Revenge Wears Prada
Lauren Weisberger

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

About the Author

Also by Lauren Weisberger

Copyright

About the Publisher

1
as long as she lived

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.

Where was it coming from? Andy glanced around, but her fellow pedestrians didn’t seem to notice the sound, which was growing louder every second. Br-rrring! Br-rrring! That ringtone. She would recognize it anywhere for as long as she lived, although Andy was surprised they were still making phones with it. She simply hadn’t heard it in so long and yet … it all came rushing back. She knew before she pulled her phone from her bag what she would find, but she was still shocked to see those two words on her caller ID screen: MIRANDA PRIESTLY.

She would not answer. Could not. Andy took a deep breath, hit ‘ignore,’ and tossed the phone back into her bag. It started ringing again almost immediately. Andy could feel her heart begin to beat faster, and it got more and more difficult to fill her lungs. Inhale, exhale, she instructed herself, tucking her chin to protect her face from what was now pounding sleet, and just keep walking. She was less than two blocks from the restaurant – she could see it lit up ahead like a warm, shimmering promise – when a particularly nasty gust propelled her forward, causing her to lose her balance and step directly into one of the worst parts of a Manhattan winter: the black, slushy puddle of dirt and water and salt and trash and god knows what else so filthy and freezing and shockingly deep that one could do nothing but surrender to it.

Which is exactly what Andy did, right there in the pool of hell that had accumulated between the street and the curb. She stood, flamingo-like, perched gracefully on one submerged foot, holding the other one rather impressively above the watery mess for a good thirty or forty seconds, weighing her options. Around her, people gave her and the slushy little lake wide berth, only those with knee-high rubber boots daring to tromp directly through the middle. But no one offered her a hand and, realizing that the puddle had a large enough perimeter that she couldn’t jump to escape in any one direction, she steeled herself for another shock of cold and placed her left foot beside her right. The icy water rushed up her legs and came to a stop on her lower calf, subsuming both fuchsia shoes and a good five inches of leather pant, and it was all Andy could do not to cry.

Her shoes and leggings were ruined; her feet felt like she might lose them to frostbite; she had no option for extricating herself from the mess except continuing to slog through it; and all Andy could think was, That’s exactly what you get for screening Miranda Priestly.

There wasn’t time to dwell on her misery, though, because as soon as she made it to the curb and stopped to evaluate the damage, her phone rang again. It had been ballsy – hell, downright reckless – to ignore the first call. She simply couldn’t do it again. Dripping, shivering, and near tears, Andy tapped the screen and said hello.

‘Ahn-dre-ah? Is that you? You’ve already been gone for an eternity. I’ll ask you only one time. Where. Is. My. Lunch? I simply won’t be kept waiting like this.’

Of course it’s me, Andy thought. You dialed my number. Who else would be answering?

‘I’m so sorry, Miranda. It’s really horrid out right now, and I’m trying my best to—’

‘I’ll expect you back here immediately. That’s all.’ And before Andy could say another word, the line was disconnected.

No matter that the icy water trapped in her shoes was squishing around her toes in the most disgustingly imaginable way, or that it had been hard enough to walk in those heels when they were dry, or that the sidewalks were growing slicker by the second as the rain started to freeze: Andy began to run. She sprinted as best she could down one block and had only one more to go when she heard someone calling her name.

Andy! Andy, stop! It’s me! Stop running!

She would recognize that voice anywhere. But what was Max doing there? He was away that weekend, upstate somewhere, for a reason she couldn’t quite remember. Wasn’t he? She stopped and turned, searching for him.

Over here, Andy!

And then she spotted him. Her fiancé, with his thick dark hair and piercing green eyes and rugged good looks, was sitting astride an enormous white horse. Andy didn’t particularly like horses ever since she’d fallen from one in second grade and shattered her right wrist, but this horse looked friendly enough. Never mind that Max was riding a white horse in midtown Manhattan in the middle of a blizzard – Andy was so ecstatic to see him, she didn’t even think to question it.

He dismounted with the ease of a practiced rider, and Andy tried to remember if he’d ever mentioned playing polo. In three long strides he was at her side, enveloping her in the warmest, most delicious embrace imaginable, and she felt her whole body relax as she collapsed into him.

‘My poor baby,’ he murmured, paying neither the horse nor the staring pedestrians any mind. ‘You must be freezing out here.’

The sound of a phone – that phone – rang out between them, and Andy scrambled to answer it.

‘Ahn-dre-ah! I don’t know what part of “immediately” you don’t understand, but—’

Andy’s whole body was shaking as Miranda’s shrill voice drilled into her ear, but before she could move a single muscle, Max plucked the phone from her fingertips, tapped ‘end’ on the screen, and tossed it with perfect aim directly into the puddle that had previously claimed Andy’s feet. ‘You’re done with her, Andy,’ he said, wrapping a large down comforter around her shoulders.

‘Ohmigod, Max, how could you do that? I’m so late! I haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet, and she’s going to kill me if I’m not back there with her lunch in—’

‘Shhh,’ he said, touching two fingers to Andy’s lips. ‘You’re safe now. You’re with me.’

‘But it’s already ten after one, and if she doesn’t—’

Max reached both hands under Andy’s arms and lifted her effortlessly into the air before gently depositing her sidesaddle on top of the white horse, whose name, according to Max, was Bandit.

She sat in shocked silence as Max removed both her soaking wet shoes and tossed them to the curb. From his duffel bag – the one he carried everywhere – Max pulled out Andy’s favorite fleece-lined bootie-style slippers and slid them onto her raw, red feet. He settled the down comforter over her lap, tied his own cashmere scarf over her head and around her neck, and handed her a steel thermos of what he announced was specially sourced dark hot chocolate. Her favorite. Then in one impressively fluid motion, he mounted the horse and picked up the reins. Before she could say another word, they began to trot down Seventh Avenue at a good clip, the police escort in front of them clearing the way of traffic and pedestrians.

It was such a relief to be warm and loved, but Andy couldn’t get rid of the panic she felt at not completing a Miranda-assigned task. She’d be fired, that much was sure, but what if it was worse than that? What if Miranda was so livid that she used her limitless influence to make sure Andy never got another job? What if she decided to teach her assistant a lesson and show her exactly what happened when one simply walked out – not once but twice – on Miranda Priestly?

‘I have to go back!’ Andy shouted into the wind as their trot became a run. ‘Max, turn around and take me back! I can’t …’

‘Andy! Can you hear me, sweetheart? Andy!’

Her eyes flew open. The only thing she felt was the pounding of her own heart as it raced in her chest.

‘You’re okay, baby. You’re safe now. It was just a dream. And from the looks of it, a really horrible one,’ Max crooned, cupping her cheek with his cool palm.

She pushed herself up and saw the early morning sun streaming in from the room’s window. There was no snow, no sleet, no horse. Her feet were bare but warm under the buttery soft sheets, and Max’s body felt strong and safe pressed against her own. She inhaled deeply, and the scent of Max – his breath, his skin, his hair – filled her nostrils.

It was only a dream.

She glanced around the bedroom. She still felt half asleep, fuzzy from being awakened at the wrong time. Where were they? What was happening? It took a glance at the door, from which hung a freshly steamed and utterly gorgeous Monique Lhuillier gown, before she remembered that the unfamiliar room was actually a bridal suite – her bridal suite – and she was the bride. Bride! A rush of adrenaline caused her to sit straight up in bed so quickly that Max exclaimed in surprise. ‘What were you dreaming about, baby? I hope it didn’t have anything to do with today.’

‘Not at all. Just old ghosts.’ She leaned over to kiss him as Stanley, their Maltese, wedged himself between them. ‘What time is it? Wait – what are you doing here?’

Max gave her that devilish grin she loved and climbed out of bed. As always, Andy couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders and tight stomach. He had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, only better – not too hard and muscled, but perfectly tight and fit.

‘It’s six. I came in a couple hours ago,’ he said as he pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants. ‘I got lonely.’

‘Well, you better get out of here before someone sees you. Your mother had some whole big thing about us not seeing each other before the wedding.’

Max pulled Andy out of bed and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Then don’t tell her. But I wasn’t going to go all day before seeing you.’

Andy feigned irritation, but she was secretly glad he’d sneaked in for a quick cuddle, especially in light of her nightmare. ‘Fine,’ she sighed dramatically. ‘But get back to your room without being seen! I’m taking Stanley out for a walk before the masses descend.’

Max pushed his pelvis against hers. ‘It’s still early. I bet if we’re fast we can—’

Andy laughed. ‘Go!’

He kissed her again, tenderly this time, and let himself out of the suite.

Andy gathered Stanley in her arms, kissed him squarely on his wet nose, and said, ‘This is it, Stan!’ He excitedly woofed and tried to escape, and she had to let him go so he wouldn’t scratch her arms to shreds. For a few lovely seconds she managed to forget the dream, but it quickly reappeared again in all its detailed realness. Andy took a deep breath and her pragmatism kicked in: wedding-day jitters. A classic anxiety dream. Nothing more. Nothing less.

She ordered breakfast from room service and fed Stanley bits of scrambled eggs and toast while fielding excited phone calls from her mother, sister, Lily, and Emily – all of whom were champing at the bit for her to begin preparations – and leashed Stanley up for a quick walk in the brisk October air before the day got too frantic. It was slightly embarrassing to wear the terry-cloth sweatpants with a hot-pink BRIDE emblazoned across the butt that she’d received at her bridal shower, but she was secretly proud, too. She jammed her hair into a baseball cap, laced up her sneakers, zipped up a Patagonia fleece, and miraculously made it out to the sprawling grounds of the Astor Courts Estate without seeing another living soul. Stanley bounded as happily as his little legs would allow, pulling her toward the tree line at the edge of the property, where the leaves had already changed into their fiery fall colors. They walked for almost thirty minutes, certainly long enough for everyone to wonder where she’d gone, and although the air was fresh and the rolling fields of the farm were beautiful and Andy felt the excited giddiness of her wedding day, she couldn’t get the image of Miranda out of her mind.

How could this woman still haunt her? It had been nearly ten years since she bolted from Paris and her soul-destroying stint as Miranda’s assistant at Runway. She had grown so much since that dreaded year, hadn’t she? Everything had changed, and for the better: the early post-Runway years of freelancing, which she’d proudly parlayed into a steady gig as a contributing editor writing for a wedding blog, Happily Ever After. A few years and tens of thousands of words later, she was able to launch her very own magazine, The Plunge, a beautiful glossy high-end book that was three years into the endeavor and, despite all predictions to the contrary, was actually making money. The Plunge was getting nominated for awards, and advertisers were clamoring. And now, in the midst of all her professional success, she was getting married! To Max Harrison, son of the late Robert Harrison and grandson of the legendary Arthur Harrison, who’d founded Harrison Publishing Holdings in the years right after the Great Depression and had built it into Harrison Media Holdings, one of the most prestigious and profitable companies in the United States. Max Harrison, long on the circuit of most eligible bachelors, a guy who’d dated the Tinsley Mortimers and Amanda Hearsts of New York City, and probably a fair number of their sisters, cousins, and friends, was her betrothed. There would be mayors and moguls in attendance that afternoon, just waiting to cheer on the young scion and his new bride. But the best part of all? She loved Max. He was her best friend. He doted on her and made her laugh and appreciated her work. Wasn’t it always true that men in New York weren’t ready until they were ready? Max had started talking marriage within months of their meeting. Three years later, here they were, on their wedding day. Andy reprimanded herself for wasting another second thinking about such a ridiculous dream and led Stanley back to her suite, where a small army of women had gathered in a nervous, twittering panic, apparently wondering if she’d fled the scene. There was a collective audible sigh of relief the moment she walked in; immediately Nina, her wedding planner, began issuing directives.

The next few hours passed in a blur: a shower, a blowout, hot rollers, mascara, enough spackle foundation to smooth the complexion of a hormonal teenager. Someone tended to her toes while another fetched her undergarments and a third debated her lip color. Before she could even realize what was happening, her sister, Jill, was holding open Andy’s ivory gown, and a second later her mother was cinching the delicate fabric in the back and zipping Andy into it. Andy’s grandmother clucked delightedly. Lily cried. Emily sneaked a cigarette in the bridal suite bathroom, thinking no one would notice. Andy tried to soak it all in. And then she was alone. For just a few minutes before she was expected in the grand ballroom, everyone left her to get themselves ready, and Andy sat perched awkwardly on a tufted antique chair, trying not to wrinkle or ruin any inch of herself. In less than one hour she would be a married woman, committed for the rest of her life to Max, and he to her. It was almost too much to fathom.

The suite’s phone rang. Max’s mother was on the other end.

‘Good morning, Barbara,’ Andy said as warmly as she could. Barbara Anne Williams Harrison, Daughter of the American Revolution, descendant of not one but two signers of the Constitution, perennial fixture on every charitable board that socially mattered in Manhattan. From her Oscar-Blandi-coiffed hair to her Chanel ballet flats, Barbara was always perfectly polite to Andy. Perfectly polite to everyone. But effusive she was not. Andy tried not to take it personally, and Max assured her it was all in her head. Perhaps in the early days Barbara had thought Andy was another of her son’s passing phases? Then Andy convinced herself Barbara’s acquaintance with Miranda had poisoned any hope of bonding with her mother-in-law. Eventually Andy realized it was just Barbara’s way – she was coolly polite to everyone, even her own daughter. She couldn’t imagine ever calling that woman ‘Mom.’ Not that she’d been invited to …

‘Hello, Andrea. I just realized I never actually gave you the necklace. I was racing so frantically this morning trying to get everything organized that I ended up late for hair and makeup! I’m calling to let you know that it’s in a velvet box in Max’s room, tucked into the side pocket of that vile duffel bag of his. I didn’t want the staff to see it lying about. Perhaps you’ll be more successful in persuading him to carry something more dignified? Lord knows I’ve tried a thousand times, but he simply won’t—’

‘Thanks, Barbara. I’ll go get it right now.’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ the woman trilled sharply. ‘You simply cannot see each other before the ceremony – it’s bad luck. Send your mother or Nina. Anyone else. All right?’

