The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren WeisbergerЧитать онлайн книгу.
going on? How’s your day going?’
‘Don’t ask. I’m on my way to pick up Her lunch right now. How’s your day?’
‘Good, so far. My class has music today right after lunch, so I actually have an hour and a half free, which is nice. And then we get to cover more phonics exercises!’ he said, sounding just a little defeated. ‘Even though it seems like they’re never going to learn how to actually read something.’
‘Well, have there been any slashings today?’
‘No.’
‘So, how much can you ask for? You’ve had a relatively pain-free, bloodless day. Enjoy it. Save the whole reading concept for tomorrow. So, guess what? Lily called this morning. She finally got evicted from her place in Harlem, so we’re going to move in together. Fun, right?’
‘Hey, congratulations! Couldn’t have been better timing for you. You guys will have a great time together. Come to think of it, it’s a little scary. Dealing with Lily full-time … and Lily’s guys … Promise we can stay at my place a lot?’
‘Of course. But you’ll feel right at home – it’ll be just like senior year all over again.’
‘Too bad she’s losing that cheap apartment. Other than that, it’s great news.’
‘Yeah, I’m psyched. Shanti and Kendra are fine, but I’m kind of done with the whole living-with-strangers thing.’ I loved Indian food, but I did not love how the curry smell had seeped into everything I owned. ‘I’m going to see if Lil wants to meet for a drink tonight to celebrate. You up for it? We’ll meet somewhere in the East Village so it’s not too far for you.’
‘Yeah, sure, sounds great. I’m running to Larchmont to watch Joey tonight, but I’ll be back in the city by eight. You won’t even be out of work by then, so I’ll meet Max and we can all meet up afterward. Hey, is Lily seeing anyone? Max could use a, well …’
‘A what?’ I laughed. ‘Go on, say it. Do you think my friend is a whore? She’s just free-spirited, is all. And is she seeing someone? What kind of question is that? Someone named Pink-Shirt Boy stayed over there last night. I don’t think I know his real name.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, the bell just rang. Call me when you’re done dropping off the Book.’
‘Will do. ’Bye.’
I was about to stash the phone when it rang again. The number wasn’t familiar, though, and I answered it out of sheer relief that it wasn’t Miranda or Emily.
‘Mir – er, hello?’ I’d taken to automatically answering my cell and home phone ‘Miranda Priestly’s office,’ which was supremely embarrassing when it was anyone except my parents or Lily. Had to work on that.
‘Is this the lovely Andrea Sachs whom I inadvertently terrified at Marshall’s party?’ asked a somewhat hoarse and very sexy voice on the other end. Christian! I’d been almost relieved when he hadn’t resurfaced anywhere after massaging my hand with his lips. But all the feelings of wanting to impress him with my wit and charm that first night came rushing back, and I quickly vowed to play it cool.
‘It is. And who may I ask is this? There were a number of men who terrified me that night for dozens of different and varied reasons.’ OK, so far, so good. Deep breath, be cool.
‘I didn’t realize I had so much competition,’ he said smoothly. ‘But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. How have you been, Andrea?’
‘Fine. Great, actually,’ I lied quickly, remembering a Cosmo article I’d read that had exhorted me to ‘keep it light and airy and happy’ when talking to a new guy because most ‘normal’ guys didn’t respond so well to hard-bitten cynicism. ‘Work is going really well. I’m loving my job, actually! It’s been really interesting lately – a lot to learn, tons of stuff going on. Yeah, it’s great. What about you?’ Don’t talk about yourself too much, don’t dominate the conversation, get him comfortable enough to chat about his favorite and most familiar topic: him.
‘You’re a rather deft liar, Andrea. To an untrained ear that almost sounded believable, but you know what they say, don’t you? You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Don’t worry, though. I’ll let you get away with it this time.’ I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but instead I just laughed. A perceptive one indeed. ‘Let me get right to the point here, because I’m about to get on a plane for D.C. and security doesn’t look all too happy that I’m walking through a metal detector while talking on the phone. Do you have plans for Saturday night?’
I hated when people phrased their questions that way, asked if you had plans before they told you what they had in mind. Did his girlfriend need someone to run errands for her and he thought I fit the bill? Or maybe he needed someone to walk his dog while he gave yet another eight-hour-long interview to the New York Times? I was considering what noncommittal way I could answer that question when he said, ‘So, I have a reservation at Babbo this Saturday. Nine o’clock. A bunch of friends will be there, too, mostly magazine editors and pretty interesting people. An editor from The Buzz, and a couple writers from The New Yorker. Good crowd. You up for it?’ At that exact moment, an ambulance roared past me with its siren wailing, lights flashing in a fruitless attempt to speed through the hopelessly gridlocked traffic. As usual, the drivers ignored the ambulance and it sat at the red light like all the other vehicles.
Had he just asked me out? Yes, I thought that’s exactly what had just happened. He was asking me out! He was asking me out. Christian Collinsworth was asking me on a date – a Saturday-night date, to be specific, and to Babbo, where he just so happened to have a prime-time reservation with a group of smart, interesting people, people just like him. Never even mind the New Yorker writers! I racked my brain, trying to remember if I’d mentioned to him at the party that Babbo was the one restaurant I most wanted to try in New York, that I loved Italian and knew how much Miranda loved it and I was dying to go. I’d even thought about blowing a week’s pay on a meal and had called to make a reservation for Alex and me, but they’d been booked solid for the next five months. I hadn’t been asked on a date by anyone other than Alex in three years.
‘Um, Christian, golly, I’d love to,’ I started, trying to forget immediately that I’d just said ‘golly.’ Golly! Who said that? The scene where Baby proudly announces to Johnny that she’d carried a watermelon flashed to mind, but I pushed it back and willed myself to forge forward despite the humiliation. ‘I’d really love to’ – yes, you idiot, you just said that, try to make some progress here – ‘but I just can’t do it. I, um, I already have plans for Saturday.’ A good response overall, I thought. I was shouting over the noise of the siren, but I thought I still sounded somewhat dignified. No need to be available for a date that was only two days away, and no real need to reveal existence of boyfriend … after all, it really wasn’t any of his business. Right?
‘Do you really have plans, Andrea, or do you think your boyfriend would disapprove of you going out with another man?’ He was fishing, I could tell.
‘Either way has nothing to do with you,’ I said prissily, and I actually rolled my eyes at myself. I crossed Third Avenue without noticing that the light was against me and almost got mowed down by a minivan.
‘OK, well, I’ll let you off this time. But I’ll be asking again. And I think next time you’ll say yes.’
‘Oh, really? What gives you that impression?’ The confidence that had seemed so sexy before was now starting to sound a whole lot like arrogance. The only problem was that it made him sound even sexier.
‘Just a hunch, Andrea, just a hunch. And no need to worry that pretty little head of yours – or your boyfriend’s – I was just extending a friendly invitation for a good meal and good company. Maybe he’d like to join us, Andrea? Your boyfriend. He must be a great guy, I’d really like to meet him.’
‘No!’ I almost shouted, horrified at the thought of the two of them sitting across