The Devil Wears Prada (16 page)

 I
thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged for a driver to
meet Mr. Tomlinson’s private plane at de Gaulle and transfer Harry back
to the hotel. If everything went as planned, Miranda should’ve had those books
by seven in the morning local time, and considering it was already late
afternoon there, I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. There was no
choice: I had to call the concierge, and since my cell wouldn’t dial
internationally, I had to find a phone that did.

 I took
the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped them in the
garbage. Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep. I hugged her good-bye
and told her I’d call her later and headed out to hail a cab back to the
office.

 “What
about today?” she whined. “I haveThe American President all lined
up and ready to go. You can’t leave yet—our weekend’s not
over!”

 “I
know, I’m sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There’s nothing
I’d rather do than stay here, but she’s got me on a pretty short
leash right now. I’ll call you later?”

 The
office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely brunching at Pastis
with their investment banker boyfriends. I sat in my darkened area, took a deep
breath, and dialed. Blissfully, Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz
concierges, was available.

 “Andrea,
dear, how are you? We’re simply delighted to have Miranda and the twins
back with us again so soon,” he lied. Emily told me that Miranda stayed
at the Ritz so frequently that the entire hotel staff knew her and the girls by
name.

 “Yes,
Monsieur Renaud, and I know she’s just thrilled to be there,” I
lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Miranda found
fault with his every move. To his credit, he never stopped trying, and he never
stopped lying about how much he loved her, either. “Listen, I’m
wondering if that car you sent to meet Miranda’s plane made it back to
the hotel already?”

 “Well
of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must’ve returned here before
eight o’clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on
staff,” he said proudly. If only he knew what his best driver had been
sent to shuttle around town.

 “Well,
that’s so strange, because I got a message from Miranda saying that she
never received the package, but I’ve checked with the driver here who
swears he dropped it at the airport, the pilot who swears he flew it to Paris
and gave it to your driver, and now you who remember it arriving at the hotel.
How could she not have received it?”

 “It
seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself,” he trilled
in a fake-happy voice. “Why don’t I connect you?”

 I had
hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t come to this, that I’d be
able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to her. What would
I tell her if she still insisted that she’d never received the package?
Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the table in her suite, where it was
inevitably left hours earlier? Or was I supposed to go through the whole thing,
private jet and all, and get her two more copies by the end of the day? Or
perhaps I should hire a secret service agent next time to accompany the books
on their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their safe
arrival? Something to think about.

 “Sure,
Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help.”

 A few
clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from the tension, so
I wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to think what would happen if
Miranda saw me wearing sweatpants in her office.Be calm, be confident, I
coached myself.She can’t disembowel me over the phone .

 “Yes?”
I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my self-help thoughts. It
was Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had perfected her mother’s brusque
phone manner perfectly. Cassidy at least had the courtesy to answer the phone
with a “hello.”

 “Hi,
sweetie,” I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child.
“It’s Andrea, from the office. Is your mom there?”

 “You
mean mymum ?” she corrected as she always did when I used the American
pronunciation. “Sure, I’ll get her.”

 A moment
or two later, Miranda was on the line.

 “Yes,
Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel about being
interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls,” she stated in
her cold, clipped way.You know how I feel about being interrupted when
I’m spending time with the girls? I wanted to scream.Are you fucking
kidding me, lady? You think I’m calling for my goddamn health? Because I
couldn’t bear to go a single weekend without hearing your miserable
voice? And what about me spending time with mygirls? I thought I’d pass
out from anger, but I took a deep breath and dove right in.

 “Miranda,
I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but I’m calling to ensure that you
received the Harry Potter books. I heard your message saying that you
hadn’t yet received them, but I’ve spoken to everyone
and—”

 She
interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely. “Ahn-dre-ah. You
should really listen more closely. I said no such thing. We received the
package early this morning. Incidentally, it came so early that they woke us
all up for the silly thing.”

 I
couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t dream that
she’d left the message, did I? I was still too young even for early-onset
Alzheimer’s, right?

 “What
I said was that we didn’t receiveboth copies of the book, as I had
requested. The package included only one, and I’m sure you can imagine
just how disappointed the girls are. They were really looking forward to each
having theirown copy, as I had requested. I need you to explain why my orders
weren’t followed.”

