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第11节

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第11节


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  ultimate guarantee of going places in the fashion world; but I was 
  clinging to the belief that my one…year sentence would suffice 
  forThe New Yorker 。 Allison had already left Miranda’s office area 
  for her new post in the beauty department; where she’d be 
  responsible for testing new makeup; moisturizers; and hair products 
  and writing them up。 I wasn’t sure how being Miranda’s assistant had 
  prepared her for this task; but I was impressed nonetheless。 The 
  promises were true: people who worked for Miranda got places。

  The rest of the staff began streaming in around ten; about fifty in 
  all of editorial。 The biggest department was fashion; of course; 
  with close to thirty people; including all the accessories 
  assistants。 Features; beauty; and art rounded out the mix。 Nearly 
  everyone stopped by Miranda’s office to schmooze with Emily; 
  overhear any gossip concerning her boss; and check out the new girl。 
  I met dozens of people that first morning; everyone flashing 
  enormous; toothy white smiles and appearing genuinely interested in 
  meeting me。

  The men were all flamboyantly gay; adorning themselves in 
  second…skin leather pants and ribbed T’s that stretched over bulging 
  biceps and perfect pecs。 The art director; an older man sporting 
  champagne blond; thinning hair; who looked like he dedicated his 
  life to emulating Elton John; was turned out in rabbit…fur loafers 
  and eyeliner。 No one batted an eye。 We’d had gay groups on campus; 
  and I had a few friends who’d e out the past few years; but none 
  of them looked like this。 It was like being surrounded by the entire 
  cast and crew ofRent —with better costumes; of course。

  The women; or rather the girls; were individually beautiful。 
  Collectively; they were mind…blowing。 Most appeared to be about 
  twenty…five; and few looked a day older than thirty。 While nearly 
  all of them had enormous; glimmering diamonds on their ring fingers; 
  it seemed impossible that any had actually given birth yet—or ever 
  would。 In and out; in and out they walked gracefully on four…inch 
  skinny heels; sashaying over to my desk to extend milky…white hands 
  with long; manicured fingers; calling themselves “Jocelyn who works 
  with Hope;” “Nicole from fashion;” and “Stef who oversees 
  accessories。” Only one; Shayna; was shorter than five…nine; but she 
  was so petite it seemed impossible for her to carry another inch of 
  height。 All weighed less than 110 pounds。

  As I sat in my swivel chair; trying to remember everyone’s name; the 
  prettiest girl I’d seen all day swooped in。 She wore a rose…colored 
  cashmere sweater that looked like it was spun from pink clouds。 The 
  most amazing; white hair swirled down her back。 Her six…one frame 
  looked as though it carried only enough weight to keep her upright; 
  but she moved with the surprising grace of a dancer。 Her cheeks 
  glowed; and her multi…carat; flawless diamond engagement ring 
  emanated an incredible lightness。 I thought she’d caught me staring 
  at it; since she flung her hand under my nose。

  “I created it;” she announced; smiling at her hand and looking at 
  me。 I looked to Emily for an explanation; a hint as to who this 
  might be; but she was on the phone again。 I thought the girl was 
  referring to the ring; meant that she had actually designed it; but 
  then she said; “Isn’t it a gorgeous color? It’s one coat Marshmallow 
  and one coat Ballet Slipper。 Actually; Ballet Slipper came first; 
  and then a topcoat to finish it off。 It’s perfect—light colored 
  without looking like you painted your nails with White Out。 I think 
  I’ll use this every time I get a manicure!” And she turned on her 
  heels and walked out。Ah; yes; a pleasure to meet you; too; I 
  mentally directed toward her back as she strutted away。

  I’d been enjoying meeting all my coworkers; everyone seemed kind and 
  sweet and; except for the beautiful weirdo with the nail polish 
  fetish; they all appeared interested in getting to know me。 Emily 
  hadn’t left my side yet; seizing every opportunity to teach me 
  something。 She provided running mentary on who was really 
  important; whom not to piss off; whom it was beneficial to befriend 
  because they threw the best parties。 When I described Manicure Girl; 
  Emily’s face lit up。

  “Oh!” she breathed; more excited than I’d heard her about anyone 
  else yet。 “Isn’t she just amazing?”

