The Devil Wears Prada (6 page)

 Lily
pulled through after three straight days of letdowns. Since she had a vested
interest in getting me off her couch for good, she e-mailed everyone she knew.
A classmate from her Ph.D. program at Columbia had a friend who had a boss who
knew two girls who were looking for a roommate. I called immediately and spoke
to a very nice girl named Shanti, who told me she and her friend Kendra were
looking for someone to move into their Upper East Side apartment, in a room
that was miniscule but had a window, a closet, and even an exposed brick wall.
For $800 a month. I asked if the apartment had a bathroom and kitchen. It did
(no dishwasher or bathtub or elevator, of course, but one can hardly expect
living in luxury their first time out). Bingo. Shanti and Kendra ended up being
two very sweet and quiet Indian girls who’d just graduated from Duke,
worked hellishly long hours at investment banks, and seemed to me, that first
day and every day thereafter, utterly indistinguishable from each other. I had
found a home.

4

 I’d
slept in my new room for three nights already and still felt like a stranger
living in a very strange place. The room was minute. Perhaps slightly larger
than the storage shed in the backyard of my house in Avon, but not really. And
unlike most empty spaces that actually looked bigger with furniture, my room
had shrunk to half its size. I had naively eyed the tiny square and decided
that it had to be close to a normal-size room and that I’d just buy the
usual bedroom set: a queen-size bed, a dresser, maybe a nightstand or two. Lily
and I had taken Alex’s car to Ikea, the postcollege apartment mecca, and
picked out a beautiful light-colored wood set and a woven rug with shades of
light blue, dark blue, royal blue, and indigo. Again, like fashion, home
decorating was not my strong suit: I believe that Ikea was into its “Blue
Period.” We bought a duvet cover with a blue-flecked pattern and the
fluffiest comforter they sold. She persuaded me to get one of those Chinese
rice-paper lamps for the nightstand, and I chose some preframed black-and-white
pictures to complement the deep red roughness of my much-hyped exposed brick
wall. Elegant and casual, and not a little Zen. Perfect for my first adult room
in the big city.

 Perfect,
that is, until it all actually arrived. It seems simply eyeing a room
isn’t quite the same as measuring it. Nothing fit. Alex put the bed
together and by the time he’d pushed it against the exposed-brick wall
(Manhattan code for “unfinished wall”) it had consumed the entire
room. I had to send the delivery men back with the six-drawer dresser, the two
adorable nightstands, and even the full-length mirror. The men and Alex did
lift up the bed, however, and I was able to slip the tri-blue rug under it, and
a few blue inches peeked out from underneath the wooden behemoth. The
rice-paper lamp had no nightstand or dresser on which to rest, so I simply
placed it on the floor, wedged in the six inches between the bed frame and the
sliding closet door. And even though I tried special mounting tape, nails, duct
tape, screws, wires, Krazy Glue, double-sided tape, and much cursing, the
framed photos refused to adhere to the exposed brick wall. After nearly three
hours of effort and knuckles rubbed bleeding and raw from the brick, I finally
propped them up on the windowsill. It was for the best, I thought. Blocked a
bit of the direct view the woman living across the airshaft had into my room.
None of it mattered, though. Not the airshaft instead of a majestic skyline or
the lack of drawer space or the closet that was too small to hold a winter
coat. The room was mine—the first I could decorate all on my own, with no
input from parents or roommates—and I loved it.

 It was
the Sunday night before my first day of work, and I could do nothing but
agonize over what to wear the next day. Kendra, the nicer of my two
apartmentmates, kept poking her head in and asking quietly if she could help at
all. Considering the two of them wore ultraconservative suits to work each day,
I declined any fashion input. I paced the living room as much as I could manage
when each length only took four strides, and sat down on the futon in front of
the TV. Just what does one wear to the first day working for the most
fashionable fashion editor of the most fashionable fashion magazine in
existence? I’d heard of Prada (from the few Jappy girls who carried the
backpacks at Brown) and Louis Vuitton (because both of my grandmothers sported
the signature-print bags without realizing how cool they were) and maybe even
Gucci (because who hasn’t heard of Gucci?). But I sure didn’t own a
single stitch of it, and I wouldn’t have known what to do with it if the
entire contents of all three stores resided in my miniature closet. I walked
back to my room—or, rather, the wall-to-wall mattress that I called a
room—and collapsed on that big, beautiful bed, banging my ankle on the
bulky frame. Shit. What now?

