Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (26 page)

‘I know, sweetie, I know. Let's get a cab back to your apartment, OK? Do you think you can make it?'

She nodded and then leaned over very casually and threw up. All over her brown boots, with some of it splashing up the sides of her jeans.
If only the
Runway
girls could see my best friend now
, I couldn't help thinking.

I sat her down on a window ledge that looked reasonably like it wouldn't have an alarm and ordered her not to move. There was a twenty-four-hour bodega right across the street, and this girl clearly needed some water. When I got back, she'd thrown up again – this time all down her front – and her eyes looked droopy. I'd bought two bottles of Poland Spring, one for her to drink and one for cleaning, but she was too gross now. I dumped one all over her feet to wash away the sick, and half of the second one over her coat. Better to be soaking wet than covered in puke. She was so drunk she didn't even notice.

It took a little persuading to get a cabbie to let us in with Lily looking in such bad shape, but I promised a really big tip on top of what was sure to be a really big fare. We were going from the Lower East Side to the far Upper West, and I was already figuring out a way to expense what was sure to be a twenty-dollar ride. I could probably just write it off as a trip I had to make in search of something for Miranda. Yes, that would work.

The trip to her fourth-floor walk-up was even less fun than the cab, but she'd become more cooperative after the twenty-five-minute ride, and she even managed to wash herself in the shower after I'd undressed her. I pointed her in the direction of her bed and watched as she collapsed face-down when her knees hit the box spring. I looked down at her, unconscious, and was momentarily nostalgic for college, for all the things we'd done together then. It was fun now, no question, but it would never again be as carefree as then.

I briefly wondered if Lily might be drinking too much these days. After all, she did seem to be drunk pretty consistently. But when Alex had brought it up the week before, I'd assured him it was because she was still a student, still not living in the real world with real, adult responsibilities (like pouring the perfect Pellegrino!). I mean, it's not like we hadn't together done too many shots at Señor Frog's on spring break or too ambitiously worked our way through three bottles of red wine while celebrating the anniversary of the day we'd first met in eighth grade. Lily had held my hair back as I sat with my face resting on the toilet seat after a postfinals binge, and pulled over four times once while driving me back to my dorm after a night that had included eight rum and Cokes and a particularly horrid karaoke rendition of ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn.' I'd dragged her back to my apartment on the night of her twenty-first birthday and tucked her into my bed, checking her breathing every ten minutes, and finally fell asleep on the floor next to her after I'd made sure she'd live through the night. She had awakened twice that night. The first time was to throw up over the side of the bed – making a sincere effort to make it into the garbage can I'd set up beside it but getting confused and vomiting down the side of my wall instead – and once more to apologize sincerely and tell me she loved me and I was the best friend a girl could have. That's what friends did: they got drunk together and did stupid things and looked out for one another, right? Or was that all just college fun, rites of passage that had a time and a place? Alex had insisted that this was different, that she was different, but I just didn't see it that way.

I knew I should've stayed with her tonight, but it was nearly two and I had to be at work in five hours. My clothes smelled of vomit and there was no way I could find a single appropriate piece of clothing in Lily's closet to wear to
Runway
– especially with my new upgraded look. I sighed and pulled a blanket over her and set her alarm for 7:00 A.M. so just in case she wasn't too hungover she'd have a shot at making it to class.

‘'Bye, Lil. I'm heading out. You OK?' I placed the portable phone on the pillow by her head.

She opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and smiled. ‘Thanks,' she muttered, her eyelids dropping again. She wasn't fit to run a marathon, or probably even operate a motorized lawn mower, but she'd be fine to just sleep it off.

‘It was my pleasure,' I managed, even though this was the first time in twenty-one hours I had stopped physically running, fetching, rearranging, moving, cleaning, or otherwise assisting. ‘I'll call you tomorrow,' I said as I willed my legs not to give out. ‘If either of us is still alive.' And I finally,
finally
, went home.

‘Hey, I'm glad I caught you,' I heard Cara say on the other end of the line. Why was she out of breath at quarter of eight in the morning?

