Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Andy couldn’t help but imagine Emily sitting in on a session. She would stare at them all in pity, no doubt—frazzled, makeupless, covered in spit-up and poop, living without showers and sex and exercise and sleep—as they sat in a semicircle and their life coach read them kumbaya stories. And yet something about the whole scene was an incredible relief to Andy: these women may not have been her closest friends, but at that moment in her life, they understood her in a way no one else did. She couldn’t believe she was capable of bonding so quickly with a group of complete strangers, but Andy secretly loved the group meetings.

  “I hear you. We’re in the same boat,” Stacy said, in the process of hooking her nursing tank. Her daughter, Sylvie, an eight-week-old with more hair than most toddlers, let out a man-sized burp. “I know it’s too early to even think about sleep training, but I’m losing my mind here. She was up from one to three last night, and she was happy about it! Smiling, cooing, grabbing my finger. But the second I put her down, she freaked.”

  Bethany, a marketing director for a cosmetics company who, by her own admission, didn’t know her way around a lip gloss, said, “I know how you feel about co-sleeping, Stacy, really I do, but I think in this case you should consider it. I can’t tell you how much easier it is to have Micah right beside us, all night long. You just roll over, pop in a boob, and go back to sleep. Forget all the developmental, bonding crap that surrounds it—I do it out of sheer laziness.”

  Stacy tucked Sylvie’s blanket under her arms. “I just feel like I can’t do that to Mark. Already Sylvie takes up ninety-nine point nine percent of my time and energy. Don’t I at least have to pretend I still have a marriage?”

  “Marriage? With a two-month-old?” shrieked Melinda, mother to Tucker, who’d just had surgery for some sort of an eye problem. “What, your sex life is so hot you don’t want to jeopardize it by having a baby in your bed?”

  Everyone laughed. Andy nodded her agreement: she and Max hadn’t managed sex yet, and she was perfectly fine with that.

  Rachel, the newest mother of the group, a petite blonde with blotchy red skin and a long, winding scar on her right hand, leaned forward. “I just had my six-week postpartum exam,” she near-whispered.

  “Oh dear. Did they clear you?” Sandrine asked in her faint French accent. Her daughter, a waifish four-month-old with dual citizenship, began to cry.

  Rachel nodded. An expression of abject terror crossed her face before she, too, began to sob. “It’s all Ethan can talk about—he’s had a countdown calendar on the fridge for weeks now—and just the thought of it panics me. I’m not ready!” she wailed.

  “Of course you’re not ready,” Bethany said. “I couldn’t even think about it until three months out. And a friend of mine said it killed until six months.”

  “Max comes at me with that look in his eye, and he just doesn’t get it,” Andy offered. “I swear even my OB was horrified by the scene down there at my six-week checkup. How can I let my husband see it?”

  “Simple. You don’t,” chimed in Anita, a quiet girl who usually revealed very little.

  “My sister, who has three kids of her own, swears it gets better. You recover at least enough to work on conceiving the next one,” Andy added.

  “Sounds hot. Something to look forward to,” Rachel said with a smile.

  “I’m sorry, but you guys are scaring the hell out of me,” said Sophie, the only nonmom in the room. “All of my friends with kids swear it’s not that bad.”

  “They’re lying.”

  “Through their teeth.”

  “Which they’ll continue to do right up until you have a child of your own and can call them out on it. It’s just how it’s done.”

  Sophie swung her thick auburn hair, freshly cut in perfect, face-framing layers, and laughed. She was the only one among them not wearing leggings, an empire-waist dress, or a sweatshirt. Her nails were newly manicured. Her skin looked healthy and tanned. Andy was willing to bet anything that her legs were shaved and her bikini line waxed and that under the snug-fitting V-neck she was wearing a bra made of lace instead of industrial-grade spandex. Probably even a thong. It was almost too much to bear.

