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第51章

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第51章


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  probably be the hardest week of all because she needs a lot of 
  assistance when she’s away。 She’ll be calling you a lot。”

  “Oh; goody;” I said。 She rolled her eyes。

  I slept with my eyes open; staring at a blank puter screen; until 
  the office began to fill up and there were other people to watch。 
  TenA 。M。 brought the first of the Clackers; the quiet sipping of 
  no…whip skim lattes to nurse the previous night’s champagne 
  hangovers。 James stopped by my desk; as he did whenever he saw 
  Miranda wasn’t at hers; and proclaimed he’d met his future husband 
  at Balthazar the night before。

  “He was just sitting at the bar; wearing the greatest red leather 
  jacket I’d ever seen—and let me tell you; he could pull it off。 You 
  should have seen how he slipped those oysters on his tongue 。 。 。” 
  He audibly groaned。 “Oh; it was just magnificent。”

  “So’d you get his number?” I asked。

  “Get his number? Try get his pants。 He was butt…ass naked on my 
  couch by eleven; and boy; let me tell you—”

  “Lovely; James。 Lovely。 Not one for playing hard to get; are you? 
  Sounds a little slutty of you; to be honest。 This is the age of 
  AIDS; you know。”

  “Sweetie; even you; Miss High and Mighty 
  I…Date…the…World’s…Last…Angel; would’ve been on your knees without a 
  second thought if you saw this guy。 He’s absolutely amazing。 
  Amazing!”

  By eleven everyone had checked everyone else out; making notations 
  of who had scored a pair of the new Theory “Max” pants or the 
  latest; impossible…to…find Sevens。 Time for a break at noon; when 
  conversation centered around particular items of clothing and 
  usually took place by the racks lined up against the walls。 Each 
  morning Jeffy would pull out all the racks of dresses and bathing 
  suits and pants and shirts and coats and shoes and everything else 
  that had been called in as a potential item to shoot for one of the 
  fashion spreads。 He lined up each rack against a wall; weaving them 
  throughout the entire floor so the editors could find what they 
  needed without having to fight their way through the Closet itself。

  The Closet wasn’t really a closet at all。 It was more like a small 
  auditorium。 Along the perimeter were walls of shoes in every size 
  and color and style; a virtual Willy Wonka’s factory for 
  fashionistas; with dozens of slingbacks; stilettos; ballet flats; 
  high…heeled boots; open…toe sandals; beaded heels。 Stacked drawers; 
  some built…in and others just shoved in corners; held every 
  imaginable configuration of stockings; socks; bras; panties; slips; 
  camisoles; and corsets。 Need a last…minute leopard…print push…up bra 
  from La Perla? Check the Closet。 How about a pair of flesh…colored 
  fishnets or those Dior aviators? In the Closet。 The accessories 
  shelves and drawers took up the farthest two walls; and the sheer 
  amount of merchandise—not to mention its value—was staggering。 
  Fountain pens。 Jewelry。 Bed linens。 Mufflers and gloves and ski 
  caps。 Pajamas。 Capes。 Shawls。 Stationery。 Silk flowers。 Hats; so 
  many hats。 And bags。 The bags! There were totes and bowling bags; 
  backpacks and under…arms; over…shoulders and minis; oversize and 
  clutches; envelopes and messengers; each bearing an exclusive label 
  and a price tag of more than the average American’s monthly mortgage 
  payment。 And then there were the racks and racks of clothes—pushed 
  so tightly together it was impossible to walk among them—that 
  occupied every remaining inch of space。

  So during the day Jeffy would attempt to make the Closet a 
  semi…usable space where models (and assistants like myself) could 
  try on clothes and actually reach some of the shoes and bags in the 
  back by pushing all of the racks into the halls。 I’d yet to see a 
  single visitor to the floor—whether writer or boyfriend or messenger 
  or stylist—not stop dead in his or her tracks and gape at the 
  couture…lined hallways。 Sometimes the racks were arranged by shoot 
  (Sydney; Santa Barbara) and other times by item (bikinis; skirt 
  suits); but mostly it just seemed like a haplessly casual mishmash 
  ofreally expensive stuff 。 And although everyone stopped and stared 
  and fingered the butter…soft cashmeres and the intricately beaded 
  evening gowns; it was the Clackers who hovered possessively over 
  “their” clothes and provided constant; streaming mentary on each 
  and every piece。

  “Maggie Rizer is the only woman in theworld who can actually wear 
  these capris;” Hope; one of the fashion assistants—weighing a 
  whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six…one—loudly announced 
  outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her 
  legs and sighing。 “They would make my ass look even more gigantic 
  than it already is。”

  “Andrea;” called her friend; a girl I didn’t know very well who 
  worked in accessories; “please tell Hope she’s not fat。”

  “You’re not fat;” I said; my mouth on autopilot。 It would’ve saved 
  me many; many hours to have a shirt printed up that said as much; or 
  perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed directly on my forehead。 I 
  was constantly called on to assure variousRunway employees that they 
  weren’t fat。

  “Ohmigod; have you seen my gut lately? I’m like the fucking 
  Firestone store; spare tires everywhere。 I’m huge!” Fat was on 
  everyone’s minds; if not actually their bodies。 Emily swore that her 
  thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia。” Jessica 
  believed that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s。 
  Even James plained that his ass had looked so big that morning 
  when he got out of the shower that he’d “contemplated calling in fat 
  to work。”

  In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am…I…fat questions with 
  what I thought to be an exceedingly rational reply。 “If you’re fat; 
  Hope; what does that make me? I’m two inches shorter than you and I 
  weigh more。”

  “Oh; Andy; be serious。I am fat。You’re thin and gorgeous!”

  Naturally I thought she was lying; but I soon came to realize that 
  Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office; 
  and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people’s 
  weight。 It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that 
  everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back。

  Of course; as much as I tried to keep it at bay; to remind myself 
  over and over that I was normal and they weren’t; the constant fat 
  ments had made an impression。 It’d only been four months I’d been 
  working; but my mind was now skewed enough—not to mention 
  paranoid—that I sometimes thought these ments were directed 
  intentionally to me。 As in: I; the tall; gorgeous; svelte fashion 
  assistant; am pretending to think I’m fat just so you; the lumpy; 
  stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat 
  one。 At five…ten and 115 pounds (the same weight as when my body was 
  racked with parasites); I’d always considered myself on the thinner 
  side of girls my age。 I’d also spent my life until then feeling 
  taller than ninety percent of the women I met; and at least half the 
  guys。 Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know 
  what it was like to feel short and fat; all day; every day。 I was 
  easily the troll of the group; the squattest and the widest; and I 
  wore a size six。 And just in case I failed to consider this for a 
  moment; the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me。

  “Dr。 Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit; 
  too; you know;” Jessica added; joining the conversation by plucking 
  a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez rack。 Newly engaged to one of 
  the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs; Jessica was feeling 
  the pre

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