‘Uh-oh. You never call this early. What's wrong?' In the split second it took me to say those words, a half-dozen scenarios of what Miranda could need raced through my mind.

‘No, no, it's nothing like that. I just wanted to warn you that B-DAD is on his way in to see you, and he's particularly chatty this morning.'

‘Oh, well, that's sure great news. It's been, what, nearly a week since he's interrogated me about every aspect of my life? I was wondering where my biggest fan had gone.' I finished typing my memo and hit ‘print.'

‘You're a lucky girl, I have to say. He's lost interest in me entirely,' she pined dramatically. ‘He only has eyes for you. I heard him say that he was coming over to discuss details of the Whitney party with you.'

‘Great, that's just great. I can't wait to meet this brother of his. So far I've just spoken to him on the phone, but he sounds like a total schmuck. So, you're sure he's on his way, or is it possible there's a kind spirit up above who just may spare me that particular misery today?'

‘Nope, not today. He's definitely on his way. Miranda has a podiatrist appointment at eight-thirty A.M., so I don't think she'll be coming with him.'

I checked the appointment book on Emily's desk quickly and confirmed her appointments. A Miranda-free morning was indeed on the schedule. ‘Fantastic. I couldn't think of anyone dreamier to do a little early-morning bonding with than B-DAD himself. Why does he talk so much?'

‘Can't answer that other than to point out the obvious: he married her, so he's clearly not all there. Call if he says anything particularly ridiculous. I have to run. Caroline just smashed one of Miranda's Stila lipsticks into the bathroom mirror for no apparent reason.'

‘Our lives rock, don't they? We're the coolest girls. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Talk to you later.'

‘OK, 'bye.'

I glanced over the memo while I waited for B-DAD's arrival. It was a request to the board of trustees to the Whitney Museum from Miranda. She was asking permission to throw a dinner party at the museum in March for her brother-in-law, a man I could tell she absolutely despised but who was, unfortunately, family. Jack Tomlinson was B-DAD's younger and wilder brother, and he'd just announced he was leaving his wife and three children and marrying his masseuse. Although he and B-DAD were both quintessential East Coast prep school aristocracy, Jack had shed his Harvard persona in his late twenties and moved to South Carolina, where he'd immediately made a fortune in real estate. Judging from everything Emily had told me, he'd morphed into a first-class Southern boy, a real straw-chewin', tobacco-spittin' hick, which of course appalled Miranda, the epitome of class and sophistication. B-DAD had asked Miranda to organize an engagement party for his baby brother, and Miranda, blinded by love, had no choice but to oblige. He had left all the details to her so, quite naturally, Miranda has set about to make things as difficult as humanly possible.

Rather than host the dinner party at, oh, a
restaurant
, Miranda had decided that it would have ‘more impact' for the guests to dine in a museum, although she eliminated most of them as though they were take-out joints (the Met is ‘too stiff,' the Guggenheim ‘too dark,' the Museum of Natural History ‘an eyesore now that it includes that dreadful planetarium'). She finally settled on the Whitney (‘understated, modern, intimate'). I'd been delighted when the museum immediately agreed to the dinner party in their lower-level restaurant or their first-floor lobby space, but I should've known that was too simple. The moment I'd conveyed the news to Miranda, she'd sighed deeply, shook her head in sympathy for my stupidity, and informed me that she'd never agree to a dinner anywhere except the de Kooning gallery in the permanent collection. Obviously. Dear Honored Members, blah, blah, blah … would like to request permission to host a fabulous little soiree, preferably in the back room of the second floor, blah, blah, blah … will be hiring only the finest caterers, florists, and band, of course, blah, blah, blah, would welcome your input, blah, blah. Making sure one last time that there were no glaring errors, I quickly forged her name and called for a messenger to come pick it up.

The knock on the office suite door – which I kept closed this early in the morning since no one was in yet anyway – came almost immediately, and I was impressed with their turnaround time, but the door swung open to reveal B-DAD, who was sporting a grin much too enthusiastic for pre-eight A.M.

‘Andrea,' he sang, immediately walking over to my desk and smiling so genuinely it made me feel guilty for not liking him.

