to try harder.
“You’re totally right, Em, and I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
She looked genuinely surprised and a little bit pleased. “I’d really appreciate it, Andrea. I
mean, I’ve done your job. Iknow how much it sucks. Trust me, there were days that I had
to go out in the snow and the slush and the rain to get her coffee five, six, seven times in
a single day. I was so tired I could barely move—I know what it’s like! Sometimes she’d
call me to ask where something was—her latte, her lunch, some special, sensitive-teeth
toothpaste I’d been sent to find—it was comforting to discover that at least her teeth had
a bit of sensitivity—and I hadn’t even left the building yet. Hadn’t even gotten outside!
That’s just her, Andy. That’s just how it is. You can’t fight it anymore, or you’ll never
survive. She doesn’t mean any harm by it, she really doesn’t. That’s just the way she is.”
I nodded and I understood, but I just couldn’t accept that. I hadn’t worked anywhere
else, but I just couldn’t believe that all bosses everywhere acted like this. But maybe they
did?
I carried the lunch bag over to my desk and began the preparations for serving her. One
by one, I used my bare hands to pluck the food from its heat-sealed to-go containers and
arrange it (stylishly, I hoped) on one of the china plates from the overhead bin. Slowing
only to wipe my now greasy hands on a pair of her dirty Versace pants I hadn’t yet sent
to the cleaners, I placed the plate on the teak and tile serving tray that resided under my
desk. Next to it went the gravy boat full of butter, the salt, and the silverware wrapped in
a linen-pleated skirt-no-longer. A quick survey of my artistry revealed a missing
Pellegrino. Better hurry—she’d be back any minute! I dashed to one of the minikitchens
and palmed a fistful of ice cubes, blowing on them to keep them from freezer-burning my
hands. Blowing was only one itsy, bitsy, teensy step from licking them—do I do it? No!
Be above it, rise above it. Do not spit in her food or gum her ice cubes. You’re a bigger
person than that!
Her office was still empty by the time I made it back, and the only thing left to do was
pour the bottled water and place the whole orchestrated tray on her desk. She’d come
back and perch at her mammoth desk and call out for someone to close her doors. And
this would be one time I’d jump up happily, enthusiastically, because it meant not only
that she’d sit quietly behind those closed doors for a good half hour, on the phone with B
DAD, but also that it was time for us to eat as well. One of us could race down to the
dining room and grab the very first thing she saw and race back so the other could go. We
would try to hide our food under our desks and behind our computer screens just in case
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she came out unexpectedly. If there was a single unspoken but still irrefutable rule, it was
that members of theRunway staff do not eat in front of Miranda Priestly. Period.
My watch said it was quarter after two. My stomach said it was late evening. It had been
seven hours since I’d shoved a chocolate scone down my throat on the walk back to the
office from Starbucks, and I was so hungry I considered gnawing on her ribeye.
“Em, I might pass out, I’m so hungry. I think I’m going to run down and pick something
up. Can I get you something?”
“Are you crazy? You haven’t served her lunch yet. She’ll be back any minute.”
“I’m serious. I really don’t feel well. I don’t think I can wait.” The sleep deprivation and
the low blood sugar were combining to make me dizzy. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to carry
the steak tray into her office even if she did come back sometime soon.
“Andrea, be rational! What if you run into her in the elevator or in reception? She’d
know that you left the office. She’d freak! It’s not worth the risk. Hold on a sec—I’ll get
you something.” She grabbed her change purse and headed out of the office. Not four
seconds later, I saw Miranda making her way down the hall toward me. Any thoughts of
dizziness or hunger or exhaustion disappeared the moment I spotted her tight, frowning
face, and I flew out of my seat to put the tray on her desk before she reached it herself.
I landed in my seat, head spinning, mouth dry, and totally disoriented, just before her
first Jimmy Choo crossed the threshold. She didn’t so much as glance in my direction or,
thankfully, seem to notice that the real Emily wasn’t at her desk. I had a feeling that the
meeting she’d just had with Mr. Ravitz hadn’t gone so well, although it could have just
been her lingering resentment at having to leave her office to go see someone else in
theirs. Mr. Ravitz was, so far, the only person in the entire building whom Miranda
rushed to accommodate.
“Ahn-dre-ah! What is this? Please tell me, what on earth is this?”
I raced into her office and stood before her desk, where we both looked down at what
was, quite obviously, the same lunch she ate whenever she didn’t go out. A quick mental
checklist revealed that nothing was missing or out of place or on the wrong side or
cooked incorrectly. What was her problem?
“Um, it’s, uh, well, it’s your lunch,” I said quietly, making a genuine effort not to sound
sarcastic, which was difficult, considering my statement was supremely obvious. “Is
something wrong?”
In all fairness, I think she just parted her lips, but to my near-delirious self, it looked like
she was baring actual pointed fangs.
“Is something wrong?” she mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like
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my own, nothing human. She narrowed her eyes to slits and leaned closer, still refusing,
as always, to raise her voice. “Yes, there’s something wrong. Something very, very
wrong. Why do I have to come back to my office to findthis sitting on my desk?”
It was like trying to solve one of those twisted riddles. Why did she have to come back to
her desk to find this sitting on it, I wondered. Clearly, the fact that she had requested it an
hour earlier was not the correct answer, but it was the only one I had. Did she not like the
tray it was on? No, that wasn’t possible: she’d seen it a million times and hadn’t ever
complained about it. Had they accidentally given her the wrong cut of meat? No, that
wasn’t it, either. The restaurant had once mistakenly sent me off with a wonderful-
looking filet, thinking that she was sure to enjoy it more than the tough ribeye, but she’d
almost had a full-fledged heart attack. She’d made me call the chef personally and scream
at him over the phone while she stood over me and told me what to say.
“I’m so sorry, miss, really I am,” he’d said softly, sounding like the nicest guy in the
world. “I really just thought that since Ms. Priestly is such a good customer that she’d
prefer to have our best. I didn’t charge her extra, but don’t worry, it won’t happen again, I
promise.” I felt like crying when she ordered me to tell him that he would never be a real
chef anywhere besides some second-rate steak emporium, but I had done it. And he had
apologized and agreed, and from that day on she’d always gotten her bloody ribeye. So it
wasn’t that, either. I had no idea what to say or do.
“Ahn-dre-ah. Did Mr. Ravitz’s assistant not tell you that we had lunch together in that
wretched dining room just a few moments ago?” she asked slowly, as though she were
trying to keep herself from losing control completely.
Shewhat? After all of that, after all the running and the Sebastian ridiculousness, and the
angry phone calls, and the ninety-five-dollar meal, and the Tiffany song, and the food
arranging, and the dizziness, and the waiting to eat until she came back, andshe’d already
eaten?
“Uh, no, we didn’t get a call from her at all. So, uh, does that mean you don’t want this?”
I asked, motioning to the tray.
She looked at me as if I had just suggested she eat one of the twins. “What do you think
that means, Emily?” Shit! She’d been doing so well with my name.
“I guess that, uh, well, that you don’t want it.”
“That’s very perceptive of you, Emily. I’m lucky you’re such a quick study. Now
remove it. And make sure this does not happen again. That’s all.”
A quick fantasy flashed forward, one in which I would, just like in the movies, sweep my
arm across the desk and send the whole tray flying across the room. She would watch
and, shocked into contriteness, apologize profusely for speaking to me like that. But the
clicking of her nails against the desk brought me back to reality, and I quickly picked up
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the tray and carefully walked out of her office.
“Ahn-dre-ah, close the door! I need a moment!” she called. I guess that having a gourmet
lunch appear on her desk that she didn’t feel like eating had been a really stressful part of
her day.
Emily had just returned with a can of Diet Coke and a package of raisins for me. This
was supposed to be the snack to tide me over to lunch, and of course there wasn’t a single
calorie or gram of fat or ounce of added sugar in the whole thing. She dropped them on
her desk when she heard Miranda calling and ran over to shut her French doors.
“What happened?” she whispered, eyeing the untouched tray of food that I was holding,
frozen to the spot near my desk.
“Oh, it seems our charming boss already had her lunch,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
“And she just reamed me out for not predicting, not divining, not being able to look
directly inside her stomach and know that she wasn’t hungry anymore.”
“You’re kidding me,” she said. “She yelled at you because you ran to get her lunch—just
like she asked—and then couldn’t possibly have known that she’d already eaten
somewhere else? What a bitch!”
I nodded. It was a phenomenal change of pace to have Emily actually take my side for
once, not to lecture me on all the ways I Just Don’t Get It. But, wait! It was too good to
be true. Like a sun that falls out of the sky, leaving only pink and blue streaks where it
had shone seconds before, Emily’s face flashed from angry to contrite. TheRunway
Paranoid Turnaround.
“Remember what we talked about before, Andrea.” Oh, yes, here it comes. RPT, twelve
o’clock. “She doesn’t do it to hurt you. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just way
too important to get held up on the little stuff. So don’t fight it. Just throw out the food,
and let’s move on.” Emily fixed her features in a determined look and took a seat in front
of her computer. I knew she was wondering right then and there if Miranda had had our
outer office areas bugged and had heard the whole thing. She was red and flustered and
very obviously displeased with her lack of control. I didn’t know how she had survived as
long as she had.
I thought about eating the steak myself, but the mere thought that it had been on
Miranda’s desk only moments earlier made me feel nauseated. I took the tray to the
kitchen and tilted it so every single item would just slide directly into the garbage—all
the expertly cooked and seasoned food, the china plate, the metal butter container, the salt
box, the linen napkin, the silver, the steak knife, and the Baccarat glass. Gone. All gone.
What did it matter? I’d get it all over again the next day, or whenever it was that she may
again be hungry for lunch.
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By the time I’d made it to Drinkland, Alex looked annoyed and Lily looked wasted. I
immediately wondered if Alex somehow knew that I’d been asked out on a date today, by
a guy who was not only famous and older, but also a complete and total dickhead. Could
he tell? Did he sense it? Should I tell him? No, no need to get into it with him when it
was so insignificant. It wasn’t like I was admitting to being interested in some other guy,
not like I would actually ever act on it. So there was nothing to gain by mentioning the
conversation at all.
“Hey there, fashion girl,” Lily slurred, waving her gin and tonic toward me in a salute.
Some of it splashed down the front of her cardigan, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Or
should I say, future roomie? Get a drink. We need to have a toast!” It came out sounding
like “toath.”
I kissed Alex and sat down next to him.
“Don’t you look hot today!” he said, eyeing my Prada outfit appreciatively. “When did
this happen?”
“Oh, today. Right around the time it was all but spelled out that if I didn’t fix my look I
might not have a job anymore. Pretty insulting stuff, but I have to say, if you’ve got to
put something on every day, this stuff isn’t half bad.
“Hey, listen, guys. I’m really, really sorry I’m late. The Book took forever tonight, and
as soon as I dropped it off at Miranda’s she had me run to the corner deli and pick up
some basil.”
“I thought you said she had a cook,” Alex pointed out. “Why couldn’t he do it?”
“She does indeed have a cook. She also has a housekeeper, a nanny, and two children.
So I have no idea why I was the one sent out for dinner spices. It was especially annoying
since Fifth Avenue doesn’t have any corner delis, and neither does Madison or Park, so I
had to go all the way to Lex to find one. But, of course, they didn’t sell basil, so I had to
walk up nine blocks until I found an open D’Agostino’s. It took me an extra forty-five
minutes. I should just expense a fucking spice rack and start traveling with it wherever I
go. But let me tell you, those were a really, really worthwhile forty-five minutes! I mean,
think of how much I learned shopping for that basil, how better prepared I am for my
future in magazines! I’m on the fast track to becoming an editor now!” I flashed a
winning smile.
“To your future!” Lily cried, not detecting a single hint of sarcasm in my diatribe.
“She’s so far gone,” Alex said quietly, watching Lily with the look of someone watching
a sick relative sleep in a hospital bed. “I got here on time with Max, who already left, but
she must’ve been here for hours already. Either that, or she drinks really fast.”
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