Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Which is exactly what she kept telling herself until the cab pulled up to Miranda’s opulent Upper East Side building and the uniformed door attendant swept them into the elevator. “You’re here to see Ms. Priestly,” he said, his words somewhere between an order and a question.

  “We are indeed,” Andy replied. “Thank you.”

  Andy glanced at Emily, who shot her the same warning look an exasperated mother might give her obnoxious toddler.

  “What?” Andy mouthed. Emily rolled her eyes.

  He ushered the girls off the elevator at the top floor and was gone before Andy could cling to his leg and beg him to take her back downstairs. Andy could tell Emily was every bit as freaked out as she was, but her friend seemed determined to appear calm and collected. They paused outside the door for just a moment—the same door each girl had let herself into countless times before—and Emily finally rapped softly.

  The door swung open, and Andy took in two things almost immediately: first, that Miranda had redecorated the entire apartment from top to bottom and it was infinitely more gorgeous than she could have even imagined; and second, that the slim young girl who had answered the door and whose back was on display as she walked toward the apartment’s sweeping staircase was probably one of the twins. Her guess was confirmed a moment later when Cassidy swiveled on a delicate bare foot, and with her hand on the banister and her half-shaved hair flying behind her, said, “My mother will be down shortly. Make yourselves comfortable.” Without so much as another glance at Andy or Emily, Cassidy bounded up the stairs like a girl much younger than eighteen, and Andy tried to figure out why she would be home from college in early October.

  “What do we do now?” Andy whispered as she took in the rich, pewter-colored carpeting, the chandelier with at least a hundred hanging teardrop bulbs of varying sizes and lengths, the life-size black-and-white photographs of famous models from the fifties and sixties, an assortment of fur throws tossed over Victorian-inspired couches and, most shockingly knowing Miranda’s taste (or thinking she did), vibrant purple velvet curtains in a pile so deep Andy wanted to bury her face in them. The room was elegant but lighthearted: it obviously cost more to decorate the foyer and formal living room than the average American family earned in four years, but it still managed to feel accessible, comfortable, and most surprisingly of all, downright funky.

  Andy followed Emily into the living room and sat beside her on a love seat. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, desperately wishing for a glass of water. She surreptitiously glanced around: there was enough uniformed staff flitting about to service Downton Abbey, but no one had offered them a thing to eat or drink. She was considering a trip to the bathroom to adjust her twisted and binding tights when an all-too-familiar voice rang out.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Miranda said, clapping her hands together almost girlishly. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

  Andy and Emily looked at each other for a split second—everyone?—before turning their attention to Miranda, who looked so . . . un-Miranda. For the first time Andy could remember, Miranda wasn’t wearing something constructed, buttoned-up, or ultratailored. The vermilion maxi dress fit perfectly and was made of the finest silk with beautiful stitching, but it flowed out around her ankles in a soft, elegant wave. Her arms were bare—again, it was the first time Andy could remember seeing Miranda’s shoulders in anything other than black-tie, as even her tennis outfits tended toward conservative—and a knockout pair of diamond chandelier earrings reflected the light in tiny, bright bursts. A handful of Hermès bangles jangled on her left arm, of course, but her only other accessory was a buttery soft leather strip that wrapped two, maybe three, times around her trim waist, overlapping itself in a way that felt artful and casual at the same time. Even her signature bob was somehow less severe; it wasn’t mussed, exactly, but it had just a bit of sophisticated bed-head rumple to it. More surprising than the dress and the hair and the jewelry, though, was the single feature one never, ever expected to see on Miranda Priestly: a smile that looked completely human. It almost bordered on warm.

  Emily jumped up and beelined for Miranda, where all sorts of air kisses and compliments and admirations were exchanged. If Miranda was faking her pleasure at seeing Emily—and Andy was certain she was—even Andy had to admit she was doing a damn good job. She appeared humble and appreciative as Emily droned on and on about the fabulous curtains and the breathtaking view and the spectacular prints. Just when Andy was thinking things couldn’t get any weirder, Miranda motioned toward the dining room and said, “Shall we dine now?”

