The Devil Wears Prada

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Arrested? She was arrested?” I tried to stay calm, but I realized too late that I was screaming. My dad walked in, pulling a giant cart that looked ready to topple under the weight of unevenly stacked boxes.

  “Who was arrested?” he asked off-handedly. “Mr. Fisher brought all this stuff up for us.”

  I was racking my brain for a lie, but Alex stepped in before I could think of anything remotely plausible. “Oh, I was just telling Andy that I saw on VH-1 last night that one of the girls from TLC was arrested on drug charges. And she always seemed like one of the straighter ones . . .”

  My dad shook his head and surveyed the room, only half listening and probably wondering when exactly Alex or myself had become so interested in female pop stars that we actually discussed it. “I’m thinking that the only real place your bed can go is with the head against the far wall,” he said. “Speaking of which, I better go see how they’re doing.”

  I literally flung my body in front of Alex the minute the apartment door closed.

  “Quickly! Tell me what happened. What happened?”

  “Andy, you’re shrieking. It’s not so bad. Actually, it’s kind of funny.” His eyes crinkled as he laughed, and for a brief second he looked just like Eduardo. Ew.

  “Alex Fineman, you better fucking tell me right now what happened with my best friend—”

  “OK, OK, relax.” He was clearly enjoying this. “She was out with some guy last night that she referred to as Tongue Ring Boy—do we know who that is?”

  I stared at him.

  “Anyway, they went out for dinner and Tongue Ring Boy was walking her home, and she thought it’d be fun to flash him, right there on the street outside the restaurant. ‘Sexy,’ she said. To get him interested.”

  I envisioned Lily unwrapping a dinner mint and strolling outside after a romantic meal, only to pull away and yank up her shirt for a guy who’d paid to have someone ram a post through his tongue. Jesus.

  “Oh no. She didn’t . . .”

  Alex nodded somberly, trying not to laugh.

  “You’re telling me my friend got arrested for showing her breasts? That’s ridiculous. This is New York. I see women every day who are practically topless—and that’s in the workplace!” I was shrieking again, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Her bottom.” He was looking at his shoes again, and his face was so red, I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or hysterical.

  “Her what?”

  “Not her breasts. Her bottom. Her lower half. Like, all of it. Front and back.” An ear-to-ear grin had finally broken out, and he looked so delighted that I thought he might wet himself.

  “Oh, say it isn’t true,” I moaned, wondering what my friend had gotten herself into now. “And a cop saw her and arrested her?”

  “No, evidently two little kids saw her do it and pointed it out to their mother . . .”

  “Oh, god.”

  “So, the mother asked her to pull her pants back up, and Lily loudly told her what she could do with her opinions, and the woman went and found a cop standing on the next street over.”

  “Oh, stop. Oh, please, just stop.”

  “It gets better. By the time the woman and the cop came back, Lily and Tongue Ring Boy were going at it on the street, pretty hot and heavy from what she said.”

  “Who is this? This is my friend Lily Goodwin? My sweet, adorable best friend from eighth grade now gets naked and hooks up on street corners? With guys who have tongue rings?”

  “Andy, calm down. Really, she’s fine. The only reason the cop actually arrested her was because she gave him the finger when he asked if she had, in fact, pulled her pants down . . .”

  “Oh, my god. I can’t take it anymore. This is what it must feel like to be a mother.”

  “. . . but they let her go with just a warning, and she’s going back to her apartment to recover—sounds like she was pretty drunk. I mean, why else would someone flip off a police officer? So don’t worry. Let’s get you moved in and then we can go see her if you want.” He headed toward the cart my dad had left in the middle of the living room and started unloading boxes.

  I couldn’t wait until later; I had to see what had happened. She picked up on the fourth ring, right before it clicked into voice mail, as if she’d been debating whether or not to answer it.

  “Are you OK?” I asked her the second I heard her voice.

  “Hey, Andy. Hope I’m not screwing up the move at all. You don’t need me, right? Sorry about all this.”

  “No, I don’t care about that, I care about you. Are you OK?” It had just occurred to me that Lily may have spent the night at the police station, considering that it was early Saturday morning and she was just leaving. “Did you stay overnight? In jail?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. It wasn’t so bad, nothing like TV or anything. I just slept in this room with one other totally harmless girl who was in for something just as stupid. The guards were totally cool—it really wasn’t a big deal. No bars or anything.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow.

