“Your magazine indeed,” Miranda said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, looking as though she were really enjoying herself. “But need I remind you that you have a long way to go?”
“Of course, there’s always room for improvement. Andy and I were just—”
Miranda cut off Emily as though she’d never spoken. “You can judge any book by its September issue and yours was—how shall I put this—thin. Think of all the companies you’d have positively clamoring to buy ad space once they learn The Plunge is associated with Runway. With all of the weight and experience and prestige of Elias-Clark behind it. Just think—then you could actually drop my name with credibility.”
Emily looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
Andy coughed. She could feel her face redden. “I’m sorry, Miranda,” she said, still surprised Miranda knew the real story. “We only used the Runway name to open doors, but we earned everything else.”
“Oh please, don’t have a stroke. Of course you did. You succeeded or we wouldn’t be here. But it’s time you took it up a notch. Who was that on your most recent cover? Those Greeks?”
Emily told her it was Greece’s most famous young couple, the son of the prime minister marrying the heiress daughter of one of the world’s richest men. Both were gorgeous Cambridge grads, friends of Prince William and Princess Kate.
“Well, they’re forgettable,” Miranda said. “Enough of the foreigners, unless they’re royalty themselves. We want aspirational. And frankly the issue with your own wedding, Ahn-dre-ah, was a big stretch. Maxwell Harrison might come from a storied family line, but he is not compelling enough to drive an entire issue. Who goes to the newsstand to pick up a magazine with a nobody on the cover?”
“We had terrific newsstand sales that month,” Andy managed, although a part of her didn’t disagree with Miranda. Still, couldn’t there be a kinder way of saying it?
Emily looked ready to jump out of her seat. “I hear what you’re saying, Miranda. I was thinking we should have gone in another direction for the cover, but St. Germaine was such a coup . . .”
Miranda’s laugh sounded like a bark. “Yes, well, when you work for me, great photographers will be de rigueur. With Runway backing you, you’ll drive every deal on your own terms.”
“You mean your terms,” Andy said quietly.
“I mean terms that include the best and most famous designers, photographers, stylists, celebrities . . . name them, and they’re yours.”
Nigel made a catcalling whistle sound. “She’s the best, ladies! Listen closely: it’s not every day you get Miranda Priestly giving you advice like this.”
Andrea and Emily looked at each other.
Miranda wasn’t finished. “And you’re going to have to change your staff. I want only the best team. That’s why I want you. But the transition will allow us to clean house of some of the hangers-on. Oh, and there will be no more ‘flexible work schedule’ rubbish. No more ‘working remotely.’ We banned it at Runway and it’s made a huge difference.”
Andy’s first thought went to Carmella Tindale, her beloved, clog-wearing managing editor who would no doubt get the ax. Even worse than that, though, would be saying good-bye to her own flexible schedule. No more Tuesday or Thursday mornings home with Clem. No more attending her pediatrician appointments. No more determining her own hours and working when it best fit her schedule.
Emily cleared her throat. “I’m not sure we have a lot of people we could afford to lose.”
Andy shot her a dagger look. “We have an amazing and dedicated staff who work long hours and sacrifice so much for the sake of the magazine. I wouldn’t want to part with any of them.”
Miranda rolled her eyes as if this were all too tiring. “They work long hours so they can raid the swag closet and talk on the phone with celebrities. At Elias-Clark, they’ll have that opportunity tenfold. Which is why they should all be presentable. And trained in the Runway manner. I would see to it myself.”
“Yes, I do think—” Emily started, but Miranda cut her off.
“And getting back to Nigel’s wedding here,” Miranda said, pausing only a moment to make sure all eyes were on her. “I would personally guarantee it would be your biggest issue yet. By a large margin.”
“I know I speak on behalf of Emily and myself when I say that we have some clear ideas for how we want that issue to—”
“Friends!” Nigel cried. “Let us not bicker over details. You all must realize, of course, that when we’re talking about the wedding of the century—mine—it is surely I who will make the decisions. Consider me your fearless king, and you all my ladies in waiting.” Nigel pushed his chair back from the table, sprung to his feet, and wrapped his cape around his shoulders.
