Lauren Weisberger - Revenge Wears Prada - The Devil Returns

‘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.