The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger Page A

a five-hundred-pound person
with eight Big Macs arrayed in from of him: the eyes raised just enough as if
to ask, “Do youreally need that?” But I brushed my paranoia aside
and reminded myself that the woman was simply a cashier in a cafeteria, not a
Weight Watchers counselor. Or a fashion editor.
     
     “So.
Not many people buying the soup these days,” she said quietly, punching
numbers on the register.
     
     “Yeah,
I guess not that many people like New England clam chowder,” I mumbled,
swiping my card and willing her hands to move faster, faster.
     
     She
stopped and turned her narrowed brown eyes directly toward mine. “No, I
think it’s because the soup chef insists on making these really fattening
things—do you have any idea how many calories are in that? Do you have
any idea how fattening that little cup of soup is? I’m just saying is,
someone could put on ten pounds from just looking at it—”And
you’re not one who could afford to gain ten pounds, she implied.
     
     Ouch. As
if it hadn’t been hard enough convincing myself that I was a normal
weight for a normal height as all the tall, willowyRunway blondes had openly
examined me, now thecashier was—for all intents and
purposes—telling me I was fat? I snatched my takeout bag and pushed past
the people, and walked into the bathroom that was conveniently located directly
outside the dining room, where one could purge any earlier bingeing problems.
And even though I knew that the mirror would reveal nothing more or less than
it had that morning, I turned to face it head on. A twisted, angry face stared
back at me.
     
     “What
the hell are you doing here?” Emily all but shouted at my reflection. I
whipped around in time to see her hanging her leather blazer through the handle
of the Gucci logo tote, as she pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. It occurred
to me that Emily had meant what she’d said three and a half hours before
quite literally: she’d gone out for lunch. As in, outside. As in, left me
all alone for three straight hours with no warning, practically tethered to a
phone line with no hopes of food or bathroom breaks. As in, none of that
mattered because I still knew I was wrong to leave and I was about to get
screamed at for it by someone my own age. Blessedly, the door swung open and
the editor in chief ofCoquette strode in. She looked us both up and down as
Emily grabbed my arm and steered me out of the bathroom and toward the
elevator. We stood like that together, her clutching my arm and me feeling as
though I’d just wet the bed. We were living one of those scenes where the
kidnapper puts a gun to a woman’s back in broad daylight and quietly
threatens her as he leads her to his basement of torture.
     
     “How
could you do this to me?” she hissed as she pushed me throughRunway
‘s reception-area doors and we hurtled together back to our desks.
“As the senior assistant, I am responsible for what goes on in our
office. I know you’re new, but I’ve told you from the very first
day: we do not leave Miranda unattended.”
     
     “But
Miranda’s not here.” It came out as a squeak.
     
     “But
she could’ve called while you were gone and no one would’ve been
here to answer the goddamn phone!” she screamed as she slammed the door
to our suite. “Our first priority—our only priority—is
Miranda Priestly. Period. And if you can’t deal with that, just remember
that there are millions of girls who would die for your job. Now check your
voice mail. If she called, we’re dead.You’re dead.”
     
     I wanted
to crawl inside my iMac and die. How could I have screwed up so badly during my
very first week? Miranda wasn’t even in the office and I’d already
let her down. So what if I was hungry? It could wait. There were genuinely
important people trying to get things done around here, people who depended on
me, and I’d let them down. I dialed my mailbox.
     
     “Hi,
Andy, it’s me.” Alex.