Revenge Wears Prada (41 page)

“Hey,” Andy said, trying not to gawk. “Your apartment is gorgeous. And you look fantastic.”

Stacy waved her off. “You’re too sweet. Can I get you guys something to drink? A mimosa, maybe? Max, I bet you’d rather a Bloody Mary. Our housekeeper makes the most amazing Bloodys.”

Stacy kissed Clem on the forehead and disappeared to put in their drink order. Seeing the other mothers do it, Andy deposited Clem in the circle of babies lying on the designer carpet.

“This is a very bad idea,” she murmured as she placed a burp cloth under the baby’s head.

“Tell me about it,” Bethany said. “Micah already spit up all over it—pureed spinach, no less—and I heard Tucker had a blowout diaper right in the middle of that overlapping color band right there.”

“Doesn’t she want to put down a blanket or something?”

Bethany shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. Someone in a
uniform just comes rushing over to clean up or clear away or bring more food or drink. There is, no exaggeration, a
fleet
of employees.”

“Did you have any idea?” Andy asked, keeping her voice as low as she could manage. Theo rolled onto his belly and Andy patted him on the back. From the corner of her eye she saw another woman, also in uniform but different from the maid who’d shown them in, hand Max a Bloody Mary so tall, richly red, and mouthwatering as to be magazine-worthy. He accepted it politely, but Andy knew he would find a place to set it down, untouched. She made a mental note to bring him a glass of orange juice.

“Zero. If anything Stacy usually looks more homeless than millionaire. Then again, with our crew, who doesn’t?”

Within a few minutes the entire group had assembled, and everyone was chatting amiably while the babies hung out on the floor. For the most part the husbands were exactly as Andy expected—which is to say, pretty much like her own: in their early to midthirties; dressed in untucked button-downs or hoodies over T-shirts with designer jeans their wives had purchased for them despite protests that their old college Levi’s were perfectly fine; sporting close-cropped haircuts, expensive watches, and expressions that clearly stated they would rather have been reading the paper, watching football, at the gym, lying on the couch, anywhere, doing anything rather than milling around a room of strangers while their children howled and their wives passionately debated the right time to introduce purees.

Only a few were really surprising. Stacy’s husband, Mark, was a good fifteen years older than everyone else; his salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses made him appear distinguished and more grown-up than the rest of the crew, but the gleeful way he tossed around baby Sylvie and the warm way he greeted each and every person instantly endeared him to Andy. Baby Lola’s parents, the two pediatricians, made an appearance for the first time, both looking supremely uncomfortable for two people who spent
twelve-plus hours a day with children. They wore matching black dress slacks and pressed blue shirts, as though they were seconds away from donning white robes and making rounds. Lola squirmed every time her mother went to pick her up, and the father appeared anxious, disinterested, and even more obsessed with checking his phone than most of the other dads. Both looked desperate to leave this strange get-together where neither knew a soul but where everyone knew their daughter.

Also surprising was Anita’s husband, Dean, a rocker type in his twenties with a chain wallet, skater-style high-top sneakers, and a waxed mustache. He was happy and outgoing and didn’t seem to feel the least bit self-conscious, which served as such an unexpected counterbalance to his mousy, perpetually shy, and nearly silent wife. Andy was surprised when Dean pulled a guitar from a travel bag, planted himself in the middle of the babies, and began playing rock ’n’ roll versions of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” and she almost fainted when Anita offered backup vocals and musical accompaniment by alternating a tambourine, cymbals, and a pair of professional-looking maracas. The babies who could clap in delight did so, and the others squealed or shrieked. At least a dozen parents whipped out iPhones to video the impromptu performance, and a bunch of the mommies started to dance.

“See?” Andy said, giving Max a little poke in the shoulder. “I only bring you to the best places.”

Max was intently staring at his phone, trying to zoom in on the video he was filming of Clementine shaking a maraca. “You’re not kidding. They should be selling tickets for this.”

The doorbell rang and a maid appeared to tell Stacy that more guests had arrived.

Rachel looked around and made a show of counting. “But we’re all here. Who else is coming?”

“Maybe some of their other friends?” Sandrine offered.

