Читать книгу The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 15

‘Ohmigod, is it the fashion editor herself?’ Jill mock-shrieked when she opened the front door. ‘Come on over here and let your big sister genuflect a li’l.’

‘Fashion editor?’ I snorted. ‘Hardly. Try fashion mishap. Welcome back to civilization.’ I hugged her for what felt like ten minutes and didn’t want to let go. It was hard when she’d started at Stanford and left me all alone with our parents when I was a mere nine years old, but it was even harder when she’d followed her boyfriend – now husband – to Houston. Houston! The whole placed seemed drenched in humidity and infested with mosquitoes to the point of unbearability, and if that wasn’t bad enough, my sister – my sophisticated, beautiful big sister who loved neoclassical art and made your heart melt when she recited poetry – had developed a southern accent. And not just a slight accent with a subtle, charming southern lilt, but an all-out, unmistakable, like-a-drill-through-the-eardrum redneck drawl. I’d yet to forgive Kyle for dragging her to that wretched place, even if he was a pretty decent brother-in-law, and it didn’t help when he opened his mouth.

‘Hey there, Andy darlin’, you’re looking more beautiful every time I see you.’ Yer lookin’ more beeyootiful avery time I see ya. ‘What are they feeding y’all at Runway, huh?’

I wanted to stick a tennis ball in his mouth to keep him from talking anymore, but he smiled at me and I walked over and hugged him. He might sound like a hick and grin a little too openly and often, but he tried really hard and he clearly adored my sister. I vowed to make a sincere effort not to visibly cringe when he spoke. ‘It’s not really what I’d call a feeding-friendly kind of place, if you know what I mean. Whatever it is, it’s definitely in the water and not the food. But never mind. Kyle, you look great yourself. Keeping my sister busy in the city of misery, I hope?’

‘Andy, just come and visit, sweetie. Bring Alex along and y’all can make it a li’l vacation. It’s not that bad, you’ll see.’ He smiled first at me and then at Jill, who smiled back and brushed the back of her hand across his cheek. They were disgustingly in love.

‘Really, Andy, it’s a culture-rich place with a whole lot to do. We both wish you’d come visit us more often. It’s just not right that the only time we see each other is in this house,’ she said, waving expansively around our parents’ living room. ‘I mean, if you can stand Avon, you can certainly stand Houston.’

‘Andy, you’re here! Jay, the big New York City career girl is here, come say hi,’ my mom called as she rounded the corner coming from the kitchen. ‘I thought you were going to call when you got to the train station.’

‘Mrs Myers was picking Erika up from the same train, so she just dropped me off. When are we eating? I’m starving.’

‘Now. Do you want to clean up? We can wait. You look a little ragged from the train. You know, it’s fine if—’

‘Mother!’ I shot her a warning look.

‘Andy! You look dynamite. Come here and give your old man a hug.’ My dad, tall and still very handsome in his mid-fifties, smiled from the hallway. He was holding a Scrabble box behind his back that he only let me see by flashing it quickly by the side of his leg. He waited until everyone looked away from him and pointed to the box and mouthed, ‘I’ll kick your ass. Consider yourself warned.’

I smiled and nodded my head. Contrary to all common sense, I found myself looking forward to the next forty-eight hours with my family more than I had in the four years since I’d left home. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday, and this year I was set to enjoy it more than ever.

We gathered in the dining room and dug into the massive meal that my mother had expertly ordered, her traditional Jewish version of a night-before-Thanksgiving feast. Bagels and lox and cream cheese and whitefish and latkes all professionally arranged on rigid disposable serving platters, waiting to be transferred to paper plates and consumed with plastic forks and knives. My mother smiled lovingly as her brood dug in, with a look of pride on her face as if she’d been cooking for a week to sustain and nurture her babies.

I told them all about the new job, tried as best as I could to describe a job that I didn’t yet fully understand myself. Briefly I wondered if it sounded ridiculous to tell them how the skirts were called in and all the hours I’d logged wrapping and sending presents, and how there was a little electronic ID card that tracked everything you did. It was hard to fit into words the sense of urgency each of these had taken on at the time, how when I was at work it seemed that my job was supremely relevant, even important. I talked and talked, but I didn’t know how to explain this world that may have been only two hours away geographically but was really in a different solar system. They all nodded and smiled and asked questions, pretending to be interested, but I knew it was all too foreign, too absolutely strange sounding and different to make any sense to people who – like me until a few weeks earlier – had never even heard the name Miranda Priestly. It didn’t make much sense to me yet, either: it seemed overly dramatic at times and more than a little Big Brother-esque, but it was exciting. And cool. It was definitely, undeniably a supercool place to call work. Right?

‘Well, Andy, you think you’ll be happy there for your year? Maybe you’ll even want to stay longer, huh?’ My mom asked while smearing cream cheese on her salt bagel.

In signing my contract at Elias-Clark, I’d agreed to stay with Miranda for a year – if I didn’t get fired, which at this point seemed like a big if. And if I fulfilled my obligation with class and enthusiasm and some level of competence – and this part was not in writing but implied by a half-dozen people in HR, and Emily, and Allison – then I would be in a position to name the job I’d like next. It was expected, of course, that whichever job that may be would be at Runway or, at the very least, at Elias-Clark, but I was free to request anything from working on book reviews in the features department to acting as a liaison between Hollywood celebrities and Runway. Out of the last ten assistants who had made it through their year in Miranda’s office, a full hundred percent had chosen to move to the fashion department at Runway, but I didn’t let that concern me. A stint in Miranda’s office was considered to be the ultimate way to skip three to five years of indignity as an assistant and move directly into meaningful jobs in prestigious places.