 This
wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. I was definitely
dreaming now, living some sort of alternate-universe existence where anything
resembling rationality and logic were suspended indefinitely. I wouldn’t
even let myself consider the absurdity of what was unfolding.

 “Miranda,
I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered two,” I
stammered, hating myself yet again for pandering. “I spoke to the girl at
Scholastic and am quite sure that she understood that you needed two copies of
the book, so I can’t imagine—”

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
you know how I feel about excuses. I’m not particularly interested in
hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again,
correct? That’s all.” She hung up.

 I stood
there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking
off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced,
full of questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of
getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I
concluded—everybody, at least atRunway, had a motive. Do I really have
the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow, agonizingly painful
death? Well, yes, that much was for sure—what would be the most enjoyable
way to snuff out her wretched existence?

 I slowly
replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message when I
listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the
messages.“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.” Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of
two, but she deliberately gave me the impression that I’d made a
tremendous, career-ending mistake. She’d called with no concern that her
nineA .M. call would have reached me at threeA .M., on my most perfect weekend
in months. She’d called to drive me a little crazier, push me a little
bit harder. She’d called to dare me to defy her. She’d called to
make me hate her that much more.

7

 Lily’s
New Year’s party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper cups of
champagne at Lily’s place with a bunch of people from college and some
others they managed to drag along. I was never a big fan of the holiday. I
don’t remember who first called it “Amateur Night” (I think
it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went out the other 364 days a year, but I
tend to agree. All that forced drinking and merry-making did not a good time
guarantee. So Lily had stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the
$150 tickets to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of
actually freezing in Times Square. We’d each brought a bottle of
something not too poisonous, and she had passed out noisemakers and glittery
tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the New Year on her rooftop
overlooking Harlem. Although we’d all had way too much to drink, Lily was
pretty much nonfunctional by the time everyone else had left. She had already
thrown up twice, and I was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex
and I had packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed at
my place, Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for a big brunch
the next day.

 I was
glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on with my life and
get started—really started—on my new job. Even though it felt like
I’d been working for a decade, I was technically just beginning. I had a
lot of hope that things would improve once Miranda and I started working
together day to day. Anyone could be a cold-hearted monster over the phone,
especially someone who was uncomfortable with vacations and being so far away
from work. But I was convinced that the misery of that first month would give
way to a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all unfold.

 It was a
little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was actually happy to be
at work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some guy she met at a New Year’s
party in LA, some “superhot, up-and-coming songwriter” who had
promised to come visit her in New York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting
with the associate beauty editor who sat down the hall, a really sweet guy
who’d graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn’t yet
know—even despite the college choice and the fact that he was abeauty
editor at afashion magazine—that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.

 “Oh,
come with me, please? It’ll be so fun, I promise. I’ll introduce
you to some real hotties, Andy, you’ll see. I have some gorgeous straight
friends. Besides, it’sMarshall ‘s party—it’s got to be
great,” James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my e-mail.
Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite, detailing her
rendezvous with the long-haired singer.

 “I
would, you know I would, but I’ve had these plans with my boyfriend
tonight since before Christmas,” I said. “We’ve been planning
on going out to a really nice dinner together for weeks, and I canceled on him
last time.”

 “So
see him after! Come on, it’s not every day you get a chance to meet the
single most talented colorist in the civilized world, is it? And there will be
loads of celebrities and everyone will look gorgeous, and, well, I just know
it’ll be the most glamorous party of the week! Harrison and Shriftman is
putting it on, for chrissake—you can’t beat that. Say yes.”
He squinted his face into exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.

 “James,
I’d really, really like to—I’ve never even been to the Plaza!
But I really can’t change these plans. Alex made reservations at this
little Italian place right by his apartment and there’s no way I can
reschedule.” I knew I couldn’t cancel, and I didn’t want
to—I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new
after-school program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be the same
night as this party. I’d been reading about it in the papers for the past
week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was ecstatically waiting for Marshall
Madden, hair colorist extraordinaire, to host his annual post–New
Year’s blowout. They were saying that this year was going to be even
bigger than usual because Marshall had just published a new book,Color Me
Marshall . But I wasn’t going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some
star party.

 “Well,
OK, but don’t say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don’t come
crying to me when you read inPage Six tomorrow that I was spotted with Mariah
or J-Lo. Just don’t.” And he huffed away, half joking that he was
angry, half not, since he seemed to be in a perpetual snit anyway.