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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第45部分

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  “Well; you didn’t say good…bye; for one thing。 And you have that 
  look on your face。”

  “That look?”

  “Yes; that look of yours。 The one that tells everyone just how far 
  above this you are; just how much you hate it here。 That may fly 
  with me; but it won’t with Mr。 Tomlinson。 He’s Miranda’shusband ; 
  and you just can’t treat him like that。”

  “Em; don’t you think he’s a little; I don’t know 。 。 。 weird? He 
  never stops talking。 How can he be so nice when she’s such a 。 。 。 
  so not as nice?” I watched as she glanced inside Miranda’s office to 
  make sure that I’d set the newspapers correctly。

  “Weird? Hardly; Andrea。 He’s one of the most prominent tax attorneys 
  in Manhattan。”

  It wasn’t worth it。 “Never mind; I don’t even know what I’m saying。 
  What’s going on with you? How was your night?”

  “Oh; it was good。 I went shopping with Jessica for gifts for her 
  bridesmaids。 Everywhere—Scoop; Bergdorf’s; Infinity; everywhere。 And 
  I tried on a bunch of stuff to get some idea for Paris; but it’s 
  still really too early。”

  “For Paris? You’re going to Paris? Does that mean you’ll leave me 
  alone with her?” I hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud; but 
  it had slipped。

  Again; a look like I was crazy。 “Yes; I’ll be going to Paris with 
  Miranda in October; for the spring ready…to…wear shows。 Each year 
  she takes her senior assistant to the spring shows so she can see 
  what it’s really like。 I mean; I’ve been to; like; a million at 
  Bryant Park; but the European shows are just different。”

  I did a quick calculation。 “In October; as in seven months from now? 
  You were trying on clothes for a trip seven months from now?” I 
  hadn’t meant for it to sound as harsh as it did; and Emily 
  immediately got defensive。

  “Well; yes。 I mean; obviously I wasn’t going to buy anything—so many 
  of the styles will have changed by then。 But I just wanted to start 
  thinking about it。 It’s a really huge deal; you know。 Stay in 
  five…star hotels; go to the craziest parties ever。 And my god; you 
  get to go to the hottest; most exclusive fashion shows in 
  existence。”

  Emily had already told me that Miranda went to Europe three or four 
  times a year for the fashion shows。 She always skipped London; like 
  everyone did; but she went to Milan and Paris in October for spring 
  ready…to…wear; in July for winter couture; and in March for fall 
  ready…to…wear。 Sometimes she’d hit resort; but not always。 We’d been 
  working like crazy to get Miranda prepared for the shows ing up 
  at the end of the month。 I’d wondered briefly why she wasn’t 
  planning on bringing an assistant。

  “So why doesn’t she take you to all of them?” I decided to just go 
  for it; even though the answer was sure to entail a lengthy 
  explanation。 I was excited enough that Miranda would be out of the 
  office for two whole weeks (she spent one in Milan and one in Paris) 
  and was giddy at the thought of getting rid of Emily for a week of 
  that。 Visions of bacon cheeseburgers and nonprofessionally ripped 
  jeans and flats—oh hell; maybe even sneakers—filled my head。 “Why 
  just in October?”

  “Well; it’s not like she doesn’t have help over there。 Italian and 
  FrenchRunway always send some of their assistants for Miranda; and 
  most of the time the editors help her themselves。 But it’s at spring 
  RTW that she throws a huge party; the annual kick…off party that 
  everyone says is the biggest and best at all the shows; all year 
  long。 I’ll only go for the week while she’s in Paris。 So obviously 
  she would only trustme to help her there。” Obviously。

  “Mmm; sounds like it’ll be a great time。 So that means I just hold 
  down the fort here; huh?”

