Revenge Wears Prada (12 page)

“Turn down that heat!” the instructor called from his perch at the front of the kitchen. “We’re browning zucchini here, not having a bonfire.”

Emily adjusted the stovetop flame and rolled her eyes, and with that barely perceptible movement, Andy was transported directly to their anteroom offices at
Runway,
where Emily had rolled those same, slightly brighter eyes a thousand times each day. Miranda would call out a request for a milkshake or a new SUV or a python tote bag or a pediatrician or a flight to the Dominican Republic; Andy would flounder about, trying to decode what she was saying; Emily would roll her eyes and loudly sigh at Andy’s incompetence. Then they’d rinse and repeat, over and over again.

“Em, look, I—” She stopped short when Emily’s head whipped around to stare at her.

“It’s Emily,” she said tightly.

“Emily, sorry. How could I forget? Miranda called me that for a year of my life.”

Surprisingly, this made Emily snort, and Andy thought she might have even detected a small smile. “Yeah, she did, didn’t she?”

“Emily, I . . .” Andy, unsure how to proceed, stirred the zucchini despite the instructor’s command to “let them stand and brown without bothering them too often.” “I know it’s been a really long time since that, uh, that year, but I feel badly about how we left things.”

“What, you mean how you weaseled your way onto the Paris trip despite it being my lifelong dream—and despite my working way longer and harder than you ever did—and then you having
the nerve to up and
quit
in the middle of it? Never taking a second to consider what a very bad mood that might put Miranda in, or how long it would take for me to hire and train someone new—nearly three weeks, by the way, which meant I was at her beck and call twenty-four/seven, totally solo?” Emily stared down at her zucchini. “You never so much as e-mailed to say good-bye or thanks for the help or go to hell or anything. So that’s how we left it.”

Andy peered at her cooking partner. Was Emily actually hurt? Andy wouldn’t have believed it if she didn’t see it herself, but it seemed like Emily was actually upset Andy hadn’t gotten in touch.

“I’m sorry, Emily. I figured I was the last person you’d want to hear from. It’s no secret I didn’t love working for Miranda. But I recognize now that it wasn’t so easy for you either, and I probably could’ve been a little less difficult.”

Emily snorted again. “Difficult? You were a first-class bitch.”

Andy took a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. She wanted to take it all back, call Emily the brown-nosing sycophant she really was, and kiss
Runway
and everyone associated with it good-bye forever. Merely talking about the place for the last sixty seconds had brought back all the old pain and anxieties: the sleepless nights, the endless requests, the forever-ringing phone, the constant belittling and insulting and passive-aggressive comments. Feeling fat, stupid, and inadequate every morning and exhausted, beaten down, and depressed every night.

But what was the point of engaging now? In an hour and a half the class would be over for good, and Andy would be able to leave, pick up a pint of Tasti D-Lite on her walk home, and hopefully never see her nasty ex-colleague again.

“Here, these zucchini are finished. What’s next?” Andy asked, moving the pan to the back burner and coating a clean one with fresh olive oil.

Emily dropped two handfuls of halved Brussels sprouts into the pan and then poured a Dijon, wine, and vinegar mix over it. “She fired me, you know.”

Andy’s wooden spoon clattered to the floor. “She what?”

“Fired me. About four months after you quit. I’d just finished training the fourth new girl; it was probably eight in the morning on a totally average day, and she waltzed in, barely glanced at me, and told me she didn’t need me to come back the next day—or ever.”

Andy couldn’t keep her mouth from dropping open. “Are you serious? And you have no idea why?”

Emily’s hand was shaking slightly as she stirred the sprouts. “None. I worked for her for almost three years—I fucking learned French so I could tutor Caroline and Cassidy in all my free time—and she threw me out like garbage. I was weeks away from a promised promotion to associate fashion editor and bam! Good-bye. No explanation, no apology, no thank-you, nothing.”

“I’m so sorry, that’s horrible—”

Emily held up her left hand. “That was last year. I’m over it. Well, maybe not over it exactly—I still wake up every morning and pray she gets run over by a bus—but after that I can get on with my day.”

