Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (48 page)

‘Of course, Miranda,' I said proudly. ‘I think this will be appropriate.' I walked toward her since she was making no effort to retrieve it herself, but before I could offer her the paper she snatched it from my hand. I didn't realize until her eyes had finished moving back and forth that I'd been holding my breath.

‘Fine. This is fine. Certainly nothing groundbreaking, but fine. Let's go.' She picked up a matching quilted Chanel purse and placed the chain handle over her shoulder.

‘Pardon?'

‘I said, let's go. This silly little ceremony starts in fifteen minutes, and with any luck we'll be out of there in twenty. I truly loathe these things.'

There was no way to deny that I'd heard her say both ‘let's' and ‘we': I was definitely expected to go with her. I glanced down at my leather pants and fitted blazer and figured that if she had no problem with it – and I certainly would've heard if she had – then what did it really matter? There would probably be fleets of assistants roaming around, tending to their bosses, and surely no one would care what we were wearing.

The ‘salon' was exactly what Briget had said it would be – a typical hotel meeting room, complete with a couple dozen round luncheon tables and a slightly raised presentation stage with a podium. I stood along the back wall with a few other employees of various kinds and watched as the president of the council showed an incredibly unfunny, uninteresting, wholly uninspired movie clip on how fashion affects all of our lives. A few more people hogged the mike for the next half hour, and then, before a single award had been presented, an army of waiters began bringing out salads and filling wine glasses. I looked warily at Miranda, who appeared acutely bored and irritated, and tried to shrink smaller behind the potted tree I was currently leaning against to keep from falling asleep. I can't be sure how long my eyes were closed, but just as I lost all control of my neck muscles and my head started to nod forward uncontrollably, I heard her voice.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! I don't have time for this nonsense,' she whispered loudly enough that a few Clackers from a nearby table glanced up. ‘I wasn't told that I would be receiving an award, and I wasn't prepared to do so. I'm leaving.' And she turned around and began striding toward the door.

I hobbled after her but thought better of grabbing her shoulder. ‘Miranda? Miranda?' She was clearly ignoring me. ‘Miranda? Whom would you like to accept the award on behalf of
Runway
?' I whispered as quietly as I could and still have her hear me.

She whipped around and stared me straight in the eyes. ‘Do you think I care? Go up there and accept it yourself.' And before I could say another word, she was gone.

Oh my god. This wasn't happening. I would surely wake up in my own, unglamorous, negative-thread-count-sheeted bed in just a minute and discover that the entire day – hell, the entire year – had just been a particularly horrid dream. That woman didn't really expect me – the
junior
assistant – to go up there and accept an award for
Runway
's fashion coverage, did she? I looked around the room frantically to see if anyone else from
Runway
was attending the lunch. No such luck. I slumped down in a seat and tried to figure out whether I should call Emily or Briget for advice, or whether I should just leave myself since Miranda apparently cared nothing about receiving this honor. My cell phone had just connected to Briget's office (who I was hoping could make it over there in time to take the goddamn award herself) when I heard the words ‘… extend our deepest appreciation to American
Runway
for its accurate, amusing, and always informative fashion coverage. Please welcome its world-famous editor in chief, a living fashion icon herself, Ms Miranda Priestly!'

The room erupted into applause at precisely the same moment I felt my heart stop beating.

There was no time to think, to curse Briget for letting this all happen, to curse Miranda for leaving and taking the speech with her, to curse myself for ever accepting this hateful job in the first place. My legs moved forward on their own,
left-right
,
left-right
, and climbed the three steps to the podium with no incident whatsoever. Had I not been utterly shell-shocked, I might have noticed that the enthusiastic clapping had given way to an eerie silence as everyone tried to figure out who I was. But I didn't. Instead, some greater force prompted me to smile, reach out to take the plaque from the severe-looking president's hands, and place it shakingly on the podium in front of me. It wasn't until I lifted my head and saw hundreds of eyes staring back – curious, probing, confused eyes, all of them – that I knew for sure I would cease breathing and die right there.

