It was the Sunday night before my first day of work, and I could do nothing but agonize
over what to wear the next day. Kendra, the nicer of my two apartmentmates, kept poking
her head in and asking quietly if she could help at all. Considering the two of them wore
ultraconservative suits to work each day, I declined any fashion input. I paced the living
room as much as I could manage when each length only took four strides, and sat down
on the futon in front of the TV. Just what does one wear to the first day working for the
most fashionable fashion editor of the most fashionable fashion magazine in existence?
I’d heard of Prada (from the few Jappy girls who carried the backpacks at Brown) and
Louis Vuitton (because both of my grandmothers sported the signature-print bags without
realizing how cool they were) and maybe even Gucci (because who hasn’t heard of
Gucci?). But I sure didn’t own a single stitch of it, and I wouldn’t have known what to do
with it if the entire contents of all three stores resided in my miniature closet. I walked
back to my room—or, rather, the wall-to-wall mattress that I called a room—and
collapsed on that big, beautiful bed, banging my ankle on the bulky frame. Shit. What
now?
After much agonizing and clothes-flinging, I finally decided on a light blue sweater and
a knee-length black skirt, with my knee-high black boots. I already knew that a briefcase
wouldn’t fly there, so I was left with no choice but to use my black canvas purse. The last
thing I remember about that night was trying to navigate around my massive bed in high-
heeled boots, a skirt, and no shirt, and sitting down to rest from the exhaustion of the
effort.
I must have passed out from sheer anxiety, because it was adrenaline alone that
awakened me at 5:30A .M. I bolted from the bed. My nerves had been in perpetual
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overdrive all week, and my head felt like it would explode. I had exactly an hour and a
half to shower, dress, and make my way from my fraternity-like building at 96th and
Third to midtown via public transportation, a still sinister and intimidating concept. That
meant I had to allot an hour for travel time and a half hour to make myself beautiful.
The shower was horrific. It made a high-pitched squealing noise like one of those dog-
training whistles, remaining steadfastly lukewarm until just before I stepped out into the
freezing-cold bathroom, at which point the water turned scalding. It took a mere three
days ofthat routine before I began sprinting from my bed, turning on the shower fifteen
minutes early, and heading back under the covers. When I snoozed three more times with
the alarm clock and went back for round two in the bathroom, the mirrors would be all
steamed up from the gloriously hot—although trickling—water.
I got myself into my binding and uncomfortable outfit and out the door in twenty-five
minutes—a record. And it took only ten minutes to find the nearest subway, something I
should’ve done the night before but was too busy scoffing at my mother’s suggestion to
take a “run-through” so I wouldn’t get lost. When I’d gone for the interview the week
before I’d taken a cab, and I was already convinced that this subway experiment was
going to be a nightmare. But, remarkably, there was an English-speaking attendant in the
booth who instructed me to take the 6 train to 59th Street. She said I’d exit right on 59th
and would have to walk two blocks west to Madison. Easy. I rode the cold train in
silence, one of the only people crazy enough to be awake and actually moving at such a
miserable hour in the middle of November. So far, so good—no glitches until it was time
to make my way up to street level.
I took the nearest stairs and stepped out into a frigid day where the only light I saw was
emanating from twenty-four-hour bodegas. Behind me was Bloomingdale’s, but nothing
else looked familiar. Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark, Elias-Clark. Where was that building? I
turned in my place 180 degrees until I saw a street sign: 60th Street and Lexington. Well,
59th can’t be that far away from 60th, but which way should I walk to make the streets go
west? And where was Madison in comparison to Lexington? Nothing looked familiar
from my visit to the building the week before, since I’d been dropped off right in front. I
strolled for a bit, happy to have left enough time to get as lost as I was, and finally
ducked into a deli for a cup of coffee.
“Hello, sir. I can’t seem to find my way to the Elias-Clark building. Could you please
point me in the right direction?” I asked the nervous-looking man behind the cash
register. I tried not to smile sweetly, remembering what everyone had told me about not
being in Avon anymore, and how people here don’t exactly respond well to good
manners. He scowled at me, and I got nervous it was because he thought me rude. I
smiled sweetly.
“One dollah,” he said, holding out his hand.
“You’re charging me for directions?”
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“One dollah, skeem or bleck, you peek.”
I stared at him for a moment before I realized he knew only enough English to converse
about coffee. “Oh, skim would be perfect. Thank you so much.” I handed over a dollar
and headed back outside, more lost than ever. I asked people who worked at newsstands,
as street sweepers, even a man who was tucked inside one of those movable breakfast
carts. Not a single one understood me well enough to so much as point in the direction of
59th and Madison, and I had brief flashbacks to Delhi, depression, dysentery.No! I will
find it.
A few more minutes of wandering aimlessly around a waking midtown actually landed
me at the front door of the Elias-Clark building. The lobby glowed behind the glass doors
in the early-morning darkness, and it looked, for those first few moments, like a warm,
welcoming place. But when I pushed the revolving door to enter, it fought me. Harder
and harder I pushed, until my body weight was thrust forward and my face was nearly
pressed against the glass, and only then did it budge. When it did begin to move, it slid
slowly at first, prompting me to push ever harder. But as soon as it picked up some
momentum, the glass behemoth whipped around, hitting me from behind and forcing me
to trip over my feet and shuffle visibly to remain standing. A man behind the security
desk laughed.
“Tricky, eh? Not the first time I seen that happen, and won’t be the last,” he chortled,
fleshy cheeks jiggling. “They getcha good here.”
I looked him over quickly and decided to hate him and knew that he would never like
me, regardless of what I said or how I acted. I smiled anyway.
“I’m Andrea,” I said, pulling a knit mitten from my hand and reaching over the desk.
