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

Table of Contents

Title Page The Devil Wears Prada Revenge Wears Prada Lauren Weisberger

The Devil Wears Prada The Devil Wears Prada

Revenge Wears Prada

About the Author

Also by Lauren Weisberger

Copyright

About the Publisher

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) .

Table of Contents

Title Page The Devil Wears Prada Lauren Weisberger

Dedication 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) .

Permissions

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

Acknowledgments

‘Material Girl’ by Peter Brown and Robert Rans © 1984 by Candy Castle Music. Warner/Chappell North America, London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Ltd. All Rights Reserved.

‘WANNABE’ Words and Music by Emma Bunton, Geri Halliwell, Melanie Chisholm, Victoria Beckham, Richard Stannard, Matthew Rowbottom, Melanie Gulzar © 1995. Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd/Polygram Music Publishing Ltd, London WC2H 0QY (50%).

© Copyright 1996 Universal Music Publishing Limited (50%).

Used By Permission Of Music Sales Limited.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

‘I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW’ Words and Music by Ritchie Cordell. © 1967 (Renewed 1995) EMI Longitude Music, USA. Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London WC2H 0QY © Copyright 1967, 1987 Longitude Music Company, USA. EMI Music Publishing (WP) Limited, for the United Kingdom and the Republic of Ireland.

Used By Permission Of Music Sales Limited.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

AMERICAN PIE

Words & Music by Don McLean © Copyright 1971 Mayday Music, USA. Universal/MCA Music Limited.

Used By Permission Of Music Sales Limited.

All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALDEN 1854

The light hadn’t even officially turned green at the intersection of 17th and Broadway before an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past the tiny deathtrap I was attempting to navigate around the city streets. Clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?), release clutch , I repeated over and over in my head, the mantra offering little comfort and even less direction amid the screeching midday traffic. The little car bucked wildly twice before it lurched forward through the intersection. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. Without warning, the lurching evened out and I began to pick up speed. Lots of speed. I glanced down to confirm visually that I was only in second gear, but the rear end of a cab loomed so large in the windshield that I could do nothing but jam my foot on the brake pedal so hard that my heel snapped off. Shit! Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to my complete and utter lack of grace under pressure: this clocked in as my third such breakage this month. It was almost a relief when the car stalled (I’d obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to brake for my life). I had a few seconds – peaceful seconds if one could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word ‘fuck’ being hurled at me from all directions – to pull off my Manolos and toss them into the passenger seat. There was nowhere to wipe my sweaty hands except for the suede Gucci pants that hugged my thighs and hips so tightly they’d both begun to tingle within minutes of my securing the final button. My fingers left wet streaks across the supple suede that swathed the tops of my now numb thighs. Attempting to drive this $84,000 stick-shift convertible through the obstacle-fraught streets of midtown at lunchtime pretty much demanded that I smoke a cigarette.

‘Fuckin’ move, lady!’ hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair threatened to overtake the wife-beater he wore. ‘What do you think this is? Fuckin’ drivin’ school? Get outta the way!’

I raised a shaking hand to give him the finger and then turned my attention to the business at hand: getting nicotine coursing through my veins as quickly as possible. My hands were moist again with sweat, evidenced by the matches that kept slipping to the floor. The light turned green just as I managed to touch the fire to the end of the cigarette, and I was forced to leave it hanging between my lips as I negotiated the intricacies of clutch, gas, shift (neutral to first? Or first to second?), release clutch , the smoke wafting in and out of my mouth with each and every breath. It was another three blocks before the car moved smoothly enough for me to remove the cigarette, but it was already too late: the precariously long line of spent ash had found its way directly to the sweat stain on the pants. Awesome. But before I could consider that, counting the Manolos, I’d wrecked $3,100 worth of merchandise in under three minutes, my cell phone bleated loudly. And as if the very essence of life itself didn’t suck enough at that particular moment, the caller ID confirmed my worst fear: it was Her. Miranda Priestly. My boss.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?’ she trilled the moment I snapped my Motorola open – no small feat considering both of my (bare) feet and hands were already contending with various obligations. I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and tossed the cigarette out the window, where it narrowly missed hitting a bike messenger. He screamed out a few highly unoriginal ‘fuck yous’ before weaving forward.

‘Yes, Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly.’

‘Ahn-dre-ah, where’s my car? Did you drop it off at the garage yet?’

The light ahead of me blessedly turned red and looked as though it might be a long one. The car jerked to a stop without hitting anyone or anything, and I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m in the car right now, Miranda, and I should be at the garage in just a few minutes.’ I figured she was probably concerned that everything was going well, so I reassured her that there were no problems whatsoever and we should both arrive shortly in perfect condition.