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 5)

Sharon smiled tersely and told me I was going to meet with Miranda’s two assistants. Two assistants?

‘Why yes,’ she confirmed with an exasperated look. ‘Of course Miranda needs two assistants. Her current senior assistant, Allison, has been promoted to be Runway’s beauty editor, and Emily, the junior assistant, will be taking Allison’s place. That leaves the junior position open for someone!

‘Andrea, I know you’ve just graduated from college and probably aren’t entirely familiar with the inner workings of the magazine world …’ She paused dramatically, searching for the right words. ‘But I feel it’s my duty, my obligation, to tell you what a truly incredible opportunity this is. Miranda Priestly …’ She paused again just as dramatically, as though she were mentally bowing. ‘Miranda Priestly is the single most influential woman in the fashion industry, and clearly one of the most prominent magazine editors in the world. The world! The chance to work for her, to watch her edit and meet with famous writers and models, to help her achieve all she does each and every day, well, I shouldn’t need to tell you that it’s a job a million girls would die for.’

‘Um, yeah, I mean yes, that does sound wonderful,’ I said, briefly wondering why Sharon was trying to talk me into something that a million other people would die for. But there wasn’t time to think about it. She picked up the phone and sang a few words, and within minutes she’d escorted me to the elevators to begin my interviews with Miranda’s two assistants.

I thought Sharon was starting to sound a bit like a robot, but then came my meeting with Emily. I found my way down to the seventeenth floor and waited in Runway’s unnervingly white reception area. It took just over a half hour before a tall, thin girl emerged from behind the glass doors. A calf-length leather skirt hung from her hips, and her unruly red hair was piled in one of those messy but still glamorous buns on top of her head. Her skin was flawless and pale, not so much as a single freckle or blemish, and it stretched perfectly over the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen. She didn’t smile. She sat next to me and looked me over, earnestly but with little apparent interest. Perfunctory. And then, unprompted and still having not introduced herself, the girl I presumed to be Emily launched into a description of the job. The monotone of her statements told me more than all of her words: she’d obviously gone through this dozens of times already, had little faith that I was any different from the rest, and as a result wouldn’t be wasting much time with me.

‘It’s hard, no doubt about it. There will be fourteen-hour days, you know – not often, but often enough,’ she rattled on, still not looking at me. ‘And it’s important to understand that there will be no editorial work. As Miranda’s junior assistant, you’d be solely responsible for anticipating her needs and accommodating them. Now, that could be anything from ordering her favorite stationery to accompanying her on a shopping trip. Either way, it’s always fun. I mean, you get to spend day after day, week after week, with this absolutely amazing woman. And amazing she is,’ she breathed, looking slightly animated for the first time since we started speaking.

‘Sounds great,’ I said and meant it. My friends who’d begun working immediately after graduation had already clocked in six full months in their entry-level jobs, and they all sounded wretched. Banks, advertising firms, book publishing houses – it didn’t matter – they were all utterly miserable. They whined about the long days, the coworkers, and the office politics, but more than anything else, they complained bitterly about the boredom. Compared with school, the tasks required of them were mindless, unnecessary, fit for a chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging numbers in databases and cold-calling people who didn’t want to be called. Of listlessly cataloging years’ worth of information on a computer screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months on end so their supervisors thought they were productive. Each swore she’d actually gotten dumber in the short amount of time since graduation, and there was no escape in sight. I might not particularly love fashion, but I’d sure rather do something ‘fun’ all day long than get sucked into a more boring job.

‘Yes. It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway, nice to meet you. I’m going to go get Allison for you to meet. She’s great, too.’ Almost as quickly as she finished and departed behind the glass in a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure appeared.

This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda’s senior assistant who’d just been promoted, and I knew immediately that she was simply too thin. But I couldn’t even focus on the way her stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I was captivated by the fact she exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a fuzzy (or was it furry?) white tank top strained across her breasts and ended two inches above her belly button. Her long hair was as dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers and toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from within, and her open-toe sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She managed to look incredibly sexy, seminaked, and classy all at the same time, but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all, November.

‘Hi, I’m Allison, as you probably know,’ she started, picking some of the tank top fur from her barely there leather-clad thigh. ‘I was just promoted to an editor position, and that’s the really great thing about working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the work is tough, but it’s incredibly glamorous and a million girls would die to do it. And Miranda is such a wonderful woman, editor, person, that she really takes care of her own girls. You’ll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working just one year for her; if you’re talented, she’ll send you straight to the top, and …’ She rambled on, not bothering to look up or feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I didn’t get the impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed over in the way seen only in cult members or the brainwashed. I had the distinct impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she wouldn’t necessarily notice.

When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I nearly collapsed on the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening so fast, spiraling out of control, and yet I was excited. So what if I didn’t know who Miranda Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed enough. Yeah, so it’s a fashion magazine and not something a little more interesting, but it’s a hell of a lot better to work at Runway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of having Runway on my résumé was sure to give me even more credibility when I eventually applied to work at The New Yorker than, say, having Popular Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girls would die for this job.

After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to the reception area. She told me her name but I couldn’t focus on anything except her body. She wore a tight, shredded denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned and manicured and exposed in such a way that normal people are not when there’s snow on the ground. It wasn’t until she actually motioned for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand up that I became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and utter lack of accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of what I wore – and that I carried something resembling a briefcase – continues to haunt me. I can feel my face flame red as I remember how very, very awkward I was among the most toned and stylish women in New York City. I didn’t know until later, until I hovered on the periphery of being one of them, just how much they had laughed at me between the rounds of the interview.

After the requisite look-over, Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl Kerston’s office, Runway’s executive editor and all-around lovable lunatic. She, too, talked at me for what seemed like hours, but this time I actually listened. I listened because she seemed to love her job, speaking excitedly about the ‘words’ aspect of the magazine, the wonderful copy she reads and writers she manages and editors she oversees.

‘I have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this place,’ she declared proudly, ‘so it’s best to save those questions for someone else.’

When I told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing, that I had no particular interest or background in fashion, her smile broadened to a genuine grin. ‘Well, in that case, Andrea, you might be just what we need around here. I think it’s time for you to meet Miranda. And if I may offer a piece of advice? Look her straight in the eye and sell yourself. Sell yourself hard and she’ll respect it.’