Beyond the Call, Chapter 32
Title: Beyond the Call
Installment: #32
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 likely Two or three more installments the length of this one! (Someone just shoot me please!) I know where the story ends! Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged to feed my contrary muse's ego so the little bastard will keep whispering in my ear the directions for getting us there!
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believe that President Obama, even with hard work and the best of intentions, would manage to get the repeal of this outdated and idiotic bias past the hidebound idiots and political hacks that serve in the Congress and Senate of my country.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: 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 thanked God for the hundredth time that Miranda's regular driver, Roy, was not the one chauffeuring her and DeSaix. The second time she kissed DeSaix all rational thought and self control fled. Even though in the back of an Elias-Clarke town-car there was just no stopping what was happening. Need and desire superseded any sense of decorum. Lips crushed together as two bodies tried to inhabit the same physical space. Hands roamed, pulled, stroked and caressed. One moment they were traveling back to Emily's apartment and the next they were naked among a scattering of clothing on the floor not far inside her apartment door. Their lovemaking was urgent and Emily's first orgasm was within moments of falling to the floor in DeSaix's arms.
Nothing in Emily's life had prepared her for the weekend that followed. Being with someone had never felt so natural, so right. Emily had never felt so complete. Saturday morning they had sat naked in bed leisurely drinking tea and involved in a deep discussion about the use and meaning of color as expression in abstract paintings both were familiar with. Where Emily's previous partners would have either been unable to, uninterested in or even made her feel an effete intellectual, Meriwether met her idea for idea. She didn't always think Emily right or agree with her, but she listened respectfully and thought about what Emily had to say. The tension of them being two very different individuals with vastly different life experiences remained and made their burgeoning romance all the better for its presence. In order to continue the discussion and also to introduce Meriwether to some artists she had not had the pleasure of seeing before, a date to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art was quickly decided on for Wednesday evening if Emily could manage to slip away from work early enough.
Sunday afternoon found Emily surprising herself as she eased into the role of caretaker, running a hot bath for a depressed Meriwether and then coaxing her into it; followed by a long massage of the woman's tense shoulders and neck. As her fingers struggled with hard and knotted muscles, she mused that the transition into the role she was engaged in would have been virtually unthinkable in the past. She never had any interest in soothing any of her previous bed partners. She simply didn't care that much about them as people, nor, she firmly believed, did they about her. But with this magnificently complex and honest woman relaxing beneath her ministrations everything was different. Meriwether's comfort and mood and everything else about the woman were important to her.
Emily knew that she was peripherally the cause of Meriwether's despondency. She had made the mistake earlier in the morning of bringing the outside world into their cocoon in the form of the Sunday Edition of The New York Times. She had picked it up when the pair had ventured out to get some food to go into Emily's virtually empty refrigerator. When Emily had lost herself in the Style section Meriwether's mood had suddenly gone quiet and Emily could tell the other woman had become upset. Emily had used her own experience of what worked for her when upset and implemented a hot bath and several glasses wine. As Meriwether soaked in the tub and Emily went to refill their wine glasses she glanced at the section of the paper Meriwether had been reading. Seven soldiers from Fort Mead in Maryland had been killed in an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) attack in Iraq. More had been injured. Emily knew that Meriwether couldn't possibly know if she knew the dead and injured or not, those involved weren't named in the story as their relatives had yet to be notified. It was simply that they, like Meriwether were soldiers, there doing their duty and they had died. Emily wondered how many times her Meri had faced death and she found herself saying a small prayer of thanks and one for the dead and injured as she carried the refilled wine glasses back into the bathroom.
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni stood impatiently over Andy's unconscious form lying prone on Bella's bed. The Italian model's eyes devoured the vision lying before her. The girl had been stripped out of that ridiculous and unflattering uniform she was forced to wear. Following her instructions two of Bella's maids had undressed the unconscious woman after one of the burlier of the groundskeepers in Bella's employ had carried Andy's limp form from Bella's car. Bella was sorely tempted to taste the beautiful nude woman before her. Caress and lick and suck, as she had dreamed of doing ever since that day when she learned of the events that had transpired in the Kandahar Valley and the terrible price Andy had paid defending Bella's countrymen and women. She had feared that the scars the woman bore would repulse her. She was surprised to find that, without the artificial arm and leg, the amputation sites were smooth, tightly stretched skin. The scars that the hero of all Italy did carry were numerous, but scattered over one side of her body. On consideration they added character to the sleeping woman's beauty. A map of her heroism, as it were, forever imprinted on her flesh.
The beautiful dark haired diva hungered to touch and caress the prone form lying senseless before her, but that wouldn't do. Bella had spent considerable time fantasizing about the first time she and Andy would make love. Always in those fantasies Andy was transported to the throes of ecstasy by Bella's lovemaking skills and moaned and shouted out Bella's name as she reached her release. With Andy under the influence of the drug that Bella had slipped her there was no way that Andy would even feel anything the Italian model did, so for the moment Bella was frustrated in her desires. This being the case, there was little reason for Bella to remain at Andy's side. She would entertain herself by going shopping and buying a wardrobe for her Andy to wear. Calling her assistant she informed the woman of her plans. “Have the Maid's redress Mia Andy in the underthings she arrived in. Then keep an eye on out sleeping 'guest'. If she wakes, make her welcome, but do not allow her to leave the bedroom until I return.”
*****
Scruggs, dressed as a civilian for the first time in his recent memory, stood in the Navona Plaza awaiting the arrival of the Italian Prime-minister’s wife. The people at the embassy had done well for him as far as camouflage went. Other than his massive size, he fit right in with the other tourists milling about.
He used the few moments before the Prime Minister’s wife arrived to go over what he knew. The one thing Scruggs was sure of was that Lieutenant DeSaix saw things that other people didn't see. She had told him clearly that she didn't trust the beautiful Arabella Messalina Giovanni as far as she could throw her. That the woman’s interest in their charge was somehow both ominous and disquieting. One of the last orders she'd given him was to watch out for Corporal Sachs in that regard. DeSaix had also commented to him about the tension she saw between the Italian model and the Prime Minister’s wife. She noted that Ms. Giovanni would attempt to get what she wanted from whatever Italian officials were in charge of whatever event they were at. If she failed to inveigle satisfaction from that quarter she would go to the older woman, who, being the individual acting as Corporal Sachs' official hostess was at most of the events that Corporal Sachs was attending. DeSaix had pointed out to Scruggs that when this happened whatever the beautiful Italian Model wanted would then inevitably be granted by the Prime-Minister's Wife, but not gladly, never gladly. Scruggs dearly wished the L.T. were here now to run this operation. Scruggs knew he wasn't smart by general standards. He had lived a simple rural small town life prior to joining the military after barely making it out of high school. What he knew about himself, however, was that what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in dogged determination. The L.T. left him in charge of Sachs' safety. He was going to find her. When he did he was going to find out if she was where she wanted to be. If not, he was going to see to it she got home safe. That's what you did for squad mates. Nobody got left behind.
Scruggs looked up from his thoughts and the Prime-Minister's wife stood before him looking very frightened. Scruggs nodded a greeting. “I think we both know who took Corporal Sachs. I think you're scared of her. That she maybe has something on you that could hurt you.”
The woman looked away, terrified.
Scruggs voice went soft, but his eyes held his determination. “She never has to know you were involved. I just need a place to start looking. I'm going to find Corporal Sachs. And God help anybody that tries to get in the way of that.”
The older woman nodded. “She has a pleasure villa in Capri. I will give you the address,” she whispered.
*****
Feeling sick, Andy slowly clawed her way toward consciousness. Eyes still closed she tried to assess her situation. She lay on an extremely comfortable bed, under sheets that felt as if warm oil were caressing her skin. Her mind flashed to the Angel's bed, Miranda's bed, and for a fleeting moment she had a certainty that she had slept there at least once and the tactile experience of cloth on skin and sinking into a decadent comfort was much the same as she was feeling now. Groggy and feeling as if she had a huge hangover she discovered that she was unsure of where she was. Her already damaged memory couldn't seem to place how she had come to be where she was or who she might be with. Even when she had gotten so drunk on Grappa with DeSaix and Scruggs earlier during the mission she hadn't had any trouble with her short term memory and she definitely didn't remember drinking enough to black out at the luncheon. She carefully slitted open her eyes, hoping against hope that she might find herself back home in the Angel's bed. Back home with her girls, Cassidy and Caroline. Back home with Miranda. The room she saw was luxurious in the extreme, but it was gaudy in comparison to Miranda's elegantly refined and tastefully decorated bedroom. She began to sit up and realized that both her prosthetic arm and leg had been removed. She glanced to the sides of the bed and then to the foot, all places she would normally place her artificial limbs so they would be easily accessible to her when she woke. Her prostheses were nowhere in sight and their absence severely limited her mobility. She quickly continued her situational inventory realizing that she had been stripped down to her military briefs and undershirt. She used her single arm to push herself up, and, trying not to panic, called out. “Scruggs?!” She said. She waited an eternity that occurred in the confines of but a handful of heartbeats and tried again. “Corporal Scruggs!” she called urgently, “where are you?!” A moment later the door opened and a woman Andy didn't recognize stepped inside.
“Ms. Sachs?” the dark haired woman said gently, her English heavily flavored by a thick Italian accent. “My name is Lucrezia Bianchi. I am Arabella Messalina Giovanni's personal assistant.” She slowly stepped closer to the bed. “Ms. Giovanni did not think you would wake so soon. I fear she has gone shopping. She will, however, return soon.”
Andy looked at the woman. “Where's Corporal Scruggs?” She demanded, her fear and uncertainty making her angry.
“He is, how you say, gone on leave?” The woman answered, still moving closer to the bed. “Bella asked me to see to your comfort,” she offered. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Andy looked around the room. While there was no obvious immediate threat she was vitally aware that something wasn't as it should be. The U.S. Army didn't leave one of its own unconscious in the hands of foreign nationals even if an ally. She should either be in an American military hospital or Scruggs should be here. “How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Bella brought you from the luncheon early this afternoon,” she answered gently, “apparently you fainted while there. It is now nearly dinner time. A doctor on the scene suggested that you were likely exhausted from the pace of your visit to our country and Bella convinced the government officials that her villa would be a good place for you to rest.”
From somewhere in the darkness and confusion that were the missing three years of Andy's life there was a flash of remembrance. A cracking of that blank gray wall that separated what was her most recent memory prior to her waking up in the field hospital. The gulf between memory of being an actively deployed soldier in Afghanistan during the summer of 2007 to being told by one of the medical personnel in the hospital in Germany that it was, in fact, 2010 and she had been badly injured in combat during her second deployment to the Middle-East. She knew, without question, that at some point during that missing time she had learned to know when people were being less than truthful with her. She had a strong intuition that this skill had been born of necessity during her time at Runway and she had learned it as a survival skill while under the tutelage of Miranda Priestly as her second assistant. This woman, Lucrezia, was being less than truthful. She was nervous and what she was saying was shaded with deception. Being less than fully mobile without her artificial limbs, Andy decided that she needed to play the hand she'd been dealt carefully. She forced herself to smile. “I'm sure Scruggs could use a few days to himself after babysitting me for as long as he has been,” she said, her tone falsely upbeat. “Any word on when Lieutenant DeSaix will be back from the States? Last I heard it was going to be in the next couple of days.”
