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第78节

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第78节


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  all the overflowing racks of clothes and carts full of shoes 
  and baskets brimming over with accessories must be schlepped 
  to her。

  When the accessories people finally managed to lay out their 
  wares in neat rows on the carpet for her to inspect; Miranda’s 
  office morphed into a Bedouin bazaar—one that just so happens 
  to look more Madison Avenue than Sharm…el…Sheik。 One editor 
  was presenting her with 2;000 snakeskin belts while another 
  tried to sell her a large Kelly bag。 A third hawked a short 
  Fendi cocktail dress; while someone else tried to sell her on 
  the merits of chiffon。 Stef had managed to assemble a 
  near…perfect run…through with only thirty seconds’ notice and 
  a whole lot of pieces missing; I saw she had filled the gaps 
  with things from past photo shoots; explaining to Miranda that 
  the accessories they were still waiting for were similar but 
  even better。 They were all masters at what they do; but 
  Miranda was the ultimate。 She was the ever…aloof consumer; 
  coolly moving from one gorgeous stall to the next; never 
  feigning any show of interest。 When she finally; blessedly; 
  did decide; she pointed and manded (much like a judge at a 
  dog show; “Bob; she’s chosen the Border Collie 。 。 。”); and 
  the editors nodded obsequiously (“Yes; excellent choice;” “Oh; 
  definitely; the perfect choice”) and they wrapped up their 
  wares and scuttled back to their respective departments before 
  she inevitably changed her mind。

  The whole hellish ordeal only took a few minutes; but by the 
  time it was over; we were all exhausted from anxiety。 She’d 
  already announced earlier in the day that she’d be leaving 
  early; around four; to spend a couple hours with the girls 
  before the big trip; so I canceled the features meeting; to 
  the relief of the entire department。 At precisely 3:58P 。M。 
  she began packing her bag to leave; a not…so…strenuous 
  activity; since I’d be bringing anything of any heft or 
  significance to her apartment later on that evening in time 
  for her flight。 Basically; it involved tossing her Gucci 
  wallet and her Motorola Cell Phone into that Fendi bag that 
  she kept abusing。 The past few weeks; the 10;000 beauty had 
  been serving as Cassidy’s school bag and many of the beads—in 
  addition to one of the handles—had snapped off。 Miranda had 
  dropped it on my desk one day and ordered me to have it fixed 
  or; if it was impossible to fix; to just throw out。 I’d 
  proudly resisted all temptation to tell her the bag was 
  unfixable so I could keep it and instead had a leatherworker 
  repair it for her for a mere twenty…five dollars。

  When she finally walked out; I instinctively reached for the 
  phone to call Alex and whine about my day。 It wasn’t until I’d 
  dialed half of his number that I remembered we were taking a 
  break。 It hit me that this would be the first day in more than 
  three years that we wouldn’t talk。 I sat with the phone in my 
  hand; staring at an e…mail he’d sent the day before; one that 
  he’d signed “love;” and wondered if I’d made a horrible 
  mistake in agreeing to this break。 I dialed again; this time 
  ready to tell him that we should talk about everything; figure 
  out where we’d gone wrong; that I take responsibility for the 
  part I’d played in the slow and steady fading of our 
  relationship。 But before it even had a chance to ring; Stef 
  was standing over my desk with the Accessories War Plan for my 
  Paris trip; pumped up from her run…through with Miranda。 There 
  were shoes and bags and belts and jewelry and hosiery and 
  sunglasses to discuss; so I replaced the receiver and tried to 
  focus on her instructions。

  Logically; it would seem that a seven…hour flight in steerage 
  decked out in a pair of skintight leather pants; open…toe 
  strappy sandals; and a blazer over a tank top would be the 
  utmost in hellish travel experiences。 Not so。 The seven hours 
  in flight were the most relaxing I could remember。 Since 
  Miranda and I were both flying to Paris at the same time on 
  different flights—she from Milan and me from New York—it 
  appeared I’d stumbled on the single situation where she could 
  not call me for seven straight hours。 For one blessed day; my 
  inaccessibility wasn’t my fault。

  For reasons I still didn’t understand; my parents hadn’t been 
  nearly as thrilled as I thought they’d be when I’d called to 
  tell them about the trip。

  “Oh; really?” my mother asked in that special way of hers that 
  implied so much more than those two little words really meant。 
  “You’re going to Paris now?”