  Even her charge was beautifully turned out. Baby Lola, all of nine weeks, was dressed in head-to-toe Burberry plaid: smocked dress, tights, headband, and booties. She rarely cried at the meetings, appeared never to spit up, and, according to Auntie Sophie, was sleeping through the night by seven weeks. Sophie brought Lola each week while Lola’s mother, Sophie’s sister-in-law, clocked in long hours between her pediatric private practice and the peds unit at Mount Sinai. Apparently Lola’s mom thought the new-moms’ support group was really a playgroup of sorts for the little ones—despite the fact that none of them were even old enough to sit up—and had asked Sophie to take Lola in her place. So each and every week, the slim and attractive Sophie with an undoubtedly intact vagina brought an adorably dressed Lola to listen to Andy and her new-mommy friends complain, cry, and beg for advice. The worst part was Andy wanted to hate her, but Sophie was just too damn sweet.

  “I don’t know if I can handle hearing about a normal sex life right now,” Rachel said as she hoisted her baby to her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything resembling a normal sex life,” Sophie said, staring at the floor.

  “Why not?” Andy asked. “I thought you lived with your adoring boyfriend. Trouble in paradise?”

  At this, Sophie began to cry. Andy couldn’t have been more shocked if the girl had stood up and started to do a striptease.

  “Sorry,” she whimpered, looking dainty and sweet even while she cried. “This isn’t the place.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what’s happening,” Group Leader Lori said in an irritatingly reassuring voice, clearly happy for the chance to contribute at all. “We’ve all felt free to unburden ourselves. I’m sure I speak on behalf of everyone when I say that this is a safe place, and you should feel welcome here.”

  It looked as though Sophie hadn’t heard her, or merely chose, like the rest of them, to ignore Lori, but a moment later, after delicately blowing her nose and giving Lola a kiss, she said, “I’ve been cheating on my boyfriend.”

  There were a few seconds of silence in the padded gym room where not even a baby squawked, and Andy tried to hide her shock. From everything Sophie had said, she adored her boyfriend. According to Sophie, Xander was sweet and solicitous, a sensitive guy who could ask after her feelings but still spend six straight hours on a Sunday watching football. They’d been dating for years and had recently moved in together, which, at least as of a few weeks ago, she thought was going really well. They didn’t talk about it much directly, but she felt it was assumed they would get married and have children, and although she was younger than him by six years, she was starting to feel ready.

  “Define cheating,” Bethany said, and Andy was relieved someone had broken the silence.

  “Well, nothing too crazy,” Sophie said, staring at her hands. “We haven’t, like, slept together or anything.”

  “Then you’re not cheating,” Sandrine declared. “You Americans get so hung up on the nuances—on all of it really—but if you love your boyfriend and he loves you, this little fling will pass.”

  “I thought so too, but it’s not passing!” Sophie said, her voice almost a wail. “He’s a student in one of my photography classes, so automatically I see him three times a week. It started out with lots of flirting, mostly on his part, although I admit I was flattered. To have someone pay attention like that . . .”

  “Does Xander not pay attention?” Rachel asked.

  Sophie wrung her hands. “Barely anymore. Ever since we got a place together . . . I don’t know what it is, but I feel like furniture.”

  “I can’t tell you how many of us wish our husbands looked at us like furniture,” Andy said.

  The group laughed and nodded.

  Sophie didn’t crack a smile. “Yes, but we don’t have a child together. We
’re not married. We’re not even engaged! Don’t you think it’s a little premature to be living like roommates?”

  “So what’s happened? Just some flirting? Trust me, Xander’s not racked with guilt every time he shares a laugh with some girl at work and you shouldn’t be either,” Anita said.

  “Last night we grabbed dinner after class. With a few other people too,” Sophie rushed to add. “But then they left and he insisted on walking me home. At first I wouldn’t let him too near because I knew Xander was at home, but we ended up making out on my block. Which is just the craziest thing ever, because Xander could’ve walked right by. My god, what was I thinking?”

  “So I’m guessing it was good?” Stacy asked.

  Sophie raised her eyes to the ceiling and groaned. “Good? It was fantastic.”