 After
much agonizing and clothes-flinging, I finally decided on a light blue sweater
and a knee-length black skirt, with my knee-high black boots. I already knew
that a briefcase wouldn’t fly there, so I was left with no choice but to
use my black canvas purse. The last thing I remember about that night was
trying to navigate around my massive bed in high-heeled boots, a skirt, and no
shirt, and sitting down to rest from the exhaustion of the effort.

 I must
have passed out from sheer anxiety, because it was adrenaline alone that
awakened me at 5:30A .M. I bolted from the bed. My nerves had been in perpetual
overdrive all week, and my head felt like it would explode. I had exactly an
hour and a half to shower, dress, and make my way from my fraternity-like
building at 96th and Third to midtown via public transportation, a still
sinister and intimidating concept. That meant I had to allot an hour for travel
time and a half hour to make myself beautiful.

 The
shower was horrific. It made a high-pitched squealing noise like one of those
dog-training whistles, remaining steadfastly lukewarm until just before I
stepped out into the freezing-cold bathroom, at which point the water turned
scalding. It took a mere three days ofthat routine before I began sprinting
from my bed, turning on the shower fifteen minutes early, and heading back
under the covers. When I snoozed three more times with the alarm clock and went
back for round two in the bathroom, the mirrors would be all steamed up from
the gloriously hot—although trickling—water.

 I got
myself into my binding and uncomfortable outfit and out the door in twenty-five
minutes—a record. And it took only ten minutes to find the nearest
subway, something I should’ve done the night before but was too busy
scoffing at my mother’s suggestion to take a “run-through” so
I wouldn’t get lost. When I’d gone for the interview the week
before I’d taken a cab, and I was already convinced that this subway
experiment was going to be a nightmare. But, remarkably, there was an
English-speaking attendant in the booth who instructed me to take the 6 train
to 59th Street. She said I’d exit right on 59th and would have to walk
two blocks west to Madison. Easy. I rode the cold train in silence, one of the
only people crazy enough to be awake and actually moving at such a miserable
hour in the middle of November. So far, so good—no glitches until it was
time to make my way up to street level.

 I took
the nearest stairs and stepped out into a frigid day where the only light I saw
was emanating from twenty-four-hour bodegas. Behind me was
Bloomingdale’s, but nothing else looked familiar. Elias-Clark,
Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark. Where was that building? I turned in my place 180
degrees until I saw a street sign: 60th Street and Lexington. Well, 59th
can’t be that far away from 60th, but which way should I walk to make the
streets go west? And where was Madison in comparison to Lexington? Nothing
looked familiar from my visit to the building the week before, since I’d
been dropped off right in front. I strolled for a bit, happy to have left
enough time to get as lost as I was, and finally ducked into a deli for a cup
of coffee.

 “Hello,
sir. I can’t seem to find my way to the Elias-Clark building. Could you
please point me in the right direction?” I asked the nervous-looking man
behind the cash register. I tried not to smile sweetly, remembering what everyone
had told me about not being in Avon anymore, and how people here don’t
exactly respond well to good manners. He scowled at me, and I got nervous it
was because he thought me rude. I smiled sweetly.

 “One
dollah,” he said, holding out his hand.

 “You’re
charging me for directions?”

 “One
dollah, skeem or bleck, you peek.”

 I stared
at him for a moment before I realized he knew only enough English to converse
about coffee. “Oh, skim would be perfect. Thank you so much.” I
handed over a dollar and headed back outside, more lost than ever. I asked
people who worked at newsstands, as street sweepers, even a man who was tucked
inside one of those movable breakfast carts. Not a single one understood me
well enough to so much as point in the direction of 59th and Madison, and I had
brief flashbacks to Delhi, depression, dysentery.No! I will find it.