‘Of course,’ Andy said. She hung up the phone and headed into the hallway. She’d learned early on that it was easier to agree with Barbara and then go on to do what she pleased; arguing got her nowhere. Which is exactly why she was wearing a Harrison family heirloom as her ‘something old’ instead of something from her own relatives: Barbara had insisted. Six generations of Harrisons had included that necklace in their weddings, and Andy and Max would, too.

Max’s suite door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the shower running in the bathroom when she stepped inside. Classic, she thought. I’ve been getting ready for the last five hours and he’s just now getting in the shower.

‘Max? It’s me. Don’t come out!’

‘Andy? What are you doing here?’ Max’s voice called through the bathroom door.

‘I’m just getting your mom’s necklace. Don’t come out, okay? I don’t want you to see me in my dress.’

Andy rummaged around in the bag’s front pocket. She didn’t feel a velvet box but her hands closed around a folded paper.

It was a piece of cream-colored stationery, heavyweight and engraved with Barbara’s initials, BHW, in a navy script monogram. Andy knew Barbara helped keep Dempsey & Carroll in business with the amount of stationery she bought; she had been using the same design for birthday greetings, thank-you notes, dinner invitations, and condolence wishes for four decades. She was old-fashioned and formal and would rather have died than send someone a gauche e-mail or – horror! – a text message. It made perfect sense that she would send her son a traditional handwritten letter on his wedding day. Andy was just about to refold it and return it when her own name caught her eye. Before she could even consider what she was doing, Andy began to read.

Dear Maxwell,

While you know I do my best to allow you your privacy, I can no longer hold my tongue on matters of such importance. I have mentioned my concerns to you before, and you have always pledged to consider them. Now, however, due to the imminence of your upcoming wedding, I feel I can wait no longer to speak my mind plainly and forthrightly:

I beseech you, Maxwell. Please do not marry Andrea.

Do not misunderstand me. Andrea is pleasant, and she will undoubtedly make someone an agreeable wife one day. But you, my darling, deserve so much more! You must be with a girl from the right family, not a broken family where all she knows is heartache and divorce. A girl who understands our traditions, our way of life. Someone who will help shepherd the Harrison name into the next generation. Most important, a partner who wants to put you and your children ahead of her own selfish career aspirations. You must think carefully about this: do you want your wife editing magazines and taking business trips, or do you desire someone who puts others first and embraces the philanthropic interests of the Harrison line? Don’t you desire a partner who cares more about supporting your family than furthering her own ambitions?

I told you I thought your unexpected get-together with Katherine in Bermuda was a sign. Oh, how delighted you sounded to see her again! Please, do not discount those feelings. Nothing is decided yet – it is not too late. It is clear you’ve always adored Katherine, and it is even more clear she would make a wonderful life partner.

You always make me so proud, and I know your father is looking down on us and rooting for you to do the right thing.

All my love, Mother

She heard the water turn off and, startled, dropped the note to the floor. When she scrambled to pick it up, she noticed her hands were shaking.

‘Andy? You still here?’ he called from behind the door.

‘Yes, I’m … wait, I’m just going,’ she managed to say.

‘Did you find it?’

She paused, unsure of the right answer. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. ‘Yes.’

There was more shuffling, and then the sink turned on and off. ‘Are you gone yet? I need to come out and get dressed.’

Please do not marry Andrea. Blood pounded in Andy’s ears. Oh, how delighted you sounded to see her again! Should she fly into the bathroom or run out the door? The next time she saw him, they’d be exchanging rings in front of three hundred people, including his mother.

Someone knocked on the suite’s front door before opening it. ‘Andy? What are you doing here?’ Nina, her wedding planner, asked. ‘Good god, you’re going to ruin that dress! And I thought you agreed you wouldn’t see each other before the ceremony. If that’s not the case, why didn’t we do pictures beforehand?’ Her constant, unrelenting talking drove Andy crazy. ‘Max, stay in that bathroom! Your bride is standing here like a deer caught in headlights. Wait, oh, just hold on a second!’ She scurried over as Andy tried to stand and fix her dress at the same time and extended her hand.

‘There,’ she said, pulling Andy to her feet and smoothing her hand over the dress’s mermaid skirt. ‘Now, come with me. No more disappearing-bride antics, you hear? What’s this?’ She plucked the note from Andy’s sweaty palm and held it aloft.

Andy could actually hear the pounding in her chest; she briefly wondered if she was having a heart attack. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead a wave of nausea came over her. ‘Oh, I think I’m going to—’

Magically, or maybe just from lots of practice, Nina produced a trash can at exactly the right moment and held it so tightly to Andy’s face that she could feel the plastic-lined rim pressing into the soft underside of her chin. ‘There, there,’ Nina nasal-whined, oddly comforting nonetheless. ‘You’re not my first jittery bride and you won’t be my last. Let’s just thank our lucky stars you didn’t have any splash-back.’ She dabbed at Andy’s mouth with one of Max’s T-shirts, and his smell, a heady mixture of soap and the basil-mint shampoo he used – a scent she usually loved – made her retch all over again.

There was another knock at the door. The famous photographer St Germain and his pretty young assistant walked in. ‘We’re supposed to be shooting Max’s preparations,’ he announced in an affected but indeterminate accent. Thankfully, neither he nor the assistant so much as glanced at Andy.

‘What’s going on out there?’ Max called, still banished to the bathroom.

‘Max, stay put!’ Nina yelled, her voice all authority. She turned to Andy, who wasn’t sure she could walk the couple hundred feet back to the bridal suite. ‘We’ve got to get your skin touched up and … Christ, your hair …’

‘I need the necklace,’ Andy whispered.

‘The what?’

‘Barbara’s diamond necklace. Wait.’ Think, think, think. What did it mean? What should she do? Andy forced herself to return to that hideous bag, but thankfully Nina stepped in front of her and pulled the duffel onto the bed. She rooted quickly through its contents and pulled out a black velvet box with Cartier etched on the side.

‘This what you’re looking for? Come, let’s go.’

Andy allowed herself to be pulled into the hallway. Nina instructed the photographers to free Max from the bathroom and firmly shut the door behind them.

Andy couldn’t believe Barbara hated her so much that she didn’t want her son to marry her. And not only that, but she had his wife chosen for him. Katherine: more appropriate, less selfish. The one, at least according to Barbara, who got away. Andy knew all about Katherine. She was the heiress to the von Herzog fortune and, from what Andy could remember from her early rounds of incessant Googling, she was some sort of minor Austrian princess whose parents had sent her to board at Max’s elite Connecticut prep school. Katherine had gone on to major in European history at Amherst, where she was admitted after her grandfather – an Austrian noble with Nazi allegiances during World War II – donated enough money to name a residence hall in his late wife’s honor. Max claimed Katherine was too prim, too proper, and all-around too polite. She was boring, he claimed. Too conventional and concerned with appearances. Why he dated her on and off for five years Max couldn’t explain quite as well, but Andy had always suspected there was more to the story. She clearly hadn’t been wrong.

The last time Max had mentioned Katherine, he was planning to call and inform her of their engagement; a few weeks later a beautiful cut-crystal bowl from Bergdorf’s arrived with a note wishing them a lifetime of happiness. Emily, who knew Katherine through her own husband, Miles, swore Andy had nothing to worry about, that she was boring and uptight and while she did, admittedly, have ‘a great rack,’ Andy was superior in every other way. Andy hadn’t thought much more about it since then. They all had pasts. Was she proud of Christian Collinsworth? Did she feel the need to tell Max every single detail about her relationship with Alex? Of course not. But it was a different story entirely reading a letter from your future mother-in-law, on the day of your wedding, imploring your fiancé to marry his ex-girlfriend instead. An ex-girlfriend he had apparently been delighted to see in Bermuda during his bachelor party and whom he had conveniently forgotten to mention.

Andy rubbed her forehead and forced herself to think. When had Barbara written that poisonous note? Why had Max saved it? And what did it mean that he’d seen Katherine a mere six weeks earlier and hadn’t breathed a word about it to Andy, despite giving her every last detail of his and his friends’ golf games, steak dinners, and sunbathing? There had to be an explanation, there simply had to be. But what was it?

2
learning to love the hamptons: 2009

It had long been a point of pride for Andy that she almost never went to the Hamptons. The traffic, the crowds, the pressure to get dressed up and look great and be at the right place … none of it felt particularly relaxing. Certainly not much of an escape from the city. Better to stay in the city alone, wander the summer street fairs and lay out in Sheep Meadow and ride her bike along the Hudson. She could walk into any restaurant without a reservation and explore new, uncrowded neighborhoods. She loved summer weekends spent reading and sipping iced coffees in the city and never felt the least bit left out, a fact that Emily simply refused to accept. One weekend a season Emily dragged Andy out to her husband’s parents’ place and insisted Andy experience the fabulousness of white parties and polo matches and enough Tory-Burch-clad women to outfit half of Long Island. Every year Andy swore to herself she’d never go back, and every summer she dutifully packed her bag and braved the Jitney and tried to act like she was having a great time mingling with the same people she saw at industry events in the city. This weekend was different, though. This particular weekend would potentially determine her professional future.

There was a brief knock at the door before Emily barged in. Judging from her expression, she was displeased to find Andy flopped on the luxurious duvet, one towel wrapped around her hair and another under her arms, staring helplessly at a suitcase exploding with clothes.

‘Why aren’t you dressed yet? People are going to be here any minute!’

‘I have nothing to wear!’ Andy cried. ‘I don’t understand the Hamptons. I’m not of them. Everything I brought is wrong.’

‘Andy …’ Emily’s hip jutted out in her magenta silk dress, just under where the billowy fabric was cinched tight by a triple-wrapped gold chain belt that wouldn’t have fit around most women’s thighs. Her coltish legs were tanned and accessorized with gold gladiator sandals and a glossy pedicure in the same shade of pink as her dress.

Andy studied her friend’s perfectly blown-out hair, glimmering cheekbones, and pale pink lip gloss. ‘I hope that’s some sort of sparkle powder and not just your natural exuberance,’ she said uncharitably, motioning toward Emily’s face. ‘No one deserves to look that good.’

‘Andy, you know how important tonight is! Miles called in a trillion favors to get everyone over here, and I’ve spent the past month dealing with florists and caterers and my fucking mother-in-law. Do you know how hard it was to convince them to let us host this dinner here? You’d think we were seventeen and planning a kegger the way that woman went over all the rules with me. All you had to do was show up, look decent, and be charming, and look at you!’

‘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?’

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. This 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.’

‘For the record, we definitely did not sleep together that day in the Hamptons. We didn’t even—’

Emily held her hand up. ‘Spare me the details, please. Besides, you don’t owe me any explanations. I’m happy for you both – Max is a great guy.’

Andy looked at her warily. ‘You’ve told me a hundred times what a womanizer he is.’

‘Well, he is. But maybe that’s in his past. People change, you know. Not my husband, that’s for sure – did I tell you I found text messages with some chick named Rae? Nothing solid, but definitely requiring further investigation. Anyway, just because Miles has a roving eye doesn’t mean Max can’t settle down. You might be just what he’s looking for.’

‘Or I may be his flavor of the week …’

‘No way to tell but time. And I say that from experience.’

‘Fair enough,’ Andy said, mostly because she didn’t know what else to say. Miles had the exact same reputation as Max, but without any of the soft side. He was affable enough, certainly social, and he and Emily seemed to have a lot in common, like a mutual love of parties, luxury vacations, and expensive clothes. For all the years they’d been together, though, Andy still felt like she didn’t really know her best friend’s husband. Emily made frequent, casual comments about Miles and his ‘roving eye,’ as she called it, but she shut down whenever Andy tried to delve deeper. As far as Andy knew there had never been any concrete proof of infidelity – at least nothing public, that much was certain – but that didn’t mean much. Miles was savvy and discreet, and his job as a television producer took him away from New York often enough that anything was possible. It was likely he cheated. It was likely Emily knew he cheated. But did she care? Did it drive her crazy with worry and jealousy, or was she one of those women who looked the other way so long as she was never publicly embarrassed? Andy always wondered, but it was the single subject they had come to some unspoken agreement never to discuss.

Emily shook her head. ‘I still can’t really believe it. You and Max Harrison. In a million years, I never would’ve thought of setting you guys up, and now look … it’s wild.’

‘We’re not getting married, Em. We’re just hanging out,’ Andy said, although she’d already fantasized about what it would be like to marry Max Harrison. A crazy thought to be sure – they’d known each other under two weeks – but already things felt different than they had with everyone she’d ever dated, with the possible exception of Alex all those years earlier. It had been so long since she was this excited about someone. He was sexy, smart, charming, and, okay, pedigreed. Andy had never imagined herself marrying someone like Max, but nothing about it sounded terrible.

‘Look, I get it. Enjoy. Have fun. Keep me in the loop, okay? And if you do get married, I want full credit.’

Emily was Andy’s first call when, a week later, Max asked her to be his date to a book party Max’s company was throwing in honor of one of its magazine editors, Gloria, who’d just published a memoir about growing up as the daughter of two famous musicians.

‘What do I wear?’ Andy asked in a panic.

‘Well, you’re officially cohosting, so it better be something fabulous. That eliminates pretty much your entire “classic” wardrobe. You want to borrow something of mine or go shopping?’

‘Cohosting?’ Andy all but whispered the word.

‘Well if Max is the host and you’re his date …’

‘Oh, god. I can’t handle this. He said there are going to be a ton of people there because it’s Fashion Week. I’m not prepared for that.’

‘You’ll just have to channel the old Runway days. She’ll probably be there too, you know. Miranda and Gloria definitely know each other.’

