“Alex, listen, I know—”
“No, you listen! Forget about me for a second, not like that’s such a stretch, but forget that we never, ever see each other anymore because of the hours you keep at work, because of your never-ending work emergencies. What about your parents? When was the last time you actually saw them? And your sister? You do realize that she just had her first baby and you haven’t even seen your own nephew yet, don’t you? Doesn’t that mean anything?” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. I thought he might be getting ready to apologize, but he said, “What about Lily? Have you not noticed that your best friend has turned into a raging alcoholic?” I must have looked absolutely shocked, because he barreled on. “You can’t even think of saying you didn’t realize that, Andy. It’s the most obvious thing in the world.”
“Yes, of course she drinks. So do you and so do I and so does everyone we know. Lily’s a student, and that’s what students do, Alex. What’s so weird about that?” It sounded even more pathetic when I said it out loud, and he only shook his head. We were both quiet for a few minutes until he spoke.
“You just don’t get it, Andy. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. I think we need a break.”
“What? What are you saying? You want to break up?” I asked, realizing much too late that he was very, very serious. Alex was so understanding, so sweet, so available, that I’d begun to take for granted that he’d always be around to listen or talk me down after a long day or cheer me up when everyone else had felt free to take a swing. The only problem with all of this was that I wasn’t exactly holding up my end of the deal.
“No, not at all. Not break up, just take a break. I think it would help both of us if we reevaluate what we’ve got going here. You sure don’t seem happy with me lately, and I can’t say I’m thrilled with you. Maybe a little time away would be good for both of us.”
“Good for both of us? You think it’ll ‘help us’?” I wanted to scream at the triteness of his words, at the idea that “taking some time” would actually help draw us closer. It seemed selfish that he was doing this now, just as I was going into what I hoped was the last of my one-year Runway sentence and mere days before I had to pull off the biggest challenge of my career. Any quick jabs of sadness or concern from a few minutes ago had been swiftly replaced with irritation. “Fine, then. Let’s ‘take a break,’ ” I said sarcastically, meanly. “A breather. Sounds like a great plan.”
He stared at me with those big brown eyes with a look of overwhelming surprise and hurt, and then pressed them tightly shut in an apparent effort to push away the image of my face. “OK, Andy. I’ll put you out of your obvious misery and leave now. I hope you have a great time in Paris, I really do. I’ll talk to you soon.” And before I even realized that it was actually happening, he’d kissed me on the cheek like he would Lily or my mother and walked toward the door.
“Alex, don’t you think we should talk about this?” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, wondering if he would actually walk out right now.
He turned and smiled sadly and said, “Let’s not talk any more tonight, Andy. We should’ve been talking the past few months, the past year, not trying to cram it all in right now. Think about everything, OK? I’ll call you in a couple weeks, when you’re back and settled. And good luck in Paris—I know you’ll be great.” He opened the door, stepped through it, and quietly closed it behind him.
I ran to Lily’s room so she could tell me that he was overreacting, that I had to go to Paris because it was the best thing for my future, that she didn’t have a drinking problem, that I wasn’t a bad sister for leaving the country when Jill had just had her first baby. But she was passed out on top of her covers, fully dressed, the empty cocktail glass on her bedside table. Her Toshiba laptop was open beside her on the bed, and I wondered if she’d managed to write a single word. I looked. Bravo! She’d written the heading, complete with her name, the class number, the professor’s name, and her presumably temporary version of the article’s title: “The Psychological Ramifications of Falling in Love with Your Reader.” I laughed out loud, but she didn’t stir, so I moved the computer back to her desk and set her alarm for seven and turned out the lights.
My cell phone rang as soon as I walked in my bedroom. After the initial five-second usual heart-pounding session I endured each time it rang for fear that it was Her, I flipped it open immediately, knowing it was Alex. I knew he couldn’t leave things so unfinished. This was the same guy who couldn’t fall asleep without a good-night kiss and a verbal wish for sweet dreams; there was no way he was just prancing out of here, totally fine with the suggestion that we not talk for a few weeks.
“Hi, baby,” I breathed, missing him already but still happy to be on the phone with him and not necessarily having to deal with everything in person right now. My head ached and my shoulders felt like they were glued to my ears, and I just wanted to hear him say that the whole thing had been a big mistake and he’d call me tomorrow. “I’m glad you called.”
“‘Baby’? Wow! We’re making progress, aren’t we, Andy? Better be careful or I might have to consider the possibility that you want me,” Christian said smoothly with a grin I could hear over the phone line. “I’m glad I called, too.”
