“For the record, we definitely did not sleep together that day in the Hamptons. We didn’t even—”
Emily held her hand up. “Spare me the details, please. Besides, you don’t owe me any explanations. I’m happy for you both—Max is a great guy.”
Andy looked at her warily. “You’ve told me a hundred times what a womanizer he is.”
“Well, he is. But maybe that’s in his past. People change, you know. Not my husband, that’s for sure—did I tell you I found text messages with some chick named Rae? Nothing solid, but definitely requiring further investigation. Anyway, just because Miles has a roving eye doesn’t mean Max can’t settle down. You might be just what he’s looking for.”
“Or I may be his flavor of the week . . .”
“No way to tell but time. And I say that from experience.”
“Fair enough,” Andy said, mostly because she didn’t know what else to say. Miles had the exact same reputation as Max, but without any of the soft side. He was affable enough, certainly social, and he and Emily seemed to have a lot in common, like a mutual love of parties, luxury vacations, and expensive clothes. For all the years they’d been together, though, Andy still felt like she didn’t really know her best friend’s husband. Emily made frequent, casual comments about Miles and his “roving eye,” as she called it, but she shut down whenever Andy tried to delve deeper. As far as Andy knew there had never been any concrete proof of infidelity—at least nothing public, that much was certain—but that didn’t mean much. Miles was savvy and discreet, and his job as a television producer took him away from New York often enough that anything was possible. It was likely he cheated. It was likely Emily knew he cheated. But did she care? Did it drive her crazy with worry and jealousy, or was she one of those women who looked the other way so long as she was never publicly embarrassed? Andy always wondered, but it was the single subject they had come to some unspoken agreement never to discuss.
Emily shook her head. “I still can’t really believe it. You and Max Harrison. In a million years, I never would’ve thought of setting you guys up, and now look . . . it’s wild.”
“We’re not getting married, Em. We’re just hanging out,” Andy said, although she’d already fantasized about what it would be like to marry Max Harrison. A crazy thought to be sure—they’d known each other under two weeks—but already things felt different than they had with everyone she’d ever dated, with the possible exception of Alex all those years earlier. It had been so long since she was this excited about someone. He was sexy, smart, charming, and, okay, pedigreed. Andy had never imagined herself marrying someone like Max, but nothing about it sounded terrible.
“Look, I get it. Enjoy. Have fun. Keep me in the loop, okay? And if you do get married, I want full credit.”
Emily was Andy’s first call when, a week later, Max asked her to be his date to a book party Max’s company was throwing in honor of one of its magazine editors, Gloria, who’d just published a memoir about growing up as the daughter of two famous musicians.
“What do I wear?” Andy asked in a panic.
“Well, you’re officially cohosting, so it better be something fabulous. That eliminates pretty much your entire ‘classic’ wardrobe. You want to borrow something of mine or go shopping?”
“Cohosting?” Andy all but whispered the word.
“Well if Max is the host and you’re his date . . .”
“Oh, god. I can’t handle this. He said there are going to be a ton of people there because it’s Fashion Week. I’m not prepared for that.”
“You’ll just have to channel the old Runway days. She’ll probably be there too, you know. Miranda and Gloria definitely know each other.”
“I can’t do this . . .”
The night of the party, Andy showed up to the Carlyle Hotel an hour early to help Max oversee the setup, and his expression alone when she stepped into the room, wearing one of Emily’s Céline dresses accessorized with chunky gold jewelry and gorgeous high heels, made it all worthwhile. She knew she looked great, and she was proud of herself.
Max had taken her into his arms and whispered how stunning she looked in her ear. That night, as he introduced her to everyone—his colleagues and employees, various editors and writers and photographers and advertisers and PR execs—as his girlfriend, Andy swelled with happiness. She chatted easily with all his work people and tried her best to charm them, and, she had to admit, had a wonderful time doing it. It wasn’t until Max’s mother showed up and homed in on Andy like a shark circling its prey that Andy felt herself get nervous.
