hated flowers, her doctors’ names and addresses and home phone numbers, her household
help, her snack preferences, her preferred bottled water, every size she wore in every
article of clothing from lingerie to ski boots. I made lists of people she wanted to talk to
(Always), and separate lists for people she never wanted to talk to (Never). I wrote and
wrote and wrote as Emily revealed these things throughout our weeks together, and when
we were finished, I felt there was nothing I did not know about Miranda Priestly. Except,
of course, what exactly made her so important that I’d filled a legal pad with likes and
dislikes. Why, exactly, was I supposed to care?
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“Yeah, he’s amazing,” Emily was sighing, twisting the phone cord round and round her
forefinger. “It was the most romantic weekend I think I’ve ever had.”
Ping! You have a new e-mail from Alexander Fineman. Click here to open. Oooh, fun.
Elias-Clark had firewalled instant messenger, but for some reason I could still receive
instant notifications that I’d received a new e-mail. I’d take it.
Hey baby, how’s your day Things are crazy here, as usual. Remember I told you that
Jeremiah had threatened all the little girls with a box cutter he’d brought from home?
Well, it seems he was serious—he brought another one to school today and sliced one of
the girls’ arms at recess and called her a bitch. Not a deep cut at all, but when the teacher
on duty asked him where he’d gotten such an idea, he said he saw his mom’s boyfriend
do it to his mom. He’s six years old, Andy, can you believe it? Anyway, the principal
called an emergency faculty meeting tonight, so I’m afraid I can’t make dinner. I’m so
sorry! But I have to say, I’m happy that they’re responding to this at all—it’s more than I
had hoped for. You understand, don’t you? Please don’t be mad. I’ll call you later, and I
promise to make it up to you. Love, A
Please don’t be mad? I hope you understand? One of his fourth-graders hadslashed
another student and he was hoping I’d be OK with him canceling dinner? I’d canceled on
him my first week because I’d thought my week of riding around in a limo and wrapping
presents had been too demanding. I wanted to cry, to call him and tell him it was more
than OK, that I was proud of him for caring about these kids, for taking the job in the first
place. I hit “reply” and was just about to write as much when I heard my name.
“Andrea! She’s on her way in. She’ll be here in ten minutes,” Emily announced loudly,
obviously struggling to remain calm.
“Hmm? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what—”
“Miranda is on her way into the office this moment. We need to get ready.”
“On her way into the office? But I thought she wasn’t even coming back to the country
until Saturday . . .”
“Well, clearly she changed her mind. Now, move! Go downstairs and get her papers and
lay them out just the way I told you. When you’re done, wipe down her desk and leave a
glass of Pellegrino on the left-hand side, with ice and a lime. And make sure that her
bathroom is stocked, OK? Go! She’s already in the car, so she should be here in less than
ten minutes, depending on traffic.”
As I raced out of the office, I could hear Emily rapid-fire dialing four-digit extensions
and all but screaming, “She’s on her way—tell everyone.” It took me only three seconds
to wind through the hallways and pass through the fashion department, but I already
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heard panicked cries of “Emily said she’s on her way in” and “Miranda’s coming!” and a
particularly blood-curdling cry of “She’sbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack !” Assistants were
frantically straightening clothes on the racks that lined the halls, and editors were racing
into their offices, where I could see one changing from her kitten-heeled shoes to four-
inch stilettos while another lined her lips, curled her lashes, and adjusted her bra strap
without so much as slowing down. As the publisher walked out of the men’s room, I
glanced past him and saw James, looking frenzied, checking his black cashmere sweater
for lint while spastically popping Altoids in his mouth. Unless the men’s room was wired
with loudspeakers for these very occasions, I wasn’t even sure how he’d heard yet.
I was dying to stop and watch the scene unfold, but I had less than ten minutes to prepare
for my first meeting with Miranda as her actual assistant, and I wasn’t going to blow it.
Until then I’d been trying not to appear as if I’d been actually running, but upon
witnessing the utter lack of dignity everyone else had demonstrated, I broke into a sprint.
“Andrea! You know Miranda’s on her way here, don’t you?” Sophy called from the
reception desk as I flew by.
