Revenge Wears Prada (22 page)

There was a knock on Emily’s door and Agatha walked in. “Daniel wants to know if you can run to his office for, like, two seconds. He said he needs to show you something but he’s waiting for a phone call.”

“Go. We can talk about this later,” Andy said, relieved to have finally shared the news.

“Damn right we will. But let’s stay focused on the meeting too, okay? We need to discuss what you’re going to wear . . .” She walked around the desk and pulled open Andy’s cashmere cardigan. “No obvious bump per se, but definitely something we need to be careful about. I think you should wear that A-line wool dress, the one with the gold epaulets? It’s nothing great, but at least it has a little drape around the middle . . .”

Andy laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Seriously, Andy. Big news and all, I get it, but we have to be a hundred percent for Miranda. You’re not, like, going to be puking or anything, right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Great. I’ll let you know how it goes with the Vera people.
Don’t forget to touch base with St. Germain—they’re waiting for your call.”

Emily grabbed her trench coat and tote bag and waved back at Andy over her shoulder. “Congrats again!” she shouted, and Andy cringed, wondering if Emily knew not to blab her news to the entire office.

Then again, what did it matter? She was pregnant, and if all went well—and Andy found herself fervently hoping it would—in six months she would be having a baby. A baby. The Miranda meeting, the idle gossip, it all melted away when she stopped for a moment and imagined herself holding a soft-skinned, sweet-smelling infant. She placed two hands over her belly and smiled to herself. A baby.

Andy walked into the Starbucks closest to Elias-Clark and had to hold on to the counter to steady herself. She hadn’t been there in ten years, and the flashbacks were so vivid and unpleasant she thought she might faint. A quick glance around confirmed none of the faces behind the register or manning the espresso machines were familiar. She caught sight of Emily waving from a corner table.

“Thank god you’re finally here,” Emily said, taking a long sip of her iced coffee with obvious care to avoid smudging her lipstick.

Andy checked her watch. “I’m almost fifteen minutes early. How long have you been here?”

“You don’t want to know. I’ve been getting dressed and redressed since four in the morning.”

“Sounds relaxing.”

Emily rolled her eyes.

“It was worth it, though,” Andy said, looking approvingly at Emily’s fitted bouclé pencil skirt, skintight cashmere turtleneck sweater, and sky-high stiletto boots. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks. You too,” Emily said automatically, without looking up from her phone.

“Yeah, I thought this dress I borrowed looks pretty good. Not bad for maternity, right?”

Emily’s head whipped up, a panicked expression on her face.

“Hah, just kidding. I’m wearing the dress you told me to, and it’s not maternity.”

“Adorable.”

Andy suppressed a smile. “When do you think we should head over there?”

“Five minutes? Or maybe now? You know how much she loves it when someone’s late.”

Andy reached over and helped herself to a sip of Emily’s coffee. It was sludgy with sugar, almost too thick to pull through the straw. “How do you drink this crap?”

Emily shrugged.

“Okay, let’s remember this: We don’t owe Miranda a thing. We are there to listen and listen only. She can’t wreck our lives anymore with a single wave of her wand.” The words all sounded good, but Andy wasn’t sure she believed them herself.

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, Andy. She’s the editorial director of all of Elias-Clark. She remains the most powerful woman in both fashion and publishing. She could absolutely wreck our lives for no reason other than she feels like it, and I’m sure you’ve been awake since three
A.M.,
too.”

Andy stood up and buttoned her puffy down coat—she had wanted to wear something more elegant, but the day was arctic, and she wasn’t prepared to feel freezing in addition to terrified. She had spent her standard thirty minutes getting ready this
morning, had donned the dress with the epaulets, as Emily had advised. Not winning any awards, but not objectionable either. “Come on, let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

“Great attitude,” Emily said, shaking her head. But she stood and zipped up her gorgeous, cropped fur jacket.

They didn’t exchange a single word on the walk to Elias-Clark, and Andy felt reasonably okay until they entered the lobby and made their way over to the visitors’ desk to check in, something neither of them had done since the day they were each first interviewed.

