A pretty, uniformed maid opened the door and ushered me inside, her sad eyes moist and staring directly at the floor.
“Ahn-dre-ah!” I heard from somewhere in the deep recesses of the most magnificent living room I’d ever seen. “Ahn-dre-ah, I’ll need my Chanel suit pressed for tonight, since it was practically ruined with wrinkles on the flight over. You’d think the Concorde would know how to handle luggage, but my things look dreadful. Also, call Horace Mann and confirm that the girls made it to school. You’ll be doing that every day—I just don’t trust that Annabelle. Make sure you speak to both Caroline and Cassidy each night and write out a list of their homework assignments and upcoming exams. I’ll expect a written report in the morning, right before breakfast. Oh, and get Senator Schumer on the phone immediately. It’s urgent. Lastly, I need you to contact that idiot Renuad and tell him I expect him to supply me with competent staff during my stay, and if that’s too difficult I’m sure the general manager would be able to assist me. That dumb girl he sent me is mentally challenged.”
My eyes swiveled to the sorrowful girl who was currently cowering in the foyer, looking as fearful as a cornered hamster as she trembled and tried not to cry. I had to assume she understood English, so I shot her my best sympathetic look, but she just continued to shake. I looked around the room and tried desperately to remember everything Miranda had just rattled off.
“Will do,” I called in the general direction of her voice, past the baby grand piano and the seventeen separate flower arrangements that had been lovingly placed around the house-size suite. “I’ll be back in just a moment with everything you’ve asked for.” I quietly berated myself for ending a sentence with a preposition and took one last look around the magnificent room. It was, undoubtedly, the plushest, most luxurious place I’d ever seen, with its brocade curtains, thick, cream-colored carpeting, richly woven damask bedspread on the king-size bed, and gold painted figurines tucked discreetly on mahogany shelves and tables. Only a flat-screen TV and a sleek, silver stereo system gave any indication that the entire place hadn’t been created and designed in the previous century by highly skilled craftsmen plying their trade.
I ducked past the quaking maid and into the hallway. The terrified bellman had reappeared.
“Could you show me to my room, please?” I asked as kindly as I could, but he clearly thought that I would be abusing him as well, and so once again he scurried ahead of me.
“Here, mademoiselle, I hope this is acceptable.”
About twenty yards down the hall was a door without a separate number on it. It opened to a minisuite, nearly an exact replica of Miranda’s but with a smaller living room and a queen-size bed instead of a king. A large mahogany desk outfitted with a multiline corporate-style phone, sleek desktop computer, laser printer, scanner, and fax machine had taken the place of the baby grand piano, but otherwise the rooms were remarkably similar in their rich, soothing décor.
“Miss, this door leads to the private hallway connecting your room and Ms. Priestly’s,” he explained as he moved to open the door.
“No! It’s fine, I don’t need to see it. Just knowing it’s there is good enough.” I glanced at the engraved nametag placed discreetly on the pocket of his well-pressed uniform shirt. “Thank you, uh, Stephan.” I rooted around in my bag for cash to tip him but realized that I’d never thought to change my American dollars to euros and hadn’t yet stopped at an ATM. “Oh, I’m sorry, I, uh, only have American dollars. Is that OK?”
His face flushed crimson and he began apologizing profusely. “Oh, no, miss, please do not worry about such things. Ms. Priestly takes care of these details when she departs. However, since you will be needing local currency when you leave the hotel, allow me to show you this.” He walked over to the behemoth of a desk, slid open the top drawer, and handed me an envelope with French Runway’s logo on it. Inside was a pile of euro bills, about 4,000 American dollars’ worth in all. The note, scribbled by Briget Jardin, the editor in chief who’d borne the brunt of planning and scheduling for both this trip and Miranda’s upcoming party, read:
Andrea, darling, delighted to have you join us! Please find enclosed euros for your use while in Paris. I’ve spoken with Monsieur Renaud and he will be on call for Miranda twenty-four hours a day. See below for a listing of his work and personal numbers, as well as the numbers for the hotel’s chef, physical fitness trainer, director of transportation, and, of course, the general manager. They are all familiar with Miranda’s stays during the shows and so there should be no problems. Of course, I may always be reached at work or, if necessary, by cell, home phone, fax, or pager if either of you requires anything at all. If I don’t see you before Saturday’s big soiree, I’ll look forward to meeting you there. Lots of Love, Briget
Folded on a sheet of Runway stationery and tucked underneath the cash was a list of nearly a hundred phone numbers, encompassing everything one could need in Paris, from a chic florist to an emergency surgeon. These same numbers were repeated on the last page of the detailed itinerary I’d created for Miranda using information Briget had updated daily and faxed over, so as of this moment there didn’t appear to be a single contingency—short of an all-out world war—that would prevent Miranda Priestly from viewing the spring line with the least possible amount of stress, anxiety, and concern.
