or maybe for another Elias-Clark magazine. Or maybe, just maybe, he was one of those
sneakyPage Six reporters that Emily had so carefully warned me against. “They just
appear,” she’d said ominously. “They just appear and try to trick you into saying
something juicy about Miranda orRunway . Just be aware.” Between that and the tracking
ID cards, I was quite sure thatRunway ’s surveillance put the mob to shame. TheRunway
Paranoid Turnaround was back.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual and noncommittal. “It’s a strange place. I’m not so
into fashion—I’d actually rather be writing, but I guess it’s not a bad start. What do you
do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, you are? That must be nice.” I hoped I didn’t sound quite as condescending as I
felt, but it got to be really annoying when anyone and everyone in New York anointed
himself or herself a writer or actor or poet or artist.I used to write for the paper in college,
I thought to myself,and hell, I even had an essay published in a monthly magazine once
in high school. Did that make me a writer? “What do you write?”
“Mostly literary fiction so far, but I’m actually working on my first historical novel.” He
took another swig and swatted yet again at that pesky but adorable curl.
“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical novels. Interesting. “What’s
it about?”
He thought for a moment and then said, “It’s a story told from the perspective of a young
woman, about what it was like to live in this country during World War Two. I’m still
finishing my research, transcribing interviews and things like that, but the little writing
I’ve done so far has come along. I think . . .”
He continued talking, but I’d already tuned him out. Holy shit. I recognized the book
description immediately from aNew Yorker article I’d just read. It seemed the entire book
world was eagerly anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the
realism with which he depicts his female heroine. I was standing at a party, casually
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chatting with Christian Collinsworth, the boy genius who’d first been published at the
ripe old age of twenty from a Yale library cubicle. The critics had gone crazy over his
first book, hailing it as one of the most significant literary achievements of the twentieth
century, and he’d followed it up with two more since then, each spending more time on
the bestseller list than the one before it.The New Yorker piece had included an interview
in which the author had called Christian “not only a force for years to come” in the book
industry, but one with “a hell of a look, a killer style, and enough natural charm that
would ensure—in the unlikely event that his literary success did not—a lifetime of
success with the ladies.”
“Wow, that’s really great,” I said, all of a sudden feeling too tired to be witty or funny or
cute. This guy was some big-time author—what the hell did he want with me, anyway?
Probably just killing time before his girlfriend finished up her $10,000 per day modeling
assignment and made her way over.And what does it matter either way, Andrea? I asked
myself harshly.In case you conveniently forgot, you do happen to have an incredibly kind
and supportive and adorable boyfriend. Enough of this already! I hastily made up a story
about needing to get home right away, and Christian looked amused.
“You’re scared of me,” he stated factually, flashing me a teasing smile.
“Scared of you? Why on earth wouldI be scared ofyou ? Unless there’s some reason I
should be . . .” I couldn’t help but flirt back; he made it so easy.
He reached for my elbow and deftly turned me around. “Come on, I’ll put you in a cab.”
And before I could say no, that I was perfectly fine to find my own way home, that it was
nice to meet him but he’d better think again if he thought he was coming home with me, I
was standing on the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza with him.
“Need a cab, folks?” the doorman asked us as we walked outside.
“Yes, please, one for the lady,” Christian answered.
“No, I have a car, um, right over there,” I said, pointing to the strip of 58th Street in front
of the Paris Theatre where all the Town Cars had lined up.
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel Christian smiling again. One ofthose smiles. He
walked me over to the car and opened the door, swinging his arm gallantly toward the
backseat.
“Thank you,” I said formally, not a little awkwardly, while extending my hand. “It was
really nice to meet you, Christian.”
“And you, Andrea.” He took the hand I’d intended him to shake and instead pressed it to
his lips, leaving it there just a fraction of a second longer than he should have. “I do hope
we see each other again soon.” And by then I’d somehow made it into the backseat
without tripping or otherwise humiliating myself and was concentrating on not blushing
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even though I could already feel that it was too late. He slammed the door and watched as
the car pulled away.
