‘Ahn-dre-ah, you know how I feel about excuses. I’m not particularly interested in hearing yours now. I expect something like this will never happen again, correct? That’s all.’ She hung up.
I stood there for what must have been five full minutes, listening to the squawking off-the-hook sound with the receiver pressed against my ear. My mind raced, full of questions. Could I kill her? I wondered, considering the probability of getting caught. Would they automatically assume it was me? Of course not, I concluded – everybody, at least at Runway, had a motive. Do I really have the emotional wherewithal to watch her die a long, slow, agonizingly painful death? Well, yes, that much was for sure – what would be the most enjoyable way to snuff out her wretched existence?
I slowly replaced the receiver. Could I really have misunderstood her message when I listened to it earlier? I grabbed my cell phone and replayed the messages. ‘Ahn-dre-ah. It’s Mir-ahnda. It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in Pah-ris and the girls have not yet received their books. Call me at the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly. That’s all.’ Nothing was really wrong. She may have received one copy instead of two, but she deliberately gave me the impression that I’d made a tremendous, career-ending mistake. She’d called with no concern that her nine A.M. call would have reached me at three A.M., on my most perfect weekend in months. She’d called to drive me a little crazier, push me a little bit harder. She’d called to dare me to defy her. She’d called to make me hate her that much more.
Lily’s New Year’s party was good and low-key, just a lot of paper cups of champagne at Lily’s place with a bunch of people from college and some others they managed to drag along. I was never a big fan of the holiday. I don’t remember who first called it ‘Amateur Night’ (I think it was Hugh Hefner), saying that he went out the other 364 days a year, but I tend to agree. All that forced drinking and merry-making did not a good time guarantee. So Lily had stepped up and thrown a little party to save us all the $150 tickets to some club or, even worse, any sort of ridiculous thoughts of actually freezing in Times Square. We’d each brought a bottle of something not too poisonous, and she had passed out noisemakers and glittery tiaras, and we got quite drunk and happy and toasted in the New Year on her rooftop overlooking Harlem. Although we’d all had way too much to drink, Lily was pretty much nonfunctional by the time everyone else had left. She had already thrown up twice, and I was scared to leave her alone in the apartment, so Alex and I had packed her a bag and dragged her in the cab with us. We all stayed at my place, Lily on the futon in the living room, and went out for a big brunch the next day.
I was glad the whole holiday thing was over. It was time to get on with my life and get started – really started – on my new job. Even though it felt like I’d been working for a decade, I was technically just beginning. I had a lot of hope that things would improve once Miranda and I started working together day to day. Anyone could be a cold-hearted monster over the phone, especially someone who was uncomfortable with vacations and being so far away from work. But I was convinced that the misery of that first month would give way to a whole new situation, and I was excited to see how it would all unfold.
It was a little after ten on a cold and gray January 3, and I was actually happy to be at work. Happy! Emily was gushing about some guy she met at a New Year’s party in LA, some ‘superhot, up-and-coming songwriter’ who had promised to come visit her in New York in the next couple weeks. I was chatting with the associate beauty editor who sat down the hall, a really sweet guy who’d graduated from Vassar and whose parents didn’t yet know – even despite the college choice and the fact that he was a beauty editor at a fashion magazine – that he did, in fact, sleep with guys.
‘Oh, come with me, please? It’ll be so fun, I promise. I’ll introduce you to some real hotties, Andy, you’ll see. I have some gorgeous straight friends. Besides, it’s Marshall’s party – it’s got to be great,’ James crooned, leaning against my desk as I checked my e-mail. Emily was chattering away happily on her side of the suite, detailing her rendezvous with the long-haired singer.
‘I would, you know I would, but I’ve had these plans with my boyfriend tonight since before Christmas,’ I said. ‘We’ve been planning on going out to a really nice dinner together for weeks, and I canceled on him last time.’
‘So see him after! Come on, it’s not every day you get a chance to meet the single most talented colorist in the civilized world, is it? And there will be loads of celebrities and everyone will look gorgeous, and, well, I just know it’ll be the most glamorous party of the week! Harrison and Shriftman is putting it on, for chrissake – you can’t beat that. Say yes.’ He squinted his face into exaggerated puppy eyes, and I had to laugh.
‘James, I’d really, really like to – I’ve never even been to the Plaza! But I really can’t change these plans. Alex made reservations at this little Italian place right by his apartment and there’s no way I can reschedule.’ I knew I couldn’t cancel, and I didn’t want to – I wanted to spend the night alone with Alex and hear how his new after-school program was shaping up, but I was sorry it had to be the same night as this party. I’d been reading about it in the papers for the past week: it seemed that all of Manhattan was ecstatically waiting for Marshall Madden, hair colorist extraordinaire, to host his annual post-New Year’s blowout. They were saying that this year was going to be even bigger than usual because Marshall had just published a new book, Color Me Marshall. But I wasn’t going to cancel on my boyfriend to go to some star party.
‘Well, OK, but don’t say I never asked you to go anywhere. And don’t come crying to me when you read in Page Six tomorrow that I was spotted with Mariah or J-Lo. Just don’t.’ And he huffed away, half joking that he was angry, half not, since he seemed to be in a perpetual snit anyway.
So far, the week after New Year’s had been easy. We were still unwrapping and cataloging presents – I had gotten to unveil the most stunning pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos this morning – but there were none left to send and the phones were quiet since many people were still away. Miranda would be returning from Paris at the end of the week but wouldn’t be in the office until Monday. Emily felt confident that I was ready to handle her, and so was I. We’d run through everything, and I’d taken nearly an entire legal pad full of notes. I glanced down at it, hoping I’d remember everything. Coffee: Starbucks only, tall latte, two raw sugars, two napkins, one stirrer. Breakfast: Mangia delivery, 555-3948, one soft cheese Danish, four slices bacon, two sausage links. Newspapers: newsstand in lobby, New York Times, Daily News, New York Times, the Financial Times, the Washington Post, USA Today, the Wall Street Journal, Women’s Wear Daily, and the New York Observer on Wednesdays. Weekly magazines, available Mondays: Time, Newsweek, U.S. News, The New Yorker(!), Time Out New York, New York, the Economist. And on and on it went, listing her favorite flowers and her most-hated flowers, her doctors’ names and addresses and home phone numbers, her household help, her snack preferences, her preferred bottled water, every size she wore in every article of clothing from lingerie to ski boots. I made lists of people she wanted to talk to (Always), and separate lists for people she never wanted to talk to (Never). I wrote and wrote and wrote as Emily revealed these things throughout our weeks together, and when we were finished, I felt there was nothing I did not know about Miranda Priestly. Except, of course, what exactly made her so important that I’d filled a legal pad with likes and dislikes. Why, exactly, was I supposed to care?
‘Yeah, he’s amazing,’ Emily was sighing, twisting the phone cord round and round her forefinger. ‘It was the most romantic weekend I think I’ve ever had.’
Ping! You have a new e-mail from Alexander Fineman. Click here to open. Oooh, fun. Elias-Clark had firewalled instant messenger, but for some