“Yes,” the woman smiled. “I believe that is the case.”
Lie! Andy's mind screamed, knowing full well that DeSaix wouldn't be returning to Italy. Dread grew in her belly. Something was very wrong here and at the moment she wasn't in a position to do a whole lot about it. She nodded. “You know,” she offered, faking a yawn, “I am worn down. I think I'll try to sleep some more.” She glance to the woman, willing her to believe that she was on-board with whatever it was that was going on here. “By the way,” she asked casually, “where is my arm and my leg? I'll need them if I should wake and need to go to the bathroom or anything.”
The woman, Lucrezia she had called herself, looked positively uncomfortable, but tried to hide that fact. “They are...,” she paused for a moment as if searching for the words. “...being looked at? For damage from when you fell? They will be returned soon. If you require help call for me and I will come.”
Andy continued to smile as if all was right in the world. “Okay, I'll grab some more shut-eye,” she said, laying back down and using her one arm to arrange the sheet over her. She then closed her eyes.
She strained to listen for the woman Lucrezia leaving the room and when she heard the door close she started carefully counting off the seconds. She had decided on five minutes as a safe time frame. Long enough for Lucrezia to be comfortable that she was not going to be called back into the room and go start doing something else. Then Andy could get active trying to figure out just what the hell was going on here.
*****
Samantha Potts was presently the youngest Editor-in-Chief in the Elias Clark publishing empire. At twenty-seven she was in charge of the newest Elias Clark publication, Teen Runway. There had been some nastiness when Teen Runway was launched a little less than a year ago. It was only a few weeks after Paris Fashion Week and a few days before the first issue was due to go to press a smiling Irv Ravits came into her office and told her that Fashionable Teen, the name the magazine had been conceived under and had until that moment been planning to launch under was to become Teen Runway prior to the release of the first issue. It was evident from the rumors circulating through the halls of Elias Clark that the name change was an attack by the CEO on the Editor-in-Chief of the original Runway. Everyone in the company knew that something had happened between them in Paris, but no one knew what it was. Everyone also knew that it had generated bad blood between Mr. Ravitz and Miranda Priestly.
Samantha was a huge fan of both Runway and the career of one Miranda Priestly. She consciously modeled herself on the example set by the larger than life white-haired Icon. So when the orders came down she did the only thing she could think of doing. She tried to handle it like she believed Miranda would have. She decided that if the name change upset the Dragon Lady then that was the Dragon Lady's problem. She dug her heels in, changed the name everywhere it needed to be changed, made sure to the best of her ability that everything down to the last punctuation mark in the premier issue was perfect and launched the magazine. Miranda Priestly, her idol, had not spoken a word to her since. It wasn't as if they had spoken before, they hadn't, but Samantha was concerned that she had made a formidable enemy in the Editor-in-Chief of Runway.
She was sitting at her desk early on a Monday morning when her assistant buzzed her. “Sam? I have Miranda Priestly for you on line one.”
It was with both surprise and trepidation the Editor-in-Chief of Teen Runway picked up the phone. “Ms Priestly,” she said, holding her breath, “What can I do for you?”
“Samantha,” the cool voice on the other end of the phone said. “I have a proposal for a joint endeavor for our publications. Might I suggest we meet for lunch to discuss it?”
*****
Miranda had suggested Caviar Russe, a five star Manhattan eatery that Samantha Potts was not influential enough yet to get a reservation at without several weeks’ notice. Samantha entered the restaurant ten minutes prior to being due and found Miranda already seated at their reserved table. The Icon, whom she had modeled her career after, rose cordially from her seat and greeted her. The greeting was not at all what the new Editor had expected. Conversation was light until orders were placed and their drinks and salads had arrived. Miranda then brought the conversation around to her purpose.
Miranda lifted her fork and speared a piece of tomato from the salad before her. “Samantha,” she said genially. “I have watched, with some interest, your development of Teen Runway and I believe that you have a bright future. I asked you here today because I would like to propose that our magazines work together to influence fashion to take another look at a particular style. One that, in my opinion, might be ready to make a comeback.”
Samantha cocked her head, intrigued. A collaboration between her magazine and Runway, the unquestioned powerhouse in the industry even beating out Vogue's numbers consistently month after month, could only be beneficial to her fledgling publication. “I'd love to work with you Miranda,' she said excitedly. “What is it you have in mind?”
Miranda drew a folder from a portfolio she had brought with her and handed it to the other Editor-in-Chief.
Samantha accepted the folder and opened it to look at its contents. She was quite surprised to discover the photographs inside were a collection of images from when “Goth” had made it's two abortive assaults on fashion, first in the late 1970's and then again in 2004. Both times after relatively short runs the look had failed to catch on with the general public and then had been relegated back to the sub-culture that embraced Goth as a lifestyle. Before speaking, Samantha looked through the pictures again, aware that Miranda was watching her. She had the feeling that she was being tested, and that this was not some kind of prank the older woman was playing on her. The lines of each of the couture pictured were flowing. The styles harkened back to the Victorian and the look on all the models shied away from the more extreme hard-lined punk elements that sometimes were included in Goth fashion. She looked up across the table. “I can see how a collaboration between our magazines could work,” she offered tentatively, “especially influencing my demographic and the younger sectors of your demographic, but I'd be crazy,” she continued, determined to be thorough in her dealings with the legend sitting across from her, “if I didn't point out that this style has been tried twice and both times it has been a non-starter commercially in main stream fashion.”
Miranda listened attentively and nodded. “Yes”, she answered, seeming pleased at the younger woman's insight and the breath of her knowledge. “I have given this subject considerable thought of late and I believe that if we were to work together we could bring Goth into the mainstream while influencing the style to trend towards the more romantic aspects of the look. Cull the more extreme elements of the fashion aesthetic, making it more palatable to a main stream audience. ”
Samantha nodded, she could easily imagine how it could be done. Articles tag teaming the style in their two magazines over coming months. Photo-spreads of designers who had been encouraged to re-conceptualize the couture. It would need to be carefully done, but if she were to be on board and with Runway leading the charge, there simply wasn't any downside for Teen Runway. As far as personal career growth went, well, working closely on a joint project with an absolute legend like Miranda Priestly would only increase her status in both the eyes of her staff and her competition. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and speed dialed her assistant. “Lisa,” she said, rapid fire, into the device, “have Jackie's assistant pull everything we have on Goth. I want the whole creative team in my office when I return from lunch. We're changing direction for the December and January issues. Get designers Max Azia and Elie Tahari in for meetings as soon as possible, they'll need a couple of weeks to have something for us to present. Get in touch with Demi Lovato's and Selena Gomez's people. They both have expressed interest in appearing in photo spreads. Arrange meetings with their managers for sometime next week. Tell them we can get Demi and Selena into the magazine before the New Year if they're willing to wear the fashions we are going to be presenting. And tell our creative team that I want them thinking proactively about the fashion shows early next year when I get there for the meeting. This is going to be a full on push coordinated with Miranda and Runway.” She snapped her phone shut and looked to the Devil in Heels seated across from her only to receive a smile from the woman.
*****
In a daze Richard Sachs strolled slowly up a New York City street idly window shopping as he went. His job in the city was finished. Serena has been messengered the huge settlement check from the accounting firm along with final paperwork from Elias-Clarke. Her signature on the documents would end the sexual harassment suit. At lunch today he had gone over the papers with her and she had signed off on the settlement. Serena had told him that it was her intention that all of the settlement money be donated to charity. She then had laughingly told him of the telephone call she had received that morning from Alice McCann, the Board member who had negotiated the Elias-Clarke side of the settlement with them. As they were ordering lunch, she laughingly related that her most important demand of Elias-Clark was already being met. Irv Ravits was at that moment in a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief and senior staff of the magazine he was now the CEO of. To be fair to the Board of Directors, they had moved Irv to the only other Elias-Clarke publication that was profitable each and every month, even if it's circulation was only a third of that of Runway's. Fairy Tale Adventures was Elias-Clarke's children's magazine and Alice had confided to Serena that she believed Irv's temperament far better suited to it's environs rather than to trying to control a creative genius like Miranda Priestly. Miranda was now free, within certain budget limitations, to steer Runway as she chose without his constant interference.
Richard had refused to accept any of the settlement even though his finances were less than adequate to stay in New York any longer. He needed to return to Cincinnati and use what monies he had left to rent an apartment so he would have someplace to live when he removed his possessions from his house of twenty-eight years. Once he had filed for divorce he could then return to his job from his leave of absence he was on. He'd at least have a wage to keep mind and body together while he tried to figure out what came next.
Richard sighed. Returning to Cincinnati was the last thing he wanted to do. The last several days had been as close to perfect as he could imagine. Serena was....amazing. It didn't matter what they were doing together, it was as if he were young again. They had laughed all through a shopping expedition to a local grocery early Sunday afternoon and upon their return to Selena's apartment they made love on the kitchen floor before the groceries had been put away. Serena had taught him a whole new way to enjoy the partially melted ice cream they had purchased and failed to immediately place in the freezer.
His conundrum was that Serena was obviously wealthy and he was not. She had a job and a life here in New York. Even if he were lucky, it would likely take him months to find one in the present economy, and that was if he could even find something that was available that he was qualified for. Apartments and daily living were expensive in New York City and after figuring out the finances involved in giving his soon to be ex-wife the house and half of the remaining financial assets they had amassed over their thirty year marriage, it was going to leave his bank account just on the positive side of empty. It was a knotty problem that he was unsure of what to do about. He and Serena were supposed to dine together tonight and the only thing he could think of as the right thing to do was to find a way to tell the best thing that had happened to him in many a year goodbye.
*****
Miranda sat in her office, sipping a piping hot latte and waiting for the call she had instructed Amelia to place to the White House. In a few moments the intercom buzzed and Amelia said “Miranda? I have the First Lady for you.” Miranda picked up phone. “Michelle, I hope that this call finds you and your family well?”
“Miranda,” The First Lady answered, “A unexpected but very pleasant surprise to hear from you. Yes Barack and the girls are well. What can I do for you today?”
“Michelle, I don't suppose that you would have any reason to know it,” the white haired icon said into the telephone, “but the woman officer that was sent to Italy in command of Andrea's detail was recalled to the States and forced to resign her commission in the Military.”
Michelle Obama bit down on the inside of her lip. She owed the woman on the other end of the phone. Owed her for continuing advice about fashion and coaxing designers that would suit the look Michelle wanted to project into contacting the First Lady's staff in order to create fashions for her. More recently Michelle had called on their fledgling friendship to ask Miranda to stay in the States and not to pursue her beloved Andrea to Italy so that Andrea could complete the mission the United States Government had sent her on. At the time Michelle had told Miranda that if she were in Miranda's position, knowing that her Andrea was without memory of her last three years and had been recently badly injured that she, Michelle, would have stayed in the U.S. and allowed Andrea to do as her nation was demanding. Even knowing that that there would be no one familiar with Andrea traveling with her. On reflection, the First Lady now wondered if that would have indeed been her chosen course of action. She sighed into the telephone receiver. “Have the Army assigned another officer to Andrea's detail?” She asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” Miranda answered tightly. “I am assured by the woman who was in charge of Andrea's detail that the Corporal left in charge can be trusted to take care of Andrea. The ex-Lieutenant, DeSaix by name, trusts him fully, so I am ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“You are in touch with her?” Michelle asked, surprised. She suddenly had a sinking feeling that this wasn't Miranda her friend on the other end of the phone, but the Miranda Priestly that ruled Runway Magazine and the fashion world with an iron fist in a velvet glove.