I imagine I stood like that for no longer than ten or fifteen seconds, but the silence was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that I wondered if I had, in fact, died already. No one uttered a word. No silver scraped plates, no glasses clinked, no one even whispered to a neighbor about who was standing in for Miranda Priestly. They just watched me, moment after moment, until I was left with no choice but to speak. I didn't remember a word of the speech that I had written an hour earlier, so I was on my own.

‘Hello,' I began and heard my voice reverberate in my ears. I couldn't tell if it was the microphone or the sound of blood pounding inside my head, but it didn't matter. The only thing I could hear for sure was that it was shaking – uncontrollably. ‘My name is Andrea Sachs and I'm Mir – uh, I'm on staff at
Runway
. Unfortunately, Miranda, um, Ms Priestly had to step out for a moment, but I would like to accept this award on her behalf. And, of course, on behalf of everyone at
Runway
. Thank you, um' – I couldn't remember the name of the council or the president here – ‘all so much for this, uh, this wonderful honor. I know I speak for everyone when I say that we are all so honored.' Idiot! I was stuttering and um-ing and shaking, and I was even conscious enough at this point to notice that the crowd had begun to twitter. Without another word, I walked in as dignified a manner as I could manage from the podium and didn't realize until I'd reached the back doors that I'd forgotten the plaque. A staffer followed me to the lobby, where I'd just collapsed in a fit of exhaustion and humiliation, and handed it to me. I waited until she left and asked one of the janitors to throw it out. He shrugged and tossed it in his bag.

That bitch!
I thought, too angry and tired to conjure up any really creative names or methods of ending her life. My phone rang and, knowing it was her, I turned off the ringer and ordered a gin and tonic from one of the front desk people. ‘Please. Please just have someone send one out. Please.' The woman took one look at me and nodded. I sucked the entire thing down in just two long gulps and headed back upstairs to see what she wanted. It was only two in the afternoon of my first day in Paris, and I wanted to die. Only death was not an option.

‘Miranda Priestly's room,' I answered from my new Parisian office. My four glorious hours that were supposed to constitute a full night's sleep had been rudely interrupted by a frantic call from one of Karl Lagerfeld's assistants at six A.M., which is precisely when I'd discovered that all of Miranda's phone calls were being routed directly to
my
room for answering. It appeared the entire city and surrounding area knew Miranda stayed here during the shows, and so my phone had been ringing incessantly since the moment I stepped inside. Never mind the two dozen messages that had already been left on the voice mail.

‘Hi, it's me. How's Miranda doing? Is everything OK? Did anything go wrong yet? Where is she and why aren't you with her?'

‘Hey, Em! Thanks for caring. How are you feeling, by the way?'

‘What? Oh, I'm fine. A little weak, but getting better. Whatever. How is
she
?'

‘Yes, well, I'm fine, too, thanks for asking. Yes, it was a long flight to get here and I haven't slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since the phone keeps ringing and I'm pretty sure it's never going to stop, and, oh! I gave a completely impromptu speech – after writing an impromptu speech – to a group of people who wanted Miranda's company but apparently weren't interesting enough to warrant it. Looked like a giant fucking idiot, actually, and nearly gave myself a heart attack in the process, but hey, other than that, things are just great.'

‘Andrea! Be serious! I've been really worried about everything. There wasn't a lot of time to prepare for this, and you know that if anything goes wrong over there she's going to blame me anyway.'

‘Emily. Please don't take this personally, but I can't talk to you right now. I just can't do it.'

‘Why? Is something wrong? How did her meeting go yesterday? Did she get there on time? Do you have everything you need? Are you making sure to wear appropriate clothes? Remember, you're representing
Runway
over there, so you always have to look the part.'

‘Emily. I need to hang up now.'

‘Andrea! I'm concerned. Tell me what you've been doing.'

‘Well, let's see. In all the free time I've had, I've gotten a half-dozen or so massages, two facials, and a few manicures. Miranda and I have really bonded over doing the whole spa thing together. It's great fun. She's really trying hard not to be too demanding, says she really wants me to enjoy Paris since it's such a wonderful city and I'm lucky to be here. So basically we just hang out and have fun. Drink great wine. Shop. You know, the usual.'

