The Devil Wears Prada (52 page)

 “Oh,
really?” my mother asked in that special way of hers that implied so much
more than those two little words really meant. “You’re going to
Paris now?”

 “What
do you mean, ‘now’?”

 “Well,
it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting off to Europe, is
all,” she said vaguely, although I could tell that an avalanche of
Jewish-mother guilt was ready to begin its slide in my direction.

 “And
why is that? Whenwould be a good time?”

 “Don’t
get upset, Andy. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in
months—not that we’re complaining, Dad and I both understand how
demanding your job is—but don’t you want to see your new nephew?
He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met him
yet!”

 “Mom!
Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m dying to see Isaac, but you know I
can’t just—”

 “You
know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston, right?”

 “Yes!
You’ve told me four hundred times. I know it and I appreciate it, but
it’s not the money. I can’t get any time off work and now with
Emily out, I can’t just up and leave—even on weekends. Does it make
sense to you to fly across the country only to have to come back if Miranda
calls me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does it?”

 “Of
course not, Andy, I just thought—we just thought—that you might be
able to visit them in the next couple weeks, because Miranda was going to be
away and all, and if you were going to fly out there, then Dad and I would go
also. But now you’re going to Paris.”

 She said
it in the way that implied what she was really thinking. “But now
you’re going to Paris” translated to “But now you’re
jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family obligations.”

 “Mother,
let me make something very, very clear here. I am not going on vacation. I have
not chosen to go to Paris rather than meet my baby nephew. It’s not my
decision at all, as you probably know but are refusing to accept. It’s
really very simple: I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week, or I
get fired. Do you see a choice here? Because if so, I’d love to hear
it.”

 She was
quiet for a moment before she said, “No, of course not, honey. You know
we understand. I just hope—well, I just hope that you’re happy with
the way things are going.”

 “What’s
that supposed to mean?” I asked nastily.

 “Nothing,
nothing,” she rushed to say. “It doesn’t mean anything other
than just what I said: your dad and I only care that you’re happy, and it
seems that you’ve really been, um, well, uh, pushing yourself lately. Is
everything OK?”

 I
softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard. “Yeah, Mom,
everything’s fine. I’m not happy to be going to Paris, just so you
know. It’s going to be a week of sheer hell, twenty-four-seven. But my
year will be up soon, and I can put this kind of living behind me.”

 “I
know, sweetie, I know it’s been a tough year for you. I just hope this
all ends up being worth it for you. That’s all.”

 “I
know. So do I.”

 We hung
up on good terms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own parents
were disappointed in me.

 The
baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare, but I found the elegantly dressed
driver who was waving a sign with my name on it when I exited customs, and the
moment he closed his own door, he handed me a cell phone.

 “Ms.
Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival. I took the liberty of
programming the hotel’s number into the automatic dialing. She’s in
the Coco Chanel suite.”

 “Um,
oh, OK. Thanks. I guess I’ll call right now,” I announced rather
unnecessarily.

 But
before I could press the star key and the number one, the phone bleated and
flashed a frightening red color. If the driver hadn’t been watching me
expectantly I would have muted the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen
it, but I was left with the distinct feeling that he had been ordered to keep a
close eye on me. Something about his expression suggested that it was not in my
best interest to ignore that call.

 “Hello?
This is Andrea Sachs,” I said as professionally as possible, already
making over/under bets with myself as to the chance it was anyone besides
Miranda.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!
What time does your watch read at this moment?”

 Was this
a trick question? A preface to accusing me of being late?

 “Um,
let me see. Actually, it says that it’s five-fifteen in the morning, but
obviously I haven’t switched it yet to Paris time. Therefore, my watch
should read that it’s eleven-fifteenA .M.” I said cheerily, hoping
to start off the first conversation of our interminable trip on as high a note
as I dared.

 “Thank
you for that never-ending narrative, Ahn-dre-ah. And may I ask what, exactly,
you’ve been doing for the past thirty-five minutes?”

 “Well,
Miranda, the flight landed a few minutes late and then I still
had—”

 “Because
according to the itineraryyou created for me, I’m reading that your
flight arrived at ten-thirty-five this morning.”

 “Yes,
that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, but you see—”

 “I’ll
not have you tell me what I see, Ahn-dre-ah. That is most certainly not
acceptable behavior for the next week, do you understand me?”

 “Yes,
of course. I’m sorry.” My heart began pounding what felt like a
million beats a minute, and I could feel my face grow hot with humiliation.
Humiliation at being spoken to that way, but more than anything, my own shame
in pandering to it. I had just apologized—most sincerely—to someone
for not being able to make my international flight land at the correct time and
then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to avoid French customs
entirely.

 I
pressed my face rather uncouthly against the window and watched as the limo
weaved its way through Paris’s bustling streets. The women seemed so much
taller here, the men so much more genteel, and just about everyone was
beautifully dressed, thin, and regal in their stance. I’d only been to
Paris once before, but living out of a backpack in a hostel on the wrong side
of town didn’t quite have the same feel as watching the chic little
clothing boutiques and adorable sidewalk cafés from the backseat of a
limousine.I could get used to this, I thought, as the driver turned around to
show me where I might find a few bottles of water if I was so inclined.

