people might have read that? I had a feeling that Loretta was going to be distinctly less
pleased with my story than she was three minutes ago, but there was no escaping now.
“Um, yeah. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed, really it wasn’t. Things got totally blown out of
proportion in thatPage Six article. Really.”
“Well, I hope not! Someone needed to tell that woman to go fuck herself, and if it was
you, well, then, hats off! That woman made my life a living hell for the year I worked
there, and I never even had to exchange a single word with her.
“Look, I’ve got to run to a press lunch right now, but why don’t we set up a meeting?
You need to come in and fill out some of these papers, and I’d like to meet you anyway.
Bring anything else you think might work for the magazine.”
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“Great. Oh, that sounds great.” We agreed to meet next Friday at three, and I hung up
still not believing what had happened. Kyle and Jill had left the baby with Lily while they
went to dress and pack, and he had commenced a sort of crying-whimpering thing that
sounded as though he was two seconds away from all-out hysteria. I scooped him out of
his seat and held him over my shoulder, rubbing his back through his terry-cloth footie
pajamas, and, remarkably, he shut up.
“You’ll never believe who that was,” I sang, dancing around the room with Isaac. “It
was an editor atSeventeen magazine—I’m going to be published!”
“Shut up! They’re printing your life story?”
“It’s not my life story—it’s ‘Jennifer’s’ life story. And it’s only two thousand words, so
it’s not the biggest thing ever, but it’s a start.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Young girl gets super caught up in achieving something and
ends up screwing over all the people who matter in her life. Jennifer’s story. Uh-huh,
whatever.” Lily was grinning and rolling her eyes at the same time.
“Whatever, details, details. The point is, they’re publishing it in the February issue and
they’re paying me three thousand dollars for it. How crazy is that?”
“Congrats, Andy. Seriously, that’s amazing. And now you’ll have this as a clip, right?”
“Yep. Hey, it’s notThe New Yorker, but it’s an OK first step. If I can round up a few
more of these, maybe in some different magazines, too, I might be getting somewhere. I
have a meeting with the woman on Friday, and she told me to bring anything else I’ve
been working on. And she didn’t even ask if I speak French. And she hates Miranda. I
can work with this woman.”
I drove the Texas crew to the airport, picked up a good and greasy Burger King lunch for
Lily and me to wash down our breakfast donuts with, and spent the rest of the day—and
the next, and the next after that—working on some stuff to show the Miranda-loathing
Loretta.
19
“Tall vanilla cappuccino, please,” I ordered from a barista I didn’t recognize at the
Starbucks on 57th Street. It had been nearly five months since I’d been here last, trying to
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balance a whole tray of coffees and snacks and get back to Miranda before she fired me
for breathing. When I thought about it like that, I figured it was far better to have gotten
fired for screaming “fuck you” than it was to get fired because I’d brought back two
packets of Equal instead of two raw sugars. Same outcome, but a totally different
ballgame.
Who knew Starbucks had such huge turnover? There wasn’t a single person behind the
counter who looked remotely familiar, making all the time I’d spent there seem that much
farther away. I smoothed my well-cut but nondesigner black pants and checked to make
sure that the cuffed bottoms hadn’t collected any of the city’s muddy slush. I knew there
was an entire magazine staff of fashionistas who would emphatically disagree with me,
but I thought I looked pretty damn good for only my second interview. Not only did I
now know that no one wears suits at magazines, but somewhere, somehow, a year’s
worth of high fashion had—by simple osmosis, I think—crammed itself into my head.
The cappuccino was almost too hot, but it felt fantastic on that chilly, wet day. The
darkened, late-afternoon sky seemed to be misting the city with a giant Snow-Cone.
Normally, a day like this would’ve depressed me. It was, after all, one of the more
depressing days in the year’s most depressing month (February), the kind when even the
optimists would rather crawl under the covers and the pessimists didn’t stand a chance of
getting through without a fistful of Zoloft. But the Starbucks was warmly lit and just the
right state of crowded, and I curled up in one of their oversize green armchairs and tried
not to think of who had rubbed his dirty hair there last.
