Lauren Weisberger - Revenge Wears Prada - The Devil Returns

For R and S, with love

Table of Contents

Title Page Revenge Wears Prada Lauren Weisberger

Dedication For R and S, with love

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

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.