Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (49 page)

‘Um, sure, uh, sure,' I stammered, trying to process the fact that I was actually going somewhere with her. A flashback from yesterday – the last time I was told at the very last minute that I was to go somewhere with her – flooded my brain, and I felt as though I would hyperventilate. I thanked the woman and charged the massage to the room even though I'd made it through only the first ten minutes, and I ran upstairs to figure out how to best maneuver around this newest obstacle. This was getting old. Quickly.

It took just a few minutes to page Miranda's hair and makeup people (who, incidentally, were different from my own – I was pieced together by an angry-looking woman whose look of despair on seeing me for the first time haunted me still, while Miranda had a pair of gay guys who looked like they stepped directly out of the pages of
Maxim
) and change her appointment.

‘No problem,' Julien squealed in a thick French accent. ‘We will be there, how you say? Wearing bells! We clear our schedules this week just in the case that Madame Priestly need us at different times!'

I paged Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro people. Time to hit the wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my different ‘looks' was displayed prominently on the bedside table, just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to turn to it for spiritual guidance. I flipped through the headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all.

Shows:

1. Daytime
   
2. Evening
   

Meals:

1. Breakfast meeting
   
2. Lunch
   
   1. Casual (hotel or bistro)
      
   2. Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)
      
3. Dinner
   
   1. Casual (bistro, room service)
      
   2. Midrange (decent restaurant, casual dinner party)
      
   3. Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner party)
      

Parties:

1. Casual (champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)
   
2. Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties, ‘meet for drinks')
   
3. Dressy (cocktail parties by major people, anything at a museum or gallery, postshow parties hosted by design team)
   

Miscellaneous:

1. To and from the airport
   
2. Athletic events (lessons etc.)
   
3. Shopping excursions
   
4. Running errands
   
   1. To couture salons
      
   2. To upscale shops and boutiques
      
   3. To the local food store and/or health and beauty aid
      

 

There didn't appear to be any suggestions for what to wear when one was unable to establish the major-ness or non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was the opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the event down to ‘Parties,' which was a good first step, but at that point things got gray. Was this party going to be a simple number 2, where I'd just pull out something chic, or was it really a 3, in which case I'd better pay attention to choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no instructions for ‘gray area' or ‘uncertainty,' but someone had helpfully included a last-minute handwritten note toward the bottom of the table of contents:
When in doubt (and you never should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous than overdressed in something fabulous
. Well, OK then, it looked like I now squarely fit into category, party; subcategory, stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on.

After a particularly embarrassing run-in with a feather-covered tank top and patent-leather thigh-high (as in yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected the outfit on page thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli with a baby-T and a pair of biker-chick black boots by D&G. Hot, sexy, stylish – but not too dressy – without actually making me look like an ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker. What more could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to choose a workable bag, the hair and makeup woman showed up to begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did.

‘Um, could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a little?' I asked carefully, desperately trying not disparage her handiwork. It probably would've been better to have a go at the makeup myself – especially since I had more supplies and instructions than the NASA scientists commissioned to build the space shuttle – but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like clockwork whether I liked it or not.

‘No!' she barked, clearly not striving for the same sensitivity as myself. ‘It looks better this way.'

She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom lashes and vanished as quickly as she'd arrived; I grabbed my bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to the lobby fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I could double-check that the driver was ready. Just as I was debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to each take separate cars so she wouldn't have to speak to me or actually use the same one and risk catching something from sharing a backseat with her assistant, she appeared. She looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining completely passive and indifferent. I'd passed! This was the first time since I'd started working there that I hadn't received a look of all-out disgust or, at the very least, a snarky comment, and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New York fashion editors, a collection of Parisian hair and makeup stylists, and a hefty selection of the world's finest and most expensive clothing.

‘Is the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?' She looked stunning in a short, shirred velvet cocktail dress.

‘Yes, Ms Priestly, right this way,' Monsieur Renaud interrupted smoothly, leading us past a group of what could only be other American fashion editors also there for the shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking crowd of
über
-Clackers when we walked past, Miranda two steps in front me, looking thin and striking and very, very unhappy. I nearly had to run to keep up, even though she was six inches shorter than me, and I waited until she gave me a ‘Well? What the hell are you waiting for?' look before I ducked into the backseat of the limo after her.

Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going, because I'd been paranoid for the past hour that she would turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing, choosing instead to chat with B-DAD on her cell phone, repeating over and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday night. He was flying over in his company's private jet, and they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline and Cassidy; since he wouldn't be returning until Monday, she didn't want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It wasn't until we'd actually pulled up in front of a duplex apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it was exactly that I was supposed to do all night. She'd always been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her staff in public, which indicated – at least on some level – that she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she couldn't really order me to fetch her drinks or find her someone on the phone or have something dry-cleaned while we were standing there, what was I to do?

