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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第14部分

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  aren’t also personal friends。 Her lawyer and accountant。 Midlevel 
  people get Veuve; and this is just about everyone—the twins’ 
  teachers; the hair stylists; Uri; et cetera。 The nobodies get a 
  bottle of the Ruffino Chianti—usually they go to the PR people who 
  send small; general gifts that aren’t personalized for her。 She’ll 
  have us send Chianti to the vet; some of the babysitters who fill in 
  for Cara; the people who wait on her in stores she goes to often; 
  and all the caretakers associated with the summer house in 
  Connecticut。 Anyway; I order about twenty…five thousand dollars’ 
  worth of this stuff at the beginning of November; Sherry…Lehman 
  delivers it; and it usually takes nearly a month to do all the 
  wrapping。 It’s good she’s out of the office now or we’d be taking 
  this stuff Home with us to wrap。 Pretty good deal; because Elias 
  picks up the tab。”

  “I guess it would cost double that to have the Sherry…Lehman place 
  wrap them; huh?” I wondered; still trying to process the hierarchy 
  of the gift…giving。

  “What the hell do we care?” she snorted。 “Trust me; you’ll learn 
  quickly that cost is no issue around here。 It’s just that Miranda 
  doesn’t like the wrapping paper they use。 I gave them this white 
  paper last year; but they just didn’t look as nice as when we do 
  it。” She looked proud。

  We wrapped like that until close to six; with Emily telling me how 
  things worked as I tried to wrap my mind around this strange and 
  exciting world。 Just as she was describing exactly how Miranda likes 
  her Coffee (tall latte with two raw sugars); a breathless blond girl 
  I remembered as one of the many fashion assistants walked in 
  carrying a wicker basket the size of a baby carriage。 She hovered 
  just outside Miranda’s office; looking as though she thought the 
  soft gray carpeting might turn to quicksand under her Jimmy Choos if 
  she dared to cross the threshold。

  “Hi; Em。 I’ve got the skirts right here。 Sorry that took so long; 
  but no one’s around since it’s that weird time right before 
  Thanksgiving。 Anyway; hopefully you’ll find something she’ll like。” 
  She looked down at her basket full of folded skirts。

  Emily looked up at her with barely disguised scorn。 “Just leave them 
  on my desk。 I’ll return the ones that won’t work。Which I imagine 
  will be most of them; considering your taste 。” The last part was 
  under her breath; just loud enough for me to hear。

  The blond girl looked bewildered。 Definitely not the brightest star 
  in the sky; but she seemed nice enough。 I wondered why Emily so 
  obviously hated her。 It’d been a long day already; what with the 
  running mentary and errands all over the city and hundreds of 
  names and faces to try to remember; so I didn’t even ask。

  Emily placed the large basket on her desk and looked down on it; 
  hands on her hips。 From what I could see from Miranda’s office 
  floor; there were perhaps twenty…five different skirts in an 
  incredible assortment of fabrics; colors; and sizes。 Had she really 
  not specified what she wanted at all? Did she really not bother to 
  inform Emily whether she’d be needing something appropriate for a 
  black…tie dinner or a mixed…doubles match or perhaps to use as a 
  bathing suit cover…up? Did she want denim; or would something 
  chiffon work better? How exactly were we supposed to predict 
  whatmight please her?

  I was about to find out。 Emily carried the wicker basket to 
  Miranda’s office and carefully; reverentially; placed it on the 
  plush carpeting beside me。 She sat down and began removing the 
  skirts one by one and laying them in a circle around us。 There was a 
  beautiful crocheted skirt in shocking fuchsia by Celine; a pearl 
  gray wraparound by Calvin Klein; and a black suede one with black 
  beads along the bottom by Mr。 de la Renta himself。 There were skirts 
  in red and ecru and lavender; some with lace and others in cashmere。 
  A few were long enough to sweep gracefully along the ankles; and 
  others were so short they looked more like tube tops。 I picked up a 
  midcalf; brown silk beauty and held it up to my waist; but the 
  material covered only one of my legs。 The next one in the pile 
  reached to the floor in a swirl of tulle and chiffon and looked as 
  though it would feel most at Home at a Charleston garden party。 One 
  of the jean skirts was prefaded and came with a gigantic brown 
  leather belt already looped around it; and another had a crinkly; 
  silver…material overlay on top of a slightly more opaque silver 
  liner。 Where on earth were we going here?

