Revenge Wears Prada (10 page)

Max and Andy swiveled toward the red carpet and sure enough, a tanned, taut, and pulled-tight Valentino gingerly removed his loafers and stepped aboard. A lackey standing just off to the side handed him a snorting, wet-faced pug, which he accepted without comment and began to stroke. He brazenly scanned the party and, appearing neither pleased nor displeased, turned to offer his one free hand to his date. Longtime partner Giancarlo was nowhere to be found; instead, Andy watched in horror as five long fingers with red-lacquered nails reached up from the belowdecks stairwell and wrapped themselves, talonlike, over Valentino’s forearm.

Noooooo!

Andy glanced at Max. Had she screamed that aloud or just thought it?

As if in slow motion, the woman materialized inch by dreaded inch: the top of her bob, followed by her bangs, and then her face, twisted into an all-too-familiar expression of extreme displeasure. Her tailored white pants, silk tunic, and cobalt high-heeled pumps were all Prada, and her military-inspired jacket and classic quilted bag were Chanel. The lone jewelry she wore was a thick, enameled Hermès cuff in a perfectly coordinating shade of blue. Andy had read years earlier that the cuffs had replaced the scarves as her Hermès security blankets—apparently she had collected nearly five hundred in every imaginable color and size—and Andy sent up a silent thanks that she was no longer responsible for sourcing them. Watching in a sort of fascinated terror as Miranda refused to remove her shoes, Andy didn’t even notice when Max squeezed her hand.

“Miranda,” she said, half whispering, half choking.

“I’m so sorry,” Max said into her ear. “I had no idea she was coming.”

Miranda didn’t like parties, she didn’t like boats, and it stood to reason that she especially didn’t like parties on boats. There were three, perhaps five people on the planet who could convince Miranda to board a boat, and Valentino was one of them. Even though Andy knew Miranda would only deign to stay for ten or fifteen minutes, she was panicked at the idea of sharing such a small space with the woman of her night terrors. Had it really been almost ten years since she’d screamed F you on a Parisian street and then fled the country? Because it felt like only yesterday. She clutched her phone, desperate to call Emily, but she suddenly realized Max had dropped her hand and was reaching out to greet Valentino.

“Good to see you again, sir,” Max said in the formal way he always reserved for his parents’ friends.

“I hope you will excuse the intrusion,” Valentino said with a small bow. “Giancarlo was planning to attend on my behalf, but I was in New York tonight anyway to meet with this lovely lady, and I wanted to visit with my boat again.”

“We’re thrilled you could be here, sir.”

“Enough with the ‘sir,’ Maxwell. Your father was a dear friend. I hear you are doing good things with the business, yes?”

Max smiled tightly, unable to discern if Valentino’s question was merely polite or fraught. “I’m certainly trying. May I get you and . . . Ms. Priestly something to drink?”

“Miranda, darling, come here and say hello. This is Maxwell Harrison, son of the late Robert Harrison. Maxwell is currently overseeing Harrison Media Hol—”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she interrupted coolly, gazing at Max with a cold, disinterested expression.

Valentino looked as surprised as Andy felt. “Aha! I did not realize you two knew each other,” he said, clearly looking for a further explanation.

At the exact same moment that Max murmured, “We don’t,” Miranda said, “Well, we do.”

An awkward silence ensued before Valentino broke into a raucous laugh. “Ah, I sense there is a story there! Well, I look forward to hearing it one day! Ha ha!”

Andy bit her tongue and tasted the tang of blood. Her queasiness had returned, her mouth felt like chalk, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to say to Miranda Priestly.

Thankfully Max, ever more socially graceful than she, placed his hand on Andy’s back and said, “And this is my wife, Andrea Harrison.”

Andy almost reflexively corrected him—
professionally, it’s Sachs
—until she realized he’d deliberately avoided using her maiden name. It didn’t matter, though. Miranda had already spotted someone more interesting across the room, and by the time Max’s introduction was out of his mouth, Miranda was
twenty feet away. She had not thanked Max, nor even so much as glanced in Andy’s direction.

