The Devil Wears Prada: Loved the movie? Read the book!
Welcome to Runway magazine - and the office of Miranda Priestly…When Andrea first sets foot in the plush Manhattan offices of Runway she knows nothing. She's never heard of the world's most fashionable magazine, or its feared editor, Miranda Priestly.A year later, Andy knows altogether too much:That it's a sacking offence to wear anything lower than a three-inch heel to work.That you can charge cars, manicures, anything at all to the Runway account, but you must never, ever, leave your desk, or let Miranda's coffee get cold.And that at 3 am, when your boyfriend's dumping you and your best friend's just been arrested, if Miranda phones, you jump.But most of all Andy knows this is her big break, and it's going to be worth it in the end.Isn't it?
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The Devil Wears Prada
Lauren Weisberger
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003
Copyright © Lauren Weisberger 2003
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013
Lauren Weisberger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007156108
Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007494354
Version: 2018-05-31
Dedicated to the only three
people alive who genuinely believe it rivals War and Peace:
my mother, Cheryl, the mom âa million girls would die forâ;
my father, Steve, who is handsome, witty, brilliant, and talented, andwho insisted on writing his own dedication;
my phenomenal sister, Dana, their favorite(until I wrote a book).
Contents
Permissions
âMaterial Girlâ 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.
âWANNABEâ 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%).
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âI THINK WEâRE ALONE NOWâ 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.
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AMERICAN PIE
Words & Music by Don McLean © Copyright 1971 Mayday Music, USA. Universal/MCA Music Limited.
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Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALDEN 1854
The light hadnât 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 (Iâd obviously forgotten to press the clutch when attempting to brake for my life). I had a few seconds â peaceful seconds if one could overlook the angry honking and varied forms of the word âfuckâ being hurled at me from all directions â 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 theyâd 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.
