The Devil Wears Prada

by Lauren Weisberger

  “But I didn’t kiss him . . . He kissed me!”

  “First of all, let’s get something very clear. Remember when Monica went down on Bill and the whole country and all our parents and Ken Starr rushed to call that sex? That was not sex. In much the same way, some guy who probably means to kiss your cheek but gets your neck instead does not qualify as ‘kissing someone.’ ”

  “But—”

  “Shut up and let me finish. More important than what actually happened is that you wanted it to happen. Just admit it, Andy. You wanted to kiss Christian regardless of whether that’s ‘wrong’ or ‘bad’ or ‘against the rules.’ And if you don’t admit it, you’re lying.”

  “Lily, seriously, I don’t think it’s fair that—”

  “I’ve known you for nine years, Andy. You don’t think I can see it written all over your face that you worship him? You know you shouldn’t—he doesn’t quite play by your rules, does he? But that’s probably exactly why you like him. Just go with it, enjoy it. If Alex is right for you, he’ll always be right for you. And now, you’ll have to excuse me, because I have found someone who’s right for me . . . for right now.” She literally jumped off the couch and skipped back to William, who looked undeniably happy to see her.

  I felt self-conscious sitting on the oversize velvet couch alone and looked around to find Christian, but he wasn’t at the bar anymore. It would just take a little more time, I decided. Everything would just sort itself out if I just stopped worrying so much. Maybe Lily was right and I did like Christian—what was so wrong with that? He’s smart and undeniably gorgeous, and the whole take-charge confidence thing was incredibly sexy. Hanging out with someone who just happened to be sexy didn’t exactly translate as cheating. I’m sure there had been situations over the years in which Alex had worked with or studied with or gotten to know a cool, attractive girl, and he may have had thoughts. Did that make him disloyal? Of course not. With renewed confidence (and a now-desperate attempt to see, watch, hear, just be near Christian again), I began cruising the lounge.

  I found him leaning on his right hand, talking intently to an older man, probably in his late forties, who was wearing a very dapper three-piece suit. Christian was gesturing wildly, hands flailing, with a look on his face that registered somewhere between amused and supremely annoyed, while the man with salt-and-pepper hair looked at him earnestly. I was still too far away to hear what they were discussing, but I must have been staring rather intently, because the man’s eyes locked on mine and he smiled. Christian pulled back a little, followed his gaze, and saw me watching them both.

  “Andy, darling,” he said, his tone entirely different from what it had been just a few minutes earlier. I noticed he made the transition from seducer to friend of your parent quite smoothly. “Come here, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gabriel Brooks, my agent, business manager, and all-around hero. Gabriel, this is Andrea Sachs, currently of Runway magazine.”

  “Andrea, a pleasure to meet you,” Gabriel said, extending a hand and taking mine in one of those annoyingly delicate I’m-not-shaking-your-hand-as-I-would-a-man’s-because-I’m-sure-I’d-just-snap-your-girly-little-bones-in-half clutches. “Christian has told me a lot about you.”

  “Really?” I said, pressing a bit more firmly, which only caused him to loosen his already slack grip. “All good, I hope?”

  “Of course. He said you’re an aspiring writer, like our mutual friend here.” He smiled.

  I was surprised to hear that he actually had heard about me from Christian, since our conversation about writing had sounded like just small talk. “Yes, well, I love to write, so hopefully someday . . .”

  “Well, if you’re half as good as some of the other people he’s sent my way, then I look forward to reading your work.” He dug around in an inside pocket and produced a leather case, from which he drew out a business card. “I know you’re not ready yet, but when it does come time to show your stuff to someone, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

  It took every ounce of willpower and strength to remain standing upright, to make sure that my mouth had not flopped open or my knees had not just given out. Hope you’ll keep me in mind? The man who represented Christian Collinsworth, literary boy genius extraordinaire, had just asked if I would keep him in mind. This was craziness.

  “Why thank you,” I croaked, tucking the card into my bag, from where I knew I would pull it out and examine every inch of it the first chance I got. They both smiled at me, and it took a minute for me to recognize this as my cue to leave. “Well, Mr. Brooks, um, Gabriel, it was really great meeting you. I’ve got to be getting home now, but hopefully we’ll cross paths soon.”

  “My pleasure, Andrea. Congratulations again on scoring such a fantastic job. Right out of college and working at Runway. Very impressive.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Christian said, placing a hand on my elbow and motioning to Gabriel that he’d be right back.

  We stopped at the bar so I could tell Lily that I was heading home, and she unnecessarily told me—in between William’s nuzzlings—that she wouldn’t be joining me. At the foot of the stairs that would take me back to street level, Christian kissed me on the cheek.

  “Great running into you tonight. And I have a feeling I’m going to have to hear Gabriel talk about how great you are now, too.” He grinned.

  “We barely exchanged two words,” I pointed out, wondering why everyone was being so complimentary.

