Read Online The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger - Free Book Online Page A

old.
     
     “Emily,
I’ve never seen her before, and her name doesn’t sound familiar.
Would you please tell me who she is?” I asked, struggling to remain calm.
The ironic part was that I didn’t even care who she was, but Emily was
clearly not going to give this up until she’d made me look like a
complete and total loser.
     
     Her
smile this time was patronizing. “Of course. You just had to say so.
Jessica Duchamps is, well, a Duchamps! You know, as in the most successful
French restaurant in the city! Her parents own it—isn’t that crazy?
They are so unbelievably rich.”
     
     “Oh,
really?” I said, feigning enthusiasm for the fact that this super-pretty
girl was worth knowing because her parents were restaurateurs.
“That’s great.”
     
     I
answered a few phone calls with the requisite “Miranda Priestly’s
office,” although both Emily and I were worried that Miranda herself
would call and I wouldn’t know what to do. Panic set in during a call
when an unidentified woman barked something incoherent in a strong British
accent, and I threw the phone to Emily without thinking to put it on hold
first.
     
     “It’s
her,” I whispered urgently. “Take it.”
     
     Emily
gave me my first viewing of her specialty look. Never one to mince emotions,
she could raise her eyebrows and drop her chin in a way that clearly conveyed
equal parts disgust and pity.
     
     “Miranda?
It’s Emily,” she said, a bright smile lighting up her face as if
Miranda might be able to seep through the phone and see her. Silence. A frown.
“Oh, Mimi, so sorry! The new girl thought you were Miranda! I know, how
funny. I guess we have to work onnot thinking every British accent is
necessarily our boss! ” She looked at me pointedly, her overtweezed
eyebrows arching even higher.
     
     She
chatted a bit longer while I continued to answer the phone and take messages
for Emily, who would then call the people back—with nonstop narration on
their order of importance, if any, in Miranda’s life. About noon, just as
the first hunger pangs were beginning, I picked up a call and heard a British
accent on the other end.
     
     “Hello?
Allison, is that you?” asked the icy-sounding but regal voice.
“I’ll be needing a skirt.”
     
     I cupped
my hand over the receiver and felt my eyes open wide. “Emily, it’s
her, it’s definitely her,” I hissed, waving the receiver to get her
attention. “She wants a skirt!”
     
     Emily
turned to see my panic-stricken face and promptly hung up the phone without so
much as “I’ll call you later” or even “good-bye.”
She pressed the button to switch Miranda to her line, and plastered on another
wide grin.
     
     “Miranda?
It’s Emily. What can I do?” She put her pen to her pad and began
writing furiously, forehead furrowing intently. “Yes, of course.
Naturally.” And as fast as it happened, it was over. I looked at her
expectantly. She rolled her eyes at me for appearing so eager.
     
     “Well,
it looks like you have your first job. Miranda needs a skirt for tomorrow,
among other things, so we’ll need to get it on a plane by tonight, at the
latest.”
     
     “OK,
well, what kind does she need?” I asked, still reeling from the shock
that a skirt would be traveling to the Dominican Republic simply because she’d
requested it do so.
     
     “She
didn’t say exactly,” Emily muttered as she picked up the phone.
     
     “Hi,
Jocelyn, it’s me. She wants a skirt, and I’ll need to have it on
Mrs. de la Renta’s flight tonight, since she’ll be meeting Miranda
down there. No, I have no idea. No, she didn’t say. I really don’t
know. OK, thanks.” She turned to me and said, “It makes it more
difficult when she’s not specific. She’s too busy to worry about
details like that, so she didn’t say what material or color or style or
brand she wants. But that’s OK. I know her size, and I definitely know
her taste well enough to predict exactly