Chapters 5-8/? When the Night Falls on You
Title: When the Night Falls On You
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG
Chapters: 5-8/?
Words: 6,744 (This will be at least a 30,000 word tale before it is done)
Disclaimer: All rights reserved to all the much wealthier people who own Miranda Priestly. They know who they are. I am quite certain that I could make much better use of Miranda and Andrea, but alas, this will have to do. No profit made.
Author's Note: This story veers a bit off course with the last scene in Paris. Well, quite off course. It is a long story and to be honest, I have not finished it yet. I have decided that I am going to start posting it in parts, which will, hopefully, give me the needed impetus to finish it. Well, if any of you like it, that is. Otherwise, it may have the opposite effect and throw me into a state of despair and I will toss the whole thing in the garbage. Hence, why I am posting in parts.
People to whom I owe at the very least a first born child or alternatively, a small island in the South Pacific: My lovely cadre of beta readers, all of whom are immensely generous, talented, wonderful women and who have put up with my bouts of insecurity without demur. Well, not much demur. chilly_flame, darandkerry, tremblingmoon, seftiri, and of course, the instigator of all this, flying_peanuts.
V.
Nate was gone when Andy got home, leaving little more than an old razor in the shower and a surprisingly deep indentation on his side of the mattress. Andy had held the razor for a moment, a wave of regret washing over her as she ran the tip of a nail along the edge, remembering the feel of Nate’s whiskers against her cheek when he came home from work and kissed her, smelling of cooking oil and cigarettes and sweat. Swallowing down the loneliness that came with the realization that her life had irrevocably altered, Andy took a deep breath and dropped the razor into the trash basket.
She had an inking of how Miranda must feel, abandoned because she wasn’t what someone else wanted her to be. Beyond exhausted, she had flipped the mattress over, put on clean sheets and collapsed on the bed, but sleep had failed to come and Andy had found herself awake, staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling.
As she did the next night. And the next. And the one after that.
Most of those nights Andy spent trying to figure out how to reconcile her precious principles and the errant path her life had taken. A path that had brought her to Miranda Priestly. A path that showed little sign of allowing her to leave Miranda Priestly.
After nearly a year of working for Miranda, it was odd how being dumped herself had given her a slightly better understanding of her boss. Andy felt a twinge of guilt at how things had ended with Nate. In spite of everything, at least Miranda’s husbands had known exactly what they were getting; if they didn’t they were bigger idiots than Andy gave them credit for being. Miranda was nothing if not completely and often brutally honest, and the people in her life could never legitimately argue that they weren’t aware of Miranda’s work and her priorities.
Andy knew that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t try to change Miranda, as Nate had tried to change her, but at least they couldn’t claim they were surprised.
The klaxon blaring of her alarm clock pulled Andy, as it had every morning since her return, from a troubled, ultimately unsatisfying slumber. They had been back from Paris for two weeks and Andy was certain that she hadn’t gotten more than four straight hours of sleep since they returned.
She had been dreaming of Paris, again; only in her dream, she had actually left, throwing her phone in a fountain and simply walking away, from that life, from Runway, from Miranda. She had had the same dream every night now, and in the first few moments of waking, had felt, not the thrill of freedom that she had imagined she would, but an emptiness, a dull ache in her stomach, the same kind she had felt as a child when she had gotten separated from her parents at an amusement park: edgy and panicked, as if a huge hole had suddenly emerged in the road in front of her, swallowing up all she held dear.
As consciousness returned to her and she realized that it was only a dream, that she had not, in fact, walked away from Miranda Priestly, the feeling of panic subsided. Unfortunately, with wakefulness came another feeling of dread. Once the initial shock of surprise at seeing Andy standing at her door had worn off, Miranda had immediately reverted to normal. Well, normal for Miranda. Snide, dismissive, impatient. Only slightly cruel. At least for that night.
The next day, however, the real nightmare began.
Andy decided, as she closed her eyes and allowed the hot spray of the shower to soothe the tight muscles in her shoulders, that she would gladly, happily take dismissive, impatient and slightly cruel as opposed to what Miranda had become the instant that they touched down at La Guardia. Within minutes of landing, Miranda had managed to reduce a flight attendant to a sobbing mass of tears and running mascara and an official with Homeland Security to nothing more than a stuttering pile of jello in a blue uniform.
And that was just the opening act.
Andy reluctantly cut short her shower and forced herself to dress, taking extra pains to make sure that she looked impeccable, makeup perfect, every hair in place. Yesterday, a small piece of lint on Paul’s otherwise immaculate shirt had resulted in a three minute rant on the image of the magazine and the sheer impossibility of finding employees who didn’t look as if they had wandered out of a changing room at Wal-Mart.
The utter randomness of what set Miranda off these days had to rank up there with the lost city of Atlantis and Jimmy Hoffa on the scale of greatest unsolved mysteries of the world. Andy simply found it impossible to believe that this was all because of the divorce. There had to be something else going on. Not that Andy had the time to try and solve it, at least not within range of the artillery.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder and, oddly enough, worry. It was astonishing and not a little bit terrifying, how sharply her feelings for Miranda had changed. The rush of protectiveness and tenderness at finding Miranda in such a vulnerable state in Paris had dispersed the next day at the luncheon like fog in the glare of the sun, only to be replaced by something stronger and much more terrifying: a fierce determination not to allow Miranda to put her in the same category as her asshole husband, as all the people who had made her false promises.
A deep-seated desire to prove to Miranda that she could trust her, not only to do her job, but to be what Miranda needed her to be. To be everything Miranda needed her to be.
Miranda hadn’t mentioned what had happened in Paris: neither Andy’s promise not to leave, nor the conversation in the car on the way back from the luncheon, not that Andy had ever expected her to bring it up. As it was, Andy had yet to muster the courage to broach the subject herself. After all, what was there to say?
“Miranda, I’m so sorry that your husband is a jackass and doesn’t have the sense to see what an amazing woman you are.”
