Read Online Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know by Lauren Weisberger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Weisberger
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requested it do so.
âShe didnât say exactly,â Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
âHi, Jocelyn, itâs me. She wants a skirt, and Iâll need to have it on Mrs Marteauâs flight tonight, since sheâll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didnât say. I really donât know. OK, thanks.â She turned to me and said, âIt makes it more difficult when sheâs not specific. Sheâs too busy to worry about details like that, so she didnât say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But thatâs OK. I know her size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what sheâll like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. Theyâll start calling some in.â I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà ! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not quite. âCalling inâ the skirts was my very first lesson in
Runway
ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military operation. Either Emily or myself would notify the fashion assistants â about eight in all, who each maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores. The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public relations contacts at the various design houses and, if appropriate, at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly â yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for her
personal
use â was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Barneyâs, Chloé, Calvin Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto Cavalli, and Saks would be messengering over (or, in some cases, hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly could conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like a highly choreographed ballet, each player knowing exactly where and when and how their next step would occur. While this near-daily activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that weâd need to send with the skirt that night.
âYour car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,â she said while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece of
Runway
stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, âHere, take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it.â I took the phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the building, wondering how I was ever going to find âmy car.â Or even, really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe approached.
âYou Priestlyâs new girl?â he croaked through tobacco-stained lips, never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. âIâm Rich. The dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?â I nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the door shut and waved.
âWhere you going, miss?â the driver asked, pulling me back to the present. I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from my pocket.
First stop: Ralph Laurenâs studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for Leanne. Sheâll give you everything we need.
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one oâclock on a frigid winter afternoon, I was twenty-three years old, and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan, on my way to Ralph Laurenâs studio. And I was positively starving. It took nearly forty-five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the midtown lunch hour, my first glimpse of real city gridlock. The driver told me heâd circle the block until I came out again, and off I went to
âShe didnât say exactly,â Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
âHi, Jocelyn, itâs me. She wants a skirt, and Iâll need to have it on Mrs Marteauâs flight tonight, since sheâll be meeting Miranda down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didnât say. I really donât know. OK, thanks.â She turned to me and said, âIt makes it more difficult when sheâs not specific. Sheâs too busy to worry about details like that, so she didnât say what material or color or style or brand she wants. But thatâs OK. I know her size, and I definitely know her taste well enough to predict exactly what sheâll like. That was Jocelyn from the fashion department. Theyâll start calling some in.â I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant scoreboard, drum role, and voilà ! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not quite. âCalling inâ the skirts was my very first lesson in
Runway
ridiculousness, although I do have to say that the process was as efficient as a military operation. Either Emily or myself would notify the fashion assistants â about eight in all, who each maintained contacts within a specified list of designers and stores. The assistants would immediately begin calling all of their public relations contacts at the various design houses and, if appropriate, at upscale Manhattan stores and tell them that Miranda Priestly â yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for her
personal
use â was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi, Armani, Chanel, Barneyâs, Chloé, Calvin Klein, Bergdorf, Roberto Cavalli, and Saks would be messengering over (or, in some cases, hand-delivering) every skirt they had in stock that Miranda Priestly could conceivably find attractive. I watched the process unfold like a highly choreographed ballet, each player knowing exactly where and when and how their next step would occur. While this near-daily activity unfolded, Emily sent me to pick up a few other things that weâd need to send with the skirt that night.
âYour car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,â she said while working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece of
Runway
stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, âHere, take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it off. Always answer it.â I took the phone and the paper and headed down to the 58th Street side of the building, wondering how I was ever going to find âmy car.â Or even, really, what that meant. I had barely stepped on the sidewalk and looked meekly around before a squat, gray-haired man gumming a pipe approached.
âYou Priestlyâs new girl?â he croaked through tobacco-stained lips, never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. âIâm Rich. The dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?â I nodded again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the door shut and waved.
âWhere you going, miss?â the driver asked, pulling me back to the present. I realized I had no idea and pulled the piece of paper from my pocket.
First stop: Ralph Laurenâs studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for Leanne. Sheâll give you everything we need.
I gave the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one oâclock on a frigid winter afternoon, I was twenty-three years old, and I was riding in the backseat of a chauffeured sedan, on my way to Ralph Laurenâs studio. And I was positively starving. It took nearly forty-five minutes to go the fifteen blocks during the midtown lunch hour, my first glimpse of real city gridlock. The driver told me heâd circle the block until I came out again, and off I went to
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