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The Devil Wears Prada

A sharp, witty and hugely entertaining novel, The Devil Wears Prada has become a generation-defining bestselling classic.
Welcome to the dollhouse, baby!
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 and fawned-over editor, Miranda Priestly. But she's going to be Miranda's assistant, a job millions of girls would die for.
A year later, she knows altogether too much:
That it's a sacking offence to wear anything lower than a three-inch heel to work.
That Miranda believes Hermes scarves are disposable, and you must keep a life-time supply on hand at all times.
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 a.m. on a Sunday, when your boyfriend's dumping you because you're always at work, and your best friend's just been arrested, if Miranda phones, you jump.
Most of all, Andrea knows that Miranda is a monster who makes Cruella de Vil look like a fluffy bunny. But also that this is her big break, and it's going to be worth it in the end.
Isn't it?
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495 printed pages
RomanceModern Fiction

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Deachen Palton
Deachen Paltonshared an impression3 months ago
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Another pair of seven-hundred-dollar shoes sacrificed to
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!’
sense my insincerity – and besides, I had no free hands to poke through the bar
‘Ahn-dre-ah! Ahn-dre-ah! Can you hear me, Ahn-dre-ah?’ she trilled the moment I snapped my Motorola open
but your attitude has been substandard at best.
leaped out of
I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and tossed the cigarette out the window, where it narrowly missed hitting a bike messenger.
an army of overconfident yellow cabs roared past
‘Just heading back to the Elias-Clark building,’ I said with a long sigh as the driver pulled around the block and headed south on Park Avenue. Since I rode the route every day – sometimes twice – I knew I had exactly eight minutes to breathe and collect myself and possibly even figure out a way to disguise the ash and sweat stains that had become permanent features on the Gucci suede. The shoes – well, those were beyond hope, at least until they could be fixed by the fleet of shoemakers Runway kept for such emergencies
I couldn’t make sense of anything she’d just said, anything other than the fact that Miranda Priestly had liked me.

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