  I digested this for a moment, tried to reconcile the image of sweet little hippie Lily getting cornered in a urine-flooded cell by an extremely angry and possessive lesbian. “Where the hell was Tongue Ring Boy through all of this? Did he just leave you to rot in jail?” But before she could answer, it occurred to me: Where the hell was I through all of this? Why hadn’t Lily called me?

  “He was actually really great, he—”

  “Lily, why—”

  “. . . offered to stay with me and even called his parents’ lawyer—”

  “Lily. Lily! Stop for a second. Why didn’t you call me? You know I would’ve been there in a second and not left until they’d let you go. So why? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Oh, Andy, it doesn’t matter anymore. It really wasn’t that bad, I swear. I can’t believe how stupid I was, and trust me, I’m over getting that drunk. It’s just not worth it.”

  “Why? Why didn’t you call? I was home all night.”

  “It’s not important, really. I didn’t call because I figured you were either working or really, really tired, and I didn’t want to bother you. Especially on a Friday night.”

  I thought back to what I’d been doing the night before and the only thing that stuck clearly in my mind was watching Dirty Dancing on TNT for exactly the sixty-eighth time in my life. And out of all those times, that had been the first that I’d fallen asleep before Johnny announced, “No one puts Baby in the corner,” and proceeded to, quite literally, lift her off her feet, until Dr. Houseman admits that he knows Johnny wasn’t the one who got Penny in trouble, and claps him on the back and kisses Baby, who has recently reclaimed the name Frances. I considered the whole scene a defining factor in my identity.

  “Working? You thought I was working? And what does too tired have to do with it when you need help? Lil, I don’t get it.”

  “Look, Andy, let’s drop it, OK? You work constantly. Day and night, and lots of times on weekends. And when you’re not working, you’re complaining about work. Not that I don’t understand, because I know how tough your job is, and I know you work for a lunatic. But I wasn’t going to be the one to interrupt a Friday night when you might actually be relaxing or hanging out with Alex. I mean, he says he never sees you, and I didn’t want to take that away from him. If I’d really needed you, I would’ve called, and I know you would’ve come running. But I swear, it wasn’t so bad. Please, can we forget it? I’m exhausted and I really need a shower and my own bed.”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t speak, but Lily took my silence for acquiescence.

  “You there?” she asked after nearly thirty seconds, during which I was desperately trying to find the words to apologize or explain or something. “Listen, I just got home. I need sleep. Can I call you later?”

  “Um, uh, sure,” I managed. “Lil, I’m so sorry. If I’ve ever given you the impression that you can’t—”

  “Andy, don’t. Nothing�
�s wrong—I’m fine, we’re fine. Let’s just talk later.”

  “OK. Sleep well. Call me if I can do anything . . .”

  “Will do. Oh, how’s the new place, by the way?”

  “It’s great, Lil, it really is. You did a fantastic job with it. It’s better than I’d ever imagined. We’re going to love it here.” My voice sounded empty to my own ears, and it was obvious I was talking just for the sake of it, keeping her on the phone to make sure our friendship hadn’t changed in some inexplicable but permanent way.

  “Great. I’m so glad you like it. Hopefully Tongue Ring Boy will like it, too,” she joked, although that, too, sounded hollow.

  We hung up and I stood in the living room, staring at the phone until my mom walked in to announce that they were going to take Alex and me out for lunch.

  “What’s wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some help with her stuff, too, but we’re not going to stick around much after three. Is she on her way?”

  “No, she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a few days, I guess, so she probably won’t move in until tomorrow. That was just her on the phone.”

  “Well, you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over there? I always feel so badly for that girl—no real parents, just that cranky old bat of a grandmother.” She put her hand on my shoulder, as if to drive home the pain. “She’s lucky she’s got you for a friend. Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.”

  My voice caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a few words. “Yeah, I guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just going to sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches, OK? The doorman said there’s a great deli four blocks down.”

  “Miranda Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone that I hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.

  “Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other end.

  “No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even though I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.

  “Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared. “Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”

  I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked at Runway, I’d never met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious? Could she be baiting me?

  “Um, well, working at Runway has been a really great learning experience,” I heard myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls would die for, of course.” Did I just say that?

  There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh, that’s just f-f-f-fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous laugh-choke. “Does she lock you in your West Village studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael Kors t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass boss of yours on the phone.”

