Andy blew on her hands to keep them warm. “Obama?”
“You’re unbelievable. You have no imagination whatsoever!”
“Emily . . .”
“Miranda! Miranda fucking Priestly called for us this morning.”
“No she didn’t.” Andy shook her head. “Factually impossible. Unless there’s been some sort of people’s revolution at Runway that we haven’t heard about, Miranda did not call here. Because Miranda doesn’t call anywhere. Because last time I checked, Miranda was physically, mentally, and emotionally incapable of dialing numbers on a phone without help from someone else.”
Emily took a quick inhale and stamped the cigarette out in an ornate stained glass ashtray she kept stashed away in her desk. “Andy? Are you listening?”
“What?” Andy looked at Emily, who stared back at her in shocked disbelief.
“Do you hear anything I’m saying?”
“Of course. But tell me again. I’m having a hard time processing it.”
Emily sighed dramatically. “So no, she did not actually call herself. But her senior assistant, some South African chick named Charla, called and asked if you and I would come to the office for a meeting. In two weeks. She stressed that it would be with Miranda herself.”
“How’d you know she was South African?” Andy asked, solely to piss off Emily.
Emily looked like she might explode. “Did you not hear what I just told you? We—you and I—are meeting with Miranda!”
“Oh, I heard you. I’m trying to keep from hyperventilating right now,” Andy said.
Emily clasped her hands. “There’s only one explanation. It’s got to be to discuss a possible acquisition.”
Andy glanced at her cell phone and tossed her phone back in her bag. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going.”
“Of course you’re going.”
“I am not! My weak heart can’t handle it. To say nothing of my self-respect.”
“Andy, that woman is the editorial director of Elias-Clark. She’s the final editorial arbiter over every single magazine at the company. For god knows what reason, she has requested our presence at eleven a week from Friday. And you, my friend and cofounder, are going to be there.”
“Do you think she knows we use her name to book celebrities?”
“Andy, I really don’t think she cares about that.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere that she authorized that famous historian, the really intellectual one, to write her biography? Maybe she wants him to interview us?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. That sounds likely. Of the three million people she’s worked with over the years, she wants one she fired in front of thirty staffers for no reason and the one who told her to fuck off in Paris. Try again.”
“I have no idea. But guess what? I’m really comfortable with never knowing.”
“What do you mean, never knowing?”
“Just what I said. I think I can live a full and complete life not knowing why Miranda Priestly suddenly wants to see us.”
Emily sighed.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just knew you’d be difficult. But I confirmed the meeting anyway.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I think it’s important.”
“Important?” Andy was aware she sounded vaguely hysterical, but she couldn’t stop. “In case you don’t realize it, we haven’t been enslaved by that lunatic for years. Through lots of hard work and dedication, we have built our own successful magazine, and we did it without terrorizing our staff or wrecking anyone’s life. I will never again step foot in that woman’s office.”
Emily waved her off. “It’s not the same office; she moved floors. And you can declare you’ll never go there again after our meeting. I, for one, need to know what she wants, and I can’t go alone.”
“Why not? You’re so enamored with her. Go by yourself and tell me about it. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”
“I’m not enamored with her, Andy,” Emily said, clearly growing exasperated. “But when Miranda Priestly calls you in for a meeting, you go.” Emily reached her arm across the desk and held Andy’s hand. She pouted and her eyes looked sad. “Please say you’ll come.”
Andy snatched her hand back. She was silent.
“Pretty please? For your best friend and business partner? The one who introduced you to your husband?”
“You’re really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?”
“Please, Andy? I’ll take you out for Shake Shack afterward.”
“Wow. You’re bringing your A-game.”
“Please? For me? I’ll be forever indebted.”
Andy sighed heavily. Visiting Miranda on her own turf sounded about as appealing as a day in prison, but Andy had to admit to herself that she too was curious.
She pressed her hands into the desk and made a big show of heaving herself to stand. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I want a Shack T-shirt in addition to my burger, fries, and shake, and I want a onesie for my new baby.”
“Done!” Emily sang, clearly delighted. “I’ll buy you the whole damn—” She stopped and looked at Andy. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I don’t think I did. I thought you said something about a baby, but you’ve been married for less than five minutes, and there’s no way . . .” Emily stared into Andy’s eyes and moaned. “Oh my god, you’re not kidding. You’re knocked up?”
“Very.”
“What’s with you people? What the hell is your big rush?”
“It’s not like we planned this . . .”
“What, you don’t know how babies are made? You’ve spent the last fifteen years of your life managing not to get pregnant. What happened?”
“Thanks for being so supportive,” Andy said.
“Well it’s not like running a magazine and newborns go hand in hand. I’m thinking how this is going to affect me.”
“It’s still a ways off. I’m only just now starting my second trimester.”
“Already with the lingo and everything.” Emily looked to be computing the numbers. She flopped into her desk chair and grinned evilly. “Wow. You really didn’t plan this.” Her voice lowered to a delighted whisper. “Is it even Max’s?”
“Of course it is! What, you think I went back out after my bachelorette day at the spa and had crazy sex with one of the yoga instructors?”
