The Devil Wears Prada

by Lauren Weisberger

  I grabbed two raw sugars, a stirrer, and a napkin from a stock I kept in my desk drawer and wrapped them all together. I briefly considered spitting in the drink but was able to restrain myself. Next, I pulled a small china plate from the overhead bin and dumped out the greasy meat and the oozing Danish, wiping my hands on her dirty dry cleaning, which was hidden beneath my desk so she couldn’t see it hadn’t been picked up yet. I was theoretically supposed to clean her plate each day in the sink in our mock-up kitchen, but I just couldn’t bring myself to bother. The humiliation of doing her dishes in front of everyone prompted me to wipe it down with tissues after each meal and scrape off any leftover cheese with my fingernails. If it was really dirty or had been sitting for a long time, I’d open a bottle of the Pellegrino we kept by the case and dump a little bit on. I figured she should be thankful I wasn’t using a spritz or two of desk cleaner. I was reasonably sure that I had reached a new moral low—what was worrisome was that I’d sunk to it so naturally.

  “Remember, I want my girls smiling,” she was saying into the phone. I could tell from her tone she was talking to Lucia, the fashion director who’d be in charge of the upcoming Brazil shoot, about how the models should appear. “Happy, lots of teeth, clean healthy girls. No brooding, no anger, no frowning, no dark makeup. I want them shining. I mean it, Lucia: I will accept nothing less.”

  I set the plate on the edge of her desk and placed the latte and the napkin with all necessary accessories next to it. She didn’t look at me. I paused for a moment to see if she’d hand me a pile of papers off her desk, things to fax or find or file, but she ignored me and I walked out. Eight-thirty A.M. I’d been awake now for three full hours, felt like I’d already worked for twelve, and could finally sit down for the very first time all morning. Just as I was logging on to Hotmail, anticipating some fun e-mails from people on the outside, she walked out. The belted jacket cinched her already tiny waist and complemented the perfectly fitted pencil skirt she wore beneath it. She looked dynamite.

  “Ahn-dre-ah. The latte is ice cold. I don’t understand why. You were certainly gone long enough! Bring me another.”

  I inhaled deeply and concentrated on keeping the look of hatred off my face. Miranda set the offending latte on my desk and flipped through the new issue of Vanity Fair that a staffer had set on the table for her. I could feel Emily watching me and knew her look would be one of sympathy and anger: she felt bad that I had to repeat the hellish ordeal all over again, but she hated me for daring to be upset about it. After all, wouldn’t a million girls die for my job?

  And so with an audible sigh—something I’d perfected lately, so it was just enough Miranda could hear but not nearly enough she could ever call me on it—I once again put on my coat and willed my legs to move toward the elevators. It was going to be another long, long day.

  The second coffee run in twenty minutes went much more smoothly; the lines at Starbucks had thinned a little and Marion had come on duty. She herself got to work on a tall latte as soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t bother overspending on a larger order this time because I was too desperate to just get back and sit down, but I did add venti cappuccinos for both Emily and me. Just as I was paying for the coffee, my phone rang. Goddamn it to hell, this woman was impossible. Insatiable, impatient, impossible. I hadn’t been gone for more than four minutes; she couldn’t possibly be freaking out yet. Again, I balanced my tray in one hand and pulled my phone from my coat pocket. I’d already decided that such behavior on her part warranted my having another cigarette—if just to hold up her coffee a few minutes longer—when I saw that it was Lily calling from her home phone.

  “Hey, bad time?” she asked, sounding excited. I looked at my watch and saw that she should’ve been in class.

  “Um, sort of. I’m on my second coffee run, which is really great. I’m really, really enjoying myself, just in case you were wondering. What’s up? Don’t you have class now?”

  “Yeah, but I went out with Pink-Shirt Boy again last night and we each drank a few too many margaritas. Like, eight too many. He’s still passed out here, so I can’t just leave him. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Yeah?” I was barely listening, since one of the cappuccinos was starting to leak and I had the phone wedged in between my neck and my shoulder as I used my one free hand to pluck a cigarette from the box and light it.

  “My landlord had the nerve to knock on my door at eight o’clock this morning to tell me that I’m being evicted,” she said with not a little bit of glee in her voice.