  “Yeah; pretty much。 But don’t think that it’ll be a joke。 That will 
  probably be the hardest week of all because she needs a lot of 
  assistance when she’s away。 She’ll be calling you a lot。”

  “Oh; goody;” I said。 She rolled her eyes。

  I slept with my eyes open; staring at a blank puter screen; until 
  the office began to fill up and there were other people to watch。 
  TenA 。M。 brought the first of the Clackers; the quiet sipping of 
  no…whip skim lattes to nurse the previous night’s champagne 
  hangovers。 James stopped by my desk; as he did whenever he saw 
  Miranda wasn’t at hers; and proclaimed he’d met his future husband 
  at Balthazar the night before。

  “He was just sitting at the bar; wearing the greatest red leather 
  jacket I’d ever seen—and let me tell you; he could pull it off。 You 
  should have seen how he slipped those oysters on his tongue 。 。 。” 
  He audibly groaned。 “Oh; it was just magnificent。”

  “So’d you get his number?” I asked。

  “Get his number? Try get his pants。 He was butt…ass naked on my 
  couch by eleven; and boy; let me tell you—”

  “Lovely; James。 Lovely。 Not one for playing hard to get; are you? 
  Sounds a little slutty of you; to be honest。 This is the age of 
  AIDS; you know。”

  “Sweetie; even you; Miss High and Mighty 
  I…Date…the…World’s…Last…Angel; would’ve been on your knees without a 
  second thought if you saw this guy。 He’s absolutely amazing。 
  Amazing!”

  By eleven everyone had checked everyone else out; making notations 
  of who had scored a pair of the new Theory “Max” pants or the 
  latest; impossible…to…find Sevens。 Time for a break at noon; when 
  conversation centered around particular items of clothing and 
  usually took place by the racks lined up against the walls。 Each 
  morning Jeffy would pull out all the racks of dresses and bathing 
  suits and pants and shirts and coats and shoes and everything else 
  that had been called in as a potential item to shoot for one of the 
  fashion spreads。 He lined up each rack against a wall; weaving them 
  throughout the entire floor so the editors could find what they 
  needed without having to fight their way through the Closet itself。

  The Closet wasn’t really a closet at all。 It was more like a small 
  auditorium。 Along the perimeter were walls of shoes in every size 
  and color and style; a virtual Willy Wonka’s factory for 
  fashionistas; with dozens of slingbacks; stilettos; ballet flats; 
  high…heeled boots; open…toe sandals; beaded heels。 Stacked drawers; 
  some built…in and others just shoved in corners; held every 
  imaginable configuration of stockings; socks; bras; panties; slips; 
  camisoles; and corsets。 Need a last…minute leopard…print push…up bra 
  from La Perla? Check the Closet。 How about a pair of flesh…colored 
  fishnets or those Dior aviators? In the Closet。 The accessories 
  shelves and drawers took up the farthest two walls; and the sheer 
  amount of merchandise—not to mention its value—was staggering。 
  Fountain pens。 Jewelry。 Bed linens。 Mufflers and gloves and ski 
  caps。 Pajamas。 Capes。 Shawls。 Stationery。 Silk flowers。 Hats; so 
  many hats。 And bags。 The bags! There were totes and bowling bags; 
  backpacks and under…arms; over…shoulders and minis; oversize and 
  clutches; envelopes and messengers; each bearing an exclusive label 
  and a price tag of more than the average American’s monthly mortgage 
  payment。 And then there were the racks and racks of clothes—pushed 
  so tightly together it was impossible to walk among them—that 
  occupied every remaining inch of space。

  So during the day Jeffy would attempt to make the Closet a 
  semi…usable space where models (and assistants like myself) could 
  try on clothes and actually reach some of the shoes and bags in the 
  back by pushing all of the racks into the halls。 I’d yet to see a 
  single visitor to the floor—whether writer or boyfriend or messenger 
  or stylist—not stop dead in his or her tracks and gape at the 
  couture…lined hallways。 Sometimes the racks were arranged by shoot 
  (Sydney; Santa Barbara) and other times by item (bikinis; skirt 
  suits); but mostly it just seemed like a haplessly casual mishmash 
  ofreally expensive stuff 。 And although everyone stopped and stared 
  and fingered the butter…soft cashmeres and the intricately beaded 
  evening gowns; it was the Clackers who hovered possessively over 
  “their” clothes and provided constant; streaming mentary on each 
  and every piece。

  “Maggie Rizer is the only woman in theworld who can actually wear 
  these capris;” Hope; one of the fashion assistants—weighing a 
  whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six…one—loudly announced 
  outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her 
  legs and sighing。 “They would make my ass look even more gigantic 
  than it already is。”

  “Andrea;” called her friend; a girl I didn’t know very well who 
  worked in accessories; “please tell Hop
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