  “Wow; looks like Miranda has a thing for skirts; huh?” I said; 
  simply because I had nothing better to say。

  “Actually; no。 Miranda has a slight obsession with scarves。” Emily 
  refused to make eye contact with me; as though she’d just revealed 
  that she herself had herpes。 “It’s just one of those cute; quirky 
  things about her you should know。”

  “Oh; really?” I asked; trying to sound amused and not horrified。 An 
  obsession with scarves? I like clothes and bags and shoes as much as 
  the next girl; but I wouldn’t exactly declare any of them an 
  “obsession。” And something about the way Emily was saying it wasn’t 
  so casual。

  “Yes; well; she must need a skirt for something specific; but it’s 
  scarves that’s she’s really into。 You know; like her signature 
  scarves?” She looked at me。 My face must have betrayed my plete 
  lack of a clue。 “You do remember meeting her during the interview; 
  do you not?”

  “Of course;” I said quickly; sensing it’d probably not be the best 
  idea to let this girl know that I couldn’t so much as remember 
  Miranda’s name during my interview; never mind remember what she was 
  wearing。 “But I’m not sure I noticed a scarf。”

  “She always; always; always wears a single white Hermès scarf 
  somewhere on her outfit。 Mostly around her neck; but sometimes 
  she’ll have her hairdresser tie one in a chignon; or occasionally 
  she’ll use them as a belt。 They’re like; her signature。 Everyone 
  knows that Miranda Priestly wears a white Hermès scarf; no matter 
  what。 How cool is that?”

  It was at that exact moment that I noticed Emily had a lime green 
  scarf woven through the belt loops on her cargo pants; just peeking 
  out from underneath the white T…shirt。

  “She likes to mix it up sometimes; and I’m guessing that this is one 
  of those times。 Anyway; those idiots in fashion never know what 
  she’ll like。 Look at some of these; they’re hideous!” She held up an 
  absolutely gorgeous flowy skirt; slightly dressier than the rest 
  with its little flecks of gold shimmering from the deep tan 
  background。

  “Yep;” I agreed; in what was to bee the first of thousands; if 
  not millions; of times I agreed with whatever she said simply to 
  make her stop talking。 “It’s horrendous…looking。” It was so 
  beautiful I thought I’d be happy to wear it to my own wedding。

  Emily continued prattling on about patterns and fabrics and 
  Miranda’s needs and wants; occasionally interjecting a scathing 
  insult about a coworker。 She finally chose three radically different 
  skirts and set them aside to send to Miranda; talking; talking; 
  talking the whole time。 I tried to listen; but it was almost seven; 
  and I was trying to decide whether I was ravenously hungry; utterly 
  nauseated; or just plain exhausted。 I think it was all three。 I 
  didn’t even notice when the tallest human being I’d ever seen 
  swooped into the office。

  “YOU!” I heard from somewhere behind me。 “STAND UP SO I CAN GET A 
  LOOK AT YOU!”

  I turned just in time to see the man; who was at least seven feet 
  tall; with tanned skin and black hair; pointing directly at me。 He 
  had 250 pounds stretched over his incredibly tall frame and was so 
  muscular; so positively ripped; that it looked as though he might 
  just explode out of his denim 。 。 。 catsuit? Ohmigod! He was wearing 
  a catsuit。 Yes; yes; a denim; one…piece catsuit with tight pants and 
  a belted waist and rolled…up sleeves。 And a cape。 There was actually 
  a blanket…size fur cape tied twice around his thick neck; and shiny 
  black bat boots the size of tennis rackets adorned his mammoth 
  feet。 He looked around thirty…five years old; although all the 
  muscles and the deep tan and the positively chiseled jawbone could 
  have been hiding ten years or adding five。 He was flapping his hands 
  at me and motioning for me to get up off the floor。 I stood; unable 
  to take my eyes off him; and he turned to examine me immediately。

  “WELL! WHO DO WE HAVE HEEEEERE?” he bellowed; as best as one can in 
  a falsetto voice。 “YOU’RE PRETTY; BUT TOO WHOLESOME。 AND THE O
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