It didn’t seem strange this time that even though I hadn’t so much as seen the interior of
a Town Car two months earlier, I had personally had one chauffeuring me around for the
past six hours, and that even though I’d never really met anyone even remotely famous
before, I’d just rubbed elbows with Hollywood celebrities and had my hand nuzzled—
yes, that was it, he’d nuzzled it—by one of the undisputed most eligible bachelors in New
York City.No, none of that really matters, I reminded myself over and over again.It’s all
a part of that world, and that world is no place you want to be. It might look like fun from
here, I thought,but you’d be in way over your head. But I stared at my hand anyway,
trying to remember every last detail about the way he’d kissed it, and then thrust the
offending hand into my bag and pulled out my phone. As I dialed Alex’s number, I
wondered what exactly, if anything, I would tell him.
9
It took me twelve weeks before I gorged myself on the seemingly limitless supply of
designer clothes thatRunway was just begging to provide for me. Twelve impossibly long
weeks of fourteen-hour work days and never more than five hours of sleep at a time.
Twelve miserable long weeks of being looked up and down from hair to shoes each and
every day, and never receiving a single compliment or even merely the impression that I
had passed. Twelve horrifically long weeks of feeling stupid, incompetent, and all-around
moronic. And so I decided at the beginning of my fourth month (only nine more to go!)
atRunway to be a new woman and start dressing the part.
Getting myself awake, dressed, and out the door prior to my twelve-week epiphany had
sapped me completely—even I had to concede that it’d be easier to own a closetful of
“appropriate” clothes. Until that point, putting on clothes had been the most stressful part
of an already really lousy morning routine. The alarm went off so early that I couldn’t
bear to tell anyone what time I actually woke up, as though the mere mention of the
words inflicted physical pain. Getting to work at sevenA .M. was so difficult it bordered
on funny. Sure, I’d been up and out a few times in my life by seven—perhaps sitting in
an airport when I had to catch an early flight or having to finish studying for an exam that
day. But mostly when I’d seen that hour of daylight from the outside it was because I
hadn’t yet found my way to bed from the night before, and the time didn’t seem so bad
when a full day of sleep stretched out ahead. This was different. This was constant,
unrelenting, inhumane sleep deprivation, and no matter how many times I tried to go to
bed before midnight, I never could. The past two weeks had been particularly rough since
they were closing one of the spring issues, so I had to sit at work, waiting for the Book,
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until close to eleven some nights. By the time I would drop it off and get home, it was
already midnight, and I still had to eat something and crawl out of my clothes before
passing out.
Blaring static—the only thing I couldn’t ignore—began at exactly 5:30A .M. I would
force a bare foot out from under the comforter and stretch my leg in the general direction
of the alarm clock (which itself was placed strategically at the foot of my bed to force
some movement), kicking aimlessly until I had made contact and the shrieking ceased.
This continued, steadily and predictably, every seven minutes until 6:04A .M., at which
point I would inevitably panic and spring from bed to shower.
A tangle with my closet came next, usually between 6:31 and 6:37A .M. Lily, herself not
exactly fashion-conscious in her graduate student uniform of jeans, ratty L.L.Bean
sweaters, and hemp necklaces, said every time I saw her, “I still don’t understand what
you wear to work. It’sRunway magazine, for god’s sake. Your clothes are as cute as the
next girl’s, Andy, but nothing you own isRunway material.”
I didn’t tell her that for the first few months I had risen extra early with an intense
determination to coaxRunway looks from my very Banana Republic–heavy wardrobe. I’d
stood with my microwaved coffee for nearly a half hour each morning, agonizing over
boots and belts, wool, and microfiber. I’d change stockings five times until I finally had
the right color, only to berate myself that stockings of any style or color wereso not OK .
