Beyond the Call, Chapter 31
Title: Beyond the Call
Installment: #31
Author: duwinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Summery: Miranda is faced with the possibility of losing Andy soon after finding her.
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.
Dedication: This installment is dedicated to goldenruhl who was kind enough to bid and win the recent Fandomaid Auction to benefit those who suffered the effects of Sandy.
Special Auction Thanks: I'd like to bring attention to the fact that our own pdt_bear, while not bidding on stories in the auction, did support the cause by agreeing to match the winning bids on at least two of the DWP stories auctioned off. Also a very special thanks to waltzmatildah who runs the truly unique humanitarian effort FandomAid
Comments: Okay Folks! I've put my foot in it. My agreement with the winning bidder of this auction is that I will finish this story for her by the end of January! That's likely three of four more installments the length of this one! Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged to feed my contrary muse's ego and to keep me writing.
A/N 1: For the purposes of this story, all events are taking place before the Congressionally directed repeal of the Army's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. Truth be told, when I started this project I did not believe that President Obama, even with hard work and the best of intentions, would manage to get the repeal of this outdated and idiotic bias past the hidebound idiots and political hacks that serve in the Congress and Senate of my country.
A/N 2: In this story Andy serves in the 192nd Supply Regiment of the Ohio National Guard. I know that members of the Ohio National Guard have served bravely in the conflicts overseas. I honor that service. The 192nd Supply Regiment and the 161st Military Police Company, in which both DeSaix and Scruggs serve, are however, fictitious units and do not exist.
A/N 4: There is a a very unpleasant character residing in this story. He is racist, misogynistic, corrupt, and one of those individuals the world would truly be a better place without. He is a fictional character and his views in no way express the views of the author of this piece.
A/N 5: Although they do not appear in this installment, the President and the First Lady (both of whom I admire greatly) have become characters in this story. I try to write them carefully and I mean them no disrespect.
Very Special Thanks: to peetsden who, when my wonderful beta ragelikeafire was unavailable due to real life time constraints, immediately jumped in and agreed to help me out by acting as my beta reader. All hail the mighty and powerful peetsden, bow, offer sacrifice and do proper homage!
Emily Charleton sat shaking on her hotel room bed. She felt sick and wondered if she'd make it to the loo before she emptied what little she had in her stomach. It had been a long night with no sleep as she savagely paced the confines of her hotel room in a moral quandary. She finally had what she needed to bend Senator Meriwether to her will and she had decided that if she used it to blackmail him, as she had intended, that she'd never be able look at herself in the mirror again. The DVD that the Madam to the politically powerful in Washington D.C. had provided, showed, in graphic detail, the Senator In flagrante delicto with what was obviously an underage girl of color. He was not gentle and it became quickly evident that the girl was less than willing. Emily closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. There wasn't even a question of what Miranda might do. Emily knew, without question what she must do, even though it would destroy any chance she had to accomplish the goal of saving DeSaix's career and reputation. As the sun set on Sunday afternoon she picked up the hotel phone and called down to the desk “Where is the closest police precinct located?” She said into the device.
*****
When Scruggs had a few minutes between events during the course of the day he had made a couple of phone calls to people he knew on base back in the States. The answers he had received were the ones that he didn't want to hear. The scuttlebutt was that the L.T. had been charged under the Uniform Code of Conduct articles concerning homosexuality. Scruggs had seen others go through this, in his opinion, idiotic process. He had vaguely known a couple of them and they were good soldiers, loyal to the Corps and people he'd trust his back with. He knew for an indisputable fact that the L.T. was a good soldier. The best of the best. But once the Army had you in it’s sights under the DADT (Don't Ask, Don't Tell). articles you were done. Oh you could fight it for a while, but the Army eventually got its way and you were out. Scruggs knew that the L.T. wouldn't fight. She wouldn't want to embarrass the Corps. She'd turn in her papers and rotate back to civilian life. He swallowed hard as he hung up the phone. She'd given him her last order and by God he was going to make her proud. “Sachs!” He bellowed in his best parade ground tone. “Front and center!”
Corporal Sachs responded immediately leaving the group of admirers she'd been speaking with and snapped to attention before him. He looked her over and spoke softly “I've got the word,” he said looking directly at Sachs' worried face. “It's not good. They've charged the L.T. under the DADT. articles.” He shook his head. “We both know that the chances of her coming back from that are FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). So what we're gonna do is make her last orders to us count. We're gonna do the rest of this mission by the numbers, just as if she were here,” he stated.
“Sir, Yes Sir!” Sachs responded, parade ground perfect. Scruggs sighed. It really felt pretty silly, him giving orders to an equal rank and he knew that Sachs was smarter than he was by a long shot, but the L.T. had left him in charge. God help him and Sachs both.
*****
Miranda had returned home to New York from Washington in her ex-husband’s company and went immediately from the airport to his home to see the twins. Sitting in the back of her towncar on the ride from the airport she girded herself for her coming encounter with her youngest child. She was nervous, but, on reflection, many of Wade's arguments made a lot of sense. Her babies were growing up. They had never been identical. Oh they looked alike but even as infants they had been individuals to her. Her talk with Wade had brought back memories of numerous conversations with her girls in which they had complained that no one but their mother saw each of them as individuals rather than as part of a matched set. Cassidy had risen up and taken arms against a situation that was troubling her. Granted the choice of Goth was extreme, but Miranda had made a few extreme choices herself in her youth. She had to admit that she saw a great deal of herself in her daughter's solution to the quandary she faced.
Exiting the car she approached the front door of Wade's house only to have the front door fly open and twin blurs rushed to embrace her. She leaned over and kissed Caroline's red hair and then she did the same to the head of hair as black as sin. “Hello my darlings.” she said softly. “I've missed you both so.” She stepped back and looked Cassidy up and down.
Both Cassidy and Caroline held their breath waiting for the coming explosion.
Miranda tsked. “Cassidy, I'm disappointed,” she said softly.
The young girl swallowed hard and tears threatened.
Miranda sighed theatrically, “I've taught you better than this” she continued. “This outfit needs more contrast,” she said, lifting her daughter's face and smiling down at the girl. “Some silver or white-gold at your throat and perhaps your wrist as well. And some dangling earrings I think.. I would suggest we go shopping for some jewelry and then have dinner out.” Her girls squealed their delight as Miranda glanced up at her ex-husband. “Are you free to join us Wade?” she asked airily.
*****
Between escorting Bella to the numerous events that the hero Sachs was the center of each day, Amelie Pelletier continued to research the woman that was apparently her employer’s obsession. She had, over the last few days managed to acquire a few sources in the United States by contacting private detectives and explaining her situation. By offering to trade services, agreeing to act as their contact in Europe should any investigation they engaged in require such a contact, she, in turn, got them to look into the matter she was engaged in investigating in the U.S.A. In less than twenty-four hours she managed to gain information she hadn't gotten before. She had learned that Andy Sachs had, for a short time recently, returned to her position at Runway magazine. She dutifully reported her discovery to her employer.
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni smiled at the three small vials in her hand. She glanced up at her drug dealer. “You are sure this will work as I asked?” She demanded of him in her native Italian.
The young man nodded. He was the connection for illicit drugs for three-quarters of the rich and famous in Rome. He was known for his discretion and the quality of his products. “It was an unusual request. Especially from a woman. But it is what you asked for. Each dose emptied from its capsules and pre-measured to the approximate body weights you gave me,” he replied.
Bella slipped the three vials into her handbag. “It will make them pliable?”
“Men seem to think so,” the handsome young man answered. “That's why the Americans call it 'the date rape' drug. Someone under its effects is suggestible, uninhibited, and often doesn't remember anything the next morning.”
Bella grinned wickedly and handed him an envelope full of euros. “You're services, as always, are well worth the price,” she said quietly.
*****
Wade smiled as he watched the owner of Gothic Renaissance nearly suffer a heart attack when he recognized the Miranda Priestly walking through the door of his shop. The fashion icon's daughters, one of whom was quickly becoming his favorite customer, were excitedly looking at jewelry in the jewelry display case as La Priestly slowly walked through the racks of clothing, examining the outfits combinations displayed on each manikin. Then she'd deigned to walk over and speak with the owner. If the man had expected the Ice Queen, The Dragon Lady, The Devil in Heels, what he got was a cordial and polite woman interested in her daughter's choices and curious about the aesthetics of the Goth subculture and what fashion dos and don'ts resided in those environs. Wade had courted Miranda for three years before their marriage. He'd been married to her for ten years. He likely knew her better than any living soul. He could see in the speculative gleam in his ex-wife's eyes that her mind had started turning. Her little girl had gone Goth. Now the fashion world better grab hold of something because the Devil in Heels was likely to be dictating a sudden new change in direction.
*****
The new temporary Emily had returned from Paris with the rest of the Runway delegation. Early Monday morning she stood before the Dragon's desk after placing the synopsis she had compiled of what the people from Runway had gathered at the disaster that was Paris Fashion Week. Where other magazines had followed Miranda's lead and withdrawn their delegations, the new Emily, lacking instructions to the contrary, continued to direct the Runway delegation to attend shows and do what they'd come to do.
When the major fashion houses went home she simply rearranged the schedule so the Runway staff would attend the 'B' string shows. When those fashion houses left she assigned people to the small houses that the major fashion magazines almost never saw. The new temporary Emily stood nervously as Miranda absently and with pursed lips looked through her presentation. She was sure she was going to be fired, but she'd done her best and could take some comfort in that. Eyes never leaving the folder she was looking in, all Miranda said was “Coffee, now.” The new temporary Emily scrambled to fulfill the demand with all possible haste.
In less that ten minutes the new temporary Emily had returned with a searing hot latte just the way Miranda liked it. Not being dismissed she again stood nervously in front of Miranda's desk as Miranda continued to pour over the material she had presented. Miranda sipped her latte and made a small sound of pleasure. “What is your name again?” Miranda asked.
“Amanda,” the assistant said softly, swallowing hard.
Miranda nodded. “Amanda,” she said, “contact Human Resources and inform them that your tenure as a temporary employee for Runway is over. They are to contact the temp agency and terminate the contract effective at the end of the pay cycle.
Amanda swallowed hard. She had known she was in over her head when Miranda had left Paris. She had tried her best in difficult circumstances, no make that impossible circumstances, and she had been found wanting. She swallowed tears, surprising herself on how badly she'd wanted to stay in the job “a million girls would kill for” even if it was only as a temp. She was so focused on her feelings she almost missed the rest of what Miranda said.
“Tell H.R. that you are now officially my Second Assistant. They are to get you on the payroll and to back date your benefits eligibility to your starting date as a temp.” Miranda looked up. “I believe that you have a bright future with us if you can continue to keep your head about you and deliver as you did in Paris. Welcome to Runway. That's all.”
Amanda walked from the office to her desk in a daze. I work for Miranda Priestly, she thought. Oh my god! I work for Miranda Priestly! She didn't know if she should feel blessed or cursed.
