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第23节

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第23节


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  time we made it back to her apartment on Saturday; we were exhausted 
  and happy and spent the rest of the night alternating betweenWhen 
  Harry Met Sally on TNT andSaturday Night Live 。 It was so thoroughly 
  relaxing; such a departure from the misery that had bee my daily 
  routine; I’d forgotten all about the Harry Potter mission until I 
  heard a phone ring on Sunday。 Ohmigod; it was Her! I overheard Lily 
  speaking in Russian to someone; probably a classmate; on her Cell 
  Phone。 Thank you; thank you; thank you; dear lord: it wasn’t Her。 
  But that still didn’t let me off the hook。 It was already Sunday 
  morning; and I had no idea if those stupid books had found their way 
  to Paris。 I had enjoyed my weekend so much—had actually managed to 
  relax enough—that I had forgotten to check。 Of course; my phone was 
  on and set to the highest ring level; but I never should’ve waited 
  for someone to call me with a problem; when of course it’d be too 
  late to do anything。 I should’ve taken preemptive action and 
  confirmed with everyone involved yesterday that all the steps of our 
  highly choreographed plan had worked。

  I dug frantically through my overnight bag; searching for the cell 
  phone given to me byRunway that would ensure I was always only seven 
  digits away from Miranda。 I finally freed it from a tangle of 
  underwear at the bottom of the bag and flopped backward on the bed。 
  The little screen announced immediately that I had no service at 
  that point; and I knew immediately; instinctively; that she had 
  called and it had gone directly to voice mail。 I hated that Cell 
  Phone with my entire soul。 I even hated my new Bang and Olufsen Home 
  phone by this point。 I hated Lily’s phone; mercials for phones; 
  pictures of phones in magazines; and I even hated Alexander Graham 
  Bell。 Working for Miranda Priestly caused a number of unfortunate 
  side effects in my day…to…day life; but the most unnatural one was 
  my severe and all…consuming hatred of phones。

  For most people; the ringing of a phone was a wele sign。 Someone 
  was trying to reach them; to say hello; ask about their well…being; 
  or make plans。 For me; it triggered fear; intense anxiety; and 
  heart…stopping panic。 Some people considered the many available 
  phone features to be a novelty; even fun。 For me; they were nothing 
  short of imperative。 Although I’d never had so much as call waiting 
  before Miranda; a few days into my tenure atRunway I was signed up 
  for call waiting (so she’d never get a busy signal); caller ID (so I 
  could avoid her calls); call waiting with caller ID (so I could 
  avoid her calls while talking on the other line); and voice mail (so 
  she wouldn’t know I was avoiding her calls because she’d still hear 
  an answering machine message)。 Fifty bucks a month for phone 
  service—before long distance—seemed a small price to pay for my 
  peace of mind。 Well; not peace of mind exactly; more like early 
  warning。

  The Cell Phone afforded me no such barriers。 Sure; it had all the 
  same features as the Home phone; but from Miranda’s point of view 
  there was simply no reasonwhatsoever for the cell to ever be turned 
  off。 It could never go unanswered。 The few reasons for such a 
  situation that I’d thrown out to Emily when she’d first handed me 
  the phone—a standardRunway office supply—and told me to always 
  answer it were quickly eliminated。

  “What if you were sleeping?” I had stupidly asked。

  “So get up and answer it;” she’d answered while filing down a 
  scraggly nail。

  “Sitting down to a really fancy meal?”

  “Be like every other New Yorker and talk at the dinner table。”

  “Getting a pelvic exam?”

  “They’re not looking in your ears; are they?” All right then。 I got 
  it。

  I loathed that fucking cell but could not ignore it。 It kept me tied 
  to Miranda like an umbilical cord; refusing to let me grow up or out 
  or away from my source of suffocation。 She calledconstantly; and 
  like some sick Pavlovian experiment gone awry; my body had begun 
  responding viscerally to its ring。Brring…brring。 Increased heart 
  rate。Briiiing。 Automatic finger clenching and shoulder 
  tensing。Brriiiiiiiiiiiing。 Oh; why won’t she leave me alone; please; 
  oh; please; just forget I’m alive —sweat breaks out on my forehead。 
  This whole glorious weekend I’d never even considered the phone 
  might not have service and had just assumed it would’ve rung if 
  there was a problem。 Mistake number one。 I roamed the couple hundred 
  square feet until AT&T decided to work again; held my breath; and 
  dialed into my voice mail。

