The Devil Wears Prada (27 page)

 My watch
said it was quarter after two. My stomach said it was late evening. It had been
seven hours since I’d shoved a chocolate scone down my throat on the walk
back to the office from Starbucks, and I was so hungry I considered gnawing on
her ribeye.

 “Em,
I might pass out, I’m so hungry. I think I’m going to run down and
pick something up. Can I get you something?”

 “Are
you crazy? You haven’t served her lunch yet. She’ll be back any
minute.”

 “I’m
serious. I really don’t feel well. I don’t think I can wait.”
The sleep deprivation and the low blood sugar were combining to make me dizzy.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to carry the steak tray into her office
even if she did come back sometime soon.

 “Andrea,
be rational! What if you run into her in the elevator or in reception?
She’d know that you left the office. She’d freak! It’s not
worth the risk. Hold on a sec—I’ll get you something.” She grabbed
her change purse and headed out of the office. Not four seconds later, I saw
Miranda making her way down the hall toward me. Any thoughts of dizziness or
hunger or exhaustion disappeared the moment I spotted her tight, frowning face,
and I flew out of my seat to put the tray on her desk before she reached it
herself.

 I landed
in my seat, head spinning, mouth dry, and totally disoriented, just before her
first Jimmy Choo crossed the threshold. She didn’t so much as glance in
my direction or, thankfully, seem to notice that the real Emily wasn’t at
her desk. I had a feeling that the meeting she’d just had with Mr. Ravitz
hadn’t gone so well, although it could have just been her lingering
resentment at having to leave her office to go see someone else in theirs. Mr.
Ravitz was, so far, the only person in the entire building whom Miranda rushed
to accommodate.

 “Ahn-dre-ah!
What is this? Please tell me, what on earth is this?”

 I raced
into her office and stood before her desk, where we both looked down at what
was, quite obviously, the same lunch she ate whenever she didn’t go out.
A quick mental checklist revealed that nothing was missing or out of place or
on the wrong side or cooked incorrectly. What was her problem?

 “Um,
it’s, uh, well, it’s your lunch,” I said quietly, making a
genuine effort not to sound sarcastic, which was difficult, considering my
statement was supremely obvious. “Is something wrong?”

 In all
fairness, I think she just parted her lips, but to my near-delirious self, it looked
like she was baring actual pointed fangs.

 “Is
something wrong?” she mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded
nothing like my own, nothing human. She narrowed her eyes to slits and leaned
closer, still refusing, as always, to raise her voice. “Yes,
there’s something wrong. Something very, very wrong. Why do I have to
come back to my office to findthis sitting on my desk?”

 It was
like trying to solve one of those twisted riddles. Why did she have to come
back to her desk to find this sitting on it, I wondered. Clearly, the fact that
she had requested it an hour earlier was not the correct answer, but it was the
only one I had. Did she not like the tray it was on? No, that wasn’t
possible: she’d seen it a million times and hadn’t ever complained
about it. Had they accidentally given her the wrong cut of meat? No, that
wasn’t it, either. The restaurant had once mistakenly sent me off with a
wonderful-looking filet, thinking that she was sure to enjoy it more than the
tough ribeye, but she’d almost had a full-fledged heart attack.
She’d made me call the chef personally and scream at him over the phone
while she stood over me and told me what to say.

 “I’m
so sorry, miss, really I am,” he’d said softly, sounding like the
nicest guy in the world. “I really just thought that since Ms. Priestly
is such a good customer that she’d prefer to have our best. I
didn’t charge her extra, but don’t worry, it won’t happen
again, I promise.” I felt like crying when she ordered me to tell him
that he would never be a real chef anywhere besides some second-rate steak
emporium, but I had done it. And he had apologized and agreed, and from that
day on she’d always gotten her bloody ribeye. So it wasn’t that,
either. I had no idea what to say or do.

 “Ahn-dre-ah.
Did Mr. Ravitz’s assistant not tell you that we had lunch together in
that wretched dining room just a few moments ago?” she asked slowly, as
though she were trying to keep herself from losing control completely.

 Shewhat?
After all of that, after all the running and the Sebastian ridiculousness, and
the angry phone calls, and the ninety-five-dollar meal, and the Tiffany song,
and the food arranging, and the dizziness, and the waiting to eat until she
came back, andshe’d already eaten?

 “Uh,
no, we didn’t get a call from her at all. So, uh, does that mean you
don’t want this?” I asked, motioning to the tray.

 She
looked at me as if I had just suggested she eat one of the twins. “What
do you think that means, Emily?” Shit! She’d been doing so well
with my name.

 “I
guess that, uh, well, that you don’t want it.”

 “That’s
very perceptive of you, Emily. I’m lucky you’re such a quick study.
Now remove it. And make sure this does not happen again. That’s
all.”

 A quick
fantasy flashed forward, one in which I would, just like in the movies, sweep
my arm across the desk and send the whole tray flying across the room. She
would watch and, shocked into contriteness, apologize profusely for speaking to
me like that. But the clicking of her nails against the desk brought me back to
reality, and I quickly picked up the tray and carefully walked out of her
office.

 “Ahn-dre-ah,
close the door! I need a moment!” she called. I guess that having a
gourmet lunch appear on her desk that she didn’t feel like eating had
been a really stressful part of her day.

 Emily
had just returned with a can of Diet Coke and a package of raisins for me. This
was supposed to be the snack to tide me over to lunch, and of course there
wasn’t a single calorie or gram of fat or ounce of added sugar in the
whole thing. She dropped them on her desk when she heard Miranda calling and
ran over to shut her French doors.

