The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren WeisbergerЧитать онлайн книгу.
rest of high school, had roomed together for all four years at Brown. Lily hadn’t yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or hemp necklaces and was still a little too ‘quirky’ to do anything totally mainstream, but we complemented each other well. And I missed her. Because with her first year as a graduate student and my being a virtual slave, we hadn’t seen a whole lot of each other lately.
I couldn’t wait for the weekend. My fourteen-hour workdays were registering in my feet, my upper arms, my lower back. Glasses had replaced the contacts I’d worn for a decade because my eyes were too dry and tired to accept them anymore. I smoked a pack a day and subsisted solely on Starbucks (expensed, of course) and takeout sushi (further expensed). I’d begun losing weight already. The weight I’d lost from the dysentery had returned briefly, but after my stint at Runway it had begun to disappear again. Something in the air there, I suppose, or perhaps it was the intensity with which food was eschewed in the office. I’d already weathered a sinus infection and had paled significantly, and it had been only four weeks. I was only twenty-three years old. And Miranda hadn’t even been in the office yet. Fuck it. I deserved a weekend.
Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I was not pleased. Miranda had called this morning. It took only a few moments for her to outline what she wanted, although it took me forever to interpret it. I learned quickly that in the Miranda Priestly world, it was better to do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix it than to admit you didn’t understand her convoluted and heavily accented instructions and ask for clarification. So when she mumbled something about getting the Harry Potter books for the twins and having them flown to Paris, intuition alone told me this was going to interfere with my weekend. When she hung up abruptly a few minutes later, I looked to Emily with panic.
‘What, oh, what, did she say?’ I moaned, hating myself for being too scared to ask Miranda to repeat herself. ‘Why can I not understand a single word that woman utters? It’s not me, Em. I speak English, always have. I know she does it to personally drive me crazy.’
Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity. ‘Since the book comes out tomorrow and they’re not here to buy it, she wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro. The jet will take them to Paris,’ she summed up coldly, daring me to comment on the ludicrousness of the instructions. I was reminded once again that Emily would do anything – really, anything – if it meant making Miranda a bit more comfortable. I rolled my eyes and kept quiet.
Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her bidding, and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power (hers) at my personal disposal, I spent the rest of the day arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Paris. First, a few words for Julia at Scholastic.
Dearest Julia,
My assistant, Andrea, tells me that you’re the sweetheart to whom I should address my most heartfelt appreciation. She has informed me that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies of this darling book for me tomorrow. I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work and cleverness. Please know how happy you’ll make my sweet daughters. And don’t ever hesitate to let me know if you need anything, anything at all, for a fabulous girl like yourself.
XOXO,
Miranda Priestly
I forged her name with a perfect flourish (hour upon hour of practicing with Emily standing over me, instructing me to make the final ‘a’ a little loopier, had finally paid off), attached the note to the latest issue of Runway – one not yet on the newsstand – and called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to Scholastic’s downtown office. If this didn’t work, nothing would. Miranda didn’t care that we forged her signature – it saved her from bothering with details – but she’d probably be livid to see that I’d penned something so polite, so adorable, using her name.
Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the weekends, but I was now experienced – and jaded – enough to bend the rules a little. Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be at the airport in New Jersey when Harry arrived the following day, I saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him. Acting under the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with a couple copies, I worked out some details. Dial, dial, and within an hour a plan had emerged.
Brian, a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic – whom I was assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours – would take home two office copies of Harry that evening, so he wouldn’t have to go back to the office on Saturday. Brian would leave the books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building, and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven. Miranda’s driver, Uri, would then call me on my cell phone to confirm that he’d received the package and was on his way to drop it at Teterboro airport, where the two books would be transferred to Mr Tomlinson’s private jet and flown to Paris. I briefly considered conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB operation even more, but dropped that when I remembered that Uri didn’t really speak regular English that well. I had checked to see how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there, but delivery couldn’t be guaranteed until Monday, which was obviously unacceptable. Hence the private plane. If all went as planned, little Cassidy and Caroline could wake up in their private Parisian suite on Sunday and enjoy their morning milk while reading about Harry’s adventures – a full day earlier than all of their friends. It warmed my heart, it really did.
Minutes after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate people put on alert, Julia called back. Although it’d be a grueling task and she was likely to get in trouble, she’d be happy to give Brian two copies for Ms Priestly. Amen.
‘Do you believe he got engaged?’ Lily asked as she rewound the copy of Ferris Bueller we’d just finished. ‘I mean, we’re twenty-three years old for goodness sake – what’s the rush?’
‘I know, it does seem weird.’ I called from the kitchen. ‘Maybe Mom and Dad won’t let him have access to the massive trust fund until he’s settled down? That’d be enough motivation to put a ring on her finger. Or maybe he’s just lonely?’
Lily looked at me and laughed. ‘Naturally, he can’t just be in love with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her, right? I mean, we’ve established that that’s totally out of the question, right?’
‘Correct. That’s not an option. Try again.’
‘Well, then, I’m forced to pick curtain number three. He’s gay. He finally came to the realization himself – even though I’ve known forever – and realizes that Mom and Dad won’t be able to handle it, so he’ll cover by marrying the first girl he can find. What do you think?’
Casablanca was next on the list, and Lily fast-forwarded past the opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny kitchen of her nonalcove studio in Morningside Heights. We lazed around straight through Friday night – breaking only to smoke and make another Blockbuster run. Saturday afternoon found us particularly motivated, and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours. We each bought new tank tops for Lily’s upcoming New Year’s party and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk café. By the time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday, we were exhausted and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating between When Harry Met Sally on TNT and Saturday Night Live. It was so thoroughly relaxing, such a departure from the misery that had become my daily routine, I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I heard a phone ring on Sunday. Ohmigod, it was Her! I overheard Lily speaking in Russian to someone, probably a classmate, on her cell phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear lord: it wasn’t Her. But that still didn’t let me off the hook. It was already Sunday morning, and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way to Paris. I had enjoyed my weekend so much – had actually managed to relax enough – that I had forgotten to check. Of course, my phone was on and set to the highest ring level, but I never should’ve waited for someone to call me