Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  “It’s just a blood test,” Andy said as soothingly as she could.

  The woman dropped their entire group in an exam room, left a cotton gown of questionable cleanliness on the table, and walked out without a word.

  “They will be back soon to draw your blood. There is no need to change your clothing,” the hotel nurse said.

  “Well, that’s good, because there is no chance I was going to,” Emily said, clutching her abdomen.

  Another woman in scrubs appeared and, staring at her clipboard, said, “You the Lyme disease?”

  “No,” Miles said, looking concerned.

  “Oh. Here, I’m going—”

  The hotel nurse interrupted. “Suspected appendicitis. I just need a white blood cell count and an X-ray to confirm. Her name is Emily Charlton.”

  After another five minutes where each of them double- and triple-checked to make sure the needle she was using was brand-new in sealed packaging, Emily proffered her left arm and winced as the woman took a sample. The hotel nurse then took her to another room for an X-ray, where the machine had supposedly just been fixed, and returned with the news: it was appendicitis, as she suspected, and it would require immediate surgery.

  With the word surgery, Emily swooned and nearly toppled over onto the table from her sitting position. “No fucking way. Not happening.”

  Max turned to the hotel nurse. “Is there a hospital on the island? Perhaps somewhere . . . a little more modern?”

  The nurse shook her head. “This is only a clinic. They are not equipped for surgery, and I wouldn’t recommend it even if they were.”

  Emily started to cry harder; Miles looked like he might faint, too.

  “Well I’m sure other guests of the resort have needed minor surgeries before, right? What’s our next step?”

  “We would need to have her transferred to San Juan by helicopter.”

  “Okay. How quickly can we do that? Is that what your other guests have done?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. We had a woman go into early labor once, and another with a horrible case of kidney stones. Oh, and there was that elderly gentleman who had a minor heart attack, but no, none of them went to San Juan. They always fly to Miami.”

  “How long before she needs surgery?” Max asked.

  “Depends. Sooner is better, of course. You want to avoid the appendix rupturing. But considering she hasn’t had pain for very long and her white blood cells aren’t through the roof, I’d say you could possibly make it.”

  That was all Andy needed to hear before she kicked into planning mode Runway-style. Working her phone and Max’s simultaneously, shouting out commands to Miles, Andy managed to charter a small prop plane in under an hour—all the while driving the bumpy roads to the airport. She organized an ambulance to meet their plane at Miami International, and called a general surgeon at Mount Sinai in Miami—one of Alex’s old friends from college—to arrange for someone to operate on Emily immediately. Andy and Max would see off Miles and Emily and then return to the hotel to pack up everyone’s belongings before jumping on the first commercial flight to Miami they could find.

  Andy was saying her good-byes on the plane when Max said, “You’re incredible. You’re like a professional fixer. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “That’s my girl,” Emily said with a weak smile. “I trained her myself.”

  “Yeah, well, as much of a crazy bitch as you are, you still don’t hold a candle to Miranda,” Andy said, gently tapping Emily’s forehead. “Next time challenge me.”

  The surgery had gone smoothly, all things considered. Since Emily’s appendix did partially rupture, the doctors kept her in the hospital for nearly a week, but there were no major complications. Andy and Max stayed for a day or two, long enough to witness the outrageous arrangement of flowers with a note that merely read “From the office of Miranda Priestly.” Emily’s convalescence meant rescheduling their call again, date TBD. Andy happily went back to the business of editing The Plunge without the specter of another Elias-Clark conversation for an entire blissful week. She browsed a few baby boutiques in her neighborhood, test-drove some strollers, and chose the perfect gender-neutral bedding in the sweetest lime green and white elephant pattern. When Emily called Andy two minutes after landing at JFK and announced Miles had gotten them “sick tickets” to the Knicks game that night, Andy could only shake her head. Who else would walk off a flight—looking absolutely fabulous, by the way—and directly to a basketball game mere days after having an organ removed?

