you, it’s her. She’s an empty, shallow, bitter woman who has tons and tons of gorgeous
clothes and not much else.”
Emily’s face tightened noticeably, the skin on her neck and around her cheeks pulling
taut, and her hands stopped shaking. I knew she was going to bulldoze me at any
moment, but I couldn’t stop.
“Have you ever noticed that she has no friends, Emily? Have you? Sure, her phone rings
day and night with the world’s coolest people, but they’re not calling to talk about their
kids or their jobs or their marriages, are they? They’re calling because they need
something from her. It sure seems awesome looking in, but can you imagine if the only
reason anyone ever called you was because they—”
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“Stop it!” she screamed, the tears streaming down her face again. “Just fucking shut up
already! You march into this office and think you understand everything. Little Miss I’m
So Sarcastic and So Above All This! Well, you don’t understand anything. Anything!”
“Em—”
“Don’t ‘Em,’ me, Andy. Let me finish. I know Miranda is difficult. I know she
sometimes seems crazy. I know what it’s like to never sleep and always be scared she’s
calling you and have none of your friends understand. I know all that! But if you hate it
so much, if you can’t do anything but complain about it and her and everyone else all the
time, then why don’t you just leave? Because your attitude is really a problem. And to
say that Miranda is a lunatic, well, I think there are many, many more people out there
who think she’s gifted and gorgeous and talented and would think you’re a lunatic for not
doing your best to help out someone so amazing. Because she is amazing, Andy—she
really is!”
I considered this for a moment and decided she had a point. Miranda was, as far as I
could tell, a truly fantastic editor. Not a single word of copy made it into the magazine
without her explicit, hard-to-obtain approval, and she wasn’t afraid to scrap something
and start over, regardless of how inconvenient or unhappy it made everyone else.
Although the various fashion editors called in the clothes to shoot, Miranda alone
selected the looks she wanted and which models she wanted wearing each one; the
sittings editors might be the ones at the actual shoots, but they were simply executing
Miranda’s specific and incredibly detailed instructions. She had the final—and often even
the preliminary—say over every single bracelet, bag, shoe, outfit, hair style, story,
interview, writer, photo, model, location, and photograph in every issue, and that made
her, in my mind, the main reason for the magazine’s stunning success each
month.Runway wouldn’t beRunway —hell, it wouldn’t be much of anything at all—
without Miranda Priestly. I knew it and so did everyone else. What it hadn’t yet done was
convince me that any of this gave her a right to treat people the way she did. Why was the
ability to put together a Balmain evening gown and a brooding, leggy Asian girl on a side
street in San Sebastian worshiped so much that Miranda wasn’t accountable for her
behavior? I still wasn’t building the bridge, but what the hell did I know? Emily
obviously got it.
“Emily, all I’m saying is that you’re a really great assistant to her, that she’s lucky she
has someone who works as hard as you do, who’s so committed to the job. I just wish
you’d realize that it’s not your fault if she’s unhappy with something. She’s just an
unhappy person. There’s nothing more you could have done.”
“I know that. I really do. But you don’t give her enough credit, Andy. Think about it. I
mean, really think about it. She is so incredibly accomplished, and she’s had to sacrifice a
lot to get there, but couldn’t the same be said of supersuccessful people in every industry?
Tell me, how many CEOs or managing partners or movie directors or whatever don’t
have to be tough sometimes? It’s part of the job.”
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I could tell we weren’t going to see eye to eye on this one. It was clear that Emily was
deeply invested in Miranda, inRunway, in all of it, but I just couldn’t understand why.
She wasn’t any different from the hundreds of other personal assistants and editorial
assistants and assistant editors and associate editors and senior editors and editors in chief
of fashion magazines. But I just didn’t understand why. From everything I’d seen so far,
each one was humiliated, degraded, and generally abused by their direct superior, only to
turn around and do it to those under them the second they got promoted. And all of it so
they could say, at the end of the long and exhausting climb, that they’d gotten to sit in the
front row at Yves Saint-Laurent’s couture show and had scored a few free Prada bags
along the way?
