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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第63部分

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  to see Alex but tell him nothing。 Even though I tried to push it all 
  out of my mind; they kept returning; each one more intense than the 
  last one。 When I finally did manage to fall asleep; I dreamed that 
  Alex was hired to be Miranda’s nanny and—even though in reality hers 
  didn’t live in—he was to move in with the family。 Whenever I wanted 
  to see Alex in my dream; I would have to share a car Home with 
  Miranda and visit him in her apartment。 She would insist on calling 
  me Emily and send me out on inane errands even though I told her 
  repeatedly that I was just there to visit my boyfriend。 By the time 
  morning had finally rolled around; Alex had fallen under Miranda’s 
  spell and couldn’t understand why I thought she was so evil and; 
  even worse; Miranda had started dating Christian。 Blessedly; my hell 
  ended when I woke in a start after dreaming that Miranda; Christian; 
  and Alex all sat around in Frette robes together each Sunday morning 
  and read theTimes and laughed while I prepared breakfast; served 
  everyone; and cleaned up afterward。 Sleep last night was about as 
  relaxing as a solo stroll down Avenue D at four in the morning; and 
  now this restaurant review was wrecking whatever hope I had of 
  having an easy Friday。

  “Hmm; no; we really haven’t run anything lately on Asian fusion。 I’m 
  trying to think; just personally; you know; if there are any new hot 
  Asian fusion places。 You know; places that Miranda would actually 
  consider going?” she said; sounding like she’d do anything to 
  prolong the conversation。

  I ignored her transition into first…name familiarity with Miranda 
  and worked on getting her off the phone。 “OK; well; that’s what I 
  thought。 Thanks anyway; though。 I appreciate it。 ’Bye。”

  “Wait!” she cried out; and even though the phone was already halfway 
  to the base; her urgency made me listen again。 “Yes?”

  “Oh; well; I; uh; I just wanted to let you know that if there’s; 
  like; anything else I can do—or any of us here—feel free to call; 
  you know? We love Miranda here; and we’d; like; uh; want to help 
  with anything we could?”

  You would’ve thought that the First Lady of the United States of 
  America had just asked Schizophrenic Editorial Girl if she might be 
  able to locate an article for the president; an article that 
  included information crucial to an imminent war; and not an unnamed 
  review on an unnamed restaurant in an unnamed newspaper。 The saddest 
  part of all was that I wasn’t surprised: I knew she’d e around。

  “OK; I’ll be sure to pass that along。 Thanks so much。”

  Emily looked up from preparing yet another expense account and said; 
  “No luck there either?”

  “Nope。 I have no idea what she’s talking about; and apparently; 
  neither does anyone else in this city。 I’ve spoken to someone at 
  every Manhattan paper she reads; checked online; talked to 
  archivists; food writers; chefs。 Not a single person can think of a 
  suitable Asian fusion place that has so much as been open in the 
  past week; never even mind one that’s been reviewed in the past 
  twenty…four hours。 She’s clearly lost her mind。 So what now?” I 
  flopped back into my chair and pulled my hair into a ponytail。 It 
  still wasn’t yet nine in the morning; and already the headache had 
  spread to my neck and shoulders。

  “I guess;” she said slowly; regrettably; “you have no choice but to 
  ask her to clarify。”

  “Oh; no; not that! However will she react?”

  Emily; as usual; didn’t appreciate my sarcasm。 “She’ll be in at 
  noon。 If I were you; I’d figure out what you are going to say ahead 
  of time; because she is not going to be happy if you don’t have that 
  review。 Especially since she asked for it last night;” she pointed 
  out with a barely suppressed smile。 She was clearly delighted that I 
  was about to get abused。

  There was little left to do but wait。 It was my luck that Miranda 
  was at her monthly marathon shrink session (“She just doesn’t have 
  time to go all the way over there once a week;” Emily had explained 
  when I asked why she went for three straight hours); the only chunk 
  of time during the entire day or night when she wouldn’t call us 
  and; of course; the only time I needed her to。 A mountain of mail 
  that I’d neglected to open for the past two days threatened to 
  topple off the desk; and another two full days’ worth of dirty dry 
  cleaning was heaped under it; around my feet。 Huge sigh to let the 
  world know just how unhappy I was; and I dialed the cleaners。

  “Hi; Mario。 It’s me。 Yeah; I know—two whole days; no talk。 Can I get 
  a pickup; please? Great。 Thanks。” I hung up the phone and forced 
  myself to pull some of the clothes onto my lap; where I would sort 
  through them and record them on the puterized list I kept of her 
  outgoing clothes。 When Miranda called the office at 9:45P 。M。 and 
  demanded to know where her new Chanel suit was; all I had to do was 
  open up the document and tell her that they’d gone out the day 
  before and were due to be delivered the following day。 I logged 
  today’s clothes in (one Missoni blouse; two identical pairs of 
  Alberta Ferretti pants; two Jil Sander sweaters; two white Hermès 
  scarves; and one Burberry trench coat); threw them in a shopping bag 
  emblazoned withRunway; and called for a messenger to take them 
  downstairs to the area where the cleaners would pick them up。

  I was on a roll! Cleaning was one of the more dreaded tasks; because 
  no matter how many times I had to do it; I was still repulsed to be 
  sorting through someone else’s dirty clothes。 After I finished 
  sorting and bagging every day; I had to wash my hands: the lingering 
  smell of Miranda was all…pervasive; and even though it consisted of 
  a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a 
  whiff of B…DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant; it 
  made me feel physically ill。 British accents; Bulgari perfume; white 
  silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were 
  forever ruined for me。

  The mail was the usual; ninety…nine percent garbage that Miranda 
  would never see。 Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief” 
  went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages; but many 
  of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their 
  correspondence directly to Miranda。 It took me about four seconds to 
  skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a 
  charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long…lost friend; and 
  those I just threw aside。 Today there were tons。 Breathless notes 
  from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men (or; in all 
  fairness; maybe straight and just very fashion…conscious): “Miranda 
  Priestly; you’re not only the darling of the fashion world; you’re 
  the Queen of my world!” one gushed。 “I couldn’t agree more with your 
  choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April 
  issue—it was ballsy; but genius!” another exclaimed。 A few letters 
  ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women 
  in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and 
  pressed their bodies together; and a few more decried the 
  sunken…eyed; starvation…wracked; heroine…chic models thatRunway had 
  used in its “health First: How to Feel Better” article。 One was a 
  standard…issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery 
  script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read; quite simply; on 
  the other: “Why? Why do you print such a boring; stupid magazine?” I 
  laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my 
  collection of critical letters and postcards was growing; and soon 
  there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left。 Lily thought it was 
  bad karma to bring Home other people’s negative thoughts and 
  hostility; and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma 
  originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy。

  The last letter of the massive pile before I’d begin tackling the 
  two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the 
  loopy; girly writing of a teenager; plete withi ’s dotted with 
  hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts。 I planned to only 
  skim it; but it wouldn’t allow itself to be skimmed: it was too 
  immediately sad and honest—it was bleeding and pleading and begging 
  all over the page。 The initial four…second period came and went and 
  I was still reading。

  Dear Miranda;

  My name is Anita and I am seventeen years old and I am a senior at 
  Barringer H。S。 in Newark; NJ。 I am so ashamed of my body even though 
  everyone tells me I’m not fat。 I want to look like the models you 
  have in your m
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