Revenge Wears Prada (39 page)

Miranda’s attention zeroed in on Emily with a familiar angry flash. “City Hall conjures up images of criminals and metal detectors and impossibly dreary people asking for handouts. Nigel and Neil are glamour and style and sophistication. What they are not is City Hall.”

“Agreed, agreed!” Nigel squawked.

“I see your point,” Emily said, and seemed to mean it.

Andy stared at the table and hated herself for not saying anything.

“I certainly support gay marriage, but no one is going to benefit from an article done the wrong way. I know
The Plunge
reader, and while she’s perfectly happy gays are permitted to marry, she doesn’t want to get mired in some dull political narrative. She wants gorgeous clothes! Beautiful flowers. Expensive jewelry. Romance!” With this, Miranda turned to Andy. “Don’t ever forget: your sole job is to give your readers what they want. And all this talk about gay rights would be a horrible miscalculation.”

“Well said,” Nigel murmured.

Emily looked uncomfortable—she was probably concerned about Andy’s response—but she nodded as well. “That’s exactly right, Miranda. Andy and I always try to give the reader what she wants. I couldn’t agree more. Don’t you think, Andy?” With this, she turned to Andy and gave her a warning look.

It was all right there on the tip of her tongue, but Andy held back. What was there to gain from going head to head with Miranda Priestly? In a way, it was a relief to see the old Miranda back again. Two courses was an extraordinarily long time for someone who lacked all human qualities to fake it, but Miranda had done just that. The charm, the grace, the hospitality were unnerving and unsettling. At least this was familiar ground.

Andy put down her coffee cup. She’d tread as lightly as possible,
but she wasn’t going to pretend to agree with everyone just for the sake of peace over dinner. Besides, maybe it was good to let Miranda hang herself. Emily would see once and for all that they would be beholden to this woman and all her ideas for a very, very long time.

“I do hear what you’re saying, and of course we strive to give our readers terrific, interesting features. From all the feedback we get,
Plunge
readers love getting glimpses into other cultures and traditions—especially when they’re really different from their own. Which is why I thought it could be fascinating to have a section on gay marriage all over the world. Things are changing so quickly, and not just in the U.S. There’s Europe, of course, but strides are also being made in surprising places in Asia and Latin America. They’re not quite there yet, but for the first time there’s a lot of optimism. It would make a great front-of-book feature, something that could help set up—”

Miranda laughed. It was a shrill, joyless sound, and once again her thin lips pulled tightly across her teeth. Andy couldn’t help but shiver.

“How sweet,” Miranda said, placing her dessert fork across her plate to indicate she was finished. Immediately a team of three descended on the room and removed everyone’s plate, despite the fact that two of them were still chewing.

“Sweet?” Andy’s voice was a squeak, and she hated herself for it.

“You publish weddings, Ahn-dre-ah. Not a scholarly journal. Not a newsmagazine. Such a feature would be totally inappropriate, and I wouldn’t allow it.”

I wouldn’t allow it.

Andy’s head snapped up as though she’d been slapped, but no one else seemed to notice or care that Miranda had just confirmed beyond any doubt that she planned to approve, edit, delete, permit, forbid, and tweak every word that went into
The Plunge.
Not only that, but she couldn’t even pretend before an actual sale took place that it would be any different.

“Yes, but it’s our magazine,” Andy said in barely more than a whisper. She hazarded a glimpse at Miranda, who looked surprised. Once again Emily and Nigel fell silent.

“Your magazine indeed,” Miranda said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, looking as though she were really enjoying herself. “But need I remind you that you have a long way to go?”

“Of course, there’s always room for improvement. Andy and I were just—”

Miranda cut off Emily as though she’d never spoken. “You can judge any book by its September issue and yours was—how shall I put this—thin. Think of all the companies you’d have positively clamoring to buy ad space once they learn
The Plunge
is associated with
Runway.
With all of the weight and experience and prestige of Elias-Clark behind it. Just think—then you could actually drop my name with credibility.”

Emily looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.

Andy coughed. She could feel her face redden. “I’m sorry, Miranda,” she said, still surprised Miranda knew the real story. “We only used the
Runway
name to open doors, but we earned everything else.”