“Yes,” Miranda answered smoothly. “She's here in New York and has agreed to pose for a shoot of Mia Mia pants suits for an upcoming issue. You, by the way, would look marvelous in a number of them. Perhaps a situation where a skirt or bare arms would be inappropriate - say a visit to some of the Arab states or Muslim countries. On a less pleasant note, Michelle,” Miranda continued. “It's a fascinating coincidence that I intend to chastise your husband for his lack of movement on one of his campaign promises in the letter from the editor in the issue DeSaix's photo-spread will appear in. But I don't suppose that your husband or his campaign staff will be particularly worried about my ramblings in a fashion magazine. It's not like I'm Fox News or MSNBC.”
“It's that stupid Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy isn't it?” Michelle grated, cursing internally. She had approached Barack about it at dinner one evening just after convincing Miranda not to interfere with the mission to Italy. He had again told her that it was his intention to fix it just as soon as his advisers thought they had a chance to push such legislation through congress successfully, but with the mid-term elections almost upon them and Republican candidates polling well ahead of their Democrat opponents nationally, this was not the time. He needed to prioritize his battles, fighting the ones he could win. The greatest good for the greatest number, he had said. And at the moment, that meant focusing on the health care debate. Michelle knew that Miranda's threat was not potent for the mid-term elections. By the time she could get to print the election would be over. But her criticism could be the first salvo of criticism aimed at her husband in the 2012 re-election efforts which would begin hard on the heels of the 2010 elections ending. Miranda would be talking directly to a large swath of women, and women represented roughly fifty-two percent of the population. She would also be speaking to and for a large number of the gay community. The combination of potential democratic votes affected would likely give those managing Barack's reelection campaign nightmares. “What can I do to put things right, Miranda?” she asked, tacitly acknowledging both the threat and her debt to the powerful woman on the other end of the phone.
“Use your influence. I want Meriwether DeSaix, ex_Lieutenant, late of the 161st MP's offered a job in Federal Law enforcement; specifically, a position that will have her stationed in the New York Metropolitan area. She is supremely qualified and should not have felt it necessary to resign her commission in the military over something that in no way affected her ability to do her job. Certainly not after years of sterling service without so much as a single reprimand in her file.”
Michelle listened and then was silent for a moment. Miranda wasn't insisting that her Andrea be brought home immediately. Wasn't even complaining that the broken woman Miranda loved was now being escorted only by one low ranking soldier. No, she was advocating for an officer of the United States Military whose career had gotten ground up against a stupid and outdated policy. Michelle couldn't do much about what went on inside the Military without getting her husband involved and that she wouldn't do. She drew the line at attempting to direct what Barack did as Commander-in-Chief. But this? All Miranda was really requiring of her would likely only take a morning of her and her staff's time networking contacts she had made since being in the White House. “You say that she has a good service record?” She asked. Listening to the reply she asked another question. “Does she have any particular skill set?” Again after a moment listening for a response. “Fugitive retrieval? Interesting...” Michelle said, searching the desk she sat at frantically for a pen and paper. “And you say that she is attractive enough that you intend to use her as a model in one of your fashion photo-spreads?” The final answer sealed the deal in Michelle's mind. She knew who to call and just what to say. “Give me a few, days Miranda,” she concluded the conversation. “I think I can help the young woman out.”
*****
Andy finished counting off five minutes and then with some difficulty slithered across the large bed and, as silently as she could, lowered herself onto the floor. She was not skilled in getting around without her prosthetics. She had missed the training sessions that dealt with such locomotion when she went AWOL (Absent With Out Leave) from the VA (Veterans Administration) hospital in Washington D.C. Using her one arm and leg she managed to reach the door to the room. It was a few moments of struggling to turn herself and arrange her body in a sitting position with her back against the wall beside the door. She carefully pushed herself up using the wall as support and balancing on her single leg. Reaching out she tested the door knob and found out it was just as she had feared. The door was locked. She fell trying to get back down to the floor but twisting her torso in desperation managed to catch herself with her hand. She lay on the ground breathing hard and listening for footsteps announcing that Lucrezia had heard her fall to the floor. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Andy then pulled and pushed herself across the floor to the arched doorway leading to what she assumed was a balcony. The French doors that lead outside were a mosaic of etched glass and delicate wood filigree as was the area immediately surrounding the doorway. The distance between solid wall and the handles of the doors precluded any possibility of reaching them while using the wall for support. Andy decided from her vantage point on the floor that trusting her weight against the fragile looking glass and wood structure would be a last resort. She then started the long journey back to the bed, her mind turning on what she had discovered all the while she struggled back up onto the mattress and rearranged the covers. There really wasn't any other way she could see to read her situation. She was a prisoner.
*****
Laura Fleury had fought her way up through the cut-throat executive ranks of the A&E Network finally becoming an Executive Producer. Her recent successes included several reality crime-oriented TV shows, such as The First 48, which followed police detectives during the first forty-eight hours of homicide investigations and Dog, The Bounty Hunter, which followed a family of bounty hunters seeking out and capturing bail jumpers. She sat at her desk musing over a thorny problem. Her newest effort, just one season old, was a struggling show that followed U.S. Marshals engaged in a fugitive task force. Their efforts focused on the apprehension of wanted felons. Even in the endless climb over the bodies of those in front of her, competition within the executive culture of the A&E Network, it was agreed from its inception that Manhunter: Fugitive Task Force was a promising concept with both action and suspense. In translation to the visual media of television, however, the formula lacked something. The show was losing market share because it was losing audience. It had been her baby and she had vigorously gone to bat for its creation. Now those desirous to replace her in her position at the network were using the show's struggles against her. Her professional behind was on the line because of it. The phone on her desk buzzed and her executive assistant's voice came over the speaker, “Laura, John Clark, the Director of the U.S. Marshal Service is on line one for you. He says he has something you'll be interested in...”
Laura knew that the man on the other end of the phone had a vested interest in the show's existence. There had been a fair amount of collusion between the two of them during the series' initial development. The show brought the Marshals Service to the public's attention and being more visible publicly translated into greater ease getting the department's budget needs met during the fiscal debates in Congress. She picked up her phone, answering the call, “Director Clark, what a pleasure to hear from you! she said, hoping against hope that maybe the man did have something that might add the magic missing element to the show. The man on the other end of the line spoke excitedly for several moments as she felt her own excitement level rise. When he went silent she asked one simple question. “When can I meet her?”
Off the phone she called her assistant into the office. “Sophie,” she said, “We're going into top secret mode on the Manhunter program. Nothing, and I mean Nothing of what I am about to tell you can leak to any of the other network executives. Director Clark just gave us an early Christmas gift and it may just be enough to save the show. I need you to set up a discreet meeting with a woman named Meriwether DeSaix. You can find her contact information by contacting Miranda Priestly's office at Runway magazine. By the time the show starts filming its second season she will be a Marshal assigned to the fugitive task force we're following. She is beautiful enough that she's going to be featured in Runway magazine and her superiors in the Military gave her the nickname “the Bloodhound” because she never failed to bring back a fugitive she was sent after.”
Sophie stood there writing notes. “If she was so good in the Military, why the move to the Marshal's Service?” She asked, eye still focused on her pad.
Laura smiled an anticipatory shark’s smile. “With the way the political winds are blowing, that's the best part. She's gay and was forced to resign her commission because the Army found out. Director Clark told me that she was targeted by someone high up in government and the whole thing is about to blow up in the press. She doesn't know it yet but she's about to be famous and the new darling of the Gay Rights movement. I want her under contract for the show before that happens. We're going to make her a sympathetic hero and bring a whole new demographic of viewership of the show. Director Clark knows how good this will make the Marshal's Service look and he's on-board all the way. He'll see to it that our offer of being on the show is very attractive to her.” She turned in her seat, looking out her office window. “Set the meeting for as soon as possible. I'm anxious to meet the network's new star.”
The executive assistant finished scratching on her pad then turned smartly on her heels and strode back to her desk to make the necessary calls. “On it, Boss.” she called out over her shoulder.
*****
Meriwether DeSaix stretched luxuriously in the comfortable bed. She had always had a good internal clock and years in the Army had honed it to where she simply knew, within a few minutes, what time of day it was. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so late into the morning. She smiled into the empty room. As it was Monday morning and a work day, Emily had, of course, gone to her job at Runway as the sun rose. The British woman was receiving a new level of attention and respect from the formidable Miranda Priestly and was blossoming under the scrutiny as an orchid does under proper light and humidity.
As far as spending time in bed was concerned Meriwether hadn't in her memory spent as much time in bed as she had since she and Emily had returned to Emily's apartment Friday afternoon. She rose and covered herself with the rumpled sheet. She had no clothes other than the one's she'd worn on Friday, as her duffel bag containing her scant civilian possessions was still in a locker at the train station. Clothing had definitely been optional for the majority of the weekend and what little time had not been spent naked she had borrowed a long tee shirt from Emily. Later she would go forth and retrieve her bag and then settle into what she dearly hoped would become a daily domestic routine of living in Emily's company.
Her cell phone rang, the ring tone Roy Orbison's song Pretty Woman announcing that it was Emily calling. The ring tone had been set to the phone's memory just last night as a joke between them. Meriwether lazily reached out and answered, “Morning Red.”
Emily, on the other end of the call, couldn't help smiling at the endearment, but remembering the reason she called took up a professional tone. “Meriwether, I have received a call from the assistant of an Executive Producer named Laura Fleury at the Arts & Entertainment Network. She is asking for your contact information. Ms. Fleury apparently wishes to speak to you about appearing on one of their programs. May I give her your phone number?”
“An offer to be on a T.V. Show? Really?” DeSaix laughed. She listened to the silence on the other end of the line for a moment and stopped laughing as she realized that Emily was completely serious. “This isn't a joke is it?” she asked.
“No,” Emily answered. “Why on earth would I joke about such a wonderful opportunity?”
“Why would anybody want me on a T.V. Show? I'm no actress.” DeSaix said and then had a thought. “Miranda did this didn't she?” the ex-soldier asked.
“Well, I know that she made some calls on your behalf, but I don't believe any of them were to a television network,” Emily answered, now nervously playing with the telephone cord attached to the receiver. “Still,” she temporized, “it couldn't hurt to talk to the network, could it?”
DeSaix laughed. She knew Emily was concerned that she would return home to Louisiana making any kind of ongoing relationship between them extremely difficult at best. What Emily didn't understand was that other than the local cuisine and certain places in New Orleans there wasn't a whole lot about her native state that the Creole woman missed. “You're worried about me leaving, aren’t you Red?” She teased.
The stony silence on the other end of the phone was positively deafening.