  “Evicted? Lil, why? What are you going to do?”

  “It seems they finally caught on that I’m not Sandra Gers and that she hasn’t lived here in six months. Since she’s technically not family, she wasn’t allowed to pass down the rent-controlled apartment to me. I knew that, of course, so I’ve just been saying I’m her. I don’t really know how they found out. But whatev, it doesn’t really matter, because now you and I can live together! Your lease with Shanti and Kendra is just month by month, right? You subletted because you had no place to live, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, now you do! We can get a place together, anywhere we like!”

  “That’s great!” It sounded hollow to my ears even though I was genuinely excited.

  “So you’re up for it?” she asked, her enthusiasm sounding a bit dampened.

  “Lil, definitely. Honestly, it’s an awesome idea. I don’t mean to sound negative, it’s just that it’s sleeting and I’m standing outside and I have burning hot coffee running down my left arm . . .” Beep-beep. The other line rang, and even though I almost burned my neck with the lit end of the cigarette while trying to pull my phone away from my ear, I was able to see that it was Emily calling.

  “Shit, Lil, it’s Miranda calling. I’ve got to run. But congrats on getting evicted! I’m so excited for us. I’ll call you later, OK?”

  “OK, I’ll talk to—”

  I had already clicked over and mentally prepared myself for the barrage.

  “Me again,” Emily said tightly. “What the hell is going on? It’s a fucking coffee, for chrissake. You forget that I used to do your job, and I know it doesn’t take that long to—”

  “What?” I said loudly, holding a few fingers over the microphone on the receiver. “What’d you say? I can’t hear you. Well, if you can hear me, I’ll be back in just a minute!” And I clicked my phone shut and buried it deep in my pocket. And even though I had at least half a Marlboro left, I dropped it on the sidewalk and ran back to work.

  Miranda deigned to accept this slightly warmer latte and even gave us a few moments of peace between ten and eleven, when she sat in her office with the door closed, cooing to B-DAD. I’d officially met him for the first time the week before, when I’d dropped the Book off that Wednesday night around nine. He had been removing his coat from the closet in the foyer and spent the next ten minutes referring to himself in the third person. Since that meeting, he had paid me extra-special attention when I let myself in each night, always taking a few minutes to ask about my day or compliment me on a job well done. Naturally, none of these niceties seemed to rub off on his wife, but at least he was pleasant to be around.

  I was just about to begin calling some of the PR people to see about getting a few more decent clothes to wear to work when Miranda’s voice shook me from my thoughts. “Emily, I’d like my lunch.” She had called from her office to no one in particular, since Emily could mean either of us. The real Emily looked at me and nodded, and I knew it was OK to move. The number for Smith and Wollensky was programmed into my desk phone, and I recognized the voice on the other end as the new girl.

  “Hey, Kim, it’s Andrea from Miranda Priestly’s office. Is Sebastian there?”

  “Oh, hi, um, what did you say your name was again?” No matter that I called at the exact same time, twice a week, and had already identified myself—she always acted as though we’d never spoken.

  “From Mira
nda Priestly’s office. At Runway. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude”—yes, actually, I do—“but I’m kind of in a hurry. Could you just put Sebastian on?” If anyone else had answered I would’ve been able to just tell that person to put in an order for Miranda’s usual, but since this one was too dumb to be trusted, I had learned to ask for the manager himself.

  “Um, OK, let me check and see if he’s available.” Trust me, Kim, he’s available. Miranda Priestly is his life.

  “Andy, dear, how are you?” Sebastian breathed into the phone. “I hope you’re calling because our favorite fashion editor would like some lunch today, yes?”

  I wondered what he’d say if I told him, just once, that it wasn’t Miranda who was looking for lunch, but me. After all, this wasn’t exactly a takeout joint, but they made a special exception for the queen herself.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. She was just saying how much she was in the mood for something delicious from your restaurant, and she also said to send her love.” If under threat of death or dismemberment Miranda wouldn’t have been able to identify the name of the place that made her lunch each day, never even mind the name of its daytime manager, but he always seemed so happy when I said something like this. Today he was so excited he giggled.