“Miranda, I know how hard you work and what you’ve sacrificed for Runway, and if Stephen can’t appreciate that and accept it, then it’s his loss.”
“Miranda, you’re beautiful.”
It was only the last of these that Andy imagined she could get away with speaking aloud, and then it was sure to be rewarded with an incredulous stare and an impatient wave of fingers. If she was lucky.
VI.
“No. No. Dear God, no. How did anything this offensive even get in the building?” Miranda ticked off the items for the run-through that were hanging on the thin rack in the middle of her office, her expression one of growing disgust. She reached the last item and with a definite purse of her lips, held it up between two fingers with all the distaste of someone holding a recently deceased rodent. “Tell me, Jocelyn, has North Jersey High School’s 1984 Homecoming Queen not called you yet demanding that you return her prom gown?”
“Um, no, Miranda, we just, well, Tamara thought that this had a certain retro style that…” Jocelyn’s voice trailed off, her eyes firmly fixed on a point far to the right of Miranda’s head. She had learned long ago not to make eye contact, knowing full well that those icy blue eyes were overflowing with contempt. Once caught in that deadly gaze, it was almost impossible to speak. Not that Miranda ever listened, but still, she expected a response.
“If that’s the case then in the future, perhaps both of you should simply avoid thinking as it appears to be an altogether arduous and ultimately futile task for you. I find your explanations nearly as tedious and uninspired as this dress. You have half an hour to take this ugly step-child of the Kathy Lee collection and return with something worthy of this magazine. Or simply don’t return. That’s all,” Miranda pronounced dismissively, her expression bored as she turned away and seated herself at her desk.
Jocelyn and Tamara quickly grabbed the rack and made a speedy exit, barely acknowledging the look of sympathy that Andy aimed their way. Thankfully for the much abused pair, Emily had gone to lunch, or they would have witnessed her exaggerated eye rolling at their idiocy. Andy for her part had inwardly cringed as she had listened to the ever-smooth tones of Miranda’s voice as she let fly a wave of arrows at the hapless duo. Granted, it wasn’t the meanest she had ever heard Miranda sound, but that wasn’t saying all that much.
“Andrea.” Speak of the devil. Andy forced her brightest smile on her lips and marched bravely into the dragon’s liar.
“Yes, Miranda?” Andy waited patiently for Miranda to look up from the papers she was studying intently, content to gaze at Miranda while the older woman wasn’t looking. The thought occurred to Andy, for the thousandth time, that although she indeed might be the Devil’s closest living relation, Miranda Priestly was still one of the most gorgeous women Andy had ever seen.
“Fire Tamara. And then call HR and tell them that I need a new assistant for Jocelyn and if they send me another person incapable of distinguishing retro from yard sale, I will be annoyed. That’s all,” Miranda glanced up at her almost casually from under her lashes, a speculative look in her eyes.
For her part, Andy was trying to process the editor’s words, certain that she must have misunderstood.
“You mean, you fired Tamara and you need me to get a replacement?” Andy stammered a little, trying to keep her voice on an even keel.
“Did I use words with which you aren’t familiar or were they simply too long?” Miranda intoned sardonically. “Allow me to simplify it for you. You will fire Tamara. You will then arrange to have her replaced. Clear enough, Andrea?”
“But Miranda…I mean, I don’t fire people. I’m just your assistant. I don’t have that kind of power,” Andy couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth, knowing quite well that she risked Miranda’s wrath.
“No, Andrea, you do not. However, I do, and as my assistant you will do as I tell you and I am telling you to inform Tamara that her services are no longer desired. Any other questions? Good, that’s all,” Miranda stated softly, her voice dangerously low.
All Andy could do was squeak an unnecessary, “No, Miranda. Yes, Miranda”, and slowly make her way to her desk. She stood there, trying to steady her breathing and figure out not only how the hell she was going to tell Tamara she was fired, but why in hell Miranda had decided to make her do it in the first place. Normally, Miranda seemed to enjoy lowering the boom herself and so it was odd that she had delegated the task, much less to Andy of all people.
“Andrea. Before the spring thaw would be nice.” Even from the other room, Andy could sense the irritation and she turned slowly down the hall, suddenly knowing what the hangman felt like on his way to the scaffold.
Miranda swiveled her office chair and stared, gaze unfocused, at the way the afternoon light was bouncing off the windows of the building across the street, creating mirrors that reflected back an image of her office, like some sort of distorted Doppelganger, a skewed likeness in a funhouse mirror. She sighed deeply and ran her thumb and forefinger along the bridge of her nose, squeezing slightly to relieve some of the pain in her head. Today had been tiring, but then, what was new?
Every day since her return from Paris had been an infuriating voyage of discovery into just how completely useless her staff were. Ineptitude and incompetence exhausted her and despite years of attempting to come to terms with the imperfection she encountered on a daily basis, Miranda found that as she got older, it was more and more difficult to accept that inefficiency had to be the norm.
Miranda knew she wasn’t the kindest person on the planet. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a heart, it wasn’t even that she didn’t possess the requisite instincts to be kind. It was simply that when choosing between treating people with a modicum of human compassion and making certain that her magazine was the very best it could be, she invariably found that she had to choose the magazine. After all, her employees were just that, employees.
She was not their friend or their mother and considering what Miranda knew about human nature, that given the chance, most people will do only the bare minimum needed to get by and no more, she felt no qualms about demanding that the people who worked for her go beyond that instinctive nature and excel. Or at the very least, perform at a level marginally higher than trained chimps.
She took no extreme pleasure in it. Well, most of the time. She did admit that upon occasion there was a certain satisfaction at reminding certain people of their place in the universe.
It wasn’t personal, it was just business. If she had to be a complete and utter bitch in the process, then so be it. When she looked at the final copy of her magazine each month, every callous word, every disdainful tone, every scathing glare was worth it.
Or so she told herself. More often than not, she believed it.
Except when she didn’t. Like now.
Although not a single one of her shrinks would have shouted her praises as the most self-aware person they had ever treated, even they would be forced to admit that Miranda generally knew exactly why she did what she did and said what she said. They would most certainly doubt her ability to stop herself from doing and saying, as evidenced by her three failed marriages and string of alienated friends, but at least she was usually aware of her motivations.
