The Devil Wears Prada (26 page)

 “Andrea!”
I heard Sebastian cry from the hostess stand. He beelined toward me as though I
might be holding the last of a life-saving medication. “We’re just
all so glad you’re here!” Two young girls in crisp gray skirt suits
nodded seriously behind him.

 “Oh,
really? Why is that?” I could never help myself toying with Sebastian,
just a little. He was such an unbelievable kiss-ass.

 He
leaned over conspiratorially, his excitement palpable. “Well, you know
how the entire staff here at Smith and Wollensky feels about Ms. Priestly,
don’t you?Runway is such a gorgeous magazine, what with all the beautiful
shoots and stunning style and, of course, fascinating, literate articles. We
all just adore it!”

 “Literate
articles, huh?” I asked, suppressing the huge smile that was threatening
to emerge. He nodded proudly and turned as one of the suited helpers tapped him
on the shoulder to hand him a tote bag.

 He
literally cried out in joy. “Ah-hah! Here we have it, one perfectly
prepared lunch for one perfect editor—and one perfect assistant,”
he added while winking at me.

 “Thank
you, Sebastian, we both appreciate it.” I opened the natural cotton tote,
a bag that looked just like thoseüber -cool ones from the Strand that all
the NYU students slung over their shoulder, but without the logo, and made sure
everything was right. One-and-a-quarter-pound ribeye, bleeding all over the
container, so raw it just might not have been cooked at all. Check. Two baked potatoes
the size of small kittens, each steaming hot. Check. One small side container
of smashed potatoes, made soft with lots of heavy cream and extra butter.
Check. Precisely eight perfect stalks of asparagus with the tips looking plump
and juicy and the ends shaved to a clean, white finish. Check. There was also a
metal gravy boat full of softened butter, a pinch-box overflowing with grainy
kosher salt, a wooden-handled steak knife, and a crisp white linen napkin,
which today was folded into the shape of a pleated skirt. How adorable.
Sebastian waited to see if I liked it.

 “Very
nice, Sebastian,” I said as though I were praising a puppy for going
number two outside. “You really outdid yourself today.”

 He
beamed and then looked at the ground in practiced humility. “Well, thank
you. You know how I feel about Ms. Priestly, and, well, it’s really an
honor to, well, you know…”

 “Prepare
her lunch?” I supplied, helpfully.

 “Well,
yes. Exactly. You know what I mean.”

 “Yes,
of course I do, Sebastian. She’ll love it, I’m sure.” I
didn’t have the heart to tell him that I immediately unfolded all of his
creations because the Ms. Priestly he so adored would throw a hissy fit if
faced with a napkin in the shape of anything other than a napkin—never
mind a bowling bag or a high-heeled shoe. I tucked the bag under my arm and
turned to leave, but just then my phone rang.

 Sebastian
looked at me expectantly, fervently hoping that the voice on the other line of
my cell phone would be his love, his reason for living. He wasn’t let
down.

 “Is
this Emily? Emily, is that you, I can barely hear you!” Miranda’s
voice came over the line in a shrill, angry staccato.

 “Hello,
Miranda. Yes, this is Andrea.” I stated calmly while Sebastian visibly
swooned at the sound of her name.

 “Are
you preparing my lunch yourself, Andrea? Because according to my clock, I asked
for it thirty-five minutes ago. I cannot think of a single reason why—if
you were doing your job properly—my lunch would not be at my desk yet. Can
you?”

 She got
my name right! A small success, but no time to celebrate.

 “Uh,
um, well, I’m very sorry it’s taken so long, but there was a little
mix-up with—”

 “You
do know just how uninterested I am in such details, do you not?”

 “Yes,
of course I understand, and it won’t be long before—”

 “I
am calling to tell you that I want my lunch, and I want itnow . There’s
really not much room for nuance, Emily. I. Want. My. Lunch. Now!” With
that, she hung up the phone, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my
cell on the floor. It might as well have been covered in burning arsenic.

 Sebastian,
who looked ready to pass out from the action, swooped down to retrieve the
phone and hand it back to me.

