Автор: Lauren Weisberger
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Классическая проза
isbn: 9780007528400
isbn:
‘Listen, if I had to try to track down every vague description that everyone called me with every day, I wouldn’t be able to do anything else. You really need to check online.’ She sighed twice more, and I began to worry that she might hyperventilate.
‘No, no, you just listen for a minute,’ I started, feeling primed and ready to lay into this lazy girl who had a far better job than my own. ‘I’m calling from Miranda Priestly’s office, and it just so happens that—’
‘I’m sorry, did you say you were calling from Miranda Priestly’s office?’ she asked, and I could feel her ears perk up across the phone line. ‘Miranda Priestly … from Runway magazine?’
‘The one and only. Why? Heard of her?’
It was here that she transformed from highly put-upon editorial assistant to gushing fashion slave. ‘Heard of her? Of course! Is anybody not familiar with Miranda Priestly? She is, like, the ultimate woman in fashion. What was it you said she was looking for?’
‘A review. Yesterday’s paper. Asian fusion restaurant. I didn’t see it online, but I’m not sure I checked properly.’ That was a bit of a lie. I had checked online and was quite sure there hadn’t been any reviews of Asian fusion restaurants in the New York Times any day in the past week, but I wasn’t telling her that. Maybe Schizophrenic Editorial Girl here would work a miracle.
So far I’d called the Times, the Post, and the Daily News, but nothing had turned up. I’d plugged in her corporate card number to access the Wall Street Journal’s paid archives and had actually found a blurb on a new Thai restaurant in the Village, but I had to immediately discount it when I noticed that the average entrée price was only seven dollars and citysearch.com listed only a single dollar sign next to it.
‘Well, sure, hold on just a second here. I’m going to check that right out for you.’ And all of a sudden, Little Miss ‘I Can’t Be Expected to Remember Every Word That Goes in the Paper’ was tapping away on a keyboard and humming excitedly to both of us.
My head ached from the debacle the night before. It had been fun to surprise Alex and amazingly relaxing to just laze around his apartment, but for the first time in many, many months, I couldn’t fall asleep. Over and over and over again, I had pangs of guilt, flashbacks of Christian kissing my neck and my then jumping in a car to see Alex but tell him nothing. Even though I tried to push it all out of my mind, they kept returning, each one more intense than the last one. When I finally did manage to fall asleep, I dreamed that Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and – even though in reality hers didn’t live in – he was to move in with the family. Whenever I wanted to see Alex in my dream, I would have to share a car home with Miranda and visit him in her apartment. She would insist on calling me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend. By the time morning had finally rolled around, Alex had fallen under Miranda’s spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and, even worse, Miranda had started dating Christian. Blessedly, my hell ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda, Christian, and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning and read the Times and laughed while I prepared breakfast, served everyone, and cleaned up afterward. Sleep last night was about as relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning, and now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of having an easy Friday.
‘Hmm, no, we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion. I’m trying to think, just personally, you know, if there are any new hot Asian fusion places. You know, places that Miranda would actually consider going?’ she said, sounding like she’d do anything to prolong the conversation.
I ignored her transition into first-name familiarity with Miranda and worked on getting her off the phone. ‘OK, well, that’s what I thought. Thanks anyway, though. I appreciate it. ’Bye.’
‘Wait!’ she cried out, and even though the phone was already halfway to the base, her urgency made me listen again. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, well, I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if there’s, like, anything else I can do – or any of us here – feel free to call, you know? We love Miranda here, and we’d, like, uh, want to help with anything we could?’
You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be able to locate an article for the president, an article that included information crucial to an imminent war, and not an unnamed review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper. The saddest part of all was that I wasn’t surprised: I knew she’d come around.
‘OK, I’ll be sure to pass that along. Thanks so much.’
Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said, ‘No luck there either?’
‘Nope. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and apparently, neither does anyone else in this city. I’ve spoken to someone at every Manhattan paper she reads, checked online, talked to archivists, food writers, chefs. Not a single person can think of a suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the past week, never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past twenty-four hours. She’s clearly lost her mind. So what now?’ I flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail. It still wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and already the headache had spread to my neck and shoulders.
‘I guess,’ she said slowly, regrettably, ‘you have no choice but to ask her to clarify.’
‘Oh, no, not that! However will she react?’
Emily, as usual, didn’t appreciate my sarcasm. ‘She’ll be in at noon. If I were you, I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead of time, because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that review. Especially since she asked for it last night,’ she pointed out with a barely suppressed smile. She was clearly delighted that I was about to get abused.
There was little left to do but wait. It was my luck that Miranda was at her monthly marathon shrink session (‘She just doesn’t have time to go all the way over there once a week,’ Emily had explained when I asked why she went for three straight hours), the only chunk of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us and, of course, the only time I needed her to. A mountain of mail that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to topple off the desk, and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry cleaning was heaped under it, around my feet. Huge sigh to let the world know just how unhappy I was, and I dialed the cleaners.
‘Hi, Mario. It’s me. Yeah, I know – two whole days, no talk. Can I get a pickup, please? Great. Thanks.’ I hung up the phone and forced myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap, where I would sort through them and record them on the computerized list I kept of her outgoing clothes. When Miranda called the office at 9:45 P.M. and demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was, all I had to do was open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day before and were due to be delivered the following day. I logged today’s clothes in (one Missoni blouse, two identical pairs of Alberta Ferretti pants, two Jil Sander sweaters, two white Hermès scarves, and one Burberry trench coat), threw them in a shopping bag emblazoned with Runway, and called for a messenger to take them downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up.
I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks, because no matter how СКАЧАТЬ