Revenge Wears Prada (47 page)

Greetings from the City of Angels!
the subject line blared. She knew immediately it was from Emily.

Dear friends, family, and adoring fans,

I’m thrilled to announce that Miles and I have finally found a home and are getting all settled in. He’s already begun shooting his new series, Lovers and Losers, and everyone who’s seen the footage swears it’s going to be a HUGE HIT (think Khloe and Lamar meets The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills!!!). My new gig as a stylist to the stars is off and running. I’ve already signed Sofia Vergara, Stacy Keibler, and Kristen Wiig, and not to drop any names here or anything, but I’m having drinks with Carey Mulligan tonight and will hope to call her an Emily Charlton client by the end of happy hour. We both miss New York, and of course all of you, but life is pretty sweet out here. Do you know it was seventy-eight degrees today and we went to the beach? Doesn’t suck. So please please please come visit
us soon . . . did I mention we have a pool AND a hot tub? Visit. Seriously. You won’t regret it.

Love and kisses,

Em

If Andy had tried to send some sort of message to Emily that they were no longer friends, Emily hadn’t received it. Despite Andy throwing Emily out of her apartment the morning after she’d discovered the contract signing, despite her refusing to return any of Emily’s calls or e-mails unless they directly concerned the sale of
The Plunge,
and despite her ignoring Emily when they ran into each other socially, Emily wouldn’t accept Andy’s silence. She continued to text and call and e-mail with random updates or funny bits of gossip, and she always greeted Andy with a big hug and an excited hello when they saw each other. Which is why it was such a relief when Andy got the e-mail from Emily a couple months earlier announcing that she and Miles were moving to Los Angeles. Distance would surely accomplish what Andy could not seem to, and she welcomed the idea of severing ties.

Emily’s dismissal from
The Plunge
after a mere ten weeks on the job shouldn’t have come as a surprise—this was Miranda, after all—but when Max told Andy, she couldn’t help the
I told you so.
A single issue. That was all the time Miranda had granted Emily and her new editor in chief to prove themselves at Elias-Clark before firing the entire editorial team she had so relentlessly insisted on retaining. Although it only added to her PTSD-like symptoms, Andy couldn’t stop reading all the different accounts of the firing. A gossip blog had the most comprehensive coverage, probably supplied by Agatha or one of the other assistants who actually witnessed the whole thing, and Andy read it voraciously. Apparently it had been a day like any other, the week after
The Plunge
had published its first issue at Elias-Clark. On the cover were Nigel and his new husband, Neil, who was—at least judging by the photos—surprisingly nebbishy, unfashionable, and older
than Nigel by at least two decades. Nigel had gained a bit of pudge, no doubt from prewedding bliss, but combined with Neil’s already-challenged appearance, not even St. Germain could make them look totally fabulous. Never mind that the first-ever issue of any wedding magazine dedicated to same-sex marriage had gotten tremendously positive feedback from all over the country for its sensitive and insightful coverage of a long-overlooked group—the cover wasn’t glam enough, and that was unforgivable. None of it was Emily’s fault, but such details didn’t concern Miranda.

Andy wasn’t sure who leaked it—Emily, Nigel, Charla 3.0—but all the gossip blogs agreed on the statement that effectively ended Emily’s very short reign at Elias-Clark.

“You’re dismissed, effective immediately. And take your staff with you.” At this point, Miranda had looked Emily right in the eyes and said, “We’ll opt for a
fresher
team.”

The entry had wrapped up by describing, rather gleefully, how
The Plunge
’s entire staff returned from lunch to discover their key cards no longer permitted them access to the building. Emily had once again been fired unceremoniously by Miranda Priestly, although at least this time there was the generous sale price to console her. Emily e-mailed Andy that all the other staffers had landed on their feet: a few had joined other magazines, a couple had taken the opportunity to go back to school, Daniel had followed his boyfriend to Miami Beach, and Agatha—entitled, aspiring Agatha—was trying her hand as Miranda’s new junior assistant. They deserved one another.

Andy’s mouse moved to delete Emily’s e-mail as she had dozens of others, but something made her pause and hit “reply.”

