the devil wears prada | Page 7

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

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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 comparing
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 company�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 competition 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.�

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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. Completely 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