This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda’s senior assistant who’d just been promoted, and I knew immediately that she was simply too thin. But I couldn’t even focus on the way her stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I was captivated by the fact she exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank top strained across her breasts and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair was as dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers and toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from within, and her open-toe sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She managed to look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at the same time, but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all, November.
‘Hi, I’m Allison, as you probably know,’ she started, picking some of the tank top fur from her barely there leather-clad thigh. ‘I was just promoted to an editor position, and that’s the really great thing about working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the work is tough, but it’s incredibly glamorous and a million girls would die to do it. And Miranda is such a wonderful woman, editor, person, that she really takes care of her own girls. You’ll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working just one year for her; if you’re talented, she’ll send you straight to the top, and …’ She rambled on, not bothering to look up or feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I didn’t get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed over in the way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed. I had the distinct impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she wouldn’t necessarily notice.
When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening so fast, spiraling out of control, and yet I was excited. So what if I didn’t know who Miranda Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. Yeah, so it’s a fashion magazine and not something a little more interesting, but it’s a hell of a lot better to work at Runway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of having Runway on my résumé was sure to give me even more credibility when I eventually applied to work at The New Yorker than, say, having Popular Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girls would die for this job.
After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to the reception area. She told me her name but I couldn’t focus on anything except her body. She wore a tight, shredded denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and manicured and exposed in such a way that normal people are not when there’s snow on the ground. It wasn’t until she actually motioned for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and utter lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of what I wore – and that I carried something resembling a briefcase – continues to haunt me. I can feel my face flame red as I remember how very, very awkward I was among the most toned and stylish women in New York City. I didn’t know until later, until I hovered on the periphery of being one of them, just how much they had laughed at me between the rounds of the interview.
After the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl Kerston’s office, Runway’s executive editor and all-around lovable lunatic. She, too, talked at me for what seemed like hours, but this time I actually listened. I listened because she seemed to love her job, speaking excitedly about the ‘words’ aspect of the magazine, the wonderful copy she reads and writers she manages and editors she oversees.
‘I have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this place,’ she declared proudly, ‘so it’s best to save those questions for someone else.’
When I told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing, that I had no particular interest or background in fashion, her smile broadened to a genuine grin. ‘Well, in that case, Andrea, you might be just what we need around here. I think it’s time for you to meet Miranda. And if I may offer a piece of advice? Look her straight in the eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself hard and she’ll respect it.’
As if on cue, Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda’s office. It was only a thirty-second walk, but I could sense that all eyes were on me. They peered at me from behind the frosted glass of the editor’s office and from the open space of the assistants’ cubicles. A beauty at the copier turned to check me out, and so did an absolutely magnificent man, although he was obviously gay and intent on examining only my outfit. Just as I was about to walk through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants’ suite outside of Miranda’s office, Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed it under her desk. It took only a moment for me to realize that the message was Carry that, lose all credibility. And then I was standing in her office, a wide-open space of huge windows and streaming bright light. No other details about the space made an impression that day; I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
Since I’d never seen so much as a picture of Miranda Priestly, I was surprised to see how willowy she was. She had perfect posture – rare for a tall woman – and held her head high, pronounced chin proudly forward, in a manner so natural it seemed almost forced. The hand she held out was feminine, soft, with the long, graceful fingers of a concert pianist. She had to turn her head upward to look me in the eye, although she did not stand to greet me. Her expertly dyed blond hair was pulled back in a chic knot, deliberately loose enough to look casual but still supremely neat, and while she did not smile, she did not appear particularly intimidating. She seemed rather gentle and somewhat fragile behind her ominous black desk, and although she did not invite me to sit, I felt comfortable enough to claim one of the uncomfortable black chairs that faced her. And it was then I noticed: she was watching me intently, mentally noting my attempts at grace and propriety with what seemed like amusement. Condescending and awkward, yes, but not, I decided, particularly mean-spirited. She spoke first.
‘What brings you to Runway, Ahn-dre-ah?’ she asked in her upper-crust British accent, never taking her eyes away from mine.
‘Well, I interviewed with Sharon, and she told me that you’re looking for an assistant,’ I started, my voice a little shaky. When she nodded, my confidence increased slightly. ‘And now, after meeting with Emily, Allison, and Cheryl, I feel like I have a clear understanding of the kind of person you’re looking for, and I’m confident I’d be perfect for the job,’ I said, remembering Cheryl’s words. She looked amused for a moment but seemed unfazed.
It was at this point that I began to want the job most desperately, in the way people yearn for things they consider unattainable. It might not be akin to getting into law school or having an essay published in a campus journal, but it was, in my starved-for-success mind, a real challenge – a challenge because I was an imposter, and not a very good one at that. I had known the minute I stepped on the Runway floor that I didn’t belong. My clothes and hair were wrong for sure, but more glaringly out of place was my attitude. I didn’t know anything about fashion and I didn’t care. At all. And therefore, I had to have it. Besides, a million girls would die for this job.
I continued to answer her questions about myself with a forthrightness and confidence that surprised me. There wasn’t time to be intimidated. After all, she seemed pleasant enough and I, amazingly, knew nothing to the contrary. We stumbled a bit when she inquired about any foreign languages I spoke. When I told her I knew Hebrew, she paused, pushed her palms flat on her desk and said icily, ‘Hebrew? I was hoping for French, or at least something more useful.’ I almost apologized, but stopped myself.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t speak a word of French, but I’m confident it won’t be a problem.’ She clasped her hands back together.
‘It says here that you studied at Brown?’
‘Yes, I, uh, I was an English major, concentrating on creative writing. Writing has always been a passion.’ So cheesy! I reprimanded myself. Did I really have to use the word ‘passion’?
‘So,