Read Online The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Weisberger
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, New York (State), New York (N.Y.), Fashion Editors, Supervisors, Women editors, Periodicals, Women editors - Fiction, Periodicals - Publishing
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what she’ll like. That was
Jocelyn from the fashion department. They’ll start calling some
in.” I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant
scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not
quite. “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway
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—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—yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for herpersonal
use—was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account
exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi,
Armani, Chanel, Barney’s, 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 we’d need to send with the skirt that night.
“Your
car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,” she said while
working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece ofRunway
stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, “Here,
take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it
off. Always answer it.” 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
“my car.” 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.
“You
Priestly’s new girl?” he croaked through tobacco-stained lips,
never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. “I’m Rich. The
dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?” I nodded
again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the
door shut and waved.
“Where
you going, miss?” 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: Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for
Leanne. She’ll give you everything we need.
I gave
the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one o’clock 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 Tommy Hilfiger’s 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 he’d circle the block until I came out
again, and off I went to Tommy’s studio. When I asked for Leanne at the
receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor, an adorable girl not a day older
than eighteen came bounding down the stairs.
“Hi!”
she called, stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds.
“You must be Andrea, Miranda’s new assistant. We sure do love her
around here, so welcome to the team!” She grinned. I grinned. She pulled
a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and immediately spilled its
contents on the floor. “Here we have Caroline’s favorite jeans in
three colors, and we threw in some baby T’s, too. And Cassidy just adores
Tommy’s khaki skirts—we gave them to her in olive and stone.”
Jean skirts, denim jackets, even a few pair of socks came
Jocelyn from the fashion department. They’ll start calling some
in.” I pictured Jerry Lewis presiding over a skirt telethon with a giant
scoreboard, drum role, and voilà! Gucci and spontaneous applause.
Not
quite. “Calling in” the skirts was my very first lesson inRunway
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—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—yes, Miranda Priestly, and yes, it was indeed for herpersonal
use—was looking for a particular item. Within minutes, every PR account
exec and assistant working at Michael Kors, Gucci, Prada, Versace, Fendi,
Armani, Chanel, Barney’s, 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 we’d need to send with the skirt that night.
“Your
car will be waiting for you on Fifty-eighth Street,” she said while
working two phone lines and scribbling instructions for me on a piece ofRunway
stationery. She paused briefly to toss me a cell phone and said, “Here,
take this in case I need to reach you or you have any questions. Never turn it
off. Always answer it.” 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
“my car.” 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.
“You
Priestly’s new girl?” he croaked through tobacco-stained lips,
never removing the mahogany-colored pipe. I nodded. “I’m Rich. The
dispatcher. You wanna car, you talka to me. Got it, blondie?” I nodded
again and ducked into the backseat of a black Cadillac sedan. He slammed the
door shut and waved.
“Where
you going, miss?” 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: Tommy Hilfiger’s studio at 355 West 57th St., 6th Floor. Ask for
Leanne. She’ll give you everything we need.
I gave
the driver the address and stared out the window. It was one o’clock 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 Tommy Hilfiger’s 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 he’d circle the block until I came out
again, and off I went to Tommy’s studio. When I asked for Leanne at the
receptionist’s desk on the sixth floor, an adorable girl not a day older
than eighteen came bounding down the stairs.
“Hi!”
she called, stretching out the “I” sound for a few seconds.
“You must be Andrea, Miranda’s new assistant. We sure do love her
around here, so welcome to the team!” She grinned. I grinned. She pulled
a massive plastic bag out from underneath a table and immediately spilled its
contents on the floor. “Here we have Caroline’s favorite jeans in
three colors, and we threw in some baby T’s, too. And Cassidy just adores
Tommy’s khaki skirts—we gave them to her in olive and stone.”
Jean skirts, denim jackets, even a few pair of socks came
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