Читать книгу Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 25

It was planned that Miranda would be in Europe for a week before I was due to arrive. She settled for using some local assistants for the Milan shows – and would be arriving in Paris the same morning I was so we could work out the details of her party together, like old friends. Hah. Delta had refused to simply change the name on the ticket from Emily’s to mine, so rather than get even more frustrated and hassled than I already was, I just charged a new one. Twenty-two hundred dollars because it was fashion week and I was buying at the last minute. I paused for one ridiculous minute before forking over the corporate card number. Whatever, I thought. Miranda can spend that in a week on dry cleaning alone.

As Miranda’s junior assistant, I was the lowest-ranking human being at Runway. However, if access is power, then Emily and I were the two most powerful people in fashion: we determined who got meetings, when they were scheduled (early morning was always preferred because people’s makeup would be fresh and their clothes unwrinkled), and whose messages got through (if your name wasn’t on the Bulletin, you didn’t exist).

So when either of us needed help, the rest of the staff were obliged to pull through. Yes, of course there was something disconcerting about the realization that if we didn’t work for Miranda Priestly these same people would have no compunction in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars. As it was, when called upon, they ran and fetched and retrieved for us like well-trained puppies.

Work on the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied to send me off to Paris adequately prepared. Three Clackers from the fashion department hastily pulled together a wardrobe that included every single item that I could conceivably require for any event Miranda could conceivably call on me to attend. By the time I left, Lucia, the fashion director, promised I would have in my possession not only an assemblage of clothing appropriate for any contingency, but also a full sketchbook complete with professionally rendered charcoal sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the aforementioned clothing in order to maximize style and minimize embarrassment. In other words: leave nothing to my own selection or pairing, and I’d quite possibly have a shot in hell – albeit slim – of looking presentable.

Might I need to accompany Miranda to a bistro and stand, mummylike, in the corner while she sipped a glass of Bordeaux? A pair of cuffed, charcoal gray Theory pants with a black silk turtleneck sweater by Celine. Go to the Pilates studio where she’d receive her private instruction so that I could fetch water and, if required, white scarves in case she schvitzed? A head-to-toe athletic outfit complete with bootleg workout pants, zip-up hooded jacket (cropped to show off my tummy, natch), a $185 wife-beater to wear under it, and suede sneakers – all by Prada. And what if maybe – just maybe – I actually did make it to the front row of one of those shows like everyone swore I would? The options were limitless. My favorite so far (and it was still only late afternoon on Monday) was a pleated school-girl skirt by Anna Sui, with a very sheer and very frilly white Miu Miu blouse, paired with a particularly naughty-looking pair of midcalf Christian Laboutin boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather blazer so fitted it bordered on obscene. My Express jeans and Franco Sarto loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my closet for months now, and I had to admit I didn’t miss them.

I also discovered that Allison, the beauty editor, did, in fact, deserve her title by literally being the beauty industry. Within twenty-four hours of being ‘put on notice’ that I would be needing some makeup and more than a few tips, she had created the Be-All, End-All Cosmetic Catchall. Included in the decidedly oversize Burberry ‘toiletry case’ (it actually more closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than those approved by the airlines for carry-on) was every imaginable type of shadow, lotion, gloss, cream, liner, and type of makeup. Lipsticks came in matte, high-shine, long-lasting, and clear. Six shades of mascara – ranging in color from a light blue to a ‘pouty black’ – were accompanied by an eyelash curler and two eyelash combs in case of (gasp!) clumps.

Powders, which appeared to account for half of all the products and fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids, the skin tone, and the cheeks, had a color scheme more complex and subtler than a painter’s palette: some were meant to bronze, others to highlight, and still others to pout, plump, or pale. I had the choice whether to add that healthy blush to my face in the form of a liquid, solid, powder, or a combination thereof. The foundation was the most impressive of all: it was as if someone had managed to remove an actual sample of skin directly from my face and custom-mix a pint or two of the stuff. Whether it ‘added sheen’ or ‘covered blemishes,’ every single solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better than, well, my own skin. Packed in a slightly smaller matching plaid case were the supplies: cotton balls, cotton squares, Q-tips, sponges, somewhere in the vicinity of two dozen different-size application brushes, washcloths, two different types of eye makeup remover (moisturizing and oil-free), and no less than twelve – TWELVE – kinds of moisturizer (facial, body, deep-conditioning, with SPF 15, glimmering, tinted, scented, non-scented, hypoallergenic, with alpha-hydroxy, antibacterial, and – just in case that nasty October Parisian sun got the best of me – with aloe vera).

