The Devil Wears Prada (34 page)

 “What’s
wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some help with
her stuff, too, but we’re not going to stick around much after three. Is
she on her way?”

 “No,
she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a few
days, I guess, so she probably won’t move in until tomorrow. That was
just her on the phone.”

 “Well,
you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over there?
I always feel so badly for that girl—no real parents, just that cranky
old bat of a grandmother.” She put her hand on my shoulder, as if to
drive home the pain. “She’s lucky she’s got you for a friend.
Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.”

 My voice
caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a few words.
“Yeah, I guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just going to
sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches, OK? The doorman said there’s a
great deli four blocks down.”

 “Miranda
Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone that I
hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.

 “Hi,
is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other
end.

 “No,
it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even
though I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.

 “Ah,
Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared.
“Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you
finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”

 I perked
up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked atRunway, I’d never
met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious?
Could she be baiting me?

 “Um,
well, working atRunway has been a really great learning experience,” I
heard myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls would die for, of
course.” Did I just say that?

 There
was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh, that’s
just f-f-f-fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous
laugh-choke. “Does she lock you in your West Village studio apartment and
deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until you’re brainwashed enough to
actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of
work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine
that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time
around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael
Kors’t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes,
sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass boss of yours on
the phone.”

 I was
conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she
didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for
her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More than that, though, I wanted
to press the phone close to my lips and urgently whisper, “I am a
prisoner, more than you can imagine—please, oh, please, come and rescue
me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you
describe, but I’m different!” But I didn’t get the chance to
do either, because it finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the
raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.

 I sucked
in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on every subject but
Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you
that it’s certainly not because of histwinsets . Furs from J.
Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a realRunway girl—that is,
someone with discriminating and impeccable taste—would probably prefer
something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the
future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual ‘hired help’
instead of something as stiff and unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of
course, I’ll be happy to correct any more incorrect assumptions
you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom am I speaking
first?”

 “Touché,
Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be friends
after all. I d-d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she hires, but
it’s fitting because I don’t much like her. My name is Judith
Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel articles
each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still relatively new
now: Is the h-h-honeymoon over?”

 I was
silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a ticking bomb.

 “Well?
You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve been
there long enough for everyone to know your name, but not long enough that they
uncover and exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a really sweet feeling when
th-th-th-that happens, trust me. You’re working in a really special
place.”

 But
before I could respond, she said, “Enough f-f-f-flirting for now, my new
friend. Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because she never
takes my c-c-calls anyway. Stuttering pisses her off, I think. Just be sure to
put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin so she can make someone else call me
back. Thanks, l-l-love.” Click.

 I hung
up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked up from one of
Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When I told her it was
Judith, she rolled her eyes so deeply they almost didn’t resurface and
whined, “She’s such a supreme bitch. I have, like, no idea how
Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her calls, though, so you
don’t even have to tell her she’s on the phone. Just put her on the
Bulletin and Miranda will have someone else call her back.” It seems
Judith understood the inner workings of our office better than I.

 I
double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called
“Bulletin” and glanced over its contents so far. The Bulletin was
thepièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s office and, as
far as I could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before by
some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a Word document
that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could access. Only one of us
could open it at a time and add a new message, thought, or question to the itemized
list. Then we’d print out the updated version and place it on the
clipboard that sat on the shelf over my desk, removing the old ones as we went.
Miranda would examine it every few minutes throughout the day as Emily and I
struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls came in. Often
we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other could access
it and write a message. We’d print to our separate printers
simultaneously and dive for the clipboard, not knowing whose was the most recent
until we were face to face.

 “Judith’s
the latest message on mine,” I said, exhausted from the pressure of
trying to finish it before Miranda entered the suite. Eduardo had called from
the security desk downstairs to warn us that she was on her way upstairs. We
hadn’t gotten a call from Sophy yet, but we knew it’d be only
seconds.

 “I
have the concierge from the Ritz Paris after Judith,” Emily near-shouted,
triumphantly, while clipping her sheet to the Lucite clipboard. I took my
four-second outdated Bulletin back to the desk and glanced over it. Dashes in
phone numbers were not permissible, only periods. There were to be no colons in
the time, only periods. Times must be rounded up or down to the nearest
quarter-hour. Call-back phone numbers always got their own lines to make them
easier to distinguish. A time listed indicated that someone had called in. The
word “note” was something that Emily or I had to tell her (since
addressing her without being first addressed was out of the question, all relevant
info went on the Bulletin). “Reminder” was something Miranda had
most likely left on one of our voice mails sometime between one and fiveA .M.
the previous night, knowing that once it was recorded for us, it was as good as
done. We were to refer to ourselves in the third person—if it was
absolutely crucial for us to refer to ourselves at all.

