Revenge Wears Prada (8 page)

Andy and Max had fallen into a routine when they’d moved in together the year before, right after he proposed. Weekday mornings they woke up at six. He made them both coffee while she fixed oatmeal or fruit smoothies. They would head to the Equinox on Seventeenth and Tenth together and spend exactly forty-five minutes there; Max did a combination of free weights and the stair treader; Andy bided her time on the treadmill, speed fixed at 5.8, eyes glued to whatever rom com she’d downloaded to her iPad, fervently wishing the time would pass faster, faster. They’d shower and dress at home together, and Max would drop her at
The Plunge
’s office on Twenty-Fourth and Eleventh before zooming in the company car up the West Side Highway to his own offices in midtown west. Both were installed at their respective desks by eight each morning, and barring extreme illness or weather, the schedule was unalterable. This morning, however, Andy had set her phone to vibrate twenty minutes earlier than usual and slithered out from underneath the covers the instant her pillow started to shake. Forsaking a shower and coffee, she pulled on her comfiest pair of charcoal pants, her match-anything white button-down, and her most boring black peacoat and slipped out just as she heard Max’s alarm beginning to sound. She sent him a quick text saying that she had to get to work early and that she’d see him later that evening for Yacht Party, although her stomach still felt unsettled and her muscles were achy, exhausted. Her temperature last night had been just over a hundred.

Andy’s cell rang before she’d even taken off her coat.

“Emily? What are you doing awake?” Andy checked her delicate gold watch, an engagement gift from her father. “It’s, like, two hours too early for you.”

“Why are you answering?” Emily asked, sounding confused.

“Because you called.”

“I only called to leave a message. I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Andy laughed. “Thanks. Should I hang up? We can try it again.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting up for a grueling day of wine tasting or something?”

“Leaf-peeping followed by massages, actually.”

“Seriously, why
are
you awake? Aren’t you still upstate?”

Andy hit the speaker button and took the opportunity to remove her coat and collapse into her chair. It felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks. “We ended up coming back to the city because I feel like hell. Headache, puking, fever. I don’t know if it’s food poisoning or the flu or just some sort of twenty-four-hour thing. Besides, Max didn’t want to miss Yacht Party tonight, which I have to swing by. So we bailed.” Andy glanced down at her atrocious outfit and reminded herself to leave enough time to run home and change.

“Yacht Party’s tonight? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“You weren’t invited because I wasn’t going to go. And now that we’re back, I’m planning to be there for exactly an hour before going home to bathe myself in Vicks VapoRub and watch a
Toddlers and Tiaras
marathon.”

“Whose boat is it this year?”

“I can’t remember his name. The usual hedge fund billionaire. More homes than we have shoes. Probably more wives, too. Apparently he used to be friends with Max’s father, but Barbara thought he was such a bad influence, she forbade her husband from socializing with him. I think he owns casinos, too.”

“Sounds like a guy who knows how to throw a party . . .”

“He won’t even be there. He’s just lending his yacht as a favor to Max. Don’t worry, you’re not missing anything.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what you said last year and then the entire
SNL
cast showed up.”

Yacht Life
magazine hadn’t made a single dime in profits during its ten years in existence, but that didn’t stop Max from declaring it one of the most valuable holdings in all of Harrison Media. It gave them prestige and panache; everyone who was anyone wanted their boat featured in the magazine. Every October
Yacht Life
threw Yacht Party to celebrate their Yacht of the Year award, and every year the event drew an impressive stable of celebrities to roam the deck of some totally over-the-top yacht as it sailed around Manhattan and allowed its guests to slurp Cristal, nibble truffle-infused whatevers, and overlook the fact they were on the polluted Hudson in late fall instead of the warm waters of Cap d’Antibes.

“That was kind of fun, wasn’t it?” Andy asked.

Emily was quiet for a moment. “Is that all? You’re sick? And Yacht Party? Or is something else going on?”

Say what you will about Emily—she could be brash, aggressive, often downright rude—but she was more perceptive than anyone Andy had ever met.

“Something else? Like what?” Andy’s voice pitched higher, the way it always did when she was lying or uncomfortable.

“I don’t know. That’s why I was calling. You put on a pretty good show all weekend, but I think you’re freaking about something. Is it just some perfectly normal buyer’s remorse? I’ll tell you, I had
panic attacks
the week after Miles and I got married. Cried for days. I just couldn’t believe he’d theoretically be the last man I’d ever sleep with. The last one I’d ever
kiss
! But it gets better, Andy, I promise.”

