My head pounded to the tempo of her voice, and it seemed that no matter what I did or how I responded, I was sentenced to forever listen to her talk about bikini waxes. It may have been better to have her scream at me about interrupting Miranda’s dinner.
“Yeah, what can you do? Well, I’d better get going, I told James I’d meet him at nine and it’s already ten after. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep. Will do. Oh, just so you know, now that you’re pretty much trained, you’ll still get in at seven, but I don’t come in until eight. Miranda knows—it’s understood that the senior assistant comes in later since she works so much harder.” I almost lunged at her throat. “So just go through the morning routine like I taught you. Call me if you have to, but you should know the drill by now. ’Bye!” She hopped into the backseat of the second car that was waiting in front of the building.
“’Bye!” I trilled, a giant fake smile plastered on my face. The driver made a move to get out of the car and open the door for me, but I told him I was fine to let myself into the backseat. “The Plaza, please.”
James had been waiting for me on the stairs outside even though it couldn’t have been more than twenty degrees. He’d gone home to change and looked very, very skinny in black suede pants and a white ribbed tank top, which showed off his expertly applied midwinter bottle tan. I still looked appropriately amateurish in my Gap miniskirt.
“Hey, Andy, how’d the Book dropping-off go?” We waited in line to check our coats and I had immediately spotted Brad Pitt.
“Ohmigod, you’re joking. Brad Pitt’s here?”
“Yeah, well, Marshall does Jennifer’s hair, natch. So she must be here also. Really, Andy, maybe next time you’ll believe me when I tell you to stick with me. Let’s get a drink.”
The Reese and Johnny spottings had come back to back, and by the time one A.M. rolled around, I’d had four drinks and was happily gabbing away with a fashion assistant from Vogue. We were discussing bikini waxes. Passionately. And it didn’t even bother me. Christ, I thought, as I weaved through the crowd looking for James, flashing a giant kiss-ass smile in the general direction of Jennifer Aniston when I passed by—this isn’t a half-bad party. But I was tipsy, I had to be at work again in less than six hours, and I hadn’t been home in nearly twenty-four, so when I spotted James making out with one of the colorists from Marshall’s salon, I was just about to duck out when I felt a hand in the small of my back.
“Hey,” said the gorgeous guy I’d spotted earlier lurking in the corner. I waited for him to realize that he’d approached the wrong girl, that I must’ve looked the same as his girlfriend from behind, but he just smiled even wider. “Not so talkative, are you?”
“Oh, and saying ‘hey’ makes you articulate, I guess?” Andy! Shut your mouth! I berated silently. Some absolutely beautiful man approaches you out of the blue at a party full of celebrities and you tell him off right away? But he didn’t seem offended, and even though it didn’t seem possible, his smile increased in size to an all-out grin.
“Sorry,” I muttered while examining my nearly empty drink. “My name’s Andrea. There. I think that’s a much better way of beginning.” I stuck out my hand and wondered what he wanted.
“Actually, I liked your way just fine. Name’s Christian. A pleasure to meet you, Andy.” He pushed a brown curl out of his left eye and took a swig from a bottle of Budweiser. He looked vaguely familiar, I decided, but I couldn’t place him.
“Bud, huh?” I asked, pointing to his hand. “I didn’t think they served something so lowbrow at a party like this.”
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh instead of the chuckle I’d expected. “You sure do say what you think, don’t you?” I must’ve looked mortified, because he smiled again and said, “No, no, that’s a good thing. And a rare thing, especially in this industry. I couldn’t bring myself to drink champagne from a straw out of a minibottle, you know? Something fairly emasculating about that. So the bartender dug one of these out of the kitchen somewhere.” Another curl push, but it fell back in his eye the moment he took his hand away. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black sport coat and offered it to me. I took one and proceeded to drop it immediately, seizing the opportunity to examine him while I reached down to retrieve it.
