Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 7
-Somwhere in the Crowd-
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: Ah, yes. Miranda suffers yet another bout of foot in mouth disease.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 5
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 6
A New York Penthouse, December 2nd, 9:34:23
“Please?” Tanya wheedled, setting her mug of coffee on the counter in favour of fiddling with the tie on her robe.
Donna shook her head fervently. “Not happening. I made enough of an idiot of myself last night- I really don’t think I need another embarrassment-op, do you?”
Tanya sighed. “Miranda did not think you were an idiot. In fact, she feels responsible, and she’s really sorry about the whole thing. And she’s worried.”
“Worried?” Donna laughed disparagingly. “I’d been talking to the woman for five minutes. She doesn’t even know me.”
Tanya thought back to the previous evening, how strange Miranda had seemed in contrast to the few times she’d met the fashionista before. “Maybe she’d like to,” Tanya countered quietly.
Donna examined her fingernails, a strange and somewhat guilty look on her face. Tanya knew she’d struck a nerve. “You think?” the blond murmured.
Tanya nodded. “She’s Miranda Priestly, for god’s sake. She doesn’t do remorse, and she certainly never asks anyone out for lunch at Pastis as an apology, especially when she didn’t actually do anything wrong.”
Donna blew a small cloud of steam away from her tea and took a tentative sip. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Tanya rolled her eyes, feeling frazzled. It wasn’t in her best interest to try to force Donna Sheridan into anything, and really, she wasn’t all that afraid of Miranda Priestly. But the uncanny rightness of the situation, the way Donna had smiled when she spoke to the editor at the benefit- because yes, Tanya had been tacitly keeping tabs on her friend from afar- Miranda seemed to be a strange sort of life raft, one Donna needed badly now.
“Donna,” she admonished, “be practical. It’s one lunch. It won’t last long, and it seems to be really important to Miranda to apologize to you in person. I know you don’t owe her anything, or me, for that matter- but it’d do Rosie and I good to see you socializing more. Will you please go?”
“Fine,” Donna groused, more tired of arguing than she was genuinely concerned for some other woman’s guilt. And maybe, some deeper part of herself admitted, she’d just been waiting for permission. She abandoned her tea and headed for the shower.
Tanya sighed in relief and began digging around in her large purse for her cell. Finding her phone, she then withdrew Miranda’s hastily scrawled number out from the pocket of her robe, took a deep breath, and dialled the number. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello, mom’s cell phone!”
“Don‘t say that, retard!”
Tanya blinked, and checked the sent number on the screen of her phone. It matched the note, but then, Miranda’s handwriting was abysmal.
“Caroline Amanda Priestly- do not call your sister a ‘retard’.”
Tanya snorted as the cell noisily exchanged hands.
“Hello?” a familiar voice drifted down the line.
“Miranda?” Tanya asked, the grin evident in her tone. The editor sounded much the same as any mother. Annoyed, and underneath that, fond beyond reason.
“Sorry,” Miranda offered emphatically, her voice warming. “I should know by now not to leave my phone lying just anywhere. Those two are incorrigible.”
“Not to worry,” the brunette replied. “I’ve just spoken with Donna, the two of you are on for lunch.”
On the other end of the phone, Miranda smiled. She’d been suffering from an uncharacteristic attack of nerves since she’d woken up at four in the morning, wondering if Tanya would be able to cajole her friend into the meeting.
“How is she?” the editor asked, pulling absently at her left earring.
Tanya glanced surreptitiously around, and thought she heard the shower running. “Her pride is a little delicate this morning, but she seems to be fine. At least,” she added quietly, “as fine as she’s been. Rosie and I would be really grateful if you could tempt her into eating something.”
On the other end of the line, Miranda held her breath. What was she possibly thinking, getting herself into this situation. The woman in her vision had been fine; Donna had been fine. This waif, this broken creature- did Tanya realise what she was doing, placing her friend in the care of Miranda Priestly? The editor almost laughed at the outrageousness of the situation.