“This is surreal,” Emily said, stealing glances around. Her hands trembled.

“No Eduardo at the turnstiles. No Ahmed at the magazine stand. I don’t recognize anyone . . .”

“You recognize her, don’t you?” Emily said, motioning over her shoulder with her eyes as she shoved her visitor badge into her purse.

Andy followed her gaze and immediately saw Jocelyn,
Runway
’s recently promoted beauty director and all-around society darling, crossing the lobby. She knew from the gossip blogs that Jocelyn had had a busy decade—two kids with her millionaire banker husband, a divorce from him, and a remarriage to an old-money billionaire with an additional two children—but no one could have ever known from merely looking at her: she appeared every bit as young, thin, and fresh-faced as she had when Andy roamed the halls. If anything, she had settled beautifully into her thirties and she carried herself with a calm, confident regality she hadn’t possessed as a younger woman. Andy couldn’t help but stare.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Andy murmured. A wave of anxiety washed over her. What was she doing, thinking she could just show up here after everything that had happened and waltz into Miranda Priestly’s office like nothing was wrong? This was a horrible idea, a disastrous one. Her urge to flee was overwhelming.

Emily grabbed Andy’s arm and practically yanked her through the turnstile and onto the elevator, where they were somehow, blessedly, alone. She punched the button for the eighteenth floor and turned to Andy. “We’re going to get through this, okay?” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Look on the bright side—at least we don’t have to go to the
Runway
floor.”

There was no time to answer before the doors swept open and they were faced with the familiar white starkness of every Elias-Clark reception area. Miranda had moved to a sweeping office on the corporate floor after her big promotion, although her
Runway
digs remained perfectly intact as well. Apparently she could sweep, unhindered, between both offices, terrorizing double the number of people in half the time.

“Guess they haven’t redecorated,” Andy muttered.

The receptionist, a lithe brunette with an almost too-severe bob and a jolting shade of red lipstick, forced a smile that looked more like a smirk. “Andrea Sachs and Emily Charlton? Right this way.”

Before either of them could confirm their identity—or even unwrap their scarves—the girl touched her card to the keypad, pushed open the enormous glass doors, and blazed through them, her four-inch heels not slowing her in the least. Emily and Andy had to run to keep up.

They exchanged looks as they followed the receptionist through a labyrinthine hallway, past palatial glass-enclosed offices with stunning Empire State Building views and expensively suited executives in various states of executing. This was happening so fast! There wasn’t going to be even a moment to sit, catch their breaths, offer each other comforting words. The receptionist hadn’t offered them water nor taken their coats. For the very first time, Andy understood—really, completely understood—how it had felt for all the editors, writers, models, designers, advertisers, photographers, and regular old
Runway
staffers who left the relative safety of their own offices to brave a
visit to Miranda’s. No wonder they’d all looked like the walking dead.

A moment later they arrived at a suite similar to the setup Miranda had occupied at
Runway
: an anteroom with two immaculate assistant desks fronting open French doors that revealed a massive office with sweeping views, elegantly decorated in muted shades of gray and white with occasional pops of soft yellow and turquoise, which lent the whole room the feel of a sunny beach house. Painted driftwood frames that managed to look both antique and modern held photos of now-eighteen-year-olds Caroline and Cassidy, each one appearing pretty and vaguely hostile in her own distinct way. The carpet stretched wall to wall in an expanse of shocking white, its only color a lone wild streak of turquoise. Andy had just noticed the enormous tapestry on the far wall, a stitched fabric creation meant to look like a painting, when a door within Miranda’s office opened and the woman herself emerged. Without looking at Andy or Emily or either of her assistants, she strode toward her desk and began issuing the all-too-familiar directives.

“Charla? Can you hear me? Hello? Is anyone there?”

The girl who must have been Charla had just been preparing to greet Andy and Emily; she motioned toward them with her pointer finger to wait; grabbed a clipboard, which was presumably the Bulletin; and bolted into Miranda’s office.