 She
often asked us to find out exactly when and at what number a particular person
would be available to speak. In this case it was a tossup whether the fruits of
our investigation would go under “note” or “reminder.”
I remember once thinking that the Bulletin read like a who’s who in the
Prada crowd, but the names of the superbigmoney, the superhighfashion, and the
generally superimpressive had ceased to register as “special” on my
desensitized brain. In my newRunway reality, the White House social secretary
held little more interest than the vet who needed to speak to her about the
puppy’s vaccinations (fat chance of him getting a call back!).

 Thursday,
April 8

 7.30:
Simone called from the Paris office. She figured out dates with Mr. Testino for
the Rio shoot and also confirmed with Giselle’s agent, but she still
needs to discuss the fashion with you. Please call her.

011.33.1.55.91.30.65

 8.15:
Mr. Tomlinson called. He is on cell. Please call him.

 Note:
Andrea spoke with Bruce. He said that the large mirror in your foyer has a
piece of decorative plaster missing from the upper left-hand corner. He located
an identical mirror at an antique shop in Bordeaux. Would you like him to order
it?

 8.30:
Jonathan Cole called. He is leaving for Melbourne on Saturday and would like to
clarify the assignment before he leaves. Please call him.

555.7700

 Reminder:
To call Karl Lagerfeld about the Model of the Year party. He will be reachable
at his home in Biarritz this evening from 8.00–8.30P .M. his time.

011.33.1.55.22.06.78:
home

011.33.1.55.22.58.29:
home studio

011.33.1.55.22.92.64:
driver

011.33.1.55.66.76.33:
assistant’s number in Paris, in case you cannot find him

 9.00:
Natalie from Glorious Foods called to see whether you’d prefer that the
Vacherin be filled with mixed berries praline or warm rhubarb compote. Please
call her.

555.9887

 9.00:
Ingrid Sischy called to congratulate you on the April issue. Says the cover is
“spectacular, as always” and wants toknow who styled the
front-of-book beauty shoot. Please call her.

555.6246:
office

555.8833: home

 Note:
Miho Kosudo called to apologize for being unable to deliver Damien
Hirst’s flower arrangement. They said to be sure to tell you that they
waited outside his building for four hours, but since he doesn’t have a
doorman, they had to leave. They will try again tomorrow.

 9.15:
Mr. Samuels called. He will be unreachable until after lunch, but wants to
remind you of parent-teacher conferences tonight at Horace Mann. He would like
to discuss Caroline’s history project with you before hand. Please call
him after 2.00P .M. but before 4.00P .M.

555.5932

 9.15:
Mr. Tomlinson called again. He asked Andrea to make reservations for dinner
tonight after parent-teacher conferences. Please call him. He is on cell.

 Note:
Andrea made reservations for you and Mr. Tomlinson tonight at 8.00P .M. at La
Caravelle. Rita Jammet said she is looking forward to seeing you again, and
she’s delighted you chose her restaurant.

 9.30:
Donatella Versace called. She said everything’s confirmed for your visit.
Will you be needing any staff besides a driver, a chef, a trainer, a hair and
makeup person, a personal assistant, three maids, and a yacht captain? If so,
please let her know before she leaves for Milan. She will also provide cell
phones, but won’t be able to join you as she’ll be preparing for
the shows.

011.3901.55.27.55.61

 9.45:
Judith Mason called. Please call her back.

555.6834

 I
crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the basket under my desk, where it
immediately soaked up the leftover grease from Miranda’s third morning
breakfast that I’d already thrown out. So far, a relatively normal day as
far as the Bulletin was concerned. I was just about to click
“inbox” on my Hotmail account to see if anyone had e-mailed yet
when she cruised into the office. Damn that Sophy! She’d forgotten the
warning call again.

 “I
expect the Bulletin is updated,” she said icily without making eye
contact or otherwise acknowledging our presence.

 “It
is, Miranda,” I replied, holding it up to her so she needn’t so
much as reach for it.Three words and counting, I thought to myself,
predicting—and praying—it wouldn’t be more than a seventy-five-word
day on my part. She removed her waist-length mink, so plush I had to restrain
myself from burying my face into it right there, and tossed it onto my desk. As
I went to hang that magnificent dead animal in the closet, trying to rub it
discreetly against my cheek, I felt a quick shock of cold and wet: there were
tiny bits of still-frozen sleet stuck to the fur. How fabulously apropos.