Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (15 page)

I thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged for a driver to meet Mr Tomlinson's private plane at de Gaulle and transfer Harry back to the hotel. If everything went as planned, Miranda should've had those books by seven in the morning local time, and considering it was already late afternoon there, I couldn't imagine what had gone wrong. There was no choice: I had to call the concierge, and since my cell wouldn't dial internationally, I had to find a phone that did.

I took the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped them in the garbage. Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep. I hugged her good-bye and told her I'd call her later and headed out to hail a cab back to the office.

‘What about today?' she whined. ‘I have
The American President
all lined up and ready to go. You can't leave yet – our weekend's not over!'

‘I know, I'm sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There's nothing I'd rather do than stay here, but she's got me on a pretty short leash right now. I'll call you later?'

The office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely brunching at Pastis with their investment banker boyfriends. I sat in my darkened area, took a deep breath, and dialed. Blissfully, Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz concierges, was available.

‘Andrea, dear, how are you? We're simply delighted to have Miranda and the twins back with us again so soon,' he lied. Emily told me that Miranda stayed at the Ritz so frequently that the entire hotel staff knew her and the girls by name.

‘Yes, Monsieur Renaud, and I know she's just thrilled to be there,' I lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Miranda found fault with his every move. To his credit, he never stopped trying, and he never stopped lying about how much he loved her, either. ‘Listen, I'm wondering if that car you sent to meet Miranda's plane made it back to the hotel already?'

‘Well of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must've returned here before eight o'clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on staff,' he said proudly. If only he knew what his best driver had been sent to shuttle around town.

‘Well, that's so strange, because I got a message from Miranda saying that she never received the package, but I've checked with the driver here who swears he dropped it at the airport, the pilot who swears he flew it to Paris and gave it to your driver, and now you who remember it arriving at the hotel. How could she not have received it?'

‘It seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself,' he trilled in a fake-happy voice. ‘Why don't I connect you?'

I had hoped against all hope that it wouldn't come to this, that I'd be able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to her. What would I tell her if she still insisted that she'd never received the package? Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the table in her suite, where it was inevitably left hours earlier? Or was I supposed to go through the whole thing, private jet and all, and get her two more copies by the end of the day? Or perhaps I should hire a secret service agent next time to accompany the books on their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their safe arrival? Something to think about.

‘Sure, Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help.'

A few clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from the tension, so I wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to think what would happen if Miranda saw me wearing sweatpants in her office.
Be calm, be confident
, I coached myself.
She can't disembowel me over the phone.

‘Yes?' I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my self-help thoughts. It was Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had perfected her mother's brusque phone manner perfectly. Cassidy at least had the courtesy to answer the phone with a ‘hello.'

‘Hi, sweetie,' I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child. ‘It's Andrea, from the office. Is your mom there?'

‘You mean my
mum
?' she corrected as she always did when I used the American pronunciation. ‘Sure, I'll get her.'

A moment or two later, Miranda was on the line.

‘Yes, Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel about being interrupted when I'm spending time with the girls,' she stated in her cold, clipped way.
You know how I feel about being interrupted when I'm spending time with the girls?
I wanted to scream.
Are you fucking kidding me, lady? You think I'm calling for my goddamn health? Because I couldn't bear to go a single weekend without hearing your miserable voice? And what about me spending time with my girls?
I thought I'd pass out from anger, but I took a deep breath and dove right in.

‘Miranda, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I'm calling to ensure that you received the Harry Potter books. I heard your message saying that you hadn't yet received them, but I've spoken to everyone and—'

She interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely. ‘Ahn-dre-ah. You should really listen more closely. I said no such thing. We received the package early this morning. Incidentally, it came so early that they woke us all up for the silly thing.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I didn't dream that she'd left the message, did I? I was still too young even for early-onset Alzheimer's, right?

‘What I said was that we didn't receive
both
copies of the book, as I had requested. The package included only one, and I'm sure you can imagine just how disappointed the girls are. They were really looking forward to each having their
own
copy, as I had requested. I need you to explain why my orders weren't followed.'

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. I was definitely dreaming now, living some sort of alternate-universe existence where anything resembling rationality and logic were suspended indefinitely. I wouldn't even let myself consider the absurdity of what was unfolding.

‘Miranda, I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered two,' I stammered, hating myself yet again for pandering. ‘I spoke to the girl at Scholastic and am quite sure that she understood that you needed two copies of the book, so I can't imagine—'

‘Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I'm not particularly interested in hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again, correct? That's all.' She hung up.

I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced, full of questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I concluded – everybody, at least at
Runway
, had a motive. Do I really have the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow, agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure – what would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?

I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message when I listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the messages. ‘
Ahn-dre-ah. It's Mir-ahnda. It's nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That's all
.' Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of two, but she deliberately gave me the impression that I'd made a tremendous, career-ending mistake. She'd called with no concern that her nine A.M. call would have reached me at three A.M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She'd called to drive me a little crazier, push me a little bit harder. She'd called to dare me to defy her. She'd called to make me hate her that much more.

