Nigel grinned. “I’ve already got Karl working on my outfit. Picture James Bond meets Pretty Woman, with a little dash of Mary Poppins thrown in for good measure.”
The three of them nodded enthusiastically.
Christian took that moment to excuse himself, and Andy caught Max staring after him.
“That sounds amazing,” Andy said to Nigel, though she hadn’t the faintest clue what he meant.
“It’s going to be the wedding of the year,” he said without the least bit of irony or modesty.
Andy had a flash of brilliance. It was so obviously perfect that she could barely get the words out. “You know, I’m ashamed to say it, but The Plunge has never covered a same-sex marriage. I’ll have to talk to Emily first, but I’m sure we would both love it if you’d consider letting us feature your wedding. We would guarantee you the cover, of course, and do a great in-depth interview covering all aspects of how you met, started dating, got engaged, the works. I can’t make any promises, but maybe we could even arrange for St. Germain, or perhaps Testino, to shoot—”
Something about the way Nigel smiled at her—slyly, knowingly, but also with sympathy—stopped Andy midsentence.
“It’s quite amazing, it really is,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like destiny!”
“So you like the idea?” Andy asked hopefully, already imagining Emily’s ecstatic reaction to the news.
“Love it, darling. Miranda and I discussed it this morning, and we both agreed it would be cover-worthy. Although she prefers Demarchelier, I still think it would work with Mario. Regardless, it’s going to be smashing. I just adore when an idea comes together!”
“You and Miranda discussed it?” Andy asked, searching for an explanation. The disappointment set in almost immediately. “I didn’t realize it would be the type of thing Runway would—”
Nigel screeched. “You’re too sweet, darling! Of course it’s not right for Runway, but it’s absolutely perfect for The Plunge.”
Andy looked at him in confusion. “So you want to talk about featuring it? Because I know we would be so excited to—”
Again, Nigel’s expression silenced her. “No need to talk about anything at all, my love. It’s all been decided.”
Andy’s eyes flew to Max, who was staring at the ground.
“Oh, you must mean the proposal for Elias-Clark to acquire The Plunge, right?” Andy asked, truly puzzled and trying to recover a modicum of control.
No one said a word. Nigel stared at her as though she’d just offered him a test ride on her spaceship.
“I know it’s on the table, and we’re very much entertaining the idea,” she lied again. “But nothing’s been decided yet.”
Another long, excruciating period of silence ensued.
Nigel smiled patronizingly. “Of course, dear.”
Max cleared his throat. “Well, however it happens, I think we can all agree it’ll make a great story. Congratulations again! Now, will you please excuse me while I steal Andy away for a moment?”
Nigel was back in the mix of the Runway crew before Max even had a chance to steer Andy toward the bar.
“Was that just what I think it was?” Andy asked, numbly accepting the glass of wine Max handed her.
“What? Nigel just being overenthusiastic? I think it’s a great sign he’s so excited about having his wedding in The Plunge, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But he made it sound like this was all a fait accompli, like Miranda already owns us and gets to make all the calls. Doesn’t he know we’ve tabled that conversation for the time being?” And by tabled, I mean squashed forever, Andy thought.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Max said. “You’ve always said Nigel was just really excitable.”
Andy nodded, although she couldn’t ignore the feeling of cold dread that had settled over her. The mere suggestion that Miranda would be deciding which weddings they would cover and who would shoot them was enough to make her sweaty with anxiety and fear. She knew then, even more certainly than she had before, that she would never allow that to happen.
“Hey, love, I’m saying good-bye,” Christian said into her ear as he swooped up behind her. Andy instantly felt self-conscious when he placed his hands on her hips and kissed both her cheeks. He turned to Max, who was staring daggers at him, and said, “Good to see you again, man. And congratulations on your lovely wife. She’s the best.”
Max had already tightened his grip around Andy’s shoulder and merely nodded at Christian before directing Andy back toward their table.