Valentino shot them an apologetic look and, clutching his pug, dashed off behind her.

Max turned to Andy. “I’m so, so sorry. I had absolutely no idea that—”

Andy placed her open palm on Max’s chest. “It’s okay. Really. Hey, that went better than I could have ever hoped. She didn’t even look at me. It’s not a problem.”

Max kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked, how she didn’t have to be intimidated by anyone—least of all the legendarily rude Miranda Priestly—and asked her to wait right there while he went to find them both some water. Andy offered him a weak smile and turned to watch as the crew drew up the anchor and began to motor off the pier. She pressed her body into the boat’s metal railing and tried to steady her breathing with deep inhalations of the brisk October air. Her hands were shaking, so she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The night would be over soon.

The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her
US Weekly,
and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.

“It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?” Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.

“What, are you not up yet?”

“Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.”

“You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!” Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.

“Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.”

“Just guess.”

“Really, Em?”

“I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.”

Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

“It’s Katherine, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Max’s ex-girlfriend. The one he saw in Bermuda and—”

“Have you still not asked him about that? Seriously, Andy, you’re being ridiculous. No, it wasn’t Katherine—why on earth would she be calling me?—it was Elias-Clark.”

“Miranda!” Andy whispered.

“Not exactly. Some dude named Stanley who didn’t bother much with details or job titles, but I think I figured out from some Googling that he’s the general counsel for Elias-Clark.”

Andy leaned over and put her head between her knees for just a moment before “Call Me Maybe” began blaring from the spin studio. She stood up and placed a hand over her free ear.

“So yeah, I have no idea why he’s calling, but he left a message late last night saying it was important and to please call him back at my earliest convenience.”

“Christ.” Andy paced between the women’s locker room and the stretching mats. She could see Max doing lat pull-downs in the free-weight area.

“Interesting, no? I have to say, I’m intrigued,” Emily said.

“It must have something to do with Miranda. I saw her last night. First in person and then in my nightmares. It was a very long night.”

“You
saw
her? Where? On TV?” Emily laughed.

“Ha ha. Because my life is so unfabulous you can’t even imagine it, right? I saw her at Yacht Party! She was there with Valentino. We actually all had cocktails together and then the four of us went to Da Silvano for dinner. She was quite charming, I have to say. I was surprised.”

“Oh my god, I’m dying right now! How could you not have called me the second you got home? Or from the bathroom of the restaurant? Andy, you’re lying right now! This is
insane
!”

Andy laughed. “Of course it’s insane, you lunatic. You think I just happened to share a plate of tagliatelle with Miranda and didn’t mention it to you? She was there last night, yes, but she didn’t so much as glance in my direction, and my entire interaction was with her Chanel Number Five as she blew past me without a glimmer of recognition.”

“I hate you,” Emily said.

“I hate you, too. But seriously, don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence? I see her last night for the first time in forever and she calls you the very next day?”

“She didn’t call me. Stanley did,” Emily said.

“Same thing.”

“Do you think they’re somehow onto our little habit of dropping Miranda’s name to book celebs? That’s not a crime, is it?” Emily sounded concerned.

“Maybe they finally figured out that you stole her entire two-thousand-person address book and they’re suing you to keep it under wraps?” Andy offered.

“From nine years ago? I don’t think so.”

Andy kneaded her aching calf muscles. “Maybe she decided that she wants you back. That you were the best dry-cleaning dropper-offer and lunch fetcher she’s ever had, and she simply can’t live without you.”

“Adorable. Look, I’m jumping in the shower now and I’ll be out of here in thirty minutes. Meet me at the office?”

Andy looked at her watch, thrilled for the excuse to leave the gym. “All right. I’ll see you there.”

“Oh, and Andy? I’m making the steak tonight. Come early and help me, okay? You can do the zucchini. Miles won’t be home until eight.”

