Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Andy thought of the day, almost four years earlier, when Lily called and announced she was pregnant. She’d been living in Boulder for two years already and had decided to slow down on her PhD path in order to teach more. The girls didn’t speak that often, but when they did, Andy was always envious of how happy Lily sounded. At first Andy thought Lily’s new yoga obsession was like her own long list of short-lived interests, all of which she’d embarked on passionately and discarded quickly: tennis, pottery, spinning, cooking. When Lily announced she’d be punching class cards in exchange for a small stipend and discounted classes, Andy shook her head knowingly. So Lily. When she’d announced she’d signed up for the five-hundred-hour teacher-training course, Andy laughed to herself. But then, when she’d completed it in record time and spent the following four months at an ashram in Kodaikanal, India, taking courses like “Yoga for Emotional Imbalances” and “Yoga for a Strong Heart” under world-famous swamis with unpronounceable names, Andy began to wonder. Soon after her return to the States, Lily began dating the owner and head teacher of her yoga school, a converted Buddhist named Bodhi, originally Brian, from Northern California, and a year after that, Lily called to give Andy the big news: she and Bodhi were expecting a baby in six months. Andy could barely believe it. A baby? With Bodhi? She’d met him once when Lily brought him to Connecticut, and she’d had a hard time getting past his thick dreadlocks and even thicker muscles and his penchant for sipping green tea from a thermos, hot or cold depending on the season, every minute of every day. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and he was clearly in love with Lily, but none of it gelled for Andy. She hadn’t asked many questions, but Lily knew her well enough and said, “This wasn’t an accident, Andy. Bodhi and I are committed to being lifelong partners, and we don’t need some legal whatnot to make it official. I love him, and we want children together.”

  She guiltily harbored doubts all through Lily’s pregnancy, wondering what her friend was thinking, why exactly she’d dived off the deep end. But from the moment she laid eyes on Lily nursing her infant son a couple weeks after his birth, Andy knew Lily was doing exactly the right thing for herself, her partner, and her son. There had been distance between them for a little—Andy couldn’t begin to understand everything Lily was feeling in her new role as mother and (sort of) wife—but she was grateful her friend had created this new life for herself. And now she was grateful that Lily knew exactly what she meant.

  “Foot rubs and ice cream? Hell, I’d settle for just a few weeks of no chlamydia scares.”

  “I’m glad you can laugh about it,” Lily said, and Andy could hear the relief in her voice. “I know this is an incredibly hard time, but I’m still allowed to be happy for you, aren’t I? You’re having a baby!”

  “I know. I wouldn’t believe it myself if it weren’t for the crushing exhaustion and constant nausea.”

  “I thought I had cancer before I found out,” Lily confessed. “I literally could not keep my eyes open for longer than a three-hour period. I couldn’t think of another explanation.”

  Andy was quiet, processing how wonderful and strange it was to be talking about her pregnancy with her oldest friend on earth, and she must have drifted off, because Lily said, “Andy? You there? Did you just fall asleep?”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, wiping a touch of drool from the corner of her mouth.

  “I’ll let you go,” Lily said.

  Andy smiled. “I miss you, Lil.”

  “I’m here for you, sweetie. Call anytime. And give yourself permission in Anguilla to get a little sun and drink a virgin piña and forget about everything for a day, okay? Can you promise me that?”

  “I’ll try.” They exchanged a few more good-byes, and Andy told herself not to feel guilty for failing to ask after Bear or Bodhi. If there was ever a time to be a little self-centered, Andy figured, it was then. She yanked off her jeans, which were already starting to feel uncomfortably snug, and pulled her sweater over her head. Teeth brushing, face washing, flossing . . . it could all wait, she thought as she returned her head to her cool floral pillow and pulled her girlhood quilt up to her chin. Everything would look better in the morning.

  chapter 9

  virgin piñas all around

  Eleven A.M. flight. A three-hour delay with an unplanned stop in Puerto Rico. A “ferry” boat ride from Saint Martin that felt like riding a Jet Ski through a hurricane. And finally a long wait at an un-air-conditioned customs gate followed by a ride on dusty, bumpy local roads. Traveling was tough when you weren’t knocked up, but pregnant it was almost intolerable.