“Oh please, don’t have a stroke. Of course you did. You succeeded or we wouldn’t be here. But it’s time you took it up a notch. Who was that on your most recent cover? Those Greeks?”

Emily told her it was Greece’s most famous young couple, the son of the prime minister marrying the heiress daughter of one of the world’s richest men. Both were gorgeous Cambridge grads, friends of Prince William and Princess Kate.

“Well, they’re forgettable,” Miranda said. “Enough of the foreigners, unless they’re royalty themselves. We want aspirational. And frankly the issue with your own wedding, Ahn-dre-ah, was
a big stretch. Maxwell Harrison might come from a storied family line, but he is not compelling enough to drive an entire issue. Who goes to the newsstand to pick up a magazine with a nobody on the cover?”

“We had terrific newsstand sales that month,” Andy managed, although a part of her didn’t disagree with Miranda. Still, couldn’t there be a kinder way of saying it?

Emily looked ready to jump out of her seat. “I hear what you’re saying, Miranda. I was thinking we should have gone in another direction for the cover, but St. Germaine was such a coup . . .”

Miranda’s laugh sounded like a bark. “Yes, well, when you work for me, great photographers will be de rigueur. With
Runway
backing you, you’ll drive every deal on your own terms.”

“You mean your terms,” Andy said quietly.

“I mean terms that include the best and most famous designers, photographers, stylists, celebrities . . . name them, and they’re yours.”

Nigel made a catcalling whistle sound. “She’s the best, ladies! Listen closely: it’s not every day you get Miranda Priestly giving you advice like this.”

Andrea and Emily looked at each other.

Miranda wasn’t finished. “And you’re going to have to change your staff. I want only the best team. That’s why I want you. But the transition will allow us to clean house of some of the hangers-on. Oh, and there will be no more ‘flexible work schedule’ rubbish. No more ‘working remotely.’ We banned it at
Runway
and it’s made a huge difference.”

Andy’s first thought went to Carmella Tindale, her beloved, clog-wearing managing editor who would no doubt get the ax. Even worse than that, though, would be saying good-bye to her own flexible schedule. No more Tuesday or Thursday mornings home with Clem. No more attending her pediatrician appointments.
No more determining her own hours and working when it best fit her schedule.

Emily cleared her throat. “I’m not sure we have a lot of people we could afford to lose.”

Andy shot her a dagger look. “We have an amazing and dedicated staff who work long hours and sacrifice so much for the sake of the magazine. I wouldn’t want to part with any of them.”

Miranda rolled her eyes as if this were all too tiring. “They work long hours so they can raid the swag closet and talk on the phone with celebrities. At Elias-Clark, they’ll have that opportunity tenfold. Which is why they should all be presentable. And trained in the
Runway
manner. I would see to it myself.”

“Yes, I do think—” Emily started, but Miranda cut her off.

“And getting back to Nigel’s wedding here,” Miranda said, pausing only a moment to make sure all eyes were on her. “I would personally guarantee it would be your biggest issue yet. By a large margin.”

“I know I speak on behalf of Emily and myself when I say that we have some clear ideas for how we want that issue to—”

“Friends!” Nigel cried. “Let us not bicker over details. You all must realize, of course, that when we’re talking about the wedding of the century—mine—it is surely I who will make the decisions. Consider me your fearless king, and you all my ladies in waiting.” Nigel pushed his chair back from the table, sprung to his feet, and wrapped his cape around his shoulders.

Emily laughed first and Andy followed. Miranda made a tight, angry smile.

Nigel saluted. “To wedding unity!” he sang, now on a roll. “I promise you this: there is enough Nigel fabulousness to go around. Now, what do we say about a toast?”

As though by magic, a waiter appeared from the kitchen with a tray of four champagne flutes and a bottle of Moët.

“No, no, that won’t do,” Nigel muttered. He disappeared into
the kitchen and emerged with four elegant crystal shot glasses. Upon closer inspection, they looked to be espresso cups, but Nigel didn’t seem to mind.

“What’s this?” Emily asked, accepting hers daintily between thumb and forefinger.

“Nigel, really,” Miranda said, with what sounded like faux exasperation. Nonetheless, she too accepted a glass.