Emily laughed first and Andy followed. Miranda made a tight, angry smile.
Nigel saluted. “To wedding unity!” he sang, now on a roll. “I promise you this: there is enough Nigel fabulousness to go around. Now, what do we say about a toast?”
As though by magic, a waiter appeared from the kitchen with a tray of four champagne flutes and a bottle of Moët.
“No, no, that won’t do,” Nigel muttered. He disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with four elegant crystal shot glasses. Upon closer inspection, they looked to be espresso cups, but Nigel didn’t seem to mind.
“What’s this?” Emily asked, accepting hers daintily between thumb and forefinger.
“Nigel, really,” Miranda said, with what sounded like faux exasperation. Nonetheless, she too accepted a glass.
“To brilliant collaborations among brilliant women!” Nigel called, his own glass raised high. “The Plunge is one lucky lady, to have so many who love her.”
“Well put, Nigel,” Emily said, leaning forward to clink his glass. Together, each clinked Andy’s and Miranda’s before elegantly throwing back the shot.
“Drink!” Nigel shrieked, and Emily laughed.
Andy watched in disbelief as Miranda took a delicate sip and then another. Not wanting to be the only one with a full glass, Andy summoned her college days, took a deep breath, and downed the alcohol in one gulp. It burned her throat and made her eyes water, and she couldn’t tell if it was vodka or whiskey or gin or something else entirely.
“This is vile,” Miranda proclaimed, examining the remainder of her shot. “I’m appalled to think you found this in my home.”
Nigel smiled devilishly. He reached under his shirt and produced a silver and leather flask, monogrammed with a large, flowery N. “I didn’t,” he said with a grin.
The rest of the dessert course passed without incident, but Andy was still reeling from the conversation. Miranda ushered everyone into the foyer, and it was all Andy could do to take her coat slowly and not run from the entire dreadful scene.
“Thank you so much for such an amazing night,” Emily gushed, pecking Miranda once on each cheek as if they were long lost sorority sisters.
“Yes, darling, you really outdid yourself,” Nigel said. Although it wasn’t the least bit cold outside, he pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves and wrapped a blanket-size cashmere scarf around his head and neck.
Only Andy seemed to notice Miranda’s back go ramrod straight and her mouth clench closed.
“Thank you for inviting us, Miranda. Dinner was lovely,” Andy said quietly as she fiddled with the buttons on her jacket.
“Ahn-dre-ah.” Miranda’s voice was quiet too, but there was something steely in it. Something determined.
Andy glanced up and almost lost her balance. Miranda was staring at her with such naked, unabashed hatred that it took her breath away.
Nigel and Emily were chatting about whether it was best to share a cab home or each take their own, so neither noticed when Miranda wrapped her long, lean fingers around Andy’s shoulder, pulled her close, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. It was the closest Andy had ever been to Miranda, and it made the hairs on her arms and neck stand up.
“You’ll sign
those papers this week,” she said, her breath icy on Andy’s cheek. “You’ll stop making trouble for everyone.” Then, just as quickly as she claimed Andy, Miranda gave her arm the slightest push. I’m done with you. Now move along.
Before Andy could even think of responding, the elevator man appeared in the doorway and good-byes were being exchanged all around. No one noticed when Andy dumbly shuffled onto the elevator without saying another word.
They spilled out onto the street, Nigel and Emily tipsy and laughing, clutching each other’s hands.
“Good-bye, darlings,” Nigel called, as he slipped into a taxi without offering the girls a ride, or the chance to take it first. “Can’t wait to get working together again!”
Emily had her arm extended to hail a cab when a Town Car pulled up beside her. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind face said, “You’re Ms. Priestly’s guests? She’s asked I see you home, or wherever you need to go.”
Emily gave Andy a triumphant look and flopped happily into the backseat. “How nice was it for Miranda to have us driven home?” she asked, stretching her legs.
