the devil wears prada | Page 6

of her heart, she agreed.
I woke up in that tiny Harlem studio, sweat-soaked. My forehead pounded, my stomach churned,
every nerve shimmied �shimmied in a very unsexy way. Ah! It�s back, I thought, horrified. The parasites
had found their way back into my body and I was bound to suffer eternally! Or what if it was worse?
Perhaps I�d contracted a rare form of late-developing dengue fever? Malaria? Possibly even Ebola? I lay
in silence, trying to come to grips with my imminent death, when snippets from the night before came
back to me. A smoky bar somewhere in the East Village. Something called jazz fusion music. A hot-pink
drink in a martini glassoh, nausea, oh, make it stop. Friends stopping by to welcome me home. A toast, a
gulp, another toast. Oh, thank god�it wasn't a rare strain of hemorrhagic fever, it was just a hangover. It
never occurred to me that I couldn�t exactly hold my liquor anymore after losing twenty pounds to
dysentery. Five feet ten inches and 115 pounds did not bode well for a hard night out (although, in
retrospect, it boded very well for employment at a fashion magazine).

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I bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I�d been crashing on for the past week and
concentrated all my energy on not getting sick. Adjustment to America�the food, the manners, the
glorious showers�hadn�t been too grueling, but the houseguest thing was quickly becoming stale. I
figured I had about a week and a half left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely ran
out of cash, and the only way to get money from my parents was to return to the never-ending circuit of
second opinions. That sobering thought was the single thing propelling me from bed, on what would be a
fateful November day, to where I was expected in one hour for my very first job interview. I�d spent the
last week parked on Lily�s couch, still weak and exhausted, until she finally yelled at me to leave�if only
for a few hours each day. Not sure what else to do with myself, I bought a MetroCard and rode the
subways, listlessly dropping off r�sum�s as I went. I left them with security guards at all the big magazine
publishers, with a halfhearted cover letter explaining that I wanted to be an editorial assistant and gain
some magazine writing experience. I was too weak and tired to care if anyone actually read them, and
the last thing I was expecting was an interview. But Lily�s phone had rung just the day before and,
amazingly, someone from human resources at Elias-Clark wanted me to come in for a �chat.� I wasn�t
sure if it would be considered an official interview or not, but a �chat� sounded more palatable either
way.
I washed down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and 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 completed 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