“To brilliant collaborations among brilliant women!” Nigel called, his own glass raised high. “
The Plunge
is one lucky lady, to have so many who love her.”

“Well put, Nigel,” Emily said, leaning forward to clink his glass. Together, each clinked Andy’s and Miranda’s before elegantly throwing back the shot.

“Drink!” Nigel shrieked, and Emily laughed.

Andy watched in disbelief as Miranda took a delicate sip and then another. Not wanting to be the only one with a full glass, Andy summoned her college days, took a deep breath, and downed the alcohol in one gulp. It burned her throat and made her eyes water, and she couldn’t tell if it was vodka or whiskey or gin or something else entirely.

“This is vile,” Miranda proclaimed, examining the remainder of her shot. “I’m appalled to think you found this in my home.”

Nigel smiled devilishly. He reached under his shirt and produced a silver and leather flask, monogrammed with a large, flowery N. “I didn’t,” he said with a grin.

The rest of the dessert course passed without incident, but Andy was still reeling from the conversation. Miranda ushered everyone into the foyer, and it was all Andy could do to take her coat slowly and not run from the entire dreadful scene.

“Thank you so much for such an amazing night,” Emily gushed, pecking Miranda once on each cheek as if they were long lost sorority sisters.

“Yes, darling, you really outdid yourself,” Nigel said. Although it wasn’t the least bit cold outside, he pulled on a pair of fingerless
gloves and wrapped a blanket-size cashmere scarf around his head and neck.

Only Andy seemed to notice Miranda’s back go ramrod straight and her mouth clench closed.

“Thank you for inviting us, Miranda. Dinner was lovely,” Andy said quietly as she fiddled with the buttons on her jacket.

“Ahn-dre-ah.” Miranda’s voice was quiet too, but there was something steely in it. Something determined.

Andy glanced up and almost lost her balance. Miranda was staring at her with such naked, unabashed hatred that it took her breath away.

Nigel and Emily were chatting about whether it was best to share a cab home or each take their own, so neither noticed when Miranda wrapped her long, lean fingers around Andy’s shoulder, pulled her close, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. It was the closest Andy had ever been to Miranda, and it made the hairs on her arms and neck stand up.

“You’ll sign those papers this week,” she said, her breath icy on Andy’s cheek. “You’ll stop making trouble for everyone.” Then, just as quickly as she claimed Andy, Miranda gave her arm the slightest push.
I’m done with you. Now move along.

Before Andy could even think of responding, the elevator man appeared in the doorway and good-byes were being exchanged all around. No one noticed when Andy dumbly shuffled onto the elevator without saying another word.

They spilled out onto the street, Nigel and Emily tipsy and laughing, clutching each other’s hands.

“Good-bye, darlings,” Nigel called, as he slipped into a taxi without offering the girls a ride, or the chance to take it first. “Can’t wait to get working together again!”

Emily had her arm extended to hail a cab when a Town Car pulled up beside her. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind face said, “You’re Ms. Priestly’s guests? She’s asked I see you home, or wherever you need to go.”

Emily gave Andy a triumphant look and flopped happily into the backseat. “How nice was it for Miranda to have us driven home?” she asked, stretching her legs.

Andy was still in shock. Had Miranda threatened her? Did that really just happen? She couldn’t even summon the words to tell Emily.

“What a fabulous dinner! I really love what she did with the apartment, and of course the food was to die for,” Emily prattled on. “In hindsight, I think it was better Cassidy and her boyfriend didn’t join us. It gave Miranda a chance to focus exclusively on us, let us hear her real thoughts for
The Plunge.
I know some of what she said sounded a tad . . . intense. But how incredible that one of the greatest minds in fashion and publishing wants to help us take
The Plunge
to the next level? It’s almost unbelievable!”

Why didn’t Emily seem more upset? Didn’t she see that Miranda admitted she had every intention of treating
The Plunge
as her own private fiefdom? That Miranda would oversee the hiring and firing, dictate every decision from the editorial to the advertising, institute draconian schedules and dress codes? That they would essentially be assistants again, with no real say or influence, mere pawns in Miranda’s despotic reign?