trays, and there were already pens and paper clips and some notebooks in the drawers. “I
left most of my stuff for you. It’s easier if I just order the new stuff for myself.”
Emily had just been promoted to the position of senior assistant, leaving the junior
assistant position open for me. She explained that she would spend two years as
Miranda’s senior assistant, after which she’d be skyrocketed to an amazing fashion
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position atRunway . The three-year assistant program she’d be completing was the
ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world, but I was clinging to the belief
that my one-year sentence would suffice forThe New Yorker . Allison had already left
Miranda’s office area for her new post in the beauty department, where she’d be
responsible for testing new makeup, moisturizers, and hair products and writing them up.
I wasn’t sure how being Miranda’s assistant had prepared her for this task, but I was
impressed nonetheless. The promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got
places.
The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten, about fifty in all of editorial. The
biggest department was fashion, of course, with close to thirty people, including all the
accessories assistants. Features, beauty, and art rounded out the mix. Nearly everyone
stopped by Miranda’s office to schmooze with Emily, overhear any gossip concerning
her boss, and check out the new girl. I met dozens of people that first morning, everyone
flashing enormous, toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in meeting
me.
The men were all flamboyantly gay, adorning themselves in second-skin leather pants
and ribbed T’s that stretched over bulging biceps and perfect pecs. The art director, an
older man sporting champagne blond, thinning hair, who looked like he dedicated his life
to emulating Elton John, was turned out in rabbit-fur loafers and eyeliner. No one batted
an eye. We’d had gay groups on campus, and I had a few friends who’d come out the past
few years, but none of them looked like this. It was like being surrounded by the entire
cast and crew ofRent —with better costumes, of course.
The women, or rather the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were
mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than
thirty. While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring
fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—or ever would. In and
out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch skinny heels, sashaying over to my
desk to extend milky-white hands with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves
“Jocelyn who works with Hope,” “Nicole from fashion,” and “Stef who oversees
accessories.” Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she was so petite it
seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of height. All weighed less than 110
pounds.
As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone’s name, the prettiest girl I’d
seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater that looked like it
was spun from pink clouds. The most amazing, white hair swirled down her back. Her
six-one frame looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright, but she
moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks glowed, and her multi-carat,
flawless diamond engagement ring emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she’d
caught me staring at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.
“I created it,” she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at me. I looked to Emily
for an explanation, a hint as to who this might be, but she was on the phone again. I
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thought the girl was referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but then
she said, “Isn’t it a gorgeous color? It’s one coat Marshmallow and one coat Ballet
Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first, and then a topcoat to finish it off. It’s
perfect—light colored without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think
I’ll use this every time I get a manicure!” And she turned on her heels and walked
out.Ah, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too, I mentally directed toward her back as she
strutted away.
I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and sweet and,
except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish fetish, they all appeared interested in
getting to know me. Emily hadn’t left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me
something. She provided running commentary on who was really important, whom not to
piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend because they threw the best parties. When I
described Manicure Girl, Emily’s face lit up.
“Oh!” she breathed, more excited than I’d heard her about anyone else yet. “Isn’t she just
amazing?”
“Um, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn’t really get a chance to talk, she was just, you
know, showing me her nail polish.”
Emily smiled widely, proudly. “Yes, well, you do know who she is, don’t you?”
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie stars or singers or
models, but I couldn’t place her. So, she was famous! Maybe that’s why she hadn’t
introduced herself—I was supposed to recognize her. But I didn’t. “No, actually, I don’t.
Is she famous?”
The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust. “Um,yeah, ” Emily said,
emphasizing the “yeah” and squinting her eyes as if to say,You total fucking idiot . “That
is Jessica Duchamps.” She waited. I waited. Nothing. “You do know who that is, right?”
Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect something with this new
information, but I was quite sure I’d never, ever heard of her. Besides, this game was
getting old.
“Emily, I’ve never seen her before, and her name doesn’t sound familiar. Would you
please tell me who she is?” I asked, struggling to remain calm. The ironic part was that I
didn’t even care who she was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d
made me look like a complete and total loser.
Her smile this time was patronizing. “Of course. You just had to say so. Jessica
Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful French restaurant
in the city! Her parents own it—isn’t that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich.”
“Oh, really?” I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty girl was worth
knowing because her parents were restaurateurs. “That’s great.”
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I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s office,” although
both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself would call and I wouldn’t know what
to do. Panic set in during a call when an unidentified woman barked something
incoherent in a strong British accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without thinking to
put it on hold first.
“It’s her,” I whispered urgently. “Take it.”
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to mince emotions, she
could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a way that clearly conveyed equal parts
disgust and pity.
