The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

Author:Lauren Weisberger
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2003-03-11T16:00:00+00:00

“Miranda Priestly’s office,” I answered in my now usual bored tone that I hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.

“Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?” asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other end.

“No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,” I said, even though I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.

“Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,” the strange female voice roared. “Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?”

I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked at Runway, I’d never met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious? Could she be baiting me?

“Um, well, working at Runway has been a really great learning experience,” I heard myself stutter. “It’s a job a million girls would die for, of course.” Did I just say that?

There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. “Oh, that’s just f-f-f-fucking perfect!” she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous laugh-choke. “Does she lock you in your West Village studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael Kors t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass boss of yours on the phone.”

I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and urgently whisper, “I am a prisoner, more than you can imagine—please, oh, please, come and rescue me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but I’m different!” But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.

I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point—on every subject but Miranda. “Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly not because of his twinsets. Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a real Runway girl—that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable taste—would probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual ‘hired help’ instead of something as stiff and unforgiving as ‘lackey.’ Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom am I speaking first?”

“Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché.

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