“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 of Runway 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 of Runway 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 eleven P.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. Not in 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 the left 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. And Emily? 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?”
The Devil Wears Prada Page 13
