The Devil Wears Prada (44 page)

 “Manhattan?”
She looked confused and pissed off all at once. “Who said anything about
Manhattan?”

 It was
my time to be confused.

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
I’ve told you at least five times now that the review was written about a
new restaurant inWashington . Since I’ll be there next week, I need you
to make a reservation.” She cocked her head and moved her lips into what
can only be described as a wicked smile. “What exactly about this project
do you find so challenging?”

 Washington?
Five times she’d told me the restaurant was inWashington ? I don’t
think so. She was clearly losing her mind or just taking sadistic pleasure in
watching me lose mine. But being the idiot she took me for, I again spoke
without thinking.

 “Oh,
Miranda, I’m fairly certain that theNew York Post doesn’t do
reviews of restaurants in Washington. It appears they only actually visit and
review places new to New York.”

 “Is
that supposed to be funny, Ahn-dre-ah? Is that your idea of having a sense of
humor?” Her smile had disappeared and she was leaning forward in her
seat, looking like a hungry vulture that was impatiently circling its prey.

 “Um
no, Miranda, I just thought that—”

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
as I’ve made clear adozen times already, the review I’m looking for
is in theWashington Post . You’ve heard of that little newspaper, right?
Just like New York has theNew York Times, Washington, D.C., has its own paper,
too. See how that works?” Her voice was now beyond mocking: she was so
incredibly patronizing that she was only one step away from actually addressing
me in baby talk.

 “I’ll
get it for you right away,” I stated as calmly as I could and quietly
walked out.

 “Oh,
and Ahn-dre-ah?” My heart lurched and my stomach wondered if it could
take another “surprise.”

“I
expect you to attend the party tonight to greet the guests. That’s
all.”

 I looked
to Emily, who looked absolutely baffled, her crinkled forehead making her
appear as dumbfounded as I felt. “Did I hear her correctly?” I
whispered to Emily, who could do nothing but nod and motion for me to come to
her side of the suite.

 “I
was afraid of this,” she whispered gravely, like a surgeon telling a
patient’s family member that they’d found something horrible upon
opening the chest cavity.

 “She
can’t be serious. It’s four o’clock on Friday. The party
starts at seven. It’s black tie, for chrissake—there is no way on
earth she expects me to go.” I looked again at my watch in disbelief and
tried to remember her exact words.

 “Oh,
she’s quite serious,” she said, picking up the phone.
“I’ll help you, OK? You go find the review in theWashington Post
and get her a copy before she leaves—Uri is coming for her soon to take
her home for her hair and makeup. I’ll get you a dress and everything
else you need for tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”
She began rapid-fire dialing and whispering urgent-sounding instructions into
the phone. I stood and stared, but she waved her hand without looking up and I
snapped back to reality.

 “Go,”
she whispered, looking at me with a rare hint of sympathy. And I went.

14

 “You
can’t show up in a cab,” Lily said to me as I jabbed helplessly at
my eyes with my brand-new Maybelline Great Lash mascara. “This is
black-tie. Call a car, for chrissake.” She watched for a minute more and
then grabbed the clumpy wand from my hand and tapped my eyelids closed.

 “I
guess you’re right,” I sighed, still refusing to accept that my
Friday night was to be spent in a formal gown at the Met, greeting
wealthy-but-still-rednecks from Georgia and North and South Carolina and
plastering fake smile after fake smile on my poorly made-up face. The
announcement had left me all of three hours to find a dress, buy makeup, get
ready, and revamp all my weekend plans, and in the craziness of the situation,
I’d forgotten to arrange transportation.

 Luckily,
working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the country (the job a
million girls would die for!) has its advantages, and by 4:40P .M. I was the
proud borrower of a knockout floor-length black Oscar de la Renta number,
provided kindly by Jeffy, Closet maven and lover of all things feminine
(“Girl, you go black-tie, you go Oscar, and that’s that. Now
don’t be shy, take those pants off and try this on for Jeffy.” I
began to unbutton and he shuddered. I asked him if he really found my
half-naked body that repulsive, and he said of course not; it was merely my
panty lines that he found so disgusting). The fashion assistants had already
called in a pair of silver Manolos in my size, and someone in accessories had
selected a flashy silver Judith Leiber evening bag with a long, clanking chain.
I’d expressed interest in an understated Calvin Klein clutch, but she
snorted at the suggestion and handed me the Judith. Stef was debating whether I
should wear a choker or a pendant, and Allison, the newly promoted beauty
editor, was on the phone with her manicurist, who made office calls.

 “She’ll
meet you in the conference room at four forty-five,” Allison said when I
picked up my extension. “You’re wearing black, right? Insist on
Chanel Ruby Red. Just tell her to bill us.”

 The
entire office had worked itself up to a nearly hysterical frenzy trying to make
me look appropriate for the night’s gala affair. It certainly
wasn’t because they all adored me so much and killed themselves trying to
help me out; rather, they knew Miranda had mandated the makeover and were eager
to prove to her the high level of their taste and class.

 Lily
finished her charity makeup lesson and I briefly wondered if I looked
ridiculous wearing a floor-length Oscar de la Renta gown and Bonne Belle
Lipsmackers in Fudgsicle. Probably, but I had turned down all offers of having
a makeup artist come to the apartment. Everyone on staff tried to
insist—and none too subtly—but I adamantly refused. Even I had
limits.

 I
hobbled into the bedroom on my four-inch Manolo stilettos and kissed Alex on
the forehead. He barely looked up from the magazine he was reading.

