Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (200 page)

‘I'm here, aren't I? And I'll do my best to be charming. Can we agree on two out of three?'

Emily sighed and Andy couldn't help but smile.

‘Help me! Help your poor, style-challenged friend put together something remotely appropriate to wear so that maybe she'll look good while begging a bunch of strangers for money!' Andy said this to appease Emily, but she knew she'd made some strides in the style department over the past seven years. Could she ever hope to look as good as Emily? Of course not. But she wasn't a total train wreck, either.

Emily grabbed a pile of the clothes from the middle of the bed and scrunched her nose at all of them. ‘What, exactly, were you planning to wear?'

Andy reached into the mess and extracted a navy linen shirtdress with a rope belt and coordinating platform espadrilles. It was simple, elegant, timeless. Perhaps a touch wrinkled. But certainly appropriate.

Emily blanched. ‘You're lying.'

‘Look at these gorgeous buttons. This dress wasn't inexpensive.'

‘I don't give a shit about the buttons!' Emily shrieked, tossing it clear across the room.

‘It's Michael Kors! Isn't that worth something?'

‘It's Michael Kors
beachwear,
Andy. It's what he has models throw on over bathing suits. What, did you order it online from Nordstrom?'

When Andy didn't say anything, Emily threw up her hands in frustration.

Andy sighed. ‘Can you just help me, please? I'm at a reasonably high risk of getting back under these covers right now …'

With that, Emily flew into high gear, muttering about how hopeless Andy was despite Emily's constant efforts to tutor her in cut, fit, fabric, and style … not to mention shoes. The shoes were
everything.
Andy watched as Emily ferreted through the tangle of clothing and held a few things aloft, immediately scowling at each one and unceremoniously discarding it. After five frustrating minutes of this, she disappeared down the hallway without a word and reappeared a few moments later holding a beautiful pale blue jersey maxidress with the most exquisite turquoise and silver chandelier earrings. ‘Here. You have silver sandals, right? Because you'll never fit into mine.'

‘I'll never fit into that,' Andy said, eyeing the beautiful dress warily.

‘Sure you will. I bought it in a size bigger than I normally wear for when I'm bloated, and there's all this draping around the midsection. You should be able to get into it.'

Andy laughed. She and Emily had been friends for so many years now that she barely even noticed those kinds of comments.

‘What?' Emily asked, looking confused.

‘Nothing. It's perfect. Thank you.'

‘Okay, so
get dressed.
' As if to punctuate her command, the girls heard a doorbell ring downstairs. ‘First guest! I'm running down. Be adorable and ask all about the men's work and the women's charities. Don't explicitly talk about the magazine unless someone asks, since this isn't really a work dinner.'

‘Not really a work dinner? Aren't we going to be hitting everyone up for money?'

Emily sighed exasperatedly. ‘Yes, but not until later. Before then we pretend we're all just socializing and having fun. It's most important now that they see we're smart, responsible women with a great idea. The majority are Miles's friends from Princeton. Tons of hedge fund guys who just love investing in media projects. I'm telling you, Andy, smile a lot, show interest in them, be your usual adorable self – wear that dress – and we'll be set.'

‘Smile, show interest, be adorable. Got it.' Andy pulled the towel off her head and began to comb out her hair.

‘Remember, I've seated you between Farooq Hamid, whose fund was recently ranked among the fifty most lucrative investments this year, and Max Harrison of Harrison Media Holdings, who's now acting as their CEO.'

‘Didn't his father just die? Like, in the last few months?' Andy could remember the televised funeral and the two days' worth of newspaper articles, eulogies, and tributes paid to the man who had built one of the greatest media empires ever before making a series of terrible investment decisions right before the 2008
recession
– Madoff, oil fields in politically unstable
countries
– and sending the company into a financial tailspin. No one knew how deep the damage ran.

‘Yes. Now Max is in charge and, by all accounts, doing a very good job so far. And the only thing Max likes more than investing in start-up media projects is investing in start-up media projects that are run by attractive women.'

‘Oh, Em, are you calling me attractive? Seriously, I'm blushing.'

