Chapter Text
The wind blew Andy’s coat wildly behind her, and she laughed as she steadied the coffee cup in her hand. It was the perfect autumn day; sunny, breezy, and brisk. Winter was gathering steam to storm the city, but for now, Andy intended to enjoy the last days of temperate weather.
She’d grown used to early morning shifts at the paper after more than a year of steady work. But today was special. She’d be leaving early to get ready for an event she’d been thrilled to hear about two weeks ago. Andy, along with four other young up-and-comers, was receiving the Livingston Award for excellence in the field of journalism. Andy’s series on the breakdown of Child Protective Services and the foster care system in New Jersey had been the best work she’d ever done, and someone noticed. The prize money from the Livingston Foundation would pay her rent for the next six months, but more importantly, it allowed her the luxury of a daily Starbucks run. The caffeine helped her stay sane when the phone rang before 6am, which happened with some frequency these days. The 24-hour nature of the internet made her job that much harder, but even on the worst days, those calls never caused the palpitations that working for Miranda had.
The Elias-Clarke building loomed overhead as she walked to work, and even now she smiled as she gazed up. At this hour Miranda was certainly there, wreaking havoc. Had Emily survived another year, or had she moved on? Andy wondered. Twice she’d seen her former co-worker scurrying out of the building on late nights, holding the book carefully, like a child in her arms. Andy had pushed down pangs of jealousy, still feeling that strange pull toward Miranda. The woman had an undeniable charisma that everyone sensed, and Andy was not immune.
She shook her head free of those thoughts to sip at her scalding, no foam latte.
===
Surveying her dress in the mirror, Andy nodded. The deep color flattered her pale skin, and red lips made the look work. She had exactly two new outfits for events such as these, purchased before the Livingston check arrived. She knew from her days at Runway it was essential to have something on hand for last-minute events, so this time, she was prepared. Though she’d felt some guilt in doing so, she’d dropped Miranda’s name at the SoHo shop’s counter, and the look of sympathy on the sales clerk’s face granted her a 20% discount. She almost cried, and when her credit card bill arrived a few weeks later, she sent flowers to the girl. It amazed her, the doors that opened when one took the time to send flowers.
The year-old silk stockings and garters she wore under the dress made her feel sexy, and she slid the five-inch Manolos on, dusting them off carefully. They’d sat, unloved, in her closet for six months, and it was time they got to go out on the town. After a last glance, she grabbed her bag.
The venue was uptown, and after a quick internal debate, she climbed the stairs down into the subway tunnel. Maybe she’d spring for a cab on the way home. She got a few lascivious looks as she waited for the train, and was sure to choose a car that was at least half-full of passengers. A seat was free, and she grabbed it. Nerves fluttered happily in her stomach as she anticipated the evening ahead. Once the ride was over and she was up in the world again, she showed her invitation to the man at the door, who ushered to a table with only a single seat empty. The other honorees were there already, and she introduced herself.
“Andy Sachs, New York Mirror.”
“Ah, the CPS piece. Nice job. Dave Simmons, the Dallas Morning News.”
Andy nodded. She’d read everyone’s work, and immediately recalled his article on the local repercussions of the mortgage lending crisis.
A pretty blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Mary O’Halloran--I’m at the Times. I loved your series, but I think I may love your shoes even more.”
Andy chuckled. “Thanks.” She was tempted to mention she’d gotten them from The Closet, but figured she wouldn’t bring up Runway unless she was running low on conversation.
The other two men, Ralph Gilbert and Anthony Robinson, introduced themselves, but they didn’t make much of an impression. Ralph was from the Chicago Sun-Times, and she questioned his skills. His writing was passable, but she wondered if he knew someone on the panel of judges. Anthony wrote for the NY Daily News, but she’d heard through the grapevine that he was a tipster for Gawker, so she planned to watch every word she said. No reason to attract undue attention to herself.
Applause broke out amongst the crowd, and she looked up at the podium. “Thank you all for being here--we’re going to get started.” The conversation quieted, and the tinkle of silverware was the only sound as Shannon Bartholemew of the Livingston Foundation began her speech on the current state of the media. It held Andy’s attention for a while, but eventually she grew more interested in crowd-watching than listening. The guests were an interesting mix; some wealthy patrons of the arts were scattered amongst a healthy group of news folk. She recognized many faces, anchors of local news, and heads of papers from across the city. But her heart stuttered once before nearly pounding out of her chest when she saw a flash of silver hair at a table across the room.
