'Strep'
Title: 'Strep'
Rating: PG/HYSTERICALLY WEIRD
Pairing: Miranda/Meryl
Length/Word Count: 2500
Summary: Meryl Streep is a fashion disaster. Miranda Priestly is a fashion icon. And a strategically chosen belt can sometimes be the most effective means of achieving a flattering silhouette.
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. Also, I'm going to burn in hell for dragging Meryl Streep into this...
A/N: I have no idea WHAT I was thinking while writing this. I blame a double dosage of extra strength pain killers, in tandem with a swig of cough syrup for my completely deviant actions.
'Strep'
Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of America’s most successful fashion magazine, downed the rest of her quickly cooling latte, then glared at the deplorably empty takeout cup. She warred with herself; it was only ten in the morning, and she was already nine shots of espresso into her caffeine binge. Could her stomach really handle another?
Miranda swiped her glasses from her nose and sucked thoughtfully on one acrylic arm, folding the other behind the bifocal lenses. She delicately cleared her throat, and was about to summon one of two assistants into the lair when Nigel, holding out a small portfolio, sashayed into her office.
“I have the prints for the Streep photo shoot- you’re not going to like them.” The art director deposited the folder on his boss’ desk and stepped back to await the spreading mire of cold fury.
The platinum haired woman replaced her glasses, slate blue eyes squinted in annoyance. Opening the folder, the editor shot several cursory glances at the glossy prints. “Is her face swollen?”
Nigel sighed. “She had strep throat last week, and it was the only time we could arrange to have the photographer present.”
“Streep with strep,” Miranda mused, sighing in disgust. “Did no one think to throw one of those bohemian scarves she seems to be so fond of around her neck to disguise the swollen lymph nodes? She looks like a chipmunk.”
“We tried that,” the art director countered, “but she was running a fever, too. Besides which, when has Meryl Streep ever given a damn about ruining a photo shoot? Vanity is not one of her most outstanding characteristics.”
The woman flicked the folder closed over the offending images and sunk further into her chair. For a beautiful woman, the actress certainly did have a cumbersome lack of ego. “Meryl might not care how she looks, but her publicist will be breathing down my neck if these photos make it into the July issue. Honestly,” Miranda groused, fixing the man with a fairly tame version of her ‘die cretin’ glare. “I’m out of the country for one shoot and I return, expecting shots of an effervescent actress, only to be graced with tired, feverish and swollen. These are going to have to be re-shot. That’s all.”
Nigel grabbed the folder and turned to leave, an abused gust of breath puffing out his cheeks before escaping his lungs.
The editor rolled her eyes. “Was there something else? Or have you taken to breathing like a heifer in labour only to exacerbate my continued level of disappointment?”
The art director smirked, too accustomed to the biting mini-diatribes of Miranda Priestly to be particularly offended by them. “Meryl starts shooting ‘Julie & Julia’ in a week and a half. It’s going to be interesting trying to get her to work us back into her schedule when she’s up to her eyeballs in Parisian food and period costumes.”
“How inconvenient,” Miranda commented darkly. “You’d better find a way to get her in here before too far into the filming. Everyone in that production is going to be plagued by the frenchman fifteen before the they’re halfway to wrap. Did anyone try, you know,” she made a slimming gesture with her hands, “modifying the photos.”
Nigel inspected his large ring, twirling it around the finger it adorned. “You want me to airbrush Meryl Streep?”
The editor offered a wry grin. “It does sound a little sacrilegious, doesn’t it?”
The man adjusted his argyle tie, grinning. “Sacrilegious? Try travesty. No,” he conceded. “You’re right. We’ll absolutely have to re-shoot this. I’ll get on the phone to Meryl’s PA and see what can be worked out.”
Nigel moved to leave before he could be dismissed- he loved racing out before the editor could deliver her final ‘that’s all’- but turned in favour of saving himself any future grief.
“Were there any other glaring defects in the photographs?”
Miranda smiled, the expression a fair interpretation of a Cheshire cat. “Inviting my continued wrath, already?”