Time to just agree. “I know,” I sighed, surrendering to her insistence. “I just hope you
know that you’re doing her the favor by putting up with her shit, not the other way
around.”
I expected a quick counter-attack, but Emily grinned. “You know how I just told her like
a hundred times that her Thursday hair and makeup were confirmed?”
I nodded. She looked positively giddy.
“I was totally lying. I didn’t call a single person or confirm anything!” She practically
sang the last part.
“Emily! Are you serious? What are you going to do now? You just swore up and down
that you’d personally confirmed it.” For the first time since starting work, I wanted to hug
the girl.
“Andy, be serious. Do you honestly think that any sane person is going to say no to
doing her hair and makeup? It could make his whole career—he’d be crazy to turn her
down. I’m sure the guy was planning to do it all along. He was probably just rearranging
his travel plans or something. I don’t have to confirm with him, because I’m that sure
he’ll do it. How could henot ? She’s Miranda Priestly!”
Now I thought I would cry, but instead I just said, “So what do I need to know to hire
this new nanny? I should probably get started right away.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, still looking delighted with her own cleverness. “That’s probably a
good idea.”
The first girl I interviewed for the nanny position looked positively shell-shocked.
“Oh my god!” she’d howled when I asked her over the phone if she’d mind coming to
the office to meet with me. “Oh my god! Are you serious? Oh my god!”
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“Um, is that a yes or a no?”
“God, yes. Yes, yes, yes! ToRunway ? Oh my god. Wait until I tell my friends. They’ll
die. They’ll absolutely die. Just tell me where to be and when.”
“You understand that Miranda’s away right now, so you won’t be meeting with her,
right?”
“Yep. Totally.”
“And you also know that the job is being a nanny to Miranda’s two daughters, right?
That it won’t have anything to do withRunway ?”
She sighed as if to resign herself to the sad, unfortunate fact. “Yes, of course. A nanny, I
totally get it.”
Well, she hadn’t really gotten it, because even though she looked the part (tall,
impeccably groomed, reasonably well dressed, and seriously underfed), she kept asking
which parts of the job would require her to be at the office.
I shot her a specialty Withering, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Um, none. Remember,
we talked about this? I’m just doing some initial screening for Miranda, and we just
happen to be doing it in the office. But that’s it. Her twins don’t live here, you know?”
“Right, right,” she’d agreed, but I’d already nixed her.
The next three the agency had waiting in the reception area weren’t much better.
Physically, all fit the Miranda profile—the agency really did know exactly what she
wanted—but not one had what I’d be looking for in a nanny who’d be taking care of my
future niece or nephew, the standard I’d set for the process. One had a master’s in child
development from Cornell but glazed over when I tried to describe the subtle ways this
job might be different from others she’d held. Another had dated a famous NBA player,
which she felt gave her “insight into celebrity.” But when I’d asked her if she’d ever
worked with the children of celebrities, she’d instinctively wrinkled her nose and
informed me that “famous people’s kids always have, like, major issues.” Nixed. The
third and most promising had grown up in Manhattan and had just graduated from
Middlebury and wanted to spend a year as a nanny to save some money for a trip to Paris.
When I asked if that meant she spoke French, she nodded. The only problem was that she
was a city girl through and through and therefore didn’t have a driver’s license. Was she
willing to learn? I’d asked. No, she’d answered. She didn’t believe that the streets needed
another car clogging them. Nix number three. I spent the rest of the day trying to figure
out a tactful way of telling Miranda that if a girl is attractive, athletic, comfortable with
celebrity, lives in Manhattan, has a driver’s license, can swim, has an advanced degree,
speaks French, and is completely and entirely flexible with her time, then chances are she
does not want to be a nanny.
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She must have read my mind, because the phone rang immediately. I did a few
calculations and realized that Miranda would have just landed at de Gaulle, and a quick
glance at the second-by-second itinerary Emily had so painstakingly constructed showed
she would now be in the car on her way to the Ritz.
“Miranda Pri—”
“Emily!” she practically shrieked. I wisely decided now wasn’t the time to correct her.
