The Devil Wears Prada (25 page)

 Dodging
the aimlessly meandering tourists had become easier. I used to stare in disgust
at pedestrians on cell phones, but given my hectic days, I’d become a
walking talker. I pulled my cell out and called Alex’s school where,
according to my fuzzy recollection, he could possibly be eating his lunch in
the faculty lounge at that moment.

 It rang
twice before I heard a high-pitched, pinched woman’s voice answer.

 “Hello.
You’ve reached PS 277 and this is Mrs. Whitmore speaking. How may I help
you?”

 “Is
Alex Fineman there?”

 “And
who may I ask is calling?”

 “This
is Andrea Sachs, Alex’s girlfriend.”

 “Ah,
yes, Andrea! We’ve all heard so much about you.” Her words were so
clipped she sounded as though she might choke any moment.

 “Oh,
really? That’s… uh, that’s good. I’ve heard a lot about
you too, of course. Alex says wonderful things about everyone at school.”

 “Well,
isn’t that nice. But seriously, Andrea, it sounds like you have quite
some job there! How interesting it must be, working for such a talented woman.
You’re a lucky girl, indeed.”

 Ah, yes.
Mrs. Whitmore. I am a lucky girlindeed.I’m so lucky, you have no idea. I
can’t tell you how lucky I felt when I was sent out just yesterday
afternoon to purchase tampons for my boss, only to be told that I’d
bought the wrong ones and asked why I do nothing right. And luck is probably
the only way to explain why I get to sort another person’s sweat- and
food-stained clothing each morning before eight and arrange to have it cleaned.
Oh, wait! I think what actually makes me luckiest of all is getting to talk to
breeders all over the tristate area for three straight weeks in search of the
perfect French bulldog puppy so two incredibly spoiled and unfriendly little
girls can each have their own pet. Yes, that’s it!

 “Oh,
yes, well, it is a fantastic opportunity,” I said by rote. “A job a
million girls would die for.”

 “You
can say that again, dear! And guess what? Alex just walked in. I’ll put
him on.”

 “Hey,
Andy, what’s going on? How’s your day going?”

 “Don’t
ask. I’m on my way to pick up Her lunch right now. How’s your
day?”

 “Good,
so far. My class has music today right after lunch, so I actually have an hour
and a half free, which is nice. And then we get to cover more phonics
exercises!” he said, sounding just a little defeated. “Even though
it seems like they’re never going to learn how to actually read
something.”

 “Well,
have there been any slashings today?”

 “No.”

 “So,
how much can you ask for? You’ve had a relatively pain-free, bloodless
day. Enjoy it. Save the whole reading concept for tomorrow. So, guess what?
Lily called this morning. She finally got evicted from her place in Harlem, so
we’re going to move in together. Fun, right?”

 “Hey,
congratulations! Couldn’t have been better timing for you. You guys will
have a great time together. Come to think of it, it’s a little scary.
Dealing with Lily full-time… and Lily’s guys… Promise we can
stay at my place a lot?”

 “Of
course. But you’ll feel right at home—it’ll be just like
senior year all over again.”

 “Too
bad she’s losing that cheap apartment. Other than that, it’s great
news.”

 “Yeah,
I’m psyched. Shanti and Kendra are fine, but I’m kind of done with
the whole living-with-strangers thing.” I loved Indian food, but I did
not love how the curry smell had seeped into everything I owned.
“I’m going to see if Lil wants to meet for a drink tonight to
celebrate. You up for it? We’ll meet somewhere in the East Village so
it’s not too far for you.”

 “Yeah,
sure, sounds great. I’m running to Larchmont to watch Joey tonight, but
I’ll be back in the city by eight. You won’t even be out of work by
then, so I’ll meet Max and we can all meet up afterward. Hey, is Lily
seeing anyone? Max could use a, well…”

 “A
what?” I laughed. “Go on, say it. Do you think my friend is a
whore? She’s just free-spirited, is all. And is she seeing someone? What
kind of question is that? Someone named Pink-Shirt Boy stayed over there last
night. I don’t think I know his real name.”

 “Whatever.
Anyway, the bell just rang. Call me when you’re done dropping off the
Book.”

 “Will
do. ‘Bye.”

 I was
about to stash the phone when it rang again. The number wasn’t familiar,
though, and I answered it out of sheer relief that it wasn’t Miranda or
Emily.

 “Mir—er,
hello?” I’d taken to automatically answering my cell and home phone
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” which was supremely embarrassing
when it was anyone except my parents or Lily. Had to work on that.

 “Is
this the lovely Andrea Sachs whom I inadvertently terrified at Marshall’s
party?” asked a somewhat hoarse and very sexy voice on the other end.
Christian! I’d been almost relieved when he hadn’t resurfaced
anywhere after massaging my hand with his lips. But all the feelings of wanting
to impress him with my wit and charm that first night came rushing back, and I
quickly vowed to play it cool.

 “It
is. And who may I ask is this? There were a number of men who terrified me that
night for dozens of different and varied reasons.”OK, so far, so good.
Deep breath, be cool.

 “I
didn’t realize I had so much competition,” he said smoothly.
“But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. How have you been,
Andrea?”

 “Fine.
Great, actually,” I lied quickly, remembering aCosmo article I’d
read that had exhorted me to “keep it light and airy and happy”
when talking to a new guy because most “normal” guys didn’t
respond so well to hard-bitten cynicism. “Work is going really well.
I’m loving my job, actually! It’s been really interesting
lately—a lot to learn, tons of stuff going on. Yeah, it’s great.
What about you?”Don’t talk about yourself too much, don’t
dominate the conversation, get him comfortable enough to chat about his
favorite and most familiar topic: him .

