Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (7 page)

Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but wrinkled sheer white T-shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants, was waiting for me in the reception area, clutching a cup of Starbucks and flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were placed firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed obviously through the completely transparent cotton of her shirt. Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth by the coffee cup, and uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders made her look as though she'd spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.

‘Hey, welcome,' she muttered, giving me my first official up-down look-over by someone other than the security guard. ‘Nice boots.'

My heart surged. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her tone made it impossible to tell. My arches ached already and my toes were jammed up against the front, but if I'd actually been complimented on an item of my outfit by a
Runway
-er, it might be worth the pain.

Emily looked at me a moment longer and then swung her legs off the table, sighing dramatically. ‘Well, let's get to it. It's
really
lucky for you that she's not here,' she said. ‘Not that she's not great, of course, because she is,' she added in what I would soon recognize – and come to adopt myself – as the classic Runway Paranoid Turnaround. Just when something negative about Miranda slips out from a Clacker's lips – however justified – paranoia that Miranda will find out overwhelms the speaker and inspires an about-face. One of my favorite workday pastimes became watching my colleagues scramble to negate whatever blasphemy they'd uttered.

Emily slid her card through the electronic reader, and we walked side by side, in silence, through the winding hallways to the center of the floor, where Miranda's office suite was located. I watched as she opened the suite's French doors and tossed her bag and coat on one of the desks that sat directly outside Miranda's cavernous office. ‘This is your desk, obviously,' she motioned to a smooth, wooden, L-shaped Formica slab that sat directly opposite hers. It had a brand-new turquoise iMac computer, a phone, and some filing trays, and there were already pens and paper clips and some notebooks in the drawers. ‘I left most of my stuff for you. It's easier if I just order the new stuff for myself.'

Emily had just been promoted to the position of senior assistant, leaving the junior assistant position open for me. She explained that she would spend two years as Miranda's senior assistant, after which she'd be skyrocketed to an amazing fashion position at
Runway
. The three-year assistant program she'd be completing was the ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world, but I was clinging to the belief that my one-year sentence would suffice for
The New Yorker
. Allison had already left Miranda's office area for her new post in the beauty department, where she'd be responsible for testing new makeup, moisturizers, and hair products and writing them up. I wasn't sure how being Miranda's assistant had prepared her for this task, but I was impressed nonetheless. The promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got places.

The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten, about fifty in all of editorial. The biggest department was fashion, of course, with close to thirty people, including all the accessories assistants. Features, beauty, and art rounded out the mix. Nearly everyone stopped by Miranda's office to schmooze with Emily, overhear any gossip concerning her boss, and check out the new girl. I met dozens of people that first morning, everyone flashing enormous, toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in meeting me.

The men were all flamboyantly gay, adorning themselves in second-skin leather pants and ribbed T's that stretched over bulging biceps and perfect pecs. The art director, an older man sporting champagne blond, thinning hair, who looked like he dedicated his life to emulating Elton John, was turned out in rabbit-fur loafers and eyeliner. No one batted an eye. We'd had gay groups on campus, and I had a few friends who'd come out the past few years, but none of them looked like this. It was like being surrounded by the entire cast and crew of
Rent
– with better costumes, of course.

The women, or rather the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than thirty. While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet – or ever would. In and out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch skinny heels, sashaying over to my desk to extend milky-white hands with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves ‘Jocelyn who works with Hope,' ‘Nicole from fashion,' and ‘Stef who oversees accessories.' Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of height. All weighed less than 110 pounds.

As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone's name, the prettiest girl I'd seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds. The most amazing white hair swirled down her back. Her six-one frame looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright, but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks glowed, and her multi-carat, flawless diamond engagement ring emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she'd caught me staring at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.

‘I created it,' she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at me. I looked to Emily for an explanation, a hint as to who this might be, but she was on the phone again. I thought the girl was referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but then she said, ‘Isn't it a gorgeous color? It's one coat Marshmallow and one coat Ballet Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first, and then a topcoat to finish it off. It's perfect – light colored without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think I'll use this every time I get a manicure!' And she turned on her heels and walked out.
Ah, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too
, I mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away.

I'd been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and sweet and, except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish fetish, they all appeared interested in getting to know me. Emily hadn't left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me something. She provided running commentary on who was really important, whom not to piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend because they threw the best parties. When I described Manicure Girl, Emily's face lit up.

