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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第35部分

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  beings whose lives weren’t dominated by her; and also because I 
  could promptly leave without further discussion。 The pathetic 
  majority who recognized the name became instantly curious。 Some 
  wondered which gossip column I wrote for。 But regardless of whatever 
  story I made up; no one had seen her in their shop (with the 
  exception of three stores who hadn’t “seen Ms。 Priestly in months; 
  and oh; how we miss her! Please do tell her that 
  Franck/Charlotte/Sarabeth sends his/her love!”)。

  When I hadn’t located the shop by noon of the third day; Emily 
  finally gave me the green light to e to the office and ask 
  Miranda for clarification。 I started sweating when the car pulled in 
  front of the building。 I threatened to climb over the turnstile if 
  Eduardo didn’t let me pass without a performance。 By the time I 
  reached our floor; the sweat had soaked through my shirt。 Hands 
  started shaking the moment I entered the office suite; and the 
  perfectly prepared speech (Hello; Miranda。 I’m fine; thanks so much 
  for asking。 How are you? Listen; I just wanted to let you know that 
  I’ve been trying very hard to locate the antique store you 
  described; but I haven’t had much luck。 Perhaps you could tell me 
  whether it’s on the east or west side of Manhattan? Or maybe you 
  even recall the name?) simply vanished into the fickle regions of my 
  very nervous brain。 Against all protocol; I didn’t post my question 
  on the Bulletin; I requested permission to approach her at her desk 
  and—probably because she was so shocked I’d had the nerve to speak 
  without being spoken to—she granted it。 To make a long story short; 
  Miranda sighed and patronized and condescended and insulted in every 
  delightful way of hers but finally opened her black leather Hermès 
  planner (tied shut inconveniently but chicly with a white Hermès 
  scarf) and produced 。 。 。 the Business card for the store。

  “I left this information on the recording for you; Ahn…dre…ah。 I 
  suppose it would have been too much trouble to write it down?” And 
  even though the yearning to make decorative paper…cut designs all 
  over her face with the aforementioned Business card filled my entire 
  being; I simply nodded and agreed。 It wasn’t until I looked down at 
  the card that I noticed the address: 244 East 68th Street。 
  Naturally。 East or west or Second Avenue or Amsterdam wouldn’t have 
  made a damn bit of difference; because the store I’d just dedicated 
  the past thirty…three working hours to locating wasn’t even in the 
  seventies。

  I thought of this as I wrote down the last of Miranda’s late…night 
  requests before racing downstairs to meet Uri at our designated 
  area。 Every morning he described where he parked in great detail so 
  I could theoretically meet him at the car。 But every morning; no 
  matter how fast I made it downstairs; he’d bring everything inside 
  himself so I wouldn’t have to race up and down the streets searching 
  for him。 I was delighted to see that today was no exception: he was 
  leaning against a lobby turnstile; holding bags and clothes and 
  books in his arms like a benevolent; generous grandfather。

  “Don’t you run to me; you hear?” he said in his thick Russian 
  accent。 “All day long; you run; run; run。 She makes you work very; 
  very hard。 This is why I bring the tings to you;” he said; helping 
  me get a grip on the overflowing bags and boxes。 “You be a good 
  girl; you hear; and have a nice day。”

  I shot him a grateful look; glared at Eduardo semijokingly—my way of 
  saying; “I will fucking kill you if you eventhink of asking me to 
  strike a pose right now”—and softened a bit when he buzzed me 
  through the turnstiles; ment…free。 I miraculously remembered to 
  stop by the lobby newsstand; where Ahmed piled all of Miranda’s 
  requested morning papers into my arms。 Although the mailroom 
  delivered each to Miranda’s desk by nine each day; I was still to 
  purchase a full second set every morning to help minimize the risk 
  that she would spend a single second in her office without her 
  papers。 Same with the weekly magazines。 No one seemed to mind that 
  we charged nine newspapers a day and seven magazines a week for 
  someone who read only the gossip and fashion pages。

  I dumped all her stuff on the floor under my desk。 It was time for 
  the first round of ordering。 I dialed the number I’d memorized long 
  ago for Mangia; a gourmet takeout place in midtown; and; as usual; 
  Jorge answered。

