The Devil Wears Prada (28 page)

 “I’m
sure she’s just had a rough couple of weeks in school,” I said to
Alex as though Lily weren’t sitting with us. She didn’t notice we
were talking about her because she was preoccupied giving some yuppie guy at
the bar heavy-lidded, come-hither looks. Alex put his arm around me and I
snuggled closer on the couch. It felt so good to be near him again—it
seemed like it had been weeks.

 “I
hate to be a buzz-kill, but I really have to get home,” Alex said,
pushing my hair back behind my ear. “Will you be OK with her?”

 “You
have to leave? Already?”

 “Already?
Andy, I’ve been here watching your best friend drink for the past two
hours. I came to see you, but you weren’t here. And now it’s almost
midnight, and I still have essays to correct.” He said it calmly, but I
could see that he was upset.

 “I
know, I’m sorry about that, I really am. You know that I would’ve
been there if I could’ve helped it at all. You know that—”

 “I
do know all that. I’m not saying you did anything wrong or that you
could’ve done anything differently. I understand. But try to understand
where I’m coming from, too, OK?”

 I nodded
and kissed him, but I felt awful. I pledged to make it up to him, to pick a
night and plan something really special for just the two of us. He did, after
all, put up with a lot from me.

 “So,
you won’t even stay over tonight?” I asked hopefully.

 “Not
unless you need help with Lily. I really need to get home and work on those
papers.” He hugged me good-bye, kissed Lily on the cheek, and headed
toward the door. “Call me if you need me,” he said as he walked
out.

 “Hey,
why’d Alex leave?” Lily asked, even though she’d been sitting
there through the entire conversation. “Is he mad at you?”

 “Probably,”
I sighed, hugging my canvas messenger bag to my chest. “I’ve been a
shit to him lately.” I went to the bar to ask for an appetizer menu and
by the time I came back, the Wall Street guy had curled up on the couch next to
Lily. He looked to be in his late twenties, but his receding hairline made it
impossible to know for sure.

 I
grabbed her coat and tossed it at her. “Lily, put that on. We’re
leaving,” I said while looking at him. He was on the shorter side, and
his pleated khakis didn’t help his pudgy figure. And the fact that his
tongue was now two inches from my best friend’s ear didn’t make me
like him any more.

 “Hey,
what’s the rush?” he asked in a whiny, nasal voice. “Your
friend and I are just getting to know each other.” Lily grinned and
nodded, trying to take a gulp from her drink but not realizing her glass was
empty.

 “Well,
that’s very sweet, but it’s time for us to go. What’s your
name?”

 “Stuart.”

 “Nice
to meet you, Stuart. Why don’t you give Lily here your number and she can
give you a call when she’s feeling a little better—or not. How does
that sound?” I flashed him a smile.

 “Uh,
whatever. No worries. I’ll catch you guys later.” He was on his
feet and headed to the bar so fast that Lily hadn’t yet noticed
he’d left.

 “Stuart
and I are getting to know each other, aren’t we, Stu?” She turned
to the place where he had sat and looked confused.

 “Stuart
had to run, Lil. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

 I pulled
her drab green peacoat on over her sweater and yanked her to her feet, where
she swayed precariously until she regained her balance. The air outside was
searing and cold and I figured it’d help her sober up.

 “I
don’t feel so good.” She was slurring again.

 “I
know, sweetie, I know. Let’s get a cab back to your apartment, OK? Do you
think you can make it?”

 She
nodded and then leaned over very casually and threw up. All over her brown boots,
with some of it splashing up the sides of her jeans.If only the Runwaygirls
could see my best friend now. I couldn’t help thinking.

 I sat
her down on a window ledge that looked reasonably like it wouldn’t have
an alarm and ordered her not to move. There was a twenty-four-hour bodega right
across the street, and this girl clearly needed some water. When I got back,
she’d thrown up again—this time all down her front—and her
eyes looked droopy. I’d bought two bottles of Poland Spring, one for her
to drink and one for cleaning, but she was too gross now. I dumped one all over
her feet to wash away the sick, and half of the second one over her coat.
Better to be soaking wet than covered in puke. She was so drunk she
didn’t even notice.

 It took
a little persuading to get a cabbie to let us in with Lily looking in such bad
shape, but I promised a really big tip on top of what was sure to be a really
big fare. We were going from the Lower East Side to the far Upper West, and I
was already figuring out a way to expense what was sure to be a twenty-dollar
ride. I could probably just write it off as a trip I had to make in search of
something for Miranda. Yes, that would work.

 The trip
to her fourth-floor walk-up was even less fun than the cab, but she’d become
more cooperative after the twenty-five-minute ride, and she even managed to
wash herself in the shower after I’d undressed her. I pointed her in the
direction of her bed and watched as she collapsed face-down when her knees hit
the box spring. I looked down at her, unconscious, and was momentarily
nostalgic for college, for all the things we’d done together then. It was
fun now, no question, but it would never again be as carefree as then.

