The Cell Phone shrilled from somewhere deep in my dream, but consciousness took over long enough for me to wonder if it was her. After a stunningly fast orientation process—Where am I? Who is “she”? What day is it?—I realized that having the phone ring at eight on a Saturday morning was not a good omen. None of my friends would be awake for hours, and after years of getting screened out, my parents had grudgingly accepted that their daughter wasn’t answering until noon. In the seven seconds it took to figure all this out, I was also contemplating a reason why I should pick up this phone call. Emily’s reasons from the first day came back to me, though, and so I started my arm in a floor sweep from the comfort of my bed. I managed to click it open just before it stopped ringing.
“Hello?” I was proud that my voice sounded strong and clear, as though I’d spent the past few hours working hard at something respectable rather than passed out in a sleep that was so deep, so intense, it couldn’t possibly have indicated good things about my health.
“Morning, honey! Glad to hear you’re awake. I just wanted to tell you that we’re in the sixties on Third, so I’ll be there in just ten minutes or so, OK?” My mom’s voice came booming over the line. Moving day! It was moving day! I’d forgotten entirely that my parents had aGREed to come into the city to help me pack my stuff up and take it to the new apartment Lily and I had rented. We were going to lug the boxes of clothes and CDs and picture albums while the real movers tackled my massive bed frame.
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I mumbled, lapsing back into tired-voice mode. “I thought you were her.”
“Nope, you’ve got yourself a break today. Anyway, where should we park? Is there a garage right around there?”
“Yeah, right under my building, just enter right from Third. Give them my apartment number in the building and you’ll get a discount. I’ve got to get dressed. I’ll see you soon.”
“OK, honey. Hope you’re ready to work today!”
I fell back onto my pillow and considered my options for possibly going back to sleep. They were looking really grim, considering they’d driven all the way in from Connecticut to help me move. Just then, the alarm clock blared its signature static. Ah hah! So Ihad remembered that today was moving day. The reminder that I wasn’t going completely crazy was a small comfort.
Getting out of bed was, quite possibly, even harder to do than other days even though it was happening a few hours later. My body had been briefly tricked into thinking that it would actually get to catch up, had depended on reducing that infamous “sleep debt” we’d learned about in Psych 101, when I wrenched it from bed. There was a small pile of clothes I’d left folded by the bed, the only things besides my toothbrush that I hadn’t yet packed. I pulled on the blue Adidas windpants, the hooded Brown sweatshirt, and the pair of filthy gray New Balance sneakers that had accompanied me around the world. Not a second after I swooshed the last of my Listerine did the buzzer ring.
“Hi, guys. I’ll buzz you up, just a sec.”
There was a knock on the door two minutes later, and instead of my parents there stood a rumpled-looking Alex. He looked GREat, as usual. His faded jeans hung low on nonexistent hips, and his long-sleeved navy T-shirt was just the right amount of tight. The tiny wire-rims he wore only when he couldn’t tolerate his contacts were perched in front of very red eyes, and his hair was all over the place. I couldn’t stop myself from hugging him on the spot. I hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before, when we’d met for a quick midafternoon Coffee. We’d intended to spend the whole day and night together, but Miranda had needed an emergency babysitter for Cassidy so she could take Caroline to the doctor, and I had been recruited. I’d gotten Home too late to spend any real time with him, and he’d recently stopped camping out in my bed just to get a glimpse of me, which I understood. He’d wanted to stay over the night before, but I was still in that stage of parent-pretending: even though all parties involved knew that Alex and I were sleeping together, nothing could be done, said, or implied to actually confirm it. And so I hadn’t wanted him there when my parents arrived.
“Hey, babe. I thought you guys could use some help today.” He held up a Bagelry bag that I knew would contain salt bagels, my favorite, and some large coffees. “Are your parents here yet? I brought them Coffees, too.”
“I thought you had to tutor today,” I said just as Shanti emerged from her bedroom wearing a black pantsuit. She hung her head as she walked past us, mumbled something about working all day, and left. We so seldom talked, I wondered if she realized today was my last day in the apartment.
“I did, but I called the two little girls’ parents and both said that tomorrow morning was fine with them, so I’m all yours!”
“Andy! Alex!” My father stood in the doorway behind Alex, beaming as though this were the best morning on earth. My mom looked so awake I wondered if she was on drugs. I did a quick once-over of the situation and figured that they would rightly assume that Alex had just arrived since he was still wearing his shoes and was obviously holding recently purchased food. Besides, the door was still open. Phew.
“Andy said you couldn’t make it today,” my dad said, setting down what looked like a bag of bagels—also salt, no doubt—and Coffees on the table in the living room. He deliberately avoided eye contact. “Are you on your way in or out?”
I smiled and looked at Alex, hoping he wasn’t already reGREtting what he’d gotten himself into so early in the morning.
“Oh, I just got here, Dr. Sachs,” Alex said gamely. “I rearranged my tutoring because I thought you two could use another pair of hands.”
“GREat. That’s great—I’m sure it’ll be a big help. Here, help yourself to bagels. Alex, I’m sorry to say that we didn’t get three Coffees since we didn’t know you’d be here.” My dad looked genuinely upset, which was touching. I knew he still had trouble with his youngest daughter having a boyfriend, but he did his best not to show it.
