Revenge Wears Prada (23 page)

Andy could hear Charla inhale sharply from the anteroom. This had the potential to go very wrong very quickly.

But Miranda merely looked puzzled. “Yes, of course, I called you here to discuss your magazine,
The Plunge.
Elias-Clark is interested in acquiring it. But what did you mean when you said it’s good to see me
again
?”

Andy whipped around to look at Emily, but her friend was staring straight at Miranda, frozen. When Andy hazarded a glance at Miranda, she saw the woman staring daggers at Emily.

Andy had no choice. “Oh, I think Emily just means that it’s been so long since we worked here together. Already almost ten years! Emily was your head assistant for two years, and I—”

“Two and a half!” Emily barked.

“And I was here for a year.”

Miranda touched a red nail to an uncomfortably moist red lip. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. After another awkward silence, she said, “I don’t recall. Of course, you can imagine how many assistants I’ve had since then.”

Emily looked like she was filled with murderous rage.

Terrified of what her friend might say, Andy powered forward. She forced a little laugh, which sounded tinny and bitter, even to her own ears. “Yes, I’m relieved you don’t recall, as my . . . uh . . . tenure here didn’t end on the best terms. I was so young, and Paris, while wonderful, was just really overwhelming . . .”

Andy could feel Emily glaring at her now, willing her to shut up, but it was Miranda who interrupted her.

“Were either of you that sorry girl who turned completely catatonic and needed to be carted off to a psychiatric hospital?”

Both girls shook their heads.

“And neither of you were that lunatic who repeatedly threatened to burn down my apartment . . .” This appeared to be more statement than question, although Miranda did glance at them to see if it elicited any reaction.

Again, they shook their heads.

Miranda’s brow furrowed. “There was that plain girl with the terribly cheap shoes who tried to have me arrested on some sort of trumped-up harassment charge, but she was a blonde.”

“Not us,” Andy said, although she could feel Miranda’s gaze burning into her booties, not offensively cheap but not designer either.

“Well then, you must not have been that interesting.”

Andy smiled, this time for real.
I guess you’re right,
she thought.
Merely telling you to fuck off on a Parisian street corner and deserting you in the middle of the shows isn’t even worth remembering. Noted.

Andy’s shock was interrupted by Miranda’s shrill voice, unchanged after all this time, still exactly the same pitch and tenor that it was in Andy’s memories and nightmares.

“Charla! Helloooo! Is anyone out there? Helloooo!”

A young girl who clearly wasn’t Charla but an even younger, prettier, more nervous version of her materialized in the doorway. “Yes, Miranda?”

“Charla, get Rinaldo in here. I need someone to run through the numbers.”

This request clearly panicked the girl. “Oh, um, well, I think Rinaldo is out today. On vacation. Is there someone else I should call?”

Miranda sighed so deeply and with such disappointment, Andy wondered if Charla Lite would be summarily fired. She stole another look at Emily, desperate for some sort of connection,
but Emily was standing beside her, hands clasped together in some sort of death grip, appearing nearly comatose.

“Stanley then. Get him in here immediately. That’s all.”

Non-Charla scurried out of the office, her expression twisted in anxiety and fear, and Andy wanted to hug her. Instead she thought of her Stanley, safe and snuggled right then, probably chewing a bully stick, and she missed him terribly. Or maybe she just missed anywhere but there.

Moments later a middle-aged man in a surprisingly unfashionable suit materialized in Miranda’s office and, without being greeted or invited, strode past their little cabal to take a seat at Miranda’s round table. “Miranda? Would you care to introduce me to your visitors?”

Emily’s mouth dropped open. Andy was so surprised she almost laughed out loud. Who was this brave soul in a bad suit who spoke to Miranda as though she were a mere mortal?

Miranda appeared momentarily ruffled, but she motioned for Andy and Emily to follow her to the table. Everyone sat.

“Stanley, may I introduce you to Andrea Sachs and Emily Charlton? They are the editor and publisher of
The Plunge,
the newest addition to the bridal magazine market, as I brought to your attention a few weeks ago. Ladies, this is Stanley Grogin.”

