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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第88部分

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  bee like this?

  There was no energy left to point out the obvious to him; 
  namely; that if I left early to e Home; I’d be fired 
  immediately and my entire year of servitude would have been 
  for nothing。 I had managed to suppress that awful thought 
  before it took full form in my mind: that my being there or 
  not being there would mean absolutely nothing to Lily right 
  now; since she was unconscious and unaware in a hospital bed。 
  The options swirled around in my mind。 Perhaps I would stay 
  just long enough to help with the party and then try to 
  explain to Miranda what happened and make a plea for my job。 
  Or; if it appeared that Lily was awake and alert; someone 
  could explain that I would be on my way as soon as possible; 
  at that point probably just a couple more days。 And while both 
  of these explanations sounded somewhat reasonable in the dark 
  hours of early morning after a long night of dancing and many 
  glasses of bubbly and a phone call telling me my best friend 
  was in a a because of her own drunk driving; somewhere down 
  deep I knew—I knew—that neither of them was。

  “Ahn…dre…ah; leave a message at Horace Mann that the girls 
  will be missing school on Monday because they’ll be in Paris 
  with me; and make sure you get a list of all the work they’ll 
  need to make up。 Also; push back my dinner tonight until 
  eight…thirty; and if they’re not happy about that; then just 
  cancel it。 Have you located a copy of that book I asked you 
  for yesterday? I need four copies—two in French; two in 
  English—before I meet them at the restaurant。 Oh; and I want a 
  final copy of the edited menu for tomorrow’s party to reflect 
  the changes I made。 Make certain that there will be no sushi 
  of any kind; do you hear me?”

  “Yes; Miranda;” I said; scribbling as quickly as possible in 
  the Smythson notebook the accessories department had 
  thoughtfully included with my array of bags; shoes; belts; and 
  jewelry。 We were in the car on our way to the Dior show—my 
  first—with Miranda spitting out rapid…fire instructions with 
  no regard for the fact that I’d gotten less than two hours of 
  sleep。 The knock on my door came at 7:45A 。M。 from one of 
  Monsieur Renaud’s junior concierges who was there personally 
  to wake me up and see that I was dressed in time to attend the 
  show with Miranda; who had herself decided she’d like my 
  assistance just six minutes earlier。 He had politely ignored 
  my being quite obviously passed out on the still made bed and 
  had even dimmed the lights; which had blazed all night。 I had 
  twenty…five minutes to shower; consult the fashion book; dress 
  myself; and do my own makeup; since my woman was not scheduled 
  to e this early。

  I awoke with a minor champagne headache; but the real jolt of 
  pain came when the previous night’s phone calls came flashing 
  back。 Lily! I needed to call Alex or my parents and see if 
  anything had happened in the last couple hours—god; it seemed 
  like a week ago—but now there was no time。

  By the time the elevator had hit the first floor; I’d decided 
  that I had to stay for one more day; just one lousy day to 
  tend to this party; and then I’d be Home with Lily。 Maybe I’d 
  even take a short leave of absence once Emily returned; to 
  spend some time with Lil; help her recuperate and deal with 
  some of the inevitable fallout from the accident。 My parents 
  and Alex would hold down the fort until I got there—it’s not 
  as though she’s all alone;I told myself。 And this was my life。 
  My career; my entire future; was on the line here; and I 
  didn’t see how two days either way made all that much 
  difference to someone who wasn’t yet conscious。 But to me—and 
  certainly to Miranda—it made all the difference in the world。

  Somehow I’d made it to the backseat of the limo before Miranda 
  did; and even though her eyes were currently fixating on my 
  chiffon skirt; she hadn’t yet mented on any one part of the 
  outfit。 I had just tucked the Smythson book into my Bottega 
  Venetta bag when my new; international Cell Phone rang。 It had 
  never rung in Miranda’s presence before; I realized; so I 
  scrambled quickly to turn off the ringer; but she ordered me 
  to answer it。

  “Hello?” I kept one eye on Miranda; who was paging through the 
  day’s itinerary and pretending not to listen。

  “Andy; hi honey。” Dad。 “Just wanted to give you a quick 
  update。”

  “OK。” I was trying to say the bare minimum; since it seemed 
  incredibly strange to be talking on the phone in front of 
  Miranda。

  “The doctor just called and said that Lily is showing signs 
  that indicate she may e out of it soon。 Isn’t that great? I 
  thought you’d want to know。”

  “That’s great。 Definitely great。”

  “Have you decided if you’re ing Home or not?”