Tucked in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal-size pieces of paper with preprinted faces rendered on each one, enlarged to fit the page. Each face bragged an impressive makeover: Allison had applied the actual makeup she’d included in the kit to the paper faces. One face was eerily labeled ‘Relaxed Evening Glamour’ but had a caveat under it in big, bold marker that read: NOT FOR BLACK-TIE!! TOO CASUAL!! The nonformal face had a light covering of the matte foundation under a slight brush of bronzing powder, a light dab of liquid or ‘crème’ blush, some very sexy, dark-lined and heavily shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d lashes, and what appeared to be a quick, casual swipe of high-gloss lip color. When I’d mumbled under my breath to Allison that this would be utterly impossible for me to re-create, she looked exasperated.

‘Well, hopefully you won’t have to,’ she said in a voice that sounded so taxed, I thought she might collapse under the weight of my ignorance.

‘No? Then why do I have nearly two dozen “faces” suggesting different ways to use all this stuff?’

Her withering glance was worthy of Miranda.

‘Andrea. Be serious. This is for emergencies only, in case Miranda asks you to go somewhere with her at the last minute, or if your hair and makeup person can’t make it. Oh, that reminds me, let me show you the hair stuff I packed.’

As Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of round brushes to blow my hair straight, I tried to make sense of what she’d just said. I would have a hair and makeup person, too? I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me when I’d booked all of Miranda’s people, so who had? I had to ask.

‘The Paris office,’ Allison replied with a sigh. ‘You’re representing Runway, you know, and Miranda is very sensitive to that. You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous events in the world alongside Miranda Priestly. You don’t think you could achieve the right look on your own, do you?’

‘No, of course not. It’s definitely better that I have professional help for this. Thank you.’

Then Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until she was satisfied that if any of the fourteen hair and makeup appointments I had scheduled over the course of the week fell through, I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by smearing the mascara across my lips or shaving the sides of my head and spiking the center into a mohawk. When we were through, I thought I’d finally get a moment to race down to the dining room and grab some calorie-enriched soup, but Allison picked up Emily’s extension – her old phone line – and dialed Stef in the accessories department.

‘Hi, I’m done with her and she’s here right now. You want to come over?’

‘Wait! I need to go get lunch before Miranda comes back!’

Allison rolled her eyes just like Emily. I wondered if it was something about that particular position that inspired such expert demonstrations of irritation. ‘Fine. No, no, I was talking to Andrea,’ she said into the phone, raising her eyebrows at me – surprise, surprise – just like Emily. ‘It seems that she’s hungry. I know. Yes, I know. I told her that, but she seems intent on … eating.’

I walked out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream of broccoli with cheddar cheese and returned within three minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk, holding the phone receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches. She was due to fly to Milan that very evening but I wasn’t sure I’d survive to see it happen.

‘The phone rings, Andrea, but when I pick it up – because you’re apparently not interested in doing so – no one’s there. Can you explain this phenomenon?’ she asked.

Of course I could explain it, just not to her. On the rare occasion that Miranda was in her office alone, she sometimes picked up the phone when it rang. Naturally callers were so shocked to hear her voice on the other end that they promptly hung up. No one was actually prepared to speak with her when they called, since the likelihood of being put through was next to nil. I’d gotten dozens of e-mails from editors or assistants informing me – as if I didn’t know – that Miranda was answering the phone again. ‘Where are you guys???’ The panicked missives would read, one after another. ‘She’s answering her own phone!!!!’

I mumbled something about how I, too, received hang-ups every now and then, but Miranda had already lost interest. She was peering not at me but at my cup of soup. Some of the creamy green fluid was dripping slowly down the side. Her gaze turned to one of disgust when she realized I was not only holding something edible, but that I had clearly planned to consume it as well.

‘Dispose of that immediately!’ she barked from fifteen feet away. ‘The smell of it alone is enough to make me ill.’

I dropped the offending soup in the garbage can and gazed wistfully after the lost nourishment before her voice jerked me back to reality.

‘I’m ready for the run-throughs!’ she screeched, settling back into her chair more easily now that the food she’d spotted at Runway had been discarded. ‘And the moment we’re through here, call the features meeting.’

Each word caused another adrenaline surge; since I was never sure what exactly she’d be requesting, I was never sure if I’d be able to handle it or not. Since it was Emily’s job to schedule the run-throughs and the weekly meetings, I had to race over to her desk and check her appointment book. In the three o’clock slot she had scribbled: Sedona Shoot run-through, Lucia/Helen. I jabbed Lucia’s extension and spoke as soon as she picked up the phone.

