Revenge Wears Prada (3 page)

The last time Max had mentioned Katherine, he was planning to call and inform her of their engagement; a few weeks later a beautiful cut-crystal bowl from Bergdorf’s arrived with a note wishing them a lifetime of happiness. Emily, who knew Katherine through her own husband, Miles, swore Andy had nothing to worry about, that she was boring and uptight and while she did, admittedly, have “a great rack,” Andy was superior in every other way. Andy hadn’t thought much more about it since then. They all had pasts. Was she proud of Christian Collinsworth? Did she feel the need to tell Max every single detail about her relationship with Alex? Of course not. But it was a different story entirely reading a letter from your future mother-in-law, on the day of your wedding, imploring your fiancé to marry his ex-girlfriend instead. An ex-girlfriend he had apparently been
delighted
to see in Bermuda during his bachelor party and whom he had conveniently forgotten to mention.

Andy rubbed her forehead and forced herself to think. When had Barbara written that poisonous note? Why had Max saved it? And what did it mean that he’d seen Katherine a mere six weeks earlier and hadn’t breathed a word about it to Andy, despite giving her every last detail of his and his friends’ golf games, steak dinners, and sunbathing? There had to be an explanation, there simply had to be. But what was it?

It had long been a point of pride for Andy that she almost never went to the Hamptons. The traffic, the crowds, the pressure to get dressed up and look great and be at the right place . . . none of it felt particularly relaxing. Certainly not much of an escape from the city. Better to stay in the city alone, wander the summer street fairs and lay out in Sheep Meadow and ride her bike along the Hudson. She could walk into any restaurant without a reservation and explore new, uncrowded neighborhoods. She loved summer weekends spent reading and sipping iced coffees in the city and never felt the least bit left out, a fact that Emily simply refused to accept. One weekend a season Emily dragged Andy out to her husband’s parents’ place and insisted Andy experience the fabulousness of white parties and polo matches and enough Tory Burch–clad women to outfit half of Long Island. Every year Andy swore to herself she’d never go back, and every summer she dutifully packed her bag
and braved the Jitney and tried to act like she was having a great time mingling with the same people she saw at industry events in the city. This weekend was different, though. This particular weekend would potentially determine her professional future.

There was a brief knock at the door before Emily barged in. Judging from her expression, she was displeased to find Andy flopped on the luxurious duvet, one towel wrapped around her hair and another under her arms, staring helplessly at a suitcase exploding with clothes.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet? People are going to be here any minute!”

“I have nothing to wear!” Andy cried. “I don’t understand the Hamptons. I’m not
of
them. Everything I brought is wrong.”

“Andy . . .” Emily’s hip jutted out in her magenta silk dress, just under where the billowy fabric was cinched tight by a triple-wrapped gold chain belt that wouldn’t have fit around most women’s thighs. Her coltish legs were tanned and accessorized with gold gladiator sandals and a glossy pedicure in the same shade of pink as her dress.

Andy studied her friend’s perfectly blown-out hair, glimmering cheekbones, and pale pink lip gloss. “I hope that’s some sort of sparkle powder and not just your natural exuberance,” she said uncharitably, motioning toward Emily’s face. “No one deserves to look that good.”

“Andy, you know how important tonight is! Miles called in a trillion favors to get everyone over here, and I’ve spent the past month dealing with florists and caterers and my fucking mother-in-law. Do you know how hard it was to convince them to let us host this dinner here? You’d think we were seventeen and planning a kegger the way that woman went over all the rules with me. All
you
had to do was show up, look decent, and be charming, and look at you!”

“I’m here, aren’t I? And I’ll do my best to be charming. Can we agree on two out of three?”

Emily sighed and Andy couldn’t help but smile.

“Help me! Help your poor, style-challenged friend put together something remotely appropriate to wear so that maybe she’ll look good while begging a bunch of strangers for money!” Andy said this to appease Emily, but she knew she’d made some strides in the style department over the past seven years. Could she ever hope to look as good as Emily? Of course not. But she wasn’t a total train wreck, either.

Emily grabbed a pile of the clothes from the middle of the bed and scrunched her nose at all of them. “What, exactly, were you planning to wear?”

