Revenge Wears Prada (19 page)

“Twice in two weeks would put me over the edge. As in, I’d completely lose my mind.”

Emily was silent on the other end.

“You there? What? Thanking your lucky stars you’re not here with me? I’m telling you, Anguilla’s not looking so great right about now.”

“So, I don’t want you to freak out, Andy . . .” Emily’s voice got quiet.

“Oh no. Please. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong! My god, you’re always so dramatic.”

“Em . . .”

“It’s incredible news, actually. Maybe the best I’ve ever heard.”

Andy took a deep breath.

“I spoke to the lawyer at Elias-Clark—he totally tracked me down, by the way, found my cell and called me thirty minutes ago, which is really late for a business call. It shows how eager they are! I mean, can you even believe he would—”

“Eager for what, Emily? What did he want?” Andy could hear someone giving a toast over the microphone somewhere behind her, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be at home, in her bed, snuggled next to Max the way they used to before she found the note.

“Well, at first he just reiterated that he wanted a meeting. So I’m thinking total lawsuit, right? Like, we’ve been misrepresenting ourselves or some total bullshit and Miranda is going to—”

“Emily.
Please.
”

“But it’s not that, Andy! He didn’t want to give any specifics until we were face-to-face, but he said something vague about being interested in ‘the business of
The Plunge,
’ as he put it. You know that can only mean one thing!”

Andy nodded to herself. She knew exactly what that meant. “It sounds like they’re interested in acquiring us.”

“Yes!” Andy could tell Emily was trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, but it wasn’t working.

“I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to sell for the first five years, that we were going to take our time to really build the product and give it a great foundation. We’re barely three years in, Emily.”

“You know as well as I do that you don’t pass up an opportunity like this!” Emily all but shrieked. “This is Elias-Clark we’re talking about here. Only the biggest and most prestigious publishing company in the world. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Andy felt a little jolt. There was an excitement, a profound satisfaction, to the idea that Elias-Clark would be interested. There was also real terror. “Do I need to say it, Em? Do I? Have you forgotten that Miranda is the editorial director of all of Elias-Clark now in addition to editing
Runway,
and that would make her our boss again?” Andy paused to calm her voice. “Just a minor little detail, but perhaps one you may want to consider.”

“I’m really not worried about it,” Emily said, and Andy could almost picture her friend waving her off as though they were discussing where to pick up sandwiches.

“Well you’re not here right now, seated with those
Runway
Stepford Clackers. I think you’d be worried about it if you were.”

Emily sighed as though this was exactly the reaction she’d expected. “Look, Andy, can you just agree to keep an open mind? At least until we hear what they want? I promise we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Okay. Because I’m not comfortable working for Miranda Priestly again. I can tell you that right now.”

“We don’t even know what they’re offering! Go have a drink, try to enjoy the party, and leave everything else to me, okay?”

Andy looked around at the gorgeous setting. Maybe another virgin colada would be nice.

“It’s just a meeting, Andy. We’ll deal with it then. Repeat after me: it’s just a meeting.”

“Okay. It’s just a meeting,” Andy replied. She repeated the phrase to herself three more times, and she tried to believe it, she really did. But who was she kidding? It was all so much more terrifying than that.

How long had it been since they kissed? She tried to remember. It seemed impossible, but she couldn’t recall Max’s lips on hers more than a few times since they’d exchanged vows and kissed in front of three hundred wedding guests. It felt familiar but exciting, and when Max had picked her up from work in a cab, unannounced, it felt uncomplicated: she was happy to see him. She was also relieved to be back from Anguilla, away from Nigel and the
Runway
crew, and she felt safe snuggling into Max’s arms in the taxi’s backseat, all familiar smells and expert kisses. It felt like coming home should, at least until an ad came on Taxi TV for JetBlue’s Bermuda route.

Max followed her eyes to the screen. He knew exactly what Andy was thinking, but he tried to distract her with more passionate making out.

She tried to kiss him back, but suddenly that note was all she could think about.

