Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Andy took a breath and perched on the edge of the tub. “She’s not just a bully, Max. You’re right, I could probably deal with that now. It’s worse than that. Almost harder to deal with. She is single-mindedly focused on what’s best for her, at the exclusion of everything and everyone else. Her assistants, her editors, her so-called friends—because I don’t believe she has any real friends, only has acquaintances she needs or wants things from—they’re all just bit players in Miranda’s real-time video game, where the whole purpose is making sure Miranda wins. At all costs. It doesn’t matter if you’re a designer or Irv Ravitz or the editor of Italian Runway if you’re late for a lunch with Miranda Priestly. She’s not going to yell and scream and lecture you on courtesy and consideration. She’s merely going to order at the exact moment she’s ready, whether you’ve arrived or not, and then she’s going to eat her lunch and leave. Does it matter to her if your kid was sick or your taxi was in an accident? Not in the least. Does it bother her if you’re only receiving your soup as she’s calling her driver to come pick her up? Not for a moment. Because she doesn’t care about you at all—you don’t even register on her radar screen as another person with feelings or needs. She doesn’t play by the same social rules as you and I. She figured out a long time ago that the quickest means to her end usually includes humiliating, critiquing, belittling, or intimidating other people into doing what she wants. On the rare occasion that doesn’t work—like for instance, with us refusing to sell her The Plunge—she immediately throws herself into an all-consuming charm offensive: extravagant gifts, solicitous phone calls, coveted invitations. Which is, of course, just another form of manipulating the bit players in her giant game.”

  Max set down his razor and patted his face with a hand towel. “When you describe her like that, she sounds like a sociopath,” he said.

  Andy shrugged. “I’m no shrink. But she is truly that horrible.”

  Max enveloped Andy in a hug. He kissed her cheek and said, “I hear everything you’re saying. She does sound horrible, she really does. And I hate the idea of anyone making you unhappy. But I’d just ask that you think about the bigger picture here, Andy. There’s a lot—”

  Clementine’s wails stopped him midsentence.

  “I’ll get her,” she said, dropping her robe on the floor and pulling on her bra and sweater. Max didn’t seem any closer to understanding. Andy was relieved for an excuse to change the subject.

  A half hour later they had miraculously made it to Stacy’s apartment on Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue, and between Miranda the night before and Max’s seeming inability to understand her this morning, Andy felt like her head might explode. How was she going to survive being pleasantly social for the next two hours?

  “Who are these people again?” Max whispered as they waited for the doorman to clear them.

  “Stacy is one of the mommies from my group. Her husband is Mark. I can’t remember what he does. Their daughter’s name is Sylvie and she’s a few weeks younger than Clementine. That’s about all I know.”

  The uniformed doorman motioned them toward the elevator, which they rode to the penthouse, where an overweight maid in an apron and orthopedic clogs greeted them at the door, parked Clementine’s stroller in the massive foyer, and directed them to the living room. Max and Andy exchanged a look as they followed the woman. They were deposited in a formal dining room with people milling about; Andy noticed nothing, absolutely nothing, but the twenty-foot-high wall of windows that wrapped around three sides of the room and offered the most spectacular south-facing views of Lower Manhattan she’d ever seen. Her new friends were saying hello and introducing their husbands and parking their babies in various swings and bouncy seats, but Andy couldn’t focus on anything except the apartment. A sideways glance at Max confirmed he, too, was taking it all in.