‘Definitely. So far everyone seems really nice. Emily’s a little, um, well, committed, but otherwise, it’s been great. I don’t know, to listen to Lily talk about her exams or Alex talk about all the shitty things he has to deal with at work, I think I got pretty lucky. Who else gets to drive around in a chauffeured car on their first day? I mean, really. So yeah, I think it’ll be a great year, and I’m excited for Miranda to come back. I think I’m ready.’

Jill rolled her eyes and shot me a look as if to say, Cut the bullshit, Andy. We all know you’re probably working for a psycho bitch surrounded by anorexic fashionistas and are trying to paint this really rosy picture because you’re worried you’re in over your head, but instead she said, ‘It sounds great, Andy, it really does. Amazing opportunity.’

She was the only one at the table who could possibly understand, since, before moving to the Third World, she’d worked for a year at a small private museum in Paris and had developed an interest in haute couture. Hers was more of an artistic and aesthetic hobby than a consumer one, but she still had some exposure, at least, to the fashion world. ‘We have some great news, too,’ she continued, reaching across the table for Kyle’s hand. He had set down his coffee and extended both his hands.

‘Oh, thank god,’ my mother instantly exclaimed, slumping over as if someone had finally lifted the two-hundred-pound dumbbell that had rested on her shoulders for the last two decades. ‘It’s about time.’

‘Congratulations, you two! I have to say you’ve had your mother really worried. You’re certainly not newlyweds anymore, you know. We were beginning to wonder …’ From the head of the table my dad raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey guys, that’s great. It’s about time I get to be an aunt. When’s the little one due?’

They both looked dumbfounded, and for a moment I worried that we’d gotten it all wrong, that their ‘good’ news was that they were building a newer, bigger home in that swamp they lived in, or that Kyle had finally decided to leave his father’s law firm and was going to join my sister in opening the gallery she’d always dreamed of. Maybe we’d jumped the gun on this one, been just a little too eager to hear that a future niece or grandson was on the way. It was all my parents could talk about lately, incessantly hashing and rehashing the reasons why my sister and Kyle – already in their thirties and with four years of marriage behind them – had yet to reproduce. In the past six months, the subject had progressed from time-consuming family obsession to perceived crisis.

My sister looked worried. Kyle frowned. My parents looked as though they might both pass out from the silence. The tension was palpable.

Jill got out of her chair and walked over to Kyle, where she plopped herself in his lap. She wrapped her arm behind the back of his neck and leaned her face next to his, whispering in his ear. I glanced at my mother, who looked about ten seconds away from unconsciousness, the worry causing the small lines near her eyes to grow as deep as trenches.

Finally, finally, they giggled, and turned toward the table, and announced unanimously, ‘We’re going to have a baby.’ And then there was light. And shrieking. And hugging. My mother flew out of her seat so fast that she knocked it over and, in turn, tipped over a potted cactus that rested by the sliding-glass door. My dad grabbed Jill and kissed her on both cheeks and the top of her head, and for the first time I could remember since their wedding day, he kissed Kyle, too.

I rapped my Dr Brown’s black cherry can with a plastic fork and announced that we needed a toast. ‘Please raise your glasses, everyone, raise your glasses to the brand-new Sachs baby that will be joining our family.’ Kyle and Jill looked at me pointedly. ‘OK, I guess technically it’s a Harrison baby, but it will be a Sachs at heart. To Kyle and Jill, future perfect parents to the world’s most perfect child.’ We all clinked soda cans and coffee mugs and toasted the grinning couple and my sister’s twenty-four-inch waist. I cleaned up by throwing the entire contents of the table directly into a garbage bag while my mom tried to pressure Jill to name the baby after various dead relatives. Kyle sipped coffee and looked pleased with himself, and just before midnight my dad and I sneaked off to his study for a game.

He turned up the white-noise machine he used when he had patients during the day, both to block out the sounds of the household from them and to keep anyone else in the house from hearing what was discussed in his office. Like any good shrink, my dad had placed a gray leather couch in the far corner, so soft I liked to rest my head on the armrest, and three chairs that angled forward and held a person in a kind of fabric sling. Womblike, he assured me. His desk was sleek and black and topped with a flat-screen monitor, and the matching black leather chair was high-backed and very plush. A wall of psychology books encased in glass, a collection of bamboo stalks in a very tall crystal vase on the floor, and some framed colorblock prints – the only real color in the room – completed the futuristic look. I flopped on the floor between the couch and his desk, and he did the same.

‘So, tell me what’s really going on, Andy,’ he said as he handed me a little wooden tile holder. ‘I’m sure you’re feeling really overwhelmed right now.’

I picked my seven tiles and carefully arranged them in front of me. ‘Yeah, it’s been a pretty crazy couple weeks. First moving, then starting. It’s a weird place, hard to explain. It’s like, everyone’s beautiful and thin and wearing gorgeous clothes. And they really do seem nice enough – everybody’s been really friendly. Almost like they’re all on serious prescription drugs. I don’t know …’

‘What? What were you going to say?’

‘I can’t put my finger on it. There’s just this feeling that it’s all a house of cards that’s going to come crashing down around me. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s ridiculous to be working for a fashion magazine, you know? The work’s been a little mindless so far, but I don’t even care. It’s challenging enough because it’s all new, you know?’

