nestled in the middle of it all, probably worth around eight hundred dollars. Shit! I had to
get these on. I yanked off my sneakers and my now sweaty socks and tossed them under
my desk. The right one went on rather easily, but I couldn’t work my stubby fingernail to
free the buckle on the left one until—there! I pried it open and thrust my left foot into it,
watching the straps bite into the already swollen flesh. In another few seconds I had it
buckled and was returning to an upright sitting position just as Miranda walked in.
Frozen. I was absolutely frozen in midmotion, my mind working fast enough to
understand how ridiculous I must look, but not quite fast enough to move. She noticed
me immediately, probably because she was expecting Emily to still be sitting at her old
desk, and walked over. She leaned on the counter that ran over my desk, leaned over it
and even closer to me, until she was able to see my entire body as I sat, immobilized, in
the chair. Her bright blue eyes moved up and down, side to side, all over my white
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button-down, my red corduroy Gap miniskirt, my now buckled camel-hair Jimmy Choo
sandals. I felt her examine every inch of me, skin and hair and clothes, her eyes moving
so quickly but her face remaining frozen. She leaned closer still, until her face was only a
foot from mine and I could smell the fantastic aroma of salon shampoo and expensive
perfume, so close that I could see the very fine lines around her mouth and eyes that were
invisible from a more comfortable distance. But I couldn’t look too long at her face,
because she was intently examining mine. There wasn’t the slightest indication that she
recognized that a) we had, in fact, met before; b) I was her new employee; or c) I was not
Emily.
“Hello, Ms. Priestly,” I squeaked impulsively, even though somewhere in the back of my
head I knew that she hadn’t uttered a word yet. But the tension was unbearable, and I
couldn’t help but barrel forward. “I’m so excited to be working for you. Thank you so
much for the opportunity to . . .”Shut up! Just shut your stupid mouth! Talk about no
dignity.
She walked away. Finished looking me up and down, pushed backward off the counter,
and just walked away while I was stuttering mid-sentence. I could feel heat coming off
my face, a flush of confusion and pain and humiliation all wrapped into one, and it didn’t
help that I could feel Emily glaring at me. I pulled my hot face upward and confirmed
that Emily was indeed glaring at me.
“Is the Bulletin updated?” Miranda asked to no one in particular as she walked into her
office and, I noticed happily, directly to the light table where I’d arranged her papers.
“Yes, Miranda. Here it is,” Emily said obsequiously, racing in behind her and handing
her the clipboard where we kept all of Miranda’s messages typed as they come in.
I sat quietly, watching Miranda move deliberately around her office in the picture frames
that hung on her wall: if I looked at the glass instead of at the photos themselves, I could
see her reflection. Emily immediately busied herself at her desk, and silence prevailed.Do
we never get to talk to each other or anyone else if she’s in the office? I wondered. I
wrote a quick e-mail to Emily, asking her as much, which I saw her receive and read. Her
answer came back right away:You got it, she wrote.If you and I have to talk, we whisper.
Otherwise, no talking. And don’t EVER speak to her unless she speaks to you. And do
not EVER call her Ms. Priestly—it’s Miranda. Got it? I felt again as if I had been
slapped, but I looked up and nodded. And it was then I noticed the coat. It was right
there, a great big pile of fabulous-looking fur, all bunched up on the end of my desk, with
one arm dangling off the edge. I looked at Emily. She rolled her eyes, waved her hand
toward the closet, and mouthed, “Hang it up!” It was as heavy as a wet down comforter
coming out of the washing machine, and I needed both hands to keep it from dragging on
the floor, but I gingerly hung it on one of the silk hangers and gently, quietly, closed the
doors.
I hadn’t even sat back down when Miranda appeared next to me, and this time her eyes
were free to roam over my entire body. Impossible as it seemed, I could feel each body
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part ignite as she eyed it, but I was frozen, unable to dive back to my chair. Just as my
hair was about to catch fire, those relentless blue eyes finally stopped on mine.
