is way too conservative.
Of course, as a guilty pleasure, I’ll skimChic, and since I just
returned from traveling, I read all of the travel magazines and . .
.”
“And do you readRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?” she interrupted, leaning over
the desk and peering at me even more intently than before.
It had come so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for the first time
that day I was caught off-guard. I didn’t lie, and I didn’t
elaborate or even attempt to explain.
“No.”
After perhaps ten seconds of stony silence, she beckoned for Emily
to escort me out. I knew I had the job.
3
“It sure doesn’t sound like you have the job,” Alex, my boyfriend,
said softly, playing with my hair as I rested my throbbing head in
his lap after the grueling day. I’d gone straight from the interview
to his apartment in Brooklyn, not wanting to sleep on Lily’s couch
for another night and needing to tell him about everything that had
just happened. I’d thought about staying there all the time, but I
didn’t want Alex to feel suffocated. “I don’t even know why you’d
want it.” After a moment or two, he reconsidered. “Actually, it does
sound like a pretty phenomenal opportunity. I mean, if this girl
Allison started out as Miranda’s assistant and is now an editor at
the magazine, well, that’d be good enough for me. Just go for it.”
He was trying so hard to sound really excited for me. We’d been
dating since our junior year at Brown, and I knew every inflection
of his voice, every look, every signal. He’d just started a few
weeks earlier at PS 277 in the Bronx and was so worn down he could
barely speak. Even though his kids were only nine years old, he’d
been disappointed to see how jaded and cynical they already were. He
was disgusted that they all spoke freely about blow jobs, knew ten
different slang words for pot, and loved to brag about the stuff
they stole or whose cousin was currently residing in a tougher jail.
“Prison connoisseurs,” Alex had taken to calling them. “They could
write a book on the subtle advantages of Sing Sing over Rikers, but
they can’t read a word of the English language.” He was trying to
figure out how he could make a difference.
I slid my hand under his T-shirt and started to scratch his back.
Poor thing looked so miserable that I felt guilty bothering him with
the details of the interview, but I just had to talk about it with
someone. “I know. I understand that there wouldn’t be anything
editorial about the job whatsoever, but I’m sure I’ll be able to do
some writing after a few months,” I said. “You don’t think it’s
completely selling out to work at afashion magazine, do you?”
He squeezed my arm and lay down next to me. “Baby, you’re a
brilliant, wonderful writer, and I know you’ll be fantastic
anywhere. And of course it’s not selling out. It’s paying your dues.
You’re saying that if you put in a year atRunway you’ll save
yourself three more years of bullshit assistant work somewhere
else?”
I nodded. “That’s what Emily and Allison said, that it was an
automatic quid pro quo. Work a year for Miranda and don’t get fired,
and she’ll make a call and get you a job anywhere you want.”
“Then how could you not? Seriously, Andy, you’ll work your year and
you’ll get a job atThe New Yorker . It’s what you’ve always wanted!
And it sure sounds like you’ll get there a whole lot faster doing
this than anything else.”
“You’re right, you’re totally right.”
“And besides, it would guarantee that you’re moving to New York,
which, I have to say, is very appealing to me right now.” He kissed
me, one of those long, lazy kisses it seemed we had personally
invented. “But stop worrying so much. Like you said yourself, you’re
still not sure you have the job. Let’s wait and see.”
We cooked a simple dinner and fell asleep watching Letterman. I was
dreaming about obnoxious little nine-year-olds having sex on the
playground while they swigged forties of Olde English and screamed
at my sweet, loving boyfriend when the phone rang.
Alex picked it up and pressed it to his ear but didn’t bother to
open his eyes or say hello. He quickly dropped it next to me. I
wasn’t sure I could muster the energy to pick it up.
“Hello?” I mumbled, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was
7:15A .M. Who the hell would call at such an hour?
“It’s me,” barked a very angry-sounding Lily.
“Hi, is everything OK?”
“Do you think I’d be calling you if everything was OK? I’m so
hungover I could die, and I finally stop puking long enough to fall
asleep, and I’m awakened by a scarily perky woman who says she works
in HR at Elias-Clark. And she’s looking for you. Atseven-fifteen in
the freakin’ morning. So call her back. And tell her to lose my
number.”
“Sorry, Lil. I gave them your number because I don’t have a cell
yet. I can’t believe she called so early! I wonder if that’s good or
bad?” I took the portable and crept out of the bedroom, quietly
closing the door as I went.
“Whatev. Good luck. Let me know how it goes. Just not in the next
couple hours, OK?”
“Will do. Thanks. And sorry.”
I looked at my watch again and couldn’t believe I was about to have
a Business conversation. I put on a pot of Coffee and waited until
it had finished brewing and brought a cup to the couch. It was time
to call. I had no choice.
“Hello, this is Andrea Sachs,” I said firmly, although my voice
betrayed me with its deep, raspy, just-woke-up-ness.
“Andrea, good morning! Hope I didn’t call too early,” Sharon sang,
her own voice full of sunshine. “I’m sure I didn’t, my dear,
especially since you’ll have to be an early bird soon enough! I have
some very good news. Miranda was very impressed with you and said
she’s very much looking forward to working with you. Isn’t that
wonderful? Congratulations, dear. How does it feel to be Miranda
Priestly’s new assistant? I imagine that you’re just—”
My head was spinning. I tried to pull myself off the couch to get
some more Coffee, water, anything that might clear my head and turn
her words back into English, but I only sank further into the
cushions. Was she asking me if I would like the job? Or was she
making an official offer? I couldn’t make sense of anything she’d
just said, anything other than the fact that Miranda Priestly had
liked me.
“—delighted with this news. Who wouldn’t be, right? So let’s see,
you can start on Monday, right? She’ll actually be on vacation then,
but that’s a great time to start. Give you a little time to get
acquainted with the other girls—oh, they’re all such sweeties!”
Acquainted? What? Starting Monday? Sweetie girls? It was refusing to
make sense in my addled brain. I picked a single phrase that I’d
understood and responded to it.
“Um, well, I don’t think I can start Monday,” I said quietly, hoping
I’d indeed said something coherent. Saying those words had shocked
me into semiwakefulness. I’d walked through the Elias-Clark doors
for the very first time the day before, and was being awakened from
a deep sleep to listen to someone tell me that I was to begin work
in three days. It was Friday—at seven o’clock in the goddamn
morning—and they wanted me to start on Monday? It began to feel like
everything was spiraling out of control. Why the ridiculous rush?
Was this woman so important that she needed me so badly? And why
exactly did Sharon herself sound so scared of Miranda?
Starting Monday would be impossible. I had nowhere to live. Home
base was my parents’ house in Avon, the place I’d grudgingly moved
back to after graduation, and where most of my things remained while
I’d traveled during the summer. All of my interview-related clothes
were piled on Lily’s couch. I’d been trying to do the dishes and
empty her ashtrays and buy pints of Häagen-Dazs so she wouldn’t hate
me, but I thought it only fair to give her a much-needed break from
my unending presence, so I camped out on weekends at Alex’s. That
put all of my weekend going-out clothes and fun makeup at Alex’s in
Brooklyn, my laptop and mismatched suits at Lily’s Harlem studio,
and the rest of my life at my parents’ house in Avon. I had no
apartment in New York and didn’t particularly understand how
everyone knew that Madison Avenue ran uptown but Broadway ran down.
I didn’t actually know what uptown was. And she wanted me to start
Monday?
“Um, well, I don’t think I can do this Monday because I don’t
currently live in New York,” I quickly explained, clutching the
phone, “and I’ll need a couple days to find an apartment and buy
some furniture and move.”
“Oh, well, then. I suppose Wednesday would be OK,” she sniffed.
After a few more minutes of haggling, we finally settled on November
17, a week from Monday. That left me a little more than eight days
to find and furnish a Home in one of the craziest real estate
markets in the world.
I hung up and flopped back down on the couch. My hands were
trembling, and I let the phone drop to the floor. A week. I had a
week to start working at the job I’d just accepted as Miranda
Priestly’s assistant. But, wait! That’s what was bothering me . . .
I hadn’t actually accepted the job because it hadn’t even been
officially offered. Sharon hadn’t even had to utter the words “We’d
like to make you an offer,” since she took it for granted that
anyone with some semblance of intelligence would obviously just
accept. No one had so much as mentioned the word “salary.” I almost
laughed out loud. Was this some sort of war tactic they’d perfected?
Wait until the victim was finally deep into REM sleep after an
extremely stressful day and then throw some life-altering news at
her? Or had she just assumed that it would be wasted time and breath
to do something as mundane as make a job offer and wait for
acceptance, considering that this wasRunway magazine? Sharon had
just assumed that of course I’d jump all over the chance, that I’d
be thrilled with the opportunity. And, as they always were at
Elias-Clark, she was right. It had all happened so fast, so
frenetically, that I hadn’t had time to debate and deliberate as
usual. But I had a good feeling that thiswas an opportunity I’d be
crazy to turn down, that this could actually be a great first step
to getting toThe New Yorker . I had to try it. I was lucky to have
it.
Newly energized, I gulped the rest of my Coffee, brewed another cup
for Alex, and took a quick, hot shower. When I went back into his
room, he was just sitting up.
“You’re dressed already?” he asked, fumbling for the tiny
wire-rimmed glasses he was blind without. “Did someone call this
morning, or did I dream that?”
“Not a dream,” I said, crawling back under the covers even though I
was wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. I was careful not to let
my wet hair soak his pillows. “That was Lily. The HR woman from
Elias-Clark called her place because that’s the number I gave them.
And guess what?”
“You got the job?”
“I got the job!”
“Oh, come here!” he said, sitting up and hugging me. “I’m so proud
of you! That’s great news, it really is.”
“So you really think it’s a good opportunity? I know we talked about
it, but they didn’t even give me a chance to decide. She just
assumed that I’d want the job.”
“It’s an amazing opportunity. fashion isn’t the worst thing on
earth—maybe it’ll even be interesting.”
I rolled my eyes.
“OK, so maybe that’s going a little far. But withRunway on your
résumé and a letter from this Miranda woman, and maybe even a few
clips by the time you’re done, hell, you can do anything.The New
Yorker will be beating down your door.”
“I hope you’re right, I really do.” I jumped up and starting
throwing my things in my backpack. “Is it still OK if I borrow your
car? The sooner I get Home, the sooner I can get back. Not that it
really matters, because I’mmoving to New York . It’s official!”
Since Alex went home to Westchester twice a week to babysit his
little brother when his mom had to work late, his mom had given him
her old car to keep in the city. But he wouldn’t be needing it until
Tuesday, and I’d be back before then. I had been planning to go Home
that weekend anyway, and now I’d have some good news to bring with
me.
“Sure. No problem. It’s in a spot about a half-block down on Grand
Street. The keys are on the kitchen table. Call me when you get
there, OK?”
“Will do. Sure you don’t want to come? There’ll be great food—you
know my mom orders in only the best.”
“Sounds tempting. You know I would, but I organized some of the
younger teachers to get together tomorrow night for happy hour.
Thought it might help us all work as a team. I really can’t miss
it.”
“Goddamn do-gooder. Always doing good, spreading good cheer wherever
you go. I’d hate you if I didn’t love you so much.” I leaned over
and kissed him good-bye.
I found his little green Jetta on the first try and only spent
twenty minutes trying to find the parkway that would take me to 95
North, which was wide open. It was a freezing day for November; the
temperature was in the midthirties, and there were slick frozen
patches on the back roads. But the sun was out, the kind of winter
glare that causes unaccustomed eyes to tear and squint, and the air
felt clean and cold in my lungs. I rode the entire way with the
window rolled down, listening to the “Almost Famous” soundtrack on
repeat. I worked my damp hair into a ponytail with one hand to keep
it from flying in my eyes, and blew on my hands to keep them warm,
or at least warm enough to grip the steering wheel. Only six months
out of college, and my life was on the verge of bursting forward.
Miranda Priestly, a stranger until yesterday but a powerful woman
indeed, had handpicked me to join her magazine. Now I had a concrete
reason to leave Connecticut and move—all on my own, as a real adult
would—to Manhattan and make it my Home. As I pulled into the
driveway of my childhood house, sheer exhilaration took over. My
cheeks looked red and windburned in the rearview mirror, and my hair
was flying wildly about. There was no makeup on my face, and my
jeans were dirty around the bottom from trudging through the city
slush. But at that moment, I felt beautiful. Natural and cold and
clean and crisp, I threw open the front door and called out for my
mother. It was the last time in my life I remember feeling so light.
“A week? Honey, I just don’t see how you’re going to start work in a
week,” my mother said, stirring her tea with a spoon. We were
sitting at the kitchen table in our usual spots, my mother drinking
her usual decaf tea with Sweet’N Low, me with my usual mug of
English Breakfast and sugar. Even though I hadn’t lived at Home in
four years, all it took was an oversize mug of microwaved tea and a
couple Reese’s peanut butter cups to make me feel like I’d never
left.
“Well, I don’t have a choice, and, honestly, I’m lucky to have that.
You should’ve heard how hard-core this woman was on the phone,” I
said. She looked at me, expressionless. “But, whatever, I can’t
worry about it. I did just get a job at a really famous magazine
with one of the most powerful women in the industry. A job a million
girls would die for.”
We smiled at each other, but her smile was tinged with sadness. “I’m
so happy for you,” she said. “Such a beautiful, grown-up daughter I
have. Honey, I just know this is going to be the start of a
wonderful, wonderful time in your life. Ah, I remember graduating
from college and moving to New York. All alone in that big, crazy
city. Scary but so, so exciting. I want you to love every minute of
it, all the plays and films and people and shopping and books. It’s
going to be the best time of your life—I just know it.” She rested
her hand on mine, something she didn’t usually do. “I’m so proud of
you.”
“Thanks, Mom. Does that mean you’re proud enough of me to buy me an
apartment, furniture, and a whole new wardrobe?”
“Yeah, right,” she said and smacked the top of my head with a
magazine on her way to the microwave to heat two more cups. She
hadn’t said no, but she wasn’t exactly grabbing her checkbook,
either.
I spent the rest of the evening e-mailing everyone I knew, asking if
anyone needed a roommate or knew of someone who did. I posted some
messages online and called people I hadn’t spoken to in months. No
luck. I decided my only choice—without permanently moving onto
Lily’s couch and inevitably wrecking our friendship, or crashing at
Alex’s, which neither of us was ready for—was to sublet a room
short-term, until I could get my bearings in the city. It would be
best to find my own room somewhere, and preferably one that was
already furnished so I wouldn’t have to deal with that, too.
The phone rang at a little after midnight, and I lunged for it,
nearly falling off my twin-size childhood bed in the process. A
framed, signed picture of Chris Evert, my childhood hero, smiled
down from my wall, just below a bulletin board that still had
magazine cutouts of Kirk Cameron plastered across it. I smiled into
the phone.
“Hey, champ, it’s Alex,” he said with that tone of voice that meant
something had happened. It was impossible to tell if it was
something good or bad. “I just got an e-mail that a girl, Claire
McMillan, is looking for a roommate. Princeton girl. I’ve met her
before, I think. dating Andrew, totally normal. You interested?”
“Sure, why not? Do you have her number?”
“No, I only have her e-mail, but I’ll forward you her message and
you can get in touch with her. I think she’ll be good.”
I e-mailed Claire while I finished talking to Alex and then finally
got some sleep in my own bed. Maybe, just maybe, this would work
out.
Claire McMillan: not so much. Her apartment was dark and depressing
and in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and there was a junkie propped
up on the doorstep when I arrived. The others weren’t much better.
There was a couple looking to rent out an extra room in their
apartment who made indirect references to putting up with their
constant and loud lovemaking; an artist in her early thirties with
four cats and a fervent desire for more; a bedroom at the end of a
long, dark hallway, with no windows or closets; a twenty-year-old
gay guy in his self-proclaimed “slutty stage.” Each and every
miserable room I’d visited was going for well over $1,000 and my
salary was cashing in at a whopping $32,500. And although math had
never been my strong suit, it didn’t take a genius to figure out
that rent would eat up more than $12,000 of it and taxes would take
the rest. Oh, and my parents were confiscating the emergencies-only
credit card, now that I was an “adult.” Sweet.
Lily pulled through after three straight days of letdowns. Since she
had a vested interest in getting me off her couch for good, she
e-mailed everyone she knew. A classmate from her Ph.D. program at
Columbia had a friend who had a boss who knew two girls who were
looking for a roommate. I called immediately and spoke to a very
nice girl named Shanti, who told me she and her friend Kendra were
looking for someone to move into their Upper East Side apartment, in
a room that was miniscule but had a window, a closet, and even an
exposed brick wall. For $800 a month. I asked if the apartment had a
bathroom and kitchen. It did (no dishwasher or bathtub or elevator,
of course, but one can hardly expect living in luxury their first
time out). Bingo. Shanti and Kendra ended up being two very sweet
and quiet Indian girls who’d just graduated from Duke, worked
hellishly long hours at investment banks, and seemed to me, that
first day and every day thereafter, utterly indistinguishable from
each other. I had found a Home.
4
I’d slept in my new room for three nights already and still felt
like a stranger living in a very strange place. The room was minute.
Perhaps slightly larger than the storage shed in the backyard of my
house in Avon, but not really. And unlike most empty spaces that
actually looked bigger with furniture, my room had shrunk to half
its size. I had naively eyed the tiny square and decided that it had
to be close to a normal-size room and that I’d just buy the usual
bedroom set: a queen-size bed, a dresser, maybe a nightstand or two.
Lily and I had taken Alex’s car to Ikea, the postcollege apartment
mecca, and picked out a beautiful light-colored wood set and a woven
rug with shades of light blue, dark blue, royal blue, and indigo.
Again, like fashion, Home decorating was not my strong suit: I
believe that Ikea was into its “Blue Period.” We bought a duvet
cover with a blue-flecked pattern and the fluffiest comforter they
sold. She persuaded me to get one of those Chinese rice-paper lamps
for the nightstand, and I chose some preframed black-and-white
pictures to complement the deep red roughness of my much-hyped
exposed brick wall. Elegant and casual, and not a little Zen.
Perfect for my first adult room in the big city.
Perfect, that is, until it all actually arrived. It seems simply
eyeing a room isn’t quite the same as measuring it. Nothing fit.
Alex put the bed together and by the time he’d pushed it against the
exposed-brick wall (Manhattan code for “unfinished wall”) it had
consumed the entire room. I had to send the delivery men back with
the six-drawer dresser, the two adorable nightstands, and even the
full-length mirror. The men and Alex did lift up the bed, however,
and I was able to slip the tri-blue rug under it, and a few blue
inches peeked out from underneath the wooden behemoth. The
rice-paper lamp had no nightstand or dresser on which to rest, so I
simply placed it on the floor, wedged in the six inches between the
bed frame and the sliding closet door. And even though I tried
special mounting tape, nails, duct tape, screws, wires, Krazy Glue,
double-sided tape, and much cursing, the framed photos refused to
adhere to the exposed brick wall. After nearly three hours of effort
and knuckles rubbed bleeding and raw from the brick, I finally
propped them up on the windowsill. It was for the best, I thought.
Blocked a bit of the direct view the woman living across the
airshaft had into my room. None of it mattered, though. Not the
airshaft instead of a majestic skyline or the lack of drawer space
or the closet that was too small to hold a winter coat. The room was
mine—the first I could decorate all on my own, with no input from
parents or roommates—and I loved it.
It was the Sunday night before my first day of work, and I could do
nothing but agonize over what to wear the next day. Kendra, the
nicer of my two apartmentmates, kept poking her head in and asking
quietly if she could help at all. Considering the two of them wore
ultraconservative suits to work each day, I declined any fashion
input. I paced the living room as much as I could manage when each
length only took four strides, and sat down on the futon in front of
the TV. Just what does one wear to the first day working for the
most fashionable fashion editor of the most fashionable fashion
magazine in existence? I’d heard of Prada (from the few Jappy girls
who carried the backpacks at Brown) and Louis Vuitton (because both
of my grandmothers sported the signature-print bags without
realizing how cool they were) and maybe even Gucci (because who
hasn’t heard of Gucci?). But I sure didn’t own a single stitch of
it, and I wouldn’t have known what to do with it if the entire
contents of all three stores resided in my miniature closet. I
walked back to my room—or, rather, the wall-to-wall mattress that I
called a room—and collapsed on that big, beautiful bed, banging my
ankle on the bulky frame. Shit. What now?
After much agonizing and clothes-flinging, I finally decided on a
light blue sweater and a knee-length black skirt, with my knee-high
black boots. I already knew that a briefcase wouldn’t fly there, so
I was left with no choice but to use my black canvas purse. The last
thing I remember about that night was trying to navigate around my
massive bed in high-heeled boots, a skirt, and no shirt, and sitting
down to rest from the exhaustion of the effort.
I must have passed out from sheer anxiety, because it was adrenaline
alone that awakened me at 5:30A .M. I bolted from the bed. My nerves
had been in perpetual overdrive all week, and my head felt like it
would explode. I had exactly an hour and a half to shower, dress,
and make my way from my fraternity-like building at 96th and Third
to midtown via public transportation, a still sinister and
intimidating concept. That meant I had to allot an hour for travel
time and a half hour to make myself beautiful.
The shower was horrific. It made a high-pitched squealing noise like
one of those dog-training whistles, remaining steadfastly lukewarm
until just before I stepped out into the freezing-cold bathroom, at
which point the water turned scalding. It took a mere three days
ofthat routine before I began sprinting from my bed, turning on the
shower fifteen minutes early, and heading back under the covers.
When I snoozed three more times with the alarm clock and went back
for round two in the bathroom, the mirrors would be all steamed up
from the gloriously hot—although trickling—water.
I got myself into my binding and uncomfortable outfit and out the
door in twenty-five minutes—a record. And it took only ten minutes
to find the nearest subway, something I should’ve done the night
before but was too busy scoffing at my mother’s suggestion to take a
“run-through” so I wouldn’t get lost. When I’d gone for the
interview the week before I’d taken a cab, and I was already
convinced that this subway experiment was going to be a nightmare.
But, remarkably, there was an English-speaking attendant in the
booth who instructed me to take the 6 train to 59th Street. She said
I’d exit right on 59th and would have to walk two blocks west to
Madison. Easy. I rode the cold train in silence, one of the only
people crazy enough to be awake and actually moving at such a
miserable hour in the middle of November. So far, so good—no
glitches until it was time to make my way up to street level.
I took the nearest stairs and stepped out into a frigid day where
the only light I saw was emanating from twenty-four-hour bodegas.
Behind me was Bloomingdale’s, but nothing else looked familiar.
Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark. Where was that building? I
turned in my place 180 degrees until I saw a street sign: 60th
Street and Lexington. Well, 59th can’t be that far away from 60th,
but which way should I walk to make the streets go west? And where
was Madison in comparison to Lexington? Nothing looked familiar from
my visit to the building the week before, since I’d been dropped off
right in front. I strolled for a bit, happy to have left enough time
to get as lost as I was, and finally ducked into a deli for a cup of
Coffee.
“Hello, sir. I can’t seem to find my way to the Elias-Clark
building. Could you please point me in the right direction?” I asked
the nervous-looking man behind the cash register. I tried not to
smile sweetly, remembering what everyone had told me about not being
in Avon anymore, and how people here don’t exactly respond well to
good manners. He scowled at me, and I got nervous it was because he
thought me rude. I smiled sweetly.
“One dollah,” he said, holding out his hand.
“You’re charging me for directions?”
“One dollah, skeem or bleck, you peek.”
I stared at him for a moment before I realized he knew only enough
English to converse about Coffee. “Oh, skim would be perfect. Thank
you so much.” I handed over a dollar and headed back outside, more
lost than ever. I asked people who worked at newsstands, as street
sweepers, even a man who was tucked inside one of those movable
breakfast carts. Not a single one understood me well enough to so
much as point in the direction of 59th and Madison, and I had brief
flashbacks to Delhi, Depression, dysentery.No! I will find it.
A few more minutes of wandering aimlessly around a waking midtown
actually landed me at the front door of the Elias-Clark building.
The lobby glowed behind the glass doors in the early-morning
darkness, and it looked, for those first few moments, like a warm,
welcoming place. But when I pushed the revolving door to enter, it
fought me. Harder and harder I pushed, until my body weight was
thrust forward and my face was nearly pressed against the glass, and
only then did it budge. When it did begin to move, it slid slowly at
first, prompting me to push ever harder. But as soon as it picked up
some momentum, the glass behemoth whipped around, hitting me from
behind and forcing me to trip over my feet and shuffle visibly to
remain standing. A man behind the security desk laughed.
“Tricky, eh? Not the first time I seen that happen, and won’t be the
last,” he chortled, fleshy cheeks jiggling. “They getcha good here.”
I looked him over quickly and decided to hate him and knew that he
would never like me, regardless of what I said or how I acted. I
smiled anyway.
“I’m Andrea,” I said, pulling a knit mitten from my hand and
reaching over the desk. “Today’s my first day of work atRunway . I’m
Miranda Priestly’s new assistant.”
“And I’m sorry!” he roared, throwing his round head back with glee.
“Just call me ‘Sorry for You’! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hey, Eduardo, check
this out. She’s one of Miranda’s newslaves ! Where you from, girl,
bein’ all friendly and shit? Topeka fuckin’ Kansas? She is gonna eat
you alive, hah, hah, hah!”
But before I could respond, a portly man wearing the same uniform
came over and with no subtlety whatsoever looked me up and down. I
braced for more mocking and guffaws, but it didn’t come. Instead, he
turned a kind face to mine and looked me in the eyes.
“I’m Eduardo, and this idiot here’s Mickey,” he said, motioning to
the first man, who looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and
ruined all the fun. “Don’t make no never mind of him, he’s just
kiddin’ with you.” He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New York
accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. “You just fill out this here
information, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell
’em you need a card wit your pitcher on it from HR.”
I must have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and
shoved the book across the counter. “Well, go on now, fill ’er out.
And good luck today, girl. You gonna need it.”
I was too nervous and exhausted at this point to ask him to explain,
and besides, I didn’t really have to. About the only thing I’d had
time to do in the week between accepting the job and starting work
was to learn a little bit about my new boss. I had Googled her and
was surprised to find that Miranda Priestly was born Miriam
Princhek, in London’s East End. Hers was like all the other orthodox
Jewish families in the town, stunningly poor but devout. Her father
occasionally worked odd jobs, but mostly they relied on the
community for support since he spent most of his days studying
Jewish texts. Her mother had died in childbirth with Miriam, and it
washer mother who moved in and helped raise the children. And were
there children! Eleven in all. Most of her brothers and sisters went
on to work blue-collar jobs like their father, with little time to
do anything but pray and work; a couple managed to get themselves
into and through the university, only to marry young and begin
having large families of their own. Miriam was the single exception
to the family tradition.
After saving the small bills her older siblings would slip her
whenever they were able, Miriam promptly dropped out of high school
upon turning seventeen—a mere three months shy of graduation—to take
a job as an assistant to an up-and-coming British designer, helping
him put together his shows each season. After a few years of making
a name for herself as one of the darlings of London’s burgeoning
fashion world and studying French at night, she scored a job as a
junior editor at the FrenchChic magazine in Paris. By this time, she
had little to do with her family: they didn’t understand her life or
ambitions, and she was embarrassed by their old-fashioned piety and
overwhelming lack of sophistication. The alienation from her family
was completed shortly after joining FrenchChic when, at twenty-four
years old, Miriam Princhek became Miranda Priestly, shedding her
undeniably ethnic name for one with more panache. Her rough,
cockney-girl British accent was soon replaced by a carefully
cultivated, educated one, and by her late twenties, Miriam’s
transformation from Jewish peasant to secular socialite was
complete. She rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the
magazine world.
She spent ten years at the helm of FrenchRunway before Elias
transferred her to the number-one spot at AmericanRunway, the
ultimate achievement. She moved her two daughters and her rock-star
then husband (himself eager to gain more exposure in America) to a
penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue at 76th Street and began a new
era atRunway magazine: the Priestly years, the sixth of which we
were nearing as I began my first day.
By some stroke of dumb luck, I would be working for nearly a month
before Miranda was back in the office. She took her vacation every
year starting a week before Thanksgiving until right after New
Year’s. Typically, she’d spend a few weeks at the flat she kept in
London, but this year, I was told, she had dragged her husband and
daughters to Oscar de la Renta’s estate in the Dominican Republic
for two weeks before spending Christmas and New Year’s at the Ritz
in Paris. I’d also been forewarned that even though she was
technically “on vacation,” she’d still be fully reachable and
working at all times, and therefore, so should every single other
person on staff. I was to be appropriately prepped and trained
without her highness present. That way, Miranda wouldn’t have to
suffer my inevitable mistakes while I learned the job. Sounded good
to me. So at 7:00A .M. on the dot, I signed my name into Eduardo’s
book and was buzzed through the turnstiles for the very first time.
“Strike a pose!” Eduardo called after me, just before the elevator
doors swept shut.
Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but
wrinkled sheer white T-shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants was waiting
for me in the reception area, clutching a cup of Starbucks and
flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were placed
firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed
obviously through the completely transparent cotton of her shirt.
Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth by the Coffee cup, and
uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders made
her look as though she’d spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.
“Hey, welcome,” she muttered, giving me my first official up-down
look-over by someone other than the security guard. “Nice boots.”
My heart surged. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her tone made it
impossible to tell. My arches ached already and my toes were jammed
up against the front, but if I’d actually been complimented on an
item of my outfit by aRunway -er, it might be worth the pain.
Emily looked at me a moment longer and then swung her legs off the
table, sighing dramatically. “Well, let’s get to it. It’sreally
lucky for you that she’s not here,” she said. “Not that she’s not
great, of course, because she is,” she added in what I would soon
recognize—and come to adopt myself—as the classicRunway Paranoid
Turnaround. Just when something negative about Miranda slips out
from a Clacker’s lips—however justified—paranoia that Miranda will
find out overwhelms the speaker and inspires an about-face. One of
my favorite workday pastimes became watching my colleagues scramble
to negate whatever blasphemy they’d uttered.
Emily slid her card through the electronic reader, and we walked
side by side, in silence, through the winding hallways to the center
of the floor, where Miranda’s office suite was located. I watched as
she opened the suite’s French doors and tossed her bag and coat on
one of the desks that sat directly outside Miranda’s cavernous
office. “This is your desk, obviously,” she motioned to a smooth,
wooden, L-shaped Formica slab that sat directly opposite hers. It
had a brand-new turquoise iMac computer, a phone, and some filing
trays, and there were already pens and paper clips and some
notebooks in the drawers. “I left most of my stuff for you. It’s
easier if I just order the new stuff for myself.”
Emily had just been promoted to the position of senior assistant,
leaving the junior assistant position open for me. She explained
that she would spend two years as Miranda’s senior assistant, after
which she’d be skyrocketed to an amazing fashion position atRunway .
The three-year assistant program she’d be completing was the
ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world, but I was
clinging to the belief that my one-year sentence would suffice
forThe New Yorker . Allison had already left Miranda’s office area
for her new post in the beauty department, where she’d be
responsible for testing new makeup, moisturizers, and hair products
and writing them up. I wasn’t sure how being Miranda’s assistant had
prepared her for this task, but I was impressed nonetheless. The
promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got places.
The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten, about fifty in
all of editorial. The biggest department was fashion, of course,
with close to thirty people, including all the accessories
assistants. Features, beauty, and art rounded out the mix. Nearly
everyone stopped by Miranda’s office to schmooze with Emily,
overhear any gossip concerning her boss, and check out the new girl.
I met dozens of people that first morning, everyone flashing
enormous, toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in
meeting me.
The men were all flamboyantly gay, adorning themselves in
second-skin leather pants and ribbed T’s that stretched over bulging
biceps and perfect pecs. The art director, an older man sporting
champagne blond, thinning hair, who looked like he dedicated his
life to emulating Elton John, was turned out in rabbit-fur loafers
and eyeliner. No one batted an eye. We’d had gay groups on campus,
and I had a few friends who’d come out the past few years, but none
of them looked like this. It was like being surrounded by the entire
cast and crew ofRent —with better costumes, of course.
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. While nearly
all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers,
it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—or ever
would. In and out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch
skinny heels, sashaying over to my desk to extend milky-white hands
with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves “Jocelyn who works
with Hope,” “Nicole from fashion,” and “Stef who oversees
accessories.” Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she
was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of
height. All weighed less than 110 pounds.
As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone’s name, the
prettiest girl I’d seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored
cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds. The
most amazing, white hair swirled down her back. Her six-one frame
looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright,
but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks
glowed, and her multi-carat, flawless diamond engagement ring
emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she’d caught me staring
at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.
“I created it,” she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at
me. I looked to Emily for an explanation, a hint as to who this
might be, but she was on the phone again. I thought the girl was
referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but
then she said, “Isn’t it a gorgeous color? It’s one coat Marshmallow
and one coat Ballet Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first,
and then a topcoat to finish it off. It’s perfect—light colored
without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think
I’ll use this every time I get a manicure!” And she turned on her
heels and walked out.Ah, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too, I
mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away.
I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and
sweet and, except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish
fetish, they all appeared interested in getting to know me. Emily
hadn’t left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me
something. She provided running commentary on who was really
important, whom not to piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend
because they threw the best parties. When I described Manicure Girl,
Emily’s face lit up.
“Oh!” she breathed, more excited than I’d heard her about anyone
else yet. “Isn’t she just amazing?”
“Um, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn’t really get a chance to talk,
she was just, you know, showing me her nail polish.”
Emily smiled widely, proudly. “Yes, well, you do know who she is,
don’t you?”
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie
stars or singers or models, but I couldn’t place her. So, she was
famous! Maybe that’s why she hadn’t introduced herself—I was
supposed to recognize her. But I didn’t. “No, actually, I don’t. Is
she famous?”
The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust.
“Um,yeah, ” Emily said, emphasizing the “yeah” and squinting her
eyes as if to say,You total fucking idiot . “That is Jessica
Duchamps.” She waited. I waited. Nothing. “You do know who that is,
right?” Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect
something with this new information, but I was quite sure I’d never,
ever heard of her. Besides, this game was getting old.
“Emily, I’ve never seen her before, and her name doesn’t sound
familiar. Would you please tell me who she is?” I asked, struggling
to remain calm. The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she
was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d
made me look like a complete and total loser.
Her smile this time was patronizing. “Of course. You just had to say
so. Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most
successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it—isn’t
that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich.”
“Oh, really?” I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this
super-pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were
restaurateurs. “That’s great.”
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s
office,” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself
would call and I wouldn’t know what to do. Panic set in during a
call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a
strong British accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without
thinking to put it on hold first.
“It’s her,” I whispered urgently. “Take it.”
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to
mince emotions, she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a
way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity.
“Miranda? It’s Emily,” she said, a bright smile lighting up her face
as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her.
Silence. A frown. “Oh, Mimi, so sorry! The new girl thought you were
Miranda! I know, how funny. I guess we have to work onnot thinking
every British accent is necessarily our boss! ” She looked at me
pointedly, her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher.
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and
take messages for Emily, who would then call the people back—with
nonstop narration on their order of importance, if any, in Miranda’s
life. About noon, just as the first hunger pangs were beginning, I
picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end.
“Hello? Allison, is that you?” asked the icy-sounding but regal
voice. “I’ll be needing a skirt.”
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide.
“Emily, it’s her, it’s definitely her,” I hissed, waving the
receiver to get her attention. “She wants a skirt!”
Emily turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the
phone without so much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good-bye.”
She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line, and plastered
on another wide grin.
“Miranda? It’s Emily. What can I do?” She put her pen to her pad and
began writing furiously, forehead furrowing intently. “Yes, of
course. Naturally.” And as fast as it happened, it was over. I
looked at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for appearing
so eager.
“Well, it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt
for tomorrow, among other things, so we’ll need to get it on a plane
by tonight, at the latest.”
“OK, well, what kind does she need?” I asked, still reeling from the
shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic
simply because she’d requested it do so.
“She didn’t say exactly,” Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
“Hi, Jocelyn, it’s me. She wants a skirt, and I’ll need to have it
on Mrs. de la Renta’s flight tonight, since she’ll be meeting
Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didn’t say. I really
don’t know. OK, thanks.” She turned to me and said, “It makes it
more difficult when she’s not specific. She’s too busy to worry
about details like that, so she didn’t say what material or color or
style or brand she wants. But that’s OK. I know her size, and I
definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she’ll
like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. They’ll start
calling some in.” I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt
telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci and
spontaneous applause.
Not quite. “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway
ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as
efficient as a military operation. Either Emily or myself would
notify the fashion assistants—about eight in all, who each
maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores.
The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public
relations contacts at the various design houses and, if appropriate,
at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly—yes,
Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for herpersonal use—was
looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec
and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi,
Armani, Chanel, Barney’s, Chloé, Calvin Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto
Cavalli, and Saks would be messengering over (or, in some cases,
hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly
could conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like
a highly choreographed ballet, each player knowing exactly where and
when and how their next step would occur. While this near-daily
activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that
we’d need to send with the skirt that night.
“Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,” she said
while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on
a piece ofRunway stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a Cell
Phone and said, “Here, take this in case I need to reach you or you
have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it.” I took the
phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the
building, wondering how I was ever going to find “my car.” Or even,
really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and
looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe
approached.
“You Priestly’s new girl?” he croaked through tobacco-stained lips,
never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. “I’m Rich. The
dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?” I
nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan.
He slammed the door shut and waved.
“Where you going, miss?” the driver asked, pulling me back to the
present. I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from
my pocket.
First stop: Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor.
Ask for Leanne. She’ll give you everything we need.
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one
o’clock on a frigid winter afternoon, I was twenty-three years old,
and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan, on my way
to Tommy Hilfiger’s studio. And I was positively starving. It took
nearly forty-five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the
midtown lunch hour, my first glimpse of real city gridlock. The
driver told me he’d circle the block until I came out again, and off
I went to Tommy’s studio. When I asked for Leanne at the
receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor, an adorable girl not a day
older than eighteen came bounding down the stairs.
“Hi!” she called, stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds.
“You must be Andrea, Miranda’s new assistant. We sure do love her
around here, so welcome to the team!” She grinned. I grinned. She
pulled a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and
immediately spilled its contents on the floor. “Here we have
Caroline’s favorite jeans in three colors, and we threw in some baby
T’s, too. And Cassidy just adores Tommy’s khaki skirts—we gave them
to her in olive and stone.” Jean skirts, denim jackets, even a few
pair of socks came flying out of the bag, and all I could do was
stare: there were enough clothes to constitute four or more total
preteen wardrobes.Who the hell are Cassidy and Caroline? I wondered,
staring at the loot. What self-respecting person wears Tommy
Hilfiger jeans—in three different colors, no less?
I must’ve looked thoroughly confused, because Leanne quite purposely
turned her back while repacking the clothes and said, “I just know
Miranda’s daughters will love this stuff. We’ve been dressing them
for years, and Tommy insists on picking the clothes out for them
himself.” I shot her a grateful look and threw the bag over my
shoulder.
“Good luck!” she called as the elevator doors closed, a genuine
smile taking up most of her face. “You’re lucky to have such an
awesome job!” Before she could say it, I found myself mentally
finishing the sentence—a million girls would die for it.And for that
moment, having just seen a famous designer’s studio and in
possession of thousands of dollars worth of clothes, I thought she
was right.
Once I got the hang of things, the rest of the day flew. I debated
for a few minutes whether anyone would be mad if I took a minute to
pick up a sandwich, but I had no choice. I hadn’t eaten anything
since my croissant at seven this morning, and it was nearly two. I
asked the driver to pull over at a deli and decided at the last
minute to get him one, too. His jaw dropped when I handed him the
turkey and honey mustard, and I wondered if I had made him
uncomfortable.
“I just figured you were hungry, too,” I said. “You know, driving
around all day, you probably don’t have much time for lunch.”
“Thank you, miss, I appreciate it. It’s just that I’ve been driving
around Elias-Clark girls for twelve years, and they are not so nice.
You are very nice,” he said in a thick but indeterminate accent,
looking at me in the rearview mirror. I smiled at him and felt a
momentary flash of foreboding. But then the moment passed and we
each munched our turkey wraps while sitting in gridlock and
listening to his favorite CD, which sounded to me like little more
than a woman shrieking the same thing over and over in an unknown
language, the whole thing set to sitar music.
Emily’s next written instruction was to pick up a pair of white
shorts that Miranda desperately needed for tennis. I figured we’d be
headed to Polo, but she had written Chanel. Chanel made white tennis
shorts? The driver took me to the private salon, where an older
saleswoman whose facelift had left her eyes looking like slits
handed me a pair of white cotton-Lycra hot pants, size zero, pinned
to a silk hanger and draped in a velvet garment bag. I looked at the
shorts, which appeared as though they wouldn’t fit a six-year-old,
and looked back to the woman.
“Um, do you really think Miranda will wear these?” I asked
tentatively, convinced the woman could open that pit-bull mouth of
hers and consume me whole. She glared at me.
“Well, I should hope so, miss, considering they’re custom measured
and cut, according to her exact specifications,” she snarled as she
handed the minishorts over. “Tell her Mr. Kopelman sends his
best.”Sure, lady. Whoever that is.
My next stop was what Emily wrote as “way downtown,” J&R Computer
World near City Hall. Seemed it was the only store in the entire
city that sold Warriors of the West, a computer game that Miranda
wanted to purchase for Oscar and Annette de la Renta’s son, Moises.
By the time I made it downtown an hour later, I’d realized that the
Cell Phone could make long-distance calls, and I was happily dialing
my parents and telling them how great the job was.
“Um, Dad? Hi, it’s Andy. Guess where I am now? Yes, of course I’m at
work, but that happens to be in the backseat of a chauffeured car
cruising around Manhattan. I’ve already been to Tommy Hilfiger and
Chanel, and after I buy this computer game, I’m on my way to Oscar
de la Renta’s apartment on Park Avenue to drop all the stuff off.
No, it’s not for him! Miranda’s in the DR and Annette’s flying there
to meet them all tonight. On a private plane, yes! Dad! It stands
for the Dominican Republic, of course!”
He sounded wary but pleased that I was so happy, and I came to
decide that I was hired as college-educated messenger. Which was
absolutely fine with me. After leaving the bag of Tommy clothes, the
hot pants, and the computer game with a very distinguished-looking
doorman in a very plush Park Avenue lobby (so this is what people
mean when they talk about Park Avenue!), I headed back to the
Elias-Clark building. When I walked into my office area, Emily was
sitting Indian-style on the floor, wrapping presents in plain white
paper with white ribbons. She was surrounded by mountains of
red-and-white boxes, all identical in shape, hundreds, perhaps
thousands, scattered between our desks and overflowing into
Miranda’s office. Emily was unaware that I was watching her, and I
saw that it took her only two minutes to wrap each individual box
perfectly and an additional fifteen seconds to tie on a white satin
ribbon. She moved efficiently, not wasting a single second, piling
the wrapped white boxes in new mountains behind her. The wrapped
pile grew and grew, but the unwrapped pile didn’t shrink. I
estimated that she could be at it for the next four days and still
not finish.
I called her name over the eighties CD she had playing from her
computer. “Um, Emily? Hi, I’m back.”
She turned toward me and for a brief moment appeared to have no idea
who I was. Completely blank. But then my new-girl status came
rushing back. “How’d it go?” she asked quickly. “Did you get
everything on the list?”
I nodded.
“Even the video game? When I called, there was only one copy left.
It was there?”
I nodded again.
“And you gave it all to the de la Rentas’ doorman on Park? The
clothes, the shorts, everything?”
“Yep. No problem. It went very smoothly, and I dropped it all off a
few minutes ago. I was wondering, will Miranda actually wear those—”
“Listen, I need to run to the bathroom and I’ve been waiting for you
to get back. Just sit by the phone for a minute, OK?”
“You haven’t gone to the bathroom since I left?” I asked
incredulously. It had been five hours. “Why not?”
Emily finished tying the ribbon on the box she had just wrapped and
looked at me coolly. “Miranda doesn’t tolerate anyone except her
assistants answering her phone, so since you weren’t here, I didn’t
want to go. I suppose I could have run out for a minute, but I know
she’s having a hectic day, and I want to make sure that I’m always
available to her. So no, we do not go to the bathroom—or anywhere
else—without clearing it with each other. We need to work together
to make sure that we are doing the best job possible for her. OK?”
“Sure,” I said. “Go ahead. I’ll be right here.” She turned and
walked away, and I put my hand on the desk to steady myself. No
going to the bathroom without a coordinated war plan? Did she really
sit in that office for the past five hours willing her bladder to
behave because she worried that a woman across the Atlantic may call
in the two and a half minutes it would take to run to the ladies’
room? Apparently so. It seemed a little dramatic, but I assumed that
was just Emily being overly enthusiastic. There was no way that
Miranda actually demanded that of her assistants. I was sure of it.
Or did she?
I picked up a few sheets of paper from the printer and saw that it
was titled “X-Mas Presents Received.” One, two, three, four,
five,six single-spaced pages of gifts, with sender and item on one
line each. Two hundred and fifty-six presents in all. It looked like
a wedding registry for the Queen of England, and I couldn’t take it
in fast enough. There was a Bobby Brown makeup set from Bobby Brown
herself, a one-of-a-kind leather Kate Spade handbag from Kate and
Andy Spade, a Smythson of Bond Street burgundy leather organizer
from Graydon Carter, a mink-lined sleeping bag from Miuccia Prada, a
multistrand beaded Verdura bracelet from Aerin Lauder, a
diamond-encrusted watch from Donatella Versace, a case of champagne
from Cynthia Rowley, a matching beaded tank top and evening bag from
Mark Badgley and James Mischka, a collection of Cartier pens from
Irv Ravitz, a chinchilla muffler from Vera Wang, a zebra-print
jacket from Alberto Ferretti, a Burberry cashmere blanket from
Rosemarie Bravo. And that was just the start. There were handbags in
every shape and size from everyone: Herb Ritts, Bruce Weber, Giselle
Bundchen, Hillary Clinton, Tom Ford, Calvin Klein, Annie Leibovitz,
Nicole Miller, Adrienne Vittadini, Michael Kors, Helmut Lang,
Giorgio Armani, John Sahag, Bruno Magli, Mario Testino, and Narcisco
Rodriguez, to name a few. There were dozens of donations made in
Miranda’s name to various charities, what must have been a hundred
bottles of wine and champagne, eight or ten Dior bags, a couple
dozen scented candles, a few pieces of Oriental pottery, silk
pajamas, leather-bound books, bath products, chocolates, bracelets,
caviar, cashmere sweaters, framed photographs, and enough flower
arrangements and/or potted plants to decorate one of those
five-hundred-couple mass weddings they have in soccer stadiums in
China. Ohmigod! Was this reality? Was this actually happening? Was I
now working for a woman who received 256 presents at Christmas from
some of the world’s most famous people? Or not so famous? I wasn’t
sure. I recognized a few of the really obvious celebrities and
designers, but didn’t know then that the others comprised some of
the most sought-after photographers, makeup artists, models,
socialites, and a whole slew of Elias-Clark executives. Just as I
was wondering if Emily actually knew who all the people were, she
walked back in. I tried to pretend I wasn’t reading the list, but
she didn’t mind at all.
“Crazy, isn’t it? She is the coolest woman ever,” she gushed,
snatching the sheets off her desk and gazing at them with what can
only be described as lust. “Have you ever seen more amazing things
in your life? This is last year’s list. I just pulled it out so we
know what to expect since the gifts have begun coming in already.
That’s definitely one of the best parts of the job—opening all her
presents.” I was confused.We opened her presents? Why wouldn’t she
open them herself? I asked as much.
“Are you out of your mind? Miranda won’t like ninety percent of the
stuff people send. Some of it is downright insulting, things I won’t
even show her. Like this,” she said, picking up a small box. It was
a Bang and Olufsen portable phone in their signature sleek silver
with all rounded edges and the capability to remain clear for
something like 2,000 miles. I had been in the store just a couple
weeks earlier, watching Alex salivate over their stereo systems, and
I knew the phone cost upward of five hundred dollars and could do
everything short of holding a conversationfor you. “A phone? Do you
believe someone had the nerve to send Miranda Priestly aphone ?” She
tossed it to me. “Keep it if you want it: I would never even let her
see this. She’d be annoyed that someone sent somethingelectronic .”
She pronounced the word “electronic” as though it were synonymous
with “covered in bodily fluids.”
I tucked the phone box under my desk and tried to keep the smile off
my face. It was too perfect! A portable phone was on my list of
stuff that I still needed for my new room, and I’d just gotten a
five-hundred-dollar one for free.
“Actually,” she continued, flopping down again on the floor of
Miranda’s office, Indian-style, “let’s put in a few hours wrapping
some more of these wine bottles, and then you can open the presents
that came in today. They’re over there.” She pointed behind her desk
to a smaller mountain of boxes and bags and baskets in a multitude
of colors.
“So, these are gifts that we’re sending out from Miranda, right?” I
asked her as I picked up a box and began wrapping it in the thick
white paper.
“Yep. Every year, it’s the same deal. Top-tier people get bottles of
Dom. This would include Elias execs, and the big designers who
aren’t also personal friends. Her lawyer and accountant. Midlevel
people get Veuve, and this is just about everyone—the twins’
teachers, the hair stylists, Uri, et cetera. The nobodies get a
bottle of the Ruffino Chianti—usually they go to the PR people who
send small, general gifts that aren’t personalized for her. She’ll
have us send Chianti to the vet, some of the babysitters who fill in
for Cara, the people who wait on her in stores she goes to often,
and all the caretakers associated with the summer house in
Connecticut. Anyway, I order about twenty-five thousand dollars’
worth of this stuff at the beginning of November, Sherry-Lehman
delivers it, and it usually takes nearly a month to do all the
wrapping. It’s good she’s out of the office now or we’d be taking
this stuff Home with us to wrap. Pretty good deal, because Elias
picks up the tab.”
“I guess it would cost double that to have the Sherry-Lehman place
wrap them, huh?” I wondered, still trying to process the hierarchy
of the gift-giving.
“What the hell do we care?” she snorted. “Trust me, you’ll learn
quickly that cost is no issue around here. It’s just that Miranda
doesn’t like the wrapping paper they use. I gave them this white
paper last year, but they just didn’t look as nice as when we do
it.” She looked proud.
We wrapped like that until close to six, with Emily telling me how
things worked as I tried to wrap my mind around this strange and
exciting world. Just as she was describing exactly how Miranda likes
her Coffee (tall latte with two raw sugars), a breathless blond girl
I remembered as one of the many fashion assistants walked in
carrying a wicker basket the size of a baby carriage. She hovered
just outside Miranda’s office, looking as though she thought the
soft gray carpeting might turn to quicksand under her Jimmy Choos if
she dared to cross the threshold.
“Hi, Em. I’ve got the skirts right here. Sorry that took so long,
but no one’s around since it’s that weird time right before
Thanksgiving. Anyway, hopefully you’ll find something she’ll like.”
She looked down at her basket full of folded skirts.
Emily looked up at her with barely disguised scorn. “Just leave them
on my desk. I’ll return the ones that won’t work.Which I imagine
will be most of them, considering your taste .” The last part was
under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
The blond girl looked bewildered. Definitely not the brightest star
in the sky, but she seemed nice enough. I wondered why Emily so
obviously hated her. It’d been a long day already, what with the
running commentary and errands all over the city and hundreds of
names and faces to try to remember, so I didn’t even ask.
Emily placed the large basket on her desk and looked down on it,
hands on her hips. From what I could see from Miranda’s office
floor, there were perhaps twenty-five different skirts in an
incredible assortment of fabrics, colors, and sizes. Had she really
not specified what she wanted at all? Did she really not bother to
inform Emily whether she’d be needing something appropriate for a
black-tie dinner or a mixed-doubles match or perhaps to use as a
bathing suit cover-up? Did she want denim, or would something
chiffon work better? How exactly were we supposed to predict
whatmight please her?
I was about to find out. Emily carried the wicker basket to
Miranda’s office and carefully, reverentially, placed it on the
plush carpeting beside me. She sat down and began removing the
skirts one by one and laying them in a circle around us. There was a
beautiful crocheted skirt in shocking fuchsia by Celine, a pearl
gray wraparound by Calvin Klein, and a black suede one with black
beads along the bottom by Mr. de la Renta himself. There were skirts
in red and ecru and lavender, some with lace and others in cashmere.
A few were long enough to sweep gracefully along the ankles, and
others were so short they looked more like tube tops. I picked up a
midcalf, brown silk beauty and held it up to my waist, but the
material covered only one of my legs. The next one in the pile
reached to the floor in a swirl of tulle and chiffon and looked as
though it would feel most at Home at a Charleston garden party. One
of the jean skirts was prefaded and came with a gigantic brown
leather belt already looped around it, and another had a crinkly,
silver-material overlay on top of a slightly more opaque silver
liner. Where on earth were we going here?
“Wow, looks like Miranda has a thing for skirts, huh?” I said,
simply because I had nothing better to say.
“Actually, no. Miranda has a slight obsession with scarves.” Emily
refused to make eye contact with me, as though she’d just revealed
that she herself had herpes. “It’s just one of those cute, quirky
things about her you should know.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, trying to sound amused and not horrified. An
obsession with scarves? I like clothes and bags and shoes as much as
the next girl, but I wouldn’t exactly declare any of them an
“obsession.” And something about the way Emily was saying it wasn’t
so casual.
“Yes, well, she must need a skirt for something specific, but it’s
scarves that’s she’s really into. You know, like her signature
scarves?” She looked at me. My face must have betrayed my complete
lack of a clue. “You do remember meeting her during the interview,
do you not?”
“Of course,” I said quickly, sensing it’d probably not be the best
idea to let this girl know that I couldn’t so much as remember
Miranda’s name during my interview, never mind remember what she was
wearing. “But I’m not sure I noticed a scarf.”
“She always, always, always wears a single white Hermès scarf
somewhere on her outfit. Mostly around her neck, but sometimes
she’ll have her hairdresser tie one in a chignon, or occasionally
she’ll use them as a belt. They’re like, her signature. Everyone
knows that Miranda Priestly wears a white Hermès scarf, no matter
what. How cool is that?”
It was at that exact moment that I noticed Emily had a lime green
scarf woven through the belt loops on her cargo pants, just peeking
out from underneath the white T-shirt.
“She likes to mix it up sometimes, and I’m guessing that this is one
of those times. Anyway, those idiots in fashion never know what
she’ll like. Look at some of these, they’re hideous!” She held up an
absolutely gorgeous flowy skirt, slightly dressier than the rest
with its little flecks of gold shimmering from the deep tan
background.
“Yep,” I agreed, in what was to become the first of thousands, if
not millions, of times I agreed with whatever she said simply to
make her stop talking. “It’s horrendous-looking.” It was so
beautiful I thought I’d be happy to wear it to my own wedding.
Emily continued prattling on about patterns and fabrics and
Miranda’s needs and wants, occasionally interjecting a scathing
insult about a coworker. She finally chose three radically different
skirts and set them aside to send to Miranda, talking, talking,
talking the whole time. I tried to listen, but it was almost seven,
and I was trying to decide whether I was ravenously hungry, utterly
nauseated, or just plain exhausted. I think it was all three. I
didn’t even notice when the tallest human being I’d ever seen
swooped into the office.
“YOU!” I heard from somewhere behind me. “STAND UP SO I CAN GET A
LOOK AT YOU!”
I turned just in time to see the man, who was at least seven feet
tall, with tanned skin and black hair, pointing directly at me. He
had 250 pounds stretched over his incredibly tall frame and was so
muscular, so positively ripped, that it looked as though he might
just explode out of his denim . . . catsuit? Ohmigod! He was wearing
a catsuit. Yes, yes, a denim, one-piece catsuit with tight pants and
a belted waist and rolled-up sleeves. And a cape. There was actually
a blanket-size fur cape tied twice around his thick neck, and shiny
black combat boots the size of tennis rackets adorned his mammoth
feet. He looked around thirty-five years old, although all the
muscles and the deep tan and the positively chiseled jawbone could
have been hiding ten years or adding five. He was flapping his hands
at me and motioning for me to get up off the floor. I stood, unable
to take my eyes off him, and he turned to examine me immediately.
“WELL! WHO DO WE HAVE HEEEEERE?” he bellowed, as best as one can in
a falsetto voice. “YOU’RE PRETTY, BUT TOO WHOLESOME. AND THE OUTFIT
DOES NOTHING FOR YOU!”
“My name’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant.”
He moved his eyes up and down over my body, inspecting every inch.
Emily was watching the spectacle with a sneer on her face. The
silence was unbearable.
“KNEE-HIGH BOOTS? WITH A KNEE-LENGTH SKIRT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? BABY
GIRL, IN CASE YOU’RE UNAWARE—IN CASE YOU MISSED THE BIG, BLACK SIGN
BY THE DOOR—THIS ISRUNWAY MAGAZINE, THE FUCKINGHIIPPEST MAGAZINE ON
EARTH. ON EARTH! BUT NO WORRIES, HONEY, NIGEL WILL GET RID OF THAT
JERSEY MALL-RAT LOOK YOU’VE GOT GOING SOON ENOUGH.”
He put both his massive hands on my hips and twirled me around. I
could feel his eyes looking at my legs and tush.
“SOON ENOUGH, SWEETIE, I PROMISE YOU, BECAUSE YOU’RE GOOD RAW
MATERIAL. NICE LEGS, GREAT HAIR, AND NOT FAT. I CAN WORK WITH NOT
FAT. SOON ENOUGH, SWEETIE.”
I wanted to be offended, to pull myself away from the grip he had on
my lower body, to take a few minutes and mull over the fact that a
complete stranger—and a coworker, no less—had just provided an
unsolicited and unflinchingly honest account of my outfit and my
figure, but I wasn’t. I liked his kind green eyes that seemed to
laugh instead of taunt, but more than that, I liked that I had
passed. This was Nigel— single name, like Madonna or Prince—the
fashion authority whom even I recognized from TV, magazines, the
society pages, everywhere, and he had called me pretty. And said I
had nice legs! I let the mall-rat comment slide. Iliked this guy.
I heard Emily tell him to leave me alone from somewhere in the
background, but I didn’t want him to go. Too late, he was already
heading for the door, his fur cape flapping behind him. I wanted to
call out, tell him it had been nice to meet him, that I wasn’t
offended by what he said and was excited that he wanted to redo me.
But before I could say a thing, Nigel whipped around and covered the
space between us in two strides, each the length of a long jump. He
planted himself directly in front of me, wrapped my entire body with
his massive, rippling arms, and pressed me to him. My head rested
just below his chest, and I smelled the unmistakable scent of
Johnson’s Baby Lotion. And just as I had the presence of mind to hug
him back, he flung me backward, engulfed both of my hands in his,
and screeched:
“WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE, BABY!”
5
“He said what?” Lily asked as she licked a spoonful of green tea ice
cream. She and I had met at Sushi Samba at nine so I could update
her on my first day. My parents had grudgingly forked over the
emergencies-only credit card again until I got my first paycheck.
Spicy tuna rolls and seaweed salads certainly felt like an
emergency, and so I silently thanked Mom and Dad for treating Lily
and me so well.
“He said, ‘Welcome to the dollhouse, baby.’ I swear. How cool is
that?”
She looked at me, mouth hung open, spoon suspended in midair.
“You have the coolest job I’ve ever heard of,” said Lily, who always
talked about how she should’ve worked for a year before going back
to school.
“It does seem pretty cool, doesn’t it? Definitely weird, but cool,
too. Whatever,” I said, digging in to my oozing chocolate brownie.
“It’s not like I wouldn’t rather be a student again than doing any
of this.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’d just love to work part-time to finance your
obscenely expensive and utterly useless Ph.D. You would, wouldn’t
you? You’re jealous that I get to bartend in an undergrad pub, get
hit on by freshmen until fourA .M. every night, and then head to
class all day, aren’t you? All of it knowing that if—and that’s a
big, fat if—you manage to finish at some point in the next seventeen
years, you’ll never get a job. Anywhere.” She plastered on a big,
fake smile and took a swig of her Sapporo. Lily was studying for her
Ph.D. in Russian Literature at Columbia and working odd jobs every
free second she wasn’t studying. Her grandmother barely had enough
money to support herself, and Lily wouldn’t qualify for grants until
she’d finished her master’s, so it was remarkable she’d even come
out that night.
I took the bait, as I always did when she bitched about her life.
“So why do you do it, Lil?” I asked, even though I’d heard the
answer a million times.
Lily snorted and rolled her eyes again. “Because I love it!” she
sang sarcastically. And even though she’d never admit it because it
was so much more fun to complain, she did love it. She’d developed a
thing for Russian culture ever since her eighth-grade teacher told
her that Lily looked how he had always pictured Lolita, with her
round face and curly black hair. She went directly Home and read
Nabokov’s masterpiece of lechery, never allowing the whole
teacher-Lolita reference to bother her, and then read everything
else Nabokov wrote. And Tolstoy. And Gogol. And Chekhov. By the time
college rolled around, she was applying to Brown to work with a
specific Russian lit professor who, upon interviewing
seventeen-year-old Lily, had declared her one of the most well read
and passionate students of Russian literature he’d ever
met—undergrad, graduate, or otherwise. She still loved it, still
studied Russian grammar and could read anything in its original, but
she enjoyed whining about it more.
“Yeah, well, I definitely agree that I have the best gig around. I
mean, Tommy Hilfiger? Chanel? Oscar de la Renta’s apartment? Quite a
first day. I have to say, I’m not quite sure how all of this is
going to get me any closer toThe New Yorker, but maybe it’s just too
early to tell. It’s just not seeming like reality, you know?”
“Well, anytime you feel like getting back in touch with reality, you
know where to find me,” Lily said, taking her MetroCard out of her
purse. “If you get a craving for a little ghetto, if you’re just
dying to keep it real in Harlem, well, my luxurious
two-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot studio is all yours.”
I paid the check and we hugged good-bye, and she tried to give me
specific instructions on how to get from Seventh Avenue and
Christopher Street to my own sublet all the way uptown. I swore up
and down that I understood exactly where to find the L-train and
then the 6, and how to walk from the 96th Street stop to my
apartment, but as soon as she left, I jumped in a cab.
Just this once,I thought to myself, sinking into the warm backseat
and trying not to breathe in the driver’s body odor.I’m a Runwaygirl
now .
I was pleased to discover that the rest of that first week wasn’t
much different than the first day. On Friday, Emily and I met in the
stark white lobby again at sevenA .M., and this time she handed me
my own ID card, complete with a picture that I didn’t remember
taking.
“From the security camera,” she said when I stared at it. “They’re
everywhere around here, just so you know. They’ve had some major
problems with people stealing stuff, the clothes and jewelry called
in for shoots; it seems the messengers and sometimes even the
editors just help themselves. So now they track everyone.” She slid
her card down the slot and the thick glass door clicked open.
“Track? What exactly do you mean by ‘track’?”
She moved quickly down the hallway toward our offices, her hips
swishing back and forth, back and forth in the skintight tan Seven
cords she was wearing. She’d told me the day before that I should
seriously consider getting a pair or ten, as these were among the
only jeans or corduroys that Miranda would permit people to wear in
the office. Those and the MJ’s were OK, but only on Friday, and only
if worn with high heels. MJ’s? “Marc Jacobs,” she had said,
exasperated.
“Well, between the cameras and the cards, they kind of know what
everyone’s doing,” she said as she dropped her Gucci logo tote on
her desk. She began unbuttoning her very fitted leather blazer, a
coat that looked supremely inadequate for the late-November weather.
“I don’t think they actually look at the cameras unless something’s
missing, but the cards tell everything. Like, every time you swipe
it downstairs to get past the security counter or on the floor to
get in the door, they know where you are. That’s how they tell if
people are at work, so if you have to be out—and you never will, but
just in case something really awful happens—you’ll just give me your
card and I’ll swipe it. That way you’ll still get paid for all the
days you miss, even if you go over. You’ll do the same for
me—everyone does it.”
I was still reeling from the “and you never will” part, but she
continued her briefing.
“And that’s how you’ll get food in the dining room also. It’s a
debit card: just put on some money and it gets deducted at the
register. Of course, that’s how they can tell what you’re eating,”
she said, unlocking Miranda’s office door and plopping herself on
the floor. She immediately reached for a boxed bottle of wine and
began wrapping.
“Do they care what you eat?” I asked, feeling as though I’d just
stepped directly into a scene fromSliver.
“Um, I’m not sure. Maybe? I just know they can tell. And the gym,
too. You have to use it there, and at the newsstand to buy books or
magazines. I think it just helps them stay organized.”
Stay organized? I was working for a company who defined good
“organization” as knowing which floor each employee visited, whether
they preferred onion soup or Caesar salad for lunch, and just how
many minutes they could tolerate the elliptical machine? I was a
lucky, lucky girl.
Exhausted from my fourth morning of waking up at five-thirty, it
took me another five full minutes to work up the energy to climb out
of my coat and settle down at my desk. I thought about putting my
head down to rest for just a moment, but Emily cleared her throat.
Loudly.
“Um, you want to get in here and help me?” she asked, although it
was clearly no question. “Here, wrap something.” She thrust a pile
of white paper my way and resumed her task. Jewel blasted from the
extra speakers attached to her iMac.
Cut, place, fold, tape:Emily and I worked steadily through the
morning, stopping only to call the downstairs messenger center each
time we’d finished with twenty-five boxes. They’d hold them until we
gave the green light for them to be fanned out all over Manhattan in
mid-December. We’d already completed all of the out-of-town bottles
during my first two days, and those were piled in the Closet waiting
for DHL to pick them up. Considering each and every one was set to
be sent first-day priority, arriving at their locations at the
earliest possible time the very next morning, I wasn’t sure what the
rush was—considering it was only the end of November—but I’d already
learned it was better not to ask questions. We would be FedExing
about 150 bottles all over the world. The Priestly bottles would
make it to Paris, Cannes, Bordeaux, Milan, Rome, Florence,
Barcelona, Geneva, Brugges, Stockholm, Amsterdam, and London. Dozens
to London! FedEx would jet them to Beijing and Hong Kong and
Capetown and Tel Aviv and Dubai (Dubai!). They would be toasting
Miranda Priestly in Los Angeles, Honolulu, New Orleans, Charleston,
Houston, Bridgehampton, and Nantucket. And those all before any went
out in New York—the city that contained all of Miranda’s friends,
doctors, maids, hair stylists, nannies, makeup artists, shrinks,
yoga instructors, personal trainers, drivers, and personal shoppers.
Of course, this was where most of the fashion-industry people were,
too: the designers, models, actors, editors, advertisers, PR folks,
and all-around style mavens would each receive a level-appropriate
bottle lovingly delivered by an Elias-Clark messenger.
“How much do you think all of this costs?” I asked Emily, while
snipping what felt like the millionth piece of thick white paper.
“I told you, I ordered twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of
booze.”
“No, no—how much do you think it costs altogether? I mean, to
overnight all these packages all over the world, well, I bet that in
some cases the shipping costs more than the bottle itself,
especially if they’re getting a nobody bottle.”
She looked intrigued. It was the first time I’d seen her look at me
with anything other than disgust, exasperation, or indifference.
“Well, let’s see. If you figure that all the domestic FedExes are
somewhere in the twenty-dollar range, and all the international are
about $60, then that equals $9,000 for FedEx. I think I heard
somewhere that the messengers charge eleven bucks a package, so
sending out 250 of those would be $2,750. And our time, well, if it
takes us a full week to wrap everything, then added together, that’s
two full weeks of both our salaries, which is another four grand—”
It was here I flinched inwardly, realizing that both of our salaries
together for an entire week’s work was by far the most insignificant
expense.
“Yeah, it comes to around $16,000 in total. Crazy, huh? But what
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 complex 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
company 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 earlier bingeing problems. And even though I knew
that the mirror would reveal nothing more or less than it had that
morning, I turned to face it head on. A twisted, angry face stared
back at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Emily all but shouted at my
reflection. I whipped around in time to see her hanging her leather
blazer through the handle of the Gucci logo tote, as she pushed her
sunglasses on top of her head. It occurred to me that Emily had
meant what she’d said three and a half hours before quite literally:
she’d gone out for lunch. As in, outside. As in, left me all alone
for three straight hours with no warning, practically tethered to a
phone line with no hopes of food or bathroom breaks. As in, none of
that mattered because I still knew I was wrong to leave and I was
about to get screamed at for it by someone my own age. Blessedly,
the door swung open and the editor in chief ofCoquette strode in.
She looked us both up and down as Emily grabbed my arm and steered
me out of the bathroom and toward the elevator. We stood like that
together, her clutching my arm and me feeling as though I’d just wet
the bed. We were living one of those scenes where the kidnapper puts
a gun to a woman’s back in broad daylight and quietly threatens her
as he leads her to his basement of torture.
“How could you do this to me?” she hissed as she pushed me
throughRunway ’s reception-area doors and we hurtled together back
to our desks. “As the senior assistant, I am responsible for what
goes on in our office. I know you’re new, but I’ve told you from the
very first day: we do not leave Miranda unattended.”
“But Miranda’s not here.” It came out as a squeak.
“But she could’ve called while you were gone and no one would’ve
been here to answer the goddamn phone!” she screamed as she slammed
the door to our suite. “Our first priority—our only priority—is
Miranda Priestly. Period. And if you can’t deal with that, just
remember that there are millions of girls who would die for your
job. Now check your voice mail. If she called, we’re dead.You’re
dead.”
I wanted to crawl inside my iMac and die. How could I have screwed
up so badly during my very first week? Miranda wasn’t even in the
office and I’d already let her down. So what if I was hungry? It
could wait. There were genuinely important people trying to get
things done around here, people who depended on me, and I’d let them
down. I dialed my mailbox.
“Hi, Andy, it’s me.” Alex. “Where are you? I’ve never heard you not
answer. Can’t wait for dinner tonight—we’re still on, right?
Anywhere you want, your pick. Call me when you get this, I’ll be in
the faculty lounge anytime after four. Love you.” I immediately felt
guilty, because I’d already decided after the whole lunch debacle
that I’d rather reschedule. My first week had been so crazy that
we’d barely seen each other, and we’d made a special plan to have
dinner that night, just the two of us. But I knew I wouldn’t be any
fun if I fell asleep in my wine, and I kind of wanted a night to
unwind and be alone. I’d have to remember to call and see if we
could do it the next night.
Emily was standing over me, having already checked her own voice
mail. From her relatively calm face, I guessed that Miranda had not
left her any death threats. I shook my head to indicate that I
hadn’t gotten one from her yet.
“Hi, Andrea, it’s Cara.” Miranda’s nanny. “So, Miranda called here a
little while ago”—heart stoppage—“and said she’s tried the office
and no one was picking up. I figured something was going on down
there, so I told her that I’d spoken to both you and Emily just a
minute before, but don’t worry about it. She wanted aWomen’s Wear
Daily faxed to her, and I had a copy right here. Already confirmed
that she got it, too, so don’t stress. Just wanted to let you know.
Anyway, have a good weekend. I’ll talk to you later. ’Bye.”
lifesaver. The girl was an absolute saint. It was hard to believe
I’d only known her a week—and not even in person, only over the
phone—because I thought I was in love with her. She was the opposite
of Emily in every regard: calm, grounded, and entirely
fashion-oblivious. She recognized Miranda’s absurdity but didn’t
begrudge her it; she had that rare, charming quality of being able
to laugh at herself and everyone else.
“Nope, not her,” I told Emily, lying sort of but not really, smiling
triumphantly. “We’re in the clear.”
“You’rein the clear, this time,” she said flatly. “Just remember
that we’re in this together, but I am in charge. You’ll cover for me
if I want to go out to lunch once in a while—I’m entitled. This will
never happen again, right?”
I bit back the urge to say something nasty. “Right,” I said.
“Right.”
We’d managed to finish wrapping the rest of the bottles and get them
all to the messengers by seven that night, and Emily didn’t mention
the office-abandonment issue again. I finally fell into a taxi (just
this one time) at eight, and was spread-eagle, still fully dressed,
on top of my covers at ten. And I still hadn’t eaten because I
couldn’t bear the thought of going out in search of food and getting
lost again, as I had the past four nights, in my own neighborhood. I
called Lily to complain on my brand-new Bang and Olufsen phone.
“Hi! I thought you and Alex had a date tonight,” she said.
“Yeah, we did, but I’m dead. He’s fine with doing it tomorrow night,
and I think I’ll just order. Whatever. How was your day?”
“I have one word: screwed up. OK, so that was two. You’ll never
imagine what happened. Well, of course you will, it happens all
the—”
“Cut to it, Lil. I’m going to pass out any minute.”
“OK. Cutest guy ever came to my reading today. Sat through the whole
thing looking absolutely fascinated, and waited for me afterward.
Asked if he could take me for a drink and hear all about the thesis
I had published at Brown, which he’d already read.”
