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第85节

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第85节


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  standing next to her snickered; and I felt my face turn bright 
  red。

  “Of course。 I’ll be right back。” I fetched the water; which 
  she accepted without a thank…you; and made my way through the 
  thinning crowd to the car。 I considered finding Christian’s 
  parents to thank them but thought better of it and headed 
  straight toward the door; where he was leaning up against the 
  frame with a smugly satisfied expression。

  “So; little Andy; did I show you a good time tonight?” he 
  slurred just a little bit; and it seemed nothing short of 
  adorable at that moment。

  “It was all right; I suppose。”

  “Just all right? Sounds to me like you wish I would’ve taken 
  you upstairs tonight; huh; Andy? All in good time; my friend; 
  all in good time。”

  I smacked him playfully on the forearm。 “Don’t flatter 
  yourself; Christian。 Thank your parents for me。” And; for 
  once; I leaned over first and kissed him on the cheek before 
  he could do anything else。 “G’night。”

  “A tease!” he called; slurring just a little bit more。 “You’re 
  quite the little tease。 Bet your boyfriend loves that about 
  you; doesn’t he?” He was smiling now; and not cruelly。 It was 
  all part of the flirty game for him; but the reference to Alex 
  sobered me for a minute。 Just long enough to realize that I’d 
  had a better time tonight than I could remember having had in 
  many years。 The drinking and the close dancing and his hands 
  on my back as he pulled me against him had made me feel more 
  alive than in all the months since I’d been working atRunway; 
  months that had been filled with nothing but frustration and 
  humiliation and a body…numbing exhaustion。 Maybe this was why 
  Lily did it; I thought。 The guys; the partying; the sheer joy 
  of realizing you’re young and breathing。 I couldn’t wait to 
  call and tell her all about it。

  Miranda joined me in the backseat of the limo after another 
  five minutes; and she even appeared to be somewhat happy。 I 
  wondered if she’d gotten drunk but ruled that out immediately: 
  the most I’d ever seen her drink was a sip of this or that; 
  and then only because a social situation demanded it。 She 
  preferred Perrier or Pellegrino to champagne and certainly a 
  milkshake or a latte to a cosmo; so the chances she was 
  actually drunk right now were slim。

  After grilling me about the following day’s itinerary for the 
  first five minutes (luckily I’d thought to tuck a copy in my 
  bag); she turned and looked at me for the first time all 
  evening。

  “Emily—er; Ahn…dre…ah; how long have you been working for me?”

  It came out of left field; and my mind couldn’t work fast 
  enough to figure out the ulterior motive for this sudden 
  question。 It felt strange to be the object of any question of 
  hers that wasn’t explicitly asking why I was such a fucking 
  idiot for not finding; fetching; or faxing something fast 
  enough。 She’d never actually asked about my life before。 
  Unless she remembered the details of our hiring interview—and 
  it seemed unlikely; considering she’d stared at me with 
  utterly blank eyes my very first day of work—then she had no 
  idea where; if anywhere; I’d attended college; where; if 
  anywhere; I lived in Manhattan; or what; if anything; I did in 
  the city in the few precious hours a day I wasn’t racing 
  around for her。 And although this question most certainly did 
  have a Miranda element to it; my intuition said that this 
  might; just maybe; be a conversation about me。

  “Next month it will be a year; Miranda。”

  “And do you feel you’ve learned a few things that may help you 
  in your future?” She peered at me; and I instantly suppressed 
  the urge to start rattling off the myriad things I’d 
  “learned”: how to find a single store or restaurant review in 
  a whole city or out of a dozen newspapers with few to no clues 
  about its genuine origin; how to pander to preteenage girls 
  who’d already had more life experiences than both my parents 
  bined; how to plead with; scream at; persuade; cry to; 
  pressure; cajole; or charm anyone; from the immigrant food 
  delivery guy to the editor in chief of a major publishing 
  house to get exactly what I needed; when I needed it; and; of 
  course; how to plete just about any challenge in under an 
  hour because the phrase “I’m not sure how” or “that’s not 
  possible” was simply not an option。 It had been nothing if not 
  a learning…rich year。