‘Ahn-dre-ah, this party is being hosted by a couple with whom I was friendly when we lived in Paris. They requested that I bring along an assistant to entertain their son, who generally finds these events rather dull. I'm sure the two of you will get along well.' She waited until the driver opened her door, then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps. Before I could open my own door, she had climbed the three steps and was already handing her coat to the butler, who was clearly awaiting her arrival. I slumped back into the soft leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem of information she'd so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup, the rescheduling, the panicked consultation with the style book, the biker-chick boots, were all so I could spend the night babysitting some rich couple's snot-nosed kid? And a
French
snot-nosed kid, no less.

I spent three full minutes reminding myself that
The New Yorker
was now only a couple months away, that my year of servitude was about to pay off, that I could surely make it through one more night of tedium to get my dream job. It didn't help. All of a sudden, I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents' couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set up the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting, too, with baby Isaac, who would coo and smile when he saw me and Alex would call and tell me he loved me. No one would care that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate éclair. Not a single person would even know that there were fashion shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic, and they sure as hell wouldn't be interested in hearing about them. But all of that seemed incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to be a screaming, spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.

When I finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from the limo, the butler was no longer expecting anyone. There was music coming from a live band and the smell of scented candles wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I took a deep breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open. It's safe to say that never, ever, in my young life had I been more surprised than I was that night: Christian was smiling back at me.

‘Andy, darling, so glad you could make it,' he said, leaning in and kissing me full on the mouth – a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.

‘What are you doing here?'

He grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead. ‘Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing? Because you seem to follow me everywhere I go, I'm going to have to assume you want to sleep with me.'

I blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, something like that. Actually, I'm not here as a guest, I'm just a very well dressed babysitter. Miranda asked me to come along and didn't tell me until the last second that I'm supposed to be watching the hosts' bratty son tonight. So, if you'll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the milk and crayons he'll need.'

‘Oh, he's just fine, and I'm pretty sure the only thing he'll be needing tonight is another kiss from his babysitter.' And he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on, but he took that as enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my mouth.

‘Christian!' I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly Miranda would fire me if she caught me making out with some random guy at one of her own parties. ‘What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!' I squirmed away, but he just continued to grin that annoyingly adorable smile.

‘Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this is
my
house. My parents are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide that for yourself?'

‘You're joking. Tell me you're joking. Please?'

‘Nope. Fun, right? Since I can't seem to pin you down any other way, I thought this might work. My stepmother and Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at French
Runway
– she's a photographer and does shoots for them all the time – so I just had her tell Miranda that her lonely son wouldn't mind a little company in the form of one attractive assistant. Worked like a charm. Come on, let's get you a drink.' He put his hand on the small of my back and led me toward a massive oak bar in the living room, which currently had three uniformed bartenders administering martinis and glasses of Scotch and elegant flutes of champagne.

‘So, let me just get this straight: I don't have to babysit for anyone tonight? You don't have a baby brother or anything like that, do you?' It was incomprehensible that I had driven to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities for the entire night except to hang out with a Hot Smart Writer. Maybe they'd invited me because they were planning to make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they were really short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the easiest last-minute fill-in? Or maybe we were headed to the coat check, where I would relieve the girl who sat there now, looking bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself around Christian's story.

‘Well, I'm not saying you don't have to babysit at all tonight, because I plan on needing lots and lots of attention. But I think it'll be a better night than you'd anticipated. Wait right here.' He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd of partygoers, mostly distinguished-looking men and sort of artsy, fashionable women in their forties and fifties, what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine people, with a few designers, photographers, and models thrown in for good measure. There was a small, elegant stone patio in the back of the townhouse, all lit by white candles, where a violinist played softly, and I peeked outside. Immediately I recognized Anna Wintour, looking absolutely ravishing in a cream-colored silk slip dress and beaded Manolo sandals. She was talking animatedly to a man I presumed to be her boyfriend, although her giant Chanel sunglasses prevented me from being able to tell if she was amused, indifferent, or sobbing. The press loved to compare the antics and attitudes of Anna and Miranda, but I found it impossible to believe that anyone could be quite as unbearable as my boss.

Behind her stood what I presumed to be a few
Vogue
editors, eyeing Anna warily and wearily like our own Clackers eye Miranda, and next to them was Donatella Versace.