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“Heads up, def-con 5,” Nigel muttered, as he poked his head around the door of the outer office.
“God,” Emily groaned. “Just what I need.”
“What’s set her off now?” Andy asked.
Nigel jerked his thumb upwards. Ah, Andy thought. Of course it would be caused by the Board meeting.
“Don’t ask me, actually,” he said. “I don’t know, I don’t want to know, and I certainly don’t want to be the one to ask.”
“Oh, look.” Emily exaggeratedly checked her watch. “I should have been at Hermes five minutes ago. Pity.”
As she dashed out of the office, Andy let her head drop into her hands.
“Rough luck, Six,” Nigel said sympathetically, withdrawing his head and making an exit nearly as swift as the redhead.
“Ugh,” Andy groaned to herself. “This has to be some sort of cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Indeed,” came a cool voice from the entryway. “Both the fact I am inclined to agree with you, and the reason for said agreement.”
Andy gingerly lifted her face up from her cradled triceps to meet the icy stare of her boss. Not only was said stare somehow even icier than usual, Miranda seemed to be practically vibrating with barely suppressed fury.
“Um,” she ventured, “is there anything I can do to help you, Miranda?”
The older woman pursed her lips. For a brief moment, Andy was catapulted back to Paris, to the clipped ‘your job’, and winced in anticipation for the near-certain evisceration she would likely be imminently subjected to. Then the moment passed, and a curious expression crept at the edges of her boss’ face.
“Actually, Andrea,” - Miranda paused, in the manner of one stepping onto ice of unknown thickness - “there well may be.”
She widened her eyes and forced her shoulders to drop in an approximation of what she hoped signalled calmness.
Miranda summarily strode past her, and as she reached the threshold of the office spun on one heel and flicked her hand in a dismissive wave.
“Well?” she asked imperiously. “Do you require a written invitation? Have you contracted rapid-onset vampirism?”
“No, Miranda,” Andy squeaked, scrambling to her feet and making her own way into Miranda’s office. By the time she made it inside and had shut the door, Miranda was seated neatly at her desk, posture impeccable as always, save for the tell-tale nervous winding of her necklace.
“The Board,” Miranda sighed, “appears to be intent on inducing some sort of psychiatric breakdown in my person via an elaborate humiliation ritual.”
Crap, Andy thought. What was Irv up to now? Was MIranda being threatened with dismissal again? A multitude of scenarios - financial, bureaucratic, legal, political - flashed through her mind, already attempting to troubleshoot and devise solutions.
“Apparently”, she sneered, “there is not enough optical transparency at senior levels of Elias-Clarke.” She pronounced the words ‘optical transparency’ in the manner most would associate with a particularly nasty tropical disease. Flesh-eating, perhaps.
“Or,” Miranda continued, “at least that is the perspective of dear Irv’s niece, who has coincidentally secured a senior consultancy contract. Blatant nepotism aside, this apparently poses a reputational issue. But fear not, Andrea, a wonderful solution has been discovered.”
Andy held her breath.
“The Board has approved a series of videos, in which each Editor-In-Chief of the corporation’s magazines shall appear. Doing, and I reluctantly quote, a ‘relatable activity’, all while answering what will no doubt prove to be horribly intrusive questions about their personal lives. A so-called ‘confessional’, if you will.”
Alright, she should probably stop holding her breath now. It wouldn’t look particularly good for this reputational schtick if Miranda’s Second Assistant literally dropped dead in her office.
“Do you know what sort of - activities - they’re planning on?” Andy asked cautiously.
“That is a particular piece of information they did not see fit to share just yet,” Miranda replied through gritted teeth. “Although I gather submissions and suggestions are welcome.”
“Okay.” Andy furrowed her brow. “Um, Miranda - how can I help with this?”
A slight inclination of that silver coif caused the hair at the back of her neck to stand up.
“Your very presence panders to the masses, does it not?”
Rude.
“I’m - I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow.”
“Relatable activities, Andrea,” Miranda repeated. “Must I send you to an audiologist? You know what sort of thing merits such a label. The sort of thing which appeals to the cerulean sweater wearing, grilled cheese eating, subway taking inhabitants of this world.”
It took a positively herculean effort not to suggest any of the triad as potential activities. Instead, she valued her life, and folded her arms.
“Well, to start with, why don’t you suggest I be the one to ask you the questions? That way there’s some degree of mitigation involved, and we can construct lines which appear personal but avoid particular subjects. And, as you say, it can’t hurt to have a girl from Ohio featuring as the interviewer.”
