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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第93部分


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  seat and held him over my shoulder; rubbing his back through 
  his terry…cloth footie pajamas; and; remarkably; he shut up。

  “You’ll never believe who that was;” I sang; dancing around 
  the room with Isaac。 “It was an editor atSeventeen 
  magazine—I’m going to be published!”

  “Shut up! They’re printing your life story?”

  “It’s not my life story—it’s ‘Jennifer’s’ life story。 And it’s 
  only two thousand words; so it’s not the biggest thing ever; 
  but it’s a start。”

  “Sure; whatever you say。 Young girl gets super caught up in 
  achieving something and ends up screwing over all the people 
  who matter in her life。 Jennifer’s story。 Uh…huh; whatever。” 
  Lily was grinning and rolling her eyes at the same time。

  “Whatever; details; details。 The point is; they’re publishing 
  it in the February issue and they’re paying me three thousand 
  dollars for it。 How crazy is that?”

  “Congrats; Andy。 Seriously; that’s amazing。 And now you’ll 
  have this as a clip; right?”

  “Yep。 Hey; it’s notThe New Yorker; but it’s an OK first step。 
  If I can round up a few more of these; maybe in some different 
  magazines; too; I might be getting somewhere。 I have a meeting 
  with the woman on Friday; and she told me to bring anything 
  else I’ve been working on。 And she didn’t even ask if I speak 
  French。 And she hates Miranda。 I can work with this woman。”

  I drove the Texas crew to the airport; picked up a good and 
  greasy Burger King lunch for Lily and me to wash down our 
  breakfast donuts with; and spent the rest of the day—and the 
  next; and the next after that—working on some stuff to show 
  the Miranda…loathing Loretta。


  19

  “Tall vanilla cappuccino; please;” I ordered from a barista I 
  didn’t recognize at the Starbucks on 57th Street。 It had been 
  nearly five months since I’d been here last; trying to balance 
  a whole tray of Coffees and snacks and get back to Miranda 
  before she fired me for breathing。 When I thought about it 
  like that; I figured it was far better to have gotten fired 
  for screaming “fuck you” than it was to get fired because I’d 
  brought back two packets of Equal instead of two raw sugars。 
  Same oute; but a totally different ballgame。

  Who knew Starbucks had such huge turnover? There wasn’t a 
  single person behind the counter who looked remotely familiar; 
  making all the time I’d spent there seem that much farther 
  away。 I smoothed my well…cut but nondesigner black pants and 
  checked to make sure that the cuffed bottoms hadn’t collected 
  any of the city’s muddy slush。 I knew there was an entire 
  magazine staff of fashionistas who would emphatically disagree 
  with me; but I thought I looked pretty damn good for only my 
  second interview。 Not only did I now know that no one wears 
  suits at magazines; but somewhere; somehow; a year’s worth of 
  high fashion had—by simple osmosis; I think—crammed itself 
  into my head。

  The cappuccino was almost too hot; but it felt fantastic on 
  that chilly; wet day。 The darkened; late…afternoon sky seemed 
  to be misting the city with a giant Snow…Cone。 Normally; a day 
  like this would’ve depressed me。 It was; after all; one of the 
  more depressing days in the year’s most depressing month 
  (February); the kind when even the optimists would rather 
  crawl under the covers and the pessimists didn’t stand a 
  chance of getting through without a fistful of Zoloft。 But the 
  Starbucks was warmly lit and just the right state of crowded; 
  and I curled up in one of their oversize green armchairs and 
  tried not to think of who had rubbed his dirty hair there 
  last。

  In the past three months; Loretta had bee my mentor; my 
  champion; my savior。 We’d hit it off in that first meeting and 
  she’d been nothing but wonderful to me ever since。 As soon as 
  I’d walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that 
  she was—gasp!—fat; I had a weird feeling that I’d love her。 
  She sat me down and read every word of the stuff I’d been 
  working on all week: tongue…in…cheek pieces on fashion shows; 
  some snarky stuff on being a celebrity assistant; a hopefully 
  sensitive story about what it takes—and doesn’t take—to bring 
  down a three…year…long relationship with someone you love but 
  can’t be with。 It was storybook…like; nauseating; really; how 
  well we’d instantly hit it off; how effortlessly we shared our 
  nightmares aboutRunway (I was still having them: a recent one 
  had included a particularly horrid segment in which my own 
  parents were shot dead by Parisian fashion police for wearing 
  shorts on the street and Miranda had somehow managed to 
  legally adopt me); how quickly we realized that we were the 
  same person; just seven years apart。