Had it not been for the expression of pain on Emily’s face, Andy would have rejoiced. How often had she wondered why Emily didn’t recognize all the hideous ways Miranda humiliated and terrorized the people who worked for her? How many times had she wished she had a friend in the office? How much more bearable would it have been if she’d had a partner in crime with whom to commiserate? No one had worked harder or with more dedication than Emily, and Miranda had reneged on all her promises to her anyway. It was so fundamentally unfair.

Andy wiped her hands on her apron. “I wrote her obit once. Is that weird?”

Emily put down her tongs and stared. It was the first time the entire class they’d made direct eye contact. “You what?”

“Just as, like, an exercise, you know? I think it’s fair to say I didn’t exactly dwell on her accomplishments, either. It was surprisingly cathartic. You’re not the only one who hopes she meets an untimely death.”

Finally Emily smiled. “So does that mean you worked at a newspaper? I Googled you for a while after you left, but I never found much.”

Andy didn’t know where to start with that one. There was a weird feeling of satisfaction in knowing that Emily tried to keep track of her, too. In the weeks after she left
Runway,
she’d often thought of calling Emily to apologize for quitting so suddenly and putting the first assistant in such a lousy situation, but in the end she always chickened out. You didn’t scream
fuck you
at Miranda Priestly and not pay the price with Emily Charlton. So Andy avoided the certain curse-outs and insults and phone slamming and kept her guilt to herself.

“Yeah, that’s probably because there wasn’t much to find. I lived at home with Lily for a little while she recovered. Helped drive her to physical therapy appointments and twelve-step meetings, that kind of thing. I did a little pitching and writing for my local paper, covering engagements and weddings. When I finally moved back to the city, I sent my résumé to pretty much every listing on Mediabistro and ended up with
Happily Ever After.
So far, it’s been pretty okay. I get to write a lot. What are you up to?”

“What do you do for them? It’s a wedding website, right? I’ve read their partner site, the one about home design. It’s not bad.”

That was easily the most enthusiastic compliment Andy had ever heard Emily offer, and she ran with it.

“Thanks! Yes, it’s anything and everything weddings, from the engagement rings to flowers, dresses, registries, guest lists, venues, honeymoons, accessories, planners, first-dance inspirations . . . you get the drill.” It wasn’t earth-shattering, but Andy had carved out a pleasant niche for herself at the website and wasn’t altogether unhappy. “What are you up to?”

“Ladies in the corner!” the instructor bellowed, pointing a silicone scraper in their direction. “Less talking, more cooking. Despite the name, you actually should learn how to do more than boil water.”

Emily nodded. “I remember now. You just interviewed Victoria Beckham on what her favorite memories were of her wedding, and if she could advise a bride today to splurge on a single thing, what would it be? And she said the booze, because that’s what guarantees people have fun? Was that you?”

Andy couldn’t help but smile; it was still such a novelty realizing that people actually read things she wrote. “Yeah, that was my piece.”

“I wondered if that was you, and then I figured it must be another Andrea Sachs because you were definitely going to be some war correspondent or something. I totally remember it now. I have a Google Alert set up for Posh and I read everything about her. Did you actually get to meet her in person?”

Was Emily really asking Andy questions about her life? Showing interest? Impressed by something Andy had done? It was almost too insane to believe. “Just for fifteen minutes, but yes, I went to her hotel room when she was in New York a couple months ago. I even got to meet him.”

“No!”

Andy nodded.

“No offense, but how’d you get her to agree to give an interview to a wedding blog?”

Andy thought for a moment, considered how honest to be with Emily, before saying, “I called her PR woman, said I most recently worked at
Runway
directly for Miranda Priestly, and since Miranda was such a huge fan of Victoria Beckham, I was hoping she would grant me a quick interview about her wedding.”

“And she did, just based on that?”

“Yep.”

“But Miranda doesn’t even like Victoria Beckham.”

Emily spooned the sprouts and zucchini slices onto a plate and sat down on a work stool. Andy went over to the platter of cheese and crackers, loaded up a plate, and, placing the plate between them, took the seat next to Emily.

“Irrelevant. It works so long as Victoria—or at least her PR person—likes Miranda, which they always do. So far I have a hundred percent success rate.”

