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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least, one hell of a lot of Prada bags. But one dress? I thought I’d seen it all at that point, but I was due another zinger when the dress came back from the couture dry cleaner with a calligraphic envelope that read Ms Miranda Priestly. Inside was a hand-printed invoice on cream-colored cardstock that read:
Garment type: Evening gown. Designer: Chanel. Length: Ankle. Colour: Red. Size: Zero. Description: Hand-beaded, sleeveless with slight scoop neckline, invisible side zipper, heavy silk lining. Service: Basic, first-time cleaning. Fee: $670.
There was an additional note underneath the actual bill part from the shop’s owner, a woman I was sure paid both the rent for her store and her home with the money she received from Elias on behalf of Miranda’s extensive dry-cleaning addiction.
We were delighted to work on such a gorgeous gown and we hope you enjoy wearing it to your party at the Whitney Museum. As directed, we will pick up the gown on Monday, May 24, for its post-party cleaning. Please let us know if we may be of any additional service. All the best, Colette.
Either way, it was only Thursday and Miranda had a brand-new and newly cleaned gown resting gently in her closet, and Emily had located the exact silver Jimmy Choo sandals she’d requested. The hair stylist was due at her house at five-thirty P.M. on Friday, the makeup artist at five forty-five, and Uri was on call for exactly six-fifteen to take Miranda and Mr Tomlinson to the museum.
Miranda had already left for the day to watch Cassidy’s gymnastics meet, and I was hoping to duck out early to surprise Lily. She’d just finished her last exam of the year and I wanted to take her out for a celebration.
‘Hey, Em, do you think I could leave by six-thirty or seven today? Miranda said she didn’t need the Book because there really wasn’t anything new,’ I added quickly, irritated that I had to beg my equal, my peer for permission to leave work after only twelve hours instead of the usual fourteen.
‘Um, sure. Yeah, whatever. I’m leaving now.’ She checked her computer screen and saw that it was a little after five. ‘Stay for another couple hours and then head out. She’s with the twins tonight, so I don’t think she should be calling much.’ She had a date that night with the guy she’d met in LA over New Year’s. He’d finally made it to New York and, surprise of all surprises, he’d actually called. They were headed to Craftbar for drinks, at which point she would treat him to Nobu if he was behaving himself. She’d made the reservations five weeks earlier when he’d e-mailed that he might be in New York, but Emily still had to use Miranda’s name to score the time slot.
‘Well, what are you going to do when you show up there and you’re clearly not Miranda Priestly?’ I asked stupidly.
As usual, I received an expert eye-roll-deep-sigh combo. ‘I’ll simply tell them that Miranda had to be out of town unexpectedly, show them a business card, and tell them she wanted me to have her reservation. Hardly a big deal.’
Miranda called only once after Emily left to tell me that she wouldn’t be in the office until noon tomorrow, but she’d like a copy of the restaurant review she’d read today ‘in the paper.’ I had the presence of mind to ask if she recalled the name of the restaurant or the paper in which she read about it, but this annoyed her greatly.
‘Ahn-dre-ah, I’m already late for the meet. Don’t grill me. It was an Asian fusion restaurant and it was in today’s paper. That’s all.’ And with that, she snapped her Motorola V60 shut. I hoped, as I usually did when she cut me off mid-sentence, that one day the cell phone would simply clamp down on her perfectly manicured fingers and swallow them whole, taking special time to shred those flawless red nails. No luck yet.
I wrote a quick note to myself to find the restaurant first thing in the morning in the notebook I kept with Miranda’s myriad and ever-changing requests and bolted for the car. I called Lily from my cell and she picked up just as I was about to get out and go up to the apartment, and so I waved to John Fisher-Galliano (who had grown his hair a little longer and adorned his uniform with a few chains and looked more like the designer each and every day) but didn’t move.
‘Hey, what’s up? It’s me.’
‘Hiiiiiiiiiii,’ she sang, happier than I’d heard her in weeks, maybe months. ‘I am so done. Done! No early summer session, nothing but a little, insignificant proposal due for a master’s thesis that I can change ten times after the fact if I want. So that leaves nothing until mid-July. Do you believe it?’ She sounded positively gleeful.
‘I know, I’m so excited for you! You up for a celebratory dinner? Anywhere you want, it’s on Runway.’
‘Really? Anywhere?’
‘Anywhere. I’m downstairs and I have a car. Come down; we’ll go somewhere great.’
She squealed. ‘Fun! I’ve been meaning to tell you all about Freudian Boy. He’s beautiful! Hold on one second. I’m putting on jeans and I’ll be right down.’
She bounded out five minutes later looking trendier and happier than I’d seen her in a very long time. She wore a pair of tight, faded boot-cut jeans that hugged her hips, paired with a long-sleeve flowy white peasant blouse. A pair of flip-flops I’d never seen before – brown leather straps with turquoise beads – completed the look. She was even wearing makeup, and her curls looked as though they had seen a blow-dryer at some point in the last twenty-four hours.
‘You look great,’ I said as she bounded into the backseat. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘Freudian Boy, of course. He’s amazing. I think I’m in love. So far, he’s going strong at nine-tenths. Do you believe it?’
‘First, let’s decide where we’re going. I didn’t make a reservation anywhere, but I can call ahead and use Miranda’s name. Anywhere you want.’
She was rubbing on some Kiehl’s lip gloss and staring at herself in the driver’s rearview mirror. ‘Anywhere?’ she said absentmindedly.
‘Anywhere. Maybe Chicama for those mojitos?’ I suggested, knowing that the way to sell Lily on a restaurant was by advertising its drinks, not its food. ‘Or there are those amazing Cosmos at Meet. Or the Hudson Hotel – maybe we can even sit outside? If you want wine, though, I’d love to try—’
‘Andy, can we go to Benihana? I’ve been craving it forever.’ She looked sheepish.
‘Benihana? You want to go to Benihana? Like, the chain restaurant where they seat you with tourists who have lots of whining children and unemployed Asian actors cook the food right on your table? That Benihana?’
She was nodding so enthusiastically, I had no choice but to call for the address.
‘No, no, I have it right here. Fifty-sixth between Fifth and Sixth, north side of the street,’ she called to the driver.
My weirdly excited friend didn’t seem to notice that I was staring. Instead, she chatted happily about Freudian Boy, aptly named because he was in his last year of a Ph.D. program in psychology. They’d met in the graduate student lounge in the basement of Low Library. I got the full rundown on all of his qualifications: twenty-nine years old (‘So much more mature, but not at all too old’), originally from Montreal (‘Such a cute French accent, but like, totally Americanized’), longish hair (‘But not freaky ponytail long’), and just the right amount of stubble (‘He looks just like Antonio Banderas when he doesn’t shave for three days’).
The samurai chef-actors did their thing, slicing and dicing and flipping cubes of meat all over the place while Lily laughed and clapped her hands like a little girl at her first circus. Although it seemed impossible to believe that Lily actually liked a guy, it appeared to be the only logical explanation for her obvious elation. Even more impossible to believe was her claim that she hadn’t slept with him yet (‘Two and a half full weeks of hanging out constantly at school and nothing! Aren’t you proud of me?’). When I asked why I hadn’t seen him around the apartment at all, she’d smiled proudly and said, ‘He hasn’t been invited over to the apartment