Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger
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Andy watched Max, shirtless, drinking coffee, looking scrumptious. She wanted to crawl back under the covers with him and never come out. Had she imagined the whole thing? Was it an awful dream? Standing before her, holding out her chair and jokingly calling her Mrs Harrison as he laid her napkin in her lap with a flourish, was the man whom up until thirteen hours earlier she’d loved and trusted above all else. Screw the damn letter. Who cared what his mother thought? And so what that he’d bumped into an ex? He wasn’t hiding anything. He loved her, Andy Sachs.
‘Here, look at the announcement,’ Andy said, handing Max the Sunday Styles section. She smiled as he snatched it out of her hands. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
His eyes scanned the text. ‘Good?’ he said after another minute. ‘It’s perfect.’
He came around to her side of the table and knelt down, just as he’d done when he’d proposed a year earlier. ‘Andy?’ he asked, looking directly into her eyes in that heart-stopping way of his that she loved. ‘I know something’s going on with you. I don’t know what you’re jittery about or what’s got you worried, but I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world, and I’m always here for you, whenever you’re ready to talk about it. Okay?’
See! He understands me! she wanted to shout for everyone to hear. He senses something’s wrong. That alone means there’s no problem, right? And yet, the words were right there – I read your mom’s letter. I know you saw Katherine in Bermuda. Did anything happen? And why didn’t you tell me you saw her? – but Andy couldn’t make herself speak them. Instead, she squeezed Max’s hand and tried to push the fear out of her head. This was her one and only wedding weekend, and she wasn’t willing to ruin it with insecurity and an argument.
Andy slightly hated herself for copping out. But everything would be okay. It simply had to be.
She unlocked the door to the West Chelsea loft offices of The Plunge and held her breath. Safe. Never had Andy seen another living soul at work before nine – in keeping with typical New York creative hours, most of the staff didn’t roll in until ten, often ten thirty – and she was thrilled today was no different. The two to three hours before everyone else arrived were by far her most productive of the day, even if she did feel sometimes slightly Miranda-ish e-mailing and leaving voice mails for people before they’d woken up.
No one, including Max, had blinked when Andy suggested they cut short their post-wedding trip to the Adirondacks. After two days of Andy’s puking – and, sadly for Max, no marital consummation – he didn’t argue when Andy said they would both be happier back home. Besides, they had a proper two-week honeymoon in Fiji scheduled over the December holidays. It was a gift from Max’s parents’ best friends, and although Andy didn’t know all the details, she’d heard the words helicopter, private island, and chef thrown around often enough to be very, very excited. Bailing on their three-day getaway in upstate New York when it was already getting too cold to be outside didn’t seem like such a big deal.
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,