  “Fab! That’s just fabulous! We’ll have it ready for you as soon as you get here,” he called with fresh excitement in his voice. “Can’t wait! And give her my love, too, of course!”

  “Of course I will. See you soon.” It was exhausting to stroke his ego so enthusiastically, but he made my job so much easier it was well worth it. Every day that Miranda didn’t have lunch out, I served her the same meal at her desk, and she leisurely ate it behind closed doors. I kept a supply of china plates in the bins above my desk for this purpose. Most were samples sent by designers whose new “home” lines had just come out, although some I just took directly from the dining room. It would have been too annoying to have to keep stock of things like gravy trays and steak knives and linen napkins, though, so Sebastian was always sure to provide those with the meal.

  And once again I shrugged on my black wool coat and jammed my cigarettes and phone in the pocket and headed outside, into a late February day that seemed to get only grayer as it progressed. Although it was just a fifteen-minute walk to the restaurant on 49th and Third, I considered calling for a car but thought better of it when I felt the clean air in my lungs. I lit a cigarette and drew the smoke in; when I exhaled, I wasn’t sure if it was smoke or cold air or irritation, but it felt damn good.

  Dodging the aimlessly meandering tourists had become easier. I used to stare in disgust at pedestrians on cell phones, but given my hectic days, I’d become a walking talker. I pulled my cell out and called Alex’s school where, according to my fuzzy recollection, he could possibly be eating his lunch in the faculty lounge at that moment.

  It rang twice before I heard a high-pitched, pinched woman’s voice answer.

  “Hello. You’ve reached PS 277 and this is Mrs. Whitmore speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Is Alex Fineman there?”

  “And who may I ask is calling?”

  “This is Andrea Sachs, Alex’s girlfriend.”

  “Ah, yes, Andrea! We’ve all heard so much about you.” Her words were so clipped she sounded as though she might choke any moment.

  “Oh, really? That’s . . . uh, that’s good. I’ve heard a lot about you too, of course. Alex says wonderful things about everyone at school.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice. But seriously, Andrea, it sounds like you have quite some job there! How interesting it must be, working for such a talented woman. You’re a lucky girl, indeed.”

  Ah, yes. Mrs. Whitmore. I am a lucky girl indeed. I’m so lucky, you have no idea. I can’t tell you how lucky I felt when I was sent out just yesterday afternoon to purchase tampons for my boss, only to be told that I’d bought the wrong ones and asked why I do nothing right. And luck is probably the only way to explain why I get to sort another person’s sweat- and food-stained clothing each morning before eight and arrange to have it cleaned. Oh, wait! I think what actually makes me luckiest of all is getting to talk to breeders all over the tristate area for three straight weeks in search of the perfect French bulldog puppy so two incredibly spoiled and unfriendly little girls can each have their own pet. Yes, that’s it!

  “Oh, yes, well, it is a fantastic opportunity,” I said by rote. “A job a million girls would die for.”

  “You can say that again, dear! And guess what? Alex just walked in. I’ll put him on.”

  “Hey, Andy, what’s going on? How’s your day going?”

  “Don’t ask. I’m on my way to pick up Her lunch right now. How’s your day?”

  “Good, so far. My class has music today right after lunch, so I actually have an hour and a half free, which is nice. And then we get to cover more phonics exercises!” he said, sounding just a little defeated. “Even though it seems like they’re never going to learn how to actually read something.”

  “Well, have there been any slashings today?”

  “No.”

  “So, how much can you ask for? You’ve had a relatively pain-free, bloodless day. Enjoy it. Save the whole reading concept for tomorrow. So, guess what? Lily called this morning. She finally got evicted from her place in Harlem, so we’re going to move in together. Fun, right?”

  “Hey, congratulations! Couldn’t have been better timing for you. You guys will have a great time together. Come to think of it, it’s a little scary. Dealing with Lily full-time . . . and Lily’s guys . . . Promise we can stay at my place a lot?”

  “Of course. But you’ll feel right at home—it’ll be just like senior year all over again.”

  “Too bad she’s losing that cheap apartment. Other than that, it’s great news.”

