Oh shit, she thought to herself. Do I have to? Unlike everyone she knew, Emily included, Andy had refused to see it in the theater when it was out a year earlier. Who needed the flashbacks? The voice, the face, the constantly disappointed tone and reprimanding words. Andy could remember them all like they’d happened yesterday—why did she need to watch it in living color? Yet here, in the safety of her own living room, curiosity overtook her. I have to. Her thumb hesitated for only a moment before selecting the program. An angry-looking Miranda, adorned in a cream-colored Prada dress, gorgeous heels with a subtle gold buckle adornment, and of course, the ever-present Hermès bangle, glowered back at her.
“I don’t think this is the time nor the place,” her icy voice said to whatever poor soul held the camera.
“Sorry, Miranda,” a disembodied voice replied before the screen went temporarily black.
And then, a second later, still in her office but now wearing a wool skirt suit, probably Chanel, with ankle booties. Appearing no more pleased than she had in the last scene.
“Aliyah? Can you hear me?”
The camera swiveled to a tall and exceedingly thin girl, not a day over twenty-one, who wore shiny white leggings, ankle booties that were eerily similar to Miranda’s, and a gorgeous cashmere vest over a silk, man-styled shirt. The girl’s wavy hair was messy and tangled in that sexy, Giselle-like way Andy could never pull off, and her eyes were smudged with kohl. She looked as though Miranda had just interrupted her having sex right on the assistant desk in the anteroom—seductive, sultry, naughty. And of course, terrified.
“Let everyone know that I’m ready for the run-through. It was scheduled for this afternoon, but I’ll be leaving the office in twenty minutes. Make sure the car is waiting. Call Caroline’s cell phone and remind her of her appointment this afternoon. What happened to that tote bag you were having fixed? I’ll need it by three o’clock. As well as the dress I wore to the New York Public Library event last year or the year before. Or perhaps it was the pediatric AIDS dinner? Or that party in that dreary loft space on Varick after the fall shows last year? I can’t recall, but you know the one I mean. Have that at my place by five, with the right sandals. And some earring options. Make a reservation for tonight, early dinner, at Nobu, and tomorrow, breakfast, at the Four Seasons. Make sure they have an adequate supply this time of pink grapefruit juice, not just the white, which is vile. Tell Nigel to meet me at James Holt’s studio this afternoon at two; cancel my hair appointment but confirm the manicure and pedicure.” Here, she stopped for just a moment to catch her breath. “And I’ll need the Book tonight after eleven but before midnight. Do not, I repeat, do not leave it with the idiot doorman, and do not bring it into my apartment unless I’m there. We have . . . houseguests staying with us this evening, and they aren’t to be trusted with it. That’s all.”
The girl nodded in a way that didn’t inspire confidence. Andy could tell instantly she was new and hours, if not minutes, from being fired. She had no pen or paper, no ability to remember all the requests or ferret out all the answers. Andy’s own mind was reflexively firing questions. Which “everyone” exactly needs to know about the run-through? Where’s the driver right now and can he get back there on time? Where is she going? What appointment does Caroline have this afternoon, and does she already know about it? Which tote bag? Will it be ready by three o’clock and if so, how do I get it to the office? Will she even be at the office, or will she already be at home? Which dress? I know for a fact she wore different dresses to each of those events, so how on earth do I know which one she means? Did she give me any color/cut/designer clues to narrow it down? Which sandals? Is there an accessories editor in right now and can she get earrings on time? What kind will look best with the mystery dress? What time exactly should I make the Nobu reservation? Tribeca or Fifty-Seventh Street location? And breakfast at the Four Seasons? Seven? Eight? Ten o’clock? Remember to send the general manager a thank-you gift for accommodating the grapefruit juice request. Find Nigel, relay blessedly specific information, and follow up on all grooming appointments. Preemptively make suite reservations at the Peninsula for when Miranda inevitably calls me in the middle of the night complaining about her houseguests (friends of her husband’s, no doubt) and demands an immediate escape. Warn driver of probable late-night transport from Miranda’s apartment to hotel. Stock hotel suite with Pellegrino, the Book, and an appropriate workday outfit for tomorrow, including all accessories, shoes, and toiletries. Plan to sleep not one wink as you see Miranda through this trying time. Repeat.
