Taking Risks (6B of ?)
Title: Taking Risks (6B of ?)
Authors: DuWinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Eventually Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: A continuation of a story written for Calliopedawn in answer to her prompt in the Barren Desert Exchange. I hope I get to the spirit of what you desired. I'm certainly have a good time writing to your prompt.
Setting: Slight AU, and set during the time-frame of the events of the movie.
Prompt: Andy got a job at the New York Times instead of Runway. Nate never existed and Andy was actually into fashion. Andy could go freelance or be offered to write for Runway therefore introducing Miranda :)
Summery: See prompt.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit being made here. I'm just playing with them for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through.
Comment: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.
A/N I messed with canon a little bit in this section of the story. In this AU Stephen called Miranda asking for a divorce while she was overseeing a photo shoot in Milan some months prior to Paris Fashion Week , which will eventually occur in this story.
Special Thanks to those that tried to help me with fashion faux pas of 2009. Kali Blue and Sammie S. Sammie S is responsible for the humorous bon mot in Andy's article. Also a note of thanks to Fic_Addict for constructive criticism. I hope the characterization in question is better.
Credit where credit is due: Special thanks to both of my wonderful Beta's Jazwriter and Mxrolkr. You two ROCK really hard.
Friday October 2nd, 2009 (Continued)
The doorbell at Karen Wilson's apartment rang at something after ten in the morning. Being ”on vacation” as she was, she'd drank wine and talked to Lily late into the night on the telephone and slept in this morning. Slipping on her bathrobe, she moved to the door and opened it finding Lily standing there with a single red rose and a sack from a takeout fast food place.
"Got a vase and a couple of plates?” the woman asked. “It's only breakfast sandwiches and coffee, but I figured we could have breakfast together...You're on vacation, after all.”
Karen smiled, stepping back from the door and motioning Lily inside. “What about you? Don't you have to be at work today?”
Lily laughed. ”Well, you see, I did my boss this favor by getting the place I work at a newspaper article. So when I told him I had a friend that was feeling down and I needed a personal day to go see them, he was happy to give me the time off.”
Karen looked down at the ground bashfully. “You didn't have to do that, Lily,” she said softly.
Lily playfully held out the red rose tickling the other woman's nose with the petals of the crimson blossom. “I wanted to,” she answered. “The way you're feeling has become important to me.”
Karen's eyes, scared but hopeful, came up to look into brown eyes full of compassion and maybe something else. “I'll get us some plates,” Karen said, daring to begin believing that her therapist was right and someone out there might treat her better than Danielle had.
***
Sir Nigel had cornered the dragon in her lair. The difficulty was that he was all too aware that when a knight-errant had a dragon cornered, it was then said dragon was most unpredictable. Nigel would bet good money most of the noble knights that found themselves in this position ended up as roasted meat in the tin can of their armor instead of the winner of the lauded title of dragon-slayer. Miranda was magnificent as she paced like a caged animal. Something graceful and lithe and coiled and deadly he mused as images of leopards and cheetahs flashed in his mind. She was a hard read on the best of days, but today his years of working at her side paid off, and his gut impression was that she was scared. He knew Miranda and knew that she'd hate being scared worse than anything else. He smiled at her softly. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked, using their code to offer his opinion as a friend rather than as an employee. “You look like you could use a few minutes out of the trenches.”
***
Miranda couldn't believe that she was sitting in the back of a Starbucks waiting for Nigel who was in line to order their drinks. Here, sitting anonymously among the plebeian mob, she would face her fear. Nigel had reached out as a friend, and at this moment Miranda felt desperately in need of that friend. She desired to meet and impress “her”' columnist, but she also wanted to introduce herself to Andrea during the interview not as Miranda the icon but as Miranda the woman. She had decided that she would answer any question posed with blunt honesty. She would allow Andrea to see her, warts and all. If she did that, perhaps, just perhaps, they might have a chance of building a foundation for a future together.
Nigel placed Miranda's latte before her and sat down on the far side of the table. “So,” he said, “ Le Bernardin?”
Miranda gripped her cup. One of her assistants had been talking out of school. She'd have to see about a proper punishment. She glanced at her companion. “Yes,” she answered. “The finest French food in the city.”
Nigel smiled a knowing smile. “It also has a certain ... ambiance,” he replied.
Miranda pursed her lips. “If you have something to say, Nigel, spit it out.”