That those motivations were more often than not self-destructive and inclined to leave her feeling bitter and resentful and completely alone was again, something that Miranda knew. She just didn’t know how to avoid giving in to them. Because, when pushed, her immediate reaction was to push back; when challenged, to become defensive.
And Andrea had most definitely challenged her. Even now, Miranda could see the look of sincerity and naiveté in those enormous brown eyes as Andrea promised not leave to her, a task at which far braver, stronger souls had failed. Miranda knew that the girl was wrong. Everyone left her eventually. One day, in the not too distant future, Andrea would wake up and realize that she had made a horrible mistake, realize what a monster Miranda was and leave. It was that simple.
And Miranda was damned if she was going to sit and complacently wait for that to happen.
VII.
Andy had just stepped off the elevator the next morning and was making her way to her desk, Starbucks clutched in one hand, when she heard Emily’s voice, just verging on the hysterical, coming from the direction of Miranda’s office.
“Bloody hell…dear God, she’s going to freak. She’s going to kill someone. Bugger. Damn, damn, damn. I cannot believe this is happening!”
Setting the coffee down, Andy rushed into the inner sanctum, only to find Emily attempting to get down on her hands and knees, the cast on her leg making the contortion nearly impossible. She had a rag in one hand as she stared feverishly at a large, greenish stain on the carpet, the upper half of her body bent over double, the leg still encased in a cast flung out behind her as she tried to balance on one crutch.
“Em, what the hell are you doing?” Andy couldn’t quite silence the stray thought that she would give a week’s salary to have a camera handy right about now.
Since taking Emily’s place in Paris, Andy had tried mightily to get the redhead to forgive her, even going so far as to give her a good many of the clothes she had scored in Paris, but to no avail. Emily only spoke to her when absolutely necessary and even then it seemed to cause her great physical pain to do so, if the expression of intense suffering was anything to go by.
“Thank God, you finally managed to get here. Where the bloody hell have you been? Take this. Hurry up, before she gets here,” Emily hissed, straightening awkwardly and throwing the rag at Andy. “Some idiot from the cleaning crew must have done it. Get down there and get it up, now! Can you imagine what she’ll say if she sees that?”
Andy obediently got down on her knees and began to scrub at the stain. After a few minutes, it was clear that whatever had been spilled, it was going to take more than water and a rag to get it up. Emily hovered over her like some sort of demented stork, balancing on one leg as she frantically ordered Andy to scrub harder, her voice an almost hysterical whisper.
“It’s not coming up, Em. I’m sorry, but we’re going to need a steam cleaner to get that out,” Andy sighed and started to stand, only to have her upward motion halted by the none too gentle pressure of Emily’s hand on her shoulder.
“No. No. You cannot stop. You have to get it out, Andrea. You must,” Emily’s voice was at least an octave higher than normal, but even that wasn’t going to change the fact that the stain was not going to magically disappear.
“Emily. I could stay down there all day scrubbing it and it still won’t come out,” Andy said firmly, slipping her shoulder from beneath Emily’s hand and standing up. “Just stand there when she comes in. Maybe she won’t notice it.”
“Notice what, Andrea?” It really was inevitable, and Andy didn’t even flinch when she heard the smooth tones of Miranda’s voice from behind her.
Emily actually answered, hoping no doubt to make herself look better for having found the stain and having made Andrea attempt to clean it, while shifting the brunt of Miranda’s wrath onto the cleaning crew. It was a false hope.
“Emily, can you explain to me why, instead of simply calling building maintenance the moment you noticed this unsightly blemish on my office carpet, you thought that it would be better to have Andrea rubbing the stain even further into my Berber? Even a minimum wage maid at the Holiday Inn would have sense enough not to do that, wouldn’t she, Emily?” The chill in Miranda’s tone was matched by the icy sparkle in her eyes as they swept over Emily. Her lips thinned noticeably.
With one last glance at the carpet, Miranda turned and walked to her desk, issuing orders as she went. “Andrea, get me my coffee and then get Lissette at Donna Karan’s and make me a reservation for lunch tomorrow at that place that has the salads that I like. That’s all.”
Emily blanched, her skin taking on a sickly hue.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I’ll get maintenance up here now,” Emily murmured, her eyes a little glassy. If she noticed that Miranda hadn’t directed any of her ire at Andrea, she was too upset to mention it.
The day went downhill from there, at least in terms of Miranda’s mood, something that, given yesterday’s series of fiascos, Andy hadn’t believed possible. Miranda had sent her across town to meet with Calvin Klein’s assistant and pick up some samples and so Andy was free for an hour or so from the toxic atmosphere that seemed to be hanging like mustard gas in the cream and glass hallways of Runway.
When Miranda was like this, even Andy’s short tenure at Runway had taught her to simply duck and cover and hope that Miranda’s latest volley was aimed in someone else’s direction. Which had been the case, Andy realized with a jolt, hanging onto the strap in a crowded subway car. A frown creased her forehead as comprehension dawned.
Miranda had been gunning for everyone but her.
So far she had taken repeated, particularly nasty shots at Emily, at Jocelyn, at Paul, at the entire art department, at a nationally renowned essayist, even at Nigel. Hell, she had even fired Tamara. Or rather, had her fire Tamara.
But she hadn’t taken a single shot at her.
Granted, she had been well within range for almost all of them, but Miranda had simply let fire her guns at whomever happened to be handy and then glancing speculatively at Andy, turned away, usually with Andy in close attendance behind her.
Andy was so taken aback by the realization that she nearly dropped the bags she was carrying from Calvin Klein. It was absurd. She had to be wrong. Maybe it was just that she hadn’t messed up. No, there was the missed call from Michael Kors.
The fact that Andy only missed the call because Emily was at lunch and Miranda had ordered Andy to find Jocelyn and return with her in five minutes or suffer the consequences was immaterial. Such an error should have resulted in a blistering glare and threat of bodily harm, but Miranda had simply sighed deeply, rolled her eyes heavenward as if seeking divine assistance and told Andrea to call them back.
