Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger
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here?’ her husband asked with seemingly zero interest.
‘Valentino! He just arrived! Look!’ The woman managed to swallow her chip and reapply lipstick in one almost-graceful motion.
Max and Andy swiveled toward the red carpet and sure enough, a tanned, taut, and pulled-tight Valentino gingerly removed his loafers and stepped aboard. A lackey standing just off to the side handed him a snorting, wet-faced pug, which he accepted without comment and began to stroke. He brazenly scanned the party and, appearing neither pleased nor displeased, turned to offer his one free hand to his date. Longtime partner Giancarlo was nowhere to be found; instead, Andy watched in horror as five long fingers with red-lacquered nails reached up from the belowdecks stairwell and wrapped themselves, talonlike, over Valentino’s forearm.
Noooooo!
Andy glanced at Max. Had she screamed that aloud or just thought it?
As if in slow motion, the woman materialized inch by dreaded inch: the top of her bob, followed by her bangs, and then her face, twisted into an all-too-familiar expression of extreme displeasure. Her tailored white pants, silk tunic, and cobalt high-heeled pumps were all Prada, and her military-inspired jacket and classic quilted bag were Chanel. The lone jewelry she wore was a thick, enameled Hermès cuff in a perfectly coordinating shade of blue. Andy had read years earlier that the cuffs had replaced the scarves as her Hermès security blankets – apparently she had collected nearly five hundred in every imaginable color and size – and Andy sent up a silent thanks that she was no longer responsible for sourcing them. Watching in a sort of fascinated terror as Miranda refused to remove her shoes, Andy didn’t even notice when Max squeezed her hand.
‘Miranda,’ she said, half whispering, half choking.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Max said into her ear. ‘I had no idea she was coming.’
Miranda didn’t like parties, she didn’t like boats, and it stood to reason that she especially didn’t like parties on boats. There were three, perhaps five people on the planet who could convince Miranda to board a boat, and Valentino was one of them. Even though Andy knew Miranda would only deign to stay for ten or fifteen minutes, she was panicked at the idea of sharing such a small space with the woman of her night terrors. Had it really been almost ten years since she’d screamed F you on a Parisian street and then fled the country? Because it felt like only yesterday. She clutched her phone, desperate to call Emily, but she suddenly realized Max had dropped her hand and was reaching out to greet Valentino.
‘Good to see you again, sir,’ Max said in the formal way he always reserved for his parents’ friends.
‘I hope you will excuse the intrusion,’ Valentino said with a small bow. ‘Giancarlo was planning to attend on my behalf, but I was in New York tonight anyway to meet with this lovely lady, and I wanted to visit with my boat again.’
‘We’re thrilled you could be here, sir.’
‘Enough with the “sir,” Maxwell. Your father was a dear friend. I hear you are doing good things with the business, yes?’
Max smiled tightly, unable to discern if Valentino’s question was merely polite or fraught. ‘I’m certainly trying. May I get you and … Ms Priestly something to drink?’
‘Miranda, darling, come here and say hello. This is Maxwell Harrison, son of the late Robert Harrison. Maxwell is currently overseeing Harrison Media Hol—’
‘Yes, I’m aware,’ she interrupted coolly, gazing at Max with a cold, disinterested expression.
Valentino looked as surprised as Andy felt. ‘Aha! I did not realize you two knew each other,’ he said, clearly looking for a further explanation.
At the exact same moment that Max murmured, ‘We don’t,’ Miranda said, ‘Well, we do.’
An awkward silence ensued before Valentino broke into a raucous laugh. ‘Ah, I sense there is a story there! Well, I look forward to hearing it one day! Ha ha!’
Andy bit her tongue and tasted the tang of blood. Her queasiness had returned, her mouth felt like chalk, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to say to Miranda Priestly.
Thankfully Max, ever more socially graceful than she, placed his hand on Andy’s back and said, ‘And this is my wife, Andrea Harrison.’
Andy almost reflexively corrected him – professionally, it’s Sachs – until she realized he’d deliberately avoided using her maiden name. It didn’t matter, though. Miranda had already spotted someone more interesting across the room, and by the time Max’s introduction was out of his mouth, Miranda was twenty feet away. She had not thanked Max, nor even so much as glanced in Andy’s direction.
Valentino shot them an apologetic look and, clutching his pug, dashed off behind her.
Max turned to Andy. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I had absolutely no idea that—’
Andy placed her open palm on Max’s chest. ‘It’s okay. Really. Hey, that went better than I could have ever hoped. She didn’t even look at me. It’s not a problem.’
Max kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked, how she didn’t have to be intimidated by anyone – least of all the legendarily rude Miranda Priestly – and asked her to wait right there while he went to find them both some water. Andy offered him a weak smile and turned to watch as the crew drew up the anchor and began to motor off the pier. She pressed her body into the boat’s metal railing and tried to steady her breathing with deep inhalations of the brisk October air. Her hands were shaking, so she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The night would be over soon.
writing the obit doesn’t make it true
The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her US Weekly, and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.
‘It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?’ Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.
‘What, are you not up yet?’
‘Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.’
‘You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!’ Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.
‘Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.’
‘Just guess.’
‘Really, Em?’
‘I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.’
Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.
‘It’s Katherine, isn’t it?’
‘Who?’
‘Max’s