 I
briefly wondered if Lily might be drinking too much these days. After all, she
did seem to be drunk pretty consistently. But when Alex had brought it up the
week before, I’d assured him it was because she was still a student,
still not living in the real world with real, adult responsibilities (like
pouring the perfect Pellegrino!). I mean, it’s not like we hadn’t
together done too many shots at Señor Frog’s on spring break or
too ambitiously worked our way through three bottles of red wine while
celebrating the anniversary of the day we’d first met in eighth grade.
Lily had held my hair back as I sat with my face resting on the toilet seat
after a postfinals binge, and pulled over four times once while driving me back
to my dorm after a night that had included eight rum and Cokes and a
particularly horrid karaoke rendition of “Every Rose Has Its
Thorn.” I’d dragged her back to my apartment on the night of her
twenty-first birthday and tucked her into my bed, checking her breathing every
ten minutes, and finally fell asleep on the floor next to her after I’d
made sure she’d live through the night. She had awakened twice that
night. The first time was to throw up over the side of the bed—making a
sincere effort to make it into the garbage can I’d set up beside it but
getting confused and vomiting down the side of my wall instead—and once
more to apologize sincerely and tell me she loved me and I was the best friend
a girl could have. That’s what friends did: they got drunk together and
did stupid things and looked out for one another, right? Or was that all just
college fun, rites of passage that had a time and a place? Alex had insisted
that this was different, thatshe was different, but I just didn’t see it
that way.

 I knew I
should’ve stayed with her tonight, but it was nearly two and I had to be
at work in five hours. My clothes smelled of vomit and there was no way I could
find a single appropriate piece of clothing in Lily’s closet to wear
toRunway —especially with my new upgraded look. I sighed and pulled a
blanket over her and set her alarm for 7:00A .M. so just in case she
wasn’t too hungover, she’d have a shot at making it to class.

 “‘Bye,
Lil. I’m heading out. You OK?” I placed the portable phone on the
pillow by her head.

 She
opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and smiled. “Thanks,” she
muttered, her eyelids dropping again. She wasn’t fit to run a marathon,
or probably even operate a motorized lawn mower, but she’d be fine to
just sleep it off.

 “It
was my pleasure,” I managed, even though this was the first time in
twenty-one hours I had stopped physically running, fetching, rearranging,
moving, cleaning, or otherwise assisting. “I’ll call you
tomorrow,” I said as I willed my legs not to give out. “If either
of us is still alive.” And I finally,finally, went home.

10

 “Hey,
I’m glad I caught you,” I heard Cara say on the other end of the
line. Why was she out of breath at quarter of eight in the morning?

 “Uh-oh.
You never call this early. What’s wrong?” In the split second it
took me to say those words, a half-dozen scenarios of what Miranda could need
raced through my mind.

 “No,
no, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to warn you that B-DAD is on
his way in to see you, and he’s particularly chatty this morning.”

 “Oh,
well, that’s sure great news. It’s been, what, nearly a week since
he’s interrogated me about every aspect of my life? I was wondering where
my biggest fan had gone.” I finished typing my memo and hit
“print.”

 “You’re
a lucky girl, I have to say. He’s lost interest in me entirely,”
she pined dramatically. “He only has eyes for you. I heard him say that
he was coming over to discuss details of the Met party with you.”

 “Great,
that’s just great. I can’t wait to meet this brother of his. So far
I’ve just spoken to him on the phone, but he sounds like a total schmuck.
So, you’re sure he’s on his way, or is it possible there’s a
kind spirit up above who just may spare me that particular misery today?”

 “Nope,
not today. He’s definitely on his way. Miranda has a podiatrist
appointment at eight-thirtyA .M., so I don’t think she’ll be coming
with him.”

 I
checked the appointment book on Emily’s desk quickly and confirmed her
appointments. A Miranda-free morning was indeed on the schedule.
“Fantastic. I couldn’t think of anyone dreamier to do a little
early-morning bonding with than B-DAD himself. Why does he talk so much?”

 “Can’t
answer that other than to point out the obvious: he married her, so he’s
clearly not all there. Call if he says anything particularly ridiculous. I have
to run. Caroline just smashed one of Miranda’s Stila lipsticks into the
bathroom mirror for no apparent reason.”

 “Our
lives rock, don’t they? We’re the coolest girls. Anyway, thanks for
the heads up. Talk to you later.”

 “OK,
‘bye.”

 I
glanced over the memo while I waited for B-DAD’s arrival. It was a
request to the board of trustees of the Metropolitan Museum of Art from
Miranda. She was asking permission to throw a dinner party in one of the
galleries in March for her brother-in-law, a man I could tell she absolutely despised
but who was, unfortunately, family. Jack Tomlinson was B-DAD’s younger
and wilder brother, and he’d just announced he was leaving his wife and
three children and marrying his masseuse. Although he and B-DAD were both
quintessential East Coast prep school aristocracy, Jack had shed his Harvard
persona in his late twenties and moved to South Carolina, where he’d
immediately made a fortune in real estate. Judging from everything Emily had
told me, he’d morphed into a first-class Southern boy, a real straw-chewin‘,
tobacco-spittin’ hick, which of course appalled Miranda, the epitome of
class and sophistication. B-DAD had asked Miranda to organize an engagement
party for his baby brother, and Miranda, blinded by love, had no choice but to
oblige. And if she had to do something, then she sure as hell was going to do
it right. And right was at the Met.

 Dear
Honored Members, blah, blah, blah, would like to request permission to host a
fabulous little soiree, blah, blah, blah, will be hiring only the finest caterers,
florists, and band, of course, blah, blah, blah, would welcome your input,
blah, blah. Making sure one last time that there were no glaring errors, I
quickly forged her name and called for a messenger to come pick it up.

 The
knock on the office suite door—which I kept closed this early in the
morning since no one was in yet anyway—came almost immediately, and I was
impressed with their turnaround time, but the door swung open to reveal B-DAD,
who was sporting a grin much too enthusiastic for pre-eightA.M .