Warenkorb
 

The Devil Wears Prada

A Novel

A delightfully dishy novel about the all-time most impossible boss in the history of impossible bosses.

Andrea Sachs, a small-town girl fresh out of college, lands the job "a million girls would die for." Hired as the assistant to Miranda Priestly, the high-profile, fabulously successful editor of Runway magazine, Andrea finds herself in an office that shouts Prada! Armani! Versace! at every turn, a world populated by impossibly thin, heart-wrenchingly stylish women and beautiful men clad in fine-ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather pants that show off their lifelong dedication to the gym. With breathtaking ease, Miranda can turn each and every one of these hip sophisticates into a scared, whimpering child.

THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA gives a rich and hilarious new meaning to complaints about "The Boss from Hell." Narrated in Andrea's smart, refreshingly disarming voice, it traces a deep, dark, devilish view of life at the top only hinted at in gossip columns and over Cosmopolitans at the trendiest cocktail parties. From sending the latest, not-yet-in-stores Harry Potter to Miranda's children in Paris by private jet, to locating an unnamed antique store where Miranda had at some point admired a vintage dresser, to serving lattes to Miranda at precisely the piping hot temperature she prefers, Andrea is sorely tested each and every day-and often late into the night with orders barked over the phone. She puts up with it all by keeping her eyes on the prize: a recommendation from Miranda that will get Andrea a top job at any magazine of her choosing. As things escalate from the merely unacceptable to the downright outrageous, however, Andrea begins to realize that the job a million girls would die for may just kill her. And even if she survives, she has to decide whether or not the job is worth the price of her soul.

From the Hardcover edition.
Rezension
"[A] funny, biting, low-cal treat."
-Rush & Molloy, The New York Daily News

"A deliciously witty and gossipy first novel."
-Publishers Weekly

"[An] on-the-money kiss-and-tell debut.
-Kirkus

From the Hardcover edition.
Portrait
Lauren Weisberger is the
New York Times bestselling author of several novels, including
The Devil Wears Prada,
Chasing Harry Winston, and
The Singles Game. She graduated from Cornell University in 1999 and lives in Connecticut.
… weiterlesen
  • Artikelbild-0
  • 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 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
In den Warenkorb

Beschreibung

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 368
Erscheinungsdatum 01.08.2003
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-7679-1724-7
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 17,4/10,6/3 cm
Gewicht 184 g
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
6,99
6,99
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
Sofort lieferbar Versandkostenfrei
Sofort lieferbar
Versandkostenfrei
In den Warenkorb
PAYBACK Punkte
Vielen Dank für Ihr Feedback!
Entschuldigung, beim Absenden Ihres Feedbacks ist ein Fehler passiert. Bitte versuchen Sie es erneut.
Ihr Feedback zur Seite
Haben Sie alle relevanten Informationen erhalten?

Kundenbewertungen

Durchschnitt
4 Bewertungen
Übersicht
2
1
0
1
0

Ganz anders wie der Film
von Olivia am 21.06.2016

Im Film mögen die Angestellten von Runway Andy überhaupt nicht. Aber im Buch ist das nicht so außer Miranda natürlich. Im Großen und Ganzen ist das Buch schon cool aber ich fande den Film viel besser (normalerweise ist das immer umgekehrt...hier nicht!)

Nicht schlecht...
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden am 06.11.2007

..ich habe das buch sowohl auf englisch als auch auf deutsch gelesen und fand es beide male super!!

Sehr gutes Buch und interessante Charaktere
von Angie am 09.10.2006
Bewertet: Taschenbuch

Ich habe das Buch anhand des interessanten und eigensinnigen Titels gekauft und bin wirklich begeistert gewesen, als ich es las. Man konnte sich so gut in die Rolle der Andrea Sachs hineinversetzen, allein wie sie von einem Fettnäppchen ins nächste rutschte. Es war amüsant und ich bin auf den Film gespannt!