said “golly.”Golly! Who said that? The scene where Baby proudly announces to Johnny
that she’d carried a watermelon flashed to mind, but I pushed it back and willed myself to
forge forward despite the humiliation. “I’d really love to”—yes, you idiot, you just said
that, try to make some progress here—“but I just can’t do it. I, um, I already have plans
for Saturday.” A good response overall, I thought. I was shouting over the noise of the
siren, but I thought I still sounded somewhat dignified. No need to be available for a date
that was only two days away, and no real need to reveal existence of boyfriend . . . after
all, it really wasn’t any of his business. Right?
“Do you really have plans, Andrea, or do you think your boyfriend would disapprove of
you going out with another man?” He was fishing, I could tell.
“Either way has nothing to do with you,” I said prissily, and I actually rolled my eyes at
myself. I crossed Third Avenue without noticing that the light was against me and almost
got mowed down by a minivan.
“OK, well, I’ll let you off this time. But I’ll be asking again. And I think next time you’ll
say yes.”
“Oh, really? What gives you that impression?” The confidence that had seemed so sexy
before was now starting to sound a whole lot like arrogance. The only problem was that it
made him sound even sexier.
“Just a hunch, Andrea, just a hunch. And no need to worry that pretty little head of
yours—or your boyfriend’s—I was just extending a friendly invitation for a good meal
and good company. Maybe he’d like to join us, Andrea? Your boyfriend. He must be a
great guy, I’d really like to meet him.”
“No!” I almost shouted, horrified at the thought of the two of them sitting across a table
from each other, each so amazing in such radically different ways. I’d be ashamed for
Christian to see Alex’s wholesomeness, his do-gooder ways. To Christian, Alex would
seem like a na.ve hick. And I’d be even more ashamed for Alex to see, with his own
eyes, all the ugly things I found so incredibly attractive about Christian: the style, the
cockiness, a self-assuredness so rock-solid it seemed impossible to insult him.
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
“No.” I laughed or, rather, forced a laugh, as I tried to make it sound casual. “I’m not so
sure that’s a good idea. Although I’m sure he’d just love to meet you, too.”
He laughed with me, but it had turned mocking, patronizing. “I was just kidding, Andrea.
I’m sure your boyfriend’s a really great guy, but I’m not particularly interested in
meeting him.”
“Well, of course. Sure. I mean, I knew what you—”
“Listen, I’ve got to run. Why don’t you give me a call if you change your mind . . . or
your ‘plans,’ OK? Offer’s still open. Oh, and have a great day.” And before I could say
another word, he’d hung up.
What the hell had just happened? I ran through it again: Hot Smart Writer had somehow
found my cell number, called it, and fully asked me on a date for Saturday night to Hot
Trendy Restaurant. I wasn’t clear whether he knew ahead of time if I had a boyfriend or
not, but he didn’t appear particularly daunted by the information. The only thing I knew
for sure was that I’d spent way too long chatting on the phone, a fact confirmed by a
quick glance at my watch. It had been thirty-two minutes since I’d left the office, longer
than the time it usually took me to get lunch and come back.
I stashed the phone and realized I had already made it to the restaurant. I pulled open the
lumbering wooden door and stepped into the hushed, darkened dining room. Even though
every table was filled with midtown bankers and lawyers gnawing on their favorite
steaks, there was barely any noise at all, as if the plush carpeting and manly color scheme
just absorbed all the sound.
“Andrea!” I heard Sebastian cry from the hostess stand. He beelined toward me as
though I might be holding the last of a life-saving medication. “We’re just all so glad
you’re here!” Two young girls in crisp gray skirt suits nodded seriously behind him.
“Oh, really? Why is that?” I could never help myself toying with Sebastian, just a little.
He was such an unbelievable kiss-ass.
He leaned over conspiratorially, his excitement palpable. “Well, you know how the
entire staff here at Smith and Wollensky feels about Ms. Priestly, don’t you?Runway is
such a gorgeous magazine, what with all the beautiful shoots and stunning style and, of
course, fascinating, literate articles. We all just adore it!”