  Since I’d just had the brilliant idea of dragging all myRunway 
  clothes to one of those snooty resale shops on Madison Avenue; 
  I was a wealthy woman—I could afford to write for peanuts; 
  anything for a byline。 I had waited and waited for Emily or 
  Jocelyn to call to tell me they were sending a messenger to 
  pick it all up; but they never did。 So it was all mine。 I 
  packed up most of the clothes but set aside the Diane Von 
  Furstenburg wrap…dress。 While going through the contents of my 
  desk drawers that Emily had emptied into boxes and mailed to 
  me; I came across the letter from Anita Alvarez; the one in 
  which she expressed her worship of all thingsRunway 。 I’d 
  always meant to send her a fabulous dress; but I’d never found 
  the time。 I wrapped the bold…printed dress in tissue paper; 
  tossed in a pair of Manolos; and forged a note from Miranda—a 
  talent I was unhappy to discover I still possessed。 This girl 
  should know—just once—how it feels to own one beautiful thing。 
  And; more importantly; to think there’s someone out there who 
  actually cares。

  Except for the dress; the tight and very sexy D&G jeans; and 
  the utterly classic; quilted; chain…handle purse I’d given to 
  my mom as a gift (“Oh; honey; this is beautiful。 What’s this 
  brand again?”); I sold every last filmy top; leather pant; 
  spiked boot; and strappy sandal。 The woman who worked the 
  register called the woman who owned the store; and the two of 
  them had decided it would be best if they just closed the shop 
  down for a few hours to evaluate my merchandise。 The Louis 
  Vuitton luggage—two large suitcases; one medium…size 
  accessories bag; and an oversize trunk—alone had netted me six 
  grand; and when they were finally finished whispering and 
  examining and giggling; I cruised out of there with a check 
  for just over 38;000。 Which; by my calculations; meant that I 
  could pay rent and even feed myself for a year while I tried 
  to get this writing gig together。 And then Loretta strolled 
  into my life and made it instantly better。

  Loretta had already agreed to buy four pieces—one blurb; only 
  slightly larger than a pull quote; two 500…word pieces; and 
  the original 2;000…word story。 But even more exciting was her 
  bizarre obsession with helping me make contacts; her eagerness 
  to get in touch with people at other magazines who might just 
  be interested in some freelance stuff。 Which is exactly what 
  put me at that Starbucks on that overcast winter day—I was 
  headed back to Elias…Clark。 It had taken a lot of insisting on 
  her part to convince me that Miranda wouldn’t hunt me down the 
  minute I walked in the building and knock me out with a blow 
  dart; but I was still nervous。 Not paralyzed with fear like 
  the old days when a mere Cell Phone ring was enough to cause 
  my heart to flip…flop; but jittery enough at the 
  thought—however remote the possibility—of catching a glimpse 
  of her。 Or Emily。 Or anyone else; for that matter; except for 
  James; who had kept in touch。

  Somehow; someway; for somereason; Loretta had called her old 
  college roommate who just so happened to edit the city section 
  ofThe Buzz and told her that she’d discovered the next new 
  “it” writer。 That was supposed to be me。 She’d arranged an 
  interview for me today; and even forewarned the woman that I’d 
  been summarily dismissed from Miranda’s employ; but the woman 
  had just laughed and said something to the effect that if they 
  refused to use anyone whom Miranda had fired at one point or 
  another; they’d barely have any writers at all。

  I finished my cappuccino and; newly energized; gathered my 
  portfolio of different articles and headed—this time calmly; 
  without either an incessantly ringing phone or an armload of 
  Coffees—toward the Elias…Clark building。 A moment or two of 
  reconnaissance from the sidewalk indicated that noRunway 
  Clackers we

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