Lily's New Year's party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper cups of champagne at Lily's place with a bunch of people from college and some others they managed to drag along. I was never a big fan of the holiday. I don't remember who first called it ‘Amateur Night' (I think it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went out the other 364 days a year, but I tend to agree. All that forced drinking and merry-making did not a good time guarantee. So Lily had stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the $150 tickets to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of actually freezing in Times Square. We'd each brought a bottle of something not too poisonous, and she had passed out noisemakers and glittery tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the New Year on her rooftop overlooking Harlem. Although we'd all had way too much to drink, Lily was pretty much nonfunctional by the time everyone else had left. She had already thrown up twice, and I was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex and I had packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed at my place, Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for a big brunch the next day.

I was glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on with my life and get started – really started – on my new job. Even though it felt like I'd been working for a decade, I was technically just beginning. I had a lot of hope that things would improve once Miranda and I started working together day to day. Anyone could be a cold-hearted monster over the phone, especially someone who was uncomfortable with vacations and being so far away from work. But I was convinced that the misery of that first month would give way to a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all unfold.

It was a little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was actually happy to be at work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some guy she met at a New Year's party in LA, some ‘superhot, up-and-coming songwriter' who had promised to come visit her in New York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting with the associate beauty editor who sat down the hall, a really sweet guy who'd graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn't yet know – even despite the college choice and the fact that he was a
beauty
editor at a
fashion
magazine – that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.

‘Oh, come with me, please? It'll be so fun, I promise. I'll introduce you to some real hotties, Andy, you'll see. I have some gorgeous straight friends. Besides, it's
Marshall's
party – it's got to be great,' James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my e-mail. Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite, detailing her rendezvous with the long-haired singer.

‘I would, you know I would, but I've had these plans with my boyfriend tonight since before Christmas,' I said. ‘We've been planning on going out to a really nice dinner together for weeks, and I canceled on him last time.'

‘So see him after! Come on, it's not every day you get a chance to meet the single most talented colorist in the civilized world, is it? And there will be loads of celebrities and everyone will look gorgeous, and, well, I just know it'll be the most glamorous party of the week! Harrison and Shriftman is putting it on, for chrissake – you can't beat that. Say yes.' He squinted his face into exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.

‘James, I'd really, really like to – I've never even been to the Plaza! But I really can't change these plans. Alex made reservations at this little Italian place right by his apartment and there's no way I can reschedule.' I knew I couldn't cancel, and I didn't want to – I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new after-school program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be the same night as this party. I'd been reading about it in the papers for the past week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was ecstatically waiting for Marshall Madden, hair colorist extraordinaire, to host his annual post-New Year's blowout. They were saying that this year was going to be even bigger than usual because Marshall had just published a new book,
Color Me Marshall
. But I wasn't going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some star party.

‘Well, OK, but don't say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don't come crying to me when you read in
Page Six
tomorrow that I was spotted with Mariah or J-Lo. Just don't.' And he huffed away, half joking that he was angry, half not, since he seemed to be in a perpetual snit anyway.

So far, the week after New Year's had been easy. We were still unwrapping and cataloging presents – I had gotten to unveil the most stunning pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos this morning – but there were none left to send and the phones were quiet since many people were still away. Miranda would be returning from Paris at the end of the week but wouldn't be in the office until Monday. Emily felt confident that I was ready to handle her, and so was I. We'd run through everything, and I'd taken nearly an entire legal pad full of notes. I glanced down at it, hoping I'd remember everything. Coffee: Starbucks only, tall latte, two raw sugars, two napkins, one stirrer. Breakfast: Mangia delivery, 555-3948, one soft cheese Danish, four slices bacon, two sausage links. Newspapers: newsstand in lobby,
New York Times
,
Daily News
,
New York Times
, the
Financial Times
, the
Washington Post
,
USA Today
, the
Wall Street Journal
,
Women's Wear Daily
, and the
New York Observer
on Wednesdays. Weekly magazines, available Mondays:
Time
,
Newsweek
,
U.S. News
,
The New Yorker
(!),
Time Out New York
,
New York
, the
Economist
. And on and on it went, listing her favorite flowers and her most-hated flowers, her doctors' names and addresses and home phone numbers, her household help, her snack preferences, her preferred bottled water, every size she wore in every article of clothing from lingerie to ski boots. I made lists of people she wanted to talk to (
Always
), and separate lists for people she never wanted to talk to (
Never
). I wrote and wrote and wrote as Emily revealed these things throughout our weeks together, and when we were finished, I felt there was nothing I did not know about Miranda Priestly. Except, of course, what exactly made her so important that I'd filled a legal pad with likes and dislikes. Why, exactly, was I supposed to care?