The Devil Wears Prada (4 page)

 After a
half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to
the reception area. She told me her name but I couldn’t focus on anything
except her body. She wore a tight, shredded denim skirt, a see-through white
button-down, and strappy silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and
manicured and exposed in such a way that normal people are not when
there’s snow on the ground. It wasn’t until she actually motioned
for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I
became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and
utter lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of
what I wore—and that I carried something resembling abriefcase
—continues to haunt me. I can feel my face flame red as I remember how
very, very awkward I was among the most toned and stylish women in New York
City. I didn’t know until later, until I hovered on the periphery of
being one of them, just how much they had laughed at me between the rounds of
the interview.

 After
the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl Kerston’s
office,Runway ‘s executive editor and all-around lovable lunatic. She,
too, talked at me for what seemed like hours, but this time I actually
listened. I listened because she seemed to love her job, speaking excitedly
about the “words” aspect of the magazine, the wonderful copy she
reads and writers she manages and editors she oversees.

 “I
have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this place,” she
declared proudly, “so it’s best to save those questions for someone
else.”

 When I
told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing, that I had no
particular interest or background in fashion, her smile broadened to a genuine
grin. “Well, in that case, Andrea, you might be just what we need around
here. I think it’s time for you to meet Miranda. And if I may offer a
piece of advice? Look her straight in the eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself
hard and she’ll respect it.”

 As if on
cue, Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda’s office. It was only
a thirty-second walk, but I could sense that all eyes were on me. They peered
at me from behind the frosted glass of the editor’s office and from the
open space of the assistants’ cubicles. A beauty at the copier turned to
check me out, and so did an absolutely magnificent man, although he was
obviously gay and intent on examining only my outfit. Just as I was about to
walk through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants’ suite
outside of Miranda’s office, Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed it
under her desk. It took only a moment for me to realize that the message
wasCarry that, lose all credibility. And then I was standing in her office, a
wide-open space of huge windows and streaming bright light. No other details
about the space made an impression that day; I couldn’t take my eyes off
of her.

 Since
I’d never seen so much as a picture of Miranda Priestly, I was shocked to
see howskinny she was. The hand she held out was small-boned, feminine, soft.
She had to turn her head upward to look me in the eye, although she did not
stand to greet me. Her expertly dyed blond hair was pulled back in a chic knot,
deliberately loose enough to look casual but still supremely neat, and while
she did not smile, she did not appear particularly intimidating. She seemed
rather gentle and somewhat shrunken behind her ominous black desk, and although
she did not invite me to sit, I felt comfortable enough to claim one of the
uncomfortable black chairs that faced her. And it was then I noticed: she was
watching me intently, mentally noting my attempts at grace and propriety with
what seemed like amusement. Condescending and awkward, yes, but not, I decided,
particularly mean-spirited. She spoke first.

 “What
brings you toRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?” she asked in her upper-crust British
accent, never taking her eyes away from mine.

 “Well,
I interviewed with Sharon, and she told me that you’re looking for an
assistant,” I started, my voice a little shaky. When she nodded, my
confidence increased slightly. “And now, after meeting with Emily,
Allison, and Cheryl, I feel like I have a clear understanding of the kind of
person you’re looking for, and I’m confident I’d be perfect
for the job,” I said, remembering Cheryl’s words. She looked amused
for a moment but seemed unfazed.

 It was
at this point that I began to want the job most desperately, in the way people
yearn for things they consider unattainable. It might not be akin to getting
into law school or having an essay published in a campus journal, but it was,
in my starved-for-success mind, a real challenge—a challenge because I
was an imposter, and not a very good one at that. I had known the minute I
stepped on theRunway floor that I didn’t belong. My clothes and hair were
wrong for sure, but more glaringly out of place was my attitude. I didn’t
know anything about fashion and I didn’tcare . At all. And therefore, I
had to have it. Besides, a million girls would die for this job.

 I
continued to answer her questions about myself with a forthrightness and
confidence that surprised me. There wasn’t time to be intimidated. After
all, she seemed pleasant enough and I, amazingly, knew nothing to the contrary.
We stumbled a bit when she inquired about any foreign languages I spoke. When I
told her I knew Hebrew, she paused, pushed her palms flat on her desk and said
icily, “Hebrew? I was hoping for French, or at least something moreuseful
.” I almost apologized, but stopped myself.

 “Unfortunately,
I don’t speak a word of French, but I’m confident it won’t be
a problem.” She clasped her hands back together.

 “It
says here that you studied at Brown?”

 “Yes,
I, uh, I was an English major, concentrating on creative writing. Writing has
always been a passion.”So cheesy! I reprimanded myself.Did I really have
to use the word “passion”?

 “So,
does your affinity for writing mean that you’re not particularly
interested in fashion?” She took a sip of sparkling liquid from a glass
and set it down quietly. One quick glance at the glass showed that she was the
kind of woman who could drink without leaving one of those disgusting lipstick
marks. She would always have perfectly lined and filled-in lips regardless of
the hour.

 “Oh
no, of course not. I adore fashion,” I lied rather smoothly.
“I’m looking forward to learning even more about it, since I think
it would be wonderful to write about fashion one day.” Where the hell had
I come up with that one? This was becoming an out-of-body experience.