Nigel shrugged. “I think you want to be careful to not move too quickly. You don't want to scare her off. I mean you have had, what, one phone conversation?”
Miranda, looking down at her coffee and again cursing herself as a coward, said nothing.
“Miranda,” Nigel said, “You have spoken to her privately, haven't you?”
Nigel's eyes widened, and Miranda could read unease in his body language. Unused to explaining herself, she pursed her lips in exasperation. But, the voice in her head said, you are here with him as your friend, not as your employee. And you need help so you don't ruin this as you've ruined your marriages.” Arguing with herself silently she opted for a middle road. A partial truth while not revealing the amount of fear she felt about the coming meeting with a woman she desperately wanted to both impress and win. “It was inconvenient to speak with her,” she said haughtily.
“E-mail communication then,” Nigel temporized. “When I met with her she seemed a well-bred young woman. I'm sure she sent you a thank you for the flowers you sent.”
Miranda again pursed her lips. Her wanting to protect herself by not discussing her feelings warred with her desire to ask Nigel how not to mess up the opportunity she was so hopeful to have. She bit down on the inside of her mouth and thought, They say the truth will set you free. She looked at her companion. “The florist neglected to send a card with the flowers. I doubt that Andrea knows I sent them.”
***
Nigel slumped in his chair and looked at his friend of twenty years. He nodded and came to a decision. It was time to do some preventive meddling before Miranda turned this into a situation where major damage control was necessary tomorrow morning. The dragon was cornered, and it was time for Sir Nigel to face the fact that in the next few minutes he was likely to become roasted pork in a can. “Miranda,” he said, “as your friend, I'm going to stick my neck out and my nose in for the next few minutes. After that I won't say another word unless you ask me to. You're about to give an interview to a woman that you chased off the red carpet at the MoMA event a few weeks ago. You've chosen a restaurant that you took all three of your ex-husbands to when you were courting them, not to mention several of your romantic flings. Do you see the potential for a severe misunderstanding in this situation?”
Miranda nodded cautiously.
“You need to keep firmly in mind that from her perspective this will be a working dinner, not a date,” Nigel started.
Miranda smiled a vulpine smile and her blue eyes twinkled. “Nigel,” she purred, “I've just had the most marvelous idea...”
Nigel knew without doubt he was canned ham.
***
The telephone on Andy's desk rang at 2:23 in the afternoon. Focusing on the list of questions she had spent the day developing for her interview with the reigning queen of the fashion world, she picked up the receiver and said “Sachs.”
Without preamble a snooty English-accented voice said, “Emily Charlton, first assistant to Miranda Priestly calling. Be at Le Bernardin at 7:30 sharp tonight. The reservation is, of course, in Miranda's name. For God's sake, don't be late.”
Andy's heart sped up. Seven-thirty tonight? she thought, alarmed. That was in only four hours. In four hours she would be interviewing a fashion legend. Her questions weren't ready, and she had nothing suitable to wear. Panic began to set in. Controlling her breathing she quickly prioritized. Go buy something to wear, then hair and makeup. Squeeze the paring down of her list of questions into the space between the other priorities.
***
Cynthia Parnell stood at the front door of a well maintained town-house in the West Village. It was technically a violation of ethics to do what she was contemplating, but she was in need of the truth. Sometimes a lawyer had to bend the rules to get it. There was also the probability that the woman she wanted to talk to wouldn't speak with her. She didn't know if Karen Wilson had obtained legal counsel yet, and Karen might know that talking to the opposition’s lawyer without her own lawyer present was a fool's game. She steeled herself for what was likely to be an ugly scene, and, taking a deep breath, rang the door bell. She heard rich laughter approaching the door, and as it opened the attractive black woman who answered, still laughing, called out, “You cheat,” over her shoulder.
“I'm a newspaper editor, you're an artist. You should have known better than to take me on at Scrabble,” came a disembodied woman's voice from somewhere deeper in the house.
The woman in the doorway turned and smiled at Cynthia. “Can I help you?” she asked jovially.
“Yes, please,” the lawyer said nervously. “I'm Cynthia Parnell. I represent Danielle Gold in the lawsuit that's been filed. That is, at least at this moment I represent her. Are you Karen Wilson?”
Lily shook her head. “I'm Lily, a friend of Karen's.” She looked over her shoulder. “Karen,” she called, “someone’s here to see you.” A moment later an attractive woman of about forty came to the door. “Cynthia Parnell, Danielle's lawyer,” Lily informed Karen softly.