 “You’re
a rather deft liar, Andrea. To an untrained ear that almost sounded believable,
but you know what they say, don’t you? You can’t bullshit a
bullshitter. Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you get away with it this
time.” I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but instead I just
laughed. A perceptive one indeed. “Let me get right to the point here,
because I’m about to get on a plane for D.C. and security doesn’t
look all too happy that I’m walking through a metal detector while
talking on the phone. Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

 I hated
when people phrased their questions that way, asked if you had plans before
they told you what they had in mind. Did his girfriend need someone to run
errands for her and he thought I fit the bill? Or maybe he needed someone to
walk his dog while he gave yet another eight-hour-long interview to theNew York
Times ? I was considering what noncommittal way I could answer that question
when he said, “So, I have a reservation at Babbo this Saturday. Nine
o’clock. A bunch of friends will be there, too, mostly magazine editors
and pretty interesting people. An editor fromThe Buzz, and a couple writers
fromThe New Yorker . Good crowd. You up for it?” At that exact moment, an
ambulance roared past me with its siren wailing, lights flashing in a fruitless
attempt to speed through the hopelessly gridlocked traffic. As usual, the
drivers ignored the ambulance and it sat at the red light like all the other
vehicles.

 Had he
just asked me out? Yes, I thought that’s exactly what had just happened.
He was asking me out! He was asking me out. Christian Collinsworth was asking
me on a date—a Saturday-night date, to be specific, and to Babbo, where
he just so happened to have a prime-time reservation with a group of smart,
interesting people, people just like him. Never even mind theNew Yorkerwriters!
I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d mentioned to him at the
party that Babbo was the one restaurant I most wanted to try in New York, that I
loved Italian and knew how much Miranda loved it and I was dying to go.
I’d even thought about blowing a week’s pay on a meal and had
called to make a reservation for Alex and me, but they’d been booked
solid for the next five months. I hadn’t been asked on a date by anyone
other than Alex in three years.

 “Um,
Christian, golly, I’d love to,” I started, trying to forget
immediately that I’d just said “golly.”Golly! Who said that?
The scene where Baby proudly announces to Johnny that she’d carried a
watermelon flashed to mind, but I pushed it back and willed myself to forge
forward despite the humiliation. “I’d really love
to”—yes, you idiot, you just said that, try to make some progress
here—“but I just can’t do it. I, um, I already have plans for
Saturday.” A good response overall, I thought. I was shouting over the
noise of the siren, but I thought I still sounded somewhat dignified. No need
to be available for a date that was only two days away, and no real need to
reveal existence of boyfriend… after all, it really wasn’t any of
his business. Right?

 “Do
you really have plans, Andrea, or do you think your boyfriend would disapprove
of you going out with another man?” He was fishing, I could tell.

 “Either
way has nothing to do with you,” I said prissily, and I actually rolled
my eyes at myself. I crossed Third Avenue without noticing that the light was
against me and almost got mowed down by a minivan.

 “OK,
well, I’ll let you off this time. But I’ll be asking again. And I
think next time you’ll say yes.”

 “Oh,
really? What gives you that impression?” The confidence that had seemed
so sexy before was now starting to sound a whole lot like arrogance. The only
problem was that it made him sound even sexier.

 “Just
a hunch, Andrea, just a hunch. And no need to worry that pretty little head of
yours—or your boyfriend’s—I was just extending a friendly
invitation for a good meal and good company. Maybe he’d like to join us,
Andrea? Your boyfriend. He must be a great guy, I’d really like to meet
him.”

 “No!”
I almost shouted, horrified at the thought of the two of them sitting across a
table from each other, each so amazing in such radically different ways.
I’d be ashamed for Christian to see Alex’s wholesomeness, his
do-gooder ways. To Christian, Alex would seem like a naïve hick. And
I’d be even more ashamed for Alex to see, with his own eyes, all the ugly
things I found so incredibly attractive about Christian: the style, the
cockiness, a self-assuredness so rock-solid it seemed impossible to insult him.

 “No.”
I laughed or, rather, forced a laugh, as I tried to make it sound casual.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Although I’m sure
he’d just love to meet you, too.”

 He
laughed with me, but it had turned mocking, patronizing. “I was just
kidding, Andrea. I’m sure your boyfriend’s a really great guy, but
I’m not particularly interested in meeting him.”

 “Well,
of course. Sure. I mean, I knew what you—”

 “Listen,
I’ve got to run. Why don’t you give me a call if you change your
mind… or your ‘plans,’ OK? Offer’s still open. Oh, and
have a great day.” And before I could say another word, he’d hung
up.

 What the
hell had just happened? I ran through it again: Hot Smart Writer had somehow
found my cell number, called it, and fully asked me on a date for Saturday
night to Hot Trendy Restaurant. I wasn’t clear whether he knew ahead of
time if I had a boyfriend or not, but he didn’t appear particularly
daunted by the information. The only thing I knew for sure was that I’d
spent way too long chatting on the phone, a fact confirmed by a quick glance at
my watch. It had been thirty-two minutes since I’d left the office,
longer than the time it usually took me to get lunch and come back.

 I
stashed the phone and realized I had already made it to the restaurant. I
pulled open the lumbering wooden door and stepped into the hushed, darkened
dining room. Even though every table was filled with midtown bankers and
lawyers gnawing on their favorite steaks, there was barely any noise at all, as
if the plush carpeting and manly color scheme just absorbed all the sound.