Hey, Em,

Congrats on the new gig—sounds like a perfect fit. Congrats too on the house with the pool, etc. Big change from NYC, I imagine. Best of luck with everything.

—Andy

She was just about to start writing again when Nick appeared by her desk. Her entire being willed him to go away, to not interrupt her, and she regretted instantly saying yes to a second date. There was nothing wrong with Nick and nothing wrong with dating, but she should’ve known better than to mix that world with her new, wonderfully quiet and peaceful writing space. It was her escape from all things loud and overwhelming and kid related, the only place she could be totally alone and still surrounded by people, all of whom were slowly and steadily minding their own business. It was all she could do not to plead with him to leave her be.

“Andy?” he whispered, breaking all the rules. There was zero talking allowed in the quiet work area, where Andy had chosen one of the farthest and most isolated desks.

She turned and raised her eyebrows but didn’t speak.

“There’s a guy waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t order any food,” Andy whispered back, confused.

“He doesn’t look like a food delivery guy. Someone buzzed him up because he said it was important.”

It was the last thing Andy needed to hear. “Important” had to mean that it was Max and he was here about Clem. Andy yanked her phone from her bag and scanned it quickly: no texts or messages from Isla, which was comforting, but perhaps the emergency had been so dire she thought Max was more reachable and called him first. Without another whispered word to Nick, Andy flew out of her chair and ran toward the kitchen. Nothing could have prepared her for who was sitting at the same table she and Nick had shared earlier that afternoon.

“Hey,” Alex said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hey,” Andy replied, completely incapable of saying anything else.

He raked a hand through his hair and Andy noticed it was shaking. No matter—he looked absolutely adorable in his jeans,
navy half-zip fleece, and of course, his signature New Balance sneakers. When he held open his arms and walked toward her to envelop her in a hug, it was all she could do not to cry: the feel of the familiar fleece against her cheek, the weight of his hands on her back, the overwhelming smell of Alexness that literally caused her to choke up. How long had it been since she’d been hugged like this by anyone except her mother? A year? More? It was exciting and calming and soothing all at the same time. It felt like going home.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, still convinced this was all an apparition or, worse, a random coincidence.

“Stalking you,” he said with a laugh.

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious. I ran into your nanny with Clementine today at that cupcake place near you and—”

“You ran into my nanny? And Clementine? What were you doing three blocks from my apartment? Don’t you live in Park Slope now?”

Alex smiled. “Yes, but like I said, I was stalking you. I was sitting in there, eating a cupcake, trying to work up the nerve to show up at your apartment, and in walked Clementine. She’s so much bigger than the last time I saw her. She’s gorgeous, Andy, and so sweet. I would’ve recognized her anywhere.”

Andy tried not to get too excited about Alex’s admission that he was planning to show up at her apartment, but she could do little more than stare at him.

“So I asked your nanny if you were home. I told her I was an old friend but I think she got nervous about a stranger asking after you, so she said you were ‘out writing’ somewhere. I think those were the words she used.”

“And you just decided to take a chance and see if I was here, out of the fifty writing spaces in city? Not to mention private offices, libraries, coffee shops, cafés, friends’ apartments . . .”

Alex poked her playfully in the arm, and she wanted to grab
his finger and kiss it. “Yeah, or maybe I just noticed a few months ago when you posted on Lily’s Facebook wall that you work at a place called the Writer’s Space.”

Andy raised her eyebrows.

“I know, I know, I said I’d never join Facebook, but I folded. Now I can stalk exes with the best of them. Anyway, some dude named Nick buzzed me up, and he said he knew you . . .”

“Yeah,” Andy said.

Alex looked at her with a questioning expression, but he dropped it when she didn’t volunteer any additional information.

A woman in her midforties walked into the kitchen and began to rummage through the refrigerator. Andy and Alex lapsed into silence as they watched her pull a Tupperware salad from one of the drawers, shake a bottle of vinaigrette, uncap a Pepsi, and, suddenly aware that she was interrupting something, take her lunch to the farthest reaches of the lounge area, where she promptly put in earbuds and began to eat.