“You have to admit, that would be pretty cool.”
“Don’t you want to ask me any normal-person questions? Like when I’m due, or if I know what I’m having? Maybe how I’m feeling?”
“Are you sure it’s not twins? Or triplets? Because that would be a story.”
Andy sighed.
Emily held her hands up. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. But you have to admit, this is pretty unbelievable. You got married, what? A month ago? And you’re already three months preggers? It’s just not a very Andy move, is all. And what will Barbara say?”
The mother-in-law comment stung, probably because Andy was wondering the exact same thing. “You’re right, it’s not a very me move at all. But it’s happening, and not even Barbara Harrison can stop it now. And when you overlook all the other stuff and just focus on the baby part, it’s pretty great. Earlier than we’d hoped, but still great.”
“Mmm.” Emily’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t surprising. She’d never come out and said she didn’t want children, but despite her being married for nearly five years and a semicompetent aunt to Miles’s nieces, Andy had always assumed it. Children were messy. They were sticky and loud and unpredictable, and they made you fat and unstylish, at least for long stretches of time. They were decidedly un-Emily.
There was a knock on Emily’s door and Agatha walked in. “Daniel wants to know if you can run to his office for, like, two seconds. He said he needs to show you something but he’s waiting for a phone call.”
“Go. We can talk about this later,” Andy said, relieved to have finally
shared the news.
“Damn right we will. But let’s stay focused on the meeting too, okay? We need to discuss what you’re going to wear . . .” She walked around the desk and pulled open Andy’s cashmere cardigan. “No obvious bump per se, but definitely something we need to be careful about. I think you should wear that A-line wool dress, the one with the gold epaulets? It’s nothing great, but at least it has a little drape around the middle . . .”
Andy laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Seriously, Andy. Big news and all, I get it, but we have to be a hundred percent for Miranda. You’re not, like, going to be puking or anything, right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Great. I’ll let you know how it goes with the Vera people. Don’t forget to touch base with St. Germain—they’re waiting for your call.”
Emily grabbed her trench coat and tote bag and waved back at Andy over her shoulder. “Congrats again!” she shouted, and Andy cringed, wondering if Emily knew not to blab her news to the entire office.
Then again, what did it matter? She was pregnant, and if all went well—and Andy found herself fervently hoping it would—in six months she would be having a baby. A baby. The Miranda meeting, the idle gossip, it all melted away when she stopped for a moment and imagined herself holding a soft-skinned, sweet-smelling infant. She placed two hands over her belly and smiled to herself. A baby.
chapter 12
trumped-up harassment charges plus a straitjacket or two
Andy walked into the Starbucks closest to Elias-Clark and had to hold on to the counter to steady herself. She hadn’t been there in ten years, and the flashbacks were so vivid and unpleasant she thought she might faint. A quick glance around confirmed none of the faces behind the register or manning the espresso machines were familiar. She caught sight of Emily waving from a corner table.
“Thank god you’re finally here,” Emily said, taking a long sip of her iced coffee with obvious care to avoid smudging her lipstick.
Andy checked her watch. “I’m almost fifteen minutes early. How long have you been here?”
“You don’t want to know. I’ve been getting dressed and redressed since four in the morning.”
“Sounds relaxing.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
“It was worth it, though,” Andy said, looking approvingly at Emily’s fitted bouclé pencil skirt, skintight cashmere turtleneck sweater, and sky-high stiletto boots. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks. You too,” Emily said automatically, without looking up from her phone.
“Yeah, I thought this dress I borrowed looks pretty good. Not bad for maternity, right?”
Emily’s head whipped up, a panicked expression on her face.
“Hah, just kidding. I’m wearing the dress you told me to, and it’s not maternity.”
“Adorable.”
Andy suppressed a smile. “When do you think we should head over there?”
“Five minutes? Or maybe now? You know how much she loves it when someone’s late.”
Andy reached over and helped herself to a sip of Emily’s coffee. It was sludgy with sugar, almost too thick to pull through the straw. “How do you drink this crap?”
Emily shrugged.
“Okay, let’s remember this: We don’t owe Miranda a thing. We are there to listen and listen only. She can’t wreck our lives anymore with a single wave of her wand.” The words all sounded good, but Andy wasn’t sure she believed them herself.
“Oh, don’t kid yourself, Andy. She’s the editorial director of all of Elias-Clark. She remains the most powerful woman in both fashion and publishing. She could absolutely wreck our lives for no reason other than she feels like it, and I’m sure you’ve been awake since three A.M., too.”
Andy stood up and buttoned her puffy down coat—she had wanted to wear something more elegant, but the day was arctic, and she wasn’t prepared to feel freezing in addition to terrified. She had spent her standard thirty minutes getting ready this morning, had donned the dress with the epaulets, as Emily had advised. Not winning any awards, but not objectionable either. “Come on, let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”
“Great attitude,” Emily said, shaking her head. But she stood and zipped up her gorgeous, cropped fur jacket.
They didn’t exchange a single word on the walk to Elias-Clark, and Andy felt reasonably okay until they entered the lobby and made their way over to the visitors’ desk to check in, something neither of them had done since the day they were each first interviewed.
