Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns

by Lauren Weisberger

  Olive said this like a native, Loo-ah-ville.

  “You went to Louisville?” Andy tried, but it came out sounding more like Looey-ville.

  “I went to Louisville. Flew commercial, connected in Denver, the whole nine. I didn’t let him pick me up at the airport in case there were paparazzi waiting. He came to my hotel.”

  “Isn’t there a really lovely, famous old hotel in Louisville that they’ve recently—”

  “Oh, I stayed at the Marriott.” Olive laughed. “No penthouse, no presidential suite or private butler, no special treatment. Just a pseudonym and a regular old room at the Marriott.”

  “And?”

  “And it was fantastic! I mean, don’t get me wrong, the bathroom was kind of gross, but our first meeting was amazing. I had him come up to the room so I wouldn’t get recognized in the lobby, and he joked on the phone about how forward I was being, but when he knocked on the door, I just knew that everything was going to be okay.”

  Andy sipped her water.

  “And was it?”

  Olive all but squealed. “It was more than okay, it was perfect! Of course he knew who I was the moment he saw me”—somehow, and Andy wasn’t sure how, Olive managed not to sound obnoxious saying this—“but I just explained that I was still the person he’d e-mailed with and talked to for all those weeks. He was surprised, or I guess pretty shocked—he had nightmares I’d be a four-hundred-pound man or something—but we opened a bottle of wine and kept talking about all the things we had before—places we wanted to visit, our dogs, his relationship with his sister and mine with my brother. We just, like, totally opened up to each other, as real people. I knew right then I would marry him.”

  “Really? Right then? That’s amazing.”

  Olive leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, not right then, but definitely a couple hours later after we had the best sex you could ever imagine.” Olive nodded, as though agreeing with herself. “Yes, that’s when I knew.”

  “Mmm,” Andy murmured, looking at her notes. She prayed her phone was recording everything clearly, because there was no way anyone was going to believe this. Andy checked Olive’s half-full margarita and wondered if she’d been drinking earlier, but Olive appeared sober. Andy’s phone rang. She clicked off the ringer and apologized.

  “Get it!” Olive implored. “I’ve been yakking my head off all this time. Let someone else have a chance.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Answer it!”

  Andy looked at Olive, who had turned on her full-wattage Hollywood smile, and knew she had to obey her. She pressed “talk” and said hello, but the caller had already hung up.

  “Must have just missed them,” Andy said, and turned back on the recording feature.

  “So are you married? Knocked up by accident? Single girl using a sperm donor? I was this close to doing the sperm-donor thing myself.”

  Andy smiled, her mind immediately going to her grandmother. “No, just plain old married. Although yes, I guess you could say I was knocked up by accident.”

  “What, were you like totally not using anything but still telling everyone you weren’t trying? That’s my favorite. I’m always like, sweetheart, if you’re not playing defense, you’re playing offense. Not not-trying is trying, you know?”

  “Up until a few months ago I would’ve agreed with you.” Andy laughed.

  The attendant appeared and asked if they’d like another drink.

  “I know a lot of people think seven months isn’t long enough to really know someone, but with us it is. It feels like we’ve known each other since birth. I can’t explain it, really. There’s just this connection, and it has nothing to do with my job or his. You know?”

  “I do,” Andy said, although she didn’t. Andy was in the camp that said making a lifelong commitment to another person after knowing them seven months was insane.

  This time it was Olive’s phone that rang. “Hello? Oh, hi, sweetie.” She continued to nod and murmur and at one point giggled like a teenager. “Don’t be naughty, Clint! I’m here with a reporter. No, you can’t. It’s a girls’ day! Okay. Love you too.”

  Olive clicked her phone closed and turned to Andy. “Sorry, love, what were you saying?” Her phone buzzed again, and this time Olive reached to read a text message. “It looks like the other girls are finishing up. Did you get everything you needed? You’re welcome to come meet everyone if you want . . .” Olive offered this sweetly, but Andy could tell the actress would prefer she didn’t take her up on it.