“Literate articles, huh?” I asked, suppressing the huge smile that was threatening to
emerge. He nodded proudly and turned as one of the suited helpers tapped him on the
shoulder to hand him a tote bag.
He literally cried out in joy. “Ah-hah! Here we have it, one perfectly prepared lunch for
one perfect editor—and one perfect assistant,” he added while winking at me.
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
“Thank you, Sebastian, we both appreciate it.” I opened the natural cotton tote, a bag that
looked just like thoseüber -cool ones from the Strand that all the NYU students slung
over their shoulder, but without the logo, and made sure everything was right. One-and-a
quarter-pound ribeye, bleeding all over the container, so raw it just might not have been
cooked at all. Check. Two baked potatoes the size of small kittens, each steaming hot.
Check. One small side container of smashed potatoes, made soft with lots of heavy cream
and extra butter. Check. Precisely eight perfect stalks of asparagus with the tips looking
plump and juicy and the ends shaved to a clean, white finish. Check. There was also a
metal gravy boat full of softened butter, a pinch-box overflowing with grainy kosher salt,
a wooden-handled steak knife, and a crisp white linen napkin, which today was folded
into the shape of a pleated skirt. How adorable. Sebastian waited to see if I liked it.
“Very nice, Sebastian,” I said as though I were praising a puppy for going number two
outside. “You really outdid yourself today.”
He beamed and then looked at the ground in practiced humility. “Well, thank you. You
know how I feel about Ms. Priestly, and, well, it’s really an honor to, well, you know . . .”
“Prepare her lunch?” I supplied, helpfully.
“Well, yes. Exactly. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course I do, Sebastian. She’ll love it, I’m sure.” I didn’t have the heart to tell
him that I immediately unfolded all of his creations because the Ms. Priestly he so adored
would throw a hissy fit if faced with a napkin in the shape of anything other than a
napkin—never mind a bowling bag or a high-heeled shoe. I tucked the bag under my arm
and turned to leave, but just then my phone rang.
Sebastian looked at me expectantly, fervently hoping that the voice on the other line of
my cell phone would be his love, his reason for living. He wasn’t let down.
“Is this Emily? Emily, is that you, I can barely hear you!” Miranda’s voice came over the
line in a shrill, angry staccato.
“Hello, Miranda. Yes, this is Andrea.” I stated calmly while Sebastian visibly swooned
at the sound of her name.
“Are you preparing my lunch yourself, Andrea? Because according to my clock, I asked
for it thirty-five minutes ago. I cannot think of a single reason why—if you were doing
your job properly—my lunch would not be at my desk yet. Can you?”
She got my name right! A small success, but no time to celebrate.
“Uh, um, well, I’m very sorry it’s taken so long, but there was a little mix-up with—”
“You do know just how uninterested I am in such details, do you not?”
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
“Yes, of course I understand, and it won’t be long before—”
“I am calling to tell you that I want my lunch, and I want itnow . There’s really not much
room for nuance, Emily. I. Want. My. Lunch. Now!” With that, she hung up the phone,
and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my cell on the floor. It might as well have
been covered in burning arsenic.
Sebastian, who looked ready to pass out from the action, swooped down to retrieve the
phone and hand it back to me.
“Is she upset with us, Andrea? I hope she doesn’t think we let her down! Does she? Does
she think that?” His mouth pursed into a tight oval and the already prominent veins in his
forehead pulsed, and I wanted to hate him as much as I hated her, but I just felt sorry for
him. Why did this man, this man who seemed remarkable only to the extent that he was
so unremarkable, why did he care so much about Miranda Priestly? Why was he so
invested in pleasing her, impressing her, providing for her? Perhaps he should take over
my job, I thought, because I was going to quit. Yes, that was it. I was going to march
back to that office and quit. Who needed her shit? What gave her the right to talk to me,
to anyone, like that? The position? The power? The prestige? The goddamn Prada?
Where, in a just universe, was this acceptable behavior?
The receipt I was supposed to sign every day charging the ninety-five-dollar meal to
Elias-Clark was resting on the podium, and I quickly scrawled an illegible signature.
