Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Andy was so wrapped up in the minutiae of Miranda’s requests, her mind so automatically and instinctively concentrating on remembering and assimilating the information, that she barely even heard the last sentence. Emily’s elbow in her side rib jolted her back to reality.

  “Get ready,” Emily whispered, removing her coat and tossing it on the floor beside an assistant desk.

  Andy did the same. “How do you suggest I do that?” Andy hissed back.

  “Miranda can see you now,” Charla announced, her unsmiling face surely a bad omen.

  She didn’t escort them into Miranda’s office. Maybe she figured they knew the protocol, or maybe she’d decided they weren’t important enough, or maybe the system had changed in the last few years, but when Charla waved them forward, Andy felt herself take a deep breath at exactly the same time Emily inhaled, and side by side, they walked as confidently as they could manage into Miranda’s office.

  Thankfully, miraculously, she did not look them up and down. She didn’t look at them at all. She didn’t invite them to sit, or greet them, or in any way acknowledge their existence. Andy had to fight the urge to report some sort of progress or accomplishment, let Miranda know that her lunch had been properly scheduled or the tutor successfully wrangled. She could feel the tension emanating from Emily, too. Unsure of what to do or say, they just stood there. For what may have been the most uncomfortable forty-five seconds of silence ever experienced anywhere, by anyone, for any reason. Andy glanced at Emily, but her friend appeared frozen in terror and uncertainty. And so they stood.

  Miranda sat perched on her cold metal chair, back ramrod straight, signature bob as smooth as a wig. She wore a charcoal-colored pleated skirt, made of wool or possibly cashmere, and a patterned silk blouse in stunning shades of red and orange. A delicate white rabbit-fur capelet rested elegantly on her shoulders and a single large ruby, the size of a small candy egg, hung from a chain around her neck. Her nails and lips were varnished in the same red wine color. Andy watched, mesmerized, as those thin, lacquered lips wrapped around the cardboard coffee cup, drank, released. She ran her tongue slowly, deliberately, across the top lip first and then the bottom. Like watching a cobra devour a mouse.

  Finally—finally!—Miranda turned her gaze upward from her papers and toward them, although there wasn’t the least glimmer of focus or recognition. Instead, she cocked her head slightly to the side, looked from Emily to Andy and back again, and said, “Yes?”

  Yes? Yes? Yes as in What can I help you with, you office intruders? Andy felt her heart begin to race even faster. Did Miranda really not comprehend that she had invited them there? Andy almost fainted in appreciation when Emily opened her mouth to speak.

  “Hello, Miranda,” Emily said, her voice sounding steadier than she looked, a wide, fake smile plastered on her face. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Andy reflexively proffered her own wide, fake smile and nodded enthusiastically. So much for calm, cool, and collected. To hell with remembering that this woman couldn’t hurt them now, that they didn’t need her for anything, that her hold over them had long since evaporated. Instead, the two of them stood there, grinning like chimpanzees.

  Miranda peered at them without a flicker of recognition. Nor did she seem to understand that she had initiated the appointment.

  Emily tried again. “We were both so pleased when you requested this meeting. Is there something we can help you with?”

  Andy could hear Charla inhale sharply from the anteroom. This had the potential to go very wrong very quickly.

  But Miranda merely looked puzzled. “Yes, of course, I called you here to discuss your magazine, The Plunge. Elias-Clark is interested in acquiring it. But what did you mean when you said it’s good to see me again?”

  Andy whipped around to look at Emily, but her friend was staring straight at Miranda, frozen. When Andy hazarded a glance at Miranda, she saw the woman staring daggers at Emily.

  Andy had no choice. “Oh, I think Emily just means that it’s been so long since we worked here together. Already almost ten years! Emily was your head assistant for two years, and I—”

  “Two and a half!” Emily barked.

  “And I was here for a year.”

  Miranda touched a red nail to an uncomfortably moist red lip. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. After another awkward silence, she said, “I don’t recall. Of course, you can imagine how many assistants I’ve had since then.”

  Emily looked like she was filled with murderous rage.

