The Devil Wears Prada (43 page)

 Twelve,
thirteen, fourteen… the elevator stopped and swept open to yet another
stark white reception area. A woman of around thirty-five stepped forward to
board, but stopped two feet from the door when she saw Miranda standing inside.

 “Oh,
I, uh…” she stammered loudly, looking frantically around her for an
excuse not to enter our private hell. And although it would’ve been nicer
for me to have her come aboard, I privately rooted for her to escape. “I,
um, oh! I forgot the photos I need for the meeting,” she finally managed,
whipping around on a particularly unsteady Manolo and high-tailing it back
toward the office area. Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice, and once
again, the doors swept shut.

 Fifteen,
sixteen, and finally—finally!—seventeen, where the doors opened to
reveal a group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to pick up the
cigarettes, Diet Coke, and mixed greens that would constitute their lunch. Each
young, beautiful face looked more panicked than the next, and they almost
trampled one another trying to move out of Miranda’s way. They parted
directly down the middle, three to one side and two to the other, and she
deigned to walk past them. They were all staring after her, silent, as she made
her way across the reception area, and I was left with no choice but to follow
her. Wouldn’t notice a thing, I figured. We’d just spent what felt
like an entire insufferable week locked together in a five-by-three-foot box,
and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my presence. But as soon as I
stepped onto the floor, she turned around.

 “Ahn-dre-ah?”
she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence that filled the entire
room. I didn’t respond since I figured it was rhetorical, but she waited.

 “Ahn-dre-ah?”

 “Yes,
Miranda?”

 “Whose
shoes are you wearing?” She placed one hand lightly on a tweed-swathed
hip and peered over at me. By now the elevator had left without the fashion
assistants, since they were too engrossed in actually getting to see—and
hear!—Miranda Priestly in the flesh. I could feel six pairs of eyes on my
feet, which, although they had been quite comfortable mere moments before, were
now beginning to burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion
assistants and one fashion guru.

 The
anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and the unwavering
stares of all these people addled my brain, so when Miranda asked whose shoes I
was wearing, I thought that perhapsshe thought I was not wearing my own.

 “Um,
mine?” I said, without realizing until the words had been spoken that it
sounded not only disrespectful, but downright obnoxious. The gaggle of Clackers
began to twitter, until Miranda turned her wrath on them.

 “I’m
wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants appear as though they
have nothing better to do than gossip like little girls.” She began
singling them out by pointing at each one, since she wouldn’t have been
able to produce a single one’s name if you put a gun to her head.

 “You!”
she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably seeing Miranda for
the first time. “Did we hire you for this or did we hire you to call in
clothes for the suits shoot?” The girl hung her head and opened her mouth
to apologize, but Miranda barreled on.

 “And
you!” she said, walking over and standing directly in front of Jocelyn,
the highest-ranking among them and a favorite of all the editors. “You
think there aren’t a million girls who want your job and who understand
couture just as well as you?” She took a step back, slowly moved her eyes
up and down each of their bodies, lingering just long enough to make each feel
fat, ugly, and inappropriately clad, and commanded them all to return to their
desks. They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads bowed. A few
murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly back to the fashion area.
It wasn’t until they’d all left that I realized we were alone.
Again.

 “Ahn-dre-ah?
I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my assistant,” she
declared, walking toward the door that would lead us to the hallway. I was
unsure whether I should follow her or not, and I briefly hoped that either
Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion girls had warned Emily that Miranda was
on her way back.

 “Miranda,
I—”

 “Enough.”
She paused at the door and looked at me. “Whose shoes are you
wearing?” she asked again in a none-too-pleased voice.

 I checked
out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the most stylish woman
in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a pair of shoes I’d
purchased at Ann Taylor Loft. Another glance at her face and I knew I
couldn’t.

 “I
bought them in Spain,” I said quickly, averting my eyes. “It was at
some adorable boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that carried this new
Spanish designer’s line.” Where the hell had I pulled that one
from?

 She
folded her hand into a fist, put it over her mouth, and cocked her head. I saw
James approaching the glass door from the other side, but as soon as he saw
Miranda he turned and fled. “Ahn-dre-ah, they’re unacceptable. My
girls need to representRunway magazine, and those shoes are not the message
I’m looking to convey. Find some decent footwear in the Closet. And get
me a coffee.” She looked at me and looked at the door, and I understood I
was to reach forward and open it for her, which I did. She walked through
without saying thank you and headed back to the office. I needed to get money
and my cigarettes for the coffee run, but neither was worth having to walk
behind her like an abused but loyal duckling, and so I turned to walk back
toward the elevator. Eduardo could spot me the five bucks for the latte, and
Ahmed would just charge a new pack toRunway ‘s house account, as
he’d been doing for months now. I hadn’t counted on her even
noticing, but her voice hit the back of my head like a shovel.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!”

 “Yes,
Miranda?” I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her.

 “I
expect the restaurant review I asked you for is on my desk?”

 “Um,
well, actually, I’ve had a little trouble locating it. You see,
I’ve spoken to all the papers and it seems none of them have run a review
of an Asian fusion restaurant in the past few days. Do you, uh, happen to
remember the name of the restaurant?” Without realizing it, I was holding
my breath and bracing for the onslaught.

