贝壳电子书 > 文学名著电子书 > 时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版 >

第13章

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第13章


按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页,按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页,按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部!
————未阅读完?加入书签已便下次继续阅读!




  Her smile this time was patronizing。 “Of course。 You just had to say 
  so。 Jessica Duchamps is; well; a Duchamps! You know; as in the most 
  successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it—isn’t 
  that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich。”

  “Oh; really?” I said; feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this 
  super…pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were 
  restaurateurs。 “That’s great。”

  I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s 
  office;” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself 
  would call and I wouldn’t know what to do。 Panic set in during a 
  call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a 
  strong British accent; and I threw the phone to Emily without 
  thinking to put it on hold first。

  “It’s her;” I whispered urgently。 “Take it。”

  Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look。 Never one to 
  mince emotions; she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a 
  way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity。

  “Miranda? It’s Emily;” she said; a bright smile lighting up her face 
  as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her。 
  Silence。 A frown。 “Oh; Mimi; so sorry! The new girl thought you were 
  Miranda! I know; how funny。 I guess we have to work onnot thinking 
  every British accent is necessarily our boss! ” She looked at me 
  pointedly; her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher。

  She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and 
  take messages for Emily; who would then call the people back—with 
  nonstop narration on their order of importance; if any; in Miranda’s 
  life。 About noon; just as the first hunger pangs were beginning; I 
  picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end。

  “Hello? Allison; is that you?” asked the icy…sounding but regal 
  voice。 “I’ll be needing a skirt。”

  I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide。 
  “Emily; it’s her; it’s definitely her;” I hissed; waving the 
  receiver to get her attention。 “She wants a skirt!”

  Emily turned to see my panic…stricken face and promptly hung up the 
  phone without so much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good…bye。” 
  She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line; and plastered 
  on another wide grin。

  “Miranda? It’s Emily。 What can I do?” She put her pen to her pad and 
  began writing furiously; forehead furrowing intently。 “Yes; of 
  course。 Naturally。” And as fast as it happened; it was over。 I 
  looked at her expectantly。 She rolled her eyes at me for appearing 
  so eager。

  “Well; it looks like you have your first job。 Miranda needs a skirt 
  for tomorrow; among other things; so we’ll need to get it on a plane 
  by tonight; at the latest。”

  “OK; well; what kind does she need?” I asked; still reeling from the 
  shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic 
  simply because she’d requested it do so。

  “She didn’t say exactly;” Emily muttered as she picked up the phone。

  “Hi; Jocelyn; it’s me。 She wants a skirt; and I’ll need to have it 
  on Mrs。 de la Renta’s flight tonight; since she’ll be meeting 
  Miranda down there。 No; I have no idea。 No; she didn’t say。 I really 
  don’t know。 OK; thanks。” She turned to me and said; “It makes it 
  more difficult when she’s not specific。 She’s too busy to worry 
  about details like that; so she didn’t say what material or color or 
  style or brand she wants。 But that’s OK。 I know her size; and I 
  definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what she’ll 
  like。 That was Jocelyn from the fashion department。 They’ll start 
  calling some in。” I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt 
  telethon with a giant scoreboard; drum role; and voilà! Gucci and 
  spontaneous applause。

  Not quite。 “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway 
  ridiculousness; although I do have to say that the process was as 
  efficient as a military operation。 Either Emily or myself would 
  notify the fashion assistants—about eight in all; who each 
  maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores。 
  The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public 
  relations contacts at the various design houses and; if appropriate; 
  at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly—yes; 
  Miranda Priestly; and yes; it was indeed for herpersonal use—was 
  looking for a particular item。 Within minutes; every PR account exec 
  and assistant working at Michael Kors; Gucci; Prada; Versace; Fendi; 
  Armani; Chanel; Barney’s; Chloé; Calvin Klein; Bergdorf; Roberto 
  Cavalli; and Saks would be messengering over (or; in some cases; 
  hand…delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly 
  could conceivably find attractive。 I watched the process unfold like 
  a highly choreographed ballet; each player knowing exactly where and 
  when and how their next step would occur。 While this near…daily 
  activity unfolded; Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that 
  we’d need to send with the skirt that night。

  “Your car will be waiting for you on Fifty…eighth Street;” she said 
  while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on 
  a piece ofRunway stationery。 She paused briefly to toss me a Cell 
  Phone and said; “Here; take this in case I need to reach you or you 
  have any questions。 Never turn it off。 Always answer it。” I took the 
  phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the 
  building; wondering how I was ever going to find “my car。” Or even; 
  really; what that meant。 I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and 
  looked meekly around before a squat; gray…haired man gumming a pipe 
  approached。

  “You Priestly’s new girl?” he croaked through tobacco…stained lips; 
  never removing the mahogany…colored pipe。 I nodded。 “I’m Rich。 The 
  dispatcher。 You wanna car; you talka to me。 Got it; blondie?” I 
  nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan。 
  He slammed the door shut and waved。

  “Where you going; miss?” the driver asked; pulling me back to the 
  present。 I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from 
  my pocket。

  First stop: Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St。; 6th Floor。 
  Ask for Leanne。 She’ll give you everything we need。

  I gave the driver the address and stared out the window。 It was one 
  o’clock on a frigid winter afternoon; I was twenty…three years old; 
  and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan; on my way 
  to Tommy Hilfiger’s studio。 And I was positively starving。 It took 
  nearly forty…five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the 
  midtown lunch hour; my first glimpse of real city gridlock。 The 
  driver told me he’d circle the block until I came out again; and off 
  I went to Tommy’s studio。 When I asked for Leanne at the 
  receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor; an adorable girl not a day 
  older than eighteen came bounding down the stairs。

  “Hi!” she called; stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds。 
  “You must be Andrea; Miranda’s new assistant。 We sure do love her 
  around here; so wele to the team!” She grinned。 I grinned。 She 
  pulled a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and 
  immediately spilled its contents on the floor。 “Here we have 
  Caroline’s favorite jeans in three colors; and we threw in some baby 
  T’s; too。 And Cassidy just adores Tommy’s khaki skirts—we gave them 
  to her in olive and stone。” Jean skirts; denim jackets; even a few 
  pair of socks came flying out of the bag; and all I could do was 
  stare: there were enough clothes to constitute four or more total 
  preteen wardrobes。Who the hell are Cassidy a

返回目录 上一页 下一页 回到顶部 0 0

你可能喜欢的