Лорен Вайсбергер – Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont (страница 4)

I bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I’d been crashing on for the past week and concentrated all my energy on not getting sick. Adjustment to America – the food, the manners, the glorious showers – hadn’t been too grueling, but the houseguest thing was quickly becoming stale. I figured I had about a week and a half left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely ran out of cash, and the only way to get money from my parents was to return to the never-ending circuit of second opinions. That sobering thought was the single thing propelling me from bed, on what would be a fateful November day, to where I was expected in one hour for my very first job interview. I’d spent the last week parked on Lily’s couch, still weak and exhausted, until she finally yelled at me to leave – if only for a few hours each day. Not sure what else to do with myself, I bought a MetroCard and rode the subways, listlessly dropping off résumés as I went. I left them with security guards at all the big magazine publishers, with a half-hearted cover letter explaining that I wanted to be an editorial assistant and gain some magazine writing experience. I was too weak and tired to care if anyone actually read them, and the last thing I was expecting was an interview. But Lily’s phone had rung just the day before and, amazingly, someone from human resources at Elias-Clark wanted me to come in for a ‘chat.’ I wasn’t sure if it would be considered an official interview or not, but a ‘chat’ sounded more palatable either way.

I washed down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and pants that did not match and in no way created a suit, but at least they stayed put on my emaciated frame. A blue button-down, a not-too-perky ponytail, and a pair of slightly scuffed flats completed my look. It wasn’t great – in fact, it bordered on supremely ugly – but it would have to suffice. They’re not going to hire me or reject me on the outfit alone, I remember thinking. Clearly, I was barely lucid.

I showed up on time for my eleven A.M. interview and didn’t panic until I encountered the line of leggy, Twiggy types waiting to be permitted to board the elevators. Their lips never stopped moving, and their gossip was punctuated only by the sound of their stilettos clacking on the floor. Clackers, I thought. That’s perfect. (The elevators!) Breathe in, breathe out, I reminded myself. You will not throw up. You will not throw up. You’re just here to talk about being an editorial assistant, and then it’s straight back to the couch. You will not throw up. ‘Why yes, I’d love to work at Reaction! Well, sure, I suppose The Buzz would be suitable. Oh, what? I may have my pick? Well, I’ll need the night to decide between there and Maison Vous. Delightful!’

Moments later I was sporting a rather unflattering ‘guest’ sticker on my rather unflattering pseudo-suit (not soon enough, I discovered that guests in the know simply stuck these passes on their bags, or, even better, discarded them immediately – only the most uncouth losers actually wore them) and heading toward the elevators. And then … I boarded. Up, up, up and away, hurtling through space and time and infinite sexiness en route to … human resources.

I allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift, quiet ride. Deep, pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather to turn those elevators from the merely functional to the almost erotic. We whisked between floors, stopping to let out the beauties at Chic, Mantra, The Buzz, and Coquette. The doors opened silently, reverently, to stark white reception areas. Chic furniture with clean, simple lines dared people to sit, ready to scream out in agony if anyone – horror! – spilled. The magazines’ names rested in bold black and identifiable, individual typeface along the walls that flanked the lobby. Thick, opaque glass doors protected the titles. They’re names the average American recognizes but never imagines to be turning and churning and spinning under one very high city roof.

While I’d admittedly never held a job more impressive than frozen yogurt scooper, I’d heard enough stories from my newly minted professional friends to know that corporate life just didn’t look like this. Not even close. Absent were the nauseating fluorescent lights, the never-shows-dirt carpeting. Where dowdy secretaries should have been ensconced, polished young girls with prominent cheekbones and power suits presided. Office supplies didn’t exist! Those basic necessities like organizers, garbage cans, and books were simply not present. I watched as six floors disappeared in swirls of white perfection before I felt the venom and heard the voice.

‘She. Is. Such. A. Bitch! I cannot deal with her anymore. Who does that? I mean, really – WHO DOES THAT?’ hissed a twenty-something girl in a snakeskin skirt and a very mini tank top, looking more suited for a late night at Bungalow 8 than a day at the office.

‘I know. I knooooooow. Like, what do you think I’ve had to put up with for the past six months? Total bitch. And terrible taste, too,’ agreed her friend, with an emphatic shake of her adorable bob.

Mercifully, I arrived at my floor and the elevator slid open. Interesting, I thought. If you’re comparing this potential work environment to an average day in the life of a cliquey junior high girl, it might even be better. Stimulating? Well, maybe not. Kind, sweet, nurturing? No, not exactly. The kind of place that just makes you want to smile and do a great job? No, OK? No! But if you’re looking for fast, thin, sophisticated, impossibly hip, and heart-wrenchingly stylish, Elias-Clark is mecca.

The gorgeous jewelry and impeccable makeup of the human resources receptionist did nothing to allay my overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. She told me to sit and ‘feel free to look over some of our titles.’ Instead, I tried frantically to memorize the names of all the editors in chief of the company’s titles – as if they were going to actually quiz me on them. Ha! I already knew Stephen Alexander, of course, for Reaction magazine, and it wasn’t too hard to remember The Buzz’s Tanner Michel. Those were really the only interesting things they published anyway, I figured. I’d do fine.

A short, svelte woman introduced herself as Sharon. ‘So, dear, you’re looking to break into magazines, are you?’ she asked as she led me past a string of long-legged model lookalikes to her stark, cold office. ‘It’s a tough thing to do right out of college, you know. Lots and lots of competition out there for very few jobs. And the few jobs that are available, well! They’re not exactly high-paying, if you know what I mean.’

I looked down at my cheap, mismatched suit and very wrong shoes and wondered why I’d even bothered. Already deep in thought over how I was going to crawl back to that sofa bed with enough Cheez-Its and cigarettes to last a fortnight, I barely noticed when she almost whispered, ‘But I have to say, there’s an amazing opportunity open right now, and it’s going to go fast!’

Hmm. My antennae perked up as I tried to force her to make eye contact with me. Opportunity? Go fast? My mind was racing. She wanted to help me? She liked me? Why, I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet – how could she like me? And why exactly was she starting to sound like a car salesman?

‘Dear, can you tell me the name of the editor in chief of Runway?’ she asked, looking pointedly at me for the first time since I’d sat down.

Blank. Completely and totally blank, I couldn’t remember a thing. I couldn’t believe she was quizzing me! I’d never read an issue of Runway in my life – she wasn’t allowed to ask me about that one. No one cared about Runway. It was a fashion magazine, for chrissake, one I wasn’t even sure contained any writing, just lots of hungry-looking models and glossy ads. I stammered for a moment or two, while the different names of editors I’d just before forced my brain to remember all swirled inside my head, dancing together in mismatched pairs. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I was sure I knew her name – after all, who didn’t? But it wouldn’t gel in my addled brain.

‘Uh, well, it seems I can’t recall her name right now. But I know I know it, of course I know it. Everyone knows who she is! I just, well, don’t, uh, seem to know it right now.’

She peered at me for a moment, her large brown eyes finally fixated on my now perspiring face. ‘Miranda Priestly,’ she near-whispered, with a mixture of reverence and fear. ‘Her name is Miranda Priestly.’

Silence ensued. For what felt like a full minute, neither of us said a word, but then Sharon must have made the decision to overlook my crucial misstep. I didn’t know then that she was desperate to hire another assistant for Miranda, couldn’t know that she was desperate to stop this woman from calling her day and night, grilling her about potential candidates. Desperate to find someone, anyone, whom Miranda wouldn’t reject. And if I might – however unlikely – stand even the smallest chance of getting hired and thereby relieve her, well, then attention must be paid.