Revenge Wears Prada (34 page)

Christian leaned over and whispered in Andy’s ear. “You might want to say hello.” Andy glanced at his grin and dimples and, for a split second, wanted to stick her tongue in his mouth.

Nigel didn’t seem to notice Andy’s shock. Instead, he thrust her backward by the shoulders, kissed both her cheeks, and said, “We brought the whole team tonight. No one wanted to miss out on such a delicious party!”

With this pronouncement, Andy thought she might faint. Was this the price of success? To have Miranda constantly, persistently,
miserably resurfacing in her life? On her first public outing since giving birth, did she really need to deal with Miranda Priestly on top of a disappointed friend, a cheating ex-boyfriend, and soon-to-be-leaking breasts?

Thankfully, Christian stepped in and greeted Nigel. Almost instantly the two were discussing the schedule of the upcoming Fashion Week, and Andy was able to sneak a look at the
Runway
crew: Serena, Jessica, and three or four Clackers were all in various states of fabulousness, with miles of thick, shiny, blown-out hair; skimpy dresses; high heels; toned arms; flat stomachs; tanned legs; and sparkly jewelry. There wasn’t a single misstep among them; individually each looked gorgeous, and together they made a cabal so attractive it just seemed wrong.

“Miranda’s not here?” Andy blurted out, completely unaware that she was interrupting Christian and Nigel.

Each turned to stare at her. Christian’s look was one of sympathy, the type of expression you gave to a ranting crazy person on the subway. Nigel’s was one of amusement. “Why no, dear. You think Miranda had nothing better to do tonight than come here? If it weren’t so self-involved, it would almost be sweet . . .” He smiled magnanimously.

Andy stared at him in horror. “No, it’s not that I
wanted
her to be here . . .”

Nigel slowly nodded and turned back to Christian, who made no attempt to smooth over her awkwardness. Max’s approach and a slug from her drink saved the day.

“Hi, baby,” Andy said, perhaps a bit unnecessarily, but she appreciated the quick flash she saw across Christian’s face. “Max, you remember Christian Collinsworth. And of course, you’ve met Nigel.”

“Good to see you,” Max and Christian said in unison as they shook hands. Andy was proud to see Max reach around and pat her ex on the back, looking confidently taller and manlier than Christian.

Nigel snagged a pink umbrella cocktail off a passing tray and held it up in Max’s direction before taking a delicate sip. “Lovely seeing you again, Mr. Harrison,” he sang.

“Great party, isn’t it?” Max asked, taking a drink from his club soda. “Who would ever believe a magazine that’s only three years old could draw a crowd like this?”

Andy blushed, realizing that Max was trying to sell the scene to Nigel, but Nigel didn’t seem to notice.

“Every girl loves a wedding, don’t they? Even this one!” he trilled, pointing to himself.

Max and Christian merely stared at Nigel, but Andy immediately understood.

“Are you and Neil making it official?” she asked.

Nigel grinned. “I’ve already got Karl working on my outfit. Picture James Bond meets
Pretty Woman,
with a little dash of
Mary Poppins
thrown in for good measure.”

The three of them nodded enthusiastically.

Christian took that moment to excuse himself, and Andy caught Max staring after him.

“That sounds amazing,” Andy said to Nigel, though she hadn’t the faintest clue what he meant.

“It’s going to be the wedding of the year,” he said without the least bit of irony or modesty.

Andy had a flash of brilliance. It was so obviously perfect that she could barely get the words out. “You know, I’m ashamed to say it, but
The Plunge
has never covered a same-sex marriage. I’ll have to talk to Emily first, but I’m sure we would both love it if you’d consider letting us feature your wedding. We would guarantee you the cover, of course, and do a great in-depth interview covering all aspects of how you met, started dating, got engaged, the works. I can’t make any promises, but maybe we could even arrange for St. Germain, or perhaps Testino, to shoot—”

Something about the way Nigel smiled at her—slyly, knowingly, but also with sympathy—stopped Andy midsentence.

“It’s quite amazing, it really is,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like destiny!”

“So you like the idea?” Andy asked hopefully, already imagining Emily’s ecstatic reaction to the news.