“No worries, Dr. S. I brought some stuff, too, so it looks like there’s plenty.” And somehow, my dad and my boyfriend sat down on the futon together—without a trace of awkwardness—and shared an early-morning breakfast.
I sampled salt bagels from each of their bags and thought about how much fun it would be to live with Lily again. We’d been out of college for nearly a year now. We’d tried to talk at least once a day, but it still felt like we hardly ever saw each other. Now, we would come Home to each other and bitch about our respective hellish days—just like old times. Alex and my dad prattled on about sports (basketball, I think) while my mom and I labeled the boxes in my room. Sadly, there wasn’t much: just a few boxes of bed linens and pillows, another of photo albums and assorted desk supplies (even though I lacked a desk), some makeup and toiletries, and a whole bunch of garment bags filled with un-Runway-esque clothes. Hardly enough to warrant labels; I guess it was the assistant in me kicking in.
“Let’s get moving,” my dad called from the living room.
“Shhh! You’ll wake Kendra,” I loudly whispered back. “It is only nine in the morning on a Saturday, you know.”
Alex was shaking his head. “Didn’t you see her leave with Shanti before? At least, I think that was her. There were definitely two of them, and they were both wearing suits and looking unhappy. Check their bedroom.”
The door to the room they managed to share by bunking their beds was ajar, and I pushed it open slightly. Both beds were made meticulously, pillows fluffed and matching stuffed Gund dogs propped up on each. I didn’t realize until then that I’d never so much as stepped foot in their room—in the few months I’d lived with these girls, we hadn’t had a conversation of longer than thirty seconds—I didn’t know exactly what they did, where they went, or if they had any friends besides each other. I was glad to be leaving.
Alex and my dad had cleaned up the leftover food and were trying to map out a game plan. “You’re right, they’re both gone. I don’t even think they know I’m leaving today.”
“Maybe leave them a note?” my mom suggested. “Maybe on your Scrabble board.” I’d inherited my father’s addiction to Scrabble, and he had a theory that each new Home required a new board so I was leaving the old one behind.
I took the last five minutes in the apartment to make the tiles read, “Thanks for everything and good luck XO Andy.” Fifty-nine points. Not bad.
It took an hour to pack both of the cars up, with me not doing much more than propping open the door to the street and guarding the vehicles while they went back upstairs. The bed movers—who were charging more than the actual cost of the damn thing—were running late, so my dad and Alex each started downtown. Lily had found our new apartment through an ad in theVillage Voice, and I hadn’t even seen it yet. She’d called me at work from her Cell Phone in the middle of the day, screaming, “I found it! I found it! It’s perfect! There’s a bathroom with running water, a wooden floor that only has minimal warping, and I’ve been here four full minutes and haven’t seen a single mouse or even a roach. Can you come see it immediately?”
“Are you high right now?” I whispered. “She’shere, which means I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to comenow . You know what it’s like. I have my folder and everything.”
“Lily, be reasonable. I couldn’t leave the office right now for an emergency heart transplant if I needed one, without getting fired. How can I come look at an apartment?”
“Well, it’s not going to be here in thirty more seconds. There are at least twenty-five other people at this open house, and they’re all filling out applications. I need to do thisnow .”
In the obscene world of Manhattan real estate, semilivable apartments were rarer—and more desirable—than seminormal straight guys. When you added semiaffordable into the mix, they became harder to rent than your private island somewhere off the southern coast of Africa. Or probably harder. No matter that most boasted fewer than three hundred square feet of dirt and rotted wood, pockmarked walls, and prehistoric appliances. No roaches? No mice? This one was a keeper!
“Lily, I trust you, just do it. Can you e-mail me a description?” I was trying to get off the phone as quickly as possible since Miranda was due back from the art department any second. If she saw me on a personal call, I was finished.
“Well, I have copies of your paychecks—which, by the way, really suck . . . and I’ve got both our bank statements and printouts of our credit histories and your employment letter. The only problem is our guarantor. It has to be a tristate resident who makes more than forty times our monthly rent, and my grandmother sure as hell doesn’t make a hundred grand. Can your parents sign for us?”
“Jesus, Lil, I don’t know. I haven’t asked them, and I can’t very well call them right now. You call.”
“Fine. They do make enough, don’t they?”
I wasn’t really sure, but who else could we ask? “Just call them,” I told her. “Explain about Miranda. Tell them I’m sorry for not calling myself.”
“Will do,” she said. “But let me make sure we can get the place. I’ll call you back,” she said and clicked off the phone. The phone rang again twenty seconds later, and I saw her Cell Phone number on the office phone caller ID. Emily raised her eyes in that special way she did when she heard me once again talking to a friend. I grabbed the phone but spoke to Emily.
“It’s important,” I hissed in her direction. “My best friend is trying to rent me an apartment over the phone because I can’t leave here for a goddamn—”
Three voices attacked me at once. Emily’s was measured and calm and carried with it a warning tone. “Andrea, please,” she’d started, at the exact same time that Lily was shrieking, “They’ll do it, Andy, they’ll do it! Are you listening to me?” But even though both of them were clearly addressing me, I couldn’t really hear either one of them. The only voice that came through loud and clear was Miranda’s.
“Do we have a problem here, Ahn-dre-ah?” Shocker—she got my name right this time. She was hovering over me, appearing ready to strike.
