her figure out what to say to Miranda Priestly.
Thankfully Max, ever more socially graceful than she, placed his hand on Andy’s back and said, “And this is my wife, Andrea Harrison.”
Andy almost reflexively corrected him— professionally, it’s Sachs —until she realized he’d deliberately avoided using her maiden name. It didn’t matter, though. Miranda had already spotted someone more interesting across the room, and by the time Max’s introduction was out of his mouth, Miranda wastwenty feet away. She had not thanked Max, nor even so much as glanced in Andy’s direction.
Valentino shot them an apologetic look and, clutching his pug, dashed off behind her.
Max turned to Andy. “I’m so, so sorry. I had absolutely no idea that—”
Andy placed her open palm on Max’s chest. “It’s okay. Really. Hey, that went better than I could have ever hoped. She didn’t even look at me. It’s not a problem.”
Max kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked, how she didn’t have to be intimidated by anyone—least of all the legendarily rude Miranda Priestly—and asked her to wait right there while he went to find them both some water. Andy offered him a weak smile and turned to watch as the crew drew up the anchor and began to motor off the pier. She pressed her body into the boat’s metal railing and tried to steady her breathing with deep inhalations of the brisk October air. Her hands were shaking, so she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The night would be over soon.
chapter 6
writing the obit doesn’t make it true
The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her US Weekly, and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.
“It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?” Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.
“What, are you not up yet?”
“Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.”
“You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!” Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.
“Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.”
“Just guess.”
“Really, Em?”
“I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.”
Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.
“It’s Katherine, isn’t it?”
“Who?”
“Max’s ex-girlfriend. The one he saw in Bermuda and—”
“Have you still not asked him about that? Seriously, Andy, you’re being ridiculous. No, it wasn’t Katherine—why on earth would she be calling me?—it was Elias-Clark.”
“Miranda!” Andy whispered.
“Not exactly. Some dude named Stanley who didn’t bother much with details or job titles, but I think I figured out from some Googling that he’s the general counsel for Elias-Clark.”
Andy leaned over and put her head between her knees for just a moment before “Call Me
Thankfully Max, ever more socially graceful than she, placed his hand on Andy’s back and said, “And this is my wife, Andrea Harrison.”
Andy almost reflexively corrected him— professionally, it’s Sachs —until she realized he’d deliberately avoided using her maiden name. It didn’t matter, though. Miranda had already spotted someone more interesting across the room, and by the time Max’s introduction was out of his mouth, Miranda wastwenty feet away. She had not thanked Max, nor even so much as glanced in Andy’s direction.
Valentino shot them an apologetic look and, clutching his pug, dashed off behind her.
Max turned to Andy. “I’m so, so sorry. I had absolutely no idea that—”
Andy placed her open palm on Max’s chest. “It’s okay. Really. Hey, that went better than I could have ever hoped. She didn’t even look at me. It’s not a problem.”
Max kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked, how she didn’t have to be intimidated by anyone—least of all the legendarily rude Miranda Priestly—and asked her to wait right there while he went to find them both some water. Andy offered him a weak smile and turned to watch as the crew drew up the anchor and began to motor off the pier. She pressed her body into the boat’s metal railing and tried to steady her breathing with deep inhalations of the brisk October air. Her hands were shaking, so she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. The night would be over soon.
chapter 6
writing the obit doesn’t make it true
The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her US Weekly, and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.
“It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?” Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.
“What, are you not up yet?”
“Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.”
“You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!” Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.
“Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.”
“Just guess.”
“Really, Em?”
“I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.”
Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.
“It’s Katherine, isn’t it?”
“Who?”
“Max’s ex-girlfriend. The one he saw in Bermuda and—”
“Have you still not asked him about that? Seriously, Andy, you’re being ridiculous. No, it wasn’t Katherine—why on earth would she be calling me?—it was Elias-Clark.”
“Miranda!” Andy whispered.
“Not exactly. Some dude named Stanley who didn’t bother much with details or job titles, but I think I figured out from some Googling that he’s the general counsel for Elias-Clark.”
Andy leaned over and put her head between her knees for just a moment before “Call Me
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