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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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 RSVPd 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. Permanently. 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