 When the
car pulled up to the hotel entrance, a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing
what I guessed was a custom-made suit opened the back door for me.

 “Mademoiselle
Sachs, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Gerard Renaud.” His
voice was smooth and confident, and his silver hair and deeply lined face
indicated he was much older than I’d pictured when I spoke to the
concierge over the phone.

 “Monsieur
Renaud, it’s great to finally meet you!” Suddenly all I wanted to
do was crawl into a nice, soft bed and sleep off my jet lag, but Renaud quickly
quashed my hopes.

 “Mademoiselle
Andrea, Madame Priestly would like to see you in her room immediately. Before
you’ve settled into yours, I’m afraid.” He had an apologetic
expression on his face, and for a brief moment I felt sorrier for him than I
did for myself. Clearly he didn’t enjoy conveying this news.

 “That’s
fucking great,” I muttered, before noticing how distressed this made
Monsieur Renaud. I plastered on a winning smile and began again. “Please
excuse me, it was a terribly long flight. Will someone please tell me where I
may find Miranda?”

 “Of
course, mademoiselle. She is in her suite and from what I can gather, very
eager to see you.” When I looked over at Monsieur Renaud I thought I
detected a slight eye-roll and even though I’d always found him
oppressively proper over the phone, I reconsidered. Although he was much too
professional to show it, never mind actually say anything, I considered that he
might loathe Miranda as much as I did. Not because of any real proof I had, but
simply because it was impossible to imagine anyonenot hating her.

 The
elevator opened and Monsieur Renaud smiled and ushered me inside. He said
something in French to the bellman who was escorting me upstairs. Renaud bid me
adieu and the bellman led me to Miranda’s suite. He knocked on the door
and then fled, leaving me to face Miranda alone.

 I
briefly wondered if Miranda herself would answer the door, but it was impossible
to imagine. In the eleven months I’d been letting myself in and out of
her apartment, I’d yet to catch her doing anything that even resembled
work, including such pedestrian tasks as answering the phone, removing a jacket
from a closet, or pouring a glass of water. It was as if her every day
wasShabbat and she was once again the observant Jew, and I was, of course,
herShabbes goy .

 A
pretty, uniformed maid opened the door and ushered me inside, her sad eyes
moist and staring directly at the floor.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!”
I heard from somewhere in the deep recesses of the most magnificent living room
I’d ever seen. “Ahn-dre-ah, I’ll need my Chanel suit pressed
for tonight, since it was practically ruined with wrinkles on the flight over.
You’d think the Concorde would know how to handle luggage, but my things
look dreadful. Also, call Horace Mann and confirm that the girls made it to
school. You’ll be doing that every day—I just don’t trust
that Annabelle. Make sure you speak to both Caroline and Cassidy each night and
write out a list of their homework assignments and upcoming exams. I’ll
expect a written report in the morning, right before breakfast. Oh, and get
Senator Schumer on the phone immediately. It’s urgent. Lastly, I need you
to contact that idiot Renuad and tell him I expect him to supply me with
competent staff during my stay, and if that’s too difficult I’m
sure the general manager would be able to assist me. That dumb girl he sent me
is mentally challenged.”

 My eyes
swiveled to the sorrowful girl who was currently cowering in the foyer, looking
as fearful as a cornered hamster as she trembled and tried not to cry. I had to
assume she understood English, so I shot her my best sympathetic look, but she
just continued to shake. I looked around the room and tried desperately to
remember everything Miranda had just rattled off.

 “Will
do,” I called in the general direction of her voice, past the baby grand
piano and the seventeen separate flower arrangements that had been lovingly
placed around the house-size suite. “I’ll be back in just a moment
with everything you’ve asked for.” I quietly berated myself for
ending a sentence with a preposition and took one last look around the
magnificent room. It was, undoubtedly, the plushest, most luxurious place
I’d ever seen, with its brocade curtains, thick, cream-colored carpeting,
richly woven damask bedspread on the king-size bed, and gold painted figurines
tucked discreetly on mahogany shelves and tables. Only a flat-screen TV and a
sleek, silver stereo system gave any indication that the entire place
hadn’t been created and designed in the previous century by highly
skilled craftsmen plying their trade.

 I ducked
past the quaking maid and into the hallway. The terrified bellman had
reappeared.

 “Could
you show me to my room, please?” I asked as kindly as I could, but he
clearly thought that I would be abusing him as well, and so once again he
scurried ahead of me.

 “Here,
mademoiselle, I hope this is acceptable.”

 About
twenty yards down the hall was a door without a separate number on it. It
opened to a minisuite, nearly an exact replica of Miranda’s but with a
smaller living room and a queen-size bed instead of a king. A large mahogany
desk outfitted with a multiline corporate-style phone, sleek desktop computer,
laser printer, scanner, and fax machine had taken the place of the baby grand
piano, but otherwise the rooms were remarkably similar in their rich, soothing
décor.

 “Miss,
this door leads to the private hallway connecting your room and Ms.
Priestly’s,” he explained as he moved to open the door.