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第56部分

时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第56部分


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  precious; well…guarded cool was precariously close to collapsing。 
  She took a deep; exaggerated breath and said calmly; “Ahn…dre…ah。 
  Are you aware that Mr。 Lagerfeld is in Paris this week?” I felt like 
  we were doing English As a Second Language lessons。

  “Of course; Miranda。 Emily has been trying all the numbers in—”

  “And are you aware that Mr。 Lagerfeld said he’d be available on his 
  mobile phone while he was in Paris?” Every muscle in her throat 
  strained to keep her voice even and calm。

  “Well; no; we don’t have a cell number listed in the directory; so 
  we didn’t know that Mr。 Lagerfeld even had a Cell Phone。 But Emily 
  is on the phone with his assistant right now; and I’m sure she’ll 
  have that number in just a minute。” Emily gave me the thumbs…up 
  right before she scribbled something and exclaimed; “Merci;oh yes; 
  thank you; I mean;merci ” over and over again。

  “Miranda; I have the number right here。 Would you like me to connect 
  you now?” I could feel my chest puff out with confidence and pride。 
  A job well done! A superior performance under the most 
  pressure…filled conditions。 Never mind that my really cute peasant 
  blouse that had been plimented by two—not one; but two—fashion 
  assistants was now sporting sweat stains under the arms。 Who cared? 
  I was about to get this stark raving mad lunatic of an international 
  caller off my back; and I was thrilled。

  “Ahn…dre…ah?” It sounded like a question; but I was only 
  concentrating on trying to figure out a pattern for indiscriminate 
  name mix…ups。 At first I’d thought she did it deliberately in an 
  attempt to belittle and humiliate us even more; but then I figured 
  out that she was probably quite satisfied with the levels of 
  belittlement and humiliation we endured and so she did it only 
  because she couldn’t be bothered to keep straight details so inane 
  as her two assistants’ names。 Emily had confirmed this by saying 
  that she called her Emily about half the time but called her a 
  mixture of Andrea and Allison—the assistant before her—the other 
  half。 I felt better。

  “Yes?” Squeaking again。 Dammit! Wasn’t it possible for me to have 
  just a tiny bit of dignity with this woman?

  “Ahn…dre…ah; I don’t know what all the fuss is over finding Mr。 
  Lagerfeld’s mobile number when I have it right here。 He gave it to 
  me just five minutes ago; but we were disconnected and I can’t seem 
  to dial correctly。” She said the last part as though the entire 
  world was to blame for this irritation and inconvenience except for 
  herself。

  “Oh。 You; um; you have the number? And you knew he was on that 
  number the whole time?” I was saying it for Emily’s benefit; and it 
  only served to enrage Miranda even more。

  “Am I not making myself perfectly clear here? I need you to connect 
  me to 03。55。23。56。67。89。 Immediately。 Or is that too difficult?”

  Emily was slowly shaking her head in disbelief as she crumpled up 
  the number we’d both just fought so hard to get。

  “No; no; Miranda; of course that’s not too difficult。 I’ll connect 
  you right away。 Hold just a minute。” I hit “conference;” dialed the 
  numbers; heard an older man shout “Allo!” into the phone; and hit 
  conference again。 “Mr。 Lagerfeld; Miranda Priestly; you’re 
  connected;” I stated like one of those manual operators from 
  theLittle House on the Prairie days。 And instead of putting the 
  whole call on mute and then hitting speaker so Emily and I could 
  listen in on the call together; I just hung up。 We sat in silence 
  for a few minutes as I tried to refrain from badmouthing Miranda 
  immediately。 Instead; I mopped some dampness from my forehead and 
  took long; deep breaths。 She spoke first。

  “So; let me just get this straight。 She had his number the entire 
  time but just didn’t know how to dial it?”

