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 the back 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 with her.
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 you thrilled?
“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 u
pper 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 at Runway 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 a weekend.
Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I was not 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 of Runway—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, so adorable, 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 when Harry 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 of Harry 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 got engaged?” Lily asked as she rewound the copy of Ferris 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?”
Casablanca was 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 between When Harry Met Sally on TNT and Saturday 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 by Runway that would ensure I was always only seven digits away from Miranda. I finally freed it from a tangle of underwear at t
he 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 at Runway 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 reason whatsoever 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 standard Runway office supply—and told me to always answer it were quickly eliminated.
“What if you were sleeping?” I had stupidly asked.
The Devil Wears Prada Page 10