‘Control exposure to the twins’ went unsaid as the key verboten subject.
Miranda surveyed her with an expression she had only seen once before - when she had deposited the illegal Harry Potter manuscript on the very desk she was less than a meter away from.
“Acceptable. Have a list ready by tomorrow evening. We shall discuss it after you have delivered the Book.”
***
Rule Number One - do not ask Miranda questions. Well, that was out of the window. That was so far out of the window it had plummeted nigh on twenty stories down and was currently lying in a shattered mess on the asphalt below. Andy chewed the pencil between her teeth and wracked her brain for what on earth would appease the Board but not have her meet the same fate as the aforementioned rule, thrown clean out of Miranda’s office by an exit that was not the doorway.
It took seven hours she ought to have dedicated to sleep, and another hour that should have been a mixture of lunch and bathroom breaks, but the next day she trudged out of Elias-Clarke with a full page of A4 in the hand unoccupied by the Book.
She had decided to go big or go home, and if she risked her life in the process? Well, that was too bad.
***
"I take it this delightful piece of paper contains ideas for the video?" Miranda raised an eyebrow.
"Yep. I drew up a list of suggestions," Andy replied. "I thought you might want to pick and choose, so there's quite a lot there."
Miranda cast her gaze over the list.
"Tell me one reason why I ought not to fire you for some of these suggestions."
"I did my job," Andy sighed. She had expected such a reaction.
"You have suggested I construct a grilled cheese."
"No one can call that unrelatable."
Miranda's nose crinkled. It was clearly a product of supreme judgement, but Andy privately found it perplexingly endearing.
***
The first sign that something was amiss was the smell. Andy’s nose crinkled up in reflexive disgust at the unmistakable scent of burnt flour and chemicals.
The second was the sound of rapid running water. A tap on full blast combined with the distinctive whirr of an extractor fan created a cacophony alien to the normally silent townhouse.
The third was the exclamation - of Miranda cursing. It was also the most worrisome, as for the woman to forgo meticulously crafted verbal dissections in favour of a simple, vulgar ‘fuck!’ indicated that there was a substantial problem, to say the least.
(That irritating little voice in her head piped up that she had, after all, imagined that particular word issuing from her boss' lips before. Just in a rather different…context.)
Andy swiftly deposited the Book on the usual table, and walking on the balls of her feet, softly padded towards the kitchen, which seemed the surest bet for the cause for her concern. The sharp, loud gasp at the scene which greeted her negated her efforts at being quiet, however, even as she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Miranda. Hair dishevelled, torso covered in what looked like a mixture of watery flour, violently fanning a large dish-towel towards the open window in a bid to clear the black smoke emanating from a lump of charred plastic covering over half the stove.
Later, Andy would muse that at least she had consummate evidence to disprove Miranda’s rumoured dismemberment of recalcitrant assistants, given how utterly hopeless she had proved herself to be at dealing with chemicals hands-on. However, the only thought on her mind in the moment was quite simply -
“ - Oh! What…what happened, Miranda?” It came out as a suitable whisper.
The woman span around to face her with wild eyes.
“What does it look like?” she hissed. “Clearly, I was attempting something I pay Cara to do. For a reason. Equally clearly, it did not go to plan.”
Andy silently reached down under the sink and retrieved a pair of rubber gloves, along with an intensive spray-cleaner.
“Let me handle this.”
“Your job responsibilities now extend to scrubbing my kitchen? My, my. What commitment. Finally.”
She bit back the retort she wanted to levy by reminding herself that such an acerbic response was likely borne out of defensiveness and embarrassment at being caught in such a predicament.
“I’m fairly sure that wasn’t in the contract, Miranda. But I don’t know how long you’ve been in here, and if the smoke is anything to go by, you’ve probably been inhaling God knows what sort of chemicals."
Miranda muttered something that sounded awfully like ‘I was around in the 70s, I think I’ll survive,’ but that surely couldn’t be right.
“What were you trying to make, anyway? I’m alright at most cooking, so, um, if you wanted, I…“
“Do spit it out, Andrea. Unlike those without meaningful obligations, I don’t have all night.”
“...I could teach you?” she squeaked.
Miranda furrowed her brow. “You would do that?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Her boss looked like she was about to say something else, but then thought better of it. Instead, she stalked over to the opposite counter and leaned against it. The thought came out of nowhere, but Andy had the distinct impression that the increased physical distance served as a proxy for reestablishing dominance, away from the weird, momentary equilibrium she could have sworn existed for a split second.
