the girls, were individually beautiful. Collectively, they were mind-blowing. Most appeared to be about twenty-five, and few looked a day older than thirty. While nearly all of them had enormous, glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers, it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet – or ever would. In and out, in and out they walked gracefully on four-inch skinny heels, sashaying over to my desk to extend milky-white hands with long, manicured fingers, calling themselves ‘Jocelyn who works with Hope,’ ‘Nicole from fashion,’ and ‘Stef who oversees accessories.’ Only one, Shayna, was shorter than five-nine, but she was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of height. All weighed less than 110 pounds.
As I sat in my swivel chair, trying to remember everyone’s name, the prettiest girl I’d seen all day swooped in. She wore a rose-colored cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds. The most amazing white hair swirled down her back. Her six-one frame looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright, but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer. Her cheeks glowed, and her multi-carat, flawless diamond engagement ring emanated an incredible lightness. I thought she’d caught me staring at it, since she flung her hand under my nose.
‘I created it,’ she announced, smiling at her hand and looking at me. I looked to Emily for an explanation, a hint as to who this might be, but she was on the phone again. I thought the girl was referring to the ring, meant that she had actually designed it, but then she said, ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous color? It’s one coat Marshmallow and one coat Ballet Slipper. Actually, Ballet Slipper came first, and then a topcoat to finish it off. It’s perfect – light colored without looking like you painted your nails with White Out. I think I’ll use this every time I get a manicure!’ And she turned on her heels and walked out. Ah, yes, a pleasure to meet you, too, I mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away.
I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and sweet and, except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish fetish, they all appeared interested in getting to know me. Emily hadn’t left my side yet, seizing every opportunity to teach me something. She provided running commentary on who was really important, whom not to piss off, whom it was beneficial to befriend because they threw the best parties. When I described Manicure Girl, Emily’s face lit up.
‘Oh!’ she breathed, more excited than I’d heard her about anyone else yet. ‘Isn’t she just amazing?’
‘Um, yeah, she seemed nice. We didn’t really get a chance to talk, she was just, you know, showing me her nail polish.’
Emily smiled widely, proudly. ‘Yes, well, you do know who she is, don’t you?’
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she looked like any movie stars or singers or models, but I couldn’t place her. So, she was famous! Maybe that’s why she hadn’t introduced herself – I was supposed to recognize her. But I didn’t. ‘No, actually, I don’t. Is she famous?’
The stare I received in response was part disbelief, part disgust. ‘Um, yeah,’ Emily said, emphasizing the ‘yeah’ and squinting her eyes as if to say, You total fucking idiot. ‘That is Jessica Duchamps.’ She waited. I waited. Nothing. ‘You do know who that is, right?’ Again, I ran lists through my mind, trying to connect something with this new information, but I was quite sure I’d never, ever heard of her. Besides, this game was getting old.
‘Emily, I’ve never seen her before, and her name doesn’t sound familiar. Would you please tell me who she is?’ I asked, struggling to remain calm. The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she was, but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d made me look like a complete and total loser.
Her smile this time was patronizing. ‘Of course. You just had to say so. Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it – isn’t that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich.’
‘Oh, really?’ I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were restaurateurs. ‘That’s great.’
I answered a few phone calls with the requisite ‘Miranda Priestly’s office,’ although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself would call and I wouldn’t know what to do. Panic set in during a call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a strong British accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without thinking to put it on hold first.
‘It’s her,’ I whispered urgently. ‘Take it.’
Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to mince emotions, she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity.
‘Miranda? It’s Emily,’ she said, a bright smile lighting up her face as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her. Silence. A frown. ‘Oh, Mimi, so sorry! The new girl thought you were Miranda! I know, how funny. I guess we have to work on not thinking every British accent is necessarily our boss!’ She looked at me pointedly, her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher.
She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and take messages for Emily, who would then call the people back – with nonstop narration on their order of importance, if any, in Miranda’s life. About noon, just as the first hunger pangs were beginning, I picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end.
‘Hello? Allison, is that you?’ asked the icy-sounding but regal voice. ‘I’ll be needing a skirt.’
I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide. ‘Emily, it’s her, it’s definitely her,’ I hissed, waving the receiver to get her attention. ‘She wants a skirt!’
Emily turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the phone without so much as ‘I’ll call you later’ or even ‘good-bye.’ She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line, and plastered on another wide grin.
‘Miranda? It’s Emily. What can I do?’ She put her pen to her pad and began writing furiously, forehead furrowing intently. ‘Yes, of course. Naturally.’ And as fast as it happened, it was over. I looked at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for appearing so eager.
‘Well, it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt for tomorrow, among other things, so we’ll need to get it on a plane by tonight, at the latest.’
‘OK, well, what kind does she need?’ I asked, still reeling from the shock that a skirt would be traveling to St Barth’s simply because she’d requested it do so.
‘She didn’t say exactly,’ Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
‘Hi, Jocelyn, it’s me. She wants a skirt, and I’ll need to have it on Mrs Marteau’s flight tonight, since she’ll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didn’t say. I really don’t know. OK, thanks.’ She turned to me and said, ‘It makes it more difficult when she’s not specific. She’s too busy to worry about details like that, so she didn’t say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But that’s OK. I know her size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she’ll like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. They’ll start calling some in.’ I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not quite. ‘Calling in’ the skirts was my very first lesson in Runway ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military