Even with their short time together DeSaix could read Emily like no one else. She could see the pursed lips in an unconscious approximation of what Miranda Priestly would look like when annoyed. The woman from Louisiana took pity on the redhead from London on the other end of the call. “You don't need to worry about that Red,” she offered lightly. “I'll get a job in retail or as a bouncer at some bar before I leave you. Over the weekend you said you wanted this, wanted us. Now you're stuck with me. So go ahead and give 'em my phone number. Like you said, can't hurt to find out what it is they want.”
“Right,” Emily answered. “Well then...” she said stiffly. “...Love you.” she almost whispered the last two words.
The simple words staggered DeSaix, but her response flowed passed her lips without conscious thought or any effort at all on her part. “Love you too, Red. Come home soon.”
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni sauntered into her villa followed by several of the groundskeepers in her employ. Each man carried numerous packages, the results of the famous model's shopping expedition. She was immensely pleased with the progress she had made today. She had her Andy in residence and had managed to acquire quite a few fashionable, if casual clothes for her 'guest'. Nothing fancy, as far as things to wear, were required yet. It would likely be a month or more before Bella would allow Andy out of the villa. Bella wanted to be sure that Andy understood that Bella was her home now. That Bella was going to take care of her, provide all good things, satisfy every need. Andy would soon see that she would be the center of Bella's universe. And for such devotion and sacrifice, Andy would come to love Bella.
She stopped and spoke to her assistant Lucrezia who sat in the Library working on her computer answering her employer’s electronic correspondence. “So, is my Andy awake?” she asked.
Lucrezia stopped typing a response to a fan of the super-model. “She woke for a brief time. I spoke with her. She asked for her limbs to be returned to her.”
“And you said?” Bella asked pointedly.
“I said as you told me to say, Bella. That the limbs were being inspected for damage after she fainted at the luncheon,” the assistant replied sullenly.
“I don't know what you're upset about Lucrezia,” Bella said testily. “Andy is here as I said she would be. She will soon not want to be anywhere else!”
Lucrezia looked her employer in the eye. “Bella, you have taken her without her consent! Brought her miles from Rome! She has already asked for the soldier who is supposed to accompany her! What if you are wrong?! What if she values her freedom more than what it is you offer her?! If she should go to the authorities, you ...we...are guilty of kidnapping!”
“If you do not have the stomach to do as I ask, Lucrezia, you know where the door is,” the Diva said coldly. “I'm sure that someone would hire you, even after they call me for a reference.”
Lucrezia shook her head, her voice cracking and tears threatening. “I have served you for years, Bella. I'll not leave you now. Even if I don't agree with the course you've chosen. You are everything to me!” She replied.
“Good,” Bella said, her voice still cold. “You are a good assistant. It would be a shame to lose you.” She glanced at the woman, who sat stiffly before her laptop computer and Bella's demeanor softened a bit. “I want you with me Lucrezia. I value your service. But I will have this. Both for myself and for il mio picclo amore.” She reached up and caressed the locket she always wore at her throat when not modeling.
Lucrezia nodded her acceptance. “If she is not awake now, I would be very much surprised,” she offered cautiously.
Bella nodded a satisfied nod. “I will go and welcome Mia Andy to her new home,” she said moving off in the direction of the master bedroom.
*****
Richard Sachs had brought his best case of why it made sense for him to go back to Cincinnati and leave New York behind. He had crafted his words carefully as if he were speaking to a jury. He had all of his appeals in order. His logic was sound and he had his ducks in a row. Serena was a beautiful, vibrant, wealthy young woman who could win any partner she might desire, He, on the other hand was a nearly washed up, long-in-the-tooth, fifty-something attorney without much in the way of prospects or chance of financial gain. He sadly admitted that when the divorce was through he'd likely have to work into his mid-seventies before he could consider retirement just to support himself.
Serena was having none of it. She listened to his words. And then she cheated outrageously by crying. Richard had never been any good when any woman in his life had cried. And Serena seemed to be a pro at tears. She pleaded her case, passionately and with conviction, then her fiery Brazilian temperament took over as she continued explaining her position on the matter under discussion, clearly illustrating her points with exclamatory hand gestures. All the things he's said about himself, she insisted, were patently untrue. He was a sexy man of vast experience and a caring and considerate lover. Money was of no importance in matters of the heart and, if he wished it, she would abdicate her trust fund back to her brothers and sisters. That she would support him on her salary from Runway while he searched for employment. If he chose to go back to Cincinnati then she would give Miranda her notice first thing the morning and contact her realtor about getting her a place there to live. She made it quite clear that if she did not travel with him, she would certainly follow close on his heels. “As I told your ex, Richard Sachs, you are mine now and now that I have finally found the man of my dreams, I’ll fight to keep him.” she stated emphatically.
*****
Laura Fleury sat across her desk from the woman she hoped would save a failing television show and her flagging career. With what she knew of the woman from what the Director of the Marshals Service had told her on the telephone and sent over via fax, she certainly liked what she saw. The woman across from her was beautiful even without make-up. Exotic looking and butch. Laura could just count the lesbians lining up to watch the show if she could convince this woman to become a part of it. Then, there would be the curious audience that would come to the show after the story broke in the press about how DeSaix had been hounded from the Army by someone high up in government. Laura didn't know the details of that yet, but she knew from the Director of the Marshal Service that she needed the woman under contract quickly because the story was going to get out very soon and once that happened it couldn't be kept from the news outlets. Laura went into her quick 'elevator' pitch offer asking DeSaix to come try her hand at becoming the next reality T.V. Star.
Watching the woman on the other side of the desk, Laura was very aware that she was being sized up. “Begging your pardon, Ma'am,” DeSaix said politely in response to the offer. “I'm a bit confused. I haven't even applied to the Marshal's Service, much less gotten a job with them, so I'm not quite clear on why you're asking me to be on a T.V. Show about being a member of a fugitive task force.”
The Network Executive across from her smiled. “The Director of the Marshals Service himself brought you to my attention Meriwether,... may I call you Meriwether?” The woman asked. “He is already in possession of your military records regarding your service to your country as a Military Policeman...errr ...Policeperson. When I spoke with him on the telephone he said clearly that you were exactly the caliber of individual that his department wanted. If you want a job with the Marshals Service, it's yours. The paperwork confirming it is just a formality. If you're willing to be on the show, I can guarantee you'll be stationed right here in Manhattan, immediately joining the existing fugitive task force. You'll draw not only your Marshal's salary, but a generous stipend from the Network as well.”
DeSaix thought for a long minute. “You know, growing up in Louisiana, my Mama used to tell me that if something sounded too good to be true it usually was,” she said and then looked up, her eyes boring into the woman seated across from her. “I'm good at what I do because I see things that other people miss. What I see in you is you want something from me. You want it pretty damn bad too. I'll be honest with you; I want to stay here in New York. Got something important going on here. But I won't play the fool for anyone. Lay your cards on the table. Tell me exactly what it is that you want from me and I'll give you a straight yes or no. If I agree to what it is you want, you'll find I'm loyal. You'll be able to count on me all the way down to the ground.”
Laura nodded. “The show is in trouble. It lacks excitement. It doesn't have enough sizzle to sell it to the audience. I think you can be that sizzle.”
DeSaix shook her head. “You've got the wrong girl. I wouldn't do anything that would add 'sizzle' in that kind of situation. Going cowboy when working inside a squad gets people killed. I'm a team player inside a squad. My squad-mates can count on me to do it by the numbers, just as I count on them to do the same."
Laura wondered briefly just how far to go in her explanation. She decided to keep her ace up her sleeve and not mention the fact that a story centering around DeSaix would be breaking in the news services soon “Meriwether, I know why you resigned from the Army. Having an extremely capable gay woman on the show would be a strong step in the direction of adding the interest that would bring a larger audience.”
“What would my sexuality have to do with being on a T.V. show about chasing runners?” DeSaix asked pointedly, her demeanor indicating she didn't particularly like the idea.
“Meriwether, you haven't been watching T.V. for a while,” the woman from the world of television answered soothingly. “Lesbians are very in. You can be an icon for young gay women everywhere. A positive role model. Someone they will strive to be like. They will follow you into the military, into federal service. You can be an agent of change. Also, the fact that you are as attractive as you are - single, young gay women will flock to the show with dreams of dating you.”
Meriwether shook her head. “I don't think this is gonna work... For one thing, I'm not single.”
Laura smiled wickedly. “We'll that's the great thing about T.V., she replied. “The audience doesn't know any more than we choose to tell them...
*****
Bella came to Andy's bedside and sat on the edge of the bed. She spoke softly to the apparently sleeping woman. “Mia Andy,” she said, “finally I have brought you home.”
Andy opened her eyes and looked at the woman she had thought had been kind and caring when they had talked together at the many different events over the course of the last several days. “May I please have my arm and my leg?” She asked.
Bella pouted prettily. “Must you have those awful ugly things?” she responded. “I had them taken so new ones could be fitted for you. Ones that look like flesh and bone. It will take a few days for them to arrive, but the best makers of such things in all Italy are building them for you even now!”
Andy looked at Bella incredulously. “Bella,” she asked. “What am I supposed to do in the mean time? Without my arm and leg I can't get around. Unless you happen to have a wheelchair handy.”
Bella pursed her lips and looked discontent. Then she smiled wickedly. “I could keep you here in my bed,” she declared. “I could bring you breakfast and lunch and dinner and keep you company here. Our little island from the world, just as Trinidad was an island in time for us. A few precious days that we spent getting to know each other. I was a fool then. When my photo shoot was over I thought you just another girl. One that I could walk away from and forget as I have all the others. But you, you're different Mia Andy. I cannot forget you. I need you here with me.”
Andy nodded. “Well,” she said softly, keeping her tone as reasonable as she could manage. “We can talk about that. But first I need my arm and my leg back. If you know anything about me then you'll know that there are things I'm going to want to do, need to do, for myself.”
Bella sighed an exasperated sigh. “Oh, very well,” she repined. “I’ll have them brought to you.. I will have the clothing I purchased for you today brought in as well and you can dress. It is lovely out on the piazza overlooking the sea tonight. We shall have a candle light dinner there and watch the sunrise together.” She rose prancingly from the bed. “We will have to see if you are still as good a dancer as I remember,” she said absently then she turned a smoking hot look on Andy where she lay. “Of course most of our tangos were not on the dance floor and certainly not for the eyes of others.”
“Tell me a little about our time on Trinidad,” Andy asked moving to sit up. Bella was right there, hands on, helping her upright.
“It was April of 2008,” Bella said dreamily. “We met walking on a beach near a cove where I was doing a shoot for Elle. You had taken a few days off after being on the island for a shoot with Runway. We talked, we laughed, and you came back to the cove and watched me work. We had dinner together that night...Do you remember any of this?” she asked gently.
Andy shook her head no and Bella nodded. “Do not fret about it Mia Andy,” she offered softly. “We will make new memories together,” and with a dramatic flourish Bella swept from the room.
Andy watched her go. She was even more disquiet about her situation now that she had spoken to Bella. Thing here were not as they seemed. She focused her thoughts on her time at Runway. When she had returned there after being wounded she had searched through anything she could find having to do with her time there. One of the things she had gotten access to through Emily's good offices where her employment records. She knew for a fact that she had not gone to work for Runway magazine until late May of 2008.