“Sounds great. What was he?” Lily went out with different guys
almost every night after getting off work, but had yet to complete
her fraction. She had founded the Scale of Fractional Love one night
after listening to a few of our guy friends rate the girls they were
dating on their own invention, the Ten-Ten Scale. “She’s a six,
eight, B-plus,” Jake would declare of the advertising assistant he’d
been set up with the night before. It was assumed everyone knew that
it was a ten-point scale, with face always being the first numerical
ranking, body the second, and personality coming in last with a
slightly more generalized letter grade. Since there were clearly
more factors at work in judging guys, Lily devised the Fractional
Scale, which had a total of ten pieces that each earned a point. The
Perfect Guy would obviously have all five of the primary pieces:
intelligence, sense of humor, decent body, cute face, and any sort
of job that fell under the generous umbrella of “normal.” Since it
was next to impossible to find The Perfect Guy, someone could up
their fraction by earning points on the secondary five, which
included a definitive lack of psycho ex-girlfriends, psycho parents,
or date-rapist roommates, and any sort of extracurricular interests
or hobbies that weren’t sports- or porn-related. So far, the highest
anyone had received was a nine-tenths, but he had broken up with
her.
“Well, at first he was going strong at seven-tenths. He was a
theater major at Yaleand he’s straight, and he could discuss Israeli
politics so intelligently that he never once suggested that we ‘just
nuke ’em,’ so that was good.”
“Sure sounds good. I can’t wait for the clincher. What was it? Did
he talk about his favorite Nintendo game?”
“Worse.” She sighed.
“Is he thinner than you?”
“Worse.” She sounded defeated.
“What on earth could be worse than that?”
“He lives on Long Island—”
“Lily! So he’s geographically undesirable. That doesn’t make him
undateable! You know better than to—”
“With his parents,” she interrupted.
Oh.
“For the past four years.”
Oh, my.
“And he absolutely loves it. Says he can’t imagine wanting to live
alone in such a big city when his mom and dad are such great
company.”
“Whoa! Say no more. I don’t think we’ve ever had a seven-tenths fall
all the way to a zero after the first date. Your guy set a new
record. Congratulations. Your day was officially worse than mine.” I
leaned over to kick my bedroom door closed when I heard Shanti and
Kendra come Home from work. I heard a guy’s voice with them and
wondered if either of my roommates had boyfriends. I’d seen them a
combined total of only ten minutes in the last week and a half,
because they seemed to work longer hours than I did.
“That bad? How could your day be bad? You work infashion, ” she
said.
There was a quiet knocking on the door.
“Hold on a sec, someone’s here. Come in!” I called to the door, much
too loud for the tiny space. I waited for one of my quiet roommates
to timidly ask if I’d remembered to call the landlord to put my name
on the lease (no) or bought more paper plates (no) or had taken down
any phone messages (no), but Alex appeared.
“Hey, can I call you back? Alex just showed up.” I was thrilled to
see him, so excited that he’d surprised me, but a small part of me
had been looking forward to just taking a shower and crawling into
bed.
“Sure. Tell him I say hi. And remember what a lucky girl you are for
having completed the fraction with him, Andy. He’s great. Hold on to
that one.”
“Don’t I know it. The kid’s a goddamn saint.” I smiled in his
direction.
“’Bye.”
“Hi!” I willed myself to first sit up, then stand up and walk over
to him. “What a great surprise!” I went to hug him but he backed
away, keeping his arms behind his back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all. I know you’ve had such a long week, and, knowing
you, I figured you hadn’t bothered to eat yet, so I brought the food
to you.” He pulled a huge brown paper bag from behind his back, one
of the old-school grocery style ones, and it already had some
delicious-smelling grease stains on it. All of a sudden, I was
starving.
“You did not! How’d you know that I was sitting here this very
second, wondering how I was going to motivate to find food? I was
just about to give up.”
“So come here and eat!” He looked pleased and pulled open the bag,
but we both couldn’t fit on the floor of my bedroom together. I
thought about eating in the living room since there was no kitchen,
but Kendra and Shanti had both collapsed in front of the TV
together, their untouched takeout salads open in front of them. I
thought they were waiting until theReal World episode they were
watching was over, but then I noticed that they’d both already
fallen asleep. Sweet lives we all had.
“Hold on, I have an idea,” he said and tiptoed to the kitchen. He
came back with two oversize garbage bags and spread them out over my
blue comforter. He dug into the greasy bag and brought out two giant
burgers with everything and one extra-large order of fries. He’d
remembered ketchup packets and tons of salt for me, and even the
napkins. I clapped I was so excited, although a quick visual of the
imagined disappointment on Miranda’s face appeared, one that
said,You? You’re eating a burger?
“I’m not done yet. Here, check it out.” And out of his backpack came
a fistful of tiny vanilla tea lights, a bottle of screw-top red
wine, and two waxy paper cups.
“You’re kidding,” I said softly, still not believing that he’d put
all this together after I’d canceled our date.
He handed me a cup of wine and tapped it with his. “No, I’m not. You
think I was going to miss hearing about the first week of the rest
of your life? To my best girl.”
“Thank you.” I said, slowly taking a sip. “Thank you, thank you,
thank you.”
6
“Ohmigod, is it the fashion editor herself?” Jill mock-shrieked when
she opened the front door. “Come on over here and let your big
sister genuflect a li’l.”
“Fashion editor?” I snorted. “Hardly. Try fashion mishap. Welcome
back to civilization.” I hugged her for what felt like ten minutes
and didn’t want to let go. It was hard when she’d started at
Stanford and left me all alone with our parents when I was a mere
nine years old, but it was even harder when she’d followed her
boyfriend—now husband—to Houston. Houston! The whole placed seemed
drenched in humidity and infested with mosquitoes to the point of
unbearability, and if that wasn’t bad enough, my sister—my
sophisticated, beautiful big sister who loved neoclassical art and
made your heart melt when she recited poetry—had developed a
southern accent. And not just a slight accent with a subtle,
charming southern lilt, but an all-out, unmistakable,
like-a-drill-through-the-eardrum redneck drawl. I’d yet to forgive
Kyle for dragging her to that wretched place, even if he was a
pretty decent brother-in-law, and it didn’t help when he opened his
mouth.
“Hey there, Andy darlin’, you’re looking more beautiful every time I
see you.”Yer lookin’ more beeyootiful avery time I see ya . “What
are they feeding y’all atRunway, huh?”
I wanted to stick a tennis ball in his mouth to keep him from
talking anymore, but he smiled at me and I walked over and hugged
him. He might sound like a hick and grin a little too openly and
often, but he tried really hard and he clearly adored my sister. I
vowed to make a sincere effort not to visibly cringe when he spoke.
“It’s not really what I’d call a feeding-friendly kind of place, if
you know what I mean. Whatever it is, it’s definitely in the water
and not the food. But never mind. Kyle, you look great yourself.
Keeping my sister busy in the city of misery, I hope?”
“Andy, just come and visit, sweetie. Bring Alex along and y’all can
make it a li’l vacation. It’s not that bad, you’ll see.” He smiled
first at me and then at Jill, who smiled back and brushed the back
of her hand across his cheek. They were disgustingly in love.
“Really, Andy, it’s a culture-rich place with a whole lot to do. We
both wish you’d come visit us more often. It’s just not right that
the only time we see each other is in this house,” she said, waving
expansively around our parents’ living room. “I mean, if you can
stand Avon, you can certainly stand Houston.”
“Andy, you’re here! Jay, the big New York City career girl is here,
come say hi,” my mom called as she rounded the corner coming from
the kitchen. “I thought you were going to call when you got to the
train station.”
“Mrs. Myers was picking Erika up from the same train, so she just
dropped me off. When are we eating? I’m starving.”
“Now. Do you want to clean up? We can wait. You look a little ragged
from the train. You know, it’s fine if—”
“Mother!” I shot her a warning look.
“Andy! You look dynamite. Come here and give your old man a hug.” My
dad, tall and still very handsome in his midfifties, smiled from the
hallway. He was holding a Scrabble box behind his back that he only
let me see by flashing it quickly by the side of his leg. He waited
until everyone looked away from him and pointed to the box and
mouthed, “I’ll kick your ass. Consider yourself warned.”
I smiled and nodded my head. Contrary to all common sense, I found
myself looking forward to the next forty-eight hours with my family
more than I had in the four years since I’d left Home. Thanksgiving
was my favorite holiday, and this year I was set to enjoy it more
than ever.
We gathered in the dining room and dug into the massive meal that my
mother had expertly ordered, her traditional Jewish version of a
night-before-Thanksgiving feast. Bagels and lox and cream cheese and
whitefish and latkes all professionally arranged on rigid disposable
serving platters, waiting to be transferred to paper plates and
consumed with plastic forks and knives. My mother smiled lovingly as
her brood dug in, with a look of pride on her face as if she’d been
cooking for a week to sustain and nurture her babies.
I told them all about the new job, tried as best as I could to
describe a job that I didn’t yet fully understand myself. Briefly I
wondered if it sounded ridiculous to tell them how the skirts were
called in and all the hours I’d logged wrapping and sending
presents, and how there was a little electronic ID card that tracked
everything you did. It was hard to fit into words the sense of
urgency each of these had taken on at the time, how when I was at
work it seemed that my job was supremely relevant, even important. I
talked and talked, but I didn’t know how to explain this world that
may have been only two hours away geographically but was really in a
different solar system. They all nodded and smiled and asked
questions, pretending to be interested, but I knew it was all too
foreign, too absolutely strange sounding and different to make any
sense to people who—like me until a few weeks earlier—had never even
heard the name Miranda Priestly. It didn’t make much sense to me
yet, either: it seemed overly dramatic at times and more than a
little Big Brother–esque, but it was exciting. And cool. It was
definitely, undeniably a supercool place to call work. Right?
“Well, Andy, you think you’ll be happy there for your year? Maybe
you’ll even want to stay longer, huh?” My mom asked while smearing
cream cheese on her salt bagel.
In signing my contract at Elias-Clark, I’d agreed to stay with
Miranda for a year—if I didn’t get fired, which at this point seemed
like a big if. And if I fulfilled my obligation with class and
enthusiasm and some level of competence—and this part was not in
writing but implied by a half-dozen people in HR, and Emily, and
Allison—then I would be in a position to name the job I’d like next.
It was expected, of course, that whichever job that may be would be
atRunway or, at the very least, at Elias-Clark, but I was free to
request anything from working on book reviews in the features
department to acting as a liaison between Hollywood celebrities
andRunway . Out of the last ten assistants who had made it through
their year in Miranda’s office, a full hundred percent had chosen to
move to the fashion department atRunway , but I didn’t let that
concern me. A stint in Miranda’s office was considered to be the
ultimate way to skip three to five years of indignity as an
assistant and move directly into meaningful jobs in prestigious
places.
“Definitely. So far everyone seems really nice. Emily’s a little,
um, well,committed, but otherwise, it’s been great. I don’t know, to
listen to Lily talk about her exams or Alex talk about all the
shitty things he has to deal with at work, I think I got pretty
lucky. Who else gets to drive around in a chauffeured car on their
first day? I mean, really. So yeah, I think it’ll be a great year,
and I’m excited for Miranda to come back. I think I’m ready.”
Jill rolled her eyes and shot me a look as if to say,Cut the
bullshit, Andy. We all know you’re probably working for a psycho
bitch surrounded by anorexic fashionistas and are trying to paint
this really rosy picture because you’re worried you’re in over your
head, but instead she said, “It sounds great, Andy, it really does.
Amazing opportunity.”
She was the only one at the table who could possibly understand,
since, before moving to the Third World, she’d worked for a year at
a small private museum in Paris and had developed an interest in
haute couture. Hers was more of an artistic and aesthetic hobby than
a consumer one, but she still had some exposure, at least, to the
fashion world. “We have some great news, too,” she continued,
reaching across the table for Kyle’s hand. He had set down his
Coffee and extended both his hands.
“Oh, thank god,” my mother instantly exclaimed, slumping over as if
someone had finally lifted the two-hundred-pound dumbbell that had
rested on her shoulders for the last two decades. “It’s about time.”
“Congratulations, you two! I have to say you’ve had your mother
really worried. You’re certainly not newlyweds anymore, you know. We
were beginning to wonder . . .” From the head of the table my dad
raised his eyebrows.
“Hey guys, that’s great. It’s about time I get to be an aunt. When’s
the little one due?”
They both looked dumbfounded, and for a moment I worried that we’d
gotten it all wrong, that their “good” news was that they were
building a newer, bigger Home in that swamp they lived in, or that
Kyle had finally decided to leave his father’s law firm and was
going to join my sister in opening the gallery she’d always dreamed
of. Maybe we’d jumped the gun on this one, been just a little too
eager to hear that a future niece or grandson was on the way. It was
all my parents could talk about lately, incessantly hashing and
rehashing the reasons why my sister and Kyle—already in their
thirties and with four years of marriage behind them—had yet to
reproduce. In the past six months, the subject had progressed from
time-consuming family obsession to perceived crisis.
My sister looked worried. Kyle frowned. My parents looked as though
they might both pass out from the silence. The tension was palpable.
Jill got out of her chair and walked over to Kyle, where she plopped
herself in his lap. She wrapped her arm behind the back of his neck
and leaned her face next to his, whispering in his ear. I glanced at
my mother, who looked about ten seconds away from unconsciousness,
the worry causing the small lines near her eyes to grow as deep as
trenches.
Finally, finally, they giggled, and turned toward the table, and
announced unanimously, “We’re going to have a baby.” And then there
was light. And shrieking. And hugging. My mother flew out of her
seat so fast that she knocked it over and, in turn, tipped over a
potted cactus that rested by the sliding-glass door. My dad grabbed
Jill and kissed her on both cheeks and the top of her head, and for
the first time I could remember since their wedding day, he kissed
Kyle, too.
I rapped my Dr. Brown’s black cherry can with a plastic fork and
announced that we needed a toast. “Please raise your glasses,
everyone, raise your glasses to the brand-new Sachs baby that will
be joining our family.” Kyle and Jill looked at me pointedly. “OK, I
guess technically it’s a Harrison baby, but it will be a Sachs at
heart. To Kyle and Jill, future perfect parents to the world’s most
perfect child.” We all clinked soda cans and coffee mugs and toasted
the grinning couple and my sister’s twenty-four-inch waist. I
cleaned up by throwing the entire contents of the table directly
into a garbage bag while my mom tried to pressure Jill to name the
baby after various dead relatives. Kyle sipped Coffee and looked
pleased with himself, and just before midnight my dad and I sneaked
off to his study for a game.
He turned up the white-noise machine he used when he had patients
during the day, both to block out the sounds of the household from
them and to keep anyone else in the house from hearing what was
discussed in his office. Like any good shrink, my dad had placed a
gray leather couch in the far corner, so soft I liked to rest my
head on the armrest, and three chairs that angled forward and held a
person in a kind of fabric sling. Womblike, he assured me. His desk
was sleek and black and topped with a flat-screen monitor, and the
matching black leather chair was high-backed and very plush. A wall
of psychology books encased in glass, a collection of bamboo stalks
in a very tall crystal vase on the floor, and some framed colorblock
prints—the only real color in the room—completed the futuristic
look. I flopped on the floor between the couch and his desk, and he
did the same.
“So, tell me what’s really going on, Andy,” he said as he handed me
a little wooden tile holder. “I’m sure you’re feeling really
overwhelmed right now.”
I picked my seven tiles and carefully arranged them in front of me.
“Yeah, it’s been a pretty crazy couple weeks. First moving, then
starting. It’s a weird place, hard to explain. It’s like, everyone’s
beautiful and thin and wearing gorgeous clothes. And they really do
seem nice enough—everybody’s been really friendly. Almost like
they’re all on serious prescription drugs. I don’t know . . .”
“What? What were you going to say?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. There’s just this feeling that it’s
all a house of cards that’s going to come crashing down around me. I
can’t shake the feeling that it’s ridiculous to be working for
afashion magazine, you know? The work’s been a little mindless so
far, but I don’t even care. It’s challenging enough because it’s all
new, you know?”
He nodded.
“I know it’s a ‘cool’ job, but I keep wondering how it’s preparing
me forThe New Yorker . I must just be looking for something to go
wrong, because so far it seems too good to be true. Hopefully, I’m
just crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, sweetie. I think you’re sensitive. But
I have to agree, I think you lucked out with this one. People go
their entire lives and don’t see the things you’ll see this year.
Just think! Your first job out of college, and you’re working for
the most important woman at the most profitable magazine at the
biggest magazine publishing company in the entire world. You’ll get
to watch it all happen, from the top down. If you just keep your
eyes open and your priorities in order, you’ll learn more in one
year than most people in the industry will see in their entire
careers.” He placed his first word in the middle of the board, JOLT.
“Not bad for an opening move,” I said and counted its worth, doubled
it because the first word always went on a pink star, and started a
scorecard. Dad: 22 points, Andy: 0. My letters weren’t showing much
promise. I added an A, M, and E to the L and accepted my paltry six
points.
“I just want to make sure you give it a fair shake,” he said,
switching his tiles around on his holder. “The more I think about
it, the more I’m convinced this is going to mean big things for
you.”
“Well, I sure hope you’re right, because I have enough paper cuts
from wrapping to last a long, long time. There better be more to the
whole thing than that.”
“There will be, sweetie, there will be. You’ll see. It might feel
like you’re doing silly stuff, but trust me, you’re not. This is the
start of something fantastic, I can feel it. And I’ve studied up on
your boss. This Miranda sounds like a tough woman, no doubt about
it, but I think you’re going to like her. And I think she’s going to
like you, too.”
He placed the word TOWEL down using my E and looked satisfied.
“I hope you’re right, Dad. I really hope you’re right.”
“She’s the editor in chief ofRunway —you know, the fashion
magazine?” I whispered urgently into the phone, trying valiantly not
to get frustrated.
“Oh, I know which one you mean!” said Julia, a publicity assistant
for Scholastic Books. “Great magazine. I love all those letters
where girls write in their embarrassing period stories. Are those
for real? Do you remember reading the one where—”
“No, no, not the one for teenagers. It’s most definitely for grown
women.” In theory, at least. “Have you really never seenRunway ?”Is
it humanly possible that she hasn’t? I wondered. “Anyway, it’s
spelled P-R-I-E-S-T-L-Y. Miranda, yes,” I said with infinite
patience. I wondered how she’d react if she knew I actually had
someone on the line who’d never heard of her. Probably not well.
“Well, if you could get back to me as soon as possible, I’dreally
appreciate it,” I told Julia. “And if a senior publicist gets in
anytime soon,please have her call me.”
It was a Friday morning in the middle of December and the sweet,
sweet freedom of the weekend was only ten hours away. I had been
trying to convince a fashion-oblivious Julia at Scholastic that
Miranda Priestly really was someone important, someone worth bending
rules and suspending logic for. This proved significantly more
difficult than I had anticipated. How could I have known that I’d
have to explain the weight of Miranda’s position to influence
someone who’d never even heard of the most prestigious fashion
magazine on earth—or its famous editor? In my four short weeks as
Miranda’s assistant, I’d already figured out that such
weight-throwing and favor-currying was merely part of my job, but
usually the person I was attempting to persuade, intimidate, or
otherwise pressure yielded completely at the mere mention of my
infamous boss’s name.
Unfortunately for me, Julia worked for an educational publishing
house where someone like Nora Ephron or Wendy Wasserstein was much
likelier to get VIP treatment than someone known for her impeccable
taste in fur. I inherently understood this. I tried to remember all
the way back to a time before I had ever heard of Miranda
Priestly—five weeks earlier—and couldn’t. But I knew that such a
magical time had existed. I envied Julia’s indifference, but I had a
job to do, and she wasn’t helping.
The fourth book in that wretched Harry Potter series was due to be
released the next day, a Saturday, and Miranda’s ten-year-old twin
daughters each wanted one. The first copies wouldn’t arrive in
stores until Monday, but I had to have them in my hands on Saturday
morning—mere minutes after they were released from the warehouse.
After all, Harry and the crew had to catch a private flight to
Paris.
My thoughts were interrupted by the phone. I picked it up as I
always did now that Emily trusted me enough to speak to Miranda. And
boy, did we speak—probably in the vicinity of two dozen times a day.
Even from afar, Miranda had managed to creep into my life and
completely take over, barking orders and requests and demands at a
rapid-fire pace from sevenA .M. until I was finally allowed to leave
at nineP .M.
“Ahn-dre-ah? Hello? Is anyone there? Ahn-dre-ah!” I jumped out of my
seat the moment I heard her pronounce my name. It took a moment to
remember and accept that she was not, in fact, in the office—or even
in the country, and for the time being, at least, I was safe. Emily
had assured me that Miranda was completely unaware that Allison had
been promoted or I had been hired, that these were insignificant
details lost on her. As long as someone answered the phone and got
her what she needed, that person’s actual identity was irrelevent.
“I simply do not understand what takes you so long to speak after
you pick up the phone,” she stated. From any other person on earth
that would have sounded whiny, but from Miranda it sounded
appropriately cold and firm. Just like her. “In case you haven’t
been here long enough to notice, when I call, you respond. It’s
actually simple. See? I call. You respond. Do you think you can
handle that, Ahn-dre-ah?”
I nodded like a six-year-old who’d just been reprimanded for
throwing spaghetti on the ceiling, even though she couldn’t see me.
I concentrated on not calling her “ma’am,” a mistake I’d made a week
earlier that had almost gotten me fired. “Yes, Miranda. I’m sorry,”
I said softly, head bowed. And for that moment Iwas sorry, sorry
that her words hadn’t registered in my brain three-tenths of a
second faster than they had, sorry that my tardiness in saying
“Miranda Priestly’s office” had taken a fraction of a second longer
than absolutely necessary. Her time was, as I was constantly
reminded, much more important than my own.
“All right then. Now, after wasting all that time, may we begin? Did
you confirm Mr. Tomlinson’s reservation?” she asked.
“Yes, Miranda, I made a reservation for Mr. Tomlinson at the Four
Seasons at one o’clock.”
I could see it coming a mile away. A mere ten minutes earlier she’d
called and ordered me to make a reservation at the Four Seasons and
call Mr. Tomlinson and her driver and the nanny to inform them of
the plans, and now she’d want to rearrange them.
“Well, I’ve changed my mind. The Four Seasons is not the appropriate
venue for his lunch with Irv. Reserve a table for two at Le Cirque,
and remember to remind the maître d’ that they will want to sit in
theback of the restaurant. Not on display in the front.The back .
That’s all.”
I had convinced myself when I first spoke with Miranda on the phone,
that by uttering “that’s all,” she really intended those words to
mean “thank you.” By the second week I’d rethought that.
“Of course, Miranda.Thank you, ” I said with a smile. I could sense
her pausing on the other end of the line, wondering how to respond.
Did she know I was calling attention to her refusal to say thank
you? Did it seem odd to her that I was thanking her for ordering me
around? I had recently begun thanking her after every one of her
sarcastic comments or nasty phone-in commands, and the tactic was
oddly comforting. She knew I was mocking her somehow, but what could
she say?Ahn-dre-ah, I never want to hear you thank me again. I
forbid you to express your gratitude in such a manner! Come to think
of it, that might not be that much of a stretch.
Le Cirque, Le Cirque, Le Cirque,I said over and over in my head,
determined to make that reservation ASAP so I could get back to the
significantly more difficult Harry Potter challenge. The Le Cirque
reservationist immediately agreed to have a table ready for Mr.
Tomlinson and Irv whenever they arrived.
Emily walked in a from a stroll around the office and asked me if
Miranda had called at all.
“Only three times, and she didn’t threaten to fire me during any of
them,” I said proudly. “Of course, she did intimate it, but she
didn’t all-out threaten. Progress, no?”
She laughed in the way she did only when I made fun of myself, and
she asked what Miranda, her guru, had wanted.
“Just wanted me to switch around B-DAD’s lunch reservation. Not sure
why I’m doing that when he has his own assistant, but hey, I don’t
ask questions around here.” Mr. Blind, Deaf, and Dumb was our
nickname for Miranda’s third husband. Although to the general public
he appeared to be none of those, those of us in the know were quite
confident he was all three. There was, quite simply, no other
explanation for how a nice guy like him could tolerate living
withher .
Next, it was time to call B-DAD himself. If I didn’t call soon, he
may not be able to get to the restaurant in time. He’d flown back
from their vacation for a couple days of Business meetings, and this
lunch with Irv Ravitz—Elias-Clark’s CEO—was among the most
important. Miranda wanted every detail perfect—as though that were
something new. B-DAD’s real name was Hunter Tomlinson. He and
Miranda had gotten married the summer before I started working,
after what I’d heard was a rather unique courtship: she pursued, he
demurred. According to Emily, she’d chased him relentlessly until
he’d yielded from the mere exhaustion of ducking her. She’d left her
second husband (the lead singer of one of the most famous bands from
the late sixties and the twins’ father) with absolutely no warning
before her lawyer delivered the papers, and was married again
precisely twelve days after the divorce was finalized. Mr. Tomlinson
followed orders and moved into her penthouse apartment on Fifth
Avenue. I’d only met Miranda once and I’d never met her new husband,
but I’d logged enough phone hours with each that I felt,
unfortunately, like they were family.
Three rings, four rings, five rings . . .hmm, I wonder where his
assistant is? I prayed for an answering machine, since I wasn’t in
the mood for the mindless, friendly chitchat of which B-DAD seemed
so fond. Instead, I got his secretary.
“Mr. Tomlinson’s office,” she trilled in her deep southern drawl.
“How may I help you today?”How mah I hep ya tuhday?
“Hi, Martha, it’s Andrea. Listen, I don’t need to talk to Mr.
Tomlinson, can you just give him a message for me? I made a
reservation for—”
“Darlin’, you know Mr. T. always wants to talk to you. Hold just a
sec.” And before I could protest, I was listening to the elevator
version of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” by Bobby McFerrin. Perfect. It
was fitting that B-DAD had picked the most annoyingly optimistic
song ever written to entertain callers when they were put on hold.
“Andy, is that you, sweetheart?” He asked quietly in his deep,
distinguished voice. “Mr. Tomlinson is going to think you’re
avoiding him. It’s been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking
with you.” A week and a half, to be precise. In addition to his
blindness, deafness, and dumbness, Mr. Tomlinson had the added
irritating habit of constantly referring to himself in the third
person.
I took a deep breath. “Hello, Mr. Tomlinson. Miranda asked me to let
you know that lunch is at one today at Le Cirque. She said that
you’d—”
“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, calmly. “Enough with all that
plan-making for just a second. Give an old man a moment of pleasure
and tell Mr. Tomlinson all about your life. Will you do that for
him? So tell me, dear, are you happy working for my wife?” Was I
happy working for his wife? Hmm, let’s see here. Are little baby
mammals squealing with glee when a predator swallows them whole?Why
of course, you putz, I’m deliriously happy working for your wife.
When neither of us is busy, we give each other mud masks and gossip
about our love lives. It’s a lot like a slumber party among friends,
if you must know. The whole thing is just one big laugh riot .
“Mr. Tomlinson, I love my job and I adore working for Miranda.” I
held my breath and prayed that he’d give it up.
“Well, Mr. T. is just thrilled that things are working out.”Great,
asshole, but are youthrilled?
“Sounds great, Mr. Tomlinson. Have a great lunch,” I cut him off
before he inevitably asked about my weekend plans, and hung up.
I sat back in my chair and gazed across the office suite. Emily was
engrossed in trying to reconcile another one of Miranda’s $20,000
American Express bills, her highly waxed brow furrowed in
concentration. The Harry Potter project loomed ahead of me, and I
had to get moving on it immediately if I ever wanted to get away
this weekend.
Lily and I had planned a movie marathon weekend. I was exhausted
from work and she was stressed out from her classes, so we’d
promised to spend the whole weekend parked on her couch and subsist
solely on beer and Doritos. No Snackwells. No Diet Coke. And
absolutely no black pants. Even though we talked all the time, we
hadn’t spent any real time together since I’d moved to the city.
We’d been best friends since eighth grade, when I first saw Lily
crying alone at a cafeteria table. She’d just moved in with her
grandmother and started at our school, after it became clear that
her parents weren’t coming Home any time soon. They’d taken off a
few months before to follow the Dead (they’d had her when they were
both nineteen and were more into bong hits than babies), leaving her
behind to be watched over by their whacked-out friends at the
commune in New Mexico (or as Lily preferred, the “collective”). When
they hadn’t returned almost a year later, Lily’s grandmother took
her from the commune (or as Lily’s grandmother preferred, the
“cult”) to live with her in Avon. The day I found her crying alone
in the cafeteria was the day her grandmother had forced her to chop
off her dirty dreadlocks and wear a dress, and Lily was not happy
about it. Something about the way she talked, the way she said,
“That’s so Zen of you,” and “Let’s just decompress,” charmed me, and
we immediately became friends. We’d been inseparable through the
rest of high school, had roomed together for all four years at
Brown. Lily hadn’t yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or
hemp necklaces and was still a little too “quirky” to do anything
totally mainstream, but we complemented each other well. And I
missed her. Because with her first year as a graduate student and my
being a virtual slave, we hadn’t seen a whole lot of each other
lately.
I couldn’t wait for the weekend. My fourteen-hour workdays were
registering in my feet, my upper arms, my lower back. Glasses had
replaced the contacts I’d worn for a decade because my eyes were too
dry and tired to accept them anymore. I smoked a pack a day and
subsisted solely on Starbucks (expensed, of course) and takeout
sushi (further expensed). I’d begun losing weight already. The
weight I’d lost from the dysentery had returned briefly, but after
my stint atRunway it had begun to disappear again. Something in the
air there, I suppose, or perhaps it was the intensity with which
food was eschewed in the office. I’d already weathered a sinus
infection and had paled significantly, and it had been only four
weeks. I was only twenty-three years old. And Miranda hadn’t even
been in the office yet. Fuck it. I deserved aweekend .
Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I wasnot pleased. Miranda had
called this morning. It took only a few moments for her to outline
what she wanted, although it took me forever to interpret it. I
learned quickly that in the Miranda Priestly world, it was better to
do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix
it than to admit you didn’t understand her convoluted and heavily
accented instructions and ask for clarification. So when she mumbled
something about getting the Harry Potter books for the twins and
having them flown to Paris, intuition alone told me this was going
to interfere with my weekend. When she hung up abruptly a few
minutes later, I looked to Emily with panic.
“What, oh, what, did she say?” I moaned, hating myself for being too
scared to ask Miranda to repeat herself. “Why can I not understand a
single word that woman utters? It’s not me, Em. I speak English,
always have. I know she does it to personally drive me crazy.”
Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity. “Since
the book comes out tomorrow and they’re not here to buy it, she
wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro. The jet
will take them to Paris,” she summed up coldly, daring me to comment
on the ludicrousness of the instructions. I was reminded once again
that Emily would do anything—really, anything—if it meant making
Miranda a bit more comfortable. I rolled my eyes and kept quiet.
Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her
bidding, and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power
(hers) at my personal disposal, I spent the rest of the day
arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Paris. First, a few
words for Julia at Scholastic.
Dearest Julia,
My assistant, Andrea, tells me that you’re the sweetheart to whom I
should address my most heartfelt appreciation. She has informed me
that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies
of this darling book for me tomorrow. I want you to know how much I
appreciate your hard work and cleverness. Please know how happy
you’ll make my sweet daughters. And don’t ever hesitate to let me
know if you need anything, anything at all, for a fabulous girl like
yourself.
XOXO,
Miranda Priestly
I forged her name with a perfect flourish (hour upon hour of
practicing with Emily standing over me, instructing me to make the
final “a” a little loopier, had finally paid off), attached the note
to the latest issue ofRunway —one not yet on the newsstand—and
called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to
Scholastic’s downtown office. If this didn’t work, nothing would.
Miranda didn’t care that we forged her signature—it saved her from
bothering with details—but she’d probably be livid to see that I’d
penned something so polite, soadorable, using her name.
Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if
Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the
weekends, but I was now experienced—and jaded—enough to bend the
rules a little. Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be
at the airport in New Jersey whenHarry arrived the following day, I
saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him. Acting under
the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with
a couple copies, I worked out some details. Dial, dial, and within
an hour a plan had emerged.
Brian, a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic—whom I was
assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours—would
take Home two office copies ofHarry that evening, so he wouldn’t
have to go back to the office on Saturday. Brian would leave the
books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building,
and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven.
Miranda’s driver, Uri, would then call me on my Cell Phone to
confirm that he’d received the package and was on his way to drop it
at Teterboro airport, where the two books would be transferred to
Mr. Tomlinson’s private jet and flown to Paris. I briefly considered
conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB
operation even more, but dropped that when I remembered that Uri
didn’t really speak regular English that well. I had checked to see
how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there, but delivery
couldn’t be guaranteed until Monday, which was obviously
unacceptable. Hence the private plane. If all went as planned,
little Cassidy and Caroline could wake up in their private Parisian
suite on Sunday and enjoy their morning milk while reading about
Harry’s adventures—a full day earlier than all of their friends. It
warmed my heart, it really did.
Minutes after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate
people put on alert, Julia called back. Although it’d be a grueling
task and she was likely to get in trouble, she’d be happy to give
Brian two copies for Ms. Priestly. Amen.
“Do you believe he gotengaged ?” Lily asked as she rewound the copy
ofFerris Bueller we’d just finished. “I mean, we’re twenty-three
years old for goodness sake—what’s the rush?”
“I know, it does seem weird.” I called from the kitchen. “Maybe Mom
and Dad won’t let him have access to the massive trust fund until
he’s settled down? That’d be enough motivation to put a ring on her
finger. Or maybe he’s just lonely?”
Lily looked at me and laughed. “Naturally, he can’t just be in love
with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her, right? I
mean, we’ve established that that’s totally out of the question,
right?”
“Correct. That’s not an option. Try again.”
“Well, then, I’m forced to pick curtain number three. He’s gay. He
finally came to the realization himself—even though I’ve known
forever—and realizes that Mom and Dad won’t be able to handle it, so
he’ll cover by marrying the first girl he can find. What do you
think?”
Casablancawas next on the list, and Lily fast-forwarded past the
opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny
kitchen of her nonalcove studio in Morningside Heights. We lazed
around straight through Friday night—breaking only to smoke and make
another Blockbuster run. Saturday afternoon found us particularly
motivated, and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours.
We each bought new tank tops for Lily’s upcoming New Year’s party
and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk café. By the
time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday, we were exhausted
and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating betweenWhen
Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday Night Live . It was so thoroughly
relaxing, such a departure from the misery that had become my daily
routine, I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I
heard a phone ring on Sunday. Ohmigod, it was Her! I overheard Lily
speaking in Russian to someone, probably a classmate, on her Cell
Phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear lord: it wasn’t Her.
But that still didn’t let me off the hook. It was already Sunday
morning, and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way
to Paris. I had enjoyed my weekend so much—had actually managed to
relax enough—that I had forgotten to check. Of course, my phone was
on and set to the highest ring level, but I never should’ve waited
for someone to call me with a problem, when of course it’d be too
late to do anything. I should’ve taken preemptive action and
confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our
highly choreographed plan had worked.
I dug frantically through my overnight bag, searching for the cell
phone given to me byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven
digits away from Miranda. I finally freed it from a tangle of
underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed.
The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at
that point, and I knew immediately, instinctively, that she had
called and it had gone directly to voice mail. I hated that Cell
Phone with my entire soul. I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen Home
phone by this point. I hated Lily’s phone, commercials for phones,
pictures of phones in magazines, and I even hated Alexander Graham
Bell. Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate
side effects in my day-to-day life, but the most unnatural one was
my severe and all-consuming hatred of phones.
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. Some people considered the many available
phone features to be a novelty, even fun. For me, they were nothing
short of imperative. Although I’d never had so much as call waiting
before Miranda, a few days into my tenure atRunway I was signed up
for call waiting (so she’d never get a busy signal), caller ID (so I
could avoid her calls), call waiting with caller ID (so I could
avoid her calls while talking on the other line), and voice mail (so
she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear
an answering machine message). Fifty bucks a month for phone
service—before long distance—seemed a small price to pay for my
peace of mind. Well, not peace of mind exactly; more like early
warning.
The Cell Phone afforded me no such barriers. Sure, it had all the
same features as the Home phone, but from Miranda’s point of view
there was simply no reasonwhatsoever for the cell to ever be turned
off. It could never go unanswered. The few reasons for such a
situation that I’d thrown out to Emily when she’d first handed me
the phone—a standardRunway office supply—and told me to always
answer it were quickly eliminated.
“What if you were sleeping?” I had stupidly asked.
“So get up and answer it,” she’d answered while filing down a
scraggly nail.
“Sitting down to a really fancy meal?”
“Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table.”
“Getting a pelvic exam?”
“They’re not looking in your ears, are they?” All right then. I got
it.
I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it. It kept me tied
to Miranda like an umbilical cord, refusing to let me grow up or out
or away from my source of suffocation. She calledconstantly, and
like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry, my body had begun
responding viscerally to its ring.Brring-brring. Increased heart
rate.Briiiing. Automatic finger clenching and shoulder
tensing.Brriiiiiiiiiiiing. Oh, why won’t she leave me alone, please,
oh, please, just forget I’m alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead.
This whole glorious weekend I’d never even considered the phone
might not have service and had just assumed it would’ve rung if
there was a problem. Mistake number one. I roamed the couple hundred
square feet until AT&T decided to work again, held my breath, and
dialed into my voice mail.
Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily. A friend
from San Francisco found himself on Business in New York that week
and wanted to get together. My sister called to remind me to send a
birthday card to her husband. And there it was, almost unexpected
but not quite, that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears.
“Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in
Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at
the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That’s all.”
Click.
The bile began to rise in my throat. As usual, the message lacked
all niceties. No hello, good-bye, or thank you. Obviously. But more
than that, it had been left nearly half a day ago, and I had still
not called her back. Grounds for dismissal, I knew, and there was
nothing I could do about it. Like an amateur, I’d assumed my plan
would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized that Uri had never
called to confirm the pickup and drop-off. I scanned through the
address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s Cell Phone number,
another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well.
“Hi, Uri, it’s Andrea. Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was
wondering if you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty-seventh
and Amsterdam?”
“Hi, Andy, eet’s so nice to hear your woice,” he crooned in the
thick Russian accent I always found so comforting. He’d been calling
me Andy like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met,
and coming from him—as opposed to B-DAD—I didn’t mind it. “Of course
I pick up the bouks, just like you say. You tink I don’t vant to
help you?”
“No, no, of course not, Uri. It’s just that I got a message from
Miranda saying that they hadn’t received them yet, and I’m wondering
what went wrong.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then offered me the name and number
of the pilot who was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said, scribbling the number
down frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful. “I’ve
got to run. Sorry I can’t talk, but have a great weekend.”
“Yes, yes, good veekend to you, Andy. I tink the pilot man will help
you trace the bouks. Nice luck to you,” he said merrily and hung up.
Lily was making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her, but I
had to deal with this now or I was out of a job. Or maybe I’d
already been fired, I thought, and no one had even bothered to tell
me. Not outside the realm ofRunway possibility, remembering the
fashion editor who’d been fired while on her honeymoon. She herself
stumbled across her change in job status by reading about it in a
copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily in Bali. I quickly called the number that
Uri had given me for the pilot and thought I’d pass out from
frustration when an answering machine picked up.
“Hi, Jonathan? This is Andrea Sachs fromRunway magazine. I’m Miranda
Priestly’s assistant, and I needed to ask you a question about the
flight yesterday. Oh, come to think of it, you’re probably still in
Paris, or maybe on your way back. Well, I just wanted to see if the
books, and uh, well, you of course, made it to Paris in one piece.
Can you call my cell? 917-555-8702. Please, as soon as possible.
Thanks. ’Bye.”
I thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he’d
remember receiving the car that would have brought the books from
the private airport on the outskirts of Paris but quickly realized
that my cell didn’t dial internationally. It was quite possibly the
only task it was not programmed to handle, and it was, of course,
the only one that mattered. At that moment, Lily announced that she
had a plate of waffles and a cup of Coffee for me. I walked into the
kitchen and took the food. She was sipping a Bloody Mary. Ugh. It
was a Sunday morning. How could she be drinking?
“Having a Miranda moment?” she asked with a look of sympathy.
I nodded. “Think I screwed up pretty badly this time,” I said,
gratefully accepting the plate. “This one just might get me fired.”
“Oh, sweetie, you always say that. She won’t fire you. She hasn’t
even seen you hard at work yet. At least, she better not fire
you—you have the greatest job in the world!”
I looked at her warily and willed myself to remain calm.
“Well, you do,” she said. “So she sounds difficult to please and a
little crazy. Who isn’t? You still get free shoes and makeovers and
haircuts and clothes. The clothes! Who on earth gets free designer
clothes just for showing up at work each day? Andy, you work
atRunway, don’t you understand? A million girls would kill for your
job.”
I understood. I understood right then that Lily, for the first time
since I met her nine years before,didn’t understand. She, like all
my other friends, loved hearing the crazy work stories I’d
accumulated in the past weeks—the gossip and the glamour—but she
didn’t really understand just how hard each day was. She didn’t
understand that the reason I continued to show up, day after day,
was not for the free clothes, didn’t understand that all the free
clothes in the world wouldn’t make this job bearable. It was time to
bring one of my best friends into my world, where, I was quite
certain, shewould understand. She just needed to be told. Yes! It
was time to share with someone exactly what was going on. I opened
my mouth to start, excited at the prospect of having an ally, but my
phone rang.
Dammit! I wanted to throw it against the wall, tell whoever was on
the other end to go to hell. But a small part of me hoped it was
Jonathan with some information. Lily smiled and told me to take my
time. I nodded sadly and answered.
“Is this Andrea?” asked a man’s voice.
“Yes, is this Jonathan?”
“It is indeed. I just called Home and got your message. I’m flying
back from Paris right now, somewhere over the Atlantic as we speak,
but you sounded so worried I wanted to call you back right away.”
“Thank you! Thank you! I really appreciate it. Yes, I am a bit
worried, because I got a call from Miranda earlier today and it
seems strange that she hadn’t yet received the package. You did give
it to the driver in Paris, right?”
“Sure did. You know, miss, in my Business I don’t ask any questions.
Just fly where I’m told and when and try to get everyone there in
one piece. But it’s sure not often I end up flying overseas with
nothing onboard but a package. Must’ve been something real
important, I imagine, like an organ for a transplant or maybe some
classified documents. So yes, I took real good care of that package
and I gave it to the driver, just like I was told. Nice fella from
the Ritz. No problems.”
I thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged
for a driver to meet Mr. Tomlinson’s private plane at de Gaulle and
transfer Harry back to the hotel. If everything went as planned,
Miranda should’ve had those books by seven in the morning local
time, and considering it was already late afternoon there, I
couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. There was no choice: I had to
call the concierge, and since my cell wouldn’t dial internationally,
I had to find a phone that did.
I took the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped
them in the garbage. Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep.
I hugged her good-bye and told her I’d call her later and headed out
to hail a cab back to the office.
“What about today?” she whined. “I haveThe American President all
lined up and ready to go. You can’t leave yet—our weekend’s not
over!”
“I know, I’m sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There’s
nothing I’d rather do than stay here, but she’s got me on a pretty
short leash right now. I’ll call you later?”
The office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely
brunching at Pastis with their investment banker boyfriends. I sat
in my darkened area, took a deep breath, and dialed. Blissfully,
Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz concierges, was available.
“Andrea, dear, how are you? We’re simply delighted to have Miranda
and the twins back with us again so soon,” he lied. Emily told me
that Miranda stayed at the Ritz so frequently that the entire hotel
staff knew her and the girls by name.
“Yes, Monsieur Renaud, and I know she’s just thrilled to be there,”
I lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was,
Miranda found fault with his every move. To his credit, he never
stopped trying, and he never stopped lying about how much he loved
her, either. “Listen, I’m wondering if that car you sent to meet
Miranda’s plane made it back to the hotel already?”
“Well of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must’ve returned here
before eight o’clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on
staff,” he said proudly. If only he knew what his best driver had
been sent to shuttle around town.
“Well, that’s so strange, because I got a message from Miranda
saying that she never received the package, but I’ve checked with
the driver here who swears he dropped it at the airport, the pilot
who swears he flew it to Paris and gave it to your driver, and now
you who remember it arriving at the hotel. How could she not have
received it?”
“It seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself,” he
trilled in a fake-happy voice. “Why don’t I connect you?”
I had hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t come to this, that I’d
be able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to
her. What would I tell her if she still insisted that she’d never
received the package? Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the
table in her suite, where it was inevitably left hours earlier? Or
was I supposed to go through the whole thing, private jet and all,
and get her two more copies by the end of the day? Or perhaps I
should hire a secret service agent next time to accompany the books
on their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their
safe arrival? Something to think about.
“Sure, Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help.”
A few clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from
the tension, so I wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to
think what would happen if Miranda saw me wearing sweatpants in her
office.Be calm, be confident, I coached myself.She can’t disembowel
me over the phone .
“Yes?” I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my
self-help thoughts. It was Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had
perfected her mother’s brusque phone manner perfectly. Cassidy at
least had the courtesy to answer the phone with a “hello.”
“Hi, sweetie,” I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child.
“It’s Andrea, from the office. Is your mom there?”
“You mean mymum ?” she corrected as she always did when I used the
American pronunciation. “Sure, I’ll get her.”
A moment or two later, Miranda was on the line.
“Yes, Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel
about being interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls,” she
stated in her cold, clipped way.You know how I feel about being
interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls? I wanted to
scream.Are you fucking kidding me, lady? You think I’m calling for
my goddamn health? Because I couldn’t bear to go a single weekend
without hearing your miserable voice? And what about me spending
time with mygirls? I thought I’d pass out from anger, but I took a
deep breath and dove right in.
“Miranda, I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but I’m calling to ensure
that you received the Harry Potter books. I heard your message
saying that you hadn’t yet received them, but I’ve spoken to
everyone and—”
She interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely.
“Ahn-dre-ah. You should really listen more closely. I said no such
thing. We received the package early this morning. Incidentally, it
came so early that they woke us all up for the silly thing.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t dream that she’d
left the message, did I? I was still too young even for early-onset
Alzheimer’s, right?
“What I said was that we didn’t receiveboth copies of the book, as I
had requested. The package included only one, and I’m sure you can
imagine just how disappointed the girls are. They were really
looking forward to each having theirown copy, as I had requested. I
need you to explain why my orders weren’t followed.”
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. I was definitely
dreaming now, living some sort of alternate-universe existence where
anything resembling rationality and logic were suspended
indefinitely. I wouldn’t even let myself consider the absurdity of
what was unfolding.
“Miranda, I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered
two,” I stammered, hating myself yet again for pandering. “I spoke
to the girl at Scholastic and am quite sure that she understood that
you needed two copies of the book, so I can’t imagine—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I’m not particularly
interested in hearing yours now. I expect something like this will
never happen again, correct? That’s all.” She hung up.
I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening
to the squawking off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed
against my ear. My mind raced, full of questions. Could I kill her?
I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would
they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I
concluded—everybody, at least atRunway, had a motive. Do I really
have the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow,
agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure—what
would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?
I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood
her message when I listened to it earlier? I grabbed my Cell Phone
and replayed the messages.“Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in
the morning on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received
their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive
shortly. That’s all.” Nothing was really wrong. She may have
received one copy instead of two, but she deliberately gave me the
impression that I’d made a tremendous, career-ending mistake. She’d
called with no concern that her nineA .M. call would have reached me
at threeA .M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She’d called to
drive me a little crazier, push me a little bit harder. She’d called
to dare me to defy her. She’d called to make me hate her that much
more.
7
Lily’s New Year’s party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper
cups of champagne at Lily’s place with a bunch of people from
college and some others they managed to drag along. I was never a
big fan of the holiday. I don’t remember who first called it
“Amateur Night” (I think it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went
out the other 364 days a year, but I tend to agree. All that forced
drinking and merry-making did not a good time guarantee. So Lily had
stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the $150 tickets
to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of
actually freezing in Times Square. We’d each brought a bottle of
something not too poisonous, and she had passed out noisemakers and
glittery tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the
New Year on her rooftop overlooking Harlem. Although we’d all had
way too much to drink, Lily was pretty much nonfunctional by the
time everyone else had left. She had already thrown up twice, and I
was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex and I had
packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed
at my place, Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for
a big brunch the next day.
I was glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on
with my life and get started—really started—on my new job. Even
though it felt like I’d been working for a decade, I was technically
just beginning. I had a lot of hope that things would improve once
Miranda and I started working together day to day. Anyone could be a
cold-hearted monster over the phone, especially someone who was
uncomfortable with vacations and being so far away from work. But I
was convinced that the misery of that first month would give way to
a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all
unfold.
It was a little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was
actually happy to be at work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some
guy she met at a New Year’s party in LA, some “superhot,
up-and-coming songwriter” who had promised to come visit her in New
York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting with the associate
beauty editor who sat down the hall, a really sweet guy who’d
graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn’t yet know—even despite
the college choice and the fact that he was abeauty editor at
afashion magazine—that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.
“Oh, come with me, please? It’ll be so fun, I promise. I’ll
introduce you to some real hotties, Andy, you’ll see. I have some
gorgeous straight friends. Besides, it’sMarshall ’s party—it’s got
to be great,” James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my
e-mail. Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite,
detailing her rendezvous with the long-haired singer.
“I would, you know I would, but I’ve had these plans with my
boyfriend tonight since before Christmas,” I said. “We’ve been
planning on going out to a really nice dinner together for weeks,
and I canceled on him last time.”
“So see him after! Come on, it’s not every day you get a chance to
meet the single most talented colorist in the civilized world, is
it? And there will be loads of celebrities and everyone will look
gorgeous, and, well, I just know it’ll be the most glamorous party
of the week! Harrison and Shriftman is putting it on, for
chrissake—you can’t beat that. Say yes.” He squinted his face into
exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.
“James, I’d really, really like to—I’ve never even been to the
Plaza! But I really can’t change these plans. Alex made reservations
at this little Italian place right by his apartment and there’s no
way I can reschedule.” I knew I couldn’t cancel, and I didn’t want
to—I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new
after-school program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be
the same night as this party. I’d been reading about it in the
papers for the past week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was
ecstatically waiting for Marshall Madden, hair colorist
extraordinaire, to host his annual post–New Year’s blowout. They
were saying that this year was going to be even bigger than usual
because Marshall had just published a new book,Color Me Marshall .
But I wasn’t going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some star
party.
“Well, OK, but don’t say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don’t
come crying to me when you read inPage Six tomorrow that I was
spotted with Mariah or J-Lo. Just don’t.” And he huffed away, half
joking that he was angry, half not, since he seemed to be in a
perpetual snit anyway.
So far, the week after New Year’s had been easy. We were still
unwrapping and cataloging presents—I had gotten to unveil the most
stunning pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos this morning—but
there were none left to send and the phones were quiet since many
people were still away. Miranda would be returning from Paris at the
end of the week but wouldn’t be in the office until Monday. Emily
felt confident that I was ready to handle her, and so was I. We’d
run through everything, and I’d taken nearly an entire legal pad
full of notes. I glanced down at it, hoping I’d remember everything.
Coffee: Starbucks only, tall latte, two raw sugars, two napkins, one
stirrer. Breakfast: Mangia delivery, 555–3948, one soft cheese
Danish, four slices bacon, two sausage links. Newspapers: newsstand
in lobby,New York Times, Daily News, New York Post, theFinancial
Times, theWashington Post, USA Today, theWall Street Journal,
Women’s Wear Daily, and theNew York Observer on Wednesdays. Weekly
magazines, available Mondays:Time, Newsweek, U.S. News, The New
Yorker (!),Time Out New York, New York, theEconomist . And on and on
it went, listing her favorite flowers and her most-hated flowers,
her doctors’ names and addresses and Home phone numbers, her
household help, her snack preferences, her preferred bottled water,
every size she wore in every article of clothing from lingerie to
ski boots. I made lists of people she wanted to talk to (Always),
and separate lists for people she never wanted to talk to (Never). I
wrote and wrote and wrote as Emily revealed these things throughout
our weeks together, and when we were finished, I felt there was
nothing I did not know about Miranda Priestly. Except, of course,
what exactly made her so important that I’d filled a legal pad with
likes and dislikes. Why, exactly, was I supposed to care?
“Yeah, he’s amazing,” Emily was sighing, twisting the phone cord
round and round her forefinger. “It was the most romantic weekend I
think I’ve ever had.”
Ping! You have a new e-mail from Alexander Fineman. Click here to
open. Oooh, fun. Elias-Clark had firewalled instant messenger, but
for some reason I could still receive instant notifications that I’d
received a new e-mail. I’d take it.
Hey baby, how’s your day?? Things are crazy here, as usual. Remember
I told you that Jeremiah had threatened all the little girls with a
box cutter he’d brought from Home? Well, it seems he was serious—he
brought another one to school today and sliced one of the girls’
arms at recess and called her a bitch. Not a deep cut at all, but
when the teacher on duty asked him where he’d gotten such an idea,
he said he saw his mom’s boyfriend do it to his mom. He’s six years
old, Andy, can you believe it? Anyway, the principal called an
emergency faculty meeting tonight, so I’m afraid I can’t make
dinner. I’m so sorry! But I have to say, I’m happy that they’re
responding to this at all—it’s more than I had hoped for. You
understand, don’t you? Please don’t be mad. I’ll call you later, and
I promise to make it up to you. Love, A
Please don’t be mad? I hope you understand? One of his
fourth-graders hadslashed another student and he was hoping I’d be
OK with him canceling dinner? I’d canceled on him my first week
because I’d thought my week of riding around in a limo and wrapping
presents had been too demanding. I wanted to cry, to call him and
tell him it was more than OK, that I was proud of him for caring
about these kids, for taking the job in the first place. I hit
“reply” and was just about to write as much when I heard my name.
“Andrea! She’s on her way in. She’ll be here in ten minutes,” Emily
announced loudly, obviously struggling to remain calm.
“Hmm? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what—”
“Miranda is on her way into the office this moment. We need to get
ready.”
“On her way into the office? But I thought she wasn’t even coming
back to the country until Saturday . . .”
“Well, clearly she changed her mind. Now, move! Go downstairs and
get her papers and lay them out just the way I told you. When you’re
done, wipe down her desk and leave a glass of Pellegrino on the
left-hand side, with ice and a lime. And make sure that her bathroom
is stocked, OK? Go! She’s already in the car, so she should be here
in less than ten minutes, depending on traffic.”
As I raced out of the office, I could hear Emily rapid-fire dialing
four-digit extensions and all but screaming, “She’s on her way—tell
everyone.” It took me only three seconds to wind through the
hallways and pass through the fashion department, but I already
heard panicked cries of “Emily said she’s on her way in” and
“Miranda’s coming!” and a particularly blood-curdling cry of
“She’sbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack !” Assistants were frantically
straightening clothes on the racks that lined the halls, and editors
were racing into their offices, where I could see one changing from
her kitten-heeled shoes to four-inch stilettos while another lined
her lips, curled her lashes, and adjusted her bra strap without so
much as slowing down. As the publisher walked out of the men’s room,
I glanced past him and saw James, looking frenzied, checking his
black cashmere sweater for lint while spastically popping Altoids in
his mouth. Unless the men’s room was wired with loudspeakers for
these very occasions, I wasn’t even sure how he’d heard yet.
I was dying to stop and watch the scene unfold, but I had less than
ten minutes to prepare for my first meeting with Miranda as her
actual assistant, and I wasn’t going to blow it. Until then I’d been
trying not to appear as if I’d been actually running, but upon
witnessing the utter lack of dignity everyone else had demonstrated,
I broke into a sprint.
“Andrea! You know Miranda’s on her way here, don’t you?” Sophy
called from the reception desk as I flew by.
“Yeah, I know, but how do you know?”
“Sweetie pie, I know everything. Now I suggest you get your butt in
gear. One thing’s for sure: Miranda Priestly doesnot like to be kept
waiting.”
I leapt onto the elevator and called out a thank you. “I’ll be back
in three minutes with the papers!”
The two women on the elevator stared at me in disgust, and I
realized that I had been screaming.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “We just found out that
our editor in chief is on her way to the office and we weren’t
prepared, so everyone’s a little edgy now.”Why am I explaining
myself to these people?
“Ohmigod, you must work for Miranda! Wait, let me guess. You’re
Miranda’s new assistant? Andrea, right?” The leggy brunette flashed
what must’ve been four dozen teeth and moved forward like a piranha.
Her friend instantly brightened.
“Um, yeah. Andrea,” I said, repeating my own name as though I wasn’t
entirely sure it was mine. “And yes, I’m Miranda’s new assistant.”
At that moment the elevator hit the lobby and the doors opened to
the stark white marble. I moved ahead of the women and bolted
through before the doors had opened entirely and heard one of them
call, “You’re a lucky girl, Andrea. Miranda’s an amazing woman, and
a million girls would die for your job!”
I tried not to slam into a group of very unhappy-looking lawyers,
and nearly flew into the newsstand in the corner of the lobby, where
a little Kuwaiti man named Ahmed presided over a sleek display of
glossy titles and a noticeably sparser array of mostly sugar-free
candy and diet sodas. Emily had introduced Ahmed and me to each
other before Christmas as part of my training, and I was hoping he
could be enlisted to help me now.
“Stop right there!” he cried as I began pulling newspapers out of
their wire racks by the register. “You are Miranda’s new girl,
right? Come here.”
I swiveled to see Ahmed lean down and ferret under the register, his
face turning a bit too red under the strain. “Ah-ha!” he cried
again, springing to his feet with all the agility of an old man with
two broken legs. “For you. So you don’t make a mess of my display, I
keep them aside for you each day. And maybe to make sure I don’t run
out, too.” He winked.
“Ahmed, thank you. I can’t even tell you how much this helps me. Do
you think I should get the magazines now, too?”
“I sure do. Look, it’s already Wednesday and they all came out on
Monday. Your boss probably don’t like that so much,” he said
knowingly. And again he reached under the register and again he rose
with an armful of magazines, which, after a quick glance, I
confirmed were all the ones on my list—no more, no less.
ID card, ID card, where the hell was that goddamn ID card? I reached
inside my starched white button-down and found the silk lanyard that
Emily had fashioned for me out of one of Miranda’s white Hermès
scarves. “Never actually wear the card when she’s around, of
course,” she had said, “but just in case you forget to take it off,
at least you won’t be wearing it on a plastic chain.” She had
practically spit out the last two words.
“Here you go, Ahmed. Thank you so much for your help, but I’m in a
big, big rush. She’s on her way in.”
He swiped my card down the reader on the side of the machine and
placed the scarf lanyard around my neck like a lei. “Run, now. Run!”
I grabbed the overflowing plastic bag and ran, pulling my ID card
out again to swipe against the security turnstiles that would allow
me to enter the Elias-Clark elevator bank. I swiped and pushed.
Nothing. I swiped and pushed again, this time harder. Nothing.
“Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they’re
okay-ay,”Eduardo, the round and slightly sweaty security guard,
began singing in a high-pitched voice from behind the security desk.
Shit. I already knew without looking that his smile, conspiratorial
and enormous, demanded again—as it had every single day for the past
few weeks—that I play along. It seems he had a never-ending supply
of annoying tunes that he loved to sing, and he wouldn’t let me
through the turnstiles until I acted them out. The day before was
“I’m Too Sexy.” As he sang,“I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for
Milan, New York and Japan,” I had to walk down the lobby’s imaginary
runway. It could be fun when I was in a decent mood. Sometimes it
even made me smile. But it was my very first day with Miranda, and I
couldn’t be late getting her things set up, I just couldn’t. I
wanted tohurt him for holding me up as everyone else breezed past
the security desk in the turnstiles on each side of me.
“If they don’t give me proper credit, I just walk away-ay,”I
muttered, allowing the words to stretch and fade, just like Madonna.
He raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the enthusiasm, girlfriend?”
I thought I’d do something violent if I heard his voice again, so I
dropped my bag of papers on the counter, threw both arms up in the
air and thrust my hips to the left, while pursing my lips into a
dramatic pout.“A material! A material! A material! A material . . .
WORLD!” I all but screamed, and he cackled and clapped andwhoosh !
He buzzed me through.
Mental note: Discuss with Eduardo when and where it is appropriate
to make a complete ass of me.Once again, I dove onto the elevators
and raced past Sophy, who kindly opened the doors to the floor
without my even asking. I even remembered to stop in one of the
minikitchens and put some ice in one of the Baccarat goblets we kept
in a special cabinet over the microwave just for Miranda. Glass in
one hand, newspapers in another, I peeled around the corner and
smashed directly into Jessica, a.k.a. Manicure Girl. She looked both
annoyed and panic-stricken.
“Andrea, are you aware that Miranda is on her way to the office?”
she asked, looking me up and down.
“Sure am. I’ve got her newspapers right here and her water right
here, and now I just need to get them back to her office. If you’ll
excuse me . . .”
“Andrea!” she called as I ran past her, an ice cube flying out of
the glass and landing outside the art department. “Remember to
change your shoes!”
I stopped dead in my tracks and looked down. I was wearing a pair of
funky street sneakers, the kind that weren’t designed to do anything
but look cool. The rules of dress—unspoken and otherwise—were
obviously relaxed when Miranda was away, and even though every
single person in the office looked fantastic, each was wearing
something they would swear up and down that they’d never, ever wear
in front of Miranda. My bright red, mesh sneakers were a prime
example.
I had broken a sweat by the time I made it back to our suite. “I’ve
got all the papers and I bought the magazines, too, just in case.
The only thing is, I don’t think I can wear these shoes, can I?”
Emily tore the headset from her ear and flung it down on her desk.
“No, of course you can’t wear those.” She picked up the phone,
dialed four digits, and announced, “Jeffy, bring me a pair of
Jimmy’s in a size . . .” She looked at me.
“Nine and a half.” I pulled a small bottle of Pellegrino out of the
closet and filled the glass.
“Nine and a half. No, now. No, Jeff, I’m serious. Right now. Andrea
is wearingsneakers for chrissake,red sneakers, and She’s going to be
here any minute. OK, thanks.”
It was then I noticed that in the four minutes I’d been downstairs,
Emily had managed to switch her faded jeans to leather pants and her
own funky sneakers to open-toe stilettos. She’d also cleaned up the
entire office suite, sweeping the contents of both our desks into
drawers and stashing all of the incoming gifts that hadn’t yet been
transferred to Miranda’s apartment in the closet. She had slicked on
a fresh coat of lip gloss and added some color to her cheeks and was
presently motioning for me to get moving.
I grabbed the bag of newspapers and shook them out in a pile on the
lightbox in her office, a sort of underlit table where Emily said
Miranda would stand for hours on end and examine film that had come
in from photo shoots. But it was also where she liked her papers
arranged, and once again, I consulted my legal pad for the correct
order. First, theNew York Times, followed by theWall Street Journal,
and then theWashington Post . And on and on the order went in a
pattern I couldn’t distinguish, each placed slightly on top of the
one before it until they fanned out across the table in
formation.Women’s Wear Daily was the single exception: this was to
be placed in the middle of her desk.
“She’s here! Andrea, come out here! She’s on her way up,” I heard
Emily hiss from the outer area. “Uri just called to tell me he just
dropped her off.”
I putWWD on her desk, placed the Pellegrino on a corner of her desk
on a linen napkin (which side? I couldn’t remember which side it was
supposed to go on), and darted from the office, taking one last look
around to ensure that everything was in order. Jeffy, one of the
fashion assistants who helped organize the fashion closet, tossed me
a shoe box with a rubber band around it and bolted. I pulled it open
immediately. Inside were a pair of Jimmy Choo heels with straps made
of camel hair going every which way and buckles nestled in the
middle of it all, probably worth around eight hundred dollars. Shit!
I had to get these on. I yanked off my sneakers and my now sweaty
socks and tossed them under my desk. The right one went on rather
easily, but I couldn’t work my stubby fingernail to free the buckle
on the left one until—there! I pried it open and thrust my left foot
into it, watching the straps bite into the already swollen flesh. In
another few seconds I had it buckled and was returning to an upright
sitting position just as Miranda walked in.
Frozen. I was absolutely frozen in midmotion, my mind working fast
enough to understand how ridiculous I must look, but not quite fast
enough to move. She noticed me immediately, probably because she was
expecting Emily to still be sitting at her old desk, and walked
over. She leaned on the counter that ran over my desk, leaned over
it and even closer to me, until she was able to see my entire body
as I sat, immobilized, in the chair. Her bright blue eyes moved up
and down, side to side, all over my white button-down, my red
corduroy Gap miniskirt, my now buckled camel-hair Jimmy Choo
sandals. I felt her examine every inch of me, skin and hair and
clothes, her eyes moving so quickly but her face remaining frozen.
She leaned closer still, until her face was only a foot from mine
and I could smell the fantastic aroma of salon shampoo and expensive
perfume, so close that I could see the very fine lines around her
mouth and eyes that were invisible from a more comfortable distance.
But I couldn’t look too long at her face, because she was intently
examining mine. There wasn’t the slightest indication that she
recognized that a) we had, in fact, met before; b) I was her new
employee; or c) I was not Emily.
“Hello, Ms. Priestly,” I squeaked impulsively, even though somewhere
in the back of my head I knew that she hadn’t uttered a word yet.
But the tension was unbearable, and I couldn’t help but barrel
forward. “I’m so excited to be working for you. Thank you so much
for the opportunity to . . .”Shut up! Just shut your stupid mouth!
Talk about no dignity.
She walked away. Finished looking me up and down, pushed backward
off the counter, and just walked away while I was stuttering
mid-sentence. I could feel heat coming off my face, a flush of
confusion and pain and humiliation all wrapped into one, and it
didn’t help that I could feel Emily glaring at me. I pulled my hot
face upward and confirmed that Emily was indeed glaring at me.
“Is the Bulletin updated?” Miranda asked to no one in particular as
she walked into her office and, I noticed happily, directly to the
light table where I’d arranged her papers.
“Yes, Miranda. Here it is,” Emily said obsequiously, racing in
behind her and handing her the clipboard where we kept all of
Miranda’s messages typed as they come in.
I sat quietly, watching Miranda move deliberately around her office
in the picture frames that hung on her wall: if I looked at the
glass instead of at the photos themselves, I could see her
reflection. Emily immediately busied herself at her desk, and
silence prevailed.Do we never get to talk to each other or anyone
else if she’s in the office? I wondered. I wrote a quick e-mail to
Emily, asking her as much, which I saw her receive and read. Her
answer came back right away:You got it, she wrote.If you and I have
to talk, we whisper. Otherwise, no talking. And don’t EVER speak to
her unless she speaks to you. And do not EVER call her Ms.
Priestly—it’s Miranda. Got it? I felt again as if I had been
slapped, but I looked up and nodded. And it was then I noticed the
coat. It was right there, a great big pile of fabulous-looking fur,
all bunched up on the end of my desk, with one arm dangling off the
edge. I looked at Emily. She rolled her eyes, waved her hand toward
the closet, and mouthed, “Hang it up!” It was as heavy as a wet down
comforter coming out of the washing machine, and I needed both hands
to keep it from dragging on the floor, but I gingerly hung it on one
of the silk hangers and gently, quietly, closed the doors.
I hadn’t even sat back down when Miranda appeared next to me, and
this time her eyes were free to roam over my entire body. Impossible
as it seemed, I could feel each body part ignite as she eyed it, but
I was frozen, unable to dive back to my chair. Just as my hair was
about to catch fire, those relentless blue eyes finally stopped on
mine.
“I’d like my coat,” she said quietly, looking directly at me, and I
wondered if she wondered who I was, or if she didn’t notice or care
that there was a relative stranger posing as her assistant. There
wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, even though my interview
with her had taken place a few weeks earlier.
“Surely,” I managed, and moved toward the closet again, which was an
awkward maneuver because she was currently standing between it and
me. I turned my body sideways to keep from bumping into her and
tried to slide myself past her, reaching to pull open the door I had
just shut. She didn’t move a single inch to let me pass, and I could
feel that the eyes had continued their roving. Finally, blessedly,
my hands closed around the fur, and I pulled it carefully to
freedom. I wanted to throw it at her and see if she’d catch it, but
I restrained myself at the last second and held it open as a
gentleman would for a lady. She shrugged into it with one graceful
motion and picked up her Cell Phone, the only item she had brought
with her to the office.
“I’d like the Book tonight, Emily,” she said as she walked
confidently out of the office, probably not even noticing that a
cluster of three women standing in the hall outside the suite
scattered immediately upon seeing her, chins to their chests.
“Yes, Miranda. I’ll have Andrea bring it up.”
That was that. She left. And the visit that had inspired office-wide
panic, frenzied preparations, even makeup and wardrobe adjustments,
had lasted just under four minutes, and had taken place—as far as my
inexperienced eyes could see—for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
8
“Don’t look now,” James said, his mouth as immobile as a
ventriloquist’s, “but I spy Reese Witherspoon at three o’clock.”
I swiveled immediately as he cringed in embarrassment, and, sure
enough, there she was, sipping a glass of champagne and throwing her
head back in laughter. I didn’t want to be impressed, but I couldn’t
help it: she was one of my favorite actresses.
“James, darling, I’m so glad you could make it to my little party,”
quipped a thin, beautiful man who came up behind us. “And who do we
have here?” They kissed.
“Marshall Madden, color guru, this is Andrea Sachs. Andrea is
actually—”
“Miranda’s new assistant,” Marshall finished, smiling at me. “I’ve
heard all about you, little one. Welcome to the family. I do hope
you’ll come visit me. I promise that together we can, um, smooth
over your look.” He ran his hand lovingly over my scalp and picked
up the ends of my hair, which he immediately held up against the
roots. “Yes, just a touch of something honey-colored and you’ll be
the next supermodel. Get my number from James, OK, sweetie, and come
see me anytime you get a minute. Probably easier said than done!” he
sang as he floated toward Reese.
James sighed and looked on wistfully. “He’s a master,” he breathed,
“simply the best. The ultimate. A man among boys, to say the least.
And gorgeous.” A man among boys? Funny. Whenever anyone had used
that phrase before, I’d always pictured Shaquille O’Neal making a
move toward the hoop against a small power forward—not a colorist.
“He’s definitely gorgeous, I’ll agree with you there. Have you ever
dated him?” It seemed like the perfect match: the associate beauty
editor ofRunway dating the most sought-after colorist in the free
world.
“I wish. He’s been with the same guy for four years now. Do you
believe it? Four years. Since when are hot gay men allowed to be
monogamous? It’s just not fair!”
“Hey, I hear you. Since when are hot straight men allowed to be
monogamous? Well, unless they’re being monogamous with me, that is.”
I took a long drag from my cigarette and blew out a near-perfect
smoke ring.
“So admit it, Andy. Tell me you’re glad you came tonight. Tell me
this isn’t the greatest party ever,” he said, smiling.
I’d grudgingly decided to go with James after Alex had canceled,
mostly because he wouldn’t leave me alone. It seemed utterly
impossible that a single interesting thing would transpire at a
party for a book about highlights, but I had to admit that I’d been
surprised. When Johnny Depp had come over to say hi to James, I was
shocked that he not only seemed to have a full command of the
English language, but had even managed a few funny jokes. And it was
intensely gratifying to see that Gisele, the Ittest It girl of all
current It girls, was downright short. Of course it would’ve been
even nicer to discover that she was secretly squat, too, or had a
major acne problem that had all been airbrushed out in her gorgeous
cover shoots, but I’d settle for short. All in all, it hadn’t been a
bad hour and a half so far.
“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” I said, leaning toward him to catch
a glimpse of a great looking guy who appeared to be sulking in the
corner near the book table. “But it hasn’t been quite as disgusting
as I’d imagined. And besides, I’m up for anything after the day I’ve
had.”
After Miranda had made her rather abrupt departure after her rather
abrupt arrival, Emily informed me that that night would be the first
time I would have to bring “the Book” to Miranda’s apartment. The
Book was a large wire-bound collection of pages as big as a
phonebook, in which each current issue ofRunway was mocked up and
laid out. She explained that no substantial work could get done each
day until after Miranda left, because all of the art people and
editorial people spent all day long consulting with her, and she
changed her mind every hour. Therefore, when Miranda left around
five each day to spend some time with the twins, the real day’s work
would begin. The art department would craft their new layout and
input any new photos that had come in, and editorial would tweak and
print any copy that had finally, finally, gotten Miranda’s
approval—a giant, looping “MP” scrawled across the entire first
page. Every editor would send all the day’s new changes to the art
assistant, who, hours after nearly everyone else had left, would run
the images and layouts and words through a small machine that waxed
the backs of the pages and pressed them onto their appropriate page
in the Book. It was then my job to take the Book up to Miranda’s
apartment whenever it was finished—anywhere in the eight to elevenP
.M. range, depending on where in the production process we were—at
which point she’d mark it all up. She’d bring it back the next day,
and the entire staff would go through the whole thing again.
When Emily overheard me tell James that I’d go to the party with him
after all, she jumped right in. “Um, you know you can’t go anywhere
until the Book’s finished, right?”
I stared. James looked as though he might tackle her.
“Yeah, I have to say, this is the part of your job I’m most happy to
be done with. It can get really, really late sometimes, but Miranda
needs to see it every single night, you know. She works from Home.
Anyway, I’ll wait with you tonight and show you how to do it, but
then you’re on your own.”
“OK, thanks. Any idea when it’ll be finished tonight?”
“Nope. Changes every night. You’d really have to ask the art
department.”