“Ohmigod, you didn’t invite Lori, did you?” Bethany
screeched. “She’s going to take one look at that guitar and start an immediate friendship circle. I can’t handle life coaching on a Saturday.”

Stacy laughed while all the husbands looked first confused and then disinterested. “No, it’s Sophie and Xander.” She turned to the pediatricians for confirmation. “You said they’re stopping by, right?”

The mother nodded. “She feels so close to everyone, seeing you all every week and whatnot, so . . . she said she wanted to say hello. I hope that’s okay.”

Something about the way the woman said it made Andy feel bad for her. It couldn’t have been easy working demanding doctor hours with a new baby, and no matter how important her career was to her, it certainly wouldn’t be fun seeing your sister-in-law bond with your daughter, take her to play groups and cuddle her before naps and watch her enjoy all her new jumper toys. Andy promised herself she’d make an effort with the woman, introduce herself and invite her to coffee.

Sophie was, as usual, beautifully turned out. Her long, thick hair shone as she waved hello, her smile lighting up her adorably wind-pinked cheeks.

“I was hoping we’d get to meet the boyfriend,” Rachel whispered under her breath.

Andy nodded. “Me too. I’m so curious. Although it would’ve been even better if she brought the new guy. What’s his name?”

“Tomás,” someone whispered in an exaggerated accent. “Sexy, artistic
Tomás.
”

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Bethany, never shy, called from her perch on the couch arm.

“Oh, he’s just finishing up a call. He’ll be right up. He’s so excited to meet you all,” Sophie said with a forced-sounding laugh.

Sophie looked worried—the boyfriend must have insisted on
tagging along, and she was clearly uncomfortable with everything she’d revealed over the past couple months. The affair with Tomás had intensified to passionate making out although they still hadn’t gotten naked or “really consummated anything,” in Sophie’s words, so she was currently trying to convince herself and everyone else that, technically, she hadn’t done anything wrong. But it was easy to tell from the faraway look she got in her eyes and the excited way she twisted her fingers that Sophie was falling in love with her cute young photography student, and she was racked with guilt and fear and uncertainty over what to do with the boyfriend. The new-mommies group had become her safe place, a roomful of confidantes so wholly removed from her real life that Sophie felt free to divulge details she wouldn’t even have shared with her real friends, and Andy knew she must be near-hysterical at the thought of her two worlds colliding. Andy wanted to reach out and reassure her.
Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us. No one is going to breathe a word to your boyfriend . . .

The energy in the room suddenly shifted, but Andy’s attention was diverted momentarily to Clementine, who had begun crying with an immediacy and hysteria that made Andy’s heart skip a beat. She scooped her daughter up and scanned her body, her face, her pudgy hands, and her fuzz-topped head, looking for injury or potential cause of pain. Seeing none, she buried her face in Clementine’s neck and whisper-sang while she bounced her baby gently on her shoulder. Clem’s cries slowly lessened as Andy ran through her mental maternal checklist: hungry, tired, wet, hot, cold, bellyache, teething pain, overstimulated, scared, or lonely. She was just about to ask Stacy if she could take Clem to a quiet room to settle her when she felt Max’s breath on her ear.

“Isn’t that your Alex?” he asked, clamping his hand over her shoulder.

It took a long twenty or thirty seconds before Andy processed
what he was asking. “Her Alex” could have been none other than Alex Fineman, and although she understood this, she couldn’t possibly imagine why Max was bringing him up now.

“My Alex?” she asked, confused.

Max physically turned her in the direction of the foyer, where a man whose back was turned to her was removing his coat and scarf. One instantaneous assessment of the stranger’s dark hair, gray New Balance sneakers, and mannerisms as he joked with the maid, and Andy knew beyond any doubt that he was, indeed, her Alex.

In an instant Clementine, Max, Stacy, the entire group of noisy babies and chattering parents evaporated: Andy’s field of vision had narrowed to include Alex and only Alex, and yet she was entirely unable to think of a single plausible reason why he was in attendance at her new-mommies brunch.

“Xander!” Sophie screeched in a shockingly un-Sophielike way. “Come here, love, I want you to meet all my new friends.”

