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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第65部分

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  indicated that no bra straps were visible。 So what was it? What 
  exactly had made her look at me that way?

  Twelve; thirteen; fourteen 。 。 。 the elevator stopped and swept open 
  to yet another stark white reception area。 A woman of around 
  thirty…five stepped forward to board; but stopped two feet from the 
  door when she saw Miranda standing inside。

  “Oh; I; uh 。 。 。” she stammered loudly; looking frantically around 
  her for an excuse not to enter our private hell。 And although it 
  would’ve been nicer for me to have her e aboard; I privately 
  rooted for her to escape。 “I; um; oh! I forgot the photos I need for 
  the meeting;” she finally managed; whipping around on a particularly 
  unsteady Manolo and high…tailing it back toward the office area。 
  Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice; and once again; the doors swept 
  shut。

  Fifteen; sixteen; and finally—finally!—seventeen; where the doors 
  opened to reveal a group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to 
  pick up the cigarettes; Diet Coke; and mixed greens that would 
  constitute their lunch。 Each young; beautiful face looked more 
  panicked than the next; and they almost trampled one another trying 
  to move out of Miranda’s way。 They parted directly down the middle; 
  three to one side and two to the other; and she deigned to walk past 
  them。 They were all staring after her; silent; as she made her way 
  across the reception area; and I was left with no choice but to 
  follow her。 Wouldn’t notice a thing; I figured。 We’d just spent what 
  felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a 
  five…by…three…foot box; and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my 
  presence。 But as soon as I stepped onto the floor; she turned 
  around。

  “Ahn…dre…ah?” she asked; her voice cutting through the tense silence 
  that filled the entire room。 I didn’t respond since I figured it was 
  rhetorical; but she waited。

  “Ahn…dre…ah?”

  “Yes; Miranda?”

  “Whose shoes are you wearing?” She placed one hand lightly on a 
  tweed…swathed hip and peered over at me。 By now the elevator had 
  left without the fashion assistants; since they were too engrossed 
  in actually getting to see—and hear!—Miranda Priestly in the flesh。 
  I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet; which; although they had 
  been quite fortable mere moments before; were now beginning to 
  burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants 
  and one fashion guru。

  The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride (a first) and 
  the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain; so when 
  Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing; I thought that perhapsshe 
  thought I was not wearing my own。

  “Um; mine?” I said; without realizing until the words had been 
  spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful; but downright 
  obnoxious。 The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter; until Miranda 
  turned her wrath on them。

  “I’m wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants 
  appear as though they have nothing better to do than gossip like 
  little girls。” She began singling them out by pointing at each one; 
  since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if 
  you put a gun to her head。

  “You!” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably 
  seeing Miranda for the first time。 “Did we hire you for this or did 
  we hire you to call in clothes for the suits shoot?” The girl hung 
  her head and opened her mouth to apologize; but Miranda barreled on。

  “And you!” she said; walking over and standing directly in front of 
  Jocelyn; the highest…ranking among them and a favorite of all the 
  editors。 “You think there aren’t a million girls who want your job 
  and who understand couture just as well as you?” She took a step 
  back; slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies; 
  lingering just long enough to make each feel fat; ugly; and 
  inappropriately clad; and manded them all to return to their 
  desks。 They nodded their heads furiously while keeping their heads 
  bowed。 A few murmured heartfelt apologies while they moved quickly 
  back to the fashion area。 It wasn’t until they’d all left that I 
  realized we were alone。 Again。

  “Ahn…dre…ah? I won’t tolerate being spoken to that way by my 
  assistant;” she declared; walking toward the door that would lead us 
  to the hallway。 I was unsure whether I should follow her or not; and 
  I briefly hoped that either Eduardo or Sophy or one of the fashion 
  girls had warned Emily that Miranda was on her way back。

  “Miranda; I—”

  “Enough。” She paused at the door and looked at me。 “Whose shoes are 
  you wearing?” she asked again in a none…too…pleased voice。

  I checked out my black slingbacks again and wondered how to tell the 
  most stylish woman in the western hemisphere that I was wearing a 
  pair of shoes I’d purchased at Ann Taylor Loft。 Another glance at 
  her face and I knew I couldn’t。

  “I bought them in Spain;” I said quickly; averting my eyes。 “It was 
  at some adorable boutique in Barcelona right off Las Ramblas that 
  carried this new Spanish designer’s line。” Where the hell had I 
  pulled that one from?

  She folded her hand into a fist; put it over her mouth; and cocked 
  her head。 I saw James approaching the glass door from the other 
  side; but as soon as he saw Miranda he turned and fled。 “Ahn…dre…ah; 
  they’re unacceptable。 My girls need to representRunway magazine; and 
  those shoes are not the message I’m looking to convey。 Find some 
  decent footwear in the Closet。 And get me a coffee。” She looked at 
  me and looked at the door; and I understood I was to reach forward 
  and open it for her; which I did。 She walked through without saying 
  thank you and headed back to the office。 I needed to get money and 
  my cigarettes for the Coffee run; but neither was worth having to 
  walk behind her like an abused but loyal duckling; and so I turned 
  to walk back toward the elevator。 Eduardo could spot me the five 
  bucks for the latte; and Ahmed would just charge a new pack toRunway 
  ’s house account; as he’d been doing for months now。 I hadn’t 
  counted on her even noticing; but her voice hit the back of my head 
  like a shovel。

  “Ahn…dre…ah!”

  “Yes; Miranda?” I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her。

  “I expect the restaurant review I asked you for is on my desk?”

  “Um; well; actually; I’ve had a little trouble locating it。 You see; 
  I’ve spoken to all the papers and it seems none of them have run a 
  review of an Asian fusion restaurant in the past few days。 Do you; 
  uh; happen to remember the name of the restaurant?” Without 
  realizing it; I was holding my breath and bracing for the onslaught。

  It appeared my explanation held little interest for her; because she 
  had resumed walking toward her office。 “Ahn…dre…ah; I already told 
  you that it was in thePost —is it really that difficult to find?” 
  And with that; she was gone。 ThePost ? I’d spoken to their 
  restaurant reviewer just that morning and he had sworn there were no 
  reviews that fit my description—nothing noteworthy had opened that 
  week whatsoever。 She was cracking up; for sure; and I was the one 
  who was going to get blamed。

  The Coffee run took only a few minutes since it was midday; so I 
  felt free to tack on an extra ten minutes to call Alex; who would be 
  having lunch at exactly twelve…thirty。 Thankfully; he answered his 
  Cell Phone; so I didn’t have to deal with any of the teachers again。

  “Hey babe; how’s your day going?” He sounded cheerful to the point 
  of excess; and I had to remind myself not to be irritated。

  “Awesome so far; as always。 I really do love it here。 I’ve spent the 
  past five hours researching an imaginary article that was dreamed up 
  by a delusional woman who would probably rather take her own life 
  than admit she’s wrong。 What about you?”

  “Well; I’ve had a great day。 Remember I told you about Shauna?” I 
  nodded into the phone even though he couldn’t see me。 Shauna was one 
  of his little girls who had yet to utter a single word in class; and 
  whether he threatened her or bribed her or worked with her one on 
  one; Alex couldn’t get her to talk。 He’d been near…hysterical the 
  first time she’d shown up in his class; placed there by a social 
  worker who’d discovered that even though she was nine years old 
  she’d never been in the inside of a school; and he’d been obsessed 
  with helping her ever since。

  “Well; it seems she won’t shut up! All it took was a little singing。 
  I had a folk singer e in today to play the guitar for the kids; 
  and Shauna was singing away。 And once she broke the ice; she’s been 
  j
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