“I thought,” Nigel began good-humouredly, “that I would spare myself the joy of doing over the ‘do-over’.”
The editor hummed distractedly, retrieving the folder from the man’s outstretched hand. “Who put her outfit together?”
Nigel cringed, a momentary pause the only mercy offered before he denounced the culprit by name. “Emily. She’s really been doing better work than this. I’m not sure she knew what to make of a model who wasn’t half-starved to death.”
Miranda nodded slowly. “That’s no excuse. A body is a body, and the woman isn’t overweight by any stretch. The entire reason Meryl’s publicist was so adamant about her client being featured in Runway was to dispense with the ‘worst dressed’ image she’s developed through the years. Get in touch with Ms. Streep as soon as possible. Also, we won’t be using the same photographer. Get me Lacombe, and don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. She and Meryl have an undeniable chemistry when there’s a camera between them. Fill me in as soon as all the details are straightened out- I’ll be overseeing the next shoot. That’s all.”
Whinging a little at his failure to avoid the fell swoop of La Priestly’s parting graces, Nigel collected the rejected folder, and made haste back to the art department.
{}{}{}
“How are you feeling?” Miranda fingered the corner of the newspaper, mostly unread, as she eyed up the actress across the sleek desk in her office.
Meryl grinned and ran a hand absently through her long, light hair. “A little tired,” she admitted blandly. “Will this take long?”
The editor resisted the urge to glare at the woman’s obvious lack of desire to be there, and offered an apologetic smile instead. “Brigitte is already in the studio. You and I will be meeting my art director, Nigel, down in hair and make-up as soon as we’re finished in wardrobe.”
“You’re changing the clothing?” Meryl inquired, confused. This ‘quick’ re-shoot was beginning to look like it would eat up the rest of her day, and she was still suffering the aftermath of her infection.
“I was,” the editor paused, searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase. “I wasn’t pleased with what the last stylist chose for you. I’m overseeing the changes myself.”
The actress raised a dubious eyebrow. “I thought the clothes were fine.”
“Emily put you in a sack,” Miranda offered curtly.
“I liked the ‘sack’,” Meryl countered just as quickly.
The editor smirked knowingly. “You would.”
Meryl frowned and Miranda instantly regretted the comment; she hardly knew this woman, but was finding it difficult to reconcile that fact with the easy familiarity the actress was famous for.
“Was that a backhanded offensive towards my lacking fashion sense?” the blond queried lightly.
Miranda relaxed at the other woman’s mild tone; she couldn’t help but be impressed, either, by the woman’s scathing intelligence. “Not at all. More a comment on your propensity for tenting your figure under billowing shirts and draping cardigans.”
The actress shrugged non-commitally. “Guilty as charged, I suppose- on both counts.” Meryl smiled resignedly. “So,” she suggested. “Wardrobe?”
{}{}{}
Meryl fidgeted with the buttons on the fitted jacket as she assessed her reflection in the wide, standing mirror, and glowered a little when she saw the editor’s smirking visage hovering behind her.
“What?” the actress accused, tugging distractedly on the cuffs of the offending outerwear.
Miranda continued to eye the other woman amusedly. “Why are you so uncomfortable? That jacket is very flattering on you.”
“It’s tight,” Meryl complained, turning in profile.
“It fits,” the editor corrected, stepping in to adjust the garment over the other woman’s shoulders. “Feel that movement across your back? You’ve plenty of room. Now,” Miranda continued, “try lifting your arms up. If you can get your hands above your shoulders, straight out in front of you, it isn’t too tight.”
The actress did as instructed, and received a pointed look from Miranda when the jacket was proven, indeed, to fit perfectly.
“It’s still feels restrictive,” Meryl offered, unimpressed. She smoothed the lightweight tweed over her stomach.
“You’re not used to a tailored cut,” the dove-haired fashionista consoled, moving away to retrieve another item from a nearby rack. “Why don’t you try this next? You might find the fit more forgiving.”
