The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren WeisbergerЧитать онлайн книгу.
I just think you should know that your, uh, your look isn’t really going over well with everyone around here. Now, I know this stuff gets expensive, but there’s ways around that. I’ve got so much stuff in the Closet that no one will notice if you need to, uh, borrow some of it sometimes.’ He made quote marks with his fingers around the word ‘borrow.’ ‘And, of course, you should be calling all the PR people and getting your discount card for their designers. I only get thirty percent off, but since you work for Miranda, I’ll be surprised if they charge you for anything. There’s no reason for this, uh, Gap thing you’ve got going on to continue.’
I didn’t explain that wearing Nine West instead of Manolos or jeans they sold in Macy’s junior department but not anywhere on Barney’s eighth floor of couture denim heaven had been my own attempt to show everyone that I wasn’t seduced by all things Runway. Instead, I just nodded, noticing that he looked supremely uncomfortable having to tell me that I was humiliating myself every day. I wondered who had put him up to it. Emily? Or Miranda herself? Didn’t really matter either way. Hell, I’d already survived three full months – if wearing a Prada turtleneck instead of one from Urban Outfitters was going to help me survive the next nine, then so be it. I decided I’d start putting together a new and improved wardrobe immediately.
I finally made it outside by 6:50 A.M., actually feeling pretty damn good about the way I looked. The guy in the breakfast cart closest to my apartment even whistled, and a woman stopped me before I’d taken ten steps and told me she had been eyeing those boots for three months now. I could get used to this, I thought. Everyone’s got to put something on every day, and this sure felt a hell of a lot better than any of my stuff. As was now habit, I walked to the corner of Third Avenue and promptly hailed a cab and collapsed into the warm backseat, too tired to be thankful that I didn’t have to join the commoners on the subway, and croaked, ‘Six-forty Madison. Quickly, please.’ The cabbie looked at me through the rearview – with a touch of sympathy, I swear – and said, ‘Ah, yes. Elias-Clark building,’ and we squealed left onto 97th Street and made another left onto Lex, flying through the lights until 59th Street, where we headed west to Madison. After exactly six minutes, since there was no traffic, we came to a screeching halt in front of the tall, thin, sleek monolith that set such a fine physical example for so many of its inhabitants. The fare came to $6.40 like it did every single morning, and I handed the cabbie a ten-dollar bill, like I did every single morning. ‘Keep the change,’ I sang, feeling the same joy I did every day when I saw their shock and happiness. ‘It’s on Runway.’
No problem there, that’s for sure. It took all of a week on the job to see that accounting wasn’t exactly a strong suit at Elias, not even a real priority. It was never a problem to write off ten-dollar cab rides each and every day. Another company might wonder what gave you the right to take a cab to work in the first place; Elias-Clark wondered why you had deigned to take a cab when there was a car service available. Something about gypping the company out of that extra ten bucks each day – even though I don’t imagine anyone was directly suffering from my overspending – made me feel a whole lot better. Some might have called it passive-aggressive rebellion. I called it getting even.
I bolted from the cab, still happy to make someone else’s day, and walked toward 640 Madison. Although it was named the Elias-Clark building, JS Bergman, one of the most prestigious banks in the city (obviously), rented half of it. We didn’t share anything with them, not even an elevator bank, but it didn’t stop their rich bankers and our fashion beauties from checking each other out in the lobby.
‘Hey, Andy. What’s up? Long time, no see.’ The voice behind me sounded sheepish and unwilling, and I wondered why whoever it was didn’t just leave me alone.
I’d been mentally preparing myself to start the morning routine with Eduardo when I’d heard my name, and I turned to see Benjamin, one of Lily’s many ex-boyfriends from college, slumped against the building just outside the entrance, not even seeming to notice that he was sitting on the sidewalk. He was only one of many of Lily’s guys, but he’d been the first one she’d really, genuinely liked. I hadn’t spoken to good old Benji (he loathed being called that) since Lily had walked in on him having sex with two girls from her a capella singing group. Walked right into his off-campus apartment and found him sprawled out in his living room with one soprano and a contralto, mousy girls who never did manage to look at Lily again. I’d tried to convince her it was just a college prank, but she didn’t buy it. Cried for days, and made me promise not to tell anyone what she’d discovered. I didn’t have to tell anyone, though, because he did – bragged to anyone who would listen about how he’d ‘nailed two singing geeks,’ as he’d put it, while ‘a third one watched.’ He’d made it sound as though Lily had been there the entire time, agreeably perched on the couch and watching her big, bad man go about being manly. Lily had sworn to never let herself really fall for another guy, and so far seemed to be keeping her promise. She slept with plenty of them, but she sure didn’t let them stick around long enough to actually run the risk of discovering something likable about them.
I looked at him again and tried to find the old Benji in this guy’s face. He had been athletic and cute. Just a normal guy. But Bergman had turned him into a shell of a human. He was wearing an oversize, wrinkled suit and looked as though he was hoping to suck crack cocaine out of his Marlboro. He seemed already overworked even though it was only seven o’clock, and this made me feel better. Because it was payback for being an asshole to Lily, and because I wasn’t the only one dragging myself to work at such an obscene hour. He was probably getting paid $150,000 a year to be so miserable, but whatever, at least I wasn’t alone.
Benji saluted me with his lit cigarette, glowing eerily in the still dark winter morning, and motioned for me to come over. I was nervous I’d be late, but Eduardo gave me his ‘Don’t worry, she’s not here yet – you’re fine’ look and I walked over to Benji. He looked bleary-eyed and hopeless. He probably thought he had a tyrannical boss. Hah! If only he knew. I wanted to laugh out loud.
‘Hey, I noticed you’re the only one here this early every day,’ he muttered at me while I dug around in my bag for lipstick before hitting the elevators. ‘What’s the deal?’
He looked so tired, so beaten-down, that I felt a surge of sympathy and kindness. But then I felt my legs nearly give out from exhaustion, and I remembered the way Lily had looked when one of Benji’s dumb lacrosse buddies had asked if she’d been happy to watch or really actually wanted to join in, and I lost my cool.
‘Well, my deal is that I work for a rather demanding woman, and I need to get here two and a half hours before the rest of the goddamn magazine so that I’m prepared for her,’ I said, my tone dripping with anger and sarcasm.
‘Whoa. Just asking. Sorry, though, it sounds pretty bad. Which one do you work for?’
‘I work for Miranda Priestly,’ I said, and prayed for a non-reaction. Something about having a seemingly well-educated, successful professional have no idea who Miranda was made me very, very happy. Delighted almost. And luckily, this one didn’t let me down. He shrugged and inhaled and looked at me expectantly.
‘She’s the editor in chief of Runway,’ I lowered my voice and began with glee, ‘and pretty much the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. I mean, I’ve honestly never met anyone like her. She’s really not even human.’ I had a litany of complaints I would’ve liked to have dumped on Benji, but the Runway Paranoid Turnaround came on full-force. I became immediately nervous, almost paranoid, convinced that this unknowing, uncaring person was somehow one of Miranda’s lackeys, sent to spy on me from the Observer or Page Six. I knew it was ridiculous, completely absurd. After all, I had personally known Benji for years now and was quite sure he wasn’t working for Miranda in any capacity. Just not totally sure. After all, how could you be totally sure? And who knew who could be standing behind me at that very second, overhearing every one of my nasty words? Damage control was required immediately.
‘Of course, she IS the most powerful woman in fashion and publishing, and you just can’t get to the top of two major industries in New York City handing out candy all day long. Um, it’s understandable