  Andy looked to Emily, who appeared momentarily stricken. Was no one else coming? Would there really be no cocktails before sitting down to dinner? At this pace, they’d be headed back home in sixty minutes. Andy suspected she was the only one grateful for that particular realization.

  They followed Miranda into the dining room. Andy was relieved to see that the expansive table was set for five. Two more people would be joining them! It was hardly a group large enough to hide behind, but it was far preferable to having Miranda focused on the two of them all evening.

  Cassidy appeared again just as they were taking their seats.

  “Where’s Jonas? Won’t he be dining with us as well?” Miranda asked, her lips pursed in disapproval. Jonas: clearly not high on Miranda’s favorites list.

  “No, Mother. And neither will I. The kitchen just told me you’re having steak for dinner again? Seriously?” Cassidy plucked a multigrain roll from the reclaimed wooden bowl on the table and began munching it like an apple. Her half-shaved head looked both fierce and trendy.

  Miranda looked like she might kill her daughter. “Sit down, Cassidy,” she said, her voice a growled command, all previous softness evaporated. “You’re being rude to our guests.”

  For the first time since they’d arrived, Cassidy turned to look at Andy and Emily. “Sorry,” she said to no one in particular. Then to Miranda: “I’ve been vegetarian for over a year now, and the fact that you refuse to acknowledge it really—”

  Miranda’s palm flew into the air. “Fine. I’ll have Damien prepare you plates in your room. That’s all.”

  The girl glared at her mother. She looked like she might shout something back, but instead she grabbed a second roll and bounded out of the room.

  They were all alone.

  Much to her surprise, however, Miranda recovered and returned to being delightful. During the appetizer course—delicate crystal bowls of tuna ceviche mixed with avocado and grapefruit—Miranda regaled them with anecdotes about fall Fashion Week, with all of its amusing mishaps, faux pas, and all-out disasters.

  “So there we were, everyone assembled and twittering with excitement, and all of a sudden the power goes out. Boom. Blackness. I can’t even begin to explain what a cabal of models do in the pitch dark. Can you imagine it?” Miranda laughed, and Emily cracked up along with her, while Andy wondered what, exactly, the models did.

  As the waiters brought out platters of delicately sliced Wagyu beef, Miranda turned to Andy. “Do you have any travels planned?” she asked, appearing not only alert but interested.

  “Only for the magazine,” Andy said, carefully cutting a piece of meat and then setting it aside, too nervous to attempt eating it while talking. “I think I’ll be heading to Hawaii next month to cover the Miraflores wedding.”

  Miranda chewed and swallowed delicately. She sipped her white wine and nodded approvingly. “Mmm, I’ve always been curious about the Big Island during the shoulder season,” she said. “You’ll have to let me know what you think.” And then: “Remind me to give you the name of our driver in Maui, if you’re headed there; he really is the best.”

  Andy thanked Miranda and glanced at Emily, who immediately shot her a See? look. Andy couldn’t argue. She never would have thought it possible, but maybe Miranda really had softened over the last decade.

  Miranda was recommending a particular villa at Tryall for the girls to visit when there
was a noise in the foyer. No one seemed to notice. Miranda went on to describe the villa’s beautiful infinity pool and ultramodern bedrooms and breathtaking ocean views. Then she turned her attention to Andy and asked after Clementine.

  “What a darling name,” she trilled. “Do you have any pictures?”

  Do you have any pictures? Andy knew better than to whip out her cell phone, but shook her head. “No, sorry,” she said, “I didn’t bring any photos.” Miranda was behaving like someone . . . normal. She was just about to ask Miranda about Caroline and Cassidy when something near the apartment’s front door caught her attention. Both Miranda and Emily followed her gaze, and all three watched as an exhausted-looking Charla tiptoed into the foyer. The poor girl clutched the Book and enough dry-cleaning bags to clothe the entire East Side; she didn’t notice their staring until she’d deposited the cleaning in the first closet on her left and the Book—the precious, much-revered Book—on the small console table under an imposing chevron mirror.