He nodded.

‘I know it’s a “cool” job, but I keep wondering how it’s preparing me for The New Yorker. I must just be looking for something to go wrong, because so far it seems too good to be true. Hopefully, I’m just crazy.’

‘I don’t think you’re crazy, sweetie. I think you’re sensitive. But I have to agree, I think you lucked out with this one. People go their entire lives and don’t see the things you’ll see this year. Just think! Your first job out of college, and you’re working for the most important woman at the most profitable magazine at the biggest magazine publishing company in the entire world. You’ll get to watch it all happen, from the top down. If you just keep your eyes open and your priorities in order, you’ll learn more in one year than most people in the industry will see in their entire careers.’ He placed his first word in the middle of the board, JOLT.

‘Not bad for an opening move,’ I said and counted its worth, doubled it because the first word always went on a pink star, and started a scorecard. Dad: 22 points, Andy: 0. My letters weren’t showing much promise. I added an A, M, and E to the L and accepted my paltry six points.

‘I just want to make sure you give it a fair shake,’ he said, switching his tiles around on his holder. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is going to mean big things for you.’

‘Well, I sure hope you’re right, because I have enough paper cuts from wrapping to last a long, long time. There better be more to the whole thing than that.’

‘There will be, sweetie, there will be. You’ll see. It might feel like you’re doing silly stuff, but trust me, you’re not. This is the start of something fantastic, I can feel it. And I’ve studied up on your boss. This Miranda sounds like a tough woman, no doubt about it, but I think you’re going to like her. And I think she’s going to like you, too.’

He placed the word TOWEL down using my E and looked satisfied.

‘I hope you’re right, Dad. I really hope you’re right.’

‘She’s the editor in chief of Runway – you know, the fashion magazine?’ I whispered urgently into the phone, trying valiantly not to get frustrated.

‘Oh, I know which one you mean!’ said Julia, a publicity assistant for Scholastic Books. ‘Great magazine. I love all those letters where girls write in their embarrassing period stories. Are those for real? Do you remember reading the one where—’

‘No, no, not the one for teenagers. It’s most definitely for grown women.’ In theory, at least. ‘Have you really never seen Runway?’ Is it humanly possible that she hasn’t? I wondered. ‘Anyway, it’s spelled P-R-I-E-S-T-L-Y. Miranda, yes,’ I said with infinite patience. I wondered how she’d react if she knew I actually had someone on the line who’d never heard of her. Probably not well.

‘Well, if you could get back to me as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it,’ I told Julia. ‘And if a senior publicist gets in anytime soon, please have her call me.’

It was a Friday morning in the middle of December and the sweet, sweet freedom of the weekend was only ten hours away. I had been trying to convince a fashion-oblivious Julia at Scholastic that Miranda Priestly really was someone important, someone worth bending rules and suspending logic for. This proved significantly more difficult than I had anticipated. How could I have known that I’d have to explain the weight of Miranda’s position to influence someone who’d never even heard of the most prestigious fashion magazine on earth – or its famous editor? In my four short weeks as Miranda’s assistant, I’d already figured out that such weight-throwing and favor-currying was merely part of my job, but usually the person I was attempting to persuade, intimidate, or otherwise pressure yielded completely at the mere mention of my infamous boss’s name.

Unfortunately for me, Julia worked for an educational publishing house where someone like Nora Ephron or Wendy Wasserstein was much likelier to get VIP treatment than someone known for her impeccable taste in fur. I inherently understood this. I tried to remember all the way back to a time before I had ever heard of Miranda Priestly – five weeks earlier – and couldn’t. But I knew that such a magical time had existed. I envied Julia’s indifference, but I had a job to do, and she wasn’t helping.

The fourth book in that wretched Harry Potter series was due to be released the next day, a Saturday, and Miranda’s ten-year-old twin daughters each wanted one. The first copies wouldn’t arrive in stores until Monday, but I had to have them in my hands on Saturday morning – mere minutes after they were released from the warehouse. After all, Harry and the crew had to catch a private flight to Paris.

My thoughts were interrupted by the phone. I picked it up as I always did now that Emily trusted me enough to speak to Miranda. And boy, did we speak – probably in the vicinity of two dozen times a day. Even from afar, Miranda had managed to creep into my life and completely take over, barking orders and requests and demands at a rapid-fire pace from seven A.M. until I was finally allowed to leave at nine P.M.

‘Ahn-dre-ah? Hello? Is anyone there? Ahn-dre-ah!’ I jumped out of my seat the moment I heard her pronounce my name. It took a moment to remember and accept that she was not, in fact, in the office – or even in the country, and for the time being, at least, I was safe. Emily had assured me that Miranda was completely unaware that Allison had been promoted or I had been hired, that these were insignificant details lost on her. As long as someone answered the phone and got her what she needed, that person’s actual identity was irrelevant.

‘I simply do not understand what takes you so long to speak after you pick up the phone,’ she stated. From any other person on earth that would have sounded whiny, but from Miranda it sounded appropriately cold and firm. Just like her. ‘In case you haven’t been here long enough to notice, when I call, you respond. It’s actually simple. See? I call. You respond. Do you think you can handle that, Ahn-dre-ah?’

