The Devil Wears Prada (48 page)

 When we
finally hung up, I was surprised to see that we’d been talking for more
than an hour, just like a couple of real friends would. Of course, we
immediately reverted back to just-contained hostility on Monday, but my
feelings for Emily were always a bit more affectionate after that weekend.
Until now, of course. I sure didn’t like her enough to hear whatever
surely irritating or inconvenient thing she was preparing to dump on me.

 “Really,
you sound horrible. Are you sick?” I tried valiantly to interject a touch
of sympathy in my voice, but the question came out sounding aggressive and
accusatory.

 “Oh
yeah,” she rasped before breaking into hacking coughs. “Really
sick.”

 I never
really believed it when anyone said they were really sick: without a diagnosis
of something very official and potentially life-threatening, you were well
enough to work atRunway . So when Emily finished hacking and reiterated that
she was really ill, I didn’t even consider the possibility that she
wouldn’t be at work on Monday. After all, she was scheduled to fly to
Paris to meet Miranda on October 18 and that was only slightly more than a week
away. And besides, I’d managed to ignore a couple strep throats, a few
bouts of bronchitis, a horrific round of food poisoning, and a perpetual
smoker’s cough and cold and hadn’t taken a single sick day in
nearly a year of work.

 I’d
sneaked in a single doctor’s appointment when I was desperate for
antibiotics with one of the cases of strep throat (I ducked into his office and
ordered them to see me right away when Miranda and Emily thought that I was out
scouting for new cars for Mr. Tomlinson), but there was never time for
preventative work. Although I’d had a dozen sets of highlights from
Marshall, quite a few free massages from spas that felt honored to have
Miranda’s assistant as a guest, and countless manicures, pedicures, and
makeovers, I hadn’t seen a dentist or a gynecologist in a year.

 “Anything
I can do?” I asked, trying to sound casual while I racked my brain
thinking of why she’d called to tell me that she didn’t feel well.
As far as we were both concerned, it was completely and entirely irrelevant.
She’d be at work on Monday whether she felt well or not.

 She
coughed deeply and I heard phlegm rattling in her lungs. “Um, yeah,
actually. God, I can’t believe this is happening to me!”

 “What?
What’s happening?”

 “I
can’t go to Europe with Miranda. I have mono.”

 “What?”

 “You
heard me, I can’t go. The doctor called today with the blood results, and
as of right now, I’m not allowed to leave my apartment for the next three
weeks.”

 Three
weeks! She had to be kidding. There wasn’t time to feel badly for
her—she’d just told me she wasn’t going to Europe, and it was
that thought alone—the idea that both Miranda and Emily would be out of
my life—that had sustained me through the past couple months.

 “Em,
she’s going to kill you—you have to go! Does she know yet?”

 There
was a foreboding silence on the other end. “Um, yeah, she knows.”

 “You
called her?”

 “Yes.
I had my doctor call her, actually, because she didn’t think that having
mono really qualified me as sick, so he had to tell her that I could infect her
and everyone else, and anyway…” Her sentence trailed off, and her
tone was suggestive of something far, far worse.

 “Anyway
what?” My self-preservation instincts had kicked into overdrive.

 “Anyway…
she wants you to go with her.”

 “She
wants me to go with her, huh? That’s cute. What’d she really say?
She didn’t threaten to fire you for getting sick, did she?”

 “Andrea,
I’m—” a deep, mucousy cough shook her voice and I thought for
a moment that she might very well die right there on the phone with me
“—serious. Completely and totally serious. She said something about
the assistants they give her abroad being idiots and that even you’d be
better to have around than them.”

 “Oh,
well, when you put it like that, sign me up! Nothing quite like some
over-the-top flattery to convince me to do something. Seriously, she
shouldn’t have said such nice things. I’m blushing!” I
didn’t know whether to focus on the fact that Miranda wanted me to go to
Paris with her, or that she only wanted me to go because she considered me
slightly less brain-dead than the anorexic French clones of, well… me.

 “Oh,
just shut up already,” she croaked in between fits of now annoying
coughing. “You’re the luckiest fucking person in the world.
I’ve been waiting two years—over two years—for this trip, and
now I can’t go. The irony of this is painful—you realize that,
don’t you?”

 “Of
course I do! It’s one giant cliché: this trip is your sole reason
for living and it’s the bane of my existence, yet I’m going and
you’re not. Life is funny, huh? I’m laughing so hard I can barely
stop,” I deadpanned, sounding not the least bit amused.

 “Yeah,
well, I think it sucks, too, but what can you do? I already called Jeffy to
tell him to start calling in clothes for you. You’ll have to bring a ton
since you’ll need different outfits for each of the shows you attend, any
dinners, and, of course, for Miranda’s party at the Hotel Costes. Allison
will help you out with makeup. Talk to Stef in accessories for bags and shoes
and jewelry. You only have a week, so get on it first thing tomorrow,
OK?”

 “I
still don’t really believe she expects me to do this.”

 “Well,
believe it, because she sure wasn’t kidding. Since I’m not going to
be able to come to the office at all this week, you’re also going
to—”

 “What?
You’re not even going to come into theoffice ?” I might not have
taken a sick day or spent a single hour outside the office while Miranda was
there, but Emily hadn’t, either. The one time it had been
close—when her great-grandfather had died—she’d managed to
get home to Philadelphia, attend the funeral, and be back at her desk without
missing a minute of work. This was how things worked. Period. Short of death
(immediate family only), dismemberment (your own), or nuclear war (only if
confirmed by the U.S. government to be directly affecting Manhattan), one was
to be present. This would be a watershed moment in the Priestly regime.

