The Devil Wears Prada
began to feel like everything was spiraling out of control. Why the
ridiculous rush? Was this woman so important that she needed me so badly? And
why exactly did Sharon herself sound so scared of Miranda?
     
     Starting
Monday would be impossible. I had nowhere to live. Home base was my
parents’ house in Avon, the place I’d grudgingly moved back to
after graduation, and where most of my things remained while I’d traveled
during the summer. All of my interview-related clothes were piled on
Lily’s couch. I’d been trying to do the dishes and empty her
ashtrays and buy pints of Häagen-Dazs so she wouldn’t hate me, but I
thought it only fair to give her a much-needed break from my unending presence,
so I camped out on weekends at Alex’s. That put all of my weekend
going-out clothes and fun makeup at Alex’s in Brooklyn, my laptop and
mismatched suits at Lily’s Harlem studio, and the rest of my life at my
parents’ house in Avon. I had no apartment in New York and didn’t
particularly understand how everyone knew that Madison Avenue ran uptown but
Broadway ran down. I didn’t actually know what uptown was. And she wanted
me to start Monday?
     
     “Um,
well, I don’t think I can do this Monday because I don’t currently
live in New York,” I quickly explained, clutching the phone, “and
I’ll need a couple days to find an apartment and buy some furniture and
move.”
     
     “Oh,
well, then. I suppose Wednesday would be OK,” she sniffed.
     
     After a
few more minutes of haggling, we finally settled on November 17, a week from
Monday. That left me a little more than eight days to find and furnish a home
in one of the craziest real estate markets in the world.
     
     I hung
up and flopped back down on the couch. My hands were trembling, and I let the
phone drop to the floor. A week. I had a week to start working at the job
I’d just accepted as Miranda Priestly’s assistant. But, wait!
That’s what was bothering me… I hadn’t actually accepted the
job because it hadn’t even been officially offered. Sharon hadn’t
even had to utter the words “We’d like to make you an offer,”
since she took it for granted that anyone with some semblance of intelligence
would obviously just accept. No one had so much as mentioned the word
“salary.” I almost laughed out loud. Was this some sort of war
tactic they’d perfected? Wait until the victim was finally deep into REM
sleep after an extremely stressful day and then throw some life-altering news
at her? Or had she just assumed that it would be wasted time and breath to do
something as mundane as make a job offer and wait for acceptance, considering
that this wasRunway magazine? Sharon had just assumed that of course I’d
jump all over the chance, that I’d be thrilled with the opportunity. And,
as they always were at Elias-Clark, she was right. It had all happened so fast,
so frenetically, that I hadn’t had time to debate and deliberate as
usual. But I had a good feeling that thiswas an opportunity I’d be crazy
to turn down, that this could actually be a great first step to getting toThe
New Yorker . I had to try it. I was lucky to have it.
     
     Newly
energized, I gulped the rest of my coffee, brewed another cup for Alex, and
took a quick, hot shower. When I went back into his room, he was just sitting up.
     
     “You’re
dressed already?” he asked, fumbling for the tiny wire-rimmed glasses he
was blind without. “Did someone call this morning, or did I dream
that?”
     
     “Not
a dream,” I said, crawling back under the covers even though I was
wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. I was careful not to let my wet hair
soak his pillows. “That was Lily. The HR woman from Elias-Clark called
her place because that’s the number I gave them. And guess what?”
     
     “You
got the job?”
     
     “I
got the job!”
     
     “Oh,
come here!” he said, sitting up and hugging me. “I’m so proud
of you! That’s great news, it

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