The Devil Wears Prada: Loved the movie? Read the book!

‘Definitely. So far everyone seems really nice. Emily’s a little, um, well, committed, but otherwise, it’s been great. I don’t know, to listen to Lily talk about her exams or Alex talk about all the shitty things he has to deal with at work, I think I got pretty lucky. Who else gets to drive around in a chauffeured car on their first day? I mean, really. So yeah, I think it’ll be a great year, and I’m excited for Miranda to come back. I think I’m ready.’

Jill rolled her eyes and shot me a look as if to say, Cut the bullshit, Andy. We all know you’re probably working for a psycho bitch surrounded by anorexic fashionistas and are trying to paint this really rosy picture because you’re worried you’re in over your head, but instead she said, ‘It sounds great, Andy, it really does. Amazing opportunity.’

She was the only one at the table who could possibly understand, since, before moving to the Third World, she’d worked for a year at a small private museum in Paris and had developed an interest in haute couture. Hers was more of an artistic and aesthetic hobby than a consumer one, but she still had some exposure, at least, to the fashion world. ‘We have some great news, too,’ she continued, reaching across the table for Kyle’s hand. He had set down his coffee and extended both his hands.

‘Oh, thank god,’ my mother instantly exclaimed, slumping over as if someone had finally lifted the two-hundred-pound dumbbell that had rested on her shoulders for the last two decades. ‘It’s about time.’

‘Congratulations, you two! I have to say you’ve had your mother really worried. You’re certainly not newlyweds anymore, you know. We were beginning to wonder …’ From the head of the table my dad raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey guys, that’s great. It’s about time I get to be an aunt. When’s the little one due?’

They both looked dumbfounded, and for a moment I worried that we’d gotten it all wrong, that their ‘good’ news was that they were building a newer, bigger home in that swamp they lived in, or that Kyle had finally decided to leave his father’s law firm and was going to join my sister in opening the gallery she’d always dreamed of. Maybe we’d jumped the gun on this one, been just a little too eager to hear that a future niece or grandson was on the way. It was all my parents could talk about lately, incessantly hashing and rehashing the reasons why my sister and Kyle – already in their thirties and with four years of marriage behind them – had yet to reproduce. In the past six months, the subject had progressed from time-consuming family obsession to perceived crisis.

My sister looked worried. Kyle frowned. My parents looked as though they might both pass out from the silence. The tension was palpable.

Jill got out of her chair and walked over to Kyle, where she plopped herself in his lap. She wrapped her arm behind the back of his neck and leaned her face next to his, whispering in his ear. I glanced at my mother, who looked about ten seconds away from unconsciousness, the worry causing the small lines near her eyes to grow as deep as trenches.

Finally, finally, they giggled, and turned toward the table, and announced unanimously, ‘We’re going to have a baby.’ And then there was light. And shrieking. And hugging. My mother flew out of her seat so fast that she knocked it over and, in turn, tipped over a potted cactus that rested by the sliding-glass door. My dad grabbed Jill and kissed her on both cheeks and the top of her head, and for the first time I could remember since their wedding day, he kissed Kyle, too.

I rapped my Dr Brown’s black cherry can with a plastic fork and announced that we needed a toast. ‘Please raise your glasses, everyone, raise your glasses to the brand-new Sachs baby that will be joining our family.’ Kyle and Jill looked at me pointedly. ‘OK, I guess technically it’s a Harrison baby, but it will be a Sachs at heart. To Kyle and Jill, future perfect parents to the world’s most perfect child.’ We all clinked soda cans and coffee mugs and toasted the grinning couple and my sister’s twenty-four-inch waist. I cleaned up by throwing the entire contents of the table directly into a garbage bag while my mom tried to pressure Jill to name the baby after various dead relatives. Kyle sipped coffee and looked pleased with himself, and just before midnight my dad and I sneaked off to his study for a game.

He turned up the white-noise machine he used when he had patients during the day, both to block out the sounds of the household from them and to keep anyone else in the house from hearing what was discussed in his office. Like any good shrink, my dad had placed a gray leather couch in the far corner, so soft I liked to rest my head on the armrest, and three chairs that angled forward and held a person in a kind of fabric sling. Womblike, he assured me. His desk was sleek and black and topped with a flat-screen monitor, and the matching black leather chair was high-backed and very plush. A wall of psychology books encased in glass, a collection of bamboo stalks in a very tall crystal vase on the floor, and some framed colorblock prints – the only real color in the room – completed the futuristic look. I flopped on the floor between the couch and his desk, and he did the same.

‘So, tell me what’s really going on, Andy,’ he said as he handed me a little wooden tile holder. ‘I’m sure you’re feeling really overwhelmed right now.’

I picked my seven tiles and carefully arranged them in front of me. ‘Yeah, it’s been a pretty crazy couple weeks. First moving, then starting. It’s a weird place, hard to explain. It’s like, everyone’s beautiful and thin and wearing gorgeous clothes. And they really do seem nice enough – everybody’s been really friendly. Almost like they’re all on serious prescription drugs. I don’t know …’

‘What? What were you going to say?’

