Revenge Wears Prada (13 page)

“Ah yes, I’d like to speak with Stanley Grogin, please. I’m calling from
The Plunge.
” Agatha nodded to herself, clearly pleased with being the center of the drama, and cleared her throat.

“Mr. Grogin? This is Emily Charlton’s assistant. She’s currently traveling, but she wanted me to get back to you and see if there was anything I could help you with?” Another nod.

Andy could feel a drop of sweat trickle between her breasts.

“Mmm, I see. A conference call. May I ask what it’s concerning?” Agatha made a face as though she’d tasted something disgusting and then rolled her eyes, Emily-style. “Sure thing. I’ll pass that along and get back to you. Thanks so much.”

Emily didn’t even wait for the girl to put the phone down on the receiver before leaning over and depressing the button to end the call.

“What did he say?” Andy and Emily asked in unison.

Agatha took a sip of her green smoothie and appeared to be enjoying herself. “He said that he’d like to schedule a conference call between himself and the two of you.”

“A conference call? About what?” Andy asked. Why on earth would an Elias-Clark lawyer be after them after all these years? Unless they really had heard about the ever-so-slightly misleading way in which Andy
might
still invoke Miranda’s name to secure celebrities?

“He wouldn’t say.”

“What do you mean he wouldn’t say?” Emily near-shrieked. “What did he say when you asked him?”

“Just that he’s free most mornings before eleven and that he would only discuss the private matter with both of you . . . and a couple of his colleagues.”

“Oh god, she’s back! She’s suing us. She’s going to make our lives a living hell, I just know it . . . ,” Andy moaned.

“Miranda couldn’t care less about either one of us, I promise you that,” Emily said with her old authority as first assistant. “If you don’t remember a damn thing, remember this: we are dead to her, and she has far more important things to do than dredge up old crap. It’s got to be something else.”

Emily was right. It had to be something else. But Andy was struck by the fact that the Elias-Clark exchange popping up on their caller ID could thrust her back to a very dark place of sheer panic. It didn’t matter what Elias-Clark
wanted
. Miranda Priestly, Satan herself, waving her devil tail and her Prada bag, filled Andy’s world once again with painful memories and fresh anxieties. It was as if the past ten years hadn’t happened at all.

It had been a week since the wedding, and if anything, Andy was starting to feel worse, not better. Her head throbbed regularly now, and she felt permanently foggy, sleep-deprived, and at times, queasy. Her fever came and went but never seemed to disappear entirely. It was starting to seem like she’d never get rid of this flu.

When she opened her closet to retrieve her rattiest fleece robe, Max’s head popped up. “Morning,” he said, giving her his cutest sleepy smile. “Come here and cuddle with me.”

Andy wrapped the magenta rag around herself and cinched the belt. “I’m not feeling great. I’m going to put on the coffee. I’m not up for working out today, so I think I’ll just get an early start at work.”

“Andy? Can you come here a minute? I want to talk.”

For one horrible moment she was convinced he was about to confess about Katherine. Maybe he’d realized his mother’s letter was missing. Maybe—

“What’s up?” she asked, perching at the foot of the bed, as far from his reach as possible. Stanley looked at her plaintively, upset his breakfast wasn’t as imminent as he thought.

Max pulled on the glasses from his night table and propped his head up with his hand. “I want you to see a doctor today. I’m insisting.”

Andy didn’t say a word.

“It’s been nine days you’ve been feeling like this. Nine days since we got married . . .”

She knew what he really meant. A week already and they’d only had sex once, after which Andy had soaked in the bath for an hour, claiming she felt chilled. Which she did. His patience had worn out, and so had her excuses. Mostly Andy was just desperate to feel better.

“I already made an appointment for this morning. Figured I could cancel it if I was feeling better, which I’m not.”

This seemed to please Max. “Great. That’s great news. Call me right afterward and let me know what he says?”

Andy nodded.

Max pulled the blankets closer around him. “Is everything else okay? I know you’re not feeling well, but you’ve been . . . I don’t know . . . off. This whole week. Did I do something?”

Andy hadn’t planned to have the conversation now. She kept waiting for the perfect time, when neither one of them was stressed or rushed or sick, but enough was enough: it was time to get answers.

