Revenge Wears Prada (20 page)

“The shower? Is that when you think it happened?”

Andy nodded. “I was switching pills that month and took a few weeks off, and I guess I calculated wrong.”

“You know what this says, don’t you? It was meant to be. This baby was meant to be.” This was Max’s favorite line. Their meeting—meant to be. The success of her magazine—meant to be. Their marriage—meant to be. And now the baby.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Andy said, but couldn’t help smiling. “I think it means that we have solid proof that the rhythm method doesn’t work, but yeah, I guess you could look at it like that, too.”

“When can you have the ultrasound? To know when the baby is due?”

“I made an appointment with my gynecologist for tomorrow.”

“What time?” Max asked, almost before she could finish her sentence.

“Nine thirty. I wanted earlier but it was all they had.”

He immediately picked up his phone. Andy wanted to hug him as she listened to him leave instructions for his secretary to cancel or reschedule all of his morning meetings.

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow morning before our appointment?”

Why had she waited so long to tell him? Here he was, her Max, the man she had
married.
Of course he was thrilled with the news that they were going to have a baby. Of course he’d cancel
everything without a moment’s hesitation to be at the first—and every, if she had to bet—appointment. Of course he had immediately, instinctively, switched to
our
and would undoubtedly use phrases like
We’re pregnant
and
our baby
. She hadn’t thought he’d be any other way, but it was still an intense relief to experience it firsthand. She wasn’t all alone.

“Well, I was thinking of running to the office for an hour or two beforehand. I’ve gotten so behind lately. First the wedding, then the nausea, and now the whole Elias-Clark thing . . .”

“Andy.” He squeezed her hand again and smiled. “Please.”

“Yes. Breakfast sounds nice.”

A wave of nausea overcame her. It must have registered on her face, because Max asked if she was okay. She nodded, unable to speak, and moved quickly toward the bathroom. As she retched, she heard him ordering ginger ale, saltines, bananas, and applesauce from the corner bodega. When she returned to bed, he looked at her sympathetically.

“You poor thing. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Her head throbbed with the aftermath of vomiting, but she felt strangely better than she had in weeks. “Thank you.”

“Come here, give me your feet.” He motioned for her to sit next to him, and he pulled her legs into his lap.

The kneading felt heavenly. She closed her eyes. “There goes our honeymoon in Fiji,” she said, remembering it for the first time. “Although I guess there’s no reason we couldn’t still go in December as long as everything looks normal.”

Max stopped kneading and peered at her. “You are not flying halfway around the world away from your doctor. Putting your body under all the stress of jet lag and travel? No way. We’ll have time for Fiji later.”

“You’re not upset to miss it?”

Max shook his head. “We’re going to give our baby everything, Andy, you’ll see. You’re going to create the perfect nursery, and fill it with stuffed animals and adorable little clothes and
lots of books, and I’m going to learn everything there is to learn about babies so I know exactly what I’m doing from day one. I’m going to change diapers and give bottles and take her for walks in a stroller. We’re going to read to her every day and tell her stories about how we met and take her on vacations to the ocean where she’ll feel the sand in her feet and learn to swim. And she’s going to be so loved. By both our families.”

“Her, huh?” Her whole body had relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, her stomach quieted.

“Of course her. She’s going to be a gorgeous little blond girl. It’s meant to be.”

When she opened her eyes again, the clock read six forty-five
A.M
. She was under the duvet, still wearing her robe, Max snoring softly beside her. The lights were dimmed but not off; they must have both fallen asleep midconversation.

After they both showered and dressed, Max hailed a cab and directed it to Sarabeth’s on the Upper East Side, a charming little breakfast nook near her gynecologist’s office and convenient to exactly nothing else. Andy could only manage toast with homemade jam and a cup of chamomile, but she enjoyed watching Max devour his cheese omelet, home fries, extra-crispy bacon, two glasses of orange juice and large latte. He talked animatedly as he ate, excited for the appointment ahead, chattering about possible due dates and questions for the doctor and ideas for making the announcement to their families.