The actress hastily shed the tweed binding and traded it off for the silk, teal dress the editor held out towards her. As Meryl disappeared behind a screen to change, Miranda found herself smiling; in her element, correcting the injustices of improperly dressed women, the editor was more content, to be colloquial, than a pig in shit.
Meryl emerged, several minutes later, looking relieved; the fabric of the dress cut snugly across her shoulders and over her bust, but flowed loosely down from her waist, only lightly kissing the swell of her hips.
Miranda frowned.
“Now what?” the actress inquired, a small crease gathering between her expressive brows.
The editor approached the woman standing somewhat impatiently in front of the mirror, her hands hovering near the blonds’ body. “May I?” she inquired, and when Meryl nodded, placed her hands on the actress’ hips, gathering the fabric in around the other woman’s waist. “The bodice is very flattering, but we aren’t seeing any indication of your curves, the way the fabric is draping now.”
“I like the flowing,” Meryl insisted stubbornly, twisting around to meet the editor’s light slate eyes which narrowed a little against the stormy blue onslaught.
“I’m afraid that look isn’t going to work on me, Ms. Streep,” Miranda joked wryly. “I invented that look. Now, don’t move. I have an idea.”
The editor wandered off behind the rack of clothing, and emerged several seconds later with a handful of belts in varying styles. “Hold these,” Miranda directed, handing all but one of the accessories over to the actress. “A strategically chosen belt,” the editor began, encircling the other woman’s waist with the wide band of distressed, natural leather, “can sometimes be the most effective means of achieving a flattering silhouette.”
Meryl glanced surreptitiously past her own reflection, noticing with some amusement the patent, ruby belt which cinched the editor’s white blouse distinctly around her narrow waist. “I think you’re a little biased,” the actress teased, her eyes bright with mischief.
Miranda glanced down at herself and meeting the other woman’s eyes in the mirror, allowed a warm smiled to transform her features. “Maybe,” she offered coyly, slapping the other woman’s hands away when Meryl began futzing with the accessory. “Stop wiggling,” the editor commanded, pulling the belt in over the actress’ hips and sliding the end through the tarnished silver buckle.
“There,” Miranda exclaimed triumphantly. Hands still resting lightly on the actress’ hips, she gazed at Meryl in the reflective glass. “Better, yes?”
“Mmhm,” the blond responded non-commitally, distracted by the way the editor’s fingers were still pressing gently against her body; not sure whether to feel awkward, or grateful, or both. If she didn’t know better- which, Meryl admitted to herself, she actually didn’t- she would almost wonder if the fashionista was coming on to her.
Mary-Louise, she chastised herself silently. Time to lay off the strep medication, babe. Meryl was beginning to wonder if she was going to have to step out of the pseudo-embrace herself, when Miranda seemed to realise that her hands were still holding on to the other woman,
and clearing her throat awkwardly, she removed herself from the actress’ personal space.
Meryl smiled in an effort to diffuse the thickening air of discomfort. “Are we settled on this dress, then? I really do like what the belt is doing here.”
“You should,” Miranda said quickly, relieving the actress of the surplus accessories. “l think we’re ready to go see Nigel, now.”
The blond nodded, and grabbed her purse before following the fashion maven down the hallway to hair and makeup.
{}{}{}
Two hours later, an exhausted Ms. Streep and a satisfied Miranda Priestly exited the photography studio and headed back to the editor’s office.
Meryl thanked Miranda profusely for the ‘fashion know-how’ and the editor thanked the actress profusely for being so agreeable in regards to re-shooting the spread. They clasped hands warmly, and after Miranda told the blond to keep the dress, and more importantly, the belt, Meryl Streep made her exit.
She returned home to her Manhattan apartment later that evening to find her husband Don sipping a glass of scotch and watching a soccer match on the television.
“Hi,” she croaked, the long hours at the magazine having stolen most of her recently recovered voice.
“Ribbit,” Don replied cheekily, pulling his wife down to sit across his legs. Meryl swatted him playfully on the chest. “You sound like the infection is coming back.”
“I’m just tired,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I really hate those fucking photo shoot things. I never know how to behave.”