Andy’s heart started to beat a little faster. In the two days since she’d found the note, she hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I found a note from Max’s mother in his bag. She basically told him he was making a huge mistake marrying me—
if
he decided to go through with it.”

There was silence on the other end.

“My god, I thought it was something way worse than that,” Emily said.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Seriously, Andy, what do you expect? The Harrisons are so old-school. And really, whose mother-in-law likes them? No girl is ever good enough.”

“Apparently Katherine’s good enough. Did Miles ever tell you Max saw her in Bermuda?”

“What?” Emily sounded surprised.

“Barbara wrote how Katherine had been so great and didn’t Max think it was a
sign
they’d bumped into each other in Bermuda! How
delighted
he’d been to see her.”

“Katherine? Oh please. You can’t possibly be worried about Katherine. She used to send him links to her favorite pieces of jewelry before every birthday and anniversary. She wore sweater sets, Andy. Granted, they were Prada—but still, sweater sets. She was our least favorite of all his girlfriends.”

Andy pressed her fingertips to her forehead. Emily and Miles knew Max before she did, knew his entire dating history and had met all the girls over the years. Now, more details Andy didn’t really want to hear.

“Glad to hear it,” Andy said, her head beginning to ache.

“He didn’t mention it because it doesn’t matter,” Emily said. “Because he’s crazy about
you.
”

“Em, I—”

“Head over heels in love with you, not to mention a pretty great guy, despite some poor choices in ex-girlfriends. So she was in Bermuda. Big deal. He wouldn’t cheat with her. With anyone! You know it and I know it.”

Two days earlier Andy would’ve sworn Emily was right. Max wasn’t a Boy Scout, but Andy had fallen in love with a man who was, at heart, a genuinely good person. To even consider the alternative was almost too horrible. But she couldn’t deny that his omission freaked her out . . .

“It’s his ex-girlfriend, Emily! His
first love
! The girl he lost his virginity to. The one he supposedly didn’t marry because she wasn’t ‘challenging.’ He’s only ever said nice things about her. I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t test the waters one last time. For old times’ sake? He wouldn’t be the first guy to do something stupid at his bachelor party. Maybe a life like his father’s, with a sweet little stay-at-home wife, wouldn’t be so bad? Instead he decides he wants to rebel and he finds me? How wonderful for him.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Emily said, but something in her voice made Andy wonder. Besides, Emily had been the first to use the word
cheated.
Andy hadn’t really let herself go there until her friend came right out and said it . . .

“So what do I do now? What if he
did
cheat?”

“Andy, you’re being ridiculous. Not to mention hysterical. Just talk to Max. Get the real story.”

Andy felt her throat close. She rarely cried—when she did, it was almost always out of stress and not genuine sadness—but her eyes filled with tears. “I know. I just can’t believe this is happening. If it’s true, how could I ever forgive him? For all I know, he’s in love with her! I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, and now—”

“Andy! Just talk to him,” Emily said. “Stop with the waterworks for now and talk to him, okay? I’ll be in late today, I have a breakfast meeting with the Kate Spade people. But I’ll be on my cell . . .”

Andy knew she had to compose herself before her coworkers arrived. She took a deep, shuddering breath and promised she’d ask Max, although she knew she was going to put it off as long as possible. Suddenly, she couldn’t help but entertain the darkest questions: Who would move out of the apartment? Why, she would, of course—it was Max’s family money that had bought it in the first place. Who would keep Stanley, their Maltese? What would she tell people? Acquaintances? Her parents? Max’s sister?
How would they go from being best friends who lived together, slept together, supported each other’s dreams and aspirations, to total strangers? They had intertwined their lives together, their home and families and work and schedules, their plans for the future, the magazine. Everything. How could she survive losing him? She loved him.

As though he could sense something forty blocks away, an e-mail from Max pinged in her inbox.

Dear Wife,

I hope your early departure this morning means you’re feeling better? I missed our morning together. Can’t stop thinking about our amazing weekend and hope you’re still smiling, too. I’ve gotten a hundred e-mails from people saying they had a great time. I’m in meetings until two, but I’ll call you then to talk plans for tonight. I want you there, but only if you’re up for it. LMK.