“Love it, darling. Miranda and I discussed it this morning, and we both agreed it would be cover-worthy. Although she prefers Demarchelier, I still think it would work with Mario. Regardless, it’s going to be smashing. I just adore when an idea comes together!”

“You and Miranda discussed it?” Andy asked, searching for an explanation. The disappointment set in almost immediately. “I didn’t realize it would be the type of thing
Runway
would—”

Nigel screeched. “You’re too sweet, darling! Of course it’s not right for
Runway,
but it’s absolutely perfect for
The Plunge.
”

Andy looked at him in confusion. “So you want to talk about featuring it? Because I know we would be so excited to—”

Again, Nigel’s expression silenced her. “No need to talk about anything at all, my love. It’s all been decided.”

Andy’s eyes flew to Max, who was staring at the ground.

“Oh, you must mean the proposal for Elias-Clark to acquire
The Plunge,
right?” Andy asked, truly puzzled and trying to recover a modicum of control.

No one said a word. Nigel stared at her as though she’d just offered him a test ride on her spaceship.

“I know it’s on the table, and we’re very much entertaining the idea,” she lied again. “But nothing’s been decided yet.”

Another long, excruciating period of silence ensued.

Nigel smiled patronizingly. “Of course, dear.”

Max cleared his throat. “Well, however it happens, I think we can all agree it’ll make a great story. Congratulations again! Now, will you please excuse me while I steal Andy away for a moment?”

Nigel was back in the mix of the
Runway
crew before Max even had a chance to steer Andy toward the bar.

“Was that just what I think it was?” Andy asked, numbly accepting the glass of wine Max handed her.

“What? Nigel just being overenthusiastic? I think it’s a great sign he’s so excited about having his wedding in
The Plunge,
don’t you?”

“Of course I do. But he made it sound like this was all a fait accompli, like Miranda already owns us and gets to make all the calls. Doesn’t he know we’ve tabled that conversation for the time being?”
And by
tabled,
I mean
squashed forever,
Andy thought.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Max said. “You’ve always said Nigel was just really excitable.”

Andy nodded, although she couldn’t ignore the feeling of cold dread that had settled over her. The mere suggestion that Miranda would be deciding which weddings they would cover and who would shoot them was enough to make her sweaty with anxiety and fear. She knew then, even more certainly than she had before, that she would
never
allow that to happen.

“Hey, love, I’m saying good-bye,” Christian said into her ear as he swooped up behind her. Andy instantly felt self-conscious when he placed his hands on her hips and kissed both her cheeks. He turned to Max, who was staring daggers at him, and said, “Good to see you again, man. And congratulations on your lovely wife. She’s the best.”

Max had already tightened his grip around Andy’s shoulder and merely nodded at Christian before directing Andy back toward their table.

“You didn’t have to be rude,” Andy said, although she was secretly delighted with Max’s unspoken reaction:
Back off my wife, and take your too-tight suit and your dimples with you.

“Oh please. Rude would have been telling that douchebag to stop openly hitting on my wife and get the fuck out of my face. I can’t believe you
dated
that guy.”

Andy wisely decided not to correct Max’s perception that she and Christian had done anything besides sleep together. Instead,
she took her husband’s hand and joined the crowd in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” for
The Plunge.
Everyone cheered.

The next three hours passed in a blur of hors d’oeuvres, music, and chatter, even a little dancing. Andy talked to dozens, maybe hundreds of people, and although she wasn’t the least bit drunk—she’d stopped drinking early in anticipation of her late-night nursing session—she barely remembered a single word exchanged except those between herself and Nigel. Why did he think the acquisition was so imminent? She wanted to ask Emily but watching her actually eat a piece of the Weinstock cake, she knew she could refrain from an Elias-Clark conversation for one night. Andy had to admit she was still hoping—irrationally, she knew—that the whole thing would just fade into the woodwork. Instead, she kissed her friend good night, congratulated her on a hugely successful party, and followed Max into the backseat of a taxi.

When the cab pulled up in front of their building, Andy practically bolted into the lobby. This was the longest since Clem was born that Andy had left her side, and she couldn’t bear another second. She scooped her just-awakened daughter into her arms and pressed her lips to the baby’s warm, red cheeks. It was all she could do not to chew them, she thought with a smile as Clem’s face began to scrunch up in a telltale wail.