Don chuckled and patted his wife lightly on the back. “There, there sweetheart. I’m sure you were breathtaking.”
Meryl grinned. “You’re patronizing me on purpose, aren’t you?”
He blinked and took another swig of scotch. “Yes, dear.”
The actress sighed, and snuggled further into her husband’s chest, closing her burning eyes and feeling very suddenly like a nap might be a good idea. Suddenly, she started giggling.
“What?” Don asked distractedly as his team made another goal.
“It’s funny,” Meryl began thoughtfully, sitting up and looking into her husband‘s eyes. “And don’t you dare tell anyone this-
Don mimed zipping his lips. “What’s that?”
“Well,” she continued, “Miranda- the editor of Runway- was dressing me for the shoot, and I could’ve sworn, I dunno- maybe it’s all the medication I’m on- but I would’ve bet serious money that she was coming on to me, just a little.”
“Honey,” Don began good-humouredly, “everyone is always coming on to you ‘just a little.’ I would’ve thought you’d be used to it by now.”
Meryl rolled her eyes expansively before resting her head once more against her husband’s chest. “Jerk,” she offered affectionately, before she closed her eyes again.
{}{}{}
Miranda set the edited Book down on the coffee table, yawning mightily. Though her eyes burned, she was still far too wired from the seven triple shot lattes she consumed during the course of her workday to even fathom going to bed.
Resigned to the most pedestrian solution, the editor limply grabbed the remote and flicked on the small television in the lounge, ascending through the channels until a familiar face filled the screen. Miranda grinned, despite herself, as she realised what the woman was wearing.
“So Meryl,” the interviewer began, holding his mic towards the actress. “Who’s responsible for the recent change in your red-carpet attire?”
Streep, dressed in a flashy red trench dress accentuated with a wide, patent leather belt grinned widely before shooting the camera man a conspiratorial wink.
“Let’s just say the ‘fashion police’ finally caught up with me,” she divulged, laughing cheekily.
Miranda smirked to herself, before a warm peal of laughter escaped her parted lips.
Rating: PG/HYSTERICALLY WEIRD
Pairing: Miranda/Meryl
Length/Word Count: 2500
Summary: Meryl Streep is a fashion disaster. Miranda Priestly is a fashion icon. And a strategically chosen belt can sometimes be the most effective means of achieving a flattering silhouette.
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. Also, I'm going to burn in hell for dragging Meryl Streep into this...
A/N: I have no idea WHAT I was thinking while writing this. I blame a double dosage of extra strength pain killers, in tandem with a swig of cough syrup for my completely deviant actions.
'Strep'
Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of America’s most successful fashion magazine, downed the rest of her quickly cooling latte, then glared at the deplorably empty takeout cup. She warred with herself; it was only ten in the morning, and she was already nine shots of espresso into her caffeine binge. Could her stomach really handle another?
Miranda swiped her glasses from her nose and sucked thoughtfully on one acrylic arm, folding the other behind the bifocal lenses. She delicately cleared her throat, and was about to summon one of two assistants into the lair when Nigel, holding out a small portfolio, sashayed into her office.
“I have the prints for the Streep photo shoot- you’re not going to like them.” The art director deposited the folder on his boss’ desk and stepped back to await the spreading mire of cold fury.
The platinum haired woman replaced her glasses, slate blue eyes squinted in annoyance. Opening the folder, the editor shot several cursory glances at the glossy prints. “Is her face swollen?”
Nigel sighed. “She had strep throat last week, and it was the only time we could arrange to have the photographer present.”
“Streep with strep,” Miranda mused, sighing in disgust. “Did no one think to throw one of those bohemian scarves she seems to be so fond of around her neck to disguise the swollen lymph nodes? She looks like a chipmunk.”
“We tried that,” the art director countered, “but she was running a fever, too. Besides which, when has Meryl Streep ever given a damn about ruining a photo shoot? Vanity is not one of her most outstanding characteristics.”