“Yeah, I know, but how do you know?”
“Sweetie pie, I know everything. Now I suggest you get your butt in gear. One thing’s
for sure: Miranda Priestly doesnot like to be kept waiting.”
I leapt onto the elevator and called out a thank you. “I’ll be back in three minutes with
the papers!”
The two women on the elevator stared at me in disgust, and I realized that I had been
screaming.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “We just found out that our editor in chief is
on her way to the office and we weren’t prepared, so everyone’s a little edgy now.”Why
am I explaining myself to these people?
“Ohmigod, you must work for Miranda! Wait, let me guess. You’re Miranda’s new
assistant? Andrea, right?” The leggy brunette flashed what must’ve been four dozen teeth
and moved forward like a piranha. Her friend instantly brightened.
“Um, yeah. Andrea,” I said, repeating my own name as though I wasn’t entirely sure it
was mine. “And yes, I’m Miranda’s new assistant.”
At that moment the elevator hit the lobby and the doors opened to the stark white marble.
I moved ahead of the women and bolted through before the doors had opened entirely
and heard one of them call, “You’re a lucky girl, Andrea. Miranda’s an amazing woman,
and a million girls would die for your job!”
I tried not to slam into a group of very unhappy-looking lawyers, and nearly flew into the
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newsstand in the corner of the lobby, where a little Kuwaiti man named Ahmed presided
over a sleek display of glossy titles and a noticeably sparser array of mostly sugar-free
candy and diet sodas. Emily had introduced Ahmed and me to each other before
Christmas as part of my training, and I was hoping he could be enlisted to help me now.
“Stop right there!” he cried as I began pulling newspapers out of their wire racks by the
register. “You are Miranda’s new girl, right? Come here.”
I swiveled to see Ahmed lean down and ferret under the register, his face turning a bit
too red under the strain. “Ah-ha!” he cried again, springing to his feet with all the agility
of an old man with two broken legs. “For you. So you don’t make a mess of my display, I
keep them aside for you each day. And maybe to make sure I don’t run out, too.” He
winked.
“Ahmed, thank you. I can’t even tell you how much this helps me. Do you think I should
get the magazines now, too?”
“I sure do. Look, it’s already Wednesday and they all came out on Monday. Your boss
probably don’t like that so much,” he said knowingly. And again he reached under the
register and again he rose with an armful of magazines, which, after a quick glance, I
confirmed were all the ones on my list—no more, no less.
ID card, ID card, where the hell was that goddamn ID card? I reached inside my starched
white button-down and found the silk lanyard that Emily had fashioned for me out of one
of Miranda’s white Hermès scarves. “Never actually wear the card when she’s around, of
course,” she had said, “but just in case you forget to take it off, at least you won’t be
wearing it on a plastic chain.” She had practically spit out the last two words.
“Here you go, Ahmed. Thank you so much for your help, but I’m in a big, big rush.
She’s on her way in.”
He swiped my card down the reader on the side of the machine and placed the scarf
lanyard around my neck like a lei. “Run, now. Run!”
I grabbed the overflowing plastic bag and ran, pulling my ID card out again to swipe
against the security turnstiles that would allow me to enter the Elias-Clark elevator bank.
I swiped and pushed. Nothing. I swiped and pushed again, this time harder. Nothing.
“Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they’re okay-ay,”Eduardo, the round
and slightly sweaty security guard, began singing in a high-pitched voice from behind the
security desk. Shit. I already knew without looking that his smile, conspiratorial and
enormous, demanded again—as it had every single day for the past few weeks—that I
play along. It seems he had a never-ending supply of annoying tunes that he loved to
sing, and he wouldn’t let me through the turnstiles until I acted them out. The day before
was “I’m Too Sexy.” As he sang,“I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York
and Japan,” I had to walk down the lobby’s imaginary runway. It could be fun when I
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was in a decent mood. Sometimes it even made me smile. But it was my very first day
with Miranda, and I couldn’t be late getting her things set up, I just couldn’t. I wanted
tohurt him for holding me up as everyone else breezed past the security desk in the
turnstiles on each side of me.
