The Devil Wears Prada (15 page)

 “Do
you believe he gotengaged ?” Lily asked as she rewound the copy ofFerris
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?”

 Casablancawas
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 betweenWhen
Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday 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
byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven digits away from Miranda. I
finally freed it from a tangle of underwear at the 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 atRunway 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
reasonwhatsoever 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 standardRunway office
supply—and told me to always answer it were quickly eliminated.

 “What
if you were sleeping?” I had stupidly asked.

 “So
get up and answer it,” she’d answered while filing down a scraggly
nail.

 “Sitting
down to a really fancy meal?”

 “Be
like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table.”

 “Getting
a pelvic exam?”

 “They’re
not looking in your ears, are they?” All right then. I got it.

 I
loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it. It kept me tied to Miranda
like an umbilical cord, refusing to let me grow up or out or away from my
source of suffocation. She calledconstantly, and like some sick Pavlovian
experiment gone awry, my body had begun responding viscerally to its
ring.Brring-brring. Increased heart rate.Brüüng. Automatic finger
clenching and shoulder tensing.Brrüüüüüüng. Oh,
why won’t she leave me alone, please, oh, please, just forget I’m
alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead. This whole glorious weekend
I’d never even considered the phone might not have service and had just
assumed it would’ve rung if there was a problem. Mistake number one. I
roamed the couple hundred square feet until AT&T decided to work again,
held my breath, and dialed into my voice mail.

 Mom left
a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily. A friend from San Francisco
found himself on business in New York that week and wanted to get together. My
sister called to remind me to send a birthday card to her husband. And there it
was, almost unexpected but not quite, that dreaded British accent ringing in my
ears. “Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in the morning
on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me
at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That’s
all.” Click.

 The bile
began to rise in my throat. As usual, the message lacked all niceties. No
hello, good-bye, or thank you. Obviously. But more than that, it had been left
nearly half a day ago, and I had still not called her back. Grounds for
dismissal, I knew, and there was nothing I could do about it. Like an amateur,
I’d assumed my plan would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized
that Uri had never called to confirm the pickup and drop-off. I scanned through
the address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s cell phone number,
another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well.

 “Hi,
Uri, it’s Andrea. Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was wondering if
you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty-seventh and Amsterdam?”

 “Hi,
Andy, eet’s so nice to hear your woice,” he crooned in the thick
Russian accent I always found so comforting. He’d been calling me Andy
like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met, and coming from
him—as opposed to B-DAD—I didn’t mind it. “Of course I
pick up the bouks, just like you say. You tink I don’t vant to help
you?”

 “No,
no, of course not, Uri. It’s just that I got a message from Miranda
saying that they hadn’t received them yet, and I’m wondering what
went wrong.”

 He was
quiet for a moment, and then offered me the name and number of the pilot who
was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon.

 “Oh,
thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said, scribbling the number down
frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful. “I’ve got
to run. Sorry I can’t talk, but have a great weekend.”

 “Yes,
yes, good veekend to you, Andy. I tink the pilot man will help you trace the
bouks. Nice luck to you,” he said merrily and hung up.

 Lily was
making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her, but I had to deal with
this now or I was out of a job. Or maybe I’d already been fired, I
thought, and no one had even bothered to tell me. Not outside the realm
ofRunway possibility, remembering the fashion editor who’d been fired
while on her honeymoon. She herself stumbled across her change in job status by
reading about it in a copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily in Bali. I quickly called
the number that Uri had given me for the pilot and thought I’d pass out
from frustration when an answering machine picked up.

 “Hi,
Jonathan? This is Andrea Sachs fromRunway magazine. I’m Miranda
Priestly’s assistant, and I needed to ask you a question about the flight
yesterday. Oh, come to think of it, you’re probably still in Paris, or
maybe on your way back. Well, I just wanted to see if the books, and uh, well,
you of course, made it to Paris in one piece. Can you call my cell?
917-555-8702. Please, as soon as possible. Thanks. ‘Bye.”

 I
thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he’d remember
receiving the car that would have brought the books from the private airport on
the outskirts of Paris but quickly realized that my cell didn’t dial
internationally. It was quite possibly the only task it was not programmed to
handle, and it was, of course, the only one that mattered. At that moment, Lily
announced that she had a plate of waffles and a cup of coffee for me. I walked
into the kitchen and took the food. She was sipping a Bloody Mary. Ugh. It was
a Sunday morning. How could she be drinking?

 “Having
a Miranda moment?” she asked with a look of sympathy.

 I
nodded. “Think I screwed up pretty badly this time,” I said,
gratefully accepting the plate. “This one just might get me fired.”

 “Oh,
sweetie, you always say that. She won’t fire you. She hasn’t even
seen you hard at work yet. At least, she better not fire you—you have the
greatest job in the world!”

 I looked
at her warily and willed myself to remain calm.

 “Well,
you do,” she said. “So she sounds difficult to please and a little
crazy. Who isn’t? You still get free shoes and makeovers and haircuts and
clothes. The clothes! Who on earth gets free designer clothes just for showing
up at work each day? Andy, you work atRunway, don’t you understand? A million
girls would kill for your job.”

 I
understood. I understood right then that Lily, for the first time since I met
her nine years before,didn’t understand. She, like all my other friends,
loved hearing the crazy work stories I’d accumulated in the past
weeks—the gossip and the glamour—but she didn’t really
understand just how hard each day was. She didn’t understand that the
reason I continued to show up, day after day, was not for the free clothes,
didn’t understand that all the free clothes in the world wouldn’t
make this job bearable. It was time to bring one of my best friends into my
world, where, I was quite certain, shewould understand. She just needed to be
told. Yes! It was time to share with someone exactly what was going on. I
opened my mouth to start, excited at the prospect of having an ally, but my
phone rang.

 Dammit!
I wanted to throw it against the wall, tell whoever was on the other end to go
to hell. But a small part of me hoped it was Jonathan with some information.
Lily smiled and told me to take my time. I nodded sadly and answered.

 “Is
this Andrea?” asked a man’s voice.

 “Yes,
is this Jonathan?”

 “It
is indeed. I just called home and got your message. I’m flying back from
Paris right now, somewhere over the Atlantic as we speak, but you sounded so
worried I wanted to call you back right away.”

 “Thank
you! Thank you! I really appreciate it. Yes, I am a bit worried, because I got
a call from Miranda earlier today and it seems strange that she hadn’t
yet received the package. You did give it to the driver in Paris, right?”

 “Sure
did. You know, miss, in my business I don’t ask any questions. Just fly
where I’m told and when and try to get everyone there in one piece. But
it’s sure not often I end up flying overseas with nothing onboard but a
package. Must’ve been something real important, I imagine, like an organ
for a transplant or maybe some classified documents. So yes, I took real good
care of that package and I gave it to the driver, just like I was told. Nice fella
from the Ritz. No problems.”