I immediately hung up on Lily, hoping she’d understand, and braced myself for the onslaught. “No, Miranda, no problem at all.”
“Good. Now, I’d like a sundae and I’d like to actually eat it before the entire thing melts. Vanilla ice cream—not yogurt, mind you, not ice milk, and nothing sugar-free or low-fat—with chocolate syrup and real whipped cream. Not canned, you understand? Genuine whipped cream. That’s all.” She walked purposefully back toward the art department, and I was left with the distinct impression that she’d come in just to check on me. Emily smirked. The phone rang. Lily again. Dammit—couldn’t she just e-mail me? I picked it up and pressed it to my ear but said nothing.
“OK, I know you can’t talk, so I will. Your parents will be our guarantors, which is GREat. The apartment is a big one-bedroom, and once we put the wall up in the living room, there will still be room for a two-person couchand a chair. The bathroom doesn’t have a bath, but the shower looks OK. No dishwasher, natch, and no AC, but we can get window units. Laundry in the basement, part-time doorman, one block from the six train. And get this. A balcony!”
I must’ve breathed audibly, because she got even more excited at my excitement. “I know! Crazy, right? It looks like it might fall right off the side of the building, but it’s there! And we could both fit on it and have a place to smoke, and oh, it’s just perfect!”
“How much?” I croaked, determined that these would be the absolute last words I’d utter.
“All ours for the grand total of twenty-two eighty a month. Do you believe that we’ll get a balcony for eleven hundred forty dollars apiece? This place is the find of the century. So, can I do it?”
I was silent. I wanted to talk, but Miranda was inching her way back to her office as she upbraided the public events coordinator in front of everyone. She was in a wicked mood, and I’d already had enough for one day. The girl she was currently abusing had her head hung in shame, cheeks bright red, and I prayed for her own sake that she wouldn’t cry.
“Andy! This is fucking ridiculous. Just say yes or no! It’s bad enough that I have to cut class today and you can’t so much as leave work to come look at this place, but you can’t even bother to say yes or no? What am I—” Lily had reached her breaking point and I totally understood, but there was nothing I could do except hang up on her. She was screaming so loud into the phone that it was reverberating in the quiet office, and Miranda was standing less than five feet away. I was so frustrated, I wanted to grab the PR coordinator and hit the ladies’ room and cry with her. Or maybe if we worked together we could throw Miranda into a toilet stall and tighten that Hermès scarf that hung loosely around her skinny neck. Would I hold her down or pull? Or perhaps it’d be more effective to just shove the damn thing down her throat and watch her gasp for air and—
“Ahn-dre-ah!” Her voice was clipped, steely. “What did I ask you for a mere five minutes ago?” Shit! The sundae. I’d forgotten the sundae. “Is there a particular reason why you’re still sitting there instead of doing your job? Is this your idea of a joke? Did I do or say something to indicate that I wasn’t entirely serious? Did I? Did I?” Her blue eyes were bulging out of her face, and although she hadn’t fully raised her voice yet, of course, she was coming awfully close. I opened my mouth to speak but heard Emily talking instead.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Andrea to answer the phone because I thought it might be Caroline or Cassidy and I was on the other line ordering that shirt from Prada you wanted. Andrea was just on her way out. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”
Miracle of miracles! The Perfect One had spoken, and in my defense, no less.
Miranda looked momentarily mollified. “Well, all right then. Get my sundae now, Andrea.” And with that, she walked in her office and picked up the phone, where she promptly started cooing to B-DAD.
I looked at Emily, but she was pretending to work. I shot her a one-word e-mail.Why? I wrote.
Because I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t going to fire you, and I don’t really feel like training someone new,she wrote back instantly. I left to go in search of this perfect sundae and called Lily from my Cell Phone as soon as the elevator hit the lobby.
“I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just that—”
“Look, I don’t really have time for this,” Lily said flatly. “I think you’re overreacting just a little bit, don’t you? I mean, you can’t so much as say yes or no on the phone?”
“It’s hard to explain, Lil, it’s just that—”
“Forget it. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you if we get it. Not that you really care either way.”
I tried to protest, but she’d hung up. Dammit! It wasn’t fair to expect Lily to understand when I would’ve thought I was ridiculous a mere four months earlier. It really wasn’t fair to send her all over Manhattan in search of an apartment we could both share when I wouldn’t even take her phone calls, but what choice did I have?
When she answered one of my calls right after midnight, she told me we got the apartment.
“That’s amazing, Lil. I can’t thank you enough. I swear I’ll make it up to you. I promise!” And then I had a thought. Be spontaneous! Call an Elias car and get up to Harlem and thank your best friend in person. Yes, that was it! “Lil, are you Home? I’m coming up to celebrate, OK?”
I thought she’d be thrilled, but she was quiet. “Don’t bother,” she said quietly. “I’ve got a bottle of So-Co and Tongue Ring Boy is here. I’ve got everything I want.”
It stung, but I understood. Lily rarely got mad, but when she did, no one could talk her out of it until she was good and ready. I heard liquid swishing into a glass and ice clinking, and I heard her take a deep, long swig.
“OK. But call me if you need anything, OK?”
“Why? So you can sit in silence on the other end? No thanks.”