  Terrified of what her friend might say, Andy powered forward. She forced a little laugh, which sounded tinny and bitter, even to her own ears. “Yes, I’m relieved you don’t recall, as my . . . uh . . . tenure here didn’t end on the best terms. I was so young, and Paris, while wonderful, was just really overwhelming . . .”

  Andy could feel Emily glaring at her now, willing her to shut up, but it was Miranda who interrupted her.

  “Were either of you that sorry girl who turned completely catatonic and needed to be carted off to a psychiatric hospital?”

  Both girls shook their heads.

  “And neither of you were that lunatic who repeatedly threatened to burn down my apartment . . .” This appeared to be more statement than question, although Miranda did glance at them to see if it elicited any reaction.

  Again, they shook their heads.

  Miranda’s brow furrowed. “There was that plain girl with the terribly cheap shoes who tried to have me arrested on some sort of trumped-up harassment charge, but she was a blonde.”

  “Not us,” Andy said, although she could feel Miranda’s gaze burning into her booties, not offensively cheap but not designer either.

  “Well then, you must not have been that interesting.”

  Andy smiled, this time for real. I guess you’re right, she thought. Merely telling you to fuck off on a Parisian street corner and deserting you in the middle of the shows isn’t even worth remembering. Noted.

  Andy’s shock was interrupted by Miranda’s shrill voice, unchanged after all this time, still exactly the same pitch and tenor that it was in Andy’s memories and nightmares.

  “Charla! Helloooo! Is anyone out there? Helloooo!”

  A young girl who clearly wasn’t Charla but an even younger, prettier, more nervous version of her materialized in the doorway. “Yes, Miranda?”

  “Charla, get Rinaldo in here. I need someone to run through the numbers.”

  This request clearly panicked the girl. “Oh, um, well, I think Rinaldo is out today. On vacation. Is there someone else I should call?”

  Miranda sighed so deeply and with such disappointment, Andy wondered if Charla Lite would be summarily fired. She stole another look at Emily, desperate for some sort of connection, but Emily was standing beside her, hands clasped together in some sort of death grip, appearing nearly comatose.

  “Stanley then. Get him in here immediately. That’s all.”

  Non-Charla scurried out of the office, her expression twisted in anxiety and fear, and Andy wanted to hug her. Instead she thought of her Stanley, safe and snuggled right then, probably chewing a bully stick, and she missed him terribly. Or maybe she just missed anywhere but there.

  Moments later a middle-aged man in a surprisingly unfashionable suit materialized in Miranda’s office and, without being greeted or invited, strode past their little cabal to take a seat at Miranda’s round table. “Miranda? Would you care to introduce me to your visitors?”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open. Andy was so surprised she almost laughed out loud. Who was this brave soul in a bad suit who spoke to Miranda as though she were a mere mortal?

  Miranda appeared momentarily ruffled, but she motioned for Andy and Emily to follow her to the table. Everyone sat.

  “Stanley, may I introduce you to Andrea Sachs and Emily Charlton? They are the editor and publisher of The Plunge, the newest addition to the bridal magazine market, as I brought to your attention a few weeks ago. Ladies, this is St
anley Grogin.”

  Andy waited for an explanation of what Stanley Grogin did, but none was forthcoming.

  Stanley shuffled around some folders, muttered to himself, and pulled three stapled packets of papers from a leather folio and slid one each to Andy, Emily, and Miranda. “Our offer,” he said.

  “Offer?” Emily squeaked, her very first word in many minutes sounding more like a plea for help.

  Stanley gave Miranda a look. “Did you run through the basics with them?”

  Miranda merely glared at him.

  “Miranda mentioned she, uh, you . . . Elias-Clark, I guess, was interested in acquiring us?” Emily said.

  “The Plunge has shown solid growth, both in subscription and advertising, since its inception three years ago. I am impressed by its level of elegance and sophistication, two qualities that are hardly synonymous with bridal magazines. The celebrity feature each month is especially appealing. You should both be commended for what you accomplished.” Miranda clasped her hands over her paperwork and peered at Andy.

