The Devil Wears Prada Read Free Page B

home. A toast, a gulp, another toast. Oh, thank god—it
wasn’t a rare strain of hemorrhagic fever, it was just a hangover. It
never occurred to me that I couldn’t exactly hold my liquor anymore after
losing twenty pounds to dysentery. Five feet ten inches and 115 pounds did not
bode well for a hard night out (although, in retrospect, it boded very well for
employment at a fashion magazine).
     
     I
bravely extracted myself from the crippling couch I’d been crashing on
for the past week and concentrated all my energy on not getting sick.
Adjustment to America—the food, the manners, the glorious
showers—hadn’t been too grueling, but the houseguest thing was
quickly becoming stale. I figured I had about a week and a half left of
exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely ran out of cash, and
the only way to get money from my parents was to return to the never-ending circuit
of second opinions. That sobering thought was the single thing propelling me
from bed, on what would be a fateful November day, to where I was expected in
one hour for my very first job interview. I’d spent the last week parked
on Lily’s couch, still weak and exhausted, until she finally yelled at me
to leave—if only for a few hours each day. Not sure what else to do with
myself, I bought a MetroCard and rode the subways, listlessly dropping off
résumés as I went. I left them with security guards at all the
big magazine publishers, with a halfhearted cover letter explaining that I
wanted to be an editorial assistant and gain some magazine writing experience.
I was too weak and tired to care if anyone actually read them, and the last
thing I was expecting was an interview. But Lily’s phone had rung just
the day before and, amazingly, someone from human resources at Elias-Clark
wanted me to come in for a “chat.” I wasn’t sure if it would
be considered an official interview or not, but a “chat” sounded
more palatable either way.
     
     I washed
down Advil with Pepto and managed to assemble a jacket and pants that did not
match and in no way created a suit, but at least they stayed put on my
emaciated frame. A blue button-down, a not-too-perky ponytail, and a pair of
slightly scuffed flats completed my look. It wasn’t great—in fact,
it bordered on supremely ugly—but it would have to suffice.They’re
not going to hire me or reject me on the outfit alone, I remember thinking.
Clearly, I was barely lucid.
     
     I showed
up on time for my elevenA .M. interview and didn’t panic until I
encountered the line of leggy, Twiggy types waiting to be permitted to board
the elevators. Their lips never stopped moving, and their gossip was punctuated
only by the sound of their stilettos clacking on the floor.Clackers, I
thought.That’s perfect. (The elevators!)Breathe in, breathe out, I
reminded myself.You will not throw up. You will not throw up. You’re just
here to talk about being an editorial assistant, and then it’s straight
back to the couch. You will not throw up. “Why yes, I’d love to
work at Reaction!Well, sure, I supposeThe Buzzwould be suitable. Oh, what? I
may have my pick? Well, I’ll need the night to decide between there and
Maison Vous.Delightful!”
     
     Moments
later I was sporting a rather unflattering “guest” sticker on my
rather unflattering pseudosuit (not soon enough, I discovered that guests in
the know simply stuck these passes on their bags, or, even better, discarded
them immediately—only the most uncouth losers actuallywore them) and
heading toward the elevators. And then… I boarded. Up, up, up and away,
hurtling through space and time and infinite sexiness en route to… human
resources.
     
     I
allowed myself to relax for a moment or two during that swift, quiet ride. Deep,
pouty perfumes mixed with the smell of fresh leather to turn those elevators
from the merely functional to the almost erotic. We whisked between floors,
stopping to let out the beauties atChic, Mantra,