Revenge Wears Prada (18 page)

The hotel made it all worthwhile, although
hotel
didn’t come close to accurately describing the place. It was a wonderland. A charming, villagelike wonderland, with little individual thatched-roof villas tucked into lush greenery around a crescent-shaped beach. The “lobby,” an open-air pavilion with marble floors and Balinese-style wood carved furniture, was filled with elaborate birdcages and singing tropical birds and looked on an ocean so clear and blue Andy momentarily thought she was hallucinating. When she’d stepped onto her own suite’s private balcony, Andy had spotted a monkey swinging in the tree above her.

Now she pushed herself to sit on the bed and surveyed her
surroundings. Her king platform bed was draped with all-white linens, and the mattress was magically firm and plushly soft at the same time. There was a coconut-wood table and chairs near the front door and a sectional sofa with glass coffee table and a Bose stereo system to the left of the bed. The bamboo-frame thatched roof, in addition to walls of sliding glass that opened completely on three sides, made it feel like the suite was outdoors. The plunge pool hung precipitously over the balcony, its green water blending into its surroundings, and its two teak chaise lounge chairs with striped cushions and a coordinating umbrella created the chicest private sun lounge she’d ever seen. White marble covered nearly every surface in the cavernous bathroom, including the double vanities and the glass-enclosed rain-forest shower that was almost as large as the second bedroom in her New York apartment. Towels so fluffy and white they looked like spun sugar hung from heated bars; fresh frangipani flowers adorned the dressing area; softly scented shampoo and conditioner sat in small clay bottles labeled with miniature rope signs around their necks. At the far end of the bathroom, surrounded by palm trees and lush vegetation, rested a massive soaking tub. It was surrounded on three sides by eight-foot-high walls, but it was completely open to the outside air, and miraculously, it was already filled with warm, fragrant water. A small clay pot of bath salts rested on its edge, subtle music wafted from somewhere, and the scent of greenness, of plants and trees and soil, combined with heat from the afternoon sun, filled the outdoor room.

She wriggled out of her leggings, and her T-shirt hit the ground before Andy was even fully awake. She sank into the fragrant water, just warm enough in the humid, outdoor air, and closed her eyes. Automatically, her hands ran over her belly, prodding it, still unable to believe there was a tiny life growing inside her. Although she hadn’t let herself think about it until right now, she suddenly realized she wanted a son. Why, she couldn’t say. Maybe it was seeing both her sister and Lily with
boys, the only small children she knew well and loved. Or maybe it was the idea of a mama’s boy, a sweet little thing with floppy long hair and a security blanket, who got dressed up in miniature blue blazers and neckties and curled into her lap. She wasn’t sure, but Max had long ago announced he was certain they would only ever have girl babies. He claimed he couldn’t wait to teach their daughters all about tennis and football and golf, to dress them in miniature uniforms and coach their T-ball team. He predicted blond babies, despite the fact that neither of them was blond, and that they’d love their daddy more than any man in the whole world. It was one of the things that drew Andy to him—the reputed playboy was a softie at heart, a man who wanted hearth and home more than any she’d met and was unafraid to admit it. Andy hadn’t known him to be any other way, but his sister had immediately remarked about how meeting Andy had changed Max into the man he was always meant to be. He was going to die of happiness when she told him the news.

Somewhere a room phone rang, and Andy looked around in a panic before spotting an extension discreetly mounted on the wall near the tub.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Harrison? Yes, hello, this is Ronald, from the concierge desk? Ms. Hallow asked me to let you know that the rehearsal dinner will begin in an hour on the beach. May I send someone to escort you?”

“Yes, thank you. I will be ready then.”

She turned on the hot water and stuck her feet directly under the stream. Her entire body felt exhausted, but her mind was awake and racing. In one hour she’d be attending the rehearsal dinner of music’s most powerful couple. Harper Hallow had racked up no fewer than twenty-two Grammys over the course of her career—a tie with U2 and Stevie Wonder—although she’d been nominated for nearly a dozen more; her intended, a rapper born Clarence Dexter who now went by the one-word name
Mack, had made hundreds of millions parlaying his musical career into a lucrative shoe and clothing line. Their wedding would make them among the richest, most famous couples in the world.

