Revenge Wears Prada (2 page)

She ordered breakfast from room service and fed Stanley bits of scrambled eggs and toast while fielding excited phone calls from her mother, sister, Lily, and Emily—all of whom were champing at the bit for her to begin preparations—and leashed Stanley up for a quick walk in the brisk October air before the day got too frantic. It was slightly embarrassing to wear the terry-cloth sweatpants with a hot-pink
BRIDE
emblazoned across the butt that she’d received at her bridal shower, but she was secretly proud, too. She jammed her hair into a baseball cap, laced up her sneakers, zipped
up a Patagonia fleece, and miraculously made it out to the sprawling grounds of the Astor Courts Estate without seeing another living soul. Stanley bounded as happily as his little legs would allow, pulling her toward the tree line at the edge of the property, where the leaves had already changed into their fiery fall colors. They walked for almost thirty minutes, certainly long enough for everyone to wonder where she’d gone, and although the air was fresh and the rolling fields of the farm were beautiful and Andy felt the excited giddiness of her wedding day, she couldn’t get the image of Miranda out of her mind.

How could this woman still haunt her? It had been nearly
ten years
since she bolted from Paris and her soul-destroying stint as Miranda’s assistant at
Runway.
She had grown so much since that dreaded year, hadn’t she? Everything had changed, and for the better: the early post-
Runway
years of freelancing, which she’d proudly parlayed into a steady gig as a contributing editor writing for a wedding blog,
Happily Ever After.
A few years and tens of thousands of words later, she was able to launch her very own magazine,
The Plunge,
a beautiful glossy high-end book that was three years into the endeavor and, despite all predictions to the contrary, was actually making money.
The Plunge
was getting nominated for awards, and advertisers were clamoring. And now, in the midst of all her professional success, she was getting married! To Max Harrison, son of the late Robert Harrison and grandson of the legendary Arthur Harrison, who’d founded Harrison Publishing Holdings in the years right after the Great Depression and had built it into Harrison Media Holdings, one of the most prestigious and profitable companies in the United States. Max Harrison, long on the circuit of most eligible bachelors, a guy who’d dated the Tinsley Mortimers and Amanda Hearsts of New York City, and probably a fair number of their sisters, cousins, and friends, was her betrothed. There would be mayors and moguls in attendance that afternoon, just waiting to cheer on the young scion and his new bride. But the best part of all? She loved
Max. He was her best friend. He doted on her and made her laugh and appreciated her work. Wasn’t it always true that men in New York weren’t ready until they were ready? Max had started talking marriage within months of their meeting. Three years later, here they were, on their wedding day. Andy reprimanded herself for wasting another second thinking about such a ridiculous dream and led Stanley back to her suite, where a small army of women had gathered in a nervous, twittering panic, apparently wondering if she’d fled the scene. There was a collective audible sigh of relief the moment she walked in; immediately Nina, her wedding planner, began issuing directives.

The next few hours passed in a blur: a shower, a blowout, hot rollers, mascara, enough spackle foundation to smooth the complexion of a hormonal teenager. Someone tended to her toes while another fetched her undergarments and a third debated her lip color. Before she could even realize what was happening, her sister, Jill, was holding open Andy’s ivory gown, and a second later her mother was cinching the delicate fabric in the back and zipping Andy into it. Andy’s grandmother clucked delightedly. Lily cried. Emily sneaked a cigarette in the bridal suite bathroom, thinking no one would notice. Andy tried to soak it all in. And then she was alone. For just a few minutes before she was expected in the grand ballroom, everyone left her to get themselves ready, and Andy sat perched awkwardly on a tufted antique chair, trying not to wrinkle or ruin any inch of herself. In less than one hour she would be a married woman, committed for the rest of her life to Max, and he to her. It was almost too much to fathom.

The suite’s phone rang. Max’s mother was on the other end.