“This is surreal,” Emily said, stealing glances around. Her hands trembled.
“No Eduardo at the turnstiles. No Ahmed at the magazine stand. I don’t recognize anyone . . .”
“You recognize her, don’t you?” Emily said, motioning over her shoulder with her eyes as she shoved her visitor badge into her purse.
Andy followed her gaze and immediately saw Jocelyn, Runway’s recently promoted beauty director and all-around society darling, crossing the lobby. She knew from the gossip blogs that Jocelyn had had a busy decade—two kids with her millionaire banker husband, a divorce from him, and a remarriage to an old-money billionaire with an additional two children—but no one could have ever known from merely looking at her: she appeared every bit as young, thin, and fresh-faced as she had when Andy roamed the halls. If anything, she had settled beautifully into her thirties and she carried herself with a calm, confident regality she hadn’t possessed as a younger woman. Andy couldn’t help but stare.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Andy murmured. A wave of anxiety washed over her. What was she doing, thinking she could just show up here after everything that had happened and waltz into Miranda Priestly’s office like nothing was wrong? This was a horrible idea, a disastrous one. Her urge to flee was overwhelming.
Emily grabbed Andy’s arm and practically yanked her through the turnstile and onto the elevator, where they were somehow, blessedly, alone. She punched the button for the eighteenth floor and turned to Andy. “We’re going to get through this, okay?” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Look on the bright side—at least we don’t have to go to the Runway floor.”
There was no time to answer before the doors swept open and they were faced with the familiar white starkness of every Elias-Clark reception area. Miranda had moved to a sweeping office on the corporate floor after her big promotion, although her Runway digs remained perfectly intact as well. Apparently she could sweep, unhindered, between both offices, terrorizing double the number of people in half the time.
“Guess they haven’t redecorated,” Andy muttered.
The receptionist, a lithe brunette with an almost too-severe bob and a jolting shade of red lipstick, forced a smile that looked more like a smirk. “Andrea Sachs and Emily Charlton? Right this way.”
Before either of them could confirm their identity—or even unwrap their scarves—the girl touched her card to the keypad, pushed open the enormous glass doors, and blazed through them, her four-inch heels not slowing her in the least. Emily and Andy had to run to keep up.
They exchanged looks as they followed the receptionist through a labyrinthine hallway, past palatial glass-enclosed offices with stunning Empire State Building views and expensively suited executives in various states of executing. This was happening so fast! There wasn’t going to be even a moment to sit, catch their breaths, offer each other comforting words. The receptionist hadn’t offered them water nor taken their coats. For the very first time, Andy understood—really, completely understood—how it had felt for all the editors, writers, models, designers, advertisers, photographers, and regular old Runway staffers who left the relative safety of their own offices to brave a visit to Miranda’s. No wonder they’d all looked like the walking dead.
A moment later they arrived at a suite similar to the setup Miranda had occupied at Runway: an anteroom with two immaculate assistant desks fronting open French doors that reveale
d a massive office with sweeping views, elegantly decorated in muted shades of gray and white with occasional pops of soft yellow and turquoise, which lent the whole room the feel of a sunny beach house. Painted driftwood frames that managed to look both antique and modern held photos of now-eighteen-year-olds Caroline and Cassidy, each one appearing pretty and vaguely hostile in her own distinct way. The carpet stretched wall to wall in an expanse of shocking white, its only color a lone wild streak of turquoise. Andy had just noticed the enormous tapestry on the far wall, a stitched fabric creation meant to look like a painting, when a door within Miranda’s office opened and the woman herself emerged. Without looking at Andy or Emily or either of her assistants, she strode toward her desk and began issuing the all-too-familiar directives.
“Charla? Can you hear me? Hello? Is anyone there?”
The girl who must have been Charla had just been preparing to greet Andy and Emily; she motioned toward them with her pointer finger to wait; grabbed a clipboard, which was presumably the Bulletin; and bolted into Miranda’s office.
“Yes, Miranda, I’m right here. What can I—”
“Call Cassidy and tell her to ask her tennis coach to join us this weekend while we’re away, and then call the coach and ask her yourself. No is not an acceptable option. Let my husband know we will be leaving tomorrow from the apartment at exactly five. Inform the garage and the Connecticut staff of our arrival time. Messenger a copy of that new book, the one they reviewed last Sunday, to my apartment before we leave, and schedule a phone call with the author for first thing Monday morning. Make a reservation for lunch today at one and inform Karl’s New York staff. Find out where the Bulgari people are staying and send flowers, lots of them. Tell Nigel I’ll be ready for my fitting today at three, not a minute later, and make sure the dress and all the accessories are ready. I know the shoes won’t be finished yet—they’re custom-making them in Milan—but find out the dimensions and make sure I have an exact replica for our run-through.” It was here that she finally took a breath, eyes to the ceiling in an apparent effort to recall a final command. “Oh yes, and get in touch with the Planned Parenthood people to schedule a meeting to go over details for the spring benefit. Is my eleven o’clock here?”