“Thank you so much, Stephan. This is most helpful.” I peeled off a few bills for him anyway, but he courteously pretended not to see it and ducked back into the hallway. I was pleased to see that he appeared significantly less terrorized than he had just a few moments earlier.
I somehow managed to find the people she had asked for and figured I had a few minutes to rest my head on the four-hundred-thread-count pillowcase, but the phone rang the moment I closed my eyes.
“Ahn-dre-ah, come to my room immediately,” she barked before slamming down the phone.
“Yes, of course, Miranda, thank you for asking so nicely. It’d be my pleasure,” I said to absolutely nobody. I heaved my jet-lagged body off the bed and concentrated on not getting a heel stuck in the carpeted hallway that connected my room to hers. Once again, a maid answered the door when I knocked.
“Ahn-dre-ah! One of Briget’s assistants just rang me to see how long my speech is for today’s brunch,” she announced. She was paging through a copy of Women’s Wear Daily that someone from the office—probably Allison, who knew the drill from her tenure in Miranda’s office—had faxed earlier, and two beautiful men were working on her hair and makeup. A cheese plate sat on the antique table beside her.
Speech? What speech? The only thing besides shows that was on the itinerary today was some sort of awards luncheon that Miranda planned to spend her usual fifteen minutes at before bolting out of sheer boredom.
“I’m sorry. Did you say a speech?”
“I did.” She carefully closed the paper, calmly folded it in half, and then tossed it angrily to the floor, narrowly missing one of the men who knelt in front of her. “Why the hell was I not informed that I’d be receiving some nonsense award at today’s luncheon?” she hissed, her face contorting with a hatred I’d never seen before. Displeasure? Sure. Dissatisfaction? All the time. Annoyance, frustration, generalized unhappiness? Of course, every minute of every day. But I’d never seen her look so downright pissed off.
“Um, Miranda, I’m so sorry, but it was actually Briget’s office that RSVP’d you to the event today, and they never—”
“Stop speaking. Stop speaking this instant! All you ever offer me are excuses. You are my assistant, you are the person I designated to work things out in Paris, you are the one who should be keeping me abreast of these things.” She was nearly shouting now. One of the makeup guys asked softly in English if we would like a moment alone, but Miranda ignored him entirely. “It’s noon right now and I’ll be needing to leave here in forty-five minutes. I expect a short, succinct, and articulate speech legibly typed and waiting in my room. If you cannot accomplish this, see yourself home. Per
manently. That’s all.”
I fled down the hallway faster than I’d ever run in heels and whipped open my international cell phone before I’d made it into my room. It was nearly impossible to dial Briget’s work number since my hands were shaking so badly, but somehow the call went through. One of her assistants answered.
“I need Briget!” I shrieked, my voice breaking when I pronounced her name. “Where is she? Where is she? I need to talk to her. Now!”
The girl was momentarily shocked into silence. “Andrea? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me and I need Briget. It’s an emergency—where the hell is she?”
“She’s at a show, but don’t worry, she always has her cell phone on. Are you at the hotel? I’ll have her call you right back.”
The phone on the desk rang a mere few seconds later, but it felt like a week. “Andrea,” she lilted in her lovely French accent. “What is it, dear? Monique said you were hysterical.”
“Hysterical? Damn right I’m hysterical! Briget, how could you do this to me? Your office made the arrangements for this fucking luncheon and no one bothered to tell me that she is not only receiving an award but also expected to give a speech?”
