Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont
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.
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 dry cleaning 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. Go to the Pilates studio where she’d receive her private instruction 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, non-scented, 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 re-create, 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,