Revenge Wears Prada (25 page)

It took everyone another twenty minutes to gather their shoes and coats and hug good-bye and say congratulations one last time. When the door finally closed, Andy thought she might collapse.

“Tired?” Max asked, massaging her shoulders.

“Yes. But happy.”

“Everyone seemed legitimately pleased. And your grandmother was in rare form tonight.”

“Not rare enough. But yes, they were all so happy.” She turned around to face Max, who was standing behind the couch. She made a conscious decision not to say anything about the Elias-Clark announcement. Max had worked so hard to plan the perfect evening, and he was obviously just excited for her. Andy forced herself to focus on the positive. “Thank you for tonight. It was really special getting to tell everyone together.”

“You had a good time? Really?” Max asked with such hopefulness that it made her inexplicably sad.

“Really.”

“I did too. And they were all so thrilled with your
Plunge
news, too. I mean, how incredible. Barely three years out and already an offer from—”

Andy held up her hand. “Let’s talk about it another time, okay? I just want to enjoy tonight.”

Max moved forward to kiss her, pressing her body into the kitchen island with his own, and Andy felt a familiar jolt of excitement. It took her a moment to realize that for the first time since their wedding, she didn’t feel exhausted or nauseated. Max nibbled her lower lip, gently at first, and then pressed into her with more urgency. She glanced at the husband-and-wife chef team, who were now tidying up the kitchen. Max followed her gaze.

“Follow me,” he said gruffly, wrapping his hand around her wrist.

“Don’t you have to pay them?” she giggled, walk-running to keep up with Max as he led her to their bedroom. “Shouldn’t we at least say good-bye?”

Max pulled her into the room and quietly shut the door behind them. Without another word, he undressed her and wrapped his arms around her. They fell, kissing, onto the bed together, Andy on top of Max. She pinned his hands by ears, kissed his neck, and said, “I remember this.”

Max flipped Andy onto her back and lowered himself onto her. It all felt wonderful—the weight of his body against hers, the smell of his skin, the feel of his hands. They made love slowly, sweetly. When they were finished, Andy rested her head on Max’s chest and listened as his breathing became regular and rhythmic. She heard Stanley bark as the chefs let themselves out, and she must have drifted off because when she next opened her eyes, she was shivering atop the covers and Stanley had wedged himself between her and Max.

Andy snuggled under the duvet and lay there ten minutes, fifteen. Sleep didn’t come again, although she was so tired she felt like she could barely roll over. This, too, was a new pregnancy-induced misery: the bone-weary exhaustion coupled with inexplicable insomnia. Beside her, Max’s breathing slowed and then evened out, his chest rising and falling with steady predictability. For as energetic and active as he was during the day, at night he slept soundly on his back, hands folded corpselike over his chest, rarely moving or readjusting. A 747 could have landed in their bedroom and he would have done little more than sigh, turn his head a few inches, and resume his strong, steady breathing. It was maddening on every level.

Climbing carefully out of bed, Andy pulled on her Mrs. Harrison robe and the fluffy travel socks she’d purchased at the newsstand at JFK. She scooped a groaning Stanley into her arms and padded down the hallway toward the couch, where she collapsed in an ungraceful heap. Their DVR was disappointing: mostly old football games that Max had recorded but ended up watching online; a few NFL commentary shows; an ancient episode of
Private Practice
; a
60 Minutes
she’d already seen; a
Modern Family
that she’d promised Max they would watch together; and the final hour of the
Today
show’s special wedding episode from two weeks earlier, when Andy and Emily had both checked out all the vendors and trends that Hoda and Kathie Lee discussed. Live TV wasn’t much better: the usual late-night shows, some infomercials, a repeat of
Design Star
on HGTV. Andy was about to call it quits when something in the midnight slot caught her eye:
The High Priestess of Fashion: The Life and Times of Miranda Priestly.

Oh shit,
she thought to herself.
Do I have to?
Unlike everyone she knew, Emily included, Andy had refused to see it in the theater when it was out a year earlier. Who needed the flashbacks? The voice, the face, the constantly disappointed tone and reprimanding words. Andy could remember them all like they’d happened yesterday—why did she need to watch it in living color?
Yet here, in the safety of her own living room, curiosity overtook her.
I have to.
Her thumb hesitated for only a moment before selecting the program. An angry-looking Miranda, adorned in a cream-colored Prada dress, gorgeous heels with a subtle gold buckle adornment, and of course, the ever-present Hermès bangle, glowered back at her.

