Revenge Wears Prada (28 page)

Andy nodded.

“Come on, let’s get a drink and toast ourselves.”

Emily helped pull Andy out of the seat and they both winced in discomfort.

“What exactly are we toasting?” Andy asked.

“I survived a backwater island clinic. Miranda Priestly all but called you gorgeous. And we’re probably going to sell our little
magazine that could to the world’s preeminent publisher. If that doesn’t deserve a virgin mojito, nothing does.”

Andy watched as Emily made her way toward the guys, looking pleased and fabulously stylish once again. She knew she’d just made a huge mistake—she’d only pushed off the inevitable—but she vowed to put it out of her mind. For as long as she possibly could.

When she awoke from an intense, black sleep, the first thing Andy noticed was the distinctive smell of lavender and the sound of piped-in ocean waves.

“I’m glad to see you were able to relax,” the masseuse said softly as she tidied the counter with its assorted oil bottles and warm towels. “Do you want some help down?”

Andy struggled to focus, but her contact lenses felt like glass.

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” she said, sending out a silent thank-you to Olive Chase for choosing to have her bachelorette party at the Surrey’s hotel spa, and for insisting that Andy join them in the festivities. When Andy had protested, saying she needed only an hour or so to interview Olive, the actress showcased her million-dollar laugh and told Andy she would schedule her for a
deluxe prenatal treatment that included a salt scrub, milk bath, and full-body massage using a specially designed donut pillow contraption that allowed pregnant women to lie facedown. If there was ever a time she loved her job, it was right then. Let the
New Yorker
writers be sticklers for journalistic integrity. She would get an afternoon of bliss.

Andy pushed herself to a sitting position using both arms and allowed the sheet to fall to her waist. Her belly was officially massive, tight as a drum and situated in such a way that lying down, sitting, and standing were all equally uncomfortable. The only time she felt any relief from the pressure and heaviness was when fully submerged in water, so Andy had taken to spending as much time as possible in the tub. At eight and a half months pregnant, she was no longer going to the office every day. But when Olive had invited
The Plunge
to attend her bachelorette festivities, Andy jumped at the chance: the actress’s wedding would be after Andy gave birth, and Andy didn’t want to miss all the action.

Carefully lowering her feet to the floor, Andy gathered her clothes and began the tedious task of dressing herself: full-panel maternity leggings, followed by a highly unattractive combination nursing/sports bra, and topped off with a ruched tunic in a hideous eggplant shade. There was simply nothing cute or stylish left at this stage of the game. She slipped her swollen feet into Birkenstocks (she could no longer reach her feet well enough to buckle or tie any real shoes by herself) and sent a silent thank-you that Emily wasn’t there to witness this particular getup.

Andy thought about the previous workday’s drama. Completely out of the blue they’d received a call from Elias-Clark—the first one since Emily had put them off back in January. Andy was at the OB, getting a standard checkup—one of her last; she could barely believe it—when Emily called her hysterical.

“Stanley left me a voice mail,” Emily said breathlessly. “He said it’s important and we need to call back
immediately.
When are you in today?”

“I don’t know,” Andy said truthfully. “I was supposed to be done by now, but the doctor is concerned that the baby isn’t moving enough. I think I need more testing.”

“So, like by eleven? Twelve? You
are
coming in, right?”

Andy tried to ignore Emily’s complete lack of interest in the health of her unborn child.

“I’ll be in,” she said, her teeth gritted. “I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

Dr. Kramer was worried that Baby Harrison was acting too “snoozy.” There had already been an exam, followed by an ultrasound and, finally, a stress test—all with inconclusive results. Andy and Max were instructed to go get some lunch, including a sugary soda or dessert to give the baby a little jolt, and return an hour later to repeat the stress test. Dr. Kramer had casually said, “This is not an emergency, so don’t worry. You’re far enough along now that even if we have to induce you today, everything will be perfectly fine.” Max and Andy exchanged looks: induce
today
? Thankfully all tested normal the second time around and Andy felt like she could breathe again. Emily had been less understanding.

“Here, we’re calling Stanley back this second,” Emily said, following Andy into her office. “Don’t even take your coat off.”

“I’m fine, and so is the baby. Thanks for asking,” Andy said.

“Of course everything’s fine or you wouldn’t be here. What is not fine is ignoring Miranda Priestly.”

