The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger Page B

“Where are you? I’ve never heard
you not answer. Can’t wait for dinner tonight—we’re still on,
right? Anywhere you want, your pick. Call me when you get this, I’ll be
in the faculty lounge anytime after four. Love you.” I immediately felt
guilty, because I’d already decided after the whole lunch debacle that
I’d rather reschedule. My first week had been so crazy that we’d
barely seen each other, and we’d made a special plan to have dinner that
night, just the two of us. But I knew I wouldn’t be any fun if I fell
asleep in my wine, and I kind of wanted a night to unwind and be alone.
I’d have to remember to call and see if we could do it the next night.
     
     Emily
was standing over me, having already checked her own voice mail. From her
relatively calm face, I guessed that Miranda had not left her any death
threats. I shook my head to indicate that I hadn’t gotten one from her
yet.
     
     “Hi,
Andrea, it’s Cara.” Miranda’s nanny. “So, Miranda
called here a little while ago”—heart stoppage—“and
said she’s tried the office and no one was picking up. I figured
something was going on down there, so I told her that I’d spoken to both
you and Emily just a minute before, but don’t worry about it. She wanted
aWomen’s Wear Daily faxed to her, and I had a copy right here. Already
confirmed that she got it, too, so don’t stress. Just wanted to let you
know. Anyway, have a good weekend. I’ll talk to you later.
‘Bye.”
     
     Lifesaver.
The girl was an absolute saint. It was hard to believe I’d only known her
a week—and not even in person, only over the phone—because I
thought I was in love with her. She was the opposite of Emily in every regard:
calm, grounded, and entirely fashion-oblivious. She recognized Miranda’s
absurdity but didn’t begrudge her it; she had that rare, charming quality
of being able to laugh at herself and everyone else.
     
     “Nope,
not her,” I told Emily, lying sort of but not really, smiling
triumphantly. “We’re in the clear.”
     
     “You’rein
the clear, this time,” she said flatly. “Just remember that
we’re in this together, but I am in charge. You’ll cover for me if
I want to go out to lunch once in a while—I’m entitled. This will
never happen again, right?”
     
     I bit
back the urge to say something nasty. “Right,” I said.
“Right.”
     
      
     
     We’d
managed to finish wrapping the rest of the bottles and get them all to the
messengers by seven that night, and Emily didn’t mention the
office-abandonment issue again. I finally fell into a taxi (just this one time)
at eight, and was spread-eagle, still fully dressed, on top of my covers at ten.
And I still hadn’t eaten because I couldn’t bear the thought of
going out in search of food and getting lost again, as I had the past four
nights, in my own neighborhood. I called Lily to complain on my brand-new Bang
and Olufsen phone.
     
     “Hi!
I thought you and Alex had a date tonight,” she said.
     
     “Yeah,
we did, but I’m dead. He’s fine with doing it tomorrow night, and I
think I’ll just order. Whatever. How was your day?”
     
     “I
have one word: screwed up. OK, so that was two. You’ll never imagine what
happened. Well, of course you will, it happens all the—”
     
     “Cut
to it, Lil. I’m going to pass out any minute.”
     
     “OK.
Cutest guy ever came to my reading today. Sat through the whole thing looking
absolutely fascinated, and waited for me afterward. Asked if he could take me
for a drink and hear all about the thesis I had published at Brown, which
he’d already read.”
     
     “Sounds
great. What was he?” Lily went out with different guys almost every night
after getting off work, but had yet to complete her fraction. She had founded
the Scale of Fractional Love one night after listening to a few of our guy
friends rate the girls they were dating on their own invention, the Ten-Ten
Scale. “She’s a