The Book was finally ready on the earlier side, at eight-thirty, and
after I’d retrieved it from an exhausted-looking art assistant,
Emily and I walked down to 59th Street together. Emily was holding
an armful of freshly dry-cleaned clothes on hangers, encased in
plastic, and she explained to me that dry cleaning always
accompanied the Book. Miranda would bring her dirty clothes to the
office, where, as my luck would have it, it was my job to call the
cleaners and let them know we had a pickup. They would send someone
to the Elias-Clark building immediately, pick up the clothes, and
return them in perfect condition a day later. We stored them in our
office closet until we could either hand them off to Uri or take
them to her apartment ourselves. My job was getting more
intellectually stimulating by the minute!
“Hey, Rich!” Emily called brightly, fakely, to the pipe-chomping
dispatcher I’d met my first day. “This is Andrea. She’ll be taking
the Book every night, so make sure she gets a good car, OK?”
“Will do, Red.” He pulled the pipe out of his mouth and motioned
toward me. “I’ll take good care of Blondie over here.”
“Great. Oh, and can you have another car follow us to Miranda’s?
Andrea and I are going separate places after we drop off the Book.”
Two massive Town Cars pulled up just at that moment, and the mammoth
driver in the first car barreled out of the front seat and opened
the back door for us. Emily climbed in first, immediately whipped
out her Cell Phone, and called out, “Miranda Priestly’s apartment,
please.” He nodded and threw the car in gear and we were off.
“Is it always the same driver?” I asked, wondering how he knew where
to go.
She motioned me to be quiet as she left a message for her roommate.
She then said, “No, but there are only so many drivers who work for
the company. I’ve had them all at least twenty times, so they know
their way by now.” She went back to her dialing. I looked behind us
and saw the second empty Town Car carefully mimicking our turns and
stops.
We pulled up in front of a typical Fifth Avenue doorman building:
immaculate sidewalk, well-kept balconies, and what looked like a
gorgeous, warmly lit lobby. A man in a tuxedo and hat immediately
came to the car and opened the door for us, and Emily got out. I
wondered why we weren’t just going to leave the Book and the clothes
with him. As far as I understood—and it wasn’t a lot, especially
when it came to this strange city—that’s what doormen were for. As
in, that’s their job. But Emily pulled a leather Louis Vuitton key
chain from her Gucci logo tote and handed it to me.
“I’ll wait here. You take the stuff up to her apartment, Penthouse
A. Just open her door and leave the book on the table in the foyer
and hang the clothes on the hooks by the closet. Notin the closet,by
the closet. And then just leave. Whatever you do, don’t knock or
ring the doorbell. She doesn’t like to be disturbed. Just let
yourself in and out and be quiet!” She handed me the tangle of wire
hangers and plastic and opened her Cell Phone again.All right, I can
handle this. Why so much drama for a book and some pants?
The elevator man smiled kindly at me and silently pressed the PH
button after turning a key. He looked like a battered wife, dejected
and sad, as though he couldn’t fight any longer and had just made
peace with his unHappiness.
“I’ll wait here,” he said softly, staring at the floor. “You
shouldn’t be more than a minute.”
The carpet in the hallways was a deep burgundy color, and I almost
toppled over when one of my heels got stuck in the loops. The walls
were papered in a thick, cream-colored fabric that had tiny cream
pinstripes running the length, and there was a suede cream bench
pushed against the wall. The French doors directly in front of me
said PH B, but I swiveled and saw identical doors with PH A. It took
every ounce of restraint not to ring the bell, but I remembered
Emily’s warning and slid the key in the lock. It clicked right away,
and before I could fix my hair or wonder what was on the other side,
I was standing in a large, airy foyer and smelling the most amazing
scent of lamb chops. And there she was, delicately bringing a fork
to her mouth while two identical, black-haired little girls yelled
at each other across the table and a tall, rugged-looking man with
silver hair and a broad, face-encompassing nose read a newspaper.
“Mum, tell her that she can’t just walk in my room and take my
jeans! She won’t listen to me,” one of them pleaded of Miranda,
who’d set down her fork and was taking a sip of what I knew to be
Pellegrino with a lime, from theleft side of the table.
“Caroline, Cassidy, enough. I simply don’t want to hear it anymore.
Tomas, bring out some more mint jelly,” she called. A man I presumed
to be the chef hurried into the room holding a silver bowl on a
silver serving platter.
And then I realized that I’d been standing there for nearly thirty
seconds, observing them all having dinner. They hadn’t seen me yet,
but would as soon as I moved toward the hall table. I did so
gingerly but felt them all turn to look. Just as I was about to
offer some sort of greeting, I remembered making a gigantic ass out
of myself at our first meeting earlier today, stammering and
stumbling like an idiot, and I kept my mouth shut.Table, table,
table . There it was.Deposit book on table . And now for the
clothes. I looked around frantically for the place I was supposed to
hang the dry cleaning, but I couldn’t focus. The dinner table had
grown silent, and I could feel them all watching me. No one said
hello. It didn’t seem to bother the girls that there was a perfect
stranger standing in their apartment. Finally, I saw a small coat
closet tucked away behind the door, and I managed to get every
twisted, slippery hanger on the rod.
“Not in the closet, Emily,” I heard Miranda call out, slowly,
deliberately. “On the hooks that are provided for this exact
occasion.”
“Oh, um, hi there.”Idiot! Shut up! She’s not looking for a response,
just do what she says! But I couldn’t help it. It was just too weird
that no one had said hello or wondered who I might be, or in any way
acknowledged that someone had just let herself into their apartment
and was prowling around. AndEmily? Was she kidding? Blind? Could she
really not tell that I was not the girl who’d worked for her for
over a year already? “I’m Andrea, Miranda. I’m your new assistant.”
Silence. All-pervasive, unbearable, never-ending, deafening,
debilitating silence.
I knew I shouldn’t keep talking, knew that I was digging my own
grave, but I just couldn’t help myself. “Um, well, sorry about the
confusion. I’ll just put these on the hooks, like you said, and let
myself out.”Stop narrating! She doesn’t give a shit what you’re
doing. Just do it and get out . “OK, then, have a nice dinner. Nice
meeting all of you.” I turned to leave and realized that not only
was the mere act of talking ridiculous, but I was also saying stupid
things.Nice to meet you? I hadn’t been introduced to a single one of
them.
“Emily!” I heard just as my hand reached the doorknob. “Emily, let
this not happen tomorrow night. We’re not interested in the
interruption.” And the doorknob turned itself in my hand and I was
finally in the hallway. The entire thing had taken less than a
minute, but I felt like I’d just swum the entire length of an
Olympic-size pool without coming up for air.
I slumped onto the bench and took long, controlled breaths. That
bitch! The first time she called me Emily could’ve been a mistake,
but the second was undoubtedly deliberate. What better way to
belittle and marginalize someone than to insist on calling them the
wrong name, after you’ve refused to so much as acknowledge their
presence in your own Home? I knew I was the lowest-ranking life-form
at the magazine already—as Emily hadn’t yet lost an opportunity to
impress upon me—but was it really so necessary for Miranda to make
sure I was aware of it, too?
It wouldn’t have been outside the realm of reality to sit there all
night and shoot mental bullets at the PH A doors, but I heard a
throat clearing and looked up to find the sad little elevator man
watching the floor and patiently waiting for me to join him.
“Sorry,” I said as I shuffled aboard.
“No problem,” he near-whispered, intently studying the wood-paneled
floor. “It’ll get easier.”
“What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you—”
“Nothing, nothing. Here you are, miss. Have a nice evening.” The
door opened to the lobby, where Emily was loudly chattering on her
Cell Phone. She clicked it closed when she saw me.
“How’d it go? No problem, right?”
I thought about telling her what had transpired, wished fervently
that she could be a sympathetic coworker, that we could be a team,
but I knew I’d just be setting myself up for another verbal
lashing.So not interested right now.
“It was totally fine. No problems at all. They were eating dinner
and I just left everything exactly where you said.”
“Good. Well, that’s what you’ll do every night. Then just take the
car Home and you’re done. Anyway, have fun at Marshall’s party
tonight. I’d definitely go, but I have a bikini wax appointment I
just can’t cancel—do you believe they’re booked for the next two
months? And it’s the middle of winter, too. It must be all the
people who are going on winter vacations. Right? I just can’t
understand why every woman in New York needs a bikini wax right now.
It’s just so strange, but hey, what can you do?”
My head pounded to the tempo of her voice, and it seemed that no
matter what I did or how I responded, I was sentenced to forever
listen to her talk about bikini waxes. It may have been better to
have her scream at me about interrupting Miranda’s dinner.
“Yeah, what can you do? Well, I’d better get going, I told James I’d
meet him at nine and it’s already ten after. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep. Will do. Oh, just so you know, now that you’re pretty much
trained, you’ll still get in at seven, but I don’t come in until
eight. Miranda knows—it’s understood that the senior assistant comes
in later since she works so much harder.” I almost lunged at her
throat. “So just go through the morning routine like I taught you.
Call me if you have to, but you should know the drill by now. ’Bye!”
She hopped into the backseat of the second car that was waiting in
front of the building.
“’Bye!” I trilled, a giant fake smile plastered on my face. The
driver made a move to get out of the car and open the door for me,
but I told him I was fine to let myself into the backseat. “The
Plaza, please.”
James had been waiting for me on the stairs outside even though it
couldn’t have been more than twenty degrees. He’d gone Home to
change and looked very, very skinny in black suede pants and a white
ribbed tank top, which showed off his expertly applied midwinter
bottle tan. I still looked appropriately amateurish in my Gap
miniskirt.
“Hey, Andy, how’d the Book dropping-off go?” We waited in line to
check our coats and I had immediately spotted Brad Pitt.
“Ohmigod, you’re joking. Brad Pitt’s here?”
“Yeah, well, Marshall does Jennifer’s hair, natch. So she must be
here also. Really, Andy, maybe next time you’ll believe me when I
tell you to stick with me. Let’s get a drink.”
The Reese and Johnny spottings had come back to back, and by the
time oneA .M. rolled around, I’d had four drinks and was happily
gabbing away with a fashion assistant fromVogue . We were discussing
bikini waxes. Passionately. And it didn’t even bother me.Christ, I
thought, as I weaved through the crowd looking for James, flashing a
giant kiss-ass smile in the general direction of Jennifer Aniston
when I passed by—this isn’t a half-bad party. But I was tipsy, I had
to be at work again in less than six hours, and I hadn’t been Home
in nearly twenty-four, so when I spotted James making out with one
of the colorists from Marshall’s salon, I was just about to duck out
when I felt a hand in the small of my back.
“Hey,” said the gorgeous guy I’d spotted earlier lurking in the
corner. I waited for him to realize that he’d approached the wrong
girl, that I must’ve looked the same as his girlfriend from behind,
but he just smiled even wider. “Not so talkative, are you?”
“Oh, and saying ‘hey’ makes you articulate, I guess?”Andy! Shut your
mouth! I berated silently.Some absolutely beautiful man approaches
you out of the blue at a party full of celebrities and you tell him
off right away? But he didn’t seem offended, and even though it
didn’t seem possible, his smile increased in size to an all-out
grin.
“Sorry,” I muttered while examining my nearly empty drink. “My
name’s Andrea. There. I think that’s a much better way of
beginning.” I stuck out my hand and wondered what he wanted.
“Actually, I liked your way just fine. Name’s Christian. A pleasure
to meet you, Andy.” He pushed a brown curl out of his left eye and
took a swig from a bottle of Budweiser. He looked vaguely familiar,
I decided, but I couldn’t place him.
“Bud, huh?” I asked, pointing to his hand. “I didn’t think they
served something so lowbrow at a party like this.”
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh instead of the chuckle I’d
expected. “You sure do say what you think, don’t you?” I must’ve
looked mortified, because he smiled again and said, “No, no, that’s
a good thing. And a rare thing, especially in this industry. I
couldn’t bring myself to drink champagne from a straw out of a
minibottle, you know? Something fairly emasculating about that. So
the bartender dug one of these out of the kitchen somewhere.”
Another curl push, but it fell back in his eye the moment he took
his hand away. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his
black sport coat and offered it to me. I took one and proceeded to
drop it immediately, seizing the opportunity to examine him while I
reached down to retrieve it.
It landed a few inches from his shiny, square-toed loafers that
sported the irrefutable Gucci tassel, and on the way up I noticed
that his Diesel jeans were the perfect parts faded, long, and wide
enough at the bottom that they dragged a little behind the shiny
loafers, the ends frayed from repeated interaction with the soles. A
black belt, probably Gucci but thankfully not recognizable, kept the
jeans riding in the perfect low spot below his waist, where he had
tucked in a plain white cotton T-shirt—one that even though it
easily could have been a Hanes was definitely an Armani or a Hugo
Boss and was put in place only to offset his beautiful complexion.
His black blazer looked just as expensive and well cut, perhaps even
custom-made to fit his average-size but inexplicably sexy frame, and
it was his green eyes that commanded the most attention. Seafoam, I
thought, remembering the old J.Crew colors we’d loved so much in
high school, or perhaps just a straightforward teal. The height, the
build, the whole package looked vaguely like Alex, just with a whole
lot more Euro style and a whole lot less Abercrombie. Slightly
cooler, slightly better looking. Definitely older, right around
thirty. And probably much too slick.
He immediately produced a flame and leaned in close to make sure my
cigarette had caught. “So what brings you to a party like this,
Andrea? Are you one of the lucky few who can call Marshall Madden
her own?”
“No, I’m afraid not. At least not yet, although he wasn’t all that
subtle in telling me that I probably should be.” I laughed, noticing
for a brief moment that I wasdesperate to impress this stranger. “I
work atRunway . One of the beauty guys dragged me here.”
“Ah,Runway magazine, huh? Cool place to work, if you’re into S&M and
that sort of thing. How do you like it?”
I wasn’t sure if he meant S&M or the job itself, but I considered
the possibility that he got it, that he was enough of an insider to
know that it wasn’t exactly how it appeared to those on the outside.
Perhaps I should charm him with the nightmare involved in dropping
off the Book earlier that night? No, no, I had no idea who this guy
was . . . for all I knew he also worked atRunway in some far-flung
department I hadn’t even seen yet, or maybe for another Elias-Clark
magazine. Or maybe, just maybe, he was one of those sneakyPage Six
reporters that Emily had so carefully warned me against. “They just
appear,” she’d said ominously. “They just appear and try to trick
you into saying something juicy about Miranda orRunway . Just be
aware.” Between that and the tracking ID cards, I was quite sure
thatRunway ’s surveillance put the mob to shame. TheRunway Paranoid
Turnaround was back.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual and noncommittal. “It’s a
strange place. I’m not so into fashion—I’d actually rather be
writing, but I guess it’s not a bad start. What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, you are? That must be nice.” I hoped I didn’t sound quite as
condescending as I felt, but it got to be really annoying when
anyone and everyone in New York anointed himself or herself a writer
or actor or poet or artist.I used to write for the paper in college,
I thought to myself,and hell, I even had an essay published in a
monthly magazine once in high school. Did that make me a writer?
“What do you write?”
“Mostly literary fiction so far, but I’m actually working on my
first historical novel.” He took another swig and swatted yet again
at that pesky but adorable curl.
“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical
novels. Interesting. “What’s it about?”
He thought for a moment and then said, “It’s a story told from the
perspective of a young woman, about what it was like to live in this
country during World War Two. I’m still finishing my research,
transcribing interviews and things like that, but the little writing
I’ve done so far has come along. I think . . .”
He continued talking, but I’d already tuned him out. Holy shit. I
recognized the book description immediately from aNew Yorker article
I’d just read. It seemed the entire book world was eagerly
anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the
realism with which he depicts his female heroine. I was standing at
a party, casually chatting with Christian Collinsworth, the boy
genius who’d first been published at the ripe old age of twenty from
a Yale library cubicle. The critics had gone crazy over his first
book, hailing it as one of the most significant literary
achievements of the twentieth century, and he’d followed it up with
two more since then, each spending more time on the bestseller list
than the one before it.The New Yorker piece had included an
interview in which the author had called Christian “not only a force
for years to come” in the book industry, but one with “a hell of a
look, a killer style, and enough natural charm that would ensure—in
the unlikely event that his literary success did not—a lifetime of
success with the ladies.”
“Wow, that’s really great,” I said, all of a sudden feeling too
tired to be witty or funny or cute. This guy was some big-time
author—what the hell did he want with me, anyway? Probably just
killing time before his girlfriend finished up her $10,000 per day
modeling assignment and made her way over.And what does it matter
either way, Andrea? I asked myself harshly.In case you conveniently
forgot, you do happen to have an incredibly kind and supportive and
adorable boyfriend. Enough of this already! I hastily made up a
story about needing to get Home right away, and Christian looked
amused.
“You’re scared of me,” he stated factually, flashing me a teasing
smile.
“Scared of you? Why on earth wouldI be scared ofyou ? Unless there’s
some reason I should be . . .” I couldn’t help but flirt back; he
made it so easy.
He reached for my elbow and deftly turned me around. “Come on, I’ll
put you in a cab.” And before I could say no, that I was perfectly
fine to find my own way home, that it was nice to meet him but he’d
better think again if he thought he was coming Home with me, I was
standing on the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza with him.
“Need a cab, folks?” the doorman asked us as we walked outside.
“Yes, please, one for the lady,” Christian answered.
“No, I have a car, um, right over there,” I said, pointing to the
strip of 58th Street in front of the Paris Theatre where all the
Town Cars had lined up.
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel Christian smiling again.
One ofthose smiles. He walked me over to the car and opened the
door, swinging his arm gallantly toward the backseat.
“Thank you,” I said formally, not a little awkwardly, while
extending my hand. “It was really nice to meet you, Christian.”
“And you, Andrea.” He took the hand I’d intended him to shake and
instead pressed it to his lips, leaving it there just a fraction of
a second longer than he should have. “I do hope we see each other
again soon.” And by then I’d somehow made it into the backseat
without tripping or otherwise humiliating myself and was
concentrating on not blushing even though I could already feel that
it was too late. He slammed the door and watched as the car pulled
away.
It didn’t seem strange this time that even though I hadn’t so much
as seen the interior of a Town Car two months earlier, I had
personally had one chauffeuring me around for the past six hours,
and that even though I’d never really met anyone even remotely
famous before, I’d just rubbed elbows with Hollywood celebrities and
had my hand nuzzled—yes, that was it, he’d nuzzled it—by one of the
undisputed most eligible bachelors in New York City.No, none of that
really matters, I reminded myself over and over again.It’s all a
part of that world, and that world is no place you want to be. It
might look like fun from here, I thought,but you’d be in way over
your head. But I stared at my hand anyway, trying to remember every
last detail about the way he’d kissed it, and then thrust the
offending hand into my bag and pulled out my phone. As I dialed
Alex’s number, I wondered what exactly, if anything, I would tell
him.
9
It took me twelve weeks before I gorged myself on the seemingly
limitless supply of designer clothes thatRunway was just begging to
provide for me. Twelve impossibly long weeks of fourteen-hour work
days and never more than five hours of sleep at a time. Twelve
miserable long weeks of being looked up and down from hair to shoes
each and every day, and never receiving a single compliment or even
merely the impression that I had passed. Twelve horrifically long
weeks of feeling stupid, incompetent, and all-around moronic. And so
I decided at the beginning of my fourth month (only nine more to
go!) atRunway to be a new woman and start dressing the part.
Getting myself awake, dressed, and out the door prior to my
twelve-week epiphany had sapped me completely—even I had to concede
that it’d be easier to own a closetful of “appropriate” clothes.
Until that point, putting on clothes had been the most stressful
part of an already really lousy morning routine. The alarm went off
so early that I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what time I actually
woke up, as though the mere mention of the words inflicted physical
pain. Getting to work at sevenA .M. was so difficult it bordered on
funny. Sure, I’d been up and out a few times in my life by
seven—perhaps sitting in an airport when I had to catch an early
flight or having to finish studying for an exam that day. But mostly
when I’d seen that hour of daylight from the outside it was because
I hadn’t yet found my way to bed from the night before, and the time
didn’t seem so bad when a full day of sleep stretched out ahead.
This was different. This was constant, unrelenting, inhumane sleep
deprivation, and no matter how many times I tried to go to bed
before midnight, I never could. The past two weeks had been
particularly rough since they were closing one of the spring issues,
so I had to sit at work, waiting for the Book, until close to eleven
some nights. By the time I would drop it off and get Home, it was
already midnight, and I still had to eat something and crawl out of
my clothes before passing out.
Blaring static—the only thing I couldn’t ignore—began at exactly
5:30A .M. I would force a bare foot out from under the comforter and
stretch my leg in the general direction of the alarm clock (which
itself was placed strategically at the foot of my bed to force some
movement), kicking aimlessly until I had made contact and the
shrieking ceased. This continued, steadily and predictably, every
seven minutes until 6:04A .M., at which point I would inevitably
panic and spring from bed to shower.
A tangle with my closet came next, usually between 6:31 and 6:37A
.M. Lily, herself not exactly fashion-conscious in her graduate
student uniform of jeans, ratty L.L.Bean sweaters, and hemp
necklaces, said every time I saw her, “I still don’t understand what
you wear to work. It’sRunway magazine, for god’s sake. Your clothes
are as cute as the next girl’s, Andy, but nothing you own isRunway
material.”
I didn’t tell her that for the first few months I had risen extra
early with an intense determination to coaxRunway looks from my very
Banana Republic–heavy wardrobe. I’d stood with my microwaved coffee
for nearly a half hour each morning, agonizing over boots and belts,
wool, and microfiber. I’d change stockings five times until I
finally had the right color, only to berate myself that stockings of
any style or color wereso not OK . The heels on my shoes were always
too short, too stacked, too thick. I didn’t own a single thing in
cashmere. I had not yet heard of thongs (!) and therefore obsessed
maniacally over how to banish panty lines, themselves the focus of
many a Coffee-break critique. No matter how many times I tried them
on, I couldn’t bring myself to wear a tube top to work.
And so after three months, I surrendered. I just got too tired.
Emotionally, physically, mentally, the daily wardrobe ordeal had
sapped me of all energy. Until, that is, I relented on the
three-month anniversary of my first day. It was a day like any other
as I stood with my yellow “I ? Providence” mug in one hand, the
other hand rifling through my Abercrombie favorites.Why fight it? I
asked myself. Simply wearing their clothes wouldn’t necessarily mean
I was a total sellout, would it? And besides, the comments on my
current wardrobe were becoming more frequent and vicious, and I had
begun to wonder if my job was at risk. I looked in the full-length
mirror and had to laugh: the girl in the Maidenform bra (ich!) and
cotton Jockey bikinis (double ich!) was trying to look the part
ofRunway ? Hah. Not with this shit. I was working atRunway magazine
for chrissake—simply putting on anything that wasn’t torn, frayed,
stained, or outgrown really wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I pushed
aside my generic button-downs and ferreted out the tweedy Prada
skirt, black Prada turtleneck, and midcalf length Prada boots that
Jeffy had handed me one night while I waited for the Book.
“What’s this?” I’d asked, unzipping the garment bag.
“This, Andy, is what you should be wearing if you don’t want to get
fired.” He smiled, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry?”
“Look, I just think you should know that your, uh, your look isn’t
really going over well with everyone around here. Now, I know this
stuff gets expensive, but there’s ways around that. I’ve got so much
stuff in the Closet that no one will notice if you need to, uh,
borrow some of it sometimes.” He made quote marks with his fingers
around the word “borrow.” “And, of course, you should be calling all
the PR people and getting your discount card for their designers. I
only get thirty percent off, but since you work for Miranda, I’ll be
surprised if they charge you for anything. There’s no reason for
this, uh,Gap thing you’ve got going on to continue.”
I didn’t explain that wearing Nine West instead of Manolos or jeans
they sold in Macy’s junior department but not anywhere on Barney’s
eighth floor of couture denim heaven had been my own attempt to show
everyone that I wasn’t seduced by all thingsRunway . Instead, I just
nodded, noticing that he looked supremely uncomfortable having to
tell me that I was humiliating myself every day. I wondered who had
put him up to it. Emily? Or Miranda herself? Didn’t really matter
either way. Hell, I’d already survived three full months—if wearing
a Prada turtleneck instead of one from Urban Outfitters was going to
help me survive the next nine, then so be it. I decided I’d start
putting together a new and improved wardrobe immediately.
I finally made it outside by 6:50A .M., actually feeling pretty damn
good about the way I looked. The guy in the breakfast cart closest
to my apartment even whistled, and a woman stopped me before I’d
taken ten steps and told me she had been eyeing those boots for
three months now.I could get used to this, I thought. Everyone’s got
to put something on every day, and this sure felt a hell of a lot
better than any of my stuff. As was now habit, I walked to the
corner of Third Avenue and promptly hailed a cab and collapsed into
the warm backseat, too tired to be thankful that I didn’t have to
join the commoners on the subway, and croaked, “Six-forty Madison.
Quickly, please.” The cabbie looked at me through the rearview—with
a touch of sympathy, I swear—and said, “Ah, yes. Elias-Clark
building,” and we squealed left onto 97th Street and made another
left onto Lex, flying through the lights until 59th Street, where we
headed west to Madison. After exactly six minutes, since there was
no traffic, we came to a screeching halt in front of the tall, thin,
sleek monolith that set such a fine physical example for so many of
its inhabitants. The fare came to $6.40 like it did every single
morning, and I handed the cabbie a ten-dollar bill, like I did every
single morning. “Keep the change,” I sang, feeling the same joy I
did every day when I saw their shock and Happiness. “It’s onRunway
.”
No problem there, that’s for sure. It took all of a week on the job
to see that accounting wasn’t exactly a strong suit at Elias, not
even a real priority. It was never a problem to write off ten-dollar
cab rides each and every day. Another company might wonder what gave
you the right to take a cab to work in the first place; Elias-Clark
wondered why you had deigned to take a cab when there was a car
service available. Something about gypping the company out of that
extra ten bucks each day—even though I don’t imagine anyone was
directly suffering from my overspending—made me feel a whole lot
better. Some might have called it passive-aggressive rebellion. I
called it getting even.
I bolted from the cab, still happy to make someone else’s day, and
walked toward 640 Madison. Although it was named the Elias-Clark
building, JS Bergman, one of the most prestigious banks in the city
(obviously), rented half of it. We didn’t share anything with them,
not even an elevator bank, but it didn’t stop their rich bankers and
our fashion beauties from checking each other out in the lobby.
“Hey, Andy. What’s up? Long time, no see.” The voice behind me
sounded sheepish and unwilling, and I wondered why whoever it was
didn’t just leave me alone.
I’d been mentally preparing myself to start the morning routine with
Eduardo when I’d heard my name, and I turned to see Benjamin, one of
Lily’s many ex-boyfriends from college, slumped against the building
just outside the entrance, not even seeming to notice that he was
sitting on the sidewalk. He was only one of many of Lily’s guys, but
he’d been the first one she’d really, genuinely liked. I hadn’t
spoken to good old Benji (he loathed being called that) since Lily
had walked in on him having sex with two girls from her a capella
singing group. Walked right into his off-campus apartment and found
him sprawled out in his living room with one soprano and a
contralto, mousy girls who never did manage to look at Lily again.
I’d tried to convince her it was just a college prank, but she
didn’t buy it. Cried for days, and made me promise not to tell
anyone what she’d discovered. I didn’t have to tell anyone, though,
because he did—bragged to anyone who would listen about how he’d
“nailed two singing geeks,” as he’d put it, while “a third one
watched.” He’d made it sound as though Lily had been there the
entire time, agreeably perched on the couch and watching her big,
bad man go about being manly. Lily had sworn to never let herself
really fall for another guy, and so far seemed to be keeping her
promise. She slept with plenty of them, but she sure didn’t let them
stick around long enough to actually run the risk of discovering
something likable about them.
I looked at him again and tried to find the old Benji in this guy’s
face. He had been athletic and cute. Just a normal guy. But Bergman
had turned him into a shell of a human. He was wearing an oversize,
wrinkled suit and looked as though he was hoping to suck crack
cocaine out of his Marlboro. He seemed already overworked even
though it was only seven o’clock, and this made me feel better.
Because it was payback for being an asshole to Lily, and because I
wasn’t the only one dragging myself to work at such an obscene hour.
He was probably getting paid $150,000 a year to be so miserable, but
whatever, at least I wasn’t alone.
Benji saluted me with his lit cigarette, glowing eerily in the still
dark winter morning, and motioned for me to come over. I was nervous
I’d be late, but Eduardo gave me his “Don’t worry, she’s not here
yet—you’re fine” look and I walked over to Benji. He looked
bleary-eyed and hopeless. He probably thoughthe had a tyrannical
boss. Hah! If only he knew. I wanted to laugh out loud.
“Hey, I noticed you’re the only one here this early every day,” he
muttered at me while I dug around in my bag for lipstick before
hitting the elevators. “What’s the deal?”
He looked so tired, so beaten-down, that I felt a surge of sympathy
and kindness. But then I felt my legs nearly give out from
exhaustion, and I remembered the way Lily had looked when one of
Benji’s dumb lacrosse buddies had asked if she’d been happy to watch
or really actually wanted to join in, and I lost my cool.
“Well, my deal is that I work for a rather demanding woman, and I
need to get here two and a half hours before the rest of the goddamn
magazine so that I’m prepared for her,” I said, my tone dripping
with anger and sarcasm.
“Whoa. Just asking. Sorry, though, it sounds pretty bad. Which one
do you work for?”
“I work for Miranda Priestly,” I said, and prayed for a nonreaction.
Something about having a seemingly well-educated, successful
professional have no idea who Miranda was made me very, very happy.
Delighted almost. And luckily, this one didn’t let me down. He
shrugged and inhaled and looked at me expectantly.
“She’s the editor in chief ofRunway, ” I lowered my voice and began
with glee, “and pretty much the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. I mean,
I’ve honestly never met anyone like her. She’s really not even
human.” I had a litany of complaints I would’ve liked to have dumped
on Benji, but theRunway Paranoid Turnaround came on full-force. I
became immediately nervous, almost paranoid, convinced that this
unknowing, uncaring person was somehow one of Miranda’s lackeys,
sent to spy on me from theObserver orPage Six. I knew it was
ridiculous, completely absurd. After all, I had personally known
Benji for years now and was quite sure he wasn’t working for Miranda
in any capacity. Just not totally sure. After all, how could you be
totally sure? And who knew who could be standing behind me at that
very second, overhearing every one of my nasty words? Damage control
was required immediately.
“Of course, she IS the most powerful woman in fashion and
publishing, and you just can’t get to the top of two major
industries in New York City handing out candy all day long. Um, it’s
understandable that she’s a little tough to work for, you know? I
would be, too. Yeah, so, um, I have to run now. Good seeing you
again.” And I ducked away, as I often had the past few weeks when I
found myself talking to someone other than Lily or Alex or my
parents and I couldn’t help myself from bashing the witch.
“Hey, don’t feel too bad,” he called after me as I headed toward the
elevator bank. “I’ve been here since last Thursday morning.” And
with that, he dropped his smoldering butt and half-heartedly stamped
it into the cement.
“Morning, Eduardo,” I said, looking at him with my best tired,
pathetic eyes. “I fucking hate Mondays.”
“Hey, buddy, don’t worry. At least you beat her here this morning,”
he said, smiling. He was referring, of course, to those miserable
mornings when Miranda would show up at fiveA .M. and need to be
escorted upstairs since she refused to carry an access card. She’d
then pace the office, calling Emily and me over and over until one
of us could manage to wake up, get ready, and get to work as if a
national security emergency were unfolding.
I pushed against the turnstile, praying that this Monday would be
the exception, that he’d let me pass without a performance.
Negative.
“Yo, tell me what you want, what you really, really want,”he sang
with his huge, toothy smile and Spanish accent. And all the pleasure
of making the cabbie happy and finding out that I had arrived ahead
of Miranda vanished. I was left, as I was every morning, wanting to
reach across the security counter and tear the flesh from Eduardo’s
face. But since I was such a good sport and he was one of my only
friends in the place, I weakly acquiesced.“I’ll tell you what I
want, what I really, really want, I wanna—I wanna—I wanna—I wanna—I
really, really, really wanna zigga zig aaaaaahhhh,” I sang meekly in
a pitiful tribute to the Spice Girls’ nineties hit. And once again,
Eduardo grinned and buzzed me through.
“Hey, don’t forget: July sixteenth!” he called after me.
“I know, July sixteenth . . .” I called back, a reference to our
shared birthdays. I don’t remember how or why he had discovered my
birthdate, but he adored that we had the same one. And for some
inexplicable reason, it became a part of our personal morning
ritual. Every single goddamn day.
There were eight elevators on the Elias-Clark side, half for floors
one to seventeen, half for seventeen and up. Only the first bank
really mattered since most of the big names were on the first
seventeen floors; they advertised their presence with illuminated
panels over the elevator doors. There was a free, state-of-the-art
gym on the second floor for employees, complete with a full Nautilus
circuit and at least a hundred Stairmasters, treadmills, and
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
complimentary 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 come 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 company 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 hundred dollars for each
one, but no matter: we handed them out to her as though they were
Kleenex. At the rate she was going, in under two years, Miranda was
due to run out.
I’d arranged the stiff orange boxes on the ready-to-distribute shelf
of the closet, where they never remained for very long. Every third
or fourth day, she’d prepare to leave for lunch and sigh,
“Ahn-dre-ah, hand me a scarf.” I comforted myself with the thought
that I’d be long gone by the time she ran out of them completely.
Whoever was unlucky enough to be around would have to tell her that
there were no more white Hermès scarves, and that none could be
made, shipped, created, formed, mailed, ordered, or mandated. The
mere thought was terrifying.
Just as I got the closet and office opened, Uri called.
“Andrea? Hello, hello. It is Uri. Could you come downstairs please?
I am on Fifty-eighth Street, closer to Park Avenue, right in front
of the New York sports Club. I have things for you.”
This call was a good although imperfect way of telling me that
Miranda would be arriving somewhat soon. Maybe. Most mornings she
sent Uri ahead to the office with her things, an assortment of dirty
clothes that needed dry cleaning, any copy she’d taken Home to read,
magazines, shoes or bags that needed to be fixed, and the Book. This
way, she could have me meet the car and carry up all of these rather
mundane things ahead of schedule and deal with them before she
stepped into the office. She tended to follow her stuff by about a
half hour, since Uri would drop off her things and then go pick her
up from wherever she might be hiding that morning.
She herself could be anywhere, since, according to Emily, she never
slept. I didn’t believe it until I started getting to the office
ahead of Emily and would be the first to listen to the voice mail.
Every night, without exception, Miranda would leave eight to ten
ambiguous messages for us between the hours of one and six in the
morning. Things like, “Cassidy wants one of those nylon bags all the
little girls are carrying. Order her one in the medium size and a
color she’d like,” and “I’ll be needing the address and phone number
of that antique store in the seventies, the one where I saw the
vintage dresser.” As though we knew which nylon bags were all the
rage among ten-year-olds or at which one of four hundred antique
stores in the seventies—east or west, by the way?—she happened to
spot something she liked at some point in the past fifteen years.
But each morning I faithfully listened to and transcribed those
messages, hitting “replay” over and over and over again, trying to
make sense of the accent and interpret the clues in order to avoid
asking Miranda directly for more information.
Once, I made the mistake of suggesting that we actually ask Miranda
to provide a few more details, only to be met with one of Emily’s
withering looks. Questioning Miranda was apparently off-limits.
Better to muddle through and wait to be told how off the mark our
results were. To locate the vintage dresser that had caught
Miranda’s eye, I had spent two and a half days in a limo, cruising
around Manhattan, through the seventies on both sides of the park. I
ruled out York Avenue (too residential) and proceeded up First, down
Second, up Third, down Lex. I skipped Park (again, too residential)
but continued up Madison, and then repeated a similar process on the
West Side. Pen poised, eyes peeled, phone book open in my lap, ready
to jump out at the first sight of a store that sold antiques. I
graced every single antique store—and not a few regular furniture
stores—with a personal visit. By store number four, I had it down to
an art form.
“Hi, do you sell any vintage dressers?” I’d practically scream the
second they buzzed me inside. By the sixth store I wasn’t even
bothering to move in from the doorway. Some snotty salesperson
inevitably looked me up and down—I couldn’t escape it!—sizing me up
to decide if I was someone to be bothered with. Most would notice
the waiting Town Car at this point and grudgingly provide me with a
yes or no answer, although some wanted detailed descriptions of the
dresser I was looking for.
If they admitted to selling something that fit my two-word
requirement, I would immediately follow up with a curt “Has Miranda
Priestly been here recently?” If they hadn’t thought I was crazy at
this point, they now looked ready to call security. A few had never
heard her name, which was fantastic both because it was rejuvenating
to see firsthand that there were still normally functioning human
beings whose lives weren’t dominated by her, and also because I
could promptly leave without further discussion. The pathetic
majority who recognized the name became instantly curious. Some
wondered which gossip column I wrote for. But regardless of whatever
story I made up, no one had seen her in their shop (with the
exception of three stores who hadn’t “seen Ms. Priestly in months,
and oh, how we miss her! Please do tell her that
Franck/Charlotte/Sarabeth sends his/her love!”).
When I hadn’t located the shop by noon of the third day, Emily
finally gave me the green light to come to the office and ask
Miranda for clarification. I started sweating when the car pulled in
front of the building. I threatened to climb over the turnstile if
Eduardo didn’t let me pass without a performance. By the time I
reached our floor, the sweat had soaked through my shirt. Hands
started shaking the moment I entered the office suite, and the
perfectly prepared speech (Hello, Miranda. I’m fine, thanks so much
for asking. How are you? Listen, I just wanted to let you know that
I’ve been trying very hard to locate the antique store you
described, but I haven’t had much luck. Perhaps you could tell me
whether it’s on the east or west side of Manhattan? Or maybe you
even recall the name?) simply vanished into the fickle regions of my
very nervous brain. Against all protocol, I didn’t post my question
on the Bulletin; I requested permission to approach her at her desk
and—probably because she was so shocked I’d had the nerve to speak
without being spoken to—she granted it. To make a long story short,
Miranda sighed and patronized and condescended and insulted in every
delightful way of hers but finally opened her black leather Hermès
planner (tied shut inconveniently but chicly with a white Hermès
scarf) and produced . . . the Business card for the store.
“I left this information on the recording for you, Ahn-dre-ah. I
suppose it would have been too much trouble to write it down?” And
even though the yearning to make decorative paper-cut designs all
over her face with the aforementioned Business card filled my entire
being, I simply nodded and agreed. It wasn’t until I looked down at
the card that I noticed the address: 244 East 68th Street.
Naturally. East or west or Second Avenue or Amsterdam wouldn’t have
made a damn bit of difference, because the store I’d just dedicated
the past thirty-three working hours to locating wasn’t even in the
seventies.
I thought of this as I wrote down the last of Miranda’s late-night
requests before racing downstairs to meet Uri at our designated
area. Every morning he described where he parked in great detail so
I could theoretically meet him at the car. But every morning, no
matter how fast I made it downstairs, he’d bring everything inside
himself so I wouldn’t have to race up and down the streets searching
for him. I was delighted to see that today was no exception: he was
leaning against a lobby turnstile, holding bags and clothes and
books in his arms like a benevolent, generous grandfather.
“Don’t you run to me, you hear?” he said in his thick Russian
accent. “All day long, you run, run, run. She makes you work very,
very hard. This is why I bring the tings to you,” he said, helping
me get a grip on the overflowing bags and boxes. “You be a good
girl, you hear, and have a nice day.”
I shot him a grateful look, glared at Eduardo semijokingly—my way of
saying, “I will fucking kill you if you eventhink of asking me to
strike a pose right now”—and softened a bit when he buzzed me
through the turnstiles, comment-free. I miraculously remembered to
stop by the lobby newsstand, where Ahmed piled all of Miranda’s
requested morning papers into my arms. Although the mailroom
delivered each to Miranda’s desk by nine each day, I was still to
purchase a full second set every morning to help minimize the risk
that she would spend a single second in her office without her
papers. Same with the weekly magazines. No one seemed to mind that
we charged nine newspapers a day and seven magazines a week for
someone who read only the gossip and fashion pages.
I dumped all her stuff on the floor under my desk. It was time for
the first round of ordering. I dialed the number I’d memorized long
ago for Mangia, a gourmet takeout place in midtown, and, as usual,
Jorge answered.
“Hi, pumpkin, it’s me,” I’d say, propping the phone against my
shoulder so I could start logging into Hotmail. “Let’s get this day
started.” Jorge and I were friends. Talking three, four, five times
a morning had a funny way of bonding two people rather quickly.
“Hey, baby, I’ll send one of the boys over right away. Is she there
yet?” he asked, understanding that “she” was my lunatic boss and
that she worked forRunway, but not quite understanding who exactly
would be consuming the breakfast I had just ordered. Jorge was one
of my morning men, as I liked to call them. Eduardo, Uri, Jorge, and
Ahmed gave a decent as possible start to my day. They were
deliciously unaffiliated withRunway, even though their separate
existences in my life were solely meant to make its editor’s life
more perfect. Not a single one of them truly understood Miranda’s
power and prestige.
Breakfast number one would be on its way to 640 Madison in seconds,
and the chances were good I’d have to throw it out. Miranda ate four
slices of greasy, fatty bacon, two sausage links, and a soft cheese
Danish every morning, and washed it down with a tall latte from
Starbucks (two raw sugars, remember!). As far as I could tell, the
office was divided on whether she was permanently on the Atkins diet
or just lucky enough to have a superhuman metabolism, the result of
some pretty fantastic genes. Either way, she thought nothing of
devouring the fattiest, most sickeningly unhealthy foods—even though
the rest of us weren’t exactly afforded the same luxury. Since
nothing stayed hot for more than ten minutes after it arrived, I’d
keep reordering and tossing until she showed up. I could get away
with microwaving each meal one time, but that bought me only an
extra five minutes, and she could usually tell. (“Ahn-dre-ah, this
is vile. Get me a fresh breakfast at once.”) I would order and
reorder every twenty minutes or so until she called from her Cell
Phone and told me to order her breakfast (“Ahn-dre-ah, I’ll be at
the office shortly. Order my breakfast”). Of course, this was
usually only a two- or three-minute warning, so the preordering was
necessary both because of the short warning and in the rather common
event that she didn’t bother to call at all. If I’d done my job, by
the time her actual call for breakfast had come, I’d already have
two or three on the way.
The phone rang. It had to be her, too early to be anyone else.
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I chirped, bracing myself for the
iciness.
“Emily, I’ll be there in ten minutes and I’d like my breakfast to be
ready.”
She had taken to calling both Emily and me “Emily,” suggesting,
quite rightly, that we were indistinguishable from each other and
completely interchangeable. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was
offended, but I’d grown accustomed to it at this point. And besides,
I was too tired to really care about something as incidental as my
name.
“Yes, Miranda, right away.” But she had already hung up. The real
Emily walked into the office.
“Hey, is she here?” she whispered, looking furtively toward
Miranda’s office as she always did, without a hello or a good
morning, just like her mentor.
“Nope, but she just called and she’ll be here in ten. I’ll be back.”
I quickly transferred my cell phone and cigarettes to my coat pocket
and ran. I had only a few minutes to get downstairs, cross Madison,
and jump the line at Starbucks—and suck down my first precious
cigarette of the day while in transit. Stamping out the last embers,
I stumbled into the Starbucks at 57th and Lex and surveyed the line.
If it was fewer than eight or so people, I preferred to wait like a
normal person. Like most days, however, the line today was twenty or
more poor professional souls, wearily waiting in line for their
expensive caffeine fix, and I had to jump in front of them. It was
not something I relished, but Miranda didn’t seem to understand that
the latte I presented to her each morning could not onlynot be
delivered but could easily take a half hour at prime time to
purchase. A couple weeks of shrill, angry phone calls on my Cell
Phone (“Ahn-dre-ah, I simply do not understand. I called you a full
twenty-five minutes ago to tell you I’d be in, and my breakfast is
not ready. This is unacceptable.”), and I had spoken to the
franchise manager.
“Um, hi. Thanks for taking a minute to talk with me,” I said to the
petite black woman who was in charge. “I know this sounds absolutely
crazy, but I was wondering if we could work something out in terms
of me having to wait in line.” I went on to explain, as best I
could, that I work for a rather important, unreasonable person who
doesn’t like to wait for her morning Coffee, and was there any way I
could walk ahead of the line, subtly, of course, and have someone
prepare my order immediately? By some stroke of dumb luck, Marion,
the manager, was going to FIT at night for a degree in fashion
merchandising.
“Ohmigod, are you kidding? You work for Miranda Priestly? And she
drinks our lattes? A tall? Every morning? Unbelievable. Oh, yes,
yes, of course! I’ll tell everyone to help you right away. Don’t
worry about a thing. She is, like, the most powerful person in
fashion,” Marion gushed as I forced myself to nod enthusiastically.
And so it came that I could, at will, bypass a long line of tired,
aggressive, self-righteous New Yorkers and order before those who
had been waiting for many, many minutes. It didn’t make me feel good
or important or even cool, and I always dreaded the days I had to do
it. When the lines were hellishly long like the one today—snaking
around the entire counter and pushing its way outside—I felt even
worse and knew I’d be walking out with a full load. My head was
pounding at this point, and my eyes already felt heavy and dry. I
tried to forget that this was my life, the reason I’d spent four
long years memorizing poems and examining prose, the result of good
grades and lots of kissing up. Instead, I ordered Miranda’s tall
latte from one of the new baristas and added a few drinks of my own.
A grande Amaretto Cappuccino, a Mocha Frappuccino, and a Caramel
Macchiato landed in my four-cup carrier, along with a half-dozen
muffins and croissants. The grand total came to $28.83, and I made
sure to tuck my receipt into the already bulging, specially
designated receipt section of my wallet, all of which would be
reimbursed by the always reliable Elias-Clark.
I had to hurry now, as it was already twelve minutes since Miranda
had called and I knew she’d probably be sitting there, seething,
wondering exactly where I disappeared to every morning—the Starbucks
logo on the side of the cup didn’t ever clue her in. But before I
could pick up all the stuff from the counter, my phone rang. And as
usual, my heart lurched. I knew it was her, absolutely, positively
knew it, but it scared me nonetheless. The caller ID confirmed my
suspicion, and I was surprised to hear that it was Emily, calling
from Miranda’s line.
“She’s here and she’s pissed,” Emily whispered. “You’ve got to get
back here.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” I growled, trying to balance the
carrying tray and the bag of baked goods on one arm and hold the
phone with the other.
And thus the basic root of the hatred that existed between Emily and
me. Since she was in the “senior” assistant position, I was more of
Miranda’s personal assistant, there to fetch those Coffees and
meals, help her kids with their Homework, and run all over the city
to retrieve the perfect dishes for her dinner parties. Emily did her
expenses, made her travel arrangements, and—the biggest job of
all—put through her personal clothing order every few months. So
when I was out gathering the goodies each morning, Emily was left
alone to handle all of the ringing phone lines and an alert,
early-morning Miranda and all of her demands. I hated her for being
able to wear sleeveless shirts to work, where she wouldn’t ever have
to leave the warm office six times a day to race around New York
fetching, searching, hunting, gathering. She hated me for having
excuses to leave the office, where she knew I always took longer
than necessary to talk on my Cell Phone and smoke cigarettes.
The walk back to the building usually took longer than the walk to
Starbucks, since I had to distribute my Coffees and snacks. I
preferred to hand them out to the Homeless, a small band of regulars
who hung out on stoops and slept in doorways on 57th Street,
thumbing the city’s attempts to “clean them up.” The police always
hustled them away before rush hour kicked into high gear, but they
were still hanging out when I was doing the day’s first coffee run.
There was something so fantastic—invigorating, really—in making sure
that these overpriced, Elias-sponsored Coffee faves made it into the
hands of the city’s most undesirable people.
The urine-soaked man who slept outside the Chase Bank got a daily
Mocha Frappuccino. He never actually woke up to accept it, but I
left it (with a straw, of course) next to his left elbow each
morning, and it was often gone—along with him—when I returned for my
next Coffee run a few hours later.
The old lady who propped herself up on her cart and set out a
cardboard sign that readNO Home/CAN CLEAN/NEED FOOD got the Caramel
Macchiato. I soon found her name was Theresa, and I used to buy her
a tall latte, like Miranda’s. She always said thank you, but she
never made a move to taste it while it was still hot. When I finally
asked her if she wanted me to stop bringing them, she vigorously
shook her head and mumbled that she hates to be picky, but she’d
actually like something sweeter, that the coffee was too strong. The
next day I had her coffee flavored with vanilla and topped with
whipped cream. Was this better? Oh yes, it was much, much better,
but maybe now it was a touch too sweet. One more day and I finally
got it right: it turns out Theresa liked her Coffee unflavored,
topped with whipped cream and some caramel syrup. She flashed a
near-toothless smile and began guzzling it each and every day, the
moment I handed it to her.
The third Coffee went to Rio, the Nigerian who sold CDs off a
blanket. He didn’t appear to be Homeless, but he walked over to me
one morning when I was handing Theresa her daily fix and said, or,
rather, sang, “Yo, yo, yo, you like the Starbucks fairy or what?
Where’s mine?” I handed him a grande Amaretto Cappuccino the next
day, and we’d been friends ever since.
I expensed twenty-four dollars more every day on Coffee than
necessary (Miranda’s single latte should’ve cost a mere four
dollars) to take yet another passive-aggressive swipe at the
company, my personal reprimand to them for Miranda Priestly’s free
rein. I handed them out to the filthy, the smelly, and the crazy
because that—and not the wasted money—was what wouldreally piss them
off.
By the time I made it to the lobby, Pedro, the heavily accented
Mexican delivery boy from Mangia, was chatting in Spanish with
Eduardo near the elevator bank.
“Hey, here’s our girlie,” said Pedro as a few Clackers peered over
at us. “I’ve got the usual: bacon, sausage, and one nasty-looking
cheese thing. You only ordered one today! Don’t know how you eat
this shit and stay so thin, girl.” He grinned. I suppressed the urge
to tell him he didn’t have a clue what thin looked like. Pedro knew
full well that I was not the one eating his breakfasts, but like
every one of the dozen or so people I spoke to before eightA .M.
each day, he didn’t really know the details. I handed him a ten, as
usual, for the $3.99 breakfast, and headed upstairs.
She was on the phone when I entered the office, her snakeskin Gucci
trench draped across the top of my desk. My blood pressure increased
tenfold. Would it kill her to take the extra two steps over to the
closet, open it, and hang up her own coat? Why did she have to take
it off and fling it over my desk? I put down the latte, looked over
at Emily, who was too busy answering three phone lines to notice me,
and hung up the snakeskin. I shook off my own coat and bent down to
toss it underneath my desk, since mine might infect hers if they
mingled in the closet.
I grabbed two raw sugars, a stirrer, and a napkin from a stock I
kept in my desk drawer and wrapped them all together. I briefly
considered spitting in the drink but was able to restrain myself.
Next, I pulled a small china plate from the overhead bin and dumped
out the greasy meat and the oozing Danish, wiping my hands on her
dirty dry cleaning, which was hidden beneath my desk so she couldn’t
see it hadn’t been picked up yet. I was theoretically supposed to
clean her plate each day in the sink in our mock-up kitchen, but I
just couldn’t bring myself to bother. The humiliation of doing her
dishes in front of everyone prompted me to wipe it down with tissues
after each meal and scrape off any leftover cheese with my
fingernails. If it was really dirty or had been sitting for a long
time, I’d open a bottle of the Pellegrino we kept by the case and
dump a little bit on. I figured she should be thankful I wasn’t
using a spritz or two of desk cleaner. I was reasonably sure that I
had reached a new moral low—what was worrisome was that I’d sunk to
it so naturally.
“Remember, I want my girls smiling,” she was saying into the phone.
I could tell from her tone she was talking to Lucia, the fashion
director who’d be in charge of the upcoming Brazil shoot, about how
the models should appear. “Happy, lots of teeth, clean healthy
girls. No brooding, no anger, no frowning, no dark makeup. I want
them shining. I mean it, Lucia: I will accept nothing less.”
I set the plate on the edge of her desk and placed the latte and the
napkin with all necessary accessories next to it. She didn’t look at
me. I paused for a moment to see if she’d hand me a pile of papers
off her desk, things to fax or find or file, but she ignored me and
I walked out. Eight-thirtyA .M. I’d been awake now for three full
hours, felt like I’d already worked for twelve, and could finally
sit down for the very first time all morning. Just as I was logging
on to Hotmail, anticipating some fun e-mails from people on the
outside, she walked out. The belted jacket cinched her already tiny
waist and complemented the perfectly fitted pencil skirt she wore
beneath it. She looked dynamite.
“Ahn-dre-ah. The latte is ice cold. I don’t understand why. You were
certainly gone long enough! Bring me another.”
I inhaled deeply and concentrated on keeping the look of hatred off
my face. Miranda set the offending latte on my desk and flipped
through the new issue ofVanity Fair that a staffer had set on the
table for her. I could feel Emily watching me and knew her look
would be one of sympathy and anger: she felt bad that I had to
repeat the hellish ordeal all over again, but she hated me for
daring to be upset about it. After all, wouldn’t a million girls die
for my job?
And so with an audible sigh—something I’d perfected lately, so it
was just enough Miranda could hear but not nearly enough she could
ever call me on it—I once again put on my coat and willed my legs to
move toward the elevators. It was going to be another long, long
day.
The second coffee run in twenty minutes went much more smoothly; the
lines at Starbucks had thinned a little and Marion had come on duty.
She herself got to work on a tall latte as soon as I walked in the
door. I didn’t bother overspending on a larger order this time
because I was too desperate to just get back and sit down, but I did
addventi cappuccinos for both Emily and me. Just as I was paying for
the coffee, my phone rang. Goddamn it to hell, this woman was
impossible. Insatiable, impatient, impossible. I hadn’t been gone
for more than four minutes; she couldn’t possibly be freaking out
yet. Again, I balanced my tray in one hand and pulled my phone from
my coat pocket. I’d already decided that such behavior on her part
warranted my having another cigarette—if just to hold up her Coffee
a few minutes longer—when I saw that it was Lily calling from her
Home phone.
“Hey, bad time?” she asked, sounding excited. I looked at my watch
and saw that she should’ve been in class.
“Um, sort of. I’m on my second Coffee run, which is really great.
I’m really, really enjoying myself, just in case you were wondering.
What’s up? Don’t you have class now?”
“Yeah, but I went out with Pink-Shirt Boy again last night and we
each drank a few too many margaritas. Like, eight too many. He’s
still passed out here, so I can’t just leave him. But that’s not why
I’m calling.”
“Yeah?” I was barely listening, since one of the cappuccinos was
starting to leak and I had the phone wedged in between my neck and
my shoulder as I used my one free hand to pluck a cigarette from the
box and light it.
“My landlord had the nerve to knock on my door at eight o’clock this
morning to tell me that I’m being evicted,” she said with not a
little bit of glee in her voice.
“Evicted? Lil, why? What are you going to do?”
“It seems they finally caught on that I’m not Sandra Gers and that
she hasn’t lived here in six months. Since she’s technically not
family, she wasn’t allowed to pass down the rent-controlled
apartment to me. I knew that, of course, so I’ve just been saying
I’m her. I don’t really know how they found out. But whatev, it
doesn’t really matter, because now you and I can live together! Your
lease with Shanti and Kendra is just month by month, right? You
subletted because you had no place to live, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, now you do! We can get a place together, anywhere we like!”
“That’s great!” It sounded hollow to my ears even though I was
genuinely excited.
“So you’re up for it?” she asked, her enthusiasm sounding a bit
dampened.
“Lil, definitely. Honestly, it’s an awesome idea. I don’t mean to
sound negative, it’s just that it’s sleeting and I’m standing
outside and I have burning hot Coffee running down my left arm . .
.”Beep-beep. The other line rang, and even though I almost burned my
neck with the lit end of the cigarette while trying to pull my phone
away from my ear, I was able to see that it was Emily calling.
“Shit, Lil, it’s Miranda calling. I’ve got to run. But congrats on
getting evicted! I’m so excited for us. I’ll call you later, OK?”
“OK, I’ll talk to—”
I had already clicked over and mentally prepared myself for the
barrage.
“Me again,” Emily said tightly. “What the hell is going on? It’s a
fucking Coffee, for chrissake. You forget that I used to do your
job, and I know it doesn’t take that long to—”
“What?” I said loudly, holding a few fingers over the microphone on
the receiver. “What’d you say? I can’t hear you. Well, if you can
hear me, I’ll be back in just a minute!” And I clicked my phone shut
and buried it deep in my pocket. And even though I had at least half
a Marlboro left, I dropped it on the sidewalk and ran back to work.
Miranda deigned to accept this slightly warmer latte and even gave
us a few moments of peace between ten and eleven, when she sat in
her office with the door closed, cooing to B-DAD. I’d officially met
him for the first time the week before, when I’d dropped the Book
off that Wednesday night around nine. He had been removing his coat
from the closet in the foyer and spent the next ten minutes
referring to himself in the third person. Since that meeting, he had
paid me extra-special attention when I let myself in each night,
always taking a few minutes to ask about my day or compliment me on
a job well done. Naturally, none of these niceties seemed to rub off
on his wife, but at least he was pleasant to be around.
I was just about to begin calling some of the PR people to see about
getting a few more decent clothes to wear to work when Miranda’s
voice shook me from my thoughts. “Emily, I’d like my lunch.” She had
called from her office to no one in particular, since Emily could
mean either of us. The real Emily looked at me and nodded, and I
knew it was OK to move. The number for Smith and Wollensky was
programmed into my desk phone, and I recognized the voice on the
other end as the new girl.
“Hey, Kim, it’s Andrea from Miranda Priestly’s office. Is Sebastian
there?”
“Oh, hi, um, what did you say your name was again?” No matter that I
called at the exact same time, twice a week, and had already
identified myself—she always acted as though we’d never spoken.
“From Miranda Priestly’s office. AtRunway . Listen, I don’t mean to
be rude”—yes, actually, I do—“but I’m kind of in a hurry. Could you
just put Sebastian on?” If anyone else had answered I would’ve been
able to just tell that person to put in an order for Miranda’s
usual, but since this one was too dumb to be trusted, I had learned
to ask for the manager himself.
“Um, OK, let me check and see if he’s available.”Trust me, Kim, he’s
available. Miranda Priestly is his life.
“Andy, dear, how are you?” Sebastian breathed into the phone. “I
hope you’re calling because our favorite fashion editor would like
some lunch today, yes?”
I wondered what he’d say if I told him, just once, that it wasn’t
Miranda who was looking for lunch, but me. After all, this wasn’t
exactly a takeout joint, but they made a special exception for the
queen herself.
“Oh, yes, indeed. She was just saying how much she was in the mood
for something delicious from your restaurant, and she also said to
send her love.” If under threat of death or dismemberment Miranda
wouldn’t have been able to identify the name of the place that made
her lunch each day, never even mind the name of its daytime manager,
but he always seemed so happy when I said something like this. Today
he was so excited he giggled.
“Fab! That’s just fabulous! We’ll have it ready for you as soon as
you get here,” he called with fresh excitement in his voice. “Can’t
wait! And give her my love, too, of course!”
“Of course I will. See you soon.” It was exhausting to stroke his
ego so enthusiastically, but he made my job so much easier it was
well worth it. Every day that Miranda didn’t have lunch out, I
served her the same meal at her desk, and she leisurely ate it
behind closed doors. I kept a supply of china plates in the bins
above my desk for this purpose. Most were samples sent by designers
whose new “Home” lines had just come out, although some I just took
directly from the dining room. It would have been too annoying to
have to keep stock of things like gravy trays and steak knives and
linen napkins, though, so Sebastian was always sure to provide those
with the meal.
And once again I shrugged on my black wool coat and jammed my
cigarettes and phone in the pocket and headed outside, into a late
February day that seemed to get only grayer as it progressed.
Although it was just a fifteen-minute walk to the restaurant on 49th
and Third, I considered calling for a car but thought better of it
when I felt the clean air in my lungs. I lit a cigarette and drew
the smoke in; when I exhaled, I wasn’t sure if it was smoke or cold
air or irritation, but it felt damn good.
Dodging the aimlessly meandering tourists had become easier. I used
to stare in disgust at pedestrians on Cell Phones, but given my
hectic days, I’d become a walking talker. I pulled my cell out and
called Alex’s school where, according to my fuzzy recollection, he
could possibly be eating his lunch in the faculty lounge at that
moment.
It rang twice before I heard a high-pitched, pinched woman’s voice
answer.
“Hello. You’ve reached PS 277 and this is Mrs. Whitmore speaking.
How may I help you?”
“Is Alex Fineman there?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
“This is Andrea Sachs, Alex’s girlfriend.”
“Ah, yes, Andrea! We’ve all heard so much about you.” Her words were
so clipped she sounded as though she might choke any moment.
“Oh, really? That’s . . . uh, that’s good. I’ve heard a lot about
you too, of course. Alex says wonderful things about everyone at
school.”
“Well, isn’t that nice. But seriously, Andrea, it sounds like you
have quite some job there! How interesting it must be, working for
such a talented woman. You’re a lucky girl, indeed.”
Ah, yes. Mrs. Whitmore. I am a lucky girlindeed.I’m so lucky, you
have no idea. I can’t tell you how lucky I felt when I was sent out
just yesterday afternoon to purchase tampons for my boss, only to be
told that I’d bought the wrong ones and asked why I do nothing
right. And luck is probably the only way to explain why I get to
sort another person’s sweat- and food-stained clothing each morning
before eight and arrange to have it cleaned. Oh, wait! I think what
actually makes me luckiest of all is getting to talk to breeders all
over the tristate area for three straight weeks in search of the
perfect French bulldog puppy so two incredibly spoiled and
unfriendly little girls can each have their own pet. Yes, that’s it!
“Oh, yes, well, it is a fantastic opportunity,” I said by rote. “A
job a million girls would die for.”
“You can say that again, dear! And guess what? Alex just walked in.
I’ll put him on.”
“Hey, Andy, what’s going on? How’s your day going?”
“Don’t ask. I’m on my way to pick up Her lunch right now. How’s your
day?”
“Good, so far. My class has music today right after lunch, so I
actually have an hour and a half free, which is nice. And then we
get to cover more phonics exercises!” he said, sounding just a
little defeated. “Even though it seems like they’re never going to
learn how to actually read something.”
“Well, have there been any slashings today?”
“No.”
“So, how much can you ask for? You’ve had a relatively pain-free,
bloodless day. Enjoy it. Save the whole reading concept for
tomorrow. So, guess what? Lily called this morning. She finally got
evicted from her place in Harlem, so we’re going to move in
together. Fun, right?”
“Hey, congratulations! Couldn’t have been better timing for you. You
guys will have a great time together. Come to think of it, it’s a
little scary. Dealing with Lily full-time . . . and Lily’s guys . .
. Promise we can stay at my place a lot?”
“Of course. But you’ll feel right at Home—it’ll be just like senior
year all over again.”
“Too bad she’s losing that cheap apartment. Other than that, it’s
great news.”
“Yeah, I’m psyched. Shanti and Kendra are fine, but I’m kind of done
with the whole living-with-strangers thing.” I loved Indian food,
but I did not love how the curry smell had seeped into everything I
owned. “I’m going to see if Lil wants to meet for a drink tonight to
celebrate. You up for it? We’ll meet somewhere in the East Village
so it’s not too far for you.”
“Yeah, sure, sounds great. I’m running to Larchmont to watch Joey
tonight, but I’ll be back in the city by eight. You won’t even be
out of work by then, so I’ll meet Max and we can all meet up
afterward. Hey, is Lily seeing anyone? Max could use a, well . . .”
“A what?” I laughed. “Go on, say it. Do you think my friend is a
whore? She’s just free-spirited, is all. And is she seeing someone?
What kind of question is that? Someone named Pink-Shirt Boy stayed
over there last night. I don’t think I know his real name.”
“Whatever. Anyway, the bell just rang. Call me when you’re done
dropping off the Book.”
“Will do. ’Bye.”
I was about to stash the phone when it rang again. The number wasn’t
familiar, though, and I answered it out of sheer relief that it
wasn’t Miranda or Emily.
“Mir—er, hello?” I’d taken to automatically answering my cell and
Home phone “Miranda Priestly’s office,” which was supremely
embarrassing when it was anyone except my parents or Lily. Had to
work on that.
“Is this the lovely Andrea Sachs whom I inadvertently terrified at
Marshall’s party?” asked a somewhat hoarse and very sexy voice on
the other end. Christian! I’d been almost relieved when he hadn’t
resurfaced anywhere after massaging my hand with his lips. But all
the feelings of wanting to impress him with my wit and charm that
first night came rushing back, and I quickly vowed to play it cool.
“It is. And who may I ask is this? There were a number of men who
terrified me that night for dozens of different and varied
reasons.”OK, so far, so good. Deep breath, be cool.
“I didn’t realize I had so much competition,” he said smoothly. “But
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. How have you been, Andrea?”
“Fine. Great, actually,” I lied quickly, remembering aCosmo article
I’d read that had exhorted me to “keep it light and airy and happy”
when talking to a new guy because most “normal” guys didn’t respond
so well to hard-bitten cynicism. “Work is going really well. I’m
loving my job, actually! It’s been really interesting lately—a lot
to learn, tons of stuff going on. Yeah, it’s great. What about
you?”Don’t talk about yourself too much, don’t dominate the
conversation, get him comfortable enough to chat about his favorite
and most familiar topic: him .
“You’re a rather deft liar, Andrea. To an untrained ear that almost
sounded believable, but you know what they say, don’t you? You can’t
bullshit a bullshitter. Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you get away
with it this time.” I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but
instead I just laughed. A perceptive one indeed. “Let me get right
to the point here, because I’m about to get on a plane for D.C. and
security doesn’t look all too happy that I’m walking through a metal
detector while talking on the phone. Do you have plans for Saturday
night?”
I hated when people phrased their questions that way, asked if you
had plans before they told you what they had in mind. Did his
girfriend need someone to run errands for her and he thought I fit
the bill? Or maybe he needed someone to walk his dog while he gave
yet another eight-hour-long interview to theNew York Times ? I was
considering what noncommittal way I could answer that question when
he said, “So, I have a reservation at Babbo this Saturday. Nine
o’clock. A bunch of friends will be there, too, mostly magazine
editors and pretty interesting people. An editor fromThe Buzz, and a
couple writers fromThe New Yorker . Good crowd. You up for it?” At
that exact moment, an ambulance roared past me with its siren
wailing, lights flashing in a fruitless attempt to speed through the
hopelessly gridlocked traffic. As usual, the drivers ignored the
ambulance and it sat at the red light like all the other vehicles.
Had he just asked me out? Yes, I thought that’s exactly what had
just happened. He was asking me out! He was asking me out. Christian
Collinsworth was asking me on a date—a Saturday-night date, to be
specific, and to Babbo, where he just so happened to have a
prime-time reservation with a group of smart, interesting people,
people just like him. Never even mind theNew Yorkerwriters! I racked
my brain, trying to remember if I’d mentioned to him at the party
that Babbo was the one restaurant I most wanted to try in New York,
that I loved Italian and knew how much Miranda loved it and I was
dying to go. I’d even thought about blowing a week’s pay on a meal
and had called to make a reservation for Alex and me, but they’d
been booked solid for the next five months. I hadn’t been asked on a
date by anyone other than Alex in three years.
“Um, Christian, golly, I’d love to,” I started, trying to forget
immediately that I’d just said “golly.”Golly! Who said that? The
scene where Baby proudly announces to Johnny that she’d carried a
watermelon flashed to mind, but I pushed it back and willed myself
to forge forward despite the humiliation. “I’d really love to”—yes,
you idiot, you just said that, try to make some progress here—“but I
just can’t do it. I, um, I already have plans for Saturday.” A good
response overall, I thought. I was shouting over the noise of the
siren, but I thought I still sounded somewhat dignified. No need to
be available for a date that was only two days away, and no real
need to reveal existence of boyfriend . . . after all, it really
wasn’t any of his Business. Right?
“Do you really have plans, Andrea, or do you think your boyfriend
would disapprove of you going out with another man?” He was Fishing,
I could tell.
“Either way has nothing to do with you,” I said prissily, and I
actually rolled my eyes at myself. I crossed Third Avenue without
noticing that the light was against me and almost got mowed down by
a minivan.
“OK, well, I’ll let you off this time. But I’ll be asking again. And
I think next time you’ll say yes.”
“Oh, really? What gives you that impression?” The confidence that
had seemed so sexy before was now starting to sound a whole lot like
arrogance. The only problem was that it made him sound even sexier.
“Just a hunch, Andrea, just a hunch. And no need to worry that
pretty little head of yours—or your boyfriend’s—I was just extending
a friendly invitation for a good meal and good company. Maybe he’d
like to join us, Andrea? Your boyfriend. He must be a great guy, I’d
really like to meet him.”
“No!” I almost shouted, horrified at the thought of the two of them
sitting across a table from each other, each so amazing in such
radically different ways. I’d be ashamed for Christian to see Alex’s
wholesomeness, his do-gooder ways. To Christian, Alex would seem
like a naïve hick. And I’d be even more ashamed for Alex to see,
with his own eyes, all the ugly things I found so incredibly
attractive about Christian: the style, the cockiness, a
self-assuredness so rock-solid it seemed impossible to insult him.
“No.” I laughed or, rather, forced a laugh, as I tried to make it
sound casual. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Although I’m sure
he’d just love to meet you, too.”
He laughed with me, but it had turned mocking, patronizing. “I was
just kidding, Andrea. I’m sure your boyfriend’s a really great guy,
but I’m not particularly interested in meeting him.”
“Well, of course. Sure. I mean, I knew what you—”
“Listen, I’ve got to run. Why don’t you give me a call if you change
your mind . . . or your ‘plans,’ OK? Offer’s still open. Oh, and
have a great day.” And before I could say another word, he’d hung
up.
What the hell had just happened? I ran through it again: Hot Smart
Writer had somehow found my cell number, called it, and fully asked
me on a date for Saturday night to Hot Trendy Restaurant. I wasn’t
clear whether he knew ahead of time if I had a boyfriend or not, but
he didn’t appear particularly daunted by the information. The only
thing I knew for sure was that I’d spent way too long chatting on
the phone, a fact confirmed by a quick glance at my watch. It had
been thirty-two minutes since I’d left the office, longer than the
time it usually took me to get lunch and come back.
I stashed the phone and realized I had already made it to the
restaurant. I pulled open the lumbering wooden door and stepped into
the hushed, darkened dining room. Even though every table was filled
with midtown bankers and lawyers gnawing on their favorite steaks,
there was barely any noise at all, as if the plush carpeting and
manly color scheme just absorbed all the sound.
“Andrea!” I heard Sebastian cry from the hostess stand. He beelined
toward me as though I might be holding the last of a life-saving
medication. “We’re just all so glad you’re here!” Two young girls in
crisp gray skirt suits nodded seriously behind him.
“Oh, really? Why is that?” I could never help myself toying with
Sebastian, just a little. He was such an unbelievable kiss-ass.
He leaned over conspiratorially, his excitement palpable. “Well, you
know how the entire staff here at Smith and Wollensky feels about
Ms. Priestly, don’t you?Runway is such a gorgeous magazine, what
with all the beautiful shoots and stunning style and, of course,
fascinating, literate articles. We all just adore it!”
“Literate articles, huh?” I asked, suppressing the huge smile that
was threatening to emerge. He nodded proudly and turned as one of
the suited helpers tapped him on the shoulder to hand him a tote
bag.
He literally cried out in joy. “Ah-hah! Here we have it, one
perfectly prepared lunch for one perfect editor—and one perfect
assistant,” he added while winking at me.
“Thank you, Sebastian, we both appreciate it.” I opened the natural
cotton tote, a bag that looked just like thoseüber -cool ones from
the Strand that all the NYU students slung over their shoulder, but
without the logo, and made sure everything was right.
One-and-a-quarter-pound ribeye, bleeding all over the container, so
raw it just might not have been cooked at all. Check. Two baked
potatoes the size of small kittens, each steaming hot. Check. One
small side container of smashed potatoes, made soft with lots of
heavy cream and extra butter. Check. Precisely eight perfect stalks
of asparagus with the tips looking plump and juicy and the ends
shaved to a clean, white finish. Check. There was also a metal gravy
boat full of softened butter, a pinch-box overflowing with grainy
kosher salt, a wooden-handled steak knife, and a crisp white linen
napkin, which today was folded into the shape of a pleated skirt.
How adorable. Sebastian waited to see if I liked it.
“Very nice, Sebastian,” I said as though I were praising a puppy for
going number two outside. “You really outdid yourself today.”
He beamed and then looked at the ground in practiced humility.
“Well, thank you. You know how I feel about Ms. Priestly, and, well,
it’s really an honor to, well, you know . . .”
“Prepare her lunch?” I supplied, helpfully.
“Well, yes. Exactly. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course I do, Sebastian. She’ll love it, I’m sure.” I didn’t
have the heart to tell him that I immediately unfolded all of his
creations because the Ms. Priestly he so adored would throw a hissy
fit if faced with a napkin in the shape of anything other than a
napkin—never mind a bowling bag or a high-heeled shoe. I tucked the
bag under my arm and turned to leave, but just then my phone rang.