The woman flicked the folder closed over the offending images and sunk further into her chair. For a beautiful woman, the actress certainly did have a cumbersome lack of ego. “Meryl might not care how she looks, but her publicist will be breathing down my neck if these photos make it into the July issue. Honestly,” Miranda groused, fixing the man with a fairly tame version of her ‘die cretin’ glare. “I’m out of the country for one shoot and I return, expecting shots of an effervescent actress, only to be graced with tired, feverish and swollen. These are going to have to be re-shot. That’s all.”
Nigel grabbed the folder and turned to leave, an abused gust of breath puffing out his cheeks before escaping his lungs.
The editor rolled her eyes. “Was there something else? Or have you taken to breathing like a heifer in labour only to exacerbate my continued level of disappointment?”
The art director smirked, too accustomed to the biting mini-diatribes of Miranda Priestly to be particularly offended by them. “Meryl starts shooting ‘Julie & Julia’ in a week and a half. It’s going to be interesting trying to get her to work us back into her schedule when she’s up to her eyeballs in Parisian food and period costumes.”
“How inconvenient,” Miranda commented darkly. “You’d better find a way to get her in here before too far into the filming. Everyone in that production is going to be plagued by the frenchman fifteen before the they’re halfway to wrap. Did anyone try, you know,” she made a slimming gesture with her hands, “modifying the photos.”
Nigel inspected his large ring, twirling it around the finger it adorned. “You want me to airbrush Meryl Streep?”
The editor offered a wry grin. “It does sound a little sacrilegious, doesn’t it?”
The man adjusted his argyle tie, grinning. “Sacrilegious? Try travesty. No,” he conceded. “You’re right. We’ll absolutely have to re-shoot this. I’ll get on the phone to Meryl’s PA and see what can be worked out.”
Nigel moved to leave before he could be dismissed- he loved racing out before the editor could deliver her final ‘that’s all’- but turned in favour of saving himself any future grief.
“Were there any other glaring defects in the photographs?”
Miranda smiled, the expression a fair interpretation of a Cheshire cat. “Inviting my continued wrath, already?”
“I thought,” Nigel began good-humouredly, “that I would spare myself the joy of doing over the ‘do-over’.”
The editor hummed distractedly, retrieving the folder from the man’s outstretched hand. “Who put her outfit together?”
Nigel cringed, a momentary pause the only mercy offered before he denounced the culprit by name. “Emily. She’s really been doing better work than this. I’m not sure she knew what to make of a model who wasn’t half-starved to death.”
Miranda nodded slowly. “That’s no excuse. A body is a body, and the woman isn’t overweight by any stretch. The entire reason Meryl’s publicist was so adamant about her client being featured in Runway was to dispense with the ‘worst dressed’ image she’s developed through the years. Get in touch with Ms. Streep as soon as possible. Also, we won’t be using the same photographer. Get me Lacombe, and don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. She and Meryl have an undeniable chemistry when there’s a camera between them. Fill me in as soon as all the details are straightened out- I’ll be overseeing the next shoot. That’s all.”
Whinging a little at his failure to avoid the fell swoop of La Priestly’s parting graces, Nigel collected the rejected folder, and made haste back to the art department.
{}{}{}
“How are you feeling?” Miranda fingered the corner of the newspaper, mostly unread, as she eyed up the actress across the sleek desk in her office.
Meryl grinned and ran a hand absently through her long, light hair. “A little tired,” she admitted blandly. “Will this take long?”
The editor resisted the urge to glare at the woman’s obvious lack of desire to be there, and offered an apologetic smile instead. “Brigitte is already in the studio. You and I will be meeting my art director, Nigel, down in hair and make-up as soon as we’re finished in wardrobe.”
“You’re changing the clothing?” Meryl inquired, confused. This ‘quick’ re-shoot was beginning to look like it would eat up the rest of her day, and she was still suffering the aftermath of her infection.
“I was,” the editor paused, searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase. “I wasn’t pleased with what the last stylist chose for you. I’m overseeing the changes myself.”
The actress raised a dubious eyebrow. “I thought the clothes were fine.”
