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38章

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第38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!



  locked again。 Sometimes I’d have to do this three or four times 
  until I finally caught it; but today I made it on my second attempt。

  The floor was always dark when I arrived; and I took the same route 
  to my desk every morning。 To my left when I walked in was the 
  advertising department; the girls who most loved adorning themselves 
  in Chloé T…shirts and spike…heeled boots while handing out Business 
  cards that screamed “Runway。” They were removed; wholly and 
  entirely; from anything and everything that took place on the 
  editorial side of the floor: it was editorial that picked the 
  clothes for the fashion spreads; wooed the good writers; matched the 
  accessories to the outfits; interviewed the models; edited the copy; 
  designed the layouts; and hired the photographers。 Editorial 
  traveled to hot spots around the world for shoots; got free gifts 
  and discounts from all the designers; hunted for trends; and went to 
  parties at Pastis and Float because they “had to check out what 
  people were wearing。”

  Ad sales was left to try and sell ad space。 Sometimes they threw 
  promotional parties; but they were celebrity…free and therefore 
  boring to New York’s hipster scene (or so Emily had sneeringly told 
  me)。 My phone would ring off the hook on a day during aRunway ad 
  sales party with people I didn’t know really well looking for an 
  invite。 “Um; like; I hearRunway ’s having a party tonight。 Why am I 
  not invited?” I always found out from someone on the outside that 
  there was a party that night: editorial was never invited because 
  they wouldn’t go anyway。 As if it wasn’t enough for theRunway girls 
  to mock; terrorize; and ostracize any and every person who wasn’t 
  one of them; they had to create internal class lines as well。

  The ad sales department gave way to a long; narrow hallway。 It 
  seemed to stretch forever before arriving at a tiny kitchen on the 
  left side。 Here were an assortment of Coffees and teas; a fridge for 
  stored lunches—all superfluous; since Starbucks had a monopoly on 
  employees’ daily caffeine fixes and all meals were carefully 
  selected in the dining room or ordered in from any one of a thousand 
  midtown takeout places。 But it was a nice touch; almost cute; it 
  said;“Hey; look at us; we have Lipton tea packets and Sweet’N Lows 
  and even a microwave in case you want to warm up some of last 
  night’s dinner! We’re just like everyone else!”

  I finally made it to Miranda’s enclave at 7:05; so tired I could 
  barely move。 But as with everything; there was yet another routine 
  that I never thought to question or alter; so I began in earnest。 I 
  unlocked her office and turned on all the lights。 It was still dark 
  outside; and I loved the drama of standing in the dark in the power 
  monger’s office; staring out at a flashing and restless New York 
  City and picturing myself in one of those movies (take your pick—any 
  that have lovers embracing on the expansive terrace of his 6 
  million apartment with views of the river); feeling on top of the 
  world。 And then the lights would blaze forth; and my fantasy was 
  over。 The anything…is…possible feel of New York at dawn vanished; 
  and the identical; grinning faces of Caroline and Cassidy were all I 
  could see。

  Next I unlocked the closet in our outer office area; the place where 
  I hung her coat (and mine if she wasn’t wearing a fur that 
  day—Miranda didn’t like Emily’s or my pedestrian wools hanging next 
  to her minks) and where we kept a number of supplies: castoff coats 
  and clothes that were worth tens of thousands of dollars; some new 
  dry cleaning that had been delivered to the office but not yet 
  brought up to Miranda’s apartment; at least two hundred of the 
  infamous white Hermès scarves。 I’d heard that Hermès had decided to 
  discontinue her particular style last year; a simple and elegant 
  white silk square。 Someone at the pany felt they owed Miranda an 
  explanation and actually called to apologize to her。 Unsurprisingly; 
  she’d coldly told them how disappointed she was and promptly 
  purchased their entire remaining stock。 About five hundred of the 
  scarves had been delivered to the office a couple years before I’d 
  gotten there; and we were now down to less than half。 Miranda left 
  them everywhere: restaurants; movies; fashion shows; weekly 
  meetings; taxis。 She left them on airplanes; at her daughters’ 
  school; on the tennis court。 Of course; she always had one stylishly 
  incorporated into her outfit—I’d yet to see her outside her own Home 
  without one。 But that didn’t explain where they all went。 Perhaps 
  she thought they were handkerchiefs? Or maybe she liked jotting 
  notes on silk instead of paper? Whatever it was; she seemed to truly 
  believe they were disposable; and none of us knew how to tell her 
  otherwise。 Elias…Clark had paid a couple hundred dollars for each 
  one; but no matter: we handed them out to her as though they were 
  Kleenex。 At the rate she was going; in under two years; Miranda was 
  due to run out。

  I’d arranged the stiff orange boxes on the ready…to…distribute shelf 
  of the closet; where they never remained for very long。 Every third 
  or fourth day; she’d prepare to leave for lunch and sigh; 
  “Ahn…dre…ah; hand me a scarf。” I forted myself with the thought 
  that I’d be long gone by the time she ran out of them pletely。 
  Whoever was unlucky enough to be around would have to tell her that 
  there were no more white Hermès scarves; and that none could be 
  made; shipped; created; formed; mailed; ordered; or mandated。 The 
  mere thought was terrifying。

  Just as I got the closet and office opened; Uri called。

  “Andrea? Hello; hello。 It is Uri。 Could you e downstairs please? 
  I am on Fifty…eighth Street; closer to Park Avenue; right in front 
  of the New York sports Club。 I have things for you。”

  This call was a good although imperfect way of telling me that 
  Miranda would be arriving somewhat soon。 Maybe。 Most mornings she 
  sent Uri ahead to the office with her things; an assortment of dirty 
  clothes that needed dry cleaning; any copy she’d taken Home to read; 
  magazines; shoes or bags that needed to be fixed; and the Book。 This 
  way; she could have me meet the car and carry up all of these rather 
  mundane things ahead of schedule and deal with them before she 
  stepped into the office。 She tended to follow her stuff by about a 
  half hour; since Uri would drop off her things and then go pick her 
  up from wherever she might be hiding that morning。

  She herself could be anywhere; since; according to Emily; she never 
  slept。 I didn’t believe it until I started getting to the office 
  ahead of Emily and would be the first to listen to the voice mail。 
  Every night; without exception; Miranda would leave eight to ten 
  ambiguous messages for us between the hours of one and six in the 
  morning。 Things like; “Cassidy wants one of those nylon bags all the 
  little girls are carrying。 Order her one in the medium size and a 
  color she’d like;” and “I’ll be needing the address and phone number 
  of that antique store in the seventies; the one where I saw the 
  vintage dresser。” As though we knew which nylon bags were all the 
  rage among ten…year…olds or at which one of four hundred antique 
  stores in the seventies—east or west; by the way?—she happened to 
  spot something she liked at some point in the past fifteen years。 
  But each morning I faithfully listened to and transcribed those 
  messages; hitting “replay” over and over and over again; trying to 
  make sense of the accent and interpret the clues in order to avoid 
  asking Miranda directly for more information。

  Once; I made the mistake of suggesting that we actually ask Miranda

返回目录 上一页 下一页 回到顶部 0 0

你可能喜欢的