  They watched the team warm up a little while longer and then, at Andy’s insistence, visited the private club room for some reinforcements. Andy piled her plate high with shrimp and cocktail sauce, crab legs and butter, barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, and enough salty, flaky biscuits to feed four people. She dropped all the food on a corner table before leaving again to retrieve a huge cup of Coke (oh, it wouldn’t hurt anything just this once!) and a heaping piece of chocolate mousse cake.

  “You’re really going for gold, huh?” Emily asked as she nibbled from her tiny plate of crudités.

  “I’m five months pregnant and on my way to being the size of a house. I’m going to live a little,” Andy said, and bit off the end of a shrimp.

  Emily was too intent on trying to spot celebrities in the intimate VIP lounge to really pay much attention. Her eyes moved slowly, subtly, around the room as she investigated every face, every bag, every pair of shoes until Andy saw her eyes widen.

  Andy followed Emily’s gaze and inhaled so sharply, the piece of shrimp became lodged in her throat. She could still breathe, but all her coughing was failing to move it either up or down.

  Emily glared at her. “Can you keep it down, please? Miranda is here!”

  Andy breathed in as much oxygen as she could manage and coughed powerfully. Finally, after a few more panicked coughs, the food flew out of her mouth and into Andy’s waiting hands, where she wrapped it in a napkin and tossed it on their table.

  “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Emily hissed under her breath. “Why don’t you just puke all over the place next time?”

  “Thanks for asking, I’m just fine. I appreciate your concern.”

  “What the hell is she doing at a Knicks game? Miranda is no basketball fan.”

  Emily stole another glance. “Ah, I see. She’s with her boyfriend. He must like basketball.”

  Andy squinted across the room and saw that Rafael Nadal was seated next to Miranda. They were both drinking coffees, and Miranda was laughing at every word he uttered. Her teeth were perfectly straight and normal sized—absolutely nothing noteworthy about them either positively or negatively—but the very few times Andy had seen Miranda smile, she had gotten goose bumps. The pale skin stretched across her face; those thin, white lips pulled into even tighter little lines; and the teeth looked like they’d reach out and bite you if you got too close . . . Andy shivered just thinking about it.

  “God, he’s gorgeous.” Emily sighed, not bothering to hide her gaze now.

  “Do you think they’re sleeping together?” Andy asked.

  Emily looked at her, eyebrows raised to the ceiling. “You’re joking, right? He’s her muse. Her little crush. She would eat him alive.”

  Andy dunked a crab leg in butter. “Let’s go find the guys. I don’t want to risk a Miranda run-in. I’ve had enough excitement the last few days, and you have, too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily said, standing up with an obvious wince. She smoothed her hair and pulled some imaginary lint off her cashmere sweater. “Of course we’re going to say hello. She sent flowers to the hospital! It would be downright rude not to thank her for them.”

  “She didn’t send them, Emily. You remember how—”

  But it was too late. Emily had already dragged Andy by the forearm to stand, doing so in such a way that it appeared she was helping a bottom-heavy pregnant lady out of her seat. Emily wrapped her hand around Andy’s wr
ist and began to pull her across the room. “Just follow my lead,” she said as they quickly covered the carpeted room. In less than ten seconds the girls were standing in front of Miranda’s table.

  Andy glanced down at her wrist, where Emily’s hand kept a viselike grip. She prayed for a five-alarm fire to spontaneously break out and force them all to run for their lives. But there was only stupefied silence on all fronts until the even-more-handsome-in-person tennis player cleared his throat.

  “Do you have something you’d like me to sign? Or should I just sign this napkin?” he asked, looking at Emily since Andy’s eyes were pointed at the ground.

  “Oh no. No, no, no,” Emily said in a flustered, very un-Emily-like way.

  Nadal laughed. “Silly me. Look at you two. You probably aren’t here for my autograph, are you? You want Ms. Priestly’s.” With this, he turned to Miranda and said, “I wish I had as many beautiful young women worshipping me as you do.”

  “Oh, Rafa!” Miranda laughed, her skin pulling across her teeth in that ghoulish way. “You flatter me.”

  Me too, Andy thought. Had Rafael Nadal just called them beautiful?

