The Devil Wears Prada (21 page)

 A tangle
with my closet came next, usually between 6:31 and 6:37A .M. Lily, herself not
exactly fashion-conscious in her graduate student uniform of jeans, ratty
L.L.Bean sweaters, and hemp necklaces, said every time I saw her, “I
still don’t understand what you wear to work. It’sRunway magazine,
for god’s sake. Your clothes are as cute as the next girl’s, Andy,
but nothing you own isRunway material.”

 I
didn’t tell her that for the first few months I had risen extra early
with an intense determination to coaxRunway looks from my very Banana
Republic–heavy wardrobe. I’d stood with my microwaved coffee for
nearly a half hour each morning, agonizing over boots and belts, wool, and
microfiber. I’d change stockings five times until I finally had the right
color, only to berate myself that stockings of any style or color wereso not OK
. The heels on my shoes were always too short, too stacked, too thick. I
didn’t own a single thing in cashmere. I had not yet heard of thongs (!)
and therefore obsessed maniacally over how to banish panty lines, themselves
the focus of many a coffee-break critique. No matter how many times I tried
them on, I couldn’t bring myself to wear a tube top to work.

 And so
after three months, I surrendered. I just got too tired. Emotionally,
physically, mentally, the daily wardrobe ordeal had sapped me of all energy.
Until, that is, I relented on the three-month anniversary of my first day. It
was a day like any other as I stood with my yellow “I ? Providence”
mug in one hand, the other hand rifling through my Abercrombie favorites.Why
fight it? I asked myself. Simply wearing their clothes wouldn’t
necessarily mean I was a total sellout, would it? And besides, the comments on
my current wardrobe were becoming more frequent and vicious, and I had begun to
wonder if my job was at risk. I looked in the full-length mirror and had to
laugh: the girl in the Maidenform bra (ich!) and cotton Jockey bikinis (double
ich!) was trying to look the part ofRunway ? Hah. Not with this shit. I was
working atRunway magazine for chrissake—simply putting on anything that
wasn’t torn, frayed, stained, or outgrown really wasn’t going to
cut it anymore. I pushed aside my generic button-downs and ferreted out the
tweedy Prada skirt, black Prada turtleneck, and midcalf length Prada boots that
Jeffy had handed me one night while I waited for the Book.

 “What’s
this?” I’d asked, unzipping the garment bag.

 “This,
Andy, is what you should be wearing if you don’t want to get
fired.” He smiled, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

 “I’m
sorry?”

 “Look,
I just think you should know that your, uh, your look isn’t really going
over well with everyone around here. Now, I know this stuff gets expensive, but
there’s ways around that. I’ve got so much stuff in the Closet that
no one will notice if you need to, uh, borrow some of it sometimes.” He
made quote marks with his fingers around the word “borrow.”

“And, of
course, you should be calling all the PR people and getting your discount card
for their designers. I only get thirty percent off, but since you work for
Miranda, I’ll be surprised if they charge you for anything. There’s
no reason for this, uh,Gap thing you’ve got going on to continue.”

 I
didn’t explain that wearing Nine West instead of Manolos or jeans they
sold in Macy’s junior department but not anywhere on Barney’s
eighth floor of couture denim heaven had been my own attempt to show everyone
that I wasn’t seduced by all thingsRunway . Instead, I just nodded,
noticing that he looked supremely uncomfortable having to tell me that I was
humiliating myself every day. I wondered who had put him up to it. Emily? Or
Miranda herself? Didn’t really matter either way. Hell, I’d already
survived three full months—if wearing a Prada turtleneck instead of one
from Urban Outfitters was going to help me survive the next nine, then so be
it. I decided I’d start putting together a new and improved wardrobe
immediately.