After a few more minutes of soaking, Andy forced herself to climb out of the luxurious tub and made a beeline for the rain-forest shower, where she happily rinsed and shaved her legs using the thoughtfully provided teak bench. She pulled on a pair of white linen pants, a silky turquoise and orange top, and flat silver sandals, thinking Emily would be proud. As she was packing her notebook and phone into the hotel-provided straw tote bag, the villa’s doorbell rang. A young, shy Anguillan boy wearing a crisp short-sleeved shirt greeted her quietly and motioned for Andy to follow him.

They walked for three minutes and arrived at a pavilion that housed a casual poolside bar. The sun was just beginning to set over the water; the air was cooler now, and a sliver of moon was visible. Hundreds of people milled about, holding cocktails in coconut shells and bottles of Caribbean beer. A twelve-piece reggae band played island tunes and a group of children, all dressed in designer everything, giggled and danced in front of them. Andy surveyed the scene but didn’t immediately spot either Harper or Mack.

Her phone rang just as she accepted a glass of sparkling water from a uniformed waiter.

Andy walked toward the side of the tent and pulled the phone from her bag. “Em? Hey. Can you hear me?”

“Where are you exactly? You know the rehearsal dinner started twenty minutes ago, right?”

Emily’s voice was so loud that Andy had to hold the phone away from her ear. “I’m standing right in the middle of it, chatting up the most charming people. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Because you know we need some details to personalize everything and all the good, gossipy toasts happen tonight . . .”

“That’s why I’m here, notebook in hand . . . ,” Andy said as
she glanced at her tiny clutch and realized she’d forgotten so much as a pen. If this is what it was like to be in the first trimester, what was going to happen six months down the road?

“What’s Harper wearing?” Emily asked.

“Em? I can barely hear you. It’s so windy here.” Andy blew into the phone for effect.

“Uh-huh. Hang up and send me a picture. I’m dying to see what everything looks like.”

Andy blew some more. “Will do! Gotta run.” She clicked her phone off and returned to the party. Tiki torches surrounded the entire area where guests were choosing items off a massive raw bar in the center of the open-air tent. Andy was just about to speak a few notes into her phone’s recorder when a woman wearing a headset and carrying an overflowing leather folio stepped directly into her path.

“You must be Andrea Sachs,” the woman said, looking relieved.

“And you must be Harper’s publicist . . .”

“Yes, I’m Annabelle.” She grabbed Andy’s arm and pulled her toward the tables in the sand. “There are flip-flops in that basket if you’d rather wear those. There’s the raw bar and passed hors d’oeuvres for cocktail hour, and of course the waiters can get you anything you’d like to drink. Mack had all the food and wine flown in especially for the weekend, so please do try to sample everything. I can provide a menu, too, if you need it for fact-checking.”

Andy nodded. Publicists to the stars tended to be tightly wound with a talking speed three times faster than that of average people, but they certainly made her job easier.

“We’ll be serving dinner soon, followed by thirty minutes of toasts, emceed by Mack’s agent, who’s also a dear friend, which will be followed by dessert and after-dinner drinks. Cars will be waiting after the festivities to bring the young people to the is land’s
best discotheque and home again. Naturally, Harper will retire to her suite immediately after dessert, but you’re more than welcome to join the after-party if you’d like.”

“Discotheque? Oh, I think I’ll probably just—”

“Okay, sounds good,” the woman said, continuing to pull Andy along. They arrived at a round table of eight with a dramatic bird-of-paradise centerpiece and seven chattering, attractive guests. “Here we are. Everyone, this is Andrea Sachs from
The Plunge
magazine.
The Plunge
will be covering the festivities, so please show her a good time.”

Andy could feel her face redden as everyone turned to look at her. And then her stomach did a little flip-flop as she heard a familiar voice, one that transported her back ten years in an instant.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” the voice sang, sounding both amused and predatory. “What an
interesting
little surprise!”

Nigel beamed back at her, his too-perfect teeth almost glowing in the night.

Andy tried to say something, but her mouth was too dry to talk.