Sebastian looked at me expectantly, fervently hoping that the voice
on the other line of my Cell Phone would be his love, his reason for
living. He wasn’t let down.
“Is this Emily? Emily, is that you, I can barely hear you!”
Miranda’s voice came over the line in a shrill, angry staccato.
“Hello, Miranda. Yes, this is Andrea.” I stated calmly while
Sebastian visibly swooned at the sound of her name.
“Are you preparing my lunch yourself, Andrea? Because according to
my clock, I asked for it thirty-five minutes ago. I cannot think of
a single reason why—if you were doing your job properly—my lunch
would not be at my desk yet. Can you?”
She got my name right! A small success, but no time to celebrate.
“Uh, um, well, I’m very sorry it’s taken so long, but there was a
little mix-up with—”
“You do know just how uninterested I am in such details, do you
not?”
“Yes, of course I understand, and it won’t be long before—”
“I am calling to tell you that I want my lunch, and I want itnow .
There’s really not much room for nuance, Emily. I. Want. My. Lunch.
Now!” With that, she hung up the phone, and my hands were shaking so
badly I dropped my cell on the floor. It might as well have been
covered in burning arsenic.
Sebastian, who looked ready to pass out from the action, swooped
down to retrieve the phone and hand it back to me.
“Is she upset with us, Andrea? I hope she doesn’t think we let her
down! Does she? Does she think that?” His mouth pursed into a tight
oval and the already prominent veins in his forehead pulsed, and I
wanted to hate him as much as I hated her, but I just felt sorry for
him. Why did this man, this man who seemed remarkable only to the
extent that he was so unremarkable, why did he care so much about
Miranda Priestly? Why was he so invested in pleasing her, impressing
her, providing for her? Perhaps he should take over my job, I
thought, because I was going to quit. Yes, that was it. I was going
to march back to that office and quit. Who needed her shit? What
gave her the right to talk to me, to anyone, like that? The
position? The power? The prestige? The goddamn Prada? Where, in a
just universe, was this acceptable behavior?
The receipt I was supposed to sign every day charging the
ninety-five-dollar meal to Elias-Clark was resting on the podium,
and I quickly scrawled an illegible signature. Whether it was mine
or Miranda’s or Emily’s or Mahatma Gandhi’s at this point I couldn’t
even be sure, but it wouldn’t matter. I grabbed the bag of food that
redefined the term “lunch meat” and stomped back outside, leaving a
very fragile Sebastian to deal with himself. I threw myself in a cab
the moment I hit the street, nearly knocking an elderly man off his
feet. No time to be concerned. I had a job to quit. Even with the
midday traffic, we covered the few blocks in ten minutes, and I
threw the cabbie a twenty. I would’ve given him fifty if I’d had it
and figured out a way to recoup it from Elias, but there were none
in my wallet. He immediately began counting out change, but I
slammed the door and ran. Let that twenty go to caring for a little
girl somewhere or fixing a hot water heater, I decided. Or even for
a few postshift beers at the cab park in Queens—whatever the cabbie
did with it would somehow be nobler than buying yet another cup of
Starbucks.
Full of self-righteous indignation, I stormed inside the building
and ignored the disapproving stares from the small group of Clackers
in the corner. I saw Benji stepping off the Bergman elevators but
quickly turned my back so I didn’t waste any more time, swiped my
card, and threw my hip against the turnstile. Shit! The metal bar
smacked against my pelvic bone and I knew I’d have a splotchy purple
bruise within minutes. I looked up to see two rows of glimmering
white teeth and the fat, sweating face that formed around them.
Eduardo. He had to be kidding. He just had to be.
I quickly flashed him my best nasty look, the one that said, quite
simply,Just die! but it didn’t work today. Maintaining full eye
contact, I swiveled around to the next turnstile in the line, swiped
my card lightning-fast, and lunged against the bar. He’d managed to
lock it just in time, and I stood there as he let the Clackers go
through the first turnstile I’d tried, one by one. Six in all, and I
still stood there, so frustrated I thought I might cry. Eduardo was
not sympathetic.
“Girlfriend, don’t look so down. This ain’t torture, it’s fun. Now,
please. Pay attention, because . . .I think we’re alone now. There
doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think we’re alone now. The
beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound .”
“Eduardo! How on earth am I supposed to act out that one? I don’t
have time for this shit right now!”
“OK, OK. No actin’ this time, just singin’. I’ll start, you
finish.Children behave! That’s what they say when we’re together.
And watch how you play! They don’t understand, and so we’re . . . ”
I figured I wouldn’t have to quit if I ever actually made it
upstairs because I’d be fired by then anyway. Might as well make
someone else’s day.“Running just as fast as we can,” I continued,
not missing a beat.“Holdin’ on to one another’s hand. Tryin’ to get
away into the night and then you put your arms around me and we
tumble to the ground and then you say . . .”
I leaned in closer when I noticed that the jerk from day one,
Mickey, was trying to listen, and Eduardo finished it off:“I think
we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think
we’re alone now. The beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound!” He
guffawed and threw his hand in the air. I slapped him high five, and
I heard the metal bar click open.
“Have a good lunch, Andy!” he called, still grinning.
“You, too, Eduardo, you, too.”
The elevator ride was blissfully uneventful, and it wasn’t until I
was standing directly outside the doors of our office suite that I
decided I couldn’t quit. Aside from the obvious—that is, it’d be too
terrifying to do it unprepared, she’d probably just look at me and
say, “No, I won’t allow you to quit” and then what would I say?—I
had to remember that it was only a year of my life. A single year to
bypass many more of misery. One year, 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days,
of putting up with this garbage to do what I really wanted. It
wasn’t too great a demand, and besides, I was too tired to even
think about looking for another job. Way too tired.
Emily looked up at me when I walked in. “She’ll be right back. She
just got called up to Mr. Ravitz’s office. Seriously, Andrea, what
took you so long? You know that she comes down on me when you’re
late, and what can I tell her? That you’re smoking cigarettes
instead of buying her Coffee, or talking to your boyfriend instead
of getting her lunch? It’s not fair—it’s really not.” She turned her
attention back to her computer, a resigned expression on her face.
She was right, of course. It wasn’t fair. To me, to her, to any
semicivilized human being. And I felt bad for making it more
difficult for her, which I did every time I took a few extra minutes
away from the office to relax and unwind. Because every second I was
gone was another second that Miranda focused her relentless
attention on Emily. I vowed to try harder.
“You’re totally right, Em, and I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
She looked genuinely surprised and a little bit pleased. “I’d really
appreciate it, Andrea. I mean, I’ve done your job. Iknow how much it
sucks. Trust me, there were days that I had to go out in the snow
and the slush and the rain to get her Coffee five, six, seven times
in a single day. I was so tired I could barely move—I know what it’s
like! Sometimes she’d call me to ask where something was—her latte,
her lunch, some special, sensitive-teeth toothpaste I’d been sent to
find—it was comforting to discover that at least her teeth had a bit
of sensitivity—and I hadn’t even left the building yet. Hadn’t even
gotten outside! That’s just her, Andy. That’s just how it is. You
can’t fight it anymore, or you’ll never survive. She doesn’t mean
any harm by it, she really doesn’t. That’s just the way she is.”
I nodded and I understood, but I just couldn’t accept that. I hadn’t
worked anywhere else, but I just couldn’t believe that all bosses
everywhere acted like this. But maybe they did?
I carried the lunch bag over to my desk and began the preparations
for serving her. One by one, I used my bare hands to pluck the food
from its heat-sealed to-go containers and arrange it (stylishly, I
hoped) on one of the china plates from the overhead bin. Slowing
only to wipe my now greasy hands on a pair of her dirty Versace
pants I hadn’t yet sent to the cleaners, I placed the plate on the
teak and tile serving tray that resided under my desk. Next to it
went the gravy boat full of butter, the salt, and the silverware
wrapped in a linen-pleated skirt-no-longer. A quick survey of my
artistry revealed a missing Pellegrino. Better hurry—she’d be back
any minute! I dashed to one of the minikitchens and palmed a fistful
of ice cubes, blowing on them to keep them from freezer-burning my
hands. Blowing was only one itsy, bitsy, teensy step from licking
them—do I do it? No! Be above it, rise above it. Do not spit in her
food or gum her ice cubes. You’re a bigger person than that!
Her office was still empty by the time I made it back, and the only
thing left to do was pour the bottled water and place the whole
orchestrated tray on her desk. She’d come back and perch at her
mammoth desk and call out for someone to close her doors. And this
would be one time I’d jump up happily, enthusiastically, because it
meant not only that she’d sit quietly behind those closed doors for
a good half hour, on the phone with B-DAD, but also that it was time
for us to eat as well. One of us could race down to the dining room
and grab the very first thing she saw and race back so the other
could go. We would try to hide our food under our desks and behind
our computer screens just in case she came out unexpectedly. If
there was a single unspoken but still irrefutable rule, it was that
members of theRunway staff do not eat in front of Miranda Priestly.
Period.
My watch said it was quarter after two. My stomach said it was late
evening. It had been seven hours since I’d shoved a chocolate scone
down my throat on the walk back to the office from Starbucks, and I
was so hungry I considered gnawing on her ribeye.
“Em, I might pass out, I’m so hungry. I think I’m going to run down
and pick something up. Can I get you something?”
“Are you crazy? You haven’t served her lunch yet. She’ll be back any
minute.”
“I’m serious. I really don’t feel well. I don’t think I can wait.”
The sleep deprivation and the low blood sugar were combining to make
me dizzy. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to carry the steak tray into her
office even if she did come back sometime soon.
“Andrea, be rational! What if you run into her in the elevator or in
reception? She’d know that you left the office. She’d freak! It’s
not worth the risk. Hold on a sec—I’ll get you something.” She
grabbed her change purse and headed out of the office. Not four
seconds later, I saw Miranda making her way down the hall toward me.
Any thoughts of dizziness or hunger or exhaustion disappeared the
moment I spotted her tight, frowning face, and I flew out of my seat
to put the tray on her desk before she reached it herself.
I landed in my seat, head spinning, mouth dry, and totally
disoriented, just before her first Jimmy Choo crossed the threshold.
She didn’t so much as glance in my direction or, thankfully, seem to
notice that the real Emily wasn’t at her 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 findthis 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.
Shewhat? 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, andshe’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. TheRunway 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 thought you said she had a cook,” Alex pointed out. “Why couldn’t
he do it?”
“She does indeed have a cook. She also has a housekeeper, a nanny,
and two children. So I have no idea why I was the one sent out for
dinner spices. It was especially annoying since Fifth Avenue doesn’t
have any corner delis, and neither does Madison or Park, so I had to
go all the way to Lex to find one. But, of course, they didn’t sell
basil, so I had to walk up nine blocks until I found an open
D’Agostino’s. It took me an extra forty-five minutes. I should just
expense a fucking spice rack and start traveling with it wherever I
go. But let me tell you, those were a really, really worthwhile
forty-five minutes! I mean, think of how much I learned shopping for
that basil, how better prepared I am for my future in magazines! I’m
on the fast track to becoming an editor now!” I flashed a winning
smile.
“To your future!” Lily cried, not detecting a single hint of sarcasm
in my diatribe.
“She’s so far gone,” Alex said quietly, watching Lily with the look
of someone watching a sick relative sleep in a hospital bed. “I got
here on time with Max, who already left, but she must’ve been here
for hours already. Either that, or she drinks really fast.”
Lily had always been a big drinker, but it wasn’t weird, because
Lily was a big everything. She was the first one to smoke pot in
junior high and the first one to lose her virginity in high school
and the first to go skydiving in college. She loved anyone and
anything that didn’t love her back, so long as it made herfeel
alive.
“I just don’t understand how you can sleep with him when you know
he’s never going to break up with his girlfriend,” I’d said about a
guy she’d been secretly seeing our junior year.
“I just don’t understand how you can play by so many rules,” she’d
shot back instantly. “Where’s the fun in all your perfectly planned,
mapped-out, rule-filled life? Live a little, Andy! Feel something!
It’s good to be alive!”
Maybe she had been drinking a little more lately, but I knew that
her first-year studies were incredibly stressful, even for her, and
that her professors at Columbia were more demanding and less
understanding than the ones she’d had wrapped around her finger at
Brown.It might not be a bad idea, I thought, signaling to the
waitress. Maybe drinking was the way to handle it. I ordered an
Absolut and grapefruit juice and took a long, deep swig. It made me
feel more sick than anything, because I still hadn’t had time to eat
anything except the raisins and the Diet Coke Emily had scraped
together for me earlier that day.
“I’m sure she’s just had a rough couple of weeks in school,” I said
to Alex as though Lily weren’t sitting with us. She didn’t notice we
were talking about her because she was preoccupied giving some
yuppie guy at the bar heavy-lidded, come-hither looks. Alex put his
arm around me and I snuggled closer on the couch. It felt so good to
be near him again—it seemed like it had been weeks.
“I hate to be a buzz-kill, but I really have to get Home,” Alex
said, pushing my hair back behind my ear. “Will you be OK with her?”
“You have to leave? Already?”
“Already? Andy, I’ve been here watching your best friend drink for
the past two hours. I came to see you, but you weren’t here. And now
it’s almost midnight, and I still have essays to correct.” He said
it calmly, but I could see that he was upset.
“I know, I’m sorry about that, I really am. You know that I would’ve
been there if I could’ve helped it at all. You know that—”
“I do know all that. I’m not saying you did anything wrong or that
you could’ve done anything differently. I understand. But try to
understand where I’m coming from, too, OK?”
I nodded and kissed him, but I felt awful. I pledged to make it up
to him, to pick a night and plan something really special for just
the two of us. He did, after all, put up with a lot from me.
“So, you won’t even stay over tonight?” I asked hopefully.
“Not unless you need help with Lily. I really need to get Home and
work on those papers.” He hugged me good-bye, kissed Lily on the
cheek, and headed toward the door. “Call me if you need me,” he said
as he walked out.
“Hey, why’d Alex leave?” Lily asked, even though she’d been sitting
there through the entire conversation. “Is he mad at you?”
“Probably,” I sighed, hugging my canvas messenger bag to my chest.
“I’ve been a shit to him lately.” I went to the bar to ask for an
appetizer menu and by the time I came back, the Wall Street guy had
curled up on the couch next to Lily. He looked to be in his late
twenties, but his receding hairline made it impossible to know for
sure.
I grabbed her coat and tossed it at her. “Lily, put that on. We’re
leaving,” I said while looking at him. He was on the shorter side,
and his pleated khakis didn’t help his pudgy figure. And the fact
that his tongue was now two inches from my best friend’s ear didn’t
make me like him any more.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” he asked in a whiny, nasal voice. “Your
friend and I are just getting to know each other.” Lily grinned and
nodded, trying to take a gulp from her drink but not realizing her
glass was empty.
“Well, that’s very sweet, but it’s time for us to go. What’s your
name?”
“Stuart.”
“Nice to meet you, Stuart. Why don’t you give Lily here your number
and she can give you a call when she’s feeling a little better—or
not. How does that sound?” I flashed him a smile.
“Uh, whatever. No worries. I’ll catch you guys later.” He was on his
feet and headed to the bar so fast that Lily hadn’t yet noticed he’d
left.
“Stuart and I are getting to know each other, aren’t we, Stu?” She
turned to the place where he had sat and looked confused.
“Stuart had to run, Lil. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I pulled her drab green peacoat on over her sweater and yanked her
to her feet, where she swayed precariously until she regained her
balance. The air outside was searing and cold and I figured it’d
help her sober up.
“I don’t feel so good.” She was slurring again.
“I know, sweetie, I know. Let’s get a cab back to your apartment,
OK? Do you think you can make it?”
She nodded and then leaned over very casually and threw up. All over
her brown boots, with some of it splashing up the sides of her
jeans.If only the Runwaygirls could see my best friend now. I
couldn’t help thinking.
I sat her down on a window ledge that looked reasonably like it
wouldn’t have an alarm and ordered her not to move. There was a
twenty-four-hour bodega right across the street, and this girl
clearly needed some water. When I got back, she’d thrown up
again—this time all down her front—and her eyes looked droopy. I’d
bought two bottles of Poland Spring, one for her to drink and one
for cleaning, but she was too gross now. I dumped one all over her
feet to wash away the sick, and half of the second one over her
coat. Better to be soaking wet than covered in puke. She was so
drunk she didn’t even notice.
It took a little persuading to get a cabbie to let us in with Lily
looking in such bad shape, but I promised a really big tip on top of
what was sure to be a really big fare. We were going from the Lower
East Side to the far Upper West, and I was already figuring out a
way to expense what was sure to be a twenty-dollar ride. I could
probably just write it off as a trip I had to make in search of
something for Miranda. Yes, that would work.
The trip to her fourth-floor walk-up was even less fun than the cab,
but she’d become more cooperative after the twenty-five-minute ride,
and she even managed to wash herself in the shower after I’d
undressed her. I pointed her in the direction of her bed and watched
as she collapsed face-down when her knees hit the box spring. I
looked down at her, unconscious, and was momentarily nostalgic for
college, for all the things we’d done together then. It was fun now,
no question, but it would never again be as carefree as then.
I briefly wondered if Lily might be drinking too much these days.
After all, she did seem to be drunk pretty consistently. But when
Alex had brought it up the week before, I’d assured him it was
because she was still a student, still not living in the real world
with real, adult responsibilities (like pouring the perfect
Pellegrino!). I mean, it’s not like we hadn’t together done too many
shots at Señor Frog’s on spring break or too ambitiously worked our
way through three bottles of red wine while celebrating the
anniversary of the day we’d first met in eighth grade. Lily had held
my hair back as I sat with my face resting on the toilet seat after
a postfinals binge, and pulled over four times once while driving me
back to my dorm after a night that had included eight rum and Cokes
and a particularly horrid karaoke rendition of “Every Rose Has Its
Thorn.” I’d dragged her back to my apartment on the night of her
twenty-first birthday and tucked her into my bed, checking her
breathing every ten minutes, and finally fell asleep on the floor
next to her after I’d made sure she’d live through the night. She
had awakened twice that night. The first time was to throw up over
the side of the bed—making a sincere effort to make it into the
garbage can I’d set up beside it but getting confused and vomiting
down the side of my wall instead—and once more to apologize
sincerely and tell me she loved me and I was the best friend a girl
could have. That’s what friends did: they got drunk together and did
stupid things and looked out for one another, right? Or was that all
just college fun, rites of passage that had a time and a place? Alex
had insisted that this was different, thatshe was different, but I
just didn’t see it that way.
I knew I should’ve stayed with her tonight, but it was nearly two
and I had to be at work in five hours. My clothes smelled of vomit
and there was no way I could find a single appropriate piece of
clothing in Lily’s closet to wear toRunway —especially with my new
upgraded look. I sighed and pulled a blanket over her and set her
alarm for 7:00A .M. so just in case she wasn’t too hungover, she’d
have a shot at making it to class.
“’Bye, Lil. I’m heading out. You OK?” I placed the portable phone on
the pillow by her head.
She opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and smiled. “Thanks,”
she muttered, her eyelids dropping again. She wasn’t fit to run a
marathon, or probably even operate a motorized lawn mower, but she’d
be fine to just sleep it off.
“It was my pleasure,” I managed, even though this was the first time
in twenty-one hours I had stopped physically running, fetching,
rearranging, moving, cleaning, or otherwise assisting. “I’ll call
you tomorrow,” I said as I willed my legs not to give out. “If
either of us is still alive.” And I finally,finally, went Home.
10
“Hey, I’m glad I caught you,” I heard Cara say on the other end of
the line. Why was she out of breath at quarter of eight in the
morning?
“Uh-oh. You never call this early. What’s wrong?” In the split
second it took me to say those words, a half-dozen scenarios of what
Miranda could need raced through my mind.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to warn you that
B-DAD is on his way in to see you, and he’s particularly chatty this
morning.”
“Oh, well, that’s sure great news. It’s been, what, nearly a week
since he’s interrogated me about every aspect of my life? I was
wondering where my biggest fan had gone.” I finished typing my memo
and hit “print.”
“You’re a lucky girl, I have to say. He’s lost interest in me
entirely,” she pined dramatically. “He only has eyes for you. I
heard him say that he was coming over to discuss details of the Met
party with you.”
“Great, that’s just great. I can’t wait to meet this brother of his.
So far I’ve just spoken to him on the phone, but he sounds like a
total schmuck. So, you’re sure he’s on his way, or is it possible
there’s a kind spirit up above who just may spare me that particular
misery today?”
“Nope, not today. He’s definitely on his way. Miranda has a
podiatrist appointment at eight-thirtyA .M., so I don’t think she’ll
be coming with him.”
I checked the appointment book on Emily’s desk quickly and confirmed
her appointments. A Miranda-free morning was indeed on the schedule.
“Fantastic. I couldn’t think of anyone dreamier to do a little
early-morning bonding with than B-DAD himself. Why does he talk so
much?”
“Can’t answer that other than to point out the obvious: he married
her, so he’s clearly not all there. Call if he says anything
particularly ridiculous. I have to run. Caroline just smashed one of
Miranda’s Stila lipsticks into the bathroom mirror for no apparent
reason.”
“Our lives rock, don’t they? We’re the coolest girls. Anyway, thanks
for the heads up. Talk to you later.”
“OK, ’bye.”
I glanced over the memo while I waited for B-DAD’s arrival. It was a
request to the board of trustees of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
from Miranda. She was asking permission to throw a dinner party in
one of the galleries in March for her brother-in-law, a man I could
tell she absolutely despised but who was, unfortunately, family.
Jack Tomlinson was B-DAD’s younger and wilder brother, and he’d just
announced he was leaving his wife and three children and marrying
his masseuse. Although he and B-DAD were both quintessential East
Coast prep school aristocracy, Jack had shed his Harvard persona in
his late twenties and moved to South Carolina, where he’d
immediately made a fortune in real estate. Judging from everything
Emily had told me, he’d morphed into a first-class Southern boy, a
real straw-chewin’, tobacco-spittin’ hick, which of course appalled
Miranda, the epitome of class and sophistication. B-DAD had asked
Miranda to organize an engagement party for his baby brother, and
Miranda, blinded by love, had no choice but to oblige. And if she
had to do something, then she sure as hell was going to do it right.
And right was at the Met.
Dear Honored Members, blah, blah, blah, would like to request
permission to host a fabulous little soiree, blah, blah, blah, will
be hiring only the finest caterers, florists, and band, of course,
blah, blah, blah, would welcome your input, blah, blah. Making sure
one last time that there were no glaring errors, I quickly forged
her name and called for a messenger to come pick it up.
The knock on the office suite door—which I kept closed this early in
the morning since no one was in yet anyway—came almost immediately,
and I was impressed with their turnaround time, but the door swung
open to reveal B-DAD, who was sporting a grin much too enthusiastic
for pre-eightA.M .
“Andrea,” he sang, immediately walking over to my desk and smiling
so genuinely it made me feel guilty for not liking him.
“Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson. What brings you here so early?” I
asked. “I’m sorry to tell you that Miranda’s not in yet.”
He chuckled, his nose twitching like a rodent’s. “Yes, yes, she
won’t be in until after lunch, or so I believe. Andy, it really has
been too long since you and I caught up. Tell Mr. T. now: How is
everything?”
“Here, let me take those,” I said, pulling the monogrammed duffel
full of Miranda’s dirty clothes that she’d given him to give to me.
I also relieved him of the beaded Fendi tote bag that had surfaced
again recently. It was a one-of-a-kind tote that had been
hand-beaded in an elaborate crystal design just for Miranda from
Silvia Venturini Fendi, as a thank-you for all of her support, and
one of the fashion assistants had put its value at just under ten
grand. But I noticed today that one of the skinny leather handles
had broken loose yet again, even though the accessories department
had returned it to Fendi for hand-stitching two dozen times already.
It was intended to hold a delicate ladies’ wallet, perhaps
accompanied by a pair of sunglasses or maybe, if absolutely
necessary, a small Cell Phone. Miranda didn’t really care about
that. She had currently crammed in an extra-large bottle of Bulgari
perfume, a sandal with a broken heel that I was probably supposed to
get fixed, the blotter-size Hermès daily planner that weighed more
than an entire laptop, an oversize spiked dog collar that I thought
either belonged to Madelaine or was for an upcoming fashion shoot,
and the Book I had delivered to her the night before. I would have
hocked a bag worth ten thousand dollars and paid my rent for a year,
but Miranda preferred to use it as a trash receptacle.
“Thank you, Andy. You really are a big help to everyone. So Mr. T.
would sure like to hear more about your life. What’s going on?”
What’s going on?What’s going on?Hmm, well, let’s see here. Really
not all that much, I suppose. I spend most of my time trying to
survive my term of indentured servitude with your sadistic wife. If
there are ever any free minutes during the workday when she’s not
making some belittling demand, then I’m trying to block out the
brainwash drivel that’s spoon-fed to me by her assistant in chief.
On the increasingly rare occasions that I find myself outside the
confines of this magazine, I’m usually trying to convince myself
that it really is OK to eat more than eight hundred calories a day
and that being a size six does not put me in the plus-size category.
So I guess the short answer is, not much.
“Well, Mr. Tomlinson, not too much. I work a lot. And I guess when
I’m not working I hang out with my best friend, or my boyfriend. Try
to see my family.”I used to read a lot, I wanted to say,but I’m too
tired now. And sports have always been a pretty big part of my life,
but there wasn’t time anymore.
“So, you’re twenty-five, right?” He non-sequitured. I couldn’t even
imagine where he was going with this one.
“Uh, no, I’m twenty-three. I only graduated last May.”
“Ah-hah! Twenty-three, huh?” He looked like he was trying to decide
whether to say something or not. I braced myself. “So tell Mr. T.,
what do twenty-three-year-olds do in this city for fun? Restaurants?
Clubs? That sort of thing?” He smiled again, and I wondered if he
really needed the attention as much as he appeared to: there was
nothing sinister behind his interest, just a seemingly driving need
totalk .
“Um, well, all sorts of things, I guess. I don’t really go to clubs,
but bars and lounges and places like that. Go out for dinner, see
movies.”
“Well, that sounds like a lot of fun. Used to do that kind of stuff,
too, when I was your age. Now it’s just a lot of work events and
fund-raisers. Enjoy it while you can, Andy.” He winked like a dorky
father would.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying,” I managed.Please leave, please leave,
please leave, I willed, staring longingly at the bagel that was just
calling my name. I get three minutes of peace and quiet a day, and
this man was stealing all of it.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the doors swung open and
Emily stomped in. She was wearing her headphones and moving to the
music. I watched her mouth drop open when she saw him standing
there.
“Mr. Tomlinson!” she exclaimed, yanking off her headphones and
tossing her iPod in her Gucci tote. “Is everything OK? Nothing’s
wrong with Miranda, is it?” She looked and sounded genuinely
concerned. An A-plus performance: always the perfectly attentive,
unfailingly polite assistant.
“Hello there, Emily. Nothing wrong at all. Miranda will be here
shortly. Mr. T. just came by to drop off her things. How are you
doing today?”
Emily beamed. I wondered if she actually enjoyed his presence. “Just
fine. Thanks so much for asking. And you? Did Andrea help you with
everything?”
“Oh, she sure did,” he said, throwing smile number 6,000 in my
direction. “I wanted to go over a few things about my brother’s
engagement party, but I realize that it’s probably a little early
for that, right?”
For a moment I thought he meant too early in the morning and I
almost shouted “Yes!” but then I realized that he meant it was too
early in the planning to discuss details.
He turned back to Emily and said, “You’ve got yourself a great
junior assistant here, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Emily managed through clenched teeth. “She’s the
best.” She grinned.
I grinned.
Mr. Tomlinson grinned with extra wattage, and I wondered if he had a
chemical imbalance, perhaps hypomania.
“Well, Mr. T. had better be on his way. It’s always lovely chatting
with you girls. Have a nice morning, both of you. Good-bye now.”
“’Bye, Mr. Tomlinson!” Emily called as he rounded the corner in the
hallway on his way to reception.
“Why were you so rude to him?” she asked as she pulled the flimsy
leather blazer off, only to reveal a flimsier chiffon scoop-neck
that was laced all the way up the front like a corset.
“So rude? I helped him unload her stuff and I talked to him before
you got here. How is that rude?”
“Well, you didn’t say good-bye, for one thing. And you have that
look on your face.”
“That look?”
“Yes, that look of yours. The one that tells everyone just how far
above this you are, just how much you hate it here. That may fly
with me, but it won’t with Mr. Tomlinson. He’s Miranda’shusband ,
and you just can’t treat him like that.”
“Em, don’t you think he’s a little, I don’t know . . . weird? He
never stops talking. How can he be so nice when she’s such a . . .
so not as nice?” I watched as she glanced inside Miranda’s office to
make sure that I’d set the newspapers correctly.
“Weird? Hardly, Andrea. He’s one of the most prominent tax attorneys
in Manhattan.”
It wasn’t worth it. “Never mind, I don’t even know what I’m saying.
What’s going on with you? How was your night?”
“Oh, it was good. I went shopping with Jessica for gifts for her
bridesmaids. Everywhere—Scoop, Bergdorf’s, Infinity, everywhere. And
I tried on a bunch of stuff to get some idea for Paris, but it’s
still really too early.”
“For Paris? You’re going to Paris? Does that mean you’ll leave me
alone with her?” I hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud, but
it had slipped.
Again, a look like I was crazy. “Yes, I’ll be going to Paris with
Miranda in October, for the spring ready-to-wear shows. Each year
she takes her senior assistant to the spring shows so she can see
what it’s really like. I mean, I’ve been to, like, a million at
Bryant Park, but the European shows are just different.”
I did a quick calculation. “In October, as in seven months from now?
You were trying on clothes for a trip seven months from now?” I
hadn’t meant for it to sound as harsh as it did, and Emily
immediately got defensive.
“Well, yes. I mean, obviously I wasn’t going to buy anything—so many
of the styles will have changed by then. But I just wanted to start
thinking about it. It’s a really huge deal, you know. Stay in
five-star hotels, go to the craziest parties ever. And my god, you
get to go to the hottest, most exclusive fashion shows in
existence.”
Emily had already told me that Miranda went to Europe three or four
times a year for the fashion shows. She always skipped London, like
everyone did, but she went to Milan and Paris in October for spring
ready-to-wear, in July for winter couture, and in March for fall
ready-to-wear. Sometimes she’d hit resort, but not always. We’d been
working like crazy to get Miranda prepared for the shows coming up
at the end of the month. I’d wondered briefly why she wasn’t
planning on bringing an assistant.
“So why doesn’t she take you to all of them?” I decided to just go
for it, even though the answer was sure to entail a lengthy
explanation. I was excited enough that Miranda would be out of the
office for two whole weeks (she spent one in Milan and one in Paris)
and was giddy at the thought of getting rid of Emily for a week of
that. Visions of bacon cheeseburgers and nonprofessionally ripped
jeans and flats—oh hell, maybe even sneakers—filled my head. “Why
just in October?”
“Well, it’s not like she doesn’t have help over there. Italian and
FrenchRunway always send some of their assistants for Miranda, and
most of the time the editors help her themselves. But it’s at spring
RTW that she throws a huge party, the annual kick-off party that
everyone says is the biggest and best at all the shows, all year
long. I’ll only go for the week while she’s in Paris. So obviously
she would only trustme to help her there.” Obviously.
“Mmm, sounds like it’ll be a great time. So that means I just hold
down the fort here, huh?”
“Yeah, pretty much. But don’t think that it’ll be a joke. That will
probably be the hardest week of all because she needs a lot of
assistance when she’s away. She’ll be calling you a lot.”
“Oh, goody,” I said. She rolled her eyes.
I slept with my eyes open, staring at a blank computer screen, until
the office began to fill up and there were other people to watch.
TenA .M. brought the first of the Clackers, the quiet sipping of
no-whip skim lattes to nurse the previous night’s champagne
hangovers. James stopped by my desk, as he did whenever he saw
Miranda wasn’t at hers, and proclaimed he’d met his future husband
at Balthazar the night before.
“He was just sitting at the bar, wearing the greatest red leather
jacket I’d ever seen—and let me tell you, he could pull it off. You
should have seen how he slipped those oysters on his tongue . . .”
He audibly groaned. “Oh, it was just magnificent.”
“So’d you get his number?” I asked.
“Get his number? Try get his pants. He was butt-ass naked on my
couch by eleven, and boy, let me tell you—”
“Lovely, James. Lovely. Not one for playing hard to get, are you?
Sounds a little slutty of you, to be honest. This is the age of
AIDS, you know.”
“Sweetie, even you, Miss High and Mighty
I-Date-the-World’s-Last-Angel, would’ve been on your knees without a
second thought if you saw this guy. He’s absolutely amazing.
Amazing!”
By eleven everyone had checked everyone else out, making notations
of who had scored a pair of the new Theory “Max” pants or the
latest, impossible-to-find Sevens. Time for a break at noon, when
conversation centered around particular items of clothing and
usually took place by the racks lined up against the walls. Each
morning Jeffy would pull out all the racks of dresses and bathing
suits and pants and shirts and coats and shoes and everything else
that had been called in as a potential item to shoot for one of the
fashion spreads. He lined up each rack against a wall, weaving them
throughout the entire floor so the editors could find what they
needed without having to fight their way through the Closet itself.
The Closet wasn’t really a closet at all. It was more like a small
auditorium. Along the perimeter were walls of shoes in every size
and color and style, a virtual Willy Wonka’s factory for
fashionistas, with dozens of slingbacks, stilettos, ballet flats,
high-heeled boots, open-toe sandals, beaded heels. Stacked drawers,
some built-in and others just shoved in corners, held every
imaginable configuration of stockings, socks, bras, panties, slips,
camisoles, and corsets. Need a last-minute leopard-print push-up bra
from La Perla? Check the Closet. How about a pair of flesh-colored
fishnets or those Dior aviators? In the Closet. The accessories
shelves and drawers took up the farthest two walls, and the sheer
amount of merchandise—not to mention its value—was staggering.
Fountain pens. Jewelry. Bed linens. Mufflers and gloves and ski
caps. Pajamas. Capes. Shawls. Stationery. Silk flowers. Hats, so
many hats. And bags. The bags! There were totes and bowling bags,
backpacks and under-arms, over-shoulders and minis, oversize and
clutches, envelopes and messengers, each bearing an exclusive label
and a price tag of more than the average American’s monthly mortgage
payment. And then there were the racks and racks of clothes—pushed
so tightly together it was impossible to walk among them—that
occupied every remaining inch of space.
So during the day Jeffy would attempt to make the Closet a
semi-usable space where models (and assistants like myself) could
try on clothes and actually reach some of the shoes and bags in the
back by pushing all of the racks into the halls. I’d yet to see a
single visitor to the floor—whether writer or boyfriend or messenger
or stylist—not stop dead in his or her tracks and gape at the
couture-lined hallways. Sometimes the racks were arranged by shoot
(Sydney, Santa Barbara) and other times by item (bikinis, skirt
suits), but mostly it just seemed like a haplessly casual mishmash
ofreally expensive stuff . And although everyone stopped and stared
and fingered the butter-soft cashmeres and the intricately beaded
evening gowns, it was the Clackers who hovered possessively over
“their” clothes and provided constant, streaming commentary on each
and every piece.
“Maggie Rizer is the only woman in theworld who can actually wear
these capris,” Hope, one of the fashion assistants—weighing a
whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six-one—loudly announced
outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her
legs and sighing. “They would make my ass look even more gigantic
than it already is.”
“Andrea,” called her friend, a girl I didn’t know very well who
worked in accessories, “please tell Hope she’s not fat.”
“You’re not fat,” I said, my mouth on autopilot. It would’ve saved
me many, many hours to have a shirt printed up that said as much, or
perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed directly on my forehead. I
was constantly called on to assure variousRunway employees that they
weren’t fat.
“Ohmigod, have you seen my gut lately? I’m like the fucking
Firestone store, spare tires everywhere. I’m huge!” Fat was on
everyone’s minds, if not actually their bodies. Emily swore that her
thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia.” Jessica
believed that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s.
Even James complained that his ass had looked so big that morning
when he got out of the shower that he’d “contemplated calling in fat
to work.”
In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am-I-fat questions with
what I thought to be an exceedingly rational reply. “If you’re fat,
Hope, what does that make me? I’m two inches shorter than you and I
weigh more.”
“Oh, Andy, be serious.I am fat.You’re thin and gorgeous!”
Naturally I thought she was lying, but I soon came to realize that
Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office,
and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people’s
weight. It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that
everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back.
Of course, as much as I tried to keep it at bay, to remind myself
over and over that I was normal and they weren’t, the constant fat
comments had made an impression. It’d only been four months I’d been
working, but my mind was now skewed enough—not to mention
paranoid—that I sometimes thought these comments were directed
intentionally to me. As in: I, the tall, gorgeous, svelte fashion
assistant, am pretending to think I’m fat just so you, the lumpy,
stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat
one. At five-ten and 115 pounds (the same weight as when my body was
racked with parasites), I’d always considered myself on the thinner
side of girls my age. I’d also spent my life until then feeling
taller than ninety percent of the women I met, and at least half the
guys. Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know
what it was like to feel short and fat, all day, every day. I was
easily the troll of the group, the squattest and the widest, and I
wore a size six. And just in case I failed to consider this for a
moment, the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me.
“Dr. Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit,
too, you know,” Jessica added, joining the conversation by plucking
a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez rack. Newly engaged to one of
the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs, Jessica was feeling
the pressures of her upcoming society wedding. “And she’s right.
I’ve lost at least another ten pounds since my last fitting.” I
forgave her for starving herself when she barely had enough body fat
to function normally, but I just couldn’t forgive her fortalking
about it. I could not, no matter how impressive the doctors’ names
were or how many success stories she prattled on about, bring myself
tocare .
At around one the office really picked up pace, because everyone
began getting ready for lunch. Not that there was any eating
associated with the lunch hour, but it was the prime time of day for
guests. I watched lazily as the usual array of stylists,
contributors, freelancers, friends, and lovers stopped by to revel
in and generally soak up the glamour that naturally accompanied
hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, dozens of
gorgeous faces, and what felt like an unlimited amount of really,
really, really long legs.
Jeffy made his way over to me as soon as he could confirm that both
Miranda and Emily had left for lunch and handed me two enormous
shopping bags.
“Here, check this stuff out. This should be a pretty good start.”
I dumped the contents of one bag onto the floor beside my desk and
began sorting. There were Joseph pants in camel and charcoal gray,
both long and lean and low-waisted, made from an incredibly soft
wool. A pair of brown suede Gucci pants looked as though they could
turn any schlub into a supermodel, while two pairs of perfectly
faded Marc Jacobs jeans looked like they were custom cut for my
body. There were eight or nine options for tops, ranging from a
skintight ribbed turtleneck sweater by Calvin Klein to a teeny,
completely sheer peasant blouse by Donna Karan. A dynamite graphic
Diane Von Furstenburg wrap-dress was folded neatly over a navy,
velvet Tahari pantsuit. I spotted and immediately fell in love with
an all-around pleated Habitual denim skirt that would fall just
above my knees and look perfect with the decidedly funky
floral-printed Katayone Adelie blazer.
“These clothes . . . this is all for me?” I asked, hoping I sounded
excited and not offended.
“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just some things that have been lying around
the Closet forever. We might have used some of it in shoots, but
none of it ever got returned to the companies. Every few months or
so I clean out the Closet and give this stuff away, and I figured
you, uh, might be interested. You’re a size six, right?”
I nodded, still dumbfounded.
“Yeah, I could tell. Most everyone else is a two or smaller, so
you’re welcome to all of it.”
Ouch. “Great. This is just great. Jeffy, I can’t thank you enough.
It’s all amazing!”
“Check out the second bag,” he said, motioning to where it sat on
the floor. “You don’t think you can pull off that velvet suit with
that shitty messenger bag you’re always dragging around, do you?”
The second, even more bulging bag spilled forth a stunning array of
shoes, bags, and a couple of coats. There were two pairs of
high-heeled Jimmy Choo boots—one ankle- and one knee-length—two
pairs of open-toe Manolo stiletto sandals, a pair of classic black
Prada pumps, and one pair of Tod loafers, which Jeffy immediately
reminded me to never wear to the office. I slung a slouchy red suede
bag over my shoulder and immediately saw the two intersecting “C”s
carved in the front, but that wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the deep
chocolate leather from the Celine tote that I threw on my other arm.
A long military-style trench with the signature oversize Marc Jacobs
buttons topped it all off.
“You’re joking,” I said softly, fondling a pair of Dior sunglasses
he’d apparently thrown in as an afterthought. “You’ve got to be
kidding.”
He looked pleased with my reaction and ducked his head. “Just do me
a favor and wear it, OK? And don’t tell anyone that I gave you first
pick on all this stuff, because they live for the Closet clean-outs,
you hear?” He bolted from the suite when we heard Emily’s voice call
out to someone down the hall, and I shoved my new clothes under my
desk.
Emily came back from the dining room with her usual lunch: an
all-natural fruit smoothie and a small to-go container of iceberg
lettuce topped with broccoli and balsamic vinegar. Not vinaigrette.
Vinegar. Miranda would be in any minute—Uri had just called to say
he was dropping her off—so I didn’t have my usually luxurious seven
minutes to beeline to the soup table and gulp it down back at my
desk. The minutes ticked by and I was starving, but I just didn’t
have the energy to weave through the Clackers and get examined by
the cashier and wonder if I was doing permanent damage by swallowing
piping hot (and fattening!) soup so fast that I could feel the heat
coursing down my esophagus.Not worth it, I thought.Skipping a single
meal won’t kill you, I told myself.In fact, according to every
single one of your sane and stable coworkers, it’ll just make you
stronger. And besides, $2,000 pants don’t look so hot on girls who
gorge themselves, I rationalized. I slumped down in my chair and
thought of how well I had just representedRunway magazine.
11
The Cell Phone shrilled from somewhere deep in my dream, but
consciousness took over long enough for me to wonder if it was her.
After a stunningly fast orientation process—Where am I? Who is
“she”? What day is it?—I realized that having the phone ring at
eight on a Saturday morning was not a good omen. None of my friends
would be awake for hours, and after years of getting screened out,
my parents had grudgingly accepted that their daughter wasn’t
answering until noon. In the seven seconds it took to figure all
this out, I was also contemplating a reason why I should pick up
this phone call. Emily’s reasons from the first day came back to me,
though, and so I started my arm in a floor sweep from the comfort of
my bed. I managed to click it open just before it stopped ringing.
“Hello?” I was proud that my voice sounded strong and clear, as
though I’d spent the past few hours working hard at something
respectable rather than passed out in a sleep that was so deep, so
intense, it couldn’t possibly have indicated good things about my
health.
“Morning, honey! Glad to hear you’re awake. I just wanted to tell
you that we’re in the sixties on Third, so I’ll be there in just ten
minutes or so, OK?” My mom’s voice came booming over the line.
Moving day! It was moving day! I’d forgotten entirely that my
parents had agreed to come into the city to help me pack my stuff up
and take it to the new apartment Lily and I had rented. We were
going to lug the boxes of clothes and CDs and picture albums while
the real movers tackled my massive bed frame.
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I mumbled, lapsing back into tired-voice mode. “I
thought you were her.”
“Nope, you’ve got yourself a break today. Anyway, where should we
park? Is there a garage right around there?”
“Yeah, right under my building, just enter right from Third. Give
them my apartment number in the building and you’ll get a discount.
I’ve got to get dressed. I’ll see you soon.”
“OK, honey. Hope you’re ready to work today!”
I fell back onto my pillow and considered my options for possibly
going back to sleep. They were looking really grim, considering
they’d driven all the way in from Connecticut to help me move. Just
then, the alarm clock blared its signature static. Ah hah! So Ihad
remembered that today was moving day. The reminder that I wasn’t
going completely crazy was a small comfort.
Getting out of bed was, quite possibly, even harder to do than other
days even though it was happening a few hours later. My body had
been briefly tricked into thinking that it would actually get to
catch up, had depended on reducing that infamous “sleep debt” we’d
learned about in Psych 101, when I wrenched it from bed. There was a
small pile of clothes I’d left folded by the bed, the only things
besides my toothbrush that I hadn’t yet packed. I pulled on the blue
Adidas windpants, the hooded Brown sweatshirt, and the pair of
filthy gray New Balance sneakers that had accompanied me around the
world. Not a second after I swooshed the last of my Listerine did
the buzzer ring.
“Hi, guys. I’ll buzz you up, just a sec.”
There was a knock on the door two minutes later, and instead of my
parents there stood a rumpled-looking Alex. He looked great, as
usual. His faded jeans hung low on nonexistent hips, and his
long-sleeved navy T-shirt was just the right amount of tight. The
tiny wire-rims he wore only when he couldn’t tolerate his contacts
were perched in front of very red eyes, and his hair was all over
the place. I couldn’t stop myself from hugging him on the spot. I
hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before, when we’d met for a quick
midafternoon Coffee. We’d intended to spend the whole day and night
together, but Miranda had needed an emergency babysitter for Cassidy
so she could take Caroline to the doctor, and I had been recruited.
I’d gotten Home too late to spend any real time with him, and he’d
recently stopped camping out in my bed just to get a glimpse of me,
which I understood. He’d wanted to stay over the night before, but I
was still in that stage of parent-pretending: even though all
parties involved knew that Alex and I were sleeping together,
nothing could be done, said, or implied to actually confirm it. And
so I hadn’t wanted him there when my parents arrived.
“Hey, babe. I thought you guys could use some help today.” He held
up a Bagelry bag that I knew would contain salt bagels, my favorite,
and some large coffees. “Are your parents here yet? I brought them
Coffees, too.”
“I thought you had to tutor today,” I said just as Shanti emerged
from her bedroom wearing a black pantsuit. She hung her head as she
walked past us, mumbled something about working all day, and left.
We so seldom talked, I wondered if she realized today was my last
day in the apartment.
“I did, but I called the two little girls’ parents and both said
that tomorrow morning was fine with them, so I’m all yours!”
“Andy! Alex!” My father stood in the doorway behind Alex, beaming as
though this were the best morning on earth. My mom looked so awake I
wondered if she was on drugs. I did a quick once-over of the
situation and figured that they would rightly assume that Alex had
just arrived since he was still wearing his shoes and was obviously
holding recently purchased food. Besides, the door was still open.
Phew.
“Andy said you couldn’t make it today,” my dad said, setting down
what looked like a bag of bagels—also salt, no doubt—and Coffees on
the table in the living room. He deliberately avoided eye contact.
“Are you on your way in or out?”
I smiled and looked at Alex, hoping he wasn’t already regretting
what he’d gotten himself into so early in the morning.
“Oh, I just got here, Dr. Sachs,” Alex said gamely. “I rearranged my
tutoring because I thought you two could use another pair of hands.”
“Great. That’s great—I’m sure it’ll be a big help. Here, help
yourself to bagels. Alex, I’m sorry to say that we didn’t get three
Coffees since we didn’t know you’d be here.” My dad looked genuinely
upset, which was touching. I knew he still had trouble with his
youngest daughter having a boyfriend, but he did his best not to
show it.
“No worries, Dr. S. I brought some stuff, too, so it looks like
there’s plenty.” And somehow, my dad and my boyfriend sat down on
the futon together—without a trace of awkwardness—and shared an
early-morning breakfast.
I sampled salt bagels from each of their bags and thought about how
much fun it would be to live with Lily again. We’d been out of
college for nearly a year now. We’d tried to talk at least once a
day, but it still felt like we hardly ever saw each other. Now, we
would come Home to each other and bitch about our respective hellish
days—just like old times. Alex and my dad prattled on about sports
(basketball, I think) while my mom and I labeled the boxes in my
room. Sadly, there wasn’t much: just a few boxes of bed linens and
pillows, another of photo albums and assorted desk supplies (even
though I lacked a desk), some makeup and toiletries, and a whole
bunch of garment bags filled with un-Runway-esque clothes. Hardly
enough to warrant labels; I guess it was the assistant in me kicking
in.
“Let’s get moving,” my dad called from the living room.
“Shhh! You’ll wake Kendra,” I loudly whispered back. “It is only
nine in the morning on a Saturday, you know.”
Alex was shaking his head. “Didn’t you see her leave with Shanti
before? At least, I think that was her. There were definitely two of
them, and they were both wearing suits and looking unhappy. Check
their bedroom.”
The door to the room they managed to share by bunking their beds was
ajar, and I pushed it open slightly. Both beds were made
meticulously, pillows fluffed and matching stuffed Gund dogs propped
up on each. I didn’t realize until then that I’d never so much as
stepped foot in their room—in the few months I’d lived with these
girls, we hadn’t had a conversation of longer than thirty seconds—I
didn’t know exactly what they did, where they went, or if they had
any friends besides each other. I was glad to be leaving.
Alex and my dad had cleaned up the leftover food and were trying to
map out a game plan. “You’re right, they’re both gone. I don’t even
think they know I’m leaving today.”
“Maybe leave them a note?” my mom suggested. “Maybe on your Scrabble
board.” I’d inherited my father’s addiction to Scrabble, and he had
a theory that each new Home required a new board so I was leaving
the old one behind.
I took the last five minutes in the apartment to make the tiles
read, “Thanks for everything and good luck XO Andy.” Fifty-nine
points. Not bad.
It took an hour to pack both of the cars up, with me not doing much
more than propping open the door to the street and guarding the
vehicles while they went back upstairs. The bed movers—who were
charging more than the actual cost of the damn thing—were running
late, so my dad and Alex each started downtown. Lily had found our
new apartment through an ad in theVillage Voice, and I hadn’t even
seen it yet. She’d called me at work from her Cell Phone in the
middle of the day, screaming, “I found it! I found it! It’s perfect!
There’s a bathroom with running water, a wooden floor that only has
minimal warping, and I’ve been here four full minutes and haven’t
seen a single mouse or even a roach. Can you come see it
immediately?”
“Are you high right now?” I whispered. “She’shere, which means I’m
not going anywhere.”
“You have to comenow . You know what it’s like. I have my folder and
everything.”
“Lily, be reasonable. I couldn’t leave the office right now for an
emergency heart transplant if I needed one, without getting fired.
How can I come look at an apartment?”
“Well, it’s not going to be here in thirty more seconds. There are
at least twenty-five other people at this open house, and they’re
all filling out applications. I need to do thisnow .”
In the obscene world of Manhattan real estate, semilivable
apartments were rarer—and more desirable—than seminormal straight
guys. When you added semiaffordable into the mix, they became harder
to rent than your private island somewhere off the southern coast of
Africa. Or probably harder. No matter that most boasted fewer than
three hundred square feet of dirt and rotted wood, pockmarked walls,
and prehistoric appliances. No roaches? No mice? This one was a
keeper!
“Lily, I trust you, just do it. Can you e-mail me a description?” I
was trying to get off the phone as quickly as possible since Miranda
was due back from the art department any second. If she saw me on a
personal call, I was finished.
“Well, I have copies of your paychecks—which, by the way, really
suck . . . and I’ve got both our bank statements and printouts of
our credit histories and your employment letter. The only problem is
our guarantor. It has to be a tristate resident who makes more than
forty times our monthly rent, and my grandmother sure as hell
doesn’t make a hundred grand. Can your parents sign for us?”
“Jesus, Lil, I don’t know. I haven’t asked them, and I can’t very
well call them right now. You call.”
“Fine. They do make enough, don’t they?”
I wasn’t really sure, but who else could we ask? “Just call them,” I
told her. “Explain about Miranda. Tell them I’m sorry for not
calling myself.”
“Will do,” she said. “But let me make sure we can get the place.
I’ll call you back,” she said and clicked off the phone. The phone
rang again twenty seconds later, and I saw her Cell Phone number on
the office phone caller ID. Emily raised her eyes in that special
way she did when she heard me once again talking to a friend. I
grabbed the phone but spoke to Emily.
“It’s important,” I hissed in her direction. “My best friend is
trying to rent me an apartment over the phone because I can’t leave
here for a goddamn—”
Three voices attacked me at once. Emily’s was measured and calm and
carried with it a warning tone. “Andrea, please,” she’d started, at
the exact same time that Lily was shrieking, “They’ll do it, Andy,
they’ll do it! Are you listening to me?” But even though both of
them were clearly addressing me, I couldn’t really hear either one
of them. The only voice that came through loud and clear was
Miranda’s.
“Do we have a problem here, Ahn-dre-ah?” Shocker—she got my name
right this time. She was hovering over me, appearing ready to
strike.
I immediately hung up on Lily, hoping she’d understand, and braced
myself for the onslaught. “No, Miranda, no problem at all.”
“Good. Now, I’d like a sundae and I’d like to actually eat it before
the entire thing melts. Vanilla ice cream—not yogurt, mind you, not
ice milk, and nothing sugar-free or low-fat—with chocolate syrup and
real whipped cream. Not canned, you understand? Genuine whipped
cream. That’s all.” She walked purposefully back toward the art
department, and I was left with the distinct impression that she’d
come in just to check on me. Emily smirked. The phone rang. Lily
again. Dammit—couldn’t she just e-mail me? I picked it up and
pressed it to my ear but said nothing.
“OK, I know you can’t talk, so I will. Your parents will be our
guarantors, which is great. The apartment is a big one-bedroom, and
once we put the wall up in the living room, there will still be room
for a two-person couchand a chair. The bathroom doesn’t have a bath,
but the shower looks OK. No dishwasher, natch, and no AC, but we can
get window units. Laundry in the basement, part-time doorman, one
block from the six train. And get this. A balcony!”
I must’ve breathed audibly, because she got even more excited at my
excitement. “I know! Crazy, right? It looks like it might fall right
off the side of the building, but it’s there! And we could both fit
on it and have a place to smoke, and oh, it’s just perfect!”
“How much?” I croaked, determined that these would be the absolute
last words I’d utter.
“All ours for the grand total of twenty-two eighty a month. Do you
believe that we’ll get a balcony for eleven hundred forty dollars
apiece? This place is the find of the century. So, can I do it?”
I was silent. I wanted to talk, but Miranda was inching her way back
to her office as she upbraided the public events coordinator in
front of everyone. She was in a wicked mood, and I’d already had
enough for one day. The girl she was currently abusing had her head
hung in shame, cheeks bright red, and I prayed for her own sake that
she wouldn’t cry.
“Andy! This is fucking ridiculous. Just say yes or no! It’s bad
enough that I have to cut class today and you can’t so much as leave
work to come look at this place, but you can’t even bother to say
yes or no? What am I—” Lily had reached her breaking point and I
totally understood, but there was nothing I could do except hang up
on her. She was screaming so loud into the phone that it was
reverberating in the quiet office, and Miranda was standing less
than five feet away. I was so frustrated, I wanted to grab the PR
coordinator and hit the ladies’ room and cry with her. Or maybe if
we worked together we could throw Miranda into a toilet stall and
tighten that Hermès scarf that hung loosely around her skinny neck.
Would I hold her down or pull? Or perhaps it’d be more effective to
just shove the damn thing down her throat and watch her gasp for air
and—
“Ahn-dre-ah!” Her voice was clipped, steely. “What did I ask you for
a mere five minutes ago?” Shit! The sundae. I’d forgotten the
sundae. “Is there a particular reason why you’re still sitting there
instead of doing your job? Is this your idea of a joke? Did I do or
say something to indicate that I wasn’t entirely serious? Did I? Did
I?” Her blue eyes were bulging out of her face, and although she
hadn’t fully raised her voice yet, of course, she was coming awfully
close. I opened my mouth to speak but heard Emily talking instead.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Andrea to answer the
phone because I thought it might be Caroline or Cassidy and I was on
the other line ordering that shirt from Prada you wanted. Andrea was
just on her way out. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”
Miracle of miracles! The Perfect One had spoken, and in my defense,
no less.
Miranda looked momentarily mollified. “Well, all right then. Get my
sundae now, Andrea.” And with that, she walked in her office and
picked up the phone, where she promptly started cooing to B-DAD.
I looked at Emily, but she was pretending to work. I shot her a
one-word e-mail.Why? I wrote.
Because I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t going to fire you, and I
don’t really feel like training someone new,she wrote back
instantly. I left to go in search of this perfect sundae and called
Lily from my Cell Phone as soon as the elevator hit the lobby.
“I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just that—”
“Look, I don’t really have time for this,” Lily said flatly. “I
think you’re overreacting just a little bit, don’t you? I mean, you
can’t so much as say yes or no on the phone?”
“It’s hard to explain, Lil, it’s just that—”
“Forget it. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you if we get it. Not that
you really care either way.”
I tried to protest, but she’d hung up. Dammit! It wasn’t fair to
expect Lily to understand when I would’ve thought I was ridiculous a
mere four months earlier. It really wasn’t fair to send her all over
Manhattan in search of an apartment we could both share when I
wouldn’t even take her phone calls, but what choice did I have?
When she answered one of my calls right after midnight, she told me
we got the apartment.
“That’s amazing, Lil. I can’t thank you enough. I swear I’ll make it
up to you. I promise!” And then I had a thought. Be spontaneous!
Call an Elias car and get up to Harlem and thank your best friend in
person. Yes, that was it! “Lil, are you Home? I’m coming up to
celebrate, OK?”
I thought she’d be thrilled, but she was quiet. “Don’t bother,” she
said quietly. “I’ve got a bottle of So-Co and Tongue Ring Boy is
here. I’ve got everything I want.”
It stung, but I understood. Lily rarely got mad, but when she did,
no one could talk her out of it until she was good and ready. I
heard liquid swishing into a glass and ice clinking, and I heard her
take a deep, long swig.
“OK. But call me if you need anything, OK?”
“Why? So you can sit in silence on the other end? No thanks.”
“Lil—”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.” Another gulp. “I’ll talk to
you later. And hey, congratulations to us.”
“Yeah, congratulations to us,” I repeated, but she’d already hung up
once again.
I’d called Alex on his cell to ask if I could go over to his place,
but he didn’t sound as delighted to hear from me as I’d hoped.
“Andy, you know I’d love to see you, but, well, I’m out with Max and
the guys. You’re never really around during the week anymore, so I
made plans to see them tonight.”
“Oh, well, are you guys in Brooklyn or around here somewhere? I
could come meet you?” I asked, knowing that of course they were
somewhere on the Upper East Side, probably very close to me, because
that’s where all the other guys lived as well.
“Listen, any other night that’d be great, but tonight is definitely
just a guys’ night.”
“Oh, sure, OK. I was going to meet Lily to celebrate the new
apartment, but we, uh, sort of got in a fight. She doesn’t
understand why I can’t really talk from work.”
“Well, Andy, I have to say, sometimes I don’t totally understand,
either. I mean, I know she’s a tough lady—trust me, I do—it just
seems that you take everything pretty seriously when it comes to
her, you know?” He sounded like he was trying very hard to keep his
tone accommodating and nonconfrontational.
“Maybe that’s because I do!” I shot back at him, pissed off at him
for not wanting to see me and not begging me to go out with his
friends and for taking Lily’s side even though she had a point and
so did he. “It is my life, you know? My career. Myfuture . What the
hell am I supposed to do? Treat it like a joke?”
“Andy, you’re twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.”
But I was already screaming back—I couldn’t help myself. First Lily
and now Alex? Both on top of Miranda, all day, every day? It was too
much, and I wanted to cry but all I could do was yell.
“A big fucking joke, huh? That’s what my job is to both of you!Oh,
Andy, you work in fashion, how hard can it be? ” I mimicked, hating
myself more with every passing second. “Well, excuse me if we can’t
all be do-gooders or Ph.D. candidates! Excuse me if—”
“Call me when you calm down,” he stated. “I’m not going to listen to
this anymore.” And he hung up. Hung up! I waited for him to call
back, but he never did, and by the time I’d finally fallen asleep,
close to three, I hadn’t heard from either Alex or Lily.
Now it was moving day—a full week later—and while neither was still
visibly mad, neither seemed exactly the same either. There hadn’t
been time to make amends in person with either one since we were in
the middle of closing an issue, but I figured things would fall into
place when Lily and I moved into our new apartment. Our shared
apartment, where everything would go back to the way it was when we
were in college and life was much more palatable.
The movers finally came at eleven, and it took them all of nine
minutes to disassemble my beloved bed and throw the pieces in back
of their van. Mom and I hitched a ride with them over to my new
building, where my dad and Alex were schmoozing with the
doorman—who, bizarrely enough, was a dead ringer for John
Galliano—with my boxes piled against a wall in the lobby.
“Andy, glad you’re here. Mr. Fisher here won’t open the apartment
unless there’s a tenant present,” my dad said with a huge smile on
his face. “Which is very smart of him,” he added, winking at the
doorman.
“Oh, is Lily not here yet? She said she’d get here by ten,
ten-thirty.”
“Nope, haven’t seen her. Should I call her?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Why don’t I go up with, er, Mr. Fisher so we can
start bringing stuff up. Ask her if she needs any help.”
Mr. Fisher smiled a way that could only be described as lecherous.
“Please, we’re like family now,” he said, looking at my chest. “Call
me John.”
I almost choked on the now cold Coffee I was holding and wondered if
the man revered the world over for reviving the Dior brand had died
without my knowing and been reincarnated as my doorman.
Alex nodded and wiped his glasses on his T-shirt. I loved it when he
did that. “You go with your parents. I’ll call.”
I wondered if it was a good or bad thing that my father was now best
friends with my (designer) doorman, the man who would inevitably
know every detail of my life. The lobby looked nice, if a little
retro. It was done in a light-colored stone of some sort, and there
were a few uncomfortable-looking benches in front of the elevators
and behind the mailroom. Our apartment was number 8C, and it faced
southwest, which, from what I’d heard, was a good thing. John opened
the door with his master key and stood back like a proud papa.
“Here she is,” he announced grandly.
I walked in first, expecting to be hit with an overpowering smell of
sulfur or perhaps see a few bats winging their way around our
ceiling, but it was surprisingly clean and bright. The kitchen was
on the right, a narrow, one-person-wide strip with white tile floors
and reasonably white Formica cabinets. The countertops were some
sort of flecked granite imitation, and there was a microwave built
in above the stove.
“This is great,” my mom said, pulling open the refrigerator. “It’s
already got ice trays.” The movers pushed past us, grunting while
they lugged my bed.
The kitchen opened to the living room, which had already been
divided in two by a temporary wall to create a second bedroom. Of
course, that meant that all the windows had been cut out of the
living room entirely, but that was OK. The bedroom was a decent
size—definitely bigger than the one I’d just left—and the sliding
glass door leading to the balcony made up one whole wall. The
bathroom was between the living room and the real bedroom and was
done in Pepto pink tiling and pink paint. Oh well. Could be kitschy.
I walked into the real bedroom, which was significantly bigger than
the living room one and looked around. A tiny closet, a ceiling fan,
and a small, dirty window that looked directly into an apartment in
the building next door. Lily had wanted this one and I’d happily
agreed. She preferred having the extra space since she spent so much
time in her bedroom studying, but I’d rather have the light and the
balcony entrance.
“Thanks, Lil,” I whispered to myself, knowing that Lily couldn’t
possibly hear me.
“What’d you say, honey?” my mom asked, coming up behind me.
“Oh, nothing. Just that Lily did really, really well. I had no idea
what to expect, but this is great, don’t you think?”
She looked like she was trying to find the most tactful way of
saying something. “Yes, for New York, it’s a great apartment. It’s
just hard to imagine paying so much and getting so little. You know
your sister and Kyle only pay fourteen hundred a month total for
their condo, and they have central air, marble bathrooms, brand-new
dishwasher and washer-dryer, and three bedrooms and two bathrooms?”
she pointed out, as if she were the first to make this realization.
For $2,280 you could get a beachfront townhouse in LA, a three-story
condo on a tree-lined street in Chicago, a four-bedroom split-level
in Miami, or a goddamn castle with a moat in Cleveland. Yes, we knew
this.
“And two parking spots, access to the golf course, gym, and pool,” I
added helpfully. “Yeah, I know. But believe it or not, this is a
great deal. I think we’ll be very happy here.”
She hugged me. “I think you will be, too. As long as you don’t work
too hard to enjoy it,” she said lightly.
My dad walked in and opened the duffel bag that he’d been dragging
around all day, one I’d assumed held racquetball clothes for his
game later. But he pulled out a maroon box emblazoned with “Limited
Edition!” across the front. Scrabble. The collector’s edition, where
the board came mounted on its own lazy Susan and the squares had
little raised borders so the letters didn’t slide around. We’d been
admiring them together in specialty game stores for the past ten
years, but no occasion had ever warranted purchasing one.
“Oh, Dad. You shouldn’t have!” I knew the board cost well over two
hundred dollars. “Oh! I just love it!”
“Use it in good health,” he said, hugging me back. “Or better yet,
to kick your old man’s ass, as I know you will. I remember when I
used to let you win. I had to, or you’d stomp around the house,
sulking all night. And now! Well, now my old brain cells are fried
and I couldn’t beat you if I tried. Not that I won’t,” he added.
I was about to tell him that I’d learned from the best, but Alex had
walked in. And he didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I immediately asked as he fidgeted with his
sneakers.
“Oh, nothing at all,” he lied while glancing in the direction of my
parents. He shot me a “just hold on a sec” look and said, “Here, I
brought a box.”
“Let’s go get a few more,” my dad said to my mom, moving toward the
door. “Maybe Mr. Fisher has some sort of cart. We could bring a
bunch up at once. Be right back.”
I looked at Alex, and we both waited until we’d heard the elevator
open and close.
“So, I just talked to Lily,” he said slowly.
“She’s not still mad at me, is she? She’s been so weird all week.”
“No, I don’t think it’s that.”
“So what is it?”
“Well, she wasn’t at Home . . .”
“So where is she? Some guy’s apartment? I can’t believe she’s late
for her own moving day.” I yanked open one of the windows in the
converted bedroom to let some of the cold air dissipate the smell of
new paint.
“No, she was actually at a police precinct in midtown.” He looked at
his shoes.
“She was where? Is she OK? Ohmigod! Was she mugged or raped? I have
to go to her right away.”
“Andy, she’s fine. She was arrested.” He said it quietly, as if he
were breaking the news to a parent that their child wasn’t going to
pass fourth grade.
“Arrested? She was arrested?” I tried to stay calm, but I realized
too late that I was screaming. My dad walked in, pulling a giant
cart that looked ready to topple under the weight of unevenly
stacked boxes.
“Who was arrested?” he asked off-handedly. “Mr. Fisher brought all
this stuff up for us.”
I was racking my brain for a lie, but Alex stepped in before I could
think of anything remotely plausible. “Oh, I was just telling Andy
that I saw on VH-1 last night that one of the girls from TLC was
arrested on drug charges. And she always seemed like one of the
straighter ones . . .”
My dad shook his head and surveyed the room, only half listening and
probably wondering when exactly Alex or myself had become so
interested in female pop stars that we actually discussed it. “I’m
thinking that the only real place your bed can go is with the head
against the far wall,” he said. “Speaking of which, I better go see
how they’re doing.”
I literally flung my body in front of Alex the minute the apartment
door closed.
“Quickly! Tell me what happened. What happened?”
“Andy, you’re shrieking. It’s not so bad. Actually, it’s kind of
funny.” His eyes crinkled as he laughed, and for a brief second he
looked just like Eduardo. Ew.
“Alex Fineman, you better fucking tell me right now what happened
with my best friend—”
“OK, OK, relax.” He was clearly enjoying this. “She was out with
some guy last night that she referred to as Tongue Ring Boy—do we
know who that is?”
I stared at him.
“Anyway, they went out for dinner and Tongue Ring Boy was walking
her Home, and she thought it’d be fun to flash him, right there on
the street outside the restaurant. ‘Sexy,’ she said. To get him
interested.”
I envisioned Lily unwrapping a dinner mint and strolling outside
after a romantic meal, only to pull away and yank up her shirt for a
guy who’d paid to have someone ram a post through his tongue. Jesus.
“Oh no. She didn’t . . .”
Alex nodded somberly, trying not to laugh.
“You’re telling me my friend got arrested for showing her breasts?
That’s ridiculous. This is New York. I see women every day who are
practically topless—and that’s in the workplace!” I was shrieking
again, but I couldn’t help it.
“Her bottom.” He was looking at his shoes again, and his face was so
red, I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or hysterical.
“Her what?”
“Not her breasts. Her bottom. Her lower half. Like, all of it. Front
and back.” An ear-to-ear grin had finally broken out, and he looked
so delighted that I thought he might wet himself.
“Oh, say it isn’t true,” I moaned, wondering what my friend had
gotten herself into now. “And a cop saw her and arrested her?”
“No, evidently two little kids saw her do it and pointed it out to
their mother . . .”
“Oh, god.”
“So, the mother asked her to pull her pants back up, and Lily loudly
told her what she could do with her opinions, and the woman went and
found a cop standing on the next street over.”
“Oh, stop. Oh, please, just stop.”
“It gets better. By the time the woman and the cop came back, Lily
and Tongue Ring Boy were going at it on the street, pretty hot and
heavy from what she said.”
“Who is this? This is my friend Lily Goodwin? My sweet, adorable
best friend from eighth grade now gets naked and hooks up on street
corners? With guys who have tongue rings?”
“Andy, calm down. Really, she’s fine. The only reason the cop
actually arrested her was because she gave him the finger when he
asked if she had, in fact, pulled her pants down . . .”
“Oh, my god. I can’t take it anymore. This is what it must feel like
to be a mother.”
“. . . but they let her go with just a warning, and she’s going back
to her apartment to recover—sounds like she was pretty drunk. I
mean, why else would someone flip off a police officer? So don’t
worry. Let’s get you moved in and then we can go see her if you
want.” He headed toward the cart my dad had left in the middle of
the living room and started unloading boxes.
I couldn’t wait until later; I had to see what had happened. She
picked up on the fourth ring, right before it clicked into voice
mail, as if she’d been debating whether or not to answer it.
“Are you OK?” I asked her the second I heard her voice.
“Hey, Andy. Hope I’m not screwing up the move at all. You don’t need
me, right? Sorry about all this.”
“No, I don’t care about that, I care about you. Are you OK?” It had
just occurred to me that Lily may have spent the night at the police
station, considering that it was early Saturday morning and she was
just leaving. “Did you stay overnight? Injail? ”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. It wasn’t so bad, nothing
like TV or anything. I just slept in this room with one other
totally harmless girl who was in for something just as stupid. The
guards were totally cool—it really wasn’t a big deal. No bars or
anything.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow.
I digested this for a moment, tried to reconcile the image of sweet
little hippie Lily getting cornered in a urine-flooded cell by an
extremely angry and possessive lesbian. “Where the hell was Tongue
Ring Boy through all of this? Did he just leave you to rot in jail?”
But before she could answer, it occurred to me: Where the hell was I
through all of this? Why hadn’t Lily called me?
“He was actually really great, he—”
“Lily, why—”
“. . . offered to stay with me and even called his parents’ lawyer—”
“Lily. Lily! Stop for a second. Why didn’t you call me? You know I
would’ve been there in a second and not left until they’d let you
go. So why? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Oh, Andy, it doesn’t matter anymore. It really wasn’t that bad, I
swear. I can’t believe how stupid I was, and trust me, I’m over
getting that drunk. It’s just not worth it.”
“Why? Why didn’t you call? I was Home all night.”
“It’s not important, really. I didn’t call because I figured you
were either working or really, really tired, and I didn’t want to
bother you. Especially on a Friday night.”
I thought back to what I’d been doing the night before and the only
thing that stuck clearly in my mind was watchingDirty Dancing on TNT
for exactly the sixty-eighth time in my life. And out of all those
times, that had been the first that I’d fallen asleep before Johnny
announced, “No one puts Baby in the corner,” and proceeded to, quite
literally, lift her off her feet, until Dr. Houseman admits that he
knows Johnny wasn’t the one who got Penny in trouble, and claps him
on the back and kisses Baby, who has recently reclaimed the name
Frances. I considered the whole scene a defining factor in my
identity.
“Working? You thought I was working? And what does too tired have to
do with it when you need help? Lil, I don’t get it.”
“Look, Andy, let’s drop it, OK? You work constantly. Day and night,
and lots of times on weekends. And when you’re not working, you’re
complaining about work. Not that I don’t understand, because I know
how tough your job is, and I know you work for a lunatic. But I
wasn’t going to be the one to interrupt a Friday night when you
might actually be relaxing or hanging out with Alex. I mean, he says
he never sees you, and I didn’t want to take that away from him. If
I’d really needed you, I would’ve called, and I know you would’ve
come running. But I swear, it wasn’t so bad. Please, can we forget
it? I’m exhausted and I really need a shower and my own bed.”
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak, but Lily took my silence for
acquiescence.
“You there?” she asked after nearly thirty seconds, during which I
was desperately trying to find the words to apologize or explain or
something. “Listen, I just got Home. I need sleep. Can I call you
later?”
“Um, uh, sure,” I managed. “Lil, I’m so sorry. If I’ve ever given
you the impression that you can’t—”
“Andy, don’t. Nothing’s wrong—I’m fine, we’re fine. Let’s just talk
later.”
“OK. Sleep well. Call me if I can do anything . . .”
“Will do. Oh, how’s the new place, by the way?”
“It’s great, Lil, it really is. You did a fantastic job with it.
It’s better than I’d ever imagined. We’re going to love it here.” My
voice sounded empty to my own ears, and it was obvious I was talking
just for the sake of it, keeping her on the phone to make sure our
friendship hadn’t changed in some inexplicable but permanent way.