 I
finally made it outside by 6:50A .M., actually feeling pretty damn good about
the way I looked. The guy in the breakfast cart closest to my apartment even
whistled, and a woman stopped me before I’d taken ten steps and told me
she had been eyeing those boots for three months now.I could get used to this,
I thought. Everyone’s got to put something on every day, and this sure
felt a hell of a lot better than any of my stuff. As was now habit, I walked to
the corner of Third Avenue and promptly hailed a cab and collapsed into the
warm backseat, too tired to be thankful that I didn’t have to join the
commoners on the subway, and croaked, “Six-forty Madison. Quickly, please.”
The cabbie looked at me through the rearview—with a touch of sympathy, I
swear—and said, “Ah, yes. Elias-Clark building,” and we
squealed left onto 97th Street and made another left onto Lex, flying through
the lights until 59th Street, where we headed west to Madison. After exactly
six minutes, since there was no traffic, we came to a screeching halt in front
of the tall, thin, sleek monolith that set such a fine physical example for so
many of its inhabitants. The fare came to $6.40 like it did every single morning,
and I handed the cabbie a ten-dollar bill, like I did every single morning.
“Keep the change,” I sang, feeling the same joy I did every day
when I saw their shock and happiness. “It’s onRunway .”

 No
problem there, that’s for sure. It took all of a week on the job to see
that accounting wasn’t exactly a strong suit at Elias, not even a real
priority. It was never a problem to write off ten-dollar cab rides each and
every day. Another company might wonder what gave you the right to take a cab
to work in the first place; Elias-Clark wondered why you had deigned to take a
cab when there was a car service available. Something about gypping the company
out of that extra ten bucks each day—even though I don’t imagine
anyone was directly suffering from my overspending—made me feel a whole
lot better. Some might have called it passive-aggressive rebellion. I called it
getting even.

 I bolted
from the cab, still happy to make someone else’s day, and walked toward
640 Madison. Although it was named the Elias-Clark building, JS Bergman, one of
the most prestigious banks in the city (obviously), rented half of it. We
didn’t share anything with them, not even an elevator bank, but it
didn’t stop their rich bankers and our fashion beauties from checking
each other out in the lobby.

 “Hey,
Andy. What’s up? Long time, no see.” The voice behind me sounded
sheepish and unwilling, and I wondered why whoever it was didn’t just
leave me alone.

 I’d
been mentally preparing myself to start the morning routine with Eduardo when
I’d heard my name, and I turned to see Benjamin, one of Lily’s many
ex-boyfriends from college, slumped against the building just outside the
entrance, not even seeming to notice that he was sitting on the sidewalk. He
was only one of many of Lily’s guys, but he’d been the first one
she’d really, genuinely liked. I hadn’t spoken to good old Benji
(he loathed being called that) since Lily had walked in on him having sex with
two girls from her a capella singing group. Walked right into his off-campus
apartment and found him sprawled out in his living room with one soprano and a
contralto, mousy girls who never did manage to look at Lily again. I’d
tried to convince her it was just a college prank, but she didn’t buy it.
Cried for days, and made me promise not to tell anyone what she’d
discovered. I didn’t have to tell anyone, though, because he
did—bragged to anyone who would listen about how he’d “nailed
two singing geeks,” as he’d put it, while “a third one
watched.” He’d made it sound as though Lily had been there the
entire time, agreeably perched on the couch and watching her big, bad man go
about being manly. Lily had sworn to never let herself really fall for another
guy, and so far seemed to be keeping her promise. She slept with plenty of them,
but she sure didn’t let them stick around long enough to actually run the
risk of discovering something likable about them.

 I looked
at him again and tried to find the old Benji in this guy’s face. He had
been athletic and cute. Just a normal guy. But Bergman had turned him into a
shell of a human. He was wearing an oversize, wrinkled suit and looked as
though he was hoping to suck crack cocaine out of his Marlboro. He seemed
already overworked even though it was only seven o’clock, and this made
me feel better. Because it was payback for being an asshole to Lily, and
because I wasn’t the only one dragging myself to work at such an obscene
hour. He was probably getting paid $150,000 a year to be so miserable, but
whatever, at least I wasn’t alone.