Andy was still in shock. Had Miranda threatened her? Did that really just happen? She couldn’t even summon the words to tell Emily.
“What a fabulous dinner! I really love what she did with the apartment, and of course the food was to die for,” Emily prattled on. “In hindsight, I think it was better Cassidy and her boyfriend didn’t join us. It gave Miranda a chance to focus exclusively on us, let us hear her real thoughts for The Plunge. I know some of what she said sounded a tad . . . intense. But how incredible that one of the greatest minds in fashion and publishing wants to help us take The Plunge to the next level? It’s almost unbelievable!”
Why didn’t Emily seem more upset? Didn’t she see that Miranda admitted she had every intention of treating The Plunge as her own private fiefdom? That Miranda would oversee the hiring and firing, dictate every decision from the editorial to the advertising, institute draconian schedules and dress codes? That they would essentially be assistants again, with no real say or influence, mere pawns in Miranda’s despotic reign?
“I feel like we weren’t at the same dinner.” Andy said.
“I think she’s really made a change for the better, Andy. She couldn’t have been more gracious tonight.” Emily’s smile was beatific, as though she had just emerged from an indulgent full-body massage.
“Emily! Didn’t you hear her say, ‘I wouldn’t allow it!’ As though it were her magazine? And what about insisting that Nigel and Neil take the June cover? I wasn’t going to say anything tonight, but I have a possible lead on Angelina and Brad. Who are we going to give the June cover to? Nigel, flamboyant magazine editor and Priestly muse? Or Brangelina? I mean, seriously!”
Emily closed her eyes and exhaled luxuriously. “Did you not want to die when the assistant walked in?” she asked.
“I know, poor thing. She must have been panicked. Didn’t you see? She’s still the same Miranda. Treating her assistants like slaves. She barely acknowledged the girl except to dismiss her. I bet Miranda will fire her for letting Nigel follow her.”
“Yes, well what idiot allows anyone—even Nigel—to join her for drop-off? It’s positively asinine. We never would have done that. Well, you probably would have, but I’d have shut it down immediately. If Miranda knows what’s good for her, she’ll fire that girl first thing tomorrow.”
Andy looked out the window at all the gorgeous windows lit up on Fifth Avenue as the car hurtled downtown. So much had changed since she’d left Runway. It had taken years and so much hard work and heartache, but Andy finally felt like she had peace in her life: friends with whom she shared things, a loving sister and parents, a career that challenged and fulfilled her, and most of all, a family all her own. A husband. A daughter. It hadn’t happened the way she’d expected, but did any of that matter now?
“Wasn’t tonight just fab?” Emily sighed. Her eyes were still closed and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure.
Andy said nothing.
“I really think Miranda made a huge overture tonight. And I’m sure it’s not just for us. She’s definitely changed for the better, don’t you think?”
“Em, I—” Andy stopped, too exhausted for the conflict that would surely ensue once she uttered the words she knew she must say. “Let’s have lunch this week and come to a decision on the Elias-Clark offer once and for all, okay? We got sidetracked the last time we were supposed to discuss it. We’re clearly coming from different places on this, but we owe it to ourselves and everyone else to make a final decision. Okay?”
Emily opened her eyes. She smiled and poked Andy in the side. “Fine, lunch it is. And I’m the first to admit that Miranda was a lunatic back in the day and very well may still be a little crazy , but we can totally handle her, Andy. I’m telling you, we make a kick-ass team, and we could accomplish amazing things over at Elias-Clark.”
“Lunch,” Andy said, the now-familiar feeling of dread beginning to settle over her. Tonight had left no room for negotiation, as far as Andy was concerned. It was over, finished, final. She’d worked too long and too hard to get where she was, only to sign her life away again to Miranda Priestly. She would tell Emily that week. There could be no other way.
chapter 20
a shipping container of botox
The alarm blared. Disoriented, Andy rolled over to look at her clock and almost fell out of bed: eleven! How was it eleven o’clock?
“Relax,” Max said, placing a warm palm over her exposed arm. “We’re not late. We have plenty of time.”
“Late for what?”