“Lil—”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.” Another gulp. “I’ll talk to you later. And hey, congratulations to us.”
“Yeah, congratulations to us,” I repeated, but she’d already hung up once again.
I’d called Alex on his cell to ask if I could go over to his place, but he didn’t sound as delighted to hear from me as I’d hoped.
“Andy, you know I’d love to see you, but, well, I’m out with Max and the guys. You’re never really around during the week anymore, so I made plans to see them tonight.”
“Oh, well, are you guys in Brooklyn or around here somewhere? I could come meet you?” I asked, knowing that of course they were somewhere on the Upper East Side, probably very close to me, because that’s where all the other guys lived as well.
“Listen, any other night that’d be GREat, but tonight is definitely just a guys’ night.”
“Oh, sure, OK. I was going to meet Lily to celebrate the new apartment, but we, uh, sort of got in a fight. She doesn’t understand why I can’t really talk from work.”
“Well, Andy, I have to say, sometimes I don’t totally understand, either. I mean, I know she’s a tough lady—trust me, I do—it just seems that you take everything pretty seriously when it comes to her, you know?” He sounded like he was trying very hard to keep his tone accommodating and nonconfrontational.
“Maybe that’s because I do!” I shot back at him, pissed off at him for not wanting to see me and not begging me to go out with his friends and for taking Lily’s side even though she had a point and so did he. “It is my life, you know? My career. Myfuture . What the hell am I supposed to do? Treat it like a joke?”
“Andy, you’re twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.”
But I was already screaming back—I couldn’t help myself. First Lily and now Alex? Both on top of Miranda, all day, every day? It was too much, and I wanted to cry but all I could do was yell.
“A big fucking joke, huh? That’s what my job is to both of you!Oh, Andy, you work in fashion, how hard can it be? ” I mimicked, hating myself more with every passing second. “Well, excuse me if we can’t all be do-gooders or Ph.D. candidates! Excuse me if—”
“Call me when you calm down,” he stated. “I’m not going to listen to this anymore.” And he hung up. Hung up! I waited for him to call back, but he never did, and by the time I’d finally fallen asleep, close to three, I hadn’t heard from either Alex or Lily.
Now it was moving day—a full week later—and while neither was still visibly mad, neither seemed exactly the same either. There hadn’t been time to make amends in person with either one since we were in the middle of closing an issue, but I figured things would fall into place when Lily and I moved into our new apartment. Our shared apartment, where everything would go back to the way it was when we were in college and life was much more palatable.
The movers finally came at eleven, and it took them all of nine minutes to disassemble my beloved bed and throw the pieces in back of their van. Mom and I hitched a ride with them over to my new building, where my dad and Alex were schmoozing with the doorman—who, bizarrely enough, was a dead ringer for John Galliano—with my boxes piled against a wall in the lobby.
“Andy, glad you’re here. Mr. Fisher here won’t open the apartment unless there’s a tenant present,” my dad said with a huge smile on his face. “Which is very smart of him,” he added, winking at the doorman.
“Oh, is Lily not here yet? She said she’d get here by ten, ten-thirty.”
“Nope, haven’t seen her. Should I call her?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Why don’t I go up with, er, Mr. Fisher so we can start bringing stuff up. Ask her if she needs any help.”
Mr. Fisher smiled a way that could only be described as lecherous. “Please, we’re like family now,” he said, looking at my chest. “Call me John.”
I almost choked on the now cold Coffee I was holding and wondered if the man revered the world over for reviving the Dior brand had died without my knowing and been reincarnated as my doorman.
Alex nodded and wiped his glasses on his T-shirt. I loved it when he did that. “You go with your parents. I’ll call.”
I wondered if it was a good or bad thing that my father was now best friends with my (designer) doorman, the man who would inevitably know every detail of my life. The lobby looked nice, if a little retro. It was done in a light-colored stone of some sort, and there were a few uncomfortable-looking benches in front of the elevators and behind the mailroom. Our apartment was number 8C, and it faced southwest, which, from what I’d heard, was a good thing. John opened the door with his master key and stood back like a proud papa.
“Here she is,” he announced grandly.
I walked in first, expecting to be hit with an overpowering smell of sulfur or perhaps see a few bats winging their way around our ceiling, but it was surprisingly clean and bright. The kitchen was on the right, a narrow, one-person-wide strip with white tile floors and reasonably white Formica cabinets. The countertops were some sort of flecked granite imitation, and there was a microwave built in above the stove.
“This is GREat,” my mom said, pulling open the refrigerator. “It’s already got ice trays.” The movers pushed past us, grunting while they lugged my bed.
The kitchen opened to the living room, which had already been divided in two by a temporary wall to create a second bedroom. Of course, that meant that all the windows had been cut out of the living room entirely, but that was OK. The bedroom was a decent size—definitely bigger than the one I’d just left—and the sliding glass door leading to the balcony made up one whole wall. The bathroom was between the living room and the real bedroom and was done in Pepto pink tiling and pink paint. Oh well. Could be kitschy. I walked into the real bedroom, which was significantly bigger than the living room one and looked around. A tiny closet, a ceiling fan, and a small, dirty window that looked directly into an apartment in the building next door. Lily had wanted this one and I’d happily aGREed. She preferred having the extra space since she spent so much time in her bedroom studying, but I’d rather have the light and the balcony entrance.