The camera left Miranda and followed the girl back to her desk—the same desk Andy had sat at ten years earlier—and watched as she frantically scribbled notes on miniature Post-its. The camera zoomed in as a single tear slid down her peachy cheek. Andy felt her own throat close up and she hit “pause.” “Get a grip!” she hissed to herself, noticing that her fingernails were digging into her palm as she death-clutched the remote control and her shoulders were practically wedged in her ears. She was scared to glance up, despite the frozen frame on the television, her terror nearly the same as when she’d watch movies with young girls running alone in heavily forested areas, headphones on, blissfully unaware that a deranged serial killer was about to leap from behind a tree. This was why Andy had refused to see the movie when it first came out, despite everyone else’s prodding and mocking. She had felt this way twenty-four hours a day for an entire year. Why did she need to subject herself to it again?
Stanley woofed at his own reflection in the window and Andy pulled him close. “Should we make a cup of tea, boy? What are you in the mood for? Mint?”
He stared at her dumbly.
She stood up, stretched, rewrapped her robe. Not wanting to wait for the kettle to boil, she dug around in the gigantic bowl of coffee and tea pods Max kept on the counter until she found one for herbal tea. She popped it in the machine, added a packet of real sugar (no more artificial sweeteners!) while it steeped and a dash of milk, and was back on the couch in under a minute.
Emily was still in touch with a handful of people at Runway and so was privy to countless current and ridiculous Miranda requests, outrageous firings, and public humiliations. It seemed age had not humbled or slowed the woman whatsoever. She still went through assistants faster than steak lunches. She still punctuated nearly every command with that’s all. She still called her staff night and day, berating them over the phone for not reading her mind or divining her needs before slamming down the receiver and calling again. Andy certainly hadn’t needed to watch that snippet to bring it all back—to this very day, a certain old-school Nokia cell phone ring, heard on the crosstown bus or across a crowded bar, could send her into paroxysms of panic. Now the screen in front of her brought it all rushing back in stark color.
It had taken months after that fateful afternoon in Paris before Andy could sleep through the night again. She’d wake with a gasp imagining some task she’d failed to complete—she’d lost the Bulletin again or sent Miranda to the wrong restaurant for a lunch meeting. Andy had never picked up another copy of Runway from the moment she’d left, but of course it taunted her from bodegas, hair salons, doctors’ waiting rooms, mani-pedi places, everywhere. When she was offered the job at Happily Ever After by a girl only a few years older than herself who promised Andy “loads of writing independence” so long as she wrote on generally approved topics and delivered them on time, it felt like a new start. Lily was moving to Boulder. Alex had broken up with her. Her parents had announced their separation. Andy had turned twenty-four a few months earlier and was living alone in what felt like, for the first time in almost two years, an overwhelmingly huge city. For company she had her television and the odd college friend, if she reached out. And then, thankfully, Emily.
The sound of Miranda’s shrill voice snapped her back to reality. The live television pause had run out, and the documentary had snapped back onto the screen. Andy watched for just a moment as Miranda’s soon-to-be-ex-assis
tant tried fruitlessly to remember the list of things that had just been dumped in her lap. Andy saw the expressions of surprise and panic followed by realization and defeat, and her heart went out to the girl. Her firing would come as a surprise only to her, convinced as she surely was that this job was her ticket to a bigger and better world. The girl couldn’t possibly understand that in eight or ten years she’d be sitting in her own living room, with perhaps a husband to call her own and a baby on the way, and she would still want to throw up or murder someone every time she heard a certain ringtone or spotted a white scarf or accidentally surfed past a certain show on the television.
