“Right.”
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“Well, now you do! We can get a place together, anywhere we like!”
“That’s great!” It sounded hollow to my ears even though I was genuinely excited.
“So you’re up for it?” she asked, her enthusiasm sounding a bit dampened.
“Lil, definitely. Honestly, it’s an awesome idea. I don’t mean to sound negative, it’s just
that it’s sleeting and I’m standing outside and I have burning hot coffee running down my
left arm . . .”Beep-beep. The other line rang, and even though I almost burned my neck
with the lit end of the cigarette while trying to pull my phone away from my ear, I was
able to see that it was Emily calling.
“Shit, Lil, it’s Miranda calling. I’ve got to run. But congrats on getting evicted! I’m so
excited for us. I’ll call you later, OK?”
“OK, I’ll talk to—”
I had already clicked over and mentally prepared myself for the barrage.
“Me again,” Emily said tightly. “What the hell is going on? It’s a fucking coffee, for
chrissake. You forget that I used to do your job, and I know it doesn’t take that long to—
”
“What?” I said loudly, holding a few fingers over the microphone on the receiver.
“What’d you say? I can’t hear you. Well, if you can hear me, I’ll be back in just a
minute!” And I clicked my phone shut and buried it deep in my pocket. And even though
I had at least half a Marlboro left, I dropped it on the sidewalk and ran back to work.
Miranda deigned to accept this slightly warmer latte and even gave us a few moments of
peace between ten and eleven, when she sat in her office with the door closed, cooing to
B-DAD. I’d officially met him for the first time the week before, when I’d dropped the
Book off that Wednesday night around nine. He had been removing his coat from the
closet in the foyer and spent the next ten minutes referring to himself in the third person.
Since that meeting, he had paid me extra-special attention when I let myself in each
night, always taking a few minutes to ask about my day or compliment me on a job well
done. Naturally, none of these niceties seemed to rub off on his wife, but at least he was
pleasant to be around.
I was just about to begin calling some of the PR people to see about getting a few more
decent clothes to wear to work when Miranda’s voice shook me from my thoughts.
“Emily, I’d like my lunch.” She had called from her office to no one in particular, since
Emily could mean either of us. The real Emily looked at me and nodded, and I knew it
was OK to move. The number for Smith and Wollensky was programmed into my desk
phone, and I recognized the voice on the other end as the new girl.
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“Hey, Kim, it’s Andrea from Miranda Priestly’s office. Is Sebastian there?”
“Oh, hi, um, what did you say your name was again?” No matter that I called at the exact
same time, twice a week, and had already identified myself—she always acted as though
we’d never spoken.
“From Miranda Priestly’s office. AtRunway . Listen, I don’t mean to be rude”—yes,
actually, I do—“but I’m kind of in a hurry. Could you just put Sebastian on?” If anyone
else had answered I would’ve been able to just tell that person to put in an order for
Miranda’s usual, but since this one was too dumb to be trusted, I had learned to ask for
the manager himself.
“Um, OK, let me check and see if he’s available.”Trust me, Kim, he’s available.
Miranda Priestly is his life.
“Andy, dear, how are you?” Sebastian breathed into the phone. “I hope you’re calling
because our favorite fashion editor would like some lunch today, yes?”
I wondered what he’d say if I told him, just once, that it wasn’t Miranda who was
looking for lunch, but me. After all, this wasn’t exactly a takeout joint, but they made a
special exception for the queen herself.
“Oh, yes, indeed. She was just saying how much she was in the mood for something
delicious from your restaurant, and she also said to send her love.” If under threat of
death or dismemberment Miranda wouldn’t have been able to identify the name of the
place that made her lunch each day, never even mind the name of its daytime manager,
but he always seemed so happy when I said something like this. Today he was so excited
he giggled.
“Fab! That’s just fabulous! We’ll have it ready for you as soon as you get here,” he
called with fresh excitement in his voice. “Can’t wait! And give her my love, too, of
course!”
“Of course I will. See you soon.” It was exhausting to stroke his ego so enthusiastically,
but he made my job so much easier it was well worth it. Every day that Miranda didn’t
have lunch out, I served her the same meal at her desk, and she leisurely ate it behind
closed doors. I kept a supply of china plates in the bins above my desk for this purpose.