“I simply had to meet the girl Max can’t stop talking about,” Mrs. Harrison said in some kind of crusty, not-quite-British, probably-just-too-many-years-on-Park-Avenue accent. “You must be Andrea.”
Andy glanced quickly around for Max, who hadn’t even hinted his mother might be in attendance, before turning her full attention back to the toweringly tall woman in the tweed Chanel skirt suit. “Mrs. Harrison? What a pleasure to meet you,” she said, willing her voice to stay calm.
There was no “Please, call me Barbara” or “Don’t you look lovely, dear,” or even “It’s so nice to meet you.” Max’s mother brazenly appraised Andy and pronounced, “You’re thinner than I thought you’d be.”
Pardon? According to Max’s description? Or her own reconnaissance? Andy wondered.
Andy coughed. She wanted to run and hide, but Barbara rattled on. “My, my, I remember being your age, when the weight would just fall off. I wish it was like that for my Elizabeth—have you met Max’s sister yet? She should be here soon—but the girl has her father’s body type. Bearish. Athletic. Not overweight, I suppose, but perhaps not quite feminine.”
Was that really how this woman talked about her own daughter? Andy instantly felt sorry for Max’s sister, wherever she was. She looked Barbara Harrison in the eye. “I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve seen a picture of Elizabeth and she’s just beautiful!”
“Mmm,” Barbara murmured, looking unconvinced. Her dry, slightly leathery hand wrapped around Andy’s bare wrist a bit more tightly than was comfortable and pulled—hard. “Come, let’s sit and get to know each other a bit.”
Andy tried her best to impress Max’s mother, convince Barbara that she was worthy of her son. Granted, Mrs. Harrison had wrinkled her nose when Andy described her work at The Plunge, and she’d made some vaguely disparaging comment about Andy’s hometown not being anywhere near Litchfield County, where the Harrisons kept an old horse farm, but Andy didn’t leave the conversation thinking it was a disaster. She’d asked interested, appropriate questions of Barbara, told a funny anecdote about Max, and explained how they’d met in the Hamptons, a detail Barbara seemed to like. Finally, out of desperation, she mentioned her stint at Runway, working under Miranda Priestly. Mrs. Harrison sat up a little straighter and leaned in for further questioning. Did Andy enjoy her time at Runway? Was working for Ms. Priestly simply the best learning experience she could have imagined? Barbara made a point of mentioning that all the girls Max grew up with would have killed to work there, that they’d all idolized Miranda and dreamed of one day being featured in her pages. If Andy’s little “start-up project” didn’t work, might her future plans include a return to Runway? Barbara had become downright animated, and Andy did her best to smile and nod as enthusiastically as she could manage.
“I’m sure she loved you, Andy,” Max said as they sat in a twenty-four-hour diner on the Upper East Side, still both amped up from the party.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t say it felt like love,” Andy said as she sipped her chocolate shake.
“Everyone loved you, Andy. My CFO made a point of telling me how funny you were. I guess you told him some story about Hanover, New Hampshire?”
“It’s my go-to anecdote for Dartmouth people.”
“And the assistants were tittering all over the place about how pretty and sweet you were to them. I guess a lot of people don’t take the time to talk to them at
parties like these. Thanks for doing that.” Max offered Andy a ketchupy fry and when she refused, popped it into his own mouth.
“They were all so genuinely nice. I loved hanging out with them,” she said, thinking how she really had enjoyed meeting everyone, Max’s icy mother being the only exception. Plus she was thankful: Miranda hadn’t shown up. It was a blessing, but given her new romance and the Harrison family circles, Andy knew the time would come.
She reached across the table and took Max’s hand. “I had a great time tonight. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sachs,” Max responded, kissing her hand and giving her a look that caused her stomach to drop in that telltale way. “Should we head back to my place? I think this night is just getting started.”
chapter 3
you’re walking, sister
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, everyone’s nervous on her wedding day. But I’m sure you know that. You must have seen it all by now, am I right? You and me, girl, we could write a book!”