“I have consulted Cara’s cookery books. What I originally intended to make was…” she trailed off, wholly uncharacteristically.
Andy kept silent, figuring that to interrupt would be suicidal.
“Fine. I took inspiration from your status as the patron saint of relatability, and alighted upon a not entirely offensive sounding grilled cheese recipe. I presumed I ought to practice before committing heresy in front of a camera. Even dire tasks ought to be executed well.”
Whatever she had been expecting Miranda to say, it certainly wasn’t that. Disguising surprise was a cornerstone of her job requirements, however, so she plastered a cheerful smile onto her face.
"Alright! How about I finish up cleaning in here while you, uh" - she gestured towards Miranda's floury clothes - "go fumigate that blouse?"
To her immense - and thoroughly, mercifully concealed - delight, her proposal brought her the first ever genuinely amused look from the Editor, as valiantly restrained as it was.
"Acceptable. That's all."
***
"So," Andy said, acutely conscious that Miranda had chosen to sit on the same couch as her rather than as away as far as humanly possible in one of the armchairs on the other side of the living room, "what was the recipe you were thinking of?"
Miranda, ever prepared, pulled out a thick book, flipped it to perhaps midway through, proffered it in Andy's direction and jabbed at a page with a characteristically perfect nail.
"There."
Andy began to read. The start of a headache threatened to bubble up in her temples.
"Um…"
"What?" Miranda asked impatiently. "Artisan seeded sourdough, gruyere, aged manchego, sunblushed Italian tomatoes, basil, a twist of balsamic vinegar, rosemary infused extra virgin olive oil, all designated protection of origin, naturally. A crisp Sauvignon Blanc as an accompaniment, unless it incorporated the optional sautéed red onions, in which case a moderately sweet Riesling would be most suitable. What could possibly be the problem?”
Andy blinked. “The goal is relatability, right?” she said slowly.
“You know it is. Must I repeat myself?”
"Please don’t kill me, but if the aim is to maximise relatability, that sandwich won’t work.”
“What on earth is esoteric about a grilled cheese? Was this not supposed to be a guaranteed easy win?”
Nothing, Andy thought, and yes. But whatever the list Miranda had just spouted at her was, a grilled cheese it wasn’t.
“So I don’t know what designated protection of origin is, and if I don’t know, an awful lot of the people listening to you narrate the ingredients won’t either.”
“Fine. I simply won’t mention it, then.”
“Miranda.” Andy clasped her hands together in anticipatory supplication. “You’re going to hate the best way to do this, strategically-speaking.”
“Well, what would you suggest?” Miranda huffed. ”“Enlighten me."
She braced for impact.
“White bread, mayo or butter on both sides, shredded cheddar or kraft slices in the middle. Ingredients bought from Walmart or Trader Joe's. With a bottle of beer.”
She may as well have suggested Miranda eat Patricia's gourmet dog food for dinner.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Actually," Andy said, inspiration striking, "if it makes it any more bearable, you could always maintain the whole disgusted shtick throughout. Self-awareness is always a good thing."
She had been expecting a withering put-down. But an even more devilish expression than usual descended over Miranda’s face. Unlike her customary demeanour, however, it was imbued with a remarkable lightness that was almost describable as mischievous.
“Well, Andrea,” she purred, “if self-awareness is the pinnacle of relatability, why don’t you accompany me in front of the camera?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You make my idea of a grilled cheese and I make yours. That way I do not have to suffer alone, and it shows - as much as I despise the concept - humility, no? Like I have said before, your mere presence will make said video relatable.”
“You’re suggesting this because the EIC with the video voted as the most relatable gets a 20% budget increase, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Alright then.”
Miranda looked surprised. “I must admit I didn’t expect you to agree quite so readily.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love to know how to make that fancy sandwich of Cara’s.”
***
While the ingredients for the 'fancy sandwich of Cara's' were to be delivered by gourmet deli service, those for Andy's version of grilled cheese were decidedly not.
"I cannot believe this," Miranda murmured. "If I do not triumph in acquiring an inflated budget I am going to sue."
"Who?" Andy asked, punching the requisite buttons of the machine.
"Everyone."
"Great," Andy muttered, handing Miranda her newly acquired Metrocard. Miranda, who for once had dressed in a relatively subdued way, if only because it turned out she was also a germaphobe.