In the Ice Queen's office Miranda smiled and sipped her nearly perfect latte. The results festooning her desk were surprising to say the least. There were several virtual unknowns whose designs were new and exciting. A world of potential. And because everybody who was anybody had followed Miranda's lead and gone home, Runway was in almost sole possession of material that she could use to set the Fashion world on it's collective ear...
*****
Meriwether DeSaix stood, frustrated, before the security desk in the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building. They wouldn't let her in and after the guard called up to the Runway offices she had been informed that Emily Charlton was not available. It being just before lunch time she wondered how she'd kill time until Emily turned up at her apartment likely sometime this evening. She sighed softly. She was unused to not having something to do.
It was then she felt the atmosphere in the lobby shift. She looked up and into ice blue eyes. The woman before her was in command; there was simply no question about that fact. She knew she was face to face with Emily's idol and the red-head's nightmare, Miranda Priestly. The Icon looked her up and down silently noting the baggy blue jeans and loose tee shirt the woman wore and then pursed her lips. “Someone needs to take you in hand and teach you how to dress,” the white-haired woman said in a quiet voice that demanded the listener's attention.
DeSaix unconsciously snapped to attention. “You're Ms. Priestly. You're Emily's boss.” DeSaix said to the woman before her. “I came, in part, to see you Ma'am. To apologize for disrupting the operations of your magazine. It wasn't Emily's fault. I was doing my duty and she was being uncooperative...”
Miranda held up a perfectly manicured hand. “We will discuss it over lunch. First, the Closet I think, because they won't let you in the restaurant dressed like that.”
DeSaix, still of a military mindset and use to following orders, followed the commanding presence without question or protest.
*****
Half a dozen outfits had been tried, each more becoming that the last. On a previous occasion Nigel had laughingly suggested to Miranda that this woman would be worthy of gracing the pages of Runway. Miranda now knew that Nigel had not been exaggerating. She had even ventured to suggest such an arrangement, offering that a 'women of the military' article might be good for both the image of the armed services and for Runway. The woman, who a moment before had been jokingly posing in an approximation of a model on the catwalk stiffened suddenly and sighed. “I'm not in the service anymore, Ma'am,” she said softly. “I resigned my commission.”
Miranda glanced up from her examination of how the woman wore the clothes she was presently in. “Emily lead me to believe that you were a career officer,” she offered offhandedly, hoping to elicit more information.
“I was Ma'am. Or wanted to be. I was charged with violating a provision of the Uniform Code of Conduct. I found I couldn't defend myself against the charge because it was true. I decided that resigning my commission rather than standing to the charge to face an administrative separation and possibly a less that honorable discharged would save my unit and my C.O. embarrassment,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
Miranda watched this woman that had so affected Emily. Emily, who had never shone any indication of having a spine in Miranda's presence, yet was willing to stand up to Miranda in order to continue a half-baked plan to blackmail a U.S. Senator in order to save this woman's career. “Your resignation, it is because you are gay, isn't it?” The Icon asked.
DeSaix stiffened. “Begging your pardon Ma'am, but I can't see that that's any of your business,” she answered.
Miranda pursed her lips. “You were in command of the detail that went with Andrea Sachs to Italy,” she answered bluntly.
“How do you know...” Desaix asked, at first confused, then she said, “Oh, through Emily of course.”
Miranda smiled a genuine smile. “Actually I had all the details of your mission and a good deal of knowledge about the people that were accompanying Andrea prior to even knowing Emily was involved.”
DeSaix looked at the Icon suspiciously. “Why the interest in Sachs? Because she worked for you?”
“Before Andrea lost her memory we had become...involved,” Miranda said softly. “And now you, who my First Assistant trusts beyond anyone I've seen before, are not there to protect and take care of Andrea. I find this situation...unsatisfactory.”
DeSaix cocked her head and met Miranda's eyes and pursed lips unflinchingly. “Scruggs is there with her. He's a good soldier and knows how to follow orders. He's loyal to the Corps and those he serves with. He'll take care of Corporal Sachs.”
Miranda nodded looking past the woman at another rack of clothes. “The care you have taken of Andrea puts me in your debt. And what you've done for Emily, which both fascinates and amuses me, adds to what I owe you. You'll find I'm a woman who pays what she owes.”
“What I've done for Emily?” DeSaix questioned incredulously. “All I've done for her is cause her trouble.”
Miranda laughed musically. “Emily is a most capable young woman, but she lacked both spine and confidence. She had never questioned me. Never said “no” to me, until you. I found her in the airport in Washington D.C. on my return from Paris. She was apparently there attempting to catch your party before they boarded the plane for Italy. She wanted to warn you of a plot to ruin your career in the Army. She made it quite clear to me that she was willing to sacrifice her position at Runway and any future in fashion in order to continue in her plan to force the individual that was out to ruin you to desist in his plotting.”
“Red did that for me?” DeSaix almost whispered.
Miranda continued as if she hadn't heard. “Emily has been with me for almost two years and my meeting with her in Washington opened my eyes to something I am ashamed to admit I hadn't seen before. Emily can be, with some additional training, the one I've been searching for to replace me at the helm of Runway when I retire. She has the passion, now she has begun to demonstrate the necessary strength. You are responsible for that.”
“Ma'am,” DeSaix started to answer but Miranda held up her hand.
“Call me Miranda, and I'll call you Meriwether,” the Icon insisted. “For I believe we are very likely to be friends. And I'll hear no more about what you haven't done for people that are important to me. Although if you ever tell Emily that I said any of this I will emphatically deny it.” She looked the woman up and down one last time. “This outfit flatters you. It will do nicely. Now, to luncheon and talk about your future plans...”
*****
It was almost too easy, Bella thought as she raced her Ferrari 458 Italia down the A1 from Rome towards Naples. Beside her in the passenger seat slumped Andy. Discovering at the luncheon today that her nemesis DeSaix had been relieved of duty and now only the big man stood guard over the hero, Bella had seen her opportunity to slip the drug she had purchased into Andy's and Scruggs' drinks. The Rohypnol had worked just as her drug dealer had promised, of course it hadn't hurt that she had slipped the big man both the dose meant for him and the dose meant for DeSaix as well. After waiting impatiently for a short while, she convinced a mentally foggy Andy to accompany her to the ladies room. From there it was no problem to walk the pliable young woman out the front door of the venue the hero had been being honored in. Reclaiming her Ferrari from the valet, Bella had strapped the semiconscious women in the passenger’s seat and driven away. A moment later Andy had passed out and Bella let her foot grow heavy on the accelerator as she mused about the future she was going to give 'her' Andy.
*****
The balance of power among the various different grade level social cliques at Dalton shifted radically early Monday morning. The thing was that almost none of those that would soon be in the throws of what, in many of the student's opinions, would be an angst filled and life altering event, is that the momentous change in all they understood about the social compact and the way things were at Dalton started with a quiet conversation in the Headmaster’s office rather than amidst uproar amongst the student body.
Mr. Franks looked over the very thorough, well-organized and neatly typed proposal that he had been handed along with a cup of Starbucks coffee when he arrived at his office an hour and a half before the first bell. It was unusual to have students waiting for him at the door to his office that early. Even more unusual was the infectious energy he felt among the small group as they outlined the purpose of their early morning visit.
“So, under Article One-hundred and two of the Student Government Bylaws, I believe that we have met the obligation to form a committee and undertake what we are asking to do,” said Ian Sutherland, who had apparently been appointed the party's spokesperson.
Mr. Franks looked again at the first page of the proposal in his hand. It concerned the annual Charity Challenge, a fund raising event that Dalton held every year. It was run by a committee of students and benefited which ever charity the student committee sponsoring the event had proposed as that year's “cause celeb”. For as long as Mr. Franks could remember, the leaders of the popular clique were the ones that ran the project. They bullied and intimidated the other student groups into not applying for the privilege of running the project and once in control said who could and couldn't work on it. Each year the students of the popular clique were the only ones who got academic credit for the extra credit assignment. Until today. Today Mr. Franks smiled at the four students gathered before him. “I am unfamiliar with this charity you are proposing be the beneficiary of your committee's work, Mr. Sutherland,” he said softly. “What can you tell me about them? ”
Cassidy Priestly spoke up from where she sat on the office couch. “They are part of the Wounded Warrior's Project, Mr. Franks. This particular arm of the project concerns itself with acquiring and donating devices to aid soldiers that have either lost limbs or become paralyzed due to their injuries. They give things that the Veteran’s Administration can't cover due to budgetary restraints. Things that will make the wounded soldiers’ lives more fulfilling. Like a wheelchair designed for sport so a paraplegic soldier can play basketball or a prosthetic leg designed for running so someone who had lost their leg could again go running like she used to love to do.”
Mr. Franks noted the passion in Cassidy's delivery and caught the rather specific characterization towards the end of what she had said. “Do I sense that there might be a personal connection in the selection of this organization, Miss Priestly?” He asked good naturedly.
Cassidy nodded. “Yes sir,” she answered. “A good friend of my family was badly injured in Afghanistan. Lost both an arm and a leg. She used to like to go running. Caroline and I started looking into what it would take to get the Veteran's Administration to give her a leg for running on top of the one that lets her stand and walk around. We discovered that there's just not enough money for the VA to do that for all the wounded soldiers that need it. They can't even afford to provide top-rated prosthetics. So when Ian and the rest of us were working on this proposal yesterday, Caroline and I asked if we could raise money for this particular charity.”
Mr. Franks nodded. “Well, this is, without a doubt, the best proposal I've had presented to me in many a year as far as the Charity Challenge Event is concerned. I am also pleased that what you want to do to raise money isn't the same old, same old that has been done by the Popular Clique every year for the past ten years. You also call out in your proposal that you intend as a committee to be far more inclusive of the student body that the popular clique has been in the past, which weighs strongly in your favor. You, as a committee have followed all the guidelines, made a fine presentation and made your presentation during the application dates called out in the Student Government Handbook rules concerning forming the Charity Challenge committee. You are the first committee to give me an acceptable completed proposal and it is my pleasure to tell you that the four of you have a green light to proceed. You may start recruiting to other students for your idea. Congratulations, as of this moment, the four of you are now in charge of the event for this academic year.”
After seeing the four students out of his office he sat back down at his desk and considered what he had just seen. He could feel it in his bones that things were about to get shaken up at Dalton. Like any very exclusive private school, it was a given that, save for a token number of students on scholarships, the student body was made up of the children of very affluent families. But even given the 'affluence' of the alumni, the distance between the least wealthy and the richest families whose children attended the school was vast. The so-called Popular Clique, that had been running the school's social scene for a very long time, were almost all members of the most wealthy and elite families. It was Mr. Franks’ experience that the members of that particular clique were self-important, spoiled and overly coddled by their parents. They were, for the most part, in serious need of a wake-up call about what was really important in life. They were about to have their precious, long unchallenged control of the Dalton social scene severely tested and he knew immediately that he didn't want to see Ian, Roxanna, Caroline and Cassidy pay for wanting to change the status quo. Deciding to strike preemptively he reached for the telephone on his desk and made a call to Mr. Lambert, the vice-principle in charge of discipline. “Mike? It's Harold. There are some things going on that I think you need to be aware of. Would you please stop by my office as soon as you have a free minute? I want us to be ahead of what I think is coming.” he said into the telephone handset.