Nina guided Andy into the bridal suite with a hand planted firmly in the small of her back. The spectacular reds and oranges and yellows of the changing leaves stretched out for miles through the large picture window that spanned the length of the suite. Fall foliage in Rhinebeck had to be the best in the world. Mere minutes before the view had filled her with happy memories of growing up in Connecticut: crisp fall days that heralded football games, and apple picking, and later, a return to campus to start a new semester. Now the colors looked muted, the sky almost ominous. She grabbed the antique writing desk for support.
“Can I get some water?” Andy asked, the acidic taste in her mouth threatening to make her sick once again.
“Of course, dear. Just be careful.” Nina unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.
The water tasted metallic.
“Lydia and her team are almost done with your bridesmaids and mother, and then she’ll be back to touch you up.”
Andy nodded.
“Oh, sweetheart, everything’s going to be just fine! A little case of the butterflies is perfectly normal. But those doors will open and you’ll see your handsome groom waiting at the end of the aisle for you . . . you won’t be able to think of anything in the world but walking into his arms.”
Andy shuddered. Her soon-to-be-husband’s mother hated her. Or at least didn’t approve of the wedding. She knew most brides and their mothers-in-law had issues, but this went beyond. It was a bad omen at best, a potential nightmare at worst. Surely she could work on the relationship with Barbara. She’d make a point of it. But she’d never be Katherine. And what about Katherine in Bermuda? Why had Max failed to mention the whole interaction? If there was nothing to hide, why was he hiding it? Regardless of what had unfolded, she needed an explanation.
“Which reminds me—did I ever tell you about my bride who was marrying the Qatari oil czar? Real feisty girl with a quick mouth on her? They had just under a thousand people, rented out Necker Island in the British Virgin Islands and flew in all their guests. Anyway, they’d been fighting all week, arguing about everything from the seating assignments to which of their mothers would get the first dance. Normal stuff. But then on the morning of the wedding, the bride makes a comment to her cousin about her career as a television anchor, something like ‘So and so said he thinks I only have another six months, maybe a year doing local before I get an offer from one of the networks,’ and the Qatari just flipped. Asked her in this real low, angry voice what she was talking about—hadn’t they agreed she would no longer work after the wedding? And I’m like, whoa! This is a pretty big issue to have not worked out beforehand.”
Andy couldn’t focus on anything but the knot of tension in her forehead. A dull ache. She desperately wanted Nina to stop talking.
“Nina, I really—”
“Wait, this is the best part. So, I leave them alone to hash it out, and when I come back a half hour later, they seem okay. Problem solved, right? So boom, boom, boom, the groom walks, the bridesmaids walk, the cute little flower girls walk, and then it’s just the bride, her father, and myself. Everything is going according to schedule. Her song begins, the entire ballroom turns to look at her, and with this huge beautiful smile on her face, she leans in close to whisper in my ear. You know what she says?”
Andy shook her head.
“She says, ‘Thank you for making everything so perfect, Nina. This is exactly what I wanted, and I’m definitely going to use you for my next wedding.’ And then she took her father’s arm, held her head high, and walked! Do you believe it? She walked!”
Despite feeling uncomfortably warm, almost feverish, Andy got goose bumps. “Did you ever hear from her again?” she asked.
“Sure did. She divorced him two months later, and she was engaged again a year after that. Second wedding was a little smaller but just as pretty. I get it, though. It’s one thing to call off an engagement or even a wedding once the invitations are out—it’s hard, but it happens. But on the actual day? You’re walking, sister. Get yourself down that aisle and do whatever you have to do afterward, you know?” Nina laughed and took a swill from her own water bottle. Her ponytail bobbed cheerily.
Andy nodded meekly. She and Emily talked about that all the time. In the almost three years since they’d launched The Plunge, they’d seen a handful of weddings called off in the final weeks before the big day. But on the actual day itself? Not one.