‘She’s ready,’ I stated, like a military commander. Helen, Lucia’s assistant, hung up without saying a word, and I knew she and Lucia were already halfway to the office. If they didn’t arrive within twenty to twenty-five seconds, I would be sent out to hunt them down and remind them in person – just in case they might have forgotten – that when I’d called thirty seconds before and said that Miranda was ready right then, I meant right then. Generally this was a mere annoyance, yet another reason why the enforced footwear of spiky stilettos made life even more miserable. Running through the office, frantically searching for someone who was most likely hiding from Miranda, was never fun, but it was only really miserable when that person happened to be in the bathroom. Whatever one does in a men’s or ladies’ room, however, is no excuse for not being available at the exact moment your presence is expected, and so I had to charge right in – sometimes checking underneath the stalls for recognizable footwear – and politely ask in whatever humiliated way I could manage that they finish up and head to Miranda’s office. Immediately.

Luckily for everyone involved, Helen arrived within seconds, pushing an overflowing, off-kilter wheeled rack in front of her and pulling another behind her. She hesitated briefly outside Miranda’s French door before she received one of Miranda’s imperceptible nods and then dragged the racks through the thick carpeting.

‘This is all of it? Two racks?’ Miranda asked, barely looking up from the copy she was reading.

Helen was clearly surprised at being addressed, since, as a rule, Miranda didn’t speak to other people’s assistants. But Lucia hadn’t shown up with her own racks yet, so there was little choice.

‘Um, uh, no. Lucia will be here in just a moment. She has the other two. Would you like me to, uh, begin showing you what we’ve called in?’ Helen asked nervously as she pulled her ribbed tank top down over her prairie skirt.

‘No.’

And then: ‘Ahn-dre-ah! Find Lucia. By my watch it’s three o’clock. If she’s not prepared, then I have better things to do than sit here and wait for her.’ Which wasn’t exactly true, since it appeared she hadn’t yet stopped reading copy and it was now only approximately thirty-five seconds since I’d made the initial phone call. But I wasn’t about to point this out.

‘No need, Miranda, I’m right here,’ sang a breathless Lucia, herself pushing and pulling racks past me just as I stood to begin the search. ‘So sorry. We were waiting for one last coat from the YSL people.’

She arranged the racks, which were organized by clothing type (shirts, outerwear, pants/skirts, and dresses) in a half-circle in front of Miranda’s desk and gave the signal for Helen to leave. Miranda and Lucia then went through each item, one by one, and bickered over its place or lack thereof in the upcoming fashion shoot that was to take place in Sedona, Arizona. Lucia was pushing for an ‘urban cowgirl chic’ look, which she thought would play out perfectly against a backdrop of the red-rock mountains, but Miranda kept announcing snidely that she’d prefer ‘just chic,’ since ‘cowgirl chic’ was clearly an oxymoron. Maybe she’d had her fill of ‘cowgirl chic’ at B-DAD’s brother’s party. I managed to tune them out until Miranda called my name, this time ordering me to call in the accessories people for their run-through.

Immediately I checked Emily’s book again, but it was just as I thought: there was no accessories run-through scheduled. Praying that Emily had simply forgotten to put it in the book, I called Stef and told her Miranda was ready for the Sedona run-through.

No such luck. They weren’t scheduled for their run-through until late afternoon the following day, and at least a quarter of the things they needed hadn’t been delivered yet from their PR companies.

‘Impossible. Can’t do it,’ announced Stef, sounding much less confident than her words implied.

‘Well, what the hell do you expect me to tell her?’ I whispered back.

‘Tell her the truth: the run-through wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow and a lot of the stuff isn’t here. I mean, seriously! Right now we’re still waiting for one evening bag, one clutch, three different fringed purses, four pairs of shoes, two necklaces, three—’

‘OK, OK, I’ll tell her. But wait by the phone and pick up if I call you back. And if I were you, I’d get ready. I’m betting she doesn’t really care when it was scheduled for.’

Stef hung up on me without another word and I approached Miranda’s doors and waited patiently for her to acknowledge me. When she looked in my general direction and waited, I said, ‘Miranda, I just spoke with Stef and she said that since the run-through wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, they’re still waiting for quite a few items. But they should all be here by—’

‘Ahn-dre-ah, I simply cannot visualize how these models will look in these clothes without shoes or bags or jewelry and by tomorrow I’ll be in Italy. Tell Stef I want her to give me a run-through of whatever she’s got and be prepared to show me photos of whatever isn’t here yet!’ She turned back to Lucia and together they returned to the racks.