  “I’m so sorry, Miranda,” Charla whispered.

  Andy wanted to spring out of her chair and hug the girl. She hadn’t been particularly nice, either in person or on the phone, but Andy understood. And now she looked so terrified.

  “Sorry for what, may I ask?” Miranda’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t seem as horrified by the interruption as Andy would have expected.

  Charla’s eyes darted in the direction of the door.

  “Sorry for me!” a voice sang out gleefully. “She tried to keep me from coming, she really did, but I just had to have an answer tonight.”

  Nigel. Who apparently had hitched a ride with weak-willed Charla.

  “Charla, that’s all!” Miranda called out, her irritation obvious. Charla ducked out into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

  “Darling? Where are you? I can never find you in this cavernous dwelling!” Nigel shrieked.

  Miranda clasped her hands together. “Nigel, stop shouting. We’re right here at the dinner table.”

  To say Nigel appeared in the dining room was an understatement: dressed in layers of contrasting tartan plaid, right down to his kilt and coordinating knee-high socks, Nigel looked like he’d been beamed down from a Scottish cloud and deposited in the middle of Miranda’s apartment. The music seemed louder. The mood felt more electric. Even the room’s air, heretofore unscented, took on an odd but pleasant aroma of pine trees and fabric softener. Or was it hair spray? Andy couldn’t tell.

  Miranda sighed, although Andy could tell she wasn’t as annoyed as she was acting. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “So sorry to interrupt, you know I am, but I’ve been killing myself going back and forth, trying to decide if we should run the spread with the de la Renta gown or the McQueen? They’re so different, I know, but I keep changing my mind. I had to have your opinion,” Nigel said, producing two layouts from a snakeskin messenger bag.

  If Miranda was surprised that Nigel had hitched a ride with her assistant, barged in on her dinner unannounced, and proceeded to place two layouts directly over her not-quite-empty dinner plate, then she didn’t show it. She merely glanced at each spread and pointed a long red fingernail to the one on the left, a frothy pink confection of a dress that didn’t look, at least according to Andy’s untrained eye, like it belonged to either designer. “Clearly this one,” Miranda said, handing the layouts back to Nigel. “I think the reader will appreciate Oscar stepping out of his comfort zone.”

  Nigel nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  As if on cue, a ninja-like staff member removed Miranda’s plate and replaced it with a steaming hot latte.

  Miranda delicately spooned some sugar into her cup and took a sip. She neither offered Nigel a seat nor implied he should leave. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Nigel said, “Why, look who’s here! I almost forgot my manners. The wedding dream team! Hello, Emily. Hello, Andrea. How does it feel to be sitting on this side of the table?”

  Really freaking weird, Andy wanted to say, but instead she just smiled. “Hi, Nigel. Good to see you.”

  Nigel studied each of their faces for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable before moving on to their jewelry, hair, clothes. He made no effort whatsoever to disguise his evaluation.

  “It’s wonderful to see you ladies again. So tell me, are we celebrating yet? Or are we still discussing all those boring logistics?”

  Andy noticed Miranda glance down at her empty dessert plate with an uncomfortable expression. “We’re enjoying each other’s company,” she said primly. And then: “Marietta, please bring Nigel a plate.”

  Apparently Nigel didn’t catch her cues. “Ladies!” he shrieked. “Aren’t we all loving the idea that The Plunge will be joining the Elias-Clark family? I know I am!”

  When no one said anything, Nigel continued. “Andy, why don’t you tell Miranda your idea for the upcoming cover story?”

  Andy must have stared at him blankly because Nigel prompted, “About moi? And my beloved? Surely you remember.”

  “Oh, yes,” Andy murmured, uncertain how to proceed but desperate enough to say almost anything to fill the silence. “I thought it would be a great idea to feature Nigel and Neil’s wedding in The Plunge’s April issue.” She turned to Nigel. “You’re getting married over Christmas, am I right? That would be perfect timing for us.”

  Nigel beamed.

