Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger
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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 Miranda 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