Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns Read online

  “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?”

  They each threw one of Max’s sweatshirts over their bathing suits and jumped in his Jeep Wrangler, where the wind whipped Andy’s hair into a wonderful, salty mess and she felt freer than she had in ages. When they finally pulled up to the beach shack in Amagansett, Andy was converted: the Hamptons were the best place on earth, so long as she was with Max and there was always a bucket of steamers with cups of melted butter beside her. Screw city weekends. Thi
s was heaven.

  “Pretty good, aren’t they?” Max asked as he shucked a clam and tossed the shell in a plastic discard bucket.

  “They’re so fresh some of them are still sandy,” Andy said through a full mouth. She munched her corn on the cob unself-consciously despite a dribble of butter running down her chin.

  “I want to invest in your new magazine, Andy,” Max said, looking her straight in the eyes.

  “Really? That’s great. I mean, that’s more than great, it’s fantastic. Emily said you might be interested, but I didn’t want—”

  “I’m really impressed with everything you’ve done.”

  Andy could feel herself blush. “Well, to be honest, Emily has done almost everything. It’s incredible how organized that girl is. Not to mention connected. I mean, I don’t even know how to put together a business plan, never mind a—”

  “Yeah, she’s great, but I mean everything you’ve done. When Emily approached me a few weeks ago, I went back and read almost everything you’ve written.”

  Andy could only stare at him.

  “The wedding blog you write for? Happily Ever After? I have to tell you, I don’t read much about weddings, but I think your interviews are excellent. That feature you did on Chelsea Clinton, right around the time she got married? Really well done.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “I read that investigative piece you did for New York magazine, the one on the restaurant letter-grading system? That was so interesting. And the travel piece you did on that yoga retreat? Where was that? Brazil?”

  Andy nodded.

  “It made me want to go. And I assure you, yoga is not my thing.”

  “Thanks. It, um . . .” Andy coughed, trying hard to suppress a smile. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

  “I’m not saying it to make you feel good, Andy. I’m saying it because it’s all true. And Emily has given me an initial sketch of your ideas for The Plunge, which I think sound terrific, too.”

  This time Andy allowed herself a wide grin. “You know, I have to admit I was skeptical when Emily approached me with her idea for The Plunge. The world didn’t seem to need another wedding magazine. There just didn’t seem to be any place in the market for it. But as she and I talked it through, we realized there was a serious lack of a Runway-esque wedding magazine—super high-end, glossy, with gorgeous photography and zero cheese factor. Something that featured celebrities and socialites and weddings that were financially out of reach for most readers but that still played to their daydreams and plans. A book that offered the sophisticated, savvy, style-conscious woman page after page of inspiration on which she could model her own wedding. Right now there’s a whole lot of baby’s breath and dyeable shoes and tiaras, but there isn’t anything showing a more sophisticated bride her options. I think The Plunge will fill a real niche.”

  Max stared at her, a bottle of root beer clutched in his right hand.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you the full pitch. I just get excited talking about it.” Andy took a sip of her Corona and wondered if it was insensitive of her to drink in front of Max.

  “I was ready to invest because the idea is solid, Emily’s very convincing, and you’re extremely attractive. I didn’t realize you can be every bit as convincing as Emily.”

  “I went overboard, didn’t I?” Andy buried her forehead in her hands. “Sorry.” She said the words, but she could think of nothing other than Max calling her extremely attractive.

  “You’re not just a good writer, Andy. We can all get together in the city and discuss the details next week, but I can tell you right now that Harrison Media Holdings would like to be a principal investor in The Plunge.”

  “I know I speak for Emily and myself when I say we would love that,” Andy said, immediately regretting her formality.

  “We’re going to make a lot of money together,” Max said, holding his bottle up.

  Andy clinked it. “Cheers. To being business partners.”

  Max looked at her weirdly but clinked her bottle again and took a sip.

  Andy felt momentarily awkward but quickly reassured herself she’d said the right thing. After all, Max was a player. Linked to models and society stick figures. This was business, and business partners sounded good and smart.

  The mood had changed, that much was clear, so Andy wasn’t surprised when Max dropped her back at Emily’s in-laws’ right after their late-afternoon steamer expedition. He kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for a great day and made no mention whatsoever of getting together again, save for a meeting in his company conference room with Emily and a full legal and accounting team.

  And why would he? Andy wondered. Just because he’d flirted a little and called her attractive? Because together they’d spent a single perfect day? None of it meant a damn thing more than due diligence on Max’s part: he was scoping out his investment, being his usual charming and adorable self and having a little flirtatious fun on the side. Which was, according to Emily and everything she could find online, exactly what Max did, and did well and often. Clearly, none of it meant he was the least bit interested in her.

  Emily was ecstatic to hear how successful the day had been, and the meeting in the city the following Thursday was even better. Max committed Harrison Media Holdings to a staggering six-figure number to get The Plunge up and running, more than either of them had even dreamed of, and, almost even better, Emily wasn’t able to join them for the spontaneous celebratory lunch Max proposed the three of them share.

  “If you had any idea how hard it was to get this appointment, neither of you would even suggest I skip it,” Emily said, rushing off to some celebrity dermatologist she’d been waiting nearly five months to see. “She’s harder to get an audience with than the Dalai Lama, and my forehead wrinkles are getting deeper by the second.”

  So once again Max and Andy went alone, and once again, two hours turned into five, until finally the maître d’ of the midtown steakhouse politely asked them to leave so he could set their table for a dinner reservation. Max held her hand as he walked her home, thirty blocks out of his way, and Andy loved the way it felt to walk alongside him. She knew they made a cute couple, and their attraction to each other elicited smiles from strangers. When they reached her building, Max gave her the most incredible kiss. It was only a few seconds, but it was soft and perfect, and she was alternately pleased and panicked that he didn’t push for more. He didn’t mention anything about their seeing each other again, and although Max most certainly went around kissing girls wherever and whenever he felt like it, something intangible told Andy she would be hearing from him again soon.

  Which she did, the very next morning. They saw each other again that evening. Five days later Andy and Max had separated only grudgingly to go to work, taking turns sleeping over at each other’s apartments and choosing fun activities. Max took her to a favorite family-style mob-esque Italian place deep in Queens, where everyone knew his name. When she raised her eyebrows at him, he assured her it was only because his family had gone there at least twice a month when he was growing up. Andy took him to her favorite West Village comedy club, where they laughed so hard at the midnight show that they spit their drinks across the table; afterward, they roamed half of downtown Manhattan, enjoying the summer night, not finding their way back to Andy’s place until nearly sunrise. They rented bikes and took the Roosevelt Island Tram and tracked down no fewer than half a dozen gourmet trucks, sampling everything from artisanal ice cream to gourmet tacos to fresh lobster rolls. They had mind-blowing sex. Often. By the time Sunday rolled around, they were exhausted and satiated and, at least in Andy’s mind, very much in love. They slept until eleven and then ordered in a huge bagel spread and picnicked on Max’s living room carpet, alternating between a real estate makeover show on HGTV and the U.S. Open.

  “I think it’s time to tell Emily,” Max said, handing her a latte he’d made with his professional espresso machine. “Just promise
me you’re not going to believe a word she says.”

  “What, that you’re a huge player with commitment issues and a tendency to go for ever-younger girls? Why would I listen to that?”

  Max swatted her hair. “All grossly exaggerated.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sure.” Andy kept her tone light, but his reputation did bother her. This felt different, granted—what playboy lies around watching HGTV?—but didn’t all the girls probably think that?

  “You’re four years younger. Doesn’t that count?”

  Andy laughed. “I guess so. It helps knowing I’m barely thirty—a baby, for all intents and purposes—and you’re way older than that. Yes, that part’s nice.”

  “You want me to say something to Miles? I’m happy to.”

  “No, definitely not. Em’s coming over to my place tonight to order sushi and watch House reruns. I’ll tell her then.”

  Andy was so caught up in wondering how Emily would react—betrayed that Andy hadn’t told her sooner? Irritated that her business partner had gone and gotten herself involved with their financier? Uncomfortable because Max and Miles were such good friends?—that she’d entirely overlooked the likelihood that Emily had suspected something all along.

  “Really? You knew?” Andy said, stretching a sock-clad foot out on her secondhand couch.

  Emily dipped a piece of salmon sashimi in soy sauce and popped it into her mouth. “You think I’m a fucking idiot? Or rather, a blind fucking idiot? Of course I knew.”

  “When did you . . . how?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe when you showed up at Miles’s parents’ place after your day together looking like you’d just had the best sex of your life. Or maybe it was after our meeting at his office, when the two of you couldn’t stop staring at each other—why do you think I didn’t come to lunch? Or the fact that you’ve completely vanished this past week and didn’t return phone calls or texts and have been shadier about where you’ve been hiding out than a high school kid trying to duck her parents? I mean seriously, Andy.”