  The hotel made it all worthwhile, although hotel didn’t come close to accurately describing the place. It was a wonderland. A charming, villagelike wonderland, with little individual thatched-roof villas tucked into lush greenery around a crescent-shaped beach. The “lobby,” an open-air pavilion with marble floors and Balinese-style wood carved furniture, was filled with elaborate birdcages and singing tropical birds and looked on an ocean so clear and blue Andy momentarily thought she was hallucinating. When she’d stepped onto her own suite’s private balcony, Andy had spotted a monkey swinging in the tree above her.

  Now she pushed herself to sit on the bed and surveyed her surroundings. Her king platform bed was draped with all-white linens, and the mattress was magically firm and plushly soft at the same time. There was a coconut-wood table and chairs near the front door and a sectional sofa with glass coffee table and a Bose stereo system to the left of the bed. The bamboo-frame thatched roof, in addition to walls of sliding glass that opened completely on three sides, made it feel like the suite was outdoors. The plunge pool hung precipitously over the balcony, its green water blending into its surroundings, and its two teak chaise lounge chairs with striped cushions and a coordinating umbrella created the chicest private sun lounge she’d ever seen. White marble covered nearly every surface in the cavernous bathroom, including the double vanities and the glass-enclosed rain-forest shower that was almost as large as the second bedroom in her New York apartment. Towels so fluffy and white they looked like spun sugar hung from heated bars; fresh frangipani flowers adorned the dressing area; softly scented shampoo and conditioner sat in small clay bottles labeled with miniature rope signs around their necks. At the far end of the bathroom, surrounded by palm trees and lush vegetation, rested a massive soaking tub. It was surrounded on three sides by eight-foot-high walls, but it was completely open to the outside air, and miraculously, it was already filled with warm, fragrant water. A small clay pot of bath salts rested on its edge, subtle music wafted from somewhere, and the scent of greenness, of plants and trees and soil, combined with heat from the afternoon sun, filled the outdoor room.

  She wriggled out of her leggings, and her T-shirt hit the ground before Andy was even fully awake. She sank into the fragrant water, just warm enough in the humid, outdoor air, and closed her eyes. Automatically, her hands ran over her belly, prodding it, still unable to believe there was a tiny life growing inside her. Although she hadn’t let herself think about it until right now, she suddenly realized she wanted a son. Why, she couldn’t say. Maybe it was seeing both her sister and Lily with boys, the only small children she knew well and loved. Or maybe it was the idea of a mama’s boy, a sweet little thing with floppy long hair and a security blanket, who got dressed up in miniature blue blazers and neckties and curled into her lap. She wasn’t sure, but Max had long ago announced he was certain they would only ever have girl babies. He claimed he couldn’t wait to teach their daughters all about tennis and football and golf, to dress them in miniature uniforms and coach their T-ball team. He predicted blond babies, despite the fact that neither of them was blond, and that they’d love their daddy more than any man in the whole world. It was one of the things that drew Andy to him—the reputed playboy was a softie at heart, a man who wanted hearth and home more than any she’d met and was unafraid to admit it. Andy hadn’t known him to be any other way, but his sister had immediately remarked about how m
eeting Andy had changed Max into the man he was always meant to be. He was going to die of happiness when she told him the news.

  Somewhere a room phone rang, and Andy looked around in a panic before spotting an extension discreetly mounted on the wall near the tub.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Harrison? Yes, hello, this is Ronald, from the concierge desk? Ms. Hallow asked me to let you know that the rehearsal dinner will begin in an hour on the beach. May I send someone to escort you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I will be ready then.”