At the time, Andy had been too consumed with getting Kors back on the line in record speed to worry about Miranda’s reaction, or lack thereof. Then the whole catastrophe with the mislabeling of a candid shot from one of Lagerfeld’s Paris shows had distracted everyone and anyone within a two mile radius of Miranda’s voice (for a woman who never yelled, Miranda’s voice certain did carry when she wanted it to) and the phone incident had slipped Andy’s mind.
Until now.
No, she had to be wrong. Miranda Priestly did not forgive mistakes. Miranda Priestly did not give second chances, much less third or fourth. Emily and Nigel and the rest of Runway, not to mention waiters, writers, photographers and assistants all over Manhattan could attest to that. Andy could attest to it as well, having been made to witness nearly every verbal evisceration, every humiliation since they had returned from Paris.
Except for her own.
Stepping off the subway, Andy couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Miranda was playing at and, more importantly, why.
VIII.
Maintenance had arrived by the time that Andy returned to the office. Setting the bags from Calvin Klein on her desk, Andy could see one of the maintenance crew in his grey uniform, kneeling on the floor of Miranda’s office. Next to him was a carry-cart full of cleaning materials and a carpet cleaner. Andy couldn’t quite believe that Miranda was actually still in the office while her carpet was being cleaned, but then Andy remembered that Miranda had a meeting with Irv this afternoon. She was undoubtedly examining the very over-budget budget before she had to explain it to Elias-Clarke’s CEO.
Glancing in at Miranda’s desk, Andy could see the frown of concentration creating little furrows across her forehead beneath the fall of silver hair. Miranda had an amazing ability to tune out the rest of the world. Other than a first, cursory glance, she probably hadn’t even noticed the man kneeling on her floor, diligently scrubbing at the unsightly stain on the carpet.
Occasionally it occurred to Andy that people had a tendency to become little more than pieces of furniture to Miranda, useful only when she needed them. There were no doubt whole warehouses full of people from Miranda’s life that had been left, in Miranda’s mind at least, white cloth tarps thrown over them, to sit in a dark, dusty room until such time as Miranda required them for something. Andy had found that she spent every day making certain that Miranda never had the urge to throw a tarp over her.
“Dear Lord, did you walk back from Calvin Klein? Not that the exercise would hurt you,” Emily muttered, her expression disdainful. She quickly gathered up her coat and bag, tossing a glare Andy’s way. “You’ve been gone for days. I’m going to lunch now. Try to manage not to miss any important calls while I’m gone? As you can see they’re here cleaning the small stain on the carpet that you seemed incapable of getting out. Miranda has run-through at 4:00 and Irv at 5:00, so for God’s sake, don’t talk to her if you can help it.” This last directive was so low that Andy barely heard it as Emily thumped as gracefully as possible down the hall.
“Have a nice lunch, Em,” Andy smiled cheerfully at Emily’s retreating back.
Andy sat at her desk and took a deep breath, reminding herself again, as she did every day, that she really did like Emily. Some days it was harder than others to convince herself that it was true. Still, Andy knew, under the hard, lacquered veneer was soft wood, easily damaged and difficult to mend. She knew that most of Emily’s animosity arose from her perception, unfortunately validated by Miranda taking her to Paris with her, that Andy was after Emily’s job.
She wasn’t, of course, but no amount of groveling and explaining was ever going to convince Emily of that and Andy was damned if she was going to be bad at her job and risk disappointing Miranda simply to make Emily feel a little more secure. Because, for Andy at least, disappointing Miranda wasn’t an option.
Ever.
Despite what her assistants thought, Miranda missed very little, her lips twitching ever so slightly in amusement at Emily’s words. Part of her couldn’t help being entertained by Emily’s apparently inexhaustible grudge against Andrea, nor did she care in the least that Emily’s resentment was a direct result of her actions. When it came to her magazine, Miranda’s decisions had nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with making certain that Runway was as close to perfect as she could manage, given the incompetence that surrounded her. If Emily had been as good at her job as Andrea, it wouldn’t be an issue. Period. Well, perhaps a small issue.
Andrea.
The line of figures on the paper in front of her began to blur as Miranda’s mind meandered yet again down a path with which she was becoming all too familiar. Her attempts to force Andrea to want to leave had so far been unsuccessful, a fact that was puzzling to Miranda and Miranda wasn’t fond of puzzles. Even forcing the girl to fire Tamara, without question an exceptionally harrowing experience, given Tamara’s penchant for melodrama, had failed to elicit so much as a disgusted look or a trembling lip on Andrea’s part. Miranda had expected righteous indignation, contempt even, but had received nothing but resigned compliance from Andrea.
A fact that caused that slight, white-clad figure of hope inside Miranda’s chest, the one that, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, she guarded fiercely; the one she swore she lived for, to edge ever closer to the surface, attempting to gain a foothold in her mind from which she couldn’t quite shake it. Could it be possible that the girl was serious, that she really wouldn’t leave, no matter how horrible and uncaring Miranda showed herself to be?
Impossible.
Clearly Miranda wasn’t trying hard enough. Deliberately pushing that stubborn, flimsy figure in white aside, Miranda took a deep breath. She was just going to have to show Andrea exactly why they called her the Dragon Lady. The run-through today should be helpful in proving just how vicious and cruel she could be. She’d move it up an hour, just to throw everyone off their pace, and she steeled herself for an Oscar winning performance. As an added bonus, she’d be prepared to meet Irv in full battle mode. Two birds, indeed.
Little did she know, fate had some other plans for Miranda’s afternoon.
“Andrea.” If she hadn’t been distracted with her own machinations, Miranda might have noticed the sudden stilling of movement from the maintenance worker as she called her young assistant into the office.
Andrea appeared, pad in hand, cheerful smile firmly in place, the requisite, “Yes, Miranda”, on her tongue.