I nodded like a six-year-old who’d just been reprimanded for throwing spaghetti on the ceiling, even though she couldn’t see me. I concentrated on not calling her ‘ma’am,’ a mistake I’d made a week earlier that had almost gotten me fired. ‘Yes, Miranda. I’m sorry,’ I said softly, head bowed. And for that moment I was sorry, sorry that her words hadn’t registered in my brain three-tenths of a second faster than they had, sorry that my tardiness in saying ‘Miranda Priestly’s office’ had taken a fraction of a second longer than absolutely necessary. Her time was, as I was constantly reminded, much more important than my own.

‘All right then. Now, after wasting all that time, may we begin? Did you confirm Mr Tomlinson’s reservation?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Miranda, I made a reservation for Mr Tomlinson at the Four Seasons at one o’clock.’

I could see it coming a mile away. A mere ten minutes earlier she’d called and ordered me to make a reservation at the Four Seasons and call Mr Tomlinson and her driver and the nanny to inform them of the plans, and now she’d want to rearrange them.

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. The Four Seasons is not the appropriate venue for his lunch with Irv. Reserve a table for two at Le Cirque, and remember to remind the maître d’ that they will want to sit in the back of the restaurant. Not on display in the front. The back. That’s all.’

I had convinced myself, when I first spoke with Miranda on the phone, that by uttering ‘that’s all,’ she really intended those words to mean ‘thank you.’ By the second week I’d rethought that.

‘Of course, Miranda. Thank you,’ I said with a smile. I could sense her pausing on the other end of the line, wondering how to respond. Did she know I was calling attention to her refusal to say thank you? Did it seem odd to her that I was thanking her for ordering me around? I had recently begun thanking her after every one of her sarcastic comments or nasty phone-in commands, and the tactic was oddly comforting. She knew I was mocking her somehow, but what could she say? Ahn-dre-ah, I never want to hear you thank me again. I forbid you to express your gratitude in such a manner! Come to think of it, that might not be that much of a stretch.

Le Cirque, Le Cirque, Le Cirque, I said over and over in my head, determined to make that reservation ASAP so I could get back to the significantly more difficult Harry Potter challenge. The Le Cirque reservationist immediately agreed to have a table ready for Mr Tomlinson and Irv whenever they arrived.

Emily walked in from a stroll around the office and asked me if Miranda had called at all.

‘Only three times, and she didn’t threaten to fire me during any of them,’ I said proudly. ‘Of course, she did intimate it, but she didn’t all-out threaten. Progress, no?’

She laughed in the way she did only when I made fun of myself, and she asked what Miranda, her guru, had wanted.

‘Just wanted me to switch around B-DAD’s lunch reservation. Not sure why I’m doing that when he has his own assistant, but hey, I don’t ask questions around here.’ Mr Blind, Deaf, and Dumb was our nickname for Miranda’s third husband. Although to the general public he appeared to be none of those, those of us in the know were quite confident he was all three. There was, quite simply, no other explanation for how a nice guy like him could tolerate living with her.

Next, it was time to call B-DAD himself. If I didn’t call soon, he might not be able to get to the restaurant in time. He’d flown back from their vacation for a couple days of business meetings, and this lunch with Irv Ravitz – Elias-Clark’s CEO – was among the most important. Miranda wanted every detail perfect – as though that were something new. B-DAD’s real name was Hunter Tomlinson. He and Miranda had gotten married the summer before I started working, after what I’d heard was a rather unique courtship: she pursued, he demurred. According to Emily, she’d chased him relentlessly until he’d yielded from the mere exhaustion of ducking her. She’d left her second husband (the lead singer of one of the most famous bands from the late sixties and the twins’ father) with absolutely no warning before her lawyer delivered the papers, and was married again precisely twelve days after the divorce was finalized. Mr Tomlinson followed orders and moved into her penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. I’d only met Miranda once and I’d never met her new husband, but I’d logged enough phone hours with each that I felt, unfortunately, like they were family.

Three rings, four rings, five rings … hmm, I wonder where his assistant is? I prayed for an answering machine, since I wasn’t in the mood for the mindless, friendly chitchat of which B-DAD seemed so fond. Instead, I got his secretary.

‘Mr Tomlinson’s office,’ she trilled in her deep southern drawl. ‘How may I help you today?’ How mah I hep ya tuhday?

‘Hi, Martha, it’s Andrea. Listen, I don’t need to talk to Mr Tomlinson, can you just give him a message for me? I made a reservation for—’

‘Darlin’, you know Mr T. always wants to talk to you. Hold just a sec.’ And before I could protest, I was listening to the elevator version of ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ by Bobby McFerrin. Perfect. It was fitting that B-DAD had picked the most annoyingly optimistic song ever written to entertain callers when they were put on hold.

‘Andy, is that you, sweetheart?’ he asked quietly in his deep, distinguished voice. ‘Mr Tomlinson is going to think you’re avoiding him. It’s been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with you.’ A week and a half, to be precise. In addition to his blindness, deafness, and dumbness, Mr Tomlinson had the added irritating habit of constantly referring to himself in the third person.

I took a deep breath. ‘Hello, Mr Tomlinson. Miranda asked me to let you know that lunch is at one today at Le Cirque. She said that you’d—’

‘Sweetheart,’ he said slowly, calmly. ‘Enough with all that plan-making for just a second. Give an old man a moment of pleasure and tell Mr Tomlinson all about your life. Will you do that for him? So tell me, dear, are you happy working for my wife?’ Was I happy working for his wife? Hmm, let’s see here. Are little baby mammals squealing with glee when a predator swallows them whole? Why of course, you putz, I’m deliriously happy working for your wife. When neither of us is busy, we give each other mud masks and gossip about our love lives. It’s a lot like a slumber party among friends, if you must know. The whole thing is just one big laugh riot.