"Remind me again," Miranda sniffed - and then promptly screwing her face up in disgust at the scent of their surroundings daring to assault her nostrils - "why I am consorting with the great unwashed?"
Andy rubbed her forehead in exasperation, and gestured towards the body camera she wore with her other hand.
"Miranda. We're going to have to cut that comment out. The whole point of you taking the subway to Walmart is to up the relatability factor, and that's kind of undermined if you start channelling your inner Gilded Age robber-baron."
The Editor sniffed. "Fine." She plastered a sickly-sweet smile across her face, and it had the air of a theatrical crocodile.
"Might I say what delightful architecture the 4 train is sporting? Truly inspiring. Such a fetching shade of…rodent gray."
(Andy prayed that they would not, in fact, encounter any actual rodents.)
***
They did not - but as the carriage clanked along the tracks at a truly unbearable volume, Andy was slightly concerned at the amount Miranda was twitching, jerking, and shifting from Blahnik to Blahnik, movements which could not be solely explained by her form being thrown about after she had refused to hold onto the pole or any part of the car for steadying support. It swiftly became apparent that her concern was shared.
"Sorry, dear," an older woman tapped her on the shoulder. Andy spun round reflexively, unused to anyone breaking the unspoken rule of never interacting with any other subway passengers. But the woman looked harmless, just slightly alarmed.
"Yes?" Andy replied politely. "Can I help you?"
"I was just going to say I understand. I recognise the symptoms."
"The symptoms?" Andy said, thoroughly nonplussed.
"Yes, yes," the woman smiled gently. "Opioid withdrawal. It's so hard, isn't it?"
Miranda squawked. Andy was torn between absolute horror at the misunderstanding and veritable glee at the entertainment value of the exchange currently being captured on her discreet, mostly-concealed body camera.
As Miranda opened her mouth to say something which would no doubt not end well for any of them, Andy determined that the glee was what she ought to focus on, and so gripped her boss' hand in warning, then plastered her own sweet expression on.
"Thank you," she smiled. "She's doing so well. We're all very proud of her."
***
Miranda had maintained a stony silence all the way from exiting the carriage to their arrival outside Walmart. However, it appeared her desire to give Andy the silent treatment lost to her desire to pass judgement on the cheerful true blue storefront.
"This qualifies for pressing charges."
"How so? What charges?"
"Visual assault. First degree."
***
Yet the running tirade Andy had anticipated being levied her way as they made their way up and down the aisles failed to manifest.
Miranda, for once in her life, appeared to be stunned into silence. Naturally, she refused to touch any of the produce Andy threw into the trolley.
***
"Seriously?" Andy turned to look away from Roy diligently - and incongruously - parked outside the store.
"Seriously," Miranda said waspishly. "You have gotten the wonderful footage of my subjection to verbal humiliation on that appalling metal box once, let alone my presence in whatever that hell was. I require time to recover before constructing this no-doubt inedible culinary bastardisation."
***
"Right!" Andy clapped her hands together as she surveyed the two sides of the counter, each laden with ingredients for the respective recipes. "Shall I start recording and asking you the questions as we go along?"
"If you must," Miranda sighed defeatedly.
*Click*
"O-kay!" Andy chirped brightly, earning a suppressed eye-roll from her companion. "We are here today with Miranda, our wonderful Editor-In-Chief here at Runway. I'm Andy, her assistant, and we'll be making lunch while I ask Miranda some questions."
Miranda bared her teeth at the camera as if it was liable to attack her.
"We've picked up a selection of ingredients from Walmart, and we went on the subway to get there, which you can see now."
She turned to her boss. "This is where we'll cut away."
"Delightful."
Turning back to the camera, Andy raised a kitchen knife. "Now you've all seen La Priestly in the wild, let's get started!"
Miranda began to gingerly peel the packaging away from her ingredients.
"So, Miranda. What are you making?"
"Technically, a grilled cheese. Though the actual cheese content in this…orange square is debatable."
Miranda held up the kraft cheese in the manner of men holding up their fishing catches, except where they invariably appeared proud, she appeared utterly disgusted.
Andy giggled. "Alright, what do you wish you were making?"
"A stiff drink. Money. Someone else cry. Anything but this."
She shook her head, but privately thought Miranda's uniquely scathing sense of humour might actually have some appeal to the viewers. Leaning into the pantomime caricature of the Dragon, and all that.
"Changing the subject…what's your biggest fashion mistake?"
