The Devil Wears Prada (53 page)

 “No!
It’s fine, I don’t need to see it. Just knowing it’s there is
good enough.” I glanced at the engraved nametag placed discreetly on the
pocket of his well-pressed uniform shirt. “Thank you, uh, Stephan.”
I rooted around in my bag for cash to tip him but realized that I’d never
thought to change my American dollars to euros and hadn’t yet stopped at
an ATM. “Oh, I’m sorry, I, uh, only have American dollars. Is that
OK?”

 His face
flushed crimson and he began apologizing profusely. “Oh, no, miss, please
do not worry about such things. Ms. Priestly takes care of these details when
she departs. However, since you will be needing local currency when you leave
the hotel, allow me to show you this.” He walked over to the behemoth of
a desk, slid open the top drawer, and handed me an envelope with FrenchRunway
‘s logo on it. Inside was a pile of euro bills, about 4,000 American
dollars’ worth in all. The note, scribbled by Briget Jardin, the editor in
chief who’d borne the brunt of planning and scheduling for both this trip
and Miranda’s upcoming party, read:

 Andrea,
darling, delighted to have you join us! Please find enclosed euros for your use
while in Paris. I’ve spoken with Monsieur Renaud and he will be on call
for Miranda twenty-four hours a day. See below for a listing of his work and
personal numbers, as well as the numbers for the hotel’s chef, physical
fitness trainer, director of transportation, and, of course, the general manager.
They are all familiar with Miranda’s stays during the shows and so there
should be no problems. Of course, I may always be reached at work or, if
necessary, by cell, home phone, fax, or pager if either of you requires
anything at all. If I don’t see you before Saturday’s big soiree,
I’ll look forward to meeting you there. Lots of Love, Briget

 Folded
on a sheet ofRunway stationery and tucked underneath the cash was a list of
nearly a hundred phone numbers, encompassing everything one could need in
Paris, from a chic florist to an emergency surgeon. These same numbers were
repeated on the last page of the detailed itinerary I’d created for
Miranda using information Briget had updated daily and faxed over, so as of
this moment there didn’t appear to be a single contingency—short of
an all-out world war—that would prevent Miranda Priestly from viewing the
spring line with the least possible amount of stress, anxiety, and concern.

 “Thank
you so much, Stephan. This is most helpful.” I peeled off a few bills for
him anyway, but he courteously pretended not to see it and ducked back into the
hallway. I was pleased to see that he appeared significantly less terrorized
than he had just a few moments earlier.

 I
somehow managed to find the people she had asked for and figured I had a few
minutes to rest my head on the four-hundred-thread-count pillowcase, but the
phone rang the moment I closed my eyes.

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
come to my room immediately,” she barked before slamming down the phone.

 “Yes,
of course, Miranda, thank you for asking so nicely. It’d be my
pleasure,” I said to absolutely nobody. I heaved my jet-lagged body off
the bed and concentrated on not getting a heel stuck in the carpeted hallway
that connected my room to hers. Once again, a maid answered the door when I
knocked.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!
One of Briget’s assistants just rang me to see how long my speech is for
today’s brunch,” she announced. She was paging through a copy
ofWomen’s Wear Daily that someone from the office—probably Allison,
who knew the drill from her tenure in Miranda’s office—had faxed
earlier, and two beautiful men were working on her hair and makeup. A cheese
plate sat on the antique table beside her.

 Speech?
What speech? The only thing besides shows that was on the itinerary today was
some sort of awards luncheon that Miranda planned to spend her usual fifteen
minutes at before bolting out of sheer boredom.

 “I’m
sorry. Did you say a speech?”

 “I
did.” She carefully closed the paper, calmly folded it in half, and then
tossed it angrily to the floor, narrowly missing one of the men who knelt in
front of her. “Why the hell was I not informed that I’d be
receiving some nonsense award at today’s luncheon?” she hissed, her
face contorting with a hatred I’d never seen before. Displeasure? Sure.
Dissatisfaction? All the time. Annoyance, frustration, generalized unhappiness?
Of course, every minute of every day. But I’d never seen her look so
downrightpissed off .

 “Um,
Miranda, I’m so sorry, but it was actually Briget’s office that RSVP’d
you to the event today, and they never—”

 “Stop
speaking. Stop speaking this instant! All you ever offer me are excuses.You are
my assistant,you are the person I designated to work things out in Paris,you
are the one who should be keeping me abreast of these things.” She was
nearly shouting now. One of the makeup guys asked softly in English if we would
like a moment alone, but Miranda ignored him entirely. “It’s noon
right now and I’ll be needing to leave here in forty-five minutes. I
expect a short, succinct, and articulate speech legibly typed and waiting in my
room. If you cannot accomplish this, see yourself home.Permanently .
That’s all.”

 I fled
down the hallway faster than I’d ever run in heels and whipped open my
international cell phone before I’d made it into my room. It was nearly
impossible to dial Briget’s work number since my hands were shaking so
badly, but somehow the call went through. One of her assistants answered.

 “I
need Briget!” I shrieked, my voice breaking when I pronounced her name.
“Where is she?Where is she? I need to talk to her.Now! ”

 The girl
was momentarily shocked into silence. “Andrea? Is that you?”

 “Yes,
it’s me and I need Briget. It’s an emergency—where the hell
is she?”

 “She’s
at a show, but don’t worry, she always has her cell phone on. Are you at
the hotel? I’ll have her call you right back.”