And yet- she wanted to try.
“I’ll see what I can do, Tanya. That’s a-” christ Miranda, the editor shouted inwardly. Behave. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the other woman said cryptically. “I’ll make sure she’s on time. Goodbye, Miranda.”
“À Bientôt,” the editor replied whimsically, and snapped her cell closed, laughing. Then she caught a view of herself in one of the townhouse’s many mirrors; her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She scoffed at her excitement. What in god’s name was she giggling at?
Miranda collected herself and tricked the latch on her platinum watch to check the time. Ten after eleven. Taking traffic into account, and her penchant for showing up fifteen minutes early to everything, the editor quickly calculated that she had an hour to prepare herself for lunch at Pastis.
Miranda was rarely one to agonize over her appearance, despite several of the more outlandish rumours floating among the staff. She woke, she showered, and based on a loose conglomeration of the weather, and how she was feeling on any given morning, she quickly intuited an outfit.
So when, forty minutes later, the editor found herself aimlessly wandering through her expansive walk-in, clad only in her matching La Perla bra and panties, she began, more than a little, to panic.
Grumbling, she pulled another blouse off the rack, this one a cranberry silk with a flatteringly high collar. But it was wrong. It was too…sexy librarian. She turfed the shirt on top of the ever growing pile of rejected clothing, her bed barely visible underneath the small mountain which offered no hope of ever transforming into a viable outfit.
“Fuck,” she cursed quietly, her inner trucker making an audible appearance. Miranda was glad the girls were several floors up, engrossed deeply in a game of checkers.
What was going on- why was this suddenly so difficult?
The last time Miranda had suffered such an extreme bout of self-induced, fashion-related incompetence, she had been preparing for one of the first dates she’d ever taken with Greg, the girl’s father. And that had been thirteen years ago.
Miranda sighed. So that was it.
“This isn’t a date,” she chastised aloud, glaring at an unoffending cashmere sweater.
She and Donna had only just met, and frankly, given Miranda’s disastrous- albeit unintentional- misstep from the previous evening, the editor wasn’t even sure the woman particularly liked her. And added to that was Tanya’s obtuse warning, Don’t thank me yet. Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean, anyway?
Miranda didn’t have to think particularly hard about it- she was too clever, too adept at reading others. Donna had obviously been coerced into agreement. Again. And Miranda knew she was getting ahead of herself.
But it was nearly impossible not to; her flash forward had seen to that. Miranda felt as though she’d read the end of the book before the beginning, and was now impatiently trying to live out the bits in between.
She blew her now less-than-immaculate bangs out of her eyes and surveyed the mess of couture littering her down-filled coverlet. Did it even matter? Probably not, Miranda told herself, and selected a coral-red skirt from the pile, along with a cream blouse, finely printed in aqua- and wouldn’t the fitted Chanel jacket in that espresso suede add a lovely, casual contrast?
---------------------------------------------II-----------------------------------------------
Donna stepped into the swanky Bistro, anxiously smoothing the dark fabric of her new trouser-cut jeans down her thighs. After she’d exited the shower, Tanya had appeared brandishing several hangers of clothing, which had mysteriously made their way into Donna’s closet earlier that week.
In actual fact, Tanya had stealthily been exchanging Donna’s frumpy island wardrobe for a more ‘New York’ style from the moment the rural innkeeper had divulged the somewhat meagre contents of her army surplus duffle bag.
Donna felt like an oversized Barbie doll- and given her lack of appetite since losing her husband, she was also well on her way to looking like one.
She sighed heavily, and approached the smartly dressed host at the entrance to the dining room.
He smiled benignly at her. “Miranda is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
Donna narrowed her eyes at the man, wondering at the strange situation of having been described, in what must have been acute detail, to a complete stranger; she felt as if she’d been summoned by the Don of an infamous mob circuit.
