Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  They were both quiet for a moment, remembering. “Yeah, but New York never really changes. It just feels different living downtown, I think,” Andy said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe you and I were both working so much then that we didn’t get to explore a lot. I’ve had a couple months now with nothing to do but wander. I start work next week. I thought I’d be excited, but I’m actually kind of bummed.”

  Andy sipped her coffee and tried not to think about the fact that Alex had yet to reference any kind of significant other. He’d stuck solely to the I pronoun and hadn’t mentioned the girlfriend as a reason to stay in Vermont for the summer, a reason to move to New York, or someone who had factored into his months of seemingly solo city wandering. Andy’s mother had insisted they were close to getting married, but it sure didn’t seem that way now. Maybe it was over between them?

  “Why are you smiling like that?” Alex asked, smiling right back at her.

  Horrified at the thought that he might be able to read her mind, she quickly shook her head. “No reason. You said you’re starting work on Monday? Whereabout?”

  “A new school in the West Village. It’s called Imagine. I’ll be helping design their curriculum before they open, and then I’ll be the vice principal.”

  “Imagine, Imagine . . . why do I know that name?” Andy racked her brain. “Is it that the elite private international school where a kid can move from New York to Shanghai to wherever else bond traders live and not miss a single class?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah, they just had a big article about it in the Times. Isn’t there some thousand-person wait list even though it costs like fifty grand for kindergarten?”

  “It’s on par cost-wise with other private schools in Manhattan. It just sounds like more because they’ve instituted a year-round schedule. Studies show that summer break causes students to fall drastically behind their Asian counterparts, who do not take three months off a year.”

  Andy reached across the table and poked him in the upper arm. She couldn’t help but notice it felt rock-hard. The old Alex occasionally went for a jog or played a pickup game of basketball, but it looked like the new Alex actually worked out. “Are you telling me that you’re the vice principal of the fanciest, snootiest, most expensive for-profit preparatory school in the United States, Mr. Teach for America?”

  Alex smiled ruefully. “It’s actually the third-most expensive in the world. And the first two are ours, too—one in Hong Kong and one in Dubai. They cost even more. But I have to say, it’s a really amazing program.”

  Andy looked down at the table and then back up at Alex, who was fiddling with a straw wrapper. She was torn between treading carefully with this person she hadn’t seen in years and laying it all out on the line in the honest, straightforward way she and Alex had always prided themselves on. “Sounds like a change from what you’re used to. Are you happy about it?”

  Her words must have hit harder than she’d anticipated, because Alex visibly flinched. “Like I said, it’s a great program and a good opportunity. Would I have preferred to stay in the nonprofit realm? Probably. But I was earning barely enough to support myself, and . . . I’m getting too old for that.”

  So there it was. He hadn’t stated it explicitly yet, but he didn’t really need to. Alex needed to take a job that paid because he either was, or wanted to be, someone’s husband.

  She almost said a thousand things, but not one of them sounded right or appropriate. Just as she was about to murmur a “hmm” or an “I understand,” Alex said, “Ever since my girlfriend’s brother had a baby, it’s all she can talk about. And from what I hear, babies are pretty expensive.”

  “They sure are” was all she could think to say, and she was surprised she had managed even that. They’d been doing so well . . . flirty without crossing any lines, mutually excited to see each other, equally interested in one another’s lives. But a baby? Considering she was married herself with a healthy baby girl, Andy knew she was hardly entitled to be deflated by this news. Any reasonably decent person would be happy that Alex, whom she would always love and adore, had found his own happiness. And yet she felt a bit sick.

  Her phone rang, and never before had she been so grateful, but when she saw it was Emily calling, she hit “ignore” and tossed it in her bag.

  “Did your caller ID just say that was Emily Charlton?” Alex asked.

  “The one and only.”

  “I still can’t believe you two became friends—it blows my mind. All I remember is you hating each other.”

  “Not only friends—best friends. And business partners. We reunited in a cooking class and had a powerful thing in common: she hated Miranda as much as I did.”

  Andy stopped. She suddenly realized what had changed between them. The cooking-class Emily would have called Miranda exactly as she saw her: a stark-raving-mad tornado of a woman who was intent on leaving devastation and destruction in her wake. Someone to be avoided at all costs. Now, instead of sharing Andy’s misery at the idea of once again working for that lunatic, Emily had reverted back to her Runway self: the girl who had worshipped Miranda and aspired to work for her from childhood. Emily’s stay on the anti-Miranda train had been brief: once Miranda showed the slightest bit of interest in The Plunge, Emily had instantly forgiven the woman for firing her, humiliating her, and crushing her dreams. Emily was actually looking forward to meeting with Miranda and the Elias-Clark people to brainstorm and see how they might work together. When Andy joked she might open fire at the meeting and take everyone down with her, Emily had shrugged her shoulders and said, “What? Have you ever considered that maybe we’ve been overreacting all these years? That she’s not going to win any charm awards, but she’s really not the devil incarnate?”

  Andy’s phone bleated again. She checked, unwillingly. Emily.

  “Maybe you should get that?”

  Andy checked her watch. It was only a little after nine. She knew Emily would be calling to see when they could begin discussions.