 The
phone on the desk rang a mere few seconds later, but it felt like a week.
“Andrea,” she lilted in her lovely French accent. “What is
it, dear? Monique said you were hysterical.”

 “Hysterical?
Damn right I’m hysterical! Briget, how could you do this to me? Your
office made the arrangements for this fucking luncheon and no one bothered to
tell me that she is not only receiving an award but also expected to give a
speech?”

 “Andrea,
calm down. I’m sure we told—”

 “And
I have to write it! Are you listening to me? I have forty-five fucking minutes
to write an acceptance speech for an award I know nothing about in a language I
don’t speak. Or I’m finished. What am I going to do?”

 “All
right, relax, I’m going to walk you through this. First of all, the
ceremony is right there, at the Ritz, in one of the salons.”

 “The
what? Which salon?” I hadn’t had a chance to look around the hotel
yet, but I was reasonably sure there weren’t any pubs in the place.

 “It
is French for, oh, what do you call them? Meeting rooms. So, she will only need
to go downstairs. It is for the French Council on Fashion, an organization here
in Paris that always has its awards during the shows because everyone is in
town.Runway will be receiving an award for fashion coverage. It is not such a,
how do you say, big deal, almost like a formality.”

 “Great,
well at least I know what it’s for. What exactly am I supposed to write?
Why don’t you just dictate in English and I can get Monsieur Renaud to
translate it, OK? You start. I’m ready.” My voice had regained some
confidence, but I could still barely grip the pen. The combination of
exhaustion, stress, and hunger was making it hard to focus my eyes on the Ritz
stationery that was laid out on my desk.

 “Andrea,
you are in luck again.”

 “Oh,
really? Because I’m not feeling so lucky right now, Briget.”

 “These
things are always conducted in English. There is no need for translation. So
you can write it, yes?”

 “Yes,
yes I’ll write it,” I mumbled and dropped the phone. There
wasn’t even time to consider that this was my very first chance to show
Miranda that I was capable of doing something more sophisticated than fetching
lattes.

 After I
hung up and began typing away at sixty words a minute— typing was the
only useful class I’d taken in all of high school—I realized the
whole thing would only take two, maybe three minutes for Miranda to read. There
was just enough time to gulp some of the Pellegrino and devour a few of the
strawberries someone had thoughtfully left on my small bar.If only they
could’ve left a cheeseburger, I thought. I remembered that I had tucked a
Twix bar in my luggage that had been neatly piled in the corner, but there
wasn’t time to look for it. Exactly forty minutes had passed since
I’d received my marching orders. It was time to see if I’d passed.

 A
different—but equally as terrified—maid answered Miranda’s
door and ushered me into the living room. Obviously, I should’ve remained
standing, but the leather pants I’d been wearing since the day before
felt like they were permanently stuck to my legs, and the strappy sandals that
hadn’t bothered me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long,
flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes. I chose to perch on the
overstuffed couch, but the moment my knees bent and my butt made contact with
the cushion, her bedroom door flew open and I instinctively launched to my
feet.

 “Where’s
my speech?” she asked automatically, while yet another maid followed
after her holding a single earring that Miranda had forgotten to put in.
“You did write something, did you not?” She was wearing one of her
classic Chanel suits—round collars with fur trim—and a looping strand
of extraordinarily large pearls.

 “Of
course, Miranda,” I said proudly. “I think this will be
appropriate.” I walked toward her since she was making no effort to
retrieve it herself, but before I could offer her the paper she snatched it
from my hand. I didn’t realize until her eyes had finished moving back
and forth that I’d been holding my breath.

 “Fine.
This is fine. Certainly nothing groundbreaking, but fine. Let’s
go.” She picked up a matching quilted Chanel purse and placed the chain
handle over her shoulder.

 “Pardon?”

 “I
said, let’s go. This silly little ceremony starts in fifteen minutes, and
with any luck we’ll be out of there in twenty. I truly loathe these
things.”

 There
was no way to deny that I’d heard her say both “let’s”
and “we”: I was definitely expected to go with her. I glanced down
at my leather pants and fitted blazer and figured that if she had no problem
with it—and I certainly would’ve heard if she had—then what
did it really matter? There would probably be fleets of assistants roaming
around, tending to their bosses, and surely no one would care what we were
wearing.

 The
“salon” was exactly what Briget had said it would be—a
typical hotel meeting room, complete with a couple dozen round luncheon tables
and a slightly raised presentation stage with a podium. I stood along the back
wall with a few other employees of various kinds and watched as the president
of the council showed an incredibly unfunny, uninteresting, wholly uninspired
movie clip on how fashion affects all of our lives. A few more people hogged
the mike for the next half hour, and then, before a single award had been
presented, an army of waiters began bringing out salads and filling wine
glasses. I looked warily at Miranda, who appeared acutely bored and irritated,
and tried to shrink smaller behind the potted tree I was currently leaning
against to keep from falling asleep. I can’t be sure how long my eyes
were closed, but just as I lost all control of my neck muscles and my head
started to nod forward uncontrollably, I heard her voice.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!
I don’t have time for this nonsense,” she whispered loudly enough
that a few Clackers from a nearby table glanced up. “I wasn’t told
that I would be receiving an award, and I wasn’t prepared to do so.
I’m leaving.” And she turned around and began striding toward the
door.

 I
hobbled after her but thought better of grabbing her shoulder. “Miranda?
Miranda?” She was clearly ignoring me. “Miranda? Whom would you
like to accept the award on behalf ofRunway ?” I whispered as quietly as
I could and still have her hear me.