Conveying this to Stef gave new meaning to ‘don’t shoot the messenger.’ She freaked.

‘I cannot fucking pull a run-through together in thirty seconds, do you understand me? It’s fucking impossible! Four of my five assistants aren’t here, and the only one who is here is a complete fucking idiot. Andrea, what the fuck am I going to do?’ She was hysterical, but there wasn’t much room for negotiation.

‘OK, great then,’ I said sweetly, eyeing Miranda, who had a knack of hearing everything. ‘I’ll tell Miranda you’ll be right here.’ I hung up before she dissolved into tears.

I wasn’t surprised to see Stef arrive two and a half minutes later with her one fucking idiot accessories assistant, a fashion assistant she’d borrowed, and James, also borrowed from beauty, all looking terrified as they carried oversize wicker baskets. They stood cowering by my desk until Miranda gave another imperceptible nod, at which point they all shuffled forward for the genuflection exercises. Since Miranda obviously refused to leave her office – ever – she required that all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts full of shoes and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped to her.

When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their wares in neat rows on the carpet for her to inspect, Miranda’s office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar – one that just so happens to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm-el-Sheik. One editor was presenting her with $2,000 snakeskin belts while another tried to sell her a large Kelly bag. A third hawked a short Fendi cocktail dress, while someone else tried to sell her on the merits of chiffon. Stef had managed to assemble a near-perfect run-through with only thirty seconds’ notice and a whole lot of pieces missing; I saw she had filled the gaps with things from past photo shoots, explaining to Miranda that the accessories they were still waiting for were similar but even better. They were all masters at what they do, but Miranda was the ultimate. She was the ever-aloof consumer, coolly moving from one gorgeous stall to the next, never feigning any show of interest. When she finally, blessedly, did decide, she pointed and commanded (much like a judge at a dog show, ‘Bob, she’s chosen the Border Collie …’), and the editors nodded obsequiously (‘Yes, excellent choice,’ ‘Oh, definitely, the perfect choice’) and they wrapped up their wares and scuttled back to their respective departments before she inevitably changed her mind.

The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes, but by the time it was over, we were all exhausted from anxiety. She’d already announced earlier in the day that she’d be leaving early, around four, to spend a couple hours with the girls before the big trip, so I canceled the features meeting, to the relief of the entire department. At precisely 3:58 P.M. she began packing her bag to leave, a not-so-strenuous activity, since I’d be bringing anything of any heft or significance to her apartment later on that evening in time for her flight. Basically, it involved tossing her Gucci wallet and her Motorola cell phone into that Fendi bag that she kept abusing. The past few weeks, the $10,000 beauty had been serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads – in addition to one of the handles – had snapped off. Miranda had dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me to have it fixed or, if it was impossible to fix, to just throw out. I’d proudly resisted all temptation to tell her the bag was unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a leatherworker repair it for her for a mere twenty-five dollars.

When she finally walked out, I instinctively reached for the phone to call Alex and whine about my day. It wasn’t until I’d dialed half of his number that I remembered we were taking a break. It hit me that this would be the first day in more than three years that we wouldn’t talk. I sat with the phone in my hand, staring at an e-mail he’d sent the day before, one that he’d signed ‘love,’ and wondered if I’d made a horrible mistake in agreeing to this break. I dialed again, this time ready to tell him that we should talk about everything, figure out where we’d gone wrong, that I take responsibility for the part I’d played in the slow and steady fading of our relationship. But before it even had a chance to ring, Stef was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my Paris trip, pumped up from her run-through with Miranda. There were shoes and bags and belts and jewelry and hosiery and sunglasses to discuss, so I replaced the receiver and tried to focus on her instructions.

Logically, it would seem that a seven-hour flight in steerage decked out in a pair of skintight leather pants, open-toe strappy sandals, and a blazer over a tank top would be the utmost in hellish travel experiences. Not so. The seven hours in flight were the most relaxing I could remember. Since Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same time on different flights – she from Milan and me from New York – it appeared I’d stumbled on the single situation where she could not call me for seven straight hours. For one blessed day, my inaccessibility wasn’t my fault.

For reasons I still didn’t understand, my parents hadn’t been nearly as thrilled as I thought they’d be when I’d called to tell them about the trip.

‘Oh, really?’ my mother asked in that special way of hers that implied so much more than those two little words really meant. ‘You’re going to Paris now?’

