Lauren Weisberger - Revenge Wears Prada - The Devil Returns

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.

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.