Installment: #32
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 likely Two or three more installments the length of this one! (Someone just shoot me please!) I know where the story ends! Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged to feed my contrary muse's ego so the little bastard will keep whispering in my ear the directions for getting us there!
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: 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 thanked God for the hundredth time that Miranda's regular driver, Roy, was not the one chauffeuring her and DeSaix. The second time she kissed DeSaix all rational thought and self control fled. Even though in the back of an Elias-Clarke town-car there was just no stopping what was happening. Need and desire superseded any sense of decorum. Lips crushed together as two bodies tried to inhabit the same physical space. Hands roamed, pulled, stroked and caressed. One moment they were traveling back to Emily's apartment and the next they were naked among a scattering of clothing on the floor not far inside her apartment door. Their lovemaking was urgent and Emily's first orgasm was within moments of falling to the floor in DeSaix's arms.
Nothing in Emily's life had prepared her for the weekend that followed. Being with someone had never felt so natural, so right. Emily had never felt so complete. Saturday morning they had sat naked in bed leisurely drinking tea and involved in a deep discussion about the use and meaning of color as expression in abstract paintings both were familiar with. Where Emily's previous partners would have either been unable to, uninterested in or even made her feel an effete intellectual, Meriwether met her idea for idea. She didn't always think Emily right or agree with her, but she listened respectfully and thought about what Emily had to say. The tension of them being two very different individuals with vastly different life experiences remained and made their burgeoning romance all the better for its presence. In order to continue the discussion and also to introduce Meriwether to some artists she had not had the pleasure of seeing before, a date to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art was quickly decided on for Wednesday evening if Emily could manage to slip away from work early enough.
Sunday afternoon found Emily surprising herself as she eased into the role of caretaker, running a hot bath for a depressed Meriwether and then coaxing her into it; followed by a long massage of the woman's tense shoulders and neck. As her fingers struggled with hard and knotted muscles, she mused that the transition into the role she was engaged in would have been virtually unthinkable in the past. She never had any interest in soothing any of her previous bed partners. She simply didn't care that much about them as people, nor, she firmly believed, did they about her. But with this magnificently complex and honest woman relaxing beneath her ministrations everything was different. Meriwether's comfort and mood and everything else about the woman were important to her.
Emily knew that she was peripherally the cause of Meriwether's despondency. She had made the mistake earlier in the morning of bringing the outside world into their cocoon in the form of the Sunday Edition of The New York Times. She had picked it up when the pair had ventured out to get some food to go into Emily's virtually empty refrigerator. When Emily had lost herself in the Style section Meriwether's mood had suddenly gone quiet and Emily could tell the other woman had become upset. Emily had used her own experience of what worked for her when upset and implemented a hot bath and several glasses wine. As Meriwether soaked in the tub and Emily went to refill their wine glasses she glanced at the section of the paper Meriwether had been reading. Seven soldiers from Fort Mead in Maryland had been killed in an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) attack in Iraq. More had been injured. Emily knew that Meriwether couldn't possibly know if she knew the dead and injured or not, those involved weren't named in the story as their relatives had yet to be notified. It was simply that they, like Meriwether were soldiers, there doing their duty and they had died. Emily wondered how many times her Meri had faced death and she found herself saying a small prayer of thanks and one for the dead and injured as she carried the refilled wine glasses back into the bathroom.
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni stood impatiently over Andy's unconscious form lying prone on Bella's bed. The Italian model's eyes devoured the vision lying before her. The girl had been stripped out of that ridiculous and unflattering uniform she was forced to wear. Following her instructions two of Bella's maids had undressed the unconscious woman after one of the burlier of the groundskeepers in Bella's employ had carried Andy's limp form from Bella's car. Bella was sorely tempted to taste the beautiful nude woman before her. Caress and lick and suck, as she had dreamed of doing ever since that day when she learned of the events that had transpired in the Kandahar Valley and the terrible price Andy had paid defending Bella's countrymen and women. She had feared that the scars the woman bore would repulse her. She was surprised to find that, without the artificial arm and leg, the amputation sites were smooth, tightly stretched skin. The scars that the hero of all Italy did carry were numerous, but scattered over one side of her body. On consideration they added character to the sleeping woman's beauty. A map of her heroism, as it were, forever imprinted on her flesh.
The beautiful dark haired diva hungered to touch and caress the prone form lying senseless before her, but that wouldn't do. Bella had spent considerable time fantasizing about the first time she and Andy would make love. Always in those fantasies Andy was transported to the throes of ecstasy by Bella's lovemaking skills and moaned and shouted out Bella's name as she reached her release. With Andy under the influence of the drug that Bella had slipped her there was no way that Andy would even feel anything the Italian model did, so for the moment Bella was frustrated in her desires. This being the case, there was little reason for Bella to remain at Andy's side. She would entertain herself by going shopping and buying a wardrobe for her Andy to wear. Calling her assistant she informed the woman of her plans. “Have the Maid's redress Mia Andy in the underthings she arrived in. Then keep an eye on out sleeping 'guest'. If she wakes, make her welcome, but do not allow her to leave the bedroom until I return.”
*****
Scruggs, dressed as a civilian for the first time in his recent memory, stood in the Navona Plaza awaiting the arrival of the Italian Prime-minister’s wife. The people at the embassy had done well for him as far as camouflage went. Other than his massive size, he fit right in with the other tourists milling about.
He used the few moments before the Prime Minister’s wife arrived to go over what he knew. The one thing Scruggs was sure of was that Lieutenant DeSaix saw things that other people didn't see. She had told him clearly that she didn't trust the beautiful Arabella Messalina Giovanni as far as she could throw her. That the woman’s interest in their charge was somehow both ominous and disquieting. One of the last orders she'd given him was to watch out for Corporal Sachs in that regard. DeSaix had also commented to him about the tension she saw between the Italian model and the Prime Minister’s wife. She noted that Ms. Giovanni would attempt to get what she wanted from whatever Italian officials were in charge of whatever event they were at. If she failed to inveigle satisfaction from that quarter she would go to the older woman, who, being the individual acting as Corporal Sachs' official hostess was at most of the events that Corporal Sachs was attending. DeSaix had pointed out to Scruggs that when this happened whatever the beautiful Italian Model wanted would then inevitably be granted by the Prime-Minister's Wife, but not gladly, never gladly. Scruggs dearly wished the L.T. were here now to run this operation. Scruggs knew he wasn't smart by general standards. He had lived a simple rural small town life prior to joining the military after barely making it out of high school. What he knew about himself, however, was that what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in dogged determination. The L.T. left him in charge of Sachs' safety. He was going to find her. When he did he was going to find out if she was where she wanted to be. If not, he was going to see to it she got home safe. That's what you did for squad mates. Nobody got left behind.
Scruggs looked up from his thoughts and the Prime-Minister's wife stood before him looking very frightened. Scruggs nodded a greeting. “I think we both know who took Corporal Sachs. I think you're scared of her. That she maybe has something on you that could hurt you.”
The woman looked away, terrified.
Scruggs voice went soft, but his eyes held his determination. “She never has to know you were involved. I just need a place to start looking. I'm going to find Corporal Sachs. And God help anybody that tries to get in the way of that.”
The older woman nodded. “She has a pleasure villa in Capri. I will give you the address,” she whispered.
*****
Feeling sick, Andy slowly clawed her way toward consciousness. Eyes still closed she tried to assess her situation. She lay on an extremely comfortable bed, under sheets that felt as if warm oil were caressing her skin. Her mind flashed to the Angel's bed, Miranda's bed, and for a fleeting moment she had a certainty that she had slept there at least once and the tactile experience of cloth on skin and sinking into a decadent comfort was much the same as she was feeling now. Groggy and feeling as if she had a huge hangover she discovered that she was unsure of where she was. Her already damaged memory couldn't seem to place how she had come to be where she was or who she might be with. Even when she had gotten so drunk on Grappa with DeSaix and Scruggs earlier during the mission she hadn't had any trouble with her short term memory and she definitely didn't remember drinking enough to black out at the luncheon. She carefully slitted open her eyes, hoping against hope that she might find herself back home in the Angel's bed. Back home with her girls, Cassidy and Caroline. Back home with Miranda. The room she saw was luxurious in the extreme, but it was gaudy in comparison to Miranda's elegantly refined and tastefully decorated bedroom. She began to sit up and realized that both her prosthetic arm and leg had been removed. She glanced to the sides of the bed and then to the foot, all places she would normally place her artificial limbs so they would be easily accessible to her when she woke. Her prostheses were nowhere in sight and their absence severely limited her mobility. She quickly continued her situational inventory realizing that she had been stripped down to her military briefs and undershirt. She used her single arm to push herself up, and, trying not to panic, called out. “Scruggs?!” She said. She waited an eternity that occurred in the confines of but a handful of heartbeats and tried again. “Corporal Scruggs!” she called urgently, “where are you?!” A moment later the door opened and a woman Andy didn't recognize stepped inside.
“Ms. Sachs?” the dark haired woman said gently, her English heavily flavored by a thick Italian accent. “My name is Lucrezia Bianchi. I am Arabella Messalina Giovanni's personal assistant.” She slowly stepped closer to the bed. “Ms. Giovanni did not think you would wake so soon. I fear she has gone shopping. She will, however, return soon.”
Andy looked at the woman. “Where's Corporal Scruggs?” She demanded, her fear and uncertainty making her angry.
“He is, how you say, gone on leave?” The woman answered, still moving closer to the bed. “Bella asked me to see to your comfort,” she offered. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Andy looked around the room. While there was no obvious immediate threat she was vitally aware that something wasn't as it should be. The U.S. Army didn't leave one of its own unconscious in the hands of foreign nationals even if an ally. She should either be in an American military hospital or Scruggs should be here. “How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Bella brought you from the luncheon early this afternoon,” she answered gently, “apparently you fainted while there. It is now nearly dinner time. A doctor on the scene suggested that you were likely exhausted from the pace of your visit to our country and Bella convinced the government officials that her villa would be a good place for you to rest.”
From somewhere in the darkness and confusion that were the missing three years of Andy's life there was a flash of remembrance. A cracking of that blank gray wall that separated what was her most recent memory prior to her waking up in the field hospital. The gulf between memory of being an actively deployed soldier in Afghanistan during the summer of 2007 to being told by one of the medical personnel in the hospital in Germany that it was, in fact, 2010 and she had been badly injured in combat during her second deployment to the Middle-East. She knew, without question, that at some point during that missing time she had learned to know when people were being less than truthful with her. She had a strong intuition that this skill had been born of necessity during her time at Runway and she had learned it as a survival skill while under the tutelage of Miranda Priestly as her second assistant. This woman, Lucrezia, was being less than truthful. She was nervous and what she was saying was shaded with deception. Being less than fully mobile without her artificial limbs, Andy decided that she needed to play the hand she'd been dealt carefully. She forced herself to smile. “I'm sure Scruggs could use a few days to himself after babysitting me for as long as he has been,” she said, her tone falsely upbeat. “Any word on when Lieutenant DeSaix will be back from the States? Last I heard it was going to be in the next couple of days.”