‘Mr Tomlinson, I love my job and I adore working for Miranda.’ I held my breath and prayed that he’d give it up.

‘Well, Mr T. is just thrilled that things are working out.’ Great, asshole, but are you thrilled?

‘Sounds great, Mr Tomlinson. Have a great lunch,’ I cut him off before he inevitably asked about my weekend plans, and hung up.

I sat back in my chair and gazed across the office suite. Emily was engrossed in trying to reconcile another one of Miranda’s $20,000 American Express bills, her highly waxed brow furrowed in concentration. The Harry Potter project loomed ahead of me, and I had to get moving on it immediately if I ever wanted to get away this weekend.

Lily and I had planned a movie marathon weekend. I was exhausted from work and she was stressed out from her classes, so we’d promised to spend the whole weekend parked on her couch and subsist solely on beer and Doritos. No Snackwells. No Diet Coke. And absolutely no black pants. Even though we talked all the time, we hadn’t spent any real time together since I’d moved to the city.

We’d been best friends since eighth grade, when I first saw Lily crying alone at a cafeteria table. She’d just moved in with her grandmother and started at our school, after it became clear that her parents weren’t coming home any time soon. They’d taken off a few months before to follow the Dead (they’d had her when they were both nineteen and were more into bong hits than babies), leaving her behind to be watched over by their whacked-out friends at the commune in New Mexico (or as Lily preferred, the ‘collective’). When they hadn’t returned almost a year later, Lily’s grandmother took her from the commune (or as Lily’s grandmother preferred, the ‘cult’) to live with her in Avon. The day I found her crying alone in the cafeteria was the day her grandmother had forced her to chop off her dirty dreadlocks and wear a dress, and Lily was not happy about it. Something about the way she talked, the way she said, ‘That’s so Zen of you,’ and ‘Let’s just decompress,’ charmed me, and we immediately became friends. We’d been inseparable through the rest of high school, had roomed together for all four years at Brown. Lily hadn’t yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or hemp necklaces and was still a little too ‘quirky’ to do anything totally mainstream, but we complemented each other well. And I missed her. Because with her first year as a graduate student and my being a virtual slave, we hadn’t seen a whole lot of each other lately.

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. My fourteen-hour workdays were registering in my feet, my upper arms, my lower back. Glasses had replaced the contacts I’d worn for a decade because my eyes were too dry and tired to accept them anymore. I smoked a pack a day and subsisted solely on Starbucks (expensed, of course) and takeout sushi (further expensed). I’d begun losing weight already. The weight I’d lost from the dysentery had returned briefly, but after my stint at Runway it had begun to disappear again. Something in the air there, I suppose, or perhaps it was the intensity with which food was eschewed in the office. I’d already weathered a sinus infection and had paled significantly, and it had been only four weeks. I was only twenty-three years old. And Miranda hadn’t even been in the office yet. Fuck it. I deserved a weekend.

Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I was not pleased. Miranda had called this morning. It took only a few moments for her to outline what she wanted, although it took me forever to interpret it. I learned quickly that in the Miranda Priestly world, it was better to do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix it than to admit you didn’t understand her convoluted and heavily accented instructions and ask for clarification. So when she mumbled something about getting the Harry Potter books for the twins and having them flown to Paris, intuition alone told me this was going to interfere with my weekend. When she hung up abruptly a few minutes later, I looked to Emily with panic.

‘What, oh, what, did she say?’ I moaned, hating myself for being too scared to ask Miranda to repeat herself. ‘Why can I not understand a single word that woman utters? It’s not me, Em. I speak English, always have. I know she does it to personally drive me crazy.’

Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity. ‘Since the book comes out tomorrow and they’re not here to buy it, she wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro. The jet will take them to Paris,’ she summed up coldly, daring me to comment on the ludicrousness of the instructions. I was reminded once again that Emily would do anything – really, anything – if it meant making Miranda a bit more comfortable. I rolled my eyes and kept quiet.

Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her bidding, and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power (hers) at my personal disposal, I spent the rest of the day arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Paris. First, a few words for Julia at Scholastic.

Dearest Julia,

My assistant, Andrea, tells me that you’re the sweetheart to whom I should address my most heartfelt appreciation. She has informed me that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies of this darling book for me tomorrow. I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work and cleverness. Please know how happy you’ll make my sweet daughters. And don’t ever hesitate to let me know if you need anything, anything at all, for a fabulous girl like yourself.

XOXO,

Miranda Priestly

I forged her name with a perfect flourish (hour upon hour of practicing with Emily standing over me, instructing me to make the final ‘a’ a little loopier, had finally paid off), attached the note to the latest issue of Runway – one not yet on the newsstand – and called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to Scholastic’s downtown office. If this didn’t work, nothing would. Miranda didn’t care that we forged her signature – it saved her from bothering with details – but she’d probably be livid to see that I’d penned something so polite, so adorable, using her name.

Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the weekends, but I was now experienced – and jaded – enough to bend the rules a little. Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be at the airport in New Jersey when Harry arrived the following day, I saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him. Acting under the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with a couple copies, I worked out some details. Dial, dial, and within an hour a plan had emerged.

