“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 average yearly 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 read Ms. 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-thirty P.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 on Runway.”
“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 to Benihana? 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 f
irst 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 as Andrea.” 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 on citysearch.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, pull
ing 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 name just 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 not how 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!”
The Devil Wears Prada Page 27