“Thanks, Lil,” I whispered to myself, knowing that Lily couldn’t possibly hear me.
“What’d you say, honey?” my mom asked, coming up behind me.
“Oh, nothing. Just that Lily did really, really well. I had no idea what to expect, but this is GREat, don’t you think?”
She looked like she was trying to find the most tactful way of saying something. “Yes, for New York, it’s a GREat apartment. It’s just hard to imagine paying so much and getting so little. You know your sister and Kyle only pay fourteen hundred a month total for their condo, and they have central air, marble bathrooms, brand-new dishwasher and washer-dryer, and three bedrooms and two bathrooms?” she pointed out, as if she were the first to make this realization. For $2,280 you could get a beachfront townhouse in LA, a three-story condo on a tree-lined street in Chicago, a four-bedroom split-level in Miami, or a goddamn castle with a moat in Cleveland. Yes, we knew this.
“And two parking spots, access to the golf course, gym, and pool,” I added helpfully. “Yeah, I know. But believe it or not, this is a GREat deal. I think we’ll be very happy here.”
She hugged me. “I think you will be, too. As long as you don’t work too hard to enjoy it,” she said lightly.
My dad walked in and opened the duffel bag that he’d been dragging around all day, one I’d assumed held racquetball clothes for his game later. But he pulled out a maroon box emblazoned with “Limited Edition!” across the front. Scrabble. The collector’s edition, where the board came mounted on its own lazy Susan and the squares had little raised borders so the letters didn’t slide around. We’d been admiring them together in specialty game stores for the past ten years, but no occasion had ever warranted purchasing one.
“Oh, Dad. You shouldn’t have!” I knew the board cost well over two hundred dollars. “Oh! I just love it!”
“Use it in good health,” he said, hugging me back. “Or better yet, to kick your old man’s ass, as I know you will. I remember when I used to let you win. I had to, or you’d stomp around the house, sulking all night. And now! Well, now my old brain cells are fried and I couldn’t beat you if I tried. Not that I won’t,” he added.
I was about to tell him that I’d learned from the best, but Alex had walked in. And he didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I immediately asked as he fidgeted with his sneakers.
“Oh, nothing at all,” he lied while glancing in the direction of my parents. He shot me a “just hold on a sec” look and said, “Here, I brought a box.”
“Let’s go get a few more,” my dad said to my mom, moving toward the door. “Maybe Mr. Fisher has some sort of cart. We could bring a bunch up at once. Be right back.”
I looked at Alex, and we both waited until we’d heard the elevator open and close.
“So, I just talked to Lily,” he said slowly.
“She’s not still mad at me, is she? She’s been so weird all week.”
“No, I don’t think it’s that.”
“So what is it?”
“Well, she wasn’t at Home . . .”
“So where is she? Some guy’s apartment? I can’t believe she’s late for her own moving day.” I yanked open one of the windows in the converted bedroom to let some of the cold air dissipate the smell of new paint.
“No, she was actually at a police precinct in midtown.” He looked at his shoes.
“She was where? Is she OK? Ohmigod! Was she mugged or raped? I have to go to her right away.”
“Andy, she’s fine. She was arrested.” He said it quietly, as if he were breaking the news to a parent that their child wasn’t going to pass fourth grade.
“Arrested? She was arrested?” I tried to stay calm, but I realized too late that I was screaming. My dad walked in, pulling a giant cart that looked ready to topple under the weight of unevenly stacked boxes.
“Who was arrested?” he asked off-handedly. “Mr. Fisher brought all this stuff up for us.”
I was racking my brain for a lie, but Alex stepped in before I could think of anything remotely plausible. “Oh, I was just telling Andy that I saw on VH-1 last night that one of the girls from TLC was arrested on drug charges. And she always seemed like one of the straighter ones . . .”
My dad shook his head and surveyed the room, only half listening and probably wondering when exactly Alex or myself had become so interested in female pop stars that we actually discussed it. “I’m thinking that the only real place your bed can go is with the head against the far wall,” he said. “Speaking of which, I better go see how they’re doing.”
I literally flung my body in front of Alex the minute the apartment door closed.
“Quickly! Tell me what happened. What happened?”
“Andy, you’re shrieking. It’s not so bad. Actually, it’s kind of funny.” His eyes crinkled as he laughed, and for a brief second he looked just like Eduardo. Ew.
“Alex Fineman, you better fucking tell me right now what happened with my best friend—”
“OK, OK, relax.” He was clearly enjoying this. “She was out with some guy last night that she referred to as Tongue Ring Boy—do we know who that is?”
I stared at him.
“Anyway, they went out for dinner and Tongue Ring Boy was walking her Home, and she thought it’d be fun to FLASH him, right there on the street outside the restaurant. ‘Sexy,’ she said. To get him interested.”
I envisioned Lily unwrapping a dinner mint and strolling outside after a romantic meal, only to pull away and yank up her shirt for a guy who’d paid to have someone ram a post through his tongue. Jesus.
“Oh no. She didn’t . . .”
Alex nodded somberly, trying not to laugh.
“You’re telling me my friend got arrested for showing her breasts? That’s ridiculous. This is New York. I see women every day who are practically topless—and that’s in the workplace!” I was shrieking again, but I couldn’t help it.
