The Devil Wears Prada Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 atRunway
than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of
havingRunway on my résumé was sure to give me even more
credibility when I eventually applied to work atThe New Yorker than, say,
havingPopular Mechanics there. Besides, I’m sure a million girlswould 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 abriefcase
—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.”
     
     As if on
cue, Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda’s office. It was only
a thirty-second walk, but I could sense that all eyes were on me. They peered
at me from behind the frosted glass of the editor’s office and from the
open space of the assistants’ cubicles. A beauty at the copier turned to
check me out, and so did an absolutely magnificent man, although he was
obviously gay and intent on examining only my outfit. Just as I was about to
walk through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants’ suite
outside of Miranda’s office, Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed it
under her