It landed a few inches from his shiny, square-toed loafers that sported the irrefutable Gucci tassel, and on the way up I noticed that his Diesel jeans were the perfect parts faded, long, and wide enough at the bottom that they dragged a little behind the shiny loafers, the ends frayed from repeated interaction with the soles. A black belt, probably Gucci but thankfully not recognizable, kept the jeans riding in the perfect low spot below his waist, where he had tucked in a plain white cotton T-shirt—one that even though it easily could have been a Hanes was definitely an Armani or a Hugo Boss and was put in place only to offset his beautiful complexion. His black blazer looked just as expensive and well cut, perhaps even custom-made to fit his average-size but inexplicably sexy frame, and it was his green eyes that commanded the most attention. Seafoam, I thought, remembering the old J.Crew colors we’d loved so much in high school, or perhaps just a straightforward teal. The height, the build, the whole package looked vaguely like Alex, just with a whole lot more Euro style and a whole lot less Abercrombie. Slightly cooler, slightly better looking. Definitely older, right around thirty. And probably much too slick.
He immediately produced a flame and leaned in close to make sure my cigarette had caught. “So what brings you to a party like this, Andrea? Are you one of the lucky few who can call Marshall Madden her own?”
“No, I’m afraid not. At least not yet, although he wasn’t all that subtle in telling me that I probably should be.” I laughed, noticing for a brief moment that I was desperate to impress this stranger. “I work at Runway. One of the beauty guys dragged me here.”
“Ah, Runway magazine, huh? Cool place to work, if you’re into S&M and that sort of thing. How do you like it?”
I wasn’t sure if he meant S&M or the job itself, but I considered the possibility that he got it, that he was enough of an insider to know that it wasn’t exactly how it appeared to those on the outside. Perhaps I should charm him with the nightmare involved in dropping off the Book earlier that night? No, no, I had no idea who this guy was . . . for all I knew he also worked at Runway in some far-flung department I hadn’t even seen yet, or maybe for another Elias-Clark magazine. Or maybe, just maybe, he was one of those sneaky Page Six reporters that Emily had so carefully warned me against. “They just appear,” she’d said ominously. “They just appear and try to trick you into saying something juicy about Miranda or Runway. Just be aware.” Between that and the tracking ID cards, I was quite sure that Runway’s surveillance put the mob to shame. The Runway Paranoid Turnaround was back.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual and noncommittal. “It’s a strange place. I’m not so into fashion—I’d actually rather be writing, but I guess it’s not a bad start. What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, you are? That must be nice.” I hoped I didn’t sound quite as condescending as I felt, but it got to be really annoying when anyone and everyone in New York anointed himself or herself a writer or actor or poet or artist. I used to write for the paper in college, I thought to myself, and hell, I even had an essay published in a monthly magazine once in high school. Did that make me a writer? “What do you write?”
“Mostly literary fiction so far, but I’m actually working on my first historical novel.” He took another swig and swatted yet again at that pesky but adorable curl.
“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical novels. Interesting. “What’s it about?”
He thought for a moment and then said, “It’s a story told from the perspective of a young woman, about what it was like to live in this country during World War Two. I’m still finishing my research, transcribing interviews and things like that, but the little writing I’
ve done so far has come along. I think . . .”
He continued talking, but I’d already tuned him out. Holy shit. I recognized the book description immediately from a New Yorker article I’d just read. It seemed the entire book world was eagerly anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the realism with which he depicts his female heroine. I was standing at a party, casually chatting with Christian Collinsworth, the boy genius who’d first been published at the ripe old age of twenty from a Yale library cubicle. The critics had gone crazy over his first book, hailing it as one of the most significant literary achievements of the twentieth century, and he’d followed it up with two more since then, each spending more time on the bestseller list than the one before it. The New Yorker piece had included an interview in which the author had called Christian “not only a force for years to come” in the book industry, but one with “a hell of a look, a killer style, and enough natural charm that would ensure—in the unlikely event that his literary success did not—a lifetime of success with the ladies.”