“Her bottom.” He was looking at his shoes again, and his face was so red, I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or hysterical.
“Her what?”
“Not her breasts. Her bottom. Her lower half. Like, all of it. Front and back.” An ear-to-ear grin had finally broken out, and he looked so delighted that I thought he might wet himself.
“Oh, say it isn’t true,” I moaned, wondering what my friend had gotten herself into now. “And a cop saw her and arrested her?”
“No, evidently two little kids saw her do it and pointed it out to their mother . . .”
“Oh, god.”
“So, the mother asked her to pull her pants back up, and Lily loudly told her what she could do with her opinions, and the woman went and found a cop standing on the next street over.”
“Oh, stop. Oh, please, just stop.”
“It gets better. By the time the woman and the cop came back, Lily and Tongue Ring Boy were going at it on the street, pretty hot and heavy from what she said.”
“Who is this? This is my friend Lily Goodwin? My sweet, adorable best friend from eighth grade now gets naked and hooks up on street corners? With guys who have tongue rings?”
“Andy, calm down. Really, she’s fine. The only reason the cop actually arrested her was because she gave him the finger when he asked if she had, in fact, pulled her pants down . . .”
“Oh, my god. I can’t take it anymore. This is what it must feel like to be a mother.”
“. . . but they let her go with just a warning, and she’s going back to her apartment to recover—sounds like she was pretty drunk. I mean, why else would someone flip off a police officer? So don’t worry. Let’s get you moved in and then we can go see her if you want.” He headed toward the cart my dad had left in the middle of the living room and started unloading boxes.
I couldn’t wait until later; I had to see what had happened. She picked up on the fourth ring, right before it clicked into voice mail, as if she’d been debating whether or not to answer it.
“Are you OK?” I asked her the second I heard her voice.
“Hey, Andy. Hope I’m not screwing up the move at all. You don’t need me, right? Sorry about all this.”
“No, I don’t care about that, I care about you. Are you OK?” It had just occurred to me that Lily may have spent the night at the police station, considering that it was early Saturday morning and she was just leaving. “Did you stay overnight? Injail? ”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. It wasn’t so bad, nothing like TV or anything. I just slept in this room with one other totally harmless girl who was in for something just as stupid. The guards were totally cool—it really wasn’t a big deal. No bars or anything.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow.
I digested this for a moment, tried to reconcile the image of sweet little hippie Lily getting cornered in a urine-flooded cell by an extremely angry and possessive lesbian. “Where the hell was Tongue Ring Boy through all of this? Did he just leave you to rot in jail?” But before she could answer, it occurred to me: Where the hell was I through all of this? Why hadn’t Lily called me?
“He was actually really GREat, he—”
“Lily, why—”
“. . . offered to stay with me and even called his parents’ lawyer—”
“Lily. Lily! Stop for a second. Why didn’t you call me? You know I would’ve been there in a second and not left until they’d let you go. So why? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Oh, Andy, it doesn’t matter anymore. It really wasn’t that bad, I swear. I can’t believe how stupid I was, and trust me, I’m over getting that drunk. It’s just not worth it.”
“Why? Why didn’t you call? I was Home all night.”
“It’s not important, really. I didn’t call because I figured you were either working or really, really tired, and I didn’t want to bother you. Especially on a Friday night.”
I thought back to what I’d been doing the night before and the only thing that stuck clearly in my mind was watchingDirty Dancing on TNT for exactly the sixty-eighth time in my life. And out of all those times, that had been the first that I’d fallen asleep before Johnny announced, “No one puts Baby in the corner,” and proceeded to, quite literally, lift her off her feet, until Dr. Houseman admits that he knows Johnny wasn’t the one who got Penny in trouble, and claps him on the back and kisses Baby, who has recently reclaimed the name Frances. I considered the whole scene a defining factor in my identity.
“Working? You thought I was working? And what does too tired have to do with it when you need help? Lil, I don’t get it.”
“Look, Andy, let’s drop it, OK? You work constantly. Day and night, and lots of times on weekends. And when you’re not working, you’re complaining about work. Not that I don’t understand, because I know how tough your job is, and I know you work for a lunatic. But I wasn’t going to be the one to interrupt a Friday night when you might actually be relaxing or hanging out with Alex. I mean, he says he never sees you, and I didn’t want to take that away from him. If I’d really needed you, I would’ve called, and I know you would’ve come running. But I swear, it wasn’t so bad. Please, can we forget it? I’m exhausted and I really need a shower and my own bed.”
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak, but Lily took my silence for acquiescence.
“You there?” she asked after nearly thirty seconds, during which I was desperately trying to find the words to apologize or explain or something. “Listen, I just got Home. I need sleep. Can I call you later?”
“Um, uh, sure,” I managed. “Lil, I’m so sorry. If I’ve ever given you the impression that you can’t—”
“Andy, don’t. Nothing’s wrong—I’m fine, we’re fine. Let’s just talk later.”
“OK. Sleep well. Call me if I can do anything . . .”
“Will do. Oh, how’s the new place, by the way?”
“It’s GREat, Lil, it really is. You did a fantastic job with it. It’s better than I’d ever imagined. We’re going to love it here.” My voice sounded empty to my own ears, and it was obvious I was talking just for the sake of it, keeping her on the phone to make sure our friendship hadn’t changed in some inexplicable but permanent way.