*****
Twenty minutes before first period Ashlyn Miller entered the cafeteria leading a small group of the seventh grade in-crowd and headed to the table from where they normally ruled the school’s social scene. This morning they found their table occupied. Seated at the in-crowd's table was Carolyn and Cassidy Priestly, Ian Sutherland and Roxanna Gilchrist surrounded by a dozen other Dalton students including three of Ashlyn's outer circle. There was a sign on the table inviting any student that wished to, to sign up to help with Dalton's yearly charity challenge. Ashlyn's eyes narrowed and she stepped up in front of the table. “What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.
Caroline, seated next to Ian, smiled a crocodillian smile reminiscent of her mother's on a particularly bad day. “We're signing people up for the charity event,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the multiple quiet conversations going on around the table. “We've already got eighteen people.”
“You can't do that!” Ashlyn said stridently, her voice rising. “That's the event that the popular people run every year. We're going to do a formal dance again this year!”
Ian finished signing up a young man from the AV club and looking at Ashlyn, shook his head. “It's not 'your' event,” he answered her. “It's first come, first served. The first group of students to approach the Headmaster with an acceptable proposal gets the nod and the right to run the event. You and your friends haven't put in a proposal yet. We put ours in first thing this morning. Mr. Franks read it and liked the fact that we're doing something different rather than the same dance thing that the popular clique runs every year.” He pointed to the sign on the table inviting one and all to sign up to perform or help out back stage in Dalton's First Annual Poetry Slam and Talent Show. “We're going to get just as many students and student groups involved as we can.”
“NO!” Ashlyn practically shouted. “This is our thing! We get to decide what it's going to be! You losers have no right!”
Cassidy stood from her chair. “We're not the losers here.” she said angrily. “We've followed the rules and won the right to do this fair and square.”
“Oh shut up you ugly dyke pig,” Ashlyn shouted “none of the popular crowd is going to help you with this idiotic idea. How many students do you think are going to get involved with this when I put out the word that anybody in the Popular Clique that helps out will be out on their asses and anybody from any of the other cliques will be drawing a big fat target on their backs if they dare help you?!”
Caroline stood up from her chair. “I'd be careful what you say to or about my sister and her girlfriend, Ashlyn,” she said in a deadly quiet tone very reminiscent of her mother's. “I knocked you on your behind once. Next time I do it, I'll kick you while you're down too.”
An older girl, dressed all in black, turned from where she stood at the table. Her lips were done in a black bee stung pout and the concealer she wore was very pale. The look was definitely goth. Her eyes twinkled wicked mischief as she looked at the ranting young girl. It took Ashlyn a moment to recognize Tara Flynn, the leader of the eighth grade circle of the popular clique. “I don't know about you, Ashlyn,” Tara said haughtily, “but I and some of my group are going to be singing If U See Amy in the show and I've heard that the ninth grade circle is working on some things to present too.”
A member of Ashlyn's inner circle turned around from the table to face the angry young woman, her dress was not goth, but her lips were styled in the black bee stung pout that seemed to suddenly be becoming all the rage at Dalton. “I'm going to do something in the show,” the girl said defiantly. “Some of my poetry I think. You know, that stuff that you told me was nothing but worthless crap when you asked me if you could read it? Well Ian read some of it just now and he really liked it!”
Ashlyn bridled. “If you dare get involved with their stupid show you better be ready to be without friends cause you'll be out! Just like they are!” She threatened, indicating the four-committee members seated behind the table.
Tara smiled evilly at the nearly frothing girl. “But Ashlyn dear,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “If the eight and ninth grade popular cliques are supporting the show doesn't that mean that Caroline and Cassidy are now running the seventh grade circle? I mean, who's going to follow you if we're supporting them? Nobody, that's who.”
*****
Dejected, Emily returned from Washington via a morning train and made her way to the offices arriving about lunchtime only to discover that the worthless second assistant was in full-blown panic mode because Miranda Priestly had abandoned her schedule without so much as a word. All the silly girl knew was that a call had come in from the building security desk and Miranda had gone downstairs to see about some visitor and had not returned or called since.
Emily sat down at her desk and eyed the chaos of paperwork that had accumulated in her absence. It wasn't as bad as she'd been anticipating, but then she remembered that Serena had been helping cover for her. She immediately decided that some kind of “thank you” was required. She picked up the phone and as she prepared to dial down to the Accessories Department Nigel entered the office and stood before her desk. “I don't care what you have to do Emily.” he said, in his teasing way. “But I must have her for the Miu Miu photo shoot the week-after-next.”
The Englishwoman looked askance at her colleague. “Nigel, please,” she replied, not feeling like bantering with him at that moment. “I've only just returned. Who do you want for the Miu Miu shoot and has Miranda cleared it? If so, give me a name and I'll get on the telephone and arrange it.”
Nigel smiled a truly wicked smile. “That delicious soldier you left here with, you silly girl. You must tell me all about what the two of you naughty girls have been up to.”
Emily looked at Nigel, confused. “She's in Italy, on a mission for the Army. She's the officer in charge of Andy's detail there,” she said softly, the lump in her throat threatening to break her thinly held control and start her weeping again at her failure to stop those that were out to ruin DeSaix.
Nigel shook his head. “Then she has a twin that really knows how to rock a Marc Jacobs raw silk pants suit. I saw her not half an hour ago boarding an elevator with our fearless leader.” He looked at Emily's shocked expression. “Oh dear,” he said, the teasing lilt gone from his tone. “Seeing you here I just assumed that the two of you had come back together.”
DeSaix is here, Emily thought to herself frantically. She had missed DeSaix so terribly, even while focused on the full time endeavor of attempting to save the woman's career in the military. She wasn't ready. Her clothes were less than adequate and rumpled from travel and she had no idea of how to approach DeSaix so that they might have a chance to get past the fact that she had lied to the woman early in their acquaintance. And DeSaix could not abide liars. What Emily did know is that she desperately wanted at a chance for a romantic relationship with the beautiful woman from Louisiana. She rose quickly from her desk and grabbed Nigel by the hand. Glaring at Emily Two she spoke sharply. “Nigel and I will be down in the closet. You handle things here.”
*****
Miranda had found lunch in DeSaix's company a refreshing experience. The young cafe au lait skinned woman was direct and plain spoken almost to the point of being blunt. She spoke guardedly of her encounters with Miranda's first assistant, obviously treading carefully, wanting to protect Emily from anything that might make Miranda angry. Miranda for her part turned the conversation to DeSaix and what her intentions were now that she had resigned her commission in the military.
“Haven't really thought about it yet,” was the ex-officer's answer. “ I wasn't expecting to be outed to my C.O. I've lived a lot of years under don't ask, don't tell as have a lot of other good soldiers.” She fiddled nervously with her glass of ice tea. “I guess I'll go home for a while. Then think about looking for a job.”
“And what about you and Emily?” Miranda asked, already suspecting that there would be resistance from both women to acting on what her assistant and this woman so obviously wanted.
DeSaix sadly shook her head continuing to demonstrate to Miranda's sharp eyes telltale signs of nervousness. “We talked about it before I left for Italy. I think the only thing we're in agreement about is that there isn't a future for us. Too much baggage with my arresting her and having her thrown in jail.”
Miranda nodded. “A formidable obstacle. As is the fact that she lied to you...”
DeSaix's eyes became wide with surprise. “You know about that?”
Miranda casually stirred a small splash of cream into her after-lunch coffee. “Yes. I insisted that Emily tell me all that had happened when I confronted her in Washington about why she wasn't at her post at Runway,” the Icon answered carefully. “She was in an emotional state and I believe quite a bit more...forthcoming... that she would normally be in our relationship in the past.” Miranda raised her eyes and met the eyes of the cafe au lait skinned woman across the table. “May I put a hypothetical question to you Lieutenant?” she asked.
DeSaix nodded warily.
“If you were on a mission,” Miranda began, “and lying was necessary to save the lives of your squad mates, would you lie?”
DeSaix didn't even pause to consider the question before answering, “of course I would.”
“Can you accept, that in effect, Emily has done the same thing?” Miranda asked.
“If you're concerned about the fact that Emily lied to me when we first encountered each other you needn't be,” DeSaix answered. “I've forgiven her and there's nothing I want more and than too see if something can work out between us. My fear is she'll never be able to forgive me for putting her in that awful jail and endangering her position with you.”
Miranda sipped from her coffee and smiled. “Nonsense,” she replied. “She has already forgiven you and she will curse herself if you and she do not have the chance that you were talking about.” Changing tack, Miranda asked, “what is it you wish to do now that you are no longer in the military?”
DeSaix considered for a moment. Reaching for her glass of iced tea, she shrugged. “I haven't really considered doing anything other than what I've been doing. I always thought I'd be a career officer,” she said. “The only skill I have is chasing AWOLs. It's the only thing I'm good at and I don't think there's likely much of a market for that skill out here in the real world.” She sighed softly. “ I guess I'll go home to Louisiana and see if I can't find a job in one of the parish sheriff's offices.”
“Is returning to Louisiana what you wish to do?” Miranda asked. “Emily's career, as you know, is here. And I believe with all my heart, that thanks to your influence, she has a bright future ahead of her that will carry her to the very top of the fashion hierarchy.”
“If Emily wants me, and I can find some kind of work, I'll stay wherever she is,” DeSaix replied. “But this is New York City, I doubt seriously that any branch of law enforcement that might use my talents would be willing to hire me. They tell you that if you avoid court-martial by resigning your commission, your privacy will be protected. But it's not true. Word will get out and it will be almost like I got drummed out of the Corps for being gay.”
Miranda again sipped her coffee. Then she smiled like a shark. “If you will allow me, I would like to network for you. I have a friend who I believe might be in a position to do you some good and she owes me a rather large favor. I believe that I can almost guarantee a job with the federal agency of your choice here in New York City.”
DeSaix looked warily across the table, “and what do you get out of this, Miranda?” She asked.
“I get you to stay put for the next two weeks and pose for me in the Miu Miu shoot of pantsuits for Fall. Your rather butch look will mix well with the couture Runway will be presenting. I also fear that if you are not in Emily's life she is likely to regress again into the timid young woman she once was. I have chosen her for my heir apparent to the Editor-in-Chief position at Runway and I need your strength to help forge her into what she can become.”
“So you want to help me get a job chasing fugitives in federal law enforcement and be together with Emily helping her achieve things she's probably never dream she could do? DeSaix asked incredulously.