“Yes, Miranda, I’m right here. What can I—”

“Call Cassidy and tell her to ask her tennis coach to join us this weekend while we’re away, and then call the coach and ask her yourself. No is not an acceptable option. Let my husband know we will be leaving tomorrow from the apartment at exactly five. Inform the garage and the Connecticut staff of our arrival time. Messenger a copy of that new book, the one they reviewed last Sunday, to my apartment before we leave, and schedule a phone call with the author for first thing Monday morning. Make a reservation
for lunch today at one and inform Karl’s New York staff. Find out where the Bulgari people are staying and send flowers, lots of them. Tell Nigel I’ll be ready for my fitting today at three, not a minute later, and make sure the dress and all the accessories are ready. I know the shoes won’t be finished yet—they’re custom-making them in Milan—but find out the dimensions and make sure I have an exact replica for our run-through.” It was here that she finally took a breath, eyes to the ceiling in an apparent effort to recall a final command. “Oh yes, and get in touch with the Planned Parenthood people to schedule a meeting to go over details for the spring benefit. Is my eleven o’clock here?”

Andy was so wrapped up in the minutiae of Miranda’s requests, her mind so automatically and instinctively concentrating on remembering and assimilating the information, that she barely even heard the last sentence. Emily’s elbow in her side rib jolted her back to reality.

“Get ready,” Emily whispered, removing her coat and tossing it on the floor beside an assistant desk.

Andy did the same. “How do you suggest I do that?” Andy hissed back.

“Miranda can see you now,” Charla announced, her unsmiling face surely a bad omen.

She didn’t escort them into Miranda’s office. Maybe she figured they knew the protocol, or maybe she’d decided they weren’t important enough, or maybe the system had changed in the last few years, but when Charla waved them forward, Andy felt herself take a deep breath at exactly the same time Emily inhaled, and side by side, they walked as confidently as they could manage into Miranda’s office.

Thankfully, miraculously, she did not look them up and down. She didn’t look at them at all. She didn’t invite them to sit, or greet them, or in any way acknowledge their existence. Andy had to fight the urge to report some sort of progress or accomplishment, let Miranda know that her lunch had been properly
scheduled or the tutor successfully wrangled. She could feel the tension emanating from Emily, too. Unsure of what to do or say, they just stood there. For what may have been the most uncomfortable forty-five seconds of silence ever experienced anywhere, by anyone, for any reason. Andy glanced at Emily, but her friend appeared frozen in terror and uncertainty. And so they stood.

Miranda sat perched on her cold metal chair, back ramrod straight, signature bob as smooth as a wig. She wore a charcoal-colored pleated skirt, made of wool or possibly cashmere, and a patterned silk blouse in stunning shades of red and orange. A delicate white rabbit-fur capelet rested elegantly on her shoulders and a single large ruby, the size of a small candy egg, hung from a chain around her neck. Her nails and lips were varnished in the same red wine color. Andy watched, mesmerized, as those thin, lacquered lips wrapped around the cardboard coffee cup, drank, released. She ran her tongue slowly, deliberately, across the top lip first and then the bottom. Like watching a cobra devour a mouse.

Finally—finally!—Miranda turned her gaze upward from her papers and toward them, although there wasn’t the least glimmer of focus or recognition. Instead, she cocked her head slightly to the side, looked from Emily to Andy and back again, and said, “Yes?”

Yes?
Yes? Yes
as in
What can I help you with, you office intruders?
Andy felt her heart begin to race even faster. Did Miranda really not comprehend that
she
had invited
them
there? Andy almost fainted in appreciation when Emily opened her mouth to speak.

“Hello, Miranda,” Emily said, her voice sounding steadier than she looked, a wide, fake smile plastered on her face. “It’s good to see you again.”

Andy reflexively proffered her own wide, fake smile and nodded enthusiastically. So much for calm, cool, and collected. To hell with remembering that this woman couldn’t hurt them now, that they didn’t need her for anything, that her hold over
them had long since evaporated. Instead, the two of them stood there, grinning like chimpanzees.

Miranda peered at them without a flicker of recognition. Nor did she seem to understand that she had initiated the appointment.

Emily tried again. “We were both so pleased when you requested this meeting. Is there something we can help you with?”