“Here we are,” the maitre d’ announced genially, gesturing to a secluded booth at the rear of the restaurant.
Donna peered around the curved wall, half expecting to find the editor, seated regally while stroking the soft fur of a white Persian. But Miranda sat, sans feline accomplice, absently running her fingers through her own silvery hair.
Noting her guest’s entrance, Miranda slipped from the booth, and extended her hand towards Donna, a shy smile curling her lips.
“Hi,” she offered quietly, opting for a more casual greeting. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Donna clasped the other woman’s hand warily, and said nothing. I didn’t have much of a choice, ran sharply through her mind, but the blond wasn’t stupid or rude enough to voice that particular thought.
Affronted, and feeling ironically jilted by Donna’s ignorance, Miranda retreated awkwardly to her seat. Donna, her conscience roiling at the brief look of hurt which had flashed through the editor’s slate eyes, slid in the opposite end of the semi-circular booth, and stared blankly at the menu.
Forty-five dollars for a salad, the innkeeper mused. This experience, already strange, was fast on it’s way to blatant surrealism. She’d been invited- no, subpoenaed- to the court of fashion’s high queen; the setting, an upscale restaurant. She was there to be the recipient of an ‘apology’, which in all likelihood would take less than thirty seconds, and then- really- what would they talk about?
Miranda also glanced, unseeing, at her menu. She already had the thing memorized; she ate at Pastis twice a week on average. So what was she doing? Thinking long and hard about how she would sell every pair of her shoes on eBay in exchange for the ability to read Donna’s mind, that's what.
Wincing inwardly at the inexorable expression of displeasure on the blonds’ face, Miranda found herself unable to launch into her carefully constructed apology, opting instead to stall with trivial- and in her opinion- completely ridiculous small talk.
“So,” Miranda offered awkwardly, remembering her promise to Tanya, “what do you feel like eating?”
Donna shrugged and made a great, if completely ineffective show, of examining the lunch specials. “The lamb sounds good,” she murmured, zeroing in on something familiar.
The editor cursed silently as a waiter chose that exact moment to intercept her blossoming, if mundane conversation with the other woman.
“Something to drink, ladies?” he queried, dolling out a wine list.
“You know what I like,” Miranda responded somewhat quixotically. To her delight, Donna smirked.
The young man nodded smartly, and turned towards Miranda’s guest. “Et vous, mademoiselle?”
Donna looked at the editor helplessly. “Any ideas?”
“The Bordeaux,” Miranda replied confidently. “It’s a blend of merlot and cabernet, and the tannins in the wine give it a good structure which will hold up to the gamey flavour of the lamb. Also,” she added as Donna gaped, “it tastes slightly of cherries. It’ll compliment the rosemary jus that accompanies the dish.”
Donna glanced at the waiter, who was grinning shamelessly with amusement. She then looked back towards Miranda, who endearingly seemed to be wearing much the same expression.
“You’re a wino-” the blond accused humorously. “You know that?”
“I’m a bit of a vintage snob,” Miranda admitted guilelessly. “I spend half of my working week stuck in deplorably dull working meals with haughty, self-obsessed designers. To distract myself from their ego-centric babbling, I read the wine lists. I could give any sommelier worth his title a bloody good run for his money.”
Donna smiled, and quirked an eyebrow at the editor’s suddenly british speech affectation. Their conversation remained fairly derisive until their meals arrived, and when each woman had begun to pick lightly at their food, Miranda felt like enough ease had formed between them to broach her apology.
Exiting the booth gracefully, the editor retrieved the garment bag she had stashed beneath her coat and walked to Donna’s side of the table. The blond frowned, confused, but Miranda stayed her query with a softly raised hand.
“I saw you admiring this yesterday evening,” the older woman began as she unzipped the bag carefully. “And I wanted to give it to you as a sort of apology. All the proceeds from last night’s auction are being donated to various charities throughout the city and, well, I put your name down with mine for this donation.”