  “Um, okay. I, uh, I was just hoping to go over some of the wedding details. I won’t be at the wedding because of maternity leave, but my colleague Emily will be there.”

  Olive pouted. “I want you to come.”

  It was all Andy could do not to swoon. “I’d love to, trust me. Santa Barbara is just gorgeous, but I don’t think I can leave the baby. Maybe you could give me some advance details on the dress, the flowers, how you chose the food, the decorations, that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, you can just talk to my stylist about that stuff. She picked everything.”

  “Everything? She picked your dress?”

  Olive nodded and stood up. “The dress, the food, the flowers, the music we’ll walk to, the whole thing. She knows me so well. I told her to choose whatever she liked best.”

  In years of covering weddings, Andy had never heard anything like it. Olive Chase didn’t want any input into the biggest day of her life? Really?

  Andy’s expression must have registered the disbelief she felt, because Olive laughed. “I found the guy! After more than twenty years of being single and jerked around and cheated on and alone, I found my soul mate. Pardon my French, but you think I give a shit about the flowers?”

  Andy stood up too, less gracefully than Olive, and smiled. She could’ve just written it off to the difference between a bride who was thirty-nine and one who was twenty-five, but part of her believed it was because Olive Chase, famous for her fantastic boobs and ability to cry on command, had figured something out the rest of them hadn’t.

  “Fair enough,” Andy said, although she wanted to say so much more.

  “Okay, well, thanks for the drink and the chat. I’d better go find my girls. It was really great meeting you.” Olive stood and smiled.

  “Thanks,” Andy said, giving Olive, who had already turned to walk away, a half wave. “Good luck with everything.”

  Olive was already digging her cell phone out of her bag and laughing happily into it. Andy sank back into her chair and exhaled. She had gossipy ammunition on the world’s most famous celebrity, and all she could think about were Olive’s parting words. I found my soul mate . . . you think I give a shit about the flowers?

  Andy stretched her legs and stared out onto the tops of the neighboring buildings. She sipped her water with lime and inhaled deeply, hoping the attendant would leave her alone for a few more minutes. She wanted to steal a bit more time before racing out into the frantic city, to the baby planning tasks and the work phone calls and Emily’s relentless panic, to sit and reflect on everything Olive had just said. If she let herself, Andy would think back to her own wedding, how obsessed she’d been with every last detail, how much attention and time and effort she’d invested into making sure everything was perfect. How she’d gone steadfastly through three years of dating and engagement to Max, because he was handsome and successful and charming and it was easy and her family and friends approved and because of course she loved him, too. She was in lockstep—doing what she was supposed to do. And with a guy as close to perfect as she could imagine: rich, handsome, kind, wanting kids. But had she missed something along the way? Did this marriage have a feeling of inevitability? She loved Max, of course she did, but was he really her soul mate? Did she love Max as much as Olive loved Clint?

  She sighed and set down her drink. Why did she insist on torturing herself like this? Max was perfect—as a husband, and a soon-to-be-father, and y
es, as a soul mate. It was natural to feel anxious and unsettled right before giving birth, right? All pregnant women felt this way. Andy glanced around to make sure she was alone, and then she dialed Max’s number. He didn’t pick up, but the sound of his recorded voice reassured her.

  “Hi, baby,” she said, her voice a low whisper. “I just wanted to say hi. I’ll be home in a little and I can’t wait to see you. I love you.” Andy clicked off the phone and smiled. She rubbed her belly. It wouldn’t be long now.

  chapter 16

  give him a test drive

  “Ohmigod, she’s gorgeous! Come here, sweetheart, your auntie Lily’s been wanting to meet you for so long. Wow, don’t you look just like your daddy!”

  “Yeah, it’s almost uncanny, isn’t it?” Andy said. She held the baby out to Lily. “Lily, please meet Clementine Rose. Clem, this is your aunt Lily.”

  “Look at her eyes! Are they green? And all that black hair! What lucky baby is born with so much hair? It’s like staring at a very cute, tiny little feminine version of Max.”

  “I know,” Andy said, watching her daughter study her oldest friend. “Supposedly she looks like Max’s father, too. Rose is for Robert. It’s like I was merely a vessel for producing Harrison clones.”