Brian, a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic – whom I was assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours – would take home two office copies of Harry that evening, so he wouldn’t have to go back to the office on Saturday. Brian would leave the books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building, and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven. Miranda’s driver, Uri, would then call me on my cell phone to confirm that he’d received the package and was on his way to drop it at Teterboro airport, where the two books would be transferred to Mr Tomlinson’s private jet and flown to Paris. I briefly considered conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB operation even more, but dropped that when I remembered that Uri didn’t really speak regular English that well. I had checked to see how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there, but delivery couldn’t be guaranteed until Monday, which was obviously unacceptable. Hence the private plane. If all went as planned, little Cassidy and Caroline could wake up in their private Parisian suite on Sunday and enjoy their morning milk while reading about Harry’s adventures – a full day earlier than all of their friends. It warmed my heart, it really did.

Minutes after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate people put on alert, Julia called back. Although it’d be a grueling task and she was likely to get in trouble, she’d be happy to give Brian two copies for Ms Priestly. Amen.

‘Do you believe he got engaged?’ Lily asked as she rewound the copy of Ferris Bueller we’d just finished. ‘I mean, we’re twenty-three years old for goodness sake – what’s the rush?’

‘I know, it does seem weird.’ I called from the kitchen. ‘Maybe Mom and Dad won’t let him have access to the massive trust fund until he’s settled down? That’d be enough motivation to put a ring on her finger. Or maybe he’s just lonely?’

Lily looked at me and laughed. ‘Naturally, he can’t just be in love with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her, right? I mean, we’ve established that that’s totally out of the question, right?’

‘Correct. That’s not an option. Try again.’

‘Well, then, I’m forced to pick curtain number three. He’s gay. He finally came to the realization himself – even though I’ve known forever – and realizes that Mom and Dad won’t be able to handle it, so he’ll cover by marrying the first girl he can find. What do you think?’

Casablanca was next on the list, and Lily fast-forwarded past the opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny kitchen of her nonalcove studio in Morningside Heights. We lazed around straight through Friday night – breaking only to smoke and make another Blockbuster run. Saturday afternoon found us particularly motivated, and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours. We each bought new tank tops for Lily’s upcoming New Year’s party and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk café. By the time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday, we were exhausted and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating between When Harry Met Sally on TNT and Saturday Night Live. It was so thoroughly relaxing, such a departure from the misery that had become my daily routine, I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I heard a phone ring on Sunday. Ohmigod, it was Her! I overheard Lily speaking in Russian to someone, probably a classmate, on her cell phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear lord: it wasn’t Her. But that still didn’t let me off the hook. It was already Sunday morning, and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way to Paris. I had enjoyed my weekend so much – had actually managed to relax enough – that I had forgotten to check. Of course, my phone was on and set to the highest ring level, but I never should’ve waited for someone to call me with a problem, when of course it’d be too late to do anything. I should’ve taken preemptive action and confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our highly choreographed plan had worked.

I dug frantically through my overnight bag, searching for the cell phone given to me by Runway that would ensure I was always only seven digits away from Miranda. I finally freed it from a tangle of underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed. The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at that point, and I knew immediately, instinctively, that she had called and it had gone directly to voice mail. I hated that cell phone with my entire soul. I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen home phone by this point. I hated Lily’s phone, commercials for phones, pictures of phones in magazines, and I even hated Alexander Graham Bell. Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate side effects in my day-to-day life, but the most unnatural one was my severe and all-consuming hatred of phones.

For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic. Some people considered the many available phone features to be a novelty, even fun. For me, they were nothing short of imperative. Although I’d never had so much as call waiting before Miranda, a few days into my tenure at Runway I was signed up for call waiting (so she’d never get a busy signal), caller ID (so I could avoid her calls), call waiting with caller ID (so I could avoid her calls while talking on the other line), and voice mail (so she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear an answering machine message). Fifty bucks a month for phone service – before long distance – seemed a small price to pay for my peace of mind. Well, not peace of mind exactly; more like early warning.

The cell phone afforded me no such barriers. Sure, it had all the same features as the home phone, but from Miranda’s point of view there was simply no reason whatsoever for the cell to ever be turned off. It could never go unanswered. The few reasons for such a situation that I’d thrown out to Emily when she’d first handed me the phone – a standard Runway office supply – and told me to always answer it were quickly eliminated.

‘What if you were sleeping?’ I had stupidly asked.

‘So get up and answer it,’ she’d answered while filing down a scraggly nail.

‘Sitting down to a really fancy meal?’

‘Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table.’

‘Getting a pelvic exam?’

‘They’re not looking in your ears, are they?’ All right then. I got it.

I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it. It kept me tied to Miranda like an umbilical cord, refusing to let me grow up or out or away from my source of suffocation. She called constantly, and like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry, my body had begun responding viscerally to its ring. Brring-brring. Increased heart rate. Briiiing. Automatic finger clenching and shoulder tensing. Brriiiiiiiiiiiing. Oh, why won’t she leave me alone, please, oh, please, just forget I’m alive – sweat breaks out on my forehead. This whole glorious weekend I’d never even considered the phone might not have service and had just assumed it would’ve rung if there was a problem. Mistake number one. I roamed the couple hundred square feet until AT&T decided to work again, held my breath, and dialed into my voice mail.

Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily. A friend from San Francisco found himself on business in New York that week and wanted to get together. My sister called to remind me to send a birthday card to her husband. And there it was, almost unexpected but not quite, that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears. ‘Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That’s all.’ Click.