  “Hi; pumpkin; it’s me;” I’d say; propping the phone against my 
  shoulder so I could start logging into Hotmail。 “Let’s get this day 
  started。” Jorge and I were friends。 Talking three; four; five times 
  a morning had a funny way of bonding two people rather quickly。

  “Hey; baby; I’ll send one of the boys over right away。 Is she there 
  yet?” he asked; understanding that “she” was my lunatic boss and 
  that she worked forRunway; but not quite understanding who exactly 
  would be consuming the breakfast I had just ordered。 Jorge was one 
  of my morning men; as I liked to call them。 Eduardo; Uri; Jorge; and 
  Ahmed gave a decent as possible start to my day。 They were 
  deliciously unaffiliated withRunway; even though their separate 
  existences in my life were solely meant to make its editor’s life 
  more perfect。 Not a single one of them truly understood Miranda’s 
  power and prestige。

  Breakfast number one would be on its way to 640 Madison in seconds; 
  and the chances were good I’d have to throw it out。 Miranda ate four 
  slices of greasy; fatty bacon; two sausage links; and a soft cheese 
  Danish every morning; and washed it down with a tall latte from 
  Starbucks (two raw sugars; remember!)。 As far as I could tell; the 
  office was divided on whether she was permanently on the Atkins diet 
  or just lucky enough to have a superhuman metabolism; the result of 
  some pretty fantastic genes。 Either way; she thought nothing of 
  devouring the fattiest; most sickeningly unhealthy foods—even though 
  the rest of us weren’t exactly afforded the same luxury。 Since 
  nothing stayed hot for more than ten minutes after it arrived; I’d 
  keep reordering and tossing until she showed up。 I could get away 
  with microwaving each meal one time; but that bought me only an 
  extra five minutes; and she could usually tell。 (“Ahn…dre…ah; this 
  is vile。 Get me a fresh breakfast at once。”) I would order and 
  reorder every twenty minutes or so until she called from her Cell 
  Phone and told me to order her breakfast (“Ahn…dre…ah; I’ll be at 
  the office shortly。 Order my breakfast”)。 Of course; this was 
  usually only a two… or three…minute warning; so the preordering was 
  necessary both because of the short warning and in the rather mon 
  event that she didn’t bother to call at all。 If I’d done my job; by 
  the time her actual call for breakfast had e; I’d already have 
  two or three on the way。

  The phone rang。 It had to be her; too early to be anyone else。

  “Miranda Priestly’s office;” I chirped; bracing myself for the 
  iciness。

  “Emily; I’ll be there in ten minutes and I’d like my breakfast to be 
  ready。”

  She had taken to calling both Emily and me “Emily;” suggesting; 
  quite rightly; that we were indistinguishable from each other and 
  pletely interchangeable。 Somewhere in the back of my mind I was 
  offended; but I’d grown accustomed to it at this point。 And besides; 
  I was too tired to really care about something as incidental as my 
  name。

  “Yes; Miranda; right away。” But she had already hung up。 The real 
  Emily walked into the office。

  “Hey; is she here?” she whispered; looking furtively toward 
  Miranda’s office as she always did; without a hello or a good 
  morning; just like her mentor。

  “Nope; but she just called and she’ll be here in ten。 I’ll be back。”

  I quickly transferred my cell phone and cigarettes to my coat pocket 
  and ran。 I had only a few minutes to get downstairs; cross Madison; 
  and jump the line at Starbucks—and suck down my first precious 
  cigarette of the day while in transit。 Stamping out the last embers; 
  I stumbled into the Starbucks at 57th and Lex and surveyed the line。 
  If it was fewer than eight or so people; I preferred to wait like a 
  normal person。 Like most days; however; the line today was twenty or 
  more poor professional souls; wearily waiting in line for their 
  expensive caffeine fix; and I had to jump in front of them。 It was 
  not something I relished; but Miranda didn’t seem to understand that 
  the latte I presented to her each morning could not onlynot be 
  delivered but could easily take a half hour at prime time to 
  purchase。 A couple weeks of shrill; angr
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