  “Yeah, I’m psyched. Shanti and Kendra are fine, but I’m kind of done with the whole living-with-strangers thing.” I loved Indian food, but I did not love how the curry smell had seeped into everything I owned. “I’m going to see if Lil wants to meet for a drink tonight to celebrate. You up for it? We’ll meet somewhere in the East Village so it’s not too far for you.”

  “Yeah, sure, sounds great. I’m running to Larchmont to watch Joey tonight, but I’ll be back in the city by eight. You won’t even be out of work by then, so I’ll meet Max and we can all meet up afterward. Hey, is Lily seeing anyone? Max could use a, well . . .”

  “A what?” I laughed. “Go on, say it. Do you think my friend is a whore? She’s just free-spirited, is all. And is she seeing someone? What kind of question is that? Someone named Pink-Shirt Boy stayed over there last night. I don’t think I know his real name.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, the bell just rang. Call me when you’re done dropping off the Book.”

  “Will do. ’Bye.”

  I was about to stash the phone when it rang again. The number wasn’t familiar, though, and I answered it out of sheer relief that it wasn’t Miranda or Emily.

  “Mir—er, hello?” I’d taken to automatically answering my cell and home phone “Miranda Priestly’s office,” which was supremely embarrassing when it was anyone except my parents or Lily. Had to work on that.

  “Is this the lovely Andrea Sachs whom I inadvertently terrified at Marshall’s party?” asked a somewhat hoarse and very sexy voice on the other end. Christian! I’d been almost relieved when he hadn’t resurfaced anywhere after massaging my hand with his lips. But all the feelings of wanting to impress him with my wit and charm that first night came rushing back, and I quickly vowed to play it cool.

  “It is. And who may I ask is this? There were a number of men who terrified me that night for dozens of different and varied reasons.” OK, so far, so good. Deep breath, be cool.

  “I didn’t realize I had so much competition,” he said smoothly. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. How have you been, Andrea?”

  “Fine. Great, actually,” I lied quickly, remembering a Cosmo article I’d read that ha
d exhorted me to “keep it light and airy and happy” when talking to a new guy because most “normal” guys didn’t respond so well to hard-bitten cynicism. “Work is going really well. I’m loving my job, actually! It’s been really interesting lately—a lot to learn, tons of stuff going on. Yeah, it’s great. What about you?” Don’t talk about yourself too much, don’t dominate the conversation, get him comfortable enough to chat about his favorite and most familiar topic: him.

  “You’re a rather deft liar, Andrea. To an untrained ear that almost sounded believable, but you know what they say, don’t you? You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you get away with it this time.” I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but instead I just laughed. A perceptive one indeed. “Let me get right to the point here, because I’m about to get on a plane for D.C. and security doesn’t look all too happy that I’m walking through a metal detector while talking on the phone. Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

  I hated when people phrased their questions that way, asked if you had plans before they told you what they had in mind. Did his girfriend need someone to run errands for her and he thought I fit the bill? Or maybe he needed someone to walk his dog while he gave yet another eight-hour-long interview to the New York Times? I was considering what noncommittal way I could answer that question when he said, “So, I have a reservation at Babbo this Saturday. Nine o’clock. A bunch of friends will be there, too, mostly magazine editors and pretty interesting people. An editor from The Buzz, and a couple writers from The New Yorker. Good crowd. You up for it?” At that exact moment, an ambulance roared past me with its siren wailing, lights flashing in a fruitless attempt to speed through the hopelessly gridlocked traffic. As usual, the drivers ignored the ambulance and it sat at the red light like all the other vehicles.

  Had he just asked me out? Yes, I thought that’s exactly what had just happened. He was asking me out! He was asking me out. Christian Collinsworth was asking me on a date—a Saturday-night date, to be specific, and to Babbo, where he just so happened to have a prime-time reservation with a group of smart, interesting people, people just like him. Never even mind the New Yorker writers! I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d mentioned to him at the party that Babbo was the one restaurant I most wanted to try in New York, that I loved Italian and knew how much Miranda loved it and I was dying to go. I’d even thought about blowing a week’s pay on a meal and had called to make a reservation for Alex and me, but they’d been booked solid for the next five months. I hadn’t been asked on a date by anyone other than Alex in three years.