Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont
was written about a new restaurant in Washington. Since I’ll be there next week, I need you to make a reservation.’ She cocked her head and moved her lips into what can only be described as a wicked smile. ‘What exactly about this project do you find so challenging?’
Washington? Five times she’d told me the restaurant was in Washington? I don’t think so. She was clearly losing her mind or just taking sadistic pleasure in watching me lose mine. But being the idiot she took me for, I again spoke without thinking.
‘Oh, Miranda, I’m fairly certain that the New York Post doesn’t do reviews of restaurants in Washington. It appears they only actually visit and review places new to New York.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny, Ahn-dre-ah? Is that your idea of having a sense of humor?’ Her smile had disappeared and she was leaning forward in her seat, looking like a hungry vulture that was impatiently circling its prey.
‘Um no, Miranda, I just thought that—’
‘Ahn-dre-ah, as I’ve made clear a dozen times already, the review I’m looking for is in the Washington Post. You’ve heard of that little newspaper, right? Just like New York has the New York Times, Washington, D.C., has its own paper, too. See how that works?’ Her voice was now beyond mocking: she was so incredibly patronizing that she was only one step away from actually addressing me in baby talk.
‘I’ll get it for you right away,’ I stated as calmly as I could and quietly walked out.
‘Oh, and Ahn-dre-ah?’ My heart lurched and my stomach wondered if it could take another ‘surprise.’ ‘I expect you to attend the party tonight to greet the guests. That’s all.’
I looked to Emily, who looked absolutely baffled, her crinkled forehead making her appear as dumbfounded as I felt. ‘Did I hear her correctly?’ I whispered to Emily, who could do nothing but nod and motion for me to come to her side of the suite.
‘I was afraid of this,’ she whispered gravely, like a surgeon telling a patient’s family member that they’d found something horrible upon opening the chest cavity.
‘She can’t be serious. It’s four o’clock on Friday. The party starts at seven. It’s black tie, for chrissake – there is no way on earth she expects me to go.’ I looked again at my watch in disbelief and tried to remember her exact words.
‘Oh, she’s quite serious,’ she said, picking up the phone. ‘I’ll help you, OK? You go find the review in the Washington Post and get her a copy before she leaves – Uri is coming for her soon to take her home for her hair and makeup. I’ll get you a dress and everything else you need for tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.’ She began rapid-fire dialing and whispering urgent-sounding instructions into the phone. I stood and stared, but she waved her hand without looking up and I snapped back to reality.
‘Go,’ she whispered, looking at me with a rare hint of sympathy. And I went.
‘You can’t show up in a cab,’ Lily said to me as I jabbed helplessly at my eyes with my brand-new Maybelline Great Lash mascara. ‘This is black-tie. Call a car, for chrissake.’ She watched for a minute more and then grabbed the clumpy wand from my hand and tapped my eyelids closed.
‘I guess you’re right,’ I sighed, still refusing to accept that my Friday night was to be spent in a formal gown at the Whitney, greeting wealthy-but-still-rednecks from Georgia and North and South Carolina and plastering fake smile after fake smile on my poorly made-up face. The announcement had left me all of three hours to find a dress, buy makeup, get ready, and revamp all my weekend plans, and in the craziness of the situation, I’d forgotten to arrange transportation.
Luckily, working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the country (the job a million girls would die for!) has its advantages, and by 4:40 P.M. I was the proud borrower of a knockout floor-length black Oscar de la Renta number, provided kindly by Jeffy, Closet maven and lover of all things feminine (‘Girl, you go black-tie, you go Oscar, and that’s that. Now don’t be shy, take those pants off and try this on for Jeffy.’ I began to unbutton and he shuddered. I asked him if he really found my half-naked body that repulsive, and he said of course not; it was merely my panty lines that he found so disgusting). The fashion assistants had already called in a pair of silver Manolos in my size, and someone in accessories had selected a flashy silver Judith Leiber evening bag with a long, clanking chain. I’d expressed interest in an understated Calvin Klein clutch, but she snorted at the suggestion and handed me the Judith. Stef was debating whether I should wear a choker or a pendant, and Allison, the newly promoted beauty editor, was on the phone with her manicurist, who made office calls.
‘She’ll meet you in the conference room at four forty-five,’ Allison said when I picked up my extension. ‘You’re wearing black, right? Insist on Chanel Ruby Red. Just tell her to bill us.’
The entire office had worked itself up to a nearly hysterical frenzy trying to make me look appropriate for the night’s gala affair. It certainly wasn’t because they all adored me so much and killed themselves trying to help me out; rather, they knew Miranda had mandated the makeover and were eager to prove to her the high level of their taste and class.
Lily finished her charity makeup lesson and I briefly wondered if I looked ridiculous wearing a floor-length Oscar de la Renta gown and Bonne Belle Lipsmackers in Fudgsicle. Probably, but I had turned down all offers of having a makeup artist come to the apartment. Everyone on staff tried to insist – and none too subtly – but I adamantly refused. Even I had limits.
I hobbled into the bedroom on my four-inch Manolo stilettos and kissed Alex on the forehead. He barely looked up from the magazine he was reading.
‘I’ll definitely be home by eleven, so we can go get some dinner or drinks then, OK? I’m sorry I have to do this, I really am. If you do decide to go out with the guys, call so I can come meet you, OK?’ He had, as promised, come directly from school to spend the night together, and hadn’t been all that thrilled when I’d arrived home with the news that he could definitely have a relaxing night at home but that I wouldn’t be a part of the plans. He was sitting on the balcony off my bedroom, reading an old copy of Vanity Fair we had lying around and drinking one of the beers Lily kept in the fridge for guests. It wasn’t until after I’d explained that I had to work tonight that I even noticed he and Lily weren’t hanging out.
‘Where is she?’ I asked. ‘She has no classes, and I know she’s not working Fridays all summer.’
Alex took a swig of his Pale Ale and shrugged. ‘I’m guessing she’s here. Her door’s closed, but I saw some guy walking around before.’
‘Some guy? Could you be a little more descriptive? What guy?’ I wondered if someone had broken in, or perhaps Freudian Boy had finally been invited over.
‘I don’t know, but he’s scary-looking. Tattoos, piercings, wife-beater – the whole nine. Can’t imagine where she met this one.’ He took another nonchalant swig.
I couldn’t imagine where she’d found him, either, considering I’d left her at eleven the night before in the company of a very polite guy named William who, as far as I could see, was not a wife-beater-wearing, tattoo-donning kind of guy.
‘Alex, seriously! You’re telling me there’s some thug cruising around my apartment – a thug who may or may not have been invited over – and you don’t care? This is ridiculous! We need to do something,’ I said, getting up from the chair and wondering, as always, if the weight shift was going to cause the balcony to fall off the side of the building.
‘Andy, relax. He’s definitely not a thug.’ He flipped a page. ‘He might be a punk-grunge-freak, but he’s not a thug.’
‘Great, that’s just fucking great. Now are you going to come see what’s going on,