The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren Weisberger
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few weeks when I found myself talking to someone other than Lily or Alex or my parents and I couldn’t help myself from bashing the witch.
‘Hey, don’t feel too bad,’ he called after me as I headed toward the elevator bank. ‘I’ve been here since last Thursday morning.’ And with that, he dropped his smoldering butt and half-heartedly stamped it into the cement.
‘Morning, Eduardo,’ I said, looking at him with my best tired, pathetic eyes. ‘I fucking hate Mondays.’
‘Hey, buddy, don’t worry. At least you beat her here this morning,’ he said, smiling. He was referring, of course, to those miserable mornings when Miranda would show up at five A.M. and need to be escorted upstairs since she refused to carry an access card. She’d then pace the office, calling Emily and me over and over until one of us could manage to wake up, get ready, and get to work as if a national security emergency were unfolding.
I pushed against the turnstile, praying that this Monday would be the exception, that he’d let me pass without a performance. Negative.
‘Yo, tell me what you want, what you really, really want,’ he sang with his huge, toothy smile and Spanish accent. And all the pleasure of making the cabbie happy and finding out that I had arrived ahead of Miranda vanished. I was left, as I was every morning, wanting to reach across the security counter and tear the flesh from Eduardo’s face. But since I was such a good sport and he was one of my only friends in the place, I weakly acquiesced. ‘I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want, I wanna – I wanna – I wanna – I wanna – I really, really, really wanna zigga zig aaaaaahhhh,’ I sang meekly in a pitiful tribute to the Spice Girls’ nineties hit. And once again, Eduardo grinned and buzzed me through.
‘Hey, don’t forget: July sixteenth!’ he called after me.
‘I know, July sixteenth …’ I called back, a reference to our shared birthdays. I don’t remember how or why he had discovered my birthdate, but he adored that we had the same one. And for some inexplicable reason, it became a part of our personal morning ritual. Every single goddamn day.
There were eight elevators on the Elias-Clark side, half for floors one to seventeen, half for seventeen and up. Only the first bank really mattered since most of the big names were on the first seventeen floors; they advertised their presence with illuminated panels over the elevator doors. There was a free, state-of-the-art gym on the second floor for employees, complete with a full Nautilus circuit and at least a hundred Stairmasters, treadmills, and elliptical machines. The locker rooms had saunas, hot tubs, steam rooms, and attendants in maids’ uniforms, and a salon offered emergency manicures, pedicures, and facials. There was even complimentary towel service, or so I’d heard – not only did I not have the time, the place was always too damn crowded between the hours of six A.M. and ten P.M. to so much as walk around. Writers and editors and sales assistants called three days ahead of time to book themselves into the yoga or kick-boxing classes, and even then they lost their place if they didn’t get there fifteen minutes in advance. Like nearly everything at Elias-Clark designed to make employees’ lives better, it just stressed me out.
I’d heard a rumor that there was a daycare center in the basement, but I didn’t know anyone who actually had children, so I still wasn’t entirely positive. The real action began on the third floor with the dining room, where so far Miranda had refused to eat among the peons unless she was lunching with Irv Ravitz, Elias’s CEO, who liked to eat there in a show of unity with his employees.
Up, up, up we went, past all the other famous titles. Most of them had to share floors, with one flanking each side of the receptionist’s desk, facing off behind separate glass doors. I hopped off at the seventeenth floor, checking my butt in the reflection of the door’s glass. In a stroke of empathy and genius, the architect had kindly left mirrors out of the elevators in 640 Madison. As usual, I’d forgotten my electronic ID card – the very same one that tracked all our movements, purchases, and absences in the building – and had to break onto the floor. Sophy didn’t come in until nine, so I had to bend down under her desk, find the button that would release the glass doors, and sprint from the middle of the reception area to the doors and yank them open before they snapped locked again. Sometimes I’d have to do this three or four times until I finally caught it, but today I made it on my second attempt.
The floor was always dark when I arrived, and I took the same route to my desk every morning. To my left when I walked in was the advertising department, the girls who most loved adorning themselves in Chloé T-shirts and spike-heeled boots while handing out business cards that screamed ‘Runway.’ They were removed, wholly and entirely, from anything and everything that took place on the editorial side of the floor: it was editorial that picked the clothes for the fashion spreads, wooed the good writers, matched the accessories to the outfits, interviewed the models, edited the copy, designed the layouts, and hired the photographers. Editorial traveled to hot spots around the world for shoots, got free gifts and discounts from all the designers, hunted for trends, and went to parties at Pastis and Float because they ‘had to check out what people were wearing.’
Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space. Sometimes they threw promotional parties, but they were celebrity-free and therefore boring to New York’s hipster scene (or so Emily had sneeringly told me). My phone would ring off the hook on a day during a Runway ad sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an invite. ‘Um, like, I hear Runway’s having a party tonight. Why am I not invited?’ I always found out from someone on the outside that there was a party that night: editorial was never invited because they wouldn’t go anyway. As if it wasn’t enough for the Runway girls to mock, terrorize, and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t one of them, they had to create internal class lines as well.
The ad sales department gave way to a long, narrow hallway. It seemed to stretch forever before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the left side. Here were an assortment of coffees and teas, a fridge for stored lunches – all superfluous, since Starbucks had a monopoly on employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully selected in the dining room or ordered in from any one of a thousand midtown takeout places. But it was a nice touch, almost cute; it said, ‘Hey, look at us, we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’n Lows and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last night’s dinner! We’re just like everyone else!’
I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7:05, so tired I could barely move. But as with everything, there was yet another routine that I never thought to question or alter, so I began in earnest. I unlocked her office and turned on all the lights. It was still dark outside, and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power monger’s office, staring out at a flashing and restless New York City and picturing myself in one of those movies (take your pick – any that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his $6 million apartment with views of the river), feeling on top of the world. And then the lights would blaze forth, and my fantasy was over. The anything-is-possible feel of New York at dawn vanished, and the identical, grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all I could see.
Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area, the place where I hung her coat (and mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that day – Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian wools hanging next to her minks) and where we kept a number of supplies: castoff coats and clothes that were worth tens of thousands of dollars, some new dry cleaning that had been delivered to the office but not yet brought up to Miranda’s apartment, at least 300 of the infamous white Hermès scarves. Emily had quietly informed me that she’d made an executive decision to purchase as many of the signature scarves as she could conceivably locate at any given time. This way, she explained, Miranda would never, ever be without a scarf and we’d never be left in a position where we’d need to locate more in a panic. Operating from this simple and logical premise, Emily had managed to find just over five hundred of the scarves all over the U.S. and France and promptly purchased every single one. I hadn’t yet told anyone that I’d opened a letter from the Hermès corporate headquarters in Paris. Addressing her as ‘Madame Priestly’, they driveled on and on about how honored they were that Miranda had attached herself and her style to one of their scarves, how she had done more for the label