The secretary put their call through and Emily fell all over herself trying to explain what had taken them so long.

Stanley pretended he didn’t hear. Or maybe he really didn’t. Instead he said, “On behalf of Elias-Clark, we would like to increase our proposed purchase price by twelve percent. Miranda would, of course, like an answer immediately.”

Emily glanced at Andy, who shook her head violently. “Not now!” she mouthed, pointing to her enormous bump. “We agreed we wouldn’t talk about this now.”

Emily looked like she was about to have a heart attack. She gripped the phone as if she could better emphasize her point.
“We’ll be back to you
so
soon,” she said. “Andy’s about to pop. I mean, as soon as the baby’s born, we’ll be much better situated to—”

Stanley’s response was not encouraging. “I’ll let Miranda know,” he said. “I know I don’t need to tell you two how much patience she has for delays.”

“Andy won’t be out on leave long,” Emily said, her knuckles turning white. “I mean, it may mean putting off the conversation for a couple months, but that won’t change—”

“Miranda doesn’t care about maternity leave,” Stanley said. “She herself only missed seventy-two hours for the birth of the twins.”

“Yes, that really was remarkable,” Andy murmured into the speakerphone, swirling her finger near her forehead to indicate Miranda’s lunacy.

Stanley cleared his throat. “I just want to be transparent here—waiting isn’t her forte. But you’ve made it clear what your timetable is. Good-bye now.”

After he disconnected, Emily looked at Andy wildly. “We may lose this whole thing, Andy!”

Andy stared at her. “We made an agreement. No talk until after the baby.”

“Maybe we should just send our lawyer to talk. To smooth things over. Buy us a little time.”

“That’s not a solution. Seriously, Em, they just upped their offer. They’re dying to buy
The Plunge.
Waiting has only improved their terms. Another couple months won’t hurt a thing.”

“This pregnancy is becoming an excuse for everything.” Emily said this quietly, but Andy could feel her frustration.

That very afternoon two signature orange boxes with brown ribbons arrived via messenger from Hermès: three bangles apiece, each one different and ornately beautiful. Emily couldn’t put them on fast enough. Andy looked at her with a smile. Maybe playing hard to get
was
enticing to Miranda.

Andy shuddered now just thinking about it. The masseuse led Andy to the relaxation room and helped settle her into a terry-cloth-swathed chaise lounge. A minute later, a robe-clad Olive appeared, her already perfect skin literally glowing from a facial. No redness or irritation for her.

“How was it?” she asked Andy, helping herself to a small plate of dried apricots and almonds.

“It was heaven. Pure heaven,” Andy said, the same way she might to a friend.

It was surreal to be chatting so casually with perhaps the most famous woman on the planet. Olive Chase’s movies had netted $950 million worldwide. She was recognized everywhere from the Bedouin sands of Egypt to the ice plains of Siberia to the remotest villages of the Amazon. Her romantic trials and tribulations had been the subject of endless coverage and analysis, all of her failed relationships lined up like roadkill behind her. The world had given up on her finding a man, or loving a man, or keeping a man, and her status as Most Gorgeous Single Woman Ever had been firmly cemented—much to the dismay of hundreds of thousands of regular guys, all of whom swore they were perfect for her—when she stepped onto the red carpet with just that . . . a regular guy. No amount of after-the-fact burnishing or all-out fiction writing could make Clint Sever, an engineer by training but a website designer by passion, anything more than the guy next door. When they’d met the year before under vague circumstances (Andy’s entire goal for her upcoming interview was to ferret out more details of the first meeting), Clint was living in Louisville, Kentucky, a universe away from the glitz of Hollywood, and apparently the only Olive Chase movie he’d ever seen was a Christmas special she’d starred in twenty years earlier. He was twenty-nine, of completely average height, weight, and appearance, and in all the interviews Andy had watched, he seemed completely unfazed by his new life and megastar fiancée. He had willingly signed a prenup that would leave him exactly
zilch if they ever divorced, regardless of how long the marriage lasted, how many children they had, or what Olive earned during its tenure. He submitted to interviews and walked red carpets and attended A-list parties when required but didn’t appear impressed, intimidated, overwhelmed, or even really all that interested in any of it. Olive, on the other hand, couldn’t shut up about her “new man,” “the sexy new guy” in her life, calling him “the person who makes me happier than I ever thought possible.” Despite being ten years Clint’s senior and having shared a bed with nearly every famous actor, athlete, and musician in existence (she didn’t discriminate between men and women, it was rumored), Olive was reputedly head over heels in love with her average joe, and she wanted nothing more than to talk about it.

