When the call came to tell me I had a job interview with the most powerful woman in fashion in America, I was in my cramped Upper West Side Manhattan apartment, marinating in the aroma of sweet and sour chicken from the Chinese takeout around the corner. The air-conditioned, odour-free offices of Vogue were a mere 40 blocks south but for my career up to that point, they may as well have been on Mount Everest's Hillary Step. At the top of that mountain sits the queen of chic, She Who Wears Sunglasses, Anna "Nuclear" Wintour.

"This is very exciting!" exclaimed Bucky (yes, really), the human resources woman, ending her call with the helpful advice, "Dress snappy!"

"It's who you know," is the refrain that no struggling journalist in New York wants to hear, especially when everyone you know lives back on the ranch in Texas. I had made it in to see Bucky because, for once, I had known someone. I had worked at Condé Nast years before, as a copy editor at the respected but relatively young Allure magazine.

I heard rumours about "Anna" - that she fired people in the elevator; she forbade junior staff from talking to her; when an assistant tripped and fell in front of her, she simply stepped over the supine underling and continued down the hall - even though there was never anyone able to substantiate any of these horror stories. Notwithstanding this, everyone understood: working at her magazine was prestigious beyond compare.

When I was interviewed at Allure, I realised it was a turning point moment and grabbed it. I had consulted friends on what to wear: new shoes, an orange angora sweater, worn tied around my shoulders (I know, I know). I got a haircut. I performed mock interviews with myself on the subway. And on the day itself, when the editor leaned forward and asked, "What's your philosophy of copyediting?" I had my answer ready. She gave a nod, snapped shut my portfolio and shook my hand, and three weeks later I had a desk.

The interview with Anna did not go this way.

First, my outfit. I was very busy in those days. And poor. It seemed sensible to me to wear a few "classic" (aka budget) pieces already in my wardrobe. It was actually a bit noble, I told myself, not putting on airs even for the grand Ms Wintour.

Which is how I came to be walking across into the mythical white lobby, kitted out like an 18th-century undertaker: high-waisted black trousers, black brogues, a fussy white silk embroidered shirt and a black frock coat.

As I was briskly ushered into Anna's office, the sound of my pulse filled my ears and my brain registered only impressions of sparse surfaces, books on the wall, a few objets d'art. She was sitting behind her desk, wearing a sand-coloured shift dress that exposed exquisitely toned upper arms. Apparently the rumour that she always wore sunglasses wasn't true.

I sat down carefully, perching on the edge of my chair as if I might suddenly have to spring up and flee. She relaxed back, regarded me calmly and began talking about the magazine, the position. She did not smile. I smiled too much. She complimented my edit test (she complimented my edit test!) but I didn't have time to bask in the praise because then it happened.

"What do you think we need to change about the magazine?" Once again I knew the answer: the picture captions were flat-footed and dull. But this time I paused. I was interviewing for the job of writing captions. To say they needed someone new writing captions seemed self-promoting and corny. Could I really say the one thing Vogue needed was me? I was suddenly aware of my ridiculous frock coat and the sweat slowly saturating the armpits of my silk shirt. I did not fit in, did not belong in this office.

So I gave her what I thought she wanted to hear, a rambling explanation of how it's difficult to change an icon. At some point I realised I had spun off course and stopped listening even to myself. I couldn't imagine what she was thinking, as she circled behind me, soundlessly prowling the plush carpet. And when the ramble finally drew to a close, you can probably guess what she said.

"The captions need work." Then she sat back down at her desk and closed my file. There would be no desk at Vogue in three weeks.

"You're better off," a friend said recently when I told this story. But I don't really believe it. It didn't kill my career, which is how I felt at the time. But not arriving at Vogue meant my life took a totally different route - one that affected who I dated and married and ultimately where I live.

The worst part, of course, isn't that I didn't get the job, but that I copped out, didn't go with my gut, sold myself short. I was cowed by expensive clothes, the big-name magazine and by the feeling that deep down I wasn't the kind of girl with shiny hair who was allowed to work on Madison Avenue.

With The Devil Wears Prada and its Anna-like editor, the grand poohbah of Vogue is once again drawing attention. Just weeks ago she was named editor of the year by the American magazine Advertising Age.

Ultimately, I think she is someone we need – a figure who inspires legends that are retold by young writers and editors in the dim of post-work cocktail bars. These stories heighten the drama and importance of jobs that can sometimes be uninspiring and dispiriting. They can remind rising stars what it's like to feel powerless and insignificant, even as they become powerful and important.

Condé Nast has moved offices and I've moved on too. If I met Anna these days the conversation would go a lot differently. As for the frock coat look, I think it's coming back in.

Times recommends

• Live chat: Thrifty ways to update your winter wardrobe
• Is anybody out there really listening?
• Nutrition Q&A: Will eating late make me fat?