“Move the run-through up to three. Call Lagerfeld and confirm our lunch for tomorrow. Order two of those Kindle things for the girls, along with a complete catalog of books. You know what they like. Tell Paul that the layout had better be on my desk by eight a.m. or don’t bother coming to work, ever again,” Miranda dictated, trying to keep her eyes focused on the pages on her desk and not the long-legged woman in front of her. It was so much easier when she didn’t have to look at those huge, doe eyes.
“Of course, Miranda,” Andrea began, her mouth opening to assure her boss that she had already thought to confirm her luncheon with Lagerfeld, when the sudden movement of the man in gray caused her to pause, her eyes automatically swiveling to follow his motions as he moved quickly to the double doors, swinging them shut and locking them efficiently, before either woman could speak.
The outraged, incredulous words that sprang to Miranda’s lips died there instantly at the dull gleam of metal in the man’s right hand. The gun was black and square and looked for all the world like a toy pistol, but one glance at the man’s face belied that fact. It was as dull and emotionless as the weapon he held and Miranda felt a thin tendril of fear slither snakelike through her chest.
Andrea had spotted the gun as well and began to back away from it, towards Miranda’s desk, her eyes wider than Miranda had ever seen them. Without conscious thought, Miranda reached out suddenly, her hand latching on to Andrea’s arm with a grip of steel as she pulled the girl around the corner of her desk, placing Andrea behind her, out of the line of fire. She could feel the warmth of the girl’s body against her back, as Andrea automatically moved closer, her breathing fast and shallow.
The man said nothing as he watched the tableau unfold before him, although there was a decided quirk to his lips as Miranda hauled the younger woman behind her. Knowing what he did about the woman, he might have expected her to put the girl in front of her as a shield. But this? Perhaps there was a bit more here than met the eye.
He had waited for Miranda to call one of the girls into the office because he wanted a witness, someone to tell his story for him when it was all over, but now, now he might have something even more valuable than that. Dear Lord, was it possible that this tyrannical bitch actually had a soft spot for her assistant?
The Ice Queen was glaring at him, her face blank of expression, eyes so clear and blue they almost hurt to look at, as her gaze moved slowly from his face to the gun to the door and back again, assessing the situation, trying in a few seconds to gain the measure of her position. He simply stood and waited. He expected nothing less.
Nor did he expect anything other than the words that finally left her lips.
“Were you going to actually make some ridiculous demands or simply stand there waving that gun around and expecting me to play twenty questions, a game, I might add, that I deplored even as a child?” Miranda demanded, her voice full of the same disdainful irritation that she expressed when her coffee was late.
His expression became almost puzzled, a concentrated frown creasing his forehead.
“I can’t actually imagine you as a child, but I’ll take your word for it. Still, in the grander scheme of things, playing twenty questions will no doubt be the least of the things you won’t enjoy today,” he said softly, the flatness of his voice and the lack of any emotion in his eyes making his pronouncement all the more menacing.
Standing so closely behind Miranda, the scent of the older woman’s perfume, combined with the low, calm, ever contemptuous tones of Miranda’s voice, provided a surprisingly comforting dose of reality amid the utter surrealism of the situation. Andy found that she was having trouble following the conversation, her mind firmly fixed on the dull metallic gleam of the pistol pointed so casually in their direction. Still, a few words here and there snagged along the jagged surface of her mind, like wet leaves on rough pavement.
Andy couldn’t quite imagine a young Miranda either. An image of Miranda, emerging from the head of Coco Chanel, fully grown and clad in the perfect black dress and heels, floated across the periphery of Andy’s mind, only to be chased away as the weight of what was happening settled on her. Miranda hadn’t spoken again, her posture seemingly relaxed as she stood, apparently intent on waiting for the gunman to speak again.
Great, nothing like Miranda’s natural stubbornness getting them both killed. Except standing so close to her, Andy could see, even feel the tension in Miranda’s body, the tightness across her back and shoulders, the awkward tilt of her head.
The gunman smirked again suddenly, nodding his head as he began to walk slowly around the office, glancing at the photographs that lined the walls, taking in the vase of flowers on the table beneath the mirror, the books on the window sills behind them, the firmness of his grip on the gun unaltered.
“You know, if I didn’t know better, I would think that someone almost human worked here,” he said finally, his tone even and conversational. “But I do know better, which makes this facade all the more pathetic.”
“Please tell me you didn’t bother to bring a gun and hold us hostage just to comment on my taste in interior decorating,” Miranda stated dryly. Only someone as familiar as Andy was with the nuances of Miranda’s voice would notice the slender thread of tension interwoven with the apparent boredom.
He answered just as dryly, an odd light appearing in his eyes, one that sent a jolt of fear through Andy’s body.
“Oh, no. I brought the gun to shoot someone. Originally, of course, it was going to be you, Ms. Priestly. But you have, quite unwittingly I’m sure, provided me with something far better. I’m going to shoot her,” he gestured at Andy with the gun, although his eyes never left Miranda’s.
Andy heard the gasp that left her own lips as the air rushed from her lungs. She felt Miranda reach back, her hand seeking and finding Andy’s, linking their fingers together as she pulled the girl a little closer to her.
“Pardon me? You came here with the intent of shooting me, a woman more than capable of killing you right where you stand, had I the opportunity, but instead have now decided to shoot my assistant, a girl incapable of harming so much as a fly?” Miranda’s voice was dangerously low and equally incredulous. Trust Miranda to be insulted at not being the one chosen to die today.
His eyes had narrowed speculatively as he watched the interaction between the two women, Miranda’s subtle movement only serving to confirm his theory. She had not merely tried to keep the girl out of harm’s way, she was actually holding her hand. This was going to be even more satisfying than he had dared dream.
“Exactly. Although I realized from the outset that killing you would be doing the world a huge favor, I found that I could live with that. Aside from your daughters, there honestly isn’t another living soul who would truly mourn you, is there, Miranda? Well, perhaps one more person. She’d mourn you, wouldn’t you, Andy?” He didn’t wait for Andy’s response.