“I know all about Bermuda.”

Andy didn’t realize it, but she was holding her breath.

Max’s eyes scrunched in confusion. “Bermuda? You mean, my bachelor party?”

“Yes,” Andy said. Was he going to lie to her? That was just about the only thing now that could make it even worse.

Max looked at her. “You must mean Katherine,” he said quietly, and Andy’s heart sank. So it was true. Barbara’s letter was
right: Max had kept secrets from her; there was no denying it now.

“So you did see her there,” Andy said more to herself than to Max.

“Yes, I saw her there. But believe me when I tell you I had
no idea
she was going to be there. I mean, of course her parents own a house there, but I had no clue she and her sister chose that weekend—of all the weekends in a year—for a spa trip. They joined us for cocktails one night. It’s not an excuse, but please don’t think anything happened, because it didn’t.
Nothing.
”

Something about hearing even these limited details was more crushing than she could have imagined.

Then why didn’t you mention it?
she wanted to scream.
If it was all so sweet and innocent, what’s with the note? And the fact that you hid it all from me?

“How did you find out, by the way? Not that it was a secret, I’m just wondering.”

“I found the letter your mom wrote, Max. The one where she begged you not to marry me. It’s not just about Katherine, is it?”

He looked like he might be sick, which gave Andy a small moment of gratification.

“And it obviously is a secret, or you would have told me when it happened. Or shortly thereafter. It meant enough to mention it to your mom, just not to me.” When he said nothing, Andy scooped up Stanley and announced, “I better get in the shower if I want to make my appointment.”

“I was going to tell you, I swear I was, but I thought it was selfish to get you worried or feeling weird about something when there’s nothing on
earth
to worry about.”

“Worry? I wouldn’t have
worried.
I might’ve taken this ring off!” After so many days of quietly worrying and wondering, the yelling felt wonderful. “I might’ve refused to put on that white dress and proclaim my love for you in front of all our friends and families. Especially
your
family, since they don’t even like me.
They think I’m beneath you. That may have been my choice. So don’t you dare sit there and say you were keeping this quiet out of concern for
my
well-being.”

Even as she said it, she knew she was being unfair. Of course she’d had a choice that day. She’d chosen to walk rather than embarrass herself or Max or their families with jealous histrionics. She’d walked down that aisle because she loved Max and trusted him—or at least wanted to—and she was certain there was some sort of logical explanation for everything. Was she supposed to delay a wedding mere minutes before the ceremony because of some undated letter and a bitchy mother-in-law? Did she even want to? Of course not. But Max didn’t need to know that quite yet.

“Andy, you’re overreacting—”

Clutching the dog to her chest, she slammed and locked the bathroom door behind her. Max knocked furiously and called through the door, but the sound of the shower soon drowned him out. When she walked into the kitchen fully dressed to grab a banana and a bottle of iced tea, Max leaped to his feet and tried to embrace her. “Andy, nothing happened!” She wrangled herself away so only his hand remained on her shoulder.

She looked around their apartment, a south-facing, three-thousand-square-foot split two-bedroom with home office on the fourteenth floor, with a terrace off the master and a newly renovated kitchen that opened up into a sprawling living and dining room space. The Harrisons had purchased the apartment for Max when he graduated from college, and as expensive as the place was, it didn’t come close to comparing price-wise with other Harrison properties. For this reason Barbara had persuaded Max not to sell it when he sold everything else: if nothing else, it was an investment. When he and Andy decided to move in together, Max immediately offered to put his beloved apartment on the market so they could choose somewhere new together, but Andy argued that it was ridiculous to incur all those extra expenses
when the apartment was more than enough for the two of them. Max had kissed her and declared how much he loved her lack of materialism. Andy had laughed and announced she was still planning to throw out most of his furniture and hire a decorator. Now, as she glanced around, Andy thought about how beautifully the apartment had turned out, how lucky she was to live there. Thick Berber carpeting, plush velvet couches, and overstuffed chairs invited snuggling. Framed photographs of adventures from around the world she and Max had taken, alone and together, decorated the walls. They’d combined their knickknacks (her slatted, wooden African frog that made a ribbit noise when you brushed a stick across its back; his reclining Buddha bust that he’d dragged back from a trip to Thailand) and all their books and their thousands upon thousands of CDs, creating a warm, welcoming home that felt like a respite.