Miranda removed the Valentino from it’s protective sheath and offered the gown towards Donna, who continued to gape at the dress.
What on earth was Miranda doing- the apology itself hadn’t even been necessary- and now this dress? Donna actually shuddered to think how much the editor had paid for it.
“You really shouldn’t have,” the innkeeper exclaimed, wringing the napkin in her lap.
Miranda frowned. “Do you not like it?”
Donna shrugged, angered by the other woman’s obtuse behaviour. “That’s not the point! I don’t understand what would make you think that this,” she jabbed at the gown, “was a good idea.”
Miranda pursed her lips, though whether it was displeasure with Donna- or with herself- that caused the action, she didn’t know.
“I’m not sure I’m clear on why you’re so upse-
Donna snorted derisively. “You’re not? I’m not some token charity case for you to shower extravagant gifts on, Ms. Priestly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t lose anyone, then,” Miranda countered acidly. “Maybe my apology would seem more sincere if one or both of my daughters had died in the event.”
Donna was speechless. Miranda was fuming. All of the editor’s well-laid plans were going spectacularly down the toilet.
Turfing the dress onto the seat negligently, Miranda motioned curtly to the nearest server, and instructed the young woman to put the meal on her tab.
“It was lovely to see you again, Donna,” the editor sniped coldly as she draped her coat over her shoulder and stalked from the Bistro.
Donna stared after the woman, mouth hanging open, shaking in the wake of Miranda Priestly’s icy fury.
With a self-conscious glance in the waiter’s direction- the young woman offered an apologetic smile- Donna waffled for a moment before stashing the Valentino back in it’s bag and hastily exiting Pastis.
She arrived home ten minutes later, and still clutching the garment bag to her chest, snuck through the living room of the condo to hide outside on one of the large lounge chairs furnishing Tanya’s rooftop patio. The last fucking thing she needed after her disastrous lunch with Miranda was to relive the entire thing again for the benefit of her nosy, interfering friends.
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: Ah, yes. Miranda suffers yet another bout of foot in mouth disease.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 5
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 6
A New York Penthouse, December 2nd, 9:34:23
“Please?” Tanya wheedled, setting her mug of coffee on the counter in favour of fiddling with the tie on her robe.
Donna shook her head fervently. “Not happening. I made enough of an idiot of myself last night- I really don’t think I need another embarrassment-op, do you?”
Tanya sighed. “Miranda did not think you were an idiot. In fact, she feels responsible, and she’s really sorry about the whole thing. And she’s worried.”
“Worried?” Donna laughed disparagingly. “I’d been talking to the woman for five minutes. She doesn’t even know me.”
Tanya thought back to the previous evening, how strange Miranda had seemed in contrast to the few times she’d met the fashionista before. “Maybe she’d like to,” Tanya countered quietly.
Donna examined her fingernails, a strange and somewhat guilty look on her face. Tanya knew she’d struck a nerve. “You think?” the blond murmured.
Tanya nodded. “She’s Miranda Priestly, for god’s sake. She doesn’t do remorse, and she certainly never asks anyone out for lunch at Pastis as an apology, especially when she didn’t actually do anything wrong.”
Donna blew a small cloud of steam away from her tea and took a tentative sip. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Tanya rolled her eyes, feeling frazzled. It wasn’t in her best interest to try to force Donna Sheridan into anything, and really, she wasn’t all that afraid of Miranda Priestly. But the uncanny rightness of the situation, the way Donna had smiled when she spoke to the editor at the benefit- because yes, Tanya had been tacitly keeping tabs on her friend from afar- Miranda seemed to be a strange sort of life raft, one Donna needed badly now.
“Donna,” she admonished, “be practical. It’s one lunch. It won’t last long, and it seems to be really important to Miranda to apologize to you in person. I know you don’t owe her anything, or me, for that matter- but it’d do Rosie and I good to see you socializing more. Will you please go?”