  The double-height ceilings were interspersed with skylights, which, coupled with the outrageous wall of windows, made the entire room feel like it was floating. A polished stone fireplace the size of a small storefront sat to their left; above the sleek gas fire, an enormous mirrored flat-screen hung on the massive expanse of gray stone, where it caught the reflection of both the fire and the autumn sun and gave the entire room an aura of spectral, almost heavenly white light. The modern, low couches were done in a tasteful mix of gray and ivory, as was the reading nook with the built-in bookshelves. A rough-hewn reclaimed-wood coffee table matched the dining room table off to the side that easily seated sixteen and was flanked by gorgeous ivory leather and chrome high-backed chairs. The only color in the room came from an outrageously luxurious pile rug in abstract loops of cobalt, red, and purple and what appeared to be a hand-blown chandelier that descended nearly an entire story from the ceiling and whose shapes of glass—ovals, squiggles, spirals, and tubes—seemed to explode in a tangle of blue madness. Even the dog, a Cavalier King Charles whose leather collar was stamped with “Harley,” reclined on a miniature midcentury-modern chaise with polished chrome legs and a tightly tufted leather cushion.

  “Wow,” Andy murmured, trying not to stare. “This is not what I was expecting.”

  “Pretty outrageous,” Max said, putting an arm around her shoulder. He whispered in her ear. “A far cry from the old Harrison pad. But amazing. This is the kind of apartment we’ll have one day when my wife becomes a media mogul.” He said it as a joke, but it made Andy squirm.

  “Andy! Can I get you guys anything? Oh, you must be Max. It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Stacy said, sidling over to them, looking almost Runway-esque in her glamorous cashmere poncho, high heels, sleek blowout, and flawless makeup. Gone were the leggings and hoodies, the bad skin and the unwashed hair Andy had grown accustomed to seeing in meetings every week. It was an epic transformation.

  “Hey,” Andy said, trying not to gawk. “Your apartment is gorgeous. And you look fantastic.”

  Stacy waved her off. “You’re too sweet. Can I get you guys something to drink? A mimosa, maybe? Max, I bet you’d rather a Bloody Mary. Our housekeeper makes the most amazing Bloodys.”

  Stacy kissed Clem on the forehead and disappeared to put in their drink order. Seeing the other mothers do it, Andy deposited Clem in the circle of babies lying on the designer carpet.

  “This is a very bad idea,” she murmured as she placed a burp cloth under the baby’s head.

  “Tell me about it,” Bethany said. “Micah already spit up all over it—pureed spinach, no less—and I heard Tucker had a blowout diaper right in the middle of that overlapping color band right there.”

  “Doesn’t she want to put down a blanket or something?”

  Bethany shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. Someone in a uniform just comes rushing over to clean up or clear away or bring more food or drink. There is, no exaggeration, a fleet of employees.”

  “Did you have any idea?” Andy asked, keeping her voice as low as she could manage. Theo rolled onto his belly and Andy patted him on the back. From the corner of her eye she saw another woman, also in uniform but different from the maid who’d shown them in, hand Max a Bloody Mary so tall, richly red, and mouthwatering as to be magazine-worthy. He accepted it politely, but Andy knew he would find a place to set it down, untouched. She made a mental note to bring him a glass of orange juice.

  “Zero. If anything Stacy usually looks more homeless than millionaire. Then again, with our crew, who doesn’t?”

  Within a few minutes the entire group had assembled, and everyone was chatting amiably while the babies hung out on the floor. For the most part the husbands were exactly as Andy expected—which is to say, pretty much like her own: in their early to midthirties; dressed in untucked button-downs or hoodies over T-shirts with designer jeans their wives had purchased for them despite protests that their old college Levi’s were perfectly fine; sporting close-cropped haircuts, expensive watches, and expressions that clearly stated they would rather have been reading the paper, watching football, at the gym, lying on the couch, anywhere, doing
anything rather than milling around a room of strangers while their children howled and their wives passionately debated the right time to introduce purees.

  Only a few were really surprising. Stacy’s husband, Mark, was a good fifteen years older than everyone else; his salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses made him appear distinguished and more grown-up than the rest of the crew, but the gleeful way he tossed around baby Sylvie and the warm way he greeted each and every person instantly endeared him to Andy. Baby Lola’s parents, the two pediatricians, made an appearance for the first time, both looking supremely uncomfortable for two people who spent twelve-plus hours a day with children. They wore matching black dress slacks and pressed blue shirts, as though they were seconds away from donning white robes and making rounds. Lola squirmed every time her mother went to pick her up, and the father appeared anxious, disinterested, and even more obsessed with checking his phone than most of the other dads. Both looked desperate to leave this strange get-together where neither knew a soul but where everyone knew their daughter.

