Before we begin, a disclaimer: My tolerance for trashy literature is quite high. I love an airport novel—the frothier the better—and my preferred vacation reading is the literary equivalent of Love Island. The point being: I am not a snob. I love a bad rom-com. I love anything a bit tacky and aughts-coded. A good montage scene set to Madonna, and I’m sold. All of which is probably why The Devil Wears Prada holds a specific and sizeable place in my heart.

When I started working at British Vogue, people would ask—after giving my outfit a once over—“What’s it like?” which roughly translated to, “How Devil Wears Prada is it?” While I’m yet to spot a cerulean belt or a Harry Potter manuscript flying around the office (though there was a Manolo Blahnik gift bag kicking around the other day), I can’t pretend the 2006 film didn’t shape my career aspirations and hair color choices. And there have definitely been moments in my personal and professional life that have bordered on cosplay, e.g. the time I got hit by a car and went as black-eyed, red-haired, hobbling Emily for Halloween (sadly, no Hermès scarves in sight).

Despite cranking up KT Tunstall’s “Suddenly I See” during moments of anguish, there’s been a void in my life that only Andy, Miranda, and the gang could fill—and so I decided it was time to plug that Prada-shaped hole with the original book’s creatively named follow-up: Revenge Wears Prada.

The novel picks up a decade after Andy dramatically quit Runway after one too many trips around Paris in a town car. She’s now the editor of a glossy bridal magazine and is married to Max Harrison, a vaguely Succession-adjacent publishing heir with outdoorsy hobbies and a sensitive side (he doesn’t drink). Within a few chapters, I was bored to tears of the placeholder hunk that is Max, though at least the God-awful Jarlsberg-loving boyfriend from the first film had disappeared to Boston, taking his port wine reductions and unsupportive attitude with him.