Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (223 page)

The camera left Miranda and followed the girl back to her desk – the same desk Andy had sat at ten years earlier – and watched as she frantically scribbled notes on miniature Post-its. The camera zoomed in as a single tear slid down her peachy cheek. Andy felt her own throat close up and she hit ‘pause.' ‘
Get a grip!
' she hissed to herself, noticing that her fingernails were digging into her palm as she death-clutched the remote control and her shoulders were practically wedged in her ears. She was scared to glance up, despite the frozen frame on the television, her terror nearly the same as when she'd watch movies with young girls running alone in heavily forested areas, headphones on, blissfully unaware that a deranged serial killer was about to leap from behind a tree. This was why Andy had refused to see the movie when it first came out, despite everyone else's prodding and mocking. She had felt this way twenty-four hours a day for an entire year. Why did she need to subject herself to it again?

Stanley woofed at his own reflection in the window and Andy pulled him close. ‘Should we make a cup of tea, boy? What are you in the mood for? Mint?'

He stared at her dumbly.

She stood up, stretched, rewrapped her robe. Not wanting to wait for the kettle to boil, she dug around in the gigantic bowl of coffee and tea pods Max kept on the counter until she found one for herbal tea. She popped it in the machine, added a packet of real sugar (no more artificial sweeteners!) while it steeped and a dash of milk, and was back on the couch in under a minute.

Emily was still in touch with a handful of people at
Runway
and so was privy to countless current and ridiculous Miranda requests, outrageous firings, and public humiliations. It seemed age had not humbled or slowed the woman whatsoever. She still went through assistants faster than steak lunches. She still punctuated nearly every command with
that's all.
She still called her staff night and day, berating them over the phone for not reading her mind or divining her needs before slamming down the receiver and calling again. Andy certainly hadn't needed to watch that snippet to bring it all back – to this very day, a certain old-school Nokia cell phone ring, heard on the crosstown bus or across a crowded bar, could send her into paroxysms of panic. Now the screen in front of her brought it all rushing back in stark color.

It had taken months after that fateful afternoon in Paris before Andy could sleep through the night again. She'd wake with a gasp imagining some task she'd failed to complete – she'd lost the Bulletin again or sent Miranda to the wrong restaurant for a lunch meeting. Andy had never picked up another copy of
Runway
from the moment she'd left, but of course it taunted her from bodegas, hair salons, doctors' waiting rooms, mani-pedi places, everywhere. When she was offered the job at
Happily Ever After
by a girl only a few years older than herself who promised Andy ‘loads of writing independence' so long as she wrote on generally approved topics and delivered them on time, it felt like a new start. Lily was moving to Boulder. Alex had broken up with her. Her parents had announced their separation. Andy had turned twenty-four a few months earlier and was living alone in what felt like, for the first time in almost two years, an overwhelmingly huge city. For company she had her television and the odd college friend, if she reached out. And then, thankfully, Emily.

The sound of Miranda's shrill voice snapped her back to reality. The live television pause had run out, and the documentary had snapped back onto the screen. Andy watched for just a moment as Miranda's soon-to-be-ex-assistant tried fruitlessly to remember the list of things that had just been dumped in her lap. Andy saw the expressions of surprise and panic followed by realization and defeat, and her heart went out to the girl. Her firing would come as a surprise only to her, convinced as she surely was that this job was her ticket to a bigger and better world. The girl couldn't possibly understand that in eight or ten years she'd be sitting in her own living room, with perhaps a husband to call her own and a baby on the way, and she would still want to throw up or murder someone every time she heard a certain ringtone or spotted a white scarf or accidentally surfed past a certain show on the television.

As though on cue, text at the bottom of the screen announced that one day had elapsed since the last scene. Here, Miranda was seen wearing a stunning Burberry coat with an Yves Saint Laurent bag flung over her shoulder as she walked into the anteroom on her way out to lunch or a meeting.

She stared at the senior assistant, another girl Andy didn't recognize but whom she could identify because of her spot in Emily's seat, until the girl dared to look up.