Andy waited for an explanation of what Stanley Grogin did, but none was forthcoming.

Stanley shuffled around some folders, muttered to himself, and pulled three stapled packets of papers from a leather folio and slid one each to Andy, Emily, and Miranda. “Our offer,” he said.

“Offer?” Emily squeaked, her very first word in many minutes sounding more like a plea for help.

Stanley gave Miranda a look. “Did you run through the basics with them?”

Miranda merely glared at him.

“Miranda mentioned she, uh, you . . . Elias-Clark, I guess, was interested in acquiring us?” Emily said.

“
The Plunge
has shown solid growth, both in subscription and advertising, since its inception three years ago. I am impressed by its level of elegance and sophistication, two qualities that are hardly synonymous with bridal magazines. The celebrity feature each month is especially appealing. You should both be commended for what you accomplished.” Miranda clasped her hands over her paperwork and peered at Andy.

“Thank you,” Andy croaked, her voice cracking. She couldn’t even risk a glance at Emily.

“Please take some time to consider the offer,” Stanley said. “You’ll want your people to look it over, of course.”

It was at this point that Andy realized how bush-league they must have seemed, to arrive sans “people.” She picked up her packet and began to leaf through it. Next to her, Emily did the same. As phrases popped out at her—
current editorial team, transition, relocation of premises,
blah, blah, blah—her focus softened and all the words began to blur together. It wasn’t until the second-to-last page that her gaze lasered in on the purchase price, a number so astonishingly high that she snapped back to reality. Millions. It was hard to get past
millions.

Stanley clarified a few points that Andy didn’t completely understand, gave them copies of the proposal to pass along to their legal team (
Note to self,
Andy thought,
get legal team
), and suggested they could perhaps schedule another meeting in a couple weeks to discuss any remaining questions they might have. It was phrased to convey that this entire deal was a fait accompli, that the girls would be certifiably insane if they didn’t accept such a generous offer from such a prestigious publisher. It was just a matter of when.

Non-Charla appeared in the office door and announced that Miranda’s car to lunch had arrived and was waiting downstairs. Andy was desperate to ask if Igor was still her driver, and if so, how he was doing, but she forced her mouth shut. Miranda commanded the girl to bring her an iced Pellegrino with a lime, giving
no indication as to whether she actually heard about the car or not, and stood up.

“Emily, Ahn-dre-ah,” Miranda announced. Andy waited for a “pleasure to meet you” or a “nice to see you again” or a “have a lovely afternoon,” or “we look forward to hearing from you,” but a few ensuing seconds of silence soon indicated that nothing further would be forthcoming. Miranda nodded at them both, murmured something about not waiting around all day for their answer, and strode out. Andy watched as Non-Charla handed Miranda a lush mink coat and a crystal goblet of Pellegrino, both of which Miranda snatched without slowing. It was only after she’d disappeared down the hallway that Andy realized she hadn’t breathed in at least sixty seconds.

“Well, always an adventure, isn’t it?” Stanley said, gathering his papers. He handed each of the girls a business card. “We look forward to hearing your thoughts as soon as possible. Call me with any questions. You’ll have better luck reaching me than her. But of course you already know that.”

He stuck out his hand, perfunctorily shook each of theirs, and disappeared down the hallway without another word.

“He’s a real personality plus,” Emily muttered under her breath.

“Do you think he knows who we are?” Andy asked.

“Of course he does. He freaking knows our zodiac signs, I’m willing to bet. He works for Miranda.”

“Well the two of them together are a dream team,” Andy whispered back. “How long did that entire meeting last? Seven minutes? Nine? So much for wining and dining.”

Emily grabbed Andy’s wrist and squeezed so hard it hurt. “Do you even
believe
what just happened? Let’s get out of here. We
need
to discuss.”