“If they don’t give me proper credit, I just walk away-ay,”I muttered, allowing the words
to stretch and fade, just like Madonna.
He raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the enthusiasm, girlfriend?”
I thought I’d do something violent if I heard his voice again, so I dropped my bag of
papers on the counter, threw both arms up in the air and thrust my hips to the left, while
pursing my lips into a dramatic pout.“A material! A material! A material! A material . . .
WORLD!” I all but screamed, and he cackled and clapped andwhoosh ! He buzzed me
through.
Mental note: Discuss with Eduardo when and where it is appropriate to make a complete
ass of me.Once again, I dove onto the elevators and raced past Sophy, who kindly opened
the doors to the floor without my even asking. I even remembered to stop in one of the
minikitchens and put some ice in one of the Baccarat goblets we kept in a special cabinet
over the microwave just for Miranda. Glass in one hand, newspapers in another, I peeled
around the corner and smashed directly into Jessica, a.k.a. Manicure Girl. She looked
both annoyed and panic-stricken.
“Andrea, are you aware that Miranda is on her way to the office?” she asked, looking me
up and down.
“Sure am. I’ve got her newspapers right here and her water right here, and now I just
need to get them back to her office. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Andrea!” she called as I ran past her, an ice cube flying out of the glass and landing
outside the art department. “Remember to change your shoes!”
I stopped dead in my tracks and looked down. I was wearing a pair of funky street
sneakers, the kind that weren’t designed to do anything but look cool. The rules of
dress—unspoken and otherwise—were obviously relaxed when Miranda was away, and
even though every single person in the office looked fantastic, each was wearing
something they would swear up and down that they’d never, ever wear in front of
Miranda. My bright red, mesh sneakers were a prime example.
I had broken a sweat by the time I made it back to our suite. “I’ve got all the papers and I
bought the magazines, too, just in case. The only thing is, I don’t think I can wear these
shoes, can I?”
Emily tore the headset from her ear and flung it down on her desk. “No, of course you
can’t wear those.” She picked up the phone, dialed four digits, and announced, “Jeffy,
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bring me a pair of Jimmy’s in a size . . .” She looked at me.
“Nine and a half.” I pulled a small bottle of Pellegrino out of the closet and filled the
glass.
“Nine and a half. No, now. No, Jeff, I’m serious. Right now. Andrea is wearingsneakers
for chrissake,red sneakers, and She’s going to be here any minute. OK, thanks.”
It was then I noticed that in the four minutes I’d been downstairs, Emily had managed to
switch her faded jeans to leather pants and her own funky sneakers to open-toe stilettos.
She’d also cleaned up the entire office suite, sweeping the contents of both our desks into
drawers and stashing all of the incoming gifts that hadn’t yet been transferred to
Miranda’s apartment in the closet. She had slicked on a fresh coat of lip gloss and added
some color to her cheeks and was presently motioning for me to get moving.
I grabbed the bag of newspapers and shook them out in a pile on the lightbox in her
office, a sort of underlit table where Emily said Miranda would stand for hours on end
and examine film that had come in from photo shoots. But it was also where she liked her
papers arranged, and once again, I consulted my legal pad for the correct order. First,
theNew York Times, followed by theWall Street Journal, and then theWashington Post .
And on and on the order went in a pattern I couldn’t distinguish, each placed slightly on
top of the one before it until they fanned out across the table in formation.Women’s Wear
Daily was the single exception: this was to be placed in the middle of her desk.
“She’s here! Andrea, come out here! She’s on her way up,” I heard Emily hiss from the
outer area. “Uri just called to tell me he just dropped her off.”
I putWWD on her desk, placed the Pellegrino on a corner of her desk on a linen napkin
(which side? I couldn’t remember which side it was supposed to go on), and darted from
the office, taking one last look around to ensure that everything was in order. Jeffy, one
of the fashion assistants who helped organize the fashion closet, tossed me a shoe box
with a rubber band around it and bolted. I pulled it open immediately. Inside were a pair
of Jimmy Choo heels with straps made of camel hair going every which way and buckles