“Sounds good. I’ll tell Max to get in touch with Miles. See you soon.”

Pan-seared strip steaks and zucchini matchsticks had become their go-to meal for every dinner the girls had cooked for each other in over five years, ever since they’d learned to make it together in a remedial cooking class. It was the only dish either of them had actually mastered the entire semester. And no matter how many times they made the damn steak and zucchini—probably in the neighborhood of two or three times a month—it always made Andy think of 2004, the year after she left
Runway
and her entire world had changed.

Andy wasn’t one of those girls who remembered what she wore on every first day of school, third date, or birthday, or even when she had met certain friends or how she’d celebrated most holidays. But the year after Andy left
Runway
was etched forever in her mind: it wasn’t every year of your life that you quit your job, your parents got divorced, your boyfriend of six years dumped you, and your best friend (okay, fine,
only
friend) moved clear across the country.

It had started with Alex, a mere month after she returned from her infamous Fuck You Miranda Paris trip. Yes, she cringed inwardly every time she remembered the exchange, aghast at her own bad behavior. Yes, she thought it was just about the most unprofessional and uncouth way of leaving a job, no matter how dreaded said job was. And yes, if she had it to do all over again, could go back in time and relive that moment once more, she probably wouldn’t change a damn thing. It had just felt too good. Coming home—to Lily, to her family, and to Alex—had been the right thing to do, and the only part of it she regretted was not doing it earlier, but to her surprise, she didn’t just get to snap her fingers and have everything fall back into place. The year she’d spent at
Runway
fetching and finding and learning to navigate the scariest fashion shark tank imaginable had Andy so wrapped up in her own exhaustion and terror that she’d barely had a moment to notice what else was happening around her.

When had she and Alex grown so far apart that year that he no longer thought they had enough in common? He kept claiming everything had changed between them. He didn’t know her anymore. It was great she’d quit
Runway,
but why didn’t she realize she’d become a different person? The girl he’d fallen in love with answered only to herself, but the new Andy was too eager to do what everyone else wanted.
What does that mean?
Andy would ask, biting on her lip, feeling alternately sad and angry. Alex would just shake his head. They bickered constantly. He always seemed
disappointed
in her. By the time he finally said that he wanted a break, and oh, by the way, he was accepting a Teach for America transfer to the Mississippi Delta, Andy was devastated but not surprised. Officially, it was over, but it didn’t feel that way. They talked on the phone and saw each other intermittently for the next month. There was always a reason to call or e-mail, a fleece left behind, a question for her sister, a game plan to sell the David Gray tickets they’d bought months earlier for a concert in the fall. Even the good-bye felt surreal, perhaps the very first time Andy had ever felt awkward around Alex. She wished him good luck. His hug was brotherly. But deep down she was in denial: Alex couldn’t live in Mississippi forever. They
would take some time, use the distance to think and breathe and figure things out, and then he’d realize he’d made a horrible mistake (both with Mississippi and with her) and come racing back to New York. They were meant to be together. Everyone knew it. It was only a matter of time.

Only Alex didn’t call. Not during his two-day drive there, not after he arrived, not once he settled into the cottage house he’d rented because his town was too small for apartment buildings. Andy kept making excuses for him, going through them in her mind like mantras.
He’s tired from all the driving, he’s overwhelmed with regret about his new life,
and her favorite,
Mississippi must not have cell reception.
But when three days passed, and then a week, and she still hadn’t received so much as an e-mail, it hit her: this was for real. Alex was gone. At the very least he was determined to distance himself, and he didn’t appear to be coming back. She cried every morning in the shower and every evening in front of the TV and occasionally in the middle of the day, just because she could. Writing for
Happily Ever After,
the up-and-coming wedding blog that had hired her to contribute copy on a freelance basis, didn’t help. Who was she to curate the perfect registry list or suggest some off-the-beaten-track honeymoon destinations when her boyfriend found her too hideous even to call?