the devil wears prada | Page 2

it was Her. Miranda Priestly. My boss.
�Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?� she trilled the moment I snapped my
Motorola open�no small feat considering both of my (bare) feet and hands were already contending
with various obligations. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and tossed the cigarette out
the window, where it narrowly missed hitting a bike messenger. He screamed out a few highly unoriginal
�fuck yous� before weaving forward.
�Yes, Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly.�
�Ahn-dre-ah, where�s my car? Did you drop it off at the garage yet?�
The light ahead of me blessedly turned red and looked as though it might be a long one. The car jerked
to a stop without hitting anyone or anything, and I breathed a sigh of relief. �I�m in the car right now,
Miranda, and I should be at the garage in just a few minutes.� I figured she was probably concerned that
everything was going well, so I reassured her that there were no problems whatsoever and we should
both arrive shortly in perfect condition.
�Whatever,� she said brusquely, cutting me off midsentence. �I need you to pick up Madelaine and
drop her off at the apartment before you come back to the office.� Click. The phone went dead. I stared

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at it for a few seconds before I realized that she�d deliberately hung up because she had provided all of
the details I could hope to receive. Madelaine. Who the hell was Madelaine? Where was she at the
moment? Did she know I was to pick her up? Why was she going back to Miranda�s apartment? And
why on earth�considering Miranda had a full-time driver, housekeeper, and nanny�was I the one who
had to do it?
Remembering that it was illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving in New York and figuring the last
thing I needed at that moment was a run-in with the NYPD, I pulled into the bus lane and switched my
flashers on.Breathe in, breathe out, I coached myself, even remembering to apply the parking brake
before taking my foot off the regular one. It had been years since I�d driven a stick-shift car�five years,
actually, since a high school boyfriend had volunteered his car up for a few lessons that I�d decidedly
flunked�but Miranda hadn�t seemed to consider that when she�d called me into her office an hour and a
half earlier.
�Ahn-dre-ah, my car needs to be picked up from the place and dropped off at the garage. Attend to it
immediately, as we�ll be needing it tonight to drive to the Hamptons. That�s all.� I stood, rooted to the
carpet in front of her behemoth desk, but she�d already blocked out my presence entirely. Or so I
thought. �That�sall, Ahn-dre-ah. See to it right now,� she added, still not glancing up.
Ah, sure, Miranda,I thought to myself as I walked away, trying to figure out the first step in the
assignment that was sure to have a million pitfalls along the way. First was definitely to find out at which
�place� the car was located. Most likely it was being repaired at the dealership, but it could obviously be
at any one of a million auto shops in any one of the five boroughs. Or perhaps she�d lent it to a friend and
it was currently occupying an expensive spot in a full-service garage somewhere on Park Avenue? Of
course, there was always the chance that she was referring to a new car�brand unknown�that she�d
just recently purchased that hadn�t yet been brought home from the (unknown) dealership. I had a lot of
work to do.
I started by calling Miranda�s nanny, but her cell phone went straight to voice mail. The housekeeper
was next on the list and, for once, a big help. She was able to tell me that the car wasn�t brand-new and
it was in fact a �convertible sports car in British racing green,� and that it was usually parked in a garage
on Miranda�s block, but she had no idea what the make was or where it might currently be residing.
Next on the list was Miranda�s husband�s assistant, who informed me that, as far as she knew, the
couple owned a top-of-the-line black Lincoln Navigator and some sort of small green Porsche. Yes! I
had my first lead. One quick phone call to the Porsche dealership on Eleventh Avenue revealed that yes,
they had just finished touching up the paint and installing a new disc-changer in a green Carrera 4
Cabriolet for a Ms. Miranda Priestly. Jackpot!
I ordered a Town Car to take me to the dealership, where I turned over a note I�d forged with
Miranda�s signature that instructed