  “What do you mean; ‘now’?”

  “Well; it just doesn’t seem like the best time to be jetting 
  off to Europe; is all;” she said vaguely; although I could 
  tell that an avalanche of Jewish…mother guilt was ready to 
  begin its slide in my direction。

  “And why is that? Whenwould be a good time?”

  “Don’t get upset; Andy。 It’s just that we haven’t seen you in 
  months—not that we’re plaining; Dad and I both understand 
  how demanding your job is—but don’t you want to see your new 
  nephew? He’s a few months old already and you haven’t even met 
  him yet!”

  “Mom! Don’t make me feel guilty。 I’m dying to see Isaac; but 
  you know I can’t just—”

  “You know Dad and I will pay for your ticket to Houston; 
  right?”

  “Yes! You’ve told me four hundred times。 I know it and I 
  appreciate it; but it’s not the money。 I can’t get any time 
  off work and now with Emily out; I can’t just up and 
  leave—even on weekends。 Does it make sense to you to fly 
  across the country only to have to e back if Miranda calls 
  me on Saturday morning to pick up her dry cleaning? Does it?”

  “Of course not; Andy; I just thought—we just thought—that you 
  might be able to visit them in the next couple weeks; because 
  Miranda was going to be away and all; and if you were going to 
  fly out there; then Dad and I would go also。 But now you’re 
  going to Paris。”

  She said it in the way that implied what she was really 
  thinking。 “But now you’re going to Paris” translated to “But 
  now you’re jetting off to Europe to escape all of your family 
  obligations。”

  “Mother; let me make something very; very clear here。 I am not 
  going on vacation。 I have not chosen to go to Paris rather 
  than meet my baby nephew。 It’s not my decision at all; as you 
  probably know but are refusing to accept。 It’s really very 
  simple: I go to Paris with Miranda in three days for one week; 
  or I get fired。 Do you see a choice here? Because if so; I’d 
  love to hear it。”

  She was quiet for a moment before she said; “No; of course 
  not; honey。 You know we understand。 I just hope—well; I just 
  hope that you’re happy with the way things are going。”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked nastily。

  “Nothing; nothing;” she rushed to say。 “It doesn’t mean 
  anything other than just what I said: your dad and I only care 
  that you’re happy; and it seems that you’ve really been; um; 
  well; uh; pushing yourself lately。 Is everything OK?”

  I softened a bit since she was clearly trying so hard。 “Yeah; 
  Mom; everything’s fine。 I’m not happy to be going to Paris; 
  just so you know。 It’s going to be a week of sheer hell; 
  twenty…four…seven。 But my year will be up soon; and I can put 
  this kind of living behind me。”

  “I know; sweetie; I know it’s been a tough year for you。 I 
  just hope this all ends up being worth it for you。 That’s 
  all。”

  “I know。 So do I。”

  We hung up on good terms; but I couldn’t shake the feeling 
  that my own parents were disappointed in me。

  The baggage claim at de Gaulle was a nightmare; but I found 
  the elegantly dressed driver who was waving a sign with my 
  name on it when I exited customs; and the moment he closed his 
  own door; he handed me a Cell Phone。

  “Ms。 Priestly asked that you call her upon arrival。 I took the 
  liberty of programming the hotel’s number into the automatic 
  dialing。 She’s in the Coco Chanel suite。”

  “Um; oh; OK。 Thanks。 I guess I’ll call right now;” I announced 
  rather unnecessarily。

  But before I could press the star key and the number one; the 
  phone bleated and flashed a frightening red color。 If the 
  driver hadn’t been watching me expectantly I would have muted 
  the ring and pretended I hadn’t yet seen it; but I was left 
  with the distinct feeling that he had been ordered to keep a 
  close eye on me。 Something about his expression suggested that 
  it was not in my best interest to ignore that call。

  “Hello? This is Andrea Sachs;” I said as professionally as 
  possible; already making over/und

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