“Fine,” Donna groused, more tired of arguing than she was genuinely concerned for some other woman’s guilt. And maybe, some deeper part of herself admitted, she’d just been waiting for permission. She abandoned her tea and headed for the shower.
Tanya sighed in relief and began digging around in her large purse for her cell. Finding her phone, she then withdrew Miranda’s hastily scrawled number out from the pocket of her robe, took a deep breath, and dialled the number. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello, mom’s cell phone!”
“Don‘t say that, retard!”
Tanya blinked, and checked the sent number on the screen of her phone. It matched the note, but then, Miranda’s handwriting was abysmal.
“Caroline Amanda Priestly- do not call your sister a ‘retard’.”
Tanya snorted as the cell noisily exchanged hands.
“Hello?” a familiar voice drifted down the line.
“Miranda?” Tanya asked, the grin evident in her tone. The editor sounded much the same as any mother. Annoyed, and underneath that, fond beyond reason.
“Sorry,” Miranda offered emphatically, her voice warming. “I should know by now not to leave my phone lying just anywhere. Those two are incorrigible.”
“Not to worry,” the brunette replied. “I’ve just spoken with Donna, the two of you are on for lunch.”
On the other end of the phone, Miranda smiled. She’d been suffering from an uncharacteristic attack of nerves since she’d woken up at four in the morning, wondering if Tanya would be able to cajole her friend into the meeting.
“How is she?” the editor asked, pulling absently at her left earring.
Tanya glanced surreptitiously around, and thought she heard the shower running. “Her pride is a little delicate this morning, but she seems to be fine. At least,” she added quietly, “as fine as she’s been. Rosie and I would be really grateful if you could tempt her into eating something.”
On the other end of the line, Miranda held her breath. What was she possibly thinking, getting herself into this situation. The woman in her vision had been fine; Donna had been fine. This waif, this broken creature- did Tanya realise what she was doing, placing her friend in the care of Miranda Priestly? The editor almost laughed at the outrageousness of the situation.
And yet- she wanted to try.
“I’ll see what I can do, Tanya. That’s a-” christ Miranda, the editor shouted inwardly. Behave. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the other woman said cryptically. “I’ll make sure she’s on time. Goodbye, Miranda.”
“À Bientôt,” the editor replied whimsically, and snapped her cell closed, laughing. Then she caught a view of herself in one of the townhouse’s many mirrors; her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She scoffed at her excitement. What in god’s name was she giggling at?
Miranda collected herself and tricked the latch on her platinum watch to check the time. Ten after eleven. Taking traffic into account, and her penchant for showing up fifteen minutes early to everything, the editor quickly calculated that she had an hour to prepare herself for lunch at Pastis.
Miranda was rarely one to agonize over her appearance, despite several of the more outlandish rumours floating among the staff. She woke, she showered, and based on a loose conglomeration of the weather, and how she was feeling on any given morning, she quickly intuited an outfit.
So when, forty minutes later, the editor found herself aimlessly wandering through her expansive walk-in, clad only in her matching La Perla bra and panties, she began, more than a little, to panic.
Grumbling, she pulled another blouse off the rack, this one a cranberry silk with a flatteringly high collar. But it was wrong. It was too…sexy librarian. She turfed the shirt on top of the ever growing pile of rejected clothing, her bed barely visible underneath the small mountain which offered no hope of ever transforming into a viable outfit.
“Fuck,” she cursed quietly, her inner trucker making an audible appearance. Miranda was glad the girls were several floors up, engrossed deeply in a game of checkers.
What was going on- why was this suddenly so difficult?
The last time Miranda had suffered such an extreme bout of self-induced, fashion-related incompetence, she had been preparing for one of the first dates she’d ever taken with Greg, the girl’s father. And that had been thirteen years ago.
Miranda sighed. So that was it.
“This isn’t a date,” she chastised aloud, glaring at an unoffending cashmere sweater.