“Andrea, calm down. I’m sure we told—”
“And I have to write it! Are you listening to me? I have forty-five fucking minutes to write an acceptance speech for an award I know nothing about in a language I don’t speak. Or I’m finished. What am I going to do?”
“All right, relax, I’m going to walk you through this. First of all, the ceremony is right there, at the Ritz, in one of the salons.”
“The what? Which salon?” I hadn’t had a chance to look around the hotel yet, but I was reasonably sure there weren’t any pubs in the place.
“It is French for, oh, what do you call them? Meeting rooms. So, she will only need to go downstairs. It is for the French Council on Fashion, an organization here in Paris that always has its awards during the shows because everyone is in town. Runway will be receiving an award for fashion coverage. It is not such a, how do you say, big deal, almost like a formality.”
“Great, well at least I know what it’s for. What exactly am I supposed to write? Why don’t you just dictate in English and I can get Monsieur Renaud to translate it, OK? You start. I’m ready.” My voice had regained some confidence, but I could still barely grip the pen. The combination of exhaustion, stress, and hunger was making it hard to focus my eyes on the Ritz stationery that was laid out on my desk.
“Andrea, you are in luck again.”
“Oh, really? Because I’m not feeling so lucky right now, Briget.”
“These things are always conducted in English. There is no need for translation. So you can write it, yes?”
“Yes, yes I’ll write it,” I mumbled and dropped the phone. There wasn’t even time to consider that this was my very first chance to show Miranda that I was capable of doing something more sophisticated than fetching lattes.
After I hung up and began typing away at sixty words a minute— typing was the only useful class I’d taken in all of high school—I realized the whole thing would only take two, maybe three minutes for Miranda to read. There was just enough time to gulp some of the Pellegrino and devour a few of the strawberries someone had thoughtfully left on my small bar. If only they could’ve left a cheeseburger, I thought. I remembered that I had tucked a Twix bar in my luggage that had been neatly piled in the corner, but there wasn’t time to look for it. Exactly forty minutes had passed since I’d received my marching orders. It was time to see if I’d passed.
A different—but equally as terrified—maid answered Miranda’s door and ushered me into the living room. Obviously, I should’ve remained standing, but the leather pants I’d been wearing since the day before felt like they were permanently stuck to my legs, and the strappy sandals that hadn’t bothered me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long, flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes. I chose to perch on the overstuffed couch, but the moment my knees bent and my butt made contact with the cushion, her bedroom door flew open and I instinctively launched to my feet.
“Where’s my speech?” she asked automatically, while yet another maid followed after her holding a single earring that Miranda had forgotten to put in. “You did write something, did you not?” She was wearing one of her classic Chanel suits—round collars with fur trim—and a looping strand of extraordinarily large pearls.
“Of course, Miranda,” I said proudly. “I think this will be appropriate.” I walked toward her since she was making no effort to retrieve it herself, but before I could offer her the paper she snatched it from my hand. I didn’t realize until her eyes had finished moving back and forth that I’d been holding my breath.
“Fine. This is fine. Certainly nothing groundbreaking, but fine. Let’s go.” She picked up a matching quilted Chanel purse and placed the chain handle over her shoulder.
“Pardon?”
“I said, let’s go. This silly little ceremony starts in fifteen minutes, and with any luck we’ll be out of there in twenty. I truly loathe these things.”
There was no way to deny that I’d heard her say both “let’s” and “we”: I was definitely expected to go with her. I glanced down at my leather pants and fitted blazer and figured that if she had no problem with it—and I certainly would’ve heard if she had—then what did it really matter? There would probably be fleets of assistants roaming around, tending to their bosses, and surely no one would care what we were wearing.
The “salon” was exactly what Briget had said it would be—a typical hotel meeting room, complete with a couple dozen round luncheon tables and a slightly raised presentation stage with a podium. I stood along the back wall with a few other employees of various kinds and watched as the president of the council showed an incredibly unfunny, uninteresting, wholly uninspired movie clip on how fashion affects all of our lives. A few more people hogged the mike for the next half hour, and then, before a single award had been presented, an army of waiters began bringing out salads and filling wine glasses. I looked warily at Miranda, who appeared acutely bored and irritated, and tried to shrink smaller behind the potted tree I was currently leaning against to keep from falling asleep. I can’t be sure how long my eyes were closed, but just as I lost all control of my neck muscles and my head started to nod forward uncontrollably, I heard her voice.