“Wow, that’s really great,” I said, all of a sudden feeling too tired to be witty or funny or cute. This guy was some big-time author—what the hell did he want with me, anyway? Probably just killing time before his girlfriend finished up her $10,000 per day modeling assignment and made her way over. And what does it matter either way, Andrea? I asked myself harshly. In case you conveniently forgot, you do happen to have an incredibly kind and supportive and adorable boyfriend. Enough of this already! I hastily made up a story about needing to get home right away, and Christian looked amused.
“You’re scared of me,” he stated factually, flashing me a teasing smile.
“Scared of you? Why on earth would I be scared of you? Unless there’s some reason I should be . . .” I couldn’t help but flirt back; he made it so easy.
He reached for my elbow and deftly turned me around. “Come on, I’ll put you in a cab.” And before I could say no, that I was perfectly fine to find my own way home, that it was nice to meet him but he’d better think again if he thought he was coming home with me, I was standing on the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza with him.
“Need a cab, folks?” the doorman asked us as we walked outside.
“Yes, please, one for the lady,” Christian answered.
“No, I have a car, um, right over there,” I said, pointing to the strip of 58th Street in front of the Paris Theatre where all the Town Cars had lined up.
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel Christian smiling again. One of those smiles. He walked me over to the car and opened the door, swinging his arm gallantly toward the backseat.
“Thank you,” I said formally, not a little awkwardly, while extending my hand. “It was really nice to meet you, Christian.”
“And you, Andrea.” He took the hand I’d intended him to shake and instead pressed it to his lips, leaving it there just a fraction of a second longer than he should have. “I do hope we see each other again soon.” And by then I’d somehow made it into the backseat without tripping or otherwise humiliating myself and was concentrating on not blushing even though I could already feel that it was too late. He slammed the door and watched as the car pulled away.
It didn’t seem strange this time that even though I hadn’t so much as seen the interior of a Town Car two months earlier, I had personally had one chauffeuring me around for the past six hours, and that even though I’d never really met anyone even remotely famous before, I’d just rubbed elbows with Hollywood celebrities and had my hand nuzzled—yes, that was it, he’d nuzzled it—by one of the undisputed most eligible bachelors in New York City. No, none of that really matters, I reminded myself over and over again. It’s all a part of that world, and that world is no place you want to be. It might look like fun from here, I thought, but you’d be in way over your head. But I stared at my hand anyway, trying to remember every last detail about the way he’d kissed it, and then thrust the offending hand into my bag and pulled out my phone. As I dialed Alex’s number, I wondered what exactly, if anything, I would tell him.
9
It took me twelve weeks before I gorged myself on the seemingly limitless supply of designer clothes that Runway was just begging to provide for me. Twelve impossibly long weeks of fourteen-hour work days and never more than five hours of sleep at a time. Twelve miserable long weeks of being looked up and down from hair to shoes each and every day, and never receiving a single compliment or even merely the impression that I had passed. Twelve horrifically long weeks of feeling stupid, incompetent, and all-around moronic. And so I decided at the beginning of my fourth month (only nine more to go!) at Runway to be a new woman and start dressing the part.
Getting myself awake, dressed, and out the door prior to my twelve-week epiphany had sapped me completely—even I had to concede that it’d be easier to own a closetful of “appropriate” clothes. Until that point, putting on clothes had been the most stressful part of an already really lousy morning routine. The alarm went off so early that I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what time I actually woke up, as though the mere mention of the words inflicted physical pain. Getting to work at seven A.M. was so difficult it bordered on funny. Sure, I’d been up and out a few times in my life by seven—perhaps sitting in an airport when I had to catch an early flight or having to finish studying for an exam that day. But mostly when I’d seen that hour of daylight from the outside it was because I hadn’t yet found my way to bed from the night before, and the time didn’t seem so bad when a full day of sleep stretched out ahead. This was different. This was constant, unrelenting, inhumane sleep deprivation, and no matter how many times I tried to go to bed before midnight, I never could. The past two weeks had been particularly rough since they were closing one of the spring issues, so I had to sit at work, waiting for the Book, until close to eleven some nights. By the time I would drop it off and get home, it was already midnight, and I still had to eat something and crawl out of my clothes before passing out.