 Benji
saluted me with his lit cigarette, glowing eerily in the still dark winter
morning, and motioned for me to come over. I was nervous I’d be late, but
Eduardo gave me his “Don’t worry, she’s not here
yet—you’re fine” look and I walked over to Benji. He looked
bleary-eyed and hopeless. He probably thoughthe had a tyrannical boss. Hah! If
only he knew. I wanted to laugh out loud.

 “Hey,
I noticed you’re the only one here this early every day,” he
muttered at me while I dug around in my bag for lipstick before hitting the
elevators. “What’s the deal?”

 He
looked so tired, so beaten-down, that I felt a surge of sympathy and kindness.
But then I felt my legs nearly give out from exhaustion, and I remembered the
way Lily had looked when one of Benji’s dumb lacrosse buddies had asked
if she’d been happy to watch or really actually wanted to join in, and I
lost my cool.

 “Well,
my deal is that I work for a rather demanding woman, and I need to get here two
and a half hours before the rest of the goddamn magazine so that I’m
prepared for her,” I said, my tone dripping with anger and sarcasm.

 “Whoa.
Just asking. Sorry, though, it sounds pretty bad. Which one do you work
for?”

 “I
work for Miranda Priestly,” I said, and prayed for a nonreaction.
Something about having a seemingly well-educated, successful professional have
no idea who Miranda was made me very, very happy. Delighted almost. And
luckily, this one didn’t let me down. He shrugged and inhaled and looked
at me expectantly.

 “She’s
the editor in chief ofRunway, ” I lowered my voice and began with glee,
“and pretty much the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. I mean,
I’ve honestly never met anyone like her. She’s really not even
human.” I had a litany of complaints I would’ve liked to have
dumped on Benji, but theRunway Paranoid Turnaround came on full-force. I became
immediately nervous, almost paranoid, convinced that this unknowing, uncaring
person was somehow one of Miranda’s lackeys, sent to spy on me from
theObserver orPage Six. I knew it was ridiculous, completely absurd. After all,
I had personally known Benji for years now and was quite sure he wasn’t
working for Miranda in any capacity. Just not totally sure. After all, how
could you be totally sure? And who knew who could be standing behind me at that
very second, overhearing every one of my nasty words? Damage control was
required immediately.

 “Of
course, she IS the most powerful woman in fashion and publishing, and you just
can’t get to the top of two major industries in New York City handing out
candy all day long. Um, it’s understandable that she’s a little
tough to work for, you know? I would be, too. Yeah, so, um, I have to run now.
Good seeing you again.” And I ducked away, as I often had the past few
weeks when I found myself talking to someone other than Lily or Alex or my
parents and I couldn’t help myself from bashing the witch.

 “Hey,
don’t feel too bad,” he called after me as I headed toward the
elevator bank. “I’ve been here since last Thursday morning.”
And with that, he dropped his smoldering butt and half-heartedly stamped it
into the cement.

 “Morning,
Eduardo,” I said, looking at him with my best tired, pathetic eyes.
“I fucking hate Mondays.”

 “Hey,
buddy, don’t worry. At least you beat her here this morning,” he
said, smiling. He was referring, of course, to those miserable mornings when
Miranda would show up at fiveA .M. and need to be escorted upstairs since she
refused to carry an access card. She’d then pace the office, calling
Emily and me over and over until one of us could manage to wake up, get ready,
and get to work as if a national security emergency were unfolding.

 I pushed
against the turnstile, praying that this Monday would be the exception, that
he’d let me pass without a performance. Negative.

 “Yo,
tell me what you want, what you really, really want,”he sang with his
huge, toothy smile and Spanish accent. And all the pleasure of making the
cabbie happy and finding out that I had arrived ahead of Miranda vanished. I
was left, as I was every morning, wanting to reach across the security counter
and tear the flesh from Eduardo’s face. But since I was such a good sport
and he was one of my only friends in the place, I weakly
acquiesced.“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,
I wanna—I wanna—I wanna—I wanna—I really, really,
really wanna zigga zig aaaaaahhhh,” I sang meekly in a pitiful tribute to
the Spice Girls’ nineties hit. And once again, Eduardo grinned and buzzed
me through.