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Well, that’s not the warmest welcome I’ve ever received! What’s the matter, Andy? You’ve been screening me lately, haven’t you?”
“Of course not,” I lied. “I’ve just had a bad day. As usual. What’s up?”
He laughed. “Andy, Andy, Andy. Come on now. You have no reason to be so unhappy. You’re on the fast-track to great things. Speaking of which, I’m calling to see if you wanted to come to a PEN award ceremony and reading tomorrow night. Should be lots of interesting people, and I haven’t seen you in a while. Purely professional, of course.”
For a girl who had read way too many “How to Know if He’s Ready to Commit” articles in Cosmo, one might think the warning flags would’ve gone up on this one. And they did—I just chose to ignore them. It had been a very long day, and so I allowed myself to think—just for a few minutes—that he might, might, MIGHT actually be sincere. Screw it. It felt good to talk to a noncritical male for a few minutes, even if he did refuse to accept that I was taken. I knew I wouldn’t actually accept his invitation, but a few minutes of innocent phone flirting wouldn’t hurt anyone.
“Oh really?” I asked coyly. “Tell me all about it.”
“I’m going to list all the reasons that you should come with me, Andy, and the first one is the simplest: I know what’s good for you. Period.” God, he was arrogant. Why did I find it so endearing?
Game on. We were off and running, and it took only a few more minutes until the trip to Paris and Lily’s nasty little vodka habit and Alex’s sad eyes faded to the background of my acknowledged-unhealthy-and-emotionally-dangerous-but-really-sexy-and-fun-nonetheless conversation with Christian.
16
It was planned that Miranda would be in Europe for a week before I was due to arrive. She settled for using some local assistants for the Milan shows—and would be arriving in Paris the same morning I was so we could work out the details of her party together, like old friends. Hah. Delta had refused to simply change the name on the ticket from Emily’s to mine, so rather than get even more frustrated and hassled than I already was, I just charged a new one. Twenty-two hundred dollars because it was fashion week and I was buying at the last minute. I paused for one ridiculous minute before forking over the corporate card number. Whatever, I thought. Miranda can spend that in a week on hair and makeup alone.
As Miranda’s junior assistant, I was the lowest-ranking human being at Runway. However, if access is power, then Emily and I were the two most powerful people in fashion: we determined who got meetings, when they were scheduled (early morning was always preferred because people’s makeup would be fresh and their clothes unwrinkled), and whose messages
got through (if your name wasn’t on the Bulletin, you didn’t exist).
So when either of us needed help, the rest of the staff were obliged to pull through. Yes, of course there was something disconcerting about the realization that if we didn’t work for Miranda Priestly these same people would have no compunction in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars. As it was, when called upon, they ran and fetched and retrieved for us like well-trained puppies.
Work on the current issue ground to a halt as everyone rallied to send me off to Paris adequately prepared. Three Clackers from the fashion department hastily pulled together a wardrobe that included every single item that I could conceivably require for any event Miranda could conceivably call on me to attend. By the time I left, Lucia, the fashion director, promised I would have in my possession not only an assemblage of clothing appropriate for any contingency, but also a full sketchbook complete with professionally rendered charcoal sketches depicting every imaginable way of pairing the aforementioned clothing in order to maximize style and minimize embarrassment. In other words: leave nothing to my own selection or pairing, and I’d quite possibly have a shot in hell—albeit slim—of looking presentable.
Might I need to accompany Miranda to a bistro and stand, mummylike, in the corner while she sipped a glass of Bordeaux? A pair of cuffed, charcoal gray Theory pants with a black silk turtleneck sweater by Celine. Attend the tennis club where she’d receive her private lessons so that I could fetch water and, if required, white scarves in case she schvitzed? A head-to-toe athletic outfit complete with bootleg workout pants, zip-up hooded jacket (cropped to show off my tummy, natch), a $185 wife-beater to wear under it, and suede sneakers—all by Prada. And what if maybe—just maybe—I actually did make it to the front row of one of those shows like everyone swore I would? The options were limitless. My favorite so far (and it was still only late afternoon on Monday) was a pleated school-girl skirt by Anna Sui, with a very sheer and very frilly white Miu Miu blouse, paired with a particularly naughty-looking pair of midcalf Christian Laboutin boots and topped with a Katayone Adeli leather blazer so fitted it bordered on obscene. My Express jeans and Franco Sarto loafers had been buried under a film of dust in my closet for months now, and I had to admit I didn’t miss them.