Miranda watched the woman across the table. “Yes” she replied, “that sums it up rather nicely.”
“So how do you want to do this?” DeSaix smiled.
“Oh, I definitely think we should have some fun with it, don't you? Miranda chuckled evilly. “Here is what I thought we might do…”.
*****
Emily rushed back from the closet to her desk, only to discover that Miranda had returned to the office in her absence. She arrived just in time to hear Miranda call for her softly from her office.
The redhead was standing in the doorway in a heartbeat. She swallowed hard and gathering her reserves and her composure said “Yes, Miranda?” The Englishwoman said.
Miranda looked up at her protege, “Ms. DeSaix,” she said, indicating the woman seated in a chair in front of her desk, “will be staying in town until after we shoot the Miu Miu spread late next week. As a personal favor to me, she has been kind enough to agree to act as one of the models. She will need a place to stay...”
Emily noticed a distinct twinkle of mischief in the Ice Queen's eye and turned her head slightly to look at the woman she'd lost her heart to. Tired from the long night being interrogated by the police and then traveling to return to Runway she almost lost her professional face. Tears burned behind her eyes. Sadness that they had destroyed any chance they had at a long-term future together when they first met clawed at her heart. She would claim only one insanely intense time together with DeSaix, then the lies she had told DeSaix while protecting Andy would cause the woman to leave her. Garnering the last of her emotional strength she said, “Of course, Miranda. I'll get on arrangements for Lieutenant DeSaix's accommodations immediately.”
“Ms. DeSaix, Emily,” Miranda corrected quietly. “Ms. DeSaix is a civilian, having recently resigned her commission in the Army.”
Emily stiffened and stole a glance at the woman seated before Miranda's desk. DeSaix sat with her back to the door so that Emily couldn't see her face, but she felt she could read the tension in the woman's posture and shoulders.
Miranda turned her head and addressed the woman seated across from her. “Meriwether, dear, why don't you go with Emily and find some place you'd like to stay. Runway will, of course, be picking up the tab. We'll meet for lunch in a few days and I'll have the contracts regarding your modeling for this shoot for you to look over and sign.”
DeSaix nodded as she rose from the chair and turned to face Emily. Emily had to admit immediately that Nigel had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned just how good DeSaix looked in the raw silk pants suit she was wearing. Emily bit down on the surge of desire she felt as DeSaix stepped past her and out the door of Miranda's office without a word.
Miranda's gaze swept back to Emily. “I will be very disappointed, Emily,” the Icon said ominously, in her terribly quiet and chilling way, “if my good friend Meriwether is at all displease by the accommodations you find her, That's all.”
Emily turned on her heel and hurried out of Miranda's office rushing to catch up with DeSaix who was already determinedly on her way to the elevators.
*****
Scruggs awoke groggy and with a screaming headache. He looked around through slitted eyes to find himself in a homey, comfortable, but unfamiliar, bedroom. An sturdy looking woman with dark hair was looking down at him worriedly. As he swam up to to full consciousness, she turned and spoke rapidly in Italian through the open doorway. In a moment an older man and a younger man, both of whom Scruggs recognized as officials from the American Consulate came into the room. The younger man was busy, talking rapidly on a cell phone, his tone urgent. Scruggs caught the end of the conversation as the man said, “no sir, still no sign of her. But apparently Corporal Scruggs is now awake and can possibly give us some insight. I'll be back in touch as soon as I know anything.” He listened for a brief moment and then finished the call with “yes sir, I'll see to it.”
Something caught in Scruggs gut. He knew instinctively something had happened to Sachs. He tried to rise and his head swam. The elder of the consulate officials push down gently on his shoulder. “Whoa there, son. You need to take it easy. You're not in any shape to be going anywhere. Somebody slipped you the mother of all mickys,” the man said kindly, the flavor of his Oklahoma heritage coming through in his accent. “You passed out at the reception. The doctor said that whatever it was that was given to you was damn near strong enough to kill you. Your heart rate slowed and so did your breathing. We were concerned enough about you that we didn't even dare move you to a hospital. You're in a bedroom of the mayor's house.”
The younger man chimed in, his tone nasty and superior. “And Sachs has disappeared. I've just been informed by the Ambassador that she had gone AWOL once before.’
The older man glared at his associate and then turned to Scruggs and gently asked.” In your mind is she capable of something like drugging you in order to get away?”
Scruggs shook his head, a mistake, as his vision blurred and a sick feeling throbbed through him. “No sir!” He responded emphatically. “Sachs wouldn't go AWOL again. She believed in the mission.”
“Well she's gone,” the younger man insisted. “What do you think happened, Corporal? I mean it's not like anybody here would want to kidnap her,” he continued, condescendingly.
Scruggs was, in general, a very agreeable individual. Someone that it usually took a great deal to rub the wrong way. The younger man was part of the Diplomatic Corps. Someone that could likely cause a Corpsoral due to be discharged in a few months a whole lot of grief, but at the moment Scruggs simply didn't care, “Begging your pardon Sir, and with all due respect, Sach made an enemy of every insurgent in the world when she called fire down on herself and the Taliban fighters on that ridge. Her picture and her story have been all over the press. All that publicity makes her a high-visibility target that any of those terrorist sons’ of bitches would love to take out.”
The older man standing beside the bed again attempted to intercede. “Son,” he said softly, “we just want to make sure she's safe, and get her back where she belongs. The Italians are mighty upset about her being missing. The fact is that the local officials feel like they've lost her on their watch. It's stirred up a hornets nest across the whole country and the civilian population is howling about it.”
Scruggs forced himself to sit up in the bed as his head swam. He looked around the room. “Where are my pants,” he demanded.
“You were supposed to be watching her!” The younger man shrilled. “Making sure something like this didn't happen!” He paced two steps one way and two steps back. “This makes us all look bad with the Ambassador! This could be a career ender!” he continued. “So make yourself useful and tell us where she might have gone so we can clean up your mess!”
Scruggs turned on the bed and put his feet on the floor. Using his hands forced himself up off the bed. He wavered for a brief moment, then with a titanic effort of will, gained balance, drawing his massive frame up until he was standing, parade ground perfect, at attention. He took a step toward the younger consulate official and his hand shot out grabbing the younger of the two by the shirtfront, lifting the man easily up off the ground with a single hand. The Corporal then slammed the man's body into the wall behind the young man. “This mission is under military authority,” Scruggs said through clenched teeth. “And the soldier in question was left in my charge. Sachs is my responsibility, and it's up to me to go find her. So you got two choices. Help me or get the hell out of my way.”
The older of the consulate officials looked at Scruggs and nodded. “I can buy you maybe 24 hours,” he offered tentatively. “I can tell the Italian officials that we are dealing with the situation and that we do not hold them accountable for what has happened. I'll also let the Ambassador know that you are handling the situation.” He sighed softly and looked at Scruggs, “what can we at the embassy do to help?”
At this point Scruggs was struggling into his pants. “Some civies would help,” he answered. “Harder to do what I'm gonna need to do if I'm in uniform. I am also going to need to speak to the wife of the Prime Minister.”
The older man nodded, “give me your sizes and let me make a couple of calls,” he answered.
Fifteen minutes later Scruggs, dressed as any tourist might be, was out the door and on his way to a meeting with the Prime Minister's wife at a small cafe near the near the Navona Plaza, one of the most beautiful plazas in Rome.
The older man looked at the younger, an amused tone in his mild voice, but to one looking closely, his eyes gave away his disgust. “Tony, I know you're connected family-wise and that's what landed you your position in the State Department, but let me give you a hint about handling a situation diplomatically. It's not usually a good idea to piss off a guy that's damn near the size of China, cause he might decide to walk over you when on the way out of negotiations.”
*****
Emily stood stiffly in one of The Peninsula hotel's best suites on the seventh floor, watching DeSaix inspect the rooms. This was the sixth five star hotel the two women had visited in order to find the ex-military officer accommodations that the woman deemed satisfactory. The hotel manager, having intuited that the client he had accompanied to the room was one that Miranda Priestly was interested in, was himself, showing DeSaix the room and singing the hotel's praises . DeSaix made polite noises, but meeting Emily's eye, she gave a short negative shake of her head. Moving towards the manager she thanked him for his time and headed for the elevator. Emily made quick apologies to the man and hurried after DeSaix.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was silent, DeSaix's eyes straight ahead and Emily afraid to speak up. DeSaix had been reticent about talking since leaving Runway and Emily, in her guilt, was sure that DeSaix blamed her for the fact that the woman was no longer in her chosen profession.
Leaving the elevator and crossing the lobby of the hotel Emily quickly consulted the list of hotels she had created, planning the next place to show DeSaix. She opened her mouth to speak but DeSaix cut her off, “That one's not gonna be it either, Red,” the woman from Louisiana said, without breaking stride and stepped through the door and out onto the street where one of Elias-Clarke town-cars awaited them.
Emily slid into the back seat of the town-car and glanced at her companion. “Miranda said to find you accommodations that you would be satisfied with. I've taken you to the six best hotels in Manhattan; she grated, her temper flaring with the contrary, unagreeable, fascinating woman seated next to her. “Now you say that the next hotel won't be the right one, even when you don't know which the next hotel will be.” She shook her head, frustration welling up and tears forming in her eyes. “If you'll just give me some idea of what you're looking for, it'll save us time......”
DeSaix turned and looked at the Englishwoman sitting next to her. “ I figure that if I wait long enough you'll work your way down that list till you'll get around to offering me your couch,” she stated simply.
“My couch?” Emily stammered. “You want to stay at my place? Sleep on my couch?”
DeSaix nodded solemnly, “Yep, Red. That's what I want.”
Emily shook her head. “You can't sleep on my couch!” The red-head exclaimed. “It's horribly uncomfortable even to sit on!”
Eyes forward, DeSaix shook her head. “That's something we're going to have to get straight between us if we're gonna start living together, Red,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I understand that some of the clothes we'll have to wear will be uncomfortable and we'll have to do it 'cause they look good and that's important to your job. But that don't go for furniture. Furniture in our place is gonna be comfortable first. Looks come second. Furniture is a function over form thing.”
“Living together....” Emily almost whispered. “You want to live together? At my place?”
Desaix nodded, once, resolutely, still staring out the windshield of the town-car. “If the couch isn't worth sleeping on, I can crash on the floor. I've slept on worse.”
Emily looked at DeSaix wide-eyed and confused. “What about the bed?”
DeSaix turned her eyes towards Emily and the redheaded woman shivered with the hunger she saw there. “Is that an invitation, Red?” the ex-soldier asked softly. “Cause I wouldn't invite myself into someone I care about's bed.
“Oh, don't be daft,” Emily snarled crossing the small distant between them and urgently mashing her lips to DeSaix's. The kiss was brutal, wanton, and passionate in the extreme. When she had no more breath Emily pulled her head back, “Of course it's an invitation you bloody infuriating fool...,” she whispered.