“Andy . . .” Max could feel her retreating. He tried to hold her hand but she pulled it away. Pregnancy hormones surely weren’t helping Andy get past this. She’d read somewhere that expectant moms began to hate their husband’s smell. Could that be happening already?

Max swiped his credit card when the cab pulled up to their building at Sixteenth and Eighth. He held the door open for Andy and exchanged niceties with the evening doorman. Andy walked ahead into their apartment, and Stanley descended on them in a frenzy. The pup trailed after her to the master bedroom, with its canopied king-sized bed and chaise reading chair. She made kissing noises at him, and he obliged, following her into the bathroom, where she locked the door, turned on the tub, and scooped up her dog.

“Uch, you reek,” she whispered in his floppy ear, her face buried in his warm neck. Stanley was addicted to chewing bullies, some sort of cracklike chew stick that was supposedly made out of bull penis, a fact that made Andy retch whenever she considered it, pregnant or not.

He licked her face, managing to stick the very tip of his tongue in her mouth, and Andy gagged. Stanley woofed apologetically.

“It’s okay, boy. You’re certainly not the only thing that makes me puke these days.”

She stripped off her wrap dress, black tights, bra, and underwear and turned to examine her profile. Aside from the angry red mark around her midsection where the tights had constricted her all day, Andy had to admit that her belly looked pretty much the same as always. Not totally flat, she could see as she rubbed a hand over it. But the slight bulge she saw certainly wasn’t anything new. Perhaps her waist was a tad thicker, not quite as defined as it had been a month or two earlier. Soon it would disappear entirely. She knew this, and yet it seemed impossible to
fathom—almost as hard to imagine as the lima bean with the beating heart inside her.

With the lights dimmed and Stanley stretched out on a towel on the tub’s side platform (where he’d occasionally dip his snout into the water and help himself to a drink), Andy sank into the water and exhaled. Max knocked on the door to ask if she was okay.

“I’m fine, just taking a bath.”

“Why did you lock the door? I want to come in.”

Andy looked at Stanley, who was panting, head suspended, just above the hot water.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. She heard his footsteps pad away.

She soaked a washcloth and stretched it over her chest. Deep breath in, long exhalation out. She allowed herself to float, weightless, for just a few minutes. The weekly e-mail from BabyCenter that highlighted her baby’s development had reminded her that baths while pregnant should be warm, not hot, and since she couldn’t stand a bath that was anything less than scalding, Andy compromised with herself by only remaining submerged for five minutes. It wasn’t the long, leisurely relaxation session she usually indulged in before bed, but it would have to do.

As the water loudly drained from the tub, Andy slipped into her plush terry-cloth robe. It was half of an engagement gift from Max’s maternal grandparents. Andy’s was apple red and read “Mrs. Harrison” in white embroidery on the left breast; Max’s was white and had “Mr. Harrison” in red. As she tied the belt she thought about the argument that had ensued when she’d shown Max the gift.

“Cool,” he’d said, setting down the infamous tatty duffel he toted everywhere—even back then.

“It’s a very nice thought, but they didn’t even ask whether or not I’m going to change my name,” Andy said.

“So?” Max asked, pulling her in for a kiss. “She’s assuming it. She’s ninety-one. Give her a break.”

“No, I hear that. It’s just that . . . I’m not going to change my name.”

Max laughed. “Of course you are.”

His cocky confidence prickled her more than anything he could have said or done.

“My name’s been Andrea Sachs for over three decades, and I want to keep it that way. How would you feel if someone asked you to change your name at this point in your life?”

“It’s different . . .”

“No, it’s not.”

He looked at her, really looked at her. “Why don’t you want to take my name?” he asked in a voice so genuinely hurt she almost changed her mind on the spot.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s not some sort of political statement, Max, and it’s absolutely nothing personal. Sachs is just the name I grew up with, the one I’m used to. I’ve worked hard to build a career, and Sachs is the name I’ve used along the way. Is that so hard to understand?”

