Revenge Wears Prada (33 page)

Max laughed. “Let’s not get carried away,” he said, but Andy could see he was pleased, too.

“She loves me!” Andy cheered, laughing. “Mrs. Barbara Harrison the almighty worships Andy Sachs, mother extraordinaire!”

Max kissed her. “She’s right, you know.”

“I know,” Andy said with a smile.

Isla joined them in the hallway. “I promise I’ll take great care of her,” she said.

And before she could say another word or kiss her baby one final time, Max whisked her into the hallway, then the elevator, and finally into the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car that smelled like new leather and reminded her, as Town Cars always did, of her year at
Runway.

“She’s going to be fine,” Max said, squeezing her hand once again.

When they pulled up to Skylight West at Thirty-Sixth and Tenth Avenue, they joined a long line of chauffeured Town Cars. Drivers idled in some; attractive couples and friends in party attire climbed out of others. Andy swung open her door before they’d rolled to a stop.

“Do you believe Emily pulled this together so quickly?” she asked Max under her breath as he helped her out. “Just having a party to celebrate our three-year birthday is a great idea, but getting Vera Wang and Laura Mercier to underwrite the whole thing was a stroke of brilliance.”

Max nodded. “It’s great for publicity. Knowing Emily, she’ll get all the boldfaced names here tonight, and you know who loves a party like that . . .”

Andy looked at him blankly. “Who?”

“Elias-Clark! Events like this are right out of their playbook. Throw a splashy party, get a bunch of famous faces to show up, and get mentions of it plastered all over the gossip pages tomorrow.
It does terrific things for the magazine’s profile, and not just with readers. Emily knows that tonight will raise
The Plunge
’s profile and make it even more desirable to Miranda.”

Max said this factually, the way a businessman familiar with the industry would, but it rankled Andy. While she’d certainly seen the benefits of an advertiser-funded fancy soiree in terms of publicity and profile, she hadn’t considered how it would translate to their acquisition position. It was so Emily. It bothered her even more that Max didn’t seem to understand why it bothered her.

They’d reached the elevator that would whisk them to the rooftop, but Andy pulled Max’s hand and motioned for the other guests—all of whom looked fabulous but none of whom looked familiar—to go ahead without them.

“You okay?” he asked.

Andy felt her throat tighten. Her phone buzzed and a text popped up on the screen. “Emily wants to know where we are,” she said.

“Come on, let’s go up and enjoy tonight, okay?” Max reached for Andy’s hand, and she allowed herself to be pulled into the elevator.

A very young woman wearing a sexy red dress ducked into the elevator just before the doors closed. “Rooftop?” she asked.

“For the
Plunge
party?” Max asked, and the girl grinned.

“I wasn’t even invited,” she said. “My boss was, but I begged her to let me come when she couldn’t make it. This is
the
event to be at tonight.” The girl’s face flashed recognition. “Wait, you’re not Max Harrison, are you? Wow, it’s so great to meet you.”

Max and the girl shook hands. She looked like she’d just met Ryan Gosling.

The elevator doors swung open and Max gave Andy a raised-eyebrow look and a mischievous smile. She made a mental note to find Emily immediately and report this juicy tidbit but forgot the instant she stepped onto the rooftop. It was magic, pure
magic. The open-air space stretched for what seemed like miles in every direction with only the twinkling lights of the skyline creating a dramatic boundary between the party and the entire island of Manhattan. Straight ahead the Empire State Building shone blue and silver, cresting from behind the red neon
New Yorker
sign. To the right, the sun had just set over the Hudson, casting it in dramatic shadows of deep purple and orange, the lights of New Jersey gleaming behind it. In every direction she looked, lights were turning off in office buildings and shops, and turning on in apartments and bars and restaurants as the entire city made its daily transition from work to relaxation; the cacophony below—the usual mix of sirens, taxi horns, music, and people, so many people—rose from the street. The city was alive and humming on a warm night in early October, and Andy thought there was no better place on earth.

“Do you fucking believe this?” Emily materialized out of nowhere and grabbed Andy’s arm. Her criminally gorgeous figure was swathed in a neon-pink Hervé bandage dress, and her hair cascaded in perfect red waves over her bare shoulders. “How insane does this place look?”

