but it didn’t come. Instead, he turned a kind face to mine and looked me in the eyes.
‘I’m Eduardo, and this idiot here’s Mickey,’ he said, motioning to the first man, who looked annoyed that Eduardo had acted civilly and ruined all the fun. ‘Don’t make no never mind of him, he’s just kiddin’ with you.’ He spoke with a mixed Spanish and New York accent, as he picked up a sign-in book. ‘You just fill out this here information, and I’ll give you a temporary pass to go upstairs. Tell ’em you need a card wit your pitcher on it from HR.’
I must have looked at him gratefully, because he got embarrassed and shoved the book across the counter. ‘Well, go on now, fill ’er out. And good luck today, girl. You gonna need it.’
I was too nervous and exhausted at this point to ask him to explain, and besides, I didn’t really have to. About the only thing I’d had time to do in the week between accepting the job and starting work was to learn a little bit about my new boss. I had Googled her and was surprised to find that Miranda Priestly was born Miriam Princhek, in London’s East End. Hers was like all the other orthodox Jewish families in the town, stunningly poor but devout. Her father occasionally worked odd jobs, but mostly they relied on the community for support since he spent most of his days studying Jewish texts. Her mother had died in childbirth with Miriam, and it was her mother who moved in and helped raise the children. And were there children! Eleven in all. Most of her brothers and sisters went on to work blue-collar jobs like their father, with little time to do anything but pray and work; a couple managed to get themselves into and through the university, only to marry young and begin having large families of their own. Miriam was the single exception to the family tradition.
After saving the small bills her older siblings would slip her whenever they were able, Miriam promptly dropped out of high school upon turning seventeen – a mere three months shy of graduation – to take a job as an assistant to an up-and-coming British designer, helping him put together his shows each season. After a few years of making a name for herself as one of the darlings of London’s burgeoning fashion world and studying French at night, she scored a job as a junior editor at the French Chic magazine in Paris. By this time, she had little to do with her family: they didn’t understand her life or ambitions, and she was embarrassed by their old-fashioned piety and overwhelming lack of sophistication. The alienation from her family was completed shortly after joining French Chic when, at twenty-four years old, Miriam Princhek became Miranda Priestly, shedding her undeniably ethnic name for one with more panache. Her rough, cockney-girl British accent was soon replaced by a carefully cultivated, educated one, and by her late twenties, Miriam’s transformation from Jewish peasant to secular socialite was complete. She rose quickly, ruthlessly, through the ranks of the magazine world.
She spent ten years at the helm of French Runway before Elias transferred her to the number-one spot at American Runway, the ultimate achievement. She moved her two daughters and her rock-star then husband (himself eager to gain more exposure in America) to a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue at 76th Street and began a new era at Runway magazine: the Priestly years, the sixth of which we were nearing as I began my first day.
By some stroke of dumb luck, I would be working for nearly a month before Miranda was back in the office. She took her vacation every year starting a week before Thanksgiving until right after New Year’s. Typically, she’d spend a few weeks at the flat she kept in London, but this year, I was told, she had dragged her husband and daughters to Frederic Marteau’s estate in St Barth’s for two weeks before spending Christmas and New Year’s at the Ritz in Paris. I’d also been forewarned that even though she was technically ‘on vacation,’ she’d still be fully reachable and working at all times, and therefore, so should every single other person on staff. I was to be appropriately prepped and trained without her highness present. That way, Miranda wouldn’t have to suffer my inevitable mistakes while I learned the job. Sounded good to me. So at 7:00 A.M. on the dot, I signed my name into Eduardo’s book and was buzzed through the turnstiles for the very first time. ‘Strike a pose!’ Eduardo called after me, just before the elevator doors swept shut.
Emily, looking remarkably haggard and sloppy in a fitted but wrinkled sheer white T-shirt and hypertrendy cargo pants, was waiting for me in the reception area, clutching a cup of Starbucks and flipping though the new December issue. Her high heels were placed firmly on the glass coffee table, and a black lacy bra showed obviously through the completely transparent cotton of her shirt. Lipstick, smeared a bit around her mouth by the coffee cup, and uncombed, wavy red hair that spilled down over her shoulders made her look as though she’d spent the last seventy-two hours in bed.
‘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