 “Is
she upset with us, Andrea? I hope she doesn’t think we let her down! Does
she? Does she think that?” His mouth pursed into a tight oval and the
already prominent veins in his forehead pulsed, and I wanted to hate him as
much as I hated her, but I just felt sorry for him. Why did this man, this man
who seemed remarkable only to the extent that he was so unremarkable, why did
he care so much about Miranda Priestly? Why was he so invested in pleasing her,
impressing her, providing for her? Perhaps he should take over my job, I
thought, because I was going to quit. Yes, that was it. I was going to march
back to that office and quit. Who needed her shit? What gave her the right to
talk to me, to anyone, like that? The position? The power? The prestige? The
goddamn Prada? Where, in a just universe, was this acceptable behavior?

 The
receipt I was supposed to sign every day charging the ninety-five-dollar meal
to Elias-Clark was resting on the podium, and I quickly scrawled an illegible
signature. Whether it was mine or Miranda’s or Emily’s or Mahatma
Gandhi’s at this point I couldn’t even be sure, but it
wouldn’t matter. I grabbed the bag of food that redefined the term
“lunch meat” and stomped back outside, leaving a very fragile
Sebastian to deal with himself. I threw myself in a cab the moment I hit the
street, nearly knocking an elderly man off his feet. No time to be concerned. I
had a job to quit. Even with the midday traffic, we covered the few blocks in
ten minutes, and I threw the cabbie a twenty. I would’ve given him fifty
if I’d had it and figured out a way to recoup it from Elias, but there
were none in my wallet. He immediately began counting out change, but I slammed
the door and ran. Let that twenty go to caring for a little girl somewhere or
fixing a hot water heater, I decided. Or even for a few postshift beers at the
cab park in Queens—whatever the cabbie did with it would somehow be
nobler than buying yet another cup of Starbucks.

 Full of
self-righteous indignation, I stormed inside the building and ignored the
disapproving stares from the small group of Clackers in the corner. I saw Benji
stepping off the Bergman elevators but quickly turned my back so I didn’t
waste any more time, swiped my card, and threw my hip against the turnstile.
Shit! The metal bar smacked against my pelvic bone and I knew I’d have a
splotchy purple bruise within minutes. I looked up to see two rows of
glimmering white teeth and the fat, sweating face that formed around them.
Eduardo. He had to be kidding. He just had to be.

 I
quickly flashed him my best nasty look, the one that said, quite simply,Just
die! but it didn’t work today. Maintaining full eye contact, I swiveled
around to the next turnstile in the line, swiped my card lightning-fast, and
lunged against the bar. He’d managed to lock it just in time, and I stood
there as he let the Clackers go through the first turnstile I’d tried,
one by one. Six in all, and I still stood there, so frustrated I thought I
might cry. Eduardo was not sympathetic.

 “Girlfriend,
don’t look so down. This ain’t torture, it’s fun. Now,
please. Pay attention, because…I think we’re alone now. There
doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think we’re alone now. The
beatin‘ of our hearts is the only sou-ound .”

 “Eduardo!
How on earth am I supposed to act out that one? I don’t have time for
this shit right now!”

 “OK,
OK. No actin‘ this time, just singin’. I’ll start, you
finish.Children behave! That’s what they say when we’re together.
And watch how you play! They don’t understand, and so we’re…
”

 I
figured I wouldn’t have to quit if I ever actually made it upstairs
because I’d be fired by then anyway. Might as well make someone
else’s day.“Running just as fast as we can,” I continued, not
missing a beat.“Holdin‘ on to one another’s hand.
Tryin’ to get away into the night and then you put your arms around me
and we tumble to the ground and then you say…”

 I leaned
in closer when I noticed that the jerk from day one, Mickey, was trying to
listen, and Eduardo finished it off:“I think we’re alone now. There
doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think we’re alone now. The
beatin‘ of our hearts is the only sou-ound!” He guffawed and threw
his hand in the air. I slapped him high five, and I heard the metal bar click
open.

