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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第83部分

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  table; just waiting for a lost fashion victim like myself to 
  turn to it for spiritual guidance。 I flipped through the 
  headings and subheadings and tried to make sense of it all。

  Shows:

  1。 Daytime

  2。 Evening

  Meals:

  1。 Breakfast meeting

  2。 Lunch

  A。 Casual (hotel or bistro)

  B。 Formal (The Espadon in the Ritz)

  3。 Dinner

  A。 Casual (bistro; room service)

  B。 Midrange (decent restaurant; casual dinner party)

  C。 Formal (Le Grand Vefour restaurant; formal dinner 
  party)

  Parties:

  1。 Casual (champagne breakfasts; afternoon teas)

  2。 Stylish (cocktail parties by nonmajor people; book parties; 
  “meet for drinks”)

  3。 Dressy (cocktail parties by major people; anything at a 
  museum or gallery; postshow parties hosted by design team)

  Miscellaneous:

  1。 To and from the airport

  2。 Athletic events (lessons; tournaments; etc。)

  3。 Shopping excursions

  4。 Running errands

  A。 To couture salons

  B。 To upscale shops and boutiques

  C。 To the local food store and/or health and beauty aid

  There didn’t appear to be any suggestions for what to wear 
  when one was unable to establish the major…ness or 
  non…major…ness of the hosts。 Clearly; there was the 
  opportunity to make a big mistake here: I could narrow the 
  event down to “Parties;” which was a good first step; but at 
  that point things got gray。 Was this party going to be a 
  simple number 2; where I’d just pull out something chic; or 
  was it really a 3; in which case I’d better pay attention to 
  choose something from the more elegant choices? There were no 
  instructions for “gray area” or “uncertainty;” but someone had 
  helpfully included a last…minute handwritten note toward the 
  bottom of the table of contents:When in doubt (and you never 
  should be); better to be underdressed in something fabulous 
  than overdressed in something fabulous。 Well; OK then; it 
  looked like I now squarely fit into category; party; 
  subcategory; stylish。 I turned to the six looks that Lucia had 
  sketched for that specific description and tried to figure out 
  what might look less ridiculous once it was actually on。

  After a particularly embarrassing run…in with a 
  feather…covered tank top and patent…leather thigh…high (as in 
  yes; over the knee) boots; I finally selected the outfit on 
  page thirty…three; a flowy patchwork skirt by Roberto Cavalli 
  with a baby…T and a pair of biker…chick black boots by D&G。 
  Hot; sexy; stylish—but not too dressy—without actually making 
  me look like an ostrich; an eighties throwback; or a hooker。 
  What more could you ask for? Just as I was attempting to 
  choose a workable bag; the hair and makeup woman showed up to 
  begin her frowning and disapproving attempts at making me not 
  look half as horrific as she clearly thought I did。

  “Um; could you maybe lighten the stuff under my eyes just a 
  little?” I asked carefully; desperately trying not disparage 
  her handiwork。 It probably would’ve been better to have a go 
  at the makeup myself— especially since I had more supplies and 
  instructions than the NASA scientists missioned to build 
  the space shuttle—but the Makeup Gestapo showed up like 
  clockwork whether I liked it or not。

  “No!” she barked; clearly not striving for the same 
  sensitivity as myself。 “It looks better this way。”

  She finished painting on the thick black paint along my bottom 
  lashes and vanished as quickly as she’d arrived; I grabbed my 
  bag (alligator Gucci bowling bag) and headed to the lobby 
  fifteen minutes before our estimated time of departure so I 
  could double…check that the driver was ready。 Just as I was 
  debating with Renaud whether Miranda would prefer for us to 
  each take separate cars so she wouldn’t have to speak to me or 
  actually use the same one and risk catching something from 
  sharing a backseat with her assistant; she appeared。 She 
  looked me up and down very slowly; her expression remaining 
  pletely passive and indifferent。 I’d passed! This was the 
  first time since I’d started working there that I hadn’t 
  received a look of all…out disgust or; at the very least; a 
  snarky ment; and all it had taken was a SWAT team of New 
  York fashion editors; a collection of Parisian hair and makeup 
  stylists; and a hefty selection of the world’s finest and most 
  expensive clothing。