‘I can’t do this …’

The night of the party, Andy showed up to the Carlyle Hotel an hour early to help Max oversee the setup, and his expression alone when she stepped into the room, wearing one of Emily’s Céline dresses accessorized with chunky gold jewelry and gorgeous high heels, made it all worthwhile. She knew she looked great, and she was proud of herself.

Max had taken her into his arms and whispered how stunning she looked in her ear. That night, as he introduced her to everyone – his colleagues and employees, various editors and writers and photographers and advertisers and PR execs – as his girlfriend, Andy swelled with happiness. She chatted easily with all his work people and tried her best to charm them, and, she had to admit, had a wonderful time doing it. It wasn’t until Max’s mother showed up and homed in on Andy like a shark circling its prey that Andy felt herself get nervous.

‘I simply had to meet the girl Max can’t stop talking about,’ Mrs Harrison said in some kind of crusty, not-quite-British, probably-just-too-many-years-on-Park-Avenue accent. ‘You must be Andrea.’

Andy glanced quickly around for Max, who hadn’t even hinted his mother might be in attendance, before turning her full attention back to the toweringly tall woman in the tweed Chanel skirt suit. ‘Mrs Harrison? What a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, willing her voice to stay calm.

There was no ‘Please, call me Barbara’ or ‘Don’t you look lovely, dear,’ or even ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’ Max’s mother brazenly appraised Andy and pronounced, ‘You’re thinner than I thought you’d be.’

Pardon? According to Max’s description? Or her own reconnaissance? Andy wondered.

Andy coughed. She wanted to run and hide, but Barbara rattled on. ‘My, my, I remember being your age, when the weight would just fall off. I wish it was like that for my Elizabeth – have you met Max’s sister yet? She should be here soon – but the girl has her father’s body type. Bearish. Athletic. Not overweight, I suppose, but perhaps not quite feminine.’

Was that really how this woman talked about her own daughter? Andy instantly felt sorry for Max’s sister, wherever she was. She looked Barbara Harrison in the eye. ‘I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve seen a picture of Elizabeth and she’s just beautiful!’

‘Mmm,’ Barbara murmured, looking unconvinced. Her dry, slightly leathery hand wrapped around Andy’s bare wrist a bit more tightly than was comfortable and pulled – hard. ‘Come, let’s sit and get to know each other a bit.’

Andy tried her best to impress Max’s mother, convince Barbara that she was worthy of her son. Granted, Mrs Harrison had wrinkled her nose when Andy described her work at The Plunge, and she’d made some vaguely disparaging comment about Andy’s hometown not being anywhere near Litchfield County, where the Harrisons kept an old horse farm, but Andy didn’t leave the conversation thinking it was a disaster. She’d asked interested, appropriate questions of Barbara, told a funny anecdote about Max, and explained how they’d met in the Hamptons, a detail Barbara seemed to like. Finally, out of desperation, she mentioned her stint at Runway, working under Miranda Priestly. Mrs Harrison sat up a little straighter and leaned in for further questioning. Did Andy enjoy her time at Runway? Was working for Ms Priestly simply the best learning experience she could have imagined? Barbara made a point of mentioning that all the girls Max grew up with would have killed to work there, that they’d all idolized Miranda and dreamed of one day being featured in her pages. If Andy’s little ‘start-up project’ didn’t work, might her future plans include a return to Runway? Barbara had become downright animated, and Andy did her best to smile and nod as enthusiastically as she could manage.

‘I’m sure she loved you, Andy,’ Max said as they sat in a twenty-four-hour diner on the Upper East Side, still both amped up from the party.

‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t say it felt like love,’ Andy said as she sipped her chocolate shake.

‘Everyone loved you, Andy. My CFO made a point of telling me how funny you were. I guess you told him some story about Hanover, New Hampshire?’

‘It’s my go-to anecdote for Dartmouth people.’

‘And the assistants were tittering all over the place about how pretty and sweet you were to them. I guess a lot of people don’t take the time to talk to them at parties like these. Thanks for doing that.’ Max offered Andy a ketchupy fry and when she refused, popped it into his own mouth.

‘They were all so genuinely nice. I loved hanging out with them,’ she said, thinking how she really had enjoyed meeting everyone, Max’s icy mother being the only exception. Plus she was thankful: Miranda hadn’t shown up. It was a blessing, but given her new romance and the Harrison family circles, Andy knew the time would come.

She reached across the table and took Max’s hand. ‘I had a great time tonight. Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Thank you, Ms Sachs,’ Max responded, kissing her hand and giving her a look that caused her stomach to drop in that telltale way. ‘Should we head back to my place? I think this night is just getting started.’

3
you’re walking, sister

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, everyone’s nervous on her wedding day. But I’m sure you know that. You must have seen it all by now, am I right? You and me, girl, we could write a book!’

Nina guided Andy into the bridal suite with a hand planted firmly in the small of her back. The spectacular reds and oranges and yellows of the changing leaves stretched out for miles through the large picture window that spanned the length of the suite. Fall foliage in Rhinebeck had to be the best in the world. Mere minutes before the view had filled her with happy memories of growing up in Connecticut: crisp fall days that heralded football games, and apple picking, and later, a return to campus to start a new semester. Now the colors looked muted, the sky almost ominous. She grabbed the antique writing desk for support.

‘Can I get some water?’ Andy asked, the acidic taste in her mouth threatening to make her sick once again.

‘Of course, dear. Just be careful.’ Nina unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.

The water tasted metallic.

‘Lydia and her team are almost done with your bridesmaids and mother, and then she’ll be back to touch you up.’

Andy nodded.

‘Oh, sweetheart, everything’s going to be just fine! A little case of the butterflies is perfectly normal. But those doors will open and you’ll see your handsome groom waiting at the end of the aisle for you … you won’t be able to think of anything in the world but walking into his arms.’

Andy shuddered. Her soon-to-be-husband’s mother hated her. Or at least didn’t approve of the wedding. She knew most brides and their mothers-in-law had issues, but this went beyond. It was a bad omen at best, a potential nightmare at worst. Surely she could work on the relationship with Barbara. She’d make a point of it. But she’d never be Katherine. And what about Katherine in Bermuda? Why had Max failed to mention the whole interaction? If there was nothing to hide, why was he hiding it? Regardless of what had unfolded, she needed an explanation.

‘Which reminds me – did I ever tell you about my bride who was marrying the Qatari oil czar? Real feisty girl with a quick mouth on her? They had just under a thousand people, rented out Necker Island in the British Virgin Islands and flew in all their guests. Anyway, they’d been fighting all week, arguing about everything from the seating assignments to which of their mothers would get the first dance. Normal stuff. But then on the morning of the wedding, the bride makes a comment to her cousin about her career as a television anchor, something like ‘‘So and so said he thinks I only have another six months, maybe a year doing local before I get an offer from one of the networks,” and the Qatari just flipped. Asked her in this real low, angry voice what she was talking about – hadn’t they agreed she would no longer work after the wedding? And I’m like, whoa! This is a pretty big issue to have not worked out beforehand.’

Andy couldn’t focus on anything but the knot of tension in her forehead. A dull ache. She desperately wanted Nina to stop talking.

‘Nina, I really—’

‘Wait, this is the best part. So, I leave them alone to hash it out, and when I come back a half hour later, they seem okay. Problem solved, right? So boom, boom, boom, the groom walks, the bridesmaids walk, the cute little flower girls walk, and then it’s just the bride, her father, and myself. Everything is going according to schedule. Her song begins, the entire ballroom turns to look at her, and with this huge beautiful smile on her face, she leans in close to whisper in my ear. You know what she says?’

Andy shook her head.

‘She says, “Thank you for making everything so perfect, Nina. This is exactly what I wanted, and I’m definitely going to use you for my next wedding.” And then she took her father’s arm, held her head high, and walked! Do you believe it? She walked!’

Despite feeling uncomfortably warm, almost feverish, Andy got goose bumps. ‘Did you ever hear from her again?’ she asked.

‘Sure did. She divorced him two months later, and she was engaged again a year after that. Second wedding was a little smaller but just as pretty. I get it, though. It’s one thing to call off an engagement or even a wedding once the invitations are out – it’s hard, but it happens. But on the actual day? You’re walking, sister. Get yourself down that aisle and do whatever you have to do afterward, you know?’ Nina laughed and took a swill from her own water bottle. Her ponytail bobbed cheerily.

Andy nodded meekly. She and Emily talked about that all the time. In the almost three years since they’d launched The Plunge, they’d seen a handful of weddings called off in the final weeks before the big day. But on the actual day itself? Not one.

‘Come, let’s get you in the chair with the cape on so you’ll be ready for Lydia. She knows to tone down the makeup once they’re finished shooting the portraits. Oh, I’m just so excited to see this on the page! It’s going to sell a trillion copies.’

Nina was tactful enough not to say what they were both thinking: this wedding would sell a trillion copies not because Andy was a cofounder of the magazine she would be appearing in, or because Monique Lhuillier had personally designed Andy’s one-of-a-kind wedding gown, or because Barbara Harrison had expertly sourced the finest wedding planner, florists, and caterers money could buy, but because Max was the third-generation president and CEO of one of the most successful media companies in America. No matter that the economic downturn combined with some poor investment decisions meant Max had to sell off the family’s real estate piece by piece. That Max worried constantly about the financial viability of the company mattered very little to the general public: the Harrison family name, combined with good looks, impeccable manners, and impressive educations, helped maintain the illusion that Max, his sister, and his mother were worth far more than they were in reality. It had been years since they’d been named to Forbes’s richest-Americans list, but the perception remained.

‘It sure is,’ she heard a voice behind her sing. ‘This wedding is going to sell us right off the newsstands,’ Emily said with a twirl and a curtsy. ‘Do you realize this may be the first nonhideous bridesmaid dress in the history of wedding attendants? If you insist on bridesmaids – which I personally think are tacky to begin with – then at least these dresses aren’t terrible.’

Andy swiveled in her chair for a better look. With her hair swept up and her long, graceful neck on display, Emily looked like a gorgeous, delicate china doll. The plummy shade of the silk brought out the rosiness in her cheeks and accentuated her blue eyes; the fabric draped languidly across her chest and hips and flowed down to her ankles. Leave it to Emily to show her up on her own wedding day, and in a bridesmaid dress no less.

‘You look great, Em. I’m so glad you like the dress,’ Andy said, relieved for the momentary distraction.

‘Let’s not get carried away. “Like” is a little strong, but I don’t despise it. Wait, turn around, let me get a look at you … wow!’ She leaned in so close that Andy could catch a whiff of cigarettes layered with breath mints. Another wave of nausea instantly followed but it passed quickly. ‘You look fucking gorgeous. How on earth did you get your boobs to look like that? Did you get implants and not tell me? Are you kidding me, withholding information like that?’

‘It’s amazing what a good seamstress can do with a pair of chicken cutlets,’ Andy said.

Nina was shouting, ‘Don’t touch her!’ from across the room, but Emily was too fast. ‘Mmm, very nice. I especially like this fullness right here,’ she said, pressing Andy’s décolletage. ‘And this ridiculous rock you’re wearing against those killer boobs? Yummy. Max will like.’

‘Where’s the bride?’ Andy heard her mother call out from the suite’s living room. ‘Andy? Sweetheart? Jill and I are here with Grams and we all want to see you!’

Nina ushered in her mother, sister, and grandmother and administered various admonitions for everyone to give Andy enough space, saying that she was feeling a bit light-headed and please only stay for a moment, before she finally left to oversee some other last-minute detail.

‘What does she think this is, hospital visiting hours?’ Andy’s grandmother said. ‘What is it, dear, are you feeling a little nervous for your wedding night? That’s only natural. Remember, no one says you have to like it, but you do have to—’

‘Mom, can you stop her?’ Andy muttered, fingers to temples.

Mrs Sachs turned to her own mother. ‘Mother, please.’

‘What? All the kids think they’re experts today because they jump into the sack with anyone who glances in their direction?’

Emily clapped her hands in delight. Andy looked at her sister pleadingly.

‘Grams, doesn’t Andy look beautiful?’ Jill offered. ‘And how special that she’s wearing earrings similar to the ones you wore at your wedding? That teardrop shape never goes out of style.’

‘Nineteen years old, an innocent virgin when your grandfather married me, and I got pregnant on the honeymoon, just like everyone else. None of this freezing-your-eggs nonsense you girls have to resort to. Did you do that yet, Andrea? I read somewhere that all girls your age should freeze their eggs, man or not.’

Andy sighed. ‘I’m thirty-three, Grams. And Max is thirty-seven. Hopefully we’ll have children at some point, but I can tell you we’re not planning on starting tonight.’

‘Andy? Where is everyone?’

‘Lily? We’re back here! Come in,’ Andy called.

Her oldest friend swept into the room, looking lovely in the halter-style dress she’d chosen using the same plum silk as the other bridesmaid dresses. Next to her, in yet another style of the same fabric, stood Max’s younger sister, Elizabeth, who was in her late twenties. She and Max had the same general build, strong legs and wide shoulders, perhaps a touch too wide for a girl. But the crinkles around Eliza’s eyes when she laughed and her perfect smattering of freckles softened her look, feminized it. And the all-natural blond mane that cascaded down her back in thick, shiny waves was spectacular. Elizabeth had just started dating Holden ‘Tipper’ White, an old classmate from Colgate. They’d met at an annual charity tennis tournament in honor of his father, who’d flown his plane into a mountain in Chile when Tipper was twelve. Andy had a startling thought: Did Elizabeth think Andy wasn’t good enough for Max, too? Did she and her mother talk about it, sit around pining for Katherine, with her impressive golf handicap and lilting, aristocratic accent?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Nina.

‘Ladies? May I have your attention, please?’ Nina stood at the doorway, looking anxious. ‘It’s time to start assembling outside the great hall. The ceremony will begin in approximately ten minutes. My team members have your bouquets and will meet you downstairs to show you your places. Jill, your sons are ready?’

