The Devil Wears Prada: Loved the movie? Read the book!. Lauren Weisberger
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due to the complex office-sitting schedule Emily and I negotiated each day so far, I’d yet to spend more time there than the two and a half minutes it took to choose and pay for my food, and I wasn’t sure I ever would.
I pushed my way past the girls and felt them turn to see if I was anyone important. Negative. Weaving quickly, intently, I bypassed gorgeous racks of lamb and veal marsala in the entrees section and, with a push of willpower, cruised right past the sundried tomato and goat cheese pizza special (which resided on a small table banished to the sidelines that everyone referred to as ‘Carb Corner‘). It wasn’t as easy to navigate around the pièce de résistance of the room, the salad bar (also known just as ‘Greens,’ as in ‘I’ll meet you at Greens’), which was as long as an airport landing strip and accessible from four different directions, but the hordes let me pass when I loudly assured them that I wasn’t going after the last of the tofu cubes. All the way in the back, directly behind the panini stand that actually resembled a makeup counter, was the single, lone soup station. Lone because the soup chef was the only one in the entire dining room who refused to make a single one of his offerings low fat, reduced fat, fat-free, low sodium, or low carb. He simply refused. As a result, his was the single table in the entire room without a line, and I sprinted directly toward him every day. Since it appeared that I was the only one in the entire company who actually bought soup – and I’d only been there a week – the higher-ups had slashed his menu to a solitary soup per day. I prayed for tomato cheddar. Instead, he ladled out a giant cup of New England clam chowder, proudly declaring it was made with heavy cream. Three people at Greens turned to stare. The only obstacle left was dodging the crowds around the chef’s table, where a visiting chef in full whites was arranging large chunks of sashimi for what appeared to be adoring fans. I read the nametag on his starched white collar: Nobu Matsuhisa. I made a mental note to look him up when I got upstairs, since I seemed to be the only employee in the place who wasn’t fawning all over him. Was it worse to have never heard of Mr Matsuhisa or Miranda Priestly?
The petite cashier looked first at the soup and then at my hips when she rang me up. Or had she? I’d already grown accustomed to being looked up and down every time I went anywhere, and I could’ve sworn she was looking at me with the same expression I would’ve given a five-hundred-pound person with eight Big Macs arrayed in front of him: the eyes raised just enough as if to ask, ‘Do you really need that?’ But I brushed my paranoia aside and reminded myself that the woman was simply a cashier in a cafeteria, not a Weight Watchers counselor. Or a fashion editor.
‘So. Not many people buying the soup these days,’ she said quietly, punching numbers on the register.
‘Yeah, I guess not that many people like New England clam chowder,’ I mumbled, swiping my card and willing her hands to move faster, faster.
She stopped and turned her narrowed brown eyes directly toward mine. ‘No, I think it’s because the soup chef insists on making these really fattening things – do you have any idea how many calories are in that? Do you have any idea how fattening that little cup of soup is? I’m just saying, someone could put on ten pounds from just looking at it—’And you’re not one who could afford to gain ten pounds, she implied.
Ouch. As if it hadn’t been hard enough convincing myself that I was a normal weight for a normal height as all the tall, willowy Runway blondes had openly examined me, now the cashier was – for all intents and purposes – telling me I was fat? I snatched my takeout bag and pushed past the people, and walked into the bathroom that was conveniently located directly outside the dining room, where one could purge any earlier bingeing problems. And even though I knew that the mirror would reveal nothing more or less than it had that morning, I turned to face it head on. A twisted, angry face stared back at me.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Emily all but shouted at my reflection. I whipped around in time to see her hanging her leather blazer through the handle of the Gucci logo tote, as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. It occurred to me that Emily had meant what she’d said three and a half hours before quite literally: she’d gone out for lunch. As in, outside. As in, left me all alone for three straight hours with no warning, practically tethered to a phone line with no hopes of food or bathroom breaks. As in, none of that mattered because I still knew I was wrong to leave and I was about to get screamed at for it by someone my own age. Blessedly, the door swung open and the editor in chief of Coquette strode in. She looked us both up and down as Emily grabbed my arm and steered me out of the bathroom and toward the elevator. We stood like that together, her clutching my arm and me feeling as though I’d just wet the bed. We were living one of those scenes where the kidnapper puts a gun to a woman’s back in broad daylight and quietly threatens her as he leads her to his basement of torture.
‘How could you do this to me?’ she hissed as she pushed me through Runway’s reception-area doors and we hurtled together back to our desks. ‘As the senior assistant, I am responsible for what goes on in our office. I know you’re new, but I’ve told you from the very first day: we do not leave Miranda unattended.’
‘But Miranda’s not here.’ It came out as a squeak.
‘But she could’ve called while you were gone and no one would’ve been here to answer the goddamn phone!’ she screamed as she slammed the door to our suite. ‘Our first priority – our only priority – is Miranda Priestly. Period. And if you can’t deal with that, just remember that there are millions of girls who would die for your job. Now check your voice mail. If she called, we’re dead. You’re dead.’
I wanted to crawl inside my iMac and die. How could I have screwed up so badly during my very first week? Miranda wasn’t even in the office and I’d already let her down. So what if I was hungry? It could wait. There were genuinely important people trying to get things done around here, people who depended on me, and I’d let them down. I dialed my mailbox.
‘Hi, Andy, it’s me.’ Alex. ‘Where are you? I’ve never heard you not answer. Can’t wait for dinner tonight – we’re still on, right? Anywhere you want, your pick. Call me when you get this, I’ll be in the faculty lounge anytime after four. Love you.’ I immediately felt guilty, because I’d already decided after the whole lunch debacle that I’d rather reschedule. My first week had been so crazy that we’d barely seen each other, and we’d made a special plan to have dinner that night, just the two of us. But I knew I wouldn’t be any fun if I fell asleep in my wine, and I kind of wanted a night to unwind and be alone. I’d have to remember to call and see if we could do it the next night.
Emily was standing over me, having already checked her own voice mail. From her relatively calm face, I guessed that Miranda had not left her any death threats. I shook my head to indicate that I hadn’t gotten one from her yet.
‘Hi, Andrea, it’s Cara.’ Miranda’s nanny. ‘So, Miranda called here a little while ago’ – heart stoppage – ‘and said she’s tried the office and no one was picking up. I figured something was going on down there, so I told her that I’d spoken to both you and Emily just a minute before, but don’t worry about it. She wanted a Women’s Wear Daily faxed to her, and I had a copy right here. Already confirmed that she got it, too, so don’t stress. Just wanted to let you know. Anyway, have a good weekend. I’ll talk to you later. ’Bye.’
Lifesaver. The girl was an absolute saint. It was hard to believe I’d only known her a week – and not even in person, only over the phone – because I thought I was in love with her. She was the opposite of Emily in every regard: calm, grounded, and entirely fashion-oblivious. She recognized Miranda’s absurdity but didn’t begrudge her it; she had that rare, charming quality of being able to laugh at herself and everyone else.
‘Nope, not her,’ I told Emily, lying sort of but not really, smiling triumphantly. ‘We’re in the clear.’
‘You’re in the clear, this time,’ she said flatly. ‘Just remember that we’re in this together, but I am in charge. You’ll cover for me if I want to go out to lunch once in a while – I’m entitled. This will never happen again, right?’
I bit back the urge to say something nasty. ‘Right,’