She and Donna had only just met, and frankly, given Miranda’s disastrous- albeit unintentional- misstep from the previous evening, the editor wasn’t even sure the woman particularly liked her. And added to that was Tanya’s obtuse warning, Don’t thank me yet. Now what the fuck was that supposed to mean, anyway?
Miranda didn’t have to think particularly hard about it- she was too clever, too adept at reading others. Donna had obviously been coerced into agreement. Again. And Miranda knew she was getting ahead of herself.
But it was nearly impossible not to; her flash forward had seen to that. Miranda felt as though she’d read the end of the book before the beginning, and was now impatiently trying to live out the bits in between.
She blew her now less-than-immaculate bangs out of her eyes and surveyed the mess of couture littering her down-filled coverlet. Did it even matter? Probably not, Miranda told herself, and selected a coral-red skirt from the pile, along with a cream blouse, finely printed in aqua- and wouldn’t the fitted Chanel jacket in that espresso suede add a lovely, casual contrast?
---------------------------------------------II-----------------------------------------------
Donna stepped into the swanky Bistro, anxiously smoothing the dark fabric of her new trouser-cut jeans down her thighs. After she’d exited the shower, Tanya had appeared brandishing several hangers of clothing, which had mysteriously made their way into Donna’s closet earlier that week.
In actual fact, Tanya had stealthily been exchanging Donna’s frumpy island wardrobe for a more ‘New York’ style from the moment the rural innkeeper had divulged the somewhat meagre contents of her army surplus duffle bag.
Donna felt like an oversized Barbie doll- and given her lack of appetite since losing her husband, she was also well on her way to looking like one.
She sighed heavily, and approached the smartly dressed host at the entrance to the dining room.
He smiled benignly at her. “Miranda is expecting you. Please, follow me.”
Donna narrowed her eyes at the man, wondering at the strange situation of having been described, in what must have been acute detail, to a complete stranger; she felt as if she’d been summoned by the Don of an infamous mob circuit.
“Here we are,” the maitre d’ announced genially, gesturing to a secluded booth at the rear of the restaurant.
Donna peered around the curved wall, half expecting to find the editor, seated regally while stroking the soft fur of a white Persian. But Miranda sat, sans feline accomplice, absently running her fingers through her own silvery hair.
Noting her guest’s entrance, Miranda slipped from the booth, and extended her hand towards Donna, a shy smile curling her lips.
“Hi,” she offered quietly, opting for a more casual greeting. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Donna clasped the other woman’s hand warily, and said nothing. I didn’t have much of a choice, ran sharply through her mind, but the blond wasn’t stupid or rude enough to voice that particular thought.
Affronted, and feeling ironically jilted by Donna’s ignorance, Miranda retreated awkwardly to her seat. Donna, her conscience roiling at the brief look of hurt which had flashed through the editor’s slate eyes, slid in the opposite end of the semi-circular booth, and stared blankly at the menu.
Forty-five dollars for a salad, the innkeeper mused. This experience, already strange, was fast on it’s way to blatant surrealism. She’d been invited- no, subpoenaed- to the court of fashion’s high queen; the setting, an upscale restaurant. She was there to be the recipient of an ‘apology’, which in all likelihood would take less than thirty seconds, and then- really- what would they talk about?
Miranda also glanced, unseeing, at her menu. She already had the thing memorized; she ate at Pastis twice a week on average. So what was she doing? Thinking long and hard about how she would sell every pair of her shoes on eBay in exchange for the ability to read Donna’s mind, that's what.
Wincing inwardly at the inexorable expression of displeasure on the blonds’ face, Miranda found herself unable to launch into her carefully constructed apology, opting instead to stall with trivial- and in her opinion- completely ridiculous small talk.
“So,” Miranda offered awkwardly, remembering her promise to Tanya, “what do you feel like eating?”
Donna shrugged and made a great, if completely ineffective show, of examining the lunch specials. “The lamb sounds good,” she murmured, zeroing in on something familiar.