 A few
more minutes of wandering aimlessly around a waking midtown actually landed me
at the front door of the Elias-Clark building. The lobby glowed behind the
glass doors in the early-morning darkness, and it looked, for those first few
moments, like a warm, welcoming place. But when I pushed the revolving door to
enter, it fought me. Harder and harder I pushed, until my body weight was
thrust forward and my face was nearly pressed against the glass, and only then
did it budge. When it did begin to move, it slid slowly at first, prompting me
to push ever harder. But as soon as it picked up some momentum, the glass
behemoth whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me to trip over my
feet and shuffle visibly to remain standing. A man behind the security desk
laughed.

 “Tricky,
eh? Not the first time I seen that happen, and won’t be the last,”
he chortled, fleshy cheeks jiggling. “They getcha good here.”

 I looked
him over quickly and decided to hate him and knew that he would never like me,
regardless of what I said or how I acted. I smiled anyway.

 “I’m
Andrea,” I said, pulling a knit mitten from my hand and reaching over the
desk. “Today’s my first day of work atRunway . I’m Miranda
Priestly’s new assistant.”

 “And
I’m sorry!” he roared, throwing his round head back with glee.
“Just call me ‘Sorry for You’! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hey, Eduardo,
check this out. She’s one of Miranda’s newslaves ! Where you from,
girl, bein‘ all friendly and shit? Topeka fuckin’ Kansas? She is
gonna eat you alive, hah, hah, hah!”

 But
before I could respond, a portly man wearing the same uniform came over and
with no subtlety whatsoever looked me up and down. I braced for more mocking
and guffaws, but it didn’t come. Instead, he turned a kind face to mine
and looked me in the eyes.

 “I’m
Eduardo, and this idiot here’s Mickey,” he said, motioning to the
first man, who looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and ruined all the
fun. “Don’t make no never mind of him, he’s just
kiddin‘ with you.” He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New York
accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. “You just fill out this here
information, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell
’em you need a card wit your pitcher on it from HR.”

 I must
have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and shoved the book
across the counter. “Well, go on now, fill ‘er out. And good luck
today, girl. You gonna need it.”

 I was
too nervous and exhausted at this point to ask him to explain, and besides, I
didn’t really have to. About the only thing I’d had time to do in
the week between accepting the job and starting work was to learn a little bit
about my new boss. I had Googled her and was surprised to find that Miranda
Priestly was born Miriam Princhek, in London’s East End. Hers was like
all the other orthodox Jewish families in the town, stunningly poor but devout.
Her father occasionally worked odd jobs, but mostly they relied on the
community for support since he spent most of his days studying Jewish texts.
Her mother had died in childbirth with Miriam, and it washer mother who moved
in and helped raise the children. And were there children! Eleven in all. Most
of her brothers and sisters went on to work blue-collar jobs like their father,
with little time to do anything but pray and work; a couple managed to get
themselves into and through the university, only to marry young and begin
having large families of their own. Miriam was the single exception to the
family tradition.

 After
saving the small bills her older siblings would slip her whenever they were
able, Miriam promptly dropped out of high school upon turning seventeen—a
mere three months shy of graduation—to take a job as an assistant to an
up-and-coming British designer, helping him put together his shows each season.
After a few years of making a name for herself as one of the darlings of
London’s burgeoning fashion world and studying French at night, she scored
a job as a junior editor at the FrenchChic magazine in Paris. By this time, she
had little to do with her family: they didn’t understand her life or
ambitions, and she was embarrassed by their old-fashioned piety and
overwhelming lack of sophistication. The alienation from her family was
completed shortly after joining FrenchChic when, at twenty-four years old,
Miriam Princhek became Miranda Priestly, shedding her undeniably ethnic name
for one with more panache. Her rough, cockney-girl British accent was soon
replaced by a carefully cultivated, educated one, and by her late twenties,
Miriam’s transformation from Jewish peasant to secular socialite was
complete. She rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the magazine
world.