The heels on my shoes were always too short, too stacked, too thick. I didn’t own a single
thing in cashmere. I had not yet heard of thongs (!) and therefore obsessed maniacally
over how to banish panty lines, themselves the focus of many a coffee-break critique. No
matter how many times I tried them on, I couldn’t bring myself to wear a tube top to
work.
And so after three months, I surrendered. I just got too tired. Emotionally, physically,
mentally, the daily wardrobe ordeal had sapped me of all energy. Until, that is, I relented
on the three-month anniversary of my first day. It was a day like any other as I stood with
my yellow “I ? Providence” mug in one hand, the other hand rifling through my
Abercrombie favorites.Why fight it? I asked myself. Simply wearing their clothes
wouldn’t necessarily mean I was a total sellout, would it? And besides, the comments on
my current wardrobe were becoming more frequent and vicious, and I had begun to
wonder if my job was at risk. I looked in the full-length mirror and had to laugh: the girl
in the Maidenform bra (ich!) and cotton Jockey bikinis (double ich!) was trying to look
the part ofRunway ? Hah. Not with this shit. I was working atRunway magazine for
chrissake—simply putting on anything that wasn’t torn, frayed, stained, or outgrown
really wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I pushed aside my generic button-downs and
ferreted out the tweedy Prada skirt, black Prada turtleneck, and midcalf length Prada
boots that Jeffy had handed me one night while I waited for the Book.
“What’s this?” I’d asked, unzipping the garment bag.
“This, Andy, is what you should be wearing if you don’t want to get fired.” He smiled,
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but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry?”
“Look, I just think you should know that your, uh, your look isn’t really going over well
with everyone around here. Now, I know this stuff gets expensive, but there’s ways
around that. I’ve got so much stuff in the Closet that no one will notice if you need to, uh,
borrow some of it sometimes.” He made quote marks with his fingers around the word
“borrow.” “And, of course, you should be calling all the PR people and getting your
discount card for their designers. I only get thirty percent off, but since you work for
Miranda, I’ll be surprised if they charge you for anything. There’s no reason for this,
uh,Gap thing you’ve got going on to continue.”
I didn’t explain that wearing Nine West instead of Manolos or jeans they sold in Macy’s
junior department but not anywhere on Barney’s eighth floor of couture denim heaven
had been my own attempt to show everyone that I wasn’t seduced by all thingsRunway .
Instead, I just nodded, noticing that he looked supremely uncomfortable having to tell me
that I was humiliating myself every day. I wondered who had put him up to it. Emily? Or
Miranda herself? Didn’t really matter either way. Hell, I’d already survived three full
months—if wearing a Prada turtleneck instead of one from Urban Outfitters was going to
help me survive the next nine, then so be it. I decided I’d start putting together a new and
improved wardrobe immediately.
I finally made it outside by 6:50A .M., actually feeling pretty damn good about the way I
looked. The guy in the breakfast cart closest to my apartment even whistled, and a
woman stopped me before I’d taken ten steps and told me she had been eyeing those
boots for three months now.I could get used to this, I thought. Everyone’s got to put
something on every day, and this sure felt a hell of a lot better than any of my stuff. As
was now habit, I walked to the corner of Third Avenue and promptly hailed a cab and
collapsed into the warm backseat, too tired to be thankful that I didn’t have to join the
commoners on the subway, and croaked, “Six-forty Madison. Quickly, please.” The
cabbie looked at me through the rearview—with a touch of sympathy, I swear—and said,
“Ah, yes. Elias-Clark building,” and we squealed left onto 97th Street and made another
left onto Lex, flying through the lights until 59th Street, where we headed west to
Madison. After exactly six minutes, since there was no traffic, we came to a screeching
halt in front of the tall, thin, sleek monolith that set such a fine physical example for so
many of its inhabitants. The fare came to $6.40 like it did every single morning, and I
handed the cabbie a ten-dollar bill, like I did every single morning. “Keep the change,” I
sang, feeling the same joy I did every day when I saw their shock and happiness. “It’s
onRunway .”
No problem there, that’s for sure. It took all of a week on the job to see that accounting