  Also surprising was Anita’s husband, Dean, a rocker type in his twenties with a chain wallet, skater-style high-top sneakers, and a waxed mustache. He was happy and outgoing and didn’t seem to feel the least bit self-conscious, which served as such an unexpected counterbalance to his mousy, perpetually shy, and nearly silent wife. Andy was surprised when Dean pulled a guitar from a travel bag, planted himself in the middle of the babies, and began playing rock ’n’ roll versions of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” and she almost fainted when Anita offered backup vocals and musical accompaniment by alternating a tambourine, cymbals, and a pair of professional-looking maracas. The babies who could clap in delight did so, and the others squealed or shrieked. At least a dozen parents whipped out iPhones to video the impromptu performance, and a bunch of the mommies started to dance.

  “See?” Andy said, giving Max a little poke in the shoulder. “I only bring you to the best places.”

  Max was intently staring at his phone, trying to zoom in on the video he was filming of Clementine shaking a maraca. “You’re not kidding. They should be selling tickets for this.”

  The doorbell rang and a maid appeared to tell Stacy that more guests had arrived.

  Rachel looked around and made a show of counting. “But we’re all here. Who else is coming?”

  “Maybe some of their other friends?” Sandrine offered.

  “Ohmigod, you didn’t invite Lori, did you?” Bethany screeched. “She’s going to take one look at that guitar and start an immediate friendship circle. I can’t handle life coaching on a Saturday.”

  Stacy laughed while all the husbands looked first confused and then disinterested. “No, it’s Sophie and Xander.” She turned to the pediatricians for confirmation. “You said they’re stopping by, right?”

  The mother nodded. “She feels so close to everyone, seeing you all every week and whatnot, so . . . she said she wanted to say hello. I hope that’s okay.”

  Something about the way the woman said it made Andy feel bad for her. It couldn’t have been easy working demanding doctor hours with a new baby, and no matter how important her career was to her, it certainly wouldn’t be fun seeing your sister-in-law bond with your daughter, take her to play groups and cuddle her before naps and watch her enjoy all her new jumper toys. Andy promised herself she’d make an effort with the woman, introduce herself and invite her to coffee.

  Sophie was, as usual, beautifully turned out. Her long, thick hair shone as she waved hello, her smile lighting up her adorably wind-pinked cheeks.

  “I was hoping we’d get to meet the boyfriend,” Rachel whispered under her breath.

  Andy nodded. “Me too. I’m so curious. Although it would’ve been even better if she brought the new guy. What’s his name?”

  “Tomás,” someone whispered in an exaggerated accent. “Sexy, artistic Tomás.”

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” Bethany, never shy, called from her perch on the couch arm.

  “Oh, he’s just finishing up a call. He’ll be right up. He’s so excited to meet you all,” Sophie said with a forced-sounding laugh.

  Sophie looked worried—the boyfriend must have insisted on tagging along, and she was clearly uncomfortable with everything she’d revealed over the past couple months. The affair with Tomás had intensified to passionate making out although they still hadn’t gotten naked or “really consummated anything,” in Sophie’s words, so she was currently trying to convince herself and everyone else that, technically, she hadn’t done anything wrong. But it was easy to tell from the faraway look she got in her eyes and the excited way she twisted her fingers that Sophie was falling in love with her cute young photography student, and she was racked with guilt and fear and uncertainty over what to do with the boyfriend. The new-mommies group had become her safe place, a roomful of confidantes so wholly removed from her real life that Sophie felt free to divulge details she wouldn’t even have shared with her real friends, and Andy knew she must be near-hysterical at the thought of her two worlds colliding. Andy wanted to reach out and reassure her. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us. No one is going to breathe a word to your boyfriend . . .