*****
Installment: #31
Author: duwinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Summery: Miranda is faced with the possibility of losing Andy soon after finding her.
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.
Dedication: This installment is dedicated to goldenruhl who was kind enough to bid and win the recent Fandomaid Auction to benefit those who suffered the effects of Sandy.
Special Auction Thanks: I'd like to bring attention to the fact that our own pdt_bear, while not bidding on stories in the auction, did support the cause by agreeing to match the winning bids on at least two of the DWP stories auctioned off. Also a very special thanks to waltzmatildah who runs the truly unique humanitarian effort FandomAid
Comments: Okay Folks! I've put my foot in it. My agreement with the winning bidder of this auction is that I will finish this story for her by the end of January! That's likely three of four more installments the length of this one! Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged to feed my contrary muse's ego and to keep me writing.
A/N 1: For the purposes of this story, all events are taking place before the Congressionally directed repeal of the Army's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. Truth be told, when I started this project I did not believe that President Obama, even with hard work and the best of intentions, would manage to get the repeal of this outdated and idiotic bias past the hidebound idiots and political hacks that serve in the Congress and Senate of my country.
A/N 2: In this story Andy serves in the 192nd Supply Regiment of the Ohio National Guard. I know that members of the Ohio National Guard have served bravely in the conflicts overseas. I honor that service. The 192nd Supply Regiment and the 161st Military Police Company, in which both DeSaix and Scruggs serve, are however, fictitious units and do not exist.
A/N 4: There is a a very unpleasant character residing in this story. He is racist, misogynistic, corrupt, and one of those individuals the world would truly be a better place without. He is a fictional character and his views in no way express the views of the author of this piece.
A/N 5: Although they do not appear in this installment, the President and the First Lady (both of whom I admire greatly) have become characters in this story. I try to write them carefully and I mean them no disrespect.
Very Special Thanks: to peetsden who, when my wonderful beta ragelikeafire was unavailable due to real life time constraints, immediately jumped in and agreed to help me out by acting as my beta reader. All hail the mighty and powerful peetsden, bow, offer sacrifice and do proper homage!
Emily Charleton sat shaking on her hotel room bed. She felt sick and wondered if she'd make it to the loo before she emptied what little she had in her stomach. It had been a long night with no sleep as she savagely paced the confines of her hotel room in a moral quandary. She finally had what she needed to bend Senator Meriwether to her will and she had decided that if she used it to blackmail him, as she had intended, that she'd never be able look at herself in the mirror again. The DVD that the Madam to the politically powerful in Washington D.C. had provided, showed, in graphic detail, the Senator In flagrante delicto with what was obviously an underage girl of color. He was not gentle and it became quickly evident that the girl was less than willing. Emily closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. There wasn't even a question of what Miranda might do. Emily knew, without question what she must do, even though it would destroy any chance she had to accomplish the goal of saving DeSaix's career and reputation. As the sun set on Sunday afternoon she picked up the hotel phone and called down to the desk “Where is the closest police precinct located?” She said into the device.
*****
When Scruggs had a few minutes between events during the course of the day he had made a couple of phone calls to people he knew on base back in the States. The answers he had received were the ones that he didn't want to hear. The scuttlebutt was that the L.T. had been charged under the Uniform Code of Conduct articles concerning homosexuality. Scruggs had seen others go through this, in his opinion, idiotic process. He had vaguely known a couple of them and they were good soldiers, loyal to the Corps and people he'd trust his back with. He knew for an indisputable fact that the L.T. was a good soldier. The best of the best. But once the Army had you in it’s sights under the DADT (Don't Ask, Don't Tell). articles you were done. Oh you could fight it for a while, but the Army eventually got its way and you were out. Scruggs knew that the L.T. wouldn't fight. She wouldn't want to embarrass the Corps. She'd turn in her papers and rotate back to civilian life. He swallowed hard as he hung up the phone. She'd given him her last order and by God he was going to make her proud. “Sachs!” He bellowed in his best parade ground tone. “Front and center!”
Corporal Sachs responded immediately leaving the group of admirers she'd been speaking with and snapped to attention before him. He looked her over and spoke softly “I've got the word,” he said looking directly at Sachs' worried face. “It's not good. They've charged the L.T. under the DADT. articles.” He shook his head. “We both know that the chances of her coming back from that are FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). So what we're gonna do is make her last orders to us count. We're gonna do the rest of this mission by the numbers, just as if she were here,” he stated.
“Sir, Yes Sir!” Sachs responded, parade ground perfect. Scruggs sighed. It really felt pretty silly, him giving orders to an equal rank and he knew that Sachs was smarter than he was by a long shot, but the L.T. had left him in charge. God help him and Sachs both.
*****
Miranda had returned home to New York from Washington in her ex-husband’s company and went immediately from the airport to his home to see the twins. Sitting in the back of her towncar on the ride from the airport she girded herself for her coming encounter with her youngest child. She was nervous, but, on reflection, many of Wade's arguments made a lot of sense. Her babies were growing up. They had never been identical. Oh they looked alike but even as infants they had been individuals to her. Her talk with Wade had brought back memories of numerous conversations with her girls in which they had complained that no one but their mother saw each of them as individuals rather than as part of a matched set. Cassidy had risen up and taken arms against a situation that was troubling her. Granted the choice of Goth was extreme, but Miranda had made a few extreme choices herself in her youth. She had to admit that she saw a great deal of herself in her daughter's solution to the quandary she faced.
Exiting the car she approached the front door of Wade's house only to have the front door fly open and twin blurs rushed to embrace her. She leaned over and kissed Caroline's red hair and then she did the same to the head of hair as black as sin. “Hello my darlings.” she said softly. “I've missed you both so.” She stepped back and looked Cassidy up and down.
Both Cassidy and Caroline held their breath waiting for the coming explosion.
Miranda tsked. “Cassidy, I'm disappointed,” she said softly.
The young girl swallowed hard and tears threatened.
Miranda sighed theatrically, “I've taught you better than this” she continued. “This outfit needs more contrast,” she said, lifting her daughter's face and smiling down at the girl. “Some silver or white-gold at your throat and perhaps your wrist as well. And some dangling earrings I think.. I would suggest we go shopping for some jewelry and then have dinner out.” Her girls squealed their delight as Miranda glanced up at her ex-husband. “Are you free to join us Wade?” she asked airily.
*****
Between escorting Bella to the numerous events that the hero Sachs was the center of each day, Amelie Pelletier continued to research the woman that was apparently her employer’s obsession. She had, over the last few days managed to acquire a few sources in the United States by contacting private detectives and explaining her situation. By offering to trade services, agreeing to act as their contact in Europe should any investigation they engaged in require such a contact, she, in turn, got them to look into the matter she was engaged in investigating in the U.S.A. In less than twenty-four hours she managed to gain information she hadn't gotten before. She had learned that Andy Sachs had, for a short time recently, returned to her position at Runway magazine. She dutifully reported her discovery to her employer.
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni smiled at the three small vials in her hand. She glanced up at her drug dealer. “You are sure this will work as I asked?” She demanded of him in her native Italian.
The young man nodded. He was the connection for illicit drugs for three-quarters of the rich and famous in Rome. He was known for his discretion and the quality of his products. “It was an unusual request. Especially from a woman. But it is what you asked for. Each dose emptied from its capsules and pre-measured to the approximate body weights you gave me,” he replied.
Bella slipped the three vials into her handbag. “It will make them pliable?”
“Men seem to think so,” the handsome young man answered. “That's why the Americans call it 'the date rape' drug. Someone under its effects is suggestible, uninhibited, and often doesn't remember anything the next morning.”
Bella grinned wickedly and handed him an envelope full of euros. “You're services, as always, are well worth the price,” she said quietly.
*****
Wade smiled as he watched the owner of Gothic Renaissance nearly suffer a heart attack when he recognized the Miranda Priestly walking through the door of his shop. The fashion icon's daughters, one of whom was quickly becoming his favorite customer, were excitedly looking at jewelry in the jewelry display case as La Priestly slowly walked through the racks of clothing, examining the outfits combinations displayed on each manikin. Then she'd deigned to walk over and speak with the owner. If the man had expected the Ice Queen, The Dragon Lady, The Devil in Heels, what he got was a cordial and polite woman interested in her daughter's choices and curious about the aesthetics of the Goth subculture and what fashion dos and don'ts resided in those environs. Wade had courted Miranda for three years before their marriage. He'd been married to her for ten years. He likely knew her better than any living soul. He could see in the speculative gleam in his ex-wife's eyes that her mind had started turning. Her little girl had gone Goth. Now the fashion world better grab hold of something because the Devil in Heels was likely to be dictating a sudden new change in direction.
*****
The new temporary Emily had returned from Paris with the rest of the Runway delegation. Early Monday morning she stood before the Dragon's desk after placing the synopsis she had compiled of what the people from Runway had gathered at the disaster that was Paris Fashion Week. Where other magazines had followed Miranda's lead and withdrawn their delegations, the new Emily, lacking instructions to the contrary, continued to direct the Runway delegation to attend shows and do what they'd come to do.
When the major fashion houses went home she simply rearranged the schedule so the Runway staff would attend the 'B' string shows. When those fashion houses left she assigned people to the small houses that the major fashion magazines almost never saw. The new temporary Emily stood nervously as Miranda absently and with pursed lips looked through her presentation. She was sure she was going to be fired, but she'd done her best and could take some comfort in that. Eyes never leaving the folder she was looking in, all Miranda said was “Coffee, now.” The new temporary Emily scrambled to fulfill the demand with all possible haste.
In less that ten minutes the new temporary Emily had returned with a searing hot latte just the way Miranda liked it. Not being dismissed she again stood nervously in front of Miranda's desk as Miranda continued to pour over the material she had presented. Miranda sipped her latte and made a small sound of pleasure. “What is your name again?” Miranda asked.
“Amanda,” the assistant said softly, swallowing hard.
Miranda nodded. “Amanda,” she said, “contact Human Resources and inform them that your tenure as a temporary employee for Runway is over. They are to contact the temp agency and terminate the contract effective at the end of the pay cycle.
Amanda swallowed hard. She had known she was in over her head when Miranda had left Paris. She had tried her best in difficult circumstances, no make that impossible circumstances, and she had been found wanting. She swallowed tears, surprising herself on how badly she'd wanted to stay in the job “a million girls would kill for” even if it was only as a temp. She was so focused on her feelings she almost missed the rest of what Miranda said.
“Tell H.R. that you are now officially my Second Assistant. They are to get you on the payroll and to back date your benefits eligibility to your starting date as a temp.” Miranda looked up. “I believe that you have a bright future with us if you can continue to keep your head about you and deliver as you did in Paris. Welcome to Runway. That's all.”
Amanda walked from the office to her desk in a daze. I work for Miranda Priestly, she thought. Oh my god! I work for Miranda Priestly! She didn't know if she should feel blessed or cursed.