  “Um; yeah; she seemed nice。 We didn’t really get a chance to talk; 
  she was just; you know; showing me her nail polish。”

  Emily smiled widely; proudly。 “Yes; well; you do know who she is; 
  don’t you?”

  I wracked my brain; trying to remember if she looked like any movie 
  stars or singers or models; but I couldn’t place her。 So; she was 
  famous! Maybe that’s why she hadn’t introduced herself—I was 
  supposed to recognize her。 But I didn’t。 “No; actually; I don’t。 Is 
  she famous?”

  The stare I received in response was part disbelief; part disgust。 
  “Um;yeah; ” Emily said; emphasizing the “yeah” and squinting her 
  eyes as if to say;You total fucking idiot 。 “That is Jessica 
  Duchamps。” She waited。 I waited。 Nothing。 “You do know who that is; 
  right?” Again; I ran lists through my mind; trying to connect 
  something with this new information; but I was quite sure I’d never; 
  ever heard of her。 Besides; this game was getting old。

  “Emily; I’ve never seen her before; and her name doesn’t sound 
  familiar。 Would you please tell me who she is?” I asked; struggling 
  to remain calm。 The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she 
  was; but Emily was clearly not going to give this up until she’d 
  made me look like a plete and total loser。

  Her smile this time was patronizing。 “Of course。 You just had to say 
  so。 Jessica Duchamps is; well; a Duchamps! You know; as in the most 
  successful French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it—isn’t 
  that crazy? They are so unbelievably rich。”

  “Oh; really?” I said; feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this 
  super…pretty girl was worth knowing because her parents were 
  restaurateurs。 “That’s great。”

  I answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s 
  office;” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself 
  would call and I wouldn’t know what to do。 Panic set in during a 
  call when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a 
  strong British accent; and I threw the phone to Emily without 
  thinking to put it on hold first。

  “It’s her;” I whispered urgently。 “Take it。”

  Emily gave me my first viewing of her specialty look。 Never one to 
  mince emotions; she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a 
  way that clearly conveyed equal parts disgust and pity。

  “Miranda? It’s Emily;” she said; a bright smile lighting up her face 
  as if Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her。 
  Silence。 A frown。 “Oh; Mimi; so sorry! The new girl thought you were 
  Miranda! I know; how funny。 I guess we have to work onnot thinking 
  every British accent is necessarily our boss! ” She looked at me 
  pointedly; her overtweezed eyebrows arching even higher。

  She chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and 
  take messages for Emily; who would then call the people back—with 
  nonstop narration on their order of importance; if any; in Miranda’s 
  life。 About noon; just as the first hunger pangs were beginning; I 
  picked up a call and heard a British accent on the other end。

  “Hello? Allison; is that you?” asked the icy…sounding but regal 
  voice。 “I’ll be needing a skirt。”

  I cupped my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide。 
  “Emily; it’s her; it’s definitely her;” I hissed; waving the 
  receiver to get her attention。 “She wants a skirt!”

  Emily turned to see my panic…stricken face and promptly hung up the 
  phone without so much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good…bye。” 
  She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line; and plastered 
  on another wide grin。

  “Miranda? It’s Emily。 What can I do?” She put her pen to her pad and 
  began writing furiously; forehead furrowing intently。 “Yes; of 
  course。 Naturally。” And as fast as it happened; it was over。 I 
  looked at her expectantly。 She rolled her eyes at me for appearing 
  so eager。

  “Well; it looks like you have your first job。 Miranda needs a skirt 
  for tomorrow; among other things; so we’ll need to get it on a plane 
  by tonight; at the latest。”

  “OK; well; what kind does she need?” I asked; still reeling from the 
  shock that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic 
  simply because she’d requested it do so。

  “She didn’t 

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