Most were samples sent by designers whose new “home” lines had just come out,
although some I just took directly from the dining room. It would have been too annoying
to have to keep stock of things like gravy trays and steak knives and linen napkins,
though, so Sebastian was always sure to provide those with the meal.
And once again I shrugged on my black wool coat and jammed my cigarettes and phone
in the pocket and headed outside, into a late February day that seemed to get only grayer
as it progressed. Although it was just a fifteen-minute walk to the restaurant on 49th and
Third, I considered calling for a car but thought better of it when I felt the clean air in my
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lungs. I lit a cigarette and drew the smoke in; when I exhaled, I wasn’t sure if it was
smoke or cold air or irritation, but it felt damn good.
Dodging the aimlessly meandering tourists had become easier. I used to stare in disgust
at pedestrians on cell phones, but given my hectic days, I’d become a walking talker. I
pulled my cell out and called Alex’s school where, according to my fuzzy recollection, he
could possibly be eating his lunch in the faculty lounge at that moment.
It rang twice before I heard a high-pitched, pinched woman’s voice answer.
“Hello. You’ve reached PS 277 and this is Mrs. Whitmore speaking. How may I help
you?”
“Is Alex Fineman there?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
“This is Andrea Sachs, Alex’s girlfriend.”
“Ah, yes, Andrea! We’ve all heard so much about you.” Her words were so clipped she
sounded as though she might choke any moment.
“Oh, really? That’s . . . uh, that’s good. I’ve heard a lot about you too, of course. Alex
says wonderful things about everyone at school.”
“Well, isn’t that nice. But seriously, Andrea, it sounds like you have quite some job
there! How interesting it must be, working for such a talented woman. You’re a lucky
girl, indeed.”
Ah, yes. Mrs. Whitmore. I am a lucky girlindeed.I’m so lucky, you have no idea. I can’t
tell you how lucky I felt when I was sent out just yesterday afternoon to purchase
tampons for my boss, only to be told that I’d bought the wrong ones and asked why I do
nothing right. And luck is probably the only way to explain why I get to sort another
person’s sweat-and food-stained clothing each morning before eight and arrange to have
it cleaned. Oh, wait! I think what actually makes me luckiest of all is getting to talk to
breeders all over the tristate area for three straight weeks in search of the perfect French
bulldog puppy so two incredibly spoiled and unfriendly little girls can each have their
own pet. Yes, that’s it!
“Oh, yes, well, it is a fantastic opportunity,” I said by rote. “A job a million girls would
die for.”
“You can say that again, dear! And guess what? Alex just walked in. I’ll put him on.”
“Hey, Andy, what’s going on? How’s your day going?”
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“Don’t ask. I’m on my way to pick up Her lunch right now. How’s your day?”
“Good, so far. My class has music today right after lunch, so I actually have an hour and
a half free, which is nice. And then we get to cover more phonics exercises!” he said,
sounding just a little defeated. “Even though it seems like they’re never going to learn
how to actually read something.”
“Well, have there been any slashings today?”
“No.”
“So, how much can you ask for? You’ve had a relatively pain-free, bloodless day. Enjoy
it. Save the whole reading concept for tomorrow. So, guess what? Lily called this
morning. She finally got evicted from her place in Harlem, so we’re going to move in
together. Fun, right?”
“Hey, congratulations! Couldn’t have been better timing for you. You guys will have a
great time together. Come to think of it, it’s a little scary. Dealing with Lily full-time . . .
and Lily’s guys . . . Promise we can stay at my place a lot?”
“Of course. But you’ll feel right at home—it’ll be just like senior year all over again.”
“Too bad she’s losing that cheap apartment. Other than that, it’s great news.”
“Yeah, I’m psyched. Shanti and Kendra are fine, but I’m kind of done with the whole
living-with-strangers thing.” I loved Indian food, but I did not love how the curry smell
had seeped into everything I owned. “I’m going to see if Lil wants to meet for a drink
tonight to celebrate. You up for it? We’ll meet somewhere in the East Village so it’s not
too far for you.”