  A few of the girls cheered. Sophie showed the slightest hint of a smile before smacking her forehead rather aggressively with the inside of her palm. “It’s never going to happen again. Do we agree it would be worse to tell him just to relieve my conscience than it would to pretend it never happened?”

  “Of course you should not tell him!” Sandrine announced regally. “Don’t be such a prude.”

  A few of the other women nodded in agreement, although it wasn’t clear if they agreed with Sandrine because she was right or because she was French.

  “I just feel so guilty. I love Xander, I really do. But I’m starting to wonder what this means . . .”

  “Well have you decided what’s going to happen the next time you see . . . what’s his name?” Anita asked, always the practical one.

  “Tomás. Tomorrow in class. Of course I told him it was a mistake and it could never happen again, but I can’t stop thinking about him. And . . .” Sophie paused here, looking around the room nervously. “He e-mailed me. He said he can’t wait to see me. Am I the worst person ever?”

  One of the babies began to wail uncontrollably, and yet another breast was freed from its zip-up sweatshirt. The cries quieted.

  “Give yourself a break, Soph,” Andy said while she draped Clementine across her knees and rhythmically pounded her back. “You’re not married, you don’t have kids, you’re attractive as hell. Live a little! You can all hate me for saying it, but I think you should go right ahead and give Tomás a test-drive. And then you should come in here next week and tell us every detail.”

  Once again, everyone laughed. What was it about not exchanging vows with someone or creating an offspring together that suggested Sophie’s relationship with Xander wasn’t as serious as their own? Andy wasn’t sure. She felt a little guilty encouraging Sophie to cheat, but not as much as she probably should have. Sophie’s little exploratory make-out with Tomás (sexy-sounding from just his name, no less) sounded exciting, adventurous, the exact kind of wild fun you were supposed to have before conversations about breast pumps and stool softeners and diaper creams claimed your life. Sophie would figure it out—either she’d return to Xander more confident in what they shared, or she wouldn’t. Maybe Tomás was right for her, or maybe it was someone totally different she hadn’t even met yet. Andy knew it was a double standard, was acutely aware that someone—namely, Xander—stood to get very hurt, and yet she couldn’t help but think the stakes just weren’t that high.

  A couple more babies started fussing as the time drew close to three o’clock, and Lori announced that the session was over for the week. “Some interesting things to think about, ladies,” she said as everyone began packing up bottles, pacifiers, teething rings, burp cloths, blankets, nursing covers, and stuffed animals. “Next we’ll have a sleep specialist from Baby 911 in to tell us how and when to set the little ones up on a schedule. Please let me know by e-mail if you can’t make it. As always, I’m inspired by all of you! Have a great week.” She left the room to give them all a few moments to talk among themselves.

  The moment the door closed, Andy heard one of the women next to her groan audibly.

  Bethany muttered, “Does she really find it so inspiring that we sit around in our sweatpants all day covered in puke and baby shit? I mean, seriously.”

  “Did you see her face when I said we’d made out? She was definitely searching for an inspirational quote about that one,” Sophie said.

  Andy packed up Clementine and said good-bye to the other women. Already they were starting to feel like friends.

  Andy didn’t notice Max was home until she wheeled the stroller into the living room and began to unpack.

  “Who do we have here?” he asked, giving Andy a peck on the cheek and immediately turning his attention to Clementine. In response, Clem gave her daddy a wide, toothless grin and Andy felt herself instinctively grinning back. “Look at this happy girl,” he said, hoisting Clementine out of her stroller and tucking her snugly into the crook of his arm. He lightly kissed her nose and handed her back to Andy.

  “Want to take her for a little? I’m sure she’d love some daddy time.”

  “I really need to lie down for a few minutes,” Max said, heading toward the bedroom. “It’s been the longest week. Very stressful.”

  Andy followed him and deposited Clem on the bed. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I could really use thirty minutes to take a shower and maybe eat a bowl of cereal.” She kissed her daughter and laid the baby on Max’s pillow.

