Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (38 page)

I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks, because no matter how many times I had to do it, I was still repulsed to be sorting through someone else's dirty clothes. After I finished sorting and bagging every day, I had to wash my hands: the lingering smell of Miranda was all-pervasive, and even though it consisted of a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a whiff of B-DAD's cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant, it made me feel physically ill. British accents, Bulgari perfume, white silk scarves – just a few of life's simpler pleasures that were forever ruined for me.

The mail was the usual, ninety-nine percent garbage that Miranda would never see. Everything that was just labeled ‘Editor in Chief' went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages, but many of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their correspondence directly to Miranda. It took me about four seconds to skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long-lost friend, and those I just threw aside. Today there were tons. Breathless notes from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men (or, in all fairness, maybe straight and just very fashion-conscious): ‘Miranda Priestly, you're not only the darling of the fashion world, you're the Queen of my world!' one gushed. ‘I couldn't agree more with your choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April issue – it was ballsy, but genius!' another exclaimed. A few letters ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and pressed their bodies together, and a few more decried the sunken-eyed, starvation-wracked, heroine-chic models that
Runway
had used in its ‘Health First: How to Feel Better' article. One was a standard-issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read, quite simply, on the other: ‘Why? Why do you print such a boring, stupid magazine?' I laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later – my collection of critical letters and postcards was growing, and soon there wasn't going to be any fridge space left. Lily thought it was bad karma to bring home other people's negative thoughts and hostility, and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy.

The last letter of the massive pile before I'd begin tackling the two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the loopy, girly writing of a teenager, complete with i's dotted with hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts. I planned to only skim it, but it wouldn't allow itself to be skimmed: it was too immediately sad and honest – it was bleeding and pleading and begging all over the page. The initial four-second period came and went and I was still reading.

The letter smelled like Jean Naté, that acrid-smelling toilet water-spray preferred by preteen girls the country over. But that wasn't what was causing the tightness in my chest, the constriction in my throat. How many Anitas were there out there? Young girls with so little else in their lives that they measured their worth, their confidence, their entire existence around the clothes and the models they saw in
Runway
? How many more had decided to unconditionally love the woman who put it all together each month – the orchestrator of such a seductive fantasy – even though she wasn't worth one single second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the object of their worship was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes cruel woman who didn't deserve the briefest moment of their innocent affection and attention?

I wanted to cry, for Anita and all her friends who expended so much energy trying to mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen, trying to impress and please and flatter the woman who would only take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her shoulders or toss them without a second thought to the girl who'd written down a piece of herself. Instead, I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and vowed to find a way to help Anita. She sounded even more desperate than the others who wrote, and there was no reason that with all the excess stuff around I couldn't find her a decent dress for a date she would hopefully have soon.

‘Hey, Em, I'm just going to run down to the newsstand and see if they have
Women's Wear
yet. I can't believe it's so late today. Do you want anything?'

‘Will you bring me a Diet Coke?' she asked.

‘Sure. Just a minute,' I said, and weaved quickly through the racks and past the doorway to the service elevator, where I could hear Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and wondering who would be at Miranda's Whitney party that night. Ahmed was finally able to produce a copy of
Women's Wear Daily
, which was a relief, and I grabbed a Diet Coke for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me, but on second thought, I took a Diet for myself as well. The difference in taste and enjoyment wasn't worth the disapproving looks and/or comments I was sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk.

I was so busy examining the front page's color photo of Tommy Hilfiger, I didn't even notice that one of the elevators had opened and was available. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick glimpse of green, a very distinct green. Particularly noteworthy because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny tweed, a color I'd never really seen before but liked a whole lot. And although my mind knew better, it couldn't stop my eyes from looking up and into the elevator, where they were sort of not really surprised to find Miranda peering back. She stood ramrod straight, her hair pulled severely off her face as usual, her eyes staring intently at what must have been my shocked face. There was absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her.

