second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the object of their worship
was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes cruel woman who didn’t deserve the
briefest moment of their innocent affection and attention?
I wanted to cry, for Anita and all her friends who expended so much energy trying to
mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen, trying to impress and please and
flatter the woman who would only take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her
shoulders or toss them without a second thought to the girl who’d written down a piece of
herself. Instead, I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and vowed to find a way to
help Anita. She sounded even more desperate than the others who wrote, and there was
no reason that with all the excess stuff around I couldn’t find her a decent dress for a date
she would hopefully have soon.
“Hey, Em, I’m just going to run down to the newsstand and see if they haveWomen’s
Wear yet. I can’t believe it’s so late today. Do you want anything?”
“Will you bring me a Diet Coke?” she asked.
“Sure. Just a minute,” I said, and weaved quickly through the racks and past the doorway
to the service elevator, where I could hear Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and
wondering who would be at Miranda’s Met party that night. Ahmed was finally able to
produce a copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily, which was a relief, and I grabbed a Diet Coke
for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me, but on second thought, I took a Diet for myself as
well. The difference in taste and enjoyment wasn’t worth the disapproving looks and/or
comments I was sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk.
I was so busy examining the front page’s color photo of Tommy Hilfiger, I didn’t even
notice that one of the elevators had opened and was available. Out of the corner of my
eye, I caught a quick glimpse of green, a very distinct green. Particularly noteworthy
because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny tweed, a color I’d never
really seen before but liked a whole lot. And although my mind knew better, it couldn’t
stop my eyes from looking up and into the elevator, where they were sort of not really
surprised to find Miranda peering back. She stood ramrod straight, her hair pulled
severely off her face as usual, her eyes staring intently at what must have been my
shocked face. There was absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her.
“Um, good morning, Miranda,” I said, but it came out sounding like a whisper. The
doors closed behind us: we would be the only two riding for the entire seventeen floors.
She said nothing to me, but she pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping
through the pages. We stood side by side, the depth of the silence increasing tenfold with
every second that she didn’t respond.Does she even recognize me? I wondered. Was it
possible that she was entirely unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven
months—or perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn’t heard? I wondered
why she didn’t immediately ask me about the restaurant review or whether I’d received
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her message about ordering new china, or if everything was in place for the evening’s
party. But she acted as though she were all alone in that elevator, that there was not
another human being—or, to be precise, not one worth acknowledging—inside that small
vestibule with her.
It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren’t progressing through the
floors. Ohmigod! Shehad seen me because she’d assumed that I would press the button,
but I’d been too stunned to move. I reached forward slowly, fearfully, pressed the number
seventeen, and instinctively waited for something to explode. But we immediately
whisked upward, and I wasn’t even sure if she had noticed we hadn’t been moving all
along.
Five, six, seven . . . it felt as though it took ten minutes for the elevator to pass each
floor, and the silence had begun humming in my ears. When I worked up enough nerve to
steal a glance in Miranda’s direction, I discovered that she was looking me up and down.
Her eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then my pants and
then my shirt, and continued upward to my face and hair, all the while avoiding my eyes.
The expression on her face was one of passive disgust, the way the desensitizedLaw &
Order detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and bloodied corpse.
I did a quick review of myself and wondered what exactly had triggered the reaction.
Short-sleeve, military-style shirt, a brand-new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from
their PR department simply for working atRunway, and a pair of relatively flat (two-inch
heels) black slingbacks that were to date the only nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that
allowed me to make four-plus trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits. I
usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me, but I needed a day off
every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to stop aching. My hair was clean and
assembled in the kind of deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without
comment, and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped. I
had shaved under my arms within the last forty-eight hours. At least as far as the last time
I’d checked, there were no massive facial eruptions. My Fossil watch was turned around
so the face was sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch a
glimpse of the brand, and a quick check with my right hand indicated that no bra straps
were visible. So what was it? What exactly had made her look at me that way?
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . . the elevator stopped and swept open to yet another stark
white reception area. A woman of around thirty-five stepped forward to board, but
stopped two feet from the door when she saw Miranda standing inside.
“Oh, I, uh . . .” she stammered loudly, looking frantically around her for an excuse not to
enter our private hell. And although it would’ve been nicer for me to have her come
aboard, I privately rooted for her to escape. “I, um, oh! I forgot the photos I need for the
meeting,” she finally managed, whipping around on a particularly unsteady Manolo and
high-tailing it back toward the office area. Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice, and once
again, the doors swept shut.
Fifteen, sixteen, and finally—finally!—seventeen, where the doors opened to reveal a
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group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to pick up the cigarettes, Diet Coke, and
mixed greens that would constitute their lunch. Each young, beautiful face looked more
panicked than the next, and they almost trampled one another trying to move out of
Miranda’s way. They parted directly down the middle, three to one side and two to the
other, and she deigned to walk past them. They were all staring after her, silent, as she
made her way across the reception area, and I was left with no choice but to follow her.
Wouldn’t notice a thing, I figured. We’d just spent what felt like an entire insufferable
week locked together in a five-by-three-foot box, and she hadn’t so much as
acknowledged my presence. But as soon as I stepped onto the floor, she turned around.