They paid the bill and walked the six blocks up Madison Avenue. The waiting room was busy; Andy could count at least three obviously pregnant women, two with husbands, and a handful of women most likely too young or too old to be expecting. How had she never noticed before? How strange to be there with Max, holding his hand, giving both their names at the front desk. Andy was shocked when the receptionist barely looked up. She had just announced she was there for an ultrasound. Her first! Wasn’t this news to
everyone
?

Fifteen minutes later a nurse called her name and handed her a plastic sample cup.

“Restroom is down the hall, on your right. Please bring your sample into exam room five. Your husband can wait for you there.”

Max smiled at Andy, shot her a
good luck
look, and followed the nurse toward the exam rooms. When Andy met him there three minutes later, he was pacing the cubicle-sized room.

“How’d it go?” he asked, raking his hand through his hair.

“I peed on my hand. Like always.”

“Is it really that hard?” Max laughed, looking relieved at the distraction.

“You have no idea.”

Another nurse arrived, a heavyset women with a kind smile and silvery hair. After dipping a stick in Andy’s urine and declaring it perfect, she measured her blood pressure (also perfect) and asked when she’d had her last menstrual period (Andy could only ballpark it).

“Okay, love. Dr. Kramer will be in shortly. Weigh yourself—be sure to deduct a pound for clothing—strip from the waist down, and cover yourself with this.” She handed Andy a paper sheet and gestured toward the exam table. Both Max and Andy watched in fascination and revulsion as she covered a probe attached to the ultrasound machine with something that looked exactly like a condom and then squirted it with a glob of K-Y Jelly. She wished them a good morning and closed the door behind her.

“So that’s how this is going down,” Max joked, staring at the now-more-than-ever-phallic probe.

“I have to say, I thought this was going to be an over-the-belly thing. That’s always how it is on TV . . .”

The door opened, and Dr. Kramer must have overheard because she smiled and said, “I’m afraid we’re a bit too early for the abdominal ultrasound. Because your fetus is still so small, only the transvaginal can pick it up.”

Dr. Kramer introduced herself to Max and began prepping the machine. She was a petite, pretty woman in her late thirties, and her movements were quick and sure. “How are you feeling?” she asked over her shoulder. “Any nausea or vomiting?”

“Both.”

“Totally normal. Most women find it abates by twelve or fourteen weeks. You can keep down clear beverages, crackers, that type of thing?”

“Most of the time,” Andy said.

“Don’t worry too much about what you’re eating right now. The baby is getting everything it needs from your body. Just try to eat small, frequent meals and get plenty of rest, okay?”

Andy nodded. Dr. Kramer eased the paper sheet up a bit and instructed Andy to scoot down on the table and place her feet in the socked stirrups. Andy felt the slightest bit of pressure and a quick feeling of coldness between her legs, and then nothing. It was far less invasive than even a pelvic exam, she thought with relief.

“There we go,” Dr. Kramer said, moving the probe ever so slightly. The screen filled with the familiar sight of black and white blobs, like they’d seen in the movies so many times. The doctor pointed to a particular blob in the very middle of what appeared to be a black vacuum. “There. You see? That flickering right there? That’s your baby’s heart beating.”

Max was out of his chair and gripping Andy’s hand. “Where? That right there?”

“Yep, that’s it.” She paused, examined the screen, and said, “And it looks like a strong, healthy heartbeat. Wait, one sec . . . there.” She moved the probe a bit and turned up the volume knob. The heartbeat sounded like a rhythmic, underwater pulse and was as fast as a horse galloping. It filled the room.

Andy was lying flat on her back, only able to lift her neck a few inches from the table, but she could see the screen and the blob and its flickering little heart perfectly: her baby. It was real
and it was alive and it was growing inside her. Her tears were silent and her body stayed still, but she couldn’t stop herself from crying. When she looked over at Max, who was still death-gripping her hand and staring at the screen, she saw that his eyes were filled as well.

“You’re measuring at ten weeks, five days, and everything looks absolutely perfect.” The doctor picked up a plastic cardboard wheel and began sliding its two discs around one another. “We’ll continue to date the pregnancy with ultrasounds since you’re not positive of your timing, but according to what we see today, your due date is June first. Congratulations!”