Xander.
The word hit her like a truck. In the decade she’d known Alex, no one—not her, their college friends, his mother, his brother,
anyone
—had called him anything but Alex. Not even Alexander. Xander? It was ridiculous just hearing it.

And yet here he was, standing before her, kissing his beautiful younger girlfriend on the lips and flashing that heartbreakingly impish grin to the hosts. He hadn’t seen Andy yet, hadn’t seen anyone but Sophie, Stacy, and Mark; she sent up a silent message of gratitude for the few seconds she had to compose herself.

“That is Alex, right?” Max asked, scooping a squirming Clementine from Andy’s arms. “You look like you’ve seen a dead person.”

“I just didn’t realize that when Sophie was telling us about her boyfriend, she was talking about him,” Andy whispered, hoping no one else could overhear them. “Ohmigod.”

“What?”

“Oh. My. God.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Max asked.

Xander. Boyfriend of years. Love him but. Things are different. Seems bored by me. Thinks I’m furniture. Just moved in together. New to New York. Tomás. My student. Much younger. Just innocent flirting. Passionate make-outs. Heavy petting. Think I’m falling for him . . .

She didn’t know why it had taken that long to put the pieces together, but once she had, Andy could barely breathe. There was no time to process it, to consider all of the ramifications, to conference-call both Emily and Lily and give them every sordid detail—the next second, Alex was beside her.

“And this is my friend Andy!” Sophie’s voice was high-pitched, excited. “And this is her husband . . . I’m so sorry, I seem to have forgotten—”

“This is my husband, Max.” Andy was relieved to hear that her own voice sounded steady and reassuringly ordinary, despite the fact that she wanted to vomit. It occurred to her fleetingly that this was only the second time Max and Alex were meeting—the first had been years earlier, when they’d all shared that awkward exchange at Whole Foods—but it barely even registered.

“This is Xander, my boyfriend. I told him he’d be bored, but he didn’t want to sit home all by himself.”

“Really, man? Because I would’ve killed to do just that.” Max clapped Alex on the back. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Alex said, looking every bit as shocked as Andy felt.

“You two know each other?” Sophie asked, her brows furrowed in concern.

If only you knew the whole story,
Andy thought,
you’d need a shipping container of Botox to eliminate that frown.

Confident Max would know to lie and make up some story about work or a party a hundred years ago, Andy almost fainted when instead he said, “We do. Alex here used to date my wife.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open and Andy knew exactly what she was thinking and how she felt. No doubt she was going through the laundry list of explicit details she’d revealed at their
last group meeting, not one of which was appropriate for someone who actually knew the boyfriend on whom she was cheating. Andy watched as shock turned to panic.

Sophie’s head swiveled between Alex and Andy. “You two used to
date
?”

Andy and Alex merely nodded, but Max was clearly enjoying himself.

He laughed and held Clementine above his head, bringing her down to kiss her nose and lifting her up again while she giggled. “Well,
date
is probably not the right word. They were together for six years. Straight through college—can you believe it? Lucky for me, they didn’t get married . . .”

“You’re Andy? Andy-Andy? Andy from Brown? Andy of girlfriends past? Oh my god . . .” Sophie clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I go by Andrea these days with new friends since it sounds a little more professional.” Andy allowed her voice to trail off. What else was there to say? She didn’t know whether to be concerned or delighted that Alex had told Sophie so much about her. What had he said? And in how much detail? She thought back to their breakup, which had been entirely Alex’s decision; to his announcement that he was moving to Mississippi without her; to how he was concerned that she would always prioritize work over him; to the fights they’d begun having almost the instant she started working at
Runway.
The bickering, the hurt feelings, the resentment, the neglect, the resulting lack of sex and affection. Had he told her all that?

“I guess you guys didn’t put it together that you had a, um . . . that you knew someone in common, huh?” Alex said, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Andy felt.

“No, we most certainly didn’t,” Sophie said, all former enthusiasm completely vanished.

“How could we have?” Andy said as lightly as she could
manage. “I only know him as Alex, and although I knew he had a girlfriend, I didn’t know her name.”