‘I simply do not understand what takes you so long to speak after you pick up the phone,’ she stated. From any other person on earth that would have sounded whiny, but from Miranda it sounded appropriately cold and firm. Just like her. ‘In case you haven’t been here long enough to notice, when I call, you respond. It’s actually simple. See? I call. You respond. Do you think you can handle that, Ahn-dre-ah?’
I nodded like a six-year-old who’d just been reprimanded for throwing spaghetti on the ceiling, even though she couldn’t see me. I concentrated on not calling her ‘ma’am,’ a mistake I’d made a week earlier that had almost gotten me fired. ‘Yes, Miranda. I’m sorry,’ I said softly, head bowed. And for that moment I was sorry, sorry that her words hadn’t registered in my brain three-tenths of a second faster than they had, sorry that my tardiness in saying ‘Miranda Priestly’s office’ had taken a fraction of a second longer than absolutely necessary. Her time was, as I was constantly reminded, much more important than my own.
‘All right then. Now, after wasting all that time, may we begin? Did you confirm Mr Tomlinson’s reservation?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Miranda, I made a reservation for Mr Tomlinson at the Four Seasons at one o’clock.’
I could see it coming a mile away. A mere ten minutes earlier she’d called and ordered me to make a reservation at the Four Seasons and call Mr Tomlinson and her driver and the nanny to inform them of the plans, and now she’d want to rearrange them.
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. The Four Seasons is not the appropriate venue for his lunch with Irv. Reserve a table for two at Le Cirque, and remember to remind the maître d’ that they will want to sit in the back of the restaurant. Not on display in the front. The back. That’s all.’
I had convinced myself, when I first spoke with Miranda on the phone, that by uttering ‘that’s all,’ she really intended those words to mean ‘thank you.’ By the second week I’d rethought that.
‘Of course, Miranda. Thank you,’ I said with a smile. I could sense her pausing on the other end of the line, wondering how to respond. Did she know I was calling attention to her refusal to say thank you? Did it seem odd to her that I was thanking her for ordering me around? I had recently begun thanking her after every one of her sarcastic comments or nasty phone-in commands, and the tactic was oddly comforting. She knew I was mocking her somehow, but what could she say? Ahn-dre-ah, I never want to hear you thank me again. I forbid you to express your gratitude in such a manner! Come to think of it, that might not be that much of a stretch.
Le Cirque, Le Cirque, Le Cirque, I said over and over in my head, determined to make that reservation ASAP so I could get back to the significantly more difficult Harry Potter challenge. The Le Cirque reservationist immediately agreed to have a table ready for Mr Tomlinson and Irv whenever they arrived.
Emily walked in from a stroll around the office and asked me if Miranda had called at all.
‘Only three times, and she didn’t threaten to fire me during any of them,’ I said proudly. ‘Of course, she did intimate it, but she didn’t all-out threaten. Progress, no?’
She laughed in the way she did only when I made fun of myself, and she asked what Miranda, her guru, had wanted.
‘Just wanted me to switch around B-DAD’s lunch reservation. Not sure why I’m doing that when he has his own assistant, but hey, I don’t ask questions around here.’ Mr Blind, Deaf, and Dumb was our nickname for Miranda’s third husband. Although to the general public he appeared to be none of those, those of us in the know were quite confident he was all three. There was, quite simply, no other explanation for how a nice guy like him could tolerate living with her.
Next, it was time to call B-DAD himself. If I didn’t call soon, he might not be able to get to the restaurant in time. He’d flown back from their vacation for a couple days of business meetings, and this lunch with Irv Ravitz – Elias-Clark’s CEO – was among the most important. Miranda wanted every detail perfect – as though that were something new. B-DAD’s real name was Hunter Tomlinson. He and Miranda had gotten married the summer before I started working, after what I’d heard was a rather unique courtship: she pursued, he demurred. According to Emily, she’d chased him relentlessly until he’d yielded from the mere exhaustion of ducking her. She’d left her second husband (the lead singer of one of the most famous bands from the late sixties and the twins’ father) with absolutely no warning before her lawyer delivered the papers, and was married again precisely twelve days after the divorce was finalized. Mr Tomlinson followed orders and moved into her penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. I’d only met Miranda once and I’d never met her new husband, but I’d logged enough phone hours with each that I felt, unfortunately, like they were family.
Three rings, four rings, five rings … hmm, I wonder where his assistant is? I prayed for an answering machine, since I wasn’t in the mood for the mindless, friendly chitchat of which B-DAD seemed so fond. Instead, I got his secretary.
‘Mr Tomlinson’s office,’ she trilled in her deep southern drawl. ‘How may I help you today?’ How mah I hep ya tuhday?
‘Hi, Martha, it’s Andrea. Listen, I don’t need to talk to Mr Tomlinson, can you just give him a message for me? I made a reservation for—’
‘Darlin’, you know Mr T. always wants to talk to you. Hold just a sec.’ And before I could protest, I was listening to the elevator version of ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ by Bobby McFerrin. Perfect. It was fitting that B-DAD had picked the most annoyingly optimistic song ever written to entertain callers when they were put on hold.
‘Andy, is that you, sweetheart?’ he asked quietly in his deep, distinguished voice. ‘Mr Tomlinson is going to think you’re avoiding him. It’s been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with you.’ A week and a half, to be precise. In addition to his blindness, deafness, and dumbness, Mr Tomlinson had the added irritating habit of constantly referring to himself in the third person.
I took a deep breath. ‘Hello, Mr Tomlinson. Miranda asked me to let you know that lunch is at one today at Le Cirque. She said that you’d—’
‘Sweetheart,’ he said slowly, calmly. ‘Enough with all that plan-making for just a second. Give an old man a moment of pleasure and tell Mr Tomlinson all about your life. Will you do that for him? So tell me, dear, are you happy working for my wife?’ Was I happy working for his wife? Hmm, let’s see here. Are little baby mammals squealing with glee when a predator swallows them whole? Why of course, you putz, I’m deliriously happy working for your wife. When neither of us is busy, we give each other mud masks and gossip about our love lives. It’s a lot like a slumber party among friends, if you must know. The whole thing is just one big laugh riot.
‘Mr Tomlinson, I love my job and I adore working for Miranda.’ I held my breath and prayed that he’d give it up.
‘Well, Mr T. is just thrilled that things are working out.’ Great, asshole, but are you thrilled?
‘Sounds great, Mr Tomlinson. Have a great lunch,’ I cut him off before he inevitably asked about my weekend plans, and hung up.
I sat back in my chair and gazed across the office suite. Emily was engrossed in trying to reconcile another one of Miranda’s $20,000 American Express bills, her highly waxed brow furrowed in concentration. The Harry Potter project loomed ahead of me, and I had to get moving on it immediately if I ever wanted to get away this weekend.
Lily and I had planned a movie marathon weekend. I was exhausted from work and she was stressed out from her classes, so we’d promised to spend the whole weekend parked on her couch and subsist solely on beer and Doritos. No Snackwells. No Diet Coke. And