“But, more importantly, I now have a strong suspicion that you’ll mourn her. You see, when I came here, I was planning on killing you, Miranda. But now, I think it would be far better to make certain that you suffer. Really suffer. And the one way I know to do that is take away from you something you value. Someone you value. But you value so little in this world. I’m not a monster and I would never harm a child, but you’ve quite obligingly provided me with the lovely Ms. Sachs. Sorry, Andy, nothing personal,” he explained, his voice so eerily calm that he might have been explaining the infield fly rule in baseball.
Andy felt Miranda’s fingers tighten around her own, the ring on her hand cutting into Andy’s flesh. The pain as the ring dug into her fingers and the feel of Miranda’s smooth skin against her own were an anchor to cling to as the waters of panic slowly closed over Andy’s head. This couldn’t be happening. This was a fucking fashion magazine. People don’t walk into fashion magazines with guns. Andy felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh well up within her, at the sheer absurdity of it. However, as her mind registered the complete lack of emotion in the gunman’s eyes, the laugh came out as something much more resembling a choked sob.
Miranda’s fingers squeezed tighter around her own.
“While it may be a trifle reckless to argue with a man pointing a loaded weapon in my direction...I am assuming, of course, that it is loaded, yes? Yes....Well, despite that, I must inform you that you seem to be laboring under a tremendous misconception. Andrea is my assistant, and while being adequate at her job, has no importance to me beyond that whatsoever. So, I’m afraid that if your plan is to hurt me through her, it is hopelessly flawed. Let her go and you and I will settle this,” Miranda’s voice was almost mockingly amused, and Andy could close her eyes and see the expression on Miranda’s face, one she had seen so many times, the “I can’t believe I have to explain everything because you’re an idiot” look.
To Andy’s shock, the man laughed. A full-barreled laugh that never reached the dead brown pools of his eyes.
“After reading what the gossip rags and most of Manhattan say about you, I would normally be inclined to believe that. We all know that the Devil isn’t the sentimental sort. Yet, if that was really true, why did you, Miranda Priestly, the most self-centered, uncaring bitch on the planet, grab her lowly assistant and drag her behind you to protect her from the evil gunman? And why is it that even now, while you’re making this blatantly contrived speech, are you holding that merely adequate assistant’s hand?
“Please, don’t mistake me for one of the ass-kissing idiots you surround yourself with, Miranda. I’ve spent the better part of two months watching and listening and learning, and I know what an horrible excuse for a human being you are. And yet, here you are, shielding this girl from harm. What’s funny is that no one would believe any of this if I told them, but given that actions speak loudly, I think that she means a hell of a lot more to you than just someone to fetch your coffee.”
God, how surreal and ridiculous was it that, as the truth of the man’s words registered in her brain, Andy felt a surge of warmth spread up her arm and across her chest from where Miranda’s hand entwined with her own? Miranda had placed herself between Andy and the gun; she had reached back to hold Andy’s hand, to offer comfort and reassurance. An absurd little voice in Andy’s head whispered, albeit a trifle hysterically, that if she was going to die today, at least she’d die knowing that Miranda Priestly cared.
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG
Chapters: 5-8/?
Words: 6,744 (This will be at least a 30,000 word tale before it is done)
Disclaimer: All rights reserved to all the much wealthier people who own Miranda Priestly. They know who they are. I am quite certain that I could make much better use of Miranda and Andrea, but alas, this will have to do. No profit made.
Author's Note: This story veers a bit off course with the last scene in Paris. Well, quite off course. It is a long story and to be honest, I have not finished it yet. I have decided that I am going to start posting it in parts, which will, hopefully, give me the needed impetus to finish it. Well, if any of you like it, that is. Otherwise, it may have the opposite effect and throw me into a state of despair and I will toss the whole thing in the garbage. Hence, why I am posting in parts.
People to whom I owe at the very least a first born child or alternatively, a small island in the South Pacific: My lovely cadre of beta readers, all of whom are immensely generous, talented, wonderful women and who have put up with my bouts of insecurity without demur. Well, not much demur. chilly_flame, darandkerry, tremblingmoon, seftiri, and of course, the instigator of all this, flying_peanuts.
V.
Nate was gone when Andy got home, leaving little more than an old razor in the shower and a surprisingly deep indentation on his side of the mattress. Andy had held the razor for a moment, a wave of regret washing over her as she ran the tip of a nail along the edge, remembering the feel of Nate’s whiskers against her cheek when he came home from work and kissed her, smelling of cooking oil and cigarettes and sweat. Swallowing down the loneliness that came with the realization that her life had irrevocably altered, Andy took a deep breath and dropped the razor into the trash basket.
She had an inking of how Miranda must feel, abandoned because she wasn’t what someone else wanted her to be. Beyond exhausted, she had flipped the mattress over, put on clean sheets and collapsed on the bed, but sleep had failed to come and Andy had found herself awake, staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling.
As she did the next night. And the next. And the one after that.
Most of those nights Andy spent trying to figure out how to reconcile her precious principles and the errant path her life had taken. A path that had brought her to Miranda Priestly. A path that showed little sign of allowing her to leave Miranda Priestly.
After nearly a year of working for Miranda, it was odd how being dumped herself had given her a slightly better understanding of her boss. Andy felt a twinge of guilt at how things had ended with Nate. In spite of everything, at least Miranda’s husbands had known exactly what they were getting; if they didn’t they were bigger idiots than Andy gave them credit for being. Miranda was nothing if not completely and often brutally honest, and the people in her life could never legitimately argue that they weren’t aware of Miranda’s work and her priorities.
Andy knew that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t try to change Miranda, as Nate had tried to change her, but at least they couldn’t claim they were surprised.
The klaxon blaring of her alarm clock pulled Andy, as it had every morning since her return, from a troubled, ultimately unsatisfying slumber. They had been back from Paris for two weeks and Andy was certain that she hadn’t gotten more than four straight hours of sleep since they returned.
