retrieved for us like well-trained puppies.
Work on the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied to send me off to Paris
adequately prepared. Three Clackers from the fashion department hastily pulled together
a wardrobe that included every single item that I could conceivably require for any event
Miranda could conceivably call on me to attend. By the time I left, Lucia, the fashion
director, promised I would have in my possession not only an assemblage of clothing
appropriate for any contingency, but also a full sketchbook complete with professionally
rendered charcoal sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the aforementioned
clothing in order to maximize style and minimize embarrassment. In other words: leave
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nothing to my own selection or pairing, and I’d quite possibly have a shot in hell—albeit
slim—of looking presentable.
Might I need to accompany Miranda to a bistro and stand, mummylike, in the corner
while she sipped a glass of Bordeaux? A pair of cuffed, charcoal gray Theory pants with
a black silk turtleneck sweater by Celine. Attend the tennis club where she’d receive her
private lessons so that I could fetch water and, if required, white scarves in case
sheschvitzed ? A head-to-toe athletic outfit complete with bootleg workout pants, zip-up
hooded jacket (cropped to show off my tummy, natch), a $185 wife-beater to wear under
it, and suede sneakers—all by Prada. And what if maybe—just maybe—I actually did
make it to the front row of one of those shows like everyone swore I would? The options
were limitless. My favorite so far (and it was still only late afternoon on Monday) was a
pleated school-girl skirt by Anna Sui, with a very sheer and very frilly white Miu Miu
blouse, paired with a particularly naughty-looking pair of midcalf Christian Laboutin
boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather blazer so fitted it bordered on obscene.
My Express jeans and Franco Sarto loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my
closet for months now, and I had to admit I didn’t miss them.
I also discovered that Allison, the beauty editor, did, in fact, deserve her title by
literallybeing the beauty industry. Within twenty-four hours of being “put on notice” that
I would be needing some makeup and more than a few tips, she had created the Be-All,
End-All Cosmetic Catchall. Included in the decidedly oversize Burberry “toiletry case”
(it actually more closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than those approved
by the airlines for carry-on) was every imaginable type of shadow, lotion, gloss, cream,
liner, and type of makeup. Lipsticks came in matte, high-shine, long-lasting, and clear.
Six shades of mascara—ranging in color from a light blue to a “pouty black”—were
accompanied by an eyelash curler and two eyelash combs in case of (gasp!) clumps.
Powders, which appeared to account for half of all the products and
fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids, the skin tone, and the cheeks, had a color
scheme more complex and subtler than a painter’s palette: some were meant to bronze,
others to highlight, and still others to pout, plump, or pale. I had the choice whether to
add that healthy blush to my face in the form of a liquid, solid, powder, or a combination
thereof. The foundation was the most impressive of all: it was as if someone had
managed to remove an actual sample of skin directly from my face and custom-mix a pint
or two of the stuff. Whether it “added sheen” or “covered blemishes,” every single
solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better than, well, my own skin. Packed in a
slightly smaller matching plaid case were the supplies: cotton balls, cotton squares, Q-
tips, sponges, somewhere in the vicinity of two dozen different-size application brushes,
washcloths, two different types of eye makeup remover (moisturizing and oil-free), and
no less than twelve—TWELVE—kinds of moisturizer (facial, body, deep-conditioning,
with SPF 15, glimmering, tinted, scented, nonscented, hypoallergenic, with alpha-
hydroxy, antibacterial, and—just in case that nasty October Parisian sun got the best of
me—with aloe vera).
Tucked in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal-size pieces of paper with
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preprinted faces rendered on each one, enlarged to fit the page. Each face bragged an
impressive makeover: Allison had applied the actual makeup she’d included in the kit to
the paper faces. One face was eerily labeled “Relaxed Evening Glamour” but had a
caveat under it in big, bold marker that read: NOT FOR BLACK-TIE!! TOO CASUAL!!
