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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第81部分


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  for it。 Exactly forty minutes had passed since I’d received my 
  marching orders。 It was time to see if I’d passed。

  A different—but equally as terrified—maid answered Miranda’s 
  door and ushered me into the living room。 Obviously; I 
  should’ve remained standing; but the leather pants I’d been 
  wearing since the day before felt like they were permanently 
  stuck to my legs; and the strappy sandals that hadn’t bothered 
  me so much on the plane were beginning to feel like long; 
  flexible razor blades affixed to my heels and toes。 I chose to 
  perch on the overstuffed couch; but the moment my knees bent 
  and my butt made contact with the cushion; her bedroom door 
  flew open and I instinctively launched to my feet。

  “Where’s my speech?” she asked automatically; while yet 
  another maid followed after her holding a single earring that 
  Miranda had forgotten to put in。 “You did write something; did 
  you not?” She was wearing one of her classic Chanel 
  suits—round collars with fur trim—and a looping strand of 
  extraordinarily large pearls。

  “Of course; Miranda;” I said proudly。 “I think this will be 
  appropriate。” I walked toward her since she was making no 
  effort to retrieve it herself; but before I could offer her 
  the paper she snatched it from my hand。 I didn’t realize until 
  her eyes had finished moving back and forth that I’d been 
  holding my breath。

  “Fine。 This is fine。 Certainly nothing groundbreaking; but 
  fine。 Let’s go。” She picked up a matching quilted Chanel purse 
  and placed the chain handle over her shoulder。

  “Pardon?”

  “I said; let’s go。 This silly little ceremony starts in 
  fifteen minutes; and with any luck we’ll be out of there in 
  twenty。 I truly loathe these things。”

  There was no way to deny that I’d heard her say both “let’s” 
  and “we”: I was definitely expected to go with her。 I glanced 
  down at my leather pants and fitted blazer and figured that if 
  she had no problem with it—and I certainly would’ve heard if 
  she had—then what did it really matter? There would probably 
  be fleets of assistants roaming around; tending to their 
  bosses; and surely no one would care what we were wearing。

  The “salon” was exactly what Briget had said it would be—a 
  typical hotel meeting room; plete with a couple dozen round 
  luncheon tables and a slightly raised presentation stage with 
  a podium。 I stood along the back wall with a few other 
  employees of various kinds and watched as the president of the 
  council showed an incredibly unfunny; uninteresting; wholly 
  uninspired movie clip on how fashion affects all of our lives。 
  A few more people hogged the mike for the next half hour; and 
  then; before a single award had been presented; an army of 
  waiters began bringing out salads and filling wine glasses。 I 
  looked warily at Miranda; who appeared acutely bored and 
  irritated; and tried to shrink smaller behind the potted tree 
  I was currently leaning against to keep from falling asleep。 I 
  can’t be sure how long my eyes were closed; but just as I lost 
  all control of my neck muscles and my head started to nod 
  forward uncontrollably; I heard her voice。

  “Ahn…dre…ah! I don’t have time for this nonsense;” she 
  whispered loudly enough that a few Clackers from a nearby 
  table glanced up。 “I wasn’t told that I would be receiving an 
  award; and I wasn’t prepared to do so。 I’m leaving。” And she 
  turned around and began striding toward the door。

  I hobbled after her but thought better of grabbing her 
  shoulder。 “Miranda? Miranda?” She was clearly ignoring me。 
  “Miranda? Whom would you like to accept the award on behalf 
  ofRunway ?” I whispered as quietly as I could and still have 
  her hear me。

  She whipped around and stared me straight in the eyes。 “Do you 
  think I care? Go up there and accept it yourself。” And before 
  I could say another word; she was gone。

