Lauren Weisberger - The Devil Wears Prada Collection - The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada

Not bad , I thought, looking in one of the omnipresent full-length mirrors. You might not even know that mere minutes before I was hovering precariously close to murdering myself and everyone around me. I strolled confidently into the assistants’ suite outside Miranda’s office and quietly took my seat, looking forward to a few free minutes before she returned from lunch.

‘And-re-ah,’ she called from her starkly furnished, deliberately cold office. ‘Where are the car and the kitten?’

I leaped out of my seat and ran as fast as was possible on plush carpeting while wearing five-inch heels and stood before her desk. ‘I left the car with the garage attendant and Madelaine with your doorman, Miranda,’ I said, proud to have completed both tasks without killing the car, the cat, or myself.

‘And why would you do something like that?’ she snarled, looking up from her copy of Women’s Wear Daily for the first time since I’d walked in. ‘I specifically requested that you bring both of them to the office, since the girls will be here momentarily and we need to leave.’

‘Oh, well, actually, I thought you said that you wanted them to—’

‘Enough. The details of your incompetence interest me very little. Go get the car and the kitten and bring them here. I’m expecting we’ll be all ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Understood?’

Fifteen minutes? Was this woman hallucinating? It would take a minute or two to get downstairs and into a Town Car, another six or eight to get to her apartment, and then somewhere in the vicinity of three hours for me to find the kitten in her eighteen-room apartment, extract the bucking stick shift from its parking spot, and make my way the twenty blocks to the office.

‘Of course, Miranda. Fifteen minutes.’

I started shaking again the moment I ran out of her office, wondering if my heart could just up and give out at the ripe old age of twenty-three. The first cigarette I lit landed directly on the top of my new Jimmys, where instead of falling to the cement it smoldered for just long enough to burn a small, neat hole. Great , I muttered. That’s just fucking great . Chalk up my total as an even four grand for today’s ruined merchandise – a new personal best. Maybe she’d die before I got back, I thought, deciding that now was the time to look on the bright side. Maybe, just maybe, she’d keel over from something rare and exotic and we’d all be released from her wellspring of misery. I relished a last drag before stamping out the cigarette and told myself to be rational. You don’t want her to die , I thought, stretching out in the backseat. Because if she does, you lose all hope of killing her yourself. And that would be a shame .

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