The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren Weisberger

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      The receipt I was supposed to sign every day charging the ninety-five-dollar meal to Elias-Clark was resting on the podium, and I quickly scrawled an illegible signature. Whether it was mine or Miranda’s or Emily’s or Mahatma Gandhi’s at this point I couldn’t even be sure, but it wouldn’t matter. I grabbed the bag of food that redefined the term ‘lunch meat’ and stomped back outside, leaving a very fragile Sebastian to deal with himself. I threw myself in a cab the moment I hit the street, nearly knocking an elderly man off his feet. No time to be concerned. I had a job to quit. Even with the midday traffic, we covered the few blocks in ten minutes, and I threw the cabbie a twenty. I would’ve given him fifty if I’d had it and figured out a way to recoup it from Elias, but there were none in my wallet. He immediately began counting out change, but I slammed the door and ran. Let that twenty go to caring for a little girl somewhere or fixing a hot water heater, I decided. Or even for a few postshift beers at the cab park in Queens – whatever the cabbie did with it would somehow be nobler than buying yet another cup of Starbucks.

      Full of self-righteous indignation, I stormed inside the building and ignored the disapproving stares from the small group of Clackers in the corner. I saw Benji stepping off the Bergman elevators but quickly turned my back so I didn’t waste any more time, swiped my card, and threw my hip against the turnstile. Shit! The metal bar smacked against my pelvic bone and I knew I’d have a splotchy purple bruise within minutes. I looked up to see two rows of glimmering white teeth and the fat, sweating face that formed around them. Eduardo. He had to be kidding. He just had to be.

      I quickly flashed him my best nasty look, the one that said, quite simply, Just die! but it didn’t work today. Maintaining full eye contact, I swiveled around to the next turnstile in the line, swiped my card lightning-fast, and lunged against the bar. He’d managed to lock it just in time, and I stood there as he let the Clackers go through the first turnstile I’d tried, one by one. Six in all, and I still stood there, so frustrated I thought I might cry. Eduardo was not sympathetic.

      ‘Girlfriend, don’t look so down. This ain’t torture, it’s fun. Now, please. Pay attention, because … I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think we’re alone now. The beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound.’

      ‘Eduardo! How on earth am I supposed to act out that one? I don’t have time for this shit right now!’

      ‘OK, OK. No actin’ this time, just singin’. I’ll start, you finish. Children behave! That’s what they say when we’re together. And watch how you play! They don’t understand, and so we’re …’

      I figured I wouldn’t have to quit if I ever actually made it upstairs because I’d be fired by then anyway. Might as well make someone else’s day. ‘Running just as fast as we can,’ I continued, not missing a beat. ‘Holdin’ on to one another’s hand. Tryin’ to get away into the night and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground and then you say …’

      I leaned in closer when I noticed that the jerk from day one, Mickey, was trying to listen, and Eduardo finished it off: ‘I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone a-rou-ound. I think we’re alone now. The beatin’ of our hearts is the only sou-ound!’ He guffawed and threw his hand in the air. I slapped him high five, and I heard the metal bar click open.

      ‘Have a good lunch, Andy!’ he called, still grinning.

      ‘You, too, Eduardo, you, too.’

      The elevator ride was blissfully uneventful, and it wasn’t until I was standing directly outside the doors of our office suite that I decided I couldn’t quit. Aside from the obvious – that is, it’d be too terrifying to do it unprepared, she’d probably just look at me and say, ‘No, I won’t allow you to quit,’ and then what would I say? – I had to remember that it was only a year of my life. A single year to bypass many more of misery. One year, 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, of putting up with this garbage to do what I really wanted. It wasn’t too great a demand, and besides, I was too tired to even think about looking for another job. Way too tired.

      Emily looked up at me when I walked in. ‘She’ll be right back. She just got called up to Mr Ravitz’s office. Seriously, Andrea, what took you so long? You know that she comes down on me when you’re late, and what can I tell her? That you’re smoking cigarettes instead of buying her coffee, or talking to your boyfriend instead of getting her lunch? It’s not fair – it’s really not.’ She turned her attention back to her computer, a resigned expression on her face.

      She was right, of course. It wasn’t fair. To me, to her, to any semicivilized human being. And I felt bad for making it more difficult for her, which I did every time I took a few extra minutes away from the office to relax and unwind. Because every second I was gone was another second that Miranda focused her relentless attention on Emily. I vowed to try harder.

      ‘You’re totally right, Em, and I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.’

      She looked genuinely surprised and a little bit pleased. ‘I’d really appreciate it, Andrea. I mean, I’ve done your job. I know how much it sucks. Trust me, there were days that I had to go out in the snow and the slush and the rain to get her coffee five, six, seven times in a single day. I was so tired I could barely move – I know what it’s like! Sometimes she’d call me to ask where something was – her latte, her lunch, some special, sensitive-teeth toothpaste I’d been sent to find – it was comforting to discover that at least her teeth had a bit of sensitivity – and I hadn’t even left the building yet. Hadn’t even gotten outside! That’s just her, Andy. That’s just how it is. You can’t fight it anymore, or you’ll never survive. She doesn’t mean any harm by it, she really doesn’t. That’s just the way she is.’

      I nodded and I understood, but I just couldn’t accept that. I hadn’t worked anywhere else, but I just couldn’t believe that all bosses everywhere acted like this. But maybe they did?

      I carried the lunch bag over to my desk and began the preparations for serving her. One by one, I used my bare hands to pluck the food from its heat-sealed to-go containers and arrange it (stylishly, I hoped) on one of the china plates from the overhead bin. Slowing only to wipe my now greasy hands on a pair of her dirty Versace pants I hadn’t yet sent to the cleaners, I placed the plate on the teak and tile serving tray that resided under my desk. Next to it went the gravy boat full of butter, the salt, and the silverware wrapped in a linen-pleated skirt-no-longer. A quick survey of my artistry revealed a missing Pellegrino. Better hurry – she’d be back any minute! I dashed to one of the minikitchens and palmed a fistful of ice cubes, blowing on them to keep them from freezer-burning my hands. Blowing was only one itsy, bitsy, teensy step from licking them – do I do it? No! Be above it, rise above it. Do not spit in her food or gum her ice cubes. You’re a bigger person than that!

      Her office was still empty by the time I made it back, and the only thing left to do was pour the bottled water and place the whole orchestrated tray on her desk. She’d come back and perch at her mammoth desk and call out for someone to close her doors. And this would be one time I’d jump up happily, enthusiastically, because it meant not only that she’d sit quietly behind those closed doors for a good half hour, on the phone with B-DAD, but also that it was time for us to eat as well. One of us could race down to the dining room and grab the very first thing she saw and race back so the other could go. We would try to hide our food under our desks and behind our computer screens just in case she came out unexpectedly. If there was a single unspoken but still irrefutable rule, it was that members of the Runway staff do not eat in front of Miranda Priestly. Period.

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