“Good morning, Barbara,” Andy said as warmly as she could. Barbara Anne Williams Harrison, Daughter of the American Revolution, descendant of not one but two signers of the Constitution, perennial fixture on every charitable board that socially mattered in Manhattan. From her Oscar Blandi–coiffed hair to
her Chanel ballet flats, Barbara was always perfectly polite to Andy. Perfectly polite to
everyone.
But effusive she was not. Andy tried not to take it personally, and Max assured her it was all in her head. Perhaps in the early days Barbara had thought Andy was another of her son’s passing phases? Then Andy convinced herself Barbara’s acquaintance with Miranda had poisoned any hope of bonding with her mother-in-law. Eventually Andy realized it was just Barbara’s way—she was coolly polite to everyone, even her own daughter. She couldn’t imagine ever calling that woman “Mom.” Not that she’d been invited to . . .

“Hello, Andrea. I just realized I never actually gave you the necklace. I was racing so frantically this morning trying to get everything organized that I ended up late for hair and makeup! I’m calling to let you know that it’s in a velvet box in Max’s room, tucked into the side pocket of that vile duffel bag of his. I didn’t want the staff to see it lying about. Perhaps you’ll be more successful in persuading him to carry something more dignified? Lord knows I’ve tried a thousand times, but he simply won’t—”

“Thanks, Barbara. I’ll go get it right now.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” the woman trilled sharply. “You simply cannot see each other before the ceremony—it’s bad luck. Send your mother or Nina. Anyone else. All right?”

“Of course,” Andy said. She hung up the phone and headed into the hallway. She’d learned early on that it was easier to agree with Barbara and then go on to do what she pleased; arguing got her nowhere. Which is exactly why she was wearing a Harrison family heirloom as her “something old” instead of something from her own relatives: Barbara had insisted. Six generations of Harrisons had included that necklace in their weddings, and Andy and Max would, too.

Max’s suite door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the shower running in the bathroom when she stepped inside.
Classic,
she thought.
I’ve been getting ready for the last five hours and he’s just now getting in the shower.

“Max? It’s me. Don’t come out!”

“Andy? What are you doing here?” Max’s voice called through the bathroom door.

“I’m just getting your mom’s necklace. Don’t come out, okay? I don’t want you to see me in my dress.”

Andy rummaged around in the bag’s front pocket. She didn’t feel a velvet box but her hands closed around a folded paper.

It was a piece of cream-colored stationery, heavyweight and engraved with Barbara’s initials, BHW, in a navy script monogram. Andy knew Barbara helped keep Dempsey & Carroll in business with the amount of stationery she bought; she had been using the same design for birthday greetings, thank-you notes, dinner invitations, and condolence wishes for four decades. She was old-fashioned and formal and would rather have died than send someone a gauche e-mail or—horror!—a text message. It made perfect sense that she would send her son a traditional handwritten letter on his wedding day. Andy was just about to refold it and return it when her own name caught her eye. Before she could even consider what she was doing, Andy began to read.

Dear Maxwell,

While you know I do my best to allow you your privacy, I can no longer hold my tongue on matters of such importance. I have mentioned my concerns to you before, and you have always pledged to consider them. Now, however, due to the imminence of your upcoming wedding, I feel I can wait no longer to speak my mind plainly and forthrightly:

I beseech you, Maxwell. Please do not marry Andrea.

Do not misunderstand me. Andrea is pleasant, and she will undoubtedly make someone an agreeable wife one day. But you, my darling, deserve so much more! You must be with a girl from the right family, not a broken family where all she knows is heartache and divorce. A girl who understands our traditions, our way of life. Someone who will help
shepherd the Harrison name into the next generation. Most important, a partner who wants to put you and your children ahead of her own selfish career aspirations. You must think carefully about this: do you want your wife editing magazines and taking business trips, or do you desire someone who puts others first and embraces the philanthropic interests of the Harrison line? Don’t you desire a partner who cares more about supporting your family than furthering her own ambitions?

I told you I thought your unexpected get-together with Katherine in Bermuda was a sign. Oh, how delighted you sounded to see her again! Please, do not discount those feelings. Nothing is decided yet—it is not too late. It is clear you’ve always adored Katherine, and it is even more clear she would make a wonderful life partner.

You always make me so proud, and I know your father is looking down on us and rooting for you to do the right thing.