“Emily put you in a sack,” Miranda offered curtly.
“I liked the ‘sack’,” Meryl countered just as quickly.
The editor smirked knowingly. “You would.”
Meryl frowned and Miranda instantly regretted the comment; she hardly knew this woman, but was finding it difficult to reconcile that fact with the easy familiarity the actress was famous for.
“Was that a backhanded offensive towards my lacking fashion sense?” the blond queried lightly.
Miranda relaxed at the other woman’s mild tone; she couldn’t help but be impressed, either, by the woman’s scathing intelligence. “Not at all. More a comment on your propensity for tenting your figure under billowing shirts and draping cardigans.”
The actress shrugged non-commitally. “Guilty as charged, I suppose- on both counts.” Meryl smiled resignedly. “So,” she suggested. “Wardrobe?”
{}{}{}
Meryl fidgeted with the buttons on the fitted jacket as she assessed her reflection in the wide, standing mirror, and glowered a little when she saw the editor’s smirking visage hovering behind her.
“What?” the actress accused, tugging distractedly on the cuffs of the offending outerwear.
Miranda continued to eye the other woman amusedly. “Why are you so uncomfortable? That jacket is very flattering on you.”
“It’s tight,” Meryl complained, turning in profile.
“It fits,” the editor corrected, stepping in to adjust the garment over the other woman’s shoulders. “Feel that movement across your back? You’ve plenty of room. Now,” Miranda continued, “try lifting your arms up. If you can get your hands above your shoulders, straight out in front of you, it isn’t too tight.”
The actress did as instructed, and received a pointed look from Miranda when the jacket was proven, indeed, to fit perfectly.
“It’s still feels restrictive,” Meryl offered, unimpressed. She smoothed the lightweight tweed over her stomach.
“You’re not used to a tailored cut,” the dove-haired fashionista consoled, moving away to retrieve another item from a nearby rack. “Why don’t you try this next? You might find the fit more forgiving.”
The actress hastily shed the tweed binding and traded it off for the silk, teal dress the editor held out towards her. As Meryl disappeared behind a screen to change, Miranda found herself smiling; in her element, correcting the injustices of improperly dressed women, the editor was more content, to be colloquial, than a pig in shit.
Meryl emerged, several minutes later, looking relieved; the fabric of the dress cut snugly across her shoulders and over her bust, but flowed loosely down from her waist, only lightly kissing the swell of her hips.
Miranda frowned.
“Now what?” the actress inquired, a small crease gathering between her expressive brows.
The editor approached the woman standing somewhat impatiently in front of the mirror, her hands hovering near the blonds’ body. “May I?” she inquired, and when Meryl nodded, placed her hands on the actress’ hips, gathering the fabric in around the other woman’s waist. “The bodice is very flattering, but we aren’t seeing any indication of your curves, the way the fabric is draping now.”
“I like the flowing,” Meryl insisted stubbornly, twisting around to meet the editor’s light slate eyes which narrowed a little against the stormy blue onslaught.
“I’m afraid that look isn’t going to work on me, Ms. Streep,” Miranda joked wryly. “I invented that look. Now, don’t move. I have an idea.”
The editor wandered off behind the rack of clothing, and emerged several seconds later with a handful of belts in varying styles. “Hold these,” Miranda directed, handing all but one of the accessories over to the actress. “A strategically chosen belt,” the editor began, encircling the other woman’s waist with the wide band of distressed, natural leather, “can sometimes be the most effective means of achieving a flattering silhouette.”
Meryl glanced surreptitiously past her own reflection, noticing with some amusement the patent, ruby belt which cinched the editor’s white blouse distinctly around her narrow waist. “I think you’re a little biased,” the actress teased, her eyes bright with mischief.
Miranda glanced down at herself and meeting the other woman’s eyes in the mirror, allowed a warm smiled to transform her features. “Maybe,” she offered coyly, slapping the other woman’s hands away when Meryl began futzing with the accessory. “Stop wiggling,” the editor commanded, pulling the belt in over the actress’ hips and sliding the end through the tarnished silver buckle.
