Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger
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to a number of terrible business decisions Mr Harrison had made in the final years of his life. And Max felt personally responsible for restoring his father’s good name and making sure his mother and sister were always cared for. It was one of the things she loved most about him, this dedication to his family. And she firmly believed Max’s father’s death had been a turning point for Max. They’d met so soon afterward, and she always felt lucky she’d been the next girl he dated. ‘The last girl I’ll date,’ he liked to say.
She picked up the paper again and continued to read.
The couple met in 2009 through a pair of mutual friends who introduced them without warning. ‘I showed up for what I thought was a business dinner party,’ Mr Harrison said. ‘By the time we got to dessert, all I could think of was when I’d see her again.’
‘I remember Max and I sneaking away from the rest of the group to chat alone. Or actually, maybe I got up and followed him. Stalked him, I guess you could say,’ Ms Sachs said with a laugh.
They began to date immediately in addition to developing a professional relationship: Mr Harrison is the largest financier of Ms Sachs’s magazine. When they became engaged and moved in together in 2012, each pledged to support the other’s career endeavors.
They will divide their time between Manhattan and the groom’s family estate in Washington, Connecticut.
Divide their time? she thought to herself. Not exactly. When the family’s dire financial situation came to light after Max’s father passed away, Max had made a series of tough decisions on behalf of his mother, who was too distraught to function and, in her own words, didn’t ‘have a head for business like the men do.’ Andy hadn’t been privy to most of those conversations since it was in the very early days of their dating, but she remembered his anguish when the Hamptons house sold a mere sixty days after the perfect summer day they’d spent there, and she recalled some sleepless nights when Max realized he had to sell his childhood home, a sprawling Madison Avenue town house. Barbara had resided in a perfectly lovely two-bedroom apartment in an ancient, respectable co-op on Eighty-Fourth and West End for the last two years, still surrounded by a number of beautiful carpets and paintings and the finest linens, but she’d never recovered from losing her two grand homes, and she still harped on about what she referred to as her ‘banishment’ to the West Side. The oceanfront penthouse in Florida had been sold to the DuPont family, friends of the Harrisons who played along with the charade that Barbara no longer ‘had the time or energy’ for Palm Beach; a twenty-three-year-old Internet millionaire scooped up the Jackson Hole ski chalet for pennies on the dollar. The only property that remained was the country house in Connecticut. It was on fourteen acres of splendid rolling farmland, complete with a four-horse stable and a pond big enough for rowboats, but the house itself hadn’t been renovated since the seventies and the animals were long gone due to their expensive upkeep. The family would have to invest too much money to update the property, so instead they rented it out as often as they could, weekly or monthly or sometimes even by the weekend, always through a trusted, discreet broker so no one would know they were renting from the fabled family.
Andy finished her coffee and glanced again at the announcement. How many years had she been reading those pages, devouring the photos of the happy brides and handsome grooms, evaluating their schools and jobs, their future prospects and their backgrounds? How many times had she wondered if she would be included among them one day, what information they would list about her, whether or not they would include a picture? A dozen times? More? And now, how strange to think of other young women, curled on couches in their studio apartments, sporting messy ponytails and torn sweats, reading about Andy’s marriage, thinking to themselves, A perfect couple! They both went to good schools and have good jobs and they’re smiling in that picture like they’re madly in love. Why can’t I meet a guy like that?
There was something else. The note, yes. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note. But there was another memory – of writing up her own New York Times announcement with Alex as the groom – that made her feel squeamish now. She must have devised a dozen different versions when they were dating. Andrea Sachs and Alexander Fineman, both graduates of blah, blah, blah. She’d practiced so many times that it was almost strange to see her name beside Max’s.
Why couldn’t she shake the past lately? First the Miranda nightmare, and now the Alex memories.
Still wrapped in her luxe hotel robe with a diamond wedding band on her left ring finger, Andy reminded herself not to indulge in revisionist history. Yes, Alex had been an amazing boyfriend. More than that, he’d been her confidant, her partner, her best friend. But he could also be astonishingly stubborn and not a little judgmental. He’d deemed her job at Runway unworthy almost as soon as she accepted it, and he hadn’t been as supportive of her career as she’d hoped. Although he never said it, she couldn’t help but feel he was disappointed in her for not choosing a more selfless path, teaching or medicine or something nonprofit.
Max, on the other hand, embraced her career. He had invested in The Plunge from day one and claimed it was one of the boldest and best business decisions he’d ever made. He loved her drive and her curiosity; he constantly told her how refreshing it was to date a woman interested in more than the next charity function or who was heading to St Barths over Christmas. He was never too busy to hear story ideas, introduce her to valuable business connections, lend advice on securing more advertisers. No mind that he knew nothing about wedding dresses or fondant cakes: he was impressed with the product she and Emily put out, and he constantly expressed his pride to Andy. He understood busy schedules and crazy hours: never once in all the time she’d known him had he given her hell for staying late or taking an after-hours call, or going in on Saturday just to make sure a layout was perfect before it shipped. Chances were he’d be at work himself, trying to drum up new business, checking on the dwindling portfolio of holdings Harrison Media still controlled, flying somewhere to put out fires or soothe jangled egos. They fit themselves around each other’s work schedules, cheer-led for each other, and offered advice and support. They both understood the rules, and they agreed on them: work hard, play hard. And work came first.
The doorbell to her suite rang and Andy was catapulted back to reality. Not yet ready to deal with her mother or Nina or even her sister, Andy sat very still. Go away, she silently willed. Just let me think.
It wouldn’t stop, though. Whoever it was rang three more times. Summoning her final reserves of strength, she forced a huge smile and swung open the door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Harrison!’ sang the manager of the estate, a portly, older man whose name she couldn’t recall. He was accompanied by a uniformed woman pushing a wheeled room-service table. ‘Please accept this celebratory breakfast, with our compliments. We thought you and Mr Harrison might like something to nibble on before your brunch begins.’
‘Oh, yes, well thank you. That’s lovely.’ Andy pulled her robe tighter and stepped back to allow the table to roll past her. She saw the DO NOT DISTURB sign she’d hung the night before on the hallway floor. Sighing, she picked it up and placed it back on the door.
The server rolled the draped breakfast cart into the living room and set it up right in front of the picture window. They made small talk about the ceremony and the reception while the young woman poured the fresh orange juice, uncovered the little pots of butter and jam, and finally, blessedly, gave an awkward mini bow and excused herself.
Relieved that all wedding dieting was officially over, Andy picked up the bakery basket and inhaled the delicious scent through the napkin. She pulled a warm, buttery croissant from the pile and bit into it. Suddenly she was famished.
‘Look who’s feeling better,’ Max said, emerging from the bedroom with mussed hair, wearing only a pair of soft jersey pajama pants. ‘Come here, my little drunk bride. How’s your hangover?’
She was still chewing when he enveloped her in a hug. The feel of his lips on her neck made her smile.
‘I wasn’t drunk,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of croissant.
‘What’s