All my love,

Mother

She heard the water turn off and, startled, dropped the note to the floor. When she scrambled to pick it up, she noticed her hands were shaking.

“Andy? You still here?” he called from behind the door.

“Yes, I’m . . . wait, I’m just going,” she managed to say.

“Did you find it?”

She paused, unsure of the right answer. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. “Yes.”

There was more shuffling, and then the sink turned on and off. “Are you gone yet? I need to come out and get dressed.”

Please do
not
marry Andrea.
Blood pounded in Andy’s ears.
Oh, how delighted you sounded to see her again!
Should she fly into the bathroom or run out the door? The next time she saw him, they’d
be exchanging rings in front of three hundred people, including his mother.

Someone knocked on the suite’s front door before opening it. “Andy? What are you doing here?” Nina, her wedding planner, asked. “Good god, you’re going to ruin that dress! And I thought you agreed you wouldn’t see each other before the ceremony. If that’s not the case, why didn’t we do pictures beforehand?” Her constant, unrelenting talking drove Andy crazy. “Max, stay in that bathroom! Your bride is standing here like a deer caught in headlights. Wait, oh, just hold on a second!” She scurried over as Andy tried to stand and fix her dress at the same time and extended her hand.

“There,” she said, pulling Andy to her feet and smoothing her hand over the dress’s mermaid skirt. “Now, come with me. No more disappearing-bride antics, you hear? What’s this?” She plucked the note from Andy’s sweaty palm and held it aloft.

Andy could actually hear the pounding in her chest; she briefly wondered if she was having a heart attack. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead a wave of nausea came over her. “Oh, I think I’m going to—”

Magically, or maybe just from lots of practice, Nina produced a trash can at exactly the right moment and held it so tightly to Andy’s face that she could feel the plastic-lined rim pressing into the soft underside of her chin. “There, there,” Nina nasal-whined, oddly comforting nonetheless. “You’re not my first jittery bride and you won’t be my last. Let’s just thank our lucky stars you didn’t have any splash-back.” She dabbed at Andy’s mouth with one of Max’s T-shirts, and his smell, a heady mixture of soap and the basil-mint shampoo he used—a scent she usually loved—made her retch all over again.

There was another knock at the door. The famous photographer St. Germain and his pretty young assistant walked in. “We’re supposed to be shooting Max’s preparations,” he announced in
an affected but indeterminate accent. Thankfully, neither he nor the assistant so much as glanced at Andy.

“What’s going on out there?” Max called, still banished to the bathroom.

“Max, stay put!” Nina yelled, her voice all authority. She turned to Andy, who wasn’t sure she could walk the couple hundred feet back to the bridal suite. “We’ve got to get your skin touched up and . . . Christ, your hair . . .”

“I need the necklace,” Andy whispered.

“The what?”

“Barbara’s diamond necklace. Wait.”
Think, think, think. What did it mean? What should she do?
Andy forced herself to return to that hideous bag, but thankfully Nina stepped in front of her and pulled the duffel onto the bed. She rooted quickly through its contents and pulled out a black velvet box with
Cartier
etched on the side.

“This what you’re looking for? Come, let’s go.”

Andy allowed herself to be pulled into the hallway. Nina instructed the photographers to free Max from the bathroom and firmly shut the door behind them.

Andy couldn’t believe Barbara hated her so much that she didn’t want her son to marry her. And not only that, but she had his wife chosen for him. Katherine: more
appropriate,
less
selfish.
The one, at least according to Barbara, who got away. Andy knew all about Katherine. She was the heiress to the von Herzog fortune and, from what Andy could remember from her early rounds of incessant Googling, she was some sort of minor Austrian princess whose parents had sent her to board at Max’s elite Connecticut prep school. Katherine had gone on to major in European history at Amherst, where she was admitted after her grandfather—an Austrian noble with Nazi allegiances during World War II—donated enough money to name a residence hall in his late wife’s honor. Max claimed Katherine was too prim, too proper, and all-around too polite. She was boring, he claimed.
Too conventional and concerned with appearances. Why he dated her on and off for five years Max couldn’t explain quite as well, but Andy had always suspected there was more to the story. She clearly hadn’t been wrong.