Andy reached into the mess and extracted a navy linen shirtdress with a rope belt and coordinating platform espadrilles. It was simple, elegant, timeless. Perhaps a touch wrinkled. But certainly appropriate.

Emily blanched. “You’re lying.”

“Look at these gorgeous buttons. This dress wasn’t inexpensive.”

“I don’t give a shit about the buttons!” Emily shrieked, tossing it clear across the room.

“It’s Michael Kors! Isn’t that worth something?”

“It’s Michael Kors
beachwear,
Andy. It’s what he has models throw on over bathing suits. What, did you order it online from Nordstrom?”

When Andy didn’t say anything, Emily threw up her hands in frustration.

Andy sighed. “Can you just help me, please? I’m at a reasonably high risk of getting back under these covers right now . . .”

With that, Emily flew into high gear, muttering about how hopeless Andy was despite Emily’s constant efforts to tutor her in cut, fit, fabric, and style . . . not to mention shoes. The shoes were
everything.
Andy watched as Emily ferreted through the tangle of clothing and held a few things aloft, immediately scowling at each one and unceremoniously discarding it. After five frustrating
minutes of this, she disappeared down the hallway without a word and reappeared a few moments later holding a beautiful pale blue jersey maxidress with the most exquisite turquoise and silver chandelier earrings. “Here. You have silver sandals, right? Because you’ll never fit into mine.”

“I’ll never fit into that,” Andy said, eyeing the beautiful dress warily.

“Sure you will. I bought it in a size bigger than I normally wear for when I’m bloated, and there’s all this draping around the midsection. You should be able to get into it.”

Andy laughed. She and Emily had been friends for so many years now that she barely even noticed those kinds of comments.

“What?” Emily asked, looking confused.

“Nothing. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Okay, so
get dressed.
” As if to punctuate her command, the girls heard a doorbell ring downstairs. “First guest! I’m running down. Be adorable and ask all about the men’s work and the women’s charities. Don’t explicitly talk about the magazine unless someone asks, since this isn’t really a work dinner.”

“Not really a work dinner? Aren’t we going to be hitting everyone up for money?”

Emily sighed exasperatedly. “Yes, but not until later. Before then we pretend we’re all just socializing and having fun. It’s most important now that they see we’re smart, responsible women with a great idea. The majority are Miles’s friends from Princeton. Tons of hedge fund guys who just love investing in media projects. I’m telling you, Andy, smile a lot, show interest in them, be your usual adorable self—wear that dress—and we’ll be set.”

“Smile, show interest, be adorable. Got it.” Andy pulled the towel off her head and began to comb out her hair.

“Remember, I’ve seated you between Farooq Hamid, whose fund was recently ranked among the fifty most lucrative investments this year, and Max Harrison of Harrison Media Holdings, who’s now acting as their CEO.”

“Didn’t his father just die? Like, in the last few months?” Andy could remember the televised funeral and the two days’ worth of newspaper articles, eulogies, and tributes paid to the man who had built one of the greatest media empires ever before making a series of terrible investment decisions right before the 2008 recession—Madoff, oil fields in politically unstable countries—and sending the company into a financial tailspin. No one knew how deep the damage ran.

“Yes. Now Max is in charge and, by all accounts, doing a very good job so far. And the only thing Max likes more than investing in start-up media projects is investing in start-up media projects that are run by attractive women.”

“Oh, Em, are you calling me attractive? Seriously, I’m blushing.”

Emily snorted. “I was actually talking about me . . . Look, can you be downstairs in five minutes? I need you!” Emily said as she walked out the door.

“I love you too!” Andy called after her, already digging out her strapless bra.

The dinner was surprisingly relaxed, far more so than Emily’s hysteria beforehand had indicated. The tent set up in the Everetts’ backyard overlooked the water, its open sides letting in the salty sea breeze, and a trillion miniature votive lanterns gave the whole night a feeling of understated elegance. The menu was a clambake, and it was spectacular: two-and-a-half-pound pre-cracked lobsters; clams in lemon butter; mussels steamed in white wine; garlic rosemary bliss potatoes; corn on the cob sprinkled with
cotija
cheese; baskets of warm, buttery rolls; and a seemingly endless supply of ice-cold beer with limes, glasses of crisp Pinot Grigio, and the saltiest, most delicious margaritas Andy had ever tasted.