 “What
happened?” she whispered, eyeing the untouched tray of food that I was
holding, frozen to the spot near my desk.

 “Oh,
it seems our charming boss already had her lunch,” I hissed through
clenched teeth. “And she just reamed me out for not predicting, not
divining, not being able to look directly inside her stomach and know that she
wasn’t hungry anymore.”

 “You’re
kidding me,” she said. “She yelled at you because you ran to get
her lunch—just like she asked—and then couldn’t possibly have
known that she’d already eaten somewhere else? What a bitch!”

 I
nodded. It was a phenomenal change of pace to have Emily actually take my side
for once, not to lecture me on all the ways I Just Don’t Get It. But,
wait! It was too good to be true. Like a sun that falls out of the sky, leaving
only pink and blue streaks where it had shone seconds before, Emily’s
face flashed from angry to contrite. TheRunway Paranoid Turnaround.

 “Remember
what we talked about before, Andrea.” Oh, yes, here it comes. RPT, twelve
o’clock. “She doesn’t do it to hurt you. She doesn’t
mean anything by it. She’s just way too important to get held up on the
little stuff. So don’t fight it. Just throw out the food, and let’s
move on.” Emily fixed her features in a determined look and took a seat
in front of her computer. I knew she was wondering right then and there if
Miranda had had our outer office areas bugged and had heard the whole thing.
She was red and flustered and very obviously displeased with her lack of
control. I didn’t know how she had survived as long as she had.

 I
thought about eating the steak myself, but the mere thought that it had been on
Miranda’s desk only moments earlier made me feel nauseated. I took the
tray to the kitchen and tilted it so every single item would just slide
directly into the garbage—all the expertly cooked and seasoned food, the
china plate, the metal butter container, the salt box, the linen napkin, the
silver, the steak knife, and the Baccarat glass. Gone. All gone. What did it
matter? I’d get it all over again the next day, or whenever it was that
she may again be hungry for lunch.

 By the
time I’d made it to Drinkland, Alex looked annoyed and Lily looked
wasted. I immediately wondered if Alex somehow knew that I’d been asked
out on a date today, by a guy who was not only famous and older, but also a
complete and total dickhead. Could he tell? Did he sense it? Should I tell him?
No, no need to get into it with him when it was so insignificant. It
wasn’t like I was admitting to being interested in some other guy, not
like I would actually ever act on it. So there was nothing to gain by
mentioning the conversation at all.

 “Hey
there, fashion girl,” Lily slurred, waving her gin and tonic toward me in
a salute. Some of it splashed down the front of her cardigan, but she
didn’t seem to notice. “Or should I say, future roomie? Get a
drink. We need to have a toast!” It came out sounding like
“toath.”

 I kissed
Alex and sat down next to him.

 “Don’t
you look hot today!” he said, eyeing my Prada outfit appreciatively.
“When did this happen?”

 “Oh,
today. Right around the time it was all but spelled out that if I didn’t
fix my look I might not have a job anymore. Pretty insulting stuff, but I have
to say, if you’ve got to put something on every day, this stuff
isn’t half bad.

 “Hey,
listen, guys. I’m really, really sorry I’m late. The Book took
forever tonight, and as soon as I dropped it off at Miranda’s she had me
run to the corner deli and pick up some basil.”

 “I
thought you said she had a cook,” Alex pointed out. “Why
couldn’t he do it?”

 “She
does indeed have a cook. She also has a housekeeper, a nanny, and two children.
So I have no idea why I was the one sent out for dinner spices. It was
especially annoying since Fifth Avenue doesn’t have any corner delis, and
neither does Madison or Park, so I had to go all the way to Lex to find one. But,
of course, they didn’t sell basil, so I had to walk up nine blocks until
I found an open D’Agostino’s. It took me an extra forty-five
minutes. I should just expense a fucking spice rack and start traveling with it
wherever I go. But let me tell you, those were a really, really worthwhile
forty-five minutes! I mean, think of how much I learned shopping for that
basil, how better prepared I am for my future in magazines! I’m on the
fast track to becoming an editor now!” I flashed a winning smile.

 “To
your future!” Lily cried, not detecting a single hint of sarcasm in my
diatribe.

 “She’s
so far gone,” Alex said quietly, watching Lily with the look of someone
watching a sick relative sleep in a hospital bed. “I got here on time
with Max, who already left, but she must’ve been here for hours already.
Either that, or she drinks really fast.”

 Lily had
always been a big drinker, but it wasn’t weird, because Lily was a big
everything. She was the first one to smoke pot in junior high and the first one
to lose her virginity in high school and the first to go skydiving in college.
She loved anyone and anything that didn’t love her back, so long as it
made herfeel alive.

 “I
just don’t understand how you can sleep with him when you know he’s
never going to break up with his girlfriend,” I’d said about a guy
she’d been secretly seeing our junior year.

 “I
just don’t understand how you can play by so many rules,”
she’d shot back instantly. “Where’s the fun in all your
perfectly planned, mapped-out, rule-filled life? Live a little, Andy! Feel
something! It’s good to be alive!”

 Maybe
she had been drinking a little more lately, but I knew that her first-year
studies were incredibly stressful, even for her, and that her professors at
Columbia were more demanding and less understanding than the ones she’d
had wrapped around her finger at Brown.It might not be a bad idea, I thought,
signaling to the waitress. Maybe drinking was the way to handle it. I ordered
an Absolut and grapefruit juice and took a long, deep swig. It made me feel
more sick than anything, because I still hadn’t had time to eat anything
except the raisins and the Diet Coke Emily had scraped together for me earlier
that day.