“GREat. I’m so glad you like it. Hopefully Tongue Ring Boy will like it, too,” she joked, although that, too, sounded hollow.
We hung up and I stood in the living room, staring at the phone until my mom walked in to announce that they were going to take Alex and me out for lunch.
“What’s wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some help with her stuff, too, but we’re not going to stick around much after three. Is she on her way?”
“No, she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a few days, I guess, so she probably won’t move in until tomorrow. That was just her on the phone.”
“Well, you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over there? I always feel so badly for that girl—no real parents, just that cranky old bat of a grandmother.” She put her hand on my shoulder, as if to drive Home the pain. “She’s lucky she’s got you for a friend. Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.”
My voice caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a few words. “Yeah, I guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just going to sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches, OK? The doorman said there’s a GREat deli four blocks down.”
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone that I hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.
“Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other end.
“No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even though I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.
“Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared. “Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”
I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked atRunway, I’d never met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious? Could she be baiting me?
“Um, well, working atRunway has been a really GREat learning experience,” I heard myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls would die for, of course.” Did I just say that?
There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh, that’s just f-f-f-fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous laugh-choke. “Does she lock you in your West Village studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael Kors t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass boss of yours on the phone.”
I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and urgently whisper, “I am a prisoner, more than you can imagine—please, oh, please, come and rescue me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but I’m different!” But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.
I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on every subject but Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly not because of histwinsets . Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a realRunway girl—that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable taste—would probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual ‘hired help’ instead of something as stiff and unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom am I speaking first?”
“Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be friends after all. I d-d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she hires, but it’s fitting because I don’t much like her. My name is Judith Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel articles each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still relatively new now: Is the h-h-honeymoon over?”
I was silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a ticking bomb.
“Well? You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve been there long enough for everyone to know your name, but not long enough that they uncover and exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a really sweet feeling when th-th-th-that happens, trust me. You’re working in a really special place.”
But before I could respond, she said, “Enough f-f-f-flirting for now, my new friend. Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because she never takes my c-c-calls anyway. Stuttering pisses her off, I think. Just be sure to put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin so she can make someone else call me back. Thanks, l-l-love.” Click.
I hung up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked up from one of Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When I told her it was Judith, she rolled her eyes so deeply they almost didn’t resurface and whined, “She’s such a supreme bitch. I have, like, no idea how Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her calls, though, so you don’t even have to tell her she’s on the phone. Just put her on the Bulletin and Miranda will have someone else call her back.” It seems Judith understood the inner workings of our office better than I.
I double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called “Bulletin” and glanced over its contents so far. The Bulletin was thepièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s office and, as far as I could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before by some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a Word document that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could access. Only one of us could open it at a time and add a new message, thought, or question to the itemized list. Then we’d print out the updated version and place it on the clipboard that sat on the shelf over my desk, removing the old ones as we went. Miranda would examine it every few minutes throughout the day as Emily and I struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls came in. Often we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other could access it and write a message. We’d print to our separate printers simultaneously and dive for the clipboard, not knowing whose was the most recent until we were face to face.
“Judith’s the latest message on mine,” I said, exhausted from the pressure of trying to finish it before Miranda entered the suite. Eduardo had called from the security desk downstairs to warn us that she was on her way upstairs. We hadn’t gotten a call from Sophy yet, but we knew it’d be only seconds.
“I have the concierge from the Ritz Paris after Judith,” Emily near-shouted, triumphantly, while clipping her sheet to the Lucite clipboard. I took my four-second outdated Bulletin back to the desk and glanced over it. Dashes in phone numbers were not permissible, only periods. There were to be no colons in the time, only periods. Times must be rounded up or down to the nearest quarter-hour. Call-back phone numbers always got their own lines to make them easier to distinguish. A time listed indicated that someone had called in. The word “note” was something that Emily or I had to tell her (since addressing her without being first addressed was out of the question, all relevant info went on the Bulletin). “Reminder” was something Miranda had most likely left on one of our voice mails sometime between one and fiveA .M. the previous night, knowing that once it was recorded for us, it was as good as done. We were to refer to ourselves in the third person—if it was absolutely crucial for us to refer to ourselves at all.
She often asked us to find out exactly when and at what number a particular person would be available to speak. In this case it was a tossup whether the fruits of our investigation would go under “note” or “reminder.” I remember once thinking that the Bulletin read like a who’s who in the Prada crowd, but the names of the superbigmoney, the superhighfashion, and the generally superimpressive had ceased to register as “special” on my desensitized brain. In my newRunway reality, the White House social secretary held little more interest than the vet who needed to speak to her about the puppy’s vaccinations (fat chance of him getting a call back!).
Thursday, April 8
7.30: Simone called from the Paris office. She figured out dates with Mr. Testino for the Rio shoot and also confirmed with Giselle’s agent, but she still needs to discuss the fashion with you. Please call her.
011.33.1.55.91.30.65
8.15: Mr. Tomlinson called. He is on cell. Please call him.
Note: Andrea spoke with Bruce. He said that the large mirror in your foyer has a piece of decorative plaster missing from the upper left-hand corner. He located an identical mirror at an antique shop in Bordeaux. Would you like him to order it?