  “Thank you,” Andy croaked, her voice cracking. She couldn’t even risk a glance at Emily.

  “Please take some time to consider the offer,” Stanley said. “You’ll want your people to look it over, of course.”

  It was at this point that Andy realized how bush-league they must have seemed, to arrive sans “people.” She picked up her packet and began to leaf through it. Next to her, Emily did the same. As phrases popped out at her—current editorial team, transition, relocation of premises, blah, blah, blah—her focus softened and all the words began to blur together. It wasn’t until the second-to-last page that her gaze lasered in on the purchase price, a number so astonishingly high that she snapped back to reality. Millions. It was hard to get past millions.

  Stanley clarified a few points that Andy didn’t completely understand, gave them copies of the proposal to pass along to their legal team (Note to self, Andy thought, get legal team), and suggested they could perhaps schedule another meeting in a couple weeks to discuss any remaining questions they might have. It was phrased to convey that this entire deal was a fait accompli, that the girls would be certifiably insane if they didn’t accept such a generous offer from such a prestigious publisher. It was just a matter of when.

  Non-Charla appeared in the office door and announced that Miranda’s car to lunch had arrived and was waiting downstairs. Andy was desperate to ask if Igor was still her driver, and if so, how he was doing, but she forced her mouth shut. Miranda commanded the girl to bring her an iced Pellegrino with a lime, giving no indication as to whether she actually heard about the car or not, and stood up.

  “Emily, Ahn-dre-ah,” Miranda announced. Andy waited for a “pleasure to meet you” or a “nice to see you again” or a “have a lovely afternoon,” or “we look forward to hearing from you,” but a few ensuing seconds of silence soon indicated that nothing further would be forthcoming. Miranda nodded at them both, murmured something about not waiting around all day for their answer, and strode out. Andy watched as Non-Charla handed Miranda a lush mink coat and a crystal goblet of Pellegrino, both of which Miranda snatched without slowing. It was only after she’d disappeared down the hallway that Andy realized she hadn’t breathed in at least sixty seconds.

  “Well, always an adventure, isn’t it?” Stanley said, gathering his papers. He handed each of the girls a business card. “We look forward to hearing your thoughts as soon as possible. Call me with any questions. You’ll have better luck reaching me than her. But of course you already know that.”

  He stuck out his hand, perfunctorily shook each of theirs, and disappeared down the hallway without another word.

  “He’s a real personality plus,” Emily muttered under her breath.

  “Do you think he knows who we are?” Andy asked.

  “Of course he does. He freaking knows our zodiac signs, I’m willing to bet. He works for Miranda.”

  “Well the two of them together are a dream team,” Andy whispered back. “How long did that entire meeting last? Seven minutes? Nine? So much for wining and dining.”

  Emily grabbed Andy’s wrist and squeezed so hard it hurt. “Do you even believe what just happened? Let’s get out of here. We need to discuss.”

  They thanked Charla and Non-Charla, and Andy thought for a moment how incredible it was that Miranda had called her by her own name for an entire meeting. She wanted to sit down with those two young, miserable-looking girls (Charla appeared only mildly downtrodden, as though her spirit had been squeezed but not crushed; Non-Charla had the lifeless eyes and listless expression of the clinically depressed), and reassure them that, should they choose to pursue it, there was life after Miranda Priestly. That they would one day look back on their year of servitude and, despite occasional PTSD-like flashbacks, be proud they’d survived the hardest assistant job on earth. Instead, she smiled kindly, thanked them both for their help, accepted her coat, and fled as quickly after Emily as they could manage while still maintaining a shred of dignity.

  “Are we going to the uptown Shake Shack or the original?” Andy asked the moment they hit the sidewalk, suddenly ravenous.

  “Seriously, Andy.” Emily sighed. “You’re thinking of burgers right now?”

  “We had a deal! ShackBurgers, fries, and shakes. A baby onesie. It was a condition of this meeting!”