“You didn’t have to be rude,” Andy said, although she was secretly delighted with Max’s unspoken reaction: Back off my wife, and take your too-tight suit and your dimples with you.
“Oh please. Rude would have been telling that douchebag to stop openly hitting on my wife and get the fuck out of my face. I can’t believe you dated that guy.”
Andy wisely decided not to correct Max’s perception that she and Christian had done anything besides sleep together. Instead, she took her husband’s hand and joined the crowd in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” for The Plunge. Everyone cheered.
The next three hours passed in a blur of hors d’oeuvres, music, and chatter, even a little dancing. Andy talked to dozens, maybe hundreds of people, and although she wasn’t the least bit drunk—she’d stopped drinking early in anticipation of her late-night nursing session—she barely remembered a single word exchanged except those between herself and Nigel. Why did he think the acquisition was so imminent? She wanted to ask Emily but watching her actually eat a piece of the Weinstock cake, she knew she could refrain from an Elias-Clark conversation for one night. Andy had to admit she was still hoping—irrationally, she knew—that the whole thing would just fade into the woodwork. Instead, she kissed her friend good night, congratulated her on a hugely successful party, and followed Max into the backseat of a taxi.
When the cab pulled up in front of their building, Andy practically bolted into the lobby. This was the longest since Clem was born that Andy had left her side, and she couldn’t bear another second. She scooped her just-awakened daughter into her arms and pressed her lips to the baby’s warm, red cheeks. It was all she could do not to chew them, she thought with a smile as Clem’s face began to scrunch up in a telltale wail.
“How is she?” Max asked, having paid Isla and seen her into a taxi.
“Delicious as ever. Perfect timing—she just woke up for her midnight feed.”
Max held Clem while Andy kicked off her heels and stripped off her dress and her insanely painful Spanx, which she deposited directly in the trash. Climbing naked under the cloudlike covers and collapsing back into the pile of pillows, she groaned in pleasure. “Give me my baby,” she said, arms extended.
Max handed her the whimpering bundle and the entire world of Nigel and Emily and The Plunge and Miranda Priestly disappeared into blissful nonexistence. Lying on her side, Andy unzipped Clem’s pajamas. She placed her hand directly on her daughter’s warm belly. She stroked her chest and her back, whispering quietly in her ear as she guided her breast to Clem’s mouth, and exhaled in relief as the baby began to suck. Max pulled the covers up over the pair as Andy pressed her lips to Clem’s head and continued to rub her back in slow, steady circles.
“Beautiful,” Max said, his voice gruff with emotion.
Andy smiled up at him.
Max crawled, fully dressed, beside them in bed.
Andy watched her daughter suckle for another couple of minutes and saw Max close his eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and without a second thought, she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. His eyes didn’t open but she knew he was awake. A surge of peace, hope, comfort coursed through her. It had been forever since she’d told him, unsolicited, and she wanted him to know.
“I love you, Max,” she whispered.
chapter 18
stop talking and step away
Andy covered Clem’s face in kisses before handing her ov
er to Isla. She watched as the baby flashed a smile and reached out for her, and the waterworks began. And it wasn’t the baby who was crying. Was Andy going to sob like a crazy person every day for eternity? Would Clementine leave in the morning, backpack on and pigtails bobbing, on her way to fourth grade, with Andy a blubbering wreck at the bus stop?
“It’s only your third day back,” Max said reassuringly as he watched the emotional good-bye. “It’ll get easier.”
“I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday,” Andy said, carefully dabbing her eyes.
Max held the front door open for her and Andy willed herself to walk through it. It was such a bittersweet thing: she desperately missed Clem and hated leaving her all day, but it did feel good getting back to work. To adult conversations and spit-up-free clothes and using her mind again for something other than singing “You Are My Sunshine.”
“Share a cab?” Max asked. He walked to the curb and thrust out his arm.
“I can’t, I have to run a couple errands before work. There’s never any time afterward.”
A cab pulled up. Max kissed Andy and ducked into the backseat. “Keep me updated, okay?”
