Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont
the wardrobe. The sketchbook with all my different ‘looks’ was displayed prominently on the bedside table, just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to turn to it for spiritual guidance. I flipped through the headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all.
Shows:
1 Daytime
2 Evening
Meals:
1 Breakfast meeting
2 LunchCasual (hotel or bistro)Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)
3 DinnerCasual (bistro, room service)Midrange (decent restaurant, casual dinner party)Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant, formal dinner party)
Parties:
1 Casual (champagne breakfasts, afternoon teas)
2 Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people, book parties, ‘meet for drinks’)
3 Dressy (cocktail parties by major people, anything at a museum or gallery, postshow parties hosted by design team)
Miscellaneous:
1 To and from the airport
2 Athletic events (lessons etc.)
3 Shopping excursions
4 Running errandsTo couture salonsTo upscale shops and boutiquesTo the local food store and/or health and beauty aid
There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear when one was unable to establish the major-ness or non-major-ness of the hosts. Clearly, there was the opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the event down to ‘Parties,’ which was a good first step, but at that point things got gray. Was this party going to be a simple number 2, where I’d just pull out something chic, or was it really a 3, in which case I’d better pay attention to choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no instructions for ‘gray area’ or ‘uncertainty,’ but someone had helpfully included a last-minute handwritten note toward the bottom of the table of contents: When in doubt (and you never should be), better to be underdressed in something fabulous than overdressed in something fabulous. Well, OK then, it looked like I now squarely fit into category, party; subcategory, stylish. I turned to the six looks that Lucia had sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on.
After a particularly embarrassing run-in with a feather-covered tank top and patent-leather thigh-high (as in yes, over the knee) boots, I finally selected the outfit on page thirty-three, a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli with a baby-T and a pair of biker-chick black boots by D&G. Hot, sexy, stylish – but not too dressy – without actually making me look like an ostrich, an eighties throwback, or a hooker. What more could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to choose a workable bag, the hair and makeup woman showed up to begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did.
‘Um, could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a little?’ I asked carefully, desperately trying not disparage her handiwork. It probably would’ve been better to have a go at the makeup myself – especially since I had more supplies and instructions than the NASA scientists commissioned to build the space shuttle – but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like clockwork whether I liked it or not.
‘No!’ she barked, clearly not striving for the same sensitivity as myself. ‘It looks better this way.’
She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to the lobby fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I could double-check that the driver was ready. Just as I was debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or actually use the same one and risk catching something from sharing a backseat with her assistant, she appeared. She looked me up and down very slowly, her expression remaining completely passive and indifferent. I’d passed! This was the first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t received a look of all-out disgust or, at the very least, a snarky comment, and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New York fashion editors, a collection of Parisian hair and makeup stylists, and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most expensive clothing.
‘Is the car here, Ahn-dre-ah?’ She looked stunning in a short, shirred velvet cocktail dress.
‘Yes, Ms Priestly, right this way,’ Monsieur Renaud interrupted smoothly, leading us past a group of what could only be other American fashion editors also there for the shows. A deferential hush fell over the super-hip-looking crowd of über-Clackers when we walked past, Miranda two steps in front me, looking thin and striking and very, very unhappy. I nearly had to run to keep up, even though she was six inches shorter than me, and I waited until she gave me a ‘Well? What the hell are you waiting for?’ look before I ducked into the backseat of the limo after her.
Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going, because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was being held. She did turn to me, but she said nothing, choosing instead to chat with B-DAD on her cell phone, repeating over and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday night. He was flying over in his company’s private jet, and they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday, she didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school. It wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it was exactly that I was supposed to do all night. She’d always been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her staff in public, which indicated – at least on some level – that she knew she was doing it in the first place. So if she couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her someone on the phone or have something dry-cleaned while we were standing there, what was I to do?
‘Ahn-dre-ah, this party is being hosted by a couple with whom I was friendly when we lived in Paris. They requested that I bring along an assistant to entertain their son, who generally finds these events rather dull. I’m sure the two of you will get along well.’ She waited until the driver opened her door, then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps. Before I could open my own door, she had climbed the three steps and was already handing her coat to the butler, who was clearly awaiting her arrival. I slumped back into the soft leather seat for just a minute, trying to process this new gem of information she’d so coolly relayed. The hair, the makeup, the rescheduling, the panicked consultation with the style book, the biker-chick boots, were all so I could spend the night babysitting some rich couple’s snot-nosed kid? And a French snot-nosed kid, no less.
I spent three full minutes reminding myself that The New Yorker was now only a couple months away, that my year of servitude was about to pay off, that I could surely make it through one more night of tedium to get my dream job. It didn’t help. All of a sudden, I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’ couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set up the Scrabble board. Jill and even Kyle would be visiting, too, with baby Isaac, who would coo and smile when he saw me and Alex would call and tell me he loved me. No one would care that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully unpedicured or that I was eating a big, fat chocolate éclair. Not a single person would even know that there were fashion shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them. But all of that seemed incredibly far away, a lifetime actually, and right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived and died on the runway. That, and what was sure to be a screaming, spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish.
When I finally pulled my scantily-but-stylishly clad self from the limo, the butler was no longer expecting anyone. There was music coming from a live band and the smell of scented candles wafted outside from a window above the small garden. I took a deep breath and reached up to knock, but the door swung open. It’s safe to say that never, ever, in my young life had I been more surprised