“Call me as soon as you’re done, okay? I’m worried about you. I can pick up an antibiotic or whatever on my way home tonight, just tell me what you need. We have so much more to talk about, I know that, so I’ll be home as soon as I can. We’re going to get through this, I promise. I should have told you, Andy, I know that now. But I swear to you, I love you. And absolutely nothing happened in Bermuda. Zero.”

His palm on her shoulder felt like an assault.

“Andy?”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t respond.

“I love you so much. I’ll do anything to win back your trust. I made a bad decision not to tell you I saw an ex, but I didn’t cheat. And I’m not my mother. Please come home tonight and talk to me, okay? Please?”

She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. There, peering at her through worried eyes, looking as anxious as she felt, was her best friend, her partner, the man she loved more than anyone else on earth.

This wasn’t the last of it, Andy knew that; they would talk
that night, and she would need some more convincing—but not then. She nodded and squeezed his arm and without another word she hoisted her bag over her arm and closed the door behind her.

“Andrea? Good to see you again, dear,” Dr. Palmer said as he perused Andy’s chart.

He didn’t look up. After what, thirty, maybe forty years in practice, how could the man bear to hear another complaint about headaches and a sore throat? Andy almost felt bad for him.

“Let’s see here, you had your last physical almost two years ago—you’re due, you know that—but you made a sick appointment today, so what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but I’ve been feeling pretty lousy for a week now, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. I’ve had a nonstop headache, and my stomach’s been upset.”

“Sounds like a typical bug that’s been going around. Anything upper respiratory?” He motioned for Andy to open her mouth. She gagged when he depressed her tongue.

“No, not really. But a fever on and off.”

“Mmm. Take a deep breath for me? There.”

In quick succession he checked her eyes and ears and then kneaded her belly and asked how it felt. She replied “fine” but had an irrational desire to punch him in the face for gathering her skin (fat?) rolls into bunches.

“Well, I’ll take a strep culture because you’re here and your throat is irritated, but I’m almost certain that’s not what it is. Honestly, I think it’s just a virus that needs to work its way through your system. I would recommend getting the flu vaccine, so long as you’re here. Take Tylenol as needed, drink plenty of fluids, and rest, and call me if your fever spikes.”

He was talking quickly now, making notes and folding up her
file and getting ready to leave. Why were they always in such a rush? She’d waited almost an hour to be seen, and now he was bolting out after four minutes.

“You don’t want to be tested for any sexually transmitted diseases, do you?” Dr. Palmer asked, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

“Pardon?” Andy asked. She coughed.

“Strictly protocol. We ask all unmarried patients, give them the option.”

“Actually I am married,” Andy said. “As of a week ago.” She marveled at how strange it still felt to say it. Married.

“Congratulations! Well, then, if that’s all, I’ll be getting on my way. Good to see you, Andy. I think you’ll be feeling better soon.”

He turned to leave the exam room, and before Andy could think anything through, she blurted, “I’d like to be tested for everything, please.”

Dr. Palmer turned around.

“I know it’s probably all in my head, and there’s nothing to worry about, but I did just find out that my husband saw his ex at his bachelor party. I mean, I know it’s his ex-girlfriend and not some prostitute, and of course I don’t actually think anything happened—he swears it didn’t, but . . . better safe than sorry, I guess?” She paused for just a moment to take a deep, gasping breath. And then, more calmly, she said, “We just got married last weekend.”

Ninety-nine percent of Andy knew she was being completely and utterly ridiculous. She was almost certain Max hadn’t cheated on her with Katherine or anyone else. He’d never been anything but loving and up-front with her, and while he’d made a mistake in not mentioning the run-in, she really did believe him when he claimed nothing happened. And even if by some unlikely chance something had happened, what were the chances he was going to get a sexually transmitted disease from Katherine von Herzog, the
virgin princess herself? Von Herzogs didn’t do herpes. Period. All that said, on the teensy, tiny chance her current illness had something to do with Max and Katherine, she should know once and for all.