Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger

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      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 of really 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 commentary on each and every piece.

      ‘Maggie Rizer is the only woman in the world 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 various Runway 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 complained 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 comments 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 comments 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 pressures of her upcoming society wedding. ‘And she’s right. I’ve lost at least another ten pounds since my last fitting.’ I forgave her for starving herself when she barely had enough body fat to function normally, but I just couldn’t forgive her for talking about it. I could not, no matter how impressive the doctors’ names were or how many success stories she prattled on about, bring myself to care.

      At around one the office really picked up pace, because everyone began getting ready for lunch. Not that there was any eating associated with the lunch hour, but it was the prime time of day for guests. I watched lazily as the usual array of stylists, contributors, freelancers, friends, and lovers stopped by to revel in and generally soak up the glamour that naturally accompanied hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, dozens of gorgeous faces, and what felt like an unlimited amount of really, really, really long legs.

      Jeffy made his way over to me as soon as he could confirm that both Miranda and Emily had left for lunch and handed me two enormous shopping bags.

      ‘Here, check this stuff out. This should be a pretty good start.’

      I dumped the contents of one bag onto the floor beside my desk and began sorting. There were Joseph pants in camel and charcoal gray, both long and lean and low-waisted, made from an incredibly soft wool. A pair of brown suede Gucci pants looked as though they could turn any schlub into a supermodel, while two pairs of perfectly faded Marc Jacobs jeans looked like they were custom cut for my body. There were eight or nine options for tops, ranging from a skintight ribbed turtleneck sweater by Calvin Klein to a teeny, completely sheer peasant blouse by Donna Karan. A dynamite graphic Diane Von Furstenburg wrap-dress was folded neatly over a navy, velvet Tahari pantsuit. I spotted and immediately fell in love with an all-around pleated Habitual denim skirt that would fall just above my knees and look perfect with the decidedly funky floral-printed Katayone Adelie blazer.

      ‘These clothes … this is all for me?’ I asked, hoping I sounded excited and not offended.

      ‘Yeah, it’s nothing. Just some things that have been lying around the Closet forever. We might have used some of it in shoots, but none of it ever got returned to the companies. Every few months or so I clean out the Closet and give this stuff away, and I figured you, uh, might be interested. You’re a size six, right?’

      I nodded, still dumbfounded.

      ‘Yeah, I could tell. Most everyone else is a two or smaller, so you’re welcome to all of it.’

      Ouch. ‘Great. This is just great. Jeffy, I can’t thank you enough. It’s all amazing!’

      ‘Check out the second bag,’ he said, motioning to where it sat on the floor. ‘You don’t think you can pull off that velvet suit with that shitty messenger bag you’re always dragging around, do you?’

      The second, even more bulging bag spilled forth a stunning array of shoes, bags, and a couple of coats. There were two pairs of high-heeled Jimmy Choo boots – one ankle- and one knee-length – two pairs of open-toe Manolo stiletto sandals, a pair of classic black Prada pumps, and one pair of Tod loafers, which Jeffy immediately reminded me to never wear to the office. I slung a slouchy red suede bag over my shoulder and immediately saw the two intersecting ‘C’s carved in the front, but that wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the deep chocolate leather from the Celine tote that I threw on my other arm. A long military-style trench with the signature oversize Marc Jacobs buttons topped it all off.

      ‘You’re joking,’ I said softly, fondling a pair of Dior sunglasses he’d apparently thrown in as an afterthought. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

      He looked pleased with my reaction and ducked his head. ‘Just do me a favor and wear it, OK? And don’t tell anyone that I СКАЧАТЬ