The Devil Wears Prada (39 page)

 Instead,
I sat on the crumbling concrete of my furnitureless balcony and leisurely
inhaled a cigarette. Lacking the energy to actually blow the smoke out, I let
it seep from my mouth and hang in the still air around me. At some point I
heard Lily’s door open, her footsteps shuffling along the hallway, but I
quickly turned out my lights and sat in the darkened silence. There had just
been fifteen straight hours of talking, and I could talk no more.

13

 “Hire
her,” Miranda had decreed when she met Annabelle, the twelfth girl
I’d interviewed and one of only two that I’d decided were fit to even
meet Miranda. Annabelle was a native French speaker (she actually spoke so
little English I had to have the twins translate for me), a graduate of the
Sorbonne, and the possessor of a long, hard body, with gorgeous brown hair. She
had style. She wasn’t afraid to wear stilettos on the job and
didn’t seem to mind Miranda’s brusque manner. In fact, she was
rather aloof and brusque herself and never really seemed to make any sort of
eye contact. Always kind of bored, a touch disinterested, and supremely confident.
I was thrilled when Miranda wanted her, both because it saved me weeks more of
meeting nanny wannabes and because it indicated—in some teeny, tiny
way—that I was starting to get it.

 Get
what, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but things were going as smoothly as I
could have hoped at this point. I’d pulled off the clothing order with
only a few noticeable screwups. She hadn’t exactly been psyched when
I’d shown her everything she’d ordered from Givenchy and
accidentally pronounced it precisely as it appears—give-EN-chee. After
much glaring and a few snide comments, I was informed of the correct
pronunciation, and everything went reasonably well until she had to be told
that the Roberto Cavalli dresses she’d requested hadn’t been made
yet and wouldn’t be ready for another three weeks. But I’d handled
that and had managed to coordinate fittings in the Closet with her tailor and
had assembled nearly everything in the closet in her home dressing room, a
space roughly the size of a studio apartment.

 The
party planning had continued in Miranda’s absence and picked up again
full-force with her return, but there was surprisingly little panic—it
appeared that everything was in order, and that the upcoming Friday was set to
go off without a hitch. Chanel had delivered a one-of-a-kind, floor-length red
beaded sheath while Miranda was in Europe, and I’d immediately sent it to
the cleaners for a once-over. I’d seen a similar Chanel dress in black in
the pages ofW the month before, and when I pointed it out to Emily, she’d
nodded somberly.

 “Forty
thousand dollars,” she’d said, moving her head up and down, up and
down. She double-clicked on a pair of black pants onstyle.com , where
she’d spent months scouring for ideas for her upcoming trip to Europe
with Miranda.

 “Forty
thousand WHAT?”

 “Her
dress. The red one from Chanel. It costs forty thousand dollars if you were to
buy it retail. Of course, Miranda isn’t paying full price, but she
didn’t get this one for free, either. Isn’t it wild?”

 “Forty
thousand DOLLARS?” I’d asked again, still unable to believe that
I’d held a single item worth so much money in my hands just hours
earlier. I couldn’t help a quick conceptualization of forty grand: two
full years’ college tuition, a down payment on a new home, an averageyearly
salary for a typical American family of four. Or, at the very least, one hell
of a lot of Prada bags. But one dress? I thought I’d seen it all at that
point, but I was due another zinger when the dress came back from the couture
dry cleaner with a calligraphic envelope that readMs. Miranda Priestly . Inside
was a hand-printed invoice on cream-colored cardstock that read:

 Garment
type:Evening gown. Designer:Chanel. Length:Ankle. Colour:Red. Size:Zero.
Description:Hand-beaded, sleeveless with slight scoop neckline, invisible side
zipper, heavy silk lining. Service:Basic, first-time cleaning. Fee:$670.

 There
was an additional note underneath the actual bill part from the shop’s
owner, a woman I was sure paid both the rent for her store and her home with
the money she received from Elias on behalf of Miranda’s extensive
dry-cleaning addiction.

 We were
delighted to work on such a gorgeous gown and we hope you enjoy wearing it to
your party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As directed, we will pick up the
gown on Monday, May 24, for its postparty cleaning. Please let us know if we
may be of any additional service. All the best, Colette.

 Either
way, it was only Thursday and Miranda had a brand-new and newly cleaned gown
resting gently in her closet, and Emily had located the exact silver Jimmy Choo
sandals she’d requested. The hair stylist was due at her house at
five-thirtyP .M. on Friday, the makeup artist at five forty-five, and Uri was
on call for exactly six-fifteen to take Miranda and Mr. Tomlinson to the
museum.

 Miranda
had already left for the day to watch Cassidy’s gymnastics meet, and I
was hoping to duck out early to surprise Lily. She’d just finished her
last exam of the year and I wanted to take her out for a celebration.

 “Hey,
Em, do you think I could leave by six-thirty or seven today? Miranda said she
didn’t need the Book because there really wasn’t anything
new,” I added quickly, irritated that I had to beg my equal, my peer for
permission to leave work after only twelve hours instead of the usual fourteen.

 “Um,
sure. Yeah, whatever. I’m leaving now.” She checked her computer
screen and saw that it was a little after five. “Stay for another couple
hours and then head out. She’s with the twins tonight, so I don’t
think she should be calling much.” She had a date that night with the guy
she’d met in LA over New Year’s. He’d finally made it to New
York and, surprise of all surprises, he’d actually called. They were
headed to Craftbar for drinks, at which point she would treat him to Nobu if he
was behaving himself. She’d made the reservations five weeks earlier when
he’d e-mailed that he might be in New York, but Emily still had to use
Miranda’s name to score the time slot.

 “Well,
what are you going to do when you show up there and you’re clearly not
Miranda Priestly?” I asked stupidly.