  Oh my god。 This wasn’t happening。 I would surely wake up in my 
  own; unglamorous; negative…thread…count…sheeted bed in just a 
  minute and discover that the entire day—hell; the entire 
  year—had just been a particularly horrid dream。 That woman 
  didn’t really expect me—thejunior assistant—to go up there and 
  accept an award forRunway ’s fashion coverage; did she? I 
  looked around the room frantically to see if anyone else 
  fromRunway was attending the lunch。 No such luck。 I slumped 
  down in a seat and tried to figure out whether I should call 
  Emily or Briget for advice; or whether I should just leave 
  myself since Miranda apparently cared nothing about receiving 
  this honor。 My Cell Phone had just connected to Briget’s 
  office (who I was hoping could make it over there in time to 
  take the goddamn award herself) when I heard the words “。 。 。 
  extend our deepest appreciation to AmericanRunway for its 
  accurate; amusing; and always informative fashion coverage。 
  Please wele its world…famous editor in chief; a living 
  fashion icon herself; Ms。 Miranda Priestly!”

  The room erupted into applause at precisely the same moment I 
  felt my heart stop beating。

  There was no time to think; to curse Briget for letting this 
  all happen; to curse Miranda for leaving and taking the speech 
  with her; to curse myself for ever accepting this hateful job 
  in the first place。 My legs moved forward on their 
  own;left…right; left…right; and climbed the three steps to the 
  podium with no incident whatsoever。 Had I not been utterly 
  shell…shocked; I might have noticed that the enthusiastic 
  clapping had given way to an eerie silence as everyone tried 
  to figure out who I was。 But I didn’t。 Instead; some greater 
  force prompted me to smile; reach out to take the plaque from 
  the severe…looking president’s hands; and place it shakingly 
  on the podium in front of me。 It wasn’t until I lifted my head 
  and saw hundreds of eyes staring back—curious; probing; 
  confused eyes; all of them—that I knew for sure I would cease 
  breathing and die right there。

  I imagine I stood like that for no longer than ten or fifteen 
  seconds; but the silence was so overwhelming; so 
  all…consuming; that I wondered if I had; in fact; died 
  already。 No one uttered a word。 No silver scraped plates; no 
  glasses clinked; no one even whispered to a neighbor about who 
  was standing in for Miranda Priestly。 They just watched me; 
  moment after moment; until I was left with no choice but to 
  speak。 I didn’t remember a word of the speech that I had 
  written an hour earlier; so I was on my own。

  “Hello;” I began and heard my voice reverberate in my ears。 I 
  couldn’t tell if it was the microphone or the sound of blood 
  pounding inside my head; but it didn’t matter。 The only thing 
  I could hear for sure was that it was shaking—uncontrollably。 
  “My name is Andrea Sachs and I’m Mir—uh; I’m on staff atRunway 
  。 Unfortunately; Miranda; um; Ms。 Priestly had to step out for 
  a moment; but I would like to accept this award on her behalf。 
  And; of course; on behalf of everyone atRunway 。 Thank you; 
  um”—I couldn’t remember the name of the council or the 
  president here—“all so much for this; uh; this wonderful 
  honor。 I know I speak for everyone when I say that we are all 
  so honored。” Idiot! I was stuttering and um…ing and shaking; 
  and I was even conscious enough at this point to notice that 
  the crowd had begun to twitter。 Without another word; I walked 
  in as dignified a manner as I could manage from the podium and 
  didn’t realize until I’d reached the back doors that I’d 
  forgotten the plaque。 A staffer followed me to the lobby; 
  where I’d just collapsed in a fit of exhaustion and 
  humiliation; and handed it to me。 I waited until she left and 
  asked one of the janitors to throw it out。 He shrugged and 
  tossed it in his bag。

  That bitch!I thought; too angry and tired to conjure up any 
  really creative names or methods of ending her life。 My phone 
  rang and; knowing it was her; I turned off the ringer and 
  ordered a gin and tonic from one of the front desk people。 
  “Please。 Please just have someone send one out。 Please。” The 
  woman took one look at me and nodded。 I sucked the entire 
  thing down in just two long gulps and headed back upstairs to 
  see what she wanted。 It was only two in the afternoon of my 
  first day in Paris; and I wanted to die。 Only death was not an 
  option。


  17                                                             

  “Miranda Priestly’s room;” I answered from my new Parisian 
  office。 My four glorious hours that were supposed to 
  constitute a full night’s sleep had been rudely interrupted by 
  a frantic c

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