“I don’t think this is the time nor the place,” her icy voice said to whatever poor soul held the camera.

“Sorry, Miranda,” a disembodied voice replied before the screen went temporarily black.

And then, a second later, still in her office but now wearing a wool skirt suit, probably Chanel, with ankle booties. Appearing no more pleased than she had in the last scene.

“Aliyah? Can you hear me?”

The camera swiveled to a tall and exceedingly thin girl, not a day over twenty-one, who wore shiny white leggings, ankle booties that were eerily similar to Miranda’s, and a gorgeous cashmere vest over a silk, man-styled shirt. The girl’s wavy hair was messy and tangled in that sexy, Giselle-like way Andy could never pull off, and her eyes were smudged with kohl. She looked as though Miranda had just interrupted her having sex right on the assistant desk in the anteroom—seductive, sultry, naughty. And of course, terrified.

“Let everyone know that I’m ready for the run-through. It was scheduled for this afternoon, but I’ll be leaving the office in twenty minutes. Make sure the car is waiting. Call Caroline’s cell phone and remind her of her appointment this afternoon. What happened to that tote bag you were having fixed? I’ll need it by three o’clock. As well as the dress I wore to the New York Public Library event last year or the year before. Or perhaps it was the pediatric AIDS dinner? Or that party in that dreary loft space on Varick after the fall shows last year? I can’t recall, but you know the one I mean. Have that at my place by five, with the right sandals. And some earring options. Make a reservation for tonight,
early dinner, at Nobu, and tomorrow, breakfast, at the Four Seasons. Make sure they have an adequate supply this time of pink grapefruit juice, not just the white, which is vile. Tell Nigel to meet me at James Holt’s studio this afternoon at two; cancel my hair appointment but confirm the manicure and pedicure.” Here, she stopped for just a moment to catch her breath. “And I’ll need the Book tonight after eleven but before midnight. Do not, I repeat, do not leave it with the idiot doorman, and do not bring it into my apartment unless I’m there. We have . . .
houseguests
staying with us this evening, and they aren’t to be trusted with it. That’s all.”

The girl nodded in a way that didn’t inspire confidence. Andy could tell instantly she was new and hours, if not minutes, from being fired. She had no pen or paper, no ability to remember all the requests or ferret out all the answers. Andy’s own mind was reflexively firing questions.
Which “everyone” exactly needs to know about the run-through? Where’s the driver right now and can he get back there on time? Where is she going? What appointment does Caroline have this afternoon, and does she already know about it? Which tote bag? Will it be ready by three o’clock and if so, how do I get it to the office? Will she even be at the office, or will she already be at home? Which dress? I know for a fact she wore different dresses to each of those events, so how on earth do I know which one she means? Did she give me any color/cut/designer clues to narrow it down? Which sandals? Is there an accessories editor in right now and can she get earrings on time? What kind will look best with the mystery dress? What time exactly should I make the Nobu reservation? Tribeca or Fifty-Seventh Street location? And breakfast at the Four Seasons? Seven? Eight? Ten o’clock? Remember to send the general manager a thank-you gift for accommodating the grapefruit juice request. Find Nigel, relay blessedly specific information, and follow up on all grooming appointments. Preemptively make suite reservations at the Peninsula for when Miranda inevitably calls me in the middle of the night complaining about her houseguests (friends of her husband’s, no doubt) and demands an immediate escape. Warn driver of
probable late-night transport from Miranda’s apartment to hotel. Stock hotel suite with Pellegrino, the Book, and an appropriate workday outfit for tomorrow, including all accessories, shoes, and toiletries. Plan to sleep not one wink as you see Miranda through this trying time. Repeat.