“Yes,” the woman smiled. “I believe that is the case.”
Lie! Andy's mind screamed, knowing full well that DeSaix wouldn't be returning to Italy. Dread grew in her belly. Something was very wrong here and at the moment she wasn't in a position to do a whole lot about it. She nodded. “You know,” she offered, faking a yawn, “I am worn down. I think I'll try to sleep some more.” She glance to the woman, willing her to believe that she was on-board with whatever it was that was going on here. “By the way,” she asked casually, “where is my arm and my leg? I'll need them if I should wake and need to go to the bathroom or anything.”
The woman, Lucrezia she had called herself, looked positively uncomfortable, but tried to hide that fact. “They are...,” she paused for a moment as if searching for the words. “...being looked at? For damage from when you fell? They will be returned soon. If you require help call for me and I will come.”
Andy continued to smile as if all was right in the world. “Okay, I'll grab some more shut-eye,” she said, laying back down and using her one arm to arrange the sheet over her. She then closed her eyes.
She strained to listen for the woman Lucrezia leaving the room and when she heard the door close she started carefully counting off the seconds. She had decided on five minutes as a safe time frame. Long enough for Lucrezia to be comfortable that she was not going to be called back into the room and go start doing something else. Then Andy could get active trying to figure out just what the hell was going on here.
*****
Samantha Potts was presently the youngest Editor-in-Chief in the Elias Clark publishing empire. At twenty-seven she was in charge of the newest Elias Clark publication, Teen Runway. There had been some nastiness when Teen Runway was launched a little less than a year ago. It was only a few weeks after Paris Fashion Week and a few days before the first issue was due to go to press a smiling Irv Ravits came into her office and told her that Fashionable Teen, the name the magazine had been conceived under and had until that moment been planning to launch under was to become Teen Runway prior to the release of the first issue. It was evident from the rumors circulating through the halls of Elias Clark that the name change was an attack by the CEO on the Editor-in-Chief of the original Runway. Everyone in the company knew that something had happened between them in Paris, but no one knew what it was. Everyone also knew that it had generated bad blood between Mr. Ravitz and Miranda Priestly.
Samantha was a huge fan of both Runway and the career of one Miranda Priestly. She consciously modeled herself on the example set by the larger than life white-haired Icon. So when the orders came down she did the only thing she could think of doing. She tried to handle it like she believed Miranda would have. She decided that if the name change upset the Dragon Lady then that was the Dragon Lady's problem. She dug her heels in, changed the name everywhere it needed to be changed, made sure to the best of her ability that everything down to the last punctuation mark in the premier issue was perfect and launched the magazine. Miranda Priestly, her idol, had not spoken a word to her since. It wasn't as if they had spoken before, they hadn't, but Samantha was concerned that she had made a formidable enemy in the Editor-in-Chief of Runway.
She was sitting at her desk early on a Monday morning when her assistant buzzed her. “Sam? I have Miranda Priestly for you on line one.”
It was with both surprise and trepidation the Editor-in-Chief of Teen Runway picked up the phone. “Ms Priestly,” she said, holding her breath, “What can I do for you?”
“Samantha,” the cool voice on the other end of the phone said. “I have a proposal for a joint endeavor for our publications. Might I suggest we meet for lunch to discuss it?”
*****
Miranda had suggested Caviar Russe, a five star Manhattan eatery that Samantha Potts was not influential enough yet to get a reservation at without several weeks’ notice. Samantha entered the restaurant ten minutes prior to being due and found Miranda already seated at their reserved table. The Icon, whom she had modeled her career after, rose cordially from her seat and greeted her. The greeting was not at all what the new Editor had expected. Conversation was light until orders were placed and their drinks and salads had arrived. Miranda then brought the conversation around to her purpose.
Miranda lifted her fork and speared a piece of tomato from the salad before her. “Samantha,” she said genially. “I have watched, with some interest, your development of Teen Runway and I believe that you have a bright future. I asked you here today because I would like to propose that our magazines work together to influence fashion to take another look at a particular style. One that, in my opinion, might be ready to make a comeback.”
Samantha cocked her head, intrigued. A collaboration between her magazine and Runway, the unquestioned powerhouse in the industry even beating out Vogue's numbers consistently month after month, could only be beneficial to her fledgling publication. “I'd love to work with you Miranda,' she said excitedly. “What is it you have in mind?”
Miranda drew a folder from a portfolio she had brought with her and handed it to the other Editor-in-Chief.
Samantha accepted the folder and opened it to look at its contents. She was quite surprised to discover the photographs inside were a collection of images from when “Goth” had made it's two abortive assaults on fashion, first in the late 1970's and then again in 2004. Both times after relatively short runs the look had failed to catch on with the general public and then had been relegated back to the sub-culture that embraced Goth as a lifestyle. Before speaking, Samantha looked through the pictures again, aware that Miranda was watching her. She had the feeling that she was being tested, and that this was not some kind of prank the older woman was playing on her. The lines of each of the couture pictured were flowing. The styles harkened back to the Victorian and the look on all the models shied away from the more extreme hard-lined punk elements that sometimes were included in Goth fashion. She looked up across the table. “I can see how a collaboration between our magazines could work,” she offered tentatively, “especially influencing my demographic and the younger sectors of your demographic, but I'd be crazy,” she continued, determined to be thorough in her dealings with the legend sitting across from her, “if I didn't point out that this style has been tried twice and both times it has been a non-starter commercially in main stream fashion.”
Miranda listened attentively and nodded. “Yes”, she answered, seeming pleased at the younger woman's insight and the breath of her knowledge. “I have given this subject considerable thought of late and I believe that if we were to work together we could bring Goth into the mainstream while influencing the style to trend towards the more romantic aspects of the look. Cull the more extreme elements of the fashion aesthetic, making it more palatable to a main stream audience. ”
Samantha nodded, she could easily imagine how it could be done. Articles tag teaming the style in their two magazines over coming months. Photo-spreads of designers who had been encouraged to re-conceptualize the couture. It would need to be carefully done, but if she were to be on board and with Runway leading the charge, there simply wasn't any downside for Teen Runway. As far as personal career growth went, well, working closely on a joint project with an absolute legend like Miranda Priestly would only increase her status in both the eyes of her staff and her competition. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and speed dialed her assistant. “Lisa,” she said, rapid fire, into the device, “have Jackie's assistant pull everything we have on Goth. I want the whole creative team in my office when I return from lunch. We're changing direction for the December and January issues. Get designers Max Azia and Elie Tahari in for meetings as soon as possible, they'll need a couple of weeks to have something for us to present. Get in touch with Demi Lovato's and Selena Gomez's people. They both have expressed interest in appearing in photo spreads. Arrange meetings with their managers for sometime next week. Tell them we can get Demi and Selena into the magazine before the New Year if they're willing to wear the fashions we are going to be presenting. And tell our creative team that I want them thinking proactively about the fashion shows early next year when I get there for the meeting. This is going to be a full on push coordinated with Miranda and Runway.” She snapped her phone shut and looked to the Devil in Heels seated across from her only to receive a smile from the woman.
*****
In a daze Richard Sachs strolled slowly up a New York City street idly window shopping as he went. His job in the city was finished. Serena has been messengered the huge settlement check from the accounting firm along with final paperwork from Elias-Clarke. Her signature on the documents would end the sexual harassment suit. At lunch today he had gone over the papers with her and she had signed off on the settlement. Serena had told him that it was her intention that all of the settlement money be donated to charity. She then had laughingly told him of the telephone call she had received that morning from Alice McCann, the Board member who had negotiated the Elias-Clarke side of the settlement with them. As they were ordering lunch, she laughingly related that her most important demand of Elias-Clark was already being met. Irv Ravits was at that moment in a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief and senior staff of the magazine he was now the CEO of. To be fair to the Board of Directors, they had moved Irv to the only other Elias-Clarke publication that was profitable each and every month, even if it's circulation was only a third of that of Runway's. Fairy Tale Adventures was Elias-Clarke's children's magazine and Alice had confided to Serena that she believed Irv's temperament far better suited to it's environs rather than to trying to control a creative genius like Miranda Priestly. Miranda was now free, within certain budget limitations, to steer Runway as she chose without his constant interference.
Richard had refused to accept any of the settlement even though his finances were less than adequate to stay in New York any longer. He needed to return to Cincinnati and use what monies he had left to rent an apartment so he would have someplace to live when he removed his possessions from his house of twenty-eight years. Once he had filed for divorce he could then return to his job from his leave of absence he was on. He'd at least have a wage to keep mind and body together while he tried to figure out what came next.
Richard sighed. Returning to Cincinnati was the last thing he wanted to do. The last several days had been as close to perfect as he could imagine. Serena was....amazing. It didn't matter what they were doing together, it was as if he were young again. They had laughed all through a shopping expedition to a local grocery early Sunday afternoon and upon their return to Selena's apartment they made love on the kitchen floor before the groceries had been put away. Serena had taught him a whole new way to enjoy the partially melted ice cream they had purchased and failed to immediately place in the freezer.
His conundrum was that Serena was obviously wealthy and he was not. She had a job and a life here in New York. Even if he were lucky, it would likely take him months to find one in the present economy, and that was if he could even find something that was available that he was qualified for. Apartments and daily living were expensive in New York City and after figuring out the finances involved in giving his soon to be ex-wife the house and half of the remaining financial assets they had amassed over their thirty year marriage, it was going to leave his bank account just on the positive side of empty. It was a knotty problem that he was unsure of what to do about. He and Serena were supposed to dine together tonight and the only thing he could think of as the right thing to do was to find a way to tell the best thing that had happened to him in many a year goodbye.
*****
Miranda sat in her office, sipping a piping hot latte and waiting for the call she had instructed Amelia to place to the White House. In a few moments the intercom buzzed and Amelia said “Miranda? I have the First Lady for you.” Miranda picked up phone. “Michelle, I hope that this call finds you and your family well?”
“Miranda,” The First Lady answered, “A unexpected but very pleasant surprise to hear from you. Yes Barack and the girls are well. What can I do for you today?”
“Michelle, I don't suppose that you would have any reason to know it,” the white haired icon said into the telephone, “but the woman officer that was sent to Italy in command of Andrea's detail was recalled to the States and forced to resign her commission in the Military.”
Michelle Obama bit down on the inside of her lip. She owed the woman on the other end of the phone. Owed her for continuing advice about fashion and coaxing designers that would suit the look Michelle wanted to project into contacting the First Lady's staff in order to create fashions for her. More recently Michelle had called on their fledgling friendship to ask Miranda to stay in the States and not to pursue her beloved Andrea to Italy so that Andrea could complete the mission the United States Government had sent her on. At the time Michelle had told Miranda that if she were in Miranda's position, knowing that her Andrea was without memory of her last three years and had been recently badly injured that she, Michelle, would have stayed in the U.S. and allowed Andrea to do as her nation was demanding. Even knowing that that there would be no one familiar with Andrea traveling with her. On reflection, the First Lady now wondered if that would have indeed been her chosen course of action. She sighed into the telephone receiver. “Have the Army assigned another officer to Andrea's detail?” She asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” Miranda answered tightly. “I am assured by the woman who was in charge of Andrea's detail that the Corporal left in charge can be trusted to take care of Andrea. The ex-Lieutenant, DeSaix by name, trusts him fully, so I am ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“You are in touch with her?” Michelle asked, surprised. She suddenly had a sinking feeling that this wasn't Miranda her friend on the other end of the phone, but the Miranda Priestly that ruled Runway Magazine and the fashion world with an iron fist in a velvet glove.