 As
usual, I received an expert eye-roll-deep-sigh combo. “I’ll simply
tell them that Miranda had to be out of town unexpectedly, show them a business
card, and tell them she wanted me to have her reservation. Hardly a big
deal.”

 Miranda
called only once after Emily left to tell me that she wouldn’t be in the
office until noon tomorrow, but she’d like a copy of the restaurant
review she’d read today “in the paper.” I had the presence of
mind to ask if she recalled the name of the restaurant or the paper in which
she read about it, but this annoyed her greatly.

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
I’m already late for the meet. Don’t grill me. It was an Asian
fusion restaurant and it was in today’s paper. That’s all.”
And with that, she snapped her Motorola V60 shut. I hoped, as I usually did
when she cut me off midsentence, that one day the cell phone would simply clamp
down on her perfectly manicured fingers and swallow them whole, taking special
time to shred those flawless red nails. No luck yet.

 I wrote
a quick note to myself to find the restaurant first thing in the morning in the
notebook I kept with Miranda’s myriad and ever-changing requests and
bolted for the car. I called Lily from my cell and she picked up just as I was
about to get out and go up to the apartment, and so I waved to John
Fisher-Galliano (who had grown his hair a little longer and adorned his uniform
with a few chains and looked more like the designer each and every day) but didn’t
move.

 “Hey,
what’s up? It’s me.”

 “Hüüüüüi,”she
sang, happier than I’d heard her in weeks, maybe months. “I am so
done. Done! No early summer session, nothing but a little, insignificant
proposal due for a master’s thesis that I can change ten times after the
fact if I want. So that leaves nothing until mid-July. Do you believe
it?” She sounded positively gleeful.

 “I
know, I’m so excited for you! You up for a celebratory dinner? Anywhere
you want, it’s onRunway .”

 “Really?
Anywhere?”

 “Anywhere.
I’m downstairs and I have a car. Come down; we’ll go somewhere
great.”

 She
squealed. “Fun! I’ve been meaning to tell you all about Freudian
Boy. He’s beautiful! Hold on one second. I’m putting on jeans and
I’ll be right down.”

 She
bounded out five minutes later looking trendier and happier than I’d seen
her in a very long time. She wore a pair of tight, faded boot-cut jeans that
hugged her hips, paired with a long-sleeve flowy white peasant blouse. A pair
of flip-flops I’d never seen before—brown leather straps with
turquoise beads—completed the look. She was even wearing makeup, and her
curls looked as though they had seen a blow-dryer at some point in the last
twenty-four hours.

 “You
look great,” I said as she bounded into the backseat. “What’s
your secret?”

 “Freudian
Boy, of course. He’s amazing. I think I’m in love. So far,
he’s going strong at nine-tenths. Do you believe it?”

 “First,
let’s decide where we’re going. I didn’t make a reservation
anywhere, but I can call ahead and use Miranda’s name. Anywhere you
want.”

 She was
rubbing on some Kiehl’s lip gloss and staring at herself in the
driver’s rearview mirror. “Anywhere?” she said
absentmindedly.

 “Anywhere.
Maybe Chicama for those mojitos?” I suggested, knowing that the way to sell
Lily on a restaurant was by advertising its drinks, not its food. “Or
there are those amazing Cosmos at Meet. Or the Hudson Hotel—maybe we can
even sit outside? If you want wine, though, I’d love to try—”

 “Andy,
can we go to Benihana? I’ve been craving it forever.” She looked
sheepish.

 “Benihana?
You want to go toBenihana ? Like, the chain restaurant where they seat you with
tourists who have lots of whining children and unemployed Asian actors cook the
food right on your table?That Benihana?”

 She was
nodding so enthusiastically, I had no choice but to call for the address.

 “No,
no, I have it right here. Fifty-sixth between Fifth and Sixth, north side of
the street,” she called to the driver.

 My
weirdly excited friend didn’t seem to notice that I was staring. Instead,
she chatted happily about Freudian Boy, aptly named because he was in his last
year of a Ph.D. program in psychology. They’d met in the graduate student
lounge in the basement of Low Library. I got the full rundown on all of his
qualifications: twenty-nine years old (“So much more mature, but not at
all too old”), originally from Montreal (“Such a cute French
accent, but like, totally Americanized”), longish hair (“But not
freaky ponytail long”), and just the right amount of stubble (“He
looks just like Antonio Banderas when he doesn’t shave for three
days”).

 The
samurai chef-actors did their thing, slicing and dicing and flipping cubes of
meat all over the place while Lily laughed and clapped her hands like a little
girl at her first circus. Although it seemed impossible to believe that Lily
actually liked a guy, it appeared to be the only logical explanation for her
obvious elation. Even more impossible to believe was her claim that she
hadn’t slept with him yet (“Two and a half full weeks of hanging
out constantly at school and nothing! Aren’t you proud of me?”).
When I asked why I hadn’t seen him around the apartment at all,
she’d smiled proudly and said, “He hasn’t been invited over
to the apartment yet. We’re taking things slow.” We were standing
directly outside the restaurant as she regaled me with all the funny stories
he’d told her when Christian Collinsworth appeared in front of me.

 “Andrea.
The lovely Andrea. I have to say, I’m rather surprised to discover that
you’re a fan of Benihana… What would Miranda think?” he asked
teasingly, sliding his arm around my shoulder.

 “I,
uh, well…” The stammering was immediately all-consuming. There was
no room for words when the thoughts were bouncing off each side of my head,
pinging between my ears.Eating at Benihana. Christian knows it! Miranda at
Benihana! Looks so adorable in leather bomber jacket! Must be able to smell the
Benihana on me! Don’t kiss him on the cheek! Kiss him on the cheek!
“Well, it’s not that, uh, that…”