In the past three months, Loretta had become my mentor, my champion, my savior.
We’d hit it off in that first meeting and she’d been nothing but wonderful to me ever
since. As soon as I’d walked into her spacious but cluttered office and saw that she was—
gasp!—fat, I had a weird feeling that I’d love her. She sat me down and read every word
of the stuff I’d been working on all week: tongue-in-cheek pieces on fashion shows, some
snarky stuff on being a celebrity assistant, a hopefully sensitive story about what it
takes—and doesn’t take—to bring down a three-year-long relationship with someone you
love but can’t be with. It was storybook-like, nauseating, really, how well we’d instantly
hit it off, how effortlessly we shared our nightmares aboutRunway (I was still having
them: a recent one had included a particularly horrid segment in which my own parents
were shot dead by Parisian fashion police for wearing shorts on the street and Miranda
had somehow managed to legally adopt me), how quickly we realized that we were the
same person, just seven years apart.
Since I’d just had the brilliant idea of dragging all myRunway clothes to one of those
snooty resale shops on Madison Avenue, I was a wealthy woman—I could afford to write
for peanuts; anything for a byline. I had waited and waited for Emily or Jocelyn to call to
tell me they were sending a messenger to pick it all up, but they never did. So it was all
mine. I packed up most of the clothes but set aside the Diane Von Furstenburg wrap-
dress. While going through the contents of my desk drawers that Emily had emptied into
boxes and mailed to me, I came across the letter from Anita Alvarez, the one in which
she expressed her worship of all thingsRunway . I’d always meant to send her a fabulous
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dress, but I’d never found the time. I wrapped the bold-printed dress in tissue paper,
tossed in a pair of Manolos, and forged a note from Miranda—a talent I was unhappy to
discover I still possessed. This girl should know—just once—how it feels to own one
beautiful thing. And, more importantly, to think there’s someone out there who actually
cares.
Except for the dress, the tight and very sexy D&G jeans, and the utterly classic, quilted,
chain-handle purse I’d given to my mom as a gift (“Oh, honey, this is beautiful. What’s
this brand again?”), I sold every last filmy top, leather pant, spiked boot, and strappy
sandal. The woman who worked the register called the woman who owned the store, and
the two of them had decided it would be best if they just closed the shop down for a few
hours to evaluate my merchandise. The Louis Vuitton luggage—two large suitcases, one
medium-size accessories bag, and an oversize trunk—alone had netted me six grand, and
when they were finally finished whispering and examining and giggling, I cruised out of
there with a check for just over $38,000. Which, by my calculations, meant that I could
pay rent and even feed myself for a year while I tried to get this writing gig together. And
then Loretta strolled into my life and made it instantly better.
Loretta had already agreed to buy four pieces—one blurb, only slightly larger than a pull
quote, two 500-word pieces, and the original 2,000-word story. But even more exciting
was her bizarre obsession with helping me make contacts, her eagerness to get in touch
with people at other magazines who might just be interested in some freelance stuff.
Which is exactly what put me at that Starbucks on that overcast winter day—I was
headed back to Elias-Clark. It had taken a lot of insisting on her part to convince me that
Miranda wouldn’t hunt me down the minute I walked in the building and knock me out
with a blow dart, but I was still nervous. Not paralyzed with fear like the old days when a
mere cell phone ring was enough to cause my heart to flip-flop, but jittery enough at the
thought—however remote the possibility—of catching a glimpse of her. Or Emily. Or
anyone else, for that matter, except for James, who had kept in touch.
Somehow, someway, for somereason, Loretta had called her old college roommate who
just so happened to edit the city section ofThe Buzz and told her that she’d discovered the
next new “it” writer. That was supposed to be me. She’d arranged an interview for me
today, and even forewarned the woman that I’d been summarily dismissed from
Miranda’s employ, but the woman had just laughed and said something to the effect that
if they refused to use anyone whom Miranda had fired at one point or another, they’d
barely have any writers at all.