In the Ice Queen's office Miranda smiled and sipped her nearly perfect latte. The results festooning her desk were surprising to say the least. There were several virtual unknowns whose designs were new and exciting. A world of potential. And because everybody who was anybody had followed Miranda's lead and gone home, Runway was in almost sole possession of material that she could use to set the Fashion world on it's collective ear...
*****
Meriwether DeSaix stood, frustrated, before the security desk in the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building. They wouldn't let her in and after the guard called up to the Runway offices she had been informed that Emily Charlton was not available. It being just before lunch time she wondered how she'd kill time until Emily turned up at her apartment likely sometime this evening. She sighed softly. She was unused to not having something to do.
It was then she felt the atmosphere in the lobby shift. She looked up and into ice blue eyes. The woman before her was in command; there was simply no question about that fact. She knew she was face to face with Emily's idol and the red-head's nightmare, Miranda Priestly. The Icon looked her up and down silently noting the baggy blue jeans and loose tee shirt the woman wore and then pursed her lips. “Someone needs to take you in hand and teach you how to dress,” the white-haired woman said in a quiet voice that demanded the listener's attention.
DeSaix unconsciously snapped to attention. “You're Ms. Priestly. You're Emily's boss.” DeSaix said to the woman before her. “I came, in part, to see you Ma'am. To apologize for disrupting the operations of your magazine. It wasn't Emily's fault. I was doing my duty and she was being uncooperative...”
Miranda held up a perfectly manicured hand. “We will discuss it over lunch. First, the Closet I think, because they won't let you in the restaurant dressed like that.”
DeSaix, still of a military mindset and use to following orders, followed the commanding presence without question or protest.
*****
Half a dozen outfits had been tried, each more becoming that the last. On a previous occasion Nigel had laughingly suggested to Miranda that this woman would be worthy of gracing the pages of Runway. Miranda now knew that Nigel had not been exaggerating. She had even ventured to suggest such an arrangement, offering that a 'women of the military' article might be good for both the image of the armed services and for Runway. The woman, who a moment before had been jokingly posing in an approximation of a model on the catwalk stiffened suddenly and sighed. “I'm not in the service anymore, Ma'am,” she said softly. “I resigned my commission.”
Miranda glanced up from her examination of how the woman wore the clothes she was presently in. “Emily lead me to believe that you were a career officer,” she offered offhandedly, hoping to elicit more information.
“I was Ma'am. Or wanted to be. I was charged with violating a provision of the Uniform Code of Conduct. I found I couldn't defend myself against the charge because it was true. I decided that resigning my commission rather than standing to the charge to face an administrative separation and possibly a less that honorable discharged would save my unit and my C.O. embarrassment,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
Miranda watched this woman that had so affected Emily. Emily, who had never shone any indication of having a spine in Miranda's presence, yet was willing to stand up to Miranda in order to continue a half-baked plan to blackmail a U.S. Senator in order to save this woman's career. “Your resignation, it is because you are gay, isn't it?” The Icon asked.
DeSaix stiffened. “Begging your pardon Ma'am, but I can't see that that's any of your business,” she answered.
Miranda pursed her lips. “You were in command of the detail that went with Andrea Sachs to Italy,” she answered bluntly.
“How do you know...” Desaix asked, at first confused, then she said, “Oh, through Emily of course.”
Miranda smiled a genuine smile. “Actually I had all the details of your mission and a good deal of knowledge about the people that were accompanying Andrea prior to even knowing Emily was involved.”
DeSaix looked at the Icon suspiciously. “Why the interest in Sachs? Because she worked for you?”
“Before Andrea lost her memory we had become...involved,” Miranda said softly. “And now you, who my First Assistant trusts beyond anyone I've seen before, are not there to protect and take care of Andrea. I find this situation...unsatisfactory.”
DeSaix cocked her head and met Miranda's eyes and pursed lips unflinchingly. “Scruggs is there with her. He's a good soldier and knows how to follow orders. He's loyal to the Corps and those he serves with. He'll take care of Corporal Sachs.”
Miranda nodded looking past the woman at another rack of clothes. “The care you have taken of Andrea puts me in your debt. And what you've done for Emily, which both fascinates and amuses me, adds to what I owe you. You'll find I'm a woman who pays what she owes.”
“What I've done for Emily?” DeSaix questioned incredulously. “All I've done for her is cause her trouble.”
Miranda laughed musically. “Emily is a most capable young woman, but she lacked both spine and confidence. She had never questioned me. Never said “no” to me, until you. I found her in the airport in Washington D.C. on my return from Paris. She was apparently there attempting to catch your party before they boarded the plane for Italy. She wanted to warn you of a plot to ruin your career in the Army. She made it quite clear to me that she was willing to sacrifice her position at Runway and any future in fashion in order to continue in her plan to force the individual that was out to ruin you to desist in his plotting.”
“Red did that for me?” DeSaix almost whispered.
Miranda continued as if she hadn't heard. “Emily has been with me for almost two years and my meeting with her in Washington opened my eyes to something I am ashamed to admit I hadn't seen before. Emily can be, with some additional training, the one I've been searching for to replace me at the helm of Runway when I retire. She has the passion, now she has begun to demonstrate the necessary strength. You are responsible for that.”
“Ma'am,” DeSaix started to answer but Miranda held up her hand.
“Call me Miranda, and I'll call you Meriwether,” the Icon insisted. “For I believe we are very likely to be friends. And I'll hear no more about what you haven't done for people that are important to me. Although if you ever tell Emily that I said any of this I will emphatically deny it.” She looked the woman up and down one last time. “This outfit flatters you. It will do nicely. Now, to luncheon and talk about your future plans...”
*****
It was almost too easy, Bella thought as she raced her Ferrari 458 Italia down the A1 from Rome towards Naples. Beside her in the passenger seat slumped Andy. Discovering at the luncheon today that her nemesis DeSaix had been relieved of duty and now only the big man stood guard over the hero, Bella had seen her opportunity to slip the drug she had purchased into Andy's and Scruggs' drinks. The Rohypnol had worked just as her drug dealer had promised, of course it hadn't hurt that she had slipped the big man both the dose meant for him and the dose meant for DeSaix as well. After waiting impatiently for a short while, she convinced a mentally foggy Andy to accompany her to the ladies room. From there it was no problem to walk the pliable young woman out the front door of the venue the hero had been being honored in. Reclaiming her Ferrari from the valet, Bella had strapped the semiconscious women in the passenger’s seat and driven away. A moment later Andy had passed out and Bella let her foot grow heavy on the accelerator as she mused about the future she was going to give 'her' Andy.
*****
The balance of power among the various different grade level social cliques at Dalton shifted radically early Monday morning. The thing was that almost none of those that would soon be in the throws of what, in many of the student's opinions, would be an angst filled and life altering event, is that the momentous change in all they understood about the social compact and the way things were at Dalton started with a quiet conversation in the Headmaster’s office rather than amidst uproar amongst the student body.
Mr. Franks looked over the very thorough, well-organized and neatly typed proposal that he had been handed along with a cup of Starbucks coffee when he arrived at his office an hour and a half before the first bell. It was unusual to have students waiting for him at the door to his office that early. Even more unusual was the infectious energy he felt among the small group as they outlined the purpose of their early morning visit.
“So, under Article One-hundred and two of the Student Government Bylaws, I believe that we have met the obligation to form a committee and undertake what we are asking to do,” said Ian Sutherland, who had apparently been appointed the party's spokesperson.
Mr. Franks looked again at the first page of the proposal in his hand. It concerned the annual Charity Challenge, a fund raising event that Dalton held every year. It was run by a committee of students and benefited which ever charity the student committee sponsoring the event had proposed as that year's “cause celeb”. For as long as Mr. Franks could remember, the leaders of the popular clique were the ones that ran the project. They bullied and intimidated the other student groups into not applying for the privilege of running the project and once in control said who could and couldn't work on it. Each year the students of the popular clique were the only ones who got academic credit for the extra credit assignment. Until today. Today Mr. Franks smiled at the four students gathered before him. “I am unfamiliar with this charity you are proposing be the beneficiary of your committee's work, Mr. Sutherland,” he said softly. “What can you tell me about them? ”
Cassidy Priestly spoke up from where she sat on the office couch. “They are part of the Wounded Warrior's Project, Mr. Franks. This particular arm of the project concerns itself with acquiring and donating devices to aid soldiers that have either lost limbs or become paralyzed due to their injuries. They give things that the Veteran’s Administration can't cover due to budgetary restraints. Things that will make the wounded soldiers’ lives more fulfilling. Like a wheelchair designed for sport so a paraplegic soldier can play basketball or a prosthetic leg designed for running so someone who had lost their leg could again go running like she used to love to do.”
Mr. Franks noted the passion in Cassidy's delivery and caught the rather specific characterization towards the end of what she had said. “Do I sense that there might be a personal connection in the selection of this organization, Miss Priestly?” He asked good naturedly.
Cassidy nodded. “Yes sir,” she answered. “A good friend of my family was badly injured in Afghanistan. Lost both an arm and a leg. She used to like to go running. Caroline and I started looking into what it would take to get the Veteran's Administration to give her a leg for running on top of the one that lets her stand and walk around. We discovered that there's just not enough money for the VA to do that for all the wounded soldiers that need it. They can't even afford to provide top-rated prosthetics. So when Ian and the rest of us were working on this proposal yesterday, Caroline and I asked if we could raise money for this particular charity.”
Mr. Franks nodded. “Well, this is, without a doubt, the best proposal I've had presented to me in many a year as far as the Charity Challenge Event is concerned. I am also pleased that what you want to do to raise money isn't the same old, same old that has been done by the Popular Clique every year for the past ten years. You also call out in your proposal that you intend as a committee to be far more inclusive of the student body that the popular clique has been in the past, which weighs strongly in your favor. You, as a committee have followed all the guidelines, made a fine presentation and made your presentation during the application dates called out in the Student Government Handbook rules concerning forming the Charity Challenge committee. You are the first committee to give me an acceptable completed proposal and it is my pleasure to tell you that the four of you have a green light to proceed. You may start recruiting to other students for your idea. Congratulations, as of this moment, the four of you are now in charge of the event for this academic year.”
After seeing the four students out of his office he sat back down at his desk and considered what he had just seen. He could feel it in his bones that things were about to get shaken up at Dalton. Like any very exclusive private school, it was a given that, save for a token number of students on scholarships, the student body was made up of the children of very affluent families. But even given the 'affluence' of the alumni, the distance between the least wealthy and the richest families whose children attended the school was vast. The so-called Popular Clique, that had been running the school's social scene for a very long time, were almost all members of the most wealthy and elite families. It was Mr. Franks’ experience that the members of that particular clique were self-important, spoiled and overly coddled by their parents. They were, for the most part, in serious need of a wake-up call about what was really important in life. They were about to have their precious, long unchallenged control of the Dalton social scene severely tested and he knew immediately that he didn't want to see Ian, Roxanna, Caroline and Cassidy pay for wanting to change the status quo. Deciding to strike preemptively he reached for the telephone on his desk and made a call to Mr. Lambert, the vice-principle in charge of discipline. “Mike? It's Harold. There are some things going on that I think you need to be aware of. Would you please stop by my office as soon as you have a free minute? I want us to be ahead of what I think is coming.” he said into the telephone handset.