I also discovered that Allison, the beauty editor, did, in fact, deserve her title by literally being the beauty industry. Within twenty-four hours of being “put on notice” that I would be needing some makeup and more than a few tips, she had created the Be-All, End-All Cosmetic Catchall. Included in the decidedly oversize Burberry “toiletry case” (it actually more closely resembled a wheeled suitcase slightly larger than those approved by the airlines for carry-on) was every imaginable type of shadow, lotion, gloss, cream, liner, and type of makeup. Lipsticks came in matte, high-shine, long-lasting, and clear. Six shades of mascara—ranging in color from a light blue to a “pouty black”—were accompanied by an eyelash curler and two eyelash combs in case of (gasp!) clumps.
Powders, which appeared to account for half of all the products and fixed/accentuated/accented/hid the eyelids, the skin tone, and the cheeks, had a color scheme more complex and subtler than a painter’s palette: some were meant to bronze, others to highlight, and still others to pout, plump, or pale. I had the choice whether to add that healthy blush to my face in the form of a liquid, solid, powder, or a combination thereof. The foundation was the most impressive of all: it was as if someone had managed to remove an actual sample of skin directly from my face and custom-mix a pint or two of the stuff. Whether it “added sheen” or “covered blemishes,” every single solitary little bottle matched my skin tone better than, well, my own skin. Packed in a slightly smaller matching plaid case were the supplies: cotton balls, cotton squares, Q-tips, sponges, somewhere in the vicinity of two dozen different-size application brushes, washcloths, two different types of eye makeup remover (moisturizing and oil-free), and no less than twelve—TWELVE—kinds of moisturizer (facial, body, deep-conditioning, with SPF 15, glimmering, tinted, scented, nonscented, hypoallergenic, with alpha-hydroxy, antibacterial, and—just in case that nasty October Parisian sun got the best of me—with aloe vera).
Tucked in a side pocket of the smaller case were legal-size pieces of paper with preprinted faces rendered on each one, enlarged to fit the page. Each face bragged an impressive makeover: Allison had applied the actual makeup she’d included in the kit to the paper faces. One face was eerily labeled “Relaxed Evening Glamour” but had a caveat under it in big, bold marker that read: NOT FOR BLACK-TIE!! TOO CASUAL!! The nonformal face had a light covering of the matte foundation under a slight brush of bronzing powder, a light dab of liquid or “crème” blush, some very sexy, dark-lined and heavily shadowed eyelids accented by jet black mascara’d lashes, and what appeared to be a quick, casual swipe of high-gloss lip color. When I’d mumbled under my breath to Allison that this would be utterly impossible for me to recreate, she looked exasperated.
“Well, hopefully you won’t have to,” she said in a voice that sounded so taxed, I thought she might collapse under the weight of my ignorance.
“No? Then why do I have nearly two dozen ‘faces’ suggesting different ways to use all this stuff?”
Her withering glance was worthy of Miranda.
“Andrea. Be serious. This is for emergencies only, in case Miranda asks you to go somewhere with her at the last minute, or if your hair and makeup person can’t make it. Oh, that reminds me, let me show you the hair stuff I packed.”
As Allison demonstrated how to use four different types of round brushes to blow my hair straight, I tried to make sense of what she’d just said. I would have a hair and makeup person, too? I hadn’t arranged for anyone to do me when I’d booked all of Miranda’s people, so who had? I had to ask.
“The Paris office,” Allison replied with a sigh. “You’re representing Runway, you know, and Miranda is very sensitive to that. You’ll be attending some of the most glamorous events in the world alongside Miranda Priestly. You don’t think you could achieve the right look on your own, do you?”
“No, of course not. It’s definitely better that I have professional help for this. Thank you.”
Then Allison kept me cornered an additional two hours until she was satisfied that if any of the fourteen hair and makeup appointments I had scheduled over the course of the week fell through, I wouldn’t humiliate our boss by smearing the mascara across my lips or shaving the sides of my head and spiking the center into a mohawk. When we were through, I thought I’d finally get a moment to race down to the dining room and grab some calorie-enriched soup, but Allison picked up Emily’s extension—her old phone line—and dialed Stef in the accessories department.
“Hi, I’m done with her and she’s here right now. You want to come over?”
“Wait! I need to go get lunch before Miranda comes back!”
Allison 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 on
e 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.