 “Andrea,
I have mononucleosis. I’m highly infectious. It’s really serious.
I’m not supposed to leave my apartment for a cup of coffee, never mind go
to work for the day. Miranda understands that, and so you’ll need to pick
up the slack. There will be a lot to do to get both of you ready for Paris.
Miranda leaves on Wednesday for Milan, and then you’ll be leaving to meet
her in Paris the following Tuesday.”

 “She
understands that? C’mon! Tell me what she really said.” I refused
to believe that she’d accepted something as mundane as mono for an excuse
to not be available. “Just give me that small pleasure. After all, my
life will be hell for the next few weeks.”

 Emily
sighed, and I could feel her eyes roll over the phone. “Well, she
wasn’t thrilled. I didn’t actually talk to her, you see, but my
doctor said she kept asking if mono is a ‘real’ disease. But when
he assured her that it was, she was very understanding.”

 I
laughed out loud. “I’m sure she was, Em, I’m sure she was.
Don’t worry about a thing, OK? You just concentrate on feeling better,
and I’ll take care of everything else.”

 “I’ll
e-mail you a checklist, just so you don’t forget anything.”

 “I
won’t forget anything. She’s been to Europe four times in the past
year. I’ve got it down. I’ll get the cash from the basement bank,
change a few grand into euros, buy a few more grand’s worth of
traveler’s checks, and triple confirm all of her hair and makeup
appointments while she’s there. What else? Oh, I’ll make sure the
Ritz gives her the right cell phone this time, and I’ll speak to the
drivers ahead of time to make sure they know they can’t ever leave her
waiting. I’m already thinking of all the people who’ll need copies
of her itinerary—which I’ll type up, no problem—and
I’ll see to it that it gets passed around. And of course she’ll
have a detailed itinerary as to the twins’ classes, lessons, practices,
and play dates, and full listings of the entire household staff’s work
schedules. See! You don’t have to worry—I’ve got it all under
control.”

 “Don’t
forget about the velvet,” she chided, singing the last couple words as if
on autopilot. “Or the scarves!”

 “Of
course not! They’re already on my list.” Before Miranda packed for
anything—or rather, had her housekeeper pack her—either Emily or I
would purchase massive rolls of velvet at a fabric store and bring them to
Miranda’s apartment. There, we’d work with the housekeeper to cut
them in the exact shape and size of every article of clothing she was planning to
bring, and individually wrap each item in the plush material. The velvet
packages were then neatly stacked in dozens of Louis Vuitton suitcases, with
plenty of extra pieces included for when she inevitably threw the first batch
out upon unpacking in Paris. In addition, usually one half of a suitcase was
occupied by a couple dozen orange Hermès boxes, each containing a single
white scarf just waiting to be lost, forgotten, misplaced, or simply discarded.

 I hung
up with Emily after making a good effort to sound sincerely sympathetic and
found Lily stretched out on the couch, smoking a cigarette and sipping a clear
liquid that was definitely not water from a cocktail glass.

 “I
thought we weren’t allowed to smoke in here,” I said, flopping down
next to her and immediately putting my feet on the scuffed wooden coffee table
my parents had handed down to us. “Not that I care, but that wasyour
rule.” Lily wasn’t a full-time, committed smoker like yours truly;
she usually smoked only when she drank and wasn’t one to even buy packs.
A brand-new box of Camel Special Lights peeked out of the chest pocket of her
oversize button-down. I nudged her thigh with my slippered foot and nodded
toward the cigarettes. She handed them over with a lighter.

 “I
knew you wouldn’t care,” she said, taking a leisurely drag off her
cigarette. “I’m procrastinating and it helps me concentrate.”

 “What
do you have due?” I asked, lighting my own cigarette and tossing back the
lighter. She was taking seventeen credits this semester in an effort to pull up
her GPA after last spring’s mediocre showing. I watched as she took
another drag and washed it down with a healthy gulp of her nonwater beverage.
It didn’t appear that she was on the right track.

 She
sighed heavily, meaningfully, and let the cigarette hang suspended from the
corner of her mouth as she spoke. It flapped up and down, threatening to fall
at any moment and, combined with her wild, unwashed hair and smeared eye
makeup, made her look—just for a moment—like a defendant onJudge
Judy (or maybe a plaintiff, since they always looked the same—lack of
teeth, greasy hair, dull eyes, and propensity for using the double negative).
“An article for some totally random, esoteric academic journal that no
one will ever read but I still have to write, just so I can say I’m
published.”

 “That’s
annoying. When’s it due?”

 “Tomorrow.”
Total nonchalance. She looked completely unfazed.

 “Tomorrow?
For real?”

 She shot
me a warning look, a quick reminder that I was supposed to be on her team.
“Yes. Tomorrow. It really blows, considering that Freudian Boy is the one
who’s assigned to edit it. No one seems to care that he’s a
candidate in psych, not Russian lit—they’re just short copy
editors, so he’s mine. There’s noway I’m getting that to him
on time. Screw him.” Once again, she poured some of the liquid down her
throat, making an obvious effort not to taste it, and grimaced.

 “Lil,
what happened? Granted, it’s been a few months, but last I heard, you
were taking things slow and he was perfect. Of course, that was before that,
thatthing you dragged home, but…”

 Another
warning look, this time followed by a glare. I’d tried to talk to her
about the whole Freak Boy incident a few dozen times, but it seemed like we
were never really alone and neither of us had much time lately for
heart-to-hearts. She immediately changed the subject whenever I brought it up.
I could tell that more than anything she was embarrassed; she had acknowledged
that he was vile, but she wouldn’t participate in any discussion
whatsoever about the excessive drinking that was responsible for the whole
episode.