“Miranda? It’s Emily,” she said, a bright smile lighting up her face as if Miranda might
be able to seep through the phone and see her. Silence. A frown. “Oh, Mimi, so sorry!
The new girl thought you were Miranda! I know, how funny. I guess we have to work
onnot thinking every British accent is necessarily our boss! ” She looked at me pointedly,
her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher.
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and take messages for
Emily, who would then call the people back—with nonstop narration on their order of
importance, if any, in Miranda’s life. About noon, just as the first hunger pangs were
beginning, I picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end.
“Hello? Allison, is that you?” asked the icy-sounding but regal voice. “I’ll be needing a
skirt.”
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide. “Emily, it’s her, it’s
definitely her,” I hissed, waving the receiver to get her attention. “She wants a skirt!”
Emily turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the phone without so
much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good-bye.” She pressed the button to switch
Miranda to her line, and plastered on another wide grin.
“Miranda? It’s Emily. What can I do?” She put her pen to her pad and began writing
furiously, forehead furrowing intently. “Yes, of course. Naturally.” And as fast as it
happened, it was over. I looked at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for
appearing so eager.
“Well, it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt for tomorrow, among
other things, so we’ll need to get it on a plane by tonight, at the latest.”
“OK, well, what kind does she need?” I asked, still reeling from the shock that a skirt
would be traveling to the Dominican Republic simply because she’d requested it do so.
“She didn’t say exactly,” Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
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“Hi, Jocelyn, it’s me. She wants a skirt, and I’ll need to have it on Mrs. de la Renta’s
flight tonight, since she’ll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she
didn’t say. I really don’t know. OK, thanks.” She turned to me and said, “It makes it more
difficult when she’s not specific. She’s too busy to worry about details like that, so she
didn’t say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But that’s OK. I know her
size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she’ll like. That
was Jocelyn from the fashion department. They’ll start calling some in.” I pictured Jerry
Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci
and spontaneous applause.
Not quite. “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway ridiculousness,
although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military operation. Either
Emily or myself would notify the fashion assistants—about eight in all, who each
maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores. The assistants would
immediately begin calling all of their public relations contacts at the various design
houses and, if appropriate, at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda
Priestly—yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for herpersonal use—was looking
for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec and assistant working at
Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Barney’s, Chloé, Calvin
Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto Cavalli, and Saks would be messengering over (or, in some
cases, hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly could
conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like a highly choreographed
ballet, each player knowing exactly where and when and how their next step would
occur. While this near-daily activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other
things that we’d need to send with the skirt that night.
“Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,” she said while working two
phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece ofRunway stationery. She
paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, “Here, take this in case I need to reach
you or you have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it.” I took the phone and
the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the building, wondering how I was
ever going to find “my car.” Or even, really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the
sidewalk and looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe
approached.
“You Priestly’s new girl?” he croaked through tobacco-stained lips, never removing the
mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. “I’m Rich. The dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka
to me. Got it, blondie?” I nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac
sedan. He slammed the door shut and waved.
“Where you going, miss?” the driver asked, pulling me back to the present. I realized I
had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from my pocket.
First stop: Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for Leanne.
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She’ll give you everything we need.
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one o’clock on a frigid
winter afternoon, I was twenty-three years old, and I was riding in the backseat of a
chauffeured sedan, on my way to Tommy Hilfiger’s studio. And I was positively
starving. It took nearly forty-five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the midtown
lunch hour, my first glimpse of real city gridlock. The driver told me he’d circle the block
until I came out again, and off I went to Tommy’s studio. When I asked for Leanne at the
receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor, an adorable girl not a day older than eighteen came
bounding down the stairs.
“Hi!” she called, stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds. “You must be Andrea,
Miranda’s new assistant. We sure do love her around here, so welcome to the team!” She
grinned. I grinned. She pulled a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and
immediately spilled its contents on the floor. “Here we have Caroline’s favorite jeans in
three colors, and we threw in some baby T’s, too. And Cassidy just adores Tommy’s
khaki skirts—we gave them to her in olive and stone.” Jean skirts, denim jackets, even a
few pair of socks came flying out of the bag, and all I could do was stare: there were
enough clothes to constitute four or more total preteen wardrobes.Who the hell are
Cassidy and Caroline? I wondered, staring at the loot. What self-respecting person wears
Tommy Hilfiger jeans—in three different colors, no less?
I must’ve looked thoroughly confused, because Leanne quite purposely turned her back
while repacking the clothes and said, “I just know Miranda’s daughters will love this
stuff. We’ve been dressing them for years, and Tommy insists on picking the clothes out
