“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 simply too 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 at Runway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of having Runway on my résumé was sure to give me even more credibility when I eventually applied to work at The New Yorker than, say, having Popular Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girls would 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 a briefcase—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 was Carry 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 how skinny 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 to Runway, 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 the Runway 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’t care. 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 more useful.” I almost apologized, but stopped myself.
“Unfortunately, I don’t speak a word of French, but I’m c
onfident 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 to The New Yorker and Newsweek, but I regularly read The Buzz. Sometimes Time, but it’s dry, and U.S. News is way too conservative. Of course, as a guilty pleasure, I’ll skim Chic, and since I just returned from traveling, I read all of the travel magazines and . . .”
“And do you read Runway, 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 a fashion 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 at Runway 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 at The 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 7:15 A.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. At seven-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?
The Devil Wears Prada Page 3
