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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rolled her eyes just like Emily. I wondered if it was something about that particular position that inspired such expert demonstrations of irritation. ‘Fine. No, no, I was talking to Andrea,’ she said into the phone, raising her eyebrows at me – surprise, surprise – just like Emily. ‘It seems that she’s hungry. I know. Yes, I know. I told her that, but she seems intent on … eating.’
I walked out of the office and picked up a large cup of cream of broccoli with cheddar cheese and returned within three minutes to find Miranda sitting at her desk, holding the phone receiver away from her face like it was covered in leeches. She was due to fly to Milan that very evening but I wasn’t sure I’d survive to see it happen.
‘The phone rings, Andrea, but when I pick it up – because you’re apparently not interested in doing so – no one’s there. Can you explain this phenomenon?’ she asked.
Of course I could explain it, just not to her. On the rare occasion that Miranda was in her office alone, she sometimes picked up the phone when it rang. Naturally callers were so shocked to hear her voice on the other end that they promptly hung up. No one was actually prepared to speak with her when they called, since the likelihood of being put through was next to nil. I’d gotten dozens of e-mails from editors or assistants informing me – as if I didn’t know – that Miranda was answering the phone again. ‘Where are you guys???’ The panicked missives would read, one after another. ‘She’s answering her own phone!!!!’
I mumbled something about how I, too, received hang-ups every now and then, but Miranda had already lost interest. She was peering not at me but at my cup of soup. Some of the creamy green fluid was dripping slowly down the side. Her gaze turned to one of disgust when she realized I was not only holding something edible, but that I had clearly planned to consume it as well.
‘Dispose of that immediately!’ she barked from fifteen feet away. ‘The smell of it alone is enough to make me ill.’
I dropped the offending soup in the garbage can and gazed wistfully after the lost nourishment before her voice jerked me back to reality.
‘I’m ready for the run-throughs!’ she screeched, settling back into her chair more easily now that the food she’d spotted at Runway had been discarded. ‘And the moment we’re through here, call the features meeting.’
Each word caused another adrenaline surge; since I was never sure what exactly she’d be requesting, I was never sure if I’d be able to handle it or not. Since it was Emily’s job to schedule the run-throughs and the weekly meetings, I had to race over to her desk and check her appointment book. In the three o’clock slot she had scribbled: Sedona Shoot run-through, Lucia/Helen. I jabbed Lucia’s extension and spoke as soon as she picked up the phone.
‘She’s ready,’ I stated, like a military commander. Helen, Lucia’s assistant, hung up without saying a word, and I knew she and Lucia were already halfway to the office. If they didn’t arrive within twenty to twenty-five seconds, I would be sent out to hunt them down and remind them in person – just in case they might have forgotten – that when I’d called thirty seconds before and said that Miranda was ready right then, I meant right then. Generally this was a mere annoyance, yet another reason why the enforced footwear of spiky stilettos made life even more miserable. Running through the office, frantically searching for someone who was most likely hiding from Miranda, was never fun, but it was only really miserable when that person happened to be in the bathroom. Whatever one does in a men’s or ladies’ room, however, is no excuse for not being available at the exact moment your presence is expected, and so I had to charge right in – sometimes checking underneath the stalls for recognizable footwear – and politely ask in whatever humiliated way I could manage that they finish up and head to Miranda’s office. Immediately.
Luckily for everyone involved, Helen arrived within seconds, pushing an overflowing, off-kilter wheeled rack in front of her and pulling another behind her. She hesitated briefly outside Miranda’s French door before she received one of Miranda’s imperceptible nods and then dragged the racks through the thick carpeting.
‘This is all of it? Two racks?’ Miranda asked, barely looking up from the copy she was reading.
Helen was clearly surprised at being addressed, since, as a rule, Miranda didn’t speak to other people’s assistants. But Lucia hadn’t shown up with her own racks yet, so there was little choice.
‘Um, uh, no. Lucia will be here in just a moment. She has the other two. Would you like me to, uh, begin showing you what we’ve called in?’ Helen asked nervously as she pulled her ribbed tank top down over her prairie skirt.
‘No.’
And then: ‘Ahn-dre-ah! Find Lucia. By my watch it’s three o’clock. If she’s not prepared, then I have better things to do than sit here and wait for her.’ Which wasn’t exactly true, since it appeared she hadn’t yet stopped reading copy and it was now only approximately thirty-five seconds since I’d made the initial phone call. But I wasn’t about to point this out.
‘No need, Miranda, I’m right here,’ sang a breathless Lucia, herself pushing and pulling racks past me just as I stood to begin the search. ‘So sorry. We were waiting for one last coat from the YSL people.’
She arranged the racks, which were organized by clothing type (shirts, outerwear, pants/skirts, and dresses) in a half-circle in front of Miranda’s desk and gave the signal for Helen to leave. Miranda and Lucia then went through each item, one by one, and bickered over its place or lack thereof in the upcoming fashion shoot that was to take place in Sedona, Arizona. Lucia was pushing for an ‘urban cowgirl chic’ look, which she thought would play out perfectly against a backdrop of the red-rock mountains, but Miranda kept announcing snidely that she’d prefer ‘just chic,’ since ‘cowgirl chic’ was clearly an oxymoron. Maybe she’d had her fill of ‘cowgirl chic’ at B-DAD’s brother’s party. I managed to tune them out until Miranda called my name, this time ordering me to call in the accessories people for their run-through.
Immediately I checked Emily’s book again, but it was just as I thought: there was no accessories run-through scheduled. Praying that Emily had simply forgotten to put it in the book, I called Stef and told her Miranda was ready for the Sedona run-through.
No such luck. They weren’t scheduled for their run-through until late afternoon the following day, and at least a quarter of the things they needed hadn’t been delivered yet from their PR companies.
‘Impossible. Can’t do it,’ announced Stef, sounding much less confident than her words implied.
‘Well, what the hell do you expect me to tell her?’ I whispered back.
‘Tell her the truth: the run-through wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow and a lot of the stuff isn’t here. I mean, seriously! Right now we’re still waiting for one evening bag, one clutch, three different fringed purses, four pairs of shoes, two necklaces, three—’
‘OK, OK, I’ll tell her. But wait by the phone and pick up if I call you back. And if I were you, I’d get ready. I’m betting she doesn’t really care when it was scheduled for.’
Stef hung up on me without another word and I approached Miranda’s doors and waited patiently for her to acknowledge me. When she looked in my general direction and waited, I said, ‘Miranda, I just spoke with Stef and she said that since the run-through wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, they’re still waiting for quite a few items. But they should all be here by—’
‘Ahn-dre-ah, I simply cannot visualize how these models will look in these clothes without shoes or bags or jewelry and by tomorrow I’ll be in Italy. Tell Stef I want her to give me a run-through of whatever she’s got and be prepared to show me photos of whatever isn’t here yet!’ She turned back to Lucia and together they returned to the racks.
Conveying this to Stef gave new meaning to ‘don’t shoot the messenger.’ She freaked.
‘I cannot fucking pull a run-through together in thirty seconds, do you understand me? It’s