 “I’ll
definitely be home by eleven, so we can go get some dinner or drinks then, OK?
I’m sorry I have to do this, I really am. If you do decide to go out with
the guys, call so I can come meet you, OK?” He had, as promised, come
directly from school to spend the night together, and hadn’t been all
that thrilled when I’d arrived home with the news that he could
definitely have a relaxing night at home but that I wouldn’t be a part of
the plans. He was sitting on the balcony off my bedroom, reading an old copy
ofVanity Fair we had lying around and drinking one of the beers Lily kept in
the fridge for guests. It wasn’t until after I’d explained that I
had to work tonight that I even noticed he and Lily weren’t hanging out.

 “Where
is she?” I asked. “She has no classes, and I know she’s not
working Fridays all summer.”

 Alex
took a swig of his Pale Ale and shrugged. “I’m guessing she’s
here. Her door’s closed, but I saw some guy walking around before.”

 “Some
guy? Could you be a little more descriptive? What guy?” I wondered if
someone had broken in, or perhaps Freudian Boy had finally been invited over.

 “I
don’t know, but he’s scary-looking. Tattoos, piercings,
wife-beater—the whole nine. Can’t imagine where she met this one.”
He took another nonchalant swig.

 Icouldn’t
imagine where she’d found him, either, considering I’d left her at
eleven the night before in the company of a very polite guy named William who,
as far as I could see, was not a wife-beater-wearing, tattoo-donning kind of
guy.

 “Alex,
seriously! You’re telling me there’s some thug cruising around my
apartment—a thug who may or may not have been invited over—and you
don’t care? This is ridiculous! We need to do something,” I said, getting
up from the chair and wondering, as always, if the weight shift was going to
cause the balcony to fall off the side of the building.

 “Andy,
relax. He’s definitelynot a thug.” He flipped a page. “He
might be a punk-grunge-freak, but he’s not a thug.”

 “Great,
that’s just fucking great. Now are you going to come see what’s
going on, or are you just going to sit there all night?”

 He still
refused to look at me, and I finally understood how annoyed he was about
tonight. Understandable, entirely, but I was just as irritated to have to work,
and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “Why don’t
you call if you need me?”

 “Fine,”
I huffed and made a big production of storming inside. “Don’t feel
guilty when you find my dismembered body on the bathroom floor. Really, no big
deal…”

 I
stomped inside and around the apartment for a little while, looking for
evidence of this guy’s presence. The only thing that seemed at all out of
place was an empty bottle of Ketel One in the sink. Had she really managed to
buy, open, and drink an entire bottle of vodka sometime after midnight last
night? I knocked on her door. No response. I knocked a little more insistently,
and I heard a guy’s voice state the very obvious fact that someone was
knocking on the door. When still no one responded, I turned the doorknob.

 “Hello?
Anyone home here?” I called out, trying not to look inside the room but
only being able to hold out for about five seconds. My eyes skipped over the
two pairs of jeans that were tangled up on the floor and the bra that was
hanging from the desk chair and the overflowing ashtray that made the room
stink like a frat house and went directly to the bed, where my best friend was
stretched out on her side, back to me, completely naked. A sickly looking guy
with a line of sweat above his lip and a head full of greasy hair blended into
her sheets: his dozens of snaking, winding, scary tattoos acted as the perfect
camouflage against her green and blue plaid comforter. There was a gold hoop
through his eyebrow, much glittering metal from each ear, and two small,
rounded spikes coming out of his chin. Thankfully he was wearing a pair of
boxers, but they looked so dirty and dingy and old that I
almost—almost—wished he weren’t. He pulled on his cigarette,
exhaled slowly and meaningfully, and nodded in my general direction.

 “Yo,”
he said, waving his cigarette toward me. “You mind shuttin‘ the
door there, m’friend?”

 What?
“M’friend”? Was this sleazy-looking Aussie actually givingme
attitude?

 “Are
you smokingcrack ?” I asked, no longer interested in manners of any sort,
and not at all scared. He was shorter than me and couldn’t have weighed
more than a hundred thirty—as far as I could tell, the worst thing he
could do to me at that point would be to touch me. I shuddered when I thought
about the myriad ways he’d probably touched Lily, who was still sleeping
soundly underneath his protective hover. “Who the hell do you think you
are? This ismy apartment, and I’d like you to leave. Now!” I added,
my courage fueled by the time demands: I had exactly one hour to get gorgeous
for the single most stressful night of my career, and dealing with this
strung-out freak had not been part of the game plan.

 “Duuuuuuuude.
Chill out,” he breathed and inhaled again. “It doesn’t look
like your friend here wants me to leave…”

 “She
would want you to leave if she HAPPENED TO BE CONSCIOUS, YOU ASSHOLE!” I
screamed, horrified that Lily had—in all likelihood—had sex with
this guy. “I assure you, I speak for both of us when I say GET THE FUCK
OUT OF OUR APARTMENT!”

 I felt a
hand on my shoulder and whipped around to see Alex, looking concerned, checking
out the situation. “Andy, why don’t you get in the shower and let
me take care of this, OK?” Although no one could call him a big guy, he
looked like a pro wrestler compared to the emaciated mess that was currently
nuzzling his facial metal against my best friend’s bare back.

 “I.
WANT. HIM.”—I pointed here, just to be clear.—“OUT. OF.
MY. APARTMENT.”

 “I
know you do, and I think he’s about ready to leave, too, aren’t
you, buddy?” Alex asked in the kind of soothing voice you’d use
with a rabid-looking dog you were frightened of upsetting.