“June first,” Max breathed reverently, as though it were the best day in the entire world. “A spring baby. It’s perfect.”

They didn’t just vanish, all the doubts and fears and anger over the letter—Andy wasn’t sure they ever would—but seeing that little living bean inside her, knowing that she and Max had made it together, and would meet it soon, and would, god willing, be its parents forever, made all that fade into the background. And when the doctor told them to meet in her office and left them alone, and Max nearly jumped on the table with her in joy and happiness, and he shouted, “I love you!” so loudly Andy laughed out loud, it faded even a little bit more. She would make it work with Max. She would forgive him and move past any doubts. It was the only way forward. She would do it for their baby.

The building that housed
The Plunge
’s offices were, thankfully, different in every way from Elias-Clark’s, or even the West Village walk-up
Happily Ever After
called home. Originally a lumberyard in the 1890s, the building had gone through a few incarnations—meatpacking plant, food-processing mill, fabric warehouse, and furniture workshop—before becoming, predictably, a converted loft space with floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed brick walls, salvaged wooden floors, and much-hyped Hudson River views (a.k.a. views of Jersey City). Andy could still remember Emily’s excitement three years earlier when the broker who’d been showing them office spaces brought them to Twenty-Fourth and Eleventh. The fortresslike building was impressive, but Andy had wondered: didn’t the neighborhood feel a little too . . . raw? Emily scoffed as she gingerly stepped over a man passed out near the entrance. “Raw? It’s got character, and
character is exactly what we need!” she’d said. Character rather than good heat, air-conditioning, and reasonable assurances that they wouldn’t be murdered still bothered Andy, but she couldn’t deny that the office interiors were a thousand times nicer than anything they’d seen, and they were cheaper, too.

She yanked the metal cage door of the elevator open, stepped inside, and closed it behind her, a move she had perfected even with an armful of hot coffees. Every day Andy swore she’d use the stairs; every day she stepped in the elevator and thought,
Tomorrow.
On the fourth floor she smiled at
The Plunge
’s current receptionist, inevitably an overqualified recent college graduate who only stayed long enough to ensure she or Emily was forever interviewing new candidates.

It was nice getting in late every once in a while.

“Morning, Andrea,” Agatha said. She was wearing a navy dress with cream-colored tights and chunky red patent heels, and Andy was left to wonder, as she always did, how her assistant kept, constantly, on fashion’s cutting edge. It must have been exhausting.

“Good morning!” Andrea sang loudly.

Agatha stood waiting like a guard dog as Andy walked past her into her office, a larger, glass-enclosed version of the cubicles near it, and said, “Follow me.” Immediately thinking that sounded too harsh and commanding, she added with forced laugh, “If you have a minute.”

“So listen, Emily’s been calling for you, like, every three seconds. I promised her I’d send you right over there.”

“I told her I’d be late this morning. It’s the first morning in six months she gets in before me and she’s hysterical, huh?” Andy said, thinking it had to be the Elias-Clark call that had Emily in a snit. “Okay, I’m headed there now. Will you please forward any calls from the Harper wedding people to her office?”

Agatha nodded. She looked supremely bored.

What
The Plunge
did have in common with
Runway
: long-
legged, stiletto-favoring, designer-donning girls. Per their working agreement, Emily had been responsible for the office hiring, with the single exception of Carmella Tindale, Andy’s part–features editor, part–managing director, whom she had poached from
Happily Ever After
and strongly felt she couldn’t live without. Noticeably, Carmella was slightly overweight with unruly brown hair and inch-thick gray roots. She favored shapeless pantsuits paired with Merrell clogs in the winter and FitFlops in the summer, and her lone stab at style was a genuine (according to Emily) Prada backpack that she had bedazzled herself with an interesting array of puffy paint, rhinestones, and colored thread. Carmella was an undeniable fashion disaster of epic proportions, and Andy loved her dearly. The rest of them, though, were close cousins of the
Runway
Clackers, each leggier and skinnier and prettier than the next. It was downright depressing.