  She turned on the hot water and stuck her feet directly under the stream. Her entire body felt exhausted, but her mind was awake and racing. In one hour she’d be attending the rehearsal dinner of music’s most powerful couple. Harper Hallow had racked up no fewer than twenty-two Grammys over the course of her career—a tie with U2 and Stevie Wonder—although she’d been nominated for nearly a dozen more; her intended, a rapper born Clarence Dexter who now went by the one-word name Mack, had made hundreds of millions parlaying his musical career into a lucrative shoe and clothing line. Their wedding would make them among the richest, most famous couples in the world.

  After a few more minutes of soaking, Andy forced herself to climb out of the luxurious tub and made a beeline for the rain-forest shower, where she happily rinsed and shaved her legs using the thoughtfully provided teak bench. She pulled on a pair of white linen pants, a silky turquoise and orange top, and flat silver sandals, thinking Emily would be proud. As she was packing her notebook and phone into the hotel-provided straw tote bag, the villa’s doorbell rang. A young, shy Anguillan boy wearing a crisp short-sleeved shirt greeted her quietly and motioned for Andy to follow him.

  They walked for three minutes and arrived at a pavilion that housed a casual poolside bar. The sun was just beginning to set over the water; the air was cooler now, and a sliver of moon was visible. Hundreds of people milled about, holding cocktails in coconut shells and bottles of Caribbean beer. A twelve-piece reggae band played island tunes and a group of children, all dressed in designer everything, giggled and danced in front of them. Andy surveyed the scene but didn’t immediately spot either Harper or Mack.

  Her phone rang just as she accepted a glass of sparkling water from a uniformed waiter.

  Andy walked toward the side of the tent and pulled the phone from her bag. “Em? Hey. Can you hear me?”

  “Where are you exactly? You know the rehearsal dinner started twenty minutes ago, right?”

  Emily’s voice was so loud that Andy had to hold the phone away from her ear. “I’m standing right in the middle of it, chatting up the most charming people. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Because you know we need some details to personalize everything and all the good, gossipy toasts happen tonight . . .”

  “That’s why I’m here, notebook in hand . . . ,” Andy said as she glanced at her tiny clutch and realized she’d forgotten so much as a pen. If this is what it was like to be in the first trimester, what was going to happen six months down the road?

  “What’s Harper wearing?” Emily asked.

  “Em? I can barely hear you. It’s so windy here.” Andy blew into the phone for effect.

  “Uh-huh. Hang up and send me a picture. I’m dying to see what everything looks like.”

  Andy blew some more. “Will do! Gotta run.” She clicked her phone off and returned to the party. Tiki torches surrounded the entire area where guests were choosing items off a massive raw bar in the center of the open-air tent. Andy was just about to speak a few notes into her phone’s recorder when a woman wearing a headset and carrying an overflowing leather folio stepped directly into her path.

  “You must be Andrea Sachs,” the woman said, looking relieved.

  “And you must be Harper’s publicist . . .”

  “Yes, I’m Annabelle.” She grabbed Andy’s arm and pulled her toward the tables in the sand. “There are flip-flops in that basket if you’d rather wear those. There’s the raw bar and passed hors d’oeuvres for cocktail hour, and of course the waiters can get you anything you’d like to drink. Mack had all the food and wine flown in especially for the weekend, so please do try to sample everything. I can provide a menu, too, if you need it for fact-checking.”

  Andy nodded. Publicists to the stars tended to be tightly wound with a talking speed three times faster than that of average people, but they certainly made her job easier.

  “We’ll be serving dinner soon, followed by thirty minutes of toasts, emceed by Mack’s agent, who’s also a dear friend, which will be followed by dessert and after-dinner drinks. Cars will be waiting after the festivities to bring the young people to the is land’s best discotheque and home again. Naturally, Harper will retire to her suite immediately after dessert, but you’re more than welcome to join the after-party if you’d like.”

  “Discotheque? Oh, I think I’ll probably just—”

  “Okay, sounds good,” the woman said, continuing to pull Andy along. They arrived at a round table of eight with a dramatic bird-of-paradise centerpiece and seven chattering, attractive guests. “Here we are. Everyone, this is Andrea Sachs from The Plunge magazine. The Plunge will be covering the festivities, so please show her a good time.”

