Author's note: This should be fun. Well, first, a shout-out goes to all the people who've told me not to write this story, cause they are dorks. Next, to my mother, who encouraged my interest in The Devil Wears Prada. Enjoy!
"Mina, I still don't understand why you're doing this. I mean, Runway?"
"Rog, it's one year. Then it's off to bigger and better things." I poked my head out of my room. "Besides, it's just an interview. I might now get the job."
"They'd be nuts not to hire you."
"A million girls would die for the job."
"Well, you'll be the one to get it."
"Well, I'm sure the fact that I'm not going to tell Miranda Priestly to fuck herself is certainly going to help."
"Who did them?"
"Her last assistant. Andrea Sachs."
"Oh."
I stepped out of my room. Roger grinned. "You look great."
I glanced at my outfit: a knee-length patchwork skirt, a white peasant-style top and calf-high stiletto boots, complete with silver slouch bag. I shrugged. "It's not Prada, but…"
"You look fine, Min. Mimi, tell her she looks great."
"Ravishing," Mimi agreed. "You're going to be late. I'll call you a cab."
"Thanks."
An hour later, I was on my way into the Elias-Clarke building. The burly security guard glanced up. "Sign in, miss." He pushed a clipboard towards me. As I signed, he handed me a guest pass. "Seventeenth floor. Have a good day." He buzzed me to the elevator bay, where I found a cluster of people by various elevators.
The tallest, a blond woman ten years older then me, looked me up and down. Smiling, she asked in a clipped British accent, "Are you Miranda's new girl?"
I shrugged. "I'm hoping to be. I'm supposed to meet with Emily Charlton in ten minutes."
The woman's smile faded, and her eyebrows arched. "Really?" She whipped out her phone. "Emily? Why was I not informed that you were replacing Andrea today?"
My jaw nearly hit the floor. I had been talking to Miranda Priestly for two minutes. And she had actually smiled at me!
I was still in shock when the elevator arrived, and Miranda cleared her throat. "Are you coming?"
I nodded and pushed the button. We began to move. She turned to me. "What is your name?"
I risked a smile. "Mina. Mina Davis."
"Is that short for Wilhelmina?"
"No, it's just Mina."
"And how old are you, Mina?"
"I'll be twenty-three tomorrow, Ms. Priestly."
If my slip of tongue bothered her, she didn't say. "Mina, do you speak any foreign languages?"
"Yes. I can speak Welsh, Italian, and some broken French."
"Interesting. And do you read Runway?"
"Yes, I do. Not every month, but when I can."
"And what do you think?"
"I love the clothes, but I prefer to actually read articles."
"Where do you live, Mina?"
I froze. This was what I'd been dreading. Tread lightly, I told myself. One wrong move and she'll refuse to hire you. "I live in the East Village. The corner of Avenue B and 11th street. I live in an industrial loft with my brother, his girlfriend and my boyfriend."
"I see." The elevator dinged to a stop. As Miranda stepped out and Emily rushed forward, Miranda looked at me. "Can you start immediately?" I nodded, and Miranda looked at Emily. "Give her cell phone and start training her." She looked back at me. "Whose shoes are those?"
I looked down. "They're one of a kind. My friend Angel made them. They were an early birthday present."
"Get me a pair in size four for the Central Park shoot. That's all."
Emil turned to me, exasperated. "Well. Welcome aboard, I think."
