Revenge Wears Prada (37 page)

The phone clicked, and despite herself, Andy smiled.

Isla appeared in the nursery. “Hey,” she said. “How’s Clemmie feeling?”

“I’m so sorry about all this!” Andy said. “I had no idea Emily was going to call you like that. She had no right to contact you without my permission and suggest that you come in today. I never would have—”

Isla smiled. “It’s fine, I totally understand. Plus with the extra two weeks’ salary she said you’d pay me, it will help defray my school costs. So I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, well you know Emily—always with the great ideas,”
Andy said cheerily as she imagined all the ways she might kill her friend and enjoy it. She kissed Clem’s cheek and handed her to Isla.

“Her fever’s down, but please check her again in another couple hours, and if it’s above a hundred and one, call me. She can have as many bottles of breast milk as you can get her to eat, and some Pedialyte mixed with water, too. Just keep her drinking. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but it may be late.”

Isla snuggled Clem and waved Andy off. “Emily told me you needed me to stay over tonight, so I brought a bag. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got it covered.”

“Of course she did,” Andy muttered. She desperately wanted to shower but knew she didn’t have time. Instead, she swapped her puke-stained shirt for a clean one, threw her hair into a ponytail, and pulled on a pair of sneakers she would normally never have worn to work. She was out the door in under ten minutes. Her phone bleated the moment she fell into the backseat of a taxi.

“Do you have me chipped or something? I just got in a cab.”

“What took you so long?” Emily asked, her annoyance apparent.

“Seriously, Em? Tone it down.” Andy said this as playfully as she could manage, but she didn’t appreciate Emily’s brusque,
Runway
-reminiscent tone.

“I’m racing to get the last red-eye out of L.A., and I’ll obviously come right from the airport tomorrow morning. I’ve already gotten in touch with everyone else; they’re all on their way in, or will be soon. I told Agatha to order dinner for everyone. Chinese, because it’s fast. It should be there in twenty minutes. Oh, and I also told her to hide all the decaf coffee pods. I want everyone drinking full caffeine tonight—it’s going to be a long one.”

“Wow. Would you like to tell us what time we all take bathroom breaks, or should we decide that for ourselves?”

Emily sighed. “Mock all you want, but you and I both know there’s no choice. I’ll call you back in five.”

Again she hung up without saying good-bye, another unwelcome remnant from the
Runway
days. Andy knew she had to be in the office all night, and that Emily had actually helped her by doing all the legwork, but she couldn’t shake the old feeling of being bullied and ordered around by Miranda’s ex-first assistant.

Andy paid the driver and made her way up to the office. An unhappy Agatha glanced up from her desk.

“Sorry, Agatha, but tonight is—”

The girl held up her hand. “I know. Emily already told me. I’ve ordered the food, started on the coffee, and called everyone in.” She stated this with such listlessness, such obvious misery, that Andy almost felt badly for her. But then she remembered her own sick child left home with a babysitter, the red-eye that Emily now faced, and the impossibly long night they all had ahead of them, and merely thanked her assistant and closed her door.

Andy worked without interruption for nearly two hours, reviewing the text for the two country singers, making notes about details that needed fleshing out or fact-checking. She was about to head to the art department to discuss the photography when Max called. She looked at the clock: eight
P.M
. He must have just landed in Boston.

“I got your e-mail. Christ, it sounds like a nightmare,” he said.

“It sure is. Where are you now?” Andy asked.

“I’m still at the airport. Wait, my car’s pulling up right now. I’ve got to meet the Kirby people downtown in thirty minutes.” Max greeted the driver and gave him some instructions and then said, “I just spoke to Isla. She said Clem doesn’t have a fever, and she’s getting her bottle ready right now.”

“Did she nap well?”

“I don’t know, it was a quick call. Isla said something about staying over tonight?”

“Yes, Emily arranged it. I’m going to be here all night.”

“Emily arranged it?”

“Don’t ask.”

Max laughed. “Fair enough. So you want to tell me what happened? It sounds bad.”

“I don’t know much more than what I wrote you, just that Olive called off the wedding at the very last second. I really never saw this coming. Thankfully we have another couple we can plug in, but it screws up the issue in more ways than I can count.”

“Geez. I’m sorry, Andy. Do you think it’s going to affect the potential sale?” Max asked this in his trying-to-tread-carefully tone.

“Potential sale?”

“The Elias-Clark offer,” Max said quietly. “I thought I remember Emily saying something about the deadline coming up for that. Obviously I don’t know all the details, but I imagine it would be better to accept the offer before there’s a problem with an upcoming issue.”

Andy bristled. “Elias-Clark is the furthest thing from my mind,” Andy lied, thinking how very Elias-Clark this whole nightmare of a day was becoming. “Anyway, you know how I feel about that offer.”

“I know, Andy, I just really think—”

“I’m sorry, Max, but I’ve got to run. I have hours of work ahead of me, and it’s not getting any earlier.”

There was a moment of silence before he said, “Call me later, okay?”

Andy agreed and hung up. She looked at the sea of pages in front of her—storyboards on the floor, assistants and editors and designers running around outside her office—and knew it was going to take every last ounce of energy to face this night.

When her phone rang again instantly, she didn’t even wait for Agatha to answer it. “What?” she asked, more rudely than she intended.

“May I speak with Andrea Sachs, please?” the voice asked in a pleasant but indeterminate accent.

“This is she. May I ask who’s speaking?” Andy felt a wave of irritation. Who besides Max or Emily would be calling her at work at eight o’clock in the evening?

“Andrea, this is Charla, Miranda Priestly’s assistant?”

Andy’s irritation quickly turned to anxiety. Miranda Priestly’s office was calling? Her mind instantly began to cycle through the possibilities, none of them appealing.

“Hello, Charla. How are you doing tonight?”

There was a pause, and Andy knew the girl was shocked into silence that someone had inquired after her well-being. She remembered all too well the feeling that people she spoke to every single day, some of them every hour, wouldn’t have so much as noticed—never mind cared—if she simply ceased to exist.

“I’m fine, thank you,” the girl lied. “I’m calling on behalf of Miranda.”

At the sound of Miranda’s name, Andy reflexively cringed.

“Yes?” she managed to croak.

“Miranda kindly requests your presence at a dinner party this Friday evening.”

“A dinner party?” Andy asked, unable to hide her disbelief. “This Friday?”

“Yes. She’ll be hosting at her home. I assume you remember the address?”

“At her home?”

Charla said nothing. Andy shivered from the icy silence and after a long, quiet moment said, “Yes, I certainly remember.”

“Great, well then it’s settled. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight.”

Andy opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Andy said, “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it this Friday.”

“Oh? Ms. Priestly will be sorry to hear that. I’ll let her know.”

The line went dead. Andy shook her head at the weirdness of the whole interaction.

It made no sense. Miranda wanted her to attend a dinner party? For what reason? With whom? As her anxiety increased, Andy realized the invitation could be issued for one only one reason. She dialed Emily.

“Yes?” Emily asked breathlessly.

“Where are you? Don’t you have a red-eye to catch?”

“Why do you think I’m running right now? The traffic from Santa Barbara was hell and I just got to LAX. What’s up?”

“So, you’re not going to believe this for a single second, but I just got a call from Miranda’s office.”

“Oh yeah?” Emily asked, sounding not the least bit surprised. Excited, perhaps. But definitely not surprised. “Was she calling to invite you to dinner?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

Andy heard a voice over the intercom announce final boarding for a flight to Charlotte. “But, ma’am, you’re not going to Charlotte,” a man’s voice said.

“I’m crazy fucking late, can’t you see that? Do I really have to take my peep-toe wedges off for a security check? Really? Because that just seems asinine.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to remind you that swearing at a TSA agent is—”

Emily made some noise that sounded like a growl and hissed, “Fine, here, take my goddamn sandals.”

“I don’t know how you’re not getting arrested right now,” Andy said.

“So, I got the same call from Miranda’s assistant,” Emily said, barely missing a beat.

Andy almost dropped the phone. “What did you tell her?”

“What do you mean, what did I tell her? I told her you and I would be happy to attend. She said Miranda thinks it would be a good opportunity to see if we’re on the same page editorially. It’s a working dinner, Andy. We can’t say no.”

“Well, I did. Say no. I told her I couldn’t make it.”

There was some more rustling. Andy braced herself for Emily’s anger, but it never came. “Don’t worry about it,” Emily said. “I told her we’d both be there, ready and willing to talk all about
The Plunge
’s future.”