Emily snorted. ‘I was actually talking about me … Look, can you be downstairs in five minutes? I need you!' Emily said as she walked out the door.

‘I love you too!' Andy called after her, already digging out her strapless bra.

The dinner was surprisingly relaxed, far more so than Emily's hysteria beforehand had indicated. The tent set up in the Everetts' backyard overlooked the water, its open sides letting in the salty sea breeze, and a trillion miniature votive lanterns gave the whole night a feeling of understated elegance. The menu was a clambake, and it was spectacular: two-and-a-half-pound pre-cracked lobsters; clams in lemon butter; mussels steamed in white wine; garlic rosemary bliss potatoes; corn on the cob sprinkled with
cotija
cheese; baskets of warm, buttery rolls; and a seemingly endless supply of ice-cold beer with limes, glasses of crisp Pinot Grigio, and the saltiest, most delicious margaritas Andy had ever tasted.

After everyone had stuffed themselves with homemade apple pie and ice cream, they shuffled toward the bonfire one of the servers had set up at the edge of the lawn, complete with a s'mores spread, mugs of marshmallowy hot chocolate, and
summer
-weight blankets knit from a heavenly soft bamboo-cashmere hybrid. The drinking and laughing continued; soon, a few joints began circulating around the group. Andy noticed that only she and Max Harrison refused, each passing it along when one came to them. When he excused himself and headed toward the house, Andy couldn't help but follow him.

‘Oh, hey,' she said, suddenly feeling shy when she ran into him on the sprawling deck off the living room. ‘I was, uh, just looking for the ladies' room,' she lied.

‘Andrea, right?' he asked, even though they'd just sat next to each other for three hours during dinner. Max had been involved in a conversation with the woman to his left, someone's Russian-model wife who didn't appear to understand English per se, but who had giggled and batted her eyes enough to keep Max engaged. Andy had chatted with – or rather listened to – Farooq as he bragged about everything from the yacht he'd commissioned in Greece earlier that year to his most recent profile in
The Wall Street Journal
.

‘Please, call me Andy.'

‘Andy, then.' Max reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, and held them toward Andy, and even though she hadn't had a cigarette in years, she plucked one without a second thought.

He lit them both wordlessly, first hers and then his, and when they'd both exhaled long streams of smoke, he said, ‘This is quite a party. You girls did a tremendous job.'

Andy couldn't help but smile. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘But it was mostly Emily.'

‘How come you don't smoke? The good stuff, I mean?'

Andy peered at him.

‘I noticed you and I were the only ones who weren't …
partaking
.'

Granted, they were only talking about smoking a joint, but Andy was flattered he'd noticed anything at all about her. Andy knew about Max – as one of Miles's best friends from boarding school, and as a name in the society pages and media blogs. But just to be sure, Emily had briefed Andy on Max's playboy past, his penchant for pretty, dumb girls by the dozen, and his inability to commit to someone ‘real' despite being a whip-smart, good guy who was ceaselessly devoted to his friends and family. Emily and Miles predicted Max would be single until his forties, at which point his overbearing mother would place enough pressure on him to produce a grandchild, and he would marry a knockout twenty-three-year-old who would gaze at him worshipfully and never question anything he said or did. Andy knew all of this – she had listened carefully and done some research of her own that seemed to confirm everything Emily said – but for a reason she couldn't quite pinpoint, the assessment felt off.

‘No story, really. I smoked in college with everyone else, but I never really liked it. I would sort of slink off to my room and stare at myself in the mirror and take a running inventory of all the poor decisions I'd made and all the ways I was deficient as a person.'

Max smiled. ‘Sounds like a blast.'

‘I just sort of figured, life is hard enough, you know? I don't need my supposed recreational drug use making me unhappy.'

‘Very fair point.' He took a drag off his cigarette.

‘And you?'

