Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger

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