Andy’s sip of water lodged in her throat. She felt her face turning red as her dinner companions turned toward her while she coughed, but she waved off the attention. Moments later, she was able to take a full breath, and luckily, no one else seemed to notice her fit. Almost afraid to do so, she looked back at the distant table, but this time, she saw nothing. She leaned forward, scanning the crowd.
I’m seeing her everywhere now. Great. She watched the table some more, hoping a terrified hope that Miranda was there. But soon, Shannon began to expound on each of the honorees for the evening, and Andy forced herself to refocus. It wouldn’t do to be thinking about Miranda. Andy was being given an award. Who cared if her old boss was here? Better yet, who cared if she wasn’t.
Andy looked back at the table again, searching.
===
“I can’t believe you worked at Runway. How did that happen? Did you know someone?” Mary’s blue eyes were wide, and Andy couldn’t tell if she was impressed or disgusted.
“It was sort of an accident, but I learned a lot.”
“Geez. An accident. That’s a hell of an accident. I’ve heard horror stories about Miranda Priestly.” Andy laughed at the way Mary said the name. “How was she to work for?”
“She was… an adventure.” Andy gave her rote answer. “I truly think that Runway wouldn’t survive without her.” And that Miranda might not survive without Runway either.
“But come on, isn’t she a total raving bitch?” Mary asked. Andy noticed that Anthony was leaning closer; honestly, if he was serious about eavesdropping, he needed some schooling.
“I won’t lie. Miranda is tough to work for. But the benefits outweighed the challenges. She’s brilliant, and I like to think we worked well together.” That was certainly the truth. Some days it felt as though she could read Miranda’s thoughts, and vice versa.
“Why did you leave?”
Andy shrugged. “It was time. I wanted journalism, and I wouldn’t find that at Runway.”
“Did she make it hard for you to get another gig? I heard that happens sometimes,” Anthony inquired.
Andy wanted to smirk. There wasn’t enough liquor in the world to get her to say a bad word about Miranda to the press, especially to this snake. “Not at all. She was very generous when I left.”
“Oh, spill,” Anthony prodded. “Everyone knows she breathes fire. You’re telling me she didn’t do a thing to you after you left? There were stories that you walked out on her in Paris.”
Andy lifted a calculating eyebrow. She leaned back in her seat. “My. Wherever did you hear that?”
He looked around. “Oh, you know, people talk, word gets around. It’s a small town when you think about it. So. Did you leave her in the lurch or what?”
“It was very amicable,” Andy said smoothly. “Don’t you think I’d have had a much harder time finding employment if I hadn’t?”
His mouth twisted. “Huh. I guess.”
She smiled, and ordered a diet soda from the waiter.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, and she enjoyed talking with Mary. They exchanged business cards and promised to get together for a coffee next week. It would be fun to know another woman in the business, since the Mirror was 70% male. And of course it wouldn’t hurt to have a new friend at the Times either. She managed to avoid awkwardness with Anthony, and he left with his award in hand soon after dessert. She wasn’t sorry to see him go.
With a glance at her watch, she noted that it was nearing midnight. Six was going to come early the next morning, so she said her goodnights. There was still quite a crowd milling about the room, but she wanted to thank Shannon Bartholemew personally before she left. She spotted her amongst a small circle, and caught her eye.
“Andy, I’m so pleased you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. Thank you so much, for everything. It was unexpected, and I couldn’t be more grateful.”
“You deserved it, Andy. Everyone on the panel thought so. I wouldn’t normally tell one of our honorees this, but you were the only universal choice amongst us all.”
Andy took a deep breath. “Wow. I, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“You have a great future ahead of you, Ms. Sachs.” Shannon motioned across the room. “I know Miranda thinks so.”
Andy froze. “Pardon?”
“Miranda Priestly. She was on the panel this year. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” Andy said, struck breathless.
Shannon waved someone over with her hand. “Miranda, come say hello.”
And there she was.
===
Spots actually formed before Andy’s eyes as Miranda’s face swam into view. She was, as ever, the image of perfection. Her expression was mysterious; for once, Andy could read nothing into it. She inhaled, and the spots in her vision cleared. It wouldn’t do to faint in front of these two women. Finally she held out a hand. “Miranda,” she managed to say. “I, um, hi.”