  Lily laughed.

  She missed Lily more than ever since she’d had Clementine. She’d made a few casual acquaintances in the new-moms support group she’d joined a month before, but more often than not, Andy was lonely. Unaccustomed to endless stretches of unscheduled maternity-leave time, she staggered from chore to chore in a sleep-deprived haze, each day bleeding into the next with a near-identical mix of breastfeeding, pumping, diaper changing, bathing, dressing, rocking, singing, strolling, cooking, and cleaning. Activities Andy used to wedge into small snippets of stolen time in her hectic day—laundry, grocery shopping, a trip to the post office or drugstore—now ate up hours, sometimes entire days, since Clementine and her nonstop demands always took precedence. She loved spending time with her daughter, and while she wouldn’t have given up those moments spooning in bed together, or eating a sandwich on the High Line in the middle of a warm summer day while Clem had a bottle, or slow-dancing together to Chicago’s Greatest Hits in the privacy of their living room, the daily drudgery was harder than she’d ever imagined.

  Mrs. Harrison was aghast that Andy refused to hire a baby nurse—there had never been a Harrison baby in history without her own dedicated hired caretaker—but Andy held her ground. “Your mother would hire me a wet nurse if I’d let her,” she’d said to Max after one particularly unpleasant visit from her mother-in-law, but he had only laughed. Andy’s own mother came in once a week to keep them company and help with the baby, and Andy lived for those days, but otherwise there wasn’t a lot of outside interaction. Jill was back in Texas. Emily always remembered to ask after Clementine when she called, but Andy certainly knew, and understood, that she was not calling for an update on how many times Clem pooped that morning or whether she’d enjoyed tummy time. Emily wanted one thing—to restart the Elias-Clark conversations. Miranda and Stanley were circling like sharks; Emily was literally counting down the days of Andy’s maternity leave. The only person who would and could talk endlessly about four-in-the-morning feeds and the pros and cons of pacifier use was Lily, and she was thousands of miles away, busy with one child and expecting another.

  Andy could see Lily watching her as she gingerly sat down on the couch. It was one in the afternoon, but Andy was still wearing a pair of Max’s sweatpants, furry slipper-socks that resembled indoor Uggs, and a pullover hooded sweatshirt so voluminously huge that it must have, at some point, belonged to a linebacker.

  “Still not feeling normal down there?” Lily asked, sympathy in her voice.

  “Not even close.” Andy nodded toward the lemonade she’d placed in front of Lily.

  Lily smiled and sipped. “They say you forget it all, and I never believed that was possible, but I swear I can’t remember a thing. Except the pain from the stitches afterward. That I remember.”

  “I’m still not sure I can forgive you for not preparing me better. You’re supposed to be my best friend. You’ve been through this before. And you didn’t tell me a goddamn thing.”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “Of course I didn’t! It’s the code of women everywhere, and it must be followed. It’s even more important than not sleeping with your friends’ exes.”

  “It’s bullshit is what it is. I will tell anyone who wants to know all the gory details. Women deserve to know what to expect. This whole secret society of birthing mothers is ridiculous.”

  “Andy! What would you have liked to be told about in greater detail? That pushing feels like you’re going to split in two? Would that have really helped you get through it yourself?”

  “Yes! Maybe then I wouldn’t have thought I was dying. Let’s see, it would’ve been nice to know that it’s normal to be ankle-deep in blood the first time a nurse helps you pee, that they put stitches in places you didn’t even know existed, that breastfeeding feels like having an actual piranha clamp down on your nipple and chew.”

  Lily grinned. “And that the epidural, like, hardly ever works on both sides? Or that you’ll seriously wonder—if you’ll ever be able to wear anything but the disposable mesh granny panties you stole from the hospital? Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes! Exactly.”

  “Uh-huh. Keep dreaming. You would’ve had a nervous breakdown if I told you any of that, and besides, you wouldn’t have had the joy of discovering it yourself.”

  “It’s all so wrong,” Andy said, shaking her head.

  “It’s how it has to be.”