  “Or maybe she just didn’t feel like dialing it;” I added helpfully; 
  always enthusiastic for the chance to team up against Miranda; 
  especially considering how rare the opportunities were with Emily。

  “I should’ve known;” she said; shaking her head like she was 
  horribly disappointed with herself。 “I really should’ve known that。 
  She always calls to have me connect her to people who are staying in 
  the next room; or who are in a hotel two streets over。 I remember I 
  thought that was the weirdest thing; calling from Paris to New York 
  to have someone connect you to someone in Paris。 Now it just seems 
  normal; of course; but I can’t believe I didn’t see that one 
  ing。”

  I was about to run to the dining room for lunch; but the phone rang 
  again。 Operating under the lightning…doesn’t…strike…twice theory; I 
  decided to be a sport and answer the phone。

  “Miranda Priestly’s office。”

  “Emily! I am standing in the pouring rain on the rue de Rivoli and 
  my driver has vanished。 Vanished! Do you understand me? Vanished! 
  Find him immediately!” She was hysterical; my very first time 
  hearing her that way; and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it 
  was the only time。

  “Miranda; just a moment。 I have his number right here。” I turned to 
  scan my desk for the itinerary I’d set down a moment earlier; but 
  all I saw were papers; old Bulletins; stacks of back issues。 Only 
  three or four seconds had passed; but I felt as if I were standing 
  right next to her; watching as the rain poured down on her Fendi fur 
  and caused the makeup to melt down the side of her face。 Like she 
  could just reach out and slap my face; tell me I’m a worthless piece 
  of shit with zero talent; no skill set; a plete and total loser。 
  There wasn’t time to talk myself down; remind myself that this was 
  merely a human being (theoretically) who wasn’t happy to be standing 
  in the rain and was taking it out on her assistant 3;600 miles away。 
  It’s not my fault。 It’s not my fault。 It’s not my fault。

  “Ahn…dre…ah! My shoes areruined 。 Do you hear me? Are you even 
  listening? Find my drivernow! ”

  I was at risk of some inappropriate emotion—I could feel the knot in 
  the back of my throat; the tightening of the muscles in the back of 
  my neck; but it was too early to tell if I would laugh or cry。 
  Either one: not good。 Emily must have sensed as much; because she 
  leapt out of her seat and handed me her copy of the itinerary。 She’d 
  even highlighted the driver’s contact numbers; three in all; one for 
  the car phone; his mobile phone; and his Home phone。 Naturally。

  “Miranda; I’m going to need to put you on hold while I call him。 Can 
  I put you on hold?” I didn’t wait for a response; which I knew would 
  drive her crazy; and threw the call on hold。 I dialed Paris again。 
  The good news was the driver picked up on the first ring of the 
  first number I tried。 The bad news was he didn’t speak English。 
  Although I’d never been self…destructive before; I couldn’t help but 
  smash my forehead firmly into the Formica。 Three times of this; and 
  Emily had picked up the line at her desk。 She’d resorted to 
  screaming; not so much in attempt to make the driver understand her 
  own bad French; but simply because she was trying to impress upon 
  him the urgency of the current situation。 New drivers always took a 
  little breaking in; mostly because they foolishly believed that if 
  Miranda had to wait forty…five seconds to a minute extra; she’d be 
  all right。 This was precisely the notion of which Emily and I were 
  to disabuse them。

  We both put our heads down a few minutes later; after Emily had 
  managed to insult the driver enough that he’d hightailed it back to 
  where he’d left Miranda three or four minutes earlier。 I wasn’t 
  particularly hungry for lunch anymore; a phenomenon that made me 
  nervous。 WasRunway rubbing off? Or was it just the adrenaline and 
  nerves mixing together to guarantee no appetite? That was it! The 
  starvation so endemic atRunway was not; in fact; self…induced; it 
  was merely the physiological response of bodies that were so 
  consistently terrified and all…around anxiety…ridden that they were 
  never actually hungry。 I vowed to look into this a little more and 
  perhaps explore the possibility that Miranda was smarter than all of 
  this and had deliberately created a persona so offensive on every 
  level that she literally scared people skinny。

  “Ladies; ladies; ladies! Pick those heads up off those desks! Can 
  you imagine Miranda seeing you now? She wouldn’t be very happy!” 
  James sang from the doorway。 He had slicked back his hair using some 
  greasy; waxy stuff called Bed Head (“Hot name—how can you resist?”) 
  and was wearing some sort of skintight football jersey with the 
  number 69 on both the front and the ba

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