‘What do you mean, “now”?’

‘Well, it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting off to Europe, is all,’ she said vaguely, although I could tell that an avalanche of Jewish-mother guilt was ready to begin its slide in my direction.

‘And why is that? When would be a good time?’

‘Don’t get upset, Andy. It’s just that we haven’t seen you in months – not that we’re complaining, Dad and I both understand how demanding your job is – but don’t you want to see your new nephew? He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met him yet!’

‘Mom! Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m dying to see Isaac, but you know I can’t just—’

‘You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston, right?’

‘Yes! You’ve told me four hundred times. I know it and I appreciate it, but it’s not the money. I can’t get any time off work and now with Emily out, I can’t just up and leave – even on weekends. Does it make sense to you to fly across the country only to have to come back if Miranda calls me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does it?’

‘Of course not, Andy, I just thought – we just thought – that you might be able to visit them in the next couple weeks, because Miranda was going to be away and all, and if you were going to fly out there, then Dad and I would go also. But now you’re going to Paris.’

She said it in the way that implied what she was really thinking. ‘But now you’re going to Paris’ translated to ‘But now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family obligations.’

‘Mother, let me make something very, very clear here. I am not going on vacation. I have not chosen to go to Paris rather than meet my baby nephew. It’s not my decision at all, as you probably know but are refusing to accept. It’s really very simple: I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week, or I get fired. Do you see a choice here? Because if so, I’d love to hear it.’

She was quiet for a moment before she said, ‘No, of course not, honey. You know we understand. I just hope – well, I just hope that you’re happy with the way things are going.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked nastily.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ she rushed to say. ‘It doesn’t mean anything other than just what I said: your dad and I only care that you’re happy, and it seems that you’ve really been, um, well, uh, pushing yourself lately. Is everything OK?’

I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard. ‘Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine. I’m not happy to be going to Paris, just so you know. It’s going to be a week of sheer hell, twenty-four-seven. But my year will be up soon, and I can put this kind of living behind me.’

‘I know, sweetie, I know it’s been a tough year for you. I just hope this all ends up being worth it for you. That’s all.’

‘I know. So do I.’

We hung up on good terms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my own parents were disappointed in me.

The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare, but I found the elegantly dressed driver who was waving a sign with my name on it when I exited customs, and the moment he closed his own door, he handed me a cell phone.

‘Ms Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival. I took the liberty of programming the hotel’s number into the automatic dialing. She’s in the Coco Chanel suite.’

‘Um, oh, OK. Thanks. I guess I’ll call right now,’ I announced rather unnecessarily.

But before I could press the star key and the number one, the phone bleated and flashed a frightening red color. If the driver hadn’t been watching me expectantly I would have muted the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen it, but I was left with the distinct feeling that he had been ordered to keep a close eye on me. Something about his expression suggested that it was not in my best interest to ignore that call.

‘Hello? This is Andrea Sachs,’ I said as professionally as possible, already making over/under bets with myself as to the chance it was anyone besides Miranda.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! What time does your watch read at this moment?’

Was this a trick question? A preface to accusing me of being late?

‘Um, let me see. Actually, it says that it’s five-fifteen in the morning, but obviously I haven’t switched it yet to Paris time. Therefore, my watch should read that it’s eleven-fifteen A.M.’ I said cheerily, hoping to start off the first conversation of our interminable trip on as high a note as I dared.

‘Thank you for that never-ending narrative, Ahn-dre-ah. And may I ask what, exactly, you’ve been doing for the past thirty-five minutes?’

‘Well, Miranda, the flight landed a few minutes late and then I still had—’

‘Because according to the itinerary you created for me, I’m reading that your flight arrived at ten-thirty-five this morning.’

‘Yes, that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, but you see—’

‘I’ll not have you tell me what I see, Ahn-dre-ah. That is most certainly not acceptable behavior for the next week, do you understand me?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ My heart began pounding what felt like a million beats a minute, and I could feel my face grow hot with humiliation. Humiliation at being spoken to that way, but more than anything, my own shame in pandering to it. I had just apologized – most sincerely – to someone for not being able to make my international flight land at the correct time and then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to avoid French customs entirely.

I pressed my face rather uncouthly against the window and watched as the limo weaved its way through Paris’s bustling streets. The women seemed so much taller here, the men so much more genteel, and just about everyone was beautifully dressed, thin, and regal in their stance. I’d only been to Paris once before, but living out of a backpack in a hostel on the wrong side of town didn’t quite have the same feel as watching the chic little clothing boutiques and adorable sidewalk cafés from the backseat of a limousine. I could get used to this, I thought, as the driver turned around to show me where I might find a few bottles of water if I was so inclined.