Miranda looked up from slicing the cheese. Instead of holding the block like a normal person, she had somehow found a fork and had jammed it into the end to avoid making any physical contact with it.
"A perm," she admitted. "1985 is not a year I care to look back on the photographs of."
Andy stifled a giggle. Miranda with a perm was something she would kill to see
.
"What's your favorite curse word?"
"Vogue," Miranda said immediately, moving to untie the pre-sliced bread.
Fair enough, Andy thought. That was to be expected. She hacked away gracelessly at the artisan sourdough she was using for her own sandwich.
"What's one thing you don't want to be doing in ten years?"
"This," Miranda gritted out, seeming to be encountering slight difficulty in wrenching the plastic wrap free.
"Optimism or pessimism?"
"Reality."
Again, expected.
"What do you cherish most in this house?"
"My daughters. When they're not here, my dog, Patricia."
As if she had heard them, the eponymous St Bernard trotted into the kitchen. Andy's shoulders dropped in relief. Everyone liked dogs. Hopefully Patricia would serve to humanise Miranda somewhat in the eyes of the viewers, especially as she leaned across to seize a piece of Andy's prosciutto and toss it neatly into the canine's waiting mouth.
"What is something you tried really hard to like but just couldn't?"
"My ex-husbands."
Andy thought she could be forgiven for cackling, particularly as Miranda herself looked rather pleased at the reaction her answer had elicited.
As she began to toast the sourdough, she steeled herself and asked "if it wasn't illegal, what crime would you commit?"
"I would castrate the entirety of the staff at Page Six," Miranda grinned, brandishing the cheese-knife with an entirely inappropriate amount of vigor.
"Ah. Right." Andy blinked. "Uh, how? Not necessarily a formal question, just out of personal curiosity."
"With a rusty saw. Or an antique woodchipper. Either works."
"That was a very quick response. Have you thought about this before?"
"Frequently. Next question!"
Andy lifted up the sourdough to see a very pleasing golden tinge. She looked up, to see Miranda scrutinising the mayonnaise with a curled lip.
If you weren't Editor-In-Chief of Runway, what would you be doing?"
"Castrating Page Six," the Editor replied, holding the jar at arm's length.
Andy rolled her eyes. Miranda sighed.
"I have always thought I would have made a reasonable lawyer. Or head of a psychiatric detention facility."
"I…I can see that."
"How reassuring to have your approval of my hypothetical alternative career choice."
As she began to layer the extortionate organic cheese over the sourdough, Andy noted with some degree of satisfaction that Miranda's construction was beginning to take recognisable shape.
"What do you most look forward to about getting older?"
"Using a hand-carved cane. Perhaps with a dragon's head at the top. I won't need it, of course, but I've always thought them marvellous things for prodding inconveniences out of the way with."
Oh, she could only imagine.
Miranda placed the now assembled sandwich in her own pan with genuinely ridiculously long tongs.
"What's something most people don't know about you?"
"I am a naturalised US citizen, and can turn a British accent on at will."
Andy cocked her head. "Care to do a demonstration?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Darn," she said. "Oh, well. Okay then - when do you feel most beautiful?"
Miranda blinked. "Cut that one out, Andrea."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Andy frowned, but glanced down at her concealed notes for the next question.
"If you got a tattoo, where would it be?"
"The question assumes I do not have one at present. No further comment."
Oh. Oh. That was doing things to her. Andy couldn't help but wonder where on earth said tattoo could possibly be, and realised with a gulp it had to be somewhere decidedly…intimate, given she'd seen just about everywhere else on Miranda's body across her time at Runway on account of the Editor's penchant for varying cuts in her blouses, skirts, and dresses.
Apparently the gulp was noticeable, because Miranda was looking at her with barely disguised amusement, as if she knew exactly the direction Andy's thoughts had taken.
Turning her attention back to the grilled cheeses, she noted with relief that they were almost done, giving her a perfect excuse to change the subject.
"These look pretty much done! Let's plate up."
Miranda winced as Andy plonked the Walmart sandwich on one of her no doubt extortionate antique Japanese plates.
"Bon appétit!"
Andy held up both plates towards the camera in order to present a full view of the fruits of their labors. In stark contrast to the culinary disaster of Miranda's initial attempt, both looked thoroughly palatable.
At least, Andy thought so.
"Ah, Miranda. You've got to try both!"
"If I must."
To Andy's utter delight, Miranda did not spit out either offering. In fact, try as she might to hide it, her eyes outright widened upon sampling her own production.
