The Devil Wears Prada (3 page)

 Moments
later I was sporting a rather unflattering “guest” sticker on my
rather unflattering pseudosuit (not soon enough, I discovered that guests in
the know simply stuck these passes on their bags, or, even better, discarded
them immediately—only the most uncouth losers actuallywore them) and
heading toward the elevators. And then… I boarded. Up, up, up and away,
hurtling through space and time and infinite sexiness en route to… human
resources.

 I
allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift, quiet ride. Deep,
pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather to turn those elevators
from the merely functional to the almost erotic. We whisked between floors,
stopping to let out the beauties atChic, Mantra, The Buzz, andCoquette . The
doors opened silently, reverently, to stark white reception areas. Chic
furniture with clean, simple lines dared people to sit, ready to scream out in
agony if anyone—horror!—spilled. The magazines’ names rested
in bold black and identifiable, individual typeface along the walls that
flanked the lobby. Thick, opaque glass doors protected the titles.
They’re names the average American recognizes but never imagines to be
turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof.

 While
I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen yogurt
scooper, I’d heard enough stories from my newly minted professional
friends to know that corporate life just didn’t look like this. Not even
close. Absent were the nauseating fluorescent lights, the never-shows-dirt
carpeting. Where dowdy secretaries should have been ensconced, polished young
girls with prominent cheekbones and power suits presided. Office supplies
didn’t exist! Those basic necessities like organizers, garbage cans, and
books were simply not present. I watched as six floors disappeared in swirls of
white perfection before I felt the venom and heard the voice.

 “She.
Is. Such. A. Bitch! Icannot deal with her anymore. Who does that? I mean,
really—WHO DOES THAT?” hissed a twenty-something girl in a
snakeskin skirt and a very mini tank top, looking more suited for a late night
at Bungalow 8 than a day at the office.

 “I
know. Iknooooooow. Like, what do you think I’ve had to put up with for
the past six months? Total bitch. And terrible taste, too,” agreed her friend,
with an emphatic shake of her adorable bob.

 Mercifully,
I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid open.Interesting, I thought. If
you’re comparing this potential work environment to an average day in the
life of a cliquey junior high girl, it might even be better. Stimulating? Well,
maybe not. Kind, sweet, nurturing? No, not exactly. The kind of place that just
makes you want to smile and do a great job? No, OK? No! But if you’re
looking for fast, thin, sophisticated, impossibly hip, and heart-wrenchingly
stylish, Elias-Clark is mecca.

 The
gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources receptionist did
nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. She told me to sit and
“feel free to look over some of our titles.” Instead, I tried
frantically to memorize the names of all the editors in chief of the
company’s titles—as if they were going to actually quiz me on them.
Ha! I already knew Stephen Alexander, of course, forReaction magazine, and it
wasn’t too hard to rememberThe Buzz ‘s Tanner Michel. Those were
really the only interesting things they published anyway, I figured. I’d
do fine.

 A short,
svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon. “So, dear, you’re
looking to break into magazines, are you?” she asked as she led me past a
string of long-legged model look-alikes to her stark, cold office.
“It’s a tough thing to do right out of college, you know. Lots and
lots of competition out there for very few jobs. And the few jobs that are
available, well! They’re not exactly high-paying, if you know what I
mean.”

 I looked
down at my cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and wondered why
I’d even bothered. Already deep in thought over how I was going to crawl
back to that sofa bed with enough Cheez-Its and cigarettes to last a fortnight,
I barely noticed when she almost whispered, “But I have to say,
there’s an amazing opportunity open right now, and it’s going to go
fast!”

 Hmm. My
antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye contact with me.
Opportunity? Go fast? My mind was racing. She wanted to help me? She liked me?
Why, I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet—how could shelike me? And
why exactly was she starting to sound like a car salesman?

 “Dear,
can you tell me the name of the editor in chief ofRunway ?” she asked,
looking pointedly at me for the first time since I’d sat down.

 Blank.
Completely and totally blank, I couldn’t remember a thing. I
couldn’t believe she wasquizzing me! I’d never read an issue
ofRunway in my life—she wasn’t allowed to ask me aboutthat one. No
one cared aboutRunway . It was afashion magazine, for chrissake, one I
wasn’t even sure contained any writing, just lots of hungry-looking
models and glossy ads. I stammered for a moment or two, while the different
names of editors I’d just before forced my brain to remember all swirled
inside my head, dancing together in mismatched pairs. Somewhere in the deep
recesses of my mind, I was sure I knew her name—after all, who
didn’t? But it wouldn’t gel in my addled brain.

 “Uh,
well, it seems I can’t recall her name right now. But I know I know it,
of course I know it. Everyone knows who she is! I just, well, don’t, uh,
seem to know it right now.”

 She
peered at me for a moment, her large brown eyes finally fixated on my now
perspiring face. “Miranda Priestly,” she near-whispered, with a
mixture of reverence and fear. “Her name is Miranda Priestly.”

 Silence
ensued. For what felt like a full minute, neither of us said a word, but then
Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my crucial misstep. I
didn’t know then that she was desperate to hire another assistant for
Miranda, couldn’t know that she was desperate to stop this woman from
calling her day and night, grilling her about potential candidates. Desperate
to find someone, anyone, whom Miranda wouldn’t reject. And if I
might—however unlikely—stand even the smallest chance of getting
hired and thereby relieve her, well, then attention must be paid.

