The Devil Wears Prada (7 page)

 She
spent ten years at the helm of FrenchRunway before Elias transferred her to the
number-one spot at AmericanRunway, 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 atRunway 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 7:00A .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 aRunway -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’sreally 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 classicRunway 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 negate 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 atRunway . 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 forThe 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 ofRent —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 onnot 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.