  “I’ll see her at the office in a little.”

  Now Alex looked at his watch. “I need to hear more about your magazine. I’ve bought a bunch of the issues, do you know that? Look, the Rubin doesn’t open until ten. Do you have time for a quick breakfast?”

  Andy must have looked dumbfounded or, at the very least, generally confused, because Alex continued. “There’s a decent diner around the corner where we could get something more than a muffin. What do you say? Do you have a few more minutes?”

  All she wanted to ask was if he’d seen the issue that featured her own wedding, but instead she said, “Sure. Breakfast sounds great.”

  They settled at a booth in the back of the Chelsea Diner, and Andy tried to suppress the weird feeling of being there with Alex. Just the weekend before she and Max had brought Clementine there at six thirty on Saturday morning; it was the only neighborhood place that was open. Now she looked across the way to the table they had occupied, almost willing Clementine to appear, kicking and grinning in her infant car seat, to snap her back to reality. The phone buzzed again. Emily. Again, she pushed “ignore.”

  Before Andy could even taste her cheddar cheese omelet, she blurted, “So, tell me about this mysterious girlfriend.” She came precariously close to saying, “My mother tells me it’s serious,” but was able to show some much-needed restraint.

  At the mere mention of her, Alex smiled. And if that wasn’t irritating enough, it appeared to be genuine. “She’s a handful,” he said, shaking his head. Andy almost spit out her coffee. In bed? Is that what he means? “She definitely keeps me on my toes.”

  What did that mean? That she was spirited? Feisty? Clever? Ballsy? Funny? Charming? All of the above?

  “How so?” Andy coughed.

  “Just a woman who knows her own mind, you know?” Implying, obviously, that Andy wasn’t one of them.

  “Mmm.” Another bite. Another reminder to herself to chew slowly and swallow. That she
was happily married. A mother. That Alex was certainly allowed to have a girlfriend, however spunky she might be.

  “She’s an artist, a real free spirit. She does a lot of freelance work, some consulting, a little teaching, but mostly she’s locked away in her studio or searching for inspiration.”

  “You moved back to New York because of her work, is that right?”

  Alex nodded. “Not that it was anything specific, just that there are so many more opportunities. She grew up in the city, and she’s got a huge group of friends here, her parents, and her brother and his family. So it’s like a whole network. She definitely made it clear from the day I met her in Burlington that she’d be back in New York the first chance she had.”

  Her phone rang again, somewhere under their table, but Andy felt as though she were in those final seconds before a car crash, where your mind sees nothing except the image right in front of your eyes, your hearing is momentarily shut down, and every ounce of attention is laser-focused on the present second.

  “Do you think you’ll marry her?” Andy asked. She set down her fork and looked directly into Alex’s eyes. The frisson she felt was undeniable; she couldn’t even fake indifference or a touch of aloofness.

  Alex laughed, a little uncomfortably. “Do you want to get that?”

  “What? Oh, no, I’m sure it’s just Emily again. She can be like that. You were saying . . .”

  But the spell was broken. Alex quickly changed the subject back to Andy, asking if the baby was sleeping and whether or not they had any upcoming travel plans. Their ease had turned to awkwardness. He seemed as nervous as she felt, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. Of course it was always unnerving catching up with an ex, especially one as meaningful as Alex. How did you go from knowing someone so intimately, sharing every fear and thought and dream with them, to becoming practical strangers? It happened all the time, but it didn’t make it feel any less surreal. Andy was sure she could bump into Alex on a street corner in sixty years and still feel that same strong connection to him, but most likely they would never be confidantes, or even truly friends, ever again.

  Alex somehow paid for the check before it was even brought to the table, and Andy’s profuse thanks made things even more awkward.

  “Hey, don’t mention it,” Alex said, holding the door to the street open for her. “I’ll be employed by a for-profit as of next week. I’m going to be rolling in it.”

  Andy swatted his arm. It was a relief to be out the diner, back outside, not staring into each other’s eyes.

  “Are you cabbing or taking the subway to the office?”

  Her phone noted five missed calls from Emily. “I better jump in a taxi.”

  Alex held his arm out, and within seconds a yellow cab screeched to a stop in front of them.

  “That’s probably the fastest I’ve ever gotten a cab all the time I’ve lived in the city,” Andy said, wondering if he heard the undertone: Too fast; I wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet.

  Alex held open his arms for a hug. Hesitatingly, Andy stepped into them. It was all she could do not to collapse against him and bury her face in his neck. His smell was so familiar, as was the affectionate way he rubbed her back between her shoulder blades. She might have stood there all day but the taxi driver honked.

  “This was great,” Alex said, an indeterminate expression on his face. “Really great to see you.”

  “You too, Alex. And thanks again for breakfast. Next time we’ll have to go out, the four of us. I’d love to meet your girlfriend,” Andy lied. Shut up! she yelled at herself in her head. Stop talking and step away!

  Alex laughed. It wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t agreeable either. “Yeah, maybe one day. Keep in touch, okay? Let’s not go so long next time . . .”

  Andy tucked herself into the backseat. “Of course!” she called brightly. The taxi began to pull away before Alex had even closed the back door. They both laughed and waved good-bye.