“How is she?” Max asked, having paid Isla and seen her into a taxi.

“Delicious as ever. Perfect timing—she just woke up for her midnight feed.”

Max held Clem while Andy kicked off her heels and stripped off her dress and her insanely painful Spanx, which she deposited directly in the trash. Climbing naked under the cloudlike covers and collapsing back into the pile of pillows, she groaned in pleasure. “Give me my baby,” she said, arms extended.

Max handed her the whimpering bundle and the entire world of Nigel and Emily and
The Plunge
and Miranda Priestly disappeared
into blissful nonexistence. Lying on her side, Andy unzipped Clem’s pajamas. She placed her hand directly on her daughter’s warm belly. She stroked her chest and her back, whispering quietly in her ear as she guided her breast to Clem’s mouth, and exhaled in relief as the baby began to suck. Max pulled the covers up over the pair as Andy pressed her lips to Clem’s head and continued to rub her back in slow, steady circles.

“Beautiful,” Max said, his voice gruff with emotion.

Andy smiled up at him.

Max crawled, fully dressed, beside them in bed.

Andy watched her daughter suckle for another couple of minutes and saw Max close his eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and without a second thought, she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. His eyes didn’t open but she knew he was awake. A surge of peace, hope, comfort coursed through her. It had been forever since she’d told him, unsolicited, and she wanted him to know.

“I love you, Max,” she whispered.

Andy covered Clem’s face in kisses before handing her over to Isla. She watched as the baby flashed a smile and reached out for her, and the waterworks began. And it wasn’t the baby who was crying. Was Andy going to sob like a crazy person every day for eternity? Would Clementine leave in the morning, backpack on and pigtails bobbing, on her way to fourth grade, with Andy a blubbering wreck at the bus stop?

“It’s only your third day back,” Max said reassuringly as he watched the emotional good-bye. “It’ll get easier.”

“I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday,” Andy said, carefully dabbing her eyes.

Max held the front door open for her and Andy willed herself to walk through it. It was such a bittersweet thing: she desperately missed Clem and hated leaving her all day, but it did feel good getting back to work. To adult conversations and spit-up-
free clothes and using her mind again for something other than singing “You Are My Sunshine.”

“Share a cab?” Max asked. He walked to the curb and thrust out his arm.

“I can’t, I have to run a couple errands before work. There’s never any time afterward.”

A cab pulled up. Max kissed Andy and ducked into the backseat. “Keep me updated, okay?”

Andy frowned. “Isla texts you with updates too, doesn’t she?”

“About your conversation with Emily, I meant.”

Andy knew exactly what he meant but feigned confusion.

“Aren’t you guys having your big sit-down today? To discuss your next move?”

“Mmm,” Andy murmured, suddenly desperate to get away. “Have a good day.”

Max pulled the door shut and the cab took off like a race car. She checked her watch. Eight
A.M
. Gone were the days of leisurely coffees and fresh-made smoothies and gym visits—although Max still got there at least three days a week without her—but Andy didn’t mind. She’d so much rather spend those couple of hours with her daughter, snuggling in bed together, playing on the fluffy nursery rug. It was now the best part of the whole day.

Andy was sorting her clothes when the dry cleaner’s receptionist, a fortysomething Ecuadorian man who always gave Andy Tootsie Rolls, shouted a greeting over her shoulder.

“Hey, man, new customer! Welcome, mister!”

Andy didn’t turn around.

“How much will it cost to shorten this skirt?” she asked. “Just an inch, inch and a half? I’d like it to hit right above the knee instead of at it.”

The receptionist was nodding, but it was the voice behind her that caught her attention. “You can go shorter than an inch. You’ve got the legs to pull it off.”

The voice vibrated in her toes, and Andy knew it was Alex before she turned around.

Her Alex. Her first love, the man she always thought she’d marry. He had been there through all four years of college and the craziness of life at
Runway
and the fallout period after it. Alex had joined her on family vacations. He’d attended holiday dinners and birthday parties and celebratory drinks of every kind. Alex knew she hated sliced tomatoes but loved tomato-based everything, didn’t laugh when she death-gripped his hand when their flight had turbulence. For nearly six years, he’d known every inch of her body as though it was his own.