“Emily! The driver did not give me my usual phone, and as a result I don’t have anyone’s
phone number. This is unacceptable. Entirely unacceptable. How am I supposed to
conduct business with no phone numbers? Connect me immediately to Mr. Lagerfeld.”
“Yes, Miranda, please hold just a moment.” I jabbed the hold button and called out to
Emily for help, although I would’ve had better luck simply eating the receiver whole than
actually locating Karl Lagerfeld in less time than it took Miranda to get so annoyed that
she’d smash down the phone and keep calling to ask, “Where the hell is he? Why can’t
you find him? Do you not know how to use a phone?”
“She wants Karl,” I called over to Emily. The name immediately sent her flying, racing,
tearing through papers all over her desk.
“OK, listen. We have twenty to thirty seconds. You take Biarritz and the driver, I’ll get
Paris and the assistant,” she called, her fingers already flying across the keypad. I double-
clicked on the thousand-plus name contact list that we shared on our hard drives and
found exactly five numbers I’d have to call: Biarritz main, Biarritz second main, Biarritz
studio, Biarritz pool, and Biarritz driver. A quick glance over the other listings for Karl
Lagerfeld indicated that Emily had a grand total of seven, and there were still more
numbers for New York and Milan. We were dead before we started.
I’d tried Biarritz main and was in the middle of dialing Biarritz second main when I saw
that the flashing red light had stopped blinking. Emily announced that Miranda had hung
up, in case I hadn’t noticed. Only ten or fifteen seconds had passed—she was feeling
particularly impatient today. Naturally, the phone rang again immediately, and Emily
responded to my pleading puppy eyes and answered it. She didn’t get halfway through
her canned greeting before she was nodding gravely and trying to reassure Miranda. I
was still dialing and had—miraculously—made it to Biarritz pool, where I was currently
talking to a woman who didn’t speak a single word, a single syllable, of English. Maybe
this was the obsession with speaking French?
“Yes, yes, Miranda. Andrea and I are calling right now. It should only be a few more
seconds. Yes, I understand. No, I know it’s frustrating. If you’ll allow me to just put you
on hold for ten seconds or so, I’m sure we’ll have him on the line. OK?” She punched
“hold” and kept right on jabbing numbers. I heard her trying in what sounded like
horrifically accented and broken French to talk to someone who appeared to not know the
name Karl Lagerfeld. We were dead. Dead. I was getting ready to hang up on the crazy
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French woman who was shrieking into the receiver when I saw the flashing red light go
out again. Emily was still frantically dialing.
“She’s gone!” I called with the urgency of an EMT performing emergency CPR.
“Your turn to get it!” she screamed back, fingers flying, and sure enough, the phone rang
again.
I picked it up and didn’t even attempt to say anything, since I knew the voice on the
other end would speak up immediately. It did.
“Ahn-dre-ah! Emily! Whoever the hell I’m talking to . . . why is it that I’m speaking
with you and not with Mr. Lagerfeld? Why?”
My first instinct was to remain silent, since it didn’t appear that the verbal barrage was
over, but as usual, my instincts were wrong.
“Hell-ooo?Anyone there? Is the process of connecting one phone call to another really
too difficult forboth my assistants?”
“No, Miranda, of course not. I’m sorry about this—” My voice was shaking a little, but I
couldn’t get it under control. “—it’s just that we can’t seem to find Mr. Lagerfeld. We’ve
already tried at least eight—”
“Can’t seem to find him?”she mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “What do you mean,
you ‘can’t seem to find’ him?”
What part of that simple five-word sentence did she not comprehend, I wondered. Can’t.
Seem. To. Find. Him. Seemed rather clear and precise to me: We can’t fucking find him.
That is why you’re not talking to him. Ifyou can find him, thenyou can talk to him. A
million barbed responses raced around my head, but I could only sputter like a first-
grader who’d been singled out by the teacher for talking in class.
“Um, well, Miranda, we’ve called all of the numbers we have listed for him, and he
doesn’t appear to be at any of them,” I managed.
“Well of course he’s not!” She was almost screaming now, that precious, well-guarded
