‘No.’ I laughed or, rather, forced a laugh, as I tried to make it sound casual. ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Although I’m sure he’d just love to meet you, too.’
He laughed with me, but it had turned mocking, patronizing. ‘I was just kidding, Andrea. I’m sure your boyfriend’s a really great guy, but I’m not particularly interested in meeting him.’
‘Well, of course. Sure. I mean, I knew what you—’
‘Listen, I’ve got to run. Why don’t you give me a call if you change your mind … or your “plans,” OK? Offer’s still open. Oh, and have a great day.’ And before I could say another word, he’d hung up.
What the hell had just happened? I ran through it again: Hot Smart Writer had somehow found my cell number, called it, and fully asked me on a date for Saturday night to Hot Trendy Restaurant. I wasn’t clear whether he knew ahead of time if I had a boyfriend or not, but he didn’t appear particularly daunted by the information. The only thing I knew for sure was that I’d spent way too long chatting on the phone, a fact confirmed by a quick glance at my watch. It had been thirty-two minutes since I’d left the office, longer than the time it usually took me to get lunch and come back.
I stashed the phone and realized I had already made it to the restaurant. I pulled open the lumbering wooden door and stepped into the hushed, darkened dining room. Even though every table was filled with midtown bankers and lawyers gnawing on their favorite steaks, there was barely any noise at all, as if the plush carpeting and manly color scheme just absorbed all the sound.
‘Andrea!’ I heard Sebastian cry from the hostess stand. He beelined toward me as though I might be holding the last of a life-saving medication. ‘We’re just all so glad you’re here!’ Two young girls in crisp gray skirt suits nodded seriously behind him.
‘Oh, really? Why is that?’ I could never help myself toying with Sebastian, just a little. He was such an unbelievable kiss-ass.
He leaned over conspiratorially, his excitement palpable. ‘Well, you know how the entire staff here at Smith and Wollensky feels about Ms Priestly, don’t you? Runway is such a gorgeous magazine, what with all the beautiful shoots and stunning style and, of course, fascinating, literate articles. We all just adore it!’
‘Literate articles, huh?’ I asked, suppressing the huge smile that was threatening to emerge. He nodded proudly and turned as one of the suited helpers tapped him on the shoulder to hand him a tote bag.
He literally cried out in joy. ‘Ah-hah! Here we have it, one perfectly prepared lunch for one perfect editor – and one perfect assistant,’ he added while winking at me.
‘Thank you, Sebastian, we both appreciate it.’ I opened the natural cotton tote, a bag that looked just like those über-cool ones from the Strand that all the NYU students slung over their shoulder, but without the logo, and made sure everything was right. One-and-a-quarter-pound ribeye, bleeding all over the container, so raw it just might not have been cooked at all. Check. Two baked potatoes the size of small kittens, each steaming hot. Check. One small side container of smashed potatoes, made soft with lots of heavy cream and extra butter. Check. Precisely eight perfect stalks of asparagus with the tips looking plump and juicy and the ends shaved to a clean, white finish. Check. There was also a metal gravy boat full of softened butter, a pinch-box overflowing with grainy kosher salt, a wooden-handled steak knife, and a crisp white linen napkin, which today was folded into the shape of a pleated skirt. How adorable. Sebastian waited to see if I liked it.
‘Very nice, Sebastian,’ I said as though I were praising a puppy for going number two outside. ‘You really outdid yourself today.’
He beamed and then looked at the ground in practiced humility. ‘Well, thank you. You know how I feel about Ms Priestly, and, well, it’s really an honor to, well, you know …’
‘Prepare her lunch?’ I supplied, helpfully.
‘Well, yes. Exactly. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, of course I do, Sebastian. She’ll love it, I’m sure.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I immediately unfolded all of his creations because the Ms Priestly he so adored would throw a hissy fit if faced with a napkin in the shape of anything other than a napkin – never mind a bowling bag or a high-heeled shoe. I tucked the bag under my arm and turned to leave, but just then my phone rang.
Sebastian looked at me expectantly, fervently hoping that the voice on the other line of my cell phone would be his love, his reason for living. He wasn’t let down.
‘Is this Emily? Emily, is that you, I can barely hear you!’ Miranda’s voice came over the line in a shrill, angry staccato.
‘Hello, Miranda. Yes, this is Andrea.’ I stated calmly while Sebastian visibly swooned at the sound of her name.
‘Are you preparing my lunch yourself, Andrea? Because according to my clock, I asked for it thirty-five minutes ago. I cannot think of a single reason why – if you were doing your job properly – my lunch would not be at my desk yet. Can you?’
She got my name right! A small success, but no time to celebrate.
‘Uh, um, well, I’m very sorry it’s taken so long, but there was a little mix-up with—’
‘You do know just how uninterested I am in such details, do you not?’
‘Yes, of course I understand, and it won’t be long before—’
‘I am calling to tell you that I want my lunch, and I want it now. There’s really not much room for nuance, Emily. I. Want. My. Lunch. Now!’ With that, she hung up the phone, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my cell on the floor. It might as well have been covered in burning arsenic.
Sebastian, who looked ready to pass out from the action, swooped down to retrieve the phone and hand it back to me.
‘Is she upset with us, Andrea? I hope she doesn’t think we let her down! Does she? Does she think that?’ His mouth pursed into a tight oval and the already prominent veins in his forehead pulsed, and I wanted to hate him as much as I hated her, but I just felt sorry for him. Why did this man, this man who seemed remarkable only to the extent that he was so unremarkable, why did he care so much about Miranda Priestly? Why was he so invested in pleasing her, impressing her, providing for her? Perhaps he should take over my job, I thought, because I was going to quit. Yes, that was it. I was going to march back to that office and quit. Who needed her shit? What gave her the right to talk to me, to anyone, like that? The position? The power? The prestige? The goddamn Prada? Where, in a just universe, was this acceptable behavior?
The receipt I was supposed to sign every day charging the ninety-five-dollar meal to Elias-Clark was resting on the podium, and I quickly scrawled an illegible signature. Whether it was mine or Miranda’s or Emily’s or Mahatma Gandhi’s at this point I couldn’t even be sure, but it wouldn’t matter. I grabbed the bag of food that redefined the term ‘lunch meat’ and stomped back outside, leaving a very fragile Sebastian to deal with himself. I threw myself in a cab the moment I hit the street, nearly knocking an elderly man off his feet. No time to be concerned. I had a job to quit. Even with the midday traffic, we covered the few blocks in ten minutes, and I threw the cabbie a twenty. I would’ve given him fifty if I’d had it and figured out a way to recoup it from Elias, but there were none in my wallet. He immediately began counting out change, but I slammed the door and ran. Let that twenty go to caring for a little girl somewhere or fixing a hot water heater, I decided. Or even for a few postshift beers at the cab park in Queens – whatever the cabbie did with it would somehow be nobler than buying yet another cup of Starbucks.
Full of self-righteous indignation, I stormed inside the building and ignored the disapproving stares from the small group of Clackers in the corner. I saw Benji stepping off the