  It was blocks before Andy exhaled. Her hands were shaking. When her phone rang again, she could barely compose herself enough to locate it in her bag.

  “Hello?” she asked, surprised to find herself thinking it would be Alex.

  “Andy? Are you okay? I called you at the office but Agatha said you weren’t in yet, and Emily’s been calling you all morning.” Max.

  “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

  “Where are you?”

  “What, are you keeping tabs on me?” Andy asked, suddenly unreasonably incensed.

  “No, I’m not keeping—yes, I guess I am. I left you over two hours ago, and your office tells me you haven’t been in yet and haven’t been answering your phone; yes, I guess you could say I got worried. So kill me.”

  Andy softened. “Sorry. I was just running errands. I’m in a cab on my way to the office now.”

  “Errands for two hours? You never take cabs to work.”

  Andy sighed as audibly as she could. “Max, I have a bit of a headache,” she said, feeling guilty for lying—about the headache, by omission about seeing Alex, about the errands—but she desperately wanted to hang up. Was this how Max had felt when he decided not to tell her about running into Katherine in Bermuda? That some things deserved to be left unsaid, especially when no one had technically committed any crimes: the way that person could still make your stomach drop; the feeling you got when he or she touched your arm or laughed at your joke. First loves were powerful and private, and they stayed with you a very long time. A lifetime. You could love your current partner more than anyone else on earth, but there would always be a small, intimate piece of your heart tucked away for the person you loved first. She felt it for Alex, and she suddenly understood that Max must have felt it for Katherine, too.

  She softened. “What were you calling about, love?”

  “I just wanted to wish you luck! I know this is a big decision day.”

  Elias-Clark. That’s why Max had been checking up on her. Emily had probably called him to track her down. Once again they were teaming up. Andy took a deep breath to quell her annoyance.

  “Thank you, Max,” she said, and realized how formal and annoyed she sounded. Before he could reply, her call waiting beeped. “It’s Emily calling for the thousandth time. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” She clicked over without saying good-bye.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Where the hell are you?” Emily screeched. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”

  “I’m fine, thanks, and you?”

  “Seriously, Andy. It’s late, and you know we have lots to discuss. Where are you?”

  The cab pulled up to the front of the building and Andy saw Emily, back to the street, sans coat, and wildly waving an unlit cigarette.

  “I’m here.”

  “Where?” Emily screamed to be heard over the din of nearby construction.

  Andy paid the driver and got out of the cab. She could immediately hear Emily yelling through both the phone and across the sidewalk.

  “Are you going to smoke that, or are you just standing outside because you enjoy listening to that incessant jackhammer?”

  Emily whipped around and upon seeing Andy, slammed her phone shut. She lit her cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sprinted to the curb. “Finally! I had Agatha clear my entire day. We’ve waited a long time to have this conversation, and we’re going to give it the attention it deserves.”

  “Good morning to you too,” Andy said, feeling the cold dread return.

  “Where were you?” Emily demanded, punching the elevator button.

  Andy smiled to herself. She wasn’t going to share Alex with anyone. “Just some errands,” she said, her mind back at breakfast: the coffee, the conversation, the laughs. He’d left her mere minutes earlier, and already she missed him. It was a very bad sign indeed.

  chapter 19

  ceviche and snakeskin: a night of terror

  Andy stood at her kitchen counter, diluting Pedialyte with warm water, when her cell phone rang. “Agatha?” she asked, t
ucking the phone between her face and her shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

  As usual, her assistant sounded weary and put upon from the moment she opened her mouth. “Emily called from Santa Barbara. I guess she had bad reception in the mountains or the valley or wherever she is, but she wanted me to give you the heads-up that Olive and Clint are fighting. The ceremony’s already been pushed back by an hour, and Emily is worried they’re going to call it off completely.”

  “No,” Andy whispered, pressing the phone to the side of her face so hard her cheek hurt.

  “I don’t have any more details than that. She kept cutting out,” Agatha said with intense irritation, as though Andy had asked her two dozen questions. How horrible could the girl’s day be with both her bosses gone and nothing to do but drink coffee and field a few phone calls?

  She heard Clem begin to cry from the nursery.

  “Agatha? I’ve got to run. I’ll call you back in a little.”

  “Do you know how long? Because it’s already after five here and . . .”

  How many times had she wanted to say that to Miranda, but instead she’d bitten her tongue and waited another hour, three, five? Miranda never felt guilty, though. Andy had regularly waited until ten, eleven o’clock at night, sometimes even midnight if the art department was running late with the Book. Now her own assistant was irritated at five P.M.?

  “Just sit tight, okay?” Andy hung up without further explanation, although she wanted to yell something about being stuck in her apartment with an infant who’d been puking around the clock for twenty-four hours, while her business partner was trying to feed them information from the communication blackout that was a celebrity wedding in the Santa Barbara foothills. It wouldn’t kill the girl to sit at her desk and surf Facebook for another thirty minutes.

  Andy gathered Clem into her arms and kissed her face and head. She felt warm but not too feverish. “You okay, sweet girl?” she murmured.

  The baby wailed.