*****
Twenty minutes before first period Ashlyn Miller entered the cafeteria leading a small group of the seventh grade in-crowd and headed to the table from where they normally ruled the school’s social scene. This morning they found their table occupied. Seated at the in-crowd's table was Carolyn and Cassidy Priestly, Ian Sutherland and Roxanna Gilchrist surrounded by a dozen other Dalton students including three of Ashlyn's outer circle. There was a sign on the table inviting any student that wished to, to sign up to help with Dalton's yearly charity challenge. Ashlyn's eyes narrowed and she stepped up in front of the table. “What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.
Caroline, seated next to Ian, smiled a crocodillian smile reminiscent of her mother's on a particularly bad day. “We're signing people up for the charity event,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the multiple quiet conversations going on around the table. “We've already got eighteen people.”
“You can't do that!” Ashlyn said stridently, her voice rising. “That's the event that the popular people run every year. We're going to do a formal dance again this year!”
Ian finished signing up a young man from the AV club and looking at Ashlyn, shook his head. “It's not 'your' event,” he answered her. “It's first come, first served. The first group of students to approach the Headmaster with an acceptable proposal gets the nod and the right to run the event. You and your friends haven't put in a proposal yet. We put ours in first thing this morning. Mr. Franks read it and liked the fact that we're doing something different rather than the same dance thing that the popular clique runs every year.” He pointed to the sign on the table inviting one and all to sign up to perform or help out back stage in Dalton's First Annual Poetry Slam and Talent Show. “We're going to get just as many students and student groups involved as we can.”
“NO!” Ashlyn practically shouted. “This is our thing! We get to decide what it's going to be! You losers have no right!”
Cassidy stood from her chair. “We're not the losers here.” she said angrily. “We've followed the rules and won the right to do this fair and square.”
“Oh shut up you ugly dyke pig,” Ashlyn shouted “none of the popular crowd is going to help you with this idiotic idea. How many students do you think are going to get involved with this when I put out the word that anybody in the Popular Clique that helps out will be out on their asses and anybody from any of the other cliques will be drawing a big fat target on their backs if they dare help you?!”
Caroline stood up from her chair. “I'd be careful what you say to or about my sister and her girlfriend, Ashlyn,” she said in a deadly quiet tone very reminiscent of her mother's. “I knocked you on your behind once. Next time I do it, I'll kick you while you're down too.”
An older girl, dressed all in black, turned from where she stood at the table. Her lips were done in a black bee stung pout and the concealer she wore was very pale. The look was definitely goth. Her eyes twinkled wicked mischief as she looked at the ranting young girl. It took Ashlyn a moment to recognize Tara Flynn, the leader of the eighth grade circle of the popular clique. “I don't know about you, Ashlyn,” Tara said haughtily, “but I and some of my group are going to be singing If U See Amy in the show and I've heard that the ninth grade circle is working on some things to present too.”
A member of Ashlyn's inner circle turned around from the table to face the angry young woman, her dress was not goth, but her lips were styled in the black bee stung pout that seemed to suddenly be becoming all the rage at Dalton. “I'm going to do something in the show,” the girl said defiantly. “Some of my poetry I think. You know, that stuff that you told me was nothing but worthless crap when you asked me if you could read it? Well Ian read some of it just now and he really liked it!”
Ashlyn bridled. “If you dare get involved with their stupid show you better be ready to be without friends cause you'll be out! Just like they are!” She threatened, indicating the four-committee members seated behind the table.
Tara smiled evilly at the nearly frothing girl. “But Ashlyn dear,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “If the eight and ninth grade popular cliques are supporting the show doesn't that mean that Caroline and Cassidy are now running the seventh grade circle? I mean, who's going to follow you if we're supporting them? Nobody, that's who.”
*****
Dejected, Emily returned from Washington via a morning train and made her way to the offices arriving about lunchtime only to discover that the worthless second assistant was in full-blown panic mode because Miranda Priestly had abandoned her schedule without so much as a word. All the silly girl knew was that a call had come in from the building security desk and Miranda had gone downstairs to see about some visitor and had not returned or called since.
Emily sat down at her desk and eyed the chaos of paperwork that had accumulated in her absence. It wasn't as bad as she'd been anticipating, but then she remembered that Serena had been helping cover for her. She immediately decided that some kind of “thank you” was required. She picked up the phone and as she prepared to dial down to the Accessories Department Nigel entered the office and stood before her desk. “I don't care what you have to do Emily.” he said, in his teasing way. “But I must have her for the Miu Miu photo shoot the week-after-next.”
The Englishwoman looked askance at her colleague. “Nigel, please,” she replied, not feeling like bantering with him at that moment. “I've only just returned. Who do you want for the Miu Miu shoot and has Miranda cleared it? If so, give me a name and I'll get on the telephone and arrange it.”
Nigel smiled a truly wicked smile. “That delicious soldier you left here with, you silly girl. You must tell me all about what the two of you naughty girls have been up to.”
Emily looked at Nigel, confused. “She's in Italy, on a mission for the Army. She's the officer in charge of Andy's detail there,” she said softly, the lump in her throat threatening to break her thinly held control and start her weeping again at her failure to stop those that were out to ruin DeSaix.
Nigel shook his head. “Then she has a twin that really knows how to rock a Marc Jacobs raw silk pants suit. I saw her not half an hour ago boarding an elevator with our fearless leader.” He looked at Emily's shocked expression. “Oh dear,” he said, the teasing lilt gone from his tone. “Seeing you here I just assumed that the two of you had come back together.”
DeSaix is here, Emily thought to herself frantically. She had missed DeSaix so terribly, even while focused on the full time endeavor of attempting to save the woman's career in the military. She wasn't ready. Her clothes were less than adequate and rumpled from travel and she had no idea of how to approach DeSaix so that they might have a chance to get past the fact that she had lied to the woman early in their acquaintance. And DeSaix could not abide liars. What Emily did know is that she desperately wanted at a chance for a romantic relationship with the beautiful woman from Louisiana. She rose quickly from her desk and grabbed Nigel by the hand. Glaring at Emily Two she spoke sharply. “Nigel and I will be down in the closet. You handle things here.”
*****
Miranda had found lunch in DeSaix's company a refreshing experience. The young cafe au lait skinned woman was direct and plain spoken almost to the point of being blunt. She spoke guardedly of her encounters with Miranda's first assistant, obviously treading carefully, wanting to protect Emily from anything that might make Miranda angry. Miranda for her part turned the conversation to DeSaix and what her intentions were now that she had resigned her commission in the military.
“Haven't really thought about it yet,” was the ex-officer's answer. “ I wasn't expecting to be outed to my C.O. I've lived a lot of years under don't ask, don't tell as have a lot of other good soldiers.” She fiddled nervously with her glass of ice tea. “I guess I'll go home for a while. Then think about looking for a job.”
“And what about you and Emily?” Miranda asked, already suspecting that there would be resistance from both women to acting on what her assistant and this woman so obviously wanted.
DeSaix sadly shook her head continuing to demonstrate to Miranda's sharp eyes telltale signs of nervousness. “We talked about it before I left for Italy. I think the only thing we're in agreement about is that there isn't a future for us. Too much baggage with my arresting her and having her thrown in jail.”
Miranda nodded. “A formidable obstacle. As is the fact that she lied to you...”
DeSaix's eyes became wide with surprise. “You know about that?”
Miranda casually stirred a small splash of cream into her after-lunch coffee. “Yes. I insisted that Emily tell me all that had happened when I confronted her in Washington about why she wasn't at her post at Runway,” the Icon answered carefully. “She was in an emotional state and I believe quite a bit more...forthcoming... that she would normally be in our relationship in the past.” Miranda raised her eyes and met the eyes of the cafe au lait skinned woman across the table. “May I put a hypothetical question to you Lieutenant?” she asked.
DeSaix nodded warily.
“If you were on a mission,” Miranda began, “and lying was necessary to save the lives of your squad mates, would you lie?”
DeSaix didn't even pause to consider the question before answering, “of course I would.”
“Can you accept, that in effect, Emily has done the same thing?” Miranda asked.
“If you're concerned about the fact that Emily lied to me when we first encountered each other you needn't be,” DeSaix answered. “I've forgiven her and there's nothing I want more and than too see if something can work out between us. My fear is she'll never be able to forgive me for putting her in that awful jail and endangering her position with you.”
Miranda sipped from her coffee and smiled. “Nonsense,” she replied. “She has already forgiven you and she will curse herself if you and she do not have the chance that you were talking about.” Changing tack, Miranda asked, “what is it you wish to do now that you are no longer in the military?”
DeSaix considered for a moment. Reaching for her glass of iced tea, she shrugged. “I haven't really considered doing anything other than what I've been doing. I always thought I'd be a career officer,” she said. “The only skill I have is chasing AWOLs. It's the only thing I'm good at and I don't think there's likely much of a market for that skill out here in the real world.” She sighed softly. “ I guess I'll go home to Louisiana and see if I can't find a job in one of the parish sheriff's offices.”
“Is returning to Louisiana what you wish to do?” Miranda asked. “Emily's career, as you know, is here. And I believe with all my heart, that thanks to your influence, she has a bright future ahead of her that will carry her to the very top of the fashion hierarchy.”
“If Emily wants me, and I can find some kind of work, I'll stay wherever she is,” DeSaix replied. “But this is New York City, I doubt seriously that any branch of law enforcement that might use my talents would be willing to hire me. They tell you that if you avoid court-martial by resigning your commission, your privacy will be protected. But it's not true. Word will get out and it will be almost like I got drummed out of the Corps for being gay.”
Miranda again sipped her coffee. Then she smiled like a shark. “If you will allow me, I would like to network for you. I have a friend who I believe might be in a position to do you some good and she owes me a rather large favor. I believe that I can almost guarantee a job with the federal agency of your choice here in New York City.”
DeSaix looked warily across the table, “and what do you get out of this, Miranda?” She asked.
“I get you to stay put for the next two weeks and pose for me in the Miu Miu shoot of pantsuits for Fall. Your rather butch look will mix well with the couture Runway will be presenting. I also fear that if you are not in Emily's life she is likely to regress again into the timid young woman she once was. I have chosen her for my heir apparent to the Editor-in-Chief position at Runway and I need your strength to help forge her into what she can become.”
“So you want to help me get a job chasing fugitives in federal law enforcement and be together with Emily helping her achieve things she's probably never dream she could do? DeSaix asked incredulously.
