wasn’t exactly a strong suit at Elias, not even a real priority. It was never a problem to
write off ten-dollar cab rides each and every day. Another company might wonder what
gave you the right to take a cab to work in the first place; Elias-Clark wondered why you
had deigned to take a cab when there was a car service available. Something about
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gypping the company out of that extra ten bucks each day—even though I don’t imagine
anyone was directly suffering from my overspending—made me feel a whole lot better.
Some might have called it passive-aggressive rebellion. I called it getting even.
I bolted from the cab, still happy to make someone else’s day, and walked toward 640
Madison. Although it was named the Elias-Clark building, JS Bergman, one of the most
prestigious banks in the city (obviously), rented half of it. We didn’t share anything with
them, not even an elevator bank, but it didn’t stop their rich bankers and our fashion
beauties from checking each other out in the lobby.
“Hey, Andy. What’s up? Long time, no see.” The voice behind me sounded sheepish and
unwilling, and I wondered why whoever it was didn’t just leave me alone.
I’d been mentally preparing myself to start the morning routine with Eduardo when I’d
heard my name, and I turned to see Benjamin, one of Lily’s many ex-boyfriends from
college, slumped against the building just outside the entrance, not even seeming to
notice that he was sitting on the sidewalk. He was only one of many of Lily’s guys, but
he’d been the first one she’d really, genuinely liked. I hadn’t spoken to good old Benji
(he loathed being called that) since Lily had walked in on him having sex with two girls
from her a capella singing group. Walked right into his off-campus apartment and found
him sprawled out in his living room with one soprano and a contralto, mousy girls who
never did manage to look at Lily again. I’d tried to convince her it was just a college
prank, but she didn’t buy it. Cried for days, and made me promise not to tell anyone what
she’d discovered. I didn’t have to tell anyone, though, because he did—bragged to
anyone who would listen about how he’d “nailed two singing geeks,” as he’d put it, while
“a third one watched.” He’d made it sound as though Lily had been there the entire time,
agreeably perched on the couch and watching her big, bad man go about being manly.
Lily had sworn to never let herself really fall for another guy, and so far seemed to be
keeping her promise. She slept with plenty of them, but she sure didn’t let them stick
around long enough to actually run the risk of discovering something likable about them.
I looked at him again and tried to find the old Benji in this guy’s face. He had been
athletic and cute. Just a normal guy. But Bergman had turned him into a shell of a human.
He was wearing an oversize, wrinkled suit and looked as though he was hoping to suck
crack cocaine out of his Marlboro. He seemed already overworked even though it was
only seven o’clock, and this made me feel better. Because it was payback for being an
asshole to Lily, and because I wasn’t the only one dragging myself to work at such an
obscene hour. He was probably getting paid $150,000 a year to be so miserable, but
whatever, at least I wasn’t alone.
Benji saluted me with his lit cigarette, glowing eerily in the still dark winter morning,
and motioned for me to come over. I was nervous I’d be late, but Eduardo gave me his
“Don’t worry, she’s not here yet—you’re fine” look and I walked over to Benji. He
looked bleary-eyed and hopeless. He probably thoughthe had a tyrannical boss. Hah! If
only he knew. I wanted to laugh out loud.
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“Hey, I noticed you’re the only one here this early every day,” he muttered at me while I
dug around in my bag for lipstick before hitting the elevators. “What’s the deal?”
He looked so tired, so beaten-down, that I felt a surge of sympathy and kindness. But
then I felt my legs nearly give out from exhaustion, and I remembered the way Lily had
looked when one of Benji’s dumb lacrosse buddies had asked if she’d been happy to
watch or really actually wanted to join in, and I lost my cool.
“Well, my deal is that I work for a rather demanding woman, and I need to get here two
and a half hours before the rest of the goddamn magazine so that I’m prepared for her,” I
said, my tone dripping with anger and sarcasm.
“Whoa. Just asking. Sorry, though, it sounds pretty bad. Which one do you work for?”
“I work for Miranda Priestly,” I said, and prayed for a nonreaction. Something about
having a seemingly well-educated, successful professional have no idea who Miranda
was made me very, very happy. Delighted almost. And luckily, this one didn’t let me
down. He shrugged and inhaled and looked at me expectantly.
“She’s the editor in chief ofRunway, ” I lowered my voice and began with glee, “and
pretty much the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. I mean, I’ve honestly never met anyone like
her. She’s really not even human.” I had a litany of complaints I would’ve liked to have
dumped on Benji, but theRunway Paranoid Turnaround came on full-force. I became
immediately nervous, almost paranoid, convinced that this unknowing, uncaring person
was somehow one of Miranda’s lackeys, sent to spy on me from theObserver orPage Six.
I knew it was ridiculous, completely absurd. After all, I had personally known Benji for
years now and was quite sure he wasn’t working for Miranda in any capacity. Just not
totally sure. After all, how could you be totally sure? And who knew who could be
standing behind me at that very second, overhearing every one of my nasty words?
Damage control was required immediately.
“Of course, she IS the most powerful woman in fashion and publishing, and you just
can’t get to the top of two major industries in New York City handing out candy all day
long. Um, it’s understandable that she’s a little tough to work for, you know? I would be,
too. Yeah, so, um, I have to run now. Good seeing you again.” And I ducked away, as I
often had the past few weeks when I found myself talking to someone other than Lily or
Alex or my parents and I couldn’t help myself from bashing the witch.
“Hey, don’t feel too bad,” he called after me as I headed toward the elevator bank. “I’ve
been here since last Thursday morning.” And with that, he dropped his smoldering butt
and half-heartedly stamped it into the cement.
“Morning, Eduardo,” I said, looking at him with my best tired, pathetic eyes. “I fucking
hate Mondays.”