Karen looked at Cynthia and stiffly asked, “What can I do for you?”
Cynthia watched as the young black woman, Lily she'd called herself, placed a hand supportively on the small of Karen's back. Cynthia wished desperately that someone would offer her such comfort. It was the little actions like that which were missing from her and Danielle's relationship. The small, fond touches and the pecks on the cheek. Kisses were always initiated by Danielle. If Cynthia tried to initiate one, she was rebuffed. And a kiss from Danielle was never just a kiss, it was always a prelude to sex. She glanced at Karen. “I'm not here in any professional capacity,' she said softly, throwing ethics out the window. “I think I may have made a terrible mistake,” she continued, giving voice to her feelings. “I need...if you are willing, I think I need to hear your side...I think I need to hear the truth about your relationship with Danielle,” she continued in a small, quiet voice.
Lily continued to run her hand gently up and down Karen's back, and the editor stood silently for a long moment before sighing.. “I'm not nearly drunk enough,” she said, turning and motioning the visitor to follow her into her home, “to be telling one of the women my ex was cheating on me with about my relationship with her.”
Lily smiled a soft, sad smile. “I can fix that.” she said. “You take Cynthia into the living room, and I'll go make another big pitcher of Margaritas,” she said moving off towards the kitchen.
Karen led Cynthia into a comfortable room where a half-played game of Scrabble sat on the coffee table. “Now,” Karen said, motioning Cynthia to take a seat. “I met Danielle at a journalistic function where I was receiving an award. I've never been very good with personal relationships. Never had a romantic relationship that lasted any amount of time. I was very lonely, and I wasn't use to someone like her, a beautiful, sensual woman, coming on to me. She convinced me to take her home with me that night. A week later she convinced me to recommend her for the fashion columnist position that was open at The Times.”
A single tear ran down Cynthia's cheek, and her brave facade evaporated.
Having entered the room while Karen spoke, Lily put down the tray laden with three large margaritas and a pitcher filled with the green liquid. Catching the stricken look on the woman's face, she quickly took one of the margaritas to Cynthia. “Looks like you've heard this story before,” she said quietly with sad eyes as she offered the drink. “You look like you could use this.”
Cynthia took the drink and downed about half the large glass. A second tear followed the first down her face. “I'm so sorry, Ms. Wilson,” she said, now beginning to cry openly, “I've been such a Goddamned fool.”
***
Miranda sighed as she glared at the inside of her massive closet in her bedroom at the townhouse. She had left work early to get ready, and now she'd wasted an hour. Nothing here was suitable. “All these clothes and nothing to wear,” she grated.
After Nigel had been so “kind” as to “help” her with her perspective about her “not date” this evening, she had first bullied him into being available to her by cell phone during the time she'd be with Andrea. Then she'd taken it to the next level and bullied him into being available to her in the bar at Le Bernardin in case she needed advice during her “not date.” Nigel had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed.
After their kaffeeklatsch this morning, Miranda had returned to the office and spent two wonderful hours editing Andrea's interview with Orla Frostrop. She was more certain than ever that Andrea would before very long be one of the world's premiere fashion journalists. The woman could see fashion and perceive the art in it. Then she could, with humor and affection, spin words onto the printed page that let others see as she saw. She had taken the twelve pages of interview she had written about Orla and edited it down into five pages that would go into the magazine. Miranda was certain that those reading the interview would be left feeling that they had known Orla Frostrop their whole lives and at the same time wanted to know more. It was a dynamite way to introduce this new talent to the world.
Now she was to sit across from this talented word-weaver and bare her soul. She again glared into her closet, but the room was feeling contrary today and didn't suddenly reveal a perfect dress to wear on this most important of nights. Feeling stressed she grabbed her cell phone and speed-dialed her office. As soon as the phone was answered she said, “There is a Frostrop dress in the Closet in my size. I believe it is the one designated as number nine during the show. Bring it to the townhouse immediately.”
***
It had taken calling in some favors from a few peons at The Times who believed that she would in the end come out top and didn't want to chance being on her bad side, but Danielle had found out the details of Andy's meeting with Miranda. Time, location, everything she needed to torpedo it. And to make the act even more satisfying, she'd figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone. After she left work she went to Pennsylvania Station and used a payphone so the call could never be traced back to her. She called Runway and got transferred to Miranda Priestly's office. Talking to an assistant she identified herself as Karen Wilson, style editor of The Times. She told the woman on the other end of the line that The Times had no interest in an interview with Miranda Priestly. The Times was interested in writing about the future, not the past. With a suggestive lilt in her voice, she added that her employee, Andy Sachs, would be spending the evening enjoyably “interviewing” her rather than that fashion fraud called the Ice Queen.