“Ahn-dre-ah?” she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence that filled the entire
room. I didn’t respond since I figured it was rhetorical, but she waited.
“Ahn-dre-ah?”
“Yes, Miranda?”
“Whose shoes are you wearing?” She placed one hand lightly on a tweed-swathed hip
and peered over at me. By now the elevator had left without the fashion assistants, since
they were too engrossed in actually getting to see—and hear!—Miranda Priestly in the
flesh. I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet, which, although they had been quite
comfortable mere moments before, were now beginning to burn and itch under the
intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants and one fashion guru.
The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and the unwavering stares
of all these people addled my brain, so when Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing, I
thought that perhapsshe thought I was not wearing my own.
“Um, mine?” I said, without realizing until the words had been spoken that it sounded
not only disrespectful, but downright obnoxious. The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter,
until Miranda turned her wrath on them.
“I’m wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants appear as though they
have nothing better to do than gossip like little girls.” She began singling them out by
pointing at each one, since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if
you put a gun to her head.
“You!” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably seeing Miranda for the
first time. “Did we hire you for this or did we hire you to call in clothes for the suits
shoot?” The girl hung her head and opened her mouth to apologize, but Miranda barreled
on.
“And you!” she said, walking over and standing directly in front of Jocelyn, the highest-
ranking among them and a favorite of all the editors. “You think there aren’t a million
girls who want your job and who understand couture just as well as you?” She took a step
back, slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies, lingering just long
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enough to make each feel fat, ugly, and inappropriately clad, and commanded them all to
return to their desks. They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads bowed.
A few murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly back to the fashion area.
It wasn’t until they’d all left that I realized we were alone. Again.
“Ahn-dre-ah? I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my assistant,” she declared,
walking toward the door that would lead us to the hallway. I was unsure whether I should
follow her or not, and I briefly hoped that either Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion
girls had warned Emily that Miranda was on her way back.
“Miranda, I—”
“Enough.” She paused at the door and looked at me. “Whose shoes are you wearing?”
she asked again in a none-too-pleased voice.
I checked out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the most stylish
woman in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a pair of shoes I’d purchased at Ann
Taylor Loft. Another glance at her face and I knew I couldn’t.
“I bought them in Spain,” I said quickly, averting my eyes. “It was at some adorable
boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that carried this new Spanish designer’s
line.” Where the hell had I pulled that one from?
She folded her hand into a fist, put it over her mouth, and cocked her head. I saw James
approaching the glass door from the other side, but as soon as he saw Miranda he turned
and fled. “Ahn-dre-ah, they’re unacceptable. My girls need to representRunway
magazine, and those shoes are not the message I’m looking to convey. Find some decent
footwear in the Closet. And get me a coffee.” She looked at me and looked at the door,
and I understood I was to reach forward and open it for her, which I did. She walked
through without saying thank you and headed back to the office. I needed to get money
and my cigarettes for the coffee run, but neither was worth having to walk behind her like
an abused but loyal duckling, and so I turned to walk back toward the elevator. Eduardo
could spot me the five bucks for the latte, and Ahmed would just charge a new pack
toRunway ’s house account, as he’d been doing for months now. I hadn’t counted on her
even noticing, but her voice hit the back of my head like a shovel.
“Ahn-dre-ah!”
“Yes, Miranda?” I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her.
“I expect the restaurant review I asked you for is on my desk?”
“Um, well, actually, I’ve had a little trouble locating it. You see, I’ve spoken to all the
papers and it seems none of them have run a review of an Asian fusion restaurant in the
past few days. Do you, uh, happen to remember the name of the restaurant?” Without
realizing it, I was holding my breath and bracing for the onslaught.
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It appeared my explanation held little interest for her, because she had resumed walking
toward her office. “Ahn-dre-ah, I already told you that it was in thePost —is it really that
difficult to find?” And with that, she was gone. ThePost ? I’d spoken to their restaurant
reviewer just that morning and he had sworn there were no reviews that fit my
description—nothing noteworthy had opened that week whatsoever. She was cracking
up, for sure, and I was the one who was going to get blamed.
The coffee run took only a few minutes since it was midday, so I felt free to tack on an
extra ten minutes to call Alex, who would be having lunch at exactly twelve-thirty.
Thankfully, he answered his cell phone, so I didn’t have to deal with any of the teachers
again.
“Hey babe, how’s your day going?” He sounded cheerful to the point of excess, and I
had to remind myself not to be irritated.
“Awesome so far, as always. I really do love it here. I’ve spent the past five hours
researching an imaginary article that was dreamed up by a delusional woman who would
probably rather take her own life than admit she’s wrong. What about you?”
“Well, I’ve had a great day. Remember I told you about Shauna?” I nodded into the
phone even though he couldn’t see me. Shauna was one of his little girls who had yet to
utter a single word in class, and whether he threatened her or bribed her or worked with
her one on one, Alex couldn’t get her to talk. He’d been near-hysterical the first time
she’d shown up in his class, placed there by a social worker who’d discovered that even
though she was nine years old she’d never been in the inside of a school, and he’d been
obsessed with helping her ever since.
“Well, it seems she won’t shut up! All it took was a little singing. I had a folk singer
come in today to play the guitar for the kids, and Shauna was singing away. And once she