‘Oh!' she breathed, more excited than I'd heard her about anyone else yet. ‘Isn't she just amazing?'

‘Um, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn't really get a chance to talk, she was just, you know, showing me her nail polish.'

Emily smiled widely, proudly. ‘Yes, well, you do know who she is, don't you?'

I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie stars or singers or models, but I couldn't place her. So, she was famous! Maybe that's why she hadn't introduced herself – I was supposed to recognize her. But I didn't. ‘No, actually, I don't. Is she famous?'

The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust. ‘Um,
yeah
,' Emily said, emphasizing the ‘yeah' and squinting her eyes as if to say,
You total fucking idiot
. ‘That is Jessica Duchamps.' She waited. I waited. Nothing. ‘You do know who that is, right?' Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect something with this new information, but I was quite sure I'd never, ever heard of her. Besides, this game was getting old.

‘Emily, I've never seen her before, and her name doesn't sound familiar. Would you please tell me who she is?' I asked, struggling to remain calm. The ironic part was that I didn't even care who she was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she'd made me look like a complete and total loser.

Her smile this time was patronizing. ‘Of course. You just had to say so. Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it – isn't that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich.'

‘Oh, really?' I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were restaurateurs. ‘That's great.'

I answered a few phone calls with the requisite ‘Miranda Priestly's office,' although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself would call and I wouldn't know what to do. Panic set in during a call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a strong British accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without thinking to put it on hold first.

‘It's her,' I whispered urgently. ‘Take it.'

Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to mince emotions, she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity.

‘Miranda? It's Emily,' she said, a bright smile lighting up her face as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her. Silence. A frown. ‘Oh, Mimi, so sorry! The new girl thought you were Miranda! I know, how funny. I guess we have to work on
not thinking every British accent is necessarily our boss!'
She looked at me pointedly, her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher.

She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and take messages for Emily, who would then call the people back – with nonstop narration on their order of importance, if any, in Miranda's life. About noon, just as the first hunger pangs were beginning, I picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end.

‘Hello? Allison, is that you?' asked the icy-sounding but regal voice. ‘I'll be needing a skirt.'

I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide. ‘Emily, it's her, it's definitely her,' I hissed, waving the receiver to get her attention. ‘She wants a skirt!'

Emily turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the phone without so much as ‘I'll call you later' or even ‘good-bye.' She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line, and plastered on another wide grin.

‘Miranda? It's Emily. What can I do?' She put her pen to her pad and began writing furiously, forehead furrowing intently. ‘Yes, of course. Naturally.' And as fast as it happened, it was over. I looked at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for appearing so eager.

‘Well, it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt for tomorrow, among other things, so we'll need to get it on a plane by tonight, at the latest.'

‘OK, well, what kind does she need?' I asked, still reeling from the shock that a skirt would be traveling to St Barth's simply because she'd requested it do so.

‘She didn't say exactly,' Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.

‘Hi, Jocelyn, it's me. She wants a skirt, and I'll need to have it on Mrs Marteau's flight tonight, since she'll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didn't say. I really don't know. OK, thanks.' She turned to me and said, ‘It makes it more difficult when she's not specific. She's too busy to worry about details like that, so she didn't say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But that's OK. I know her size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she'll like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. They'll start calling some in.' I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci and spontaneous applause.

Not quite. ‘Calling in' the skirts was my very first lesson in
Runway
ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military operation. Either Emily or myself would notify the fashion assistants – about eight in all, who each maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores. The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public relations contacts at the various design houses and, if appropriate, at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly – yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for her
personal
use – was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Barney's, Chloé, Calvin Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto Cavalli, and Saks would be messengering over (or, in some cases, hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly could conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like a highly choreographed ballet, each player knowing exactly where and when and how their next step would occur. While this near-daily activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that we'd need to send with the skirt that night.

‘Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,' she said while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece of
Runway
stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, ‘Here, take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it.' I took the phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the building, wondering how I was ever going to find ‘my car.' Or even, really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe approached.

‘You Priestly's new girl?' he croaked through tobacco-stained lips, never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. ‘I'm Rich. The dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?' I nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the door shut and waved.

‘Where you going, miss?' the driver asked, pulling me back to the present. I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from my pocket.