Annabelle laughed. “Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot you two used to work together. How perfect!” she trilled, motioning for Andy to take a seat. “It’s like a little
Runway
reunion!”

It was only then that she noticed that Jessica, the event planner during Andy’s tenure at
Runway,
and Serena, one of the junior editors, flanked Nigel on either side. Both managed to look younger, thinner, and all around more confidently gorgeous than they had a decade before, not that she should have been surprised . . . it was classic
Runway.

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world!” Nigel trilled. “Andrea Sachs, come sit right here by me.”

He was wearing a cross between a robe and a dress, all white, over pants that could possibly have been skinny jeans but more closely resembled leggings. A fringed silk scarf hung from his
neck all the way down to his knees and it featured a none-too-subtle Louis Vuitton logo print the entire length. Despite the tropical heat, the ensemble was topped off with a mink Cossack hat and purple velvet slippers.

Andy had no choice but to take a seat next to Nigel. He grinned widely but not nicely. “I won’t even mention how you abandoned me! I took you under my wing and
this
”—he pulled on the fabric of Andy’s tunic and scrunched his face up in distaste—“is how you repay me? By leaving? And without so much as a good-bye?”

After the Paris debacle, Andy hadn’t returned to the
Runway
offices to collect as much as a pencil, but she’d written a long, appreciative letter to Nigel, apologizing for disrespecting Miranda and thanking him for mentoring her. No response. In the following months Andy had e-mailed him a copy of the letter, sent a couple other “How are you, I miss you!” notes, and even posted on Nigel’s style blog. Nada. Meanwhile, Emily claimed she’d fled to his office within seconds of being fired, only to be met with a closed door and an uncooperative assistant. She, too, had e-mailed him and, once, invited him to a private dinner party honoring Marc Jacobs that
Harper’s Bazaar
was hosting but had never received a response.

Andy cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. I really did try to get—”

“Please!” Nigel screeched, waving his hand. “Let’s not talk shop at a party. Girls, you remember Andrea Sachs, I’m sure?”

Serena and Jessica. Neither nodded nor offered so much as a halfhearted smile. Jessica appraised Andy’s outfit with icy disapproval while Serena took a sip of her wine and stared at Andy over the top of her glass. Andy listened to Nigel prattle on about Harper’s outfit and Mack’s sport coat. Andy sipped her Pellegrino and listened. He was crazy, no doubt about it, but a small part of the old Andy loved him. Eventually Nigel gave Andy a knowing look and turned to speak with the model seated to his left; Serena and Jessica began working the room, and Andy knew she should
get up to mingle. It had been years since she’d felt so socially awkward. Ten years to be exact. She nibbled some corn bread and sipped her lemon water, all the while rubbing her belly under the table. Was it the old
Runway
vibe that was making her so queasy or the fact—the one she kept trying to forget—that she was unexpectedly pregnant and not even her husband knew the truth?

The toasts began. Harper’s best friend, a hairdresser who was famous not just for her styling skills but also for her transgender advocacy work, gave a touchingly sweet and tad-too-boring tribute to the happy couple. She was quickly followed by one of Mack’s brothers, a professional basketball player who made numerous references to Mack and Magic Johnson, not one of them remotely appropriate. And then there was Nigel, who wove the most beautiful tale of knowing Harper since she was a gawky tween, unrecognizable to the zillions who worshipped her today, thanks entirely to Nigel’s handiwork. The entire party laughed uproariously.

Finally, after everyone else had moved on to dessert, Andy excused herself and stepped outside the tent. She fumbled through her clutch for her phone and dialed, barely even considering the price of international roaming. This was an emergency.

Emily picked up on the first ring. “Is everything okay? Please tell me they haven’t called off the wedding.”

“They’re still getting married,” Andy said, relieved to hear her friend’s voice.

“Then why are you calling me in the middle of the dinner?”

“Nigel’s here! With Serena and Jessica. And I’m seated with them. This is literally my worst nightmare.”

Emily laughed. “Oh come on, they’re not so bad. Let me guess, Nigel pretended you never reached out to him? That you cut him out of your life?”

“Exactly.”

“Just be thankful
she’s
not there. It really could be worse,” Emily said.