When the car pulled up to the hotel entrance, a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing what I guessed was a custom-made suit opened the back door for me.

‘Mademoiselle Sachs, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Gerard Renaud.’ His voice was smooth and confident, and his silver hair and deeply lined face indicated he was much older than I’d pictured when I spoke to the concierge over the phone.

‘Monsieur Renaud, it’s great to finally meet you!’ Suddenly all I wanted to do was crawl into a nice, soft bed and sleep off my jet lag, but Renaud quickly quashed my hopes.

‘Mademoiselle Andrea, Madame Priestly would like to see you in her room immediately. Before you’ve settled into yours, I’m afraid.’ He had an apologetic expression on his face, and for a brief moment I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself. Clearly he didn’t enjoy conveying this news.

‘That’s fucking great,’ I muttered, before noticing how distressed this made Monsieur Renaud. I plastered on a winning smile and began again. ‘Please excuse me, it was a terribly long flight. Will someone please tell me where I may find Miranda?’

‘Of course, mademoiselle. She is in her suite and, from what I can gather, very eager to see you.’ When I looked over at Monsieur Renaud I thought I detected a slight eye-roll and even though I’d always found him oppressively proper over the phone, I reconsidered. Although he was much too professional to show it, never mind actually say anything, I considered that he might loathe Miranda as much as I did. Not because of any real proof I had, but simply because it was impossible to imagine anyone not hating her.

The elevator opened and Monsieur Renaud smiled and ushered me inside. He said something in French to the bellman who was escorting me upstairs. Renaud bid me adieu and the bellman led me to Miranda’s suite. He knocked on the door and then fled, leaving me to face Miranda alone.

I briefly wondered if Miranda herself would answer the door, but it was impossible to imagine. In the eleven months I’d been letting myself in and out of her apartment, I’d yet to catch her doing anything that even resembled work, including such pedestrian tasks as answering the phone, removing a jacket from a closet, or pouring a glass of water. It was as if her every day was Shabbat and she was once again the observant Jew, and I was, of course, her Shabbes goy.

A pretty, uniformed maid opened the door and ushered me inside, her sad eyes moist and staring directly at the floor.

‘Ahn-dre-ah!’ I heard from somewhere in the deep recesses of the most magnificent living room I’d ever seen. ‘Ahn-dre-ah, I’ll need my Chanel suit pressed for tonight, since it was practically ruined with wrinkles on the flight over. You’d think the Concorde would know how to handle luggage, but my things look dreadful. Also, call Horace Mann and confirm that the girls made it to school. You’ll be doing that every day – I just don’t trust that Annabelle. Make sure you speak to both Caroline and Cassidy each night and write out a list of their homework assignments and upcoming exams. I’ll expect a written report in the morning, right before breakfast. Oh, and get Senator Schumer on the phone immediately. It’s urgent. Lastly, I need you to contact that idiot Renaud and tell him I expect him to supply me with competent staff during my stay, and if that’s too difficult I’m sure the general manager would be able to assist me. That dumb girl he sent me is mentally challenged.’

My eyes swiveled to the sorrowful girl who was currently cowering in the foyer, looking as fearful as a cornered hamster as she trembled and tried not to cry. I had to assume she understood English, so I shot her my best sympathetic look, but she just continued to shake. I looked around the room and tried desperately to remember everything Miranda had just rattled off.

‘Will do,’ I called in the general direction of her voice, past the baby grand piano and the seventeen separate flower arrangements that had been lovingly placed around the house-size suite. ‘I’ll be back in just a moment with everything you’ve asked for.’ I quietly berated myself for ending a sentence with a preposition and took one last look around the magnificent room. It was, undoubtedly, the plushest, most luxurious place I’d ever seen, with its brocade curtains, thick, cream-colored carpeting, richly woven damask bedspread on the king-size bed, and gold painted figurines tucked discreetly on mahogany shelves and tables. Only a flat-screen TV and a sleek, silver stereo system gave any indication that the entire place hadn’t been created and designed in the previous century by highly skilled craftsmen plying their trade.

I ducked past the quaking maid and into the hallway. The terrified bellman had reappeared.

‘Could you show me to my room, please?’ I asked as kindly as I could, but he clearly thought that I would be abusing him as well, and so once again he scurried ahead of me.