“Ahn-dre-ah! I don’t have time for this nonsense,” she whispered loudly enough that a few Clackers from a nearby table glanced up. “I wasn’t told that I would be receiving an award, and I wasn’t prepared to do so. I’m leaving.” And she turned around and began striding toward the door.
I hobbled after her but thought better of grabbing her shoulder. “Miranda? Miranda?” She was clearly ignoring me. “Miranda? Whom would you like to accept the award on behalf of Runway?” I whispered as quietly as I could and still have her hear me.
She whipped around and stared me straight in the eyes. “Do you think I care? Go up there and accept it yourself.” And before I could say another word, she was gone.
Oh my god. This wasn’t happening. I would surely wake up in my own, unglamorous, negative-thread-count-sheeted bed in just a minute and discover that the entire day—hell, the entire year—had just been a particularly horrid dream. That woman didn’t really expect me—the junior assistant—to go up there and accept an award for Runway’s fashion coverage, did she? I looked around the room frantically to see if anyone else from Runway was attending the lunch. No such luck. I slumped down in a seat and tried to figure out whether I should call Emily or Briget for advice, or whether I should just leave myself since Miranda apparently cared nothing about receiving this honor. My cell phone had just connected to Briget’s office (who I was hoping could make it over there in time to take the goddamn award herself) when I heard the words “. . . extend our deepest appreciation to American Runway for its accurate, amusing, and always informative fashion coverage. Please welcom
e its world-famous editor in chief, a living fashion icon herself, Ms. Miranda Priestly!”
The room erupted into applause at precisely the same moment I felt my heart stop beating.
There was no time to think, to curse Briget for letting this all happen, to curse Miranda for leaving and taking the speech with her, to curse myself for ever accepting this hateful job in the first place. My legs moved forward on their own, left-right, left-right, and climbed the three steps to the podium with no incident whatsoever. Had I not been utterly shell-shocked, I might have noticed that the enthusiastic clapping had given way to an eerie silence as everyone tried to figure out who I was. But I didn’t. Instead, some greater force prompted me to smile, reach out to take the plaque from the severe-looking president’s hands, and place it shakingly on the podium in front of me. It wasn’t until I lifted my head and saw hundreds of eyes staring back—curious, probing, confused eyes, all of them—that I knew for sure I would cease breathing and die right there.
I imagine I stood like that for no longer than ten or fifteen seconds, but the silence was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that I wondered if I had, in fact, died already. No one uttered a word. No silver scraped plates, no glasses clinked, no one even whispered to a neighbor about who was standing in for Miranda Priestly. They just watched me, moment after moment, until I was left with no choice but to speak. I didn’t remember a word of the speech that I had written an hour earlier, so I was on my own.
“Hello,” I began and heard my voice reverberate in my ears. I couldn’t tell if it was the microphone or the sound of blood pounding inside my head, but it didn’t matter. The only thing I could hear for sure was that it was shaking—uncontrollably. “My name is Andrea Sachs and I’m Mir—uh, I’m on staff at Runway. Unfortunately, Miranda, um, Ms. Priestly had to step out for a moment, but I would like to accept this award on her behalf. And, of course, on behalf of everyone at Runway. Thank you, um”—I couldn’t remember the name of the council or the president here—“all so much for this, uh, this wonderful honor. I know I speak for everyone when I say that we are all so honored.” Idiot! I was stuttering and um-ing and shaking, and I was even conscious enough at this point to notice that the crowd had begun to twitter. Without another word, I walked in as dignified a manner as I could manage from the podium and didn’t realize until I’d reached the back doors that I’d forgotten the plaque. A staffer followed me to the lobby, where I’d just collapsed in a fit of exhaustion and humiliation, and handed it to me. I waited until she left and asked one of the janitors to throw it out. He shrugged and tossed it in his bag.
The Devil Wears Prada Page 36