‘Andrea! This is really not funny, OK? Now tell me what the hell is going on.' With every degree more annoyed she sounded, my mood improved a notch.

‘Emily, I'm not sure what to tell you. What do you want to hear? How it's been so far? Let's see, I've spent most of my time trying to figure out how best to sleep through a phone that won't stop ringing while simultaneously shoving enough food down my throat between the hours of two and six A.M. to sustain me for the remaining twenty hours. It's like fucking Ramadan here, Em – no eating during daylight hours. Yeah, you should be really sorry you're missing this one.'

The other line began blinking and I put Emily on hold. Every time it rang my mind went quickly, uncontrollably, to Alex, wondering if he just might call and say that everything was going to be just fine. I'd called twice on my international cell since I'd arrived and he'd answered both times, but like the expert prank caller I'd been in junior high, I'd hung up the moment I'd heard his voice. It'd been the longest we'd ever gone without talking and I wanted to hear what was going on, but I also couldn't help feeling like life had gotten significantly simpler since we'd taken a break from the bickering and the guilt-mongering. Still, I held my breath until I heard Miranda's voice screeching from across the wires.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, when is Lucia due to arrive?'

‘Oh, hello, Miranda. Let me just check the itinerary I have for her. Here it is. Let's see, it says here that she was flying in directly from the shoot in Stockholm today. She should be at the hotel.'

‘Connect me.'

‘Yes, Miranda, just a moment, please.'

I put her on hold and switched back to Emily. ‘That's her, hold on.'

‘Miranda? I just found Lucia's number. I'll connect you now.'

‘Wait, Ahn-dre-ah. I'll be leaving the hotel in twenty minutes for the rest of the day. I'll need some scarves before I return, and a new chef. He should have a minimum of ten years' experience in mostly French restaurants and be available for family dinners four nights a week and dinner parties twice a month. Now connect me to Lucia.'

I knew I should've gotten hung up on the fact that Miranda wanted me to hire her a New York chef from Paris, but all I could focus on was that she was leaving the hotel – without me, and for the entire day. I clicked back to Emily and told her that Miranda needed a new chef.

‘I'll work on it, Andy,' she announced while coughing. ‘I'll do some preliminary screening and then you can talk to a few of the finalists. Just find out if Miranda would like to wait until she gets home to meet them or if she'd prefer if you arranged for a couple to fly there and meet with her now, OK?'

‘You can't be serious.'

‘Well, of course I'm serious. Miranda hired Cara when she was in Marbella last year. Their last nanny had just quit and she had me fly three finalists to her so she could find someone right away. Just find out, OK?'

‘Sure,' I muttered. ‘And thanks.'

Just talking about those massages had sounded so good, I decided to book one for myself. There wasn't an appointment available until early evening, so I called room service in the meantime and ordered a full breakfast. When the butler delivered it to me, I'd already crawled back into one of the plush robes, donned a pair of the matching slippers, and prepared myself to feast on the omelet, croissants, Danishes, muffins, potatoes, cereal, and crepes that arrived smelling so good. After devouring all the food and two cups of tea, I waddled back to the bed I hadn't really slept in the night before and fell asleep so quickly that I wondered if someone had slipped something in my orange juice.

The massage was the perfect way to top off what had been a blessedly relaxed day. Everyone else was doing my work for me, and Miranda had only called and woken me once – once! – to request that I make her a lunch reservation the following day. This isn't so bad, I thought, as the woman's strong hands kneaded my twisted neck muscles. Not a bad perk at all. But just as I started to drift off once again, the cell phone that I'd grudgingly brought along began its persistent ring.

‘Hello?' I said brightly, as if I weren't lying naked on a table covered in oil, half-asleep.

‘Ahn-dre-ah. Move my hair and makeup earlier and tell the Ungaro people I can't make it tonight. I'll be attending a small cocktail party instead, and I expect you to come with me. Be ready to leave in an hour.'