Andy frowned. “Isla texts you with updates too, doesn’t she?”
“About your conversation with Emily, I meant.”
Andy knew exactly what he meant but feigned confusion.
“Aren’t you guys having your big sit-down today? To discuss your next move?”
“Mmm,” Andy murmured, suddenly desperate to get away. “Have a good day.”
Max pulled the door shut and the cab took off like a race car. She checked her watch. Eight A.M. Gone were the days of leisurely coffees and fresh-made smoothies and gym visits—although Max still got there at least three days a week without her—but Andy didn’t mind. She’d so much rather spend those couple of hours with her daughter, snuggling in bed together, playing on the fluffy nursery rug. It was now the best part of the whole day.
Andy was sorting her clothes when the dry cleaner’s receptionist, a fortysomething Ecuadorian man who always gave Andy Tootsie Rolls, shouted a greeting over her shoulder.
“Hey, man, new customer! Welcome, mister!”
Andy didn’t turn around.
“How much will it cost to shorten this skirt?” she asked. “Just an inch, inch and a half? I’d like it to hit right above the knee instead of at it.”
The receptionist was nodding, but it was the voice behind her that caught her attention. “You can go shorter than an inch. You’ve got the legs to pull it off.”
The voice vibrated in her toes, and Andy knew it was Alex before she turned around.
Her Alex. Her first love, the man she always thought she’d marry. He had been there through all four years of college and the craziness of life at Runway and the fallout period after it. Alex had joined her on family vacations. He’d attended holiday dinners and birthday parties and celebratory drinks of every kind. Alex knew she hated sliced tomatoes but loved tomato-based everything, didn’t laugh when she death-gripped his hand when their flight had turbulence. For nearly six years, he’d known every inch of her body as though it was his own.
“Hey there,” she said, collapsing into his open arms for the most natural-feeling hug in the world.
He kissed her on the cheek like an exuberant uncle—rough, excited, platonic. “I’m serious, Andy. Don’t go getting all conservative on me in your old age.”
“Old age?” she said, feigning outrage. “The last time I checked, you were two months older than me.”
He pushed her back but held her upper arms and made a long, slow show of carefully looking her up down. The obvious affection, the wide smile, that adorable head nod—it made her instantly comfortable. Confident even. Despite still being eight or ten pounds above her pre-pregnancy weight and overall jigglier than usual, she felt attractive.
“You look terrific, Andy. Glowing. And I hear I owe you a huge congratulations on baby Clementine.”
Andy looked at him, caught off guard by the warmness of his smile. He appeared genuinely happy for her. “Your mom?”
He nodded. “I hope it doesn’t freak you out, but she sent me those pictures of you in the hospital the first few days. I guess your mom was so excited she forwarded them to everyone in her address book. Anyway, your daughter is beautiful and you and your husband looked very, very happy.”
“Anything else I can do for you two?” the receptionist asked.
“Sorry, we’re leaving. Thanks for everything.”
She followed Alex outside. She tried to focus on the present moment, but her mind kept cycling through the hospital pictures from Clem’s birth: Andy, minutes postpartum, looking all sweaty and makeup-less and pale; Clementine first covered in blood and vernix and then cleaned up but still ruddy and cone headed; a stubble-faced Max looking alternately like he wanted to throw up and kiss someone. They were photos of possibly the most intimate time of their entire lives, and Alex had seen them. She wanted to kill her mother, really punish her, even while a tiny, deeply buried part of her was happy Alex had gotten to share that.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. “Do you have time for a coffee?”
Andy glanced at her watch, but she knew full well she would agree no matter the time. Besides, why get to work before everyone else? “Um, yeah, that would be great. I’m only just back at work full-time, so it probably doesn’t matter if I’m a little late.”
Alex smiled and offered his arm, which Andy accepted. In one block they passed a Starbucks, an Au Bon Pain, and a Le Pain Quotidien, and Andy wondered where they were headed.