She had been dreaming of Paris, again; only in her dream, she had actually left, throwing her phone in a fountain and simply walking away, from that life, from Runway, from Miranda. She had had the same dream every night now, and in the first few moments of waking, had felt, not the thrill of freedom that she had imagined she would, but an emptiness, a dull ache in her stomach, the same kind she had felt as a child when she had gotten separated from her parents at an amusement park: edgy and panicked, as if a huge hole had suddenly emerged in the road in front of her, swallowing up all she held dear.
As consciousness returned to her and she realized that it was only a dream, that she had not, in fact, walked away from Miranda Priestly, the feeling of panic subsided. Unfortunately, with wakefulness came another feeling of dread. Once the initial shock of surprise at seeing Andy standing at her door had worn off, Miranda had immediately reverted to normal. Well, normal for Miranda. Snide, dismissive, impatient. Only slightly cruel. At least for that night.
The next day, however, the real nightmare began.
Andy decided, as she closed her eyes and allowed the hot spray of the shower to soothe the tight muscles in her shoulders, that she would gladly, happily take dismissive, impatient and slightly cruel as opposed to what Miranda had become the instant that they touched down at La Guardia. Within minutes of landing, Miranda had managed to reduce a flight attendant to a sobbing mass of tears and running mascara and an official with Homeland Security to nothing more than a stuttering pile of jello in a blue uniform.
And that was just the opening act.
Andy reluctantly cut short her shower and forced herself to dress, taking extra pains to make sure that she looked impeccable, makeup perfect, every hair in place. Yesterday, a small piece of lint on Paul’s otherwise immaculate shirt had resulted in a three minute rant on the image of the magazine and the sheer impossibility of finding employees who didn’t look as if they had wandered out of a changing room at Wal-Mart.
The utter randomness of what set Miranda off these days had to rank up there with the lost city of Atlantis and Jimmy Hoffa on the scale of greatest unsolved mysteries of the world. Andy simply found it impossible to believe that this was all because of the divorce. There had to be something else going on. Not that Andy had the time to try and solve it, at least not within range of the artillery.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder and, oddly enough, worry. It was astonishing and not a little bit terrifying, how sharply her feelings for Miranda had changed. The rush of protectiveness and tenderness at finding Miranda in such a vulnerable state in Paris had dispersed the next day at the luncheon like fog in the glare of the sun, only to be replaced by something stronger and much more terrifying: a fierce determination not to allow Miranda to put her in the same category as her asshole husband, as all the people who had made her false promises.
A deep-seated desire to prove to Miranda that she could trust her, not only to do her job, but to be what Miranda needed her to be. To be everything Miranda needed her to be.
Miranda hadn’t mentioned what had happened in Paris: neither Andy’s promise not to leave, nor the conversation in the car on the way back from the luncheon, not that Andy had ever expected her to bring it up. As it was, Andy had yet to muster the courage to broach the subject herself. After all, what was there to say?
“Miranda, I’m so sorry that your husband is a jackass and doesn’t have the sense to see what an amazing woman you are.”
“Miranda, I know how hard you work and what you’ve sacrificed for Runway, and if Stephen can’t appreciate that and accept it, then it’s his loss.”
“Miranda, you’re beautiful.”
It was only the last of these that Andy imagined she could get away with speaking aloud, and then it was sure to be rewarded with an incredulous stare and an impatient wave of fingers. If she was lucky.
VI.
“No. No. Dear God, no. How did anything this offensive even get in the building?” Miranda ticked off the items for the run-through that were hanging on the thin rack in the middle of her office, her expression one of growing disgust. She reached the last item and with a definite purse of her lips, held it up between two fingers with all the distaste of someone holding a recently deceased rodent. “Tell me, Jocelyn, has North Jersey High School’s 1984 Homecoming Queen not called you yet demanding that you return her prom gown?”
“Um, no, Miranda, we just, well, Tamara thought that this had a certain retro style that…” Jocelyn’s voice trailed off, her eyes firmly fixed on a point far to the right of Miranda’s head. She had learned long ago not to make eye contact, knowing full well that those icy blue eyes were overflowing with contempt. Once caught in that deadly gaze, it was almost impossible to speak. Not that Miranda ever listened, but still, she expected a response.
“If that’s the case then in the future, perhaps both of you should simply avoid thinking as it appears to be an altogether arduous and ultimately futile task for you. I find your explanations nearly as tedious and uninspired as this dress. You have half an hour to take this ugly step-child of the Kathy Lee collection and return with something worthy of this magazine. Or simply don’t return. That’s all,” Miranda pronounced dismissively, her expression bored as she turned away and seated herself at her desk.
Jocelyn and Tamara quickly grabbed the rack and made a speedy exit, barely acknowledging the look of sympathy that Andy aimed their way. Thankfully for the much abused pair, Emily had gone to lunch, or they would have witnessed her exaggerated eye rolling at their idiocy. Andy for her part had inwardly cringed as she had listened to the ever-smooth tones of Miranda’s voice as she let fly a wave of arrows at the hapless duo. Granted, it wasn’t the meanest she had ever heard Miranda sound, but that wasn’t saying all that much.
“Andrea.” Speak of the devil. Andy forced her brightest smile on her lips and marched bravely into the dragon’s liar.
“Yes, Miranda?” Andy waited patiently for Miranda to look up from the papers she was studying intently, content to gaze at Miranda while the older woman wasn’t looking. The thought occurred to Andy, for the thousandth time, that although she indeed might be the Devil’s closest living relation, Miranda Priestly was still one of the most gorgeous women Andy had ever seen.
“Fire Tamara. And then call HR and tell them that I need a new assistant for Jocelyn and if they send me another person incapable of distinguishing retro from yard sale, I will be annoyed. That’s all,” Miranda glanced up at her almost casually from under her lashes, a speculative look in her eyes.
For her part, Andy was trying to process the editor’s words, certain that she must have misunderstood.
“You mean, you fired Tamara and you need me to get a replacement?” Andy stammered a little, trying to keep her voice on an even keel.