They thanked Charla and Non-Charla, and Andy thought for a moment how incredible it was that Miranda had called her by her own name for an entire meeting. She wanted to sit down
with those two young, miserable-looking girls (Charla appeared only mildly downtrodden, as though her spirit had been squeezed but not crushed; Non-Charla had the lifeless eyes and listless expression of the clinically depressed), and reassure them that, should they choose to pursue it, there was life after Miranda Priestly. That they would one day look back on their year of servitude and, despite occasional PTSD-like flashbacks, be proud they’d survived the hardest assistant job on earth. Instead, she smiled kindly, thanked them both for their help, accepted her coat, and fled as quickly after Emily as they could manage while still maintaining a shred of dignity.

“Are we going to the uptown Shake Shack or the original?” Andy asked the moment they hit the sidewalk, suddenly ravenous.

“Seriously, Andy.” Emily sighed. “You’re thinking of burgers right now?”

“We had a deal! ShackBurgers, fries, and shakes. A baby onesie. It was a condition of this meeting!”

Emily ran-walked back to the Starbucks they’d met in a mere hour earlier. “Can you focus on something besides food for a second? I owe you, okay? Here, drink this.”

Emily ordered an iced tea for Andy and a plain cup of coffee for herself. They picked up their drinks and Andy, irritated but unwilling to make a scene, followed her to a table in the farthest corner.

Emily’s eyes were glowing with excitement; her hands shook. “I can’t believe that just happened,” she shrieked. “I mean, I’d
hoped.
Miles was convinced, but I certainly wasn’t. They want to buy us! Miranda Priestly is
impressed
with our magazine. Elias-Clark wants to acquire it. Can you even comprehend this?”

Andy nodded. “Do you believe she didn’t even recognize us? Here we were, so worried about what she was going to say, and she had zero idea that either one of us used to—”

“Andy! Miranda fucking Priestly wants to buy our magazine!
Our
magazine! Buy it! Is this even registering for you?”

Andy noticed her own hands were shaking as she sipped her tea. “Oh, it’s registering. It’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. Flattering, of course, but mostly just insane.”

Emily’s mouth dropped open in the most unattractive way. She sat staring at Andy, lower jaw near the table, for what felt like an eternity before slowly shaking her head. “My god, it never even occurred to me . . .”

“What didn’t?”

“But of course, it makes perfect sense.”

“What does?”

Emily’s mouth turned down and her forehead crinkled in . . . what? Disappointment? Despair? Anger?

“Emily?”

“You don’t want to sell to Elias-Clark, do you? You have reservations.”

Andy could feel her throat tighten. This was not going well. There was that part of her that felt a swell of pride. They were successful enough to have caught the attention of the world’s preeminent publisher. Elias-Clark wanted to add them to its portfolio. Could there be a greater endorsement of their product? But. Elias-Clark was synonymous with Miranda Priestly. Could Emily possibly
want
to sell
The Plunge
to Elias-Clark? With barely a word spoken, the vibe between them had instantly changed.

“
Reservations?
” Andy coughed. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“Andy, don’t you realize that this is what we’ve been working toward since the moment we started? Selling the magazine? And that we now have an offer
years
before we ever thought possible, a great offer from literally
the
most prestigious magazine publisher on the planet? What can you possibly not like about that?”

“I like everything about it,” Andy said, speaking slowly. Measured.

Emily broke into a wide smile.

“I’m every bit as flattered as you are, Em. The fact that Elias-Clark wants to buy our little magazine is totally mind-blowing.
It’s incredible on every level. And did you see that purchase price?” Andy smacked her own forehead. “I never thought I’d see a payday like that in my entire life.”

“So why do you look like your dog just died?” Emily asked. She pressed “ignore” on her phone when Miles’s picture popped up.

“You know why. You saw it, too.”

Emily feigned confusion. “I didn’t get a chance to examine every single word, but for the most part, it—”

Andy pulled out her packet and turned to page 7. “Remember this little clause, right here? The one that states the entire senior editorial team must stay in place for at least one calendar year to help with the transition?”

Emily waved. “It’s just a year.”

“
Just a year?
Gee, I can’t remember where I heard that before.”

“Oh please, Andy. You can do anything for a year.”

Andy stared at her friend. “That is factually untrue, actually. The one thing I cannot do for a year is work for Miranda Priestly. I think I’ve already proven that.”

Emily stared at her. “This isn’t just about you. We’re partners here, and this is a dream come true.”