{"product_id":"the-devil-wears-prada-isbn-9780767914765","title":"The Devil Wears Prada","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • THE INSPIRATION FOR THE HIT MOVIE STARRING MERYL STREEP AND ANNE HATHAWAY • DON’T MISS \u003ci\u003eTHE DEVIL WEARS PRADA 2\u003c\/i\u003e, COMING SOON TO THEATERS!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“The degree to which \u003ci\u003eThe Devil Wears Prada\u003c\/i\u003e has penetrated pop culture needs no explanation.”—\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA gloriously wicked story about the ultimate Boss from Hell and the deals we make with the devil to get to the top\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrea 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 \u003ci\u003eRunway\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, Andrea finds herself in an office that shouts \u003ci\u003ePrada! Armani! Versace!\u003c\/i\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrea 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 her a top job at any magazine of her choosing. As things escalate from the merely unacceptable to the downright outrageous, 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 it’s worth the price of her soul.“It’s \u003ci\u003eWorking Girl\u003c\/i\u003e meets Cruella de Vil.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A telling tale of life as an underling . . . compelling.”\u003cb\u003e—BBC\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Deliciously witty and gossipy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] must-have accessory.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eLauren Weisberger \u003c\/b\u003eis the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWhen Life Gives You Lululemons\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Singles Game\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Revenge Wears Prada\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Last Night at Chateau Marmont\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Chasing Harry Winston\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eEveryone Worth Knowing\u003c\/i\u003e, and\u003ci\u003e The Devil Wears Prada—\u003c\/i\u003ewhich have all been \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestsellers. \u003ci\u003eThe Devil Wears Prada\u003c\/i\u003e was published in forty languages, made into a major motion picture starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway, and adapted for the stage starring Vanessa Williams, with music by Elton John. Weisberger’s books have sold more than thirteen million copies worldwide. A graduate of Cornell University, she lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 \"f***\" 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"F***in'   move, lady!\" hollered a swarthy driver whose chest hair threatened to overtake the   wife-beater he wore. \"What do you think this is? F***in' drivin' school? Get outta   the way!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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 \"f*** yous\" before weaving forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes,   Miranda. Hi, I can hear you perfectly.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ahn-dre-ah, where's my car? Did you drop   it off at the garage yet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Whatever,\" she   said brusquely, cutting me off midsentence. \"I need you to pick up Madelaine and   drop her off at the apartment before you come 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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's all, Ahn-dre-ah. See to it right   now,\" she added, still not glancing up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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 small green Porsche. Yes! I had my first lead.   One quick phone call to the Porsche dealership on Eleventh Avenue revealed that yes,   they had just finished touching up the paint and installing a new disc-changer in   a green Carrera 4 Cabriolet for a Ms. Miranda Priestly. Jackpot!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ordered a Town   Car to take me to the dealership, where I turned over a note I'd forged with Miranda's   signature that instructed them to release the car to me. No one seemed to care whatsoever   that I was in no way related to this woman, that some stranger had cruised into the   place and requested someone else's Porsche. They tossed me the keys and only laughed   when I'd asked them to back it out of the garage because I wasn't sure I could handle   a stick shift in reverse. It'd taken me a half hour to get ten blocks, and I still   hadn't figured out where or how to turn around so I'd actually be heading uptown,   toward the parking place on Miranda's block that her housekeeper had described. The   chances of my making it to 76th and Fifth without seriously injuring myself, the   car, a biker, a pedestrian, or another vehicle were nonexistent, and this new call   did nothing to calm my nerves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once again, I made the round of calls, but this time   Miranda's nanny picked up on the second ring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Cara, hey, it's me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hey, what's   up? Are you on the street? It sounds so loud.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah, you could say that. I had   to pick up Miranda's Porsche from the dealership. Only, I can't really drive stick.   But now she called and wants me to pick up someone named Madelaine and drop her off   at the apartment. Who the hell is Madelaine and where might she be?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cara laughed   for what felt like ten minutes before she said, \"Madelaine's their French bulldog   puppy and she's at the vet. Just got spayed. I was supposed to pick her up, but Miranda   just called and told me to pick the twins up early from school so they can all head   out to the Hamptons.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're joking. I have to pick up a f***ing dog with this   Porsche? Without crashing? It's never going to happen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"She's at the East Side   Animal Hospital, on Fifty-second between First and Second. Sorry, Andy, I have to   get the girls now, but call if there's anything I can do, OK?\"","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304669303013,"sku":"NP9780767914765","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780767914765.jpg?v=1767738998","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-devil-wears-prada-isbn-9780767914765","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}