  “Oh; of course;” I gushed。 “I’ve learned more in one year 
  working for you than I could’ve hoped to have learned in any 
  other job。 It’s been fascinating; really; seeing how a 
  major—themajor—magazine runs; the production cycle; what all 
  the different jobs are。 And; of course; being able to observe 
  the way you manage everything; all the decisions you make—it’s 
  been an amazing year。 I’m so thankful; Miranda!” So thankful 
  that two of my molars had been aching for weeks; too; but I 
  wasn’t ever able to get in to see a dentist during working 
  hours; but whatever。 My newfound; intimate knowledge of Jimmy 
  Choo’s handicraft had been well worth the pain。

  Could this possibly sound believable? I stole a glance; and 
  she seemed to be buying it; nodding her head gravely。 “Well; 
  you know; Ahn…dre…ah; that if ah…fter a year my girls have 
  performed well; I consider them ready for a promotion。”

  My heart surged。 Was it finally happening? Was this where she 
  told me that she’d already gone ahead and secured a job for me 
  atThe New Yorker ? Never mind that she had no idea I would 
  kill to work there。 Maybe she had just figured it out because 
  she cares。

  “I have my doubts about you; of course。 Don’t think I haven’t 
  noticed your lack of enthusiasm; or those sighs or faces you 
  make when I ask you to do something that you quite obviously 
  don’t feel like doing。 I’m hoping that’s just a sign of your 
  immaturity; since you do seem reasonably petent in other 
  areas。 What exactly are you interested in doing?”

  Reasonably petent! She may as well have announced I was the 
  most intelligent; sophisticated; gorgeous; and capable young 
  woman she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting。 Miranda Priestly 
  had just told me I was reasonably petent!

  “Well; actually; it’s not that I don’t love fashion; because 
  of course I do。 Who wouldn’t?” I rushed on to say; keeping a 
  careful appraisal of her expression; which; as usual; remained 
  mostly unchanged。 “It’s just that I’ve always dreamt of 
  being a writer; so I was hoping that might; uh; be an area 
  I could explore。”

  She folded her hands in her lap and glanced out the window。 It 
  was clear that this forty…five…second conversation was already 
  beginning to bore her; so I had to move quickly。 “Well; I 
  certainly have no idea if you can write a word or not; but I’m 
  not opposed to having you write a few short pieces for the 
  magazine to find out。 Perhaps a theater review or a small 
  writeup for the Happenings section。 As long as it doesn’t 
  interfere with any of your responsibilities for me; and is 
  done only during your own time; of course。”

  “Of course; of course。 That would be wonderful!” We were 
  talking; really municating; and we hadn’t so much as 
  mentioned the words “breakfast” or “dry cleaning” yet。 Things 
  were going too well not to just go for it; and so I said; 
  “It’s my dream to work atThe New Yorker one day。”

  This seemed to catch her now drifting attention; and once 
  again she peered at me。 “Why ever would you want to do that? 
  No glamour there; just nuts and bolts。” I couldn’t decide if 
  the question was rhetorical; so I played it safe and kept my 
  mouth shut。

  My time was about twenty seconds from expiring; both because 
  we were nearing the hotel and her fleeting interest in me was 
  fading fast。 She was scrolling through the ining calls on 
  her Cell Phone; but still managed to say in the most 
  offhanded; casual way; “Hmm;The New Yorker 。 Condé Nast。” I 
  was nodding wildly; encouragingly; but she wasn’t looking at 
  me。 “Of course I know a great many people there。 We’ll see how 
  the rest of the trip goes; and perhaps I’ll make a call over 
  there when we return。”

  The car pulled up to the entrance; and an exhausted…looking 
  Monsieur Renaud eclipsed the bellman who was leaning forward 
  to open Miranda’s door and opened it himself。

  “Ladies! I hope you had a lovely evening;” he crooned; doing 
  his best to smile through the exhaustion。

  “We’ll be needing the car at nine tomorrow morning to go to 
  the Christian Dior show。 I have a breakfast meeting in the 
  lobby at eight…thirty。 See that I’m n

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