‘Good morning, Mr Tomlinson. What brings you here so early?' I asked. ‘I'm sorry to tell you that Miranda's not in yet.'

He chuckled, his nose twitching like a rodent's. ‘Yes, yes, she won't be in until after lunch, or so I believe. Andy, it really has been too long since you and I caught up. Tell Mr T. now: How is everything?'

‘Here, let me take those,' I said, pulling the monogrammed duffel full of Miranda's dirty clothes that she'd given him to give to me. I also relieved him of the beaded Fendi tote bag that had surfaced again recently. It was a one-of-a-kind tote that had been hand-beaded in an elaborate crystal design just for Miranda from Silvia Venturini Fendi, as a thank-you for all of her support, and one of the fashion assistants had put its value at just under ten grand. But I noticed today that one of the skinny leather handles had broken loose yet again, even though the accessories department had returned it to Fendi for hand-stitching two dozen times already. It was intended to hold a delicate ladies' wallet, perhaps accompanied by a pair of sunglasses or maybe, if absolutely necessary, a small cell phone. Miranda didn't really care about that. She had currently crammed in an extra-large bottle of Bulgari perfume, a sandal with a broken heel that I was probably supposed to get fixed, the blotter-size Hermès daily planner that weighed more than an entire laptop, an oversize spiked dog collar that I thought either belonged to Madelaine or was for an upcoming fashion shoot, and the Book I had delivered to her the night before. I would have hocked a bag worth ten thousand dollars and paid my rent for a year, but Miranda preferred to use it as a trash receptacle.

‘Thank you, Andy. You really are a big help to everyone. So Mr T. would sure like to hear more about your life. What's going on?'

What's going on? What's going on?
Hmm, well, let's see here. Really not all that much, I suppose. I spend most of my time trying to survive my term of indentured servitude with your sadistic wife. If there are ever any free minutes during the workday when she's not making some belittling demand, then I'm trying to block out the brainwash drivel that's spoon-fed to me by her assistant in chief. On the increasingly rare occasions that I find myself outside the confines of this magazine, I'm usually trying to convince myself that it really is OK to eat more than eight hundred calories a day and that being a size six does not put me in the plus-size category. So I guess the short answer is, not much.

‘Well, Mr Tomlinson, not too much. I work a lot. And I guess when I'm not working I hang out with my best friend, or my boyfriend. Try to see my family.'
I used to read a lot
, I wanted to say,
but I'm too tired now
. And sports have always been a pretty big part of my life, but there wasn't time anymore.

‘So, you're twenty-five, right?' he non-sequitured. I couldn't even imagine where he was going with this one.

‘Uh, no, I'm twenty-three. I only graduated last May.'

‘Ah-hah! Twenty-three, huh?' He looked like he was trying to decide whether to say something or not. I braced myself. ‘So tell Mr T., what do twenty-three-year-olds do in this city for fun? Restaurants? Clubs? That sort of thing?' He smiled again, and I wondered if he really needed the attention as much as he appeared to: there was nothing sinister behind his interest, just a seemingly driving need to
talk
.

‘Um, well, all sorts of things, I guess. I don't really go to clubs, but bars and lounges and places like that. Go out for dinner, see movies.'

‘Well, that sounds like a lot of fun. Used to do that kind of stuff, too, when I was your age. Now it's just a lot of work events and fund-raisers. Enjoy it while you can, Andy.' He winked like a dorky father would.

‘Yeah, well, I'm trying,' I managed.
Please leave, please leave, please leave,
I willed, staring longingly at the bagel that was just calling my name. I get three minutes of peace and quiet a day, and this man was stealing all of it.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the doors swung open and Emily stomped in. She was wearing her headphones and moving to the music. I watched her mouth drop open when she saw him standing there.

‘Mr Tomlinson!' she exclaimed, yanking off her headphones and tossing her iPod in her Gucci tote. ‘Is everything OK? Nothing's wrong with Miranda, is it?' She looked and sounded genuinely concerned. An A-plus performance: always the perfectly attentive, unfailingly polite assistant.