Andy forced a smile. Her mother, grandmother, and friends said good-bye, wished her luck, squeezed her hand. Too late now to say something to Jill or Lily, let them tell her she was overreacting.

The sun was close to setting, the October days growing shorter, and the dozen tall silver candelabras added exactly the drama Nina had promised. Andy knew that the seats were beginning to fill, and she imagined they were all enjoying the passed flutes of champagne and the soft harpsichord music that had been arranged for these exact preceremony moments by one of the myriad thoughtful planners.

‘Andy, sweetheart? I have something for you,’ Nina said, closing the distance between the door and Andy’s chair in three strides. She held out a piece of folded paper.

Andy took it and looked at her questioningly.

‘From before? When you got sick? I guess I stuck it in my pocket.’

Andy must have looked stricken, because Nina rushed to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t read it. It’s terrible luck for anyone but the bride or groom to read a love letter on the day of a wedding, did you know that?’

Andy felt a familiar roil in her stomach. ‘Will you give me a moment, please?’

‘Of course, dear. But just a moment! I’ll be back to escort you downstairs in—’ Andy closed the door on the rest of the sentence.

Andy unfolded the letter and moved her eyes once again over the words, although they had already been seared forever in her memory. Without thinking, she moved as quickly as she could in her dress toward the bathroom, where she neatly tore up the paper and tossed the pieces into the toilet.

‘Andy? Sweetheart, are you in there? Do you need any help? Please don’t try to use the bathroom yourself, not at this stage,’ Nina called through the door.

Andy stepped out of the bathroom. ‘Nina, I—’

‘Sorry, honey, it’s just that time, you know? Everything we’ve been planning for the last ten months, all perfectly executed for this very moment. Did I tell you I saw your groom? My goodness, he looks spectacular in that tuxedo. He’s already down the aisle, Andy! He’s right there waiting for you.’

Already down the aisle.

Andy felt like she couldn’t control her own legs as Nina guided her around the corner. There, beside the double doors, stood her beaming father.

He walked toward her and, taking her hand in his, kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked. ‘Max is a very lucky guy,’ he said, holding out his left arm so she could link her arm through it.

The simple words almost unleashed a tsunami, but Andy managed to choke back the lump in her throat. Was Max ‘lucky’? Or was he, as his mother suggested, making a colossal mistake? Just one word to her father and he would make it all go away. How desperately she wanted to lean in and whisper, ‘Daddy, I don’t want to do this just yet,’ the way she did when she was five and he’d encouraged her to dive off the board into the deep end of the community pool. But as the music filled the space around her, she realized in an almost out-of-body way that the ushers had opened the double doors and the entire room had stood to greet her. Three hundred faces turned to look at her, smile at her, cheer her on.

‘You ready?’ her father whispered in her ear, his voice jarring her back to reality.

She took a deep breath. Max loves me, she thought. And I love him. They’d waited three years to marry at Andy’s insistence. So her mother-in-law didn’t like her. So her husband’s ex cast a long shadow. These things didn’t define their relationship, right?

Andy looked at her friends and family, colleagues and acquaintances, and, suppressing all doubts, focusing on Max’s smiling eyes as he stood so proudly down the aisle, she told herself everything was fine. She took a deep breath in through her nose, thrust her shoulders back, and once again told herself she was doing exactly the right thing. Then she began to walk.

4
and it’s official!

The sound of the phone ringing woke her in the morning. She sat up with a start, once again unsure of where she was for just a moment, until it came to her in a jumbled rush. The faces beaming at her as she moved one leg in front of the other, slowly making her way down the aisle. The look of tenderness and adoration Max gave her as he reached to take her hand. The conflicted feeling of love and fear when his lips touched her own, sealing their union in front of everyone they knew. Posing for photos on the terrace while their guests enjoyed cocktail hour. The band announcing them as Mr and Mrs Maxwell Harrison. Their first dance to Van Morrison. Her mother’s tearful, heartfelt toast. Max’s fraternity buddies singing a bawdy yet charming rendition of their college fight song. Cutting the cake together. Slow-dancing with her father. Her nephews break-dancing to ‘Thriller’ while everyone cheered them on.

The evening had been picture-perfect from the outside, of that she was sure. No one, least of all her new husband, seemed to have any idea what Andy was going through: the thoughts of sorrow and anger; the confusion Andy felt when Barbara gritted her teeth through the least-personal let’s-wish-the-happy-couple-congratulations toast she’d ever heard spoken by the mother of a groom; the constant wondering if Miles and Max’s other friends knew something about Katherine and Bermuda that she didn’t. What now? she wondered. Do I bring it up? Jill, her parents, Emily, Lily, all her friends and family, all Max’s friends and family, had warmly congratulated her throughout the night, hugged her, admired her dress, told her she was a beautiful bride. Glowing. Lucky. Perfect. Even Max, the person who was supposed to understand her best in the world, seemed oblivious, giving her knowing looks all night, glances that said, I know, me too, isn’t this fun and perhaps a bit silly but let’s enjoy it because it’ll only happen once.

Finally, at one in the morning, the band stopped playing and the last of the guests picked up his elegant linen gift bag stuffed with local wine, honey, and nectarines. Andy followed Max to the bridal suite. He must have heard her retching in the bathroom, because he was doting and solicitous when she came out.

‘Poor baby,’ he crooned, stroking her flushed cheek, wonderful as always whenever she didn’t feel well. ‘Someone had too much champagne on her wedding night.’

She didn’t correct him. Instead, feeling feverish and nauseated, she allowed him to help her out of her dress and into the massive four-poster bed, where she sank her head gratefully into the mountain of cool pillows. He returned with a cool washcloth and draped it across her forehead, all the while chattering about the band’s song selections, Miles’s clever toast, Agatha’s scandalous dress, the bar running out of his favorite whiskey at midnight. She heard the sink in the bathroom, the toilet flush, the bedroom door close. He climbed in next to her and pressed his bare chest against hers.

‘Max, I can’t,’ she said, the sharpness in her voice apparent.

‘Of course not,’ he said quietly. ‘I know you feel awful.’

Andy closed her eyes.

‘You’re my wife, Andy. My wife. We’re going to make such a great team, sweetheart.’ He stroked her hair and she could have cried from the tenderness of it. ‘We’re going to build the most beautiful life together, and I promise I’ll take care of you, always. No matter what.’ He kissed her on the cheek and flicked off the bedside lamp. ‘Sleep now and feel better. Good night, my love.’

Andy murmured good night and tried, for the thousandth time that day, to forget about the note. Somehow, sleep came within moments.

The strips of sunlight beamed through the slats in the sliding wooden balcony doors, indicating it was now morning. The hotel phone had briefly stopped ringing but it started again. Beside her Max let out a small groan and rolled over. It had to be Nina calling to announce that it was warm enough for the brunch to be held outside; it was the last remaining decision to make about the weekend. She darted from the bed, wearing only her underwear from the night before, and sprinted into the living room, eager to answer the phone before it could wake Max. She simply couldn’t fathom facing him yet.

‘Nina?’ she said breathlessly into the phone.

‘Andy? Sorry about that, sounds like I interrupted something … I’ll call back, go have fun now.’ Emily’s smile was apparent through the phone.

‘Emily? What time is it?’ Andy asked, scanning the room for a clock.

‘Sorry, love. It’s seven thirty. I just wanted to be the first one to congratulate you. The Times write-up is fantastic! You’re on the first page of Weddings and the picture is gorge! Was that one from your engagement session? I love that dress you’re wearing. Why haven’t I seen it before?’

The Times write-up. She’d almost forgotten. They had presented all their information so many months earlier, and even once the fact-checker had called to substantiate everything, she’d convinced herself there was no guarantee of inclusion. Ridiculous, of course. With Max’s family background the only question was whether they’d be the featured couple or a regular announcement, but she’d somehow pushed it to the edge of her mind. She had submitted the information at Barbara’s appeal, although she could see now that it was a mandate, not a request: Harrison family weddings were announced in the Times, period. Andy had told herself it would be something fun to show their children one day.

‘They hung a paper outside your door. Get it and call me back,’ Emily said and hung up.

Andy shrugged on the hotel robe, turned on the room’s coffee maker, and grabbed the purple velvet bag hanging off the room’s door, then dumped the huge Sunday Times on the desk. The front page of the Sunday Styles section featured a profile on a pair of young nightclub owners and, below that, a write-up on the emergence of root vegetables in trendy restaurant dishes. Then, just as Emily promised, their little section of glory: the very first wedding listed.

Andrea Jane Sachs and Maxwell William Harrison were married Saturday by the Honorable Vivienne Whitney, a first-circuit court of appeals judge, at the Astor Courts Estate in Rhinebeck, New York.

Ms Sachs, 33, will continue to use her name professionally. She is cofounder and editor in chief of the wedding magazine The Plunge. She graduated with distinction from Brown.

She is a daughter of Roberta Sachs and Dr Richard Sachs, both of Avon, Connecticut. The bride’s mother is a real estate broker in Hartford County. Her father is a psychiatrist with a private practice in Avon.

Mr Harrison, 37, is president and CEO at Harrison Media Holdings, his family-owned media company. He graduated from Duke and received an MBA from Harvard.

He is the son of Barbara and the late Robert Harrison of New York. The bridegroom’s mother is a trustee of the Whitney Museum and sits on the board of the Susan G. Komen for the Cure charity. Until his passing his father was president and CEO of Harrison Media Holdings. His autobiography, titled Print Man, was a national and international bestseller.

Andy took a sip of coffee and pictured the signed copy of Print Man Max had been keeping in his bedside table since the day they’d met. He’d shown it to her after they’d been dating six, maybe eight months, and although he’d never said as much, she knew it was his most prized possession. On the inside cover Mr Harrison had merely written ‘Dear Max, see attached. Love, Dad,’ and paper-clipped to the jacket itself was a letter, written on a plain yellow legal pad, four pages in total and folded in the classic over-under style. The letter was actually a chapter of the book Max’s dad had written but never included for fear it was too personal, that it might embarrass Max one day or reveal too much of their lives. In it he began with the night Max was born (during a heat wave in the summer of ’75) and detailed how, over the next thirty years, Max had grown into the finest young man he could hope to know. Although Max did not cry when he showed it to her, Andy noticed his jaw clenching and his voice getting husky. And now the family fortune was all but devastated due to a number of terrible business decisions Mr Harrison had made in the final years of his life. And Max felt personally responsible for restoring his father’s good name and making sure his mother and sister were always cared for. It was one of the things she loved most about him, this dedication to his family. And she firmly believed Max’s father’s death had been a turning point for Max. They’d met so soon afterward, and she always felt lucky she’d been the next girl he dated. ‘The last girl I’ll date,’ he liked to say.

She picked up the paper again and continued to read.

The couple met in 2009 through a pair of mutual friends who introduced them without warning. ‘I showed up for what I thought was a business dinner party,’ Mr Harrison said. ‘By the time we got to dessert, all I could think of was when I’d see her again.’

‘I remember Max and I sneaking away from the rest of the group to chat alone. Or actually, maybe I got up and followed him. Stalked him, I guess you could say,’ Ms Sachs said with a laugh.

They began to date immediately in addition to developing a professional relationship: Mr Harrison is the largest financier of Ms Sachs’s magazine. When they became engaged and moved in together in 2012, each pledged to support the other’s career endeavors.

They will divide their time between Manhattan and the groom’s family estate in Washington, Connecticut.

Divide their time? she thought to herself. Not exactly. When the family’s dire financial situation came to light after Max’s father passed away, Max had made a series of tough decisions on behalf of his mother, who was too distraught to function and, in her own words, didn’t ‘have a head for business like the men do.’ Andy hadn’t been privy to most of those conversations since it was in the very early days of their dating, but she remembered his anguish when the Hamptons house sold a mere sixty days after the perfect summer day they’d spent there, and she recalled some sleepless nights when Max realized he had to sell his childhood home, a sprawling Madison Avenue town house. Barbara had resided in a perfectly lovely two-bedroom apartment in an ancient, respectable co-op on Eighty-Fourth and West End for the last two years, still surrounded by a number of beautiful carpets and paintings and the finest linens, but she’d never recovered from losing her two grand homes, and she still harped on about what she referred to as her ‘banishment’ to the West Side. The oceanfront penthouse in Florida had been sold to the DuPont family, friends of the Harrisons who played along with the charade that Barbara no longer ‘had the time or energy’ for Palm Beach; a twenty-three-year-old Internet millionaire scooped up the Jackson Hole ski chalet for pennies on the dollar. The only property that remained was the country house in Connecticut. It was on fourteen acres of splendid rolling farmland, complete with a four-horse stable and a pond big enough for rowboats, but the house itself hadn’t been renovated since the seventies and the animals were long gone due to their expensive upkeep. The family would have to invest too much money to update the property, so instead they rented it out as often as they could, weekly or monthly or sometimes even by the weekend, always through a trusted, discreet broker so no one would know they were renting from the fabled family.

Andy finished her coffee and glanced again at the announcement. How many years had she been reading those pages, devouring the photos of the happy brides and handsome grooms, evaluating their schools and jobs, their future prospects and their backgrounds? How many times had she wondered if she would be included among them one day, what information they would list about her, whether or not they would include a picture? A dozen times? More? And now, how strange to think of other young women, curled on couches in their studio apartments, sporting messy ponytails and torn sweats, reading about Andy’s marriage, thinking to themselves, A perfect couple! They both went to good schools and have good jobs and they’re smiling in that picture like they’re madly in love. Why can’t I meet a guy like that?

There was something else. The note, yes. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note. But there was another memory – of writing up her own New York Times announcement with Alex as the groom – that made her feel squeamish now. She must have devised a dozen different versions when they were dating. Andrea Sachs and Alexander Fineman, both graduates of blah, blah, blah. She’d practiced so many times that it was almost strange to see her name beside Max’s.

Why couldn’t she shake the past lately? First the Miranda nightmare, and now the Alex memories.

Still wrapped in her luxe hotel robe with a diamond wedding band on her left ring finger, Andy reminded herself not to indulge in revisionist history. Yes, Alex had been an amazing boyfriend. More than that, he’d been her confidant, her partner, her best friend. But he could also be astonishingly stubborn and not a little judgmental. He’d deemed her job at Runway unworthy almost as soon as she accepted it, and he hadn’t been as supportive of her career as she’d hoped. Although he never said it, she couldn’t help but feel he was disappointed in her for not choosing a more selfless path, teaching or medicine or something nonprofit.

Max, on the other hand, embraced her career. He had invested in The Plunge from day one and claimed it was one of the boldest and best business decisions he’d ever made. He loved her drive and her curiosity; he constantly told her how refreshing it was to date a woman interested in more than the next charity function or who was heading to St Barths over Christmas. He was never too busy to hear story ideas, introduce her to valuable business connections, lend advice on securing more advertisers. No mind that he knew nothing about wedding dresses or fondant cakes: he was impressed with the product she and Emily put out, and he constantly expressed his pride to Andy. He understood busy schedules and crazy hours: never once in all the time she’d known him had he given her hell for staying late or taking an after-hours call, or going in on Saturday just to make sure a layout was perfect before it shipped. Chances were he’d be at work himself, trying to drum up new business, checking on the dwindling portfolio of holdings Harrison Media still controlled, flying somewhere to put out fires or soothe jangled egos. They fit themselves around each other’s work schedules, cheer-led for each other, and offered advice and support. They both understood the rules, and they agreed on them: work hard, play hard. And work came first.

The doorbell to her suite rang and Andy was catapulted back to reality. Not yet ready to deal with her mother or Nina or even her sister, Andy sat very still. Go away, she silently willed. Just let me think.

It wouldn’t stop, though. Whoever it was rang three more times. Summoning her final reserves of strength, she forced a huge smile and swung open the door.

‘Good morning, Mrs Harrison!’ sang the manager of the estate, a portly, older man whose name she couldn’t recall. He was accompanied by a uniformed woman pushing a wheeled room-service table. ‘Please accept this celebratory breakfast, with our compliments. We thought you and Mr Harrison might like something to nibble on before your brunch begins.’

‘Oh, yes, well thank you. That’s lovely.’ Andy pulled her robe tighter and stepped back to allow the table to roll past her. She saw the DO NOT DISTURB sign she’d hung the night before on the hallway floor. Sighing, she picked it up and placed it back on the door.

The server rolled the draped breakfast cart into the living room and set it up right in front of the picture window. They made small talk about the ceremony and the reception while the young woman poured the fresh orange juice, uncovered the little pots of butter and jam, and finally, blessedly, gave an awkward mini bow and excused herself.

Relieved that all wedding dieting was officially over, Andy picked up the bakery basket and inhaled the delicious scent through the napkin. She pulled a warm, buttery croissant from the pile and bit into it. Suddenly she was famished.

‘Look who’s feeling better,’ Max said, emerging from the bedroom with mussed hair, wearing only a pair of soft jersey pajama pants. ‘Come here, my little drunk bride. How’s your hangover?’

She was still chewing when he enveloped her in a hug. The feel of his lips on her neck made her smile.

‘I wasn’t drunk,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of croissant.

‘What’s this?’ He reached for a blueberry muffin and jammed it in his mouth. He poured them each a cup of coffee, preparing Andy’s just the way she liked it, with just a splash of milk and two Splendas, and took a long swallow. ‘Mmm, that is good.’

Andy watched Max, shirtless, drinking coffee, looking scrumptious. She wanted to crawl back under the covers with him and never come out. Had she imagined the whole thing? Was it an awful dream? Standing before her, holding out her chair and jokingly calling her Mrs Harrison as he laid her napkin in her lap with a flourish, was the man whom up until thirteen hours earlier she’d loved and trusted above all else. Screw the damn letter. Who cared what his mother thought? And so what that he’d bumped into an ex? He wasn’t hiding anything. He loved her, Andy Sachs.

‘Here, look at the announcement,’ Andy said, handing Max the Sunday Styles section. She smiled as he snatched it out of her hands. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

His eyes scanned the text. ‘Good?’ he said after another minute. ‘It’s perfect.’

He came around to her side of the table and knelt down, just as he’d done when he’d proposed a year earlier. ‘Andy?’ he asked, looking directly into her eyes in that heart-stopping way of his that she loved. ‘I know something’s going on with you. I don’t know what you’re jittery about or what’s got you worried, but I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world, and I’m always here for you, whenever you’re ready to talk about it. Okay?’

See! He understands me! she wanted to shout for everyone to hear. He senses something’s wrong. That alone means there’s no problem, right? And yet, the words were right there – I read your mom’s letter. I know you saw Katherine in Bermuda. Did anything happen? And why didn’t you tell me you saw her? – but Andy couldn’t make herself speak them. Instead, she squeezed Max’s hand and tried to push the fear out of her head. This was her one and only wedding weekend, and she wasn’t willing to ruin it with insecurity and an argument.

Andy slightly hated herself for copping out. But everything would be okay. It simply had to be.

5
i’d hardly call it dating

She unlocked the door to the West Chelsea loft offices of The Plunge and held her breath. Safe. Never had Andy seen another living soul at work before nine – in keeping with typical New York creative hours, most of the staff didn’t roll in until ten, often ten thirty – and she was thrilled today was no different. The two to three hours before everyone else arrived were by far her most productive of the day, even if she did feel sometimes slightly Miranda-ish e-mailing and leaving voice mails for people before they’d woken up.

No one, including Max, had blinked when Andy suggested they cut short their post-wedding trip to the Adirondacks. After two days of Andy’s puking – and, sadly for Max, no marital consummation – he didn’t argue when Andy said they would both be happier back home. Besides, they had a proper two-week honeymoon in Fiji scheduled over the December holidays. It was a gift from Max’s parents’ best friends, and although Andy didn’t know all the details, she’d heard the words helicopter, private island, and chef thrown around often enough to be very, very excited. Bailing on their three-day getaway in upstate New York when it was already getting too cold to be outside didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Andy and Max had fallen into a routine when they’d moved in together the year before, right after he proposed. Weekday mornings they woke up at six. He made them both coffee while she fixed oatmeal or fruit smoothies. They would head to the Equinox on Seventeenth and Tenth together and spend exactly forty-five minutes there; Max did a combination of free weights and the stair treader; Andy bided her time on the treadmill, speed fixed at 5.8, eyes glued to whatever rom com she’d downloaded to her iPad, fervently wishing the time would pass faster, faster. They’d shower and dress at home together, and Max would drop her at The Plunge’s office on Twenty-Fourth and Eleventh before zooming in the company car up the West Side Highway to his own offices in midtown west. Both were installed at their respective desks by eight each morning, and barring extreme illness or weather, the schedule was unalterable. This morning, however, Andy had set her phone to vibrate twenty minutes earlier than usual and slithered out from underneath the covers the instant her pillow started to shake. Forsaking a shower and coffee, she pulled on her comfiest pair of charcoal pants, her match-anything white button-down, and her most boring black peacoat and slipped out just as she heard Max’s alarm beginning to sound. She sent him a quick text saying that she had to get to work early and that she’d see him later that evening for Yacht Party, although her stomach still felt unsettled and her muscles were achy, exhausted. Her temperature last night had been just over a hundred.

Andy’s cell rang before she’d even taken off her coat.

‘Emily? What are you doing awake?’ Andy checked her delicate gold watch, an engagement gift from her father. ‘It’s, like, two hours too early for you.’

‘Why are you answering?’ Emily asked, sounding confused.

‘Because you called.’

‘I only called to leave a message. I didn’t think you’d pick up.’

Andy laughed. ‘Thanks. Should I hang up? We can try it again.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be resting up for a grueling day of wine tasting or something?’

‘Leaf-peeping followed by massages, actually.’

‘Seriously, why are you awake? Aren’t you still upstate?’

Andy hit the speaker button and took the opportunity to remove her coat and collapse into her chair. It felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks. ‘We ended up coming back to the city because I feel like hell. Headache, puking, fever. I don’t know if it’s food poisoning or the flu or just some sort of twenty-four-hour thing. Besides, Max didn’t want to miss Yacht Party tonight, which I have to swing by. So we bailed.’ Andy glanced down at her atrocious outfit and reminded herself to leave enough time to run home and change.

‘Yacht Party’s tonight? Why wasn’t I invited?’

‘You weren’t invited because I wasn’t going to go. And now that we’re back, I’m planning to be there for exactly an hour before going home to bathe myself in Vicks VapoRub and watch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon.’

‘Whose boat is it this year?’

‘I can’t remember his name. The usual hedge fund billionaire. More homes than we have shoes. Probably more wives, too. Apparently he used to be friends with Max’s father, but Barbara thought he was such a bad influence, she forbade her husband from socializing with him. I think he owns casinos, too.’

‘Sounds like a guy who knows how to throw a party …’

‘He won’t even be there. He’s just lending his yacht as a favor to Max. Don’t worry, you’re not missing anything.’

‘Uh-huh. That’s what you said last year and then the entire SNL cast showed up.’

Yacht Life magazine hadn’t made a single dime in profits during its ten years in existence, but that didn’t stop Max from declaring it one of the most valuable holdings in all of Harrison Media. It gave them prestige and panache; everyone who was anyone wanted their boat featured in the magazine. Every October Yacht Life threw Yacht Party to celebrate their Yacht of the Year award, and every year the event drew an impressive stable of celebrities to roam the deck of some totally over-the-top yacht as it sailed around Manhattan and allowed its guests to slurp Cristal, nibble truffle-infused whatevers, and overlook the fact they were on the polluted Hudson in late fall instead of the warm waters of Cap d’Antibes.

‘That was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’ Andy asked.

Emily was quiet for a moment. ‘Is that all? You’re sick? And Yacht Party? Or is something else going on?’

Say what you will about Emily – she could be brash, aggressive, often downright rude – but she was more perceptive than anyone Andy had ever met.

‘Something else? Like what?’ Andy’s voice pitched higher, the way it always did when she was lying or uncomfortable.

‘I don’t know. That’s why I was calling. You put on a pretty good show all weekend, but I think you’re freaking about something. Is it just some perfectly normal buyer’s remorse? I’ll tell you, I had panic attacks the week after Miles and I got married. Cried for days. I just couldn’t believe he’d theoretically be the last man I’d ever sleep with. The last one I’d ever kiss! But it gets better, Andy, I promise.’

Andy’s heart started to beat a little faster. In the two days since she’d found the note, she hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone.

‘I found a note from Max’s mother in his bag. She basically told him he was making a huge mistake marrying me – if he decided to go through with it.’

There was silence on the other end.

‘My god, I thought it was something way worse than that,’ Emily said.

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

‘Seriously, Andy, what do you expect? The Harrisons are so old-school. And really, whose mother-in-law likes them? No girl is ever good enough.’

‘Apparently Katherine’s good enough. Did Miles ever tell you Max saw her in Bermuda?’

‘What?’ Emily sounded surprised.

‘Barbara wrote how Katherine had been so great and didn’t Max think it was a sign they’d bumped into each other in Bermuda! How delighted he’d been to see her.’

‘Katherine? Oh please. You can’t possibly be worried about Katherine. She used to send him links to her favorite pieces of jewelry before every birthday and anniversary. She wore sweater sets, Andy. Granted, they were Prada – but still, sweater sets. She was our least favorite of all his girlfriends.’

Andy pressed her fingertips to her forehead. Emily and Miles knew Max before she did, knew his entire dating history and had met all the girls over the years. Now, more details Andy didn’t really want to hear.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Andy said, her head beginning to ache.

‘He didn’t mention it because it doesn’t matter,’ Emily said. ‘Because he’s crazy about you.’

‘Em, I—’

‘Head over heels in love with you, not to mention a pretty great guy, despite some poor choices in ex-girlfriends. So she was in Bermuda. Big deal. He wouldn’t cheat with her. With anyone! You know it and I know it.’

Two days earlier Andy would’ve sworn Emily was right. Max wasn’t a Boy Scout, but Andy had fallen in love with a man who was, at heart, a genuinely good person. To even consider the alternative was almost too horrible. But she couldn’t deny that his omission freaked her out …

‘It’s his ex-girlfriend, Emily! His first love! The girl he lost his virginity to. The one he supposedly didn’t marry because she wasn’t “challenging.” He’s only ever said nice things about her. I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t test the waters one last time. For old times’ sake? He wouldn’t be the first guy to do something stupid at his bachelor party. Maybe a life like his father’s, with a sweet little stay-at-home wife, wouldn’t be so bad? Instead he decides he wants to rebel and he finds me? How wonderful for him.’

‘You’re being dramatic,’ Emily said, but something in her voice made Andy wonder. Besides, Emily had been the first to use the word cheated. Andy hadn’t really let herself go there until her friend came right out and said it …

‘So what do I do now? What if he did cheat?’

‘Andy, you’re being ridiculous. Not to mention hysterical. Just talk to Max. Get the real story.’

Andy felt her throat close. She rarely cried – when she did, it was almost always out of stress and not genuine sadness – but her eyes filled with tears. ‘I know. I just can’t believe this is happening. If it’s true, how could I ever forgive him? For all I know, he’s in love with her! I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, and now—’

‘Andy! Just talk to him,’ Emily said. ‘Stop with the waterworks for now and talk to him, okay? I’ll be in late today, I have a breakfast meeting with the Kate Spade people. But I’ll be on my cell …’

Andy knew she had to compose herself before her coworkers arrived. She took a deep, shuddering breath and promised she’d ask Max, although she knew she was going to put it off as long as possible. Suddenly, she couldn’t help but entertain the darkest questions: Who would move out of the apartment? Why, she would, of course – it was Max’s family money that had bought it in the first place. Who would keep Stanley, their Maltese? What would she tell people? Acquaintances? Her parents? Max’s sister? How would they go from being best friends who lived together, slept together, supported each other’s dreams and aspirations, to total strangers? They had intertwined their lives together, their home and families and work and schedules, their plans for the future, the magazine. Everything. How could she survive losing him? She loved him.

As though he could sense something forty blocks away, an e-mail from Max pinged in her inbox.

Dear Wife,

I hope your early departure this morning means you’re feeling better? I missed our morning together. Can’t stop thinking about our amazing weekend and hope you’re still smiling, too. I’ve gotten a hundred e-mails from people saying they had a great time. I’m in meetings until two, but I’ll call you then to talk plans for tonight. I want you there, but only if you’re up for it. LMK.

Love,

Your Husband

Wife. She was Max’s wife. The word reverberated in her head, sounding both strange and wonderfully familiar at the same time. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to stay calm. No one was dying. It wasn’t terminal cancer. They didn’t have three kids and a crushing mortgage. Plus, despite his oppressive mother, she loved him. How could she not love the man who for last Valentine’s Day – a holiday Andy had repeatedly said she hated for all the usual Hallmark, pink-and-hearts-overkill reasons – had draped their tiny balcony in black sheets with stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars and a table set for two? Who had served grilled cheese sandwiches with anchovies (her favorite) instead of filet mignon, extra-spicy Bloody Marys instead of Cabernet, and her own pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream to devour instead of some fancy boxed chocolates? They’d sat out there until well past midnight, looking up at the night sky through the industrial-grade telescope Max rented because Andy had once complained, months earlier, that the only thing she hated about city living was not being able to see the stars.

They would get through this.

It was easy enough to repeat this to herself the next couple hours while all was quiet and the office was entirely her own. But she felt her panic ratchet up a notch when everyone arrived at ten, dying to rehash every minute of the weekend, and it escalated even further when Daniel, the art director, showed up at ten with a disk full of digital images that he couldn’t wait to go over with her.

‘They’re gorgeous, Andy. Just breathtaking. You made absolutely the right call going with St Germain for the photo work. He’s a diva, I know, but he’s so damn good. Here, look at these.’

‘You have photos of the weekend already?’ Andy asked.

‘Unretouched. Don’t ask how much we paid to expedite them.’

Daniel, whom Andy had hired last year after interviewing no fewer than ten potential candidates, slipped a memory card directly into Andy’s iMac. Aperture popped open and asked if she wanted to import the photos and Daniel hit yes. ‘Here, check these out.’ Daniel clicked around and a photo of her and Max filled her twenty-seven-inch screen. She gazed directly at the camera, her eyes intensely blue and her skin flawless. Max had his lips pressed to her cheek; his jaw was defined, his profile perfect. The leaves behind them almost burst out of the background, their oranges and yellows and reds serving as an intense contrast to his black tuxedo and her white dress. It looked like a picture right out of a magazine, one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen.

‘Spectacular, isn’t it? Here, look at this one.’ A couple more clicks and a black-and-white image of the reception filled the screen. Dozens of their guests gathered around the perimeter of the dance floor, smiling and clapping, while Max embraced her for their first dance, to ‘Warm Love.’ The angle showed Max leaning down to kiss Andy’s forehead, his arms wrapped around her middle, her chestnut hair cascading down her back. The button detail they’d decided to add to the train after the last fitting looked fantastic, Andy thought. And she was pleased she’d decided on the shorter kitten heels; it gave them a more clearly defined height difference that looked more elegant in photos.

‘Here, check out your solo shots. They’re stunning.’ Daniel moved his cursor to a folder labeled ‘portraits’ and opened it to thumbnails. He scrolled for a minute and then clicked on one. The screen came alive with Andy’s face and shoulders, dusted just so with a subtle shimmer powder that made her glow. In most of them she’d kept her smile deliberately restrained (according to the photographer, fine lines and wrinkles were harder to mask with a ‘full face’ smile), but there was a single image of her grinning unabashedly, and although it made her crow’s-feet and laugh lines more noticeable, it was by far the most authentic of the photos. Clearly it was taken before she’d visited Max’s suite.

Everyone had told her St Germain would be an impossible get, but she couldn’t resist trying. It had taken over a month and no fewer than a dozen calls for St Germain’s agent even to take a message from Andy, repeatedly telling her that The Plunge was much too puny a publication for his world-famous client to consider, but he’d pass along her info if she would agree to stop calling. When Andy hadn’t heard back after another week, she wrote St Germain a handwritten letter and messengered it to his Chinatown studio. In it she promised him two future cover shots of his choosing, all expenses paid to any far-flung location, and volunteered The Plunge to cosponsor his next fund-raising benefit for the Haiti earthquake victims, his favorite charity. That had elicited a phone call from a woman who identified herself only as St Germain’s ‘friend,’ and when Andy agreed to the woman’s request for The Plunge to do a cover story on St Germain’s much-adored niece, who was engaged to be married next fall, the impossible-to-book photographer signed on the dotted line. It had been one of her biggest coups at work, and she smiled thinking about it.

Andy had been terrified to be photographed by such a famous photographer – and one who specialized in nudes – but St Germain had immediately put her at ease. She could see right away what made him so good.

‘What a relief!’ he had crowed the moment he stepped into Andy’s bridal suite with two assistants in tow. When they arrived at the estate, Andy remembered feeling inexplicably grateful they’d even shown up. Despite wearing only a strapless bra and knee-to-chest Spanx, Andy felt nothing but joy and appreciation at the sight of the photographer.

‘What? That you only have to shoot one average bride rather than an entire brigade of swimsuit models? Hi, I’m Andy. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.’

St Germain couldn’t have been an inch over five-six, with a slight build and a lily-white complexion, but his voice sounded like it belonged to a linebacker. Not even his indeterminate accent (French? British? A hint of Aussie?) seemed to fit. ‘Hah hah! Yes, exactly. Those girls were crazy, completely aberrant! But seriously, ma chérie, I am so happy we do not need full-body makeup. It is so tiresome.’

‘No full-body makeup, I promise. If all goes as planned, you will not be able to tell whether I’m up to date on my bikini wax, either.’ Andy laughed. All the drama his booking required had prepared Andy to hate him, but St Germain was irresistibly charming. She knew from his ‘friend’ that he’d flown in directly from Rio, where he’d been shooting the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Five days, two dozen models, hundreds if not thousands of inches of tanned and toned legs.

St Germain nodded as though she’d just said something very serious. ‘This is good. Ach, I am so tired of looking at skinny girls in bright bikinis. Of course, this is a dream of most men, but you know what they say … show me a beautiful woman, and I will show you a man who is tired of … well, you probably have heard the rest.’ He smiled devilishly.

‘It really doesn’t sound like you had such a terrible time,’ Andy said with a smile.

‘Yes, perhaps not.’ He reached forward and turned Andy’s chin toward the light. ‘Don’t move.’

Before she knew what was happening, an assistant handed him a camera with a lens the size of a fire log, and St Germain clicked twenty or thirty times.

Andy’s hand flew to her face. ‘Stop! They haven’t done my eyes yet. I’m not even wearing the dress!’

‘No, no, you’re beautiful just like that. Gorgeous! Does your fiancé tell you you look marvelous when you’re mad?’

‘He does not.’

St Germain thrust the camera to his left. A black-clad assistant immediately reached for it and exchanged it for another. ‘Mmm, well he should. Yes, just like that. Twinkle for me, darling.’

Andy let her shoulders drop and turned to face him. ‘What?’

‘Go on, twinkle!’

‘I’m not sure I know how to twinkle.’

‘Raj!’ he barked.

One of the assistants leaped up from behind the couch, where he was holding a reflector. He jutted out a hip, pursed his lips, cocked his head slightly to the side, and lowered his eyes in an approximation of a sexy, come-hither look.

St Germain nodded. ‘See? Like I tell all the swim babies. Twinkle.’

Andy laughed again now, remembering it. She pointed to one of the thumbnails Daniel was scrolling past. Her eyes were heavy lidded to the point of looking drugged and her mouth was puckered like a duck’s. ‘See? I twinkled there.’

‘You what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Here,’ Daniel said, enlarging a photo of Andy and Max, midkiss during the ceremony. ‘Look how beautiful.’

Andy could only remember the out-of-body anxious sensation that had started the moment the doors swung open. Hearing the first notes to Pachelbel’s Canon had confirmed that her window for fleeing was closed. Clutching her father’s arm, she spotted her brother-in-law’s parents, a pair of her mother’s distant cousins, and Max’s Caribbean nanny, the woman Max thought was his mother until he was four. Her father led her ever so gently, both pulling her along and, perhaps, keeping her upright. A group of girlfriends from college and their husbands smiled at her from the right. In front of them, Max’s gaggle of boarding school friends, nearly a dozen in total, each one irritatingly handsome with an equally attractive women beside him, all turned and watched her. She briefly wondered why they hadn’t divided themselves into the bride’s side and the groom’s side. Didn’t people do that anymore? Shouldn’t she, the resident wedding expert, know the answer? But she didn’t.

A flash of chartreuse from her right side caught her eye: Agatha, the fashion-forward assistant she and Emily shared, who’d apparently gotten a memo from the great hipster in the sky that neons, in addition to beards and fedoras, were a go. The office staff, nearly twenty in all, flanked Agatha on all sides. Some, like her photography director and her managing director, managed to feign delight at spending Columbus Day weekend at their boss’s wedding. The assistants, associate editors, and ad sales girls didn’t do as good a job faking it. Andy thought it cruel to invite them all, to obligate them to spend time at a work function when they already clocked in so many hours, but Emily had insisted. She argued it was good for morale to get the whole office together, drinking and dancing. And so, like she had about the florist and the caterer and the size of the wedding, Andy had conceded.

As Andy neared the front of the room, her legs feeling as though she’d trudged through two feet of snow, one face in particular caught her eye. His blond hair had darkened a bit, but the dimples were unmissable. His suit was fitted, crisp, black – not a tuxedo, of course, because he’d never have been caught dead in so pedestrian a costume. He always said dress codes were for styleless people. He always said a lot of things, and Andy remembered hanging on his pontifications as though god himself had decreed them. The post-Alex, pre-Max mistake: Christian Collinsworth. He looked every bit as gorgeous and pompous and confident as the last time she’d woken up beside him in his room at the Villa d’Este five years earlier, still naked and tangled in his sheets, mere moments before he’d casually announced that his girlfriend would be joining him in Lake Como the following day, and would Andy like to meet her? When Emily had asked Andy to invite him as a personal favor to her, Andy vehemently refused, but when Mrs Harrison placed him at the top of her guest list, right alongside Christian’s parents, who were very dear friends of the Harrisons, there was nothing she could say. Oh, Barbara? So sorry, but perhaps it’s inappropriate to invite someone with whom I had a fabulous affair to our wedding? Don’t get me wrong, he was fantastic in bed, but I’m worried it might make cocktail hour uncomfortable … You understand, don’t you? So there he stood, a hand on his mother’s back, turned toward Andy and giving her that look. The one that hadn’t changed one bit in five years and said, You know and I know that we have a delicious secret. It was the look Christian gave exactly half the women in Manhattan.

‘I’m going to be walking down the aisle and seeing someone I used to have sex with,’ Andy had complained to Emily when she first saw Mrs Harrison’s guest list. Never mind that Katherine had been lopped off the list at Max’s behest. Andy had wanted to cheer when he told his mom over a wedding-planning brunch, ‘No Katherine. No exes,’ despite her status as ‘close family friend.’ When Andy had confessed to Max afterward that Christian Collinsworth was also on his mother’s list, he looked her in the eye and said, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass about Christian if you don’t.’ Andy had nodded and agreed: it was probably best to leave well enough alone and not further upset Barbara.

Emily had rolled her eyes. ‘That makes you like exactly ninety-nine percent of brides, excluding your odd religious fanatic and the occasional freaks who met in elementary school and never slept with anyone else. Get over it. I guarantee you Christian has.’

‘I know,’ Andy said. ‘I was probably number one hundred something for Christian. But I still think it was weird to have him at our wedding.’

‘You’re a thirty-year-old woman who has lived in New York City for the last eight years. I’d be worried if you didn’t have someone at your wedding you’d slept with besides your husband.’

Andy had stopped marking up the layout in front of her and looked at Emily. ‘Which begs the question …’

‘Four.’

‘You did not! Who? I can only think of Jude and Grant.’

‘Remember Austin? With the cats?’

‘You never told me you slept with him!’

‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t anything to brag about.’ Emily sipped her coffee.

‘That’s only three. Who else?’

‘Felix. From Runway. He worked in the—’

Andy almost fell out of her desk chair. ‘Felix is gay! He married his boyfriend last year. When did you have sex with him?’

‘You’re so label-conscious, Andy. It was a one-time thing, after the Fashion Rocks event one year. At one point Miranda made us take drink orders in the VIP room backstage. We both had way too many martinis. It was fun. We ended up at each other’s weddings, and who really cares? You’ve got to relax a little.’

Andy remembered agreeing at the time, but that was before she was zipped into a wedding gown and sent strolling down the aisle to marry someone who’d potentially just cheated on her, while the guy she’d always been a little obsessed with grinned at her (naughtily, she could swear!) from the sidelines.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur. It took the sound of the glass shattering under Max’s foot to bring her back to reality. Crash! They’d done it. From here on in, she would never again be just plain old Andy Sachs, herself, whatever that meant. After that split second she would forever carry one of two titles, and neither was particularly appealing at that very moment: married or divorced. How had it happened?

Andy’s office line began to ring. She glanced at the clock: ten thirty. Agatha’s voice came through the intercom: ‘Morning, Andy. Max, line one.’

Agatha came in later and later every day, and still Andy couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She reached over to depress her own intercom button, to tell Agatha she couldn’t take Max’s call, but she simultaneously knocked over her coffee cup and pressed line one.

‘Andy? You okay? I’m worried about you, sweetheart. How are you feeling?’

The coffee, now cold enough to feel worse than if it had been hot, slowly streamed off the desk and directly onto Andy’s pants. ‘I’m fine,’ she said hurriedly. She looked around for a tissue or even a piece of scrap paper to mop up the spill. Finding nothing, Andy watched as the coffee slowly soaked through her desk blotter calendar and into her lap, and she began to cry. Again. For someone who rarely cried, she sure was crying a lot lately.

‘Are you crying? Andy, what’s wrong?’ Max asked, and the concern in his voice only made her tears stream faster.

‘No, nothing, I’m fine,’ she lied, watching the coffee spread into a circular stain over her left thigh. She cleared her throat. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to stop by and change tonight before Yacht Party, so I can walk Stanley. Will you cancel the walker? Are you coming home first or would you rather meet there? What pier does it leave from again?’

They went over details for the evening and Andy managed to hang up without any more talk of her crying jag. She fixed her face in a little desk mirror, popped two Tylenols, chased them with a Diet Coke, and jammed through the rest of her day with barely a breather and, thankfully, no more tears. She even found a half hour to get a blowout at Dream Dry, which in addition to a quick change at home and an ice-cold glass of Pinot Grigio made her feel somewhat human. Max swooped over to her the moment she stepped off the red-carpeted gangplank and into the yacht’s open-air living room; his soft kiss and minty, spicy smell made her dizzy with pleasure. And then she remembered everything else.

‘You look great,’ he said, kissing her neck. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better.’

A wave of queasiness hit Andy like a shovel, and her hand flew to her mouth.

Max’s forehead kneaded. ‘The wind is making the water rough and the boat roll. Don’t worry, it’s supposed to calm down any minute. Come on, I want to show you off.’

The party was in full swing, and together she and Max must have fielded a hundred congratulations on their wedding. Could it only have been four days earlier that she’d walked down that aisle? A chilly breeze blew and Andy moved one hand to her hair; with her other hand she tightened the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. More than anything, she was grateful her mother-in-law had some prior social engagement on the Upper East Side and wouldn’t be joining them that evening.

‘This may be the most gorgeous one yet,’ Andy said, looking around the boat’s Moroccan-inspired living room. She nodded toward an intricately woven tapestry and ran her fingers across the hand-carved bar. ‘So tasteful.’

The wife of Yacht Life’s editor, a woman whose name Andy could never remember, leaned in and said, ‘I heard they gave him a blank check to decorate. Literally, blank. As in, unlimited.’

‘Gave who?’

The woman peered at her. ‘Who? Why, Valentino! The owner commissioned him to decorate the entire yacht. Can you imagine? How much must it cost to hire one of the world’s preeminent fashion designers to pick fabrics for your couch?’

‘I can’t even fathom,’ Andy murmured, although of course she could. Little shocked her after her year at Runway, and what still did was certainly not the extent to which crazy rich people would spend their money.

Once again Andy watched as the woman (Molly? Sadie? Zoe?) scarfed a miniature tartare-topped tortilla and gazed, munching, past Andy.

The woman’s eyes grew wide. ‘Ohmigod, he’s here. I can’t believe he’s actually here,’ she mumbled through her half-chewed food, the hand in front of her mouth doing little to hide it.

‘Who’s here?’ her husband asked with seemingly zero interest.

‘Valentino! He just arrived! Look!’ The woman managed to swallow her chip and reapply lipstick in one almost-graceful motion.

Max and Andy swiveled toward the red carpet and sure enough, a tanned, taut, and pulled-tight Valentino gingerly removed his loafers and stepped aboard. A lackey standing just off to the side handed him a snorting, wet-faced pug, which he accepted without comment and began to stroke. He brazenly scanned the party and, appearing neither pleased nor displeased, turned to offer his one free hand to his date. Longtime partner Giancarlo was nowhere to be found; instead, Andy watched in horror as five long fingers with red-lacquered nails reached up from the belowdecks stairwell and wrapped themselves, talonlike, over Valentino’s forearm.

Noooooo!

Andy glanced at Max. Had she screamed that aloud or just thought it?

As if in slow motion, the woman materialized inch by dreaded inch: the top of her bob, followed by her bangs, and then her face, twisted into an all-too-familiar expression of extreme displeasure. Her tailored white pants, silk tunic, and cobalt high-heeled pumps were all Prada, and her military-inspired jacket and classic quilted bag were Chanel. The lone jewelry she wore was a thick, enameled Hermès cuff in a perfectly coordinating shade of blue. Andy had read years earlier that the cuffs had replaced the scarves as her Hermès security blankets – apparently she had collected nearly five hundred in every imaginable color and size – and Andy sent up a silent thanks that she was no longer responsible for sourcing them. Watching in a sort of fascinated terror as Miranda refused to remove her shoes, Andy didn’t even notice when Max squeezed her hand.

‘Miranda,’ she said, half whispering, half choking.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Max said into her ear. ‘I had no idea she was coming.’

Miranda didn’t like parties, she didn’t like boats, and it stood to reason that she especially didn’t like parties on boats. There were three, perhaps five people on the planet who could convince Miranda to board a boat, and Valentino was one of them. Even though Andy knew Miranda would only deign to stay for ten or fifteen minutes, she was panicked at the idea of sharing such a small space with the woman of her night terrors. Had it really been almost ten years since she’d screamed F you on a Parisian street and then fled the country? Because it felt like only yesterday. She clutched her phone, desperate to call Emily, but she suddenly realized Max had dropped her hand and was reaching out to greet Valentino.

‘Good to see you again, sir,’ Max said in the formal way he always reserved for his parents’ friends.

‘I hope you will excuse the intrusion,’ Valentino said with a small bow. ‘Giancarlo was planning to attend on my behalf, but I was in New York tonight anyway to meet with this lovely lady, and I wanted to visit with my boat again.’

‘We’re thrilled you could be here, sir.’

‘Enough with the “sir,” Maxwell. Your father was a dear friend. I hear you are doing good things with the business, yes?’

Max smiled tightly, unable to discern if Valentino’s question was merely polite or fraught. ‘I’m certainly trying. May I get you and … Ms Priestly something to drink?’

‘Miranda, darling, come here and say hello. This is Maxwell Harrison, son of the late Robert Harrison. Maxwell is currently overseeing Harrison Media Hol—’

‘Yes, I’m aware,’ she interrupted coolly, gazing at Max with a cold, disinterested expression.

Valentino looked as surprised as Andy felt. ‘Aha! I did not realize you two knew each other,’ he said, clearly looking for a further explanation.

At the exact same moment that Max murmured, ‘We don’t,’ Miranda said, ‘Well, we do.’

An awkward silence ensued before Valentino broke into a raucous laugh. ‘Ah, I sense there is a story there! Well, I look forward to hearing it one day! Ha ha!’

Andy bit her tongue and tasted the tang of blood. Her queasiness had returned, her mouth felt like chalk, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to say to Miranda Priestly.

Thankfully Max, ever more socially graceful than she, placed his hand on Andy’s back and said, ‘And this is my wife, Andrea Harrison.’

Andy almost reflexively corrected him – professionally, it’s Sachs – until she realized he’d deliberately avoided using her maiden name. It didn’t matter, though. Miranda had already spotted someone more interesting across the room, and by the time Max’s introduction was out of his mouth, Miranda was twenty feet away. She had not thanked Max, nor even so much as glanced in Andy’s direction.

Valentino shot them an apologetic look and, clutching his pug, dashed off behind her.

Max turned to Andy. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I had absolutely no idea that—’

Andy placed her open palm on Max’s chest. ‘It’s okay. Really. Hey, that went better than I could have ever hoped. She didn’t even look at me. It’s not a problem.’

Max kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked, how she didn’t have to be intimidated by anyone – least of all the legendarily rude Miranda Priestly – and asked her to wait right there while he went to find them both some water. Andy offered him a weak smile and turned to watch as the crew drew up the anchor and began to motor off the pier. She pressed her body into the boat’s metal railing and tried to steady her breathing with deep inhalations of the brisk October air. Her hands were shaking, so she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The night would be over soon.

6
writing the obit doesn’t make it true

The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her US Weekly, and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.

‘It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?’ Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.

‘What, are you not up yet?’

‘Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.’

‘You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!’ Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.

‘Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.’

‘Just guess.’

‘Really, Em?’

‘I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.’

Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

‘It’s Katherine, isn’t it?’

‘Who?’

‘Max’s ex-girlfriend. The one he saw in Bermuda and—’

‘Have you still not asked him about that? Seriously, Andy, you’re being ridiculous. No, it wasn’t Katherine – why on earth would she be calling me? – it was Elias-Clark.’

‘Miranda!’ Andy whispered.

‘Not exactly. Some dude named Stanley who didn’t bother much with details or job titles, but I think I figured out from some Googling that he’s the general counsel for Elias-Clark.’

Andy leaned over and put her head between her knees for just a moment before ‘Call Me Maybe’ began blaring from the spin studio. She stood up and placed a hand over her free ear.

‘So yeah, I have no idea why he’s calling, but he left a message late last night saying it was important and to please call him back at my earliest convenience.’

‘Christ.’ Andy paced between the women’s locker room and the stretching mats. She could see Max doing lat pull-downs in the free-weight area.

‘Interesting, no? I have to say, I’m intrigued,’ Emily said.

‘It must have something to do with Miranda. I saw her last night. First in person and then in my nightmares. It was a very long night.’

‘You saw her? Where? On TV?’ Emily laughed.

‘Ha ha. Because my life is so unfabulous you can’t even imagine it, right? I saw her at Yacht Party! She was there with Valentino. We actually all had cocktails together and then the four of us went to Da Silvano for dinner. She was quite charming, I have to say. I was surprised.’

‘Oh my god, I’m dying right now! How could you not have called me the second you got home? Or from the bathroom of the restaurant? Andy, you’re lying right now! This is insane!’

Andy laughed. ‘Of course it’s insane, you lunatic. You think I just happened to share a plate of tagliatelle with Miranda and didn’t mention it to you? She was there last night, yes, but she didn’t so much as glance in my direction, and my entire interaction was with her Chanel Number Five as she blew past me without a glimmer of recognition.’

‘I hate you,’ Emily said.

‘I hate you, too. But seriously, don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence? I see her last night for the first time in forever and she calls you the very next day?’

‘She didn’t call me. Stanley did,’ Emily said.

‘Same thing.’

‘Do you think they’re somehow onto our little habit of dropping Miranda’s name to book celebs? That’s not a crime, is it?’ Emily sounded concerned.

‘Maybe they finally figured out that you stole her entire two-thousand-person address book and they’re suing you to keep it under wraps?’ Andy offered.

‘From nine years ago? I don’t think so.’

Andy kneaded her aching calf muscles. ‘Maybe she decided that she wants you back. That you were the best dry-cleaning dropper-offer and lunch fetcher she’s ever had, and she simply can’t live without you.’

‘Adorable. Look, I’m jumping in the shower now and I’ll be out of here in thirty minutes. Meet me at the office?’

Andy looked at her watch, thrilled for the excuse to leave the gym. ‘All right. I’ll see you there.’

‘Oh, and Andy? I’m making the steak tonight. Come early and help me, okay? You can do the zucchini. Miles won’t be home until eight.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll tell Max to get in touch with Miles. See you soon.’

Pan-seared strip steaks and zucchini matchsticks had become their go-to meal for every dinner the girls had cooked for each other in over five years, ever since they’d learned to make it together in a remedial cooking class. It was the only dish either of them had actually mastered the entire semester. And no matter how many times they made the damn steak and zucchini – probably in the neighborhood of two or three times a month – it always made Andy think of 2004, the year after she left Runway and her entire world had changed.

Andy wasn’t one of those girls who remembered what she wore on every first day of school, third date, or birthday, or even when she had met certain friends or how she’d celebrated most holidays. But the year after Andy left Runway was etched forever in her mind: it wasn’t every year of your life that you quit your job, your parents got divorced, your boyfriend of six years dumped you, and your best friend (okay, fine, only friend) moved clear across the country.

It had started with Alex, a mere month after she returned from her infamous Fuck You Miranda Paris trip. Yes, she cringed inwardly every time she remembered the exchange, aghast at her own bad behavior. Yes, she thought it was just about the most unprofessional and uncouth way of leaving a job, no matter how dreaded said job was. And yes, if she had it to do all over again, could go back in time and relive that moment once more, she probably wouldn’t change a damn thing. It had just felt too good. Coming home – to Lily, to her family, and to Alex – had been the right thing to do, and the only part of it she regretted was not doing it earlier, but to her surprise, she didn’t just get to snap her fingers and have everything fall back into place. The year she’d spent at Runway fetching and finding and learning to navigate the scariest fashion shark tank imaginable had Andy so wrapped up in her own exhaustion and terror that she’d barely had a moment to notice what else was happening around her.

When had she and Alex grown so far apart that year that he no longer thought they had enough in common? He kept claiming everything had changed between them. He didn’t know her anymore. It was great she’d quit Runway, but why didn’t she realize she’d become a different person? The girl he’d fallen in love with answered only to herself, but the new Andy was too eager to do what everyone else wanted. What does that mean? Andy would ask, biting on her lip, feeling alternately sad and angry. Alex would just shake his head. They bickered constantly. He always seemed disappointed in her. By the time he finally said that he wanted a break, and oh, by the way, he was accepting a Teach for America transfer to the Mississippi Delta, Andy was devastated but not surprised. Officially, it was over, but it didn’t feel that way. They talked on the phone and saw each other intermittently for the next month. There was always a reason to call or e-mail, a fleece left behind, a question for her sister, a game plan to sell the David Gray tickets they’d bought months earlier for a concert in the fall. Even the good-bye felt surreal, perhaps the very first time Andy had ever felt awkward around Alex. She wished him good luck. His hug was brotherly. But deep down she was in denial: Alex couldn’t live in Mississippi forever. They would take some time, use the distance to think and breathe and figure things out, and then he’d realize he’d made a horrible mistake (both with Mississippi and with her) and come racing back to New York. They were meant to be together. Everyone knew it. It was only a matter of time.

Only Alex didn’t call. Not during his two-day drive there, not after he arrived, not once he settled into the cottage house he’d rented because his town was too small for apartment buildings. Andy kept making excuses for him, going through them in her mind like mantras. He’s tired from all the driving, he’s overwhelmed with regret about his new life, and her favorite, Mississippi must not have cell reception. But when three days passed, and then a week, and she still hadn’t received so much as an e-mail, it hit her: this was for real. Alex was gone. At the very least he was determined to distance himself, and he didn’t appear to be coming back. She cried every morning in the shower and every evening in front of the TV and occasionally in the middle of the day, just because she could. Writing for Happily Ever After, the up-and-coming wedding blog that had hired her to contribute copy on a freelance basis, didn’t help. Who was she to curate the perfect registry list or suggest some off-the-beaten-track honeymoon destinations when her boyfriend found her too hideous even to call?

‘Ex-boyfriend,’ Lily said when Andy posed this question to her. They were sitting in Lily’s childhood bedroom at her grandmother’s house in Connecticut, drinking some kind of syrupy citrus tea Lily had bought from the Korean manicurist who had served it at her last nail appointment.

Andy’s mouth dropped open. ‘Did you really just say that?’

‘I’m not trying to hurt you, Andy, but I think it’s important you start facing reality.’

‘Facing reality? What does that mean? It’s barely been a month.’

‘A month in which you haven’t heard a word from him. Now, I’m sure that won’t be the case forever, but I do think he’s sending a pretty clear message. I’m not saying I agree with him, but I don’t want you to think that—’

Andy held up her hand. ‘I get it, thanks.’

‘Don’t be like that. I know this is hard. I’m not saying it isn’t. You loved each other. But I think you need to start focusing on moving forward with your life.’

Andy snorted. ‘Is that one of your brilliant pearls of wisdom from your twelve-step meetings?’

Lily leaned back as though she’d been struck. ‘I’m only saying it because I care about you,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m sorry, Lil, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re right, I know you’re right. I just can’t believe …’ As hard as she tried to choke back the tears, her throat tightened and her eyes welled. She sobbed.

‘Come here, sweetheart,’ Lily said, moving closer to Andy’s floor cushion.

In an instant her friend’s arms were wrapped around her, and Andy realized this was the first time anyone had hugged her in weeks. It felt good, so pathetically good.

‘He’s just being a typical guy. Taking some time, doing his thing. He’ll come around.’

Andy wiped away tears and managed a small smile. ‘I know.’ She nodded. But they both knew Alex was no typical guy, and he’d given no indication whatsoever that he was going to come around, not then or ever.

Lily flopped down on the floor. ‘It’s time you started thinking about having an affair.’

‘An affair? Don’t you have to be in a relationship before you can cheat on someone?’

‘A fling, a one-night stand, whatever. Do I even have to remind you how long it’s been since you’ve had sex with someone else? Because I will …’

‘I don’t think that is really—’

‘Sophomore year, Scott whatever his name was, the one with the really unfortunate underbite, who you bonded with one night in the coed bathroom while I puked? Remember him?’

Andy put her hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, make it stop.’

‘And then he wrote you that card? With “Last Night” on the front and “You rocked my world” on the inside, and you thought it was the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone could ever do?’

‘Please, I beg of you.’

‘You slept with him for four months! You overlooked his Tevas, his refusal to do his own laundry, his insistence on sending you “Just because” Hallmark cards. You’ve proven yourself capable of wearing blinders when it comes to men. I’m just saying: do it again!’

‘Lily—’

‘Or don’t. You’re in a position to upgrade if you want. Two words: Christian Collinsworth. Doesn’t he still crop up every now and then?’

‘Yes, but he’s only interested because I’m taken. Was taken. As soon as he senses I’m available, he’ll go running.’

‘If by “available” you mean “open to another relationship,” then yes, you’re probably right. But if you mean “open to the idea of no-commitment sex purely for pleasure,” I think you’ll find him willing.’

‘Why don’t we get out of here?’ Andy, desperate to change the topic, scrolled through the e-mails on her BlackBerry. ‘Travelzoo is offering four days and three nights in Jamaica, flight, hotel, and meals included, for three ninety-nine over Presidents’ Day weekend. Not bad.’

Lily was silent.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll get some sun, drink some margaritas – well, not you, but I will – maybe meet some guys? It’s been a tough winter all around. We deserve a break.’

Andy knew something was wrong when Lily continued her silence, staring at the carpet.

‘What? Bring your books. You can read on the beach. It’s exactly what we both need.’

‘I’m moving,’ Lily said, her voice almost a whisper.

‘You’re what?’

‘Moving.’

‘Apartments? You found somewhere? I thought the plan was to finish out the school year here since you only have class twice a week and then start to look for a place in the summer.’

‘I’m moving to Colorado.’

Andy stared at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Lily broke off a microscopic corner of a cinnamon rugelach but left it on the plate. They didn’t speak for almost a minute, which to Andy felt like an hour.

Finally Lily took a deep breath. ‘I just really need a change, I think. The drinking, the accident, the month in rehab … I just associate so many things with the city, so many negative connotations. I haven’t even told my grandmother yet.’

‘Colorado?’ Andy had so many questions, but she was too shocked to say much else.

‘UC Boulder is making it really easy for me to transfer my credits, and they’ll give me a full ride for only teaching one undergraduate class each semester. They have fresh air and a great program and a whole lot of people who don’t know my whole story already.’ When Lily looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. ‘They don’t have you; that’s the only part of the whole thing making me sad. I’m going to miss you so much.’

Blubbering ensued. Both girls were sobbing and hugging and wiping mascara from their cheeks, unable to imagine a situation where an entire country separated them. Andy tried to be supportive by asking Lily a million questions and paying close attention to the answers, but all she could think about was the obvious: in a few weeks’ time, she was going to be all alone in New York City. No Alex. No Lily. No life.

A few days after Lily’s departure, Andy retreated back to her parents’ house in Avon. She’d just finished scarfing down three servings of her mother’s butter-and-heavy-cream-laden mashed potatoes, washed down with two glasses of Pinot, and was considering unbuttoning her jeans when her mother reached across the table to take Andy’s hand and announced that she and Andy’s father were getting divorced.

‘I can’t stress enough how much we love both you and Jill, and how of course this has nothing to do with either of you,’ Mrs Sachs said, talking a mile a minute.

‘She’s not a child, Roberta. She certainly doesn’t think she’s the reason her parents’ marriage is ending.’ Her father’s tone was sharper than normal, and if she were being honest with herself, she’d have admitted she’d noticed it had been that way for some time.

‘It’s completely mutual and amicable. No one is … seeing anyone else, nothing like that. We’ve just grown apart after so many years.’

‘We want different things,’ her father added unhelpfully.

Andy nodded.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Mrs Sachs’s brow furrowed in parental concern.

‘What’s there to say?’ Andy downed the rest of her wine. ‘Does Jill know?’

Her father nodded and Mrs Sachs cleared her throat.

‘Well, just if you … have any … questions or anything?’ Her mother looked worried. A quick glance at her father confirmed he was about to launch into full shrink mode, start interrogating her about her feelings and making irritating comments like Whatever you’re feeling right now is understandable and I know this will take some getting used to, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.

Andy shrugged. ‘Look, it’s your deal. So long as you’re both happy, it’s none of my business.’ She wiped her mouth with her napkin, thanked her mother for dinner, and left the kitchen. No doubt she was reverting back to teenage brattiness, but she couldn’t help herself. She also knew that the demise of her parents’ thirty-four-year marriage had nothing to do with her, but she couldn’t help thinking, First Alex, then Lily, now this. It was too much.

As far as distractions went, logging in the hours researching, interviewing, and writing Happily Ever After articles worked for a little while, but Andy still couldn’t fill that interminable stretch of time between finishing work and going to sleep. She’d gotten drinks a couple of times with her editor, a tiger of a woman who mostly looked over Andy’s shoulder at the recent college graduates milling around the happy-hour bars they frequented, and occasionally she’d see a Brown acquaintance for dinner or a friend visiting New York on business, but mostly Andy was alone. Alex had dropped off the face of the planet. He hadn’t called a single time, and the only contact had been a curt ‘Thanks so much for remembering, hope you’re well’ e-mail in response to a long, emotional, and in hindsight, humiliating voice mail Andy left for his twenty-fourth birthday. Lily was happily settled in Boulder and babbling excitedly about her apartment, her new office, and some yoga class she’d tried and loved. She couldn’t even fake being miserable for Andy’s sake. And Andy’s parents officially separated after agreeing that Mrs Sachs would keep the house and Andy’s father would move to a new condo closer to town. Apparently the papers were filed, they were both in therapy – although separately this time – and each was ‘at peace’ with the decision.

It was a long, cold winter. A long, cold, lonely winter. And so she did what every young New Yorker before her had done at some point during their first decade in the city and signed up for a ‘How to Boil Water’ cooking class.

It had seemed like a good idea, considering she only used her oven for storing catalogs and magazines. The only ‘cooking’ she ever did was with a coffeepot or a jar of peanut butter, and ordering in – regardless of how frugal she tried to be – was way too expensive. It would have been a good idea, if New York wasn’t the smallest city in the world at the exact times you needed anonymity: sitting across the test kitchen from Andy on her very first day of class, looking supremely hassled and a lot intimidating, was none other than Runway first assistant extraordinaire Emily Charlton.

Eight million people in New York City and Andy couldn’t avoid her only known enemy? She desperately wished for a baseball cap, oversize sunglasses, anything at all that could shield her from the imminent blaze-eyed glare that still haunted Andy’s nightmares. Should she leave? Withdraw? See about attending another night? As she debated her options, the instructor read the class roster; at the sound of Andy’s name, Emily jolted a bit but recovered well. They managed to avoid eye contact and came to an unspoken agreement to pretend they didn’t recognize each other. Emily was absent the second class, and Andy was hopeful she had bailed on the course altogether; Andy missed the third one because of work. Each was displeased to see the other at the fourth class, but there was some subtle shift making it too difficult for them to ignore each other entirely, and the girls nodded an icy acknowledgment. By the end of the fifth class, Andy grunted a barely discernible ‘Hey’ in Emily’s general direction and Emily grunted back. Only one more session to go! It was conceivable, even likely, that they could each finish out the course with nothing more than guttural sounds exchanged, and Andy was relieved. But then the unthinkable happened. One minute the instructor was reading the ingredient list for that night’s meal, and the next he was pairing the two sworn enemies together as ‘kitchen partners,’ putting Emily in charge of prep work and instructing Andy to oversee the sautéing. Their eyes met for the first time, but each looked quickly away. One glance and Andy could tell: Emily was dreading this as much as she was.

They moved wordlessly into position side by side, and when Emily settled into a rhythm of slicing zucchini into matchsticks, Andy forced herself to say, ‘So, how is everything?’

‘Everything? It’s fine.’ Emily still excelled at conveying that she found every word Andy uttered extremely distasteful. It was almost comforting to see nothing had changed. Although Andy could tell Emily didn’t want to ask and couldn’t have cared less about the answer, Emily managed to ask, ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, me? Fine, everything’s fine. I can’t believe it’s already been a year, can you?’

Silence.

‘You remember Alex, right? Well, he ended up moving to Mississippi, for a teaching job.’ Andy still couldn’t bring herself to admit that he’d broken up with her. She willed herself to stop talking but she couldn’t. ‘And Lily, that friend of mine who was always stopping by the office late at night, after Miranda left, the one who had the accident while I was in Paris? She moved too! To Boulder. I never thought she had it in her, but she’s become a yoga fanatic and a rock climber in, like, under six months. I’m actually writing now for a wedding blog, Happily Ever After. Have you heard of it?’

Emily smiled, not meanly but not nicely either. ‘Is Happily Ever After affiliated with The New Yorker? Because I remember there was a lot of talk about writing for them …’

Andy felt her face grow hot. How naïve she’d been! So young and foolish. A couple of years hitting the pavement, interviewing subjects and writing dozens of pieces that would never get published, cold-calling editors and relentlessly pitching story ideas, had set her straight: it was an enormous accomplishment to be published anywhere, writing about anything, in this city.

‘Yeah, that was pretty stupid of me,’ Andy said quietly. She stole a quick glance at Emily’s thigh-high boots and buttery leather motorcycle jacket and asked, ‘What about you? Are you still at Runway?’

She’d inquired merely to be polite since there was no doubt Emily had been promoted to something glamorous, where she would happily remain until she married a billionaire or died, whichever came first.

Emily doubled down on her zucchini slicing, and Andy prayed she wouldn’t nick off a fingertip. ‘No.’

The tension was palpable as Andy accepted Emily’s matchsticks and sprinkled them with chopped garlic, salt, and pepper before adding them to the sizzling pan. Immediately it began spitting olive oil.

‘Turn down that heat!’ the instructor called from his perch at the front of the kitchen. ‘We’re browning zucchini here, not having a bonfire.’

Emily adjusted the stovetop flame and rolled her eyes, and with that barely perceptible movement, Andy was transported directly to their anteroom offices at Runway, where Emily had rolled those same, slightly brighter eyes a thousand times each day. Miranda would call out a request for a milkshake or a new SUV or a python tote bag or a pediatrician or a flight to the Dominican Republic; Andy would flounder about, trying to decode what she was saying; Emily would roll her eyes and loudly sigh at Andy’s incompetence. Then they’d rinse and repeat, over and over again.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.