  Mom left a cute message wishing me lots of fun with Lily。 A friend 
  from San Francisco found himself on Business in New York that week 
  and wanted to get together。 My sister called to remind me to send a 
  birthday card to her husband。 And there it was; almost unexpected 
  but not quite; that dreaded British accent ringing in my ears。 
  “Ahn…dre…ah。 It’s Mir…ahnda。 It’s nine in the morning on Sunday in 
  Pah…ris and the girls have not yet received their books。 Call me at 
  the Ritz to assure me that they will arrive shortly。 That’s all。” 
  Click。

  The bile began to rise in my throat。 As usual; the message lacked 
  all niceties。 No hello; good…bye; or thank you。 Obviously。 But more 
  than that; it had been left nearly half a day ago; and I had still 
  not called her back。 Grounds for dismissal; I knew; and there was 
  nothing I could do about it。 Like an amateur; I’d assumed my plan 
  would work perfectly and hadn’t even realized that Uri had never 
  called to confirm the pickup and drop…off。 I scanned through the 
  address book on my phone and quickly dialed Uri’s Cell Phone number; 
  another Miranda purchase so that he’d be on call 24/7 as well。

  “Hi; Uri; it’s Andrea。 Sorry to bother you on Sunday; but I was 
  wondering if you picked up those books yesterday from Eighty…seventh 
  and Amsterdam?”

  “Hi; Andy; eet’s so nice to hear your woice;” he crooned in the 
  thick Russian accent I always found so forting。 He’d been calling 
  me Andy like a favorite old uncle would since the first time we met; 
  and ing from him—as opposed to B…DAD—I didn’t mind it。 “Of course 
  I pick up the bouks; just like you say。 You tink I don’t vant to 
  help you?”

  “No; no; of course not; Uri。 It’s just that I got a message from 
  Miranda saying that they hadn’t received them yet; and I’m wondering 
  what went wrong。”

  He was quiet for a moment; and then offered me the name and number 
  of the pilot who was flying the private jet yesterday afternoon。

  “Oh; thank you; thank you; thank you;” I said; scribbling the number 
  down frantically and praying that the pilot would be helpful。 “I’ve 
  got to run。 Sorry I can’t talk; but have a great weekend。”

  “Yes; yes; good veekend to you; Andy。 I tink the pilot man will help 
  you trace the bouks。 Nice luck to you;” he said merrily and hung up。

  Lily was making waffles and I desperately wanted to join her; but I 
  had to deal with this now or I was out of a job。 Or maybe I’d 
  already been fired; I thought; and no one had even bothered to tell 
  me。 Not outside the realm ofRunway possibility; remembering the 
  fashion editor who’d been fired while on her honeymoon。 She herself 
  stumbled across her change in job status by reading about it in a 
  copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily in Bali。 I quickly called the number that 
  Uri had given me for the pilot and thought I’d pass out from 
  frustration when an answering machine picked up。

  “Hi; Jonathan? This is Andrea Sachs fromRunway magazine。 I’m Miranda 
  Priestly’s assistant; and I needed to ask you a question about the 
  flight yesterday。 Oh; e to think of it; you’re probably still in 
  Paris; or maybe on your way back。 Well; I just wanted to see if the 
  books; and uh; well; you of course; made it to Paris in one piece。 
  Can you call my cell? 917…555…8702。 Please; as soon as possible。 
  Thanks。 ’Bye。”

  I thought about phoning the concierge at the Ritz to see if he’d 
  remember receiving the car that would have brought the books from 
  the private airport on the outskirts of Paris but quickly realized 
  that my cell didn’t dial internationally。 It was quite possibly the 
  only task it was not programmed to handle; and it was; of course; 
  the only one that mattered。 At that moment; Lily announced that she 
  had a plate of waffles and a cup of Coffee for me。 I walked into the 
  kitchen and took the food。 She was sipping a Bloody Mary。 Ugh。 It 
  was a Sunday morning。 How could she be drinking?

  “Having a Miranda moment?” she asked with a look of sympathy。

  I nodded。 “Think I screwed up pretty badly this time;” I said;

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