  “Yes, Andy, but what you don’t seem to realize is that the writing world is a small one. Whether you write mysteries or feature stories or newspaper articles, everyone knows everyone. Gabriel doesn’t have to know much about you to know that you have potential: you were good enough to get a job at Runway, you sound bright and articulate when you talk, and hell, you’re a friend of mine. He’s got nothing to lose by giving you his card. What does he know? He could have just discovered the next best-selling author. And trust me—Gabriel Brooks is a good man for you to know.”

  “Hmm, I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, I’ve got to get home since I’ve got to be at work again in a few hours anyway. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, half expecting him to turn his face forward and half wanting him to, but he just smiled.

  “More than my pleasure, Andrea Sachs. Have a good night.” And before I could come up with anything remotely clever to say, he was headed back to Gabriel.

  I rolled my eyes at myself and headed to the street to hail a cab. It had started to rain—nothing torrential, just a light, steady stream—so of course there wasn’t a single cab free anywhere in Manhattan. I called the Elias-Clark car service, gave them my VIP number, and had a car screeching to the curb exactly six minutes later. Alex had left a voice mail asking me how my day was and saying that he’d be home all night writing lesson plans. It had been too long since I surprised him. It was time to make a little effort and be spontaneous. The driver agreed to wait as long as I needed, so I ran upstairs, jumped in the shower, took a little extra time making my hair look good, and threw together a bag with stuff for work the next day. Since it was already after eleven, traffic was tame and we made it to Alex’s apartment in Brooklyn in under fifteen minutes. He looked genuinely happy to see me when he opened the door, saying over and over and over again how he couldn’t believe that I’d come all the way to Brooklyn so late on a work night and it was the best surprise he could’ve hoped for. And as I lay with my head on my favorite spot on his chest, watching Conan and listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he played with my hair, I barely thought about Christian at all.

  “Um, hi. May I speak with your food editor please? No? OK, maybe an editorial assistant, or someone who can tell me when a restaurant review ran?” I asked an openly hostile receptionist at the New York Times. She had answered the phone by barking, “What!” and was currently pretending—or perhaps not—that we didn’t speak a common language. Persistence paid off, though, and a
fter asking her name three times (“We can’t tell our names, lady”), threatening to report her to her manager (“What? You think he cares? I’ll put him on right now”), and finally swearing rather emphatically that I would personally show up at their Times Square offices and do everything in my power to have her fired on the spot (“Oh, really? I’m not so worried”), she tired of me and connected me to someone else.

  “Editorial,” snapped another hassled-sounding woman. I wondered if this is what I sounded like answering Miranda’s phone, and if not, then I aspired to it. It was such an enormous turnoff hearing a voice that was so incredibly, undeniably unhappy to hear from you that it almost made you just want to hang up.

  “Hi, I just had a quick question.” The words tumbled out in a desperate attempt to be heard before she inevitably slammed down the phone. “I’m wondering if you ran any reviews of Asian fusion restaurants yesterday?”

  She sighed as though I’d just asked her to donate one of her limbs to science and then sighed again. “Have you looked online?” Another sigh.

  “Yes, yes, of course, but I can’t—”

  “Because that’s where they would be if we’d done one. I can’t keep track of every word that goes in the paper, you know.”

  I took a deep breath myself and tried to stay calm. “Your charming receptionist connected me to you since you work in the archives department. So it does in fact appear that it’s your job to keep track of every word.”

  “Listen, if I had to try to track down every vague description that everyone called me with every day, I wouldn’t be able to do anything else. You really need to check online.” She sighed twice more, and I began to worry that she might hyperventilate.

  “No, no, you just listen for a minute,” I started, feeling primed and ready to lay into this lazy girl who had a far better job than my own. “I’m calling from Miranda Priestly’s office, and it just so happens that—”

  “I’m sorry, did you say you were calling from Miranda Priestly’s office?” she asked, and I could feel her ears perk up across the phone line. “Miranda Priestly . . . from Runway magazine?”

  “The one and only. Why? Heard of her?”

  It was here that she transformed from highly put-upon editorial assistant to gushing fashion slave. “Heard of her? Of course! Is anybody not familiar with Miranda Priestly? She is, like, the ultimate woman in fashion. What was it you said she was looking for?”

  “A review. Yesterday’s paper. Asian fusion restaurant. I didn’t see it online, but I’m not sure I checked properly.” That was a bit of a lie. I had checked online and was quite sure there hadn’t been any reviews of Asian fusion restaurants in the New York Times any day in the past week, but I wasn’t telling her that. Maybe Schizophrenic Editorial Girl here would work a miracle.

  So far I’d called the Times, the Post, and the Daily News, but nothing had turned up. I’d plugged in her corporate card number to access the Wall Street Journal’s paid archives and had actually found a blurb on a new Thai restaurant in the Village, but I had to immediately discount it when I noticed that the average entrée price was only seven dollars and citysearch.com listed only a single dollar sign next to it.

  “Well, sure, hold on just a second here. I’m going to check that right out for you.” And all of a sudden, Little Miss “I Can’t Be Expected to Remember Every Word That Goes in the Paper” was tapping away on a keyboard and humming excitedly to both of us.