As though on cue, text at the bottom of the screen announced that one day had elapsed since the last scene. Here, Miranda was seen wearing a stunning Burberry coat with an Yves Saint Laurent bag flung over her shoulder as she walked into the anteroom on her way out to lunch or a meeting.
She stared at the senior assistant, another girl Andy didn’t recognize but whom she could identify because of her spot in Emily’s seat, until the girl dared to look up.
“Dismiss her,” Miranda said, not bothering to lower her voice a decibel.
“Pardon?” the Emily assistant asked, out of shock, not because she was unable to hear.
“Her,” Miranda said, motioning her head in the direction of the junior assistant. “She’s a moron. I want her gone before I return. Begin interviewing immediately. I expect you’ll do a better job this time.”
Miranda cinched her trench around her microscopic waist and strode out of the office. The camera swiveled to the desk of the junior assistant, whose face registered the same shock it would have if she’d been struck. Before the girl’s huge, sweet eyes could dissolve into tears, Andy shook her head and clicked off the TV. She had seen enough.
chapter 14
miranda priestly all but called you gorgeous
Andy laughed as Emily white-knuckled the chair’s armrests and gingerly lowered herself into the front-row, courtside seat.
Emily shot her a look. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at. At least I’m only injured, not huge.”
Andy looked down at her belly, now solidly rounded and unquestioningly obvious at five months along, and nodded, smiling. “I’m huge.”
“These seats are like Jay-Z style,” Emily said, looking around. Max and Miles were sitting courtside on the player’s bench watching warm-ups, in guy heaven. Their heads turned as each seven-foot-something player ran, shot, dribbled, and dunked. “Every now and then, Miles actually comes through with something good.”
“I wish I cared the least bit about the Knicks or basketball in general,” Andy said, rubbing her belly. “I feel like we don’t really appreciate it.”
The crowd behind them roared when Carmelo Anthony ran onto the court for his warm-up.
“Please,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “I’m here for the front-row VIP experience, and you’re here for the food. So long as we’re clear on that, it’s fine.”
Andy shoved a forkful of truffled mac and cheese into her mouth. “You should really have some of this . . .”
Emily blanched.
“What? Doctor’s orders to gain thirty pounds . . .”
“Isn’t that for the whole nine months and not just the first half?” Emily asked, looking at Andy’s piled-high plate in disgust. “I mean, I’m no pregnancy expert, but you look clear on your way to pulling a Jessica Simpson.”
Andy smiled. She’d been enjoying the occasional extra cupcake and slice of pizza now that the nausea had subsided, yes. It definitely wasn’t only her belly that was looking bigger either—both her face and her butt had filled and rounded out—but she knew it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Only when she was talking to Emily, who still referred to pregnant women as “fat” or “really packing it on,” did she even think about it. Andy had come to accept that her only real pleasure these days came from food and that no one ever looked at a pregnant woman and thought she was large or small, fat or thin, even tall or short; she was just pregnant.
The guys turned around and waved; Emily winced as she waved back and touched her abdomen. “Christ, this hurts. And no decent painkillers! A few losers go and get themselves hooked on Oxy, and it means a lifetime of Advil for the rest of us.”
“I told you it was crazy to come tonight. Who goes to Madison Square Garden the week they discharge you from the hospital?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Emily asked, genuinely puzzled. “Sit home in my pajamas and watch a Lifetime movie when you’re all here? Besides”—she nodded toward the front row across the court—“I wouldn’t see Bradley Cooper at home.”
“And he wouldn’t be able to admire your golden tan,” Andy said.
Emily ran her fingertips across her cheekbones. “Exactly.”