Miranda watched the woman across the table. “Yes” she replied, “that sums it up rather nicely.”
“So how do you want to do this?” DeSaix smiled.
“Oh, I definitely think we should have some fun with it, don't you? Miranda chuckled evilly. “Here is what I thought we might do…”.
*****
Emily rushed back from the closet to her desk, only to discover that Miranda had returned to the office in her absence. She arrived just in time to hear Miranda call for her softly from her office.
The redhead was standing in the doorway in a heartbeat. She swallowed hard and gathering her reserves and her composure said “Yes, Miranda?” The Englishwoman said.
Miranda looked up at her protege, “Ms. DeSaix,” she said, indicating the woman seated in a chair in front of her desk, “will be staying in town until after we shoot the Miu Miu spread late next week. As a personal favor to me, she has been kind enough to agree to act as one of the models. She will need a place to stay...”
Emily noticed a distinct twinkle of mischief in the Ice Queen's eye and turned her head slightly to look at the woman she'd lost her heart to. Tired from the long night being interrogated by the police and then traveling to return to Runway she almost lost her professional face. Tears burned behind her eyes. Sadness that they had destroyed any chance they had at a long-term future together when they first met clawed at her heart. She would claim only one insanely intense time together with DeSaix, then the lies she had told DeSaix while protecting Andy would cause the woman to leave her. Garnering the last of her emotional strength she said, “Of course, Miranda. I'll get on arrangements for Lieutenant DeSaix's accommodations immediately.”
“Ms. DeSaix, Emily,” Miranda corrected quietly. “Ms. DeSaix is a civilian, having recently resigned her commission in the Army.”
Emily stiffened and stole a glance at the woman seated before Miranda's desk. DeSaix sat with her back to the door so that Emily couldn't see her face, but she felt she could read the tension in the woman's posture and shoulders.
Miranda turned her head and addressed the woman seated across from her. “Meriwether, dear, why don't you go with Emily and find some place you'd like to stay. Runway will, of course, be picking up the tab. We'll meet for lunch in a few days and I'll have the contracts regarding your modeling for this shoot for you to look over and sign.”
DeSaix nodded as she rose from the chair and turned to face Emily. Emily had to admit immediately that Nigel had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned just how good DeSaix looked in the raw silk pants suit she was wearing. Emily bit down on the surge of desire she felt as DeSaix stepped past her and out the door of Miranda's office without a word.
Miranda's gaze swept back to Emily. “I will be very disappointed, Emily,” the Icon said ominously, in her terribly quiet and chilling way, “if my good friend Meriwether is at all displease by the accommodations you find her, That's all.”
Emily turned on her heel and hurried out of Miranda's office rushing to catch up with DeSaix who was already determinedly on her way to the elevators.
*****
Scruggs awoke groggy and with a screaming headache. He looked around through slitted eyes to find himself in a homey, comfortable, but unfamiliar, bedroom. An sturdy looking woman with dark hair was looking down at him worriedly. As he swam up to to full consciousness, she turned and spoke rapidly in Italian through the open doorway. In a moment an older man and a younger man, both of whom Scruggs recognized as officials from the American Consulate came into the room. The younger man was busy, talking rapidly on a cell phone, his tone urgent. Scruggs caught the end of the conversation as the man said, “no sir, still no sign of her. But apparently Corporal Scruggs is now awake and can possibly give us some insight. I'll be back in touch as soon as I know anything.” He listened for a brief moment and then finished the call with “yes sir, I'll see to it.”
Something caught in Scruggs gut. He knew instinctively something had happened to Sachs. He tried to rise and his head swam. The elder of the consulate officials push down gently on his shoulder. “Whoa there, son. You need to take it easy. You're not in any shape to be going anywhere. Somebody slipped you the mother of all mickys,” the man said kindly, the flavor of his Oklahoma heritage coming through in his accent. “You passed out at the reception. The doctor said that whatever it was that was given to you was damn near strong enough to kill you. Your heart rate slowed and so did your breathing. We were concerned enough about you that we didn't even dare move you to a hospital. You're in a bedroom of the mayor's house.”
The younger man chimed in, his tone nasty and superior. “And Sachs has disappeared. I've just been informed by the Ambassador that she had gone AWOL once before.’
The older man glared at his associate and then turned to Scruggs and gently asked.” In your mind is she capable of something like drugging you in order to get away?”
Scruggs shook his head, a mistake, as his vision blurred and a sick feeling throbbed through him. “No sir!” He responded emphatically. “Sachs wouldn't go AWOL again. She believed in the mission.”
“Well she's gone,” the younger man insisted. “What do you think happened, Corporal? I mean it's not like anybody here would want to kidnap her,” he continued, condescendingly.
Scruggs was, in general, a very agreeable individual. Someone that it usually took a great deal to rub the wrong way. The younger man was part of the Diplomatic Corps. Someone that could likely cause a Corpsoral due to be discharged in a few months a whole lot of grief, but at the moment Scruggs simply didn't care, “Begging your pardon Sir, and with all due respect, Sach made an enemy of every insurgent in the world when she called fire down on herself and the Taliban fighters on that ridge. Her picture and her story have been all over the press. All that publicity makes her a high-visibility target that any of those terrorist sons’ of bitches would love to take out.”
The older man standing beside the bed again attempted to intercede. “Son,” he said softly, “we just want to make sure she's safe, and get her back where she belongs. The Italians are mighty upset about her being missing. The fact is that the local officials feel like they've lost her on their watch. It's stirred up a hornets nest across the whole country and the civilian population is howling about it.”
Scruggs forced himself to sit up in the bed as his head swam. He looked around the room. “Where are my pants,” he demanded.
“You were supposed to be watching her!” The younger man shrilled. “Making sure something like this didn't happen!” He paced two steps one way and two steps back. “This makes us all look bad with the Ambassador! This could be a career ender!” he continued. “So make yourself useful and tell us where she might have gone so we can clean up your mess!”
Scruggs turned on the bed and put his feet on the floor. Using his hands forced himself up off the bed. He wavered for a brief moment, then with a titanic effort of will, gained balance, drawing his massive frame up until he was standing, parade ground perfect, at attention. He took a step toward the younger consulate official and his hand shot out grabbing the younger of the two by the shirtfront, lifting the man easily up off the ground with a single hand. The Corporal then slammed the man's body into the wall behind the young man. “This mission is under military authority,” Scruggs said through clenched teeth. “And the soldier in question was left in my charge. Sachs is my responsibility, and it's up to me to go find her. So you got two choices. Help me or get the hell out of my way.”
The older of the consulate officials looked at Scruggs and nodded. “I can buy you maybe 24 hours,” he offered tentatively. “I can tell the Italian officials that we are dealing with the situation and that we do not hold them accountable for what has happened. I'll also let the Ambassador know that you are handling the situation.” He sighed softly and looked at Scruggs, “what can we at the embassy do to help?”
At this point Scruggs was struggling into his pants. “Some civies would help,” he answered. “Harder to do what I'm gonna need to do if I'm in uniform. I am also going to need to speak to the wife of the Prime Minister.”
The older man nodded, “give me your sizes and let me make a couple of calls,” he answered.
Fifteen minutes later Scruggs, dressed as any tourist might be, was out the door and on his way to a meeting with the Prime Minister's wife at a small cafe near the near the Navona Plaza, one of the most beautiful plazas in Rome.
The older man looked at the younger, an amused tone in his mild voice, but to one looking closely, his eyes gave away his disgust. “Tony, I know you're connected family-wise and that's what landed you your position in the State Department, but let me give you a hint about handling a situation diplomatically. It's not usually a good idea to piss off a guy that's damn near the size of China, cause he might decide to walk over you when on the way out of negotiations.”
*****
Emily stood stiffly in one of The Peninsula hotel's best suites on the seventh floor, watching DeSaix inspect the rooms. This was the sixth five star hotel the two women had visited in order to find the ex-military officer accommodations that the woman deemed satisfactory. The hotel manager, having intuited that the client he had accompanied to the room was one that Miranda Priestly was interested in, was himself, showing DeSaix the room and singing the hotel's praises . DeSaix made polite noises, but meeting Emily's eye, she gave a short negative shake of her head. Moving towards the manager she thanked him for his time and headed for the elevator. Emily made quick apologies to the man and hurried after DeSaix.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was silent, DeSaix's eyes straight ahead and Emily afraid to speak up. DeSaix had been reticent about talking since leaving Runway and Emily, in her guilt, was sure that DeSaix blamed her for the fact that the woman was no longer in her chosen profession.
Leaving the elevator and crossing the lobby of the hotel Emily quickly consulted the list of hotels she had created, planning the next place to show DeSaix. She opened her mouth to speak but DeSaix cut her off, “That one's not gonna be it either, Red,” the woman from Louisiana said, without breaking stride and stepped through the door and out onto the street where one of Elias-Clarke town-cars awaited them.
Emily slid into the back seat of the town-car and glanced at her companion. “Miranda said to find you accommodations that you would be satisfied with. I've taken you to the six best hotels in Manhattan; she grated, her temper flaring with the contrary, unagreeable, fascinating woman seated next to her. “Now you say that the next hotel won't be the right one, even when you don't know which the next hotel will be.” She shook her head, frustration welling up and tears forming in her eyes. “If you'll just give me some idea of what you're looking for, it'll save us time......”
DeSaix turned and looked at the Englishwoman sitting next to her. “ I figure that if I wait long enough you'll work your way down that list till you'll get around to offering me your couch,” she stated simply.
“My couch?” Emily stammered. “You want to stay at my place? Sleep on my couch?”
DeSaix nodded solemnly, “Yep, Red. That's what I want.”
Emily shook her head. “You can't sleep on my couch!” The red-head exclaimed. “It's horribly uncomfortable even to sit on!”
Eyes forward, DeSaix shook her head. “That's something we're going to have to get straight between us if we're gonna start living together, Red,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I understand that some of the clothes we'll have to wear will be uncomfortable and we'll have to do it 'cause they look good and that's important to your job. But that don't go for furniture. Furniture in our place is gonna be comfortable first. Looks come second. Furniture is a function over form thing.”
“Living together....” Emily almost whispered. “You want to live together? At my place?”
Desaix nodded, once, resolutely, still staring out the windshield of the town-car. “If the couch isn't worth sleeping on, I can crash on the floor. I've slept on worse.”
Emily looked at DeSaix wide-eyed and confused. “What about the bed?”
DeSaix turned her eyes towards Emily and the redheaded woman shivered with the hunger she saw there. “Is that an invitation, Red?” the ex-soldier asked softly. “Cause I wouldn't invite myself into someone I care about's bed.
“Oh, don't be daft,” Emily snarled crossing the small distant between them and urgently mashing her lips to DeSaix's. The kiss was brutal, wanton, and passionate in the extreme. When she had no more breath Emily pulled her head back, “Of course it's an invitation you bloody infuriating fool...,” she whispered.
*****