"Not as bad as you thought?"
"I've no doubt the chemical engineering that went into this thing was designed to create artificial enjoyment. As compensation for the amount of carcinogenic elements it contains."
Andy mock-pouted, and internally raised an eyebrow at the faint blush she could have sworn flashed momentarily into existence on the face opposite.
"You mean that you're not going to shop at Walmart on the regular?"
Miranda's eyes narrowed. "I had thought we had gotten past the inane questioning stage."
"Ah," Andy said, "I've only got one more, actually."
"Go on."
"What's your favorite thing to eat?"
Without missing a beat, Miranda smirked. "Assistants."
Andy shivered. It did not go unnoticed. Miranda stalked towards the camera and flicked it off. Then she spun round, crossed her arms, and asked imperiously, "I take it that I am not engaged to ask you any questions? It seems unfair for me to be the one forced to answer everything."
Andy gulped. "Is there a question you'd like to ask me?"
Miranda looked pensive. "Was there a particular answer or anything you wished to know from that little…exchange?"
Miranda needed the data from her camera - for it was Andy's own camera, purchased on her own dime - so Andy figured she could probably get away with being a little bold.
"Where's the tattoo?"
Miranda cackled. It took a couple of seconds - which felt like business days - to register the reaction. When she did, Andy needed no mirror to know her face had bloomed out in a crimson flush.
"Andrea. You are responsible for editing this little fiasco, are you not?"
"Yes, Miranda." She was proud she had managed to get the words out without sounding totally stunned.
"Then you will ensure you do it to such a quality that I triumph over all other participants. If you manage to secure the budget uplift for Runway, I will let you know where the tattoo is."
Well, that sounded like an outright proposition. Andy determined then and there that sleep was for the weak, and she would labor day and night until the deadline to make sure Miranda would be obligated to fulfil her end of the bargain.
***
A week later, Irv stormed out of Miranda's office, tie askew as always, muttering under his breath. From her desk, Andy basked in pride, the - frankly astonishing - analytics blinking on the screen in front of her.
Because not only had Miranda's video been voted as the most relatable by a country mile, it had also gone viral on the internet, and the reasons people gave for voting it as such…
Well. Terms like 'unresolved sexual tension,' 'useless lesbians' 'this is my office romance' abounded. It appeared Miranda had a new fanbase. Andy had privately been saving some of the most pertinent comments she wished to show to Miranda.
"Andrea."
She walked into the office. Miranda was smirking, evidently basking in the aftermath of wrestling more money from Irv - and entirely legitimately, too.
"It appears you can, in fact, do anything."
"Uh, thank you, Miranda."
"It also appears I owe you an answer."
Oh. Oh yes, she did. Andy forced her expression to remain neutral, as if she had not been mentally crossing her fingers about the very issue.
"Lower back, just above my tailbone. Two interlocking Cs."
(Sorry. What the fuck? Andy blinked as if to make sure she had heard correctly. Of all the answers she had imagined, Miranda Priestly admitting to sporting a tramp stamp was not among them.)
"That's actually quite beautiful." Why that had come out of her mouth she had no idea, but Miranda hardly seemed offended by it. It also reminded her of what she wanted to show to Miranda.
"I have something to show you, actually. Some of the comments online."
Miranda quirked an eyebrow.
"Don't think for a second I forgot about you shutting down a particular question."
The eyebrow stiffened, as did the shoulders below.
And with that, Andy pulled out the stack of printed-off commentary.
"Take a look at this."
She placed them down before Miranda. As for what it was…
"People said this? About me?"
"Yup. For what it's worth" - she took a deep breath - "I completely agree with them."
For the comments were all complimenting Miranda's appearance, and quite a few explicitly used the word 'beautiful.'
Andy clasped her hands tightly behind her back, praying that she hadn't overstepped. She closed her eyes, anticipating whatever reception awaited her. Then she heard a quiet sniff, and her eyes snapped open again.
Miranda was smiling at her. Not a crocodilian smile, not a mocking one, not a sardonic one. A soft one.
"Thank you, Andrea."
"You're welcome," she replied. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Miranda bit her lip. "Would you be…willing to show me how to make other dishes? It is not a requirement, of course. Nor is it explicitly part of your job description, you do understand."
Andy blinked. Was this Miranda Priestly asking to spend time with her? It seemed it was.
"Yes, Miranda. More than willing. I'd like that very much."
FIN