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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СКАЧАТЬ or explain or something. ‘Listen, I just got home. I need sleep. Can I call you later?’

      ‘Um, uh, sure,’ I managed. ‘Lil, I’m so sorry. If I’ve ever given you the impression that you can’t—’

      ‘Andy, don’t. Nothing’s wrong – I’m fine, we’re fine. Let’s just talk later.’

      ‘OK. Sleep well. Call me if I can do anything …’

      ‘Will do. Oh, how’s the new place, by the way?’

      ‘It’s great, Lil, it really is. You did a fantastic job with it. It’s better than I’d ever imagined. We’re going to love it here.’ My voice sounded empty to my own ears, and it was obvious I was talking just for the sake of it, keeping her on the phone to make sure our friendship hadn’t changed in some inexplicable but permanent way.

      ‘Great. I’m so glad you like it. Hopefully Tongue Ring Boy will like it, too,’ she joked, although that, too, sounded hollow.

      We hung up and I stood in the living room, staring at the phone until my mom walked in to announce that they were going to take Alex and me out for lunch.

      ‘What’s wrong, Andy? And where’s Lily? I figured she’d need some help with her stuff, too, but we’re not going to stick around much after three. Is she on her way?’

      ‘No, she’s, uh, she got sick last night. It’s been coming on for a few days, I guess, so she probably won’t move in until tomorrow. That was just her on the phone.’

      ‘Well, you’re sure she’s all right? Do you think we should go over there? I always feel so badly for that girl – no real parents, just that cranky old bat of a grandmother.’ She put her hand on my shoulder, as if to drive home the pain. ‘She’s lucky she’s got you for a friend. Otherwise she’d be all alone in the world.’

      My voice caught in my throat, but after a few seconds I managed a few words. ‘Yeah, I guess so. But she’s fine, she really is. Just going to sleep it off. Let’s get sandwiches, OK? The doorman said there’s a great deli four blocks down.’

      ‘Miranda Priestly’s office,’ I answered in my now usual bored tone that I hoped conveyed my misery to whoever was daring to interrupt my e-mailing time.

      ‘Hi, is that Em-Em-Em-Emily?’ asked a lisping, stuttering voice on the other end.

      ‘No, it’s Andrea. I’m Miranda’s new assistant,’ I said, even though I’d already introduced myself to a thousand curious callers.

      ‘Ah, Miranda’s new assistant,’ the strange female voice roared. ‘Aren’t you the luckiest girl in the w-w-w-world! How are you finding your tenure with supreme evil thus far?’

      I perked up. This was new. In all the days I’d worked at Runway, I’d never met a single person who dared to badmouth Miranda so boldly. Was she serious? Could she be baiting me?

      ‘Um, well, working at Runway has been a really great learning experience,’ I heard myself stutter. ‘It’s a job a million girls would die for, of course.’ Did I just say that?

      There was a moment of silence, followed by a hyena-like howl. ‘Oh, that’s just f-f-f-fucking perfect!’ she screeched, doing some sort of simultaneous laugh-choke. ‘Does she lock you in your West Village studio apartment and deprive you of all things G-g-g-gucci until you’re brainwashed enough to actually say shit like that? F-f-f-fantastic! That woman is really a piece of work! Well, Miss Learning Experience, I’d heard through the grapevine that Miranda had actually hired herself a thinking l-l-l-l-lackey this time around, but I see that the grapevine, as usual, is wrong. You like Michael Kors t-t-twinsets and all the pretty fur coats at J. Mendel’s? Yes, sweetie, you’ll do just fine. Now put that skinny-ass boss of yours on the phone.’

      I was conflicted. My first impulse was to tell her to fuck off, tell her she didn’t know me, that it’s easy to see she tries to compensate for her stuttering with a major attitude problem. More than that, though, I wanted to press the phone close to my lips and urgently whisper, ‘I am a prisoner, more than you can imagine – please, oh, please, come and rescue me from this brainwash hell. You’re right, it’s just the way you describe, but I’m different!’ But I didn’t get the chance to do either, because it finally occurred to me that I had no idea who owned the raspy, stuttering voice on the other end of the phone.

      I sucked in my breath and decided to hit her point for point – on every subject but Miranda. ‘Well, I do adore Michael Kors, of course, but I must tell you that it’s certainly not because of his twinsets. Furs from J. Mendel’s are wonderful, of course, but a real Runway girl – that is, someone with discriminating and impeccable taste – would probably prefer something custom made from Pologeorgis on Twenty-ninth Street. Oh, and for the future, I’d prefer if you used the more casual “hired help” instead of something as stiff and unforgiving as “lackey.” Now, of course, I’ll be happy to correct any more incorrect assumptions you’d care to make, but maybe I could ask with whom am I speaking first?’

      ‘Touché, Miranda’s new assistant, touché. You and I m-m-may be friends after all. I d-d-d-don’t much like the usual robots she hires, but it’s fitting because I don’t much like her. My name is Judith Mason, and in c-c-case you aren’t aware, I author your travel articles each m-m-m-month. Now, tell me this, since you’re still relatively new now: Is the h-h-honeymoon over?’

      I was silent. What did she mean by this? It was like talking to a ticking bomb.

      ‘Well? You’re in that fascinating window of time w-w-w-where you’ve been there long enough for everyone to know your name, but not long enough that they uncover and exploit all your weaknesses. It’s a really sweet feeling when th-th-th-that happens, trust me. You’re working in a really special place.’

      But before I could respond, she said, ‘Enough f-f-f-flirting for now, my new friend. Don’t b-b-b-bother telling her it’s me, because she never takes my c-c-calls anyway. Stuttering pisses her off, I think. Just be sure to put my n-n-n-name down on the Bulletin so she can make someone else call me back. Thanks, l-l-love.’ Click.

      I hung up the phone, dumbfounded, and started to laugh. Emily looked up from one of Miranda’s expense reports and asked who it was. When I told her it was Judith, she rolled her eyes so deeply they almost didn’t resurface and whined, ‘She’s such a supreme bitch. I have, like, no idea how Miranda even speaks to her. She won’t take her calls, though, so you don’t even have to tell her she’s on the phone. Just put her on the Bulletin and Miranda will have someone else call her back.’ It seems Judith understood the inner workings of our office better than I.

      I double-clicked on the icon on my sleek turquoise iMac called ‘Bulletin’ and glanced over its contents so far. The Bulletin was the pièce de résistance of Miranda Priestly’s office and, as far as I could see, her sole reason for living. Developed many years before by some high-strung, compulsive assistant, the Bulletin was simply a Word document that lived in a shared folder both Emily and I could access. Only one of us could open it at a time and add a new message, thought, or question to the itemized list. Then we’d print out the updated version and place it on the clipboard that sat on the shelf over my desk, removing the old ones as we went. Miranda would examine it every few minutes throughout the day as Emily and I struggled to type, print, and clip as quickly as the calls came in. Often we’d hiss at each other to close the Bulletin so the other could access it and write a message. We’d print to our separate printers simultaneously and dive for the clipboard, not knowing whose was the most recent until we СКАЧАТЬ