After everyone had stuffed themselves with homemade apple pie and ice cream, they shuffled toward the bonfire one of the servers had set up at the edge of the lawn, complete with a s’mores spread, mugs of marshmallowy hot chocolate, and
summer-weight blankets knit from a heavenly soft bamboo-cashmere hybrid. The drinking and laughing continued; soon, a few joints began circulating around the group. Andy noticed that only she and Max Harrison refused, each passing it along when one came to them. When he excused himself and headed toward the house, Andy couldn’t help but follow him.

“Oh, hey,” she said, suddenly feeling shy when she ran into him on the sprawling deck off the living room. “I was, uh, just looking for the ladies’ room,” she lied.

“Andrea, right?” he asked, even though they’d just sat next to each other for three hours during dinner. Max had been involved in a conversation with the woman to his left, someone’s Russian-model wife who didn’t appear to understand English per se, but who had giggled and batted her eyes enough to keep Max engaged. Andy had chatted with—or rather listened to—Farooq as he bragged about everything from the yacht he’d commissioned in Greece earlier that year to his most recent profile in
The Wall Street Journal
.

“Please, call me Andy.”

“Andy, then.” Max reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, and held them toward Andy, and even though she hadn’t had a cigarette in years, she plucked one without a second thought.

He lit them both wordlessly, first hers and then his, and when they’d both exhaled long streams of smoke, he said, “This is quite a party. You girls did a tremendous job.”

Andy couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks,” she said. “But it was mostly Emily.”

“How come you don’t smoke? The good stuff, I mean?”

Andy peered at him.

“I noticed you and I were the only ones who weren’t . . . partaking.”

Granted, they were only talking about smoking a joint, but Andy was flattered he’d noticed anything at all about her. Andy
knew about Max—as one of Miles’s best friends from boarding school, and as a name in the society pages and media blogs. But just to be sure, Emily had briefed Andy on Max’s playboy past, his penchant for pretty, dumb girls by the dozen, and his inability to commit to someone “real” despite being a whip-smart, good guy who was ceaselessly devoted to his friends and family. Emily and Miles predicted Max would be single until his forties, at which point his overbearing mother would place enough pressure on him to produce a grandchild, and he would marry a knockout twenty-three-year-old who would gaze at him worshipfully and never question anything he said or did. Andy knew all of this—she had listened carefully and done some research of her own that seemed to confirm everything Emily said—but for a reason she couldn’t quite pinpoint, the assessment felt off.

“No story, really. I smoked in college with everyone else, but I never really liked it. I would sort of slink off to my room and stare at myself in the mirror and take a running inventory of all the poor decisions I’d made and all the ways I was deficient as a person.”

Max smiled. “Sounds like a blast.”

“I just sort of figured, life is hard enough, you know? I don’t need my supposed recreational drug use making me unhappy.”

“Very fair point.” He took a drag off his cigarette.

“And you?”

Max appeared to think about this for a minute, almost as though he were debating which version of the story to tell her. Andy watched his strong Harrison jaw clench, his dark brows knit. He looked so much like the newspaper pictures of his father. When his eyes met hers, he smiled again, only this time it was tinged with sadness. “My father died recently. The public explanation was liver cancer, but it was really cirrhosis. He was a lifelong alcoholic. Extraordinarily functional for a large part of it—if you can call being drunk every night of your life functional—but then the last few years, with the financial crisis and some tough business fallout, not as much. I drank pretty heavily myself starting
in college. Five years out it was getting out of control. So I went cold turkey. No drinking, no drugs, nothing but these cancer sticks, which I just can’t seem to kick . . .”

Now that he mentioned it, Andy had noticed that Max only drank sparkling water during dinner. She hadn’t thought much about it, but now that she knew the story, part of her wanted to reach out and hug him.

She must have gotten lost in her own thoughts because Max said, “As you can imagine, I’m a really great time at parties lately.”