“Yes,” Miranda answered smoothly. “She's here in New York and has agreed to pose for a shoot of Mia Mia pants suits for an upcoming issue. You, by the way, would look marvelous in a number of them. Perhaps a situation where a skirt or bare arms would be inappropriate - say a visit to some of the Arab states or Muslim countries. On a less pleasant note, Michelle,” Miranda continued. “It's a fascinating coincidence that I intend to chastise your husband for his lack of movement on one of his campaign promises in the letter from the editor in the issue DeSaix's photo-spread will appear in. But I don't suppose that your husband or his campaign staff will be particularly worried about my ramblings in a fashion magazine. It's not like I'm Fox News or MSNBC.”
“It's that stupid Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy isn't it?” Michelle grated, cursing internally. She had approached Barack about it at dinner one evening just after convincing Miranda not to interfere with the mission to Italy. He had again told her that it was his intention to fix it just as soon as his advisers thought they had a chance to push such legislation through congress successfully, but with the mid-term elections almost upon them and Republican candidates polling well ahead of their Democrat opponents nationally, this was not the time. He needed to prioritize his battles, fighting the ones he could win. The greatest good for the greatest number, he had said. And at the moment, that meant focusing on the health care debate. Michelle knew that Miranda's threat was not potent for the mid-term elections. By the time she could get to print the election would be over. But her criticism could be the first salvo of criticism aimed at her husband in the 2012 re-election efforts which would begin hard on the heels of the 2010 elections ending. Miranda would be talking directly to a large swath of women, and women represented roughly fifty-two percent of the population. She would also be speaking to and for a large number of the gay community. The combination of potential democratic votes affected would likely give those managing Barack's reelection campaign nightmares. “What can I do to put things right, Miranda?” she asked, tacitly acknowledging both the threat and her debt to the powerful woman on the other end of the phone.
“Use your influence. I want Meriwether DeSaix, ex_Lieutenant, late of the 161st MP's offered a job in Federal Law enforcement; specifically, a position that will have her stationed in the New York Metropolitan area. She is supremely qualified and should not have felt it necessary to resign her commission in the military over something that in no way affected her ability to do her job. Certainly not after years of sterling service without so much as a single reprimand in her file.”
Michelle listened and then was silent for a moment. Miranda wasn't insisting that her Andrea be brought home immediately. Wasn't even complaining that the broken woman Miranda loved was now being escorted only by one low ranking soldier. No, she was advocating for an officer of the United States Military whose career had gotten ground up against a stupid and outdated policy. Michelle couldn't do much about what went on inside the Military without getting her husband involved and that she wouldn't do. She drew the line at attempting to direct what Barack did as Commander-in-Chief. But this? All Miranda was really requiring of her would likely only take a morning of her and her staff's time networking contacts she had made since being in the White House. “You say that she has a good service record?” She asked. Listening to the reply she asked another question. “Does she have any particular skill set?” Again after a moment listening for a response. “Fugitive retrieval? Interesting...” Michelle said, searching the desk she sat at frantically for a pen and paper. “And you say that she is attractive enough that you intend to use her as a model in one of your fashion photo-spreads?” The final answer sealed the deal in Michelle's mind. She knew who to call and just what to say. “Give me a few, days Miranda,” she concluded the conversation. “I think I can help the young woman out.”
*****
Andy finished counting off five minutes and then with some difficulty slithered across the large bed and, as silently as she could, lowered herself onto the floor. She was not skilled in getting around without her prosthetics. She had missed the training sessions that dealt with such locomotion when she went AWOL (Absent With Out Leave) from the VA (Veterans Administration) hospital in Washington D.C. Using her one arm and leg she managed to reach the door to the room. It was a few moments of struggling to turn herself and arrange her body in a sitting position with her back against the wall beside the door. She carefully pushed herself up using the wall as support and balancing on her single leg. Reaching out she tested the door knob and found out it was just as she had feared. The door was locked. She fell trying to get back down to the floor but twisting her torso in desperation managed to catch herself with her hand. She lay on the ground breathing hard and listening for footsteps announcing that Lucrezia had heard her fall to the floor. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Andy then pulled and pushed herself across the floor to the arched doorway leading to what she assumed was a balcony. The French doors that lead outside were a mosaic of etched glass and delicate wood filigree as was the area immediately surrounding the doorway. The distance between solid wall and the handles of the doors precluded any possibility of reaching them while using the wall for support. Andy decided from her vantage point on the floor that trusting her weight against the fragile looking glass and wood structure would be a last resort. She then started the long journey back to the bed, her mind turning on what she had discovered all the while she struggled back up onto the mattress and rearranged the covers. There really wasn't any other way she could see to read her situation. She was a prisoner.
*****
Laura Fleury had fought her way up through the cut-throat executive ranks of the A&E Network finally becoming an Executive Producer. Her recent successes included several reality crime-oriented TV shows, such as The First 48, which followed police detectives during the first forty-eight hours of homicide investigations and Dog, The Bounty Hunter, which followed a family of bounty hunters seeking out and capturing bail jumpers. She sat at her desk musing over a thorny problem. Her newest effort, just one season old, was a struggling show that followed U.S. Marshals engaged in a fugitive task force. Their efforts focused on the apprehension of wanted felons. Even in the endless climb over the bodies of those in front of her, competition within the executive culture of the A&E Network, it was agreed from its inception that Manhunter: Fugitive Task Force was a promising concept with both action and suspense. In translation to the visual media of television, however, the formula lacked something. The show was losing market share because it was losing audience. It had been her baby and she had vigorously gone to bat for its creation. Now those desirous to replace her in her position at the network were using the show's struggles against her. Her professional behind was on the line because of it. The phone on her desk buzzed and her executive assistant's voice came over the speaker, “Laura, John Clark, the Director of the U.S. Marshal Service is on line one for you. He says he has something you'll be interested in...”
Laura knew that the man on the other end of the phone had a vested interest in the show's existence. There had been a fair amount of collusion between the two of them during the series' initial development. The show brought the Marshals Service to the public's attention and being more visible publicly translated into greater ease getting the department's budget needs met during the fiscal debates in Congress. She picked up her phone, answering the call, “Director Clark, what a pleasure to hear from you! she said, hoping against hope that maybe the man did have something that might add the magic missing element to the show. The man on the other end of the line spoke excitedly for several moments as she felt her own excitement level rise. When he went silent she asked one simple question. “When can I meet her?”
Off the phone she called her assistant into the office. “Sophie,” she said, “We're going into top secret mode on the Manhunter program. Nothing, and I mean Nothing of what I am about to tell you can leak to any of the other network executives. Director Clark just gave us an early Christmas gift and it may just be enough to save the show. I need you to set up a discreet meeting with a woman named Meriwether DeSaix. You can find her contact information by contacting Miranda Priestly's office at Runway magazine. By the time the show starts filming its second season she will be a Marshal assigned to the fugitive task force we're following. She is beautiful enough that she's going to be featured in Runway magazine and her superiors in the Military gave her the nickname “the Bloodhound” because she never failed to bring back a fugitive she was sent after.”
Sophie stood there writing notes. “If she was so good in the Military, why the move to the Marshal's Service?” She asked, eye still focused on her pad.
Laura smiled an anticipatory shark’s smile. “With the way the political winds are blowing, that's the best part. She's gay and was forced to resign her commission because the Army found out. Director Clark told me that she was targeted by someone high up in government and the whole thing is about to blow up in the press. She doesn't know it yet but she's about to be famous and the new darling of the Gay Rights movement. I want her under contract for the show before that happens. We're going to make her a sympathetic hero and bring a whole new demographic of viewership of the show. Director Clark knows how good this will make the Marshal's Service look and he's on-board all the way. He'll see to it that our offer of being on the show is very attractive to her.” She turned in her seat, looking out her office window. “Set the meeting for as soon as possible. I'm anxious to meet the network's new star.”
The executive assistant finished scratching on her pad then turned smartly on her heels and strode back to her desk to make the necessary calls. “On it, Boss.” she called out over her shoulder.
*****
Meriwether DeSaix stretched luxuriously in the comfortable bed. She had always had a good internal clock and years in the Army had honed it to where she simply knew, within a few minutes, what time of day it was. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so late into the morning. She smiled into the empty room. As it was Monday morning and a work day, Emily had, of course, gone to her job at Runway as the sun rose. The British woman was receiving a new level of attention and respect from the formidable Miranda Priestly and was blossoming under the scrutiny as an orchid does under proper light and humidity.
As far as spending time in bed was concerned Meriwether hadn't in her memory spent as much time in bed as she had since she and Emily had returned to Emily's apartment Friday afternoon. She rose and covered herself with the rumpled sheet. She had no clothes other than the one's she'd worn on Friday, as her duffel bag containing her scant civilian possessions was still in a locker at the train station. Clothing had definitely been optional for the majority of the weekend and what little time had not been spent naked she had borrowed a long tee shirt from Emily. Later she would go forth and retrieve her bag and then settle into what she dearly hoped would become a daily domestic routine of living in Emily's company.
Her cell phone rang, the ring tone Roy Orbison's song Pretty Woman announcing that it was Emily calling. The ring tone had been set to the phone's memory just last night as a joke between them. Meriwether lazily reached out and answered, “Morning Red.”
Emily, on the other end of the call, couldn't help smiling at the endearment, but remembering the reason she called took up a professional tone. “Meriwether, I have received a call from the assistant of an Executive Producer named Laura Fleury at the Arts & Entertainment Network. She is asking for your contact information. Ms. Fleury apparently wishes to speak to you about appearing on one of their programs. May I give her your phone number?”
“An offer to be on a T.V. Show? Really?” DeSaix laughed. She listened to the silence on the other end of the line for a moment and stopped laughing as she realized that Emily was completely serious. “This isn't a joke is it?” she asked.
“No,” Emily answered. “Why on earth would I joke about such a wonderful opportunity?”
“Why would anybody want me on a T.V. Show? I'm no actress.” DeSaix said and then had a thought. “Miranda did this didn't she?” the ex-soldier asked.
“Well, I know that she made some calls on your behalf, but I don't believe any of them were to a television network,” Emily answered, now nervously playing with the telephone cord attached to the receiver. “Still,” she temporized, “it couldn't hurt to talk to the network, could it?”
DeSaix laughed. She knew Emily was concerned that she would return home to Louisiana making any kind of ongoing relationship between them extremely difficult at best. What Emily didn't understand was that other than the local cuisine and certain places in New Orleans there wasn't a whole lot about her native state that the Creole woman missed. “You're worried about me leaving, aren’t you Red?” She teased.
The stony silence on the other end of the phone was positively deafening.
