＇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……
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  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