The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger Page B

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.
     
     “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 aRunway -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’sreally 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 classicRunway 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 atRunway . 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 forThe 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 people that first morning, everyone flashing enormous, toothy
white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in meeting me.
     
     The men
were all flamboyantly gay, adorning themselves in second-skin leather pants and
ribbed T’s that stretched over bulging biceps and perfect pecs. The art
director, an older man sporting champagne blond, thinning hair, who looked like
he dedicated his life to emulating Elton John, was turned out in rabbit-fur
loafers and