Max appeared to think about this for a minute, almost as though he were debating which version of the story to tell her. Andy watched his strong Harrison jaw clench, his dark brows knit. He looked so much like the newspaper pictures of his father. When his eyes met hers, he smiled again, only this time it was tinged with sadness. ‘My father died recently. The public explanation was liver cancer, but it was really cirrhosis. He was a lifelong alcoholic. Extraordinarily functional for a large part of it – if you can call being drunk every night of your life functional – but then the last few years, with the financial crisis and some tough business fallout, not as much. I drank pretty heavily myself starting in college. Five years out it was getting out of control. So I went cold turkey. No drinking, no drugs, nothing but these cancer sticks, which I just can't seem to kick …'

Now that he mentioned it, Andy had noticed that Max only drank sparkling water during dinner. She hadn't thought much about it, but now that she knew the story, part of her wanted to reach out and hug him.

She must have gotten lost in her own thoughts because Max said, ‘As you can imagine, I'm a really great time at parties lately.'

Andy laughed. ‘I've been known to disappear without saying good-bye just so I can go home and watch movies in my sweatpants. Drinking or not, you're probably a better time than I.'

They chatted easily for another few minutes while they finished their cigarettes, and after Max led her back to the group, she found herself trying to catch his attention and convince herself that he was nothing more than a player. He was remarkably good-looking; Andy couldn't deny that. Usually she was allergic to the bad boys, but tonight she thought she saw something vulnerable and honest. He hadn't needed to confide in her about his father or admit to his drinking problem. He had been surprisingly forthright and totally down-to-earth, which were two qualities Andy found immensely appealing.
But even Emily thinks he's bad news,
Andy reminded herself, and considering her friend was married to one of the biggest party boys in Manhattan, that was saying something. When Max said good-bye a little after midnight with a chaste cheek kiss and a perfunctory ‘Nice to meet you,' Andy told herself it was for the best. There were plenty of great guys out there, and there was no need to get stuck on a jerk. Even if he was adorable and seemed perfectly sweet and genuine.

Emily appeared in Andy's room the next morning at nine, already looking gorgeous in miniature white shorts, a batik-print blouse, and sky-high platform sandals. ‘Can you do me a favor?' she asked.

Andy draped an arm across her face. ‘Does it involve getting out of bed? Because those margaritas crushed me last night.'

‘Do you remember talking to Max Harrison?'

Andy opened an eye. ‘Sure.'

‘He just called. He wants you, me, and Miles to go to his parents' place for an early lunch, to talk numbers for
The Plunge.
I think he's serious about investing.'

‘That's fantastic!' Andy said, not sure if she meant it more for the invitation or the news about the funding.

‘Only Miles and I are having brunch with his parents at the club. They just got back this morning and they're raring to go. We've got to leave in fifteen minutes and there's no getting out of it – trust me, I tried. Can you handle Max on your own?'

Andy pretended to consider this. ‘Yeah, I guess so. If you want me to.'

‘Great, it's decided then. He'll pick you up in an hour. He said to bring a bathing suit.'

‘A bathing suit? I'm sure I'll also need to'

Emily handed her an oversize DVF straw tote. ‘Bikini – high waisted for you, of course – the cutest little Milly cover-up, floppy sun hat, and SPF 30, oil-free. For afterward, bring those belted white shorts you wore yesterday and pair them with this linen tunic and those cute white Toms. Any questions?'

Andy laughed and waved good-bye to Emily before dumping the contents of the tote on her bed. She grabbed the hat and the sunblock and tossed them back into the bag, adding her own bikini, jean shorts, and tank top. There was only so far she was willing to go with Emily's dictatorial costuming, and besides, if Max didn't like her look, that was his problem.

The afternoon was perfection. Together Andy and Max went tooling around in Max's little speedboat, jumping in the water to cool off and feasting on a picnic lunch of cold fried chicken, sliced watermelon, peanut butter cookies, and lemonade. They walked on the beach for nearly two hours, barely noticing the midday sun, and fell asleep on the cushy lounge chairs beside the Harrisons' glistening, deserted pool. When she finally opened her eyes what felt like hours later, Max was watching her. ‘You like steamers?' he asked, a funny little smile on his face.

‘Who doesn't like steamers?'