French Runway. A prestigious place, if not somewhat intimidating. I sit here, in my fake Versace suit, and take in the enormity of the precarious situation of which I am placed. In a cold plastic chair, I am sitting amongst ten or twenty other young ladies, most of whom are wearing something vaguely along the same lines of what I am, and are perched slightly on top of the cold plastic chair. Their hair is immaculate, not a strand out of place, their nails perfectly manicured, and their accents are completely flawless, not unlike their entire physique.
"Miranda Priestly," French accent lilts out of a somewhat skinny woman, using the term "woman" loosely, and she beckons for me to follow. I comply. It does not do to disobey.
She ushers me into a long, skinny hallway. Framed magazines dot the vast expanse of office grey. I see endless supermodels in various poses, different slogans fighting for space in front of her body.
One claims to have found the cure for the common man. Another claims to have 761 items to look beautiful in. Pfui. I know from my experience, 760 of those items will be either products or in the adverts.
And behold! The door to my possible new career is approached, with the words Runwa en Francais emblazoned on the front. The y is scratched off, and I ask myself for the umpteenth time that day, "Why am I here?"
"Excuse moi?" Oops.
"C'est non." Note to self: work on French.
She casts a quizzical eye in my direction, but I wave it off with a look that asks if anything is wrong. Slowly, my eyes lower to her knockoff Givenchy skirt, and my face falls.
She quickly looks away, and I know my work is cut out for me.
The door is opened, and some young imbecile dashes out, a tray of coffee mugs perched upon her hand, a key dangling from her neck, and flustered air about her.
She bumps into me, mumbles something incoherent, and whizzes past us. My guide takes no notice. Instantly, my eyes dart around the office space that is too glamorous to behold.
Girls in utterly fabulous outfits look as though they are just about ready to go out to clubs, but they sit on the floor, some rearranging photos on a manila envelope, some pasting labels onto various folders, some just smoking cigarettes and drinking their coffee as if it was their only source of food (come to think of it, it most likely is).
We walk past various cubicles of fashionistas who should not be at work, until we reach a brown door, upon which is written Mlle. Marie desEntoile, Editor in Chief.
I mutter something very vulgar, very English, and very frowned upon, and I swear, every eye is placed on me, and my eyes widen at the extreme sound decrease that just occurred. "Did she just say that's and gasps filled the room. I mutter it again, just to shock them, and walk into the large, windowed office, nothing like what I've seen so far (a dozen half starved girls and a copy machine) that houses a desk, two chairs, and the most fashionable of them all, Marie desEntoile.
"Entre-vous" She says from behind her chair, and I am suddenly reminded of a pit bull, for whatever reason.
My guide says something to Her Highness, and she turns around to face me.
Her brown eyes met with my baby blues, and I am greeted (if you could call it that) by the mademoiselle.
"Sit." Excuse me?
I grab the chair on the other side of the desk, as my Guide procures a chair out of thin air and perches upon it, her leather portfolio resting under a Mont Blanc pen.
"So, euh, you are Miranda Pricely?" She gives it the long I, which I despise.
"Um, yes, er, ma'am, uh, mademoiselle, Miranda Priestly." Her sadistic smile shows under all the makeup caked on her face, having a laugh at my expense.
"You are interviewing for ze junior assistant position, non?"
"Yes, mlle."
"'Ave you previous experience in zees field?"
Previous experience schlepping coffee back and forth? "Of course, mlle."
"Now, Mlle. Priestly, you understand ze hours would be demanding, and you would often have to do meaning less tasks, does zees bother you?"
Of course not, Mlle. desEntoile. I absolutely adore getting no sleep, for no reason mind, and waking up perfectly cheerful the next day, only to have to repeat the cycle.
"Oh not at all, Ms. desEntoile. I have always had an extremely strong work ethic, and will try to help to the best of my abilities." For translation, see above.
"I see." She glances down on her paper, adjusts her glasses, and says something in French to the Guide, who motions for me to leave.
"Well, it was very nice to meet you, madam." I smile, and she takes no notice, waving me away with a brusque shifting of her hand.
I tuck in the chair, and as I leave, I notice my Guide hadn't written anything down on her notepad.
This job was mine.