  I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and urgently whisper, “I am a prisoner, more than you can imagine—please, oh, please, come and rescue me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but I’m different!” But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.

  I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on every subject but Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly not because of his twinsets. Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a real Runway girl—that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable taste—would probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual ‘hired help’ instead of something as stiff and unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom am I speaking first?”

  “Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be friends after all. I d-d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she hires, but it’s fitting because I don’t much like her. My name is Judith Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel articles each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still relatively new now: Is the h-h-honeymoon over?”

  I was silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a ticking bomb.

  “Well? You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve been there long enough for everyone to know your name, but not long enough that they uncover and exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a really sweet feeling when th-th-th-that happens, trust me. You’re working in a really special place.”

  But before I could respond, she said, “Enough f-f-f-flirting for now, my new friend. Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because she never takes my c-c-calls anyway. Stuttering pisses her off, I think. Just be sure to put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin so she can make someone else call me back. Thanks, l-l-love.” Click.

  I hung up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked up from one of Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When I told her it was Judith, she rolled her eyes so deeply they almost didn’t resurface and whined, “She’s such a supreme bitch. I have, like, no idea how Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her calls, though, so you don’t even have to tell her she’s on the phone. Just put her on the Bulletin and Miranda will have someone else call her back.” It seems Judith understood the inner workings of our office better than I.

  I double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called “Bulletin” and glanced over its contents so far. The Bulletin was the pièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s office and, as far as I could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before by some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a Word document that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could access. Only one of us could open it at a time and add a new message, thought, or question to the itemized list. Then we’d print out the updated version and place it on the clipboard that sat on the shelf over my desk, removing the old ones as we went. Miranda would examine it every few minutes throughout the day as Emily and I struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls came in. Often we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other could access it and write a message. We’d print to our separate printers simultaneously and dive for the clipboard, not knowing whose was the most recent until we were face to face.

  “Judith’s the latest message on mine,” I said, exhausted from the pressure of trying to finish it before Miranda entered the suite. Eduardo had called from the security desk downstairs to warn us that she was on her way upstairs. We hadn’t gotten a call from Sophy yet, but we knew it’d be only seconds.

  “I have the concierge from the Ritz Paris after Judith,” Emily near-shouted, triumphantly, while clipping her sheet to the Lucite clipboard. I took my four-second outdated Bulletin back to the desk and glanced over it. Dashes in phone numbers were not permissible, only periods. There were to be no colons in the time, only periods. Times must be rounded up or down to the nearest quarter-hour. Call-back phone numbers always got their own lines to make them easier to distinguish. A time listed indicated that someone had called in. The word “note” was something that Emily or I had to tell her (si
nce addressing her without being first addressed was out of the question, all relevant info went on the Bulletin). “Reminder” was something Miranda had most likely left on one of our voice mails sometime between one and five A.M. the previous night, knowing that once it was recorded for us, it was as good as done. We were to refer to ourselves in the third person—if it was absolutely crucial for us to refer to ourselves at all.

  She often asked us to find out exactly when and at what number a particular person would be available to speak. In this case it was a tossup whether the fruits of our investigation would go under “note” or “reminder.” I remember once thinking that the Bulletin read like a who’s who in the Prada crowd, but the names of the superbigmoney, the superhighfashion, and the generally superimpressive had ceased to register as “special” on my desensitized brain. In my new Runway reality, the White House social secretary held little more interest than the vet who needed to speak to her about the puppy’s vaccinations (fat chance of him getting a call back!).

  Thursday, April 8

  7.30: Simone called from the Paris office. She figured out dates with Mr. Testino for the Rio shoot and also confirmed with Giselle’s agent, but she still needs to discuss the fashion with you. Please call her.

  011.33.1.55.91.30.65

  8.15: Mr. Tomlinson called. He is on cell. Please call him.

  Note: Andrea spoke with Bruce. He said that the large mirror in your foyer has a piece of decorative plaster missing from the upper left-hand corner. He located an identical mirror at an antique shop in Bordeaux. Would you like him to order it?

  8.30: Jonathan Cole called. He is leaving for Melbourne on Saturday and would like to clarify the assignment before he leaves. Please call him.

  555.7700

  Reminder: To call Karl Lagerfeld about the Model of the Year party. He will be reachable at his home in Biarritz this evening from 8.00–8.30 P.M. his time.

  011.33.1.55.22.06.78: home

  011.33.1.55.22.58.29: home studio