The Devil Wears Prada (62 page)

 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 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.

 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;

 my
phenomenal sister,Dana,their favorite

(until I wrote
a book).

contents

 Title
Page

 Dedication

 Acknowledgments

 Chapter
1

 Chapter
2

 Chapter
3

 Chapter
4

 Chapter
5

 Chapter
6

 Chapter
7

 Chapter
8

 Chapter
9

 Chapter
10

 Chapter
11

 Chapter
12

 Chapter
13

 Chapter
14

 Chapter
15

 Chapter
16

 Chapter
17

 Chapter
18

 Chapter
19

 Copyright
Page

Doubleday

 New
York London Toronto Sydney Auckland

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