“Today’s my first day of work atRunway . I’m Miranda Priestly’s new assistant.”
“And I’m sorry!” he roared, throwing his round head back with glee. “Just call me ‘Sorry
for You’! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hey, Eduardo, check this out. She’s one of Miranda’s
newslaves ! Where you from, girl, bein’ all friendly and shit? Topeka fuckin’ Kansas?
She is gonna eat you alive, hah, hah, hah!”
But before I could respond, a portly man wearing the same uniform came over and with
no subtlety whatsoever looked me up and down. I braced for more mocking and guffaws,
but it didn’t come. Instead, he turned a kind face to mine and looked me in the eyes.
“I’m Eduardo, and this idiot here’s Mickey,” he said, motioning to the first man, who
looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and ruined all the fun. “Don’t make no
never mind of him, he’s just kiddin’ with you.” He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New
York accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. “You just fill out this here information, and
I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell ’em you need a card wit your pitcher on
it from HR.”
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I must have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and shoved the book
across the counter. “Well, go on now, fill ’er out. And good luck today, girl. You gonna
need it.”
I was too nervous and exhausted at this point to ask him to explain, and besides, I didn’t
really have to. About the only thing I’d had time to do in the week between accepting the
job and starting work was to learn a little bit about my new boss. I had Googled her and
was surprised to find that Miranda Priestly was born Miriam Princhek, in London’s East
End. Hers was like all the other orthodox Jewish families in the town, stunningly poor but
devout. Her father occasionally worked odd jobs, but mostly they relied on the
community for support since he spent most of his days studying Jewish texts. Her mother
had died in childbirth with Miriam, and it washer mother who moved in and helped raise
the children. And were there children! Eleven in all. Most of her brothers and sisters went
on to work blue-collar jobs like their father, with little time to do anything but pray and
work; a couple managed to get themselves into and through the university, only to marry
young and begin having large families of their own. Miriam was the single exception to
the family tradition.
After saving the small bills her older siblings would slip her whenever they were able,
Miriam promptly dropped out of high school upon turning seventeen—a mere three
months shy of graduation—to take a job as an assistant to an up-and-coming British
designer, helping him put together his shows each season. After a few years of making a
name for herself as one of the darlings of London’s burgeoning fashion world and
studying French at night, she scored a job as a junior editor at the FrenchChic magazine
in Paris. By this time, she had little to do with her family: they didn’t understand her life
or ambitions, and she was embarrassed by their old-fashioned piety and overwhelming
lack of sophistication. The alienation from her family was completed shortly after joining
FrenchChic when, at twenty-four years old, Miriam Princhek became Miranda Priestly,
shedding her undeniably ethnic name for one with more panache. Her rough, cockney-
girl British accent was soon replaced by a carefully cultivated, educated one, and by her
late twenties, Miriam’s transformation from Jewish peasant to secular socialite was
complete. She rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the magazine world.
She spent ten years at the helm of FrenchRunway before Elias transferred her to the
number-one spot at AmericanRunway, the ultimate achievement. She moved her two
daughters and her rock-star then husband (himself eager to gain more exposure in
America) to a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue at 76th Street and began a new era
atRunway magazine: the Priestly years, the sixth of which we were nearing as I began my
first day.
By some stroke of dumb luck, I would be working for nearly a month before Miranda
was back in the office. She took her vacation every year starting a week before
Thanksgiving until right after New Year’s. Typically, she’d spend a few weeks at the flat
she kept in London, but this year, I was told, she had dragged her husband and daughters
to Oscar de la Renta’s estate in the Dominican Republic for two weeks before spending
Christmas and New Year’s at the Ritz in Paris. I’d also been forewarned that even though
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she was technically “on vacation,” she’d still be fully reachable and working at all times,
and therefore, so should every single other person on staff. I was to be appropriately
prepped and trained without her highness present. That way, Miranda wouldn’t have to
suffer my inevitable mistakes while I learned the job. Sounded good to me. So at 7:00A
.M. on the dot, I signed my name into Eduardo’s book and was buzzed through the
turnstiles for the very first time. “Strike a pose!” Eduardo called after me, just before the
elevator doors swept shut.
Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but wrinkled sheer white T-
shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants was waiting for me in the reception area, clutching a
cup of Starbucks and flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were
placed firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed obviously through
the completely transparent cotton of her shirt. Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth
by the coffee cup, and uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders
made her look as though she’d spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.
“Hey, welcome,” she muttered, giving me my first official up-down look-over by
someone other than the security guard. “Nice boots.”
My heart surged. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her tone made it impossible to tell. My
arches ached already and my toes were jammed up against the front, but if I’d actually
been complimented on an item of my outfit by aRunway -er, it might be worth the pain.
Emily looked at me a moment longer and then swung her legs off the table, sighing
dramatically. “Well, let’s get to it. It’sreally lucky for you that she’s not here,” she said.
“Not that she’s not great, of course, because she is,” she added in what I would soon
recognize—and come to adopt myself—as the classicRunway Paranoid Turnaround. Just
when something negative about Miranda slips out from a Clacker’s lips—however
justified—paranoia that Miranda will find out overwhelms the speaker and inspires an
about-face. One of my favorite workday pastimes became watching my colleagues
scramble to negate whatever blasphemy they’d uttered.
Emily slid her card through the electronic reader, and we walked side by side, in silence,
through the winding hallways to the center of the floor, where Miranda’s office suite was
located. I watched as she opened the suite’s French doors and tossed her bag and coat on
one of the desks that sat directly outside Miranda’s cavernous office. “This is your desk,
obviously,” she motioned to a smooth, wooden, L-shaped Formica slab that sat directly
opposite hers. It had a brand-new turquoise iMac computer, a phone, and some filing