“What? You’ve done it before? Given the impression that you used to write for
Runway
?”

“I don’t lie,” Andy said, popping a cheddar cube in her mouth. “However they choose to interpret it is up to them.”

“It’s brilliant. Just brilliant. Why the hell not? It’s not like slaving for her is going to get you anywhere else. Who else have you met?”

“Well, let’s see. I got Britney Spears to do a top-ten first-dance playlist, Kate Hudson to tell us how she would elope one day, Jennifer Aniston to describe her dream princess dress, Heidi Klum to talk about wedding-day hair and makeup, and Reese Witherspoon to open up about the pros and cons of marrying young. Next week I’m interviewing J. Lo on how to have an appropriate second or third wedding.”

Emily reached over and created a little sandwich with two cheese cubes and two crackers, and Andy tried to keep her mouth from hitting the floor.
Emily Charlton ate?
“It sounds great, Andy,” she said through a crunch.

Andy must have been staring at her because she half smiled and said, “Oh yeah, I eat now. It was the first thing that came back after she fired me. My appetite.”

“Well, you sure don’t look it,” Andy said truthfully, and Emily half smiled again. “Will you tell me what you’re up to?”

The instructor materialized out of nowhere. “Ladies? What’s going on here? Because I’m pretty sure ‘sit around and snack’ isn’t in the class description.” He clapped his hands together and raised his eyebrows.

“And I’m pretty sure ‘be a complete jackass’ isn’t in the teacher description. We were actually just leaving,” Emily said, looking at Andy.

“Yes, we were. Thanks for such a terrific class.” The cheer in Andy’s voice made Emily shriek with glee and the rest of the class turn around to watch. The girls gathered their things and stumbled into the hallway before dissolving in laughter.

It should have been awkward a moment or two later, but it wasn’t. They may have hated each other before this, but they’d certainly spent enough time in each other’s company to feel comfortable. Andy tentatively suggested they go get a drink and continue to catch up, and Emily readily agreed. One margarita turned into three and three turned into dinner and dinner into plans two days later. Soon the girls were getting together regularly for happy hours and Sunday brunches and quick coffee chats in Emily’s office at
Harper’s Bazaar,
where they’d recently promoted Emily to junior fashion editor and given her a small but windowed space all her own.

Andy became Emily’s plus-one to all the fancy fashion parties; Andy invited Emily along as her “associate” to celebrity interviews. They weighed in on each other’s work situations, mocked each other’s clothes, and kept their cell phones turned on at all hours so whoever was out late on a date would have someone to call when she got home that night. She still missed Alex and Lily, still got sad thinking of her parents living apart, and still felt lonely and disconnected, but more often than not, Emily was calling or texting, wanting to check out the new sushi place that had opened in SoHo or go shopping for red lipstick or a new espresso machine or a pair of flat sandals.

It didn’t happen overnight, but the unlikeliest thing in Andy’s world had become reality: Emily Charlton, sworn enemy, was her friend. And not just any friend, but Andy’s best friend, her first phone call for all things good or bad. Which is why it felt so natural when, a couple years later—after Emily had left
Bazaar
and Andy was starting to get bored at
Happily Ever After
—the girls first had the idea for
The Plunge
. It was Emily’s idea, really, but Andy refined the magazine’s purpose and mission, brainstormed story and cover ideas, and sourced the first weddings they covered. With Emily’s business contacts and print magazine experience and Andy’s writing skills and expertise with all things wedding related, they conceived and designed a uniquely beautiful product. Enter Max, one of Emily’s husband’s best friends, as both investor and Andy’s future husband, and their lives had become so entwined that sometimes Andy could hardly remember a time when she and Emily had hated each other. With hard work and the passing of time, both she and Emily had managed to leave Miranda in the rearview mirror. Until now.

Andy could hardly believe the fear she felt as she sat in Emily’s office, still wearing her running shorts and sweatshirt, her sweaty hands clenched so tight her fingernails left marks on her palms, and listened as Agatha dialed the famous Elias-Clark switchboard.

“Are we really doing this?” Andy moaned, simultaneously desperate to know more and dreading finding out.