‘I can’t put my finger on it. There’s just this feeling that it’s all a house of cards that’s going to come crashing down around me. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s ridiculous to be working for a fashion magazine, you know? The work’s been a little mindless so far, but I don’t even care. It’s challenging enough because it’s all new, you know?’

He nodded.

‘I know it’s a “cool” job, but I keep wondering how it’s preparing me for The New Yorker. I must just be looking for something to go wrong, because so far it seems too good to be true. Hopefully, I’m just crazy.’

‘I don’t think you’re crazy, sweetie. I think you’re sensitive. But I have to agree, I think you lucked out with this one. People go their entire lives and don’t see the things you’ll see this year. Just think! Your first job out of college, and you’re working for the most important woman at the most profitable magazine at the biggest magazine publishing company in the entire world. You’ll get to watch it all happen, from the top down. If you just keep your eyes open and your priorities in order, you’ll learn more in one year than most people in the industry will see in their entire careers.’ He placed his first word in the middle of the board, JOLT.

‘Not bad for an opening move,’ I said and counted its worth, doubled it because the first word always went on a pink star, and started a scorecard. Dad: 22 points, Andy: 0. My letters weren’t showing much promise. I added an A, M, and E to the L and accepted my paltry six points.

‘I just want to make sure you give it a fair shake,’ he said, switching his tiles around on his holder. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is going to mean big things for you.’

‘Well, I sure hope you’re right, because I have enough paper cuts from wrapping to last a long, long time. There better be more to the whole thing than that.’

‘There will be, sweetie, there will be. You’ll see. It might feel like you’re doing silly stuff, but trust me, you’re not. This is the start of something fantastic, I can feel it. And I’ve studied up on your boss. This Miranda sounds like a tough woman, no doubt about it, but I think you’re going to like her. And I think she’s going to like you, too.’

He placed the word TOWEL down using my E and looked satisfied.

‘I hope you’re right, Dad. I really hope you’re right.’

‘She’s the editor in chief of Runway – you know, the fashion magazine?’ I whispered urgently into the phone, trying valiantly not to get frustrated.

‘Oh, I know which one you mean!’ said Julia, a publicity assistant for Scholastic Books. ‘Great magazine. I love all those letters where girls write in their embarrassing period stories. Are those for real? Do you remember reading the one where—’

‘No, no, not the one for teenagers. It’s most definitely for grown women.’ In theory, at least. ‘Have you really never seen Runway?’ Is it humanly possible that she hasn’t? I wondered. ‘Anyway, it’s spelled P-R-I-E-S-T-L-Y. Miranda, yes,’ I said with infinite patience. I wondered how she’d react if she knew I actually had someone on the line who’d never heard of her. Probably not well.

‘Well, if you could get back to me as soon as possible, I’d really appreciate it,’ I told Julia. ‘And if a senior publicist gets in anytime soon, please have her call me.’

It was a Friday morning in the middle of December and the sweet, sweet freedom of the weekend was only ten hours away. I had been trying to convince a fashion-oblivious Julia at Scholastic that Miranda Priestly really was someone important, someone worth bending rules and suspending logic for. This proved significantly more difficult than I had anticipated. How could I have known that I’d have to explain the weight of Miranda’s position to influence someone who’d never even heard of the most prestigious fashion magazine on earth – or its famous editor? In my four short weeks as Miranda’s assistant, I’d already figured out that such weight-throwing and favor-currying was merely part of my job, but usually the person I was attempting to persuade, intimidate, or otherwise pressure yielded completely at the mere mention of my infamous boss’s name.

Unfortunately for me, Julia worked for an educational publishing house where someone like Nora Ephron or Wendy Wasserstein was much likelier to get VIP treatment than someone known for her impeccable taste in fur. I inherently understood this. I tried to remember all the way back to a time before I had ever heard of Miranda Priestly – five weeks earlier – and couldn’t. But I knew that such a magical time had existed. I envied Julia’s indifference, but I had a job to do, and she wasn’t helping.

The fourth book in that wretched Harry Potter series was due to be released the next day, a Saturday, and Miranda’s ten-year-old twin daughters each wanted one. The first copies wouldn’t arrive in stores until Monday, but I had to have them in my hands on Saturday morning – mere minutes after they were released from the warehouse. After all, Harry and the crew had to catch a private flight to Paris.

My thoughts were interrupted by the phone. I picked it up as I always did now that Emily trusted me enough to speak to Miranda. And boy, did we speak – probably in the vicinity of two dozen times a day. Even from afar, Miranda had managed to creep into my life and completely take over, barking orders and requests and demands at a rapid-fire pace from seven A.M. until I was finally allowed to leave at nine P.M.