  The energy in the room suddenly shifted, but Andy’s attention was diverted momentarily to Clementine, who had begun crying with an immediacy and hysteria that made Andy’s heart skip a beat. She scooped her daughter up and scanned her body, her face, her pudgy hands, and her fuzz-topped head, looking for injury or potential cause of pain. Seeing none, she buried her face in Clementine’s neck and whisper-sang while she bounced her baby gently on her shoulder. Clem’s cries slowly lessened as Andy ran through her mental maternal checklist: hungry, tired, wet, hot, cold, bellyache, teething pain, overstimulated, scared, or lonely. She was just about to ask Stacy if she could take Clem to a quiet room to settle her when she felt Max’s breath on her ear.

  “Isn’t that your Alex?” he asked, clamping his hand over her shoulder.

  It took a long twenty or thirty seconds before Andy processed what he was asking. “Her Alex” could have been none other than Alex Fineman, and although she understood this, she couldn’t possibly imagine why Max was bringing him up now.

  “My Alex?” she asked, confused.

  Max physically turned her in the direction of the foyer, where a man whose back was turned to her was removing his coat and scarf. One instantaneous assessment of the stranger’s dark hair, gray New Balance sneakers, and mannerisms as he joked with the maid, and Andy knew beyond any doubt that he was, indeed, her Alex.

  In an instant Clementine, Max, Stacy, the entire group of noisy babies and chattering parents evaporated: Andy’s field of vision had narrowed to include Alex and only Alex, and yet she was entirely unable to think of a single plausible reason why he was in attendance at her new-mommies brunch.

  “Xander!” Sophie screeched in a shockingly un-Sophielike way. “Come here, love, I want you to meet all my new friends.”

  Xander. The word hit her like a truck. In the decade she’d known Alex, no one—not her, their college friends, his mother, his brother, anyone—had called him anything but Alex. Not even Alexander. Xander? It was ridiculous just hearing it.

  And yet here he was, standing before her, kissing his beautiful younger girlfriend on the lips and flashing that heartbreakingly impish grin to the hosts. He hadn’t seen Andy yet, hadn’t seen anyone but Sophie, Stacy, and Mark; she sent up a silent message of gratitude for the few seconds she had to compose herself.

  “That is Alex, right?” Max asked, scooping a squirming Clementine from Andy’s arms. “You look like you’ve seen a dead person.”

  “I just didn’t realize that when Sophie was telling us about her boyfriend, she was talking about him,” Andy whispered, hoping no one else could overhear them. “Ohmigod.”

  “What?”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Max asked.

 
; Xander. Boyfriend of years. Love him but. Things are different. Seems bored by me. Thinks I’m furniture. Just moved in together. New to New York. Tomás. My student. Much younger. Just innocent flirting. Passionate make-outs. Heavy petting. Think I’m falling for him . . .

  She didn’t know why it had taken that long to put the pieces together, but once she had, Andy could barely breathe. There was no time to process it, to consider all of the ramifications, to conference-call both Emily and Lily and give them every sordid detail—the next second, Alex was beside her.

  “And this is my friend Andy!” Sophie’s voice was high-pitched, excited. “And this is her husband . . . I’m so sorry, I seem to have forgotten—”

  “This is my husband, Max.” Andy was relieved to hear that her own voice sounded steady and reassuringly ordinary, despite the fact that she wanted to vomit. It occurred to her fleetingly that this was only the second time Max and Alex were meeting—the first had been years earlier, when they’d all shared that awkward exchange at Whole Foods—but it barely even registered.

  “This is Xander, my boyfriend. I told him he’d be bored, but he didn’t want to sit home all by himself.”

  “Really, man? Because I would’ve killed to do just that.” Max clapped Alex on the back. “Good to see you again.”

  “You too,” Alex said, looking every bit as shocked as Andy felt.

  “You two know each other?” Sophie asked, her brows furrowed in concern.