“I’d like my coat,” she said quietly, looking directly at me, and I wondered if she
wondered who I was, or if she didn’t notice or care that there was a relative stranger
posing as her assistant. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, even though
my interview with her had taken place a few weeks earlier.
“Surely,” I managed, and moved toward the closet again, which was an awkward
maneuver because she was currently standing between it and me. I turned my body
sideways to keep from bumping into her and tried to slide myself past her, reaching to
pull open the door I had just shut. She didn’t move a single inch to let me pass, and I
could feel that the eyes had continued their roving. Finally, blessedly, my hands closed
around the fur, and I pulled it carefully to freedom. I wanted to throw it at her and see if
she’d catch it, but I restrained myself at the last second and held it open as a gentleman
would for a lady. She shrugged into it with one graceful motion and picked up her cell
phone, the only item she had brought with her to the office.
“I’d like the Book tonight, Emily,” she said as she walked confidently out of the office,
probably not even noticing that a cluster of three women standing in the hall outside the
suite scattered immediately upon seeing her, chins to their chests.
“Yes, Miranda. I’ll have Andrea bring it up.”
That was that. She left. And the visit that had inspired office-wide panic, frenzied
preparations, even makeup and wardrobe adjustments, had lasted just under four minutes,
and had taken place—as far as my inexperienced eyes could see—for absolutely no
reason whatsoever.
8
“Don’t look now,” James said, his mouth as immobile as a ventriloquist’s, “but I spy
Reese Witherspoon at three o’clock.”
I swiveled immediately as he cringed in embarrassment, and, sure enough, there she was,
sipping a glass of champagne and throwing her head back in laughter. I didn’t want to be
impressed, but I couldn’t help it: she was one of my favorite actresses.
“James, darling, I’m so glad you could make it to my little party,” quipped a thin,
beautiful man who came up behind us. “And who do we have here?” They kissed.
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“Marshall Madden, color guru, this is Andrea Sachs. Andrea is actually—”
“Miranda’s new assistant,” Marshall finished, smiling at me. “I’ve heard all about you,
little one. Welcome to the family. I do hope you’ll come visit me. I promise that together
we can, um, smooth over your look.” He ran his hand lovingly over my scalp and picked
up the ends of my hair, which he immediately held up against the roots. “Yes, just a touch
of something honey-colored and you’ll be the next supermodel. Get my number from
James, OK, sweetie, and come see me anytime you get a minute. Probably easier said
than done!” he sang as he floated toward Reese.
James sighed and looked on wistfully. “He’s a master,” he breathed, “simply the best.
The ultimate. A man among boys, to say the least. And gorgeous.” A man among boys?
Funny. Whenever anyone had used that phrase before, I’d always pictured Shaquille
O’Neal making a move toward the hoop against a small power forward—not a colorist.
“He’s definitely gorgeous, I’ll agree with you there. Have you ever dated him?” It
seemed like the perfect match: the associate beauty editor ofRunway dating the most
sought-after colorist in the free world.
“I wish. He’s been with the same guy for four years now. Do you believe it? Four years.
Since when are hot gay men allowed to be monogamous? It’s just not fair!”
“Hey, I hear you. Since when are hot straight men allowed to be monogamous? Well,
unless they’re being monogamous with me, that is.” I took a long drag from my cigarette
and blew out a near-perfect smoke ring.
“So admit it, Andy. Tell me you’re glad you came tonight. Tell me this isn’t the greatest
party ever,” he said, smiling.
I’d grudgingly decided to go with James after Alex had canceled, mostly because he
wouldn’t leave me alone. It seemed utterly impossible that a single interesting thing
would transpire at a party for a book about highlights, but I had to admit that I’d been
surprised. When Johnny Depp had come over to say hi to James, I was shocked that he
not only seemed to have a full command of the English language, but had even managed
a few funny jokes. And it was intensely gratifying to see that Gisele, the Ittest It girl of all
current It girls, was downright short. Of course it would’ve been even nicer to discover
that she was secretly squat, too, or had a major acne problem that had all been airbrushed
out in her gorgeous cover shoots, but I’d settle for short. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad
hour and a half so far.