  “Andy,” Max said in that tone he sometimes took with her. The one that conveyed through a single word that he was this close to losing his patience. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now.”

  “Well, there’s nothing better than some baby gurgles to cure that. Enjoy your daughter,” Andy said, and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  She rinsed off quickly in the guest bathroom and got back in her yoga pants and fleece. There wasn’t any milk left in the refrigerator, but she made herself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, grabbed a Diet Coke, and collapsed onto the couch. How long had it been since she’d watched a show without a baby hanging on her breast? Or eaten a meal uninterrupted? It was bliss. She must have nodded off, because she woke to Max and Clementine beside her on the couch. Max had pulled open Clem’s pajamas and was tickling her belly. As a reward, Clem was giving the best, most beautiful smiles imaginable.

  “You okay?” Max asked as he tickled under Clem’s arms.

  “I am now,” she said, feeling infinitely more relaxed than she had before. That’s how it always seemed these days with the mood swings: highs and lows, ups and downs.

  Clem punctuated her toothless grin with some sort of delighted squeal.

  “Was that a laugh?” Max asked. “I thought she was too young to laugh.”

  Andy squeezed his arm. “It sure sounded like a laugh.”

  She’d always imagined herself head-over-heels in love with her child, but she’d never pictured her husband every bit as smitten. Max was a wonderful father—engaged, involved, affectionate, and fun—and there was little she loved more than watching her husband and daughter interact. Andy knew nothing was wrong, despite little territorial skirmishes like the one just witnessed. Everything was right, actually, for the first time in so many months. Her daughter was healthy and happy, her husband was sweet and, for the most part, solicitous, and she was enjoying these few exhausting but priceless months of being with her newborn baby. Mrs. Harrison’s letter to Max, the fact that Max had seen and hidden the fact of seeing Katherine—these were distant memories. Whatever lingering anxiety she felt was from the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, or both. She turned her attention to her family. They were together, tired but happy, enjoying their new baby, and she was going to savor every second.

  chapter 17

  james bond meets pretty woman, with a little dash of mary poppins

  “Are you almost ready?” Max called from the living room, where Andy knew he was leisurely enjoying a bottle of root beer. She could picture him draped across the couch in his dark European-cut suit and expensive Italian loafers, sipping his drink and idly checking his iPhone. His hair was newly trimme
d and his face freshly shaven, and he would smell of shampoo and minty aftershave and, inexplicably, of chocolate. He would be excited for the party, eager to get there and begin making the rounds of people he knew and liked. Perhaps his foot would be tapping impatiently. Meanwhile, down the hall, Clementine was being fed by Isla, the twenty-two-year-old Australian babysitter Andy had hired based on a recommendation from the mommy group and a Google background check. In other words, a complete stranger.

  The doorbell rang. For a moment she thought it was the television, but when Stanley started barking and a quick glance at the baby monitor showed Clem and Isla snuggled together on the glider, she figured it was a food delivery of some sort. For Isla, probably. The landline rang and Andy grabbed it.

  “It’s okay to send them up,” she said hurriedly into the phone.

  “Oh, Andrea? Sorry, I just wanted to let you know that—”

  A shrill voice from inside Andy’s foyer interrupted the doorman. “Hello! Anyone home? Hello . . .”

  “—Mrs. Harrison is on her way up. She said you were expecting her.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you,” Andy said, glancing down at her own nakedness. She heard Max greeting his mother in the hallway outside the bedroom. A moment later, his head popped in the door. “Hey, so my mom’s here,” he said, almost like a question. “She was invited to a gallery opening tonight and it’s just around the corner. She thought she’d stop in and say hello to the baby.”

  Andy stared at him, noting his sheepish smile. “Seriously?” I need your mother like I need two broken legs right now, Andy thought.

  “Sorry, baby. She was literally around the corner. And she’s got some other event uptown that starts in like thirty minutes, so it really is just a quick hello. I thought we could all have a drink together before both parties.”