The bile began to rise in my throat. As usual, the message lacked all niceties. No hello, good-bye, or thank you. Obviously. But more than that, it had been left nearly half a day ago, and I had still not called her back. Grounds for dismissal, I knew, and there was nothing I could do about it. Like an amateur, I’d assumed my plan would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized that Uri had never called to confirm the pickup and drop-off. I scanned through the address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s cell phone number, another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well.

‘Hi, Uri, it’s Andrea. Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was wondering if you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty-seventh and Amsterdam?’

‘Hi, Andy, eet’s so nice to hear your woice,’ he crooned in the thick Russian accent I always found so comforting. He’d been calling me Andy like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met, and coming from him – as opposed to B-DAD – I didn’t mind it. ‘Of course I pick up the bouks, just like you say. You tink I don’t vant to help you?’

‘No, no, of course not, Uri. It’s just that I got a message from Miranda saying that they hadn’t received them yet, and I’m wondering what went wrong.’

He was quiet for a moment, and then offered me the name and number of the pilot who was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I said, scribbling the number down frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful. ‘I’ve got to run. Sorry I can’t talk, but have a great weekend.’

‘Yes, yes, good veekend to you, Andy. I tink the pilot man will help you trace the bouks. Nice luck to you,’ he said merrily and hung up.

Lily was making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her, but I had to deal with this now or I was out of a job. Or maybe I’d already been fired, I thought, and no one had even bothered to tell me. Not outside the realm of Runway possibility, remembering the fashion editor who’d been fired while on her honeymoon. She herself stumbled across her change in job status by reading about it in a copy of Women’s Wear Daily in Bali. I quickly called the number that Uri had given me for the pilot and thought I’d pass out from frustration when an answering machine picked up.

‘Hi, Jonathan? This is Andrea Sachs from Runway magazine. I’m Miranda Priestly’s assistant, and I needed to ask you a question about the flight yesterday. Oh, come to think of it, you’re probably still in Paris, or maybe on your way back. Well, I just wanted to see if the books, and uh, well, you of course, made it to Paris in one piece. Can you call my cell? 917-555-8702. Please, as soon as possible. Thanks. ’Bye.’

I thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he’d remember receiving the car that would have brought the books from the private airport on the outskirts of Paris but quickly realized that my cell didn’t dial internationally. It was quite possibly the only task it was not programmed to handle, and it was, of course, the only one that mattered. At that moment, Lily announced that she had a plate of waffles and a cup of coffee for me. I walked into the kitchen and took the food. She was sipping a Bloody Mary. Ugh. It was a Sunday morning. How could she be drinking?

‘Having a Miranda moment?’ she asked with a look of sympathy.

I nodded. ‘Think I screwed up pretty badly this time,’ I said, gratefully accepting the plate. ‘This one just might get me fired.’

‘Oh, sweetie, you always say that. She won’t fire you. She hasn’t even seen you hard at work yet. At least, she better not fire you – you have the greatest job in the world!’

I looked at her warily and willed myself to remain calm.

‘Well, you do,’ she said. ‘So she sounds difficult to please and a little crazy. Who isn’t? You still get free shoes and makeovers and haircuts and clothes. The clothes! Who on earth gets free designer clothes just for showing up at work each day? Andy, you work at Runway, don’t you understand? A million girls would kill for your job.’

I understood. I understood right then that Lily, for the first time since I met her nine years before, didn’t understand. She, like all my other friends, loved hearing the crazy work stories I’d accumulated in the past weeks – the gossip and the glamour – but she didn’t really understand just how hard each day was. She didn’t understand that the reason I continued to show up, day after day, was not for the free clothes, didn’t understand that all the free clothes in the world wouldn’t make this job bearable. It was time to bring one of my best friends into my world, where, I was quite certain, she would understand. She just needed to be told. Yes! It was time to share with someone exactly what was going on. I opened my mouth to start, excited at the prospect of having an ally, but my phone rang.

Dammit! I wanted to throw it against the wall, tell whoever was on the other end to go to hell. But a small part of me hoped it was Jonathan with some information. Lily smiled and told me to take my time. I nodded sadly and answered.

‘Is this Andrea?’ asked a man’s voice.

‘Yes, is this Jonathan?’

‘It is indeed. I just called home and got your message. I’m flying back from Paris right now, somewhere over the Atlantic as we speak, but you sounded so worried I wanted to call you back right away.’

‘Thank you! Thank you! I really appreciate it. Yes, I am a bit worried, because I got a call from Miranda earlier today and it seems strange that she hadn’t yet received the package. You did give it to the driver in Paris, right?’

‘Sure did. You know, miss, in my business I don’t ask any questions. Just fly where I’m told and when and try to get everyone there in one piece. But it’s sure not often I end up flying overseas with nothing onboard but a package. Must’ve been something real important, I imagine, like an organ for a transplant or maybe some classified documents. So yes, I took real good care of that package and I gave it to the driver, just like I was told. Nice fella from the Ritz. No problems.’

I thanked him and hung up. The concierge at the Ritz had arranged for a driver to meet Mr Tomlinson’s private plane at de Gaulle and transfer Harry back to the hotel. If everything went as planned, Miranda should’ve had those books by seven in the morning local time, and considering it was already late afternoon there, I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. There was no choice: I had to call the concierge, and since my cell wouldn’t dial internationally, I had to find a phone that did.

