Free The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

flying out of the
bag, and all I could do was stare: there were enough clothes to constitute four
or more total preteen wardrobes.Who the hell are Cassidy and Caroline? I
wondered, staring at the loot. What self-respecting person wears Tommy Hilfiger
jeans—in three different colors, no less?
     
     I
must’ve looked thoroughly confused, because Leanne quite purposely turned
her back while repacking the clothes and said, “I just know
Miranda’s daughters will love this stuff. We’ve been dressing them
for years, and Tommy insists on picking the clothes out for them
himself.” I shot her a grateful look and threw the bag over my shoulder.
     
     “Good
luck!” she called as the elevator doors closed, a genuine smile taking up
most of her face. “You’re lucky to have such an awesome job!”
Before she could say it, I found myself mentally finishing the sentence—a
million girls would die for it.And for that moment, having just seen a famous
designer’s studio and in possession of thousands of dollars worth of
clothes, I thought she was right.
     
     Once I
got the hang of things, the rest of the day flew. I debated for a few minutes
whether anyone would be mad if I took a minute to pick up a sandwich, but I had
no choice. I hadn’t eaten anything since my croissant at seven this
morning, and it was nearly two. I asked the driver to pull over at a deli and
decided at the last minute to get him one, too. His jaw dropped when I handed
him the turkey and honey mustard, and I wondered if I had made him
uncomfortable.
     
     “I
just figured you were hungry, too,” I said. “You know, driving
around all day, you probably don’t have much time for lunch.”
     
     “Thank
you, miss, I appreciate it. It’s just that I’ve been driving around
Elias-Clark girls for twelve years, and they are not so nice. You are very
nice,” he said in a thick but indeterminate accent, looking at me in the
rearview mirror. I smiled at him and felt a momentary flash of foreboding. But
then the moment passed and we each munched our turkey wraps while sitting in
gridlock and listening to his favorite CD, which sounded to me like little more
than a woman shrieking the same thing over and over in an unknown language, the
whole thing set to sitar music.
     
     Emily’s
next written instruction was to pick up a pair of white shorts that Miranda
desperately needed for tennis. I figured we’d be headed to Polo, but she
had written Chanel. Chanel made white tennis shorts? The driver took me to the
private salon, where an older saleswoman whose facelift had left her eyes
looking like slits handed me a pair of white cotton-Lycra hot pants, size zero,
pinned to a silk hanger and draped in a velvet garment bag. I looked at the
shorts, which appeared as though they wouldn’t fit a six-year-old, and
looked back to the woman.
     
     “Um,
do you really think Miranda will wear these?” I asked tentatively,
convinced the woman could open that pit-bull mouth of hers and consume me
whole. She glared at me.
     
     “Well,
I should hope so, miss, considering they’re custom measured and cut,
according to her exact specifications,” she snarled as she handed the
minishorts over. “Tell her Mr. Kopelman sends his best.”Sure, lady.
Whoever that is.
     
     My next
stop was what Emily wrote as “way downtown,” J&R Computer World
near City Hall. Seemed it was the only store in the entire city that sold
Warriors of the West, a computer game that Miranda wanted to purchase for Oscar
and Annette de la Renta’s son, Moises. By the time I made it downtown an
hour later, I’d realized that the cell phone could make long-distance
calls, and I was happily dialing my parents and telling them how great the job
was.
     
     “Um,
Dad? Hi, it’s Andy. Guess where I am now? Yes, of course I’m at
work, but that happens to be in the backseat of a chauffeured car cruising
around Manhattan. I’ve already been to Tommy Hilfiger and Chanel, and
after I buy