 Sharon
smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda’s two assistants.Two
assistants?

 “Why
yes,” she confirmed with an exasperated look. “Of course Miranda
needs two assistants. Her current senior assistant, Allison, has been promoted
to beRunway ‘s beauty editor, and Emily, the junior assistant, will be
taking Allison’s place. That leaves the junior position open for someone!

 “Andrea,
I know you’ve just graduated from college and probably aren’t
entirely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine world…”
She paused dramatically, searching for the right words. “But I feel
it’s my duty, myobligation, to tell you what a truly incredible
opportunity this is. Miranda Priestly…” She paused again just as
dramatically, as though she were mentally bowing. “Miranda Priestly is
the single most influential woman in the fashion industry, and clearly one of
the most prominent magazine editors in the world. The world! The chance to work
for her, to watch her edit and meet with famous writers and models, to help her
achieve all she doeseach and every day, well, I shouldn’t need to tell
you that it’s a job a million girls would die for.”

 “Um,
yeah, I mean yes, that does sound wonderful,” I said, briefly wondering
why Sharon was trying to talk me into something that a million other people
would die for. But there wasn’t time to think about it. She picked up the
phone and sang a few words, and within minutes she’d escorted me to the
elevators to begin my interviews with Miranda’s two assistants.

 I
thought Sharon was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then came my meeting
with Emily. I found my way down to the seventeenth floor and waited inRunway
‘s unnervingly white reception area. It took just over a half hour before
a tall, thin girl emerged from behind the glass doors. A calf-length leather
skirt hung from her hips, and her unruly red hair was piled in one of those
messy but still glamorous buns on top of her head. Her skin was flawless and
pale, not so much as a single freckle or blemish, and it stretched perfectly
over the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen. She didn’t smile. She
sat next to me and looked me over, earnestly but with little apparent interest.
Perfunctory. And then, unprompted and still having not introduced herself, the
girl I presumed to be Emily launched into a description of the job. The monotone
of her statements told me more than all of her words: she’d obviously
gone through this dozens of times already, had little faith that I was any
different from the rest, and as a result wouldn’t be wasting much time
with me.

 “It’s
hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you know—not
often, but often enough,” she rattled on, still not looking at me.
“And it’s important to understand that there will be no editorial
work. As Miranda’s junior assistant, you’d be solely responsible
for anticipating her needs and accommodating them. Now, that could be anything
from ordering her favorite stationery to accompanying her on a shopping trip.
Either way, it’s always fun. I mean, you get to spend day after day, week
after week, with this absolutely amazing woman. And amazing she is,” she
breathed, looking slightly animated for the first time since we started
speaking.

 “Sounds
great,” I said and meant it. My friends who’d begun working
immediately after graduation had already clocked in six full months in their
entry-level jobs, and they all sounded wretched. Banks, advertising firms, book
publishing houses—it didn’t matter—they were all utterly
miserable. They whined about the long days, the coworkers, and the office
politics, but more than anything else, they complained bitterly about the
boredom. Compared with school, the tasks required of them were mindless,
unnecessary, fit for a chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging
numbers in databases and cold-calling people who didn’t want to be
called. Of listlessly cataloging years’ worth of information on a
computer screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months on end
so their supervisors thought they were productive. Each swore she’d
actually gotten dumber in the short amount of time since graduation, and there
was no escape in sight. I might not particularly love fashion, but I’d
sure rather do something “fun” all day long than get sucked into a
more boring job.

 “Yes.
It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway, nice to meet
you. I’m going to go get Allison for you to meet. She’s great,
too.” Almost as quickly as she finished and departed behind the glass in
a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure appeared.

 This
striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda’s senior
assistant who’d just been promoted, and I knew immediately that she was
simplytoo thin. But I couldn’t even focus on the way her stomach caved
inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I was captivated by the fact she
exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore black leather pants, as soft as
they were tight, and a fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank top strained across
her breasts and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair was as
dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers
and toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from
within, and her open-toe sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional
three inches. She managed to look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at
the same time, but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all,
November.

 “Hi,
I’m Allison, as you probably know,” she started, picking some of
the tank top fur from her barely there leather-clad thigh. “I was just
promoted to an editor position, and that’s the really great thing about
working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the work is tough, but
it’s incredibly glamorous and a million girls would die to do it. And Miranda
is such a wonderful woman, editor,person, that she really takes care of her own
girls. You’ll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by
working just one year for her; if you’re talented, she’ll send you
straight to the top, and…” She rambled on, not bothering to look up
or feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I didn’t
get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed over in the
way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed. I had the distinct impression
I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she wouldn’t
necessarily notice.

 When she
finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I
nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening
so fast, spiraling out of control, and yet I was excited. So what if I
didn’t know who Miranda Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed
impressed enough. Yeah, so it’s a fashion magazine and not something a
little more interesting, but it’s a hell of a lot better to work atRunway
than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of
havingRunway on my résumé was sure to give me even more
credibility when I eventually applied to work atThe New Yorker than, say,
havingPopular Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girlswould die
for this job.