“Did I use words with which you aren’t familiar or were they simply too long?” Miranda intoned sardonically. “Allow me to simplify it for you. You will fire Tamara. You will then arrange to have her replaced. Clear enough, Andrea?”
“But Miranda…I mean, I don’t fire people. I’m just your assistant. I don’t have that kind of power,” Andy couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth, knowing quite well that she risked Miranda’s wrath.
“No, Andrea, you do not. However, I do, and as my assistant you will do as I tell you and I am telling you to inform Tamara that her services are no longer desired. Any other questions? Good, that’s all,” Miranda stated softly, her voice dangerously low.
All Andy could do was squeak an unnecessary, “No, Miranda. Yes, Miranda”, and slowly make her way to her desk. She stood there, trying to steady her breathing and figure out not only how the hell she was going to tell Tamara she was fired, but why in hell Miranda had decided to make her do it in the first place. Normally, Miranda seemed to enjoy lowering the boom herself and so it was odd that she had delegated the task, much less to Andy of all people.
“Andrea. Before the spring thaw would be nice.” Even from the other room, Andy could sense the irritation and she turned slowly down the hall, suddenly knowing what the hangman felt like on his way to the scaffold.
Miranda swiveled her office chair and stared, gaze unfocused, at the way the afternoon light was bouncing off the windows of the building across the street, creating mirrors that reflected back an image of her office, like some sort of distorted Doppelganger, a skewed likeness in a funhouse mirror. She sighed deeply and ran her thumb and forefinger along the bridge of her nose, squeezing slightly to relieve some of the pain in her head. Today had been tiring, but then, what was new?
Every day since her return from Paris had been an infuriating voyage of discovery into just how completely useless her staff were. Ineptitude and incompetence exhausted her and despite years of attempting to come to terms with the imperfection she encountered on a daily basis, Miranda found that as she got older, it was more and more difficult to accept that inefficiency had to be the norm.
Miranda knew she wasn’t the kindest person on the planet. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a heart, it wasn’t even that she didn’t possess the requisite instincts to be kind. It was simply that when choosing between treating people with a modicum of human compassion and making certain that her magazine was the very best it could be, she invariably found that she had to choose the magazine. After all, her employees were just that, employees.
She was not their friend or their mother and considering what Miranda knew about human nature, that given the chance, most people will do only the bare minimum needed to get by and no more, she felt no qualms about demanding that the people who worked for her go beyond that instinctive nature and excel. Or at the very least, perform at a level marginally higher than trained chimps.
She took no extreme pleasure in it. Well, most of the time. She did admit that upon occasion there was a certain satisfaction at reminding certain people of their place in the universe.
It wasn’t personal, it was just business. If she had to be a complete and utter bitch in the process, then so be it. When she looked at the final copy of her magazine each month, every callous word, every disdainful tone, every scathing glare was worth it.
Or so she told herself. More often than not, she believed it.
Except when she didn’t. Like now.
Although not a single one of her shrinks would have shouted her praises as the most self-aware person they had ever treated, even they would be forced to admit that Miranda generally knew exactly why she did what she did and said what she said. They would most certainly doubt her ability to stop herself from doing and saying, as evidenced by her three failed marriages and string of alienated friends, but at least she was usually aware of her motivations.
That those motivations were more often than not self-destructive and inclined to leave her feeling bitter and resentful and completely alone was again, something that Miranda knew. She just didn’t know how to avoid giving in to them. Because, when pushed, her immediate reaction was to push back; when challenged, to become defensive.
And Andrea had most definitely challenged her. Even now, Miranda could see the look of sincerity and naiveté in those enormous brown eyes as Andrea promised not leave to her, a task at which far braver, stronger souls had failed. Miranda knew that the girl was wrong. Everyone left her eventually. One day, in the not too distant future, Andrea would wake up and realize that she had made a horrible mistake, realize what a monster Miranda was and leave. It was that simple.
And Miranda was damned if she was going to sit and complacently wait for that to happen.
VII.
Andy had just stepped off the elevator the next morning and was making her way to her desk, Starbucks clutched in one hand, when she heard Emily’s voice, just verging on the hysterical, coming from the direction of Miranda’s office.
“Bloody hell…dear God, she’s going to freak. She’s going to kill someone. Bugger. Damn, damn, damn. I cannot believe this is happening!”
Setting the coffee down, Andy rushed into the inner sanctum, only to find Emily attempting to get down on her hands and knees, the cast on her leg making the contortion nearly impossible. She had a rag in one hand as she stared feverishly at a large, greenish stain on the carpet, the upper half of her body bent over double, the leg still encased in a cast flung out behind her as she tried to balance on one crutch.
“Em, what the hell are you doing?” Andy couldn’t quite silence the stray thought that she would give a week’s salary to have a camera handy right about now.
Since taking Emily’s place in Paris, Andy had tried mightily to get the redhead to forgive her, even going so far as to give her a good many of the clothes she had scored in Paris, but to no avail. Emily only spoke to her when absolutely necessary and even then it seemed to cause her great physical pain to do so, if the expression of intense suffering was anything to go by.
“Thank God, you finally managed to get here. Where the bloody hell have you been? Take this. Hurry up, before she gets here,” Emily hissed, straightening awkwardly and throwing the rag at Andy. “Some idiot from the cleaning crew must have done it. Get down there and get it up, now! Can you imagine what she’ll say if she sees that?”
Andy obediently got down on her knees and began to scrub at the stain. After a few minutes, it was clear that whatever had been spilled, it was going to take more than water and a rag to get it up. Emily hovered over her like some sort of demented stork, balancing on one leg as she frantically ordered Andy to scrub harder, her voice an almost hysterical whisper.
“It’s not coming up, Em. I’m sorry, but we’re going to need a steam cleaner to get that out,” Andy sighed and started to stand, only to have her upward motion halted by the none too gentle pressure of Emily’s hand on her shoulder.
“No. No. You cannot stop. You have to get it out, Andrea. You must,” Emily’s voice was at least an octave higher than normal, but even that wasn’t going to change the fact that the stain was not going to magically disappear.
“