Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger

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