The Devil Wears Prada: Loved the movie? Read the book!. Lauren Weisberger

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СКАЧАТЬ of pleasure and tell Mr Tomlinson all about your life. Will you do that for him? So tell me, dear, are you happy working for my wife?’ Was I happy working for his wife? Hmm, let’s see here. Are little baby mammals squealing with glee when a predator swallows them whole? Why of course, you putz, I’m deliriously happy working for your wife. When neither of us is busy, we give each other mud masks and gossip about our love lives. It’s a lot like a slumber party among friends, if you must know. The whole thing is just one big laugh riot.

      ‘Mr Tomlinson, I love my job and I adore working for Miranda.’ I held my breath and prayed that he’d give it up.

      ‘Well, Mr T. is just thrilled that things are working out.’ Great, asshole, but are you thrilled?

      ‘Sounds great, Mr Tomlinson. Have a great lunch,’ I cut him off before he inevitably asked about my weekend plans, and hung up.

      I sat back in my chair and gazed across the office suite. Emily was engrossed in trying to reconcile another one of Miranda’s $20,000 American Express bills, her highly waxed brow furrowed in concentration. The Harry Potter project loomed ahead of me, and I had to get moving on it immediately if I ever wanted to get away this weekend.

      Lily and I had planned a movie marathon weekend. I was exhausted from work and she was stressed out from her classes, so we’d promised to spend the whole weekend parked on her couch and subsist solely on beer and Doritos. No Snackwells. No Diet Coke. And absolutely no black pants. Even though we talked all the time, we hadn’t spent any real time together since I’d moved to the city.

      We’d been best friends since eighth grade, when I first saw Lily crying alone at a cafeteria table. She’d just moved in with her grandmother and started at our school, after it became clear that her parents weren’t coming home any time soon. They’d taken off a few months before to follow the Dead (they’d had her when they were both nineteen and were more into bong hits than babies), leaving her behind to be watched over by their whacked-out friends at the commune in New Mexico (or as Lily preferred, the ‘collective’). When they hadn’t returned almost a year later, Lily’s grandmother took her from the commune (or as Lily’s grandmother preferred, the ‘cult’) to live with her in Avon. The day I found her crying alone in the cafeteria was the day her grandmother had forced her to chop off her dirty dreadlocks and wear a dress, and Lily was not happy about it. Something about the way she talked, the way she said, ‘That’s so Zen of you,’ and ‘Let’s just decompress,’ charmed me, and we immediately became friends. We’d been inseparable through the rest of high school, had roomed together for all four years at Brown. Lily hadn’t yet decided whether she preferred MAC lipstick or hemp necklaces and was still a little too ‘quirky’ to do anything totally mainstream, but we complemented each other well. And I missed her. Because with her first year as a graduate student and my being a virtual slave, we hadn’t seen a whole lot of each other lately.

      I couldn’t wait for the weekend. My fourteen-hour workdays were registering in my feet, my upper arms, my lower back. Glasses had replaced the contacts I’d worn for a decade because my eyes were too dry and tired to accept them anymore. I smoked a pack a day and subsisted solely on Starbucks (expensed, of course) and takeout sushi (further expensed). I’d begun losing weight already. The weight I’d lost from the dysentery had returned briefly, but after my stint at Runway it had begun to disappear again. Something in the air there, I suppose, or perhaps it was the intensity with which food was eschewed in the office. I’d already weathered a sinus infection and had paled significantly, and it had been only four weeks. I was only twenty-three years old. And Miranda hadn’t even been in the office yet. Fuck it. I deserved a weekend.

      Into this mix leaped Harry Potter, and I was not pleased. Miranda had called this morning. It took only a few moments for her to outline what she wanted, although it took me forever to interpret it. I learned quickly that in the Miranda Priestly world, it was better to do something wrong and spend a great deal of time and money to fix it than to admit you didn’t understand her convoluted and heavily accented instructions and ask for clarification. So when she mumbled something about getting the Harry Potter books for the twins and having them flown to Paris, intuition alone told me this was going to interfere with my weekend. When she hung up abruptly a few minutes later, I looked to Emily with panic.

      ‘What, oh, what, did she say?’ I moaned, hating myself for being too scared to ask Miranda to repeat herself. ‘Why can I not understand a single word that woman utters? It’s not me, Em. I speak English, always have. I know she does it to personally drive me crazy.’

      Emily looked at me with her usual mix of disgust and pity. ‘Since the book comes out tomorrow and they’re not here to buy it, she wants you to pick up two copies and bring them to Teterboro. The jet will take them to Paris,’ she summed up coldly, daring me to comment on the ludicrousness of the instructions. I was reminded once again that Emily would do anything – really, anything – if it meant making Miranda a bit more comfortable. I rolled my eyes and kept quiet.

      Since I was NOT going to sacrifice a nanosecond of weekend to do her bidding, and because I had an unlimited amount of money and power (hers) at my personal disposal, I spent the rest of the day arranging for Harry Potter to jet his way to Paris. First, a few words for Julia at Scholastic.

       Dearest Julia,

       My assistant, Andrea, tells me that you’re the sweetheart to whom I should address my most heartfelt appreciation. She has informed me that you are the single person capable of locating a couple copies of this darling book for me tomorrow. I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work and cleverness. Please know how happy you’ll make my sweet daughters. And don’t ever hesitate to let me know if you need anything, anything at all, for a fabulous girl like yourself.

       XOXO,

       Miranda Priestly

      I forged her name with a perfect flourish (hour upon hour of practicing with Emily standing over me, instructing me to make the final ‘a’ a little loopier, had finally paid off), attached the note to the latest issue of Runway – one not yet on the newsstand – and called for a rush messenger to deliver the entire package to Scholastic’s downtown office. If this didn’t work, nothing would. Miranda didn’t care that we forged her signature – it saved her from bothering with details – but she’d probably be livid to see that I’d penned something so polite, so adorable, using her name.

      Three short weeks earlier I would have quickly canceled my plans if Miranda called and wanted me to do something for her on the weekends, but I was now experienced – and jaded – enough to bend the rules a little. Since Miranda and the girls would not themselves be at the airport in New Jersey when Harry arrived the following day, I saw no reason why I had to be the one to deliver him. Acting under the assumption and prayer that Julia would pull through for me with a couple copies, I worked out some details. Dial, dial, and within an hour a plan had emerged.

      Brian, a cooperative editorial assistant at Scholastic – whom I was assured would have permission from Julia within a couple hours – would take home two office copies of Harry that evening, so he wouldn’t have to go back to the office on Saturday. Brian would leave the books with the doorman of his Upper West Side apartment building, and I would have a car pick them up the following morning at eleven. Miranda’s driver, Uri, would then call me on my cell phone to confirm that he’d received the package and was on his way to drop it at Teterboro airport, where the two books would be transferred to Mr Tomlinson’s private jet and flown to Paris. I briefly considered conducting the entire operation in code to make it resemble a KGB operation even more, but dropped that when I remembered that Uri didn’t really speak regular English that well. I had checked to see how fast the fastest DHL option would have them there, but delivery couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