‘Here, mademoiselle, I hope this is acceptable.’

About twenty yards down the hall was a door without a separate number on it. It opened to a minisuite, nearly an exact replica of Miranda’s but with a smaller living room and a queen-size bed instead of a king. A large mahogany desk outfitted with a multiline corporate-style phone, sleek desktop computer, laser printer, scanner, and fax machine had taken the place of the baby grand piano, but otherwise the rooms were remarkably similar in their rich, soothing décor.

‘Miss, this door leads to the private hallway connecting your room and Ms Priestly’s,’ he explained as he moved to open the door.

‘No! It’s fine, I don’t need to see it. Just knowing it’s there is good enough.’ I glanced at the engraved nametag placed discreetly on the pocket of his well-pressed uniform shirt. ‘Thank you, uh, Stephan.’ I rooted around in my bag for cash to tip him but realized that I’d never thought to change my American dollars to euros and hadn’t yet stopped at an ATM. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I, uh, only have American dollars. Is that OK?’

His face flushed crimson and he began apologizing profusely. ‘Oh, no, miss, please do not worry about such things. Ms Priestly takes care of these details when she departs. However, since you will be needing local currency when you leave the hotel, allow me to show you this.’ He walked over to the behemoth of a desk, slid open the top drawer, and handed me an envelope with French Runway’s logo on it. Inside was a pile of euro bills, about 4,000 American dollars’ worth in all. The note, scribbled by Briget Jardin, the editor in chief who’d borne the brunt of planning and scheduling for both this trip and Miranda’s upcoming party, read:

Andrea, darling, delighted to have you join us! Please find enclosed euros for your use while in Paris. I’ve spoken with Monsieur Renaud and he will be on call for Miranda twenty-four hours a day. See below for a listing of his work and personal numbers, as well as the numbers for the hotel’s chef, physical fitness trainer, director of transportation, and, of course, the general manager. They are all familiar with Miranda’s stays during the shows and so there should be no problems. Of course, I may always be reached at work or, if necessary, by cell, home phone, fax, or pager if either of you requires anything at all. If I don’t see you before Saturday’s big soiree, I’ll look forward to meeting you there. Lots of Love, Briget

Folded on a sheet of Runway stationery and tucked underneath the cash was a list of nearly a hundred phone numbers, encompassing everything one could need in Paris, from a chic florist to an emergency surgeon. These same numbers were repeated on the last page of the detailed itinerary I’d created for Miranda using information Briget had updated daily and faxed over, so as of this moment there didn’t appear to be a single contingency – short of an all-out world war – that would prevent Miranda Priestly from viewing the spring line with the least possible amount of stress, anxiety, and concern.

‘Thank you so much, Stephan. This is most helpful.’ I peeled off a few bills for him anyway, but he courteously pretended not to see it and ducked back into the hallway. I was pleased to see that he appeared significantly less terrorized than he had just a few moments earlier.

I somehow managed to find the people she had asked for and figured I had a few minutes to rest my head on the four-hundred-thread-count pillowcase, but the phone rang the moment I closed my eyes.

‘Ahn-dre-ah, come to my room immediately,’ she barked before slamming down the phone.

‘Yes, of course, Miranda, thank you for asking so nicely. It’d be my pleasure,’ I said to absolutely nobody. I heaved my jet-lagged body off the bed and concentrated on not getting a heel stuck in the carpeted hallway that connected my room to hers. Once again, a maid answered the door when I knocked.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! One of Briget’s assistants just rang me to see how long my speech is for today’s brunch,’ she announced. She was paging through a copy of Women’s Wear Daily that someone from the office – probably Allison, who knew the drill from her tenure in Miranda’s office – had faxed earlier, and two beautiful men were working on her hair and makeup. A cheese plate sat on the antique table beside her.

Speech? What speech? The only thing besides shows that was on the itinerary today was some sort of awards luncheon that Miranda planned to spend her usual fifteen minutes at before bolting out of sheer boredom.

‘I’m sorry. Did you say a speech?’

‘I did.’ She carefully closed the paper, calmly folded it in half, and then tossed it angrily to the floor, narrowly missing one of the men who knelt in front of her. ‘Why the hell was I not informed that I’d be receiving some nonsense award at today’s luncheon?’ she hissed, her face contorting with a hatred I’d never seen before. Displeasure? Sure. Dissatisfaction? All the time. Annoyance, frustration, generalized unhappiness? Of course, every minute of every day. But I’d never seen her look so downright pissed off.