It was hardly surprising that Emily didn’t ask about Clementine or inquire how Andy was doing. Emily had visited when Andy got home from the hospital and brought Clementine an outrageously expensive and hugely impractical cashmere gown, hat, and mitten set (in June), but she’d been pretty much absent since then. The girls held conference calls with various staffers to discuss work, and they e-mailed multiple times a day, but a noticeable coolness had settled over their friendship. Andy wasn’t sure if it was the baby or her refusal to discuss the Elias-Clark offer, or if Andy was just being hypersensitive, but it felt like something between them had changed.

Max motioned that he was heading to the bar and would return in a minute.

Andy turned to Emily and tried joking. “Did you have that dress shortened and taken in? Was the corsetlike wrapping just not tight enough for you?” she asked.

Emily pulled back for a moment and looked down at her belly. “Is it too tight? Am I having mirror delusion? Because I thought it looked good!”

Andy cuffed her on the arm. “Shut up, you look amazing and that’s nothing but jealousy talking from the whale wearing the shower curtain.”

“Really? Good. I thought so too, but you never know.” She waved her arms. “You’re looking better too.”

“How generous. Thanks.”

“No, really, it’s true. Your boobs are, like, almost normal sized and I love the Chloé shoes.” Emily motioned toward the crowd. “Do you believe this place?”

Andy spun slowly around and took in the rooftop. Cast-iron fire pits boasted dancing flames. Miniature white string lights crisscrossed overhead. Beautiful people milled everywhere, laughing and sipping the specialty drink, a heavenly muddled mix of Patrón, simple syrup, cilantro, and lemon juice. They moved effortlessly between the dimly lit bar and the low, white leather couches and acrylic coffee tables that had been arranged in living-room-like configurations. Groups stood along the railings, admiring the endless views in every direction.

Emily took a drag from her cigarette and slowly exhaled. Andy wasn’t pregnant anymore. Just one wouldn’t kill her. Andy motioned toward the pack.

“You want one?” Emily asked, and Andy nodded.

The first inhalation burned her throat and tasted terrible, but it improved quickly after that. “My god, this is good.”

Emily leaned closer. “Patrick McMullan is here photographing. Supposedly Matt Damon and that cute wife of his are here, but I haven’t seen them yet. There’s a whole slew of Victoria’s Secret models, and they’re keeping the guys happy. And Agatha
just got a message from Olive Chase’s publicist that she and Clint may be stopping by after another event in Tribeca. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but this is turning into the party of the year.”

Max returned, handing Andy one of the cilantro tequila drinks and holding a water for himself. “Sorry, Em, I didn’t know what you wanted.”

She made a beeline for the bar before Andy could blink.

“I haven’t seen you smoke in years,” Max said, eyeing her cigarette.

Andy took another drag. She was enjoying it immensely now, both the cigarette and Max’s look of surprise.

In a nearby couch area, Miles was talking to a few people from
The Plunge
’s staff, specifically to Agatha, who was wearing a sleeveless white crepe romper, cinched at her nonexistent waist with a gold snake-shaped belt and punctuated with kick-ass gold lamé heels that on anyone else would have looked cheap and trying too hard but on Agatha just looked fierce. Andy didn’t like how friendly they appeared, but before she could think too much about it, Miles spotted her and jumped to his feet.

“I propose a toast,” he announced, holding his beer stein aloft. “To Andy and Emily, wherever she is. They managed to make weddings something beautiful and interesting. Something with style. And apparently, we’re not the only ones who think so.”

With this everyone at the table cheered.

Miles waved his glass, clinked it first with Andy’s and then with Agatha’s. “Happy birthday to
The Plunge.
Four years never looked so good.”

Andy did her best to smile and clink her glass with the others. After a couple minutes’ small talk, she excused herself to find Emily and make sure the enormous Sylvia Weinstock–designed wedding cake Andy had ordered—her only task for the evening—was being prepped for its grand appearance.

She was walking past the smaller corner bar when she heard
a familiar voice call her name.
It can’t be,
she thought to herself, and refused to look.
He lives in London now. He’s barely ever in New York. He isn’t on the invite list.
It wasn’t until she felt the warm hand wrap around her bare forearm that she knew for certain.