“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” I said, leaning toward him to catch a glimpse of a great
looking guy who appeared to be sulking in the corner near the book table. “But it hasn’t
been quite as disgusting as I’d imagined. And besides, I’m up for anything after the day
I’ve had.”
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After Miranda had made her rather abrupt departure after her rather abrupt arrival, Emily
informed me that that night would be the first time I would have to bring “the Book” to
Miranda’s apartment. The Book was a large wire-bound collection of pages as big as a
phonebook, in which each current issue ofRunway was mocked up and laid out. She
explained that no substantial work could get done each day until after Miranda left,
because all of the art people and editorial people spent all day long consulting with her,
and she changed her mind every hour. Therefore, when Miranda left around five each day
to spend some time with the twins, the real day’s work would begin. The art department
would craft their new layout and input any new photos that had come in, and editorial
would tweak and print any copy that had finally, finally, gotten Miranda’s approval—a
giant, looping “MP” scrawled across the entire first page. Every editor would send all the
day’s new changes to the art assistant, who, hours after nearly everyone else had left,
would run the images and layouts and words through a small machine that waxed the
backs of the pages and pressed them onto their appropriate page in the Book. It was then
my job to take the Book up to Miranda’s apartment whenever it was finished—anywhere
in the eight to elevenP .M. range, depending on where in the production process we
were—at which point she’d mark it all up. She’d bring it back the next day, and the entire
staff would go through the whole thing again.
When Emily overheard me tell James that I’d go to the party with him after all, she
jumped right in. “Um, you know you can’t go anywhere until the Book’s finished, right?”
I stared. James looked as though he might tackle her.
“Yeah, I have to say, this is the part of your job I’m most happy to be done with. It can
get really, really late sometimes, but Miranda needs to see it every single night, you
know. She works from home. Anyway, I’ll wait with you tonight and show you how to
do it, but then you’re on your own.”
“OK, thanks. Any idea when it’ll be finished tonight?”
“Nope. Changes every night. You’d really have to ask the art department.”
The Book was finally ready on the earlier side, at eight-thirty, and after I’d retrieved it
from an exhausted-looking art assistant, Emily and I walked down to 59th Street together.
Emily was holding an armful of freshly dry-cleaned clothes on hangers, encased in
plastic, and she explained to me that dry cleaning always accompanied the Book.
Miranda would bring her dirty clothes to the office, where, as my luck would have it, it
was my job to call the cleaners and let them know we had a pickup. They would send
someone to the Elias-Clark building immediately, pick up the clothes, and return them in
perfect condition a day later. We stored them in our office closet until we could either
hand them off to Uri or take them to her apartment ourselves. My job was getting more
intellectually stimulating by the minute!
“Hey, Rich!” Emily called brightly, fakely, to the pipe-chomping dispatcher I’d met my
first day. “This is Andrea. She’ll be taking the Book every night, so make sure she gets a
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good car, OK?”
“Will do, Red.” He pulled the pipe out of his mouth and motioned toward me. “I’ll take
good care of Blondie over here.”
“Great. Oh, and can you have another car follow us to Miranda’s? Andrea and I are
going separate places after we drop off the Book.”
Two massive Town Cars pulled up just at that moment, and the mammoth driver in the
first car barreled out of the front seat and opened the back door for us. Emily climbed in
first, immediately whipped out her cell phone, and called out, “Miranda Priestly’s
apartment, please.” He nodded and threw the car in gear and we were off.
“Is it always the same driver?” I asked, wondering how he knew where to go.
She motioned me to be quiet as she left a message for her roommate. She then said, “No,
but there are only so many drivers who work for the company. I’ve had them all at least
twenty times, so they know their way by now.” She went back to her dialing. I looked
behind us and saw the second empty Town Car carefully mimicking our turns and stops.
We pulled up in front of a typical Fifth Avenue doorman building: immaculate sidewalk,
well-kept balconies, and what looked like a gorgeous, warmly lit lobby. A man in a
tuxedo and hat immediately came to the car and opened the door for us, and Emily got