“Come, let’s get you in the chair with the cape on so you’ll be ready for Lydia. She knows to tone down the makeup once they’re finished shooting the portraits. Oh, I’m just so excited to see this on the page! It’s going to sell a trillion copies.”
Nina was tactful enough not to say what they were both thinking: this wedding would sell a trillion copies not because Andy was a cofounder of the magazine she would be appearing in, or because Monique Lhuillier had personally designed Andy’s one-of-a-kind wedding gown, or because Barbara Harrison had expertly sourced the finest wedding planner, florists, and caterers money could buy, but because Max was the third-generation president and CEO of one of the most successful media companies in America. No matter that the economic downturn combined with some poor investment decisions meant Max had to sell off the family’s real estate piece by piece. That Max worried constantly about the financial viability of the company mattered very little to the general public: the Harrison family name, combined with good looks, impeccable manners, and impressive educations, helped maintain the illusion that Max, his sister, and his mother were worth far more than they were in reality. It had been years since they’d been named to Forbes’s richest-Americans list, but the perception remained.
“It sure is,” she heard a voice behind her sing. “This wedding is going to sell us right off the newsstands,” Emily said with a twirl and a curtsy. “Do you realize this may be the first nonhideous bridesmaid dress in the history of wedding attendants? If you insist on bridesmaids—which I personally think are tacky to begin with—then at least these dresses aren’t terrible.”
Andy swiveled in her chair for a better look. With her hair swept up and her long, graceful neck on display, Emily looked like a gorgeous, delicate china doll. The plummy shade of the silk brought out the rosiness in her cheeks and accentuated her blue eyes; the fabric draped languidly across her chest and hips and flowed down to her ankles. Leave it to Emily to show her up on her own wedding day, and in a bridesmaid dress no less.
“You look great, Em. I’m so glad you like the dress,” Andy said, relieved for the momentary distraction.
“Let’s not get carried away. ‘Like’ is a little strong, but I don’t despise it. Wait, turn around, let me get a look at you . . . wow!” She leaned in so close that Andy could catch a whiff of cigarettes layered with breath mints. Another wave of nausea instantly followed but it passed quickly. “You look fucking gorgeous. How on earth did you get your boobs to look like that? Did you get implants and not tell me? Are you kidding me, withholding information lik
e that?”
“It’s amazing what a good seamstress can do with a pair of chicken cutlets,” Andy said.
Nina was shouting, “Don’t touch her!” from across the room, but Emily was too fast. “Mmm, very nice. I especially like this fullness right here,” she said, pressing Andy’s décolletage. “And this ridiculous rock you’re wearing against those killer boobs? Yummy. Max will like.”
“Where’s the bride?” Andy heard her mother call out from the suite’s living room. “Andy? Sweetheart? Jill and I are here with Grams and we all want to see you!”
Nina ushered in her mother, sister, and grandmother and administered various admonitions for everyone to give Andy enough space, saying that she was feeling a bit light-headed and please only stay for a moment, before she finally left to oversee some other last-minute detail.
“What does she think this is, hospital visiting hours?” Andy’s grandmother said. “What is it, dear, are you feeling a little nervous for your wedding night? That’s only natural. Remember, no one says you have to like it, but you do have to—”
“Mom, can you stop her?” Andy muttered, fingers to temples.
Mrs. Sachs turned to her own mother. “Mother, please.”
“What? All the kids think they’re experts today because they jump into the sack with anyone who glances in their direction?”
Emily clapped her hands in delight. Andy looked at her sister pleadingly.
“Grams, doesn’t Andy look beautiful?” Jill offered. “And how special that she’s wearing earrings similar to the ones you wore at your wedding? That teardrop shape never goes out of style.”
“Nineteen years old, an innocent virgin when your grandfather married me, and I got pregnant on the honeymoon, just like everyone else. None of this freezing-your-eggs nonsense you girls have to resort to. Did you do that yet, Andrea? I read somewhere that all girls your age should freeze their eggs, man or not.”
Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns Page 4