“What? Not even a hello?” he said, pulling her close to him. As always, he was wearing a European-tailored—that is to say, tight—suit, a crisp white shirt opened one button too many, and no tie. He had a day’s worth of stubble and perhaps an extra etching or two around his eyes, which did absolutely nothing to detract from his sexiness. And he was staring at her with an expression that said he knew it.

There was only one thing to do: forget about her melting blowout and lack of accessories and relocated baby weight (ass, thighs, boobs), and just
own
it. She stuck her sizable chest forward as Christian Collinsworth let his eyes run over the length of her body.

“Christian,” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”

He laughed and sipped his drink, which she knew was an extra-dry gin and tonic. “You think I could be in New York and hear about the party of the year and not stop by? Especially when we’re all here to fete my Andy’s accomplishments?”

Andy tried to match his casual laugh but hers sounded more like a donkey bray—guttural, honking, and much too loud. “Your Andy?” She held up her left hand. “I’m married now, Christian. Remember the wedding you attended a year ago? We have a daughter now.”

His dimples came out in full force; the smile that caused them was amused and perhaps a bit condescending. “I heard as much but I wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not. Congratulations, Andy.”

Wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not? Why, because the idea of me as a mother is just too far-fetched for comprehension?

In an instant his hand was on her, right at the spot where her lower back and hip met, the location of some Spanx-busting
back-and-love-handle-combo fat rolls that had proven stubborn beyond belief. He gave her a squeeze and she turned to him in horror.

He threw his hands into the air. “What? Are you Mormon now in addition to being married? Is your husband going to materialize out of thin air and punch me in the face because I touched his property?” And again, there was that smile. “Come on, let’s get you a drink, and you can catch me up on what else has been happening.”

Somewhere far away, Andy knew she should excuse herself to help Emily, check in with the babysitter, find a bathroom, anything at all except blindly follow Christian Collinsworth to the bar, but she was incapable of leaving him. She accepted the tequila drink Christian handed her and did her best to lean against the bar in a manner that conveyed confidence, aloofness, and sexiness all at once. At this point she could only hope to remain upright and not spring a leak from her now-heavy breasts.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” Christian asked. He gazed directly into Andy’s eyes and yet still managed to convey that he couldn’t have cared less.

“Clementine Rose Harrison. She was born in June.”

“Nice. And how have you been adjusting to motherhood?”

It had gone too far, and Andy was pleased to discover she’d found her voice. “Oh, save it, Christian. You really want to talk sleep schedules and swaddle blankets? Why don’t we talk about your real favorite subject. How have
you
been since we last saw each other?”

He sipped his drink and appeared to think about this. “I have to say, I’ve been good. Did you know I’m living in London?” He didn’t wait for Andy to respond. “And it’s really been working for me. Lots of time to write, good opportunities to do some traveling in Europe, plenty of new faces. New York was just getting so . . . tired.”

“Mmm.”

“Right? I mean, aren’t you at the point where you would rather be anywhere but here?”

“Actually, I—”

“Andy, Andy, Andy.” He leaned toward her, tilting his chin down and blinking his unfairly long lashes. “Didn’t we have such a good time together? What happened to us?”

Andy couldn’t help but laugh once again. “What happened? You mean when we woke up one morning in your suite at the Villa d’Este and you asked if I wanted to meet your girlfriend? Who just so happened to be arriving later that day? Never mind that we’d been dating for nearly six months at that point?”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“Sorry.
Sleeping together
for nearly six months.”

“It’s never that simple. She wasn’t my girlfriend per se. It was a complicated situation.”

A flash of chartreuse caught her eye.

“Andy?” Christian pushed up even closer to her, but Andy was barely aware of him.

She could now see that the chartreuse was actually a poncho—a fur poncho—and it sashayed closer and closer to Andy. Before she had a second to compose herself, Nigel had wrapped his arms around her and pushed her face into his furry shoulder.

“Darling! I was hoping I’d see you here. Quite the little soiree you girls threw here tonight. I’m very impressed.”