“So . . .” Andy looked at Alex and willed him to speak first. There was so much to say, but she didn’t know where to begin. Why was he there? What did he want?

“So . . .” Alex coughed nervously and rubbed his eye. “My contact is driving me crazy, has been all morning.”

“Mmm. I hate when that happens.”

“Me too. I keep thinking about getting the laser surgery and just being done with contacts altogether, but then you hear these stories of people who have all sorts of problems with dry eyes and—”

“Alex—it’s Alex, right? Not Xander? What’s going on?” Andy blurted out.

He looked sheepish. Anxious. “It’s Alex,” he said. He twisted his fingers and yanked at the collar of his fleece. “What do you mean, what going on? Because I wanted to come say hi? Is that so weird?”

Andy laughed. “Yes, it’s so weird. It’s lovely, but it’s weird.
When was the last time we saw each other? A year ago? At that brunch, which may have been the most awkward thing ever . . .” She was tempted, so tempted, to ask about Sophie, see what Alex knew after the fact, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

“It’s over between Sophie and me,” he said, staring down at the table. “Has been for a while now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you really?” Alex asked with a smile.

“No. Not in the least.”

He smiled. “I know everything, Andy. All about her student and the fling and the whole thing. She was so convinced you’d told me after that brunch that she couldn’t help but admit everything. I still don’t think she believes you didn’t say anything.”

“I’m sorry. For everything.” She knew Alex understood she was apologizing for all of it—knowing but not telling him, the pain he must have felt when he found out, the fact that it all had to happen in the first place.

He nodded in understanding. “Turns out it wasn’t really a fling. They got married almost immediately and she’s due any minute now with their baby.”

Andy wanted to reach across the table and hug him.

“I also know about you and Max . . .” Again, Alex diverted his eyes.

“Max?” She knew exactly what he meant, but it felt so strange to hear Alex say her ex-husband’s name.

“The div—the whole thing that happened between you two.”

Andy stared at him until he met her gaze. “How do you know about that? Lily told me ten times over that she never said anything to you, that the couple times you guys have talked, neither of you have mentioned me . . .”

“It wasn’t Lily. It was Emily.”

“Emily? Since when do you two keep in touch?”

Alex smiled but it was tinged with sadness. “Since never. But
she called me out of the blue a few months ago, talking a mile a minute, thoughts all over the place, almost hysterical. Pretty much exactly how I remember her from the
Runway
days.”

“
She called you?
”

“Yes. Apparently she’d gotten fired by Miranda again, and she and her husband were planning to move to L.A.”

“Yeah, they just did.”

“So she’s going on and on and about how she screwed up everything, with Elias-Clark and Miranda and
The Plunge
and especially you. She wanted me to know about your, uh, your . . . divorce.”

Although it didn’t shock her in the way it used to, hearing the word
divorce
still made Andy squirm. “Oh my god. She didn’t.”

“She said she was finally ready to do something right after screwing up so much, and the one thing that’s clearly right . . . that has been right all along . . .” Alex coughed.

Andy was unable to speak. Was this happening? Was Alex really sitting next to her in the dreary kitchen of her writing space insinuating—or, actually, outright stating—that he thought about her? That they should give it another try? Despite being a frequently featured scenario in her daydreams, it still somehow seemed too far-fetched.

She said nothing. He stared first at his feet and then at the ceiling. The silence probably only lasted twenty or thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

“What do you say to dinner on Sunday? Early, with Clementine, maybe around five? We can take her in your neighborhood, maybe for pizza or burgers? Just something really casual.”

Andy laughed. “She loves pizza. How’d you guess?”

“What kid doesn’t love pizza?”

Andy looked at Alex and smiled. She got that familiar but long-forgotten flip-flop feeling in her stomach when he smiled back. “That sounds great. Count us in.”

“Excellent! It’s a date then.” His phone beeped and he glanced
at it. “My brother is in the city this weekend visiting friends in grad school at NYU and I’m on my way to meet up with him. He’s dragging me to a bar crawl. God help me.”