  My head ached from the debacle the night before. It had been fun to surprise Alex and amazingly relaxing to just laze around his apartment, but for the first time in many, many months, I couldn’t fall asleep. Over and over and over again, I had pangs of guilt, flashbacks of Christian kissing my neck and my then jumping in a car to see Alex but tell him nothing. Even though I tried to push it all out of my mind, they kept returning, each one more intense than the last one. When I finally did manage to fall asleep, I dreamed that Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and—even though in reality hers didn’t live in—he was to move in with the family. Whenever I wanted to see Alex in my dream, I would have to share a car home with Miranda and visit him in her apartment. She would insist on calling me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend. By the time morning had finally rolled around, Alex had fallen under Miranda’s spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and, even worse, Miranda had started dating Christian. Blessedly, my hell ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda, Christian, and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning and read the Times and laughed while I prepared breakfast, served everyone, and cleaned up afterward. Sleep last night was about as relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning, and now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of having an easy Friday.

  “Hmm, no, we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion. I’m trying to think, just personally, you know, if there are any new hot Asian fusion places. You know, places that Miranda would actually consider going?” she said, sounding like she’d do anything to prolong the conversation.

  I ignored her transition into first-name familiarity with Miranda and worked on getting her off the phone. “OK, well, that’s what I thought. Thanks anyway, though. I appreciate it. ’Bye.”

  “Wait!” she cried out, and even though the phone was already halfway to the base, her urgency made me listen again. “Yes?”

  “Oh, well, I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if there’s, like, anything else I can do—or any of us here—feel free to call, you know? We love Miranda here, and we’d, like, uh, want to help with anything we could?”

  You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be able to locate an article for the president, an article that included information crucial to an imminent war, and not an unnamed review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper. The saddest part of all was that I wasn’t surprised: I knew she’d come around.

  “OK, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Thanks so much.”

  Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said, “No luck there either?”

  “Nope. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and apparently, neither does anyone else in this city. I’ve spoken to someone at every Manhattan paper she reads, checked online, talked to archivists, food writers, chefs. Not a single person can think of a suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the past week, never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past twenty-four hours. She’s clearly lost her mind. So what now?” I flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail. It still wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and already the headache had spread to my neck and shoulders.

  “I guess,” she said slowly, regrettably, “you have no choice but to ask her to clarify.”

  “Oh, no, not that! However will she react?”

  Emily, as usual, didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “She’ll be in at noon. If I were you, I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead of time, because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that review. Especially since she asked for it last night,” she pointed out with a barely suppressed smile. She was clearly delighted that I was about to get abused.

  There was little left to do but wait. It was my luck that Miranda was at her monthly marathon shrink session (“She just doesn’t have time to go all the way over there once a week,” Emily had explained when I asked why she went for three straight hours), the only chunk of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us and, of course, the only time I needed her to. A mountain of mail that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to topple off the desk, and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry cleaning was heaped under it, around my feet. Huge sigh to let the world know just how unhappy I was, and I dialed the cleaners.

  “Hi, Mario. It’s me. Yeah, I know—two wh
ole days, no talk. Can I get a pickup, please? Great. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and forced myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap, where I would sort through them and record them on the computerized list I kept of her outgoing clothes. When Miranda called the office at 9:45 P.M. and demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was, all I had to do was open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day before and were due to be delivered the following day. I logged today’s clothes in (one Missoni blouse, two identical pairs of Alberta Ferretti pants, two Jil Sander sweaters, two white Hermès scarves, and one Burberry trench coat), threw them in a shopping bag emblazoned with Runway, and called for a messenger to take them downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up.

  I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks, because no matter how many times I had to do it, I was still repulsed to be sorting through someone else’s dirty clothes. After I finished sorting and bagging every day, I had to wash my hands: the lingering smell of Miranda was all-pervasive, and even though it consisted of a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a whiff of B-DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant, it made me feel physically ill. British accents, Bulgari perfume, white silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were forever ruined for me.

  The mail was the usual, ninety-nine percent garbage that Miranda would never see. Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief” went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages, but many of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their correspondence directly to Miranda. It took me about four seconds to skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long-lost friend, and those I just threw aside. Today there were tons. Breathless notes from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men (or, in all fairness, maybe straight and just very fashion-conscious): “Miranda Priestly, you’re not only the darling of the fashion world, you’re the Queen of my world!” one gushed. “I couldn’t agree more with your choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April issue—it was ballsy, but genius!” another exclaimed. A few letters ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and pressed their bodies together, and a few more decried the sunken-eyed, starvation-wracked, heroine-chic models that Runway had used in its “Health First: How to Feel Better” article. One was a standard-issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read, quite simply, on the other: “Why? Why do you print such a boring, stupid magazine?” I laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my collection of critical letters and postcards was growing, and soon there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left. Lily thought it was bad karma to bring home other people’s negative thoughts and hostility, and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy.