“Where the hell was Tongue Ring Boy through all of this? Did he just leave you to rot in
jail?” But before she could answer, it occurred to me: Where the hell was I through all of
this? Why hadn’t Lily called me?
“He was actually really great, he—”
“Lily, why—”
“. . . offered to stay with me and even called his parents’ lawyer—”
“Lily. Lily! Stop for a second. Why didn’t you call me? You know I would’ve been there
in a second and not left until they’d let you go. So why? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Oh, Andy, it doesn’t matter anymore. It really wasn’t that bad, I swear. I can’t believe
how stupid I was, and trust me, I’m over getting that drunk. It’s just not worth it.”
“Why? Why didn’t you call? I was home all night.”
“It’s not important, really. I didn’t call because I figured you were either working or
really, really tired, and I didn’t want to bother you. Especially on a Friday night.”
I thought back to what I’d been doing the night before and the only thing that stuck
clearly in my mind was watchingDirty Dancing on TNT for exactly the sixty-eighth time
in my life. And out of all those times, that had been the first that I’d fallen asleep before
Johnny announced, “No one puts Baby in the corner,” and proceeded to, quite literally,
lift her off her feet, until Dr. Houseman admits that he knows Johnny wasn’t the one who
got Penny in trouble, and claps him on the back and kisses Baby, who has recently
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
reclaimed the name Frances. I considered the whole scene a defining factor in my
identity.
“Working? You thought I was working? And what does too tired have to do with it when
you need help? Lil, I don’t get it.”
“Look, Andy, let’s drop it, OK? You work constantly. Day and night, and lots of times
on weekends. And when you’re not working, you’re complaining about work. Not that I
don’t understand, because I know how tough your job is, and I know you work for a
lunatic. But I wasn’t going to be the one to interrupt a Friday night when you might
actually be relaxing or hanging out with Alex. I mean, he says he never sees you, and I
didn’t want to take that away from him. If I’d really needed you, I would’ve called, and I
know you would’ve come running. But I swear, it wasn’t so bad. Please, can we forget it?
I’m exhausted and I really need a shower and my own bed.”
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak, but Lily took my silence for acquiescence.
“You there?” she asked after nearly thirty seconds, during which I was desperately trying
to find the words to apologize or explain or something. “Listen, I just got home. I need
sleep. Can I call you later?”
“Um, uh, sure,” I managed. “Lil, I’m so sorry. If I’ve ever given you the impression that
you can’t—”
“Andy, don’t. Nothing’s wrong—I’m fine, we’re fine. Let’s just talk later.”
“OK. Sleep well. Call me if I can do anything . . .”
“Will do. Oh, how’s the new place, by the way?”
“It’s great, Lil, it really is. You did a fantastic job with it. It’s better than I’d ever
imagined. We’re going to love it here.” My voice sounded empty to my own ears, and it
was obvious I was talking just for the sake of it, keeping her on the phone to make sure
our friendship hadn’t changed in some inexplicable but permanent way.
“Great. I’m so glad you like it. Hopefully Tongue Ring Boy will like it, too,” she joked,
although that, too, sounded hollow.
We hung up and I stood in the living room, staring at the phone until my mom walked in
to announce that they were going to take Alex and me out for lunch.
“What’s wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some help with her stuff,
too, but we’re not going to stick around much after three. Is she on her way?”
“No, she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a few days, I guess, so she
probably won’t move in until tomorrow. That was just her on the phone.”
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
“Well, you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over there? I always feel
so badly for that girl—no real parents, just that cranky old bat of a grandmother.” She put
her hand on my shoulder, as if to drive home the pain. “She’s lucky she’s got you for a
friend. Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.”
My voice caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a few words. “Yeah, I
guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just going to sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches,
OK? The doorman said there’s a great deli four blocks down.”
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone that I hoped
conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.
“Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other end.
“No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even though I’d already
introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.
“Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared. “Aren’t you the luckiest
girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”
I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked atRunway, I’d never met a single
person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious? Could she be baiting
me?
“Um, well, working atRunway has been a really great learning experience,” I heard
myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls would die for, of course.” Did I just say that?
There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh, that’s just f-f-f
fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous laugh-choke. “Does she
lock you in your West Village studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci
until you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That
woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the
grapevine that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time
around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael Kors t-t
twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now
put that skinny-ass boss of yours on the phone.”
I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she didn’t know me,
that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude
problem. More than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and
urgently whisper, “I am a prisoner, more than you can imagine—please, oh, please, come
and rescue me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but
I’m different!” But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it finally occurred to me
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
that I had no idea who owned the raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.
I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on every subject but
Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly
not because of histwinsets . Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a
realRunway girl—that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable taste—would
probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh,
and for the future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual ‘hired help’ instead of
something as stiff and unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct
any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom
am I speaking first?”
“Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be friends after all. I d-
d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she hires, but it’s fitting because I don’t much like
her. My name is Judith Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel
articles each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still relatively new now: Is
the h-h-honeymoon over?”
I was silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a ticking bomb.
“Well? You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve been there long
enough for everyone to know your name, but not long enough that they uncover and
exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a really sweet feeling when th-th-th-that happens, trust
me. You’re working in a really special place.”
But before I could respond, she said, “Enough f-f-f-flirting for now, my new friend.
Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because she never takes my c-c-calls anyway.
Stuttering pisses her off, I think. Just be sure to put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin
so she can make someone else call me back. Thanks, l-l-love.” Click.
I hung up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked up from one of
Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When I told her it was Judith, she rolled
her eyes so deeply they almost didn’t resurface and whined, “She’s such a supreme bitch.
I have, like, no idea how Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her calls, though, so
you don’t even have to tell her she’s on the phone. Just put her on the Bulletin and
Miranda will have someone else call her back.” It seems Judith understood the inner
workings of our office better than I.
I double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called “Bulletin” and glanced
over its contents so far. The Bulletin was thepièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s
office and, as far as I could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before
by some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a Word document
that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could access. Only one of us could open it
at a time and add a new message, thought, or question to the itemized list. Then we’d
print out the updated version and place it on the clipboard that sat on the shelf over my
desk, removing the old ones as we went. Miranda would examine it every few minutes
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
throughout the day as Emily and I struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls
came in. Often we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other could access it
and write a message. We’d print to our separate printers simultaneously and dive for the
clipboard, not knowing whose was the most recent until we were face to face.
“Judith’s the latest message on mine,” I said, exhausted from the pressure of trying to
finish it before Miranda entered the suite. Eduardo had called from the security desk
downstairs to warn us that she was on her way upstairs. We hadn’t gotten a call from
Sophy yet, but we knew it’d be only seconds.
“I have the concierge from the Ritz Paris after Judith,” Emily near-shouted,
triumphantly, while clipping her sheet to the Lucite clipboard. I took my four-second
outdated Bulletin back to the desk and glanced over it. Dashes in phone numbers were
not permissible, only periods. There were to be no colons in the time, only periods. Times
must be rounded up or down to the nearest quarter-hour. Call-back phone numbers
always got their own lines to make them easier to distinguish. A time listed indicated that
someone had called in. The word “note” was something that Emily or I had to tell her
(since addressing her without being first addressed was out of the question, all relevant
info went on the Bulletin). “Reminder” was something Miranda had most likely left on
one of our voice mails sometime between one and fiveA .M. the previous night, knowing
that once it was recorded for us, it was as good as done. We were to refer to ourselves in
the third person—if it was absolutely crucial for us to refer to ourselves at all.
She often asked us to find out exactly when and at what number a particular person
would be available to speak. In this case it was a tossup whether the fruits of our
investigation would go under “note” or “reminder.” I remember once thinking that the
Bulletin read like a who’s who in the Prada crowd, but the names of the superbigmoney,
the superhighfashion, and the generally superimpressive had ceased to register as
“special” on my desensitized brain. In my newRunway reality, the White House social
secretary held little more interest than the vet who needed to speak to her about the
puppy’s vaccinations (fat chance of him getting a call back!).
Thursday, April 8
7.30: Simone called from the Paris office. She figured out dates with Mr. Testino for the
Rio shoot and also confirmed with Giselle’s agent, but she still needs to discuss the
fashion with you. Please call her.
011.33.1.55.91.30.65
8.15: Mr. Tomlinson called. He is on cell. Please call him.
Note: Andrea spoke with Bruce. He said that the large mirror in your foyer has a piece of
decorative plaster missing from the upper left-hand corner. He located an identical mirror
at an antique shop in Bordeaux. Would you like him to order it?
8.30: Jonathan Cole called. He is leaving for Melbourne on Saturday and would like to
PDF created with pdfFactory Pro trial version www.pdffactory.com
clarify the assignment before he leaves. Please call him.
555.7700
Reminder: To call Karl Lagerfeld about the Model of the Year party. He will be
reachable at his home in Biarritz this evening from 8.00–8.30P .M. his time.
011.33.1.55.22.06.78: home
011.33.1.55.22.58.29: home studio
011.33.1.55.22.92.64: driver
011.33.1.55.66.76.33: assistant’s number in Paris, in case you cannot find him
9.00: Natalie from Glorious Foods called to see whether you’d prefer that the Vacherin
be filled with mixed berries praline or warm rhubarb compote. Please call her.
555.9887
9.00: Ingrid Sischy called to congratulate you on the April issue. Says the cover is
“spectacular, as always” and wants toknow who styled the front-of-book beauty shoot.
Please call her.
555.6246: office
555.8833: home
Note: Miho Kosudo called to apologize for being unable to deliver Damien Hirst’s
flower arrangement. They said to be sure to tell you that they waited outside his building
for four hours, but since he doesn’t have a doorman, they had to leave. They will try
again tomorrow.
9.15: Mr. Samuels called. He will be unreachable until after lunch, but wants to remind