The editor cursed silently as a waiter chose that exact moment to intercept her blossoming, if mundane conversation with the other woman.
“Something to drink, ladies?” he queried, dolling out a wine list.
“You know what I like,” Miranda responded somewhat quixotically. To her delight, Donna smirked.
The young man nodded smartly, and turned towards Miranda’s guest. “Et vous, mademoiselle?”
Donna looked at the editor helplessly. “Any ideas?”
“The Bordeaux,” Miranda replied confidently. “It’s a blend of merlot and cabernet, and the tannins in the wine give it a good structure which will hold up to the gamey flavour of the lamb. Also,” she added as Donna gaped, “it tastes slightly of cherries. It’ll compliment the rosemary jus that accompanies the dish.”
Donna glanced at the waiter, who was grinning shamelessly with amusement. She then looked back towards Miranda, who endearingly seemed to be wearing much the same expression.
“You’re a wino-” the blond accused humorously. “You know that?”
“I’m a bit of a vintage snob,” Miranda admitted guilelessly. “I spend half of my working week stuck in deplorably dull working meals with haughty, self-obsessed designers. To distract myself from their ego-centric babbling, I read the wine lists. I could give any sommelier worth his title a bloody good run for his money.”
Donna smiled, and quirked an eyebrow at the editor’s suddenly british speech affectation. Their conversation remained fairly derisive until their meals arrived, and when each woman had begun to pick lightly at their food, Miranda felt like enough ease had formed between them to broach her apology.
Exiting the booth gracefully, the editor retrieved the garment bag she had stashed beneath her coat and walked to Donna’s side of the table. The blond frowned, confused, but Miranda stayed her query with a softly raised hand.
“I saw you admiring this yesterday evening,” the older woman began as she unzipped the bag carefully. “And I wanted to give it to you as a sort of apology. All the proceeds from last night’s auction are being donated to various charities throughout the city and, well, I put your name down with mine for this donation.”
Miranda removed the Valentino from it’s protective sheath and offered the gown towards Donna, who continued to gape at the dress.
What on earth was Miranda doing- the apology itself hadn’t even been necessary- and now this dress? Donna actually shuddered to think how much the editor had paid for it.
“You really shouldn’t have,” the innkeeper exclaimed, wringing the napkin in her lap.
Miranda frowned. “Do you not like it?”
Donna shrugged, angered by the other woman’s obtuse behaviour. “That’s not the point! I don’t understand what would make you think that this,” she jabbed at the gown, “was a good idea.”
Miranda pursed her lips, though whether it was displeasure with Donna- or with herself- that caused the action, she didn’t know.
“I’m not sure I’m clear on why you’re so upse-
Donna snorted derisively. “You’re not? I’m not some token charity case for you to shower extravagant gifts on, Ms. Priestly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t lose anyone, then,” Miranda countered acidly. “Maybe my apology would seem more sincere if one or both of my daughters had died in the event.”
Donna was speechless. Miranda was fuming. All of the editor’s well-laid plans were going spectacularly down the toilet.
Turfing the dress onto the seat negligently, Miranda motioned curtly to the nearest server, and instructed the young woman to put the meal on her tab.
“It was lovely to see you again, Donna,” the editor sniped coldly as she draped her coat over her shoulder and stalked from the Bistro.
Donna stared after the woman, mouth hanging open, shaking in the wake of Miranda Priestly’s icy fury.
With a self-conscious glance in the waiter’s direction- the young woman offered an apologetic smile- Donna waffled for a moment before stashing the Valentino back in it’s bag and hastily exiting Pastis.
She arrived home ten minutes later, and still clutching the garment bag to her chest, snuck through the living room of the condo to hide outside on one of the large lounge chairs furnishing Tanya’s rooftop patio. The last fucking thing she needed after her disastrous lunch with Miranda was to relive the entire thing again for the benefit of her nosy, interfering friends.