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“Hey, buddy, don’t worry. At least you beat her here this morning,” he said, smiling. He
was referring, of course, to those miserable mornings when Miranda would show up at
fiveA .M. and need to be escorted upstairs since she refused to carry an access card.
She’d then pace the office, calling Emily and me over and over until one of us could
manage to wake up, get ready, and get to work as if a national security emergency were
unfolding.
I pushed against the turnstile, praying that this Monday would be the exception, that he’d
let me pass without a performance. Negative.
“Yo, tell me what you want, what you really, really want,”he sang with his huge, toothy
smile and Spanish accent. And all the pleasure of making the cabbie happy and finding
out that I had arrived ahead of Miranda vanished. I was left, as I was every morning,
wanting to reach across the security counter and tear the flesh from Eduardo’s face. But
since I was such a good sport and he was one of my only friends in the place, I weakly
acquiesced.“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want, I wanna—I wanna—I
wanna—I wanna—I really, really, really wanna zigga zig aaaaaahhhh,” I sang meekly in
a pitiful tribute to the Spice Girls’ nineties hit. And once again, Eduardo grinned and
buzzed me through.
“Hey, don’t forget: July sixteenth!” he called after me.
“I know, July sixteenth . . .” I called back, a reference to our shared birthdays. I don’t
remember how or why he had discovered my birthdate, but he adored that we had the
same one. And for some inexplicable reason, it became a part of our personal morning
ritual. Every single goddamn day.
There were eight elevators on the Elias-Clark side, half for floors one to seventeen, half
for seventeen and up. Only the first bank really mattered since most of the big names
were on the first seventeen floors; they advertised their presence with illuminated panels
over the elevator doors. There was a free, state-of-the-art gym on the second floor for
employees, complete with a full Nautilus circuit and at least a hundred Stairmasters,
treadmills, and elliptical machines. The locker rooms had saunas, hot tubs, steam rooms,
and attendants in maids’ uniforms, and a salon offered emergency manicures, pedicures,
and facials. There was even complimentary towel service, or so I’d heard—not only did I
not have the time, the place was always too damn crowded between the hours of sixA .M.
and tenP .M. to so much as walk around. Writers and editors and sales assistants called
three days ahead of time to book themselves into the yoga or kick-boxing classes, and
even then they lost their place if they didn’t get there fifteen minutes in advance. Like
nearly everything at Elias-Clark designed to make employees’ lives better, it just stressed
me out.
I’d heard a rumor that there was a daycare center in the basement, but I didn’t know
anyone who actually had children, so I still wasn’t entirely positive. The real action began
on the third floor with the dining room, where so far Miranda had refused to eat among
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the peons unless she was lunching with Irv Ravitz, Elias’s CEO, who liked to eat there in
a show of unity with his employees.
Up, up, up we went, past all the other famous titles. Most of them had to share floors,
with one flanking each side of the receptionist’s desk, facing off behind separate glass
doors. I hopped off at the seventeenth floor, checking my butt in the reflection of the
door’s glass. In a stroke of empathy and genius, the architect had kindly left mirrors out
of the elevators in 640 Madison. As usual, I’d forgotten my electronic ID card—the very
same one that tracked all our movements, purchases, and absences in the building—and
had to break onto the floor. Sophy didn’t come in until nine, so I had to bend down under
her desk, find the button that would release the glass doors, and sprint from the middle of
the reception area to the doors and yank them open before they snapped locked again.
Sometimes I’d have to do this three or four times until I finally caught it, but today I
made it on my second attempt.
The floor was always dark when I arrived, and I took the same route to my desk every
morning. To my left when I walked in was the advertising department, the girls who most
loved adorning themselves in Chloé T-shirts and spike-heeled boots while handing out
business cards that screamed “Runway.” They were removed, wholly and entirely, from
anything and everything that took place on the editorial side of the floor: it was editorial
that picked the clothes for the fashion spreads, wooed the good writers, matched the
accessories to the outfits, interviewed the models, edited the copy, designed the layouts,
and hired the photographers. Editorial traveled to hot spots around the world for shoots,
got free gifts and discounts from all the designers, hunted for trends, and went to parties
at Pastis and Float because they “had to check out what people were wearing.”
Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space. Sometimes they threw promotional parties, but
they were celebrity-free and therefore boring to New York’s hipster scene (or so Emily
had sneeringly told me). My phone would ring off the hook on a day during aRunway ad
sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an invite. “Um, like, I
hearRunway ’s having a party tonight. Why am I not invited?” I always found out from
someone on the outside that there was a party that night: editorial was never invited
because they wouldn’t go anyway. As if it wasn’t enough for theRunway girls to mock,
terrorize, and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t one of them, they had to create
internal class lines as well.
The ad sales department gave way to a long, narrow hallway. It seemed to stretch forever
before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the left side. Here were an assortment of coffees and
teas, a fridge for stored lunches—all superfluous, since Starbucks had a monopoly on
employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully selected in the dining room
or ordered in from any one of a thousand midtown takeout places. But it was a nice
touch, almost cute; it said,“Hey, look at us, we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’N
Lows and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last night’s dinner!
We’re just like everyone else!”
I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7:05, so tired I could barely move. But as with
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everything, there was yet another routine that I never thought to question or alter, so I
began in earnest. I unlocked her office and turned on all the lights. It was still dark
outside, and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power monger’s office,
staring out at a flashing and restless New York City and picturing myself in one of those
movies (take your pick—any that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his
$6 million apartment with views of the river), feeling on top of the world. And then the
lights would blaze forth, and my fantasy was over. The anything-is-possible feel of New
York at dawn vanished, and the identical, grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all
I could see.
Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area, the place where I hung her coat (and
mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that day—Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian
