Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (197 page)

Julian nodded. ‘It's just the beginning,' he said, pushing her hair behind her ears. ‘We're getting rid of poisonous people once and for all. First up? Leo.'

Just the sound of his name made her cringe. ‘What does he have to do with us?'

‘A lot, actually. He's been absolutely toxic in every imaginable way. Something you probably knew all along but I was too much of an ass to really see. He leaked a lot of stuff to the press and arranged to get the
Last Night
paparazzo into the Chateau, and he's the one who sent that girl to my table, all under the ridiculous rationalization that any press is good press. He orchestrated the whole thing. I was at fault – I absolutely was – but Leo—'

‘Disgusting!' she said, shaking her head.

‘I fired him.'

Brooke's head snapped up and she could see Julian was smiling. ‘You really did?'

‘Oh, I sure did.' He handed her a piece of folded paper. ‘Here, this is step two.'

The single sheet looked like it had been printed from a website. It featured a headshot of a kindly older gentleman named Howard Liu, his contact information, and a history of the apartments he'd sold in the last couple years. ‘Should I know Howard?' she asked.

‘You will soon,' Julian said, smiling. ‘Howard is our new broker. And if you're okay with it, we have an appointment with him first thing Monday.'

‘We're getting an apartment?'

He handed her another wad of papers. ‘We're seeing these. And anything else you want to look at, of course.'

She stared at him for a moment, unfolded the papers, and gasped. They were more printouts, only these were of beautiful town houses in Brooklyn, probably six or seven in all, each featuring photos and floor plans and lists of features and amenities. Her eyes froze on the last one, the four-story brownstone with the front stoop and the little gated front yard that she and Julian had walked by hundreds of times.

‘That's your favorite, right?' he asked, pointing to it.

She nodded.

‘I thought so. We're seeing that one last. And if you like it, we're going to put in a bid then and there.'

‘Ohmigod.' It was too much to process. Gone was all talk of the chic Tribeca lofts or the ultramodern high-rise apartments. He wanted a home – a real home – as much as she did.

‘Here,' he said, handing her a piece of paper.

‘There's more?'

‘Just open it.'

It was yet another printout. This one featured a smiling headshot of a man named Richard Goldberg, who looked to be around forty-five and who worked for a company called Original Artist Management. ‘And this lovely gentleman?' she asked with a smile.

‘Is my new manager,' Julian said. ‘I made a few calls, and I found someone who understands what I'm hoping to achieve.'

‘Dare I ask what?' she asked.

‘A way to have a successful career without losing what matters to me most – you,' he said quietly. He pointed to Richard's picture. ‘I spoke to him, and he got it immediately. I don't need to maximize my financial potential – I need
you.
'

‘We can still buy that town house in Brooklyn, right?' she said with a grin.

‘Yes. We sure can. And apparently, if I'm willing to forgo a few paychecks, I can decide to tour once a year, and even then put a cap on it. Six, eight weeks, max.'

‘And how do you feel about that?'

‘I feel good. You're not the only one who hates me touring – it's no kind of life. But I think we could both handle six or eight weeks of it every twelve months if it's going to give us freedom otherwise. Do you?'

Brooke nodded. ‘I do, I think that's a good compromise. So long as you won't feel like you're cheating yourself …'

‘It's not perfect – nothing's ever going to be – but I think it sounds like a damn good start. And for the record, I don't expect you to drop everything to come with me. I know you'll have another job you love by then, maybe a baby …' He raised his eyebrows in her direction and she laughed. ‘I can install a recording studio in our basement so I can be home with our family. I checked, and every one of these listings has a basement.'

‘Julian. My god, this—' She waved at all the printouts and marveled at the thought and effort he'd put into it. ‘I don't even know what to say.'

‘Say yes, Brooke. We can make it work, I know we can. Wait – don't say anything yet.' He pulled open the jacket she was hugging tightly around herself and reached into the inside pocket. In his open palm was a small velvet jewelry box.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She was about to ask Julian what was inside, but before she could say a word, he scooted off the bench and knelt beside her, his other hand resting on her knee.

‘Brooke, will you make me the happiest guy in the world and marry me again?'

He flipped open the box. Inside was not some new fancy engagement ring with a huge diamond or a pair of sparkly studs, as she suspected. Tucked between two folds of velvet was Brooke's plain gold wedding band, the one the stylist had ripped off her finger the night of the Grammys, the same band she'd worn every day for nearly six years now but thought she might never see again.

‘I've been wearing this on a chain ever since I got it back,' he said.

‘I didn't mean to,' she rushed to say, ‘it just got lost in all the confusion, I swear it wasn't some sort of symbol …'

He stretched up and kissed her. ‘Do me the honor of wearing it again?'

She threw her arms around his neck, crying once again now, and nodded. She tried to say yes, but she couldn't get the word out. He laughed and rocked her and hugged her back.

‘Here, look,' he said, plucking the ring from the box. He pointed to its underside where, right beside their wedding date, he had engraved today's date. ‘So we'll never forget that we're making a promise to each other to start over.' He took her left hand and slid her own wedding band on her finger, and she didn't realize until it was back in place how naked she'd felt without it.

‘Hey, Rook, I hate to stand on ceremony here, but you haven't actually agreed yet.' He gave her a sheepish look, and she could see he was still a little nervous.

She took it as a very good sign.

They couldn't solve everything in one conversation, but tonight she didn't care. They still loved each other. She couldn't possibly know what the next months or years would bring, or if their plans would work, but she
knew
– for the first time in a long, long while – that she wanted to try.

‘I love you, Julian Alter,' she said, reaching out to hold his hands. ‘And yes, I will marry you again. Yes, yes, yes.'

First and foremost I want to thank my agent, Sloan Harris. I'm forever indebted to him for his tireless advocacy, his invaluable advice, and the calm, levelheaded way he handles every situation I throw at him. I wake each day thankful to be on Sloan's team. I also deeply admire the way he can work the word ‘kabuki' into almost every conversation.

Thank you to my very own Editorial DreamTeam,in order of appearance: Marysue Rucci, Lynne Drew, and Greer Hendricks. Every author should know what it's like to be on the receiving end of such smart, savvy, and sensitive feedback. Sending a special hug to Lynne for her above-and-beyond cross-Atlantic voyage (annual tradition?).

Thanks to Judith Curr, whose energy and enthusiasm are contagious, and to David Rosenthal for always believing in me (and who surely loathes the phrase ‘always believing in me'). A huge thank you to everyone at Atria, especially: Carolyn Reidy, Chris Lloreda, Jeanne Lee, Lisa Sciambra, Mellony Torres, Sarah Cantin, Lisa Keirn, Nancy Inglis, Kimberly Goldstein, Aja Pollock, Rachel Bostic, Natalie White, Craig Dean, and the entire sales force. I'm thrilled to be part of the family!

Betsy Robbins, Vivienne Schuster, Alice Moss, Kate Burke, Cathy Gleason, Sophie Baker, Kyle White, and Ludmilla Suvorova: thank you. I simply adore you all. Special thanks to Kristyn Keene for offering wise and spot-on advice on everything from plot development to stilettos. You are always right. A big hug to Cara Weisberger for brilliant brainstorming sessions. Thanks to Damian Benders for my music industry briefing and Victoria Stein for educating me on all things nutritionist-related. Any mistakes in these areas are entirely my own.

Thank you to my incredible family. Mom, Dad, Dana, Seth, Grandma, Papa, Bernie, Judy, Jonathan, Brian, Lindsey, Dave, Allison, Jackie, and Mel for enduring endless hours ofblather about this book and doing it with so much love and support. Nanny, I know you're reading this somewhere, and I miss you so much.

And lastly, the biggest thanks of all to my husband, Mike. This novel (or my sanity) wouldn't exist without him. We talked characters at breakfast, plot at lunch, and structure at dinner, and not only did he never threaten divorce, he also made me laugh every step of the way. MC, I love you.

For R and S,
with love

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

1. as long as she lived

2. learning to love the hamptons: 2009

3. you're walking, sister

4. and it's official!

5. i'd hardly call it dating

6. writing the obit doesn't make it true

7. boys will be boys

8. no david's bridal, no baby's breath, no dyeable shoes of any kind

9. virgin piñas all around

10. one half of a robe made for two

11. more or less famous than beyoncé?

12. trumped-up harassment charges plus a straitjacket or two

13. i could easily be dead by then

14. miranda priestly all but called you gorgeous

15. i'm here to tell you that not not-trying is trying

16. give him a test drive

17. james bond meets
pretty woman,
with a little dash of
mary poppins

18. stop talking and step away

19. ceviche and snakeskin: a night of terror

20. a shipping container of botox

21. in your own best interest

22. details, details

23. cougar mama to a golden-bronze man-boy

24. that's all

Acknowledgments

The rain fell in sideways sheets, cold and relentless, the winds whipping it in every direction, making an umbrella, slicker, and rain boots nearly useless. Not that Andy had any of those things. Her two-hundred-dollar Burberry umbrella had refused to open and finally snapped when she tried to force it; the cropped rabbit jacket with the oversize collar and no hood cinched fabulously around her waist but did nothing to stop the bone-chilling cold; and the brand-new stacked suede Prada pumps cheered her with their poppy fuchsia color but left the better part of her foot exposed. Even her skinny leggings left her legs feeling naked, the wind making the leather feel as protective as a pair of silk stockings. Already the fifteen inches that had blanketed New York were beginning to melt into a slushy gray mess, and Andy wished for the thousandth time that she lived anywhere but here.

As if to punctuate her thought, a taxi barreled through a yellow light and blared its horn at Andy, who had committed the grievous crime of trying to cross the street. She restrained herself from offering him the finger – everyone was armed these days – and instead gritted her teeth and hurled mental curses his way. Considering the size of her heels, she made decent progress for the next two or three blocks. Fifty-Second, Fifty-Third, Fifty-Fourth … it wasn't too far now, and at least she'd have a moment or two to warm up before beginning the race back to the office. She was consoling herself with the promise of a hot coffee and maybe, just maybe, a chocolate chip cookie, when suddenly, somewhere, she heard
that
ring.