“Yeah, sure, sounds great. I’m running to Larchmont to watch Joey tonight, but I’ll be
back in the city by eight. You won’t even be out of work by then, so I’ll meet Max and
we can all meet up afterward. Hey, is Lily seeing anyone? Max could use a, well . . .”
“A what?” I laughed. “Go on, say it. Do you think my friend is a whore? She’s just free-
spirited, is all. And is she seeing someone? What kind of question is that? Someone
named Pink-Shirt Boy stayed over there last night. I don’t think I know his real name.”
“Whatever. Anyway, the bell just rang. Call me when you’re done dropping off the
Book.”
“Will do. ’Bye.”
I was about to stash the phone when it rang again. The number wasn’t familiar, though,
and I answered it out of sheer relief that it wasn’t Miranda or Emily.
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“Mir—er, hello?” I’d taken to automatically answering my cell and home phone
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” which was supremely embarrassing when it was anyone
except my parents or Lily. Had to work on that.
“Is this the lovely Andrea Sachs whom I inadvertently terrified at Marshall’s party?”
asked a somewhat hoarse and very sexy voice on the other end. Christian! I’d been
almost relieved when he hadn’t resurfaced anywhere after massaging my hand with his
lips. But all the feelings of wanting to impress him with my wit and charm that first night
came rushing back, and I quickly vowed to play it cool.
“It is. And who may I ask is this? There were a number of men who terrified me that
night for dozens of different and varied reasons.”OK, so far, so good. Deep breath, be
cool.
“I didn’t realize I had so much competition,” he said smoothly. “But I suppose I
shouldn’t be surprised. How have you been, Andrea?”
“Fine. Great, actually,” I lied quickly, remembering aCosmo article I’d read that had
exhorted me to “keep it light and airy and happy” when talking to a new guy because
most “normal” guys didn’t respond so well to hard-bitten cynicism. “Work is going really
well. I’m loving my job, actually! It’s been really interesting lately—a lot to learn, tons of
stuff going on. Yeah, it’s great. What about you?”Don’t talk about yourself too much,
don’t dominate the conversation, get him comfortable enough to chat about his favorite
and most familiar topic: him .
“You’re a rather deft liar, Andrea. To an untrained ear that almost sounded believable,
but you know what they say, don’t you? You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Don’t worry,
though. I’ll let you get away with it this time.” I opened my mouth to deny the
accusation, but instead I just laughed. A perceptive one indeed. “Let me get right to the
point here, because I’m about to get on a plane for D.C. and security doesn’t look all too
happy that I’m walking through a metal detector while talking on the phone. Do you have
plans for Saturday night?”
I hated when people phrased their questions that way, asked if you had plans before they
told you what they had in mind. Did his girfriend need someone to run errands for her
and he thought I fit the bill? Or maybe he needed someone to walk his dog while he gave
yet another eight-hour-long interview to theNew York Times ? I was considering what
noncommittal way I could answer that question when he said, “So, I have a reservation at
Babbo this Saturday. Nine o’clock. A bunch of friends will be there, too, mostly
magazine editors and pretty interesting people. An editor fromThe Buzz, and a couple
writers fromThe New Yorker . Good crowd. You up for it?” At that exact moment, an
ambulance roared past me with its siren wailing, lights flashing in a fruitless attempt to
speed through the hopelessly gridlocked traffic. As usual, the drivers ignored the
ambulance and it sat at the red light like all the other vehicles.
Had he just asked me out? Yes, I thought that’s exactly what had just happened. He was
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asking me out! He was asking me out. Christian Collinsworth was asking me on a date—
a Saturday-night date, to be specific, and to Babbo, where he just so happened to have a
prime-time reservation with a group of smart, interesting people, people just like him.
Never even mind theNew Yorkerwriters! I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d
mentioned to him at the party that Babbo was the one restaurant I most wanted to try in
New York, that I loved Italian and knew how much Miranda loved it and I was dying to
go. I’d even thought about blowing a week’s pay on a meal and had called to make a
reservation for Alex and me, but they’d been booked solid for the next five months. I
hadn’t been asked on a date by anyone other than Alex in three years.
“Um, Christian, golly, I’d love to,” I started, trying to forget immediately that I’d just
