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第105章

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第105章


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  I’d walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that 
  she was—gasp!—fat; I had a weird feeling that I’d love her。 
  She sat me down and read every word of the stuff I’d been 
  working on all week: tongue…in…cheek pieces on fashion shows; 
  some snarky stuff on being a celebrity assistant; a hopefully 
  sensitive story about what it takes—and doesn’t take—to bring 
  down a three…year…long relationship with someone you love but 
  can’t be with。 It was storybook…like; nauseating; really; how 
  well we’d instantly hit it off; how effortlessly we shared our 
  nightmares aboutRunway (I was still having them: a recent one 
  had included a particularly horrid segment in which my own 
  parents were shot dead by Parisian fashion police for wearing 
  shorts on the street and Miranda had somehow managed to 
  legally adopt me); how quickly we realized that we were the 
  same person; just seven years apart。

  Since I’d just had the brilliant idea of dragging all myRunway 
  clothes to one of those snooty resale shops on Madison Avenue; 
  I was a wealthy woman—I could afford to write for peanuts; 
  anything for a byline。 I had waited and waited for Emily or 
  Jocelyn to call to tell me they were sending a messenger to 
  pick it all up; but they never did。 So it was all mine。 I 
  packed up most of the clothes but set aside the Diane Von 
  Furstenburg wrap…dress。 While going through the contents of my 
  desk drawers that Emily had emptied into boxes and mailed to 
  me; I came across the letter from Anita Alvarez; the one in 
  which she expressed her worship of all thingsRunway 。 I’d 
  always meant to send her a fabulous dress; but I’d never found 
  the time。 I wrapped the bold…printed dress in tissue paper; 
  tossed in a pair of Manolos; and forged a note from Miranda—a 
  talent I was unhappy to discover I still possessed。 This girl 
  should know—just once—how it feels to own one beautiful thing。 
  And; more importantly; to think there’s someone out there who 
  actually cares。

  Except for the dress; the tight and very sexy D&G jeans; and 
  the utterly classic; quilted; chain…handle purse I’d given to 
  my mom as a gift (“Oh; honey; this is beautiful。 What’s this 
  brand again?”); I sold every last filmy top; leather pant; 
  spiked boot; and strappy sandal。 The woman who worked the 
  register called the woman who owned the store; and the two of 
  them had decided it would be best if they just closed the shop 
  down for a few hours to evaluate my merchandise。 The Louis 
  Vuitton luggage—two large suitcases; one medium…size 
  accessories bag; and an oversize trunk—alone had netted me six 
  grand; and when they were finally finished whispering and 
  examining and giggling; I cruised out of there with a check 
  for just over 38;000。 Which; by my calculations; meant that I 
  could pay rent and even feed myself for a year while I tried 
  to get this writing gig together。 And then Loretta strolled 
  into my life and made it instantly better。

  Loretta had already agreed to buy four pieces—one blurb; only 
  slightly larger than a pull quote; two 500…word pieces; and 
  the original 2;000…word story。 But even more exciting was her 
  bizarre obsession with helping me make contacts; her eagerness 
  to get in touch with people at other magazines who might just 
  be interested in some freelance stuff。 Which is exactly what 
  put me at that Starbucks on that overcast winter day—I was 
  headed back to Elias…Clark。 It had taken a lot of insisting on 
  her part to convince me that Miranda wouldn’t hunt me down the 
  minute I walked in the building and knock me out with a blow 
  dart; but I was still nervous。 Not paralyzed with fear like 
  the old days when a mere Cell Phone ring was enough to cause 
  my heart to flip…flop; but jittery enough at the 
  thought—however remote the possibility—of catching a glimpse 
  of her。 Or Emily。 Or anyone else; for that matter; except for 
  James; who had kept in touch。

  Somehow; someway; for somereason; Loretta had called her old 
  college roommate who just so happened to edit the city section 
  ofThe Buzz and told her that she’d discovered the next new 
  “it” writer。 That was supposed to be me。 She’d arranged an 
  interview for me today; and even forewarned the woman that I’d 
  been summarily dismissed from Miranda’s employ; but the woman 
  had just laughed and said something to the effect that if they 
  refused to use anyone whom Miranda had fired at one point or 
  another; they’d barely have any writers at all。

  I finished my cappuccino and; newly energized; gathered my 
  portfolio of different articles and headed—this time calmly; 
  without either an incessantly ringing phone or an armload of 
  Coffees—toward the Elias…Clark building。 A moment or two of 
  reconnaissance from the sidewalk indicated that noRunway 
  Clackers were amid the crowds in the lobby; and I proceeded to 
  heave my weight against the revolving door。 Nothing had 
  changed in the five months since I’d last been there: I could 
  see Ahmed behind the register in the newsstand; and a huge; 
  glossy poster advertised thatChic would be hosting a party at 
  Lotus that weekend。 Although I technically should’ve signed 
  in; I instinctively walked directly toward the turnstiles。 
  Immediately; I heard a familiar voice call out;“I can’t 
  remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride; but 
  something touched me deep inside; the day; the music died。 And 
  we were singing 。 。 。” “American Pie”!What a sweetie; I 
  thought。 This was the good…bye song that I’d never gotten to 
  sing。 I turned to see Eduardo; as large and sweaty as usual; 
  grinning。 But not at me。 In front of the turnstile closest to 
  him stood a toweringly skinny girl with jet black hair and 
  green eyes; wearing a dynamite pair of tight; pinstripe pants 
  and a navel…revealing tank top。 She also happened to be 
  balancing a small tray with three Starbucks Coffees; an 
  overflowing bag of newspapers and magazines; three hangers 
  with plete outfits dangling from each one; and a duffel 
  monogrammed with the initials “MP。” Her Cell Phone began to 
  ring just as I realized what was happening; and she looked so 
  panicked I thought she might cry on the spot。 But when her 
  repeated banging against the turnstile failed to elicit entry; 
  she sighed deeply and sang;“’Bye; ’bye; Miss American Pie; 
  drove my Chevy to the levee; but the levee was dry; and good 
  old boys were drinking whiskey and rye; singing this will be 
  the day that I die; this will be the day that I die 。 。 。” 
  When I looked back to Eduardo; he smiled quickly in my 
  direction and winked。 And then; while the pretty brunette girl 
  finished singing her verse; he buzzed me through like I was 
  someone who mattered。

  This book is a work of fiction。 Names; characters; Businesses; 
  organizations; places; events; and incidents either are the 
  product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously。 
  Any resemblance to actual persons; living or dead; events; or 
  locales is entirely coincidental。

  “Material Girl” by Peter Brown and Robert Rans ©; 1984 Candy 
  Castle music。 All Rights administered by Warner…Tamerlane 
  Publishing Corp。 All Rights Reserved。 Used by Permission。 
  WARNER BROS。 PUBLICATIONS U。S。 INC。; Miami; FL 33014

  “Wannabe” Words and Music by Matt Rowebottom; Richard 
  Stannard; Geri Halliwell; Emma Bunton; Melanie Brown; Melanie 
  Chisholm; and Victoria Adams。 ©; 1996 EMI music PUBLISHING LTD。 
  and UNIVERSAL…POLYGRAM

  INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING; INC。 All Rights for EMI MUSIC 
  PUBLISHING LTD。 in the U。S。 and Canada Controlled and 
  Administered by EMI FULL KEEL music。 All Rights Reserved。 
  International Copyright Secured。 

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