“Great. I’m so glad you like it. Hopefully Tongue Ring Boy will like
it, too,” she joked, although that, too, sounded hollow.
We hung up and I stood in the living room, staring at the phone
until my mom walked in to announce that they were going to take Alex
and me out for lunch.
“What’s wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some
help with her stuff, too, but we’re not going to stick around much
after three. Is she on her way?”
“No, she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a
few days, I guess, so she probably won’t move in until tomorrow.
That was just her on the phone.”
“Well, you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over
there? I always feel so badly for that girl—no real parents, just
that cranky old bat of a grandmother.” She put her hand on my
shoulder, as if to drive Home the pain. “She’s lucky she’s got you
for a friend. Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.”
My voice caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a
few words. “Yeah, I guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just
going to sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches, OK? The doorman said
there’s a great deli four blocks down.”
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone
that I hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt
my e-mailing time.
“Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on
the other end.
“No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even though
I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.
“Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared.
“Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you
finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”
I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked atRunway, I’d
never met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly.
Was she serious? Could she be baiting me?
“Um, well, working atRunway has been a really great learning
experience,” I heard myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls
would die for, of course.” Did I just say that?
There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh,
that’s just f-f-f-fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort
of simultaneous laugh-choke. “Does she lock you in your West Village
studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until
you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that?
F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss
Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine that Miranda
had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time
around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like
Michael Kors t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J.
Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass
boss of yours on the phone.”
I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell
her she didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to
compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More
than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and
urgently whisper, “I am a prisoner, more than you can
imagine—please, oh, please, come and rescue me from this brainwash
hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but I’m
different!” But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it
finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the raspy,
stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.
I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on
every subject but Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of
course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly not because of
histwinsets . Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a
realRunway girl—that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable
taste—would probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis
on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the future, I’d prefer if you
used the more casual ‘hired help’ instead of something as stiff and
unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct
any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could
ask with whom am I speaking first?”
“Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be
friends after all. I d-d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she
hires, but it’s fitting because I don’t much like her. My name is
Judith Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel
articles each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still
relatively new now: Is the h-h-honeymoon over?”
I was silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a
ticking bomb.
“Well? You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve
been there long enough for everyone to know your name, but not long
enough that they uncover and exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a
really sweet feeling when th-th-th-that happens, trust me. You’re
working in a really special place.”
But before I could respond, she said, “Enough f-f-f-flirting for
now, my new friend. Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because
she never takes my c-c-calls anyway. Stuttering pisses her off, I
think. Just be sure to put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin so she
can make someone else call me back. Thanks, l-l-love.” Click.
I hung up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked
up from one of Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When
I told her it was Judith, she rolled her eyes so deeply they almost
didn’t resurface and whined, “She’s such a supreme bitch. I have,
like, no idea how Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her
calls, though, so you don’t even have to tell her she’s on the
phone. Just put her on the Bulletin and Miranda will have someone
else call her back.” It seems Judith understood the inner workings
of our office better than I.
I double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called
“Bulletin” and glanced over its contents so far. The Bulletin was
thepièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s office and, as far as I
could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before
by some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a
Word document that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could
access. Only one of us could open it at a time and add a new
message, thought, or question to the itemized list. Then we’d print
out the updated version and place it on the clipboard that sat on
the shelf over my desk, removing the old ones as we went. Miranda
would examine it every few minutes throughout the day as Emily and I
struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls came in.
Often we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other
could access it and write a message. We’d print to our separate
printers simultaneously and dive for the clipboard, not knowing
whose was the most recent until we were face to face.
“Judith’s the latest message on mine,” I said, exhausted from the
pressure of trying to finish it before Miranda entered the suite.
Eduardo had called from the security desk downstairs to warn us that
she was on her way upstairs. We hadn’t gotten a call from Sophy yet,
but we knew it’d be only seconds.
“I have the concierge from the Ritz Paris after Judith,” Emily
near-shouted, triumphantly, while clipping her sheet to the Lucite
clipboard. I took my four-second outdated Bulletin back to the desk
and glanced over it. Dashes in phone numbers were not permissible,
only periods. There were to be no colons in the time, only periods.
Times must be rounded up or down to the nearest quarter-hour.
Call-back phone numbers always got their own lines to make them
easier to distinguish. A time listed indicated that someone had
called in. The word “note” was something that Emily or I had to tell
her (since addressing her without being first addressed was out of
the question, all relevant info went on the Bulletin). “Reminder”
was something Miranda had most likely left on one of our voice mails
sometime between one and fiveA .M. the previous night, knowing that
once it was recorded for us, it was as good as done. We were to
refer to ourselves in the third person—if it was absolutely crucial
for us to refer to ourselves at all.
She often asked us to find out exactly when and at what number a
particular person would be available to speak. In this case it was a
tossup whether the fruits of our investigation would go under “note”
or “reminder.” I remember once thinking that the Bulletin read like
a who’s who in the Prada crowd, but the names of the superbigmoney,
the superhighfashion, and the generally superimpressive had ceased
to register as “special” on my desensitized brain. In my newRunway
reality, the White House social secretary held little more interest
than the vet who needed to speak to her about the puppy’s
vaccinations (fat chance of him getting a call back!).
Thursday, April 8
7.30: Simone called from the Paris office. She figured out dates
with Mr. Testino for the Rio shoot and also confirmed with Giselle’s
agent, but she still needs to discuss the fashion with you. Please
call her.
011.33.1.55.91.30.65
8.15: Mr. Tomlinson called. He is on cell. Please call him.
Note: Andrea spoke with Bruce. He said that the large mirror in your
foyer has a piece of decorative plaster missing from the upper
left-hand corner. He located an identical mirror at an antique shop
in Bordeaux. Would you like him to order it?
8.30: Jonathan Cole called. He is leaving for Melbourne on Saturday
and would like to clarify the assignment before he leaves. Please
call him.
555.7700
Reminder: To call Karl Lagerfeld about the Model of the Year party.
He will be reachable at his Home in Biarritz this evening from
8.00–8.30P .M. his time.
011.33.1.55.22.06.78: Home
011.33.1.55.22.58.29: Home studio
011.33.1.55.22.92.64: driver
011.33.1.55.66.76.33: assistant’s number in Paris, in case you
cannot find him
9.00: Natalie from Glorious Foods called to see whether you’d prefer
that the Vacherin be filled with mixed berries praline or warm
rhubarb compote. Please call her.
555.9887
9.00: Ingrid Sischy called to congratulate you on the April issue.
Says the cover is “spectacular, as always” and wants toknow who
styled the front-of-book beauty shoot. Please call her.
555.6246: office
555.8833: Home
Note: Miho Kosudo called to apologize for being unable to deliver
Damien Hirst’s flower arrangement. They said to be sure to tell you
that they waited outside his building for four hours, but since he
doesn’t have a doorman, they had to leave. They will try again
tomorrow.
9.15: Mr. Samuels called. He will be unreachable until after lunch,
but wants to remind you of parent-teacher conferences tonight at
Horace Mann. He would like to discuss Caroline’s history project
with you before hand. Please call him after 2.00P .M. but before
4.00P .M.
555.5932
9.15: Mr. Tomlinson called again. He asked Andrea to make
reservations for dinner tonight after parent-teacher conferences.
Please call him. He is on cell.
Note: Andrea made reservations for you and Mr. Tomlinson tonight at
8.00P .M. at La Caravelle. Rita Jammet said she is looking forward
to seeing you again, and she’s delighted you chose her restaurant.
9.30: Donatella Versace called. She said everything’s confirmed for
your visit. Will you be needing any staff besides a driver, a chef,
a trainer, a hair and makeup person, a personal assistant, three
maids, and a yacht captain? If so, please let her know before she
leaves for Milan. She will also provide Cell Phones, but won’t be
able to join you as she’ll be preparing for the shows.
011.3901.55.27.55.61
9.45: Judith Mason called. Please call her back.
555.6834
I crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the basket under my desk,
where it immediately soaked up the leftover grease from Miranda’s
third morning breakfast that I’d already thrown out. So far, a
relatively normal day as far as the Bulletin was concerned. I was
just about to click “inbox” on my Hotmail account to see if anyone
had e-mailed yet when she cruised into the office. Damn that Sophy!
She’d forgotten the warning call again.
“I expect the Bulletin is updated,” she said icily without making
eye contact or otherwise acknowledging our presence.
“It is, Miranda,” I replied, holding it up to her so she needn’t so
much as reach for it.Three words and counting, I thought to myself,
predicting—and praying—it wouldn’t be more than a seventy-five-word
day on my part. She removed her waist-length mink, so plush I had to
restrain myself from burying my face into it right there, and tossed
it onto my desk. As I went to hang that magnificent dead animal in
the closet, trying to rub it discreetly against my cheek, I felt a
quick shock of cold and wet: there were tiny bits of still-frozen
sleet stuck to the fur. How fabulously apropos.
Pulling the lid from a lukewarm latte, I carefully arranged today’s
greasy pile of bacon, sausage, and cheese-filled pastry on a filthy
plate. I tiptoed into her office and carefully placed everything
unobtrusively on a corner of her desk. She was concentrating on
writing a note on her ecru Dempsey and Carroll stationery and spoke
so softly I almost didn’t hear.
“Ahn-dre-ah, I need to discuss the engagement party with you. Get a
notebook.”
I nodded, simultaneously realizing that nodding doesn’t count as a
word. This engagement party had already become the bane of my
existence and it was still more than a month away, but since Miranda
was leaving for the European shows soon and would be gone for two
weeks, planning this party had occupied the vast majority of both
our recent workdays. I returned to her office with a pad and pen,
preparing myself to not understand a single word she’d say. I
considered sitting for just a moment since it’d make taking
dictation much more comfortable, but wisely resisted.
She sighed as though this were so taxing she wasn’t sure if she’d
make it and tugged on the white Hermès scarf that she’d woven into a
braceletlike thing around her wrist. “Find Natalie at Glorious Foods
and tell her that I prefer the rhubarb compote. Do not let her
convince you that she needs to speak with me directly, because she
does not. Also talk to Miho and make sure they understand my orders
for the flowers. Get Robert Isabell on the phone for me sometime
before lunch to go over tablecloths, place cards, and serving trays.
Also that girl from the Met to see when I can go over to make sure
everything is set up properly, and tell her to fax over the table
configurations so I may do seating charts. That’s all for now.”
She had rattled off that list without a single pause in her note
writing, and when she finished speaking she handed me her newly
crafted note to mail. I finished scribbling on my pad, hoping I’d
understood everything correctly, which, considering the accent and
the rapid-fire cadence, wasn’t always simple.
“OK,” I muttered and turned to go, bringing up my Total Miranda
Words to four.Maybe I won’t break fifty, I thought. I could feel her
eyes examining the size of my butt as I walked back to my desk and
briefly considered whipping around to walk backward like a religious
Jew would do when leaving the Wailing Wall. Instead, I tried to
glide toward the hidden safety of my desk while picturing thousands
and thousands ofHasidim in Prada black, walking backward circles
around Miranda Priestly.
12
The blissful day I’d been waiting for, dreaming of, had finally,
finally arrived. Miranda had not only departed the office, but she’d
left the country as well. She’d jumped into her Concorde seat less
than an hour before to meet with a few of the European designers,
making me at present the indisputably happiest girl on the planet.
Emily kept trying to convince me that Miranda was even more
demanding when she was abroad, but I wasn’t buying it. I was in the
middle of mapping out exactly how I was going to spend every
ecstatic moment of the next two weeks when I got an e-mail from
Alex.
Hey babe, how are you? Hope your day is at least ok. You must be
loving that she left, right? Enjoy it. Anyway, just wanted to see if
you think you’ll be able to call me around three-thirty today. I
have a free hour then before the reading program starts and I need
to talk to you. Nothing major, but I would like to talk. Love, A
To which I immediately worried and replied to ask if everything was
OK, but he must have logged off right away because he never wrote
back again. I made a mental note to call him at exactly
three-thirty, loving the feeling of freedom that comes from knowing
that She wouldn’t be around to screw it up. But just in case, I
pulled a piece ofRunway stationery from the pile and wrote CALL A,
3:30 P.M. TODAY and taped it to the side of my monitor. Just as I
was going to call back a friend from school who’d left a message on
my Home machine a week earlier, the phone rang.
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I all but sighed, figuring that there
wasn’t a single person on earth I wanted to speak with at that
moment.
“Emily? Is that you? Emily?” The unmistakable voice filled the phone
line and seemed to seep into the air in the office. Even though she
couldn’t have possibly heard from across the suite, Emily looked up
at me.
“Hello, Miranda. This is Andrea. May I help you with something?” How
on earth was this woman calling? I quickly checked the itinerary
that Emily had typed for everyone while Miranda was in Europe and
saw that her flight had taken off a mere six minutes before and she
was already calling from the seat phone.
“Well, I should hope so. I’ve looked at my itinerary and I just
noticed that hair and makeup for Thursday before dinner is not
confirmed.”
“Um, well, Miranda, that’s because Monsieur Renaud wasn’t able to
get an absolute confirmation from the Thursday people, but he said
it was ninety-nine percent that they’d be able to and—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, answer me this: Is ninety-nine percent the same as a
hundred? Is it the same asconfirmed ?” But before I could answer I
heard her tell someone, most likely a flight attendant, that she
wasn’t “particularly interested in the rules and regulations
regarding the use of electronics” and to “please bore someone else
with them.”
“But ma’am, it’s against the rules, and I’m going to have to ask
that you disconnect your call until we’ve reached a cruising
altitude. It’s simply unsafe,” she said beseechingly.
“Ahn-dre-ah, can you hear me? Are you listening . . .”
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to insist. Now please, hang up the phone.”
My mouth was starting to ache from smiling so widely—I could only
imagine how much Miranda was hating being addressed as “ma’am,”
which, as everyone knows, connotes old lady all the way.
“Ahn-dre-ah, thestewardess is forcing me to end this call. I’ll call
you back when thestewardess allows me to do so. In the meantime, I
want hair and makeup confirmed, and I’d like you to begin
interviewing new girls for the nanny position. That’s all.” It
clicked off, but not before I heard the flight attendant call her
“ma’am” one last time.
“What did she want?” Emily asked, her forehead wrinkling in intense
worry.
“She called me the right name three times in a row,” I gloated,
happy to prolong her anticipation. “Three times, do you believe it?
I think that means we’re best friends, doesn’t it? Who would’ve
thought? Andrea Sachs and Miranda Priestly, BFF.”
“Andrea, what did she say?”
“Well, she wants the Thursday hair and makeup confirmed because
clearly ninety-nine percent isn’t reassuring enough. Oh, and she
said something about interviewing for a new nanny? I must’ve
misunderstood that one. Whatever—she’ll call back in thirty
seconds.”
Emily took a deep breath and willed herself to endure my stupidity
with grace and style. It clearly wasn’t easy for her. “No, I don’t
think you misunderstood at all. Cara is no longer with Miranda, so
obviously she’ll be needing a new nanny.”
“What? What do you mean no longer ‘with Miranda’? If she’s no longer
‘with Miranda,’ then where the hell is she?” I found it really hard
to believe Cara wouldn’t have told me about her abrupt departure.
“Miranda thought Cara might be happier working for someone else,”
Emily said in what I’m sure was much more diplomatic phrasing than
Miranda herself had used. As if Miranda had ever been attuned to
other people’s Happiness!
“Emily, please. Please tell me what really happened.”
“I gathered from Caroline that Cara had grounded the girls in their
rooms after they talked back to her the other day. Miranda didn’t
feel it was appropriate for Cara to be making these decisions. And I
agree. I mean, Cara is not these girls’ mother, you know?”
So Cara had gotten fired because she made two little girls sit in
their bedrooms after they’d surely given her attitude? “Yeah, I see
your point. It’s definitely not a nanny’s job to look out for the
well-being of her charges,” I said, nodding solemnly. “Cara was out
of line there.”
Emily not only didn’t react to my dripping sarcasm, but didn’t seem
to detect so much as a hint of it. “Exactly. And besides, Miranda
never liked that Cara didn’t speak French. How are the girls
supposed to learn to speak it without an American accent?”
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from their $18,000-a-year private school,
where French was a required subject and all three of the French
teachers were native speakers? Or perhaps from their own fluent
mother who had herself lived in France, still visited a half-dozen
times a year and could read, write, and speak the language with
perfect, lilting pronunciation? But instead I said, “Hey, you’re
right. No French, no nanny. I hear you.”
“Well, regardless, it’s going to be your responsibility to find the
girls a new nanny. Here’s the number of the agency we work with,”
she said, sending it to me in an e-mail. “They know how
discriminating Miranda is—and rightfully so, of course—so they
usually give us good people.”
I looked at her warily and wondered what her life had been before
Miranda Priestly. I got to sleep with my eyes open for a little
while longer before the phone rang again. Blessedly, Emily answered
it.
“Hello, Miranda. Yes, yes, I can hear you. No, no problem at all.
Yes, I have confirmed hair and makeup for that Thursday. And yes,
Andrea has already begun looking for new nannies. We’ll have three
solid candidates ready for you to interview on your first day back.”
She cocked her head to the side and touched her pen to her lips.
“Mmm, yes. Yes, it’s definitely confirmed. No, it’s not ninety-nine
percent, it’s one hundred percent. Definitely. Yes, Miranda. Yes, I
confirmed it myself, and I’m quite positive. They’re looking forward
to it. OK. Have a nice flight. Yes, it’s confirmed. I’ll fax it
right now. OK. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and appeared to be
shaking.
“Why doesn’t that woman understand? I told her the hair and makeup
were confirmed. And then I told her again. Why did I have to tell
her fifty more times? And do you know what she said?”
I shook my head.
“Do you know what she said? She said that since this has all been
such a headache for her, she’d like me to redo the itinerary so that
it will reflect that hair and makeup is now confirmed and fax it to
the Ritz so she’ll have the correct one when she arrives. I do
everything for that woman—I give her mylife —and this is how she
talks to me in return?” She looked ready to cry. I was thrilled for
the rare opportunity to see Emily turn on Miranda, but I knew that
aRunway Paranoid Turnaround was imminent, so I had to proceed with
caution. Strike just the right note of sympathy and indifference.
“It’s not you, Em, I promise. She knows how hard you work—you’re an
amazing assistant to her. If she didn’t think you did a great job,
she’d have gotten rid of you already. She’s not exactly scared to do
it—you know what I mean?”
Emily had stopped tearing and was approaching the defiant zone
where, even though she agreed with me, she’d defend Miranda if I
said anything too outrageous. I’d learned about the Stockholm
Syndrome in psych, in which the victims identify with their captors,
but I hadn’t really understood how it all played out. Maybe I’d
videotape one of the little sessions here between Emily and me and
send it to the prof so next year’s freshmen could actually see it
happening firsthand. All efforts to proceed carefully began to feel
superhuman, so I took a deep breath and dove right in.
“She’s a lunatic, Emily,” I said softly and slowly, willing her to
agree with me. “It’s not you, it’s her. She’s an empty, shallow,
bitter woman who has tons and tons of gorgeous clothes and not much
else.”
Emily’s face tightened noticeably, the skin on her neck and around
her cheeks pulling taut, and her hands stopped shaking. I knew she
was going to bulldoze me at any moment, but I couldn’t stop.
“Have you ever noticed that she has no friends, Emily? Have you?
Sure, her phone rings day and night with the world’s coolest people,
but they’re not calling to talk about their kids or their jobs or
their marriages, are they? They’re calling because they need
something from her. It sure seems awesome looking in, but can you
imagine if the only reason anyone ever called you was because they—”
“Stop it!” she screamed, the tears streaming down her face again.
“Just fucking shut up already! You march into this office and think
you understand everything. Little Miss I’m So Sarcastic and So Above
All This! Well, you don’t understand anything. Anything!”
“Em—”
“Don’t ‘Em,’ me, Andy. Let me finish. I know Miranda is difficult. I
know she sometimes seems crazy. I know what it’s like to never sleep
and always be scared she’s calling you and have none of your friends
understand. I know all that! But if you hate it so much, if you
can’t do anything but complain about it and her and everyone else
all the time, then why don’t you just leave? Because your attitude
is really a problem. And to say that Miranda is a lunatic, well, I
think there are many, many more people out there who think she’s
gifted and gorgeous and talented and would think you’re a lunatic
for not doing your best to help out someone so amazing. Because she
is amazing, Andy—she really is!”
I considered this for a moment and decided she had a point. Miranda
was, as far as I could tell, a truly fantastic editor. Not a single
word of copy made it into the magazine without her explicit,
hard-to-obtain approval, and she wasn’t afraid to scrap something
and start over, regardless of how inconvenient or unhappy it made
everyone else. Although the various fashion editors called in the
clothes to shoot, Miranda alone selected the looks she wanted and
which models she wanted wearing each one; the sittings editors might
be the ones at the actual shoots, but they were simply executing
Miranda’s specific and incredibly detailed instructions. She had the
final—and often even the preliminary—say over every single bracelet,
bag, shoe, outfit, hair style, story, interview, writer, photo,
model, location, and photograph in every issue, and that made her,
in my mind, the main reason for the magazine’s stunning success each
month.Runway wouldn’t beRunway —hell, it wouldn’t be much of
anything at all—without Miranda Priestly. I knew it and so did
everyone else. What it hadn’t yet done was convince me that any of
this gave her a right to treat people the way she did. Why was the
ability to put together a Balmain evening gown and a brooding, leggy
Asian girl on a side street in San Sebastian worshiped so much that
Miranda wasn’t accountable for her behavior? I still wasn’t building
the bridge, but what the hell did I know? Emily obviously got it.
“Emily, all I’m saying is that you’re a really great assistant to
her, that she’s lucky she has someone who works as hard as you do,
who’s so committed to the job. I just wish you’d realize that it’s
not your fault if she’s unhappy with something. She’s just an
unhappy person. There’s nothing more you could have done.”
“I know that. I really do. But you don’t give her enough credit,
Andy. Think about it. I mean, really think about it. She is so
incredibly accomplished, and she’s had to sacrifice a lot to get
there, but couldn’t the same be said of supersuccessful people in
every industry? Tell me, how many CEOs or managing partners or movie
directors or whatever don’t have to be tough sometimes? It’s part of
the job.”
I could tell we weren’t going to see eye to eye on this one. It was
clear that Emily was deeply invested in Miranda, inRunway, in all of
it, but I just couldn’t understand why. She wasn’t any different
from the hundreds of other personal assistants and editorial
assistants and assistant editors and associate editors and senior
editors and editors in chief of fashion magazines. But I just didn’t
understand why. From everything I’d seen so far, each one was
humiliated, degraded, and generally abused by their direct superior,
only to turn around and do it to those under them the second they
got promoted. And all of it so they could say, at the end of the
long and exhausting climb, that they’d gotten to sit in the front
row at Yves Saint-Laurent’s couture show and had scored a few free
Prada bags along the way?
Time to just agree. “I know,” I sighed, surrendering to her
insistence. “I just hope you know that you’re doing her the favor by
putting up with her shit, not the other way around.”
I expected a quick counter-attack, but Emily grinned. “You know how
I just told her like a hundred times that her Thursday hair and
makeup were confirmed?”
I nodded. She looked positively giddy.
“I was totally lying. I didn’t call a single person or confirm
anything!” She practically sang the last part.
“Emily! Are you serious? What are you going to do now? You just
swore up and down that you’d personally confirmed it.” For the first
time since starting work, I wanted to hug the girl.
“Andy, be serious. Do you honestly think that any sane person is
going to say no to doing her hair and makeup? It could make his
whole career—he’d be crazy to turn her down. I’m sure the guy was
planning to do it all along. He was probably just rearranging his
travel plans or something. I don’t have to confirm with him, because
I’m that sure he’ll do it. How could henot ? She’s Miranda
Priestly!”
Now I thought I would cry, but instead I just said, “So what do I
need to know to hire this new nanny? I should probably get started
right away.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, still looking delighted with her own cleverness.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
The first girl I interviewed for the nanny position looked
positively shell-shocked.
“Oh my god!” she’d howled when I asked her over the phone if she’d
mind coming to the office to meet with me. “Oh my god! Are you
serious? Oh my god!”
“Um, is that a yes or a no?”
“God, yes. Yes, yes, yes! ToRunway ? Oh my god. Wait until I tell my
friends. They’ll die. They’ll absolutely die. Just tell me where to
be and when.”
“You understand that Miranda’s away right now, so you won’t be
meeting with her, right?”
“Yep. Totally.”
“And you also know that the job is being a nanny to Miranda’s two
daughters, right? That it won’t have anything to do withRunway ?”
She sighed as if to resign herself to the sad, unfortunate fact.
“Yes, of course. A nanny, I totally get it.”
Well, she hadn’t really gotten it, because even though she looked
the part (tall, impeccably groomed, reasonably well dressed, and
seriously underfed), she kept asking which parts of the job would
require her to be at the office.
I shot her a specialty Withering, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Um, none. Remember, we talked about this? I’m just doing some
initial screening for Miranda, and we just happen to be doing it in
the office. But that’s it. Her twins don’t live here, you know?”
“Right, right,” she’d agreed, but I’d already nixed her.
The next three the agency had waiting in the reception area weren’t
much better. Physically, all fit the Miranda profile—the agency
really did know exactly what she wanted—but not one had what I’d be
looking for in a nanny who’d be taking care of my future niece or
nephew, the standard I’d set for the process. One had a master’s in
child development from Cornell but glazed over when I tried to
describe the subtle ways this job might be different from others
she’d held. Another had dated a famous NBA player, which she felt
gave her “insight into celebrity.” But when I’d asked her if she’d
ever worked with the children of celebrities, she’d instinctively
wrinkled her nose and informed me that “famous people’s kids always
have, like, major issues.” Nixed. The third and most promising had
grown up in Manhattan and had just graduated from Middlebury and
wanted to spend a year as a nanny to save some money for a trip to
Paris. When I asked if that meant she spoke French, she nodded. The
only problem was that she was a city girl through and through and
therefore didn’t have a driver’s license. Was she willing to learn?
I’d asked. No, she’d answered. She didn’t believe that the streets
needed another car clogging them. Nix number three. I spent the rest
of the day trying to figure out a tactful way of telling Miranda
that if a girl is attractive, athletic, comfortable with celebrity,
lives in Manhattan, has a driver’s license, can swim, has an
advanced degree, speaks French, and is completely and entirely
flexible with her time, then chances are she does not want to be a
nanny.
She must have read my mind, because the phone rang immediately. I
did a few calculations and realized that Miranda would have just
landed at de Gaulle, and a quick glance at the second-by-second
itinerary Emily had so painstakingly constructed showed she would
now be in the car on her way to the Ritz.
“Miranda Pri—”
“Emily!” she practically shrieked. I wisely decided now wasn’t the
time to correct her. “Emily! The driver did not give me my usual
phone, and as a result I don’t have anyone’s phone number. This is
unacceptable. Entirely unacceptable. How am I supposed to conduct
Business with no phone numbers? Connect me immediately to Mr.
Lagerfeld.”
“Yes, Miranda, please hold just a moment.” I jabbed the hold button
and called out to Emily for help, although I would’ve had better
luck simply eating the receiver whole than actually locating Karl
Lagerfeld in less time than it took Miranda to get so annoyed that
she’d smash down the phone and keep calling to ask, “Where the hell
is he? Why can’t you find him? Do you not know how to use a phone?”
“She wants Karl,” I called over to Emily. The name immediately sent
her flying, racing, tearing through papers all over her desk.
“OK, listen. We have twenty to thirty seconds. You take Biarritz and
the driver, I’ll get Paris and the assistant,” she called, her
fingers already flying across the keypad. I double-clicked on the
thousand-plus name contact list that we shared on our hard drives
and found exactly five numbers I’d have to call: Biarritz main,
Biarritz second main, Biarritz studio, Biarritz pool, and Biarritz
driver. A quick glance over the other listings for Karl Lagerfeld
indicated that Emily had a grand total of seven, and there were
still more numbers for New York and Milan. We were dead before we
started.
I’d tried Biarritz main and was in the middle of dialing Biarritz
second main when I saw that the flashing red light had stopped
blinking. Emily announced that Miranda had hung up, in case I hadn’t
noticed. Only ten or fifteen seconds had passed—she was feeling
particularly impatient today. Naturally, the phone rang again
immediately, and Emily responded to my pleading puppy eyes and
answered it. She didn’t get halfway through her canned greeting
before she was nodding gravely and trying to reassure Miranda. I was
still dialing and had—miraculously—made it to Biarritz pool, where I
was currently talking to a woman who didn’t speak a single word, a
single syllable, of English. Maybe this was the obsession with
speaking French?
“Yes, yes, Miranda. Andrea and I are calling right now. It should
only be a few more seconds. Yes, I understand. No, I know it’s
frustrating. If you’ll allow me to just put you on hold for ten
seconds or so, I’m sure we’ll have him on the line. OK?” She punched
“hold” and kept right on jabbing numbers. I heard her trying in what
sounded like horrifically accented and broken French to talk to
someone who appeared to not know the name Karl Lagerfeld. We were
dead. Dead. I was getting ready to hang up on the crazy French woman
who was shrieking into the receiver when I saw the flashing red
light go out again. Emily was still frantically dialing.
“She’s gone!” I called with the urgency of an EMT performing
emergency CPR.
“Your turn to get it!” she screamed back, fingers flying, and sure
enough, the phone rang again.
I picked it up and didn’t even attempt to say anything, since I knew
the voice on the other end would speak up immediately. It did.
“Ahn-dre-ah! Emily! Whoever the hell I’m talking to . . . why is it
that I’m speaking with you and not with Mr. Lagerfeld? Why?”
My first instinct was to remain silent, since it didn’t appear that
the verbal barrage was over, but as usual, my instincts were wrong.
“Hell-ooo?Anyone there? Is the process of connecting one phone call
to another really too difficult forboth my assistants?”
“No, Miranda, of course not. I’m sorry about this—” My voice was
shaking a little, but I couldn’t get it under control. “—it’s just
that we can’t seem to find Mr. Lagerfeld. We’ve already tried at
least eight—”
“Can’t seem to find him?”she mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “What
do you mean, you ‘can’t seem to find’ him?”
What part of that simple five-word sentence did she not comprehend,
I wondered. Can’t. Seem. To. Find. Him. Seemed rather clear and
precise to me: We can’t fucking find him. That is why you’re not
talking to him. Ifyou can find him, thenyou can talk to him. A
million barbed responses raced around my head, but I could only
sputter like a first-grader who’d been singled out by the teacher
for talking in class.
“Um, well, Miranda, we’ve called all of the numbers we have listed
for him, and he doesn’t appear to be at any of them,” I managed.
“Well of course he’s not!” She was almost screaming now, that
precious, well-guarded cool was precariously close to collapsing.
She took a deep, exaggerated breath and said calmly, “Ahn-dre-ah.
Are you aware that Mr. Lagerfeld is in Paris this week?” I felt like
we were doing English As a Second Language lessons.
“Of course, Miranda. Emily has been trying all the numbers in—”
“And are you aware that Mr. Lagerfeld said he’d be available on his
mobile phone while he was in Paris?” Every muscle in her throat
strained to keep her voice even and calm.
“Well, no, we don’t have a cell number listed in the directory, so
we didn’t know that Mr. Lagerfeld even had a Cell Phone. But Emily
is on the phone with his assistant right now, and I’m sure she’ll
have that number in just a minute.” Emily gave me the thumbs-up
right before she scribbled something and exclaimed, “Merci,oh yes,
thank you, I mean,merci ” over and over again.
“Miranda, I have the number right here. Would you like me to connect
you now?” I could feel my chest puff out with confidence and pride.
A job well done! A superior performance under the most
pressure-filled conditions. Never mind that my really cute peasant
blouse that had been complimented by two—not one, but two—fashion
assistants was now sporting sweat stains under the arms. Who cared?
I was about to get this stark raving mad lunatic of an international
caller off my back, and I was thrilled.
“Ahn-dre-ah?” It sounded like a question, but I was only
concentrating on trying to figure out a pattern for indiscriminate
name mix-ups. At first I’d thought she did it deliberately in an
attempt to belittle and humiliate us even more, but then I figured
out that she was probably quite satisfied with the levels of
belittlement and humiliation we endured and so she did it only
because she couldn’t be bothered to keep straight details so inane
as her two assistants’ names. Emily had confirmed this by saying
that she called her Emily about half the time but called her a
mixture of Andrea and Allison—the assistant before her—the other
half. I felt better.
“Yes?” Squeaking again. Dammit! Wasn’t it possible for me to have
just a tiny bit of dignity with this woman?
“Ahn-dre-ah, I don’t know what all the fuss is over finding Mr.
Lagerfeld’s mobile number when I have it right here. He gave it to
me just five minutes ago, but we were disconnected and I can’t seem
to dial correctly.” She said the last part as though the entire
world was to blame for this irritation and inconvenience except for
herself.
“Oh. You, um, you have the number? And you knew he was on that
number the whole time?” I was saying it for Emily’s benefit, and it
only served to enrage Miranda even more.
“Am I not making myself perfectly clear here? I need you to connect
me to 03.55.23.56.67.89. Immediately. Or is that too difficult?”
Emily was slowly shaking her head in disbelief as she crumpled up
the number we’d both just fought so hard to get.
“No, no, Miranda, of course that’s not too difficult. I’ll connect
you right away. Hold just a minute.” I hit “conference,” dialed the
numbers, heard an older man shout “Allo!” into the phone, and hit
conference again. “Mr. Lagerfeld, Miranda Priestly, you’re
connected,” I stated like one of those manual operators from
theLittle House on the Prairie days. And instead of putting the
whole call on mute and then hitting speaker so Emily and I could
listen in on the call together, I just hung up. We sat in silence
for a few minutes as I tried to refrain from badmouthing Miranda
immediately. Instead, I mopped some dampness from my forehead and
took long, deep breaths. She spoke first.
“So, let me just get this straight. She had his number the entire
time but just didn’t know how to dial it?”
“Or maybe she just didn’t feel like dialing it,” I added helpfully,
always enthusiastic for the chance to team up against Miranda,
especially considering how rare the opportunities were with Emily.
“I should’ve known,” she said, shaking her head like she was
horribly disappointed with herself. “I really should’ve known that.
She always calls to have me connect her to people who are staying in
the next room, or who are in a hotel two streets over. I remember I
thought that was the weirdest thing, calling from Paris to New York
to have someone connect you to someone in Paris. Now it just seems
normal, of course, but I can’t believe I didn’t see that one
coming.”
I was about to run to the dining room for lunch, but the phone rang
again. Operating under the lightning-doesn’t-strike-twice theory, I
decided to be a sport and answer the phone.
“Miranda Priestly’s office.”
“Emily! I am standing in the pouring rain on the rue de Rivoli and
my driver has vanished. Vanished! Do you understand me? Vanished!
Find him immediately!” She was hysterical, my very first time
hearing her that way, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it
was the only time.
“Miranda, just a moment. I have his number right here.” I turned to
scan my desk for the itinerary I’d set down a moment earlier, but
all I saw were papers, old Bulletins, stacks of back issues. Only
three or four seconds had passed, but I felt as if I were standing
right next to her, watching as the rain poured down on her Fendi fur
and caused the makeup to melt down the side of her face. Like she
could just reach out and slap my face, tell me I’m a worthless piece
of shit with zero talent, no skill set, a complete and total loser.
There wasn’t time to talk myself down, remind myself that this was
merely a human being (theoretically) who wasn’t happy to be standing
in the rain and was taking it out on her assistant 3,600 miles away.
It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.
“Ahn-dre-ah! My shoes areruined . Do you hear me? Are you even
listening? Find my drivernow! ”
I was at risk of some inappropriate emotion—I could feel the knot in
the back of my throat, the tightening of the muscles in the back of
my neck, but it was too early to tell if I would laugh or cry.
Either one: not good. Emily must have sensed as much, because she
leapt out of her seat and handed me her copy of the itinerary. She’d
even highlighted the driver’s contact numbers, three in all, one for
the car phone, his mobile phone, and his Home phone. Naturally.
“Miranda, I’m going to need to put you on hold while I call him. Can
I put you on hold?” I didn’t wait for a response, which I knew would
drive her crazy, and threw the call on hold. I dialed Paris again.
The good news was the driver picked up on the first ring of the
first number I tried. The bad news was he didn’t speak English.
Although I’d never been self-destructive before, I couldn’t help but
smash my forehead firmly into the Formica. Three times of this, and
Emily had picked up the line at her desk. She’d resorted to
screaming, not so much in attempt to make the driver understand her
own bad French, but simply because she was trying to impress upon
him the urgency of the current situation. New drivers always took a
little breaking in, mostly because they foolishly believed that if
Miranda had to wait forty-five seconds to a minute extra, she’d be
all right. This was precisely the notion of which Emily and I were
to disabuse them.
We both put our heads down a few minutes later, after Emily had
managed to insult the driver enough that he’d hightailed it back to
where he’d left Miranda three or four minutes earlier. I wasn’t
particularly hungry for lunch anymore, a phenomenon that made me
nervous. WasRunway rubbing off? Or was it just the adrenaline and
nerves mixing together to guarantee no appetite? That was it! The
starvation so endemic atRunway was not, in fact, self-induced; it
was merely the physiological response of bodies that were so
consistently terrified and all-around anxiety-ridden that they were
never actually hungry. I vowed to look into this a little more and
perhaps explore the possibility that Miranda was smarter than all of
this and had deliberately created a persona so offensive on every
level that she literally scared people skinny.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies! Pick those heads up off those desks! Can
you imagine Miranda seeing you now? She wouldn’t be very happy!”
James sang from the doorway. He had slicked back his hair using some
greasy, waxy stuff called Bed Head (“Hot name—how can you resist?”)
and was wearing some sort of skintight football jersey with the
number 69 on both the front and the back. As always, a picture of
subtlety and understatement.
Neither of us so much as glanced at him. The clock said it was only
four, but it felt like midnight.
“OK then, let me guess. Mama’s been calling off the hook because she
lost an earring somewhere between the Ritz and Alain Ducasse and she
wants you to find it, even though it’s in Paris and you’re in New
York.”
I snorted. “You think that would put us in this condition? That’s
ourjob . We do that every day. Give us something difficult.”
Even Emily laughed. “Seriously, James, not good enough. I could find
an earring in under ten minutes in any city in the world,” she said,
all of a sudden inspired to join in for reasons I didn’t understand.
“It’d only be a challenge if she didn’t tell us what city she’d lost
it in. But I bet even then we could do it.”
James was backing himself away from the office, a look of feigned
horror on his face. “All right, then, ladies, you have a great day,
you hear? At least she hasn’t fucked you both up for good. I mean,
seriously, thank god for that, right? You’re bothtooootally sane.
Yeah. Um, have a great day . . .”
“NOT SO FAST THERE, YOU PANSY!” shrieked someone very loud and very
high-pitched. “I WANT YOU TO MARCH YOUR WAY BACK IN THERE AND TELL
THE GIRLS WHAT YOU WERE THINKING WHEN YOU PUT THAT SHMATA ON THIS
MORNING!” Nigel grabbed James by the left ear and dragged him into
the area between our desks.
“Oh, come on, Nigel,” James whined, pretending to be annoyed but
obviously delighted that Nigel was touching him. “You know you love
this top!”
“LOVE THAT TOP? YOU THINK I LOVE THAT FRATTY, GAY-JOCK LOOK YOU’VE
GOT GOING? JAMES, YOU NEED TO RETHINK HERE, OK? OK?”
“What’s wrong with a tight football jersey? I think it looks hot.”
Emily and I nodded in quiet alliance with James. It may not have
been exactly tasteful, but he did look incredibly hip. And besides,
it was kind of tough to be taking fashion advice from a man who was,
at that precise moment, wearing zebra-print boot-cut jeans and a
black V-neck sweater with a keyhole cut out in the back to reveal
rippling back muscles. The whole ensemble was topped off with a
floppy straw hat and a touch (subtle, I’ll give him that!) of kohl
eyeliner.
“BABY BOY, fashion IS NOT FOR advertising YOUR FAVE SEX ACTS ON YOUR
SHIRT. UNH-UNH, NO IT’S NOT! YOU WANNA SHOW A LITTLE SKIN? THAT’S
HOT! YOU WANNA SHOW SOME OF THOSE TIGHT, YOUNG CURVES OF
YOURS?THAT’S HOT. CLOTHING IS NOT FOR TELLING THE WORLD WHAT
POSITION YOU PREFER, BOYFRIEND. NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“But, Nigel!” A look of defeat was carefully constructed to disguise
how pleased he was to be the center of Nigel’s attention.
“DON’T ‘NIGEL’ ME, HONEY. GO TALK TO JEFFY AND TELL HIM I SENT YOU.
TELL HIM TO GIVE YOU THE NEW CALVIN TANK WE CALLED IN FOR THE MIAMI
SHOOT. IT’S THE ONE THAT GORGEOUS BLACK MODEL—OH MY, HE’S AS TASTY
AS A THICK, CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE—IS ASSIGNED TO WEAR. GO ON NOW,
SHOO. BUT BE SURE TO COME BACK HERE AND SHOW ME WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE!”
James scampered off like a recently fed bunny rabbit, and Nigel
turned to look at us. “HAVE YOU PUT IN HER CLOTHING ORDER YET?” he
asked no one in particular.
“No, she won’t choose until she has the look-books,” Emily answered,
looking bored. “She said she’ll do it when she gets back.”
“WELL, JUST BE SURE TO LET ME KNOW AHEAD OF TIME SO I CAN CLEAR MY
SCHEDULE FOR THAT PARTY!” He took off in the direction of the
Closet, probably to try to catch a glimpse of James changing.
I’d already lived through one round of Miranda wardrobe ordering,
and it hadn’t been pretty. When at the shows, she went from runway
to runway, sketchbook in hand, preparing herself to come back to the
States and tell New York society what they would be wearing—and
middle America what they’d like to be wearing—via the only runway
that actually mattered. Little did I know that Miranda was also
paying particular attention to the outfits cruising down the runways
because it was her first glance at what she herself would be wearing
in the upcoming months.
A couple weeks after returning to the office, Miranda had handed
Emily a list of designers whose look-books she’d like to see. As the
usual suspects rushed to get their books put together for her—their
runway photographs often weren’t even developed, never mind
airbrushed and bound, before she demanded to see them—everyone
atRunway was put on alert that the books would be arriving. Nigel
would need to be ready, of course, to help her flip through them all
and select her personal outfits. An accessories editor should be on
hand to choose bags and shoes, and perhaps an extra fashion editor
to ensure that everyone was in agreement—especially if the order
included something big, like a fur coat or an evening gown. When the
various houses had finally pieced together the different items she’d
requested, Miranda’s personal tailor would come toRunway for a few
days to fit everything. Jeffy would completely empty out the Closet,
and no one would really be able to get any work done at all, since
Miranda and her tailor would be holed up in there for hours on end.
On the first go-round of fittings, I’d walked by the Closet just in
time to hear Nigel shouting, “MIRANDA PRIESTLY! TAKE THAT RAG OFF
THIS SECOND. THAT DRESS MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A SLUT! A COMMON WHORE!”
I’d stood outside with my ear pressed to the door—literally risking
life and limb if it were to swing open—and waited for her to upbraid
him in that special way of hers, but all I heard was a quiet murmur
of agreement and the rustling of the fabric as she removed the
dress.
Now that I had been there long enough, it seemed as though the honor
of ordering Miranda’s clothes would fall to me. Four times a year,
like clockwork, she flipped through look-books like they were her
own personal catalogs and selected Alexander McQueen suits and
Balenciaga pants like they were T-shirts from L.L.Bean. A yellow
sticky on this pair of Fendi pencil pants, another placed squarely
over the Chanel skirt suit, a third with a big “NO” plastered across
the matching silk top. Flip, stick, flip, stick, on and on it went,
until she had selected a full season’s wardrobe directly from the
runway, clothes that had most likely not yet even been made.
I’d watched as Emily had faxed Miranda’s choices to the different
designers, omitting any size or color preference, since anyone worth
their Manolos knew what would work for Miranda Priestly. Of course,
merely being made to the correct size wasn’t enough—when the clothes
did arrive at the magazine, they’d need to be cut and tucked to make
them appear custom-made. Only when the entire wardrobe was
completely ordered, shipped, snipped, and delivered expressly to her
bedroom closet by chauffeured limousine would Miranda relinquish
last season’s clothes and heaps of Yves and Celine and Helmut Lang
would find their way—in garbage bags—back to the office. Most were
only four or six months old, stuff that had been worn once or twice
or, most often, not at all. Everything was still so incredibly
stylish, so ludicrously hip, that it wasn’t yet available in most
stores, but once it was last season, it was about as likely to show
up on Miranda as a pair of pleather pants from Target’s new Massimo
line.
Occasionally I’d find a tank top or an oversize jacket I could keep,
but the fact that everything was in a size zero was a bit of a
problem. Mostly we distributed the clothes to anyone with preteen
daughters, the only ones who had a shot in hell of actually fitting
into the stuff. I pictured little girls with bodies like little boys
strutting around in Prada lipstick skirts and slinky Dolce and
Gabbana dresses with spaghetti straps. If there was something really
dynamite, really expensive, I’d pull it from the garbage bag and
stash it under my desk until I could smuggle it Home safely. A few
quick clicks on ebay or perhaps a little visit to one of the upscale
consignment shops on Madison Avenue, and my salary all of a sudden
wasn’t so depressing. Not stealing, I rationalized, simply utilizing
what was available to me.
Miranda called six more times between the hours of six and nine in
the evening—midnight to threeA .M. her time—to have us connect her
to various people who were already in Paris. I fielded them
listlessly, uneventfully, until I went to gather my things and try
to sneak out for the night before the phone rang again. It wasn’t
until I was climbing exhaustedly into my coat that I caught a
glimpse of the note that I’d stuck to my monitor just so this very
thing wouldn’t happen: CALL A, 3:30P.M. TODAY. My head felt like it
was swimming, my contacts had long before dried to tiny, hard shards
covering my eyes, and at this point my head started to throb. No
sharp pains, just that nebulous, dull kind of ache where you can’t
pinpoint the center but you know it will build and build in a slow,
burning intensity until you either manage to pass out or your head
just explodes. In the frenzy of all the calls that had produced such
anxiety, such panic, from across an ocean, I had forgotten to take
the thirty seconds out of my day and call Alex when he’d asked me
to. Simply up and forgotten to do something so simple for someone
who never seemed to need anything from me.
I sat down in the now darkened and silent office and picked up the
phone that was still a little wet from my sweaty hands during
Miranda’s last call a few minutes earlier. His Home line rang and
rang until the machine picked up, but he answered on the first ring
when I tried his Cell Phone.
“Hi,” he said, knowing it was me from the caller ID. “How was your
day?”
“Whatever, usual. Alex, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you at
three-thirty. I can’t even get into it—it’s just that things were so
crazy here, she just kept calling and—”
“Hey, forget it. Not a big deal. Listen, now’s not really a great
time for me. Can I call you tomorrow?” He sounded distracted, his
voice taking on that faraway quality of someone talking from an
international payphone on the beach of a tiny village across the
world.
“Um, sure. But is everything OK? Will you just quickly tell me what
you wanted to talk about before? I’ve been really worried that
everything’s not OK.”
He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Yeah, well it doesn’t seem
like you were all that worried. I ask you one time to call me at a
time that’s convenient for me—not to mention that your boss isn’t
even in the country right now—and you can’t manage to do that until
six hours after the fact. Not really a sign of someone who’s
genuinely concerned, you know?” He stated all of this with no
sarcasm, no disapproval, just a simple summary of the facts.
I was twisting the phone cord around my finger until it cut off the
circulation entirely, making the knuckle bulge out and the tip turn
white; there was also a brief, metallic taste of blood in my mouth,
the first realization that I had been gnawing on the inside of my
bottom lip.
“Alex, it’s not that I forgot to call,” I lied openly, trying to
extricate myself from his nonaccusatory accusation. “I simply didn’t
have a single second free, and since it sounded like something
serious, I didn’t want to call just to have to hang up again. I
mean, she must have called me two dozen times just this afternoon,
and each one is an absolute emergency. Emily took off at five and
left me all alone with that phone, and Miranda just didn’t stop. She
just kept calling and calling and calling, and every time I went to
call you, it’d be her again on the other line. I, uh, you know?”
My rapid-fire list of excuses sounded pathetic even to me, but I
couldn’t stop. He knew I had just forgotten, and so did I. Not
because I didn’t care or wasn’t concerned, but because all things
non-Miranda somehow ceased to be relevant the moment I arrived at
work. In some ways I still didn’t understand and certainly couldn’t
explain—never mind ask anyone else to understand—how the outside
world just melted into nonexistence, that the only thing remaining
when everything else vanished wasRunway . It was especially
difficult to explain this phenomenon when it was the single thing in
my life I despised. And yet, it was the only one that mattered.
“Listen, I have to get back to Joey. He has two friends over and
they’ve probably torn apart the entire house by this point.”
“Joey? Does that mean you’re in Larchmont? You don’t usually watch
him on Wednesdays. Is everything OK?” I was hoping to steer him away
from the blatantly obvious fact that I had gotten too wrapped up at
work for six straight hours, and this seemed like the best path.
He’d tell me how his mom had gotten held up at work accidentally or
perhaps had to go see Joey’s teacher for conferences that night when
the regular babysitter canceled. He’d never complain of course—that
just wasn’t his style—but he’d at least tell me what was going on.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. My mom just had an emergency client
meeting tonight. Andy, I can’t really talk about it now. I was just
calling before with some good news. But you didn’t call me back,” he
said flatly.
I wrapped the phone cord, which had begun to slowly unravel, so
tight around my pointer and middle fingers that they began to
pulsate. “I’m sorry” was all I could manage, because even though I
knew he was right, that I was insensitive not to have called, I was
too worn out to present a huge defense. “Alex, please. Please don’t
punish me by not telling me something good. Do you know how long
it’s been since anyone has called with good news? Please. Give me
that at least.” I knew he’d respond to my rational approach, and he
did.
“Look, it’s not that exciting. I just went ahead and made all the
arrangements for us to go back for our first Homecoming together.”
“You did? Really? We’re going?” I’d brought it up a couple times
before in what I’d liked to believe had been an offhand and casual
way, but in a decidedly non-Alex fashion he’d been hedging on
committing to our going together. It was really early to be planning
any of it, but the hotels and restaurants in Providence were always
full months ahead of time. I’d dropped it a few weeks earlier,
figuring that we would figure something out, find a place to stay
somewhere. But somehow, of course, he’d picked up on just how badly
I wanted to go with him, and he’d figured out everything.
“Yeah, it’s done. We have a rental car—a Jeep, actually—and I
reserved a room at the Biltmore.”
“At the Biltmore? You’re kidding? You got a room there? That’s
amazing.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve always talked about wanting to stay there, so I
figured we should try it. I even made a reservation for brunch on
Sunday at Al Forno for ten people, so we can each gather up the
troops and have everyone in one place at one time.”
“No way. You did all of this already?”
“Sure. I thought you’d be really psyched. That’s why I was really
looking forward to telling you about it. But apparently you were too
busy to call back.”
“Alex, I’m thrilled. I can’t even tell you how excited I am, and I
can’t believe you figured everything out already. I’m really sorry
about before, but I can’t wait for October. We’re going to have the
best time, thanks to you.”
We talked for another couple minutes. By the time I hung up, he
didn’t sound mad anymore, but I could barely move. The effort to win
him back, to find the right words not only to convince him that I
hadn’t overlooked him but also to reassure him that I was
appropriately grateful and enthusiastic had drained the last
reserves of my energy. I don’t remember getting into the car or the
ride Home or whether or not I said hello to John Fisher-Galliano in
the lobby of my building. Besides a bone-deep exhaustion that hurt
so much it almost felt good, the only thing I remember feeling at
all was relief that Lily’s door was shut and no light peeked out
from under it. I thought about ordering in some food, but the mere
thought of locating a menu and a phone was too overwhelming—another
meal that simply wasn’t happening.
Instead, I sat on the crumbling concrete of my furnitureless balcony
and leisurely inhaled a cigarette. Lacking the energy to actually
blow the smoke out, I let it seep from my mouth and hang in the
still air around me. At some point I heard Lily’s door open, her
footsteps shuffling along the hallway, but I quickly turned out my
lights and sat in the darkened silence. There had just been fifteen
straight hours of talking, and I could talk no more.
13
“Hire her,” Miranda had decreed when she met Annabelle, the twelfth
girl I’d interviewed and one of only two that I’d decided were fit
to even meet Miranda. Annabelle was a native French speaker (she
actually spoke so little English I had to have the twins translate
for me), a graduate of the Sorbonne, and the possessor of a long,
hard body, with gorgeous brown hair. She had style. She wasn’t
afraid to wear stilettos on the job and didn’t seem to mind
Miranda’s brusque manner. In fact, she was rather aloof and brusque
herself and never really seemed to make any sort of eye contact.
Always kind of bored, a touch disinterested, and supremely
confident. I was thrilled when Miranda wanted her, both because it
saved me weeks more of meeting nanny wannabes and because it
indicated—in some teeny, tiny way—that I was starting to get it.
Get what, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but things were going as smoothly
as I could have hoped at this point. I’d pulled off the clothing
order with only a few noticeable screwups. She hadn’t exactly been
psyched when I’d shown her everything she’d ordered from Givenchy
and accidentally pronounced it precisely as it appears—give-EN-chee.
After much glaring and a few snide comments, I was informed of the
correct pronunciation, and everything went reasonably well until she
had to be told that the Roberto Cavalli dresses she’d requested
hadn’t been made yet and wouldn’t be ready for another three weeks.
But I’d handled that and had managed to coordinate fittings in the
Closet with her tailor and had assembled nearly everything in the
closet in her Home dressing room, a space roughly the size of a
studio apartment.
The party planning had continued in Miranda’s absence and picked up
again full-force with her return, but there was surprisingly little
panic—it appeared that everything was in order, and that the
upcoming Friday was set to go off without a hitch. Chanel had
delivered a one-of-a-kind, floor-length red beaded sheath while
Miranda was in Europe, and I’d immediately sent it to the cleaners
for a once-over. I’d seen a similar Chanel dress in black in the
pages ofW the month before, and when I pointed it out to Emily,
she’d nodded somberly.
“Forty thousand dollars,” she’d said, moving her head up and down,
up and down. She double-clicked on a pair of black pants onstyle.com
, where she’d spent months scouring for ideas for her upcoming trip
to Europe with Miranda.
“Forty thousand WHAT?”
“Her dress. The red one from Chanel. It costs forty thousand dollars
if you were to buy it retail. Of course, Miranda isn’t paying full
price, but she didn’t get this one for free, either. Isn’t it wild?”
“Forty thousand DOLLARS?” I’d asked again, still unable to believe
that I’d held a single item worth so much money in my hands just
hours earlier. I couldn’t help a quick conceptualization of forty
grand: two full years’ college tuition, a down payment on a new
Home, an averageyearly salary for a typical American family of four.
Or, at the very least, one hell of a lot of Prada bags. But one
dress? I thought I’d seen it all at that point, but I was due
another zinger when the dress came back from the couture dry cleaner
with a calligraphic envelope that readMs. Miranda Priestly . Inside
was a hand-printed invoice on cream-colored cardstock that read:
Garment type:Evening gown. Designer:Chanel. Length:Ankle.
Colour:Red. Size:Zero. Description:Hand-beaded, sleeveless with
slight scoop neckline, invisible side zipper, heavy silk lining.
Service:Basic, first-time cleaning. Fee:$670.
There was an additional note underneath the actual bill part from
the shop’s owner, a woman I was sure paid both the rent for her
store and her Home with the money she received from Elias on behalf
of Miranda’s extensive dry-cleaning addiction.
We were delighted to work on such a gorgeous gown and we hope you
enjoy wearing it to your party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As
directed, we will pick up the gown on Monday, May 24, for its
postparty cleaning. Please let us know if we may be of any
additional service. All the best, Colette.
Either way, it was only Thursday and Miranda had a brand-new and
newly cleaned gown resting gently in her closet, and Emily had
located the exact silver Jimmy Choo sandals she’d requested. The
hair stylist was due at her house at five-thirtyP .M. on Friday, the
makeup artist at five forty-five, and Uri was on call for exactly
six-fifteen to take Miranda and Mr. Tomlinson to the museum.
Miranda had already left for the day to watch Cassidy’s gymnastics
meet, and I was hoping to duck out early to surprise Lily. She’d
just finished her last exam of the year and I wanted to take her out
for a celebration.
“Hey, Em, do you think I could leave by six-thirty or seven today?
Miranda said she didn’t need the Book because there really wasn’t
anything new,” I added quickly, irritated that I had to beg my
equal, my peer for permission to leave work after only twelve hours
instead of the usual fourteen.
“Um, sure. Yeah, whatever. I’m leaving now.” She checked her
computer screen and saw that it was a little after five. “Stay for
another couple hours and then head out. She’s with the twins
tonight, so I don’t think she should be calling much.” She had a
date that night with the guy she’d met in LA over New Year’s. He’d
finally made it to New York and, surprise of all surprises, he’d
actually called. They were headed to Craftbar for drinks, at which
point she would treat him to Nobu if he was behaving himself. She’d
made the reservations five weeks earlier when he’d e-mailed that he
might be in New York, but Emily still had to use Miranda’s name to
score the time slot.
“Well, what are you going to do when you show up there and you’re
clearly not Miranda Priestly?” I asked stupidly.
As usual, I received an expert eye-roll-deep-sigh combo. “I’ll
simply tell them that Miranda had to be out of town unexpectedly,
show them a Business card, and tell them she wanted me to have her
reservation. Hardly a big deal.”
Miranda called only once after Emily left to tell me that she
wouldn’t be in the office until noon tomorrow, but she’d like a copy
of the restaurant review she’d read today “in the paper.” I had the
presence of mind to ask if she recalled the name of the restaurant
or the paper in which she read about it, but this annoyed her
greatly.
“Ahn-dre-ah, I’m already late for the meet. Don’t grill me. It was
an Asian fusion restaurant and it was in today’s paper. That’s all.”
And with that, she snapped her Motorola V60 shut. I hoped, as I
usually did when she cut me off midsentence, that one day the Cell
Phone would simply clamp down on her perfectly manicured fingers and
swallow them whole, taking special time to shred those flawless red
nails. No luck yet.
I wrote a quick note to myself to find the restaurant first thing in
the morning in the notebook I kept with Miranda’s myriad and
ever-changing requests and bolted for the car. I called Lily from my
cell and she picked up just as I was about to get out and go up to
the apartment, and so I waved to John Fisher-Galliano (who had grown
his hair a little longer and adorned his uniform with a few chains
and looked more like the designer each and every day) but didn’t
move.
“Hey, what’s up? It’s me.”
“Hiiiiiiiiiii,”she sang, happier than I’d heard her in weeks, maybe
months. “I am so done. Done! No early summer session, nothing but a
little, insignificant proposal due for a master’s thesis that I can
change ten times after the fact if I want. So that leaves nothing
until mid-July. Do you believe it?” She sounded positively gleeful.
“I know, I’m so excited for you! You up for a celebratory dinner?
Anywhere you want, it’s onRunway .”
“Really? Anywhere?”
“Anywhere. I’m downstairs and I have a car. Come down; we’ll go
somewhere great.”
She squealed. “Fun! I’ve been meaning to tell you all about Freudian
Boy. He’s beautiful! Hold on one second. I’m putting on jeans and
I’ll be right down.”
She bounded out five minutes later looking trendier and happier than
I’d seen her in a very long time. She wore a pair of tight, faded
boot-cut jeans that hugged her hips, paired with a long-sleeve flowy
white peasant blouse. A pair of flip-flops I’d never seen
before—brown leather straps with turquoise beads—completed the look.
She was even wearing makeup, and her curls looked as though they had
seen a blow-dryer at some point in the last twenty-four hours.
“You look great,” I said as she bounded into the backseat. “What’s
your secret?”
“Freudian Boy, of course. He’s amazing. I think I’m in love. So far,
he’s going strong at nine-tenths. Do you believe it?”
“First, let’s decide where we’re going. I didn’t make a reservation
anywhere, but I can call ahead and use Miranda’s name. Anywhere you
want.”
She was rubbing on some Kiehl’s lip gloss and staring at herself in
the driver’s rearview mirror. “Anywhere?” she said absentmindedly.
“Anywhere. Maybe Chicama for those mojitos?” I suggested, knowing
that the way to sell Lily on a restaurant was by advertising its
drinks, not its food. “Or there are those amazing Cosmos at Meet. Or
the Hudson Hotel—maybe we can even sit outside? If you want wine,
though, I’d love to try—”
“Andy, can we go to Benihana? I’ve been craving it forever.” She
looked sheepish.
“Benihana? You want to go toBenihana ? Like, the chain restaurant
where they seat you with tourists who have lots of whining children
and unemployed Asian actors cook the food right on your table?That
Benihana?”
She was nodding so enthusiastically, I had no choice but to call for
the address.
“No, no, I have it right here. Fifty-sixth between Fifth and Sixth,
north side of the street,” she called to the driver.
My weirdly excited friend didn’t seem to notice that I was staring.
Instead, she chatted happily about Freudian Boy, aptly named because
he was in his last year of a Ph.D. program in psychology. They’d met
in the graduate student lounge in the basement of Low Library. I got
the full rundown on all of his qualifications: twenty-nine years old
(“So much more mature, but not at all too old”), originally from
Montreal (“Such a cute French accent, but like, totally
Americanized”), longish hair (“But not freaky ponytail long”), and
just the right amount of stubble (“He looks just like Antonio
Banderas when he doesn’t shave for three days”).
The samurai chef-actors did their thing, slicing and dicing and
flipping cubes of meat all over the place while Lily laughed and
clapped her hands like a little girl at her first circus. Although
it seemed impossible to believe that Lily actually liked a guy, it
appeared to be the only logical explanation for her obvious elation.
Even more impossible to believe was her claim that she hadn’t slept
with him yet (“Two and a half full weeks of hanging out constantly
at school and nothing! Aren’t you proud of me?”). When I asked why I
hadn’t seen him around the apartment at all, she’d smiled proudly
and said, “He hasn’t been invited over to the apartment yet. We’re
taking things slow.” We were standing directly outside the
restaurant as she regaled me with all the funny stories he’d told
her when Christian Collinsworth appeared in front of me.
“Andrea. The lovely Andrea. I have to say, I’m rather surprised to
discover that you’re a fan of Benihana . . . What would Miranda
think?” he asked teasingly, sliding his arm around my shoulder.
“I, uh, well . . .” The stammering was immediately all-consuming.
There was no room for words when the thoughts were bouncing off each
side of my head, pinging between my ears.Eating at Benihana.
Christian knows it! Miranda at Benihana! Looks so adorable in
leather bomber jacket! Must be able to smell the Benihana on me!
Don’t kiss him on the cheek! Kiss him on the cheek! “Well, it’s not
that, uh, that . . .”
“We were actually just discussing where we would be going next,”
Lily stated crisply, extending her hand to Christian, who, it
finally occurred to me, was alone. “We must’ve gotten so caught up
that we didn’t even realize we’d stopped in the middle of the
street! Hah, hah! How do like that, Andy? My name’s Lily,” she said
to Christian, who shook her hand and then pushed a curl away from
his eye, just like he’d done so many times at the party. Once again
I had an odd feeling that I could be entranced for hours, maybe
days, just watching him push that single, adorable curl away from
his perfect face.
I stared at her and at him and became vaguely aware that I had to
say something, but the two of them seemed to be holding up just fine
on their own.
“Lily,” Christian rolled the name around on his tongue. “Lily.Great
name. Almost as great asAndrea. ” I had the presence of mind to at
least look at them, and I noticed that Lily was beaming. She was
thinking to herself that this guy was not only older and hot, but he
was also charming. I could see the wheels turning, weighing whether
I was interested in him, if I’d actually do anything because of
Alex, and, if so, if there was anything she could do to expedite it.
She adored Alex because, really, how could you not, but she refused
to understand how two people so young could spend so much time
together—or, at least, that’s what she claimed, although I knew that
it was only the monogamy part that really blew her away. If there
was a speck of a chance of some drama between Christian and me, then
Lily would die fanning the fire.
“Lily, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Christian, a friend of
Andrea’s. Do you always stop in front of Benihana to talk?” His
smile actually prompted a shooting-sinking feeling in my stomach.
Lily threw back her own brown curls with the back of her hand and
said, “Well of course not, Christian! We just had dinner at Town and
were trying to figure out a good place to get a drink. Any
suggestions?”
Town! It was one of the hottest and most expensive restaurants in
the city. Miranda went there. Jessica and her fiancé went there.
Emily talked obsessively about wanting to go there. But Lily?
“Well, that’s weird,” Christian said, obviously buying the whole
thing. “I just came from a dinner with my agent there. Strange that
I didn’t see you two . . .”
“We were all the way in the back, kind of tucked behind the bar,” I
said quickly, regaining a modicum of composure. Thankfully I’d paid
attention when Emily had made me look at the tiny picture of the
restaurant’s bar listed oncitysearch.com when she was trying to
decide if it was a good date place.
“Mmm.” He nodded, looking a little distracted and cuter than ever.
“So, you girls are on your way to get a drink?”
I felt an overwhelming need to shower the Benihana stink from my
clothes and hair, but Lily wasn’t giving me a chance. I briefly
wondered if it was as obvious to Christian as it was to me that I
was being whored out, but he was hot and she was determined, so I
kept my mouth shut.
“Yep, we were just discussing where to go. Any suggestions? We’d
both just love for you to join us,” Lily declared, tugging on his
arm playfully. “What’s around here that you like?”
“Well, midtown isn’t exactly known for its bar scene, but I’m
meeting my agent at Au Bar if you girls would like to come along. He
just ran back to the office to pick up a few papers, but he should
be there in a little. Andy, maybe you’d like to meet him—you never
know when you’re going to need an agent. So, Au Bar, how about it?”
Lily was peering at me with an encouraging look, one that
screamed,He’s beautiful, Andy! Beautiful! I may not know who the
hell he is, but he wants you so pull yourself together and tell him
how much you love Au Bar!
“I love Au Bar,” I said somewhat convincingly, even though I’d never
been. “I think it’s perfect.”
Lily smiled and Christian smiled and together we set off for Au Bar.
Christian Collinsworth and I were going to get a drink together. Did
this qualify as a date?Of course not, don’t be ridiculous, I berated
myself.Alex, Alex, Alex, I silently chanted, both determined to
remember that I had a very loving boyfriend and disappointed with
myself for having to force myself to remember that I had a very
loving boyfriend.
Even though it was a random Thursday night, the velvet rope police
were out in full force, and, while they had no problem letting the
three of us in, no one was offering reduced admission of any sort:
twenty bucks just to get in the door.
But before I could hand over my cash, Christian deftly peeled three
twenties from a huge wad he pulled from his pocket and handed them
over without a word.
I tried to protest, but Christian put two fingers to my lips.
“Darling Andy, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” And
before I could move my mouth out from underneath his touch, he
reached his other hand behind my head and took my face in both
hands. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my completely addled brain,
the firing synapses were warning me that he was going to kiss me. I
knew it, sensed it, but couldn’t move. He took my split-second
hesitation to move away as permission, leaned over, and touched his
lips to my neck. Just quickly, a brush, really, with perhaps a
little tongue, right underneath my jaw and near my ear but still
firmly on the neck, and then he reached for my hand and pulled me
inside.
“Christian, wait! I, uh, I need to tell you something,” I started,
not quite sure whether one uninvited, nonlip, minimal-tongue kiss
really demanded a whole long explanation of having a boyfriend and
not meaning to send the wrong signals. Apparently Christian didn’t
think it was necessary, because he had walked me to a couch in a
dark corner and ordered me to sit. Which I did.
“I’m getting us drinks, OK? Don’t worry so much. I don’t bite.” He
laughed, and I felt myself turn red. “Or, if I do, I promise you’ll
enjoy it.” And he turned and walked toward the bar.
To keep from passing out or having to actually consider what had
just transpired, I scanned the dark, cavernous room for Lily. We’d
been there less than three minutes, but she was already deep in
conversation with a tall black guy, hanging on his every word and
throwing her head back with delight. I weaved through the throngs of
international drinkers. How did they all know that this was the
place to come if you didn’t have an American passport? I passed a
group of men in their thirties shouting in what I think was
Japanese, two women flapping their hands and talking passionately in
Arabic, and a young, unhappy-looking couple glaring at each other
and whispering angrily in something that sounded like Spanish but
could have been Portuguese. Lily’s guy had his hand on the small of
her back already and was looking utterly charmed. No time for
niceties, I decided. Christian Collinsworth had just massaged my
neck with his mouth. Ignoring the guy, I clamped my hand down on her
right arm and turned to drag her back to the couch.
“Andy! Stop it,” she hissed, pulling her arm free but remembering to
smile for her guy. “You’re being rude. I’d like to introduce you to
my friend. William, this is my best friend, Andrea, who doesn’t
usually act like this. Andy, this is William.” She smiled
benevolently as we shook hands.
“So, may I ask why you’re stealing your friend from me, Ahn-dre-ah?”
William asked in a deep voice that almost echoed in the subterranean
space. Perhaps in another place or at another time or with another
person I would’ve noticed his warm smile or the chivalrous way he’d
immediately stood and offered his seat when I approached, but the
only thing I could focus on was that British accent. Didn’t matter
that this was a man, a large black man, who didn’t exactly resemble
Miranda Priestly in any way, shape, or form. Just hearing that
accent, the way he pronounced my namejust like she did, was enough
to literally make my heart beat a little faster.
“William, I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I have a
little problem and I’d like to talk to Lily in private. I’ll bring
her right back.” And with that, I grabbed her arm more firmly this
time and yanked. Enough of this shit: I needed my friend.
Once we’d settled into the couch where Christian had placed me and I
checked to ensure he was still trying to get the bartender’s
attention (straight guy at the bar—he may be there all night), I
took a deep breath.
“Christian kissed me.”
“So what’s the problem? Was he a bad kisser? Oh, that’s it, isn’t
it? No quicker way to ruin a good fraction than—”
“Lily! Good, bad, what’s the difference?”
Her eyebrows reached up her forehead and she opened her mouth to
talk, but I kept going.
“And not that it’s at all relevant, but he kissed my neck. The
problem is nothow he did, it’s that it happened at all in the first
place. What about Alex? I don’t exactly go around kissing other
guys, you know.”
“Don’t I ever,” she mumbled under her breath before speaking up.
“Andy, you’re being ridiculous. You love Alex and he loves you, but
it’s perfectly okay if you feel like kissing another guy once in a
while. You’re twenty-three years old, for chrissake. Cut yourself a
little slack!”
“But I didn’t kiss him . . . He kissed me!”
“First of all, let’s get something very clear. Remember when Monica
went down on Bill and the whole country and all our parents and Ken
Starr rushed to call that sex? That was not sex. In much the same
way, some guy who probably means to kiss your cheek but gets your
neck instead does not qualify as ‘kissing someone.’ ”
“But—”
“Shut up and let me finish. More important than what actually
happened is that you wanted it to happen. Just admit it, Andy. You
wanted to kiss Christian regardless of whether that’s ‘wrong’ or
‘bad’ or ‘against the rules.’ And if you don’t admit it, you’re
lying.”
“Lily, seriously, I don’t think it’s fair that—”
“I’ve known you for nine years, Andy. You don’t think I can see it
written all over your face that you worship him? You know you
shouldn’t—he doesn’t quite play by your rules, does he? But that’s
probably exactly why you like him. Just go with it, enjoy it. If
Alex is right for you, he’ll always be right for you. And now,
you’ll have to excuse me, because I have found someone who’s right
for me . . . for right now.” She literally jumped off the couch and
skipped back to William, who looked undeniably happy to see her.
I felt self-conscious sitting on the oversize velvet couch alone and
looked around to find Christian, but he wasn’t at the bar anymore.
It would just take a little more time, I decided. Everything would
just sort itself out if I just stopped worrying so much. Maybe Lily
was right and I did like Christian—what was so wrong with that? He’s
smart and undeniably gorgeous, and the whole take-charge confidence
thing was incredibly sexy. Hanging out with someone who just
happened to be sexy didn’t exactly translate as cheating. I’m sure
there had been situations over the years in which Alex had worked
with or studied with or gotten to know a cool, attractive girl, and
he may have had thoughts. Did that make him disloyal? Of course not.
With renewed confidence (and a now-desperate attempt to see, watch,
hear, just be near Christian again), I began cruising the lounge.
I found him leaning on his right hand, talking intently to an older
man, probably in his late forties, who was wearing a very dapper
three-piece suit. Christian was gesturing wildly, hands flailing,
with a look on his face that registered somewhere between amused and
supremely annoyed, while the man with salt-and-pepper hair looked at
him earnestly. I was still too far away to hear what they were
discussing, but I must have been staring rather intently, because
the man’s eyes locked on mine and he smiled. Christian pulled back a
little, followed his gaze, and saw me watching them both.
“Andy, darling,” he said, his tone entirely different from what it
had been just a few minutes earlier. I noticed he made the
transition from seducer to friend of your parent quite smoothly.
“Come here, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gabriel
Brooks, my agent, Business manager, and all-around hero. Gabriel,
this is Andrea Sachs, currently ofRunway magazine.”
