The Devil Wears Prada (50 page)

 I ran to
Lily’s room so she could tell me that he was overreacting, that I had to
go to Paris because it was the best thing for my future, that she didn’t
have a drinking problem, that I wasn’t a bad sister for leaving the
country when Jill had just had her first baby. But she was passed out on top of
her covers, fully dressed, the empty cocktail glass on her bedside table. Her
Toshiba laptop was open beside her on the bed, and I wondered if she’d
managed to write a single word. I looked. Bravo! She’d written the
heading, complete with her name, the class number, the professor’s name,
and her presumably temporary version of the article’s title: “The
Psychological Ramifications of Falling in Love with Your Reader.” I
laughed out loud, but she didn’t stir, so I moved the computer back to
her desk and set her alarm for seven and turned out the lights.

 My cell
phone rang as soon as I walked in my bedroom. After the initial five-second
usual heart-pounding session I endured each time it rang for fear that it was
Her, I flipped it open immediately, knowing it was Alex. I knew he
couldn’t leave things so unfinished. This was the same guy who
couldn’t fall asleep without a good-night kiss and a verbal wish for
sweet dreams; there was no way he was just prancing out of here, totally fine
with the suggestion that we not talk for a few weeks.

 “Hi,
baby,” I breathed, missing him already but still happy to be on the phone
with him and not necessarily having to deal with everything in person right
now. My head ached and my shoulders felt like they were glued to my ears, and I
just wanted to hear him say that the whole thing had been a big mistake and
he’d call me tomorrow. “I’m glad you called.”

 “‘Baby’?
Wow! We’re making progress, aren’t we, Andy? Better be careful or I
might have to consider the possibility that you want me,” Christian said
smoothly with a grin I could hear over the phone line. “I’m glad I
called, too.”

 “Oh.
It’s you.”

 “Well,
that’s not the warmest welcome I’ve ever received! What’s the
matter, Andy? You’ve been screening me lately, haven’t you?”

 “Of
course not,” I lied. “I’ve just had a bad day. As usual.
What’s up?”

 He
laughed. “Andy, Andy, Andy. Come on now. You have no reason to be so
unhappy. You’re on the fast-track to great things. Speaking of which,
I’m calling to see if you wanted to come to a PEN award ceremony and
reading tomorrow night. Should be lots of interesting people, and I
haven’t seen you in a while. Purely professional, of course.”

 For a
girl who had read way too many “How to Know if He’s Ready to
Commit” articles inCosmo, one might think the warning flags
would’ve gone up on this one. And they did—I just chose to ignore
them. It had been a very long day, and so I allowed myself to think—just
for a few minutes—that he might, might, MIGHT actually be sincere. Screw
it. It felt good to talk to a noncritical male for a few minutes, even if he
did refuse to accept that I was taken. I knew I wouldn’t actually accept
his invitation, but a few minutes of innocent phone flirting wouldn’t
hurt anyone.

 “Oh
really?” I asked coyly. “Tell me all about it.”

 “I’m
going to list all the reasons that you should come with me, Andy, and the first
one is the simplest: I know what’s good for you. Period.” God, he
was arrogant. Why did I find it so endearing?

 Game on.
We were off and running, and it took only a few more minutes until the trip to
Paris and Lily’s nasty little vodka habit and Alex’s sad eyes faded
to the background of my acknowledged-unhealthy-and-emotionally-dangerous-but-really-sexy-and-fun-nonetheless
conversation with Christian.

16

 It was
planned that Miranda would be in Europe for a week before I was due to arrive.
She settled for using some local assistants for the Milan shows—and would
be arriving in Paris the same morning I was so we could work out the details of
her party together, like old friends. Hah. Delta had refused to simply change
the name on the ticket from Emily’s to mine, so rather than get even more
frustrated and hassled than I already was, I just charged a new one. Twenty-two
hundred dollars because it was fashion week and I was buying at the last
minute. I paused for one ridiculous minute before forking over the corporate
card number.Whatever, I thought.Miranda can spend that in a week on hair and
makeup alone .

 As
Miranda’s junior assistant, I was the lowest-ranking human being atRunway
. However, if access is power, then Emily and I were the two most powerful
people in fashion: we determined who got meetings, when they were scheduled
(early morning was always preferred because people’s makeup would be
fresh and their clothes unwrinkled), and whose messages got through (if your
name wasn’t on the Bulletin, you didn’t exist).

 So when
either of us needed help, the rest of the staff were obliged to pull through.
Yes, of course there was something disconcerting about the realization that if
we didn’t work for Miranda Priestly these same people would have no
compunction in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars. As it was,
when called upon, they ran and fetched and retrieved for us like well-trained
puppies.

 Work on
the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied to send me off to Paris
adequately prepared. Three Clackers from the fashion department hastily pulled
together a wardrobe that included every single item that I could conceivably
require for any event Miranda could conceivably call on me to attend. By the
time I left, Lucia, the fashion director, promised I would have in my
possession not only an assemblage of clothing appropriate for any contingency,
but also a full sketchbook complete with professionally rendered charcoal
sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the aforementioned clothing
in order to maximize style and minimize embarrassment. In other words: leave
nothing to my own selection or pairing, and I’d quite possibly have a
shot in hell—albeit slim—of looking presentable.