  Emily ran-walked back to the Starbucks they’d met in a mere hour earlier. “Can you focus on something besides food for a second? I owe you, okay? Here, drink this.”

  Emily ordered an iced tea for Andy and a plain cup of coffee for herself. They picked up their drinks and Andy, irritated but unwilling to make a scene, followed her to a table in the farthest corner.

  Emily’s eyes were glowing with excitement; her hands shook. “I can’t believe that just happened,” she shrieked. “I mean, I’d hoped. Miles was convinced, but I certainly wasn’t. They want to buy us! Miranda Priestly is impressed with our magazine. Elias-Clark wants to acquire it. Can you even comprehend this?”

  Andy nodded. “Do you believe she didn’t even recognize us? Here we were, so worried about what she was going to say, and she had zero idea that either one of us used to—”

  “Andy! Miranda fucking Priestly wants to buy our magazine! Our magazine! Buy it! Is this even registering for you?”

  Andy noticed her own hands were shaking as she sipped her tea. “Oh, it’s registering. It’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. Flattering, of course, but mostly just insane.”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open in the most unattractive way. She sat staring at Andy, lower jaw near the table, for what felt like an eternity before slowly shaking her head. “My god, it never even occurred to me . . .”

  “What didn’t?”

  “But of course, it makes perfect sense.”

  “What does?”

  Emily’s mouth turned down and her forehead crinkled in . . . what? Disappointment? Despair? Anger?

  “Emily?”

  “You don’t want to sell to Elias-Clark, do you? You have reservations.”

  Andy could feel her throat tighten. This was not going well. There was that part of her that felt a swell of pride. They were successful enough to have caught the attention of the world’s preeminent publisher. Elias-Clark wanted to add them to its portfolio. Could there be a greater endorsement of their product? But. Elias-Clark was synonymous with Miranda Priestly. Could Emily possibly want to sell The Plunge to Elias-Clark? With barely a word spoken, the vibe between them had instantly changed.

  “Reservations?” Andy coughed. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

  “Andy, don’t you realize that this is what we’ve been working toward since the moment we started? Selling the magazine? And that we now have an offer years before we ever thought possible, a great offer from literally the most prestigious magazine publisher on the planet? What can you possibly not like about that?”

  “I like everything about it,” Andy said, speaking slowly.
Measured.

  Emily broke into a wide smile.

  “I’m every bit as flattered as you are, Em. The fact that Elias-Clark wants to buy our little magazine is totally mind-blowing. It’s incredible on every level. And did you see that purchase price?” Andy smacked her own forehead. “I never thought I’d see a payday like that in my entire life.”

  “So why do you look like your dog just died?” Emily asked. She pressed “ignore” on her phone when Miles’s picture popped up.

  “You know why. You saw it, too.”

  Emily feigned confusion. “I didn’t get a chance to examine every single word, but for the most part, it—”

  Andy pulled out her packet and turned to page 7. “Remember this little clause, right here? The one that states the entire senior editorial team must stay in place for at least one calendar year to help with the transition?”

  Emily waved. “It’s just a year.”

  “Just a year? Gee, I can’t remember where I heard that before.”

  “Oh please, Andy. You can do anything for a year.”

  Andy stared at her friend. “That is factually untrue, actually. The one thing I cannot do for a year is work for Miranda Priestly. I think I’ve already proven that.”

  Emily stared at her. “This isn’t just about you. We’re partners here, and this is a dream come true.”

  The offer itself was gratifying, no doubt, but how could she possibly agree to sell their baby to Elias-Clark of all places, not to mention agree to work there again for another year? It was inconceivable, and they hadn’t even gotten to enjoy any of the celebratory gossip or rehash what they’d just witnessed—Miranda Redux, her office, her shell-shocked assistants, the whole deal.

  Andy rubbed her eyes. “Maybe we’re both overreacting. Why don’t we contact a publishing lawyer and ask him to negotiate on our behalf? Maybe we can get rid of that yearlong-transition clause? Or maybe someone else will want to acquire us, now that an offer’s been made? If Elias-Clark is so keen on it, chances are others will be, too.”