“Andrea, a pleasure to meet you,” Gabriel said, extending a hand and
taking mine in one of those annoyingly delicate
I’m-not-shaking-your-hand-as-I-would-a-man’s-because-I’m-sure-I’d-just-snap-your-girly-little-bones-in-half
clutches. “Christian has told me a lot about you.”
“Really?” I said, pressing a bit more firmly, which only caused him
to loosen his already slack grip. “All good, I hope?”
“Of course. He said you’re an aspiring writer, like our mutual
friend here.” He smiled.
I was surprised to hear that he actually had heard about me from
Christian, since our conversation about writing had sounded like
just small talk. “Yes, well, I love to write, so hopefully someday .
. .”
“Well, if you’re half as good as some of the other people he’s sent
my way, then I look forward to reading your work.” He dug around in
an inside pocket and produced a leather case, from which he drew out
a Business card. “I know you’re not ready yet, but when it does come
time to show your stuff to someone, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
It took every ounce of willpower and strength to remain standing
upright, to make sure that my mouth had not flopped open or my knees
had not just given out.Hope you’ll keep me in mind? The man who
represented Christian Collinsworth, literary boy genius
extraordinaire, had just asked if I would keep him in mind. This was
craziness.
“Why thank you,” I croaked, tucking the card into my bag, from where
I knew I would pull it out and examine every inch of it the first
chance I got. They both smiled at me, and it took a minute for me to
recognize this as my cue to leave. “Well, Mr. Brooks, um, Gabriel,
it was really great meeting you. I’ve got to be getting Home now,
but hopefully we’ll cross paths soon.”
“My pleasure, Andrea. Congratulations again on scoring such a
fantastic job. Right out of college and working atRunway . Very
impressive.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Christian said, placing a hand on my elbow and
motioning to Gabriel that he’d be right back.
We stopped at the bar so I could tell Lily that I was heading Home,
and she unnecessarily told me—in between William’s nuzzlings—that
she wouldn’t be joining me. At the foot of the stairs that would
take me back to street level, Christian kissed me on the cheek.
“Great running into you tonight. And I have a feeling I’m going to
have to hear Gabriel talk about how great you are now, too.” He
grinned.
“We barely exchanged two words,” I pointed out, wondering why
everyone was being so complimentary.
“Yes, Andy, but what you don’t seem to realize is that the writing
world is a small one. Whether you write mysteries or feature stories
or newspaper articles, everyone knows everyone. Gabriel doesn’t have
to know much about you to know that you have potential: you were
good enough to get a job atRunway, you sound bright and articulate
when you talk, and hell, you’re a friend of mine. He’s got nothing
to lose by giving you his card. What does he know? He could have
just discovered the next best-selling author. And trust me—Gabriel
Brooks is a good man for you to know.”
“Hmm, I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, I’ve got to get Home since
I’ve got to be at work again in a few hours anyway. Thanks for
everything. I really appreciate it.” I leaned up to kiss him on the
cheek, half expecting him to turn his face forward and half wanting
him to, but he just smiled.
“More than my pleasure, Andrea Sachs. Have a good night.” And before
I could come up with anything remotely clever to say, he was headed
back to Gabriel.
I rolled my eyes at myself and headed to the street to hail a cab.
It had started to rain—nothing torrential, just a light, steady
stream—so of course there wasn’t a single cab free anywhere in
Manhattan. I called the Elias-Clark car service, gave them my VIP
number, and had a car screeching to the curb exactly six minutes
later. Alex had left a voice mail asking me how my day was and
saying that he’d be Home all night writing lesson plans. It had been
too long since I surprised him. It was time to make a little effort
and be spontaneous. The driver agreed to wait as long as I needed,
so I ran upstairs, jumped in the shower, took a little extra time
making my hair look good, and threw together a bag with stuff for
work the next day. Since it was already after eleven, traffic was
tame and we made it to Alex’s apartment in Brooklyn in under fifteen
minutes. He looked genuinely happy to see me when he opened the
door, saying over and over and over again how he couldn’t believe
that I’d come all the way to Brooklyn so late on a work night and it
was the best surprise he could’ve hoped for. And as I lay with my
head on my favorite spot on his chest, watching Conan and listening
to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he played with my hair, I
barely thought about Christian at all.
“Um, hi. May I speak with your food editor please? No? OK, maybe an
editorial assistant, or someone who can tell me when a restaurant
review ran?” I asked an openly hostile receptionist at theNew York
Times . She had answered the phone by barking, “What!” and was
currently pretending—or perhaps not—that we didn’t speak a common
language. Persistence paid off, though, and after asking her name
three times (“We can’t tell our names, lady”), threatening to report
her to her manager (“What? You think he cares? I’ll put him on right
now”), and finally swearing rather emphatically that I would
personally show up at their Times Square offices and do everything
in my power to have her fired on the spot (“Oh, really? I’m not so
worried”), she tired of me and connected me to someone else.
“Editorial,” snapped another hassled-sounding woman. I wondered if
this is what I sounded like answering Miranda’s phone, and if not,
then I aspired to it. It was such an enormous turnoff hearing a
voice that was so incredibly, undeniably unhappy to hear from you
that it almost made you just want to hang up.
“Hi, I just had a quick question.” The words tumbled out in a
desperate attempt to be heard before she inevitably slammed down the
phone. “I’m wondering if you ran any reviews of Asian fusion
restaurants yesterday?”
She sighed as though I’d just asked her to donate one of her limbs
to science and then sighed again. “Have you looked online?” Another
sigh.
“Yes, yes, of course, but I can’t—”
“Because that’s where they would be if we’d done one. I can’t keep
track of every word that goes in the paper, you know.”
I took a deep breath myself and tried to stay calm. “Your charming
receptionist connected me to you since you work in the archives
department. So it does in fact appear that it’s your job to keep
track of every word.”
“Listen, if I had to try to track down every vague description that
everyone called me with every day, I wouldn’t be able to do anything
else. You really need to check online.” She sighed twice more, and I
began to worry that she might hyperventilate.
“No, no,you just listen for a minute,” I started, feeling primed and
ready to lay into this lazy girl who had a far better job than my
own. “I’m calling from Miranda Priestly’s office, and it just so
happens that—”
“I’m sorry, did you say you were calling from Miranda Priestly’s
office?” she asked, and I could feel her ears perk up across the
phone line. “Miranda Priestly . . . fromRunway magazine?”
“The one and only. Why? Heard of her?”
It was here that she transformed from highly put-upon editorial
assistant to gushing fashion slave. “Heard of her? Of course! Is
anybody not familiar with Miranda Priestly? She is, like, the
ultimate woman in fashion. What was it you said she was looking
for?”
“A review. Yesterday’s paper. Asian fusion restaurant. I didn’t see
it online, but I’m not sure I checked properly.” That was a bit of a
lie. I had checked online and was quite sure there hadn’t been any
reviews of Asian fusion restaurants in theNew York Times any day in
the past week, but I wasn’t telling her that. Maybe Schizophrenic
Editorial Girl here would work a miracle.
So far I’d called theTimes, thePost, and theDaily News, but nothing
had turned up. I’d plugged in her corporate card number to access
theWall Street Journal ’s paid archives and had actually found a
blurb on a new Thai restaurant in the Village, but I had to
immediately discount it when I noticed that the average entrée price
was only seven dollars andcitysearch.com listed only a single dollar
sign next to it.
“Well, sure, hold on just a second here. I’m going to check that
right out for you.” And all of a sudden, Little Miss “I Can’t Be
Expected to Remember Every Word That Goes in the Paper” was tapping
away on a keyboard and humming excitedly to both of us.
My head ached from the debacle the night before. It had been fun to
surprise Alex and amazingly relaxing to just laze around his
apartment, but for the first time in many, many months, I couldn’t
fall asleep. Over and over and over again, I had pangs of guilt,
flashbacks of Christian kissing my neck and my then jumping in a car
to see Alex but tell him nothing. Even though I tried to push it all
out of my mind, they kept returning, each one more intense than the
last one. When I finally did manage to fall asleep, I dreamed that
Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and—even though in reality hers
didn’t live in—he was to move in with the family. Whenever I wanted
to see Alex in my dream, I would have to share a car Home with
Miranda and visit him in her apartment. She would insist on calling
me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her
repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend. By the time
morning had finally rolled around, Alex had fallen under Miranda’s
spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and,
even worse, Miranda had started dating Christian. Blessedly, my hell
ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda, Christian,
and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning
and read theTimes and laughed while I prepared breakfast, served
everyone, and cleaned up afterward. Sleep last night was about as
relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning, and
now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of
having an easy Friday.
“Hmm, no, we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion. I’m
trying to think, just personally, you know, if there are any new hot
Asian fusion places. You know, places that Miranda would actually
consider going?” she said, sounding like she’d do anything to
prolong the conversation.
I ignored her transition into first-name familiarity with Miranda
and worked on getting her off the phone. “OK, well, that’s what I
thought. Thanks anyway, though. I appreciate it. ’Bye.”
“Wait!” she cried out, and even though the phone was already halfway
to the base, her urgency made me listen again. “Yes?”
“Oh, well, I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if there’s,
like, anything else I can do—or any of us here—feel free to call,
you know? We love Miranda here, and we’d, like, uh, want to help
with anything we could?”
You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of
America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be
able to locate an article for the president, an article that
included information crucial to an imminent war, and not an unnamed
review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper. The saddest
part of all was that I wasn’t surprised: I knew she’d come around.
“OK, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Thanks so much.”
Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said,
“No luck there either?”
“Nope. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and apparently,
neither does anyone else in this city. I’ve spoken to someone at
every Manhattan paper she reads, checked online, talked to
archivists, food writers, chefs. Not a single person can think of a
suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the
past week, never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past
twenty-four hours. She’s clearly lost her mind. So what now?” I
flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail. It
still wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and already the headache had
spread to my neck and shoulders.
“I guess,” she said slowly, regrettably, “you have no choice but to
ask her to clarify.”
“Oh, no, not that! However will she react?”
Emily, as usual, didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “She’ll be in at
noon. If I were you, I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead
of time, because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that
review. Especially since she asked for it last night,” she pointed
out with a barely suppressed smile. She was clearly delighted that I
was about to get abused.
There was little left to do but wait. It was my luck that Miranda
was at her monthly marathon shrink session (“She just doesn’t have
time to go all the way over there once a week,” Emily had explained
when I asked why she went for three straight hours), the only chunk
of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us
and, of course, the only time I needed her to. A mountain of mail
that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to
topple off the desk, and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry
cleaning was heaped under it, around my feet. Huge sigh to let the
world know just how unhappy I was, and I dialed the cleaners.
“Hi, Mario. It’s me. Yeah, I know—two whole days, no talk. Can I get
a pickup, please? Great. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and forced
myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap, where I would sort
through them and record them on the computerized list I kept of her
outgoing clothes. When Miranda called the office at 9:45P .M. and
demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was, all I had to do was
open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day
before and were due to be delivered the following day. I logged
today’s clothes in (one Missoni blouse, two identical pairs of
Alberta Ferretti pants, two Jil Sander sweaters, two white Hermès
scarves, and one Burberry trench coat), threw them in a shopping bag
emblazoned withRunway, and called for a messenger to take them
downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up.
I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks, because
no matter how many times I had to do it, I was still repulsed to be
sorting through someone else’s dirty clothes. After I finished
sorting and bagging every day, I had to wash my hands: the lingering
smell of Miranda was all-pervasive, and even though it consisted of
a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a
whiff of B-DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant, it
made me feel physically ill. British accents, Bulgari perfume, white
silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were
forever ruined for me.
The mail was the usual, ninety-nine percent garbage that Miranda
would never see. Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief”
went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages, but many
of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their
correspondence directly to Miranda. It took me about four seconds to
skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a
charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long-lost friend, and
those I just threw aside. Today there were tons. Breathless notes
from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men (or, in all
fairness, maybe straight and just very fashion-conscious): “Miranda
Priestly, you’re not only the darling of the fashion world, you’re
the Queen of my world!” one gushed. “I couldn’t agree more with your
choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April
issue—it was ballsy, but genius!” another exclaimed. A few letters
ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women
in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and
pressed their bodies together, and a few more decried the
sunken-eyed, starvation-wracked, heroine-chic models thatRunway had
used in its “health First: How to Feel Better” article. One was a
standard-issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery
script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read, quite simply, on
the other: “Why? Why do you print such a boring, stupid magazine?” I
laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my
collection of critical letters and postcards was growing, and soon
there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left. Lily thought it was
bad karma to bring Home other people’s negative thoughts and
hostility, and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma
originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy.
The last letter of the massive pile before I’d begin tackling the
two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the
loopy, girly writing of a teenager, complete withi ’s dotted with
hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts. I planned to only
skim it, but it wouldn’t allow itself to be skimmed: it was too
immediately sad and honest—it was bleeding and pleading and begging
all over the page. The initial four-second period came and went and
I was still reading.
Dear Miranda,
My name is Anita and I am seventeen years old and I am a senior at
Barringer H.S. in Newark, NJ. I am so ashamed of my body even though
everyone tells me I’m not fat. I want to look like the models you
have in your magazine. Every month I wait for Runway to come in the
mail even though my mama says it’s stupid to pay all my allowance
for a fashion magazine. But she doesn’t understand that I have a
dream, but you do, dontcha? It has been my dream since I was a
little girl, but I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Why, you ask? My
boobs are very flat and my behind is bigger than the ones your
models have and this makes me very embarased. I ask myself if this
is the way I wanna live my life and I answer NO!!! because I wanna
change and I wanna look and feel better and so I’m asking for your
help. I wanna make a positive change and look in the mirror and love
my breasts and my behind because they look just like the ones in the
best magazine on earth!!!
Miranda, I know you’re a wonderful person and fashion editor and you
could transform me into a new person, and trust me, I would be
forever grateful. But if you can’t make me a new person, maybe you
can get me a really, really, really nice dress for special
occasions? I don’t ever have dates, but my mama says it’s OK for
girls to go out alone so I will. I have one old dress but its not a
designer dress or anything you would show in Runway. My favorite
designers are Prada (#1), Versace (#2), John Paul Gotier (#3). I
have many faves, but those are my first three I love. I do not own
any of their clothes and I haven’t even seen them in a store (I’m
not sure if anywhere in Newark sells these designers, but if you
know of one, please tell me so I can go look at them and see what
they look like up close), but I’ve seen there clothes in Runway and
I have to say that I really, really love them.
I’m gonna stop bothering you now, but I want you to know that even
if you throw this letter in the garbage, I will still be a big fan
of your magazine because I love the models and the clothes and
everything, and of course I love you too.
Sincerely,
Anita Alvarez
P.S. My phone number is 973-555-3948. You can write or call but
please do so before the week of July 4 because I really need a nice
dress before then. I LOVE YOU!! Thank you!!!!!
The letter smelled like Jean Naté, that acrid-smelling toilet water–
spray preferred by preteen girls the country over. But that wasn’t
what was causing the tightness in my chest, the constriction in my
throat. How many Anitas were there out there? Young girls with so
little else in their lives that they measured their worth, their
confidence, their entire existence around the clothes and the models
they saw inRunway ? How many more had decided to unconditionally
love the woman who put it all together each month—the orchestrator
of such a seductive fantasy—even though she wasn’t worth one single
second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the
object of their worship was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes
cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent
affection and attention?
I wanted to cry, for Anita and all her friends who expended so much
energy trying to mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen,
trying to impress and please and flatter the woman who would only
take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her shoulders or toss
them without a second thought to the girl who’d written down a piece
of herself. Instead, I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and
vowed to find a way to help Anita. She sounded even more desperate
than the others who wrote, and there was no reason that with all the
excess stuff around I couldn’t find her a decent dress for a date
she would hopefully have soon.
“Hey, Em, I’m just going to run down to the newsstand and see if
they haveWomen’s Wear yet. I can’t believe it’s so late today. Do
you want anything?”
“Will you bring me a Diet Coke?” she asked.
“Sure. Just a minute,” I said, and weaved quickly through the racks
and past the doorway to the service elevator, where I could hear
Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and wondering who would be at
Miranda’s Met party that night. Ahmed was finally able to produce a
copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily, which was a relief, and I grabbed a Diet
Coke for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me, but on second thought, I
took a Diet for myself as well. The difference in taste and
enjoyment wasn’t worth the disapproving looks and/or comments I was
sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk.
I was so busy examining the front page’s color photo of Tommy
Hilfiger, I didn’t even notice that one of the elevators had opened
and was available. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick
glimpse of green, a very distinct green. Particularly noteworthy
because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny
tweed, a color I’d never really seen before but liked a whole lot.
And although my mind knew better, it couldn’t stop my eyes from
looking up and into the elevator, where they were sort of not really
surprised to find Miranda peering back. She stood ramrod straight,
her hair pulled severely off her face as usual, her eyes staring
intently at what must have been my shocked face. There was
absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her.
“Um, good morning, Miranda,” I said, but it came out sounding like a
whisper. The doors closed behind us: we would be the only two riding
for the entire seventeen floors. She said nothing to me, but she
pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping through the
pages. We stood side by side, the depth of the silence increasing
tenfold with every second that she didn’t respond.Does she even
recognize me? I wondered. Was it possible that she was entirely
unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven months—or
perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn’t heard? I
wondered why she didn’t immediately ask me about the restaurant
review or whether I’d received her message about ordering new china,
or if everything was in place for the evening’s party. But she acted
as though she were all alone in that elevator, that there was not
another human being—or, to be precise, not one worth
acknowledging—inside that small vestibule with her.
It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren’t
progressing through the floors. Ohmigod! Shehad seen me because
she’d assumed that I would press the button, but I’d been too
stunned to move. I reached forward slowly, fearfully, pressed the
number seventeen, and instinctively waited for something to explode.
But we immediately whisked upward, and I wasn’t even sure if she had
noticed we hadn’t been moving all along.
Five, six, seven . . . it felt as though it took ten minutes for the
elevator to pass each floor, and the silence had begun humming in my
ears. When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda’s
direction, I discovered that she was looking me up and down. Her
eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then
my pants and then my shirt, and continued upward to my face and
hair, all the while avoiding my eyes. The expression on her face was
one of passive disgust, the way the desensitizedLaw & Order
detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and
bloodied corpse. I did a quick review of myself and wondered what
exactly had triggered the reaction. Short-sleeve, military-style
shirt, a brand-new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from their
PR department simply for working atRunway, and a pair of relatively
flat (two-inch heels) black slingbacks that were to date the only
nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four-plus
trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits. I
usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me, but I
needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to
stop aching. My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of
deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without comment,
and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped.
I had shaved under my arms within the last forty-eight hours. At
least as far as the last time I’d checked, there were no massive
facial eruptions. My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was
sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch
a glimpse of the brand, and a quick check with my right hand
indicated that no bra straps were visible. So what was it? What
exactly had made her look at me that way?
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . . the elevator stopped and swept open
to yet another stark white reception area. A woman of around
thirty-five stepped forward to board, but stopped two feet from the
door when she saw Miranda standing inside.
“Oh, I, uh . . .” she stammered loudly, looking frantically around
her for an excuse not to enter our private hell. And although it
would’ve been nicer for me to have her come aboard, I privately
rooted for her to escape. “I, um, oh! I forgot the photos I need for
the meeting,” she finally managed, whipping around on a particularly
unsteady Manolo and high-tailing it back toward the office area.
Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice, and once again, the doors swept
shut.
Fifteen, sixteen, and finally—finally!—seventeen, where the doors
opened to reveal a group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to
pick up the cigarettes, Diet Coke, and mixed greens that would
constitute their lunch. Each young, beautiful face looked more
panicked than the next, and they almost trampled one another trying
to move out of Miranda’s way. They parted directly down the middle,
three to one side and two to the other, and she deigned to walk past
them. They were all staring after her, silent, as she made her way
across the reception area, and I was left with no choice but to
follow her. Wouldn’t notice a thing, I figured. We’d just spent what
felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a
five-by-three-foot box, and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my
presence. But as soon as I stepped onto the floor, she turned
around.
“Ahn-dre-ah?” she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence
that filled the entire room. I didn’t respond since I figured it was
rhetorical, but she waited.
“Ahn-dre-ah?”
“Yes, Miranda?”
“Whose shoes are you wearing?” She placed one hand lightly on a
tweed-swathed hip and peered over at me. By now the elevator had
left without the fashion assistants, since they were too engrossed
in actually getting to see—and hear!—Miranda Priestly in the flesh.
I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet, which, although they had
been quite comfortable mere moments before, were now beginning to
burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants
and one fashion guru.
The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and
the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain, so when
Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing, I thought that perhapsshe
thought I was not wearing my own.
“Um, mine?” I said, without realizing until the words had been
spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful, but downright
obnoxious. The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter, until Miranda
turned her wrath on them.
“I’m wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants
appear as though they have nothing better to do than gossip like
little girls.” She began singling them out by pointing at each one,
since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if
you put a gun to her head.
“You!” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably
seeing Miranda for the first time. “Did we hire you for this or did
we hire you to call in clothes for the suits shoot?” The girl hung
her head and opened her mouth to apologize, but Miranda barreled on.
“And you!” she said, walking over and standing directly in front of
Jocelyn, the highest-ranking among them and a favorite of all the
editors. “You think there aren’t a million girls who want your job
and who understand couture just as well as you?” She took a step
back, slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies,
lingering just long enough to make each feel fat, ugly, and
inappropriately clad, and commanded them all to return to their
desks. They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads
bowed. A few murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly
back to the fashion area. It wasn’t until they’d all left that I
realized we were alone. Again.
“Ahn-dre-ah? I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my
assistant,” she declared, walking toward the door that would lead us
to the hallway. I was unsure whether I should follow her or not, and
I briefly hoped that either Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion
girls had warned Emily that Miranda was on her way back.
“Miranda, I—”
“Enough.” She paused at the door and looked at me. “Whose shoes are
you wearing?” she asked again in a none-too-pleased voice.
I checked out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the
most stylish woman in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a
pair of shoes I’d purchased at Ann Taylor Loft. Another glance at
her face and I knew I couldn’t.
“I bought them in Spain,” I said quickly, averting my eyes. “It was
at some adorable boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that
carried this new Spanish designer’s line.” Where the hell had I
pulled that one from?
She folded her hand into a fist, put it over her mouth, and cocked
her head. I saw James approaching the glass door from the other
side, but as soon as he saw Miranda he turned and fled. “Ahn-dre-ah,
they’re unacceptable. My girls need to representRunway magazine, and
those shoes are not the message I’m looking to convey. Find some
decent footwear in the Closet. And get me a coffee.” She looked at
me and looked at the door, and I understood I was to reach forward
and open it for her, which I did. She walked through without saying
thank you and headed back to the office. I needed to get money and
my cigarettes for the Coffee run, but neither was worth having to
walk behind her like an abused but loyal duckling, and so I turned
to walk back toward the elevator. Eduardo could spot me the five
bucks for the latte, and Ahmed would just charge a new pack toRunway
’s house account, as he’d been doing for months now. I hadn’t
counted on her even noticing, but her voice hit the back of my head
like a shovel.
“Ahn-dre-ah!”
“Yes, Miranda?” I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her.
“I expect the restaurant review I asked you for is on my desk?”
“Um, well, actually, I’ve had a little trouble locating it. You see,
I’ve spoken to all the papers and it seems none of them have run a
review of an Asian fusion restaurant in the past few days. Do you,
uh, happen to remember the name of the restaurant?” Without
realizing it, I was holding my breath and bracing for the onslaught.
It appeared my explanation held little interest for her, because she
had resumed walking toward her office. “Ahn-dre-ah, I already told
you that it was in thePost —is it really that difficult to find?”
And with that, she was gone. ThePost ? I’d spoken to their
restaurant reviewer just that morning and he had sworn there were no
reviews that fit my description—nothing noteworthy had opened that
week whatsoever. She was cracking up, for sure, and I was the one
who was going to get blamed.
The Coffee run took only a few minutes since it was midday, so I
felt free to tack on an extra ten minutes to call Alex, who would be
having lunch at exactly twelve-thirty. Thankfully, he answered his
Cell Phone, so I didn’t have to deal with any of the teachers again.
“Hey babe, how’s your day going?” He sounded cheerful to the point
of excess, and I had to remind myself not to be irritated.
“Awesome so far, as always. I really do love it here. I’ve spent the
past five hours researching an imaginary article that was dreamed up
by a delusional woman who would probably rather take her own life
than admit she’s wrong. What about you?”
“Well, I’ve had a great day. Remember I told you about Shauna?” I
nodded into the phone even though he couldn’t see me. Shauna was one
of his little girls who had yet to utter a single word in class, and
whether he threatened her or bribed her or worked with her one on
one, Alex couldn’t get her to talk. He’d been near-hysterical the
first time she’d shown up in his class, placed there by a social
worker who’d discovered that even though she was nine years old
she’d never been in the inside of a school, and he’d been obsessed
with helping her ever since.
“Well, it seems she won’t shut up! All it took was a little singing.
I had a folk singer come in today to play the guitar for the kids,
and Shauna was singing away. And once she broke the ice, she’s been
jabbering away with everyone since. She knows English. She has an
age-appropriate vocabulary. She’s completely and totally normal!”
His obvious elation made me smile, and all of a sudden I started to
miss him. Miss him in the way that you do when you’ve seen someone
frequently and regularly but haven’t really connected with him in
any significant way. It had been great to surprise him the night
before, but, as usual, I’d been too frazzled to be much company. We
both inherently understood that we were just waiting out my
sentence, waiting for me to complete my year of servitude, waiting
until everything went back to the way it was. But I still missed
him. And I still felt not a little guilty for the whole Christian
situation.
“Hey, congratulations! Not that you needed a testament to the fact
that you’re a great teacher, but you got one anyway! You should be
thrilled.”
“Yeah, it’s exciting.” I could hear the bell ring in the background.
“Listen, is that offer still open for a date tonight—just you and
me?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t made plans yet but expecting that he
had. As I’d pulled myself out of bed this morning and dragged my
exhausted and sore body into the shower, he’d called out that he
wanted to just rent a movie, order some food, and hang out. I’d
mumbled something unnecessarily sarcastic about it not being worth
his time because I wouldn’t get Home until late and would just fall
asleep, and at least one of us should have a life and enjoy their
Friday night. I wanted to tell him now that I was angry at Miranda,
atRunway, at myself, but not at him, and that there was nothing I’d
rather do than curl up on the couch and cuddle for fifteen straight
hours.
“Sure.” He sounded surprised, but pleased. “Why don’t I just wait at
your place and then we can figure out what we want to do? I’ll just
hang out with Lily until you get Home.”
“Sounds absolutely perfect. You can hear all about Freudian Boy.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Listen, I’ve got to run. The Queen will wait for Coffee
no longer. See you tonight—can’t wait.”
Eduardo allowed me upstairs after chanting only two refrains—my
choice—of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and Miranda was talking
animatedly when I set down her Coffee spread on the left-hand corner
of her desk. I spent the rest of the afternoon arguing with every
assistant and editor I could reach at theNew York Post, trying to
insist that I knew their paper better than they did, and could I
please just have one little copy of the Asian fusion restaurant
review they’d run the day before?
“Ma’am, I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you again:we did
not review any such restaurant . I know Ms. Priestly is a crazy
woman and I don’t doubt that she’s making your life a living hell,
but I just can’t produce an article that doesn’t exist. Do you
understand?” This had come finally from an associate who, even
though he worked onPage Six, had been assigned the task of finding
my article to shut me up. He’d been patient and willing, but he’d
reached the end of his charity work. Emily was on the other line
with one of their freelance food writers, and I’d forced James to
call one of his ex-boyfriends who worked in the advertising
department there to see if there was anything—anything—he could do.
It was already three o’clock the dayafter she’d requested something,
and this was the very first time I hadn’t gotten it immediately.
“Emily!” Miranda called from inside her deceptively bright office.
“Yes, Miranda?” we both answered, jumping up to see which one of us
she would motion to.
“Emily, I can hear that you just spoke to the people at thePost ?”
she said, directing her attention in my direction. The real Emily
looked relieved and sat down.
“Yes, Miranda, I just hung up with them. I’ve actually spoken to
three different people there and all of them insist that they
haven’t reviewed a single new Asian fusion restaurant in Manhattan
at any point in the last week. Maybe it was before then?” I was now
tottering in front of her desk with my head bowed just enough so I
could stare at the black Jimmy Choo slingbacks with four-inch heels
that Jeffy had provided so smugly.
“Manhattan?” She looked confused and pissed off all at once. “Who
said anything about Manhattan?”
It was my time to be confused.
“Ahn-dre-ah, I’ve told you at least five times now that the review
was written about a new restaurant inWashington . Since I’ll be
there next week, I need you to make a reservation.” She cocked her
head and moved her lips into what can only be described as a wicked
smile. “What exactly about this project do you find so challenging?”
Washington? Five times she’d told me the restaurant was inWashington
? I don’t think so. She was clearly losing her mind or just taking
sadistic pleasure in watching me lose mine. But being the idiot she
took me for, I again spoke without thinking.
“Oh, Miranda, I’m fairly certain that theNew York Post doesn’t do
reviews of restaurants in Washington. It appears they only actually
visit and review places new to New York.”
“Is that supposed to be funny, Ahn-dre-ah? Is that your idea of
having a sense of humor?” Her smile had disappeared and she was
leaning forward in her seat, looking like a hungry vulture that was
impatiently circling its prey.
“Um no, Miranda, I just thought that—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, as I’ve made clear adozen times already, the review I’m
looking for is in theWashington Post . You’ve heard of that little
newspaper, right? Just like New York has theNew York Times,
Washington, D.C., has its own paper, too. See how that works?” Her
voice was now beyond mocking: she was so incredibly patronizing that
she was only one step away from actually addressing me in baby talk.
“I’ll get it for you right away,” I stated as calmly as I could and
quietly walked out.
“Oh, and Ahn-dre-ah?” My heart lurched and my stomach wondered if it
could take another “surprise.” “I expect you to attend the party
tonight to greet the guests. That’s all.”
I looked to Emily, who looked absolutely baffled, her crinkled
forehead making her appear as dumbfounded as I felt. “Did I hear her
correctly?” I whispered to Emily, who could do nothing but nod and
motion for me to come to her side of the suite.
“I was afraid of this,” she whispered gravely, like a surgeon
telling a patient’s family member that they’d found something
horrible upon opening the chest cavity.
“She can’t be serious. It’s four o’clock on Friday. The party starts
at seven. It’s black tie, for chrissake—there is no way on earth she
expects me to go.” I looked again at my watch in disbelief and tried
to remember her exact words.
“Oh, she’s quite serious,” she said, picking up the phone. “I’ll
help you, OK? You go find the review in theWashington Post and get
her a copy before she leaves—Uri is coming for her soon to take her
Home for her hair and makeup. I’ll get you a dress and everything
else you need for tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” She
began rapid-fire dialing and whispering urgent-sounding instructions
into the phone. I stood and stared, but she waved her hand without
looking up and I snapped back to reality.
“Go,” she whispered, looking at me with a rare hint of sympathy. And
I went.
14
“You can’t show up in a cab,” Lily said to me as I jabbed helplessly
at my eyes with my brand-new Maybelline Great Lash mascara. “This is
black-tie. Call a car, for chrissake.” She watched for a minute more
and then grabbed the clumpy wand from my hand and tapped my eyelids
closed.
“I guess you’re right,” I sighed, still refusing to accept that my
Friday night was to be spent in a formal gown at the Met, greeting
wealthy-but-still-rednecks from Georgia and North and South Carolina
and plastering fake smile after fake smile on my poorly made-up
face. The announcement had left me all of three hours to find a
dress, buy makeup, get ready, and revamp all my weekend plans, and
in the craziness of the situation, I’d forgotten to arrange
transportation.
Luckily, working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the
country (the job a million girls would die for!) has its advantages,
and by 4:40P .M. I was the proud borrower of a knockout floor-length
black Oscar de la Renta number, provided kindly by Jeffy, Closet
maven and lover of all things feminine (“Girl, you go black-tie, you
go Oscar, and that’s that. Now don’t be shy, take those pants off
and try this on for Jeffy.” I began to unbutton and he shuddered. I
asked him if he really found my half-naked body that repulsive, and
he said of course not; it was merely my panty lines that he found so
disgusting). The fashion assistants had already called in a pair of
silver Manolos in my size, and someone in accessories had selected a
flashy silver Judith Leiber evening bag with a long, clanking chain.
I’d expressed interest in an understated Calvin Klein clutch, but
she snorted at the suggestion and handed me the Judith. Stef was
debating whether I should wear a choker or a pendant, and Allison,
the newly promoted beauty editor, was on the phone with her
manicurist, who made office calls.
“She’ll meet you in the conference room at four forty-five,” Allison
said when I picked up my extension. “You’re wearing black, right?
Insist on Chanel Ruby Red. Just tell her to bill us.”
The entire office had worked itself up to a nearly hysterical frenzy
trying to make me look appropriate for the night’s gala affair. It
certainly wasn’t because they all adored me so much and killed
themselves trying to help me out; rather, they knew Miranda had
mandated the makeover and were eager to prove to her the high level
of their taste and class.
Lily finished her charity makeup lesson and I briefly wondered if I
looked ridiculous wearing a floor-length Oscar de la Renta gown and
Bonne Belle Lipsmackers in Fudgsicle. Probably, but I had turned
down all offers of having a makeup artist come to the apartment.
Everyone on staff tried to insist—and none too subtly—but I
adamantly refused. Even I had limits.
I hobbled into the bedroom on my four-inch Manolo stilettos and
kissed Alex on the forehead. He barely looked up from the magazine
he was reading.
“I’ll definitely be home by eleven, so we can go get some dinner or
drinks then, OK? I’m sorry I have to do this, I really am. If you do
decide to go out with the guys, call so I can come meet you, OK?” He
had, as promised, come directly from school to spend the night
together, and hadn’t been all that thrilled when I’d arrived home
with the news that he could definitely have a relaxing night at Home
but that I wouldn’t be a part of the plans. He was sitting on the
balcony off my bedroom, reading an old copy ofVanity Fair we had
lying around and drinking one of the beers Lily kept in the fridge
for guests. It wasn’t until after I’d explained that I had to work
tonight that I even noticed he and Lily weren’t hanging out.
“Where is she?” I asked. “She has no classes, and I know she’s not
working Fridays all summer.”
Alex took a swig of his Pale Ale and shrugged. “I’m guessing she’s
here. Her door’s closed, but I saw some guy walking around before.”
“Some guy? Could you be a little more descriptive? What guy?” I
wondered if someone had broken in, or perhaps Freudian Boy had
finally been invited over.
“I don’t know, but he’s scary-looking. Tattoos, piercings,
wife-beater—the whole nine. Can’t imagine where she met this one.”
He took another nonchalant swig.
Icouldn’t imagine where she’d found him, either, considering I’d
left her at eleven the night before in the company of a very polite
guy named William who, as far as I could see, was not a
wife-beater-wearing, tattoo-donning kind of guy.
“Alex, seriously! You’re telling me there’s some thug cruising
around my apartment—a thug who may or may not have been invited
over—and you don’t care? This is ridiculous! We need to do
something,” I said, getting up from the chair and wondering, as
always, if the weight shift was going to cause the balcony to fall
off the side of the building.
“Andy, relax. He’s definitelynot a thug.” He flipped a page. “He
might be a punk-grunge-freak, but he’s not a thug.”
“Great, that’s just fucking great. Now are you going to come see
what’s going on, or are you just going to sit there all night?”
He still refused to look at me, and I finally understood how annoyed
he was about tonight. Understandable, entirely, but I was just as
irritated to have to work, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do
about it. “Why don’t you call if you need me?”
“Fine,” I huffed and made a big production of storming inside.
“Don’t feel guilty when you find my dismembered body on the bathroom
floor. Really, no big deal . . .”
I stomped inside and around the apartment for a little while,
looking for evidence of this guy’s presence. The only thing that
seemed at all out of place was an empty bottle of Ketel One in the
sink. Had she really managed to buy, open, and drink an entire
bottle of vodka sometime after midnight last night? I knocked on her
door. No response. I knocked a little more insistently, and I heard
a guy’s voice state the very obvious fact that someone was knocking
on the door. When still no one responded, I turned the doorknob.
“Hello? Anyone Home here?” I called out, trying not to look inside
the room but only being able to hold out for about five seconds. My
eyes skipped over the two pairs of jeans that were tangled up on the
floor and the bra that was hanging from the desk chair and the
overflowing ashtray that made the room stink like a frat house and
went directly to the bed, where my best friend was stretched out on
her side, back to me, completely naked. A sickly looking guy with a
line of sweat above his lip and a head full of greasy hair blended
into her sheets: his dozens of snaking, winding, scary tattoos acted
as the perfect camouflage against her green and blue plaid
comforter. There was a gold hoop through his eyebrow, much
glittering metal from each ear, and two small, rounded spikes coming
out of his chin. Thankfully he was wearing a pair of boxers, but
they looked so dirty and dingy and old that I almost—almost—wished
he weren’t. He pulled on his cigarette, exhaled slowly and
meaningfully, and nodded in my general direction.
“Yo,” he said, waving his cigarette toward me. “You mind shuttin’
the door there, m’friend?”
What? “M’friend”? Was this sleazy-looking Aussie actually givingme
attitude?
“Are you smokingcrack ?” I asked, no longer interested in manners of
any sort, and not at all scared. He was shorter than me and couldn’t
have weighed more than a hundred thirty—as far as I could tell, the
worst thing he could do to me at that point would be to touch me. I
shuddered when I thought about the myriad ways he’d probably touched
Lily, who was still sleeping soundly underneath his protective
hover. “Who the hell do you think you are? This ismy apartment, and
I’d like you to leave. Now!” I added, my courage fueled by the time
demands: I had exactly one hour to get gorgeous for the single most
stressful night of my career, and dealing with this strung-out freak
had not been part of the game plan.
“Duuuuuuuude. Chill out,” he breathed and inhaled again. “It doesn’t
look like your friend here wants me to leave . . .”
“She would want you to leave if she HAPPENED TO BE CONSCIOUS, YOU
ASSHOLE!” I screamed, horrified that Lily had—in all likelihood—had
sex with this guy. “I assure you, I speak for both of us when I say
GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR APARTMENT!”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and whipped around to see Alex, looking
concerned, checking out the situation. “Andy, why don’t you get in
the shower and let me take care of this, OK?” Although no one could
call him a big guy, he looked like a pro wrestler compared to the
emaciated mess that was currently nuzzling his facial metal against
my best friend’s bare back.
“I. WANT. HIM.”—I pointed here, just to be clear.—“OUT. OF. MY.
APARTMENT.”
“I know you do, and I think he’s about ready to leave, too, aren’t
you, buddy?” Alex asked in the kind of soothing voice you’d use with
a rabid-looking dog you were frightened of upsetting.
“Duuuuuuude,no issues here. Just havin’ a little fun with Lily is
all. She was all over me last night at Au Bar—ask anyone, they’ll
tell you. Fuckin’ begged me to come back with her.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Alex said soothingly. “She’s a really friendly
girl when she wants to be, but sometimes she gets too drunk to know
what she’s doing. So as her friend, I’m going to have to ask you to
leave now.”
The freak mashed his cigarette out and made a big show of throwing
up his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, no problem whatsoever. I’ll
just take a quick shower and give m’little Lily here a proper
good-bye, and then I’ll be on m’way.” He swung his legs over the
side of the bed and reached for the towel that hung next to her
desk.
Alex moved forward, swiftly removed the towel from his hands, and
looked him directly in the eye. “No. I think you should leave now.
Right now.” And in a way that I’d never seen him do in the almost
three years I’d known him, he placed himself squarely in front of
Freak Boy and allowed his height to insinuate the threat that was
clearly intended.
“Dude, no worries. I’m outta here,” he crooned after taking one look
at Alex and realizing he had to crane his neck to look at his face.
“Just get m’self dressed and out the door.” He picked up his jeans
from the floor and located his ripped-up T-shirt from underneath
Lily’s still exposed body. She moved when he pulled it out from
under her, and a few seconds later her eyes managed to open.
“Cover her!” Alex commanded gruffly, now clearly enjoying his new
role as threatening-man-in-charge. And without comment, Freak Boy
pulled the cover over her shoulders so that only a tangle of her
black curls was visible.
“What’s going on?” Lily croaked while willing her eyes to stay open.
She turned to see me trembling in anger in her doorway, Alex hulking
about doing manly poses, and Freak Boy scrambling to tie his blue
and canary yellow Diadoras and get the hell out before things got
really ugly. Too late. Her gaze stopped on Freak Boy.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked him, bolting upright without even
realizing that she was now completely naked. Alex and I
instinctively turned away while she pulled the covers up, looking
shocked, but Freak Boy grinned lecherously and ogled her breasts.
“Baby, you tellin’ me you don’t remember who I am?” he asked, his
thick Australian accent becoming less adorable with every passing
second. “You sure knew who I was last night.” He walked over to her
and looked like he was about to sit down on the bed, but Alex had
already grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.
“Out. Now. Or I’m going to have to carry you myself,” he commanded,
looking tough and very cute and not a little proud of himself.
Freak Boy threw up his hands and made clucking noises. “I’m outta
here. Call me sometime, Lily. You were great last night.” He moved
quickly through the bedroom door toward the living room with Alex in
pursuit. “Man, she sure as hell is a feisty one,” I heard him say to
Alex right before the front door slammed shut, but it didn’t appear
that Lily had heard. She had pulled on a T-shirt and managed to pull
herself out of bed.
“Lily, who the hell was that? He was the biggest jerk I’ve ever met,
not to mention absolutelydisgusting .”
She shook her head slowly and appeared to be concentrating very
hard, trying to remember where he’d entered her life. “Disgusting.
You’re right, he is absolutely disgusting, and I have no idea what
happened. I remember you leaving last night and talking to some
really nice guy in a suit—we were doing shots of Jaeger, for some
reason—and that’s it.”
“Lily, just imagine how drunk you had to be to agree to not only
have sex with someone who looks like that, but to bring him back to
our apartment!” I thought I was pointing out the obvious, but her
eyes widened into surprised realization.
“You think I had sex with him?” she asked softly, refusing to
acknowledge what seemed certain.
Alex’s words from a few months before came back to me: Lily did
drink more than was normal—all the signs were there. She was missing
classes regularly, had gotten arrested, and now had dragged Home the
scariest-looking mutant of a guy I’d ever laid eyes on. I also
remembered the message one of her professors had left on our machine
right after finals, something to the effect that while Lily’s final
paper had been stellar, she’d missed too many classes and handed
things in too late to give her the “A” she deserved. I decided to
tread carefully. “Lil, sweetie, I don’t think the problem is the
guy. I think it’s the drinking that’s causing it.”
She had begun brushing her hair, and it wasn’t until now that I
realized it was already six o’clock on a Friday night and she was
just getting out of bed. She wasn’t protesting, so I continued.
“It’s not that I have any issue with drinking,” I said, trying to
keep the conversation relatively peaceful. “Clearly, I’m not
antidrinking. I just wonder if it’s gotten a little bit out of
control lately, you know? Has everything been OK at school?”
She opened her mouth to say something, but Alex popped his head in
the door and handed me my shrieking Cell Phone. “It’s her,” he said
and left again.Argghhh! The woman had a very special gift for
wrecking my life.
“Sorry,” I said to Lily, looking at the phone warily as the display
screamed MP CELL over and over again. “It usually only takes a
second for her to humiliate or reprimand me, so hold that thought.”
Lily set down her brush and watched me answer.
“Miran—” Again, I’d almost answered the line as though it were her
own. “This is Andrea,” I corrected, bracing for the barrage.
“Andrea, you know I expect you there at six-thirty tonight, do you
not?” she barked into the phone without a greeting or identification
of any sort.
“Oh, um, you had said seven o’clock earlier. I still need to—”
“I said six-thirty before and I’m saying it again
now.Siiiiix-thiiiiirty . Get it?” Click. She’d hung up. I looked at
my watch. 6:05P .M. This was a problem.
“She wants me there in twenty-five minutes,” I stated out loud to no
one in particular.
Lily looked relieved for the distraction. “Let’s get you moving
then, OK?”
“We’re midconversation here, and this is important. What were you
going to say before?” The words were right, but it was clear to both
of us that my mind was already a million miles away. I’d already
decided there was no time to shower, as I now had fifteen minutes to
zip myself into black-tie and get into a car.
“Seriously, Andy, you’ve got to move. Go get ready—we’ll do this
later.”
And once again I was left with no choice but to move quickly, heart
racing, climbing into my gown and running a brush through my hair
and trying to match some of the names with the pictures of the
evening’s guests that Emily had helpfully printed out earlier. Lily
watched the whole thing unwind with mild amusement, but I knew she
was worrying about the incident with Freak Boy, and I felt terrible
I couldn’t deal with it right then. Alex was on his phone with his
little brother, trying to convince him that he really was too young
to go to a movie at nine o’clock and that their mother wasn’t cruel
in forbidding him to do so.
I kissed him on the cheek as he whistled and told me that he’d
probably meet some people for dinner but to call him later if I
wanted to meet up, and ran as best one can in stilts back to the
living room, where Lily was holding a gorgeous piece of black silk
fabric. I looked at her questioningly.
“A wrap, for your big night,” she sang, shaking it out like a
bedsheet. “I want my Andy to look just as sophisticated as all the
big-money Carolina rednecks she’ll be serving tonight like a common
waitress. My grandmother bought it for me years ago to wear to
Eric’s wedding. I can’t decide if it’s gorgeous or hideous, but it’s
black-tie enough and it’s Chanel, so it should do.”
I hugged her. “Just promise if Miranda kills me for saying the wrong
thing that you’ll burn this dress and make sure I’m buried in my
Brown sweatpants. Promise me!” She grabbed the mascara wand I was
waving about and started working on me.
“You look great, Andy, really you do. Never thought I’d see you in
an Oscar gown going to one of Miranda Priestly’s parties, but, hey,
you look the part. Now go.”
She handed me the dangling, obnoxiously bright Judith Leiber bag and
held the door as I walked into the hallway. “Have fun!”
The car was waiting outside my building and John—who was shaping up
to be a first-class pervert—whistled as the driver held the door
open for me.
“Knock ’em dead, hottie,” he called after me with an exaggerated
wink. “See ya late-night.” He had no idea where I was going, of
course, but it was comforting that he thought I’d at least be coming
Home.Maybe it won’t be that bad, I thought as I settled into the
cushy backseat of the Town Car. But then my dress slid up over my
knees and the back of my legs touched the ice-cold leather seats,
and I lurched forward.Or, maybe, it will suck just as much as I
think it will?
The driver jumped out and ran around to open the door for me, but I
was standing on the curb by the time he’d made it around. I’d been
to the Met once before, on a day trip to New York with my mom and
Jill to see some of the tourist sights. I didn’t remember any of the
actual exhibits we saw that day—only how much my new shoes had hurt
by the time we got there—but I recalled the never-ending white
staircase out front and the feeling that I could climb those stairs
forever.
The stairs stood where I remembered them but looked different in the
haze of dusk. Still accustomed to the short, miserable days of
winter, I thought it seemed strange that the sky was just darkening
and it was already six-thirty. That night the stairs looked
positively regal. They were prettier than the Spanish Steps or the
ones outside the library at Columbia, or even the awe-inspiring
spread at the Capitol building in D.C. It wasn’t until I’d made it
to about the tenth one of those white beauties that I began to
loathe them. What cruel, cruel sadist would make a woman in a
skintight, floor-length gown and spiked heels climb such a hill of
hell? Since I couldn’t very well hate the architect or even the
museum official who’d commissioned him, I was forced to hate
Miranda, who could usually be blamed for directly or indirectly
causing all the misery and bad will in my life.
The top felt like a mile away, and I flashed back to the spinning
classes I used to take when I still had time to go to the gym. Some
Nazi instructor would sit atop her little bike and bark out orders
in perfect military staccato: “Pump, pump, and breathe, breathe!
Climb, people, climb that hill. You’re almost at the top! Don’t lose
it now! Climb for your life!” I closed my eyes and tried to envision
pedaling instead, the wind in my hair, running over the instructor,
but climbing, still climbing. Oh, anything to forget the fiery pain
that shot from little toe to heel to back again. Ten more steps,
that was all that was left, just ten more, oh, god, was that wetness
in my shoes blood? Would I have to walk before Miranda in a sweaty
Oscar gown and bloody feet? Please, oh please, say that I was almost
there and . . . there! The top. The feeling of victory was no less
than that of a world-class sprinter who’d just won her first gold
medal. I inhaled mightily, clenched my fingers to fight off the urge
for a victory cigarette, and reapplied my Fudgsicle Lipsmackers. It
was time to be a lady.
The guard opened the door for me, bowed slightly, and smiled. He
probably thought I was a guest.
“Hi, miss, you must be Andrea. Ilana said to have a seat right over
there, and she’ll be out in a minute.” He turned away and spoke
discreetly into a microphone on his sleeve and nodded when he heard
a response through his earpiece. “Yes, right over there, miss.
She’ll be here as soon as she can.”
I looked around the enormous entryway but didn’t feel like going
through the dress-adjustment hassle of actually sitting. Besides,
when would I ever again have the chance to be in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art, after hours, with apparently no one else there? The
ticket booths were empty and the ground-level galleries dark, but
the sense of history, of culture, was awesome. The silence itself
was deafening.
After nearly fifteen minutes of peering around, being careful not to
wander too far from the aspiring Secret Service agent, a rather
ordinary-looking girl in a long navy dress crossed the massive foyer
and walked toward me. I was surprised that someone with a job as
glamorous as hers (working in the special events office of the
museum) could be so plain, and I felt instantly ridiculous, like a
girl from a small town trying to dress for a big-city black-tie
affair—which, ironically enough, was exactly who I was. Ilana, on
the other hand, looked like she hadn’t even bothered to change out
of work clothes, and I learned later that she hadn’t.
“Why bother?” She’d laughed. “It’s not like these people are here to
look at me.” Her brown hair was clean and straight but lacking in
style, and her brown flats were horrifically unfashionable. But her
blue eyes were bright and kind, and I knew instantly that I would
like her.
“You must be Ilana,” I said, sensing that I somehow had seniority in
the situation and was expected to take charge. “I’m Andrea. I’m
Miranda’s assistant, and I’m here to help in any way I can.”
She looked so relieved, I instantly wondered what Miranda had said
to her. The possibilities were endless, but I imagined it had
something to do with Ilana’sLadies’Home Journal getup. I shuddered
to think what wicked thing she’d uttered to such a sweet girl and
prayed she wouldn’t start to cry. Instead, she turned to me with
those big innocent eyes, leaned forward, and declared
none-too-quietly, “Your boss is a first-rate bitch.”
I stared, shocked, for just a moment before recovering. “She is,
isn’t she?” I said, and we both laughed. “What do you need me to do?
Miranda’s going to be able to sense that I’m here in about ten
seconds, so I should look like I’m doing something.”
“Here, I’ll show you the table,” she said, walking down a darkened
hallway toward the Egyptian exhibits. “It’s dynamite.”
We arrived in a smaller gallery, perhaps the size of a tennis court
with a rectangular, twenty-four-seat table stretched down the
middle. Robert Isabell was worth it, I could see. He was the New
York party planner, the only one who could be trusted to strike just
the right note with astonishing attention to detail: fashionable
without being trendy, luxe but not ostentatious, unique without
being over the top. Miranda insisted that Robert do everything, but
the only time I’d ever seen his work before was at Cassidy and
Caroline’s birthday party. I knew he could manage to turn Miranda’s
colonial-style living room into a chic downtown lounge (complete
with soda bar—in martini glasses, of course—ultra-suede, built-in
banquettes, and a fully heated, tented balcony dance floor with a
Moroccan theme) for ten-year-olds, but this was truly spectacular.
Everything glowed white. Light white, smooth white, bright white,
textured white, and rich white. Bundles of milky white peonies
looked as if they grew from the table itself, deliciously lush but
low enough to allow people to talk over them. Bone white china (with
a white checked pattern) rested on a crisp white linen tablecloth,
and high-backed white oak chairs were covered in luscious white
suede (the danger!), all atop a plush white carpet, specially laid
for the evening. White votive candles in simple white porcelain
holders gave off a soft white light, highlighting (but somehow not
burning) the peonies from underneath and providing subtle,
unobtrusive illumination around the table. The only color in the
entire room came from the elaborate multihued canvases that hung on
the walls surrounding the table, shocking blues and greens and golds
from the depictions of early Egyptian life. The white table as a
deliberate contrast to the priceless, detailed paintings was
exquisite.
As I turned my head around to take in the wonderful contrast of the
color and the white (“That Robert really is a genius!”), a vibrant
red figure caught my eye. In the corner, standing ramrod straight
under a looming painting was Miranda, wearing the beaded red Chanel
that had been commissioned, cut, fitted, and precleaned just for
tonight. And although it’d be a stretch to say that it had been
worth every penny (since those pennies added up to tens of thousands
of dollars), she did look breathtaking. She herself was anobjet
d’art, chin jutted upward and muscles perfectly taut, a neoclassical
relief in beaded Chanel silk. She wasn’t beautiful—her eyes were a
bit too beady and her hair too severe and her face much too hard—but
she was stunning in a way I couldn’t make sense of, and no matter
how hard I tried to play it cool, to pretend to be admiring the
room, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
As usual, the sound of her voice broke my reverie. “Ahn-dre-ah, you
do know the names and faces of our guests this evening, do you not?
I assume you have properly studied their portraits. I expect you
won’t humiliate me tonight by failing to greet someone by name,” she
announced, looking nowhere, with only my name indicating that her
words might somehow be directed toward me.
“Um, yes, I’ve got it covered,” I answered, suppressing the urge to
salute and still acutely aware that I was staring. “I’ll take a few
minutes now and make sure I’m positive.” She looked at me as if to
sayYou sure will, you idiot, and I forced myself to look away and
walk out of the gallery. Ilana was right behind me.
“What’s she talking about?” she whispered, leaning toward me.
“Portraits? Is she crazy?”
We sat down on an uncomfortable wooden bench in a darkened hallway,
both of us overwhelmed with the need to hide. “Oh, that. Yeah,
normally I would’ve spent the last week trying to find pictures of
the guests tonight and memorizing them so I could greet them by
name,” I explained to a horrified Ilana. She stared at me
incredulously. “But since she just told me I had to come today, I
only had a few minutes in the car to look them over.
“What?” I asked. “You thinkthis is strange? Whatever. It’s standard
stuff for a Miranda party.”
“Well, I thought there wouldn’t be anyone famous here tonight,” she
said, referring to Miranda’s past parties at the Met. Since she was
a huge contributor, Miranda was often granted the very special
privilege of renting out, oh, THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART for
private parties and cocktail hours. Mr. Tomlinson had had to ask
only once, and Miranda was scrambling to make her brother-in-law’s
party the best the Met had ever seen. She figured it would impress
the rich Southerners and their trophy wives to dine for a night at
the Met. She was right.
“Yeah, there won’t be anyone we’d recognize right away, just a lot
of billionaires with homes below the Mason-Dixon line. Usually when
I have to memorize the guests’ faces, they’re easier to find online
or inWWD or something. I mean, you can generally locate a picture of
Queen Noor or Michael Bloomberg or Yohji Yamamoto if you have to.
But just try to find Mr. and Mrs. Packard from some rich suburb of
Charleston or wherever the hell they live and it’s not so easy.
Miranda’s other assistant was looking for these people while
everyone else was getting me ready, and she eventually found almost
everyone in the society pages of their Hometown newspapers or on
various companies’ web sites, but it was really annoying.”
Ilana continued to stare. I think somehow I knew that I was sounding
like a robot, but I couldn’t stop. Her shock only made me feel
worse.
“There’s only one couple I haven’t identified yet, so I guess I’ll
know them by default,” I said.
“Oh, my. I don’t know how you do it. I’m annoyed I have to be here
on a Friday night, but I can’t imagine doing your job. How do you
take it? How do you stand being spoken to and treated like that?”
It took me a moment to realize that this question caught me
off-guard: no one had really ever volunteered anything negative
about my job. I’d always thought I was the only one—among the
millions of imaginary girls that would “die” for my job—who saw
anything remotely disturbing about my situation. It was more
horrifying to see the shock in her eyes than it was to witness the
hundreds of ridiculous things I saw each and every day at work; the
way she looked at me with that pure, unadulterated pity triggered
something inside me. I did what I hadn’t done in months of working
under subhuman conditions for a nonhuman boss, what I always managed
to keep suppressed for a more appropriate time. I started to cry.
Ilana looked more shocked than ever. “Oh, sweetie, come here! I’m so
sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re a saint for putting up
with that witch, you hear me? Come with me.” She pulled me by the
hand and led me down another darkened hallway toward an office in
the back. “Here, now sit for a minute and forget all about what
these stupid people look like.”
I sniffled and started to feel stupid.
“And don’t feel strange, you hear? I have a feeling you kept that
inside for a long, long time and you have to have a good cry every
now and then.”
She was fumbling around in her desk for something while I tried to
wipe the mascara from my cheeks. “Here,” she proclaimed proudly.
“I’m destroying this right after you see it, and if you even think
of telling anyone about it, I’ll wreck your life. But just look,
it’s amazing.” She handed me a manila envelope sealed with a
“Confidential” sticker and smiled.
I tore off the sticker and pulled a green folder out. Inside was a
photo—a color photocopy, actually—of Miranda stretched out on a
restaurant banquette. I recognized it immediately as a picture taken
by a famous society photographer during a recent birthday party for
Donna Karan at Pastis. It had already appeared on the pages ofNew
York magazine and was bound to keep showing up. In it she was
wearing her signature brown and white snakeskin trench coat, the one
I always thought made her look like a snake.
Well, it seems I wasn’t alone, because in this version, someone had
subtly—expertly—attached a scaled-to-size cutout of a rattlesnake’s
rattle directly where her legs should have been. The effect was a
fabulous rendition of Miranda as Snake: she rested her elbow on the
banquette, cradled her chiseled chin in her palm, and stretched out
across the leather, with her rattle curled in a semicircle and
hanging off the edge of the bench. It was perfect.
“Isn’t it great?” Ilana asked, leaning over my shoulder. “Linda came
into my office one afternoon. She’d just spent the entire day on the
phone with Miranda, selecting which gallery they’d dine in. Linda
naturally insisted on one gallery because it’s by far the best size
and most beautiful, but Miranda mandated that it be held in the
other one near the gift shop. They went back and forth for a while
before Linda finally—after days of negotiations—got permission from
the board to hold it in Miranda’s gallery, and she was so excited to
call Miranda and tell her the great news. Guess what happened when .
. .”
“She changed her mind, obviously,” I said quietly, feeling her
irritation. “She decided to do exactly as Linda suggested in the
first place, but only once she was sure everyone would jump through
all her hoops.”
“Precisely. Well, this irritated the hell out of me. I’ve never seen
the entire museum turn itself upside down for anyone—I mean, christ,
the president of the United States could ask to have a State
Department dinner here and they wouldn’t let him! And then your boss
thinks she can march in and order everyone around, make our lives a
living hell for days on end. Anyway, I made this pretty little
picture as a pick-me-up for Linda. You know what she did with it?
Shrunk it on the copier so she could have a little one for her
wallet! I just thought you’d get a kick out of this. Even if it’s
just to remind you that you’re not alone. You’re definitely the
worst off, but you’re not alone.”
I stuck the picture back in its confidential envelope and handed it
back to Ilana. “You’re the best,” I said, touching her shoulder. “I
really, really appreciate it. I promise to never, ever tell anyone
where I got this, but will you please send this to me? I don’t think
it’ll fit in the Leiber bag, but I’d give anything if you’d send it
to me at Home. Please?”
She smiled and motioned for me to write my address, and we both
stood up and walked (I hobbled) back to the museum’s foyer. It was
just about seven, and the guests were due to arrive any minute.
Miranda and B-DAD were talking to his brother, the honored guest and
groom, who looked like he had played soccer, football, lacrosse, and
rugby at a Southern school—one where he was always surrounded by
cooing blondes. The cooing blonde of twenty-six who was to become
his bride was standing quietly by his side, gazing up at him
adoringly. She was holding a snifter of something and chortling at
his jokes.
Miranda was hanging on to B-DAD’s forearm with the fakest of smiles
plastered across her face. I didn’t have to hear what they were
saying to know that she was barely responding at the appropriate
time. Social graces were not her strength, as she had little
tolerance for small talk—but I knew she’d be on her best kiss-ass
behavior tonight. I’d come to realize that her “friends” all fell
into one of two categories. There were those she perceived as
“above” her and who must be impressed. This list was short, but it
generally included people like Irv Ravitz, Oscar de la Renta,
Hillary Clinton, and any first-rate, A-list movie star. Then there
were those “below” her, who must be patronized and belittled so they
don’t forget their place, which included basically everyone else:
allRunway employees, all family members, all parents of her
children’s friends—unless they coincidentally fell into category
number one—almost all designers and other magazine editors, and
every single solitary person in the service industry, both here and
abroad. Tonight was sure to be amusing because these were category
two people who would have to be treated like category ones, merely
because of their association with Mr. Tomlinson and his brother. I
always enjoyed the rare occasions when I got to watch Miranda try to
impress those around her, mostly because she wasn’t naturally
charming.
I felt the first guests arrive before I saw them. The tension in the
room was palpable. Remembering my color printouts, I rushed over to
the couple and offered to take the woman’s fur wrap. “Mr. and Mrs.
Wilkinson, thank you so much for joining us this evening. Please,
I’ll take that. And Ilana here will show you to the atrium, where
cocktails are being served.” I hoped I wasn’t staring during my
monologue, but the spectacle was truly outrageous. I’d seen women
dressed like hookers and men dressed like women and models not
dressed at all at Miranda’s parties, but never before had I seen
people dressed like this. I knew it wasn’t going to be a trendy New
York crowd, but I was expecting them to look like something out
ofDallas ; instead, they looked like a dressier version of the cast
fromDeliverance .
Mr. Tomlinson’s brother, himself distinguished looking with silver
hair, made the horrible mistake of wearing white tails—in May, no
less—with a plaid handkerchief and a cane. His fiancée had on an
emerald green taffeta nightmare. It swirled and puffed and gathered
and forced her enormous bust up and over the top of the dress so
that it appeared her own silicon breasts might actually suffocate
her. Diamonds the size of Dixie cups hung from her ears, and an even
larger one sparkled from her left hand. Her hair was bleached white
with peroxide, as were her teeth, and her heels were so high and so
skinny, she walked as if she’d been a running back in the NFL for
the past twelve years.
“Dah-lings, I amso delighted you could join us for a little pah-ty!
Everyone loves pahties, now don’t they?” Miranda sang in a falsetto
voice. The soon-to-be Mrs. Tomlinson looked as if she’d pass out.
Right there before her was the one and only Miranda Priestly! Her
glee embarrassed us all, and the whole wretched crowd moved into the
atrium with Miranda leading the way.
The rest of the night went on much like the beginning. I recognized
all the guests’ names and managed not to utter anything too
humiliating. The parade of white tuxes, chiffon, big hair, bigger
jewels, and barely postadolescent women ceased to amuse me as the
hours wore on, but I never grew tired of watching Miranda. She was
the true lady and the envy of every woman in that museum that night.
And even though they understood that all the money in the world
could never buy them her class and elegance, they never stopped
wanting it.
I smiled genuinely when she dismissed me halfway through dinner, as
usual without a thank-you or a good-night. (“Ahn-dre-ah, we won’t be
needing you anymore this evening. See yourself out.”) I looked for
Ilana, but she had already sneaked out. The car took only about ten
minutes to arrive after I called for it—I had briefly considered
taking the subway, but wasn’t sure how well the Oscar or my feet
would’ve held up—and I sunk, exhausted but calm, into the backseat.
When I walked past John on my way to the elevator, he reached under
his little table and pulled out a manila envelope. “Just got this a
few minutes ago. It says ‘Urgent.’ ” I thanked him and sat down in a
corner of the lobby, wondering who would be messengering me
something at ten o’clock on a Friday night. I tore it open and
pulled out a note:
Dearest Andrea,
It was so great to meet you tonight! Can we please get together next
week for sushi or something? I dropped this off on my way Home—
figured you could use the pick-me-up after a night like the one we
just had. Enjoy.
Xoxo,
Ilana
Inside was the picture of Miranda as Snake, only Ilana had enlarged
this one to a ten by thirteen size. I looked at it carefully for a
few minutes, massaging the feet I’d finally pulled from the Manolos,
and looked into Miranda’s eyes. She looked intimidating and mean and
just like the bitch I stared at every day. But tonight she’d also
looked sad, and not a little lonely. Adding this picture to my
fridge and making fun of it with Lily and Alex wasn’t going to make
my feet hurt any less, or give me back my Friday night. I tore it up
and hobbled upstairs.
15
“Andrea, it’s Emily,” I heard a voice croak from the phone.
“Can you hear me?” It had been months since Emily had called
me at Home late at night, so I knew it had to be serious.
“Hi, sure. You sound like hell,” I said, bolting upright in
bed, immediately wondering if Miranda had done something to
make her sound that way. The last time Emily had called this
late was when Miranda had called her at eleven on a Saturday
night to demand that Emily charter her and Mr. Tomlinson a
private jet to get Home from Miami since bad weather had
canceled their regularly scheduled flight. Emily was just
getting ready to leave her apartment to attend her own
birthday party when the call came in, and she’d immediately
called me and begged me to deal with it. I hadn’t gotten the
message until the next day, though, and when I called her
back, she was still in tears.
“I missed my own birthday party, Andrea,” she’d wailed the
second she picked up the phone. “I missed my own birthday
party because I had to charter them a flight!”
“They couldn’t get a hotel room for one night and come back
the next day like normal people?” I’d asked, pointing out the
obvious.
“Don’t you think I thought of that? I had penthouse suites
reserved for them at the Shore Club, the Albion, and the
Delano within seven minutes of her first phone call, figuring
she couldn’t possibly be serious—I mean, my god, it was a
Saturday night. How the hell do you charter a flight on a
Saturday night?”
“I’m guessing she wasn’t so into that idea?” I’d asked
soothingly, feeling genuinely guilty that I hadn’t been around
to help her out and simultaneously ecstatic that I’d dodged
that particular bullet.
“Yeah. Not so into it at all. She called every ten minutes,
demanding to know why I hadn’t found her anything yet, and I
had to keep putting these people on hold to answer her call,
and when I went back to them, they’d hang up.” She gulped air.
“It was a nightmare.”
“So what finally happened? I’m almost scared to ask.”
“What finally happened? Whatdidn’t finally happen? I called
every single private charter company in the state of Florida
and, as you might imagine, they weren’t answering their phones
at midnight on a Saturday. I paged individual pilots, I called
domestic airlines to see if they had any recommendations, I
even managed to talk to some sort of supervisor at the Miami
International Airport. Told him I needed a plane in the next
half hour to fly two people to New York. Know what he did?”
“What?”
“He laughed. Hysterically. Accused me of being a front for
terrorists, for drug smugglers, everything. Told me I had a
better chance of getting hit by lightning exactly twenty times
than I did of securing a plane and a pilot at that
hour—regardless of how much I was willing to pay. And that if
I called back again, he’d be forced to direct my inquiry to
the FBI. Do you believe it?” She was screaming at this point.
“Do you fucking believe it? The FBI!”
“And I assume Miranda didn’t like that, either?”
“Yeah, sheloooooved that one. She spent twenty minutes
refusing to believe that there wasn’t a single plane
available. I assured her that it wasn’t that they were all
taken, just that it was a difficult time of night to be
attempting to charter a flight.”
“So what happened?” I didn’t see this one ending happily.
“At about one-thirty in the morning she finally accepted that
she wasn’t going to get Home that night—not that it mattered
whatsoever, since the girls were with their father and the
nanny was around all day Sunday if they needed her—and she had
me buy her a ticket for the first flight out in the morning.”
This was puzzling. If her flight had been canceled, I’d
assumed the airlines would’ve rescheduled her for the first
flight out in the morning, especially considering her
premier-advantage-plus-gold-platinum-diamond-executive-VIP
mileage status and the original cost of her first-class
tickets. I said as much.
“Yeah, well, Continental scheduled them for their first flight
out, which was at six-fiftyA .M. But when Miranda heard that
someone else had managed to get on a Delta flight at
six-thirty-fiveA .M., she went ballistic. She called me an
incompetent idiot, asked me over and over what good an
assistant was if I couldn’t do something as simple as arrange
for a private plane.” She’d sniffed and took a sip of
something, probably Coffee.
“Ohmigod, I know what you’re going to say. Tell me you
didn’t!”
“I did.”
“You didn’t. You’ve got to be kidding. For fifteen minutes?”
“I did! What choice did I have? She was really unhappy with
me—at least this way, it seemed like I was actually doing
something. It came to another couple thousand bucks—not
exactly a big deal. She was bordering onhappy when we hung up.
What else can you ask for?”
By this point we’d both started laughing. I knew without
Emily’s telling me—and she knew I knew—that she’d gone ahead
and purchased two additional Business-class tickets on the
Delta flight for Miranda just to shut her up, to make the
incessant demands and insults finally, blissfully, cease.
I was nearly choking at this point. “So, wait. By the time you
arranged for a car to take her to the Delano—”
“—it was just before three in the morning, and she’d called my
Cell Phone exactly twenty-two times since eleven. The driver
waited while they showered and changed in their penthouse
suite and then took them right back to the airport in time for
theirearlier flight.”
“Stop! You’ve got to stop,” I howled, doubled over at this
charming series of events. “This did not really happen.”
Emily stopped laughing and tried to feign seriousness. “Oh,
really? You think all of this is good? I haven’t even told you
the best part.”
“Oh, tell me, tell me!” I was positively gleeful that Emily
and I had, for once, managed to find something funny at the
exact same time. It felt good to be part of a team, one half
in the battle against the oppressor. I realized then for the
first time what a different year it would have been if Emily
and I could’ve truly been friends, if we could have covered
and protected and trusted each other enough to face Miranda as
a united front. Things probably wouldn’t have been quite so
unbearable, but, except for rare times like these, we didn’t
agree on just about everything.
“The best part of all of it?” She was silent, dragging out the
joy we shared a few moments longer. “She didn’t realize this,
of course, but even though the Delta flight took off earlier,
it was actually scheduled to land eight minutes after her
original Continental!”
“Shut up!” I’d howled, delighted with this delicious new
nugget of information. “You’vegot to be kidding me!”
When we finally hung up, I was surprised to see that we’d been
talking for more than an hour, just like a couple of real
friends would. Of course, we immediately reverted back to
just-contained hostility on Monday, but my feelings for Emily
were always a bit more affectionate after that weekend. Until
now, of course. I sure didn’t like her enough to hear whatever
surely irritating or inconvenient thing she was preparing to
dump on me.
“Really, you sound horrible. Are you sick?” I tried valiantly
to interject a touch of sympathy in my voice, but the question
came out sounding aggressive and accusatory.
“Oh yeah,” she rasped before breaking into hacking coughs.
“Really sick.”
I never really believed it when anyone said they were really
sick: without a diagnosis of something very official and
potentially life-threatening, you were well enough to work
atRunway . So when Emily finished hacking and reiterated that
she was really ill, I didn’t even consider the possibility
that she wouldn’t be at work on Monday. After all, she was
scheduled to fly to Paris to meet Miranda on October 18 and
that was only slightly more than a week away. And besides, I’d
managed to ignore a couple strep throats, a few bouts of
bronchitis, a horrific round of food poisoning, and a
perpetual smoker’s cough and cold and hadn’t taken a single
sick day in nearly a year of work.
I’d sneaked in a single doctor’s appointment when I was
desperate for antibiotics with one of the cases of strep
throat (I ducked into his office and ordered them to see me
right away when Miranda and Emily thought that I was out
scouting for new cars for Mr. Tomlinson), but there was never
time for preventative work. Although I’d had a dozen sets of
highlights from Marshall, quite a few free massages from spas
that felt honored to have Miranda’s assistant as a guest, and
countless manicures, pedicures, and makeovers, I hadn’t seen a
dentist or a gynecologist in a year.
“Anything I can do?” I asked, trying to sound casual while I
racked my brain thinking of why she’d called to tell me that
she didn’t feel well. As far as we were both concerned, it was
completely and entirely irrelevant. She’d be at work on Monday
whether she felt well or not.
She coughed deeply and I heard phlegm rattling in her lungs.
“Um, yeah, actually. God, I can’t believe this is happening to
me!”
“What? What’s happening?”
“I can’t go to Europe with Miranda. I have mono.”
“What?”
“You heard me, I can’t go. The doctor called today with the
blood results, and as of right now, I’m not allowed to leave
my apartment for the next three weeks.”
Three weeks! She had to be kidding. There wasn’t time to feel
badly for her—she’d just told me she wasn’t going to Europe,
and it was that thought alone—the idea that both Miranda and
Emily would be out of my life—that had sustained me through
the past couple months.
“Em, she’s going to kill you—you have to go! Does she know
yet?”
There was a foreboding silence on the other end. “Um, yeah,
she knows.”
“You called her?”