“Yes, but I told her—”

“Charla texted me ten seconds ago. I guess you must have just hung up with her. She said you couldn’t make it. I told her you absolutely could. Come on, Andy, we agreed to listen. And think about this experience.
Dining at Miranda’s!
”

Agatha peeked her head into Andy’s office, but Andy waved her away. “You RSVP’d for me? You said YES?!”

“Oh, Andy, stop being such a loser! I think it’s a lovely gesture that Miranda has invited us to a dinner at her home. She only does that for the people she likes and respects the most.”

Andy couldn’t help herself; she snorted. “You know as well as I do that Miranda likes exactly no one. She wants something from us, plain and simple. She wants
The Plunge,
and this is part of her strategy for getting it.”

Emily laughed. “Of course it is. So what? Does it sound so terrible to enjoy a meal prepared by a Per Se–trained chef in a gorgeous Fifth Avenue penthouse overlooking Central Park, surrounded by all sorts of interesting and creative people? Come on, Andy. You’re going.”

“I feel sick, but I can’t very well call back and contradict you, can I? Do we bring Max and Miles? What do we wear? Is it just us or will there be other people? I can’t deal with this, Em, I really can’t.”

“Look, I’m boarding now. Stop stressing. I’ll get you something to wear and we’ll figure it all out. Right now you’ve got to focus on salvaging this issue, okay? I’ll call as soon as I land, or earlier if the plane has Wi-Fi.” And with that, Emily hung up.

The entire staff of
The Plunge
worked through the night, the next day, and the following night, taking turns catching cat naps on an Aerobed set up in the supply closet and showering at a
nearby Equinox. Emily worked the phones relentlessly, begging, pleading, and convincing advertisers who’d purchased space based solely on Olive’s name that it was still worthwhile to run their ads; the art department scrambled to lay out an entire cover and feature in less than a day; and Andy spent hours crafting an editor’s letter that explained the situation to readers in a clear, concise way without sounding accusatory of Olive or insensitive to the bride they had currently chosen to feature. They were all exhausted, overworked, and unconvinced that their efforts would result in even a decent issue.

Salvation came at one in the morning on the second night—ten o’clock Los Angeles time—in the form of a call from Olive’s publicist, who promised every which way that the wedding was back on. Neither Andy nor Emily believed her at first, but the girl, who sounded every bit as hysterical and exhausted as they felt, swore on her life and that of her firstborn that everything down to the doves they would be releasing at “I do” had been rescheduled for the following afternoon.

“How can you be sure?”

“If you saw her face after they flew back to Santa Barbara on their helicopter, you’d be sure, too. Hair and makeup is scheduled to begin at nine. After that, it’s bridesmaids’ brunch at eleven, photos at two, ceremony at five, cocktails at six, reception from seven to midnight, afterparty until last man standing. Trust me, I’m sure.”

Andy and Emily’s eyes met over the speakerphone. Emily raised her eyebrows questioningly and Andy violently shook her head no.

“I’ll be there,” Emily said with a huge sigh. She yelled to a bleary-eyed Agatha to book her a ticket on the first flight out in the morning and to notify the L.A.-based photographer that he would need to head back to Santa Barbara. Andy tried to thank her, but Emily just held her hand up.

“You’d do it if you didn’t have a kid,” Emily said, gathering her things to go home and repack for the next couple hours.

“Of course,” Andy said, although she wasn’t sure she would. The days and nights spent at the office had been hell, and she couldn’t fathom getting on a plane. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but if the decision had been hers, she might have taken the easier way out and run with the new, reworked issue. Emily was doing the right thing, and Andy was grateful she had the perseverance to see it through.

The chaos of scrapping, reworking, and ultimately reinstating the Olive issue was probably the only thing on earth that could have distracted Andy from the looming Miranda dinner, but as soon as Emily confirmed that Olive really did walk down the aisle this time, Andy found she could think of nothing else. Miranda. Her apartment. Who else would be there? What would they discuss? Eat? Wear? It was totally unfathomable that after so many nights slipping in and out as an indentured servant, Andy would be
dining at Miranda’s table.
Andy
should
cancel, but ultimately she decided to take a deep breath, accept a borrowed dress from Emily, and be a grown-up about the whole thing. It was one night, only one night.