“How has it been being back to work?” Alex asked as they walked. It was already getting cold, and Andy could see her breath form little clouds, but the sun was bright and shining and the morning felt a little bit hopeful.
In his very first question, Alex had hit on the topic at the forefront of Andy’s every waking moment. Three days in and it was still torturous leaving Clem. Still, she felt she shouldn’t complain. Being her own boss, the hours were reasonable and flexible, and she would never have to miss a doctor’s appointment or a sniffly nose. Isla was an absolute dream whom Andy trusted completely, and her mother planned to spend an afternoon a week caring for her granddaughter and making sure all ran smoothly at home. She had the financial means to hire great help, the support of family and an involved husband, and an easy, adaptable baby who stuck happily to her schedule of eating, sleeping, and playing. And it was still hard to balance it all. How did women do it with multiple children, grueling hours, low pay, and minimal or no help? Andy couldn’t even fathom it.
“It’s been good,” she said automatically. “I’m really lucky to have a great husband and nanny. They’ve both made it a lot easier.”
“I would imagine it’s never easy leaving that little person every day. Of course it must be wonderful to get out of the house, talk to adults, focus on your own work every day. But you must miss her.”
He said it plainly, with empathy and no judgment. Andy’s throat threatened to close.
“I miss her so much,” she said, trying not to cry. She thought of Clementine right then, most likely spending a little time kicking around on her play mat before getting a warm bottle and going in for her first nap of the day. She would wake up happy and cooing, her face pink and warm and pressed from sleep, her hair mussed in the most adorable way. If she closed her eyes, Andy could smell her neck, feel her velvety skin, picture those perfect apple cheeks. And although he obviously didn’t have children of his own, something told her Alex understood.
Alex ushered her down a flight of stairs and into a nearly hidden bakery that felt like a combination of an illicit speakeasy and a Parisian café. They claimed the lone empty table and Andy checked her phone as Alex ordered at the counter for them.
“The usual?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Here you go.” He set a frothy decaf latte in front of her, the kind that looked more like a soup bowl than a coffee mug, and to
ok a sip from his iced Americano. It felt like not a single minute had elapsed since the last time they’d seen each other.
“Thank you,” Andy said, licking the foam as delicately as she could manage. “Okay, now it’s your turn. You can start by telling me how you know about this adorable little coffee shop that’s exactly six blocks from my apartment when I’ve never even seen it.”
“I wish there was a story that made me seem cooler, but I actually read about it in a guidebook.”
Andy raised her eyebrows.
“I moved back to the city this past fall and felt totally out of the loop. So I bought one of those Not for Tourists guides or whatever you call them, the ones that are totally for tourists? And they suggested this place as somewhere only locals and insiders go.”
“I’m buying the damn guide the second I get to a computer,” Andy said with a grin. She paused, took another sip. “So where do you live now?”
“In the West Village. Christopher and the highway? I guess it used to be kind of seedy, but it’s completely gentrified now.”
“And you do your dry cleaning in Chelsea?” Andy couldn’t help asking.
Alex gave her a look, an amused one that seemed to say I’m onto you. “No, I don’t do my dry cleaning in Chelsea. I’m going to see an exhibit at the Rubin Museum. I just happened to see you from the sidewalk and came in.”
“The Rubin Museum?”
“Himalayan art? Seventeenth and Seventh? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of that one either.”
“Of course I have!” Andy said, too indignantly, especially since she walked by it nearly every day and had yet to step inside. “So what brings you back to the city? You just finished your degree, right? I think my mom mentioned that. Congratulations!”
If it felt as strange for Alex as it did for Andy that they knew details about each other’s lives through their mothers, he didn’t let on. “Yeah, I finished in the spring and stayed in Vermont over the summer to just hang out and relax. I moved back at the end of August, which was every bit as hot and hellish as you’d imagine, and I’ve been getting reacquainted with the city. I can’t get over how much has changed since . . . since the last time I lived here.”