the devil wears prada | Page 4

Gucci suede. The shoes�well, those
were beyond hope, at least until they could be fixed by the fleet of shoemakersRunway kept for such
emergencies. The ride was actually over in six and a half minutes, and I had no choice but to hobble like
an off-balance giraffe on my one flat, one four-inch heel arrangement. A quick stop in the Closet turned
up a brand-new pair of knee-high maroon-colored Jimmy Choos that looked great with the leather skirt I
grabbed, tossing the suede pants in the �Couture Cleaning� pile (where the basic prices for dry cleaning
started at seventy-five dollars per item). The only stop left was a quick visit to the Beauty Closet, where
one of the editors there took one look at my sweat-streaked makeup and whipped out a trunk full of
fixers.
Not bad,I thought, looking in one of the omnipresent full-length mirrors. You might not even know that
mere minutes before I was hovering precariously close to murdering myself and everyone around me. I
strolled confidently into the assistants� suite outside Miranda�s office and quietly took my seat, looking
forward to a few free minutes before she returned from lunch.
�And-re-ah,� she called from her starkly furnished, deliberately cold office. �Where are the car and the
puppy?�

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I leaped out of my seat and ran as fast as was possible on plush carpeting while wearing five-inch heels
and stood before her desk. �I left the car with the garage attendant and Madelaine with your doorman,
Miranda,� I said, proud to have completed both tasks without killing the car, the dog, or myself.
�And why would you do something like that?� she snarled, looking up from her copy ofWomen�s Wear
Daily for the first time since I�d walked in. �I specifically requested that you bring both of them to the
office, since the girls will be here momentarily and we need to leave.�
�Oh, well, actually, I thought you said that you wanted them to��
�Enough. The details of your incompetence interest me very little. Go get the car and the puppy and
bring them here. I�m expecting we�ll be all ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Understood?�
Fifteen minutes? Was this woman hallucinating? It would take a minute or two to get downstairs and
into a Town Car, another six or eight to get to her apartment, and then somewhere in the vicinity of three
hours for me to find the puppy in her eighteen-room apartment, extract the bucking stick shift from its
parking spot, and make my way the twenty blocks to the office.
�Of course, Miranda. Fifteen minutes.�
I started shaking again the moment I ran out of her office, wondering if my heart could just up and give
out at the ripe old age of twenty-three. The first cigarette I lit landed directly on the top of my new
Jimmys, where instead of falling to the cement it smoldered for just long enough to burn a small, neat
hole.Great, I muttered.That�s just fucking great. Chalk up my total as an even four grand for today�s
ruined merchandise�a new personal best. Maybe she�d die before I got back, I thought, deciding that
now was the time to look on the bright side. Maybe, just maybe, she�d keel over from something rare
and exotic and we�d all be released from her wellspring of misery. I relished a last drag before stamping
out the cigarette and told myself to be rational.You don�t want her to die, I thought, stretching out in the
backseat.Because if she does, you lose all hope of killing her yourself. And thatwould be a shame.

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I knew nothing when I went for my first interview and stepped onto the infamous Elias-Clark elevators,
those transporters of all thingsen vogue . I had no idea that the city�s most well-connected gossip
columnists and socialites and media executives obsessed over the flawlessly made-up, turned-out,
turned-in riders of those sleek and quiet lifts. I had never seen women with such radiant blond hair, didn�t
know that those brand-name highlights cost six grand a year to maintain or that others in the know could
identify the colorists after a quick glance at the finished product. I had never laid eyes on such beautiful
men. They were perfectly toned�not too muscular because �that�snot sexy��and they showed off their
lifelong dedication to gymwork in finely ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather pants. Bags and shoes I�d
never seen on real people shoutedPrada! Armani! Versace! from every surface. I had heard from a
friend of a friend�an editorial assistant atChic magazine�that every now and then the accessories get to
meet their makers in those very elevators, a touching reunion where Miuccia, Giorgio, or Donatella can
once again