  Andy could feel her face redden as everyone turned to look at her. And then her stomach did a little flip-flop as she heard a familiar voice, one that transported her back ten years in an instant.

  “Well, well, who do we have here?” the voice sang, sounding both amused and predatory. “What an interesting little surprise!”

  Nigel beamed back at her, his too-perfect teeth almost glowing in the night.

  Andy tried to say something, but her mouth was too dry to talk.

  Annabelle laughed. “Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot you two used to work together. How perfect!” she trilled, motioning for Andy to take a seat. “It’s like a little Runway reunion!”

  It was only then that she noticed that Jessica, the event planner during Andy’s tenure at Runway, and Serena, one of the junior editors, flanked Nigel on either side. Both managed to look younger, thinner, and all around more confidently gorgeous than they had a decade before, not that she should have been surprised . . . it was classic Runway.

  “Well, aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world!” Nigel trilled. “Andrea Sachs, come sit right here by me.”

  He was wearing a cross between a robe and a dress, all white, over pants that could possibly have been skinny jeans but more closely resembled leggings. A fringed silk scarf hung from his neck all the way down to his knees and it featured a none-too-subtle Louis Vuitton logo print the entire length. Despite the tropical heat, the ensemble was topped off with a mink Cossack hat and purple velvet slippers.

  Andy had no choice but to take a seat next to Nigel. He grinned widely but not nicely. “I won’t even mention how you abandoned me! I took you under my wing and this”—he pulled on the fabric of Andy’s tunic and scrunched his face up in distaste—“is how you repay me? By leaving? And without so much as a good-bye?”

  After the Paris debacle, Andy hadn’t returned to the Runway offices to collect as much as a pencil, but she’d written a long, appreciative letter to Nigel, apologizing for disrespecting Miranda and thanking him for mentoring her. No response. In the following months Andy had e-mailed him a copy of the letter, sent a couple other “How are you, I miss you!” notes, and even posted on Nigel’s style blog. Nada. Meanwhile, Emily claimed she’d fled to his office within seconds of being fired, only to be met with a closed door and an uncooperative assistant. She, too, had e-mailed him and, once, invited him to a private dinner party honoring Marc Jacobs that Harper’s Bazaar was hosting but had never received a response.

  Andy cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. I really did try to get—”

  “Please!” Nigel screeched, waving his hand. “Let’s not talk shop at a party. Girls, you remember Andrea Sachs, I’m sure?”

  Serena and Jessica. Neither nodde
d nor offered so much as a halfhearted smile. Jessica appraised Andy’s outfit with icy disapproval while Serena took a sip of her wine and stared at Andy over the top of her glass. Andy listened to Nigel prattle on about Harper’s outfit and Mack’s sport coat. Andy sipped her Pellegrino and listened. He was crazy, no doubt about it, but a small part of the old Andy loved him. Eventually Nigel gave Andy a knowing look and turned to speak with the model seated to his left; Serena and Jessica began working the room, and Andy knew she should get up to mingle. It had been years since she’d felt so socially awkward. Ten years to be exact. She nibbled some corn bread and sipped her lemon water, all the while rubbing her belly under the table. Was it the old Runway vibe that was making her so queasy or the fact—the one she kept trying to forget—that she was unexpectedly pregnant and not even her husband knew the truth?

  The toasts began. Harper’s best friend, a hairdresser who was famous not just for her styling skills but also for her transgender advocacy work, gave a touchingly sweet and tad-too-boring tribute to the happy couple. She was quickly followed by one of Mack’s brothers, a professional basketball player who made numerous references to Mack and Magic Johnson, not one of them remotely appropriate. And then there was Nigel, who wove the most beautiful tale of knowing Harper since she was a gawky tween, unrecognizable to the zillions who worshipped her today, thanks entirely to Nigel’s handiwork. The entire party laughed uproariously.