Miranda took her hand, and Andy was stunned to realize that Miranda was leaning closer. Their cheeks touched for a brief moment. Andy felt branded. “Andrea,” Miranda said, in her unusual way. Andy was bereft when their hands dropped away from each other. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I, I didn’t realize you would be here.”
Miranda glanced at Shannon. “I’m surprised. My name is in the program,” Miranda said, gesturing to the pages Andy was now clutching in a death grip. “How nice it is to see you again, Andrea. You’re leaving?”
“Ye-yes,” Andy said.
“I’ll drop you at home.”
Andy swallowed. “Really?”
“Of course.” She turned away. “Shannon, always a pleasure. We’ll be in touch.”
“Miranda. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Certainly. I’ll see you next month.”
And then Andy was trailing after Miranda toward the door. Elegant shoulders were milk white against wine-colored, shimmering fabric. Andy stared, her eyes traveling down the trim figure as they walked. Andy felt mesmerized by the sway of her hips.
It must be Miranda’s powerful energy that was making her feel like this. It had worn off Andy over the past year, and her tolerance had dipped. Now, a few minutes in Miranda’s presence made her feel drunk.
Soon Miranda’s shoulders disappeared beneath a dark wrap, and Andy was disappointed. They were outside now, and neither spoke as Roy drove up and opened the door for the two of them. “We’re dropping Andrea off,” Miranda said.
“Of course. Same address, Andy?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean. Hi, Roy.”
He tipped his hat.
Andy slid into the car after Miranda, and they were alone. Andy felt breathless, once again. What the fuck, she thought. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’d spent months working for Miranda, but all of her former anxieties seem to have morphed into a different kind of tension. This was fear, of not being able to stop staring at Miranda. The fear that Miranda would notice. Or that she wouldn’t.
Instead, Andy looked straight ahead, ignoring everything. Her stomach churned, and Miranda was silent. Since traffic was light, less than fifteen minutes later Roy opened the door for her in front of her building.
She turned to her companion. “Miranda.” Miranda looked back, her expression blank. “Thank you,” Andy said softly.
“You’re welcome.” And Miranda pursed her lips.
Andy was gutted. She hated that look. What had she done wrong? Quickly she stepped out of the car, stumbling when her heel caught on the sidewalk. Roy caught her arm before she completely embarrassed herself. “Thanks.” She glanced back, but Miranda vanished behind the door as it closed.
Andy stood on the street, watching the car drive away.
She went inside and set her plaque on the kitchen table. Quickly she stripped off her dress, leaving it on the floor before collapsing on the bed. She cried for a while before slipping into an unsteady sleep, haunted by dreams of Miranda’s shoulders, and a dragon’s teeth.
===
The next day, Andy hung her beautiful dress back in the closet. The plaque she had been so proud of now seemed to mock her with memories of Miranda’s hair, her blank stare. It angered her that her joy had been sapped from the event, and at this point she wanted to forget about it all.
But Miranda had voted to give her the award in the first place, and she’d offered her a ride home. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t exchanged two words in the car. She owed her something. She’d find something suitable today, but after she put in a few hours on the job.
At work she pounded on her computer keyboard like a wild thing; her neighbor, Mark, complained about the racket. “Sorry,” she said meekly, gentling her touch. “Where are your headphones?”
“Busted.”
“You can use mine,” she offered as a consolation.
“Thanks. You have a shitty night or something? I thought you were getting that fancy award uptown.”
“Yeah, I got it. No big deal though.”
“Says you. I never got anything like that.”
Andy shrugged. She handed over her headphones and went back to work.
At 11, she walked the two blocks to a flower shop she loved. “Hi Jeanne,” she called out in greeting.
“Hey, girl. Lemme know if you need help.”
“I do,” Andy said. “I need an orchid.”
“An orchid?”
Andy pressed her lips together before being honest. “Something special.”
“Okaaay,” Jeanne said. “Male or female?”
“Female. Sophisticated. Probably the hardest person on the planet to please.”
“Right. Come on.” Jeanne led her back into the greenhouse. “Let’s start simple. Lady slipper?” She pointed to a beautiful collection of flowers, but Andy shook her head. “Black? It’s unusual, striking. Makes a statement.” For a moment Andy was tempted; Miranda did love black. But it was just too… whatever.
“I don’t think so.”
“How about a Cattelya? They’re kind of frilly--”
“Absolutely not.”
Jeanne laughed. “Noted. Let’s see. Over here I have a few Cymbidiums that might work. This one is a Sara, this is a Red Angelica, and this is a Pink Lady M--”
“That one.” Andy stepped closer. “It’s called Lady M?”