The camera left Miranda and followed the girl back to her desk—the same desk Andy had sat at ten years earlier—and watched as she frantically scribbled notes on miniature Post-its. The camera zoomed in as a single tear slid down her peachy cheek. Andy felt her own throat close up and she hit “pause.” “
Get a grip!
” she hissed to herself, noticing that her fingernails were digging into her palm as she death-clutched the remote control and her shoulders were practically wedged in her ears. She was scared to glance up, despite the frozen frame on the television, her terror nearly the same as when she’d watch movies with young girls running alone in heavily forested areas, headphones on, blissfully unaware that a deranged serial killer was about to leap from behind a tree. This was why Andy had refused to see the movie when it first came out, despite everyone else’s prodding and mocking. She had felt this way twenty-four hours a day for an entire year. Why did she need to subject herself to it again?

Stanley woofed at his own reflection in the window and Andy pulled him close. “Should we make a cup of tea, boy? What are you in the mood for? Mint?”

He stared at her dumbly.

She stood up, stretched, rewrapped her robe. Not wanting to wait for the kettle to boil, she dug around in the gigantic bowl of coffee and tea pods Max kept on the counter until she found one for herbal tea. She popped it in the machine, added a packet of real sugar (no more artificial sweeteners!) while it steeped and a dash of milk, and was back on the couch in under a minute.

Emily was still in touch with a handful of people at
Runway
and so was privy to countless current and ridiculous Miranda requests, outrageous firings, and public humiliations. It seemed age
had not humbled or slowed the woman whatsoever. She still went through assistants faster than steak lunches. She still punctuated nearly every command with
that’s all.
She still called her staff night and day, berating them over the phone for not reading her mind or divining her needs before slamming down the receiver and calling again. Andy certainly hadn’t needed to watch that snippet to bring it all back—to this very day, a certain old-school Nokia cell phone ring, heard on the crosstown bus or across a crowded bar, could send her into paroxysms of panic. Now the screen in front of her brought it all rushing back in stark color.

It had taken months after that fateful afternoon in Paris before Andy could sleep through the night again. She’d wake with a gasp imagining some task she’d failed to complete—she’d lost the Bulletin again or sent Miranda to the wrong restaurant for a lunch meeting. Andy had never picked up another copy of
Runway
from the moment she’d left, but of course it taunted her from bodegas, hair salons, doctors’ waiting rooms, mani-pedi places, everywhere. When she was offered the job at
Happily Ever After
by a girl only a few years older than herself who promised Andy “loads of writing independence” so long as she wrote on generally approved topics and delivered them on time, it felt like a new start. Lily was moving to Boulder. Alex had broken up with her. Her parents had announced their separation. Andy had turned twenty-four a few months earlier and was living alone in what felt like, for the first time in almost two years, an overwhelmingly huge city. For company she had her television and the odd college friend, if she reached out. And then, thankfully, Emily.

The sound of Miranda’s shrill voice snapped her back to reality. The live television pause had run out, and the documentary had snapped back onto the screen. Andy watched for just a moment as Miranda’s soon-to-be-ex-assistant tried fruitlessly to remember the list of things that had just been dumped in her lap. Andy saw the expressions of surprise and panic followed by realization
and defeat, and her heart went out to the girl. Her firing would come as a surprise only to her, convinced as she surely was that this job was her ticket to a bigger and better world. The girl couldn’t possibly understand that in eight or ten years she’d be sitting in her own living room, with perhaps a husband to call her own and a baby on the way, and she would still want to throw up or murder someone every time she heard a certain ringtone or spotted a white scarf or accidentally surfed past a certain show on the television.

As though on cue, text at the bottom of the screen announced that one day had elapsed since the last scene. Here, Miranda was seen wearing a stunning Burberry coat with an Yves Saint Laurent bag flung over her shoulder as she walked into the anteroom on her way out to lunch or a meeting.

She stared at the senior assistant, another girl Andy didn’t recognize but whom she could identify because of her spot in Emily’s seat, until the girl dared to look up.

“Dismiss her,” Miranda said, not bothering to lower her voice a decibel.

“Pardon?” the Emily assistant asked, out of shock, not because she was unable to hear.

“Her,” Miranda said, motioning her head in the direction of the junior assistant. “She’s a moron. I want her gone before I return. Begin interviewing immediately. I expect you’ll do a better job this time.”