bad perk at all. But just as I started to drift off once again, the cell phone that I’d
grudgingly brought along began its persistent ring.
“Hello?” I said brightly, as if I weren’t lying naked on a table covered in oil, half-asleep.
“Ahn-dre-ah. Move my hair and makeup earlier and tell the Ungaro people I can’t make
it tonight. I’ll be attending a small cocktail party instead, and I expect you to come with
me. Be ready to leave in an hour.”
“Um, sure, uh, sure,” I stammered, trying to process the fact that I was actually going
somewhere with her. A flashback from yesterday—the last time I was told at the very last
minute that I was to go somewhere with her—flooded my brain, and I felt as though I
would hyperventilate. I thanked the woman and charged the massage to the room even
though I’d made it through only the first ten minutes, and I ran upstairs to figure out how
to best maneuver around this newest obstacle. This was getting old. Quickly.
It took just a few minutes to page Miranda’s hair and makeup people (who, incidentally,
were different from my own—I was pieced together by an angry-looking woman whose
look of despair on seeing me for the first time haunted me still, while Miranda had a pair
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of gay guys who looked like they stepped directly out of the pages ofMaxim ) and change
her appointment.
“No problem,” Julien squealed in a thick French accent. “We will be there, how you say?
Wearing bells! We clear our schedules this week just in the case that Madame Priestly
need us at different times!”
I paged Briget yet again and asked her to deal with the Ungaro people. Time to hit the
wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my different “looks” was displayed prominently on
the bedside table, just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to turn to it for
spiritual guidance. I flipped through the headings and subheadings and tried to make
sense of it all.
Shows:
1. Daytime
2. Evening
Meals:
1. Breakfast meeting
2. Lunch
A. Casual (hotel or bistro)
B. Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)
3. Dinner
A. Casual (bistro, room service)
B. Midrange (decent restaurant, casual dinner party)
C. Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner party)
Parties:
1. Casual (champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)
2. Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties, “meet for drinks”)
3. Dressy (cocktail parties by major people, anything at a museum or gallery, postshow
parties hosted by design team)
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Miscellaneous:
1. To and from the airport
2. Athletic events (lessons, tournaments, etc.)
3. Shopping excursions
4. Running errands
A. To couture salons
B. To upscale shops and boutiques
C. To the local food store and/or health and beauty aid
There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear when one was unable to
establish the major-ness or non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was the
opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the event down to “Parties,”
which was a good first step, but at that point things got gray. Was this party going to be a
simple number 2, where I’d just pull out something chic, or was it really a 3, in which
case I’d better pay attention to choose something from the more elegant choices? There
were no instructions for “gray area” or “uncertainty,” but someone had helpfully included
a last-minute handwritten note toward the bottom of the table of contents:When in doubt
(and you never should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous than
overdressed in something fabulous. Well, OK then, it looked like I now squarely fit into
category, party; subcategory, stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had sketched for
that specific description and tried to figure out what might look less ridiculous once it
was actually on.
After a particularly embarrassing run-in with a feather-covered tank top and patent-
leather thigh-high (as in yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected the outfit on page
thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli with a baby-T and a pair of
biker-chick black boots by D&G. Hot, sexy, stylish—but not too dressy—without
actually making me look like an ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker. What more
could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to choose a workable bag, the hair and
makeup woman showed up to begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making
me not look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did.
“Um, could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a little?” I asked carefully,
desperately trying not disparage her handiwork. It probably would’ve been better to have
a go at the makeup myself— especially since I had more supplies and instructions than
the NASA scientists commissioned to build the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo
showed up like clockwork whether I liked it or not.
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“No!” she barked, clearly not striving for the same sensitivity as myself. “It looks better
this way.”
She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom lashes and vanished as
quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to
the lobby fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I could double-check
that the driver was ready. Just as I was debating with Renaud whether Miranda would
prefer for us to each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or actually
use the same one and risk catching something from sharing a backseat with her assistant,
she appeared. She looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining
completely passive and indifferent. I’d passed! This was the first time since I’d started
working there that I hadn’t received a look of all-out disgust or, at the very least, a snarky
comment, and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New York fashion editors, a
collection of Parisian hair and makeup stylists, and a hefty selection of the world’s finest
and most expensive clothing.
“Is the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?” She looked stunning in a short, shirred velvet cocktail
dress.
“Yes, Ms. Priestly, right this way,” Monsieur Renaud interrupted smoothly, leading us
past a group of what could only be other American fashion editors also there for the
shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking crowd ofüber -Clackers when
we walked past, Miranda two steps in front me, looking thin and striking and very, very
unhappy. I nearly had to run to keep up, even though she was six inches shorter than me,
and I waited until she gave me a “Well? What the hell are you waiting for?” look before I
ducked into the backseat of the limo after her.
Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going, because I’d been paranoid
for the past hour that she would turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party
was being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing, choosing instead to chat with B
DAD on her cell phone, repeating over and over that she expected him to arrive with
plenty of time to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday night. He was
flying over in his company’s private jet, and they were currently debating whether or not
to bring Caroline and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday, she didn’t
want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in
front of a duplex apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it was
exactly that I was supposed to do all night. She’d always been rather good about not
abusing Emily or me or any of her staff in public, which indicated—at least on some
level—that she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she couldn’t really order me
to fetch her drinks or find her someone on the phone or have something dry-cleaned
while we were standing there, what was I to do?
“Ahn-dre-ah, this party is being hosted by a couple with whom I was friendly when we
lived in Paris. They requested that I bring along an assistant to entertain their son, who
generally finds these events rather dull. I’m sure the two of you will get along well.” She
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waited until the driver opened her door, then she daintily stepped out in her perfect
Jimmy Choo pumps. Before I could open my own door, she had climbed the three steps
and was already handing her coat to the butler, who was clearly awaiting her arrival. I
slumped back into the soft leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem of
information she’d so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup, the rescheduling, the panicked
consultation with the style book, the biker-chick boots, were all so I could spend the night
babysitting some rich couple’s snot-nosed kid? And aFrench snot-nosed kid, no less.
I spent three full minutes reminding myself thatThe New Yorker was now only a couple
months away, that my year of servitude was about to pay off, that I could surely make it
through one more night of tedium to get my dream job. It didn’t help. All of a sudden, I
desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’ couch and have my mom microwave me
some tea while my dad set up the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting,
too, with baby Isaac, who would coo and smile when he saw me and Alex would call and
tell me he loved me. No one would care that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were
frightfully unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate éclair. Not a single person
would even know that there were fashion shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic,
and they sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them. But all of that seemed
incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and right now I had to contend with a coterie of
people who lived and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to be a screaming,
spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.
When I finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from the limo, the butler was no
longer expecting anyone. There was music coming from a live band and the smell of
scented candles wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I took a deep
breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open. It’s safe to say that never, ever,
in my young life had I been more surprised than I was that night: Christian was smiling
back at me.
“Andy, darling, so glad you could make it,” he said, leaning in and kissing me full on the
mouth—a bit intimate considering my mouth had been hanging wide open in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned and pushed that ever-present curl off his forehead. “Shouldn’t I be asking
you the same thing? Because you seem to follow me everywhere I go, I’m going to have
to assume you want to sleep with me.”
I blushed and, always the lady, snorted loudly. “Yeah, something like that. Actually, I’m
not here as a guest, I’m just a very well dressed babysitter. Miranda asked me to come
along and didn’t tell me until the last second that I’m supposed to be watching the hosts’
bratty son tonight. So, if you’ll excuse me, I better go make sure he has all the milk and
crayons he’ll need.”
“Oh, he’s just fine, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’ll be needing tonight is another
kiss from his babysitter.” And he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me again. I
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opened my mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on, but he took that as
enthusiasm and slid his tongue into my mouth.
“Christian!” I was hissing quietly, wondering just how quickly Miranda would fire me if
she caught me making out with some random guy at one of her own parties. “What the
hell are you doing? Let go of me!” I squirmed away, but he just continued to grin that
annoyingly adorable smile.
“Andy, since you seem to be a little slow on the uptake here, this ismy house.My parents
are hosting this party, and I was clever enough to have them ask your boss to bring you
along. Did she tell you I was ten years old, or did you just decide that for yourself?”
“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Please?”
“Nope. Fun, right? Since I can’t seem to pin you down any other way, I thought this
might work. My stepmother and Miranda used to be friendly when Miranda worked at
FrenchRunway —she’s a photographer and does shoots for them all the time—so I just
had her tell Miranda that her lonely son wouldn’t mind a little company in the form of
one attractive assistant. Worked like a charm. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” He put his
hand on the small of my back and led me toward a massive oak bar in the living room,
which currently had three uniformed bartenders administering martinis and glasses of
Scotch and elegant flutes of champagne.
“So, let me just get this straight: I don’t have to babysit for anyone tonight? You don’t
have a baby brother or anything like that, do you?” It was incomprehensible that I had
driven to a party with Miranda Priestly and had no responsibilities for the entire night
except to hang out with a Hot Smart Writer. Maybe they’d invited me because they were
planning to make me dance or sing to entertain the guests, or perhaps they were really
short one cocktail waitress and figured I was the easiest last-minute fill-in? Or maybe we
were headed to the coat check, where I would relieve the girl who sat there now, looking
bored and tired? My mind refused to wrap itself around Christian’s story.
“Well, I’m not saying you don’t have to babysit at all tonight, because I plan on needing
lots and lots of attention. But I think it’ll be a better night than you’d anticipated. Wait
right here.” He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd of partygoers,
mostly distinguished-looking men and sort of artsy, fashionable women in their forties
and fifties, what appeared to be a mix of bankers and magazine people, with a few
designers, photographers, and models thrown in for good measure. There was a small,