‘Ahn-dre-ah? Hello? Is anyone there? Ahn-dre-ah!’ I jumped out of my seat the moment I heard her pronounce my name. It took a moment to remember and accept that she was not, in fact, in the office – or even in the country, and for the time being, at least, I was safe. Emily had assured me that Miranda was completely unaware that Allison had been promoted or I had been hired, that these were insignificant details lost on her. As long as someone answered the phone and got her what she needed, that person’s actual identity was irrelevant.

‘I simply do not understand what takes you so long to speak after you pick up the phone,’ she stated. From any other person on earth that would have sounded whiny, but from Miranda it sounded appropriately cold and firm. Just like her. ‘In case you haven’t been here long enough to notice, when I call, you respond. It’s actually simple. See? I call. You respond. Do you think you can handle that, Ahn-dre-ah?’

I nodded like a six-year-old who’d just been reprimanded for throwing spaghetti on the ceiling, even though she couldn’t see me. I concentrated on not calling her ‘ma’am,’ a mistake I’d made a week earlier that had almost gotten me fired. ‘Yes, Miranda. I’m sorry,’ I said softly, head bowed. And for that moment I was sorry, sorry that her words hadn’t registered in my brain three-tenths of a second faster than they had, sorry that my tardiness in saying ‘Miranda Priestly’s office’ had taken a fraction of a second longer than absolutely necessary. Her time was, as I was constantly reminded, much more important than my own.

‘All right then. Now, after wasting all that time, may we begin? Did you confirm Mr Tomlinson’s reservation?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Miranda, I made a reservation for Mr Tomlinson at the Four Seasons at one o’clock.’

I could see it coming a mile away. A mere ten minutes earlier she’d called and ordered me to make a reservation at the Four Seasons and call Mr Tomlinson and her driver and the nanny to inform them of the plans, and now she’d want to rearrange them.

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. The Four Seasons is not the appropriate venue for his lunch with Irv. Reserve a table for two at Le Cirque, and remember to remind the maître d’ that they will want to sit in the back of the restaurant. Not on display in the front. The back. That’s all.’

I had convinced myself, when I first spoke with Miranda on the phone, that by uttering ‘that’s all,’ she really intended those words to mean ‘thank you.’ By the second week I’d rethought that.

‘Of course, Miranda. Thank you,’ I said with a smile. I could sense her pausing on the other end of the line, wondering how to respond. Did she know I was calling attention to her refusal to say thank you? Did it seem odd to her that I was thanking her for ordering me around? I had recently begun thanking her after every one of her sarcastic comments or nasty phone-in commands, and the tactic was oddly comforting. She knew I was mocking her somehow, but what could she say? Ahn-dre-ah, I never want to hear you thank me again. I forbid you to express your gratitude in such a manner! Come to think of it, that might not be that much of a stretch.

Le Cirque, Le Cirque, Le Cirque, I said over and over in my head, determined to make that reservation ASAP so I could get back to the significantly more difficult Harry Potter challenge. The Le Cirque reservationist immediately agreed to have a table ready for Mr Tomlinson and Irv whenever they arrived.

Emily walked in from a stroll around the office and asked me if Miranda had called at all.

‘Only three times, and she didn’t threaten to fire me during any of them,’ I said proudly. ‘Of course, she did intimate it, but she didn’t all-out threaten. Progress, no?’

She laughed in the way she did only when I made fun of myself, and she asked what Miranda, her guru, had wanted.

‘Just wanted me to switch around B-DAD’s lunch reservation. Not sure why I’m doing that when he has his own assistant, but hey, I don’t ask questions around here.’ Mr Blind, Deaf, and Dumb was our nickname for Miranda’s third husband. Although to the general public he appeared to be none of those, those of us in the know were quite confident he was all three. There was, quite simply, no other explanation for how a nice guy like him could tolerate living with her.

Next, it was time to call B-DAD himself. If I didn’t call soon, he might not be able to get to the restaurant in time. He’d flown back from their vacation for a couple days of business meetings, and this lunch with Irv Ravitz – Elias-Clark’s CEO – was among the most important. Miranda wanted every detail perfect – as though that were something new. B-DAD’s real name was Hunter Tomlinson. He and Miranda had gotten married the summer before I started working, after what I’d heard was a rather unique courtship: she pursued, he demurred. According to Emily, she’d chased him relentlessly until he’d yielded from the mere exhaustion of ducking her. She’d left her second husband (the lead singer of one of the most famous bands from the late sixties and the twins’ father) with absolutely no warning before her lawyer delivered the papers, and was married again precisely twelve days after the divorce was finalized. Mr Tomlinson followed orders and moved into her penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. I’d only met Miranda once and I’d never met her new husband, but I’d logged enough phone hours with each that I felt, unfortunately, like they were family.

Three rings, four rings, five rings … hmm, I wonder where his assistant is? I prayed for an answering machine, since I wasn’t in the mood for the mindless, friendly chitchat of which B-DAD seemed so fond. Instead, I got his secretary.

‘Mr Tomlinson’s office,’ she trilled in her deep southern drawl. ‘How may I help you today?’ How mah I hep ya tuhday?