The Devil Wears Prada (55 page)

 “No
problem,” Julien squealed in a thick French accent. “We will be
there, how you say? Wearing bells! We clear our schedules this week just in the
case that Madame Priestly need us at different times!”

 I paged
Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro people. Time to hit the
wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my different “looks” was
displayed prominently on the bedside table, just waiting for a lost fashion
victim like myself to turn to it for spiritual guidance. I flipped through the
headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all.

 Shows:

 1. Daytime

 2. Evening

 Meals:

 1. Breakfast
meeting

 2. Lunch

         A. Casual
(hotel or bistro)

         B. Formal
(The Espadon in the Ritz)

 3. Dinner

         A. Casual
(bistro, room service)

         B. Midrange
(decent restaurant, casual dinner party)

         C. Formal
(Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner party)

 Parties:

 1. Casual
(champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)

 2. Stylish
(cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties, “meet for
drinks”)

 3. Dressy
(cocktail parties by major people, anything at a museum or gallery, postshow
parties hosted by design team)

 Miscellaneous:

 1. To
and from the airport

 2. Athletic
events (lessons, tournaments, etc.)

 3. Shopping
excursions

 4. Running
errands

         A. To
couture salons

         B. To
upscale shops and boutiques

         C. To
the local food store and/or health and beauty aid

 There
didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear when one was unable
to establish the major-ness or non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was
the opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the event down to
“Parties,” which was a good first step, but at that point things
got gray. Was this party going to be a simple number 2, where I’d just
pull out something chic, or was it really a 3, in which case I’d better
pay attention to choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no
instructions for “gray area” or “uncertainty,” but
someone had helpfully included a last-minute handwritten note toward the bottom
of the table of contents:When in doubt (and you never should be), better to be
underdressed in something fabulous than overdressed in something fabulous. Well,
OK then, it looked like I now squarely fit into category, party; subcategory,
stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had sketched for that specific
description and tried to figure out what might look less ridiculous once it was
actually on.

 After a
particularly embarrassing run-in with a feather-covered tank top and
patent-leather thigh-high (as in yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected
the outfit on page thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli
with a baby-T and a pair of biker-chick black boots by D&G. Hot, sexy,
stylish—but not too dressy—without actually making me look like an
ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker. What more could you ask for? Just
as I was attempting to choose a workable bag, the hair and makeup woman showed
up to begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not look half
as horrific as she clearly thought I did.

 “Um,
could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a little?” I asked
carefully, desperately trying not disparage her handiwork. It probably
would’ve been better to have a go at the makeup myself— especially
since I had more supplies and instructions than the NASA scientists
commissioned to build the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo showed up
like clockwork whether I liked it or not.

 “No!”
she barked, clearly not striving for the same sensitivity as myself. “It
looks better this way.”

 She
finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom lashes and vanished
as quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my bag (alligator Gucci bowling
bag) and headed to the lobby fifteen minutes before our estimated time of
departure so I could double-check that the driver was ready. Just as I was
debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to each take separate
cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or actually use the same one and
risk catching something from sharing a backseat with her assistant, she
appeared. She looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining
completely passive and indifferent. I’d passed! This was the first time
since I’d started working there that I hadn’t received a look of
all-out disgust or, at the very least, a snarky comment, and all it had taken
was a SWAT team of New York fashion editors, a collection of Parisian hair and
makeup stylists, and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most
expensive clothing.

 “Is
the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?” She looked stunning in a short, shirred velvet
cocktail dress.

 “Yes,
Ms. Priestly, right this way,” Monsieur Renaud interrupted smoothly,
leading us past a group of what could only be other American fashion editors
also there for the shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking
crowd ofüber -Clackers when we walked past, Miranda two steps in front me,
looking thin and striking and very, very unhappy. I nearly had to run to keep
up, even though she was six inches shorter than me, and I waited until she gave
me a “Well? What the hell are you waiting for?” look before I
ducked into the backseat of the limo after her.