“I just said we’re not late.”
“But where are we going? Where’s Clementine?”
Max laughed. He was fully dressed in a button-down and jeans, lying on top of the covers, reading on his iPad. “Clem’s napping but she should be up any second. You’ve been sleeping like a dead person for who knows how many hours. And we are expected for brunch at an as-yet-undisclosed location with your mommy group. Any of this sounding familiar?”
Andy groaned. The previous night’s dinner came rushing back to her.
Had Miranda Priestly really hissed at her? The mommy group was great, but getting herself and the baby up and dressed for a brunch across town sounded about as appealing as a trip to the gynecologist right now. “Unfortunately, yes. The husband brunch. We’ve spent the last three-plus months divulging the intimate details of all our lives, including yours. Time to meet the subjects of our collective analysis.”
“Sounds terrific. You said it starts at twelve thirty?”
Andy nodded. She was about to tell him about the Miranda dinner when his phone rang.
“I need to take this,” he said, walking out of the room.
Andy peeled off her nightshirt and stretched luxuriously under the covers. Her sheets felt silken and cool against her bare skin, and for a minute or two she was able to stop her mind from returning again and again to Miranda Priestly. As good as her bed felt, her shower was even better, and this gave her a few more minutes of calm. As she did at least once a day, Andy marveled at how their building’s combination of unparalleled water pressure and seemingly unlimited hot water made nearly all the other inconveniences of city life—the grime, lack of space, crowds, expense, and all-around general hassle—completely worth it.
She stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Max appeared in the bathroom and embraced her warm, naked body from behind. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply. “I wanted to wake you up so badly last night,” he said gruffly.
“Then why didn’t you?” Andy murmured. She didn’t want to admit that she was more relieved than disappointed when she’d come home to discover that Max was still out on his client dinner: she just didn’t have the energy to get into it.
“You’ve had a crazy couple weeks. You needed your sleep.” Max said, rinsing his razor under hot water. “So how did it go?”
Andy walked
toward her closet and grabbed the first few things she saw. She brought them back to the bathroom and began to get dressed. “It was . . . interesting.”
Max raised his eyebrows at her in the mirror. “A little more detail?”
“Miranda definitely made a superhuman effort at being charming—it’s almost flattering how much she wants The Plunge—but then she reverted to her usual inhuman ways.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that she didn’t even try to disguise her plan to completely control the magazine and everything that went into it. If anything, I was almost shocked at how brazen she was about it.”
Something about Max’s expression irked her. “What?” she asked.
Max seemed to make it a point not to make eye contact. He studied his cheek stubble intently and gave a little shrug. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but that look said something. What?” Andy asked.
Max set down his razor and turned to look at her. “Andy, I know you think I don’t really understand how hard it was for you to work for Miranda, and truth be told, I probably don’t. No one does. But don’t you think you could put it behind you and make the right decision here?”
Andy suddenly felt self-conscious being topless and grabbed for a robe.
“I’m just saying, I don’t think Miranda’s out to wreck your lives, you know?”
Andy stared at him. “I know that. That’s not at all how Miranda operates. The life-wrecking is an unintentional consequence, although I’m not sure that makes it any better.”
“You know how to stand up for yourself against bullies, Andy. And when push comes to shove, that’s all Miranda really is. Your standard-fare, run-of-the-mill schoolyard bully.”
“Only someone who’s never worked for her could make that statement,” she said as lightly as she could manage despite her irritation.
Part of her wanted to avoid any more conversation, but Andy realized that in her effort to erase Miranda from her life over the years, she’d never really adequately described Miranda to Max. He knew she was curt, contrarian, a “difficult personality.” He was aware of her reputation as a tough and demanding boss. He’d met her enough over the years to see firsthand that she could be brusque and aloof. More than aloof—“unfriendly” was how he’d described Miranda the first time Barbara had introduced them. But for some reason—or really, because Andy could never bear to talk about it—Max didn’t seem to understand the true Miranda. The evil, nasty, even sadistic Miranda who, to this day, haunted his wife.