The nonformal face had a light covering of the matte foundation under a slight brush of
bronzing powder, a light dab of liquid or “crème” blush, some very sexy, dark-lined and
heavily shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d lashes, and what appeared to
be a quick, casual swipe of high-gloss lip color. When I’d mumbled under my breath to
Allison that this would be utterly impossible for me to recreate, she looked exasperated.
“Well, hopefully you won’t have to,” she said in a voice that sounded so taxed, I thought
she might collapse under the weight of my ignorance.
“No? Then why do I have nearly two dozen ‘faces’ suggesting different ways to use all
this stuff?”
Her withering glance was worthy of Miranda.
“Andrea. Be serious. This is for emergencies only, in case Miranda asks you to go
somewhere with her at the last minute, or if your hair and makeup person can’t make it.
Oh, that reminds me, let me show you the hair stuff I packed.”
As Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of round brushes to blow my
hair straight, I tried to make sense of what she’d just said. I would have a hair and
makeup person, too? I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me when I’d booked all of
Miranda’s people, so who had? I had to ask.
“The Paris office,” Allison replied with a sigh. “You’re representingRunway, you know,
and Miranda is very sensitive to that. You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous
events in the world alongside Miranda Priestly. You don’t think you could achieve the
right look on your own, do you?”
“No, of course not. It’s definitely better that I have professional help for this. Thank
you.”
Then Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until she was satisfied that if any
of the fourteen hair and makeup appointments I had scheduled over the course of the
week fell through, I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by smearing the mascara across my lips
or shaving the sides of my head and spiking the center into a mohawk. When we were
through, I thought I’d finally get a moment to race down to the dining room and grab
some calorie-enriched soup, but Allison picked up Emily’s extension—her old phone
line—and dialed Stef in the accessories department.
“Hi, I’m done with her and she’s here right now. You want to come over?”
“Wait! I need to go get lunch before Miranda comes back!”
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Allison rolled her eyes just like Emily. I wondered if it was something about that
particular position that inspired such expert demonstrations of irritation. “Fine. No, no, I
was talking to Andrea,” she said into the phone, raising her eyebrows at me—surprise,
surprise—just like Emily. “It seems that she’shungry . I know. Yes, I know. I told her
that, but she seems intent on . . .eating .”
I walked out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream of broccoli with cheddar
cheese and returned within three minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk, holding the
phone receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches. She was due to fly to
Milan that very evening but I wasn’t sure I’d survive to see it happen.
“The phone rings, Andrea, but when I pick it up—because you’re apparently not
interested in doing so—no one’s there. Can you explain this phenomenon?” she asked.
Of course I could explain it, just not to her. On the rare occasion that Miranda was in her
office alone, she sometimes picked up the phone when it rang. Naturally callers were so
shocked to hear her voice on the other end that they promptly hung up. No one was
actually prepared tospeak with her when they called, since the likelihood of being put
through was next to nil. I’d gotten dozens of e-mails from editors or assistants informing
me—as if I didn’t know—that Miranda was answering the phone again. “Where are you
guys ?” The panicked missives would read, one after another. “She’s answering her
own phone!!!!”
I mumbled something about how I, too, received hang-ups every now and then, but
Miranda had already lost interest. She was peering not at me but at my cup of soup. Some
of the creamy green fluid was dripping slowly down the side. Her gaze turned to one of
disgust when she realized I was not only holding something edible, but that I had clearly
planned to consume it as well.
“Dispose of that immediately!” she barked from fifteen feet away. “The smell of it alone
is enough to make me ill.”
I dropped the offending soup in the garbage can and gazed wistfully after the lost
nourishment before her voice jerked me back to reality.
“I’m ready for the run-throughs!” she screeched, settling back into her chair more easily
now that the food she’d spotted atRunway had been discarded. “And the moment we’re
through here, call the features meeting.”