Max was quiet. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. Andy understood that it was probably only the first of many conversations. This was marriage, right? Discussions and compromises? She hugged him and kissed his neck and they both seemed to set it aside, but it quickly became one of those arguments that came to represent so many other, bigger issues.
Who doesn’t take their husband’s name?
he kept asking, the disbelief in his voice. He played the parental card (“My mother loves you like her own daughter”), which now made Andy want to scream; the grandparent card (“This name has been in our family for countless generations”); and the guilt card (“I thought you’d be proud to have me as your husband—I’m proud you’re going to be my wife”), and when all else failed, he halfheartedly tried a threat: “If you don’t want to take my name for the world to see, maybe I shouldn’t wear a wedding ring for the world to see,” but when Andy had just shrugged and said he was welcome to wear a ring
or not, he apologized. He admitted he was disappointed but he would try to respect her decision. She immediately felt ridiculous for taking a stand on something that was obviously so important to him, especially when she didn’t feel
that
strongly about it. When she wrapped her arms around his neck and said she would still use Sachs professionally but would be happy to change it to Harrison for everything else, Max looked like he might collapse with gratitude and relief. She’d been secretly pleased to do it, too: it might have been antifeminist and old-fashioned and whatever else, but she
liked
sharing a name with her husband. Now their baby would be a Harrison, too.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from his copy of
GQ
when Andy walked toward the bed. He was wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs. His skin tone was that perfect olive color that always looked just a little bit tan; his stomach was tightly toned without being obnoxious and his shoulders were comfortingly broad. She felt a swell of attraction, despite herself. “Nice bath?”

“Always.” She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe she kept on her bedside table and took a sip. She wanted to turn around and admire Max’s body, but she forced herself to pick up her book.

Max sidled up next to her. His biceps flexed as he wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. She felt a familiar jolt of excitement in her belly.

“Your skin is so warm. You must have been cooking in there,” he murmured, and Andy immediately thought of the baby.

She felt him kiss her neck again, and before she realized what was happening, Max had shimmied her robe over her shoulders and down to her waist. His hands reached around to gently cup her breasts. She slid away from his touch and rewrapped her robe.

“I can’t,” she said, looking away.

“Andy.” His voice was heavy, disappointed. Defeated.

“I’m sorry.”

“Andy, come here. Look at me.” He touched her chin between his thumb and his fingers and gently turned her face to his. He kissed her lips softly. “I know I hurt you, and it kills me. This whole situation”—he gestured in circles with his hand—“my mom, you not being able to trust me, not wanting to be near me . . . it’s my fault, and I understand why you’re feeling this way. But it was a note and
nothing
happened. Nothing. I’m sorry, but only for not telling you, nothing more.” He paused, annoyed now. “You need to let this go. Maybe the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.”

Andy could feel her throat constrict and she knew the tears would follow soon.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

Max froze. She could feel him staring at her. “What? Did I—”

“Yes. I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my god, Andy, that is the most incredible thing.” He jumped up and began to pace, a look of anxious excitement on his face. “When did you find out? How do you know? Have you been to a doctor? How far along?” He fell to his knees by the bed and clasped both her hands in his own.

Max’s obvious joy was comforting. This was hard enough; she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he was ambivalent (or worse) about the news. She felt him squeeze her hands, and she was grateful for it.

“When I went to Dr. Palmer last week, remember? Before Anguilla? They did a urine test and called that night with the news.” Andy decided it was best to omit the part where she asked for an entire STD workup.

“You’ve known since last
week
and you haven’t told me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I needed some time to think.”

Max gazed at her with an inscrutable expression.

“So anyway, they don’t think it’s a ‘brand-new’ pregnancy, whatever that means. They can’t tell for sure until I have an ultrasound,
but I’m guessing it happened that one time in Hilton Head . . .”

She watched as Max remembered. The house they’d rented for an Indian summer week with Emily and Miles. That one night in the outdoor shower, just before dinner, when they’d sneaked in together like two teenagers. When Andy had sworn to Max it was a safe time, that she’d just had her period the week before, and they’d gotten carried away.