  Miranda reached out and placed her hand on Nadal’s arm. She giggled again.

  Emily and Andy exchanged glances. Miranda was flirting!

  Thankfully Emily found her voice before things got even more awkward.

  “Actually, I’m Emily Charlton and this Andy—Andrea—Sachs. From The Plunge?”

  Not to mention various periods of indentured servitude, Andy thought.

  “Thank you so much for the flowers! They were gorgeous, and that was so thoughtful of you.”

  Miranda evaluated them both coolly, although Andy knew Miranda recognized them. No matter—it didn’t stop her cheeks from burning when Miranda slowly ran her eyes from Andy’s head to her toes. It still made Andy want to amputate both feet when Miranda’s eyes came to rest on her shoes (today’s, incidentally, were a pair of dirty Converse sneakers she’d unearthed from the dregs of her closet—she deserved to be comfortable). But it was when Miranda’s gaze rose again and stopped on Andy’s belly that she truly wanted to run.

  “My, my,” Miranda said, her eyes fixated on Andy’s midsection as though it were an IMAX screen. “Expecting, are we?”

  “Yes, uh, my husband and I are having a baby,” Andy rushed to say, some inexplicable force impelling her to name-drop Max’s existence. “I’m a little more than halfway through.”

  Andy braced herself for what would inevitably come next—most likely an eyebrow-raise and a comment like “Only halfway, hmm?”—so no one was more stunned when Miranda broke into another smile. And this one somehow wasn’t creepy.

  “How lovely for you,” she said with what sounded like sincerity. “I just adore babies. Is this your first? You’re carrying beautifully.”

  Andy was so shocked that she found she was unable to respond. She simply stared at Miranda, nodding, and rubbed her bump protectively. She wasn’t quite sure she’d heard the woman correctly.

  “Yes, it’s her first, and they’re not finding out what they’re having. But don’t worry about a thing, Miranda. Andrea’s not due until late spring, which leaves us plenty of time to iron out the details of—”

  Miranda’s eyes flashed coldly and her lips curled into thin, hissing cobras. “Did I never teach you it’s rude to talk business in social situations?” she snarled, her entire demeanor changing in a second.

  Teach you.

  Emily recoiled as though she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”

  “Miranda, go easy on them.” Rafael laughed. He caught the eye of a friend or a fan standing near the bar and excused himself. “Nice meeting you two. Good luck with . . . everything.” Andy couldn’t help but hear the warning in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Miranda, I just thought th-that—”

  Miranda interrupted Emily’s stammering. “You may call Stanley on Monday morning if you’d like to discuss it.”

  Emily nodded. Andy was about to announce a need to visit the ladies’ room or an urgent desire to find their husbands, anything at all to get them out of there, but Miranda once again peered at Andy.

  “And you, Ahn-dre-ah. I’ll have my assistant get you a copy of my baby list. I think you’ll find it most useful.”

  Andy coughed. “Oh, thank you,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “That sounds nice.”

  “Mmm. And do let me know if you need any recommendations for nanny agencies, baby nurses, and the like. I have some wonderful resources.”

  It was all Andy could do not to faint. This was surely the longest conversation she’d ever had with Miranda Priestly where the woman didn’t berate, command, or humiliate her. For a moment, Andy even felt guilty for thinking, Of course Miranda has the best recommendations on hiring other people to raise your children.

  Instead, she smiled at Miranda and thanked her.

  “It was great seeing you, Miranda,” Emily said, a note of desperation apparent in her voice. “Hope to speak to you again soon.”

  Miranda ignored her entirely. She nodded to Andy and went to retrieve Rafael.

  “Is it me, or was that the weirdest exchange ever?” Andy asked Emily, after they both watched Miranda and Nadal depart the VIP room.

  “What? I thought it went perfectly,” Emily said, although Andy could see she was upset.

  Andy stared at Emily. “She didn’t even ask how you were feeling.”

  “What? That’s just her personality—it isn’t personal,” Emily said. “She was downright sweet about your pregnancy. She said you’re carrying beautifully! That’s practically a love pronouncement in Priestly land.”