“There,” Miranda exclaimed triumphantly. Hands still resting lightly on the actress’ hips, she gazed at Meryl in the reflective glass. “Better, yes?”
“Mmhm,” the blond responded non-commitally, distracted by the way the editor’s fingers were still pressing gently against her body; not sure whether to feel awkward, or grateful, or both. If she didn’t know better- which, Meryl admitted to herself, she actually didn’t- she would almost wonder if the fashionista was coming on to her.
Mary-Louise, she chastised herself silently. Time to lay off the strep medication, babe. Meryl was beginning to wonder if she was going to have to step out of the pseudo-embrace herself, when Miranda seemed to realise that her hands were still holding on to the other woman,
and clearing her throat awkwardly, she removed herself from the actress’ personal space.
Meryl smiled in an effort to diffuse the thickening air of discomfort. “Are we settled on this dress, then? I really do like what the belt is doing here.”
“You should,” Miranda said quickly, relieving the actress of the surplus accessories. “l think we’re ready to go see Nigel, now.”
The blond nodded, and grabbed her purse before following the fashion maven down the hallway to hair and makeup.
{}{}{}
Two hours later, an exhausted Ms. Streep and a satisfied Miranda Priestly exited the photography studio and headed back to the editor’s office.
Meryl thanked Miranda profusely for the ‘fashion know-how’ and the editor thanked the actress profusely for being so agreeable in regards to re-shooting the spread. They clasped hands warmly, and after Miranda told the blond to keep the dress, and more importantly, the belt, Meryl Streep made her exit.
She returned home to her Manhattan apartment later that evening to find her husband Don sipping a glass of scotch and watching a soccer match on the television.
“Hi,” she croaked, the long hours at the magazine having stolen most of her recently recovered voice.
“Ribbit,” Don replied cheekily, pulling his wife down to sit across his legs. Meryl swatted him playfully on the chest. “You sound like the infection is coming back.”
“I’m just tired,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I really hate those fucking photo shoot things. I never know how to behave.”
Don chuckled and patted his wife lightly on the back. “There, there sweetheart. I’m sure you were breathtaking.”
Meryl grinned. “You’re patronizing me on purpose, aren’t you?”
He blinked and took another swig of scotch. “Yes, dear.”
The actress sighed, and snuggled further into her husband’s chest, closing her burning eyes and feeling very suddenly like a nap might be a good idea. Suddenly, she started giggling.
“What?” Don asked distractedly as his team made another goal.
“It’s funny,” Meryl began thoughtfully, sitting up and looking into her husband‘s eyes. “And don’t you dare tell anyone this-
Don mimed zipping his lips. “What’s that?”
“Well,” she continued, “Miranda- the editor of Runway- was dressing me for the shoot, and I could’ve sworn, I dunno- maybe it’s all the medication I’m on- but I would’ve bet serious money that she was coming on to me, just a little.”
“Honey,” Don began good-humouredly, “everyone is always coming on to you ‘just a little.’ I would’ve thought you’d be used to it by now.”
Meryl rolled her eyes expansively before resting her head once more against her husband’s chest. “Jerk,” she offered affectionately, before she closed her eyes again.
{}{}{}
Miranda set the edited Book down on the coffee table, yawning mightily. Though her eyes burned, she was still far too wired from the seven triple shot lattes she consumed during the course of her workday to even fathom going to bed.
Resigned to the most pedestrian solution, the editor limply grabbed the remote and flicked on the small television in the lounge, ascending through the channels until a familiar face filled the screen. Miranda grinned, despite herself, as she realised what the woman was wearing.
“So Meryl,” the interviewer began, holding his mic towards the actress. “Who’s responsible for the recent change in your red-carpet attire?”
Streep, dressed in a flashy red trench dress accentuated with a wide, patent leather belt grinned widely before shooting the camera man a conspiratorial wink.
“Let’s just say the ‘fashion police’ finally caught up with me,” she divulged, laughing cheekily.
Miranda smirked to herself, before a warm peal of laughter escaped her parted lips.