‘Um, good morning, Miranda,' I said, but it came out sounding like a whisper. The doors closed behind us: we would be the only two riding for the entire seventeen floors. She said nothing to me, but she pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping through the pages. We stood side by side, the depth of the silence increasing tenfold with every second that she didn't respond.
Does she even recognize me?
I wondered. Was it possible that she was entirely unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven months – or perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn't heard? I wondered why she didn't immediately ask me about the restaurant review or whether I'd received her message about ordering new china, or if everything was in place for the evening's party. But she acted as though she were all alone in that elevator, that there was not another human being – or, to be precise, not one worth acknowledging – inside that small vestibule with her.

It wasn't until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren't progressing through the floors. Ohmigod! She
had
seen me because she'd assumed that I would press the button, but I'd been too stunned to move. I reached forward slowly, fearfully, pressed the number seventeen, and instinctively waited for something to explode. But we immediately whisked upward, and I wasn't even sure if she had noticed we hadn't been moving all along.

Five, six, seven … it felt as though it took ten minutes for the elevator to pass each floor, and the silence had begun humming in my ears. When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda's direction, I discovered that she was looking me up and down. Her eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then my pants and then my shirt, and continued upward to my face and hair, all the while avoiding my eyes. The expression on her face was one of passive disgust, the way the desensitized
Law & Order
detectives appear when they're faced with yet another beaten and bloodied corpse. I did a quick review of myself and wondered what exactly had triggered the reaction. Short-sleeve, military-style shirt, a brand-new pair of Seven jeans I'd been sent free from their PR department simply for working at
Runway
, and a pair of relatively flat (two-inch heels) black slingbacks that were to date the only nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four-plus trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits. I usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me, but I needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to stop aching. My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without comment, and my nails – though unpainted – were long and reasonably well shaped. I had shaved under my arms within the last forty-eight hours. At least as far as the last time I'd checked, there were no massive facial eruptions. My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch a glimpse of the brand, and a quick check with my right hand indicated that no bra straps were visible. So what was it? What exactly had made her look at me that way?

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen … the elevator stopped and swept open to yet another stark white reception area. A woman of around thirty-five stepped forward to board, but stopped two feet from the door when she saw Miranda standing inside.

‘Oh, I, uh …' she stammered loudly, looking frantically around her for an excuse not to enter our private hell. And although it would've been nicer for me to have her come aboard, I privately rooted for her to escape. ‘I, um, oh! I forgot the photos I need for the meeting,' she finally managed, whipping around on a particularly unsteady Manolo and high-tailing it back toward the office area. Miranda hadn't appeared to notice, and once again, the doors swept shut.

Fifteen, sixteen, and finally – finally! – seventeen, where the doors opened to reveal a group of
Runway
fashion assistants on their way to pick up the cigarettes, Diet Coke, and mixed greens that would constitute their lunch. Each young, beautiful face looked more panicked than the next, and they almost trampled one another trying to move out of Miranda's way. They parted directly down the middle, three to one side and two to the other, and she deigned to walk past them. They were all staring after her, silent, as she made her way across the reception area, and I was left with no choice but to follow her. Wouldn't notice a thing, I figured. We'd just spent what felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a five-by-three-foot box, and she hadn't so much as acknowledged my presence. But as soon as I stepped onto the floor, she turned around.

‘Ahn-dre-ah?' she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence that filled the entire room. I didn't respond since I figured it was rhetorical, but she waited.

‘Ahn-dre-ah?'

‘Yes, Miranda?'

‘Whose shoes are you wearing?' She placed one hand lightly on a tweed-swathed hip and peered over at me. By now the elevator had left without the fashion assistants, since they were too engrossed in actually getting to see – and hear! – Miranda Priestly in the flesh. I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet, which, although they had been quite comfortable mere moments before, were now beginning to burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants and one fashion guru.

The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain, so when Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing, I thought that perhaps she thought I was not wearing my own.

‘Um, mine?' I said, without realizing until the words had been spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful, but downright obnoxious. The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter, until Miranda turned her wrath on them.