  “And then she almost took your head off with her fangs! So even Satan has a soft spot for unborn babies. Great. But I can’t stay pregnant forever, Em. If we sell to Elias-Clark, you’re going to have to pull your weight around here and get knocked up, too.”

  The color drained from Emily’s face. “Don’t even.”

  Andy laughed. “I’m serious! The only way Miranda Priestly acts like a human being is around pregnant people. Otherwise she’s a monster. I know we’ve been tiptoeing around this but please: you can’t possibly still be considering selling to her.”

  Emily’s large eyes widened even more. “Considering it? Hell yes, I’m considering it. I’m in! And if you had even a shred of business sense about you, you would be, too.”

  “And if you had a shred of self-preservation, you’d be just where I am: running for the hills.”

  “You’re so dramatic!” Emily sighed dramatically.

  “You call ten years of therapy and nightmares and flashbacks dramatic? If you and she want to cover the cost of my shrink and throw in an unlimited supply of sleeping pills and biweekly massages, I’ll consider it. Anything short of that, and I wouldn’t survive.”

  The guys materialized before them. “You won’t believe who we just saw,” Max said with more excitement than would be possible for him if he’d seen Miranda Priestly.

  “A certain famous fashion editor?” Emily asked seriously.

  Max frowned. “No. Megan Fox and her husband, the one from 90210? They’re sitting right next to us.”

  “And she’s even hotter in real life,” Miles added helpfully.

  When neither girl responded, the guys exchanged a look. “What’s going on here?” Miles asked.

  “We just had a Priestly run-in,” Andy said, looking to Max for sympathy. She was surprised to see how animated he became.

  “Priestly as in Miranda? Really? Did she mention the buyout? Is she upset that so much time has passed since the initial offer?”

  Andy glared at him. “It’s hardly been ‘so much time.’ The first call came after our wedding, and they wanted to see our numbers for the final quarter. Miranda’s the one who all but takes off from Thanksgiving to New Year’s. And here we are, a week into the new year. We’re hardly procrastinating.” Andy knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help her
self.

  Miles thumped Max on the back. “Let’s go get a drink. Things sound stressful here.”

  Max nodded. “I just think if you’re going to do it, you should really make a move on it sooner than later so she doesn’t think—”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Andy said with more irritation than she’d intended.

  Max raised his hand in surrender. “Just offering an opinion.”

  Every time they discussed it, Max went on and on about the prestige of being acquired by Elias-Clark, the honor of receiving such an impressive offer after so little time in business, and how it would free Andy up to try something else she really loved—after a year of hell, of course. Andy couldn’t help but suspect he was thinking with his wallet, thinking of boasting about his smart investment and his smart wife, both. She knew Harrison Media Holdings was floundering even more this year than last, and Andy’s income was Max’s and vice versa: he’d insisted they both enter the marriage without a prenup, on equal terms—an arrangement that far favored Andy, and enraged Mrs. Harrison—so Andy was happy that both she and Max would benefit financially from a sale. What she wasn’t delighted about was the constant low-grade pressure Max subtly but continually put on her. She didn’t presume to weigh in on his business decisions.

  “We’ll be at the bar when you girls are done. No cat fights, okay? The game’s starting any minute,” Miles said.

  Emily turned to her, but Andy couldn’t bring herself to meet Emily’s eyes.

  Finally she looked up. “What?”

  “You really aren’t going to agree to this, are you? Not now, and not ever.” Emily intertwined her fingers and appeared to be exerting intense effort to keep her hands in her lap. She had the wiry anticipation of a tiger about to spring.

  Andy opened her mouth to try to explain herself once again, but she shut it before she said a single word. “It’s just more than I can handle right now, Em. I know you can understand that. I’m trying to stay on top of everything at work, I lost weeks and weeks to puking and exhaustion, and this baby is coming like a freight train in just a few more months. I have so much to do to get ready. It would be a lousy time to sell to anyone, much less to her . . .”