 It
appeared my explanation held little interest for her, because she had resumed
walking toward her office. “Ahn-dre-ah, I already told you that it was in
thePost —is it really that difficult to find?” And with that, she
was gone. ThePost ? I’d spoken to their restaurant reviewer just that
morning and he had sworn there were no reviews that fit my
description—nothing noteworthy had opened that week whatsoever. She was
cracking up, for sure, and I was the one who was going to get blamed.

 The
coffee run took only a few minutes since it was midday, so I felt free to tack
on an extra ten minutes to call Alex, who would be having lunch at exactly
twelve-thirty. Thankfully, he answered his cell phone, so I didn’t have
to deal with any of the teachers again.

 “Hey
babe, how’s your day going?” He sounded cheerful to the point of
excess, and I had to remind myself not to be irritated.

 “Awesome
so far, as always. I really do love it here. I’ve spent the past five
hours researching an imaginary article that was dreamed up by a delusional
woman who would probably rather take her own life than admit she’s wrong.
What about you?”

 “Well,
I’ve had a great day. Remember I told you about Shauna?” I nodded
into the phone even though he couldn’t see me. Shauna was one of his
little girls who had yet to utter a single word in class, and whether he
threatened her or bribed her or worked with her one on one, Alex couldn’t
get her to talk. He’d been near-hysterical the first time she’d
shown up in his class, placed there by a social worker who’d discovered
that even though she was nine years old she’d never been in the inside of
a school, and he’d been obsessed with helping her ever since.

 “Well,
it seems she won’t shut up! All it took was a little singing. I had a
folk singer come in today to play the guitar for the kids, and Shauna was
singing away. And once she broke the ice, she’s been jabbering away with
everyone since. She knows English. She has an age-appropriate vocabulary.
She’s completely and totally normal!” His obvious elation made me
smile, and all of a sudden I started to miss him. Miss him in the way that you
do when you’ve seen someone frequently and regularly but haven’t
really connected with him in any significant way. It had been great to surprise
him the night before, but, as usual, I’d been too frazzled to be much
company. We both inherently understood that we were just waiting out my
sentence, waiting for me to complete my year of servitude, waiting until
everything went back to the way it was. But I still missed him. And I still
felt not a little guilty for the whole Christian situation.

 “Hey,
congratulations! Not that you needed a testament to the fact that you’re
a great teacher, but you got one anyway! You should be thrilled.”

 “Yeah,
it’s exciting.” I could hear the bell ring in the background.

 “Listen,
is that offer still open for a date tonight—just you and me?” I
asked, hoping he hadn’t made plans yet but expecting that he had. As
I’d pulled myself out of bed this morning and dragged my exhausted and
sore body into the shower, he’d called out that he wanted to just rent a
movie, order some food, and hang out. I’d mumbled something unnecessarily
sarcastic about it not being worth his time because I wouldn’t get home
until late and would just fall asleep, and at least one of us should have a
life and enjoy their Friday night. I wanted to tell him now that I was angry at
Miranda, atRunway, at myself, but not at him, and that there was nothing
I’d rather do than curl up on the couch and cuddle for fifteen straight
hours.

 “Sure.”
He sounded surprised, but pleased. “Why don’t I just wait at your
place and then we can figure out what we want to do? I’ll just hang out
with Lily until you get home.”

 “Sounds
absolutely perfect. You can hear all about Freudian Boy.”

 “Who?”

 “Never
mind. Listen, I’ve got to run. The Queen will wait for coffee no longer.
See you tonight—can’t wait.”

 Eduardo
allowed me upstairs after chanting only two refrains—my choice—of
“We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and Miranda was talking
animatedly when I set down her coffee spread on the left-hand corner of her
desk. I spent the rest of the afternoon arguing with every assistant and editor
I could reach at theNew York Post, trying to insist that I knew their paper
better than they did, and could I please just have one little copy of the Asian
fusion restaurant review they’d run the day before?

 “Ma’am,
I’ve told you a dozen times and I’ll tell you again:we did not
review any such restaurant . I know Ms. Priestly is a crazy woman and I
don’t doubt that she’s making your life a living hell, but I just
can’t produce an article that doesn’t exist. Do you
understand?” This had come finally from an associate who, even though he
worked onPage Six, had been assigned the task of finding my article to shut me
up. He’d been patient and willing, but he’d reached the end of his
charity work. Emily was on the other line with one of their freelance food
writers, and I’d forced James to call one of his ex-boyfriends who worked
in the advertising department there to see if there was
anything—anything—he could do. It was already three o’clock
the dayafter she’d requested something, and this was the very first time
I hadn’t gotten it immediately.

 “Emily!”
Miranda called from inside her deceptively bright office.

 “Yes,
Miranda?” we both answered, jumping up to see which one of us she would
motion to.

 “Emily,
I can hear that you just spoke to the people at thePost ?” she said,
directing her attention in my direction. The real Emily looked relieved and sat
down.

 “Yes,
Miranda, I just hung up with them. I’ve actually spoken to three
different people there and all of them insist that they haven’t reviewed
a single new Asian fusion restaurant in Manhattan at any point in the last
week. Maybe it was before then?” I was now tottering in front of her desk
with my head bowed just enough so I could stare at the black Jimmy Choo
slingbacks with four-inch heels that Jeffy had provided so smugly.