‘Um, Miranda, I’m so sorry, but it was actually Briget’s office that RSVPd you to the event today, and they never—’

‘Stop speaking. Stop speaking this instant! All you ever offer me are excuses. You are my assistant, you are the person I designated to work things out in Paris, you are the one who should be keeping me abreast of these things.’ She was nearly shouting now. One of the makeup guys asked softly in English if we would like a moment alone, but Miranda ignored him entirely. ‘It’s noon right now and I’ll be needing to leave here in forty-five minutes. I expect a short, succinct, and articulate speech legibly typed and waiting in my room. If you cannot accomplish this, see yourself home. Permanently. That’s all.’

I fled down the hallway faster than I’d ever run in heels and whipped open my international cell phone before I’d made it into my room. It was nearly impossible to dial Briget’s work number since my hands were shaking so badly, but somehow the call went through. One of her assistants answered.

‘I need Briget!’ I shrieked, my voice breaking when I pronounced her name. ‘Where is she? Where is she? I need to talk to her. Now!’

The girl was momentarily shocked into silence. ‘Andrea? Is that you?’

‘Yes, it’s me and I need Briget. It’s an emergency – where the hell is she?’

‘She’s at a show, but don’t worry, she always has her cell phone on. Are you at the hotel? I’ll have her call you right back.’

The phone on the desk rang a mere few seconds later, but it felt like a week. ‘Andrea,’ she lilted in her lovely French accent. ‘What is it, dear? Monique said you were hysterical.’

‘Hysterical? Damn right I’m hysterical! Briget, how could you do this to me? Your office made the arrangements for this fucking luncheon and no one bothered to tell me that she is not only receiving an award but also expected to give a speech?’

‘Andrea, calm down. I’m sure we told—’

‘And I have to write it! Are you listening to me? I have forty-five fucking minutes to write an acceptance speech for an award I know nothing about in a language I don’t speak. Or I’m finished. What am I going to do?’

‘All right, relax, I’m going to walk you through this. First of all, the ceremony is right there, at the Ritz, in one of the salons.’

‘The what? Which salon?’ I hadn’t had a chance to look around the hotel yet, but I was reasonably sure there weren’t any pubs in the place.

‘It is French for, oh, what do you call them? Meeting rooms. So, she will only need to go downstairs. It is for the French Council on Fashion, an organization here in Paris that always has its awards during the shows because everyone is in town. Runway will be receiving an award for fashion coverage. It is not such a, how do you say, big deal, almost like a formality.’

‘Great, well at least I know what it’s for. What exactly am I supposed to write? Why don’t you just dictate in English and I can get Monsieur Renaud to translate it, OK? You start. I’m ready.’ My voice had regained some confidence, but I could still barely grip the pen. The combination of exhaustion, stress, and hunger was making it hard to focus my eyes on the Ritz stationery that was laid out on my desk.

‘Andrea, you are in luck again.’

‘Oh, really? Because I’m not feeling so lucky right now, Briget.’

‘These things are always conducted in English. There is no need for translation. So you can write it, yes?’

‘Yes, yes I’ll write it,’ I mumbled and dropped the phone. There wasn’t even time to consider that this was my very first chance to show Miranda that I was capable of doing something more sophisticated than fetching lattes.

After I hung up and began typing away at sixty words a minute – typing was the only useful class I’d taken in all of high school – I realized the whole thing would only take two, maybe three minutes for Miranda to read. There was just enough time to gulp some of the Pellegrino and devour a few of the strawberries someone had thoughtfully left on my small bar. If only they could’ve left a cheeseburger, I thought. I remembered that I had tucked a Twix bar in my luggage that had been neatly piled in the corner, but there wasn’t time to look for it. Exactly forty minutes had passed since I’d received my marching orders. It was time to see if I’d passed.

A different – but equally as terrified – maid answered Miranda’s door and ushered me into the living room. Obviously, I should’ve remained standing, but the leather pants I’d been wearing since the day before felt like they were permanently stuck to my legs, and the strappy sandals that hadn’t bothered me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long, flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes. I chose to perch on the overstuffed couch, but the moment my knees bent and my butt made contact with the cushion, her bedroom door flew open and I instinctively launched to my feet.

‘Where’s my speech?’ she asked automatically, while yet another maid followed after her holding a single earring that Miranda had forgotten to put in. ‘You did write something, did you not?’ She was wearing one of her very few pantsuits (‘Women wear skirts and show off their legs, not trousers that cover everything up.’), a great olive number that cinched her waist like a corset and made her legs look six feet long.

‘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.