Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know by Lauren Weisberger Page B

7:00 A.M. on the dot, I signed my name into Eduardo’s book and was buzzed through the turnstiles for the very first time. ‘Strike a pose!’ Eduardo called after me, just before the elevator doors swept shut.
    Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but wrinkled sheer white T-shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants, was waiting for me in the reception area, clutching a cup of Starbucks and flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were placed firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed obviously through the completely transparent cotton of her shirt. Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth by the coffee cup, and uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders made her look as though she’d spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.
    â€˜Hey, welcome,’ she muttered, giving me my first official up-down look-over by someone other than the security guard. ‘Nice boots.’
    My heart surged. Was she serious? Or sarcastic? Her tone made it impossible to tell. My arches ached already and my toes were jammed up against the front, but if I’d actually been complimented on an item of my outfit by a
Runway
-er, it might be worth the pain.
    Emily looked at me a moment longer and then swung her legs off the table, sighing dramatically. ‘Well, let’s get to it. It’s
really
lucky for you that she’s not here,’ she said. ‘Not that she’s not great, of course, because she is,’ she added in what I would soon recognize – and come to adopt myself – as the classic Runway Paranoid Turnaround. Just when something negative about Miranda slips out from a Clacker’s lips – however justified – paranoia that Miranda will find out overwhelms the speaker and inspires an about-face. One of my favorite workday pastimes became watching my colleagues scramble to negate whatever blasphemy they’d uttered.
    Emily slid her card through the electronic reader, and we walked side by side, in silence, through the winding hallways to the center of the floor, where Miranda’s office suite was located. I watched as she opened the suite’s French doors and tossed her bag and coat on one of the desks that sat directly outside Miranda’s cavernous office. ‘This is your desk, obviously,’ she motioned to a smooth, wooden, L-shaped Formica slab that sat directly opposite hers. It had a brand-new turquoise iMac computer, a phone, and some filing trays, and there were already pens and paper clips and some notebooks in the drawers. ‘I left most of my stuff for you. It’s easier if I just order the new stuff for myself.’
    Emily had just been promoted to the position of senior assistant, leaving the junior assistant position open for me. She explained that she would spend two years as Miranda’s senior assistant, after which she’d be skyrocketed to an amazing fashion position at
Runway
. The three-year assistant program she’d be completing was the ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world, but I was clinging to the belief that my one-year sentence would suffice for
The New Yorker
. Allison had already left Miranda’s office area for her new post in the beauty department, where she’d be responsible for testing new makeup, moisturizers, and hair products and writing them up. I wasn’t sure how being Miranda’s assistant had prepared her for this task, but I was impressed nonetheless. The promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got places.
    The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten, about fifty in all of editorial. The biggest department was fashion, of course, with close to thirty people, including all the accessories assistants. Features, beauty, and art rounded out the mix. Nearly everyone stopped by Miranda’s office to schmooze with Emily, overhear any gossip concerning her boss, and check out the new girl. I met dozens of