Even with their short time together DeSaix could read Emily like no one else. She could see the pursed lips in an unconscious approximation of what Miranda Priestly would look like when annoyed. The woman from Louisiana took pity on the redhead from London on the other end of the call. “You don't need to worry about that Red,” she offered lightly. “I'll get a job in retail or as a bouncer at some bar before I leave you. Over the weekend you said you wanted this, wanted us. Now you're stuck with me. So go ahead and give 'em my phone number. Like you said, can't hurt to find out what it is they want.”
“Right,” Emily answered. “Well then...” she said stiffly. “...Love you.” she almost whispered the last two words.
The simple words staggered DeSaix, but her response flowed passed her lips without conscious thought or any effort at all on her part. “Love you too, Red. Come home soon.”
*****
Arabella Messalina Giovanni sauntered into her villa followed by several of the groundskeepers in her employ. Each man carried numerous packages, the results of the famous model's shopping expedition. She was immensely pleased with the progress she had made today. She had her Andy in residence and had managed to acquire quite a few fashionable, if casual clothes for her 'guest'. Nothing fancy, as far as things to wear, were required yet. It would likely be a month or more before Bella would allow Andy out of the villa. Bella wanted to be sure that Andy understood that Bella was her home now. That Bella was going to take care of her, provide all good things, satisfy every need. Andy would soon see that she would be the center of Bella's universe. And for such devotion and sacrifice, Andy would come to love Bella.
She stopped and spoke to her assistant Lucrezia who sat in the Library working on her computer answering her employer’s electronic correspondence. “So, is my Andy awake?” she asked.
Lucrezia stopped typing a response to a fan of the super-model. “She woke for a brief time. I spoke with her. She asked for her limbs to be returned to her.”
“And you said?” Bella asked pointedly.
“I said as you told me to say, Bella. That the limbs were being inspected for damage after she fainted at the luncheon,” the assistant replied sullenly.
“I don't know what you're upset about Lucrezia,” Bella said testily. “Andy is here as I said she would be. She will soon not want to be anywhere else!”
Lucrezia looked her employer in the eye. “Bella, you have taken her without her consent! Brought her miles from Rome! She has already asked for the soldier who is supposed to accompany her! What if you are wrong?! What if she values her freedom more than what it is you offer her?! If she should go to the authorities, you ...we...are guilty of kidnapping!”
“If you do not have the stomach to do as I ask, Lucrezia, you know where the door is,” the Diva said coldly. “I'm sure that someone would hire you, even after they call me for a reference.”
Lucrezia shook her head, her voice cracking and tears threatening. “I have served you for years, Bella. I'll not leave you now. Even if I don't agree with the course you've chosen. You are everything to me!” She replied.
“Good,” Bella said, her voice still cold. “You are a good assistant. It would be a shame to lose you.” She glanced at the woman, who sat stiffly before her laptop computer and Bella's demeanor softened a bit. “I want you with me Lucrezia. I value your service. But I will have this. Both for myself and for il mio picclo amore.” She reached up and caressed the locket she always wore at her throat when not modeling.
Lucrezia nodded her acceptance. “If she is not awake now, I would be very much surprised,” she offered cautiously.
Bella nodded a satisfied nod. “I will go and welcome Mia Andy to her new home,” she said moving off in the direction of the master bedroom.
*****
Richard Sachs had brought his best case of why it made sense for him to go back to Cincinnati and leave New York behind. He had crafted his words carefully as if he were speaking to a jury. He had all of his appeals in order. His logic was sound and he had his ducks in a row. Serena was a beautiful, vibrant, wealthy young woman who could win any partner she might desire, He, on the other hand was a nearly washed up, long-in-the-tooth, fifty-something attorney without much in the way of prospects or chance of financial gain. He sadly admitted that when the divorce was through he'd likely have to work into his mid-seventies before he could consider retirement just to support himself.
Serena was having none of it. She listened to his words. And then she cheated outrageously by crying. Richard had never been any good when any woman in his life had cried. And Serena seemed to be a pro at tears. She pleaded her case, passionately and with conviction, then her fiery Brazilian temperament took over as she continued explaining her position on the matter under discussion, clearly illustrating her points with exclamatory hand gestures. All the things he's said about himself, she insisted, were patently untrue. He was a sexy man of vast experience and a caring and considerate lover. Money was of no importance in matters of the heart and, if he wished it, she would abdicate her trust fund back to her brothers and sisters. That she would support him on her salary from Runway while he searched for employment. If he chose to go back to Cincinnati then she would give Miranda her notice first thing the morning and contact her realtor about getting her a place there to live. She made it quite clear that if she did not travel with him, she would certainly follow close on his heels. “As I told your ex, Richard Sachs, you are mine now and now that I have finally found the man of my dreams, I’ll fight to keep him.” she stated emphatically.
*****
Laura Fleury sat across her desk from the woman she hoped would save a failing television show and her flagging career. With what she knew of the woman from what the Director of the Marshals Service had told her on the telephone and sent over via fax, she certainly liked what she saw. The woman across from her was beautiful even without make-up. Exotic looking and butch. Laura could just count the lesbians lining up to watch the show if she could convince this woman to become a part of it. Then, there would be the curious audience that would come to the show after the story broke in the press about how DeSaix had been hounded from the Army by someone high up in government. Laura didn't know the details of that yet, but she knew from the Director of the Marshal Service that she needed the woman under contract quickly because the story was going to get out very soon and once that happened it couldn't be kept from the news outlets. Laura went into her quick 'elevator' pitch offer asking DeSaix to come try her hand at becoming the next reality T.V. Star.
Watching the woman on the other side of the desk, Laura was very aware that she was being sized up. “Begging your pardon, Ma'am,” DeSaix said politely in response to the offer. “I'm a bit confused. I haven't even applied to the Marshal's Service, much less gotten a job with them, so I'm not quite clear on why you're asking me to be on a T.V. Show about being a member of a fugitive task force.”
The Network Executive across from her smiled. “The Director of the Marshals Service himself brought you to my attention Meriwether,... may I call you Meriwether?” The woman asked. “He is already in possession of your military records regarding your service to your country as a Military Policeman...errr ...Policeperson. When I spoke with him on the telephone he said clearly that you were exactly the caliber of individual that his department wanted. If you want a job with the Marshals Service, it's yours. The paperwork confirming it is just a formality. If you're willing to be on the show, I can guarantee you'll be stationed right here in Manhattan, immediately joining the existing fugitive task force. You'll draw not only your Marshal's salary, but a generous stipend from the Network as well.”
DeSaix thought for a long minute. “You know, growing up in Louisiana, my Mama used to tell me that if something sounded too good to be true it usually was,” she said and then looked up, her eyes boring into the woman seated across from her. “I'm good at what I do because I see things that other people miss. What I see in you is you want something from me. You want it pretty damn bad too. I'll be honest with you; I want to stay here in New York. Got something important going on here. But I won't play the fool for anyone. Lay your cards on the table. Tell me exactly what it is that you want from me and I'll give you a straight yes or no. If I agree to what it is you want, you'll find I'm loyal. You'll be able to count on me all the way down to the ground.”
Laura nodded. “The show is in trouble. It lacks excitement. It doesn't have enough sizzle to sell it to the audience. I think you can be that sizzle.”
DeSaix shook her head. “You've got the wrong girl. I wouldn't do anything that would add 'sizzle' in that kind of situation. Going cowboy when working inside a squad gets people killed. I'm a team player inside a squad. My squad-mates can count on me to do it by the numbers, just as I count on them to do the same."
Laura wondered briefly just how far to go in her explanation. She decided to keep her ace up her sleeve and not mention the fact that a story centering around DeSaix would be breaking in the news services soon “Meriwether, I know why you resigned from the Army. Having an extremely capable gay woman on the show would be a strong step in the direction of adding the interest that would bring a larger audience.”
“What would my sexuality have to do with being on a T.V. show about chasing runners?” DeSaix asked pointedly, her demeanor indicating she didn't particularly like the idea.
“Meriwether, you haven't been watching T.V. for a while,” the woman from the world of television answered soothingly. “Lesbians are very in. You can be an icon for young gay women everywhere. A positive role model. Someone they will strive to be like. They will follow you into the military, into federal service. You can be an agent of change. Also, the fact that you are as attractive as you are - single, young gay women will flock to the show with dreams of dating you.”
Meriwether shook her head. “I don't think this is gonna work... For one thing, I'm not single.”
Laura smiled wickedly. “We'll that's the great thing about T.V., she replied. “The audience doesn't know any more than we choose to tell them...
*****
Bella came to Andy's bedside and sat on the edge of the bed. She spoke softly to the apparently sleeping woman. “Mia Andy,” she said, “finally I have brought you home.”
Andy opened her eyes and looked at the woman she had thought had been kind and caring when they had talked together at the many different events over the course of the last several days. “May I please have my arm and my leg?” She asked.
Bella pouted prettily. “Must you have those awful ugly things?” she responded. “I had them taken so new ones could be fitted for you. Ones that look like flesh and bone. It will take a few days for them to arrive, but the best makers of such things in all Italy are building them for you even now!”
Andy looked at Bella incredulously. “Bella,” she asked. “What am I supposed to do in the mean time? Without my arm and leg I can't get around. Unless you happen to have a wheelchair handy.”
Bella pursed her lips and looked discontent. Then she smiled wickedly. “I could keep you here in my bed,” she declared. “I could bring you breakfast and lunch and dinner and keep you company here. Our little island from the world, just as Trinidad was an island in time for us. A few precious days that we spent getting to know each other. I was a fool then. When my photo shoot was over I thought you just another girl. One that I could walk away from and forget as I have all the others. But you, you're different Mia Andy. I cannot forget you. I need you here with me.”
Andy nodded. “Well,” she said softly, keeping her tone as reasonable as she could manage. “We can talk about that. But first I need my arm and my leg back. If you know anything about me then you'll know that there are things I'm going to want to do, need to do, for myself.”
Bella sighed an exasperated sigh. “Oh, very well,” she repined. “I’ll have them brought to you.. I will have the clothing I purchased for you today brought in as well and you can dress. It is lovely out on the piazza overlooking the sea tonight. We shall have a candle light dinner there and watch the sunrise together.” She rose prancingly from the bed. “We will have to see if you are still as good a dancer as I remember,” she said absently then she turned a smoking hot look on Andy where she lay. “Of course most of our tangos were not on the dance floor and certainly not for the eyes of others.”
“Tell me a little about our time on Trinidad,” Andy asked moving to sit up. Bella was right there, hands on, helping her upright.
“It was April of 2008,” Bella said dreamily. “We met walking on a beach near a cove where I was doing a shoot for Elle. You had taken a few days off after being on the island for a shoot with Runway. We talked, we laughed, and you came back to the cove and watched me work. We had dinner together that night...Do you remember any of this?” she asked gently.
Andy shook her head no and Bella nodded. “Do not fret about it Mia Andy,” she offered softly. “We will make new memories together,” and with a dramatic flourish Bella swept from the room.
Andy watched her go. She was even more disquiet about her situation now that she had spoken to Bella. Thing here were not as they seemed. She focused her thoughts on her time at Runway. When she had returned there after being wounded she had searched through anything she could find having to do with her time there. One of the things she had gotten access to through Emily's good offices where her employment records. She knew for a fact that she had not gone to work for Runway magazine until late May of 2008.