“Yes. I had my doctor call her, actually, because she didn’t
think that having mono really qualified me as sick, so he had
to tell her that I could infect her and everyone else, and
anyway . . .” Her sentence trailed off, and her tone was
suggestive of something far, far worse.
“Anyway what?” My self-preservation instincts had kicked into
overdrive.
“Anyway . . . she wants you to go with her.”
“She wants me to go with her, huh? That’s cute. What’d she
really say? She didn’t threaten to fire you for getting sick,
did she?”
“Andrea, I’m—” a deep, mucousy cough shook her voice and I
thought for a moment that she might very well die right there
on the phone with me “—serious. Completely and totally
serious. She said something about the assistants they give her
abroad being idiots and that even you’d be better to have
around than them.”
“Oh, well, when you put it like that, sign me up! Nothing
quite like some over-the-top flattery to convince me to do
something. Seriously, she shouldn’t have said such nice
things. I’m blushing!” I didn’t know whether to focus on the
fact that Miranda wanted me to go to Paris with her, or that
she only wanted me to go because she considered me slightly
less brain-dead than the anorexic French clones of, well . . .
me.
“Oh, just shut up already,” she croaked in between fits of now
annoying coughing. “You’re the luckiest fucking person in the
world. I’ve been waiting two years—over two years—for this
trip, and now I can’t go. The irony of this is painful—you
realize that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! It’s one giant cliché: this trip is your sole
reason for living and it’s the bane of my existence, yet I’m
going and you’re not. life is funny, huh? I’m laughing so hard
I can barely stop,” I deadpanned, sounding not the least bit
amused.
“Yeah, well, I think it sucks, too, but what can you do? I
already called Jeffy to tell him to start calling in clothes
for you. You’ll have to bring a ton since you’ll need
different outfits for each of the shows you attend, any
dinners, and, of course, for Miranda’s party at the Hotel
Costes. Allison will help you out with makeup. Talk to Stef in
accessories for bags and shoes and jewelry. You only have a
week, so get on it first thing tomorrow, OK?”
“I still don’t really believe she expects me to do this.”
“Well, believe it, because she sure wasn’t kidding. Since I’m
not going to be able to come to the office at all this week,
you’re also going to—”
“What? You’re not even going to come into theoffice ?” I might
not have taken a sick day or spent a single hour outside the
office while Miranda was there, but Emily hadn’t, either. The
one time it had been close—when her great-grandfather had
died—she’d managed to get Home to Philadelphia, attend the
funeral, and be back at her desk without missing a minute of
work. This was how things worked. Period. Short of death
(immediate family only), dismemberment (your own), or nuclear
war (only if confirmed by the U.S. government to be directly
affecting Manhattan), one was to be present. This would be a
watershed moment in the Priestly regime.
“Andrea, I have mononucleosis. I’m highly infectious. It’s
really serious. I’m not supposed to leave my apartment for a
cup of Coffee, never mind go to work for the day. Miranda
understands that, and so you’ll need to pick up the slack.
There will be a lot to do to get both of you ready for Paris.
Miranda leaves on Wednesday for Milan, and then you’ll be
leaving to meet her in Paris the following Tuesday.”
“She understands that? C’mon! Tell me what she really said.” I
refused to believe that she’d accepted something as mundane as
mono for an excuse to not be available. “Just give me that
small pleasure. After all, my life will be hell for the next
few weeks.”
Emily sighed, and I could feel her eyes roll over the phone.
“Well, she wasn’t thrilled. I didn’t actually talk to her, you
see, but my doctor said she kept asking if mono is a ‘real’
disease. But when he assured her that it was, she was very
understanding.”
I laughed out loud. “I’m sure she was, Em, I’m sure she was.
Don’t worry about a thing, OK? You just concentrate on feeling
better, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
“I’ll e-mail you a checklist, just so you don’t forget
anything.”
“I won’t forget anything. She’s been to Europe four times in
the past year. I’ve got it down. I’ll get the cash from the
basement bank, change a few grand into euros, buy a few more
grand’s worth of traveler’s checks, and triple confirm all of
her hair and makeup appointments while she’s there. What else?
Oh, I’ll make sure the Ritz gives her the right Cell Phone
this time, and I’ll speak to the drivers ahead of time to make
sure they know they can’t ever leave her waiting. I’m already
thinking of all the people who’ll need copies of her
itinerary—which I’ll type up, no problem—and I’ll see to it
that it gets passed around. And of course she’ll have a
detailed itinerary as to the twins’ classes, lessons,
practices, and play dates, and full listings of the entire
household staff’s work schedules. See! You don’t have to
worry—I’ve got it all under control.”
“Don’t forget about the velvet,” she chided, singing the last
couple words as if on autopilot. “Or the scarves!”
“Of course not! They’re already on my list.” Before Miranda
packed for anything—or rather, had her housekeeper pack
her—either Emily or I would purchase massive rolls of velvet
at a fabric store and bring them to Miranda’s apartment.
There, we’d work with the housekeeper to cut them in the exact
shape and size of every article of clothing she was planning
to bring, and individually wrap each item in the plush
material. The velvet packages were then neatly stacked in
dozens of Louis Vuitton suitcases, with plenty of extra pieces
included for when she inevitably threw the first batch out
upon unpacking in Paris. In addition, usually one half of a
suitcase was occupied by a couple dozen orange Hermès boxes,
each containing a single white scarf just waiting to be lost,
forgotten, misplaced, or simply discarded.
I hung up with Emily after making a good effort to sound
sincerely sympathetic and found Lily stretched out on the
couch, smoking a cigarette and sipping a clear liquid that was
definitely not water from a cocktail glass.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to smoke in here,” I said,
flopping down next to her and immediately putting my feet on
the scuffed wooden Coffee table my parents had handed down to
us. “Not that I care, but that wasyour rule.” Lily wasn’t a
full-time, committed smoker like yours truly; she usually
smoked only when she drank and wasn’t one to even buy packs. A
brand-new box of Camel Special Lights peeked out of the chest
pocket of her oversize button-down. I nudged her thigh with my
slippered foot and nodded toward the cigarettes. She handed
them over with a lighter.
“I knew you wouldn’t care,” she said, taking a leisurely drag
off her cigarette. “I’m procrastinating and it helps me
concentrate.”
“What do you have due?” I asked, lighting my own cigarette and
tossing back the lighter. She was taking seventeen credits
this semester in an effort to pull up her GPA after last
spring’s mediocre showing. I watched as she took another drag
and washed it down with a healthy gulp of her nonwater
beverage. It didn’t appear that she was on the right track.
She sighed heavily, meaningfully, and let the cigarette hang
suspended from the corner of her mouth as she spoke. It
flapped up and down, threatening to fall at any moment and,
combined with her wild, unwashed hair and smeared eye makeup,
made her look—just for a moment—like a defendant onJudge Judy
(or maybe a plaintiff, since they always looked the same—lack
of teeth, greasy hair, dull eyes, and propensity for using the
double negative). “An article for some totally random,
esoteric academic journal that no one will ever read but I
still have to write, just so I can say I’m published.”
“That’s annoying. When’s it due?”
“Tomorrow.” Total nonchalance. She looked completely unfazed.
“Tomorrow? For real?”
She shot me a warning look, a quick reminder that I was
supposed to be on her team. “Yes. Tomorrow. It really blows,
considering that Freudian Boy is the one who’s assigned to
edit it. No one seems to care that he’s a candidate in psych,
not Russian lit—they’re just short copy editors, so he’s mine.
There’s noway I’m getting that to him on time. Screw him.”
Once again, she poured some of the liquid down her throat,
making an obvious effort not to taste it, and grimaced.
“Lil, what happened? Granted, it’s been a few months, but last
I heard, you were taking things slow and he was perfect. Of
course, that was before that, thatthing you dragged Home, but
. . .”
Another warning look, this time followed by a glare. I’d tried
to talk to her about the whole Freak Boy incident a few dozen
times, but it seemed like we were never really alone and
neither of us had much time lately for heart-to-hearts. She
immediately changed the subject whenever I brought it up. I
could tell that more than anything she was embarrassed; she
had acknowledged that he was vile, but she wouldn’t
participate in any discussion whatsoever about the excessive
drinking that was responsible for the whole episode.
“Yes, well, apparently at some point that night I called him
from Au Bar and begged him to come meet me,” she said,
avoiding eye contact, instead concentrating intently on using
the remote control to switch tracks on the mournful Jeff
Buckley CD that seemed to be on permanent replay in the
apartment.
“So? Did he come and see you talking to, uh, to someone else?”
I was trying not to push her away even more by being critical
of her. There was obviously a lot going on inside her head,
what with the problems at school and the drinking and the
seemingly limitless supply of guys, and I wanted her to open
up to someone. She’d never kept anything from me before, if
for no other reason than I was all she had, but she hadn’t
been telling me much of anything lately. It occurred to me how
strange it was that we hadn’t bothered to discuss this until
four months after the fact.
“No, not quite,” she said bitterly. “He came all the way there
from Morningside Heights only to find me not there. Apparently
he called my Cell Phone and Kenny answered and wasn’t all that
nice.”
“Kenny?”
“Thatthing I dragged Home at the beginning of the summer,
remember?” She said it sarcastically, but this time she
smiled.
“Ah-hah. I’m guessing Freudian Boy didn’t take that well?”
“Not so much. Whatever. Easy come, easy go, right?” She
scampered off to the kitchen with her empty glass and I saw
her pour from a half-full bottle of Ketel One. A very small
splash of soda, and she was back on the couch.
I was just about to inquire as gently as possible why she was
inhaling vodka when she had an article due the next day, but
the buzzer rang from downstairs.
“Who’s there?” I called to John by holding down the button.
“Mr. Fineman is here to see Ms. Sachs,” he announced formally,
all Business now that other people were around.
“Really? Um, great. Send him up.”
Lily looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and I realized that
once again we weren’t going to have this conversation. “You
look psyched,” she said with obvious sarcasm. “Not exactly
thrilled that your boyfriend is surprising you, are you?”
“Of course I am,” I said defensively, and we both knew I was
lying. Things with Alex had been strained the past few weeks.
Really strained. We went through all the motions of being
together and we did it well: after almost four years, we
certainly knew what the other wanted to hear or needed to do.
But he’d compensated for all the time I spent at work by being
even more angelic at school—volunteering to coach, tutor,
mentor, and chair just about every activity someone could
think up—and the time we did actually see each other was about
as exciting as if we’d been married for thirty years. We had
an unspoken understanding that we’d just wait things out until
my year of servitude was over, but I wouldn’t let myself think
about where the relationship might be headed then.
But still. That made two close people in my life—first Jill
(who’d called me out on the miserable state of affairs on the
phone the other night), and now Lily—who’d pointed out that
Alex and I were less than adorable together lately, and I had
to admit that Lily had, in her buzzed but nonetheless
perceptive way, noticed that I was not happy to hear that Alex
had arrived. I was dreading telling him that I had to go to
Europe, dreading the inevitable fight that would ensue, a
fight I very much would have liked to put off for a few more
days. Ideally, not until I was in Europe. But no such luck, as
he was currently knocking on my door.
“Hi!” I said a bit too enthusiastically as I pulled open the
door and threw my arms around his neck. “What a great
surprise!”
“You don’t mind that I just stopped by, do you? I met Max for
a drink right around the corner and I thought I’d say hi.”
“Of course I don’t mind, silly! I’m thrilled. Come in, come
in.” I knew I sounded positively manic, but any armchair
shrink could easily point out that my outward enthusiasm was
meant to overcompensate for all that was lacking inwardly.
He grabbed a beer and kissed Lily on the cheek and settled
into the bright orange armchair my parents had saved from the
seventies, just knowing that one day they could bestow it
proudly on one of their offspring. “So, what’s going on here?”
he asked, nodding toward the stereo, where a positively
heart-wrenching version of “Hallelujah” was blaring.
Lily shrugged. “Procrastinating. What else?”
“Well, I have some news,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic
to convince both myself and Alex that this was, in fact, a
positive development. He’d been so excited about arranging all
the plans for our Homecoming weekend—and I’d been so pushy in
getting him to do it—that it seemed downright cruel to be
canceling on him less than a week and a half before we were
going. We’d spent an entire night figuring out whom we wanted
to invite to our big Sunday brunch, and even knew exactly
where and with whom we’d be tailgating before the
Brown–Dartmouth game on Saturday.
They both looked at me, not a little warily, until Alex
finally managed, “Yeah? What’s up?”
“Well! I just got the call—I’m going to Paris for a week!” I
said this with the exuberance of telling an infertile couple
that they were having twins.
“You’re going where?” Lily asked, looking puzzled and
distracted, not entirely interested.
“You’re goingwhy ?” Alex asked at the exact same moment,
looking about as pleased as if I’d just announced that I had
tested positive for syphilis.
“Emily just found out she has mono, and Miranda wants me to
accompany her to the shows. Isn’t that awesome?” I said, a
chipper smile on my face. This was exhausting. I was dreading
having to go myself, but it made it ten times worse to have to
convince him that it was actually a really great opportunity.
“I don’t understand. Doesn’t she go to the shows like a
thousand times a year?” he asked. I nodded. “So why does she
all of a sudden need you to go with her now?”
Lily had tuned out at this point and seemed to be engrossed in
flipping through an old issue ofThe New Yorker . I’d saved
every copy from the past five years.
“She throws this massive party at the spring shows in Paris
and just likes to have one of her American assistants be
there. She’ll go to Milan first and then we’ll meet in Paris.
To, you know, oversee everything.”
“And that American assistant has to be you, and it has to mean
you’ll be missing Homecoming,” he said flatly.
“Well, it’s not normally the way it works. Since it’s
considered a huge privilege, usually the senior assistant is
the only one who gets to go, but since Emily is sick, then,
yes, now I will be going. I have to leave next Tuesday, so I
can’t go to Providence that weekend. I’m really, really
sorry.” I moved off my chair and went to sit closer to him on
the couch, but he immediately stiffened.
“So it’s just that simple, right? You know, I already paid for
the entire room to guarantee the rate. Never mind the fact
thatI rearrangedmy whole schedule to go with you that weekend.
I told my mom she had to find a sitter becauseyou wanted to
go. Not a big deal, though, right? Just anotherRunway
obligation.” In all the years we’d spent together, I’d never
seen him so angry. Even Lily looked up from her magazine long
enough to excuse herself and get the hell out of the room
before this turned into an all-out war.
I tried to curl up on his lap, but he crossed his legs and
waved his hand. “Seriously, Andrea—” He called me that only
when he was really annoyed. “Is all of this really worth it?
Be honest with me for a second. Is it worth it to you?”
“All of what? Is missing a Homecoming weekend when there will
be dozens more worth it to do something I’m required to do for
my job? A job that is going to open doors for me I never
thought possible, and sooner than I ever expected? Yes! It’s
worth it.”
His chin dropped to his chest and for a moment I thought he
was crying, but when he lifted it again, his face revealed
nothing but rage.
“Don’t you think I’d rather go with you than go be someone’s
slave twenty-four-seven for a straight week?” I shouted,
forgetting entirely that Lily was somewhere in the apartment.
“Can’t you stop for one second to think about the fact that I
may not want to go either, but I have no choice?”
“No choice? You have nothingbut choices! Andy, this job isn’t
just a job anymore, in case you’ve failed to notice—it’s taken
over your entire life!” he yelled back, the redness in his
face expanding to his neck and ears. Normally I thought this
was very cute, even sexy, but tonight I just wanted to go to
sleep.
“Alex, listen, I know—”
“No,you listen! Forget about me for a second, not like that’s
such a stretch, but forget that we never, ever see each other
anymore because of the hours you keep at work, because of your
never-ending work emergencies. What about your parents? When
was the last time you actually saw them? And your sister? You
do realize that she just had her first baby and you haven’t
even seen your own nephew yet, don’t you? Doesn’t that mean
anything?” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. I
thought he might be getting ready to apologize, but he said,
“What about Lily? Have you not noticed that your best friend
has turned into a raging alcoholic?” I must have looked
absolutely shocked, because he barreled on. “You can’t even
think of saying you didn’t realize that, Andy. It’s the most
obvious thing in the world.”
“Yes, of course she drinks. So do you and so do I and so does
everyone we know. Lily’s a student, and that’s what students
do, Alex. What’s so weird about that?” It sounded even more
pathetic when I said it out loud, and he only shook his head.
We were both quiet for a few minutes until he spoke.
“You just don’t get it, Andy. I’m not exactly sure how it
happened, but I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. I
think we need a break.”
“What? What are you saying? You want to break up?” I asked,
realizing much too late that he was very, very serious. Alex
was so understanding, so sweet, so available, that I’d begun
to take for granted that he’d always be around to listen or
talk me down after a long day or cheer me up when everyone
else had felt free to take a swing. The only problem with all
of this was that I wasn’t exactly holding up my end of the
deal.
“No, not at all. Not break up, just take a break. I think it
would help both of us if we reevaluate what we’ve got going
here. You sure don’t seem happy with me lately, and I can’t
say I’m thrilled with you. Maybe a little time away would be
good for both of us.”
“Good for both of us? You think it’ll ‘help us’?” I wanted to
scream at the triteness of his words, at the idea that “taking
some time” would actually help draw us closer. It seemed
selfish that he was doing this now, just as I was going into
what I hoped was the last of my one-yearRunway sentence and
mere days before I had to pull off the biggest challenge of my
career. Any quick jabs of sadness or concern from a few
minutes ago had been swiftly replaced with irritation. “Fine,
then. Let’s ‘take a break,’ ” I said sarcastically, meanly. “A
breather. Sounds like a great plan.”
He stared at me with those big brown eyes with a look of
overwhelming surprise and hurt, and then pressed them tightly
shut in an apparent effort to push away the image of my face.
“OK, Andy. I’ll put you out of your obvious misery and leave
now. I hope you have a great time in Paris, I really do. I’ll
talk to you soon.” And before I even realized that it was
actually happening, he’d kissed me on the cheek like he would
Lily or my mother and walked toward the door.
“Alex, don’t you think we should talk about this?” I said,
trying to keep my voice calm, wondering if he would actually
walk out right now.
He turned and smiled sadly and said, “Let’s not talk any more
tonight, Andy. We should’ve been talking the past few months,
the pastyear, not trying to cram it all in right now. Think
about everything, OK? I’ll call you in a couple weeks, when
you’re back and settled. And good luck in Paris—I know you’ll
be great.” He opened the door, stepped through it, and quietly
closed it behind him.
I ran to Lily’s room so she could tell me that he was
overreacting, that I had to go to Paris because it was the
best thing for my future, that she didn’t have a drinking
problem, that I wasn’t a bad sister for leaving the country
when Jill had just had her first baby. But she was passed out
on top of her covers, fully dressed, the empty cocktail glass
on her bedside table. Her Toshiba laptop was open beside her
on the bed, and I wondered if she’d managed to write a single
word. I looked. Bravo! She’d written the heading, complete
with her name, the class number, the professor’s name, and her
presumably temporary version of the article’s title: “The
Psychological Ramifications of Falling in Love with Your
Reader.” I laughed out loud, but she didn’t stir, so I moved
the computer back to her desk and set her alarm for seven and
turned out the lights.
My Cell Phone rang as soon as I walked in my bedroom. After
the initial five-second usual heart-pounding session I endured
each time it rang for fear that it was Her, I flipped it open
immediately, knowing it was Alex. I knew he couldn’t leave
things so unfinished. This was the same guy who couldn’t fall
asleep without a good-night kiss and a verbal wish for sweet
dreams; there was no way he was just prancing out of here,
totally fine with the suggestion that we not talk for a few
weeks.
“Hi, baby,” I breathed, missing him already but still happy to
be on the phone with him and not necessarily having to deal
with everything in person right now. My head ached and my
shoulders felt like they were glued to my ears, and I just
wanted to hear him say that the whole thing had been a big
mistake and he’d call me tomorrow. “I’m glad you called.”
“‘Baby’? Wow! We’re making progress, aren’t we, Andy? Better
be careful or I might have to consider the possibility that
you want me,” Christian said smoothly with a grin I could hear
over the phone line. “I’m glad I called, too.”
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Well, that’s not the warmest welcome I’ve ever received!
What’s the matter, Andy? You’ve been screening me lately,
haven’t you?”
“Of course not,” I lied. “I’ve just had a bad day. As usual.
What’s up?”
He laughed. “Andy, Andy, Andy. Come on now. You have no reason
to be so unhappy. You’re on the fast-track to great things.
Speaking of which, I’m calling to see if you wanted to come to
a PEN award ceremony and reading tomorrow night. Should be
lots of interesting people, and I haven’t seen you in a while.
Purely professional, of course.”
For a girl who had read way too many “How to Know if He’s
Ready to Commit” articles inCosmo, one might think the warning
flags would’ve gone up on this one. And they did—I just chose
to ignore them. It had been a very long day, and so I allowed
myself to think—just for a few minutes—that he might, might,
MIGHT actually be sincere. Screw it. It felt good to talk to a
noncritical male for a few minutes, even if he did refuse to
accept that I was taken. I knew I wouldn’t actually accept his
invitation, but a few minutes of innocent phone flirting
wouldn’t hurt anyone.
“Oh really?” I asked coyly. “Tell me all about it.”
“I’m going to list all the reasons that you should come with
me, Andy, and the first one is the simplest: I know what’s
good for you. Period.” God, he was arrogant. Why did I find it
so endearing?
game on. We were off and running, and it took only a few more
minutes until the trip to Paris and Lily’s nasty little vodka
habit and Alex’s sad eyes faded to the background of my
acknowledged-unhealthy-and-emotionally-dangerous-but-really-sexy-and-fun-nonetheless
conversation with Christian.
16
It was planned that Miranda would be in Europe for a week
before I was due to arrive. She settled for using some local
assistants for the Milan shows—and would be arriving in Paris
the same morning I was so we could work out the details of her
party together, like old friends. Hah. Delta had refused to
simply change the name on the ticket from Emily’s to mine, so
rather than get even more frustrated and hassled than I
already was, I just charged a new one. Twenty-two hundred
dollars because it was fashion week and I was buying at the
last minute. I paused for one ridiculous minute before forking
over the corporate card number.Whatever, I thought.Miranda can
spend that in a week on hair and makeup alone .
As Miranda’s junior assistant, I was the lowest-ranking human
being atRunway . However, if access is power, then Emily and I
were the two most powerful people in fashion: we determined
who got meetings, when they were scheduled (early morning was
always preferred because people’s makeup would be fresh and
their clothes unwrinkled), and whose messages got through (if
your name wasn’t on the Bulletin, you didn’t exist).
So when either of us needed help, the rest of the staff were
obliged to pull through. Yes, of course there was something
disconcerting about the realization that if we didn’t work for
Miranda Priestly these same people would have no compunction
in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars. As it
was, when called upon, they ran and fetched and retrieved for
us like well-trained puppies.
Work on the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied
to send me off to Paris adequately prepared. Three Clackers
from the fashion department hastily pulled together a wardrobe
that included every single item that I could conceivably
require for any event Miranda could conceivably call on me to
attend. By the time I left, Lucia, the fashion director,
promised I would have in my possession not only an assemblage
of clothing appropriate for any contingency, but also a full
sketchbook complete with professionally rendered charcoal
sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the
aforementioned clothing in order to maximize style and
minimize embarrassment. In other words: leave nothing to my
own selection or pairing, and I’d quite possibly have a shot
in hell—albeit slim—of looking presentable.
Might I need to accompany Miranda to a bistro and stand,
mummylike, in the corner while she sipped a glass of Bordeaux?
A pair of cuffed, charcoal gray Theory pants with a black silk
turtleneck sweater by Celine. Attend the tennis club where
she’d receive her private lessons so that I could fetch water
and, if required, white scarves in case sheschvitzed ? A
head-to-toe athletic outfit complete with bootleg workout
pants, zip-up hooded jacket (cropped to show off my tummy,
natch), a $185 wife-beater to wear under it, and suede
sneakers—all by Prada. And what if maybe—just maybe—I actually
did make it to the front row of one of those shows like
everyone swore I would? The options were limitless. My
favorite so far (and it was still only late afternoon on
Monday) was a pleated school-girl skirt by Anna Sui, with a
very sheer and very frilly white Miu Miu blouse, paired with a
particularly naughty-looking pair of midcalf Christian
Laboutin boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather blazer
so fitted it bordered on obscene. My Express jeans and Franco
Sarto loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my
closet for months now, and I had to admit I didn’t miss them.
I also discovered that Allison, the beauty editor, did, in
fact, deserve her title by literallybeing the beauty industry.
Within twenty-four hours of being “put on notice” that I would
be needing some makeup and more than a few tips, she had
created the Be-All, End-All Cosmetic Catchall. Included in the
decidedly oversize Burberry “toiletry case” (it actually more
closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than
those approved by the airlines for carry-on) was every
imaginable type of shadow, lotion, gloss, cream, liner, and
type of makeup. Lipsticks came in matte, high-shine,
long-lasting, and clear. Six shades of mascara—ranging in
color from a light blue to a “pouty black”—were accompanied by
an eyelash curler and two eyelash combs in case of (gasp!)
clumps.
Powders, which appeared to account for half of all the
products and fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids, the
skin tone, and the cheeks, had a color scheme more complex and
subtler than a painter’s palette: some were meant to bronze,
others to highlight, and still others to pout, plump, or pale.
I had the choice whether to add that healthy blush to my face
in the form of a liquid, solid, powder, or a combination
thereof. The foundation was the most impressive of all: it was
as if someone had managed to remove an actual sample of skin
directly from my face and custom-mix a pint or two of the
stuff. Whether it “added sheen” or “covered blemishes,” every
single solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better
than, well, my own skin. Packed in a slightly smaller matching
plaid case were the supplies: cotton balls, cotton squares,
Q-tips, sponges, somewhere in the vicinity of two dozen
different-size application brushes, washcloths, two different
types of eye makeup remover (moisturizing and oil-free), and
no less than twelve—TWELVE—kinds of moisturizer (facial, body,
deep-conditioning, with SPF 15, glimmering, tinted, scented,
nonscented, hypoallergenic, with alpha-hydroxy, antibacterial,
and—just in case that nasty October Parisian sun got the best
of me—with aloe vera).
Tucked in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal-size
pieces of paper with preprinted faces rendered on each one,
enlarged to fit the page. Each face bragged an impressive
makeover: Allison had applied the actual makeup she’d included
in the kit to the paper faces. One face was eerily labeled
“Relaxed Evening Glamour” but had a caveat under it in big,
bold marker that read: NOT FOR BLACK-TIE!! TOO CASUAL!! The
nonformal face had a light covering of the matte foundation
under a slight brush of bronzing powder, a light dab of liquid
or “crème” blush, some very sexy, dark-lined and heavily
shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d lashes, and
what appeared to be a quick, casual swipe of high-gloss lip
color. When I’d mumbled under my breath to Allison that this
would be utterly impossible for me to recreate, she looked
exasperated.
“Well, hopefully you won’t have to,” she said in a voice that
sounded so taxed, I thought she might collapse under the
weight of my ignorance.
“No? Then why do I have nearly two dozen ‘faces’ suggesting
different ways to use all this stuff?”
Her withering glance was worthy of Miranda.
“Andrea. Be serious. This is for emergencies only, in case
Miranda asks you to go somewhere with her at the last minute,
or if your hair and makeup person can’t make it. Oh, that
reminds me, let me show you the hair stuff I packed.”
As Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of
round brushes to blow my hair straight, I tried to make sense
of what she’d just said. I would have a hair and makeup
person, too? I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me when I’d
booked all of Miranda’s people, so who had? I had to ask.
“The Paris office,” Allison replied with a sigh. “You’re
representingRunway, you know, and Miranda is very sensitive to
that. You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous events in
the world alongside Miranda Priestly. You don’t think you
could achieve the right look on your own, do you?”
“No, of course not. It’s definitely better that I have
professional help for this. Thank you.”
Then Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until
she was satisfied that if any of the fourteen hair and makeup
appointments I had scheduled over the course of the week fell
through, I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by smearing the mascara
across my lips or shaving the sides of my head and spiking the
center into a mohawk. When we were through, I thought I’d
finally get a moment to race down to the dining room and grab
some calorie-enriched soup, but Allison picked up Emily’s
extension—her old phone line—and dialed Stef in the
accessories department.
“Hi, I’m done with her and she’s here right now. You want to
come over?”
“Wait! I need to go get lunch before Miranda comes back!”
Allison rolled her eyes just like Emily. I wondered if it was
something about that particular position that inspired such
expert demonstrations of irritation. “Fine. No, no, I was
talking to Andrea,” she said into the phone, raising her
eyebrows at me—surprise, surprise—just like Emily. “It seems
that she’shungry . I know. Yes, I know. I told her that, but
she seems intent on . . .eating .”
I walked out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream
of broccoli with cheddar cheese and returned within three
minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk, holding the phone
receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches.
She was due to fly to Milan that very evening but I wasn’t
sure I’d survive to see it happen.
“The phone rings, Andrea, but when I pick it up—because you’re
apparently not interested in doing so—no one’s there. Can you
explain this phenomenon?” she asked.
Of course I could explain it, just not to her. On the rare
occasion that Miranda was in her office alone, she sometimes
picked up the phone when it rang. Naturally callers were so
shocked to hear her voice on the other end that they promptly
hung up. No one was actually prepared tospeak with her when
they called, since the likelihood of being put through was
next to nil. I’d gotten dozens of e-mails from editors or
assistants informing me—as if I didn’t know—that Miranda was
answering the phone again. “Where are you guys???” The
panicked missives would read, one after another. “She’s
answering her own phone!!!!”
I mumbled something about how I, too, received hang-ups every
now and then, but Miranda had already lost interest. She was
peering not at me but at my cup of soup. Some of the creamy
green fluid was dripping slowly down the side. Her gaze turned
to one of disgust when she realized I was not only holding
something edible, but that I had clearly planned to consume it
as well.
“Dispose of that immediately!” she barked from fifteen feet
away. “The smell of it alone is enough to make me ill.”
I dropped the offending soup in the garbage can and gazed
wistfully after the lost nourishment before her voice jerked
me back to reality.
“I’m ready for the run-throughs!” she screeched, settling back
into her chair more easily now that the food she’d spotted
atRunway had been discarded. “And the moment we’re through
here, call the features meeting.”
Each word caused another adrenaline surge; since I was never
sure what exactly she’d be requesting, I was never sure if I’d
be able to handle it or not. Since it was Emily’s job to
schedule the run-throughs and the weekly meetings, I had to
race over to her desk and check her appointment book. In the
three o’clock slot she had scribbled:Sedona Shoot run-through,
Lucia/Helen . I jabbed Lucia’s extension and spoke as soon as
she picked up the phone.
“She’s ready,” I stated, like a military commander. Helen,
Lucia’s assistant, hung up without saying a word, and I knew
she and Lucia were already halfway to the office. If they
didn’t arrive within twenty to twenty-five seconds, I would be
sent out to hunt them down and remind them in person—just in
case they might have forgotten—that when I’d called thirty
seconds before and said that Miranda was ready right then, I
meant rightthen . Generally this was a mere annoyance, yet
another reason why the enforced footwear of spiky stilettos
made life even more miserable. Running through the office,
frantically searching for someone who was most likely hiding
from Miranda was never fun, but it was only really miserable
when that person happened to be in the bathroom. Whatever one
does in a men’s or ladies’ room, however, is no excuse for not
being available at the exact moment your presence is expected,
and so I had to charge right in—sometimes checking underneath
the stalls for recognizable footwear—and politely ask in
whatever humiliated way I could manage that they finish up and
head to Miranda’s office. Immediately.
Luckily for everyone involved, Helen arrived within seconds,
pushing an overflowing, off-kilter wheeled rack in front of
her and pulling another behind her. She hesitated briefly
outside Miranda’s French door before she received one of
Miranda’s imperceptible nods and then dragged the racks
through the thick carpeting.
“This is all of it? Two racks?” Miranda asked, barely looking
up from the copy she was reading.
Helen was clearly surprised at being addressed, since, as a
rule, Miranda didn’t speak to other people’s assistants. But
Lucia hadn’t shown up with her own racks yet, so there was
little choice.
“Um, uh, no. Lucia will be here in just a moment. She has the
other two. Would you like me to, uh, begin showing you what
we’ve called in?” Helen asked nervously as she pulled her
ribbed tank top down over her prairie skirt.
“No.”
And then: “Ahn-dre-ah! Find Lucia. By my watch it’s three
o’clock. If she’s not prepared, then I have better things to
do than sit here and wait for her.” Which wasn’t exactly true,
since it appeared she hadn’t yet stopped reading copy and it
was now only approximately thirty-five seconds since I’d made
the initial phone call. But I wasn’t about to point this out.
“No need, Miranda, I’m right here,” sang a breathless Lucia,
herself pushing and pulling racks past me just as I stood to
begin the search. “So sorry. We were waiting for one last coat
from the YSL people.”
She arranged the racks, which were organized by clothing type
(shirts, outerwear, pants/skirts, and dresses) in a
half-circle in front of Miranda’s desk and gave the signal for
Helen to leave. Miranda and Lucia then went through each item,
one by one, and bickered over its place or lack thereof in the
upcoming fashion shoot that was to take place in Sedona,
Arizona. Lucia was pushing for an “urban cowgirl chic” look,
which she thought would play out perfectly against a backdrop
of the red-rock mountains, but Miranda kept announcing snidely
that she’d prefer “just chic,” since “cowgirl chic” was
clearly an oxymoron. Maybe she’d had her fill of “cowgirl
chic” at B-DAD’s brother’s party. I managed to tune them out
until Miranda called my name, this time ordering me to call in
the accessories people for their run-through.
Immediately I checked Emily’s book again, but it was just as I
thought: there was no accessories run-through scheduled.
Praying that Emily had simply forgotten to put it in the book,
I called Stef and told her Miranda was ready for the Sedona
run-through.
No such luck. They weren’t scheduled for their run-through
until late afternoon the following day, and at least a quarter
of the things they needed hadn’t been delivered yet from their
PR companies.
“Impossible. Can’t do it,” announced Stef, sounding much less
confident than her words implied.
“Well, what the hell do you expect me to tell her?” I
whispered back.
“Tell her the truth: the run-through wasn’t supposed to take
place until tomorrow and a lot of the stuff isn’t here. I
mean, seriously! Right now we’re still waiting for one evening
bag, one clutch, three different fringed purses, four pairs of
shoes, two necklaces, three—”
“OK, OK, I’ll tell her. But wait by the phone and pick up if I
call you back. And if I were you, I’d get ready. I’m betting
she doesn’t really care when it was scheduled for.”
Stef hung up on me without another word and I approached
Miranda’s doors and waited patiently for her to acknowledge
me. When she looked in my general direction and waited, I
said, “Miranda, I just spoke with Stef and she said that since
the run-through wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, they’re still
waiting for quite a few items. But they should all be here
by—”
“Ahn-dre-ah, I simply cannot visualize how these models will
look in these clothes without shoes or bags or jewelry and by
tomorrow I’ll be in Italy. Tell Stef I want her to give me a
run-through of whatever she’s got and be prepared to show me
photos of whatever isn’t here yet!” She turned back to Lucia
and together they returned to the racks.
Conveying this to Stef gave new meaning to “don’t shoot the
messenger.” She freaked.
“I cannot fucking pull a run-through together in thirty
seconds, do you understand me? It’s fucking impossible! Four
of my five assistants aren’t here, and the only one who is
here is a complete fucking idiot. Andrea, what the fuck am I
going to do?” She was hysterical, but there wasn’t much room
for negotiation.
“OK, great then,” I said sweetly, eyeing Miranda, who had a
knack of hearing everything. “I’ll tell Miranda you’ll be
right here.” I hung up before she dissolved into tears.
I wasn’t surprised to see Stef arrive two and a half minutes
later with her one fucking idiot accessories assistant, a
fashion assistant she’d borrowed, and James, also borrowed
from beauty, all looking terrified as they carried oversize
wicker baskets. They stood cowering by my desk until Miranda
gave another imperceptible nod, at which point they all
shuffled forward for the genuflection exercises. Since Miranda
obviously refused to leave her office—ever—she required that
all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts full of shoes
and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped
to her.
When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their
wares in neat rows on the carpet for her to inspect, Miranda’s
office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar—one that just so happens
to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm-el-Sheik. One editor
was presenting her with $2,000 snakeskin belts while another
tried to sell her a large Kelly bag. A third hawked a short
Fendi cocktail dress, while someone else tried to sell her on
the merits of chiffon. Stef had managed to assemble a
near-perfect run-through with only thirty seconds’ notice and
a whole lot of pieces missing; I saw she had filled the gaps
with things from past photo shoots, explaining to Miranda that
the accessories they were still waiting for were similar but
even better. They were all masters at what they do, but
Miranda was the ultimate. She was the ever-aloof consumer,
coolly moving from one gorgeous stall to the next, never
feigning any show of interest. When she finally, blessedly,
did decide, she pointed and commanded (much like a judge at a
dog show, “Bob, she’s chosen the Border Collie . . .”), and
the editors nodded obsequiously (“Yes, excellent choice,” “Oh,
definitely, the perfect choice”) and they wrapped up their
wares and scuttled back to their respective departments before
she inevitably changed her mind.
The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes, but by the
time it was over, we were all exhausted from anxiety. She’d
already announced earlier in the day that she’d be leaving
early, around four, to spend a couple hours with the girls
before the big trip, so I canceled the features meeting, to
the relief of the entire department. At precisely 3:58P .M.
she began packing her bag to leave, a not-so-strenuous
activity, since I’d be bringing anything of any heft or
significance to her apartment later on that evening in time
for her flight. Basically, it involved tossing her Gucci
wallet and her Motorola Cell Phone into that Fendi bag that
she kept abusing. The past few weeks, the $10,000 beauty had
been serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads—in
addition to one of the handles—had snapped off. Miranda had
dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me to have it fixed
or, if it was impossible to fix, to just throw out. I’d
proudly resisted all temptation to tell her the bag was
unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a leatherworker
repair it for her for a mere twenty-five dollars.
When she finally walked out, I instinctively reached for the
phone to call Alex and whine about my day. It wasn’t until I’d
dialed half of his number that I remembered we were taking a
break. It hit me that this would be the first day in more than
three years that we wouldn’t talk. I sat with the phone in my
hand, staring at an e-mail he’d sent the day before, one that
he’d signed “love,” and wondered if I’d made a horrible
mistake in agreeing to this break. I dialed again, this time
ready to tell him that we should talk about everything, figure
out where we’d gone wrong, that I take responsibility for the
part I’d played in the slow and steady fading of our
relationship. But before it even had a chance to ring, Stef
was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my
Paris trip, pumped up from her run-through with Miranda. There
were shoes and bags and belts and jewelry and hosiery and
sunglasses to discuss, so I replaced the receiver and tried to
focus on her instructions.
Logically, it would seem that a seven-hour flight in steerage
decked out in a pair of skintight leather pants, open-toe
strappy sandals, and a blazer over a tank top would be the
utmost in hellish travel experiences. Not so. The seven hours
in flight were the most relaxing I could remember. Since
Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same time on
different flights—she from Milan and me from New York—it
appeared I’d stumbled on the single situation where she could
not call me for seven straight hours. For one blessed day, my
inaccessibility wasn’t my fault.
For reasons I still didn’t understand, my parents hadn’t been
nearly as thrilled as I thought they’d be when I’d called to
tell them about the trip.
“Oh, really?” my mother asked in that special way of hers that
implied so much more than those two little words really meant.
“You’re going to Paris now?”
“What do you mean, ‘now’?”
“Well, it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting
off to Europe, is all,” she said vaguely, although I could
tell that an avalanche of Jewish-mother guilt was ready to
begin its slide in my direction.
“And why is that? Whenwould be a good time?”
“Don’t get upset, Andy. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in
months—not that we’re complaining, Dad and I both understand
how demanding your job is—but don’t you want to see your new
nephew? He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met
him yet!”
“Mom! Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m dying to see Isaac, but
you know I can’t just—”
“You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston,
right?”
“Yes! You’ve told me four hundred times. I know it and I
appreciate it, but it’s not the money. I can’t get any time
off work and now with Emily out, I can’t just up and
leave—even on weekends. Does it make sense to you to fly
across the country only to have to come back if Miranda calls
me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does it?”
“Of course not, Andy, I just thought—we just thought—that you
might be able to visit them in the next couple weeks, because
Miranda was going to be away and all, and if you were going to
fly out there, then Dad and I would go also. But now you’re
going to Paris.”
She said it in the way that implied what she was really
thinking. “But now you’re going to Paris” translated to “But
now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family
obligations.”
“Mother, let me make something very, very clear here. I am not
going on vacation. I have not chosen to go to Paris rather
than meet my baby nephew. It’s not my decision at all, as you
probably know but are refusing to accept. It’s really very
simple: I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week,
or I get fired. Do you see a choice here? Because if so, I’d
love to hear it.”
She was quiet for a moment before she said, “No, of course
not, honey. You know we understand. I just hope—well, I just
hope that you’re happy with the way things are going.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked nastily.
“Nothing, nothing,” she rushed to say. “It doesn’t mean
anything other than just what I said: your dad and I only care
that you’re happy, and it seems that you’ve really been, um,
well, uh, pushing yourself lately. Is everything OK?”
I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard. “Yeah,
Mom, everything’s fine. I’m not happy to be going to Paris,
just so you know. It’s going to be a week of sheer hell,
twenty-four-seven. But my year will be up soon, and I can put
this kind of living behind me.”
“I know, sweetie, I know it’s been a tough year for you. I
just hope this all ends up being worth it for you. That’s
all.”
“I know. So do I.”
We hung up on good terms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling
that my own parents were disappointed in me.
The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare, but I found
the elegantly dressed driver who was waving a sign with my
name on it when I exited customs, and the moment he closed his
own door, he handed me a Cell Phone.
“Ms. Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival. I took the
liberty of programming the hotel’s number into the automatic
dialing. She’s in the Coco Chanel suite.”
“Um, oh, OK. Thanks. I guess I’ll call right now,” I announced
rather unnecessarily.
But before I could press the star key and the number one, the
phone bleated and flashed a frightening red color. If the
driver hadn’t been watching me expectantly I would have muted
the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen it, but I was left
with the distinct feeling that he had been ordered to keep a
close eye on me. Something about his expression suggested that
it was not in my best interest to ignore that call.
“Hello? This is Andrea Sachs,” I said as professionally as
possible, already making over/under bets with myself as to the
chance it was anyone besides Miranda.
“Ahn-dre-ah! What time does your watch read at this moment?”
Was this a trick question? A preface to accusing me of being
late?
“Um, let me see. Actually, it says that it’s five-fifteen in
the morning, but obviously I haven’t switched it yet to Paris
time. Therefore, my watch should read that it’s
eleven-fifteenA .M.” I said cheerily, hoping to start off the
first conversation of our interminable trip on as high a note
as I dared.
“Thank you for that never-ending narrative, Ahn-dre-ah. And
may I ask what, exactly, you’ve been doing for the past
thirty-five minutes?”
“Well, Miranda, the flight landed a few minutes late and then
I still had—”
“Because according to the itineraryyou created for me, I’m
reading that your flight arrived at ten-thirty-five this
morning.”
“Yes, that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, but you see—”
“I’ll not have you tell me what I see, Ahn-dre-ah. That is
most certainly not acceptable behavior for the next week, do
you understand me?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” My heart began pounding what felt
like a million beats a minute, and I could feel my face grow
hot with humiliation. Humiliation at being spoken to that way,
but more than anything, my own shame in pandering to it. I had
just apologized—most sincerely—to someone for not being able
to make my international flight land at the correct time and
then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to avoid
French customs entirely.
I pressed my face rather uncouthly against the window and
watched as the limo weaved its way through Paris’s bustling
streets. The women seemed so much taller here, the men so much
more genteel, and just about everyone was beautifully dressed,
thin, and regal in their stance. I’d only been to Paris once
before, but living out of a backpack in a hostel on the wrong
side of town didn’t quite have the same feel as watching the
chic little clothing boutiques and adorable sidewalk cafés
from the backseat of a limousine.I could get used to this, I
thought, as the driver turned around to show me where I might
find a few bottles of water if I was so inclined.
When the car pulled up to the hotel entrance, a
distinguished-looking gentleman wearing what I guessed was a
custom-made suit opened the back door for me.
“Mademoiselle Sachs, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I am
Gerard Renaud.” His voice was smooth and confident, and his
silver hair and deeply lined face indicated he was much older
than I’d pictured when I spoke to the concierge over the
phone.
“Monsieur Renaud, it’s great to finally meet you!” Suddenly
all I wanted to do was crawl into a nice, soft bed and sleep
off my jet lag, but Renaud quickly quashed my hopes.
“Mademoiselle Andrea, Madame Priestly would like to see you in
her room immediately. Before you’ve settled into yours, I’m
afraid.” He had an apologetic expression on his face, and for
a brief moment I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself.
Clearly he didn’t enjoy conveying this news.
“That’s fucking great,” I muttered, before noticing how
distressed this made Monsieur Renaud. I plastered on a winning
smile and began again. “Please excuse me, it was a terribly
long flight. Will someone please tell me where I may find
Miranda?”
“Of course, mademoiselle. She is in her suite and from what I
can gather, very eager to see you.” When I looked over at
Monsieur Renaud I thought I detected a slight eye-roll and
even though I’d always found him oppressively proper over the
phone, I reconsidered. Although he was much too professional
to show it, never mind actually say anything, I considered
that he might loathe Miranda as much as I did. Not because of
any real proof I had, but simply because it was impossible to
imagine anyonenot hating her.
The elevator opened and Monsieur Renaud smiled and ushered me
inside. He said something in French to the bellman who was
escorting me upstairs. Renaud bid me adieu and the bellman led
me to Miranda’s suite. He knocked on the door and then fled,
leaving me to face Miranda alone.
I briefly wondered if Miranda herself would answer the door,
but it was impossible to imagine. In the eleven months I’d
been letting myself in and out of her apartment, I’d yet to
catch her doing anything that even resembled work, including
such pedestrian tasks as answering the phone, removing a
jacket from a closet, or pouring a glass of water. It was as
if her every day wasShabbat and she was once again the
observant Jew, and I was, of course, herShabbes goy .
A pretty, uniformed maid opened the door and ushered me
inside, her sad eyes moist and staring directly at the floor.
“Ahn-dre-ah!” I heard from somewhere in the deep recesses of
the most magnificent living room I’d ever seen. “Ahn-dre-ah,
I’ll need my Chanel suit pressed for tonight, since it was
practically ruined with wrinkles on the flight over. You’d
think the Concorde would know how to handle luggage, but my
things look dreadful. Also, call Horace Mann and confirm that
the girls made it to school. You’ll be doing that every day—I
just don’t trust that Annabelle. Make sure you speak to both
Caroline and Cassidy each night and write out a list of their
Homework assignments and upcoming exams. I’ll expect a written
report in the morning, right before breakfast. Oh, and get
Senator Schumer on the phone immediately. It’s urgent. Lastly,
I need you to contact that idiot Renuad and tell him I expect
him to supply me with competent staff during my stay, and if
that’s too difficult I’m sure the general manager would be
able to assist me. That dumb girl he sent me is mentally
challenged.”
My eyes swiveled to the sorrowful girl who was currently
cowering in the foyer, looking as fearful as a cornered
hamster as she trembled and tried not to cry. I had to assume
she understood English, so I shot her my best sympathetic
look, but she just continued to shake. I looked around the
room and tried desperately to remember everything Miranda had
just rattled off.
“Will do,” I called in the general direction of her voice,
past the baby grand piano and the seventeen separate flower
arrangements that had been lovingly placed around the
house-size suite. “I’ll be back in just a moment with
everything you’ve asked for.” I quietly berated myself for
ending a sentence with a preposition and took one last look
around the magnificent room. It was, undoubtedly, the
plushest, most luxurious place I’d ever seen, with its brocade
curtains, thick, cream-colored carpeting, richly woven damask
bedspread on the king-size bed, and gold painted figurines
tucked discreetly on mahogany shelves and tables. Only a
flat-screen TV and a sleek, silver stereo system gave any
indication that the entire place hadn’t been created and
designed in the previous century by highly skilled craftsmen
plying their trade.
I ducked past the quaking maid and into the hallway. The
terrified bellman had reappeared.
“Could you show me to my room, please?” I asked as kindly as I
could, but he clearly thought that I would be abusing him as
well, and so once again he scurried ahead of me.
“Here, mademoiselle, I hope this is acceptable.”
About twenty yards down the hall was a door without a separate
number on it. It opened to a minisuite, nearly an exact
replica of Miranda’s but with a smaller living room and a
queen-size bed instead of a king. A large mahogany desk
outfitted with a multiline corporate-style phone, sleek
desktop computer, laser printer, scanner, and fax machine had
taken the place of the baby grand piano, but otherwise the
rooms were remarkably similar in their rich, soothing décor.
“Miss, this door leads to the private hallway connecting your
room and Ms. Priestly’s,” he explained as he moved to open the
door.
“No! It’s fine, I don’t need to see it. Just knowing it’s
there is good enough.” I glanced at the engraved nametag
placed discreetly on the pocket of his well-pressed uniform
shirt. “Thank you, uh, Stephan.” I rooted around in my bag for
cash to tip him but realized that I’d never thought to change
my American dollars to euros and hadn’t yet stopped at an ATM.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I, uh, only have American dollars. Is that
OK?”
His face flushed crimson and he began apologizing profusely.
“Oh, no, miss, please do not worry about such things. Ms.
Priestly takes care of these details when she departs.
However, since you will be needing local currency when you
leave the hotel, allow me to show you this.” He walked over to
the behemoth of a desk, slid open the top drawer, and handed
me an envelope with FrenchRunway ’s logo on it. Inside was a
pile of euro bills, about 4,000 American dollars’ worth in
all. The note, scribbled by Briget Jardin, the editor in chief
who’d borne the brunt of planning and scheduling for both this
trip and Miranda’s upcoming party, read:
Andrea, darling, delighted to have you join us! Please find
enclosed euros for your use while in Paris. I’ve spoken with
Monsieur Renaud and he will be on call for Miranda twenty-four
hours a day. See below for a listing of his work and personal
numbers, as well as the numbers for the hotel’s chef, physical
fitness trainer, director of transportation, and, of course,
the general manager. They are all familiar with Miranda’s
stays during the shows and so there should be no problems. Of
course, I may always be reached at work or, if necessary, by
cell, Home phone, fax, or pager if either of you requires
anything at all. If I don’t see you before Saturday’s big
soiree, I’ll look forward to meeting you there. Lots of Love,
Briget
Folded on a sheet ofRunway stationery and tucked underneath
the cash was a list of nearly a hundred phone numbers,
encompassing everything one could need in Paris, from a chic
florist to an emergency surgeon. These same numbers were
repeated on the last page of the detailed itinerary I’d
created for Miranda using information Briget had updated daily
and faxed over, so as of this moment there didn’t appear to be
a single contingency—short of an all-out world war—that would
prevent Miranda Priestly from viewing the spring line with the
least possible amount of stress, anxiety, and concern.
“Thank you so much, Stephan. This is most helpful.” I peeled
off a few bills for him anyway, but he courteously pretended
not to see it and ducked back into the hallway. I was pleased
to see that he appeared significantly less terrorized than he
had just a few moments earlier.
I somehow managed to find the people she had asked for and
figured I had a few minutes to rest my head on the
four-hundred-thread-count pillowcase, but the phone rang the
moment I closed my eyes.
“Ahn-dre-ah, come to my room immediately,” she barked before
slamming down the phone.
“Yes, of course, Miranda, thank you for asking so nicely. It’d
be my pleasure,” I said to absolutely nobody. I heaved my
jet-lagged body off the bed and concentrated on not getting a
heel stuck in the carpeted hallway that connected my room to
hers. Once again, a maid answered the door when I knocked.
“Ahn-dre-ah! One of Briget’s assistants just rang me to see
how long my speech is for today’s brunch,” she announced. She
was paging through a copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily that someone
from the office—probably Allison, who knew the drill from her
tenure in Miranda’s office—had faxed earlier, and two
beautiful men were working on her hair and makeup. A cheese
plate sat on the antique table beside her.
Speech? What speech? The only thing besides shows that was on
the itinerary today was some sort of awards luncheon that
Miranda planned to spend her usual fifteen minutes at before
bolting out of sheer boredom.
“I’m sorry. Did you say a speech?”
“I did.” She carefully closed the paper, calmly folded it in
half, and then tossed it angrily to the floor, narrowly
missing one of the men who knelt in front of her. “Why the
hell was I not informed that I’d be receiving some nonsense
award at today’s luncheon?” she hissed, her face contorting
with a hatred I’d never seen before. Displeasure? Sure.
Dissatisfaction? All the time. Annoyance, frustration,
generalized unHappiness? Of course, every minute of every day.
But I’d never seen her look so downrightpissed off .
“Um, Miranda, I’m so sorry, but it was actually Briget’s
office that RSVP’d you to the event today, and they never—”
“Stop speaking. Stop speaking this instant! All you ever offer
me are excuses.You are my assistant,you are the person I
designated to work things out in Paris,you are the one who
should be keeping me abreast of these things.” She was nearly
shouting now. One of the makeup guys asked softly in English
if we would like a moment alone, but Miranda ignored him
entirely. “It’s noon right now and I’ll be needing to leave
here in forty-five minutes. I expect a short, succinct, and
articulate speech legibly typed and waiting in my room. If you
cannot accomplish this, see yourself Home.Permanently . That’s
all.”
I fled down the hallway faster than I’d ever run in heels and
whipped open my international Cell Phone before I’d made it
into my room. It was nearly impossible to dial Briget’s work
number since my hands were shaking so badly, but somehow the
call went through. One of her assistants answered.
“I need Briget!” I shrieked, my voice breaking when I
pronounced her name. “Where is she?Where is she? I need to
talk to her.Now! ”
The girl was momentarily shocked into silence. “Andrea? Is
that you?”
“Yes, it’s me and I need Briget. It’s an emergency—where the
hell is she?”
“She’s at a show, but don’t worry, she always has her Cell
Phone on. Are you at the hotel? I’ll have her call you right
back.”
The phone on the desk rang a mere few seconds later, but it
felt like a week. “Andrea,” she lilted in her lovely French
accent. “What is it, dear? Monique said you were hysterical.”
“Hysterical? Damn right I’m hysterical! Briget, how could you
do this to me? Your office made the arrangements for this
fucking luncheon and no one bothered to tell me that she is
not only receiving an award but also expected to give a
speech?”
“Andrea, calm down. I’m sure we told—”
“And I have to write it! Are you listening to me? I have
forty-five fucking minutes to write an acceptance speech for
an award I know nothing about in a language I don’t speak. Or
I’m finished. What am I going to do?”
“All right, relax, I’m going to walk you through this. First
of all, the ceremony is right there, at the Ritz, in one of
the salons.”
“The what? Which salon?” I hadn’t had a chance to look around
the hotel yet, but I was reasonably sure there weren’t any
pubs in the place.
“It is French for, oh, what do you call them? Meeting rooms.
So, she will only need to go downstairs. It is for the French
Council on Fashion, an organization here in Paris that always
has its awards during the shows because everyone is in
town.Runway will be receiving an award for fashion coverage.
It is not such a, how do you say, big deal, almost like a
formality.”
“Great, well at least I know what it’s for. What exactly am I
supposed to write? Why don’t you just dictate in English and I
can get Monsieur Renaud to translate it, OK? You start. I’m
ready.” My voice had regained some confidence, but I could
still barely grip the pen. The combination of exhaustion,
stress, and hunger was making it hard to focus my eyes on the
Ritz stationery that was laid out on my desk.
“Andrea, you are in luck again.”
“Oh, really? Because I’m not feeling so lucky right now,
Briget.”
“These things are always conducted in English. There is no
need for translation. So you can write it, yes?”
“Yes, yes I’ll write it,” I mumbled and dropped the phone.
There wasn’t even time to consider that this was my very first
chance to show Miranda that I was capable of doing something
more sophisticated than fetching lattes.
After I hung up and began typing away at sixty words a minute—
typing was the only useful class I’d taken in all of high
school—I realized the whole thing would only take two, maybe
three minutes for Miranda to read. There was just enough time
to gulp some of the Pellegrino and devour a few of the
strawberries someone had thoughtfully left on my small bar.If
only they could’ve left a cheeseburger, I thought. I
remembered that I had tucked a Twix bar in my luggage that had
been neatly piled in the corner, but there wasn’t time to look
for it. Exactly forty minutes had passed since I’d received my
marching orders. It was time to see if I’d passed.
A different—but equally as terrified—maid answered Miranda’s
door and ushered me into the living room. Obviously, I
should’ve remained standing, but the leather pants I’d been
wearing since the day before felt like they were permanently
stuck to my legs, and the strappy sandals that hadn’t bothered
me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long,
flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes. I chose to
perch on the overstuffed couch, but the moment my knees bent
and my butt made contact with the cushion, her bedroom door
flew open and I instinctively launched to my feet.
“Where’s my speech?” she asked automatically, while yet
another maid followed after her holding a single earring that
Miranda had forgotten to put in. “You did write something, did
you not?” She was wearing one of her classic Chanel
suits—round collars with fur trim—and a looping strand of
extraordinarily large pearls.
“Of course, Miranda,” I said proudly. “I think this will be
appropriate.” I walked toward her since she was making no
effort to retrieve it herself, but before I could offer her
the paper she snatched it from my hand. I didn’t realize until
her eyes had finished moving back and forth that I’d been
holding my breath.
“Fine. This is fine. Certainly nothing groundbreaking, but
fine. Let’s go.” She picked up a matching quilted Chanel purse
and placed the chain handle over her shoulder.
“Pardon?”
“I said, let’s go. This silly little ceremony starts in
fifteen minutes, and with any luck we’ll be out of there in
twenty. I truly loathe these things.”
There was no way to deny that I’d heard her say both “let’s”
and “we”: I was definitely expected to go with her. I glanced
down at my leather pants and fitted blazer and figured that if
she had no problem with it—and I certainly would’ve heard if
she had—then what did it really matter? There would probably
be fleets of assistants roaming around, tending to their
bosses, and surely no one would care what we were wearing.
The “salon” was exactly what Briget had said it would be—a
typical hotel meeting room, complete with a couple dozen round
luncheon tables and a slightly raised presentation stage with
a podium. I stood along the back wall with a few other
employees of various kinds and watched as the president of the
council showed an incredibly unfunny, uninteresting, wholly
uninspired movie clip on how fashion affects all of our lives.
A few more people hogged the mike for the next half hour, and
then, before a single award had been presented, an army of
waiters began bringing out salads and filling wine glasses. I
looked warily at Miranda, who appeared acutely bored and
irritated, and tried to shrink smaller behind the potted tree
I was currently leaning against to keep from falling asleep. I
can’t be sure how long my eyes were closed, but just as I lost
all control of my neck muscles and my head started to nod
forward uncontrollably, I heard her voice.
“Ahn-dre-ah! I don’t have time for this nonsense,” she
whispered loudly enough that a few Clackers from a nearby
table glanced up. “I wasn’t told that I would be receiving an
award, and I wasn’t prepared to do so. I’m leaving.” And she
turned around and began striding toward the door.
I hobbled after her but thought better of grabbing her
shoulder. “Miranda? Miranda?” She was clearly ignoring me.
“Miranda? Whom would you like to accept the award on behalf
ofRunway ?” I whispered as quietly as I could and still have
her hear me.
She whipped around and stared me straight in the eyes. “Do you
think I care? Go up there and accept it yourself.” And before
I could say another word, she was gone.
Oh my god. This wasn’t happening. I would surely wake up in my
own, unglamorous, negative-thread-count-sheeted bed in just a
minute and discover that the entire day—hell, the entire
year—had just been a particularly horrid dream. That woman
didn’t really expect me—thejunior assistant—to go up there and
accept an award forRunway ’s fashion coverage, did she? I
looked around the room frantically to see if anyone else
fromRunway was attending the lunch. No such luck. I slumped
down in a seat and tried to figure out whether I should call
Emily or Briget for advice, or whether I should just leave
myself since Miranda apparently cared nothing about receiving
this honor. My Cell Phone had just connected to Briget’s
office (who I was hoping could make it over there in time to
take the goddamn award herself) when I heard the words “. . .
extend our deepest appreciation to AmericanRunway for its
accurate, amusing, and always informative fashion coverage.
Please welcome its world-famous editor in chief, a living
fashion icon herself, Ms. Miranda Priestly!”
The room erupted into applause at precisely the same moment I
felt my heart stop beating.
There was no time to think, to curse Briget for letting this
all happen, to curse Miranda for leaving and taking the speech
with her, to curse myself for ever accepting this hateful job
in the first place. My legs moved forward on their
own,left-right, left-right, and climbed the three steps to the
podium with no incident whatsoever. Had I not been utterly
shell-shocked, I might have noticed that the enthusiastic
clapping had given way to an eerie silence as everyone tried
to figure out who I was. But I didn’t. Instead, some greater
force prompted me to smile, reach out to take the plaque from
the severe-looking president’s hands, and place it shakingly
on the podium in front of me. It wasn’t until I lifted my head
and saw hundreds of eyes staring back—curious, probing,
confused eyes, all of them—that I knew for sure I would cease
breathing and die right there.
I imagine I stood like that for no longer than ten or fifteen
seconds, but the silence was so overwhelming, so
all-consuming, that I wondered if I had, in fact, died
already. No one uttered a word. No silver scraped plates, no
glasses clinked, no one even whispered to a neighbor about who
was standing in for Miranda Priestly. They just watched me,
moment after moment, until I was left with no choice but to
speak. I didn’t remember a word of the speech that I had
written an hour earlier, so I was on my own.
“Hello,” I began and heard my voice reverberate in my ears. I
couldn’t tell if it was the microphone or the sound of blood
pounding inside my head, but it didn’t matter. The only thing
I could hear for sure was that it was shaking—uncontrollably.
“My name is Andrea Sachs and I’m Mir—uh, I’m on staff atRunway
. Unfortunately, Miranda, um, Ms. Priestly had to step out for
a moment, but I would like to accept this award on her behalf.
And, of course, on behalf of everyone atRunway . Thank you,
um”—I couldn’t remember the name of the council or the
president here—“all so much for this, uh, this wonderful
honor. I know I speak for everyone when I say that we are all
so honored.” Idiot! I was stuttering and um-ing and shaking,
and I was even conscious enough at this point to notice that
the crowd had begun to twitter. Without another word, I walked
in as dignified a manner as I could manage from the podium and
didn’t realize until I’d reached the back doors that I’d
forgotten the plaque. A staffer followed me to the lobby,
where I’d just collapsed in a fit of exhaustion and
humiliation, and handed it to me. I waited until she left and
asked one of the janitors to throw it out. He shrugged and
tossed it in his bag.
That bitch!I thought, too angry and tired to conjure up any
really creative names or methods of ending her life. My phone
rang and, knowing it was her, I turned off the ringer and
ordered a gin and tonic from one of the front desk people.
“Please. Please just have someone send one out. Please.” The
woman took one look at me and nodded. I sucked the entire
thing down in just two long gulps and headed back upstairs to
see what she wanted. It was only two in the afternoon of my
first day in Paris, and I wanted to die. Only death was not an
option.
17
“Miranda Priestly’s room,” I answered from my new Parisian
office. My four glorious hours that were supposed to
constitute a full night’s sleep had been rudely interrupted by
a frantic call from one of Karl Lagerfeld’s assistants at sixA
.M., which is precisely when I’d discovered that all of
Miranda’s phone calls were being routed directly tomy room for
answering. It appeared the entire city and surrounding area
knew Miranda stayed here during the shows, and so my phone had
been ringing incessantly since the moment I stepped inside.
Never mind the two dozen messages that had already been left
on the voice mail.
“Hi, it’s me. How’s Miranda doing? Is everything OK? Did
anything go wrong yet? Where is she and why aren’t you with
her?”
“Hey, Em! Thanks for caring. How are you feeling, by the way?”
“What? Oh, I’m fine. A little weak, but getting better.
Whatever. How isshe ?”
“Yes, well, I’m fine, too, thanks for asking. Yes, it was a
long flight to get here and I haven’t slept for more than
twenty minutes at a time since the phone keeps ringing and I’m
pretty sure it’s never going to stop, and, oh! I gave a
completely impromptu speech—after writing an impromptu
speech—to a group of people who wanted Miranda’s company but
apparently weren’t interesting enough to warrant it. Looked
like a giant fucking idiot, actually, and nearly gave myself a
heart attack in the process, but hey, other than that, things
are just great.”
“Andrea! Be serious! I’ve been really worried about
everything. There wasn’t a lot of time to prepare for this,
and you know that if anything goes wrong over there she’s
going to blame me anyway.”
“Emily. Please don’t take this personally, but I can’t talk to
you right now. I just can’t do it.”
“Why? Is something wrong? How did her meeting go yesterday?
Did she get there on time? Do you have everything you need?
Are you making sure to wear appropriate clothes? Remember,
you’re representingRunway over there, so you always have to
look the part.”
“Emily. I need to hang up now.”
“Andrea! I’m concerned. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
“Well, let’s see. In all the free time I’ve had, I’ve gotten a
half-dozen or so massages, two facials, and a few manicures.
Miranda and I have really bonded over doing the whole spa
thing together. It’s great fun. She’s really trying hard not
to be too demanding, says she really wants me to enjoy Paris
since it’s such a wonderful city and I’m lucky to be here. So
basically we just hang out and have fun. Drink great wine.
Shop. You know, the usual.”
“Andrea! This is really not funny, OK? Now tell me what the
hell is going on.” With every degree more annoyed she sounded,
my mood improved a notch.
“Emily, I’m not sure what to tell you. What do you want to
hear? How it’s been so far? Let’s see, I’ve spent most of my
time trying to figure out how best to sleep through a phone
that won’t stop ringing while simultaneously shoving enough
food down my throat between the hours of two and sixA .M. to
sustain me for the remaining twenty hours. It’s like fucking
Ramadan here, Em—no eating during daylight hours. Yeah, you
should be really sorry you’re missing this one.”
The other line began blinking and I put Emily on hold. Every
time it rang my mind went quickly, uncontrollably, to Alex,
wondering if he just might call and say that everything was
going to be just fine. I’d called twice on my international
cell since I’d arrived and he’d answered both times, but like
the expert prank caller I’d been in junior high, I’d hung up
the moment I’d heard his voice. It’d been the longest we’d
ever gone without talking and I wanted to hear what was going
on, but I also couldn’t help feeling like life had gotten
significantly simpler since we’d taken a break from the
bickering and the guilt-mongering. Still, I held my breath
until I heard Miranda’s voice screeching from across the
wires.
“Ahn-dre-ah, when is Lucia due to arrive?”
“Oh, hello, Miranda. Let me just check the itinerary I have
for her. Here it is. Let’s see, it says here that she was
flying in directly from the shoot in Stockholm today. She
should be at the hotel.”
“Connect me.”
“Yes, Miranda, just a moment, please.”
I put her on hold and switched her back to Emily. “That’s her,
hold on.”
“Miranda? I just found Lucia’s number. I’ll connect you now.”
“Wait, Ahn-dre-ah. I’ll be leaving the hotel in twenty minutes
for the rest of the day. I’ll need some scarves before I
return, and a new chef. He should have a minimum of ten years’
experience in mostly French restaurants and be available for
family dinners four nights a week and dinner parties twice a
month.Now connect me to Lucia.”
I knew I should’ve gotten hung up on the fact that Miranda
wanted me to hire her a New York chef from Paris, but all I
could focus on was that she was leaving the hotel—without me,
and for the entire day. I clicked back to Emily and told her
that Miranda needed a new chef.
“I’ll work on it, Andy,” she announced while coughing. “I’ll
do some preliminary screening and then you can talk to a few
of the finalists. Just find out if Miranda would like to wait
until she gets Home to meet them or if she’d prefer if you
arranged for a couple to fly there and meet with her now, OK?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Well, of course I’m serious. Miranda hired Cara when she was
in Marbella last year. Their last nanny had just quit and she
had me fly three finalists to her so she could find someone
right away. Just find out, OK?”
“Sure,” I muttered. “And thanks.”
Just talking about those massages had sounded so good, I
decided to book one for myself. There wasn’t an appointment
available until early evening, so I called room service in the
meantime and ordered a full breakfast. When the butler
delivered it to me, I’d already crawled back into one of the
plush robes, donned a pair of the matching slippers, and
prepared myself to feast on the omelet, croissants, Danishes,
muffins, potatoes, cereal, and crepes that arrived smelling so
good. After devouring all the food and two cups of tea, I
waddled back to the bed I hadn’t really slept in the night
before and fell asleep so quickly that I wondered if someone
had slipped something in my orange juice.
The massage was the perfect way to top off what had been a
blessedly relaxed day. Everyone else was doing my work for me,
and Miranda had only called and woken me once—once!—to request
that I make her a lunch reservation the following day.This
isn’t so bad, I thought, as the woman’s strong hands kneaded
my twisted neck muscles. Not a bad perk at all. But just as I
started to drift off once again, the Cell Phone that I’d
grudgingly brought along began its persistent ring.
“Hello?” I said brightly, as if I weren’t lying naked on a
table covered in oil, half-asleep.
“Ahn-dre-ah. Move my hair and makeup earlier and tell the
Ungaro people I can’t make it tonight. I’ll be attending a
small cocktail party instead, and I expect you to come with
me. Be ready to leave in an hour.”
“Um, sure, uh, sure,” I stammered, trying to process the fact
that I was actually going somewhere with her. A flashback from
yesterday—the last time I was told at the very last minute
that I was to go somewhere with her—flooded my brain, and I
felt as though I would hyperventilate. I thanked the woman and
charged the massage to the room even though I’d made it
through only the first ten minutes, and I ran upstairs to
figure out how to best maneuver around this newest obstacle.
This was getting old. Quickly.
It took just a few minutes to page Miranda’s hair and makeup
people (who, incidentally, were different from my own—I was
pieced together by an angry-looking woman whose look of
despair on seeing me for the first time haunted me still,
while Miranda had a pair of gay guys who looked like they
stepped directly out of the pages ofMaxim ) and change her
appointment.
“No problem,” Julien squealed in a thick French accent. “We
will be there, how you say? Wearing bells! We clear our
schedules this week just in the case that Madame Priestly need
us at different times!”
I paged Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro
people. Time to hit the wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my
different “looks” was displayed prominently on the bedside
table, just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to
turn to it for spiritual guidance. I flipped through the
headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all.
Shows:
1. Daytime
2. Evening
Meals:
1. Breakfast meeting
2. Lunch
A. Casual (hotel or bistro)
B. Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)
3. Dinner
A. Casual (bistro, room service)
B. Midrange (decent restaurant, casual dinner party)
C. Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner
party)
Parties:
1. Casual (champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)
2. Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties,
“meet for drinks”)
3. Dressy (cocktail parties by major people, anything at a
museum or gallery, postshow parties hosted by design team)
Miscellaneous:
1. To and from the airport
2. Athletic events (lessons, tournaments, etc.)
3. Shopping excursions
4. Running errands
A. To couture salons
B. To upscale shops and boutiques
C. To the local food store and/or health and beauty aid
There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear
when one was unable to establish the major-ness or
non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was the
opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the
event down to “Parties,” which was a good first step, but at
that point things got gray. Was this party going to be a
simple number 2, where I’d just pull out something chic, or
was it really a 3, in which case I’d better pay attention to
choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no
instructions for “gray area” or “uncertainty,” but someone had
helpfully included a last-minute handwritten note toward the
bottom of the table of contents:When in doubt (and you never
should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous
than overdressed in something fabulous. Well, OK then, it
looked like I now squarely fit into category, party;
subcategory, stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had
sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out
what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on.
After a particularly embarrassing run-in with a
feather-covered tank top and patent-leather thigh-high (as in
yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected the outfit on
page thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli
with a baby-T and a pair of biker-chick black boots by D&G.
Hot, sexy, stylish—but not too dressy—without actually making
me look like an ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker.
What more could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to
choose a workable bag, the hair and makeup woman showed up to
begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not
look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did.
“Um, could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a
little?” I asked carefully, desperately trying not disparage
her handiwork. It probably would’ve been better to have a go
at the makeup myself— especially since I had more supplies and
instructions than the NASA scientists commissioned to build
the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like
clockwork whether I liked it or not.
“No!” she barked, clearly not striving for the same
sensitivity as myself. “It looks better this way.”
She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom
lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my
bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to the lobby
fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I
could double-check that the driver was ready. Just as I was
debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to
each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or
actually use the same one and risk catching something from
sharing a backseat with her assistant, she appeared. She
looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining
completely passive and indifferent. I’d passed! This was the
first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t
received a look of all-out disgust or, at the very least, a
snarky comment, and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New
York fashion editors, a collection of Parisian hair and makeup
stylists, and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most
expensive clothing.
“Is the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?” She looked stunning in a short,
shirred velvet cocktail dress.
“Yes, Ms. Priestly, right this way,” Monsieur Renaud
interrupted smoothly, leading us past a group of what could
only be other American fashion editors also there for the
shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking
crowd ofüber -Clackers when we walked past, Miranda two steps
in front me, looking thin and striking and very, very unhappy.