 “Have
a good lunch, Andy!” he called, still grinning.

 “You,
too, Eduardo, you, too.”

 The
elevator ride was blissfully uneventful, and it wasn’t until I was
standing directly outside the doors of our office suite that I decided I
couldn’t quit. Aside from the obvious—that is, it’d be too
terrifying to do it unprepared, she’d probably just look at me and say,
“No, I won’t allow you to quit” and then what would I
say?—I had to remember that it was only a year of my life. A single year
to bypass many more of misery. One year, 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, of putting
up with this garbage to do what I really wanted. It wasn’t too great a
demand, and besides, I was too tired to even think about looking for another
job. Way too tired.

 Emily
looked up at me when I walked in. “She’ll be right back. She just
got called up to Mr. Ravitz’s office. Seriously, Andrea, what took you so
long? You know that she comes down on me when you’re late, and what can I
tell her? That you’re smoking cigarettes instead of buying her coffee, or
talking to your boyfriend instead of getting her lunch? It’s not
fair—it’s really not.” She turned her attention back to her
computer, a resigned expression on her face.

 She was
right, of course. It wasn’t fair. To me, to her, to any semicivilized
human being. And I felt bad for making it more difficult for her, which I did
every time I took a few extra minutes away from the office to relax and unwind.
Because every second I was gone was another second that Miranda focused her
relentless attention on Emily. I vowed to try harder.

 “You’re
totally right, Em, and I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”

 She
looked genuinely surprised and a little bit pleased. “I’d really
appreciate it, Andrea. I mean, I’ve done your job. Iknow how much it
sucks. Trust me, there were days that I had to go out in the snow and the slush
and the rain to get her coffee five, six, seven times in a single day. I was so
tired I could barely move—I know what it’s like! Sometimes
she’d call me to ask where something was—her latte, her lunch, some
special, sensitive-teeth toothpaste I’d been sent to find—it was
comforting to discover that at least her teeth had a bit of
sensitivity—and I hadn’t even left the building yet. Hadn’t
even gotten outside! That’s just her, Andy. That’s just how it is.
You can’t fight it anymore, or you’ll never survive. She
doesn’t mean any harm by it, she really doesn’t. That’s just
the way she is.”

 I nodded
and I understood, but I just couldn’t accept that. I hadn’t worked
anywhere else, but I just couldn’t believe that all bosses everywhere
acted like this. But maybe they did?

 I
carried the lunch bag over to my desk and began the preparations for serving
her. One by one, I used my bare hands to pluck the food from its heat-sealed
to-go containers and arrange it (stylishly, I hoped) on one of the china plates
from the overhead bin. Slowing only to wipe my now greasy hands on a pair of
her dirty Versace pants I hadn’t yet sent to the cleaners, I placed the
plate on the teak and tile serving tray that resided under my desk. Next to it
went the gravy boat full of butter, the salt, and the silverware wrapped in a
linen-pleated skirt-no-longer. A quick survey of my artistry revealed a missing
Pellegrino. Better hurry—she’d be back any minute! I dashed to one
of the minikitchens and palmed a fistful of ice cubes, blowing on them to keep
them from freezer-burning my hands. Blowing was only one itsy, bitsy, teensy
step from licking them—do I do it? No! Be above it, rise above it. Do not
spit in her food or gum her ice cubes. You’re a bigger person than that!

 Her
office was still empty by the time I made it back, and the only thing left to
do was pour the bottled water and place the whole orchestrated tray on her
desk. She’d come back and perch at her mammoth desk and call out for
someone to close her doors. And this would be one time I’d jump up
happily, enthusiastically, because it meant not only that she’d sit
quietly behind those closed doors for a good half hour, on the phone with
B-DAD, but also that it was time for us to eat as well. One of us could race down
to the dining room and grab the very first thing she saw and race back so the
other could go. We would try to hide our food under our desks and behind our
computer screens just in case she came out unexpectedly. If there was a single
unspoken but still irrefutable rule, it was that members of theRunway staff do
not eat in front of Miranda Priestly. Period.