 Thankfully
the driver appeared to know where he was going, because I’d been paranoid
for the past hour that she would turn to me and ask me where the unknown
cocktail party was being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing,
choosing instead to chat with B-DAD on her cell phone, repeating over and over
that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time to change and have a drink
before the big party on Saturday night. He was flying over in his
company’s private jet, and they were currently debating whether or not to
bring Caroline and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday,
she didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It
wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex apartment
on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it was exactly that I was
supposed to do all night. She’d always been rather good about not abusing
Emily or me or any of her staff in public, which indicated—at least on
some level—that she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she
couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her someone on the
phone or have something dry-cleaned while we were standing there, what was I to
do?

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
this party is being hosted by a couple with whom I was friendly when we lived
in Paris. They requested that I bring along an assistant to entertain their
son, who generally finds these events rather dull. I’m sure the two of
you will get along well.” She waited until the driver opened her door,
then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps. Before I could
open my own door, she had climbed the three steps and was already handing her
coat to the butler, who was clearly awaiting her arrival. I slumped back into
the soft leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem of
information she’d so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup, the
rescheduling, the panicked consultation with the style book, the biker-chick
boots, were all so I could spend the night babysitting some rich couple’s
snot-nosed kid? And aFrench snot-nosed kid, no less.

 I spent
three full minutes reminding myself thatThe New Yorker was now only a couple
months away, that my year of servitude was about to pay off, that I could
surely make it through one more night of tedium to get my dream job. It
didn’t help. All of a sudden, I desperately wanted to curl up on my
parents’ couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set up
the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting, too, with baby Isaac,
who would coo and smile when he saw me and Alex would call and tell me he loved
me. No one would care that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were
frightfully unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate
éclair. Not a single person would even know that there were fashion
shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic, and they sure as hell
wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them. But all of that seemed
incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and right now I had to contend with a
coterie of people who lived and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to
be a screaming, spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.

 When I
finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from the limo, the butler
was no longer expecting anyone. There was music coming from a live band and the
smell of scented candles wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I
took a deep breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open. It’s
safe to say that never, ever, in my young life had I been more surprised than I
was that night: Christian was smiling back at me.

 “Andy,
darling, so glad you could make it,” he said, leaning in and kissing me
full on the mouth—a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging
wide open in disbelief.

 “What
are you doing here?”

 He
grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing? Because you seem to
follow me everywhere I go, I’m going to have to assume you want to sleep
with me.”

 I
blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. “Yeah, something like that.
Actually, I’m not here as a guest, I’m just a very well dressed
babysitter. Miranda asked me to come along and didn’t tell me until the
last second that I’m supposed to be watching the hosts’ bratty son
tonight. So, if you’ll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the
milk and crayons he’ll need.”

 “Oh,
he’s just fine, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll be
needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter.” And he cupped my
face in his hands and kissed me again. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him
what the hell was going on, but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue
into my mouth.

 “Christian!”
I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly Miranda would fire me if she
caught me making out with some random guy at one of her own parties.
“What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!” I squirmed away, but
he just continued to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.

 “Andy,
since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this ismy house.My
parents are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your
boss to bring you along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just
decide that for yourself?”

 “You’re
joking. Tell me you’re joking. Please?”

 “Nope.
Fun, right? Since I can’t seem to pin you down any other way, I thought
this might work. My stepmother and Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda
worked at FrenchRunway —she’s a photographer and does shoots for
them all the time—so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely son wouldn’t
mind a little company in the form of one attractive assistant. Worked like a
charm. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” He put his hand on the
small of my back and led me toward a massive oak bar in the living room, which
currently had three uniformed bartenders administering martinis and glasses of
Scotch and elegant flutes of champagne.

 “So,
let me just get this straight: I don’t have to babysit for anyone
tonight? You don’t have a baby brother or anything like that, do
you?” It was incomprehensible that I had driven to a party with Miranda
Priestly and had no responsibilities for the entire night except to hang out
with a Hot Smart Writer. Maybe they’d invited me because they were
planning to make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they were
really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the easiest last-minute
fill-in? Or maybe we were headed to the coat check, where I would relieve the
girl who sat there now, looking bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself
around Christian’s story.