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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a little bit more. ‘You’re quite the little tease. Bet your boyfriend loves that about you, doesn’t he?’ He was smiling now, and not cruelly. It was all part of the flirty game for him, but the reference to Alex sobered me for a minute. Just long enough to realize that I’d had a better time tonight than I could remember having had in many years. The drinking and the close dancing and his hands on my back as he pulled me against him had made me feel more alive than in all the months since I’d been working at Runway, months that had been filled with nothing but frustration and humiliation and a body-numbing exhaustion. Maybe this was why Lily did it, I thought. The guys, the partying, the sheer joy of realizing you’re young and breathing. I couldn’t wait to call and tell her all about it.
Miranda joined me in the backseat of the limo after another five minutes, and she even appeared to be somewhat happy. I wondered if she’d gotten drunk but ruled that out immediately: the most I’d ever seen her drink was a sip of this or that, and then only because a social situation demanded it. She preferred Perrier to champagne and certainly a milkshake or a latte to a cosmo, so the chances she was actually drunk right now were slim.
After grilling me about the following day’s itinerary for the first five minutes (luckily I’d thought to tuck a copy in my bag), she turned and looked at me for the first time all evening.
‘Emily – er, Ahn-dre-ah, how long have you been working for me?’
It came out of left field, and my mind couldn’t work fast enough to figure out the ulterior motive for this sudden question. It felt strange to be the object of any question of hers that wasn’t explicitly asking why I was such a fucking idiot for not finding, fetching, or faxing something fast enough. She’d never actually asked about my life before. Unless she remembered the details of our hiring interview – and it seemed unlikely, considering she’d stared at me with utterly blank eyes my very first day of work – then she had no idea where, if anywhere, I’d attended college, where, if anywhere, I lived in Manhattan, or what, if anything, I did in the city in the few precious hours a day I wasn’t racing around for her. And although this question most certainly did have a Miranda element to it, my intuition said that this might, just maybe, be a conversation about me.
‘Next month it will be a year, Miranda.’
‘And do you feel you’ve learned a few things that may help you in your future?’ She peered at me, and I instantly suppressed the urge to start rattling off the myriad things I’d ‘learned’: how to find a single store or restaurant review in a whole city or out of a dozen newspapers with few to no clues about its genuine origin; how to pander to preteenage girls who’d already had more life experiences than both my parents combined; how to plead with, scream at, persuade, cry to, pressure, cajole, or charm anyone, from the immigrant food delivery guy to the editor in chief of a major publishing house to get exactly what I needed, when I needed it; and, of course, how to complete just about any challenge in under an hour because the phrase ‘I’m not sure how’ or ‘that’s not possible’ was simply not an option. It had been nothing if not a learning-rich year.
‘Oh, of course,’ I gushed. ‘I’ve learned more in one year working for you than I could’ve hoped to have learned in any other job. It’s been fascinating, really, seeing how a major – the major – magazine runs, the production cycle, what all the different jobs are. And, of course, being able to observe the way you manage everything, all the decisions you make – it’s been an amazing year. I’m so thankful, Miranda!’ So thankful that two of my molars had been aching for weeks, too, but I wasn’t ever able to get in to see a dentist during working hours, but whatever. My newfound, intimate knowledge of Jimmy Choo’s handicraft had been well worth the pain.
Could this possibly sound believable? I stole a glance, and she seemed to be buying it, nodding her head gravely. ‘Well, you know, Ahn-dre-ah, that if ah-fter a year my girls have performed well, I consider them ready for a promotion.’
My heart surged. Was it finally happening? Was this where she told me that she’d already gone ahead and secured a job for me at The New Yorker? Never mind that she had no idea I would kill to work there. Maybe she had just figured it out because she cares.
‘I have my doubts about you, of course. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of enthusiasm, or those sighs or faces you make when I ask you to do something that you quite obviously don’t feel like doing. I’m hoping that’s just a sign of your immaturity, since you do seem reasonably competent in other areas. What exactly are you interested in doing?’
Reasonably competent! She may as well have announced I was the most intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, and capable young woman she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. Miranda Priestly had just told me I was reasonably competent!
‘Well, actually, it’s not that I don’t love fashion, because of course I do. Who wouldn’t?’ I rushed on to say, keeping a careful appraisal of her expression, which, as usual, remained mostly unchanged. ‘It’s just that I’ve always dreamt of becoming a writer, so I was hoping that might, uh, be an area I could explore.’
She folded her hands in her lap and glanced out the window. It was clear that this forty-five-second conversation was already beginning to bore her, so I had to move quickly. ‘Well, I certainly have no idea if you can write a word or not, but I’m not opposed to having you write a few short pieces for the magazine to find out. Perhaps a theater review or a small writeup for the Happenings section. As long as it doesn’t interfere with any of your responsibilities for me, and is done only during your own time, of course.’
‘Of course, of course. That would be wonderful!’ We were talking, really communicating, and we hadn’t so much as mentioned the words ‘breakfast’ or ‘dry cleaning’ yet. Things were going too well not to just go for it, and so I said, ‘It’s my dream to work at The New Yorker one day.’
This seemed to catch her now drifting attention, and once again she peered at me. ‘Why ever would you want to do that? No glamour there, just nuts and bolts.’ I couldn’t decide if the question was rhetorical, so I played it safe and kept my mouth shut.
My time was about twenty seconds from expiring, both because we were nearing the hotel and her fleeting interest in me was fading fast. She was scrolling through the incoming calls on her cell phone, but still managed to say in the most offhanded, casual way, ‘Hmm, The New Yorker. Condé Nast.’ I was nodding wildly, encouragingly, but she wasn’t looking at me. ‘Of course I know a great many people there. We’ll see how the rest of the trip goes, and perhaps I’ll make a call over there when we return.’
The car pulled up to the entrance, and an exhausted-looking Monsieur Renaud eclipsed the bellman who was leaning forward to open Miranda’s door and opened it himself.
‘Ladies! I hope you had a lovely evening,’ he crooned, doing his best to smile through the exhaustion.
‘We’ll be needing the car at nine tomorrow morning to go to the Christian Dior show. I have a breakfast meeting in the lobby at eight-thirty. See that I’m not disturbed before then,’ she barked, all traces of her previous humanness evaporating like spilled water on a hot sidewalk. And before I could think how to end our conversation or, at the very least, kiss up a little more for having had it at all, she walked toward the elevators and vanished inside one. I shot a weary, understanding look to Monsieur Renaud and boarded an elevator myself.
The small, tastefully arranged chocolates on a silver tray on my bedside table only highlighted the perfection of the evening. In one random, unexpected night, I’d felt like a model, hung out with one of the hottest guys I’d seen in the flesh, and had been told by Miranda Priestly that I was reasonably competent. It felt like everything was finally coming together, that the past year of sacrifice was showing the first early signs of potentially paying off. I collapsed on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and gazed at the ceiling, still unable to believe that I’d told Miranda straight up that I wanted to work at The New Yorker, and she hadn’t laughed. Or screamed. Or in any way, shape, or form freaked out. She hadn’t even scoffed and told me that I was ridiculous for not wanting to get promoted somewhere within Runway. It