  “Um; no; I haven’t decided。 Miranda’s having a party tomorrow 
  night and she definitely needs my help; so 。 。 。 Listen; Dad; 
  I’m sorry; but now’s not a great time。 Can I call you back?”

  “Sure; call anytime。” He tried to sound neutral; but I could 
  hear the disappointment in his voice。

  “Great。 Thanks for calling。 ’Bye。”

  “Who was that?” Miranda asked; still peering at her itinerary。 
  It had just begun raining and her voice was nearly drowned out 
  by the sound of water hitting the limo。

  “Hmm? Oh; that was my father。 From America。” Where the hell 
  did I e up with this stuff? FromAmerica ?

  “And what did he want you to do that conflicted with your 
  working at the party tomorrow night?”

  I considered a million potential lies in the course of two 
  seconds; but there wasn’t enough time to work out the details 
  of any of them。 Especially when she had turned her full 
  attention to me now。 I was left with no choice but to tell the 
  truth。

  “Oh; it was nothing。 A friend of mine was in an accident。 
  She’s in the hospital。 In a a; actually。 And he was just 
  calling to tell me how she was doing and to see if I was 
  ing Home。”

  She considered this; nodding slowly; and then picked up the 
  copy of theInternational Herald Tribune paper the driver had 
  thoughtfully provided。 “I see。” No “I’m sorry;” or “Is your 
  friend OK?;” just an icy; vague statement and a look of 
  extreme displeasure。

  “But I’m not; I’m definitely not going Home。 I understand how 
  important it is that I’m at the party tomorrow; and I’ll be 
  there。 I’ve thought a lot about it; and I want you to know 
  that I plan to honor the mitment I’ve made to you and to my 
  job; so I’ll be staying。”

  At first Miranda said nothing。 But then she smiled slightly 
  and said; “Ahn…dre…ah; I’m very pleased with your decision。 It 
  is absolutely the right thing to do; and I appreciate that you 
  recognize that。 Ahn…dre…ah; I have to say; I had my doubts 
  about you from the start。 Clearly; you know nothing about 
  fashion and more than that; you don’t seem to care。 And don’t 
  think I’ve failed to notice all the rich and varied ways you 
  convey to me your displeasure when I ask you to do something 
  that you’d rather not。 Your petency in the job has been 
  adequate; but your attitude has been substandard at best。”

  “Oh; Miranda; please let me—”

  “I’m speaking! And I was going to say that I’ll be much more 
  willing to help you get where you’d like to go now that you’ve 
  demonstrated that you’re mitted。 You should be proud of 
  yourself; Ahn…dre…ah。” Just when I thought I’d faint from the 
  length and depth and content of the soliloquy—whether from joy 
  or from pain; I wasn’t sure—she took it one step further。 In a 
  move that was so fundamentally out of character for this woman 
  on every level; she placed her hand on top of the one I had 
  resting on the seat between us and said; “You remind me of 
  myself when I was your age。” And before I could conjure up a 
  single appropriate syllable to utter; the driver screeched to 
  a halt in front of the Carrousel du Louvre and leapt out to 
  open the doors。 I grabbed my bag and hers as well and wondered 
  if this was the proudest or the most humiliating moment of my 
  life。

  My first Parisian fashion show was a blur。 It was dark; that 
  much I remember; and the music seemed much too loud for such 
  understated elegance; but the only thing that stands out from 
  that two…hour window into bizarreness was my own intense 
  disfort。 The Chanel boots that Jocelyn had so lovingly 
  selected to go with the outfit—a stretchy and therefore 
  skintight cashmere sweater by Malo over a chiffon skirt—made 
  my feet feel like confidential documents being fed through a 
  shredder。 My head ached from a bination of hangover and 
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