‘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 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 eyeliner. No one batted an eye. We’d had gay groups on campus, and I had a few friends who’d come out the past few years, but none of them looked like this. It was like being surrounded by the entire cast and crew of Rent – with better costumes, of course.
The women, or rather the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than thirty. While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet – or ever would. In and out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch skinny heels, sashaying over to my desk to extend milky-white hands with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves ‘Jocelyn who works with Hope,’ ‘Nicole from fashion,’ and ‘Stef who oversees accessories.’ Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of height. All weighed less than 110 pounds.
As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone’s name, the prettiest girl I’d seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds. The most amazing white hair swirled down her back. Her six-one frame looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright, but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks glowed, and her multi-carat, flawless diamond engagement ring emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she’d caught me staring at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.
‘I created it,’ she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at me. I looked to Emily for an explanation, a hint as to who this might be, but she was on the phone again. I thought the girl was referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but then she said, ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous color? It’s one coat Marshmallow and one coat Ballet Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first, and then a topcoat to finish it off. It’s perfect – light colored without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think I’ll use this every time I get a manicure!’ And she turned on her heels and walked out. Ah, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too, I mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away.
I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and sweet and, except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish fetish, they all appeared interested in getting to know me. Emily hadn’t left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me something. She provided running commentary on who was really important, whom not to piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend because they threw the best parties. When I described Manicure Girl, Emily’s face lit up.
‘Oh!’ she breathed, more excited than I’d heard her about anyone else yet. ‘Isn’t she just amazing?’
‘Um, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn’t really get a chance to talk, she was just, you know, showing me her nail polish.’
Emily smiled widely, proudly. ‘Yes, well, you do know who she is, don’t you?’
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie stars or singers or models, but I couldn’t place her. So, she was famous! Maybe that’s why she hadn’t introduced herself – I was supposed to recognize her. But I didn’t. ‘No, actually, I don’t. Is she famous?’
The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust. ‘Um, yeah,’ Emily said, emphasizing the ‘yeah’ and squinting her eyes as if to say, You total fucking idiot. ‘That is Jessica Duchamps.’ She waited. I waited. Nothing. ‘You do know who that is, right?’ Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect something with this new information, but I was quite sure I’d never, ever heard of her. Besides, this game was getting old.
‘Emily, I’ve never seen her before, and her name doesn’t sound familiar. Would you please tell me who she is?’ I asked, struggling to remain calm. The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d made me look like a complete and total loser.
Her smile this time was patronizing. ‘Of course. You just had to say so. Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it – isn’t that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich.’
‘Oh, really?’ I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were restaurateurs. ‘That’s great.’
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite ‘Miranda Priestly’s office,’ although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself would call and I wouldn’t know what to do. Panic set in during a call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a strong British accent, and I threw the phone