I nearly had to run to keep up, even though she was six inches
shorter than me, and I waited until she gave me a “Well? What
the hell are you waiting for?” look before I ducked into the
backseat of the limo after her.
Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going,
because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would
turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was
being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing, choosing
instead to chat with B-DAD on her Cell Phone, repeating over
and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time
to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday
night. He was flying over in his company’s private jet, and
they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline
and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday, she
didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It
wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex
apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it
was exactly that I was supposed to do all night. She’d always
been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her
staff in public, which indicated—at least on some level—that
she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she
couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her
someone on the phone or have something dry-cleaned while we
were standing there, what was I to do?
“Ahn-dre-ah, this party is being hosted by a couple with whom
I was friendly when we lived in Paris. They requested that I
bring along an assistant to entertain their son, who generally
finds these events rather dull. I’m sure the two of you will
get along well.” She waited until the driver opened her door,
then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps.
Before I could open my own door, she had climbed the three
steps and was already handing her coat to the butler, who was
clearly awaiting her arrival. I slumped back into the soft
leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem
of information she’d so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup,
the rescheduling, the panicked consultation with the style
book, the biker-chick boots, were all so I could spend the
night babysitting some rich couple’s snot-nosed kid? And
aFrench snot-nosed kid, no less.
I spent three full minutes reminding myself thatThe New Yorker
was now only a couple months away, that my year of servitude
was about to pay off, that I could surely make it through one
more night of tedium to get my dream job. It didn’t help. All
of a sudden, I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’
couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set
up the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting,
too, with baby Isaac, who would coo and smile when he saw me
and Alex would call and tell me he loved me. No one would care
that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully
unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate éclair.
Not a single person would even know that there were fashion
shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic, and they sure as
hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them. But all of
that seemed incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and
right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived
and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to be a
screaming, spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.
When I finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from
the limo, the butler was no longer expecting anyone. There was
music coming from a live band and the smell of scented candles
wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I took a
deep breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open.
It’s safe to say that never, ever, in my young life had I been
more surprised than I was that night: Christian was smiling
back at me.
“Andy, darling, so glad you could make it,” he said, leaning
in and kissing me full on the mouth—a bit intimate considering
my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing? Because you seem to
follow me everywhere I go, I’m going to have to assume you
want to sleep with me.”
I blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. “Yeah,
something like that. Actually, I’m not here as a guest, I’m
just a very well dressed babysitter. Miranda asked me to come
along and didn’t tell me until the last second that I’m
supposed to be watching the hosts’ bratty son tonight. So, if
you’ll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the milk
and crayons he’ll need.”
“Oh, he’s just fine, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll
be needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter.” And
he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. I opened
my mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on,
but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my
mouth.
“Christian!” I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly
Miranda would fire me if she caught me making out with some
random guy at one of her own parties. “What the hell are you
doing? Let go of me!” I squirmed away, but he just continued
to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.
“Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here,
this ismy house.My parents are hosting this party, and I was
clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along.
Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide
that for yourself?”
“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Please?”
“Nope. Fun, right? Since I can’t seem to pin you down any
other way, I thought this might work. My stepmother and
Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at
FrenchRunway —she’s a photographer and does shoots for them
all the time—so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely
son wouldn’t mind a little company in the form of one
attractive assistant. Worked like a charm. Come on, let’s get
you a drink.” He put his hand on the small of my back and led
me toward a massive oak bar in the living room, which
currently had three uniformed bartenders administering
martinis and glasses of Scotch and elegant flutes of
champagne.
“So, let me just get this straight: I don’t have to babysit
for anyone tonight? You don’t have a baby brother or anything
like that, do you?” It was incomprehensible that I had driven
to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities
for the entire night except to hang out with a Hot Smart
Writer. Maybe they’d invited me because they were planning to
make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they
were really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the
easiest last-minute fill-in? Or maybe we were headed to the
coat check, where I would relieve the girl who sat there now,
looking bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself around
Christian’s story.
“Well, I’m not saying you don’t have to babysit at all
tonight, because I plan on needing lots and lots of attention.
But I think it’ll be a better night than you’d anticipated.
Wait right here.” He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared
into the crowd of partygoers, mostly distinguished-looking men
and sort of artsy, fashionable women in their forties and
fifties, what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine
people, with a few designers, photographers, and models thrown
in for good measure. There was a small, elegant stone patio in
the back of the townhouse, all lit by white candles, where a
violinist played softly, and I peeked outside. Immediately I
recognized Anna Wintour, looking absolutely ravishing in a
cream-colored silk slip dress and beaded Manolo sandals. She
was talking animatedly to a man I presumed to be her
boyfriend, although her giant Chanel sunglasses prevented me
from being able to tell if she was amused, indifferent, or
sobbing. 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.
Behind her stood what I presumed to be a fewVogue editors,
eyeing Anna warily and wearily like our own Clackers eye
Miranda, and next to them was a screeching Donatella Versace.
Her face was so caked with makeup, her clothes were so
phenomenally tight, that she actually looked like a caricature
of herself. Like the first time I visited Switzerland and
couldn’t help thinking how much it resembled the mock-up town
in EPCOT, Donatella actually looked more like the character
onSaturday Night Live than herself.
I sipped my glass of champagne (and I thought I wouldn’t be
having any!) and made small talk with an Italian guy—one of
the first ugly ones I’d ever met—who spoke in florid prose
about his innate appreciation for the female body, until
Christian reappeared again.
“Hey, come with me for a minute,” he said, once again
navigating me smoothly through the crowd. He was wearing his
uniform: perfectly faded Diesels, a white T-shirt, a dark
sport coat, and Gucci loafers, and he blended into the fashion
crowd seamlessly.
“Where are we going?” I asked, keeping my eyes peeled for
Miranda, who, no matter what Christian said, was still
probably expecting me to be banished to the corner, faxing or
updating the itinerary.
“First, we’re getting you another drink, and maybe another for
me as well. Then, I’m going to teach you how to dance.”
“What makes you think I don’t know how to dance? It just so
happens that I’m a gifted dancer.”
He handed me another glass of champagne that seemed to appear
out of thin air and led me into his parents’ formal living
room, which was done in gorgeous shades of deep maroon. A
six-piece band was playing hip music, of course, and the
couple dozen people under thirty-five had congregated here. As
if on cue, the band started playing Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get
It On” and Christian pulled me against him. He smelled of
masculine, preppy cologne, something old-school like Polo
Sport. His hips moved naturally to the music, no thinking
involved, we just moved together all over the makeshift dance
floor, and he sang quietly in my ear. The rest of the room
became fuzzy—I was vaguely aware there were others dancing,
too, and somewhere someone was making a toast to something,
but at that moment the only thing with any definition was
Christian. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, there
was a tiny but insistent reminder that this body against mine
was not Alex’s, but it didn’t matter at all. Not now, not
tonight.
It was after one when I actually remembered that I was there
with Miranda; it had been hours since I’d last seen her, and I
was certain she’d forgotten all about me and headed back to
the hotel. But when I finally pulled myself away from the
couch in his father’s study, I saw her happily chatting with
Karl Lagerfeld and Gwyneth Paltrow, all of them apparently
oblivious to the fact that they would all be waking up for the
Christian Dior show in just a few hours. I was debating
whether or not I should approach her when she spotted me.
“Ahn-dre-ah! Come over here,” she called, her voice sounding
almost merry over the din of the party that had become
noticeably more festive in the last few hours. Someone had
dimmed the lights, and it was abundantly clear that the
partyers who remained had been well taken care of by the
smiling bartenders. The annoying way she pronounced my name
didn’t even bother me in my warm and fuzzy champagne buzz. And
even though I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, she
was clearly calling me over to introduce me to her celebrity
friends.
“Yes, Miranda?” I cooed in my most ingratiating,
thank-you-for-bringing-me-to-this-fabulous-place tone. She
didn’t even look in my general direction.
“Get me a Pellegrino and then make sure the driver’s out
front. I’m ready to leave now.” The two women and one man
standing next to her snickered, and I felt my face turn bright
red.
“Of course. I’ll be right back.” I fetched the water, which
she accepted without a thank-you, and made my way through the
thinning crowd to the car. I considered finding Christian’s
parents to thank them but thought better of it and headed
straight toward the door, where he was leaning up against the
frame with a smugly satisfied expression.
“So, little Andy, did I show you a good time tonight?” he
slurred just a little bit, and it seemed nothing short of
adorable at that moment.
“It was all right, I suppose.”
“Just all right? Sounds to me like you wish I would’ve taken
you upstairs tonight, huh, Andy? All in good time, my friend,
all in good time.”
I smacked him playfully on the forearm. “Don’t flatter
yourself, Christian. Thank your parents for me.” And, for
once, I leaned over first and kissed him on the cheek before
he could do anything else. “G’night.”
“A tease!” he called, slurring just a little bit more. “You’re
quite the little tease. Bet your boyfriend loves that about
you, doesn’t he?” He was smiling now, and not cruelly. It was
all part of the flirty game for him, but the reference to Alex
sobered me for a minute. Just long enough to realize that I’d
had a better time tonight than I could remember having had in
many years. The drinking and the close dancing and his hands
on my back as he pulled me against him had made me feel more
alive than in all the months since I’d been working atRunway,
months that had been filled with nothing but frustration and
humiliation and a body-numbing exhaustion. Maybe this was why
Lily did it, I thought. The guys, the partying, the sheer joy
of realizing you’re young and breathing. I couldn’t wait to
call and tell her all about it.
Miranda joined me in the backseat of the limo after another
five minutes, and she even appeared to be somewhat happy. I
wondered if she’d gotten drunk but ruled that out immediately:
the most I’d ever seen her drink was a sip of this or that,
and then only because a social situation demanded it. She
preferred Perrier or Pellegrino to champagne and certainly a
milkshake or a latte to a cosmo, so the chances she was
actually drunk right now were slim.
After grilling me about the following day’s itinerary for the
first five minutes (luckily I’d thought to tuck a copy in my
bag), she turned and looked at me for the first time all
evening.
“Emily—er, Ahn-dre-ah, how long have you been working for me?”
It came out of left field, and my mind couldn’t work fast
enough to figure out the ulterior motive for this sudden
question. It felt strange to be the object of any question of
hers that wasn’t explicitly asking why I was such a fucking
idiot for not finding, fetching, or faxing something fast
enough. She’d never actually asked about my life before.
Unless she remembered the details of our hiring interview—and
it seemed unlikely, considering she’d stared at me with
utterly blank eyes my very first day of work—then she had no
idea where, if anywhere, I’d attended college, where, if
anywhere, I lived in Manhattan, or what, if anything, I did in
the city in the few precious hours a day I wasn’t racing
around for her. And although this question most certainly did
have a Miranda element to it, my intuition said that this
might, just maybe, be a conversation about me.
“Next month it will be a year, Miranda.”
“And do you feel you’ve learned a few things that may help you
in your future?” She peered at me, and I instantly suppressed
the urge to start rattling off the myriad things I’d
“learned”: how to find a single store or restaurant review in
a whole city or out of a dozen newspapers with few to no clues
about its genuine origin; how to pander to preteenage girls
who’d already had more life experiences than both my parents
combined; how to plead with, scream at, persuade, cry to,
pressure, cajole, or charm anyone, from the immigrant food
delivery guy to the editor in chief of a major publishing
house to get exactly what I needed, when I needed it; and, of
course, how to complete just about any challenge in under an
hour because the phrase “I’m not sure how” or “that’s not
possible” was simply not an option. It had been nothing if not
a learning-rich year.
“Oh, of course,” I gushed. “I’ve learned more in one year
working for you than I could’ve hoped to have learned in any
other job. It’s been fascinating, really, seeing how a
major—themajor—magazine runs, the production cycle, what all
the different jobs are. And, of course, being able to observe
the way you manage everything, all the decisions you make—it’s
been an amazing year. I’m so thankful, Miranda!” So thankful
that two of my molars had been aching for weeks, too, but I
wasn’t ever able to get in to see a dentist during working
hours, but whatever. My newfound, intimate knowledge of Jimmy
Choo’s handicraft had been well worth the pain.
Could this possibly sound believable? I stole a glance, and
she seemed to be buying it, nodding her head gravely. “Well,
you know, Ahn-dre-ah, that if ah-fter a year my girls have
performed well, I consider them ready for a promotion.”
My heart surged. Was it finally happening? Was this where she
told me that she’d already gone ahead and secured a job for me
atThe New Yorker ? Never mind that she had no idea I would
kill to work there. Maybe she had just figured it out because
she cares.
“I have my doubts about you, of course. Don’t think I haven’t
noticed your lack of enthusiasm, or those sighs or faces you
make when I ask you to do something that you quite obviously
don’t feel like doing. I’m hoping that’s just a sign of your
immaturity, since you do seem reasonably competent in other
areas. What exactly are you interested in doing?”
Reasonably competent! She may as well have announced I was the
most intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, and capable young
woman she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. Miranda Priestly
had just told me I was reasonably competent!
“Well, actually, it’s not that I don’t love fashion, because
of course I do. Who wouldn’t?” I rushed on to say, keeping a
careful appraisal of her expression, which, as usual, remained
mostly unchanged. “It’s just that I’ve always dreamt of
becoming a writer, so I was hoping that might, uh, be an area
I could explore.”
She folded her hands in her lap and glanced out the window. It
was clear that this forty-five-second conversation was already
beginning to bore her, so I had to move quickly. “Well, I
certainly have no idea if you can write a word or not, but I’m
not opposed to having you write a few short pieces for the
magazine to find out. Perhaps a theater review or a small
writeup for the Happenings section. As long as it doesn’t
interfere with any of your responsibilities for me, and is
done only during your own time, of course.”
“Of course, of course. That would be wonderful!” We were
talking, really communicating, and we hadn’t so much as
mentioned the words “breakfast” or “dry cleaning” yet. Things
were going too well not to just go for it, and so I said,
“It’s my dream to work atThe New Yorker one day.”
This seemed to catch her now drifting attention, and once
again she peered at me. “Why ever would you want to do that?
No glamour there, just nuts and bolts.” I couldn’t decide if
the question was rhetorical, so I played it safe and kept my
mouth shut.
My time was about twenty seconds from expiring, both because
we were nearing the hotel and her fleeting interest in me was
fading fast. She was scrolling through the incoming calls on
her Cell Phone, but still managed to say in the most
offhanded, casual way, “Hmm,The New Yorker . Condé Nast.” I
was nodding wildly, encouragingly, but she wasn’t looking at
me. “Of course I know a great many people there. We’ll see how
the rest of the trip goes, and perhaps I’ll make a call over
there when we return.”
The car pulled up to the entrance, and an exhausted-looking
Monsieur Renaud eclipsed the bellman who was leaning forward
to open Miranda’s door and opened it himself.
“Ladies! I hope you had a lovely evening,” he crooned, doing
his best to smile through the exhaustion.
“We’ll be needing the car at nine tomorrow morning to go to
the Christian Dior show. I have a breakfast meeting in the
lobby at eight-thirty. See that I’m not disturbed before
then,” she barked, all traces of her previous humanness
evaporating like spilled water on a hot sidewalk. And before I
could think how to end our conversation or, at the very least,
kiss up a little more for having had it at all, she walked
toward the elevators and vanished inside one. I shot a weary,
understanding look to Monsieur Renaud and boarded an elevator
myself.
The small, tastefully arranged chocolates on a silver tray on
my bedside table only highlighted the perfection of the
evening. In one random, unexpected night, I’d felt like a
model, hung out with one of the hottest guys I’d seen in the
flesh, and had been told by Miranda Priestly that I was
reasonably competent. It felt like everything was finally
coming together, that the past year of sacrifice was showing
the first early signs of potentially paying off. I collapsed
on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and gazed at the
ceiling, still unable to believe that I’d told Miranda
straight up that I wanted to work atThe New Yorker, and she
hadn’t laughed. Or screamed. Or in any way, shape, or form
freaked out. She hadn’t even scoffed and told me that I was
ridiculous for not wanting to get promoted somewhere
withinRunway . It was almost as though—and I might be
projecting here, but I don’t think so—she had listened to me
andunderstood . Understood andagreed . It was almost too much
to comprehend.
I undressed slowly, making sure to savor every minute of
tonight, going over and over in my mind the way Christian had
led me from room to room and then all over the dance floor,
the way he looked at me through those hooded lids with the
persistent curl, the way Miranda had almost, imperceptibly,
nodded when I’d said what I really wanted was to write. A
truly glorious night, I had to say, one of the best in recent
history. It was already three-thirty in the morning Paris
time, making it nine-thirty New York time—a perfect time to
catch Lily before she went out for the night. Although I
should’ve just dialed with no regard for the insistent,
blinking light that announced—surprise, surprise—that I had
messages, I cheerfully pulled out a pad of the Ritz stationery
and got ready to transcribe. There were bound to be long lists
of irritating requests from irritating people, but nothing
could take away my Cinderella-esque evening.
The first three were from Monsieur Renaud and his assistants,
confirming various drivers and appointment for the next day,
always remembering to wish me a good night as though I were
actually a person instead of just a slave, which I
appreciated. Between the third and the fourth message I found
myself both wishing and not wishing that one of the messages
to come was from Alex, and as a result, was both delighted and
anxious when the fourth was from him.
“Hi, Andy, it’s me. Alex. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you over
there, I’m sure you’re incredibly busy, but I need to talk to
you, so please call me on my Cell Phone as soon as you get
this. Doesn’t matter how late it is, just be sure to call, OK?
Uh, OK. ’Bye.”
It was so strange that he hadn’t said he loved me or missed me
or was waiting for me to get back, but I guess all those
things fall squarely into the “inappropriate” category when
people decide to “take a break.” I hit delete and decided,
rather arbitrarily, that the lack of urgency in his voice
meant I could wait until tomorrow—I just couldn’t handle a
long “state of our relationship” conversation at three o’clock
in the morning after as wonderful a night as I’d just had.
The last and final message was from my mom, and it, too,
sounded strange and ambiguous.
“Hi, honey, it’s Mom. It’s about eight our time, not sure what
that makes it for you. Listen, no emergency—everything’s
fine—but it’d be great if you could call me back when you hear
this. We’ll be up for a while, so anytime is fine, but tonight
is definitely better than tomorrow. We both hope you’re having
a wonderful time, and we’ll talk to you later. Love you!”
This was definitely strange. Both Alex and my mother had
called me in Paris before I’d gotten a chance to call either
of them, and both had requested that I call them back
regardless of what time I got the message. Considering my
parents defined a late night by whether or not they managed to
stay awake for Letterman’s opening monologue, I knew something
had to be up. But at the same time, no one sounded
particularly panicked or even a little frantic. Perhaps I’d
take a long bubble bath with some of the Ritz products
provided and slowly work up the energy to call everyone back;
the night had just been too good to wreck by talking to my
mother about some petty concern or to Alex about “where we
stand.”
The bath was just as hot and luxurious as you’d expect it to
be in a junior suite adjacent to the Coco Chanel suite at the
Ritz Paris, and I took a few extra minutes to apply some of
the lightly scented moisturizer from the vanity to my entire
body. Then, finally wrapped in the plushest terry-cloth robe
I’d ever pulled around me, I sat down to dial. Without
thinking, I dialed my mother first, which was probably a
mistake: even her “hello” sounded seriously stressed out.
“Hey, it’s me. Is everything OK? I was going to call you guys
tomorrow, it’s just that things have been so hectic. But, wait
until I tell you about the night I just had!” I knew already
that I’d be omitting any romantic references to Christian,
since I hadn’t felt like explaining the entire Alex scenario
to my parents, but I knew they’d both be thrilled to hear that
Miranda seemed to respond well when I’d brought up the idea
ofThe New Yorker .
“Honey, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but something’s
happened. We got a call today from Lenox Hill Hospital, which
is on Seventy-seventh Street, I think, and it seems that
Lily’s been in an accident.”
And although it’s quite conceivably the most clichéd
expression in the English language, my heart stopped for just
a moment. “What? What are you talking about? What kind of an
accident?”
She had already switched into worried-mom mode and was clearly
trying to keep her voice steady and her words rational,
following what was sure to have been my dad’s suggestion of
passing along to me a feeling of calm and control. “A car
accident, honey. A rather serious one, I’m afraid. Lily was
driving—there was also a guy in the car, someone from school,
I think they said—and she turned the wrong way down a one-way
street. It seems she hit a taxicab head-on, going nearly forty
miles an hour on a city street. The police officer I spoke
with said it was a miracle she’s alive.”
“I don’t understand. When did it happen? Is she going to be
OK?” I had started choke-crying at some point, because as calm
as my mother was trying to remain, I could hear the severity
of the situation in her carefully chosen words. “Mom, where is
Lily now, and is she going to be OK?”
It wasn’t until this point that I noticed my mom was crying
also, just quietly. “Andy, I’m putting Dad on. He spoke to the
doctors most recently. I love you, honey.” The last part came
out like a squeak.
“Hi, honey. How are you? Sorry we have to call with news like
this.” My dad’s voice sounded deep and reassuring, and I had a
fleeting feeling that everything was going to work out. He was
going to tell me that she’d broken her leg, maybe a rib or
two, and someone had called in a good plastic surgeon to
stitch up a few scrapes on her face. But she was going to be
just fine.
“Dad, will you please tell me what happened? Mom said Lily was
driving and hit a cab going really fast? I don’t understand.
None of this makes any sense. Lily doesn’t have a car, and she
hates to drive. She’d never be cruising around Manhattan. How
did you hear about this? Who called you? And what’s wrong with
her?” Again, I’d worked myself up to nearly hysterical, but
again his voice was commanding and soothing all in one.
“Take a deep breath—I’ll tell you everything I know. The
accident happened yesterday, but we just found out about it
today.”
“Yesterday! How could this have happened yesterday and no one
called me? Yesterday?”
“Sweetie, they did call you. The doctor said that Lily had
filled out the front information page in her daily planner and
had listed you as her emergency contact, since her
grandmother’s really not doing all that well. Anyway, I guess
the hospital called you at Home and on your cell, but of
course you weren’t checking either one. When no one called
them back or showed up in twenty-four hours, they went through
her planner and noticed that we have the same last name as
you, and so the hospital called here to see if we knew how to
reach you. Mom and I couldn’t remember where you were staying,
so we called Alex for the name of the hotel.”
“Oh my god, it was a day ago. Has she been alone this whole
time? Is she still in the hospital?” I couldn’t ask the
questions fast enough, but I still felt like I wasn’t getting
any answers. All I knew for sure was that Lily had decided on
me as the primary person in her life, the emergency contact
you always had to list but never, ever took seriously. And
here she’d really needed me—didn’t have anyone else, in
fact—and I’d been nowhere to be found. My choking had
subsided, but the tears continued to pour down my cheeks in
hot, angry streaks, and my throat felt as though it had been
scraped raw with a pumice stone.
“Yes, she’s still in the hospital. I’m going to be very honest
with you, Andy. We’re not sure if she’s going to be all
right.”
“What? What are you saying? Will someone just tell me
something concrete already?”
“Honey, I’ve spoken to her doctor a half-dozen times already,
and I have complete confidence that she’s getting the best
attention. But Lily’s in a coma, sweetie. Now, the doctor did
reassure me that—”
“A coma? Lily is in a coma?” Nothing was making sense anymore;
the words were refusing to take on meaning.
“Honey, try to calm down. I know this is shocking for you and
I hate to do this over the phone. We considered not telling
you until you got back, but since that’s still half a week
away, we figured you had a right to know. But also know that
Mom and I are doing everything we can to make sure that Lily
gets the best help. She’s always been like a daughter to us,
you know that, so she’s not going to be alone.”
“Oh my god, I have to come home. Dad, I have to come Home! She
doesn’t have anybody but me, and I’m across the Atlantic. Oh,
but that fucking party is the night after tomorrow and it’s
the sole reason she brought me and she’ll definitely fire me
if I’m not there. Think! I need to think!”
“Andy, it’s late there. I think the best thing you could do is
get some sleep, take a little time to think things over. Of
course I knew you’d want to come Home right away, because
that’s the kind of person you are, but keep in mind that for
right now Lily is not conscious. Her doctor assured me that
the chances are excellent that she’ll come out of this in the
next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, that her body is just
using this as an extended and deeper sleep to help itself
heal. But nothing is certain,” he added, softly.
“And if she does come out of it? I’m assuming she could have
all sorts of brain damage and horrible paralysis and things
like that? Oh my god, I can’t stand it.”
“They just don’t know yet. They said that she is responsive to
stimuli in her feet and legs, which is a good indication that
there’s no paralysis. But there’s a lot of swelling around her
head, and it won’t be possible to know anything for sure until
she comes out of this. We just need to wait.”
We spoke for a few minutes longer before I hung up abruptly
and called Alex’s Cell Phone.
“Hi, it’s me. Have you seen her?” I asked without so much as a
hello. I was now a mini-Miranda.
“Andy. Hi. So you know?”
“Yeah, I just got off the phone with my parents. Have you seen
her?”
“Yes, I’m at the hospital now. They won’t let me in her room
right now since it’s not visiting hours and I’m not family,
but I wanted to be here just in case she wakes up.” He sounded
very, very far away, completely lost in his own thoughts.
“What happened? My mom said something about how she was
driving and hit a cab or something? None of it makes any sense
to me.”
“Uch, it’s a nightmare,” he sighed, clearly unhappy that no
one else had told me the story yet. “I’m not sure I know
exactly, but I did talk to the guy she was with when it
happened. You remember Benjamin, that guy she was seeing in
college who she walked in on having a threesome with those
girls?”
“Of course, he works in my building now. I see him sometimes.
What the hell was she doing with him? Lily hates him—she’s
never gotten over that.”
“I know, that’s what I thought, too, but it seems they’ve been
hanging out lately and they were together last night. He says
they had gotten tickets to see Phish at Nassau Coliseum and
drove out there together. I guess Benjamin smoked too much and
decided he shouldn’t drive his car Home, so Lily volunteered.
They made it back to the city with no problems until Lily ran
a red light and then turned the wrong way down Madison,
straight into oncoming traffic. They hit a cab head-on, on the
driver’s side, and, well, uh, you know.” He choked up at this
point, and I knew things must be worse than anyone had let on.
I’d done nothing but ask questions the last half hour—to my
mom, my dad, and now Alex—but I couldn’t bring myself to ask
the most obvious one: Why had Lily run a red light and then
tried to drive south on an avenue that only ran north? But I
didn’t need to, because Alex, as always, knew exactly what I
was thinking.
“Andy, her blood alcohol level was nearly twice the legal
limit.” He stated this matter-of-factly, trying not to swallow
the words so I wouldn’t ask him to repeat them.
“Oh my god.”
“If—when—she wakes up, she’s going to have even more to deal
with than her health: she’s in a lot of trouble. Luckily, the
cabbie was OK, just a few bumps and bruises, and Benjamin’s
left leg is completely smashed up, but he’ll be fine, too. We
just need to wait for Lily. When are you coming Home?”
“What?” I was still trying to process the fact that Lily had
been “seeing” a guy I’d always thought she hated, that she’d
ended up in a coma because she was so drunk when she was with
him.
“I said, when are you coming home?” When I was silent for a
moment, he continued. “You are coming Home, aren’t you? You’re
not seriously considering staying there while your best friend
on earth lies in a hospital bed, are you?”
“What are you suggesting, Alex? Are you suggesting that this
is my fault because I didn’t see it coming? That she’s lying
in that hospital bed because I’m in Paris right now? That if I
had known she was hanging out with Benjamin again none of this
would have happened? What? What exactly are you saying?” I
shrieked, all of the confusing emotions of the night boiling
over into a simple, urgent need to scream at someone else.
“No, I didn’t say any of that. You did. I just assumed that of
course you’d be coming Home to be with her as soon as
possible. I’m not passing judgment on you, Andy—you know that.
I also know that it’s really late for you already and there’s
nothing you can do in the next couple hours, so why don’t you
call me when you know what flight you’re on. I’ll pick you up
at the airport and we can come straight to the hospital.”
“Fine. Thanks for being there for her. I really appreciate it
and I know Lily does, too. I’ll call you when I know what I’m
doing.”
“OK, Andy. I miss you. And I know you’ll do the right thing.”
The line went dead before I could pounce all over that one.
Do the right thing? Theright thing? What the hell did that
mean? I hated that he had just assumed I would jump on a plane
and race Home because he told me to. Hated his condescending,
preachy tone of voice that immediately made me feel like one
of his students who’d just been caught talking during class.
Hated that he was the one who was with Lily now even though
she was my friend, that he was the one acting as a liaison
between my own parents and me, that he was once again sitting
on his moral high horse and calling the shots. Gone were the
old days, when I might have hung up comforted by his presence,
knowing that we were in this together and would get through it
together, instead of as warring factions. When had things
become like this?
There was no energy left to point out the obvious to him,
namely, that if I left early to come Home, I’d be fired
immediately and my entire year of servitude would have been
for nothing. I had managed to suppress that awful thought
before it took full form in my mind: that my being there or
not being there would mean absolutely nothing to Lily right
now, since she was unconscious and unaware in a hospital bed.
The options swirled around in my mind. Perhaps I would stay
just long enough to help with the party and then try to
explain to Miranda what happened and make a plea for my job.
Or, if it appeared that Lily was awake and alert, someone
could explain that I would be on my way as soon as possible,
at that point probably just a couple more days. And while both
of these explanations sounded somewhat reasonable in the dark
hours of early morning after a long night of dancing and many
glasses of bubbly and a phone call telling me my best friend
was in a coma because of her own drunk driving, somewhere down
deep I knew—I knew—that neither of them was.
“Ahn-dre-ah, leave a message at Horace Mann that the girls
will be missing school on Monday because they’ll be in Paris
with me, and make sure you get a list of all the work they’ll
need to make up. Also, push back my dinner tonight until
eight-thirty, and if they’re not happy about that, then just
cancel it. Have you located a copy of that book I asked you
for yesterday? I need four copies—two in French, two in
English—before I meet them at the restaurant. Oh, and I want a
final copy of the edited menu for tomorrow’s party to reflect
the changes I made. Make certain that there will be no sushi
of any kind, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Miranda,” I said, scribbling as quickly as possible in
the Smythson notebook the accessories department had
thoughtfully included with my array of bags, shoes, belts, and
jewelry. We were in the car on our way to the Dior show—my
first—with Miranda spitting out rapid-fire instructions with
no regard for the fact that I’d gotten less than two hours of
sleep. The knock on my door came at 7:45A .M. from one of
Monsieur Renaud’s junior concierges who was there personally
to wake me up and see that I was dressed in time to attend the
show with Miranda, who had herself decided she’d like my
assistance just six minutes earlier. He had politely ignored
my being quite obviously passed out on the still made bed and
had even dimmed the lights, which had blazed all night. I had
twenty-five minutes to shower, consult the fashion book, dress
myself, and do my own makeup, since my woman was not scheduled
to come this early.
I awoke with a minor champagne headache, but the real jolt of
pain came when the previous night’s phone calls came flashing
back. Lily! I needed to call Alex or my parents and see if
anything had happened in the last couple hours—god, it seemed
like a week ago—but now there was no time.
By the time the elevator had hit the first floor, I’d decided
that I had to stay for one more day, just one lousy day to
tend to this party, and then I’d be Home with Lily. Maybe I’d
even take a short leave of absence once Emily returned, to
spend some time with Lil, help her recuperate and deal with
some of the inevitable fallout from the accident. My parents
and Alex would hold down the fort until I got there—it’s not
as though she’s all alone,I told myself. And this was my life.
My career, my entire future, was on the line here, and I
didn’t see how two days either way made all that much
difference to someone who wasn’t yet conscious. But to me—and
certainly to Miranda—it made all the difference in the world.
Somehow I’d made it to the backseat of the limo before Miranda
did, and even though her eyes were currently fixating on my
chiffon skirt, she hadn’t yet commented on any one part of the
outfit. I had just tucked the Smythson book into my Bottega
Venetta bag when my new, international Cell Phone rang. It had
never rung in Miranda’s presence before, I realized, so I
scrambled quickly to turn off the ringer, but she ordered me
to answer it.
“Hello?” I kept one eye on Miranda, who was paging through the
day’s itinerary and pretending not to listen.
“Andy, hi honey.” Dad. “Just wanted to give you a quick
update.”
“OK.” I was trying to say the bare minimum, since it seemed
incredibly strange to be talking on the phone in front of
Miranda.
“The doctor just called and said that Lily is showing signs
that indicate she may come out of it soon. Isn’t that great? I
thought you’d want to know.”
“That’s great. Definitely great.”
“Have you decided if you’re coming Home or not?”
“Um, no, I haven’t decided. Miranda’s having a party tomorrow
night and she definitely needs my help, so . . . Listen, Dad,
I’m sorry, but now’s not a great time. Can I call you back?”
“Sure, call anytime.” He tried to sound neutral, but I could
hear the disappointment in his voice.
“Great. Thanks for calling. ’Bye.”
“Who was that?” Miranda asked, still peering at her itinerary.
It had just begun raining and her voice was nearly drowned out
by the sound of water hitting the limo.
“Hmm? Oh, that was my father. From America.” Where the hell
did I come up with this stuff? FromAmerica ?
“And what did he want you to do that conflicted with your
working at the party tomorrow night?”
I considered a million potential lies in the course of two
seconds, but there wasn’t enough time to work out the details
of any of them. Especially when she had turned her full
attention to me now. I was left with no choice but to tell the
truth.
“Oh, it was nothing. A friend of mine was in an accident.
She’s in the hospital. In a coma, actually. And he was just
calling to tell me how she was doing and to see if I was
coming Home.”
She considered this, nodding slowly, and then picked up the
copy of theInternational Herald Tribune paper the driver had
thoughtfully provided. “I see.” No “I’m sorry,” or “Is your
friend OK?,” just an icy, vague statement and a look of
extreme displeasure.
“But I’m not, I’m definitely not going Home. I understand how
important it is that I’m at the party tomorrow, and I’ll be
there. I’ve thought a lot about it, and I want you to know
that I plan to honor the commitment I’ve made to you and to my
job, so I’ll be staying.”
At first Miranda said nothing. But then she smiled slightly
and said, “Ahn-dre-ah, I’m very pleased with your decision. It
is absolutely the right thing to do, and I appreciate that you
recognize that. Ahn-dre-ah, I have to say, I had my doubts
about you from the start. Clearly, you know nothing about
fashion and more than that, you don’t seem to care. And don’t
think I’ve failed to notice all the rich and varied ways you
convey to me your displeasure when I ask you to do something
that you’d rather not. Your competency in the job has been
adequate, but your attitude has been substandard at best.”
“Oh, Miranda, please let me—”
“I’m speaking! And I was going to say that I’ll be much more
willing to help you get where you’d like to go now that you’ve
demonstrated that you’re committed. You should be proud of
yourself, Ahn-dre-ah.” Just when I thought I’d faint from the
length and depth and content of the soliloquy—whether from joy
or from pain, I wasn’t sure—she took it one step further. In a
move that was so fundamentally out of character for this woman
on every level, she placed her hand on top of the one I had
resting on the seat between us and said, “You remind me of
myself when I was your age.” And before I could conjure up a
single appropriate syllable to utter, the driver screeched to
a halt in front of the Carrousel du Louvre and leapt out to
open the doors. I grabbed my bag and hers as well and wondered
if this was the proudest or the most humiliating moment of my
life.
My first Parisian fashion show was a blur. It was dark, that
much I remember, and the music seemed much too loud for such
understated elegance, but the only thing that stands out from
that two-hour window into bizarreness was my own intense
discomfort. The Chanel boots that Jocelyn had so lovingly
selected to go with the outfit—a stretchy and therefore
skintight cashmere sweater by Malo over a chiffon skirt—made
my feet feel like confidential documents being fed through a
shredder. My head ached from a combination of hangover and
anxiety, causing my empty stomach to protest with threatening
waves of nausea. I was standing in the very back of the room
with assorted C-list reporters and others who didn’t rank high
enough to warrant a seat, keeping one eye on Miranda and the
other scoping out the least humiliating places to be sick if
the need arose.You remind me of myself when I was your age.
You remind me of myself when I was your age. You remind me of
myself when I was your age . The words kept reverberating over
and over, keeping tune to the steady and persistent pounding
of my forehead.
Miranda managed not to address me for nearly an hour, but
after that she was off and running. Even though I was standing
in the same room she was, she called my Cell Phone to request
a Pellegrino. From that moment on, the phone rang in ten- to
twelve-minute increments, each request sending another shock
of pain directly to my head.Brrring. “Get Mr. Tomlinson on his
air phone on the jet.” (B-DAD didn’t answer on his air phone
when I tried calling it sixteen times.)Brrring. “Remind all
theRunway editors in Paris that just because they’re here does
not mean they can neglect their responsibilities at Home—I
want everything in by original deadline!” (The couple ofRunway
editors I had gotten in touch with at their various hotels in
Paris had simply laughed at me and hung up.)Brrring. “Get me a
regular American turkey sandwich immediately—I’m tiring of all
this ham.” (I walked more than two miles in painful boots and
with an upset stomach, but there was no turkey to be found
anywhere. I’m convinced she knew, since she’d never once
before asked for a turkey sandwich while in America—even
though, of course, they’re available on every street
corner.)Brrring. “I expect dossiers prepared on the three best
chefs you’ve found thus far to be waiting in my suite by the
time we return from this show.” (Emily hacked and whined and
bitched but promised that she’d fax over whatever information
she had on the candidates so far and I could make them into
“dossiers.”)Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! You remind me of myself
when I was your age .
Too nauseated and crippled to watch the parade of anorexic
models, I ducked outside for a quick cigarette. Naturally, the
moment I flicked on my lighter, my Cell Phone shrilled again.
“Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Where are you? Where the hell are you
right now?”
I tossed out my still unlit cigarette and raced back inside,
my stomach churning so violently that I knew I would be
sick—it was just a matter of when and where.
“I’m right in the back of the room, Miranda,” I said, sliding
through the door and pressing my back against the wall. “Right
to the left of the door. Do you see me?”
I watched as she swiveled her head back and forth until her
eyes finally rested on mine. I was about to hang up the phone,
but she was still stage whispering into it. “Don’t move, do
you hear me? Do not move! One would think that my assistant
would understand she’s here to assist me, not to gallivant
around outside when I need her. This is unacceptable,
Ahn-dre-ah!” By the time she’d made it to the back of the room
and positioned herself in front of me, a woman in a glimmering
floor-length silver gown with an empire waist and slight flare
was sashaying through the reverent crowds, and the music
switched from some sort of bizarre Gregorian chants to all-out
heavy metal. My head began pounding almost in tune to the
change in music. Miranda didn’t stop hissing when she reached
me, but she did, finally, flip her Cell Phone closed. I did
the same.
“Ahn-dre-ah, we have a very serious problem here.You have a
very serious problem. I just received a call from Mr.
Tomlinson. It seems Annabelle brought it to his attention that
the twins’ passports expired last week.” She stared at me, but
all I could do was concentrate on not throwing up.
“Oh, really?” was all I could manage, but that clearly wasn’t
the right response. Her hand tightened around her bag and her
eyes began to bulge with anger.
“Oh, really?”she mimicked in a hyena-like howl. People were
beginning to stare at us. “Oh, really? That’s all you have to
say? ‘Oh, really?’ ”
“No, uh, of course not, Miranda. I didn’t mean it like that.
Is there something I can do to help?”
“Is there something I can do to help?”she mimicked again, this
time in a whiny child’s voice. If she had been any other
person on earth, I would have reached out and slapped her
face. “You damn well better believe it, Ahn-dre-ah. Since
you’re clearly unable to stay on top of these things in
advance, you’ll need to figure out how to renew them in time
for their flight tonight. I will not have my own daughters
miss this party tomorrow night, do you understand me?”
Did I understand her? Hmm. A very good question indeed. I was
thoroughly unable to understand how it was my fault that her
ten-year-olds had expired passports when they, theoretically,
had two parents, a stepfather, and a full-time nanny to
oversee such things, but I also understood it didn’t matter.
If she thought it was my fault, it was. I understood that she
would never understand when I told her that those girls were
not getting on that plane tonight. There was virtually nothing
I couldn’t find, fix, or arrange, but securing federal
documents while in a foreign country in less than three hours
was not happening. Period. She had finally made her very first
request of me in a full year that I could not
accommodate—regardless of how much she barked or demanded or
intimidated, it was not happening.You remind me of myself when
I was your age .
Fuck her. Fuck Paris and fashion shows and marathon games of
“I’m so fat.” Fuck all the people who believed that Miranda’s
behavior was justified because she could pair a talented
photographer with some expensive clothes and walk away with
some pretty magazine pages. Fuck her for even thinking that I
was anything like her. And most of all, fuck her for being
right. What the hell was I standing here for, getting abused
and belittled and humiliated by this joyless she-devil? So
maybe, just maybe, I, too, could be sitting at this very same
event thirty years from now, accompanied only by an assistant
who loathes me, surrounded by armies of people who pretend
they like me because they have to.
I yanked out my Cell Phone and punched in a number and watched
as Miranda became increasingly more livid.
“Ahn-dre-ah!” she hissed, much too ladylike to ever make a
scene. “What do you think you’re doing? I’m telling you that
my daughters need passports immediately, and you decide it’s a
good time to chat on your phone? Are you under the very
mistaken impression that’s why I brought you to Paris?”
My mother picked up on the third ring, but I didn’t even say
hello.
“Mom, I’m getting on the next flight I can. I’ll call you when
I get to JFK. I’m coming Home.” I clicked the phone shut
before she could respond and looked up to see Miranda, who
appeared genuinely surprised. I felt a smile break through the
headache and nausea when I realized that I’d rendered her
momentarily speechless. Unfortunately, she recovered quickly.
There’s a small chance I wouldn’t have gotten fired if I’d
immediately pleaded and explained and lost the defiant
attitude, but I couldn’t seem to muster one single, tiny shred
of self-control.
“Ahn-dre-ah, you realize what you’re doing, do you not? You do
know that if you simply leave here like this, I’m going to be
forced—”
“Fuck you, Miranda.Fuck you .”
She gasped audibly while her hand flew to her mouth in shock,
and I felt not a few Clackers turn to see what the commotion
was. They’d begun pointing and whispering, themselves as
shocked as Miranda that some nobody assistant had just said
that—and none too quietly—to one of the great living fashion
legends.
“Ahn-dre-ah!” She grabbed my upper arm with her clawlike hand,
but I wrenched it out of her grip and plastered on an enormous
smile. I also figured it’d be an appropriate time to stop
whispering and let everyone in on our little secret.
“So sorry, Miranda,” I announced in a normal voice that for
the first time since I’d landed in Paris wasn’t shaking
uncontrollably, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to
the party tomorrow. You understand don’t you? I’m sure it’ll
be lovely, so please do enjoy it. That’s all.” And before she
could respond, I hitched my bag higher up on my shoulder,
ignored the pain that was searing from heel to toe, and
strutted outside to hail a cab. I couldn’t remember feeling
better than that particular moment. I was going Home.
18
“Jill, stop shouting for your sister!” my mother screamed
unhelpfully. “I think she’s still sleeping.” And then, a voice
came even louder from the bottom of the stairs.
“Andy, are you still sleeping?” she screamed in the general
direction of my room.
I pried open an eye and checked the clock. Quarter after eight
in the morning. Dear god, what were these peoplethinking ?
It took a few times of rocking from side to side before I
could muster enough strength to pull myself to sit, and when I
finally did, my whole body pleaded for more sleep, just a
little more sleep.
“Morning,” Lily smiled, her face coming within inches of my
own when she turned to face me. “They sure do get up early
around here.” Since Jill and Kyle and the baby were Home for
Thanksgiving, Lily had been forced to vacate Jill’s old room
and move onto the lower half of my childhood trundle bed,
which was currently pulled out and nearly level with my own
twin-size bed.
“What are you complaining about? You look psyched to be awake
right now, and I’m not sure why.” She was propped up on one
elbow, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of Coffee she
kept picking up and placing down on the floor next to the bed.
“I’ve been up forever listening to Isaac cry.”
“He’s been crying? Really?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t hear him. It’s been incessant
since about six-thirty. Cute kid, Andy, but that whole
early-morning thing has got to go.”
“Girls!” my mother screamed again. “Is anyone awake up there?
Anyone? I don’t care if you’re still sleeping, just please
tell me one way or the other so I know how many waffles to
defrost!”
“Please tell her one way or the other? I’m going to kill her,
Lil.” And then toward my still closed door: “We’re still
sleeping, can’t you tell? Fast asleep, probably for hours
more. We don’t hear the baby or you screaming, or anything
else!” I shouted back, collapsing backward on the bed. Lily
laughed.
“Relax,” she said in a very un-Lily-like way. “They’re just
happy you’re Home, and I, for one, am happy to be here.
Besides, it’s only a couple more months, and we’ve got each
other. It’s really not so bad.”
“A couple more months? It’s only been one so far, and I’m
ready to put a bullet in my head.” I yanked my nightshirt over
my head—one of Alex’s old workout ones—and put on a
sweatshirt. The same jeans I’d been wearing every day for the
past few weeks lay rumpled in a ball near my closet; when I
pulled them over my hips, I noticed that were feeling snugger.
Now that I no longer had to resort to gulping down a bowl of
soup or subsisting on cigarettes and Starbucks alone, my body
had adjusted itself accordingly and gained back the ten pounds
I’d lost while working atRunway . And it didn’t even make me
cringe; Ibelieved it when Lily and my parents told me I looked
healthy, not fat.
Lily slipped on a pair of sweatpants over the boxers she’d
slept in and tied a bandana over her frizzed-out curls. With
her hair pulled off her face, the angry red marks where her
forehead had met shards of the windshield were more
noticeable, but the stitches had already come out and the
doctor promised that there’d be minimal, if any, scarring.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing the crutches that were propped
against the wall everywhere she went. “They’re all leaving
today, so maybe we’ll get a decent night’s sleep tonight.”
“She’s not going to stop screaming until we go down there, is
she?” I mumbled, holding her elbow to help her to her feet.
The cast around her right ankle had been signed by my entire
family, and Kyle had even drawn annoying little messages from
Isaac all over it.
“Not a chance.”
My sister appeared in the doorway, cradling the baby, who
currently had drool halfway down his chubby chin but was now
giggling contentedly. “Look who I have,” she cooed in baby
talk, bouncing the happy boy up and down in her arms. “Isaac,
tell your auntie Andy not to be such a tremendous bitch, since
we’re all leaving real, real soon. Can you do that for mommy,
honey? Can you?”
Isaac sneezed a very cute baby sneeze in response, and Jill
looked as though he’d just risen up from her arms a full-grown
man and recited a few Shakespearean sonnets. “Did you see
that, Andy? Did youhear that? Oh, my little guy is just the
cutest thing ever!”
“Good morning,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “You know I
don’t want you to leave, right? And Isaac’s welcome to stay as
long as he can figure out how to sleep between the hours of
midnight and tenA .M. Hell, even Kyle can stick around if he
promises not to talk. See? We’re easy here.”
Lily had managed to hobble down the stairs and greet my
parents, who were both dressed for work and saying their
good-byes to Kyle.
I made my bed and tucked Lily’s back underneath, making sure
to fluff her pillow before sticking it in my closet for the
day. She’d come out of the coma before I even got off the
plane from Paris, and after Alex I was the first one to see
her awake. They ran a million tests on every conceivable body
part, but with the exception of some stitches on her face,
neck, and chest, and the broken ankle, she was perfectly
healthy. Looked like hell, of course—exactly what you’d expect
for someone who’d danced with an oncoming vehicle—but she was
moving around just fine and even seemed almost annoyingly
upbeat for someone who’d just lived through what she did.
It was my dad’s idea that we sublet our apartment for November
and December and move in with them. Although the idea had been
less than appealing to me, my zero-sum salary left me with few
arguments. And besides, Lily seemed to welcome the chance to
get out of the city for a little while and leave behind all
the questions and gossip that she’d have to face as soon as
she saw anyone she knew again. We’d listed the place
oncraigslist.org as a perfect “holiday rental” to enjoy all
the sights of New York, and to both our shock and amazement,
an older Swedish couple whose children were all living in the
city paid our full asking price—six hundred dollars more per
month than we ourselves paid. The three hundred bucks a month
was more than enough for each of us to live on, especially
considering my parents comped us food, laundry, and the use of
a beat-up Camry. The Swedes were leaving the week after New
Year’s, just in time for Lily to start her semester over again
and for me to, well, do something.
Emily had been the one who officially fired me. Not that I’d
had any lingering doubts as to my employment status after my
little foul-mouthed temper tantrum, but I suppose Miranda had
been livid enough to drive Home one last dig. The whole thing
had taken only three or four minutes and had unfolded with the
ruthlessRunway efficiency that I loved so much.
I’d just managed to hail a cab and pry the left boot from my
pulsating foot when the phone rang. Of course my heart
instinctively lurched forward, but when I remembered that I’d
just told Miranda what she could do with herYou remind me of
myself when I was your age, I realized it couldn’t be her. I
did a quick tabulation of the minutes that had passed: one for
Miranda to shut her gaping mouth and recover her cool for all
the Clackers who were watching, another for her to locate her
Cell Phone and call Emily at Home, a third to convey the
sordid details of my unprecedented outburst, and a final one
for Emily to reassure Miranda that she herself would “see to
it that everything was taken care of.” Yes, although the
caller ID simply said “unavailable” on international phone
calls, there wasn’t a doubt in the world who was ringing.
“Hi, Em, how are you?” I practically sang while rubbing my
bare foot and trying not to let it touch the filthy taxi
floor.
She seemed to be caught off-guard by my downright chipper
tone. “Andrea?”
“Hey, it’s me, I’m right here. What’s up? I’m kind of in a
hurry, so . . .” I thought about asking her directly if she’d
called to fire me but decided to give her a break for once. I
braced myself for the verbal tirade she was sure to let loose
on me—how could you let her down, me down,Runway down, the
wide world of fashion, blah, blah, blah—but it never came.
“Oh yeah, of course. So, I just spoke to Miranda . . .” Her
voice trailed off as though she was hoping I’d continue and
explain that the whole thing had been a big mistake and not to
worry because I’d managed to fix it in the last four minutes.
“And you heard what happened, I’m assuming?”
“Um, yeah! Andy, what’s going on?”
“I should probably be asking you that, right?”
There was silence.
“Listen, Em, I have a feeling that you called to fire me. It’s
OK if you did; I know it’s not your decision. So, did she tell
you to call and get rid of me?” Even though I felt lighter
than I had in many months, I still found myself holding my
breath, wondering if maybe, through some dumb stroke of luck
or misfortune, Miranda had respected my telling her to fuck
off instead of been appalled by it.
“Yes. She asked me to let you know that you have been
terminated, effective immediately, and she would like you to
be checked out of the Ritz before she returns from the show.”
She said this softly and with a trace of regret. Perhaps it
was for the many hours and days and weeks she was now facing
of finding and training someone all over again, but there
sounded like there might be something even more behind it.
“You’re going to miss me, aren’t you, Em? Go on, say it. It’s
OK, I won’t tell anyone. As far as I’m concerned, this
conversation never happened. You don’t want me to go, do you?”
Miracle of miracles, she laughed. “What did you say to her?
She just kept repeating that you were crass and unlady-like. I
couldn’t get anything more specific out of her than that.”
“Oh, that’s probably because I told her to fuck herself.”
“You did not!”
“You’re calling to fire me. I assure you, I did.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, well, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the single most
satisfying moment of my pathetic life. Of course, I have now
been fired by the most powerful woman in publishing. Not only
do I not have a way to pay off my nearly maxed-out MasterCard,
but future jobs in magazines are looking rather dismal. Maybe
I should try to work for one of her enemies? They’d be happy
to hire me, right?”
“Sure. Send your résumé over to Anna Wintour—they’ve never
liked each other very much.”
“Hmm. Something to think about. Listen, Em, no hard feelings,
OK?” We both knew that we had absolutely, positively not a
single thing in common but Miranda Priestly, but as long as we
were getting on so famously, I figured I’d play along.
“Sure, of course,” she lied awkwardly, knowing full well that
I was about to enter into the upper stratosphere of social
pariah-dom. The chances of Emily admitting she had so much as
known me from this day forward were nonexistent, but that was
OK. Maybe in ten years when she was sitting front and center
at the Michael Kors show and I was still shopping at Filene’s
and dining at Benihana, we’d laugh about the whole thing. But
probably not.
“Well, I’d love to chat, but I’m kind of screwed up right now,
not sure what to do next. I’ve got to figure out a way to get
Home as soon as possible. Do you think I can still use my
return ticket? She can’t fire me and leave me stranded in a
foreign country, can she?”
“Well of course she would be justified in doing so, Andrea,”
she said. Ah-hah! One last zinger. It was comforting to know
that things never really changed. “After all, it’s really you
who are deserting your job—you forced her to fire you. But no,
I don’t think she’s a vengeful kind of person. Just charge the
change fee and I’ll figure out a way to put it through.”
“Thanks, Em. I appreciate it. And good luck to you, too.
You’re going to make a fantastic fashion editor someday.”
“Really? You think so?” she asked eagerly, happily. Why my
opinion as the biggest fashion loser ever to hit the scene was
at all relevant, I didn’t know, but she sounded very, very
pleased.
“Definitely. Not a doubt in my mind.”
Christian called the moment I hung up with Emily. He had,
unsurprisingly, already heard what happened. Unbelievable. But
the pleasure he took from hearing the sordid details, combined
with all sorts of promises and invitations he offered up, made
me feel sick again. I told him as calmly as possible that I
had a lot to deal with right now, to please stop calling in
the meantime, that I’d get in touch if and when I felt like
it.
Since they miraculously didn’t yet know that I’d flunked out
of my job, Monsieur Renaud and entourage fell all over
themselves on hearing that an emergency at Home demanded I
return immediately. It took only a half hour for a small army
of hotel staff to book me on the next flight to New York, pack
my bags, and tuck me into the backseat of a limo stocked with
a full bar bound for Charles de Gaulle. The driver was chatty,
but I didn’t really respond: I wanted to enjoy my last moments
as the lowest-paid but most highly perked assistant in the
free world. I poured myself one final flute of perfectly dry
champagne and took a long, slow, luxurious sip. It had taken
eleven months, forty-four weeks, and some 3,080 hours of work
to figure out—once and for all—that morphing into Miranda
Priestly’s mirror image was probably not such a good thing.
Instead of a uniformed driver with a sign waiting for me when
I exited customs, I found my parents, looking immensely
pleased to see me. We hugged, and after they got over the
initial shock of what I was wearing (skintight, very faded D&G
jeans with spike-heeled pumps and a completely sheer
shirt—hey, it was listed in category, miscellaneous;
subcategory, to and from airport, and it was by far the most
plane-appropriate thing they’d packed for me), they gave me
very good news: Lily was awake and alert. We went straight to
the hospital, where Lily herself even managed to give me
attitude about my outfit as soon as I walked in.
Of course, there was the legal problem for her to contend
with; she had, after all, been speeding the wrong way down a
one-way street in a drunken stupor. But since no one else was
seriously hurt, the judge had shown tremendous leniency and,
although she’d always have a DWI on her record, she’d been
sentenced to only mandatory alcohol counseling and what seemed
like three decades’ worth of community service. We hadn’t
talked a lot about it—she still wasn’t cool with admitting out
loud that she had a problem—but I’d driven her to her first
group session in the East Village and she’d admitted that it
wasn’t “too touchy-feely” when she came out. “Freakin’
annoying” was how she put it, but when I raised my eyebrows
and gave her a specialty withering look—à la Emily—she
conceded that there were some cute guys there, and it wouldn’t
kill her to date someone sober for once. Fair enough. My
parents had convinced her to come clean to the dean at
Columbia, which sounded like a nightmare at the time but ended
up being a good move. He not only agreed to let Lily withdraw
without failing in the middle of the semester, but signed the
approval for the bursar’s office saying that she could just
reapply for her tuition next spring.
Lily’s life and our friendship seemed to be back on track. Not
so with Alex. He’d been sitting by her side at the hospital
when we arrived, and the minute I saw him I found myself
wishing my parents hadn’t diplomatically decided to wait in
the cafeteria. There was an awkward hello and a lot of fussing
over Lily, but when he’d shrugged on his jacket a half hour
later and waved good-bye, we hadn’t said a real word to each
other. I called him when I got Home, but he let it go to voice
mail. I called a few times more and hung up, stalker-style,
and tried one last time before I went to bed. He answered but
sounded wary.
“Hi!” I said, trying to sound adorable and well adjusted.
“Hey.” He clearly wasn’t into my adorableness.
“Listen, I know she’s your friend, too, and that you would’ve
done that for anyone, but I can’t thank you enough for
everything you did for Lily. Tracking me down, helping my
parents, sitting with her for hours on end. Really.”
“No problem. It’s what anyone would do when someone they know
is hurt. No big deal.” Implied in this, of course, was that
anyone would do it except someone who happens to be
phenomenally self-centered with whacked-out priorities, like
yours truly.
“Alex, please, can we just talk like—”
“No. We really can’t talk about anything right now. I’ve been
around for the last year waiting to talk to you—begging,
sometimes—and you haven’t been all that interested. Somewhere
in that year, I lost the Andy I fell in love with. I’m not
sure how, I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but you are
definitely not the same person you were before this job. My
Andy would have never even entertained the idea of choosing a
fashion show or a party or whatever over being there for a
friend who really, really needed her. Like,really needed her.
Now, I’m glad you decided to come Home—that you know it was
the right thing to do—but now I need some time to figure out
what’s going on with me, and with you, and with us. This isn’t
new, Andy, not to me. It’s been happening for a long, long
time—you’ve just been too busy to notice.”
“Alex, you haven’t given me a single second to sit down, face
to face, and try to explain to you what’s been going on. Maybe
you’re right, maybe I am a completely different person. But I
don’t think so—and even if I’ve changed, I don’t think it’sall
been for the worse. Have we really grown apart that much?”
Even more than Lily, he was my best friend, of that I was
certain, but he hadn’t been my boyfriend for many, many
months. I realized that he was right: it was time I told him
so.
I took a deep breath and said what I knew was the right thing,
even though it didn’t feel so great then. “You’re right.”
“I am? You agree?”
“Yes. I’ve been really selfish and unfair to you.”
“So what now?” he asked, sounding resigned but not
heartbroken.
“I don’t know. What now? Do we just stop talking? Stop seeing
each other? I have no idea how this is supposed to work. But I
want you to be a part of my life, and I can’t imagine not
being a part of yours.”
“Me neither. But I’m not sure we’re going to be able to do
that for a long, long time. We weren’t friends before we
started dating, and it seems impossible to imagine just being
friends now. But who knows? Maybe once we’ve both had a lot of
time to figure things out . . .”
I hung up the phone that first night back and cried, not just
for Alex but for everything that had changed and shifted
during the past year. I’d strolled into Elias-Clark a
clueless, poorly dressed little girl, and I’d staggered out a
slightly weathered, poorly dressed semigrown-up (albeit one
who now realized just how poorly dressed she was). But in the
interim, I’d experienced enough to fill a hundred
just-out-of-college jobs. And even though my résumé now
sported a scarlet “F,” even though my boyfriend had called it
quits, even though I’d left with nothing more concrete than a
suitcase (well, OK, four Louis Vuitton suitcases) full of
fabulous designer clothes—maybe it had been worth it?
I turned off the ringer and pulled an old notebook from my
bottom desk drawer and began to write.
My father had already escaped to his office and my mother was
on her way to the garage when I made it downstairs.
“Morning, honey. Didn’t know you were awake! I’m running out.
I have a student at nine. Jill’s flight is at noon, so you
should probably leave sooner than later since there will be
rush-hour traffic. I’ll have my cell on if anything goes
wrong. Oh, will you and Lily be Home for dinner tonight?”
“I’m really not sure. I just woke up and haven’t yet had a cup
of Coffee. Do you think I could decide on dinner in a little
while?”
But she hadn’t even stuck around to listen to my snotty
response—she was halfway out the door by the time I opened my
mouth. Lily, Jill, Kyle, and the baby were sitting around the
kitchen table in silence, reading different sections of
theTimes . There was a plate of wet-looking, wholly
unappetizing waffles in the middle, with a bottle of Aunt
Jemima and a tub of butter straight from the fridge. The only
thing anyone appeared to be touching was the Coffee, which my
father had picked up on his morning run to Dunkin Donuts—a
tradition stemming from his understandable unwillingness to
ingest anything my mother had made herself. I forked a waffle
onto a paper plate and went to cut it, but it immediately
collapsed into a soggy pile of dough.
“This is inedible. Did Dad pick up any donuts today?”
“Yeah, he hid them in the closet outside his office,” Kyle
drawled. “Didn’t want your mother to see. Bring back the box
if you’re going?”
The phone rang on my way to seek out the hidden booty.
“Hello?” I answered in my best irritated voice. I’d finally
stopped answering any ringing phone with “Miranda Priestly’s
office.”
“Hello there. Is Andrea Sachs there, please?”
“Speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Andrea, hi, this is Loretta Andriano fromSeventeen magazine.”
My heart lurched. I’d pitched a 2,000-word “fiction” piece
about a teenage girl who gets so caught up on getting into
college that she ignores her friends and family. It had taken
me all of two hours to write the silly thing, but I thought
I’d managed to strike just the right chords of funny and
touching.
“Hi! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Listen, your story got passed along to
me, and I have to tell you—I love it. Needs some revisions, of
course, and the language needs some tweaking—our readers are
mostly pre- and early teens—but I’d like to run it in the
February issue.”
“You would?” I could hardly believe it. I’d sent the story to
a dozen teen magazines and then wrote a slightly more mature
version and sent that to nearly two dozen women’s magazines,
but I hadn’t heard a word back from anyone.
“Absolutely. We pay one-fifty per word, and I’ll just need to
have you fill out a few tax forms. You’ve freelanced stories
before, right?”
“Actually, no, but I used to work atRunway .” I don’t know how
I thought this would help—especially since the only thing I
ever wrote there were forged memos meant to intimidate other
people—but Loretta didn’t appear to notice the gaping hole in
my logic.
“Oh, really? My first job out of college was as a fashion
assistant atRunway . I learned more there that year than I did
in the next five.”
“It was a real experience. I was lucky to have it.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was actually Miranda Priestly’s assistant.”
“Were you really? You poor girl, I had no idea. Wait a
minute—were you the one who was just fired in Paris?”
I realized too late that I had made a big mistake. There’d
been a sizable blurb inPage Six about the whole messy thing a
few days after I got Home, probably from one of the Clackers
who’d witnessed my terrible manners. Considering they quoted
me exactly, I couldn’t figure out who else it could’ve been.
How could I have forgotten that other people might have read
that? I had a feeling that Loretta was going to be distinctly
less pleased with my story than she was three minutes ago, but
there was no escaping now.
“Um, yeah. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed, really it wasn’t.
Things got totally blown out of proportion in thatPage Six
article. Really.”
“Well, I hope not! Someone needed to tell that woman to go
fuck herself, and if it was you, well, then, hats off! That
woman made my life a living hell for the year I worked there,
and I never even had to exchange a single word with her.
“Look, I’ve got to run to a press lunch right now, but why
don’t we set up a meeting? You need to come in and fill out
some of these papers, and I’d like to meet you anyway. Bring
anything else you think might work for the magazine.”
“Great. Oh, that sounds great.” We agreed to meet next Friday
at three, and I hung up still not believing what had happened.
Kyle and Jill had left the baby with Lily while they went to
dress and pack, and he had commenced a sort of
crying-whimpering thing that sounded as though he was two
seconds away from all-out hysteria. I scooped him out of his
seat and held him over my shoulder, rubbing his back through
his terry-cloth footie pajamas, and, remarkably, he shut up.
“You’ll never believe who that was,” I sang, dancing around
the room with Isaac. “It was an editor atSeventeen
magazine—I’m going to be published!”
“Shut up! They’re printing your life story?”
“It’s not my life story—it’s ‘Jennifer’s’ life story. And it’s
only two thousand words, so it’s not the biggest thing ever,
but it’s a start.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Young girl gets super caught up in
achieving something and ends up screwing over all the people
who matter in her life. Jennifer’s story. Uh-huh, whatever.”
Lily was grinning and rolling her eyes at the same time.
“Whatever, details, details. The point is, they’re publishing
it in the February issue and they’re paying me three thousand
dollars for it. How crazy is that?”
“Congrats, Andy. Seriously, that’s amazing. And now you’ll
have this as a clip, right?”
“Yep. Hey, it’s notThe New Yorker, but it’s an OK first step.
If I can round up a few more of these, maybe in some different
magazines, too, I might be getting somewhere. I have a meeting
with the woman on Friday, and she told me to bring anything
else I’ve been working on. And she didn’t even ask if I speak
French. And she hates Miranda. I can work with this woman.”
I drove the Texas crew to the airport, picked up a good and
greasy Burger King lunch for Lily and me to wash down our
breakfast donuts with, and spent the rest of the day—and the
next, and the next after that—working on some stuff to show
the Miranda-loathing Loretta.
19
“Tall vanilla cappuccino, please,” I ordered from a barista I
didn’t recognize at the Starbucks on 57th Street. It had been
nearly five months since I’d been here last, trying to balance
a whole tray of Coffees and snacks and get back to Miranda
before she fired me for breathing. When I thought about it
like that, I figured it was far better to have gotten fired
for screaming “fuck you” than it was to get fired because I’d
brought back two packets of Equal instead of two raw sugars.
Same outcome, but a totally different ballgame.
Who knew Starbucks had such huge turnover? There wasn’t a
single person behind the counter who looked remotely familiar,
making all the time I’d spent there seem that much farther
away. I smoothed my well-cut but nondesigner black pants and
checked to make sure that the cuffed bottoms hadn’t collected
any of the city’s muddy slush. I knew there was an entire
magazine staff of fashionistas who would emphatically disagree
with me, but I thought I looked pretty damn good for only my
second interview. Not only did I now know that no one wears
suits at magazines, but somewhere, somehow, a year’s worth of
high fashion had—by simple osmosis, I think—crammed itself
into my head.
The cappuccino was almost too hot, but it felt fantastic on
that chilly, wet day. The darkened, late-afternoon sky seemed
to be misting the city with a giant Snow-Cone. Normally, a day
like this would’ve depressed me. It was, after all, one of the
more depressing days in the year’s most depressing month
(February), the kind when even the optimists would rather
crawl under the covers and the pessimists didn’t stand a
chance of getting through without a fistful of Zoloft. But the
Starbucks was warmly lit and just the right state of crowded,
and I curled up in one of their oversize green armchairs and
tried not to think of who had rubbed his dirty hair there
last.
In the past three months, Loretta had become my mentor, my
champion, my savior. We’d hit it off in that first meeting and
she’d been nothing but wonderful to me ever since. As soon as
I’d walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that
she was—gasp!—fat, I had a weird feeling that I’d love her.
She sat me down and read every word of the stuff I’d been
working on all week: tongue-in-cheek pieces on fashion shows,
some snarky stuff on being a celebrity assistant, a hopefully
sensitive story about what it takes—and doesn’t take—to bring
down a three-year-long relationship with someone you love but
can’t be with. It was storybook-like, nauseating, really, how
well we’d instantly hit it off, how effortlessly we shared our
nightmares aboutRunway (I was still having them: a recent one
had included a particularly horrid segment in which my own
parents were shot dead by Parisian fashion police for wearing
shorts on the street and Miranda had somehow managed to
legally adopt me), how quickly we realized that we were the
same person, just seven years apart.
Since I’d just had the brilliant idea of dragging all myRunway
clothes to one of those snooty resale shops on Madison Avenue,
I was a wealthy woman—I could afford to write for peanuts;
anything for a byline. I had waited and waited for Emily or
Jocelyn to call to tell me they were sending a messenger to
pick it all up, but they never did. So it was all mine. I
packed up most of the clothes but set aside the Diane Von
Furstenburg wrap-dress. While going through the contents of my
desk drawers that Emily had emptied into boxes and mailed to
me, I came across the letter from Anita Alvarez, the one in
which she expressed her worship of all thingsRunway . I’d
always meant to send her a fabulous dress, but I’d never found
the time. I wrapped the bold-printed dress in tissue paper,
tossed in a pair of Manolos, and forged a note from Miranda—a
talent I was unhappy to discover I still possessed. This girl
should know—just once—how it feels to own one beautiful thing.
And, more importantly, to think there’s someone out there who
actually cares.
Except for the dress, the tight and very sexy D&G jeans, and
the utterly classic, quilted, chain-handle purse I’d given to
my mom as a gift (“Oh, honey, this is beautiful. What’s this
brand again?”), I sold every last filmy top, leather pant,
spiked boot, and strappy sandal. The woman who worked the
register called the woman who owned the store, and the two of
them had decided it would be best if they just closed the shop
down for a few hours to evaluate my merchandise. The Louis
Vuitton luggage—two large suitcases, one medium-size
accessories bag, and an oversize trunk—alone had netted me six
grand, and when they were finally finished whispering and
examining and giggling, I cruised out of there with a check
for just over $38,000. Which, by my calculations, meant that I
could pay rent and even feed myself for a year while I tried
to get this writing gig together. And then Loretta strolled
into my life and made it instantly better.
Loretta had already agreed to buy four pieces—one blurb, only
slightly larger than a pull quote, two 500-word pieces, and
the original 2,000-word story. But even more exciting was her
bizarre obsession with helping me make contacts, her eagerness
to get in touch with people at other magazines who might just
be interested in some freelance stuff. Which is exactly what
put me at that Starbucks on that overcast winter day—I was
headed back to Elias-Clark. It had taken a lot of insisting on
her part to convince me that Miranda wouldn’t hunt me down the
minute I walked in the building and knock me out with a blow
dart, but I was still nervous. Not paralyzed with fear like
the old days when a mere Cell Phone ring was enough to cause
my heart to flip-flop, but jittery enough at the
thought—however remote the possibility—of catching a glimpse
of her. Or Emily. Or anyone else, for that matter, except for
James, who had kept in touch.
Somehow, someway, for somereason, Loretta had called her old
college roommate who just so happened to edit the city section
ofThe Buzz and told her that she’d discovered the next new
“it” writer. That was supposed to be me. She’d arranged an
interview for me today, and even forewarned the woman that I’d
been summarily dismissed from Miranda’s employ, but the woman
had just laughed and said something to the effect that if they
refused to use anyone whom Miranda had fired at one point or
another, they’d barely have any writers at all.
I finished my cappuccino and, newly energized, gathered my
portfolio of different articles and headed—this time calmly,
without either an incessantly ringing phone or an armload of
Coffees—toward the Elias-Clark building. A moment or two of
reconnaissance from the sidewalk indicated that noRunway
Clackers were amid the crowds in the lobby, and I proceeded to
heave my weight against the revolving door. Nothing had
changed in the five months since I’d last been there: I could
see Ahmed behind the register in the newsstand, and a huge,
glossy poster advertised thatChic would be hosting a party at
Lotus that weekend. Although I technically should’ve signed
in, I instinctively walked directly toward the turnstiles.
Immediately, I heard a familiar voice call out,“I can’t
remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride, but
something touched me deep inside, the day, the music died. And
we were singing . . .” “American Pie”!What a sweetie, I
thought. This was the good-bye song that I’d never gotten to
sing. I turned to see Eduardo, as large and sweaty as usual,
grinning. But not at me. In front of the turnstile closest to
him stood a toweringly skinny girl with jet black hair and
green eyes, wearing a dynamite pair of tight, pinstripe pants
and a navel-revealing tank top. She also happened to be
balancing a small tray with three Starbucks Coffees, an
overflowing bag of newspapers and magazines, three hangers
with complete outfits dangling from each one, and a duffel
monogrammed with the initials “MP.” Her Cell Phone began to
ring just as I realized what was happening, and she looked so
panicked I thought she might cry on the spot. But when her
repeated banging against the turnstile failed to elicit entry,
she sighed deeply and sang,“’Bye, ’bye, Miss American Pie,
drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry, and good
old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing this will be
the day that I die, this will be the day that I die . . .”
When I looked back to Eduardo, he smiled quickly in my
direction and winked. And then, while the pretty brunette girl
finished singing her verse, he buzzed me through like I was
someone who mattered.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, Businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or
locales is entirely coincidental.
“Material Girl” by Peter Brown and Robert Rans © 1984 Candy
Castle music. All Rights administered by Warner-Tamerlane
Publishing Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
WARNER BROS. PUBLICATIONS U.S. INC., Miami, FL 33014
“Wannabe” Words and Music by Matt Rowebottom, Richard
Stannard, Geri Halliwell, Emma Bunton, Melanie Brown, Melanie
Chisholm, and Victoria Adams. © 1996 EMI music PUBLISHING LTD.
and UNIVERSAL-POLYGRAM
INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING, INC. All Rights for EMI MUSIC
PUBLISHING LTD. in the U.S. and Canada Controlled and
Administered by EMI FULL KEEL music. All Rights Reserved.
International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.
“I Think We’re Alone Now” Words and music by Ritchie Cordell.
© 1967
(Renewed 1995) EMI LONGITUDE music. All Rights Reserved.
International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.
“American Pie” Words and music by Don McLean. © Copyright 1971
Songs of Universal, Inc. on behalf of itself and Benny Bird
Co., Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
(END)