“Yep.”
“Perfect. How much?”
“For you?” Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “A hundred even.”
Andy hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’ll take it.” When she glanced at the tag on the pot, she thanked Jeanne silently for the deal she was getting. It reminded her that it paid to be nice now and then.
They arranged the delivery for that afternoon, and Andy waved goodbye as she bolted to her favorite kebab cart for a lunch on the run. She scarfed it down as she headed back to work.
===
Andy stayed at the office till 9. Her cellphone never rang. The orchid went out by 2, and certainly arrived by 3, but silence reigned. She didn’t know what she expected, but couldn’t help the mild disappointment that set in. Of course Miranda might not even know who sent the damned thing. She couldn’t bring herself to include a card.
But the next day at 9am sharp, a messenger arrived at her desk. “Andrea Sachs?” he asked, handing over an envelope.
A faint breath of Miranda’s perfume wafted up, and Andy was caught without warning in a memory. It was of a party, one in which she stood dutifully behind Miranda’s left shoulder, leaning close and whispering in her ear whenever necessary. Diamonds had sparkled in Miranda’s ears, but her throat remained bare. Andy had never felt so in tune with another human being, not even when she and Nate had been closest.
“Ahem,” the messenger said.
“What is it?”
“She’s waiting for your reply.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Andy tore open the card. It was Miranda’s embossed stock, tastefully stamped with her initials. A single line in nearly illegible script danced across the ivory page. Is this supposed to be a bribe?
Andy smiled. She tore off a piece of Mirror notepaper and scrawled, Can a bribe happen after the fact? In any case, no. It’s just a thank you. For everything. She folded the cheap paper and shoved it in another envelope, wanting to keep the one Miranda had sent. She didn’t ask herself why. Handing her missive to the young man, she wondered if she was supposed to tip him, but he didn’t even pause before racing out of the newsroom.
“What the hell was that?” Mark asked. “Who doesn’t email? Or text message? I mean, a messenger is a little weird.”
Andy agreed. It felt old-fashioned. As in 19th century old-fashioned. And romantic, she thought. “It’s what rich people do,” Andy said instead, to shut him up. It worked. He was sufficiently impressed.
The messenger didn’t return that day. Andy ruthlessly suppressed her unhappiness with a two hour visit to the gym that evening. At least she slept better than she had the nights before.
===
Seven days after the messenger’s first visit, he reappeared.
Andy was inhaling bacon and scrambled eggs on an English muffin after a brutal early morning shift when the young man handed over a small box wrapped with a silver ribbon. Her mouth full, she gaped at him before putting down the remains of her sandwich. The young man stepped back to afford her some privacy, and Andy’s hands shook as she removed the ribbon and paper. The black container had a small logo in the corner, and Andy recognized it instantly. “Oh fuck,” she whispered. Nervous flutters exploded in her stomach, and when she opened the lid, she was overwhelmed. On a bed of velvet lay the most elegant pen she’d ever seen. The body was black, ringed with narrow bands of platinum, one of which read “MONTBLANC” near the fountain’s nib. But most beautiful of all was the cap, with a clip inlaid with a blue stone. Andy was afraid to believe it, but she was certain it was a real sapphire.
She looked up at the messenger, who didn’t meet her eyes. She felt lost, drowning. Was there no message? Quickly she searched through the wrapping, relieved to find another envelope of Miranda’s stationery that she’d missed. Inside were two cards. One was in Miranda’s writing, the other printed. She started with Miranda. Don’t use a Bic at this event, please. You need something appropriate to be taken seriously as a journalist. Bring a photographer.
She had no clue what reporter would be caught dead taking notes with a thousand dollar Mont Blanc. Oh well.
The second card was an invitation to, of all things, the Junior League’s autumn ball, at Cipriani in Grand Central. What the hell was she going to do at the Junior League ball? Other than write a puff piece about NY’s wealthiest men and women and their charitable activities. Perhaps Miranda thought she could do some sort of follow up about CPS, especially if Bloomberg was there.
“Ahem,” the messenger said.
Andy had forgotten the guy, again. “Right.” She dashed off a note, this time with her new pen. It was like heaven in her hand. Is this supposed to be a bribe? she wrote.
The messenger disappeared, envelope tucked away. She gazed down at her gift in awe. Miranda, what are you playing at?
===