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

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СКАЧАТЬ after the cars had been reserved and all the appropriate people put on alert, Julia called back. Although it’d be a grueling task and she was likely to get in trouble, she’d be happy to give Brian two copies for Ms Priestly. Amen.

      ‘Do you believe he got engaged?’ Lily asked as she rewound the copy of Ferris Bueller we’d just finished. ‘I mean, we’re twenty-three years old for goodness sake – what’s the rush?’

      ‘I know, it does seem weird.’ I called from the kitchen. ‘Maybe Mom and Dad won’t let him have access to the massive trust fund until he’s settled down? That’d be enough motivation to put a ring on her finger. Or maybe he’s just lonely?’

      Lily looked at me and laughed. ‘Naturally, he can’t just be in love with her and ready to spend the rest of his life with her, right? I mean, we’ve established that that’s totally out of the question, right?’

      ‘Correct. That’s not an option. Try again.’

      ‘Well, then, I’m forced to pick curtain number three. He’s gay. He finally came to the realization himself – even though I’ve known forever – and realizes that Mom and Dad won’t be able to handle it, so he’ll cover by marrying the first girl he can find. What do you think?’

      Casablanca was next on the list, and Lily fast-forwarded past the opening credits while I microwaved cups of hot chocolate in the tiny kitchen of her non-alcove studio in Morningside Heights. We lazed around straight through Friday night – breaking only to smoke and make another Blockbuster run. Saturday afternoon found us particularly motivated, and we managed to saunter down to SoHo for a few hours. We each bought new tank tops for Lily’s upcoming New Year’s party and shared an oversize mug of eggnog from a sidewalk café. By the time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday, we were exhausted and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating between When Harry Met Sally on TNT and Saturday Night Live. It was so thoroughly relaxing, such a departure from the misery that had become my daily routine, I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I heard a phone ring on Sunday. Ohmigod, it was Her! I overheard Lily speaking in Russian to someone, probably a classmate, on her cell phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you, dear lord: it wasn’t Her. But that still didn’t let me off the hook. It was already Sunday morning, and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way to Paris. I had enjoyed my weekend so much – had actually managed to relax enough – that I had forgotten to check. Of course, my phone was on and set to the highest ring level, but I never should’ve waited for someone to call me with a problem, when of course it’d be too late to do anything. I should’ve taken preemptive action and confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our highly choreographed plan had worked.

      I dug frantically through my overnight bag, searching for the cell phone given to me by Runway that would ensure I was always only seven digits away from Miranda. I finally freed it from a tangle of underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed. The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at that point, and I knew immediately, instinctively, that she had called and it had gone directly to voice mail. I hated that cell phone with my entire soul. I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen home phone by this point. I hated Lily’s phone, commercials for phones, pictures of phones in magazines, and I even hated Alexander Graham Bell. Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate side effects in my day-to-day life, but the most unnatural one was my severe and all-consuming hatred of phones.

      For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic. Some people considered the many available phone features to be a novelty, even fun. For me, they were nothing short of imperative. Although I’d never had so much as call waiting before Miranda, a few days into my tenure at Runway I was signed up for call waiting (so she’d never get a busy signal), caller ID (so I could avoid her calls), call waiting with caller ID (so I could avoid her calls while talking on the other line), and voice mail (so she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear an answering machine message). Fifty bucks a month for phone service – before long distance – seemed a small price to pay for my peace of mind. Well, not peace of mind exactly; more like early warning.

      The cell phone afforded me no such barriers. Sure, it had all the same features as the home phone, but from Miranda’s point of view there was simply no reason whatsoever

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