 Things
progressed with the same relative ease until she asked her final question:
Which magazines did I read regularly? I leaned forward eagerly and began to
speak: “Well, I only subscribe toThe New Yorker andNewsweek, but I
regularly readThe Buzz . SometimesTime, but it’s dry, andU.S. News is way
too conservative. Of course, as a guilty pleasure, I’ll skimChic, and
since I just returned from traveling, I read all of the travel magazines
and…”

 “And
do you readRunway, Ahn-dre-ah?” she interrupted, leaning over the desk
and peering at me even more intently than before.

 It had
come so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for the first time that day I was caught
off-guard. I didn’t lie, and I didn’t elaborate or even attempt to
explain.

 “No.”

 After
perhaps ten seconds of stony silence, she beckoned for Emily to escort me out.
I knew I had the job.

3

 “It
sure doesn’t sound like you have the job,” Alex, my boyfriend, said
softly, playing with my hair as I rested my throbbing head in his lap after the
grueling day. I’d gone straight from the interview to his apartment in
Brooklyn, not wanting to sleep on Lily’s couch for another night and
needing to tell him about everything that had just happened. I’d thought
about staying there all the time, but I didn’t want Alex to feel
suffocated. “I don’t even know why you’d want it.”
After a moment or two, he reconsidered. “Actually, it does sound like a
pretty phenomenal opportunity. I mean, if this girl Allison started out as
Miranda’s assistant and is now an editor at the magazine, well,
that’d be good enough for me. Just go for it.”

 He was
trying so hard to sound really excited for me. We’d been dating since our
junior year at Brown, and I knew every inflection of his voice, every look,
every signal. He’d just started a few weeks earlier at PS 277 in the
Bronx and was so worn down he could barely speak. Even though his kids were
only nine years old, he’d been disappointed to see how jaded and cynical
they already were. He was disgusted that they all spoke freely about blow jobs,
knew ten different slang words for pot, and loved to brag about the stuff they
stole or whose cousin was currently residing in a tougher jail. “Prison
connoisseurs,” Alex had taken to calling them. “They could write a
book on the subtle advantages of Sing Sing over Rikers, but they can’t
read a word of the English language.” He was trying to figure out how he
could make a difference.

 I slid
my hand under his T-shirt and started to scratch his back. Poor thing looked so
miserable that I felt guilty bothering him with the details of the interview,
but I just had to talk about it with someone. “I know. I understand that
there wouldn’t be anything editorial about the job whatsoever, but
I’m sure I’ll be able to do some writing after a few months,”
I said. “You don’t think it’s completely selling out to work
at afashion magazine, do you?”

 He
squeezed my arm and lay down next to me. “Baby, you’re a brilliant,
wonderful writer, and I know you’ll be fantastic anywhere. And of course
it’s not selling out. It’s paying your dues. You’re saying
that if you put in a year atRunway you’ll save yourself three more years
of bullshit assistant work somewhere else?”

 I
nodded. “That’s what Emily and Allison said, that it was an
automatic quid pro quo. Work a year for Miranda and don’t get fired, and
she’ll make a call and get you a job anywhere you want.”

 “Then
how could you not? Seriously, Andy, you’ll work your year and
you’ll get a job atThe New Yorker . It’s what you’ve always
wanted! And it sure sounds like you’ll get there a whole lot faster doing
this than anything else.”

 “You’re
right, you’re totally right.”

 “And
besides, it would guarantee that you’re moving to New York, which, I have
to say, is very appealing to me right now.” He kissed me, one of those
long, lazy kisses it seemed we had personally invented. “But stop
worrying so much. Like you said yourself, you’re still not sure you have
the job. Let’s wait and see.”

 We cooked
a simple dinner and fell asleep watching Letterman. I was dreaming about
obnoxious little nine-year-olds having sex on the playground while they swigged
forties of Olde English and screamed at my sweet, loving boyfriend when the
phone rang.

 Alex
picked it up and pressed it to his ear but didn’t bother to open his eyes
or say hello. He quickly dropped it next to me. I wasn’t sure I could
muster the energy to pick it up.

 “Hello?”
I mumbled, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was 7:15A .M. Who the hell
would call at such an hour?

 “It’s
me,” barked a very angry-sounding Lily.

 “Hi,
is everything OK?”

 “Do
you think I’d be calling you if everything was OK? I’m so hungover
I could die, and I finally stop puking long enough to fall asleep, and I’m
awakened by a scarily perky woman who says she works in HR at Elias-Clark. And
she’s looking for you. Atseven-fifteen in the freakin‘ morning. So
call her back. And tell her to lose my number.”

 “Sorry,
Lil. I gave them your number because I don’t have a cell yet. I
can’t believe she called so early! I wonder if that’s good or
bad?” I took the portable and crept out of the bedroom, quietly closing
the door as I went.

 “Whatev.
Good luck. Let me know how it goes. Just not in the next couple hours, OK?”

 “Will
do. Thanks. And sorry.”

 I looked
at my watch again and couldn’t believe I was about to have a business
conversation. I put on a pot of coffee and waited until it had finished brewing
and brought a cup to the couch. It was time to call. I had no choice.