8.30: Jonathan Cole called. He is leaving for Melbourne on Saturday and would like to clarify the assignment before he leaves. Please call him.
555.7700
Reminder: To call Karl Lagerfeld about the Model of the Year party. He will be reachable at his Home in Biarritz this evening from 8.00–8.30P .M. his time.
011.33.1.55.22.06.78: Home
011.33.1.55.22.58.29: Home studio
011.33.1.55.22.92.64: driver
011.33.1.55.66.76.33: assistant’s number in Paris, in case you cannot find him
9.00: Natalie from Glorious Foods called to see whether you’d prefer that the Vacherin be filled with mixed berries praline or warm rhubarb compote. Please call her.
555.9887
9.00: Ingrid Sischy called to congratulate you on the April issue. Says the cover is “spectacular, as always” and wants toknow who styled the front-of-book beauty shoot. Please call her.
555.6246: office
555.8833: Home
Note: Miho Kosudo called to apologize for being unable to deliver Damien Hirst’s flower arrangement. They said to be sure to tell you that they waited outside his building for four hours, but since he doesn’t have a doorman, they had to leave. They will try again tomorrow.
9.15: Mr. Samuels called. He will be unreachable until after lunch, but wants to remind you of parent-teacher conferences tonight at Horace Mann. He would like to discuss Caroline’s history project with you before hand. Please call him after 2.00P .M. but before 4.00P .M.
555.5932
9.15: Mr. Tomlinson called again. He asked Andrea to make reservations for dinner tonight after parent-teacher conferences. Please call him. He is on cell.
Note: Andrea made reservations for you and Mr. Tomlinson tonight at 8.00P .M. at La Caravelle. Rita Jammet said she is looking forward to seeing you again, and she’s delighted you chose her restaurant.
9.30: Donatella Versace called. She said everything’s confirmed for your visit. Will you be needing any staff besides a driver, a chef, a trainer, a hair and makeup person, a personal assistant, three maids, and a yacht captain? If so, please let her know before she leaves for Milan. She will also provide Cell Phones, but won’t be able to join you as she’ll be preparing for the shows.
011.3901.55.27.55.61
9.45: Judith Mason called. Please call her back.
555.6834
I crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the basket under my desk, where it immediately soaked up the leftover GREase from Miranda’s third morning breakfast that I’d already thrown out. So far, a relatively normal day as far as the Bulletin was concerned. I was just about to click “inbox” on my Hotmail account to see if anyone had e-mailed yet when she cruised into the office. Damn that Sophy! She’d forgotten the warning call again.
“I expect the Bulletin is updated,” she said icily without making eye contact or otherwise acknowledging our presence.
“It is, Miranda,” I replied, holding it up to her so she needn’t so much as reach for it.Three words and counting, I thought to myself, predicting—and praying—it wouldn’t be more than a seventy-five-word day on my part. She removed her waist-length mink, so plush I had to restrain myself from burying my face into it right there, and tossed it onto my desk. As I went to hang that magnificent dead animal in the closet, trying to rub it discreetly against my cheek, I felt a quick shock of cold and wet: there were tiny bits of still-frozen sleet stuck to the fur. How fabulously apropos.
Pulling the lid from a lukewarm latte, I carefully arranged today’s GREasy pile of bacon, sausage, and cheese-filled pastry on a filthy plate. I tiptoed into her office and carefully placed everything unobtrusively on a corner of her desk. She was concentrating on writing a note on her ecru Dempsey and Carroll stationery and spoke so softly I almost didn’t hear.
“Ahn-dre-ah, I need to discuss the engagement party with you. Get a notebook.”
I nodded, simultaneously realizing that nodding doesn’t count as a word. This engagement party had already become the bane of my existence and it was still more than a month away, but since Miranda was leaving for the European shows soon and would be gone for two weeks, planning this party had occupied the vast majority of both our recent workdays. I returned to her office with a pad and pen, preparing myself to not understand a single word she’d say. I considered sitting for just a moment since it’d make taking dictation much more comfortable, but wisely resisted.
She sighed as though this were so taxing she wasn’t sure if she’d make it and tugged on the white Hermès scarf that she’d woven into a braceletlike thing around her wrist. “Find Natalie at Glorious Foods and tell her that I prefer the rhubarb compote. Do not let her convince you that she needs to speak with me directly, because she does not. Also talk to Miho and make sure they understand my orders for the flowers. Get Robert Isabell on the phone for me sometime before lunch to go over tablecloths, place cards, and serving trays. Also that girl from the Met to see when I can go over to make sure everything is set up properly, and tell her to fax over the table configurations so I may do seating charts. That’s all for now.”
She had rattled off that list without a single pause in her note writing, and when she finished speaking she handed me her newly crafted note to mail. I finished scribbling on my pad, hoping I’d understood everything correctly, which, considering the accent and the rapid-fire cadence, wasn’t always simple.
“OK,” I muttered and turned to go, bringing up my Total Miranda Words to four.Maybe I won’t break fifty, I thought. I could feel her eyes examining the size of my butt as I walked back to my desk and briefly considered whipping around to walk backward like a religious Jew would do when leaving the Wailing Wall. Instead, I tried to glide toward the hidden safety of my desk while picturing thousands and thousands ofHasidim in Prada black, walking backward circles around Miranda Priestly.
