Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (235 page)

‘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,' she 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 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.

Which is exactly what she kept telling herself until the cab pulled up to Miranda's opulent Upper East Side building and the uniformed door attendant swept them into the elevator. ‘You're here to see Ms Priestly,' he said, his words somewhere between an order and a question.

‘We are indeed,' Andy replied. ‘Thank you.'

Andy glanced at Emily, who shot her the same warning look an exasperated mother might give her obnoxious toddler.

‘What?' Andy mouthed. Emily rolled her eyes.

He ushered the girls off the elevator at the top floor and was gone before Andy could cling to his leg and beg him to take her back downstairs. Andy could tell Emily was every bit as freaked out as she was, but her friend seemed determined to appear calm and collected. They paused outside the door for just a moment – the same door each girl had let herself into countless times
before
– and Emily finally rapped softly.

The door swung open, and Andy took in two things almost immediately: first, that Miranda had redecorated the entire apartment from top to bottom and it was infinitely more gorgeous than she could have even imagined; and second, that the slim young girl who had answered the door and whose back was on display as she walked toward the apartment's sweeping staircase was probably one of the twins. Her guess was confirmed a moment later when Cassidy swiveled on a delicate bare foot, and with her hand on the banister and her half-shaved hair flying behind her, said, ‘My mother will be down shortly. Make yourselves comfortable.' Without so much as another glance at Andy or Emily, Cassidy bounded up the stairs like a girl much younger than eighteen, and Andy tried to figure out why she would be home from college in early October.

‘What do we do now?' Andy whispered as she took in the rich, pewter-colored carpeting, the chandelier with at least a hundred hanging teardrop bulbs of varying sizes and lengths, the life-size black-and-white photographs of famous models from the fifties and sixties, an assortment of fur throws tossed over Victorian-inspired couches and, most shockingly knowing Miranda's taste (or thinking she did), vibrant purple velvet curtains in a pile so deep Andy wanted to bury her face in them. The room was elegant but lighthearted: it obviously cost more to decorate the foyer and formal living room than the average American family earned in four years, but it still managed to feel accessible, comfortable, and most surprisingly of all, downright funky.

Andy followed Emily into the living room and sat beside her on a love seat. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, desperately wishing for a glass of water. She surreptitiously glanced around: there was enough uniformed staff flitting about to service Downton Abbey, but no one had offered them a thing to eat or drink. She was considering a trip to the bathroom to adjust her twisted and binding tights when an all-too-familiar voice rang out.

‘Welcome, everyone,' Miranda said, clapping her hands together almost girlishly. ‘I'm so pleased you could join me.'

Andy and Emily looked at each other for a split second –
everyone
? – before turning their attention to Miranda, who looked so … un-Miranda. For the first time Andy could remember, Miranda wasn't wearing something constructed, buttoned-up, or ultratailored. The vermilion maxi dress fit perfectly and was made of the finest silk with beautiful stitching, but it flowed out around her ankles in a soft, elegant wave. Her arms were bare – again, it was the first time Andy could remember seeing Miranda's shoulders in anything other than black-tie, as even her tennis outfits tended toward conservative – and a knockout pair of diamond chandelier earrings reflected the light in tiny, bright bursts. A handful of Hermès bangles jangled on her left arm, of course, but her only other accessory was a buttery soft leather strip that wrapped two, maybe three, times around her trim waist, overlapping itself in a way that felt artful and casual at the same time. Even her signature bob was somehow less severe; it wasn't mussed, exactly, but it had just a bit of sophisticated bed-head rumple to it. More surprising than the dress and the hair and the jewelry, though, was the single feature one never, ever expected to see on Miranda Priestly: a smile that looked completely human. It almost bordered on warm.