Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

‘Felix. From Runway. He worked in the—’

Andy almost fell out of her desk chair. ‘Felix is gay! He married his boyfriend last year. When did you have sex with him?’

‘You’re so label-conscious, Andy. It was a one-time thing, after the Fashion Rocks event one year. At one point Miranda made us take drink orders in the VIP room backstage. We both had way too many martinis. It was fun. We ended up at each other’s weddings, and who really cares? You’ve got to relax a little.’

Andy remembered agreeing at the time, but that was before she was zipped into a wedding gown and sent strolling down the aisle to marry someone who’d potentially just cheated on her, while the guy she’d always been a little obsessed with grinned at her (naughtily, she could swear!) from the sidelines.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur. It took the sound of the glass shattering under Max’s foot to bring her back to reality. Crash! They’d done it. From here on in, she would never again be just plain old Andy Sachs, herself, whatever that meant. After that split second she would forever carry one of two titles, and neither was particularly appealing at that very moment: married or divorced. How had it happened?

Andy’s office line began to ring. She glanced at the clock: ten thirty. Agatha’s voice came through the intercom: ‘Morning, Andy. Max, line one.’

Agatha came in later and later every day, and still Andy couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She reached over to depress her own intercom button, to tell Agatha she couldn’t take Max’s call, but she simultaneously knocked over her coffee cup and pressed line one.

‘Andy? You okay? I’m worried about you, sweetheart. How are you feeling?’

The coffee, now cold enough to feel worse than if it had been hot, slowly streamed off the desk and directly onto Andy’s pants. ‘I’m fine,’ she said hurriedly. She looked around for a tissue or even a piece of scrap paper to mop up the spill. Finding nothing, Andy watched as the coffee slowly soaked through her desk blotter calendar and into her lap, and she began to cry. Again. For someone who rarely cried, she sure was crying a lot lately.

‘Are you crying? Andy, what’s wrong?’ Max asked, and the concern in his voice only made her tears stream faster.

‘No, nothing, I’m fine,’ she lied, watching the coffee spread into a circular stain over her left thigh. She cleared her throat. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to stop by and change tonight before Yacht Party, so I can walk Stanley. Will you cancel the walker? Are you coming home first or would you rather meet there? What pier does it leave from again?’

They went over details for the evening and Andy managed to hang up without any more talk of her crying jag. She fixed her face in a little desk mirror, popped two Tylenols, chased them with a Diet Coke, and jammed through the rest of her day with barely a breather and, thankfully, no more tears. She even found a half hour to get a blowout at Dream Dry, which in addition to a quick change at home and an ice-cold glass of Pinot Grigio made her feel somewhat human. Max swooped over to her the moment she stepped off the red-carpeted gangplank and into the yacht’s open-air living room; his soft kiss and minty, spicy smell made her dizzy with pleasure. And then she remembered everything else.

‘You look great,’ he said, kissing her neck. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better.’

A wave of queasiness hit Andy like a shovel, and her hand flew to her mouth.

Max’s forehead kneaded. ‘The wind is making the water rough and the boat roll. Don’t worry, it’s supposed to calm down any minute. Come on, I want to show you off.’

The party was in full swing, and together she and Max must have fielded a hundred congratulations on their wedding. Could it only have been four days earlier that she’d walked down that aisle? A chilly breeze blew and Andy moved one hand to her hair; with her other hand she tightened the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. More than anything, she was grateful her mother-in-law had some prior social engagement on the Upper East Side and wouldn’t be joining them that evening.

‘This may be the most gorgeous one yet,’ Andy said, looking around the boat’s Moroccan-inspired living room. She nodded toward an intricately woven tapestry and ran her fingers across the hand-carved bar. ‘So tasteful.’

The wife of Yacht Life’s editor, a woman whose name Andy could never remember, leaned in and said, ‘I heard they gave him a blank check to decorate. Literally, blank. As in, unlimited.’

‘Gave who?’

The woman peered at her. ‘Who? Why, Valentino! The owner commissioned him to decorate the entire yacht. Can you imagine? How much must it cost to hire one of the world’s preeminent fashion designers to pick fabrics for your couch?’

‘I can’t even fathom,’ Andy murmured, although of course she could. Little shocked her after her year at Runway, and what still did was certainly not the extent to which crazy rich people would spend their money.

Once again Andy watched as the woman (Molly? Sadie? Zoe?) scarfed a miniature tartare-topped tortilla and gazed, munching, past Andy.

The woman’s eyes grew wide. ‘Ohmigod, he’s here. I can’t believe he’s actually here,’ she mumbled through her half-chewed food, the hand in front of her mouth doing little to hide it.

‘Who’s 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.

6 (#ulink_415e8d96-cb36-5086-aa94-06bc8f065e79)