The New Year’s trip to the island of Vieques with Emily and Miles had been nothing short of fabulous: a gorgeous beachside villa with two master bedroom suites, a private pool, a bartender who seemed to specialize in fruity rum drinks, and plenty of swimming, tennis, and lazy beach time. Not only did they never once get dressed up to go anywhere, but some nights they didn’t even bother changing out of their bathing suits and cover-ups for dinner. Andy and Emily had agreed not to discuss the Elias-Clark offer or any business on vacation, and with the exception of one dinner mention about investing in beach property post-payout, they’d kept that pact. Andy knew they were delaying the inevitable, and they had a conference call with Stanley scheduled for the first Monday back. But for the duration of the week? They slept late, drank heavily (Andy allowed herself the occasional glass of champagne and then plenty of calorie-laden virgin piña coladas; being pregnant, she finally realized what it felt like for Max, who even now, after all these years, never had a single drink), read trashy magazines, and sunned themselves eight hours a day. It was the most relaxing vacation Andy could remember, right up until Emily had gotten appendicitis.
“I’m sure it’s just food poisoning,” she’d announced their eighth morning, when she showed up at the breakfast table looking pale, sweaty, and traumatized. “And don’t for one single second think I’m pregnant, because I am not.”
“How do you know? If you’re puking, you’re probably—”
“If the pill on top of my IUD can’t prevent pregnancy, then I should go on the road as some sort of fertile freak show.” Emily doubled over and struggled to catch her breath. “I am not pregnant.”
Miles shot her a sympathetic look but didn’t stop shoveling French toast into his mouth. “I told you those mussels were bad news . . .”
“Yeah, but I shared them with her, and I feel fine,” Max pointed out, pouring himself and Andy cups of decaf coffee from a stainless carafe.
“All it takes is one,” Miles said, his eyes scanning the Times on his iPad.
Andy watched as Emily carefully stood up, held her abdomen, and walked as fast as she could back to her room. “I’m worried about her,” she said to the guys.
“She’ll be fine by tonight,” Miles said, not looking up. “You know how she gets.”
Max and Andy exchanged a look. “Why don’t you go check on her?” he said to Andy quietly. She nodded.
She found Emily writhing atop the covers, curled in a ball, her face twisted in pain. “I don’t think this is food poisoning,” Emily whispered.
Andy called the resort’s front desk to ask about a doctor, and they assured her they would send the on-staff nurse immediately. The woman took one look at Emily, pressed a few times on her belly, and declared it appendicitis. She texted something on her phone, and a few minutes later, a hotel van appeared to take Emily to the local clinic.
After allowing Emily to stretch out on the middle bench, they all piled in. They’d been in Vieques over a week, and with the exception of a quick jaunt to another hotel for lunch, not one of them had been off the resort grounds. The ride to the clinic was short but bumpy—only Emily’s whimpering punctuated the silence as they all gazed out the win
dow. When they finally pulled into a parking lot, Max was the first to say what they were all thinking.
“This is the clinic?” he asked, staring at the dilapidated structure that appeared to be a cross between an unfinished grocery store and military airplane hangar. The words Centro de Salud de Familia appeared in neon on the front, although more than half the letters were burned out.
“I’m not going in there,” Emily said, shaking her head. She looked like she might pass out from the effort.
“You don’t have a choice,” Miles said. He wrapped one of Emily’s arms over his shoulders and motioned for Max to do the same. “We need to get you some help.”
They half carried Emily through the front door and were greeted with a scene of total silence. With the exception of a lone teenager watching what appeared to be an episode of General Hospital from the early eighties on an overhead black-and-white television, the place was completely deserted.
Emily moaned. “Get me out of here. If I don’t die first, they’ll kill me.”
Miles rubbed her shoulders while Max and Andy went in search of help. The desk toward the back of the room was empty, but the nurse who’d accompanied them from the resort felt free to walk behind it, open a side door, and shout into it. A woman wearing scrubs and a surprised expression appeared.
“I have a young woman with probable appendicitis. I’ll need a blood test and an abdominal X-ray immediately,” she said authoritatively.
The woman in scrubs took one look at the nurse’s ID badge and nodded wearily. “Bring her back,” she said, and motioned for the group to follow her. “We can do the blood test, but the x-ray machine is down today.”
As they were led down the hallway, the lights flickered on and off at unpredictable intervals. Andy could hear Emily begin to cry and realized this was the first time in the decade she’d known Emily that she’d seen her lose her cool.
Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns Page 20
