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pants that did not match and in no way created a suit； but at least
they stayed put on my emaciated frame。 A blue button…down； a
not…too…perky ponytail； and a pair of slightly scuffed flats
pleted my look。 It wasn’t great—in fact； it bordered on supremely
ugly—but it would have to suffice。They’re not going to hire me or
reject me on the outfit alone； I remember thinking。 Clearly； I was
barely lucid。
I showed up on time for my elevenA 。M。 interview and didn’t panic
until I encountered the line of leggy； Twiggy types waiting to be
permitted to board the elevators。 Their lips never stopped moving；
and their gossip was punctuated only by the sound of their stilettos
clacking on the floor。Clackers； I thought。That’s perfect。 （The
elevators！）Breathe in； breathe out； I reminded myself。You will not
throw up。 You will not throw up。 You’re just here to talk about
being an editorial assistant； and then it’s straight back to the
couch。 You will not throw up。 “Why yes； I’d love to work at
Reaction！Well； sure； I supposeThe Buzzwould be suitable。 Oh； what？ I
may have my pick？ Well； I’ll need the night to decide between there
and Maison Vous。Delightful！”
Moments later I was sporting a rather unflattering “guest” sticker
on my rather unflattering pseudosuit （not soon enough； I discovered
that guests in the know simply stuck these passes on their bags； or；
even better； discarded them immediately—only the most uncouth losers
actuallywore them） and heading toward the elevators。 And then 。 。 。
I boarded。 Up； up； up and away； hurtling through space and time and
infinite sexiness en route to 。 。 。 human resources。
I allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift；
quiet ride。 Deep； pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh
leather to turn those elevators from the merely functional to the
almost erotic。 We whisked between floors； stopping to let out the
beauties atChic； Mantra； The Buzz； andCoquette 。 The doors opened
silently； reverently； to stark white reception areas。 Chic furniture
with clean； simple lines dared people to sit； ready to scream out in
agony if anyone—horror！—spilled。 The magazines’ names rested in bold
black and identifiable； individual typeface along the walls that
flanked the lobby。 Thick； opaque glass doors protected the titles。
They’re names the average American recognizes but never imagines to
be turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof。
While I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen
yogurt scooper； I’d heard enough stories from my newly minted
professional friends to know that corporate life just didn’t look
like this。 Not even close。 Absent were the nauseating fluorescent
lights； the never…shows…dirt carpeting。 Where dowdy secretaries
should have been ensconced； polished young girls with prominent
cheekbones and power suits presided。 Office supplies didn’t exist！
Those basic necessities like organizers； garbage cans； and books
were simply not present。 I watched as six floors disappeared in
swirls of white perfection before I felt the venom and heard the
voice。
“She。 Is。 Such。 A。 Bitch！ Icannot deal with her anymore。 Who does
that？ I mean； really—WHO DOES THAT？” hissed a twenty…something girl
in a snakeskin skirt and a very mini tank top； looking more suited
for a late night at Bungalow 8 than a day at the office。
“I know。 Iknooooooow。 Like； what do you think I’ve had to put up
with for the past six months？ Total bitch。 And terrible taste； too；”
agreed her friend； with an emphatic shake of her adorable bob。
Mercifully； I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid
open。Interesting； I thought。 If you’re paring this potential work
environment to an average day in the life of a cliquey junior high
girl； it might even be better。 Stimulating？ Well； maybe not。 Kind；
sweet； nurturing？ No； not exactly。 The kind of place that just makes
you want to smile and do a great job？ No； OK？ No！ But if you’re
looking for fast； thin； sophisticated； impossibly hip； and
heart…wrenchingly stylish； Elias…Clark is mecca。
The gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources
receptionist did nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of
inadequacy。 She told me to sit and “feel free to look over some of
our titles。” Instead； I tried frantically to memorize the names of
all the editors in chief of the pany’s titles—as if they were
going to actually quiz me on them。 Ha！ I already knew Stephen
Alexander； of course； forReaction magazine； and it wasn’t too hard
to rememberThe Buzz ’s Tanner Michel。 Those were really the only
interesting things they published anyway； I figured。 I’d do fine。
A short； svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon。 “So； dear；
you’re looking to break into magazines； are you？” she asked as she
led me past a string of long…legged model look…alikes to her stark；
cold office。 “It’s a tough thing to do right out of college； you
know。 Lots and lots of petition out there for very few jobs。 And
the few jobs that are available； well！ They’re not exactly
high…paying； if you know what I mean。”
I looked down at my cheap； mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and
wondered why I’d even bothered。 Already deep in thought over how I
was going to crawl back to that sofa bed with enough Cheez…Its and
cigarettes to last a fortnight； I barely noticed when she almost
whispered； “But I have to say； there’s an amazing opportunity open
right now； and it’s going to go fast！”
Hmm。 My antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye
contact with me。 Opportunity？ Go fast？ My mind was racing。 She
wanted to help me？ She liked me？ Why； I hadn’t even opened my mouth
yet—how could shelike me？ And why exactly was she starting to sound
like a car salesman？
“Dear； can you tell me the name of the editor in chief ofRunway ？”
she asked； looking pointedly at me for the first time since I’d sat
down。
Blank。 pletely and totally blank； I couldn’t remember a thing。 I
couldn’t believe she wasquizzing me！ I’d never read an issue
ofRunway in my life—she wasn’t allowed to ask me aboutthat one。 No
one cared aboutRunway 。 It was afashion magazine； for chrissake； one
I wasn’t even sure contained any writing； just lots of
hungry…looking models and glossy ads。 I stammered for a moment or
two； while the different names of editors I’d just before forced my
brain to remember all swirled inside my head； dancing together in
mismatched pairs。 Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind； I was
sure I knew her name—after all； who didn’t？ But it wouldn’t gel in
my addled brain。
“Uh； well； it seems I can’t recall her name right now。 But I know I
know it； of course I know it。 Everyone knows who she is！ I just；
well； don’t； uh； seem to know it right now。”
She peered at me for a moment； her large brown eyes finally fixated
on my now perspiring face。 “Miranda Priestly；” she near…whispered；
with a mixture of reverence and fear。 “Her name is Miranda
Priestly。”
Silence ensued。 For what felt like a full minute； neither of us said
a word； but then Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my
crucial misstep。 I didn’t know then that she was desperate to hire
another assistant for Miranda； couldn’t know that she was desperate
to stop this woman from calling her day and night； grilling her
about potential candidates。 Desperate to find someone； anyone； whom
Miranda wouldn’t reject。 And if I might—however unlikely—stand even
the smallest chance of getting hired and thereby relieve her； well；
then attention must be paid。
Sharon smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda’s
two assistants。Two assistants？
“Why yes；” she confirmed with an exasperated look。 “Of course
Miranda needs two assistants。 Her current senior assistant； Allison；
has been promoted to beRunway ’s beauty editor； and Emily； the
junior assistant； will be taking Allison’s place。 That leaves the
junior position open for someone！
“Andrea； I know you’ve just graduated from college and probably
aren’t entirely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine
world 。 。 。” She paused dramatically； searching for the right words。
“But I feel it’s my duty； myobligation； to tell you what a truly
incredible opportunity this is。 Miranda Priestly 。 。 。” She paused
again just as dramatically； as though she were mentally bowing。
“Miranda Priestly is the single most influential woman in the
fashion industry； and clearly one of the most prominent magazine
editors in the wo