‘Dismiss her,' Miranda said, not bothering to lower her voice a decibel.

‘Pardon?' the Emily assistant asked, out of shock, not because she was unable to hear.

‘Her,' Miranda said, motioning her head in the direction of the junior assistant. ‘She's a moron. I want her gone before I return. Begin interviewing immediately. I expect you'll do a better job this time.'

Miranda cinched her trench around her microscopic waist and strode out of the office. The camera swiveled to the desk of the junior assistant, whose face registered the same shock it would have if she'd been struck. Before the girl's huge, sweet eyes could dissolve into tears, Andy shook her head and clicked off the TV. She had seen enough.

Andy laughed as Emily white-knuckled the chair's armrests and gingerly lowered herself into the front-row, courtside seat.

Emily shot her a look. ‘I don't know what you're laughing at. At least I'm only injured, not huge.'

Andy looked down at her belly, now solidly rounded and unquestioningly obvious at five months along, and nodded, smiling. ‘I'm huge.'

‘These seats are like Jay-Z style,' Emily said, looking around. Max and Miles were sitting courtside on the player's bench watching warm-ups, in guy heaven. Their heads turned as each seven-foot-something player ran, shot, dribbled, and dunked. ‘Every now and then, Miles actually comes through with something good.'

‘I wish I cared the least bit about the Knicks or basketball in general,' Andy said, rubbing her belly. ‘I feel like we don't really appreciate it.'

The crowd behind them roared when Carmelo Anthony ran onto the court for his warm-up.

‘Please,' Emily said, rolling her eyes. ‘I'm here for the front-row VIP experience, and you're here for the food. So long as we're clear on that, it's fine.'

Andy shoved a forkful of truffled mac and cheese into her mouth. ‘You should really have some of this …'

Emily blanched.

‘What? Doctor's orders to gain thirty pounds …'

‘Isn't that for the whole nine months and not just the first half?' Emily asked, looking at Andy's piled-high plate in disgust. ‘I mean, I'm no pregnancy expert, but you look clear on your way to pulling a Jessica Simpson.'

Andy smiled. She'd been enjoying the occasional extra cupcake and slice of pizza now that the nausea had subsided, yes. It definitely wasn't only her belly that was looking bigger either – both her face and her butt had filled and rounded out – but she knew it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Only when she was talking to Emily, who still referred to pregnant women as ‘fat' or ‘really packing it on,' did she even think about it. Andy had come to accept that her only real pleasure these days came from food and that no one ever looked at a pregnant woman and thought she was large or small, fat or thin, even tall or short; she was just pregnant.

The guys turned around and waved; Emily winced as she waved back and touched her abdomen. ‘Christ, this hurts. And no decent painkillers! A few losers go and get themselves hooked on Oxy, and it means a lifetime of Advil for the rest of us.'

‘I told you it was crazy to come tonight. Who goes to Madison Square Garden the week they discharge you from the hospital?'

‘What was I supposed to do?' Emily asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘Sit home in my pajamas and watch a Lifetime movie when you're all here? Besides' – she nodded toward the front row across the court – ‘I wouldn't see Bradley Cooper at home.'

‘And he wouldn't be able to admire your golden tan,' Andy said.

Emily ran her fingertips across her cheekbones. ‘Exactly.'

The New Year's trip to the island of Vieques with Emily and Miles had been nothing short of fabulous: a gorgeous beachside villa with two master bedroom suites, a private pool, a bartender who seemed to specialize in fruity rum drinks, and plenty of swimming, tennis, and lazy beach time. Not only did they never once get dressed up to go anywhere, but some nights they didn't even bother changing out of their bathing suits and cover-ups for dinner. Andy and Emily had agreed not to discuss the Elias-Clark offer or any business on vacation, and with the exception of one dinner mention about investing in beach property post-payout, they'd kept that pact. Andy knew they were delaying the inevitable, and they had a conference call with Stanley scheduled for the first Monday back. But for the duration of the week? They slept late, drank heavily (Andy allowed herself the occasional glass of champagne and then plenty of calorie-laden virgin piña coladas; being pregnant, she finally realized what it felt like for Max, who even now, after all these years, never had a single drink), read trashy magazines, and sunned themselves eight hours a day. It was the most relaxing vacation Andy could remember, right up until Emily had gotten appendicitis.