Whether it was mine or Miranda’s or Emily’s or Mahatma Gandhi’s at this point I
couldn’t even be sure, but it wouldn’t matter. I grabbed the bag of food that redefined the
term “lunch meat” and stomped back outside, leaving a very fragile Sebastian to deal
with himself. I threw myself in a cab the moment I hit the street, nearly knocking an
elderly man off his feet. No time to be concerned. I had a job to quit. Even with the
midday traffic, we covered the few blocks in ten minutes, and I threw the cabbie a
twenty. I would’ve given him fifty if I’d had it and figured out a way to recoup it from
Elias, but there were none in my wallet. He immediately began counting out change, but I
slammed the door and ran. Let that twenty go to caring for a little girl somewhere or
fixing a hot water heater, I decided. Or even for a few postshift beers at the cab park in
Queens—whatever the cabbie did with it would somehow be nobler than buying yet
another cup of Starbucks.
Full of self-righteous indignation, I stormed inside the building and ignored the
disapproving stares from the small group of Clackers in the corner. I saw Benji stepping
off the Bergman elevators but quickly turned my back so I didn’t waste any more time,
swiped my card, and threw my hip against the turnstile. Shit! The metal bar smacked
against my pelvic bone and I knew I’d have a splotchy purple bruise within minutes. I
looked up to see two rows of glimmering white teeth and the fat, sweating face that
formed around them. Eduardo. He had to be kidding. He just had to be.
I quickly flashed him my best nasty look, the one that said, quite simply,Just die! but it
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
didn’t work today. Maintaining full eye contact, I swiveled around to the next turnstile in
the line, swiped my card lightning-fast, and lunged against the bar. He’d managed to lock
it just in time, and I stood there as he let the Clackers go through the first turnstile I’d
tried, one by one. Six in all, and I still stood there, so frustrated I thought I might cry.
Eduardo was not sympathetic.
“Girlfriend, don’t look so down. This ain’t torture, it’s fun. Now, please. Pay attention,
because . . .I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think
we’re alone now. The beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound .”
“Eduardo! How on earth am I supposed to act out that one? I don’t have time for this shit
right now!”
“OK, OK. No actin’ this time, just singin’. I’ll start, you finish.Children behave! That’s
what they say when we’re together. And watch how you play! They don’t understand,
and so we’re . . . ”
I figured I wouldn’t have to quit if I ever actually made it upstairs because I’d be fired by
then anyway. Might as well make someone else’s day.“Running just as fast as we can,” I
continued, not missing a beat.“Holdin’ on to one another’s hand. Tryin’ to get away into
the night and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then
you say . . .”
I leaned in closer when I noticed that the jerk from day one, Mickey, was trying to listen,
and Eduardo finished it off:“I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone arou-
ound. I think we’re alone now. The beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound!” He
guffawed and threw his hand in the air. I slapped him high five, and I heard the metal bar
click open.
“Have a good lunch, Andy!” he called, still grinning.
“You, too, Eduardo, you, too.”
The elevator ride was blissfully uneventful, and it wasn’t until I was standing directly
outside the doors of our office suite that I decided I couldn’t quit. Aside from the
obvious—that is, it’d be too terrifying to do it unprepared, she’d probably just look at me
and say, “No, I won’t allow you to quit” and then what would I say?—I had to remember
that it was only a year of my life. A single year to bypass many more of misery. One
year, 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, of putting up with this garbage to do what I really
wanted. It wasn’t too great a demand, and besides, I was too tired to even think about
looking for another job. Way too tired.
Emily looked up at me when I walked in. “She’ll be right back. She just got called up to
Mr. Ravitz’s office. Seriously, Andrea, what took you so long? You know that she comes
down on me when you’re late, and what can I tell her? That you’re smoking cigarettes
instead of buying her coffee, or talking to your boyfriend instead of getting her lunch?
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
It’s not fair—it’s really not.” She turned her attention back to her computer, a resigned
expression on her face.
She was right, of course. It wasn’t fair. To me, to her, to any semicivilized human being.
And I felt bad for making it more difficult for her, which I did every time I took a few
extra minutes away from the office to relax and unwind. Because every second I was
gone was another second that Miranda focused her relentless attention on Emily. I vowed
