The Devil Wears Prada Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada. Lauren Weisberger

not to sound sarcastic, which was difficult, considering my statement was supremely obvious. ‘Is something wrong?’

      In all fairness, I think she just parted her lips, but to my near-delirious self, it looked like she was baring actual pointed fangs.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like my own, nothing human. She narrowed her eyes to slits and leaned closer, still refusing, as always, to raise her voice. ‘Yes, there’s something wrong. Something very, very wrong. Why do I have to come back to my office to find this sitting on my desk?’

      It was like trying to solve one of those twisted riddles. Why did she have to come back to her desk to find this sitting on it, I wondered. Clearly, the fact that she had requested it an hour earlier was not the correct answer, but it was the only one I had. Did she not like the tray it was on? No, that wasn’t possible: she’d seen it a million times and hadn’t ever complained about it. Had they accidentally given her the wrong cut of meat? No, that wasn’t it, either. The restaurant had once mistakenly sent me off with a wonderful-looking filet, thinking that she was sure to enjoy it more than the tough ribeye, but she’d almost had a full-fledged heart attack. She’d made me call the chef personally and scream at him over the phone while she stood over me and told me what to say.

      ‘I’m so sorry, miss, really I am,’ he’d said softly, sounding like the nicest guy in the world. ‘I really just thought that since Ms Priestly is such a good customer that she’d prefer to have our best. I didn’t charge her extra, but don’t worry, it won’t happen again, I promise.’ I felt like crying when she ordered me to tell him that he would never be a real chef anywhere besides some second-rate steak emporium, but I had done it. And he had apologized and agreed, and from that day on she’d always gotten her bloody ribeye. So it wasn’t that, either. I had no idea what to say or do.

      ‘Ahn-dre-ah. Did Mr Ravitz’s assistant not tell you that we had lunch together in that wretched dining room just a few moments ago?’ she asked slowly, as though she were trying to keep herself from losing control completely.

      She what? After all of that, after all the running and the Sebastian ridiculousness, and the angry phone calls, and the ninety-five-dollar meal, and the Tiffany song, and the food arranging, and the dizziness, and the waiting to eat until she came back, and she’d already eaten?

      ‘Uh, no, we didn’t get a call from her at all. So, uh, does that mean you don’t want this?’ I asked, motioning to the tray.

      She looked at me as if I had just suggested she eat one of the twins. ‘What do you think that means, Emily?’ Shit! She’d been doing so well with my name.

      ‘I guess that, uh, well, that you don’t want it.’

      ‘That’s very perceptive of you, Emily. I’m lucky you’re such a quick study. Now remove it. And make sure this does not happen again. That’s all.’

      A quick fantasy flashed forward, one in which I would, just like in the movies, sweep my arm across the desk and send the whole tray flying across the room. She would watch and, shocked into contriteness, apologize profusely for speaking to me like that. But the clicking of her nails against the desk brought me back to reality, and I quickly picked up the tray and carefully walked out of her office.

      ‘Ahn-dre-ah, close the door! I need a moment!’ she called. I guess that having a gourmet lunch appear on her desk that she didn’t feel like eating had been a really stressful part of her day.

      Emily had just returned with a can of Diet Coke and a package of raisins for me. This was supposed to be the snack to tide me over to lunch, and of course there wasn’t a single calorie or gram of fat or ounce of added sugar in the whole thing. She dropped them on her desk when she heard Miranda calling and ran over to shut her French doors.