‘I'm sure it's just food poisoning,' she'd announced their eighth morning, when she showed up at the breakfast table looking pale, sweaty, and traumatized. ‘And don't for one single second think I'm pregnant, because I am not.'

‘How do you know? If you're puking, you're probably'

‘If the pill on top of my IUD can't prevent pregnancy, then I should go on the road as some sort of fertile freak show.' Emily doubled over and struggled to catch her breath. ‘I am
not
pregnant.'

Miles shot her a sympathetic look but didn't stop shoveling French toast into his mouth. ‘I told you those mussels were bad news …'

‘Yeah, but I shared them with her, and I feel fine,' Max pointed out, pouring himself and Andy cups of decaf coffee from a stainless carafe.

‘All it takes is one,' Miles said, his eyes scanning the
Times
on his iPad.

Andy watched as Emily carefully stood up, held her abdomen, and walked as fast as she could back to her room. ‘I'm worried about her,' she said to the guys.

‘She'll be fine by tonight,' Miles said, not looking up. ‘You know how she gets.'

Max and Andy exchanged a look. ‘Why don't you go check on her?' he said to Andy quietly. She nodded.

She found Emily writhing atop the covers, curled in a ball, her face twisted in pain. ‘I don't think this is food poisoning,' Emily whispered.

Andy called the resort's front desk to ask about a doctor, and they assured her they would send the on-staff nurse immediately. The woman took one look at Emily, pressed a few times on her belly, and declared it appendicitis. She texted something on her phone, and a few minutes later, a hotel van appeared to take Emily to the local clinic.

After allowing Emily to stretch out on the middle bench, they all piled in. They'd been in Vieques over a week, and with the exception of a quick jaunt to another hotel for lunch, not one of them had been off the resort grounds. The ride to the clinic was short but bumpy – only Emily's whimpering punctuated the silence as they all gazed out the window. When they finally pulled into a parking lot, Max was the first to say what they were all thinking.

‘This is the clinic?' he asked, staring at the dilapidated structure that appeared to be a cross between an unfinished grocery store and military airplane hangar. The words
Centro de Salud de Familia
appeared in neon on the front, although more than half the letters were burned out.

‘I'm not going in there,' Emily said, shaking her head. She looked like she might pass out from the effort.

‘You don't have a choice,' Miles said. He wrapped one of Emily's arms over his shoulders and motioned for Max to do the same. ‘We need to get you some help.'

They half carried Emily through the front door and were greeted with a scene of total silence. With the exception of a lone teenager watching what appeared to be an episode of
General Hospital
from the early eighties on an overhead black-and-white television, the place was completely deserted.

Emily moaned. ‘Get me out of here. If I don't die first, they'll kill me.'

Miles rubbed her shoulders while Max and Andy went in search of help. The desk toward the back of the room was empty, but the nurse who'd accompanied them from the resort felt free to walk behind it, open a side door, and shout into it. A woman wearing scrubs and a surprised expression appeared.

‘I have a young woman with probable appendicitis. I'll need a blood test and an abdominal X-ray immediately,' she said authoritatively.

The woman in scrubs took one look at the nurse's ID badge and nodded wearily. ‘Bring her back,' she said, and motioned for the group to follow her. ‘We can do the blood test, but the X-ray machine is down today.'

As they were led down the hallway, the lights flickered on and off at unpredictable intervals. Andy could hear Emily begin to cry and realized this was the first time in the decade she'd known Emily that she'd seen her lose her cool.

‘It's just a blood test,' Andy said as soothingly as she could.

The woman dropped their entire group in an exam room, left a cotton gown of questionable cleanliness on the table, and walked out without a word.

‘They will be back soon to draw your blood. There is no need to change your clothing,' the hotel nurse said.