I finished my cappuccino and, newly energized, gathered my portfolio of different
articles and headed—this time calmly, without either an incessantly ringing phone or an
armload of coffees—toward the Elias-Clark building. A moment or two of
reconnaissance from the sidewalk indicated that noRunway Clackers were amid the
crowds in the lobby, and I proceeded to heave my weight against the revolving door.
Nothing had changed in the five months since I’d last been there: I could see Ahmed
behind the register in the newsstand, and a huge, glossy poster advertised thatChic would
be hosting a party at Lotus that weekend. Although I technically should’ve signed in, I
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instinctively walked directly toward the turnstiles. Immediately, I heard a familiar voice
call out,“I can’t remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride, but something
touched me deep inside, the day, the music died. And we were singing . . .” “American
Pie”!What a sweetie, I thought. This was the good-bye song that I’d never gotten to sing.
I turned to see Eduardo, as large and sweaty as usual, grinning. But not at me. In front of
the turnstile closest to him stood a toweringly skinny girl with jet black hair and green
eyes, wearing a dynamite pair of tight, pinstripe pants and a navel-revealing tank top. She
also happened to be balancing a small tray with three Starbucks coffees, an overflowing
bag of newspapers and magazines, three hangers with complete outfits dangling from
each one, and a duffel monogrammed with the initials “MP.” Her cell phone began to
ring just as I realized what was happening, and she looked so panicked I thought she
might cry on the spot. But when her repeated banging against the turnstile failed to elicit
entry, she sighed deeply and sang,“’Bye, ’bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to
the levee, but the levee was dry, and good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye,
singing this will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die . . .” When I looked
back to Eduardo, he smiled quickly in my direction and winked. And then, while the
pretty brunette girl finished singing her verse, he buzzed me through like I was someone
who mattered.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
“Material Girl” by Peter Brown and Robert Rans . 1984 Candy Castle Music. All
Rights administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used
by Permission. WARNER BROS. PUBLICATIONS U.S. INC., Miami, FL 33014
“Wannabe” Words and Music by Matt Rowebottom, Richard Stannard, Geri Halliwell,
Emma Bunton, Melanie Brown, Melanie Chisholm, and Victoria Adams. . 1996 EMI
MUSIC PUBLISHING LTD. and UNIVERSAL-POLYGRAM
INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING, INC. All Rights for EMI MUSIC PUBLISHING
LTD. in the U.S. and Canada Controlled and Administered by EMI FULL KEEL
MUSIC. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.
“I Think We’re Alone Now” Words and Music by Ritchie Cordell. . 1967
(Renewed 1995) EMI LONGITUDE MUSIC. All Rights Reserved. International
Copyright Secured. Used by Permission.
“American Pie” Words and Music by Don McLean. . Copyright 1971 Songs of
Universal, Inc. on behalf of itself and Benny Bird Co., Inc. All rights reserved. Used by
permission.
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PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
a division of Random House, Inc.
DOUBLEDAYand the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Weisberger, Lauren, 1977–
The Devil wears Prada / Lauren Weisberger.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Periodicals—Publishing—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.
3. Fashion editors—Fiction. 4. Women editors—Fiction.
5. Supervisors—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.E453D485 2003
813'.6—dc21 2003040937
eISBN 0-385-51091-8
Copyright . 2003 by Lauren Weisberger
All Rights Reserved
v1.0
dedicated to the only three
people alive who genuinely believe it rivals
War and Peace:
my mother,Cheryl,the mom
“a million girls would die for”;
my father,Steve,who is handsome, witty,
brilliant, and talented, and who
insisted on writing his own dedication;
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my phenomenal sister,Dana,their favorite
(until I wrote a book).
Doubleday
New York London Toronto Sydney Auckland
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