  “Is the car here; Ahn…dre…ah?” She looked stunning in a short; 
  shirred velvet cocktail dress。

  “Yes; Ms。 Priestly; right this way;” Monsieur Renaud 
  interrupted smoothly; leading us past a group of what could 
  only be other American fashion editors also there for the 
  shows。 A deferential hush fell over the super…hip…looking 
  crowd ofüber …Clackers when we walked past; Miranda two steps 
  in front me; looking thin and striking and very; very unhappy。 
  I nearly had to run to keep up; even though she was six inches 
  shorter than me; and I waited until she gave me a “Well? What 
  the hell are you waiting for?” look before I ducked into the 
  backseat of the limo after her。

  Thankfully the driver appeared to know where he was going; 
  because I’d been paranoid for the past hour that she would 
  turn to me and ask me where the unknown cocktail party was 
  being held。 She did turn to me; but she said nothing; choosing 
  instead to chat with B…DAD on her Cell Phone; repeating over 
  and over that she expected him to arrive with plenty of time 
  to change and have a drink before the big party on Saturday 
  night。 He was flying over in his pany’s private jet; and 
  they were currently debating whether or not to bring Caroline 
  and Cassidy; since he wouldn’t be returning until Monday; she 
  didn’t want the girls to have to miss a day of school。 It 
  wasn’t until we’d actually pulled up in front of a duplex 
  apartment on Boulevard Saint Germain that I wondered what it 
  was exactly that I was supposed to do all night。 She’d always 
  been rather good about not abusing Emily or me or any of her 
  staff in public; which indicated—at least on some level—that 
  she knew she was doing it in the first place。 So if she 
  couldn’t really order me to fetch her drinks or find her 
  someone on the phone or have something dry…cleaned while we 
  were standing there; what was I to do?

  “Ahn…dre…ah; this party is being hosted by a couple with whom 
  I was friendly when we lived in Paris。 They requested that I 
  bring along an assistant to entertain their son; who generally 
  finds these events rather dull。 I’m sure the two of you will 
  get along well。” She waited until the driver opened her door; 
  then she daintily stepped out in her perfect Jimmy Choo pumps。 
  Before I could open my own door; she had climbed the three 
  steps and was already handing her coat to the butler; who was 
  clearly awaiting her arrival。 I slumped back into the soft 
  leather seat for just a minute; trying to process this new gem 
  of information she’d so coolly relayed。 The hair; the makeup; 
  the rescheduling; the panicked consultation with the style 
  book; the biker…chick boots; were all so I could spend the 
  night babysitting some rich couple’s snot…nosed kid? And 
  aFrench snot…nosed kid; no less。

  I spent three full minutes reminding myself thatThe New Yorker 
  was now only a couple months away; that my year of servitude 
  was about to pay off; that I could surely make it through one 
  more night of tedium to get my dream job。 It didn’t help。 All 
  of a sudden; I desperately wanted to curl up on my parents’ 
  couch and have my mom microwave me some tea while my dad set 
  up the Scrabble board。 Jill and even Kyle would be visiting; 
  too; with baby Isaac; who would coo and smile when he saw me 
  and Alex would call and tell me he loved me。 No one would care 
  that my sweatpants were stained or my toes were frightfully 
  unpedicured or that I was eating a big; fat chocolate éclair。 
  Not a single person would even know that there were fashion 
  shows going on somewhere across the Atlantic; and they sure as 
  hell wouldn’t be interested in hearing about them。 But all of 
  that seemed incredibly far away; a lifetime actually; and 
  right now I had to contend with a coterie of people who lived 
  and died on the runway。 That; and what was sure to be a 
  screaming; spoiled little boy speaking some French gibberish。

  When I finally pulled my scantily…but…stylishly clad self from 
  the limo; the butler was no longer expecting anyone。 There was 
  music ing from a live band and the smell of scented candles 
  wafted outside from a window above the small garden。 I took a 
  deep breath and reached up to knock; but the door swung open。 
  It’s
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