The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

the office
unattended.
     
     After
peeking down the hall and confirming that Emily was nowhere in sight, I
literally ran to the reception area and pushed the down button twenty times.
Sophy, the gorgeous Asian receptionist, raised her eyebrows and looked away,
and I wasn’t sure if it was my impatience or her knowledge that
Miranda’s office was abandoned that made her look at me that way. No time
to figure it out. The elevator finally arrived, and I was able to throw myself
onboard even as a sneering, heroin-thin guy with spiky hair and lime green
Pumas was pushing “Door Close.” No one moved aside to give me room
even though there was plenty of space. And while this would’ve normally
driven me crazy, all I could concentrate on was getting food and getting back,
ASAP.
     
     The
entrance to the all-glass-and-granite dining room was blocked by a group of
Clackers-in-training, all leaning in and whispering, examining each group of
people who got off the elevator. Friends of Elias employees, I immediately
recalled from Emily’s description of such groups, obvious from their
unmasked excitement to be standing at the center of it all. Lily had already
begged me to take her to the dining room since it’d been written up in
nearly every Manhattan newspaper and magazine for its incredible food quality
and selection—not to mention its gaggle of gorgeous people—but I
wasn’t ready for that yet. Besides, due to the complex office-sitting
schedule Emily and I negotiated each day so far, I’d yet to spend more
time there than the two and a half minutes it took to choose and pay for my
food, and I wasn’t sure I ever would.
     
     I pushed
my way past the girls and felt them turn to see if I was anyone important.
Negative. Weaving quickly, intently, I bypassed gorgeous racks of lamb and veal
marsala in the entrees section and, with a push of willpower, cruised right
past the sundried tomato and goat cheese pizza special (which resided on a
small table banished to the sidelines that everyone referred to as “Carb
Corner”). It wasn’t as easy to navigate around thepièce de
résistance of the room, the salad bar (also known just as
“Greens,” as in “I’ll meet you at Greens”), which
was as long as an airport landing strip and accessible from four different
directions, but the hordes let me pass when I loudly assured them that I
wasn’t going after the last of the tofu cubes. All the way in the back,
directly behind the panini stand that actually resembled a makeup counter, was
the single, lone soup station. Lone because the soup chef was the only one in
the entire dining room who refused to make a single one of his offerings low
fat, reduced fat, fat-free, low sodium, or low carb. He simply refused. As a
result, his was the single table in the entire room without a line, and I
sprinted directly toward him every day. Since it appeared that I was the only
one in the entire company who actually bought soup—and I’d only been
there a week—the higher-ups had slashed his menu to a solitary soup per
day. I prayed for tomato cheddar. Instead, he ladled out a giant cup of New
England clam chowder, proudly declaring it was made with heavy cream. Three
people at Greens turned to stare. The only obstacle left was dodging the crowds
around the chef’s table, where a visiting chef in full whites was
arranging large chunks of sashimi for what appeared to be adoring fans. I read
the nametag on his starched white collar: Nobu Matsuhisa. I made a mental note
to look him up when I got upstairs, since I seemed to be the only employee in
the place who wasn’t fawning all over him. Was it worse to have never
heard of Mr. Matsuhisa or Miranda Priestly?
     
     The
petite cashier looked first at the soup and then at my hips when she rang me
up. Or had she? I’d already grown accustomed to being looked up and down
every time I went anywhere, and I could’ve sworn she was looking at me
with the same expression I would’ve given