  Andy could still remember her shock—her absolute disbelief—when Dr. Kramer reached between Andy’s legs, retrieved a wailing and blood-covered infant after sixteen hours of labor, and declared, “Baby Girl Harrison looks great!” It had taken dozens of diaper changes and endless pink onesies, blankets, teddy bears, and tutus before the reality had finally settled in. Andy had a daughter. A little girl. A perfect, sweet, incredible baby girl.

  As if to punctuate this point, Clementine let out a cry that sounded more like a mew. Andy scooped her up from Lily’s arms and walked her back to the nursery.

  “Hi, my love,” she crooned. She gently laid the baby on the changing table and removed her swaddle, her purple onesie, and a soaked diaper. She wiped the baby’s bottom, patted it with A&D, affixed a new diaper, and changed her daughter into a pink-and-gray striped T-shirt with matching leggings and a coordinating striped pink hat. “There you go, sweetie. Doesn’t that feel better?”

  Andy scooped her up and, cradling the baby expertly in her arms, walked toward the living room, where Lily was busy gathering her things.

  “Don’t go,” Andy said, feeling like she might cry. The unpredictable weeping jags had leveled off recently, but she couldn’t deny the knot in her throat.

  “I don’t want to,” Lily said. “I’m going to miss you two so much. I’m meeting my old supervisor all the way uptown, though. I’ve got to leave now or I’m going to be late.”

  “When am I going to see you again?” Andy asked, already doing the calculation in her head.

  “You’ll have to come visit me when this baby’s born,” Lily said, wrapping a sweater around her shoulders.

  The girls hugged and Andy could feel Lily’s hard bump between them. She placed both her hands around it, bent down, and said, “You take it easy on your mama, okay? No somersaults in there.”

  “Too late.”

  They embraced again and Andy watched as her friend disappeared down the hallway. She wiped away a few tears, assured herself it was just the hormones, and began to pack the diaper bag; if she and Clem didn’t leave immediately, they too would be late.

  She walked as fast as her injuries and the stroller would allow as Clem cried.

  “We’re almost there, chickie. Can you hold out a little longer?”

  The walk to the kiddie play-gym where t
he weekly new-moms support group met was mercifully short, which was fortunate because Clementine’s cries had increased from a complaint to all-out wailing. The other mothers looked on sympathetically as Andy pulled the baby from her stroller, collapsed with her on the padded floor, and un-self-consciously pulled out her left breast. Although Clem’s eyes were clenched shut and her body was rigid with crying, she found the nipple as if by sonar and clamped on with all her might. Andy breathed a sigh of relief. A quick glance around the room confirmed she wasn’t alone: three other mothers were in various stages of breast-reveal, two more were changing dirty diapers, and three were slumped on the floor, looking alternately dazed and near tears, hunched over their flailing, uncooperative, and unhappy babies. Only one woman appeared showered and appropriately dressed in real, nonmaternity clothes: a baby’s aunt.

  The group leader, a curly-haired woman named Lori who claimed “life coach” as her job title, took a seat in the circle of harried mothers and, after taking a moment to smile somewhat maniacally at each and every baby, greeted the group by reading a quote.

  “ ‘Motherhood: all love begins and ends there.’ A beautiful sentiment by Robert Browning, don’t you think? Would anyone like to share their thoughts on that?”

  Theo’s mother, a tall, elegant black woman who was tortured trying to decide whether or not to leave her legal career in order to raise him full-time, sighed deeply and said, “He slept six hours straight every single night this week, and then the last two nights he woke up every forty-five minutes, inconsolable. My husband tried to take a few shifts but he’s started falling asleep at work. What’s happening? Why are we going backward?”

  Heads bobbed all around. This was how every session began. Hippie-dippy life coach Lori read a beautiful and inspirational quote. Not a single mother in the room even feigned interest, and a couple resorted to outright hostility. Inevitably, one of them asked the question that was burning in her mind, completely and entirely ignoring Lori’s contribution, and the other mothers jumped right on the bandwagon. It was an unchanging, unspoken agreement to reclaim the group as their own, and it made Andy smile every time.