“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 at Runway. 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 new slaves! 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 was her 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 French Chic 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 French Chic 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 French Runway before Elias transferred her to the number-one spot at American Runway, 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 at Runway 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 7:00 A.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 a Runway-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’s really 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 classic Runway 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 n
egate 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 at Runway. 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 for The 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 of Rent—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 on not 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.
The Devil Wears Prada Page 5