  Emily’s head whipped back and forth between Andy, Nigel, and Miranda like she was watching a five-setter U.S. Open match.

  Miranda sipped her wine and nodded. “Yes, Nigel told me your idea, and I actually think it’s splendid. Of course, the first-ever story of a same-sex marriage should warrant the June issue. April simply isn’t noteworthy enough. But I do love the thought.”

  Andy felt her face flush.

  Emily jumped in. “Well, whenever it happens, I know it will be terrific. Andy and I were thinking it could be great to stage a photo shoot of the happy couple applying for their marriage license at City Hall. More of a reportorial feel, something that could really capture this moment in history.”

  Miranda’s attention zeroed in on Emily with a familiar angry flash. “City Hall conjures up images of criminals and metal detectors and impossibly dreary people asking for handouts. Nigel and Neil are glamour and style and sophistication. What they are not is City Hall.”

  “Agreed, agreed!” Nigel squawked.

  “I see your point,” Emily said, and seemed to mean it.

  Andy stared at the table and hated herself for not saying anything.

  “I certainly support gay marriage, but no one is going to benefit from an article done the wrong way. I know The Plunge reader, and while she’s perfectly happy gays are permitted to marry, she doesn’t want to get mired in some dull political narrative. She wants gorgeous clothes! Beautiful flowers. Expensive jewelry. Romance!” With this, Miranda turned to Andy. “Don’t ever forget: your sole job is to give your readers what they want. And all this talk about gay rights would be a horrible miscalculation.”

  “Well said,” Nigel murmured.

  Emily looked uncomfortable—she was probably concerned about Andy’s response—but she nodded as well. “That’s exactly right, Miranda. Andy and I always try to give the reader what she wants. I couldn’t agree more. Don’t you think, Andy?” With this, she turned to Andy and gave her a warning look.

  It was all right there on the tip of her tongue, but Andy held back. What was there to gain from going head to head with Miranda Priestly? In a way, it was a relief to see the old Miranda back again. Two courses was an extraordinarily long time for someone who lacked all human qualities to fake it, but Miranda had done just that. The charm, the grace, the hospitality were unnerving and unsettling. At least this was familiar ground.

  Andy put down her coffee cup. She’d tread as lightly as possible, but she wasn’t going to pretend to agree with everyone just for the sake of peace over dinner. Besides, maybe it was good to let Miran
da hang herself. Emily would see once and for all that they would be beholden to this woman and all her ideas for a very, very long time.

  “I do hear what you’re saying, and of course we strive to give our readers terrific, interesting features. From all the feedback we get, Plunge readers love getting glimpses into other cultures and traditions—especially when they’re really different from their own. Which is why I thought it could be fascinating to have a section on gay marriage all over the world. Things are changing so quickly, and not just in the U.S. There’s Europe, of course, but strides are also being made in surprising places in Asia and Latin America. They’re not quite there yet, but for the first time there’s a lot of optimism. It would make a great front-of-book feature, something that could help set up—”

  Miranda laughed. It was a shrill, joyless sound, and once again her thin lips pulled tightly across her teeth. Andy couldn’t help but shiver.

  “How sweet,” Miranda said, placing her dessert fork across her plate to indicate she was finished. Immediately a team of three descended on the room and removed everyone’s plate, despite the fact that two of them were still chewing.

  “Sweet?” Andy’s voice was a squeak, and she hated herself for it.

  “You publish weddings, Ahn-dre-ah. Not a scholarly journal. Not a newsmagazine. Such a feature would be totally inappropriate, and I wouldn’t allow it.”

  I wouldn’t allow it.

  Andy’s head snapped up as though she’d been slapped, but no one else seemed to notice or care that Miranda had just confirmed beyond any doubt that she planned to approve, edit, delete, permit, forbid, and tweak every word that went into The Plunge. Not only that, but she couldn’t even pretend before an actual sale took place that it would be any different.

  “Yes, but it’s our magazine,” Andy said in barely more than a whisper. She hazarded a glimpse at Miranda, who looked surprised. Once again Emily and Nigel fell silent.