A little after five P.M. Danielle smiled as the payphone dropped the fifty cents the local call had cost her. Now she'd catch a commuter train to her lawyer-plaything's condo and spend the evening wrapping the woman back around her little finger. Doing so would insure that the silly cow would go ahead and press the lawsuit. After all, Danielle thought, there's no need to spend money on a lawyer unless one really has to...
***
On the ride from Runway to the townhouse Heather's cellphone rang. Answering it she was accosted by Emily's agitated voice. “Heather,” Emily breathed, “Andy Sachs' editor just called. Sachs isn't going to do the interview. She's going to be spending the evening with her editor instead. From what her editor implied, it isn't just a ’working’ meeting either.”
Heather blanched. This was just like Emily; leave it to her to put Heather in a position where she had to be the one to deliver bad news to Miranda. Emily had survived at Runway as long as she had by being smart enough to recognize Miranda's habit of taking her immediate anger out on the messenger. Heather was nobody's fool. Since the revelation that Andy Sachs' articles seemed to make Miranda happy, Heather had watched the white-haired icon closely. The flowers, the Orla Frostrop article, the interview, and the huge closet full of clothes at the townhouse that contained nothing to wear when it came time to meet the journalist face to face-Miranda held more than a passing interest in this columnist. Her interest wasn't just professional, and that made it far more dangerous. Emily had just handed Heather a truly explosive situation that she now had to figure out a way to deal with in the few minutes it would take the car to reach Miranda's home. “So sweet of you to let me know, Emily,” she answered, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Would you be a dear and have a blindfold and a cigarette sent over? I seem to be out at the moment. That lovely Dior scarf you're wearing today would work nicely.”
“Well, she'll want to know as soon as possible, and since you're there...” the English woman answered.
At that moment the car arrived in front of Miranda's townhouse. “I'm here, I have to go,” Heather said, closing her cell phone.
She gathered the garment bag containing the Frostrop gown and took the longest walk of her life to the front door. Using her key to let herself in, she found Miranda waiting for her in the foyer.
Without preamble the Dragon Lady said, “Show me the dress.”
Heather unzipped the garment back and displayed the beautiful ethereal gown. “Miranda,” she said, “The Times called. The interview has been canceled.” Getting it out quickly was best. Miranda would flay her, and at least it would be over.
Miranda stopped, and her eyes came up from the dress. “Canceled?” she said. “Nonsense. The only one who would dare cancel this interview is me.”
Heather held her breath. “The style editor, a woman named Karen Wilson, called Emily. She said that The Times isn't interested in you.”
Miranda's eyes narrowed dangerously. “What else did she say?” she demanded in her quiet office voice. The one, Heather noted, she used just before really bad things happened to people who had pissed her off.
Heather swallowed hard. “Emily told me that Ms. Wilson said The Times was interested in the future, not the past. Emily also suggested that Ms. Wilson implied she and Andy would be together this evening in a...personal...capacity.” Heather watched Miranda stiffen, the woman's blue eyes turn to burning ice, but the expected ax didn't fall.
“Take the dress back to the Closet. That's all,” Miranda said, so quietly that Heather barely heard it. Then Miranda turned and angrily stalked deeper into her home, disappearing from sight.
Heather was grateful that she had survived the encounter with her job intact. As she left the townhouse she was also grateful that she was not either Karen Wilson or Andy Sachs, for she had a hunch that both of their lives were very likely to become extremely difficult in the next few days. One did not do this sort of thing to the Dragon Lady and remain unscathed. And Heather knew for a fact that with both women working in the publishing industry, Miranda had the reach to do all sorts of nasty things.
As she settled into the back of the town car, Heather decided it was time to do something “nice” for Emily. Perhaps she'd send the woman a box of expensive chocolate truffles from an anonymous admirer. Emily's vanity would demand that she display the box of treats on her desk for all the other clackers to coo over as they envied her good fortune. Heather knew, however, Emily’s not knowing who sent them and the fact that she wouldn't even taste one of the decadent candies would torture the Brit for days. Heather smiled as she soaked in the quiet of the back seat. Yes, a box of truffles from that gourmet candy shop on Fifth Avenue, she thought, will do the trick.