“Good! I just love it here.” Olive curled her coltish legs under her and settled into the chaise next to Andy’s. “No one else should be done for a little while, so I thought we could chat now.”

“Great,” Andy said, pulling out her notebook, but Olive clearly wasn’t in a rush to start the interview.

She motioned for an attendant standing discreetly by the door and said, “Darling, do you think you could break the rules and bring us some real drinks? I don’t think tea is going to cut it today.”

The woman beamed at Olive. “Of course, Miss Chase. What may I bring you?”

“I’d love a Patrón margarita, no salt.” She paused and shook her head. “Actually, extra salt. Bloating be damned.” Olive turned to Andy. “Do you want a Shirley Temple? No, probably not with all those fake red dyes and chemicals. Aren’t maraschino cherries, like, automatic cancer? I think it’s Pellegrino for you!”

Andy was instantly charmed.

“I ditched Daphne, my PR chick,” Olive said, leaning in conspiratorially. “She’s going to be so pissed! But my god, what can really happen? You write for a wedding magazine! This is not, like, a
60 Minutes
interview.”

“That is most definitely true,” Andy said, relieved to have a few unscripted minutes alone with Olive. If she could keep the girl drinking like this, she’d be able to ask anything she wanted.
US Magazine
had already purchased the rights to the first wedding pictures, but Andy hoped she’d be able to get the most complete story and accompany it with dozens of additional and varied pictures beyond the quickie four-page spread
US
would have to race to publish thirty-six hours after the event.

“So when are you due? By the looks of it, any second.”

Andy laughed. “By the feel of it, too. But really not for another few weeks.”

Olive gazed longingly at her belly. “I can’t wait to get pregnant. What are you having?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I like the idea of a surprise at the end of all that work.”

A look flashed across Olive’s face, an expression Andy couldn’t quite place. Something told her she should change the subject immediately, but Olive beat her to it.

“So, where do we begin?” she asked. “Do you, like, want to hear about my entire childhood? Should I start with conception?”

Andy laughed. Olive was unlike any other celebrity she’d ever interviewed. There had been Harper Hallow and Mack, who had set a new bar (at least for Andy) in terms of fame. There was the well-known stylist with her own television show; the infamous woman chef who berated employees with a string of curse words and insults; the young country singer marrying the much older pop singer; the number-one-ranked female tennis player in the world; the reality TV star who’d transcended the
Housewives
franchise and become a worldwide name brand; the Oscar-winning, Spanish-speaking actress with the most jaw-dropping figure. Many of them were household names. Most were crazy as loons. All of them were attractive and intriguing in their own often weird ways. And here was Olive Chase, undoubtedly the most famous and successful of all of them, and she seemed
so . . . normal. Killer body, gorgeous hair, great skin, addictive laugh . . . check, check, check. But disarmingly sweet? Willing to discuss anything (and without a publicist!)? The kind of person who immediately feels like a best friend in the making? Not what Andy was expecting.

“Let’s maybe start with how you guys met,” Andy said, pen poised above paper, praying to herself that Olive would offer something more than vague platitudes.

“Oh, that one’s easy. We met the same way everyone does these days—online!”

Andy tried to control her excitement; she hadn’t read about Olive dating online anywhere. “Yes, but I wouldn’t imagine a whole lot of celebrities meet people online. Weren’t you concerned about privacy?”

Another long pull of her margarita and a brush-back of her silken hair. Olive appeared to consider this. She nodded. “Of course I was concerned about it. But I had to find a way! I can’t tell you how many actors and athletes and male models and musicians and hedge fund guys and just general all-around assholes I was set up with over the years. I think I dated every dickhead in North America, and quite a few in Europe. But then I’d be sitting home, late at night, alone as usual, and surfing the ordinary-people websites. There were so many great guys out there! Funny, charming, lovely men. Men who wrote poetry or loved fly-fishing or built homes from scratch or taught high school. I e-mailed with one guy in Tampa who was raising three kids all by himself after his wife died of ovarian cancer. Can you imagine?”