I took the plate of now cold waffles back to the kitchen and dumped them in the garbage. Lily was lying on the couch again, half-asleep. I hugged her good-bye and told her I’d call her later and headed out to hail a cab back to the office.

‘What about today?’ she whined. ‘I have The American President all lined up and ready to go. You can’t leave yet – our weekend’s not over!’

‘I know, I’m sorry, Lil. I have to deal with this now. There’s nothing I’d rather do than stay here, but she’s got me on a pretty short leash right now. I’ll call you later?’

The office was, of course, deserted, as everyone was surely brunching at Pastis with their investment banker boyfriends. I sat in my darkened area, took a deep breath, and dialed. Blissfully, Monsieur Renaud, my favorite of the Ritz concierges, was available.

‘Andrea, dear, how are you? We’re simply delighted to have Miranda and the twins back with us again so soon,’ he lied. Emily told me that Miranda stayed at the Ritz so frequently that the entire hotel staff knew her and the girls by name.

‘Yes, Monsieur Renaud, and I know she’s just thrilled to be there,’ I lied back. No matter how accommodating the poor concierge was, Miranda found fault with his every move. To his credit, he never stopped trying, and he never stopped lying about how much he loved her, either. ‘Listen, I’m wondering if that car you sent to meet Miranda’s plane made it back to the hotel already?’

‘Well of course, dear. That was hours ago. He must’ve returned here before eight o’clock this morning. I sent the best driver we have on staff,’ he said proudly. If only he knew what his best driver had been sent to shuttle around town.

‘Well, that’s so strange, because I got a message from Miranda saying that she never received the package, but I’ve checked with the driver here who swears he dropped it at the airport, the pilot who swears he flew it to Paris and gave it to your driver, and now you who remember it arriving at the hotel. How could she not have received it?’

‘It seems the only way to solve this is to ask the lady herself,’ he trilled in a fake-happy voice. ‘Why don’t I connect you?’

I had hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t come to this, that I’d be able to identify and fix the problem without having to speak to her. What would I tell her if she still insisted that she’d never received the package? Was I supposed to suggest that she look on the table in her suite, where it was inevitably left hours earlier? Or was I supposed to go through the whole thing, private jet and all, and get her two more copies by the end of the day? Or perhaps I should hire a secret service agent next time to accompany the books on their journey overseas and ensure that nothing compromises their safe arrival? Something to think about.

‘Sure, Monsieur Renaud. Thanks for your help.’

A few clicks and the phone was ringing. I was sweating slightly from the tension, so I wiped my palm on my sweatpants and tried not to think what would happen if Miranda saw me wearing sweatpants in her office. Be calm, be confident, I coached myself. She can’t disembowel me over the phone.

‘Yes?’ I heard from a faraway place, jolting myself out of my self-help thoughts. It was Caroline who, at a mere ten years, had perfected her mother’s brusque phone manner perfectly. Cassidy at least had the courtesy to answer the phone with a ‘hello.’

‘Hi, sweetie,’ I crooned, hating myself for sucking up to a child. ‘It’s Andrea, from the office. Is your mom there?’

‘You mean my mum?’ she corrected as she always did when I used the American pronunciation. ‘Sure, I’ll get her.’

A moment or two later, Miranda was on the line.

‘Yes, Ahn-dre-ah? This had better be important. You know how I feel about being interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls,’ she stated in her cold, clipped way. You know how I feel about being interrupted when I’m spending time with the girls? I wanted to scream. Are you fucking kidding me, lady? You think I’m calling for my goddamn health? Because I couldn’t bear to go a single weekend without hearing your miserable voice? And what about me spending time with my girls? I thought I’d pass out from anger, but I took a deep breath and dove right in.

‘Miranda, I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but I’m calling to ensure that you received the Harry Potter books. I heard your message saying that you hadn’t yet received them, but I’ve spoken to everyone and—’

She interrupted me midsentence and spoke slowly and surely. ‘Ahn-dre-ah. You should really listen more closely. I said no such thing. We received the package early this morning. Incidentally, it came so early that they woke us all up for the silly thing.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t dream that she’d left the message, did I? I was still too young even for early-onset Alzheimer’s, right?

‘What I said was that we didn’t receive both copies of the book, as I had requested. The package included only one, and I’m sure you can imagine just how disappointed the girls are. They were really looking forward to each having their own copy, as I had requested. I need you to explain why my orders weren’t followed.’

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. I was definitely dreaming now, living some sort of alternate-universe existence where anything resembling rationality and logic were suspended indefinitely. I wouldn’t even let myself consider the absurdity of what was unfolding.

‘Miranda, I do recall that you requested two copies, and I ordered two,’ I stammered, hating myself yet again for pandering. ‘I spoke to the girl at Scholastic and am quite sure that she understood that you needed two copies of the book, so I can’t imagine—’

‘Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I’m not particularly interested in hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again, correct? That’s all.’ She hung up.

I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced, full of questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I concluded – everybody, at least at Runway, had a motive. Do I really have the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow, agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure – what would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?

I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message when I listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the messages. ‘Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That’s all.’ Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of two, but she deliberately gave me the impression that I’d made a tremendous, career-ending mistake. She’d called with no concern that her nine A.M. call would have reached me at three A.M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She’d called to drive me a little crazier, push me a little bit harder. She’d called to dare me to defy her. She’d called to make me hate her that much more.