Blaring static—the only thing I couldn’t ignore—began at exactly 5:30 A.M. I would force a bare foot out from under the comforter and stretch my leg in the general direction of the alarm clock (which itself was placed strategically at the foot of my bed to force some movement), kicking aimlessly until I had made contact and the shrieking ceased. This continued, steadily and predictably, every seven minutes until 6:04 A.M., at which point I would inevitably panic and spring from bed to shower.
A tangle with my closet came next, usually between 6:31 and 6:37 A.M. Lily, herself not exactly fashion-conscious in her graduate student uniform of jeans, ratty L.L.Bean sweaters, and hemp necklaces, said every time I saw her, “I still don’t understand what you wear to work. It’s Runway magazine, for god’s sake. Your clothes are as cute as the next girl’s, Andy, but nothing you own is Runway material.”
I didn’t tell her that for the first few months I had risen extra early with an intense determination to coax Runway looks from my very Banana Republic–heavy wardrobe. I’d stood with my microwaved coffee for nearly a half hour each morning, agonizing over boots and belts, wool, and microfiber. I’d change stockings five times until I finally had the right color, only to berate myself that stockings of any style or color were so not OK. The heels on my shoes were always too short, too stacked, too thick. I didn’t own a single thing in cashmere. I had not yet heard of thongs (!) and therefore obsessed maniacally over how to banish panty lines, themselves the focus of many a coffee-break critique. No matter how many times I tried them on, I couldn’t bring myself to wear a tube top to work.
And so after three months, I surrendered. I just got too tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally, the daily wardrobe ordeal had sapped me of all energy. Until, that is, I relented on the three-month anniversary of my first day. It was a day like any other as I stood with my yellow “I ♥ Providence” mug in one hand, the other hand rifling through my Abercrombie favorites. Why fight it? I asked myself. Simply wearing their clothes wouldn’t
necessarily mean I was a total sellout, would it? And besides, the comments on my current wardrobe were becoming more frequent and vicious, and I had begun to wonder if my job was at risk. I looked in the full-length mirror and had to laugh: the girl in the Maidenform bra (ich!) and cotton Jockey bikinis (double ich!) was trying to look the part of Runway? Hah. Not with this shit. I was working at Runway magazine for chrissake—simply putting on anything that wasn’t torn, frayed, stained, or outgrown really wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I pushed aside my generic button-downs and ferreted out the tweedy Prada skirt, black Prada turtleneck, and midcalf length Prada boots that Jeffy had handed me one night while I waited for the Book.
“What’s this?” I’d asked, unzipping the garment bag.
“This, Andy, is what you should be wearing if you don’t want to get fired.” He smiled, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry?”
“Look, I just think you should know that your, uh, your look isn’t really going over well with everyone around here. Now, I know this stuff gets expensive, but there’s ways around that. I’ve got so much stuff in the Closet that no one will notice if you need to, uh, borrow some of it sometimes.” He made quote marks with his fingers around the word “borrow.” “And, of course, you should be calling all the PR people and getting your discount card for their designers. I only get thirty percent off, but since you work for Miranda, I’ll be surprised if they charge you for anything. There’s no reason for this, uh, Gap thing you’ve got going on to continue.”
I didn’t explain that wearing Nine West instead of Manolos or jeans they sold in Macy’s junior department but not anywhere on Barney’s eighth floor of couture denim heaven had been my own attempt to show everyone that I wasn’t seduced by all things Runway. Instead, I just nodded, noticing that he looked supremely uncomfortable having to tell me that I was humiliating myself every day. I wondered who had put him up to it. Emily? Or Miranda herself? Didn’t really matter either way. Hell, I’d already survived three full months—if wearing a Prada turtleneck instead of one from Urban Outfitters was going to help me survive the next nine, then so be it. I decided I’d start putting together a new and improved wardrobe immediately.