Love,

Your Husband

Wife. She was Max’s wife. The word reverberated in her head, sounding both strange and wonderfully familiar at the same time. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to stay calm. No one was dying. It wasn’t terminal cancer. They didn’t have three kids and a crushing mortgage. Plus, despite his oppressive mother, she loved him. How could she not love the man who for last Valentine’s Day—a holiday Andy had repeatedly said she hated for all the usual Hallmark, pink-and-hearts-overkill reasons—had draped their tiny balcony in black sheets with stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars and a table set for two? Who had served grilled cheese sandwiches with anchovies (her favorite) instead of filet mignon, extra-spicy Bloody Marys instead of Cabernet, and her own pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream to devour instead of some fancy boxed chocolates? They’d sat out
there until well past midnight, looking up at the night sky through the industrial-grade telescope Max rented because Andy had once complained, months earlier, that the only thing she hated about city living was not being able to see the stars.

They would get through this.

It was easy enough to repeat this to herself the next couple hours while all was quiet and the office was entirely her own. But she felt her panic ratchet up a notch when everyone arrived at ten, dying to rehash every minute of the weekend, and it escalated even further when Daniel, the art director, showed up at ten with a disk full of digital images that he couldn’t wait to go over with her.

“They’re gorgeous, Andy. Just breathtaking. You made absolutely the right call going with St. Germain for the photo work. He’s a diva, I know, but he’s so damn good. Here, look at these.”

“You have photos of the weekend already?” Andy asked.

“Unretouched. Don’t ask how much we paid to expedite them.”

Daniel, whom Andy had hired last year after interviewing no fewer than ten potential candidates, slipped a memory card directly into Andy’s iMac. Aperture popped open and asked if she wanted to import the photos and Daniel hit yes. “Here, check these out.” Daniel clicked around and a photo of her and Max filled her twenty-seven-inch screen. She gazed directly at the camera, her eyes intensely blue and her skin flawless. Max had his lips pressed to her cheek; his jaw was defined, his profile perfect. The leaves behind them almost burst out of the background, their oranges and yellows and reds serving as an intense contrast to his black tuxedo and her white dress. It looked like a picture right out of a magazine, one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen.

“Spectacular, isn’t it? Here, look at this one.” A couple more clicks and a black-and-white image of the reception filled the screen. Dozens of their guests gathered around the perimeter of the dance floor, smiling and clapping, while Max embraced her for their first dance, to “Warm Love.” The angle showed Max
leaning down to kiss Andy’s forehead, his arms wrapped around her middle, her chestnut hair cascading down her back. The button detail they’d decided to add to the train after the last fitting looked fantastic, Andy thought. And she was pleased she’d decided on the shorter kitten heels; it gave them a more clearly defined height difference that looked more elegant in photos.

“Here, check out your solo shots. They’re stunning.” Daniel moved his cursor to a folder labeled “portraits” and opened it to thumbnails. He scrolled for a minute and then clicked on one. The screen came alive with Andy’s face and shoulders, dusted just so with a subtle shimmer powder that made her glow. In most of them she’d kept her smile deliberately restrained (according to the photographer, fine lines and wrinkles were harder to mask with a “full face” smile), but there was a single image of her grinning unabashedly, and although it made her crow’s-feet and laugh lines more noticeable, it was by far the most authentic of the photos. Clearly it was taken before she’d visited Max’s suite.

Everyone had told her St. Germain would be an impossible get, but she couldn’t resist trying. It had taken over a month and no fewer than a dozen calls for St. Germain’s agent even to take a message from Andy, repeatedly telling her that
The Plunge
was much too puny a publication for his world-famous client to consider, but he’d pass along her info if she would agree to stop calling. When Andy hadn’t heard back after another week, she wrote St. Germain a handwritten letter and messengered it to his Chinatown studio. In it she promised him two future cover shots of his choosing, all expenses paid to any far-flung location, and volunteered
The Plunge
to cosponsor his next fund-raising benefit for the Haiti earthquake victims, his favorite charity. That had elicited a phone call from a woman who identified herself only as St. Germain’s “friend,” and when Andy agreed to the woman’s request for
The Plunge
to do a cover story on St. Germain’s much-adored niece, who was engaged to be married next fall, the impossible-to-book photographer signed on the dotted line. It
had been one of her biggest coups at work, and she smiled thinking about it.