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＇美＇维斯贝格尔（Weisberger；L。）
时尚女魔头介绍：
畅销职场小说《时尚女魔头》《The Devil Wears Prada》，该书作者系全球顶级杂志《VOGUE》离职助理劳伦·魏丝伯格（Lauren Weisberger），以犀利幽默的笔触述了由一名大学毕业生跻身时尚圈内部的曲折离奇经历，影射出时尚界的众生百态，从某种程度上也揭示了时尚圈不为人知的内幕及真相。
劳伦·魏丝伯格本人就是一个从学校刚毕业不久的女孩，她在毕业之后进入了顶顶大名的美国《Vogue》杂志担任总编辑助理。大概在工作了一年后辞职，之后就写了这本书，把她自己的工作经历写了出来。书中那个号称是从 地狱里来的老板毫无疑问就是现实生活中的美国版《Vogue》主编Anna Wintour，由于“老百姓们对于名人及富人们的生活总是好奇的，如果这些家伙在光鲜外表之下还有那么些‘不太漂亮的事’那更是会掉足读者胃口。该书在国外一问世就引起广泛争议，尤其是时尚界反响强烈，雄踞《纽约时报》畅销排行近三十周。
本书作者是顶级杂志《VOGUE》离职助理，以笔触犀利的故事影射时尚真相。在国外一问世就引起广泛争议，尤其是时尚界反响强烈。小说中，刚刚大学毕业的安德里亚通过考试，进入挤满时尚杂志社的伊莱亚斯大楼，开始为这本美国销量最大、最有声望的《天桥》服务。她是主编米兰达的初级助理。不过帮助这个时尚界最有影响力的女人完成日常事务、看她编辑杂志、会见作家和模特到底意味着什么？米兰达是魔鬼一般的女人——她穿零号一线时装，吃熏肉、冰淇淋加喝星巴克却从不发胖，每天看九种报纸和七种杂志，嗜好爱玛仕纱巾，永远弄不清助理的名字。安德里亚任何时候都紧张焦虑。她终于发现自己没法再和男友保持正常关系，在巴黎的时装秀场，不知名的助理对时尚界的传奇人物说出了惊天动地的话……
1
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 fort 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 plete 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 ofclutch； 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。
“Whatever；” she said brusquely； cutting me off midsentence。 “I need
you to pick up Madelaine and drop her off at the apartment before
you e back to the office。” Click。 The phone went dead。 I stared
at it for a few seconds before I realized that she’d deliberately
hung up because she had provided all of the details I could hope to
receive。 Madelaine。 Who the hell was Madelaine？ Where was she at the
moment？ Did she know I was to pick her up？ Why was she going back to
Miranda’s apartment？ And why on earth—considering Miranda had a
full…time driver； housekeeper； and nanny—was I the one who had to do
it？
Remembering that it was illegal to talk on a Cell Phone while
driving in New York and figuring the last thing I needed at that
moment was a run…in with the NYPD； I pulled into the bus lane and
switched my flashers on。Breathe in； breathe out； I coached myself；
even remembering to apply the parking brake before taking my foot
off the regular one。 It had been years since I’d driven a
stick…shift car—five years； actually； since a high school boyfriend
had volunteered his car up for a few lessons that I’d decidedly
flunked—but Miranda hadn’t seemed to consider that when she’d called
me into her office an hour and a half earlier。
“Ahn…dre…ah； my car needs to be picked up from the place and dropped
off at the garage。 Attend to it immediately； as we’ll be needing it
tonight to drive to the Hamptons。 That’s all。” I stood； rooted to
the carpet in front of her behemoth desk； but she’d already blocked
out my presence entirely。 Or so I thought。 “That’sall； Ahn…dre…ah。
See to it right now；” she added； still not glancing up。
Ah； sure； Miranda；I thought to myself as I walked away； trying to
figure out the first step in the assignment that was sure to have a
million pitfalls along the way。 First was definitely to find out at
which “place” the car was located。 Most likely it was being repaired
at the dealership； but it could obviously be at any one of a million
auto shops in any one of the five boroughs。 Or perhaps she’d lent it
to a friend and it was currently occupying an expensive spot in a
full…service garage somewhere on Park Avenue？ Of course； there was
always the chance that she was referring to a new car—brand
unknown—that she’d just recently purchased that hadn’t yet been
brought Home from the （unknown） dealership。 I had a lot of work to
do。
I started by calling Miranda’s nanny； but her Cell Phone went
straight to voice mail。 The housekeeper was next on the list and；
for once； a big help。 She was able to tell me that the car wasn’t
brand…new and it was in fact a “convertible sports car in British
racing green；” and that it was usually parked in a garage on
Miranda’s block； but she had no idea what the make was or where it
might currently be residing。 Next on the list was Miranda’s
husband’s assistant； who informed me that； as far as she knew； the
couple owned a top…of…the…line black Lincoln Navigator and some sort
of