Each word caused another adrenaline surge; since I was never sure what exactly she’d be
requesting, I was never sure if I’d be able to handle it or not. Since it was Emily’s job to
schedule the run-throughs and the weekly meetings, I had to race over to her desk and
check her appointment book. In the three o’clock slot she had scribbled:Sedona Shoot
run-through, Lucia/Helen . I jabbed Lucia’s extension and spoke as soon as she picked up
the phone.
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“She’s ready,” I stated, like a military commander. Helen, Lucia’s assistant, hung up
without saying a word, and I knew she and Lucia were already halfway to the office. If
they didn’t arrive within twenty to twenty-five seconds, I would be sent out to hunt them
down and remind them in person—just in case they might have forgotten—that when I’d
called thirty seconds before and said that Miranda was ready right then, I meant rightthen
. Generally this was a mere annoyance, yet another reason why the enforced footwear of
spiky stilettos made life even more miserable. Running through the office, frantically
searching for someone who was most likely hiding from Miranda was never fun, but it
was only really miserable when that person happened to be in the bathroom. Whatever
one does in a men’s or ladies’ room, however, is no excuse for not being available at the
exact moment your presence is expected, and so I had to charge right in—sometimes
checking underneath the stalls for recognizable footwear—and politely ask in whatever
humiliated way I could manage that they finish up and head to Miranda’s office.
Immediately.
Luckily for everyone involved, Helen arrived within seconds, pushing an overflowing,
off-kilter wheeled rack in front of her and pulling another behind her. She hesitated
briefly outside Miranda’s French door before she received one of Miranda’s
imperceptible nods and then dragged the racks through the thick carpeting.
“This is all of it? Two racks?” Miranda asked, barely looking up from the copy she was
reading.
Helen was clearly surprised at being addressed, since, as a rule, Miranda didn’t speak to
other people’s assistants. But Lucia hadn’t shown up with her own racks yet, so there was
little choice.
“Um, uh, no. Lucia will be here in just a moment. She has the other two. Would you like
me to, uh, begin showing you what we’ve called in?” Helen asked nervously as she
pulled her ribbed tank top down over her prairie skirt.
“No.”
And then: “Ahn-dre-ah! Find Lucia. By my watch it’s three o’clock. If she’s not
prepared, then I have better things to do than sit here and wait for her.” Which wasn’t
exactly true, since it appeared she hadn’t yet stopped reading copy and it was now only
approximately thirty-five seconds since I’d made the initial phone call. But I wasn’t about
to point this out.
“No need, Miranda, I’m right here,” sang a breathless Lucia, herself pushing and pulling
racks past me just as I stood to begin the search. “So sorry. We were waiting for one last
coat from the YSL people.”
She arranged the racks, which were organized by clothing type (shirts, outerwear,
pants/skirts, and dresses) in a half-circle in front of Miranda’s desk and gave the signal
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for Helen to leave. Miranda and Lucia then went through each item, one by one, and
bickered over its place or lack thereof in the upcoming fashion shoot that was to take
place in Sedona, Arizona. Lucia was pushing for an “urban cowgirl chic” look, which she
thought would play out perfectly against a backdrop of the red-rock mountains, but
Miranda kept announcing snidely that she’d prefer “just chic,” since “cowgirl chic” was
clearly an oxymoron. Maybe she’d had her fill of “cowgirl chic” at B-DAD’s brother’s
party. I managed to tune them out until Miranda called my name, this time ordering me to
call in the accessories people for their run-through.
Immediately I checked Emily’s book again, but it was just as I thought: there was no
accessories run-through scheduled. Praying that Emily had simply forgotten to put it in
the book, I called Stef and told her Miranda was ready for the Sedona run-through.
No such luck. They weren’t scheduled for their run-through until late afternoon the
following day, and at least a quarter of the things they needed hadn’t been delivered yet
from their PR companies.
“Impossible. Can’t do it,” announced Stef, sounding much less confident than her words
implied.
“Well, what the hell do you expect me to tell her?” I whispered back.
“Tell her the truth: the run-through wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow and a