 Might I
need to accompany Miranda to a bistro and stand, mummylike, in the corner while
she sipped a glass of Bordeaux? A pair of cuffed, charcoal gray Theory pants
with a black silk turtleneck sweater by Celine. Attend the tennis club where
she’d receive her private lessons so that I could fetch water and, if required,
white scarves in case sheschvitzed ? A head-to-toe athletic outfit complete
with bootleg workout pants, zip-up hooded jacket (cropped to show off my tummy,
natch), a $185 wife-beater to wear under it, and suede sneakers—all by
Prada. And what if maybe—just maybe—I actually did make it to the
front row of one of those shows like everyone swore I would? The options were
limitless. My favorite so far (and it was still only late afternoon on Monday)
was a pleated school-girl skirt by Anna Sui, with a very sheer and very frilly
white Miu Miu blouse, paired with a particularly naughty-looking pair of
midcalf Christian Laboutin boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather
blazer so fitted it bordered on obscene. My Express jeans and Franco Sarto
loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my closet for months now, and I
had to admit I didn’t miss them.

 I also
discovered that Allison, the beauty editor, did, in fact, deserve her title by
literallybeing the beauty industry. Within twenty-four hours of being “put
on notice” that I would be needing some makeup and more than a few tips,
she had created the Be-All, End-All Cosmetic Catchall. Included in the
decidedly oversize Burberry “toiletry case” (it actually more
closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than those approved by the
airlines for carry-on) was every imaginable type of shadow, lotion, gloss,
cream, liner, and type of makeup. Lipsticks came in matte, high-shine,
long-lasting, and clear. Six shades of mascara—ranging in color from a
light blue to a “pouty black”—were accompanied by an eyelash
curler and two eyelash combs in case of (gasp!) clumps.

 Powders,
which appeared to account for half of all the products and
fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids, the skin tone, and the cheeks, had
a color scheme more complex and subtler than a painter’s palette: some
were meant to bronze, others to highlight, and still others to pout, plump, or
pale. I had the choice whether to add that healthy blush to my face in the form
of a liquid, solid, powder, or a combination thereof. The foundation was the
most impressive of all: it was as if someone had managed to remove an actual
sample of skin directly from my face and custom-mix a pint or two of the stuff.
Whether it “added sheen” or “covered blemishes,” every
single solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better than, well, my own
skin. Packed in a slightly smaller matching plaid case were the supplies:
cotton balls, cotton squares, Q-tips, sponges, somewhere in the vicinity of two
dozen different-size application brushes, washcloths, two different types of
eye makeup remover (moisturizing and oil-free), and no less than
twelve—TWELVE—kinds of moisturizer (facial, body,
deep-conditioning, with SPF 15, glimmering, tinted, scented, nonscented, hypoallergenic,
with alpha-hydroxy, antibacterial, and—just in case that nasty October
Parisian sun got the best of me—with aloe vera).

 Tucked
in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal-size pieces of paper with
preprinted faces rendered on each one, enlarged to fit the page. Each face
bragged an impressive makeover: Allison had applied the actual makeup
she’d included in the kit to the paper faces. One face was eerily labeled
“Relaxed Evening Glamour” but had a caveat under it in big, bold
marker that read: NOT FOR BLACK-TIE!! TOO CASUAL!! The nonformal face had a
light covering of the matte foundation under a slight brush of bronzing powder,
a light dab of liquid or “crème” blush, some very sexy,
dark-lined and heavily shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d
lashes, and what appeared to be a quick, casual swipe of high-gloss lip color.
When I’d mumbled under my breath to Allison that this would be utterly
impossible for me to recreate, she looked exasperated.

 “Well,
hopefully you won’t have to,” she said in a voice that sounded so
taxed, I thought she might collapse under the weight of my ignorance.

 “No?
Then why do I have nearly two dozen ‘faces’ suggesting different
ways to use all this stuff?”

 Her
withering glance was worthy of Miranda.

 “Andrea.
Be serious. This is for emergencies only, in case Miranda asks you to go
somewhere with her at the last minute, or if your hair and makeup person
can’t make it. Oh, that reminds me, let me show you the hair stuff I
packed.”

 As
Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of round brushes to blow
my hair straight, I tried to make sense of what she’d just said. I would
have a hair and makeup person, too? I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me
when I’d booked all of Miranda’s people, so who had? I had to ask.

 “The
Paris office,” Allison replied with a sigh. “You’re
representingRunway, you know, and Miranda is very sensitive to that.
You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous events in the world
alongside Miranda Priestly. You don’t think you could achieve the right
look on your own, do you?”

 “No,
of course not. It’s definitely better that I have professional help for
this. Thank you.”

 Then
Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until she was satisfied that
if any of the fourteen hair and makeup appointments I had scheduled over the
course of the week fell through, I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by
smearing the mascara across my lips or shaving the sides of my head and spiking
the center into a mohawk. When we were through, I thought I’d finally get
a moment to race down to the dining room and grab some calorie-enriched soup,
but Allison picked up Emily’s extension—her old phone
line—and dialed Stef in the accessories department.

 “Hi,
I’m done with her and she’s here right now. You want to come
over?”

 “Wait!
I need to go get lunch before Miranda comes back!”

 Allison
rolled her eyes just like Emily. I wondered if it was something about that
particular position that inspired such expert demonstrations of irritation.
“Fine. No, no, I was talking to Andrea,” she said into the phone,
raising her eyebrows at me—surprise, surprise—just like Emily.
“It seems that she’shungry . I know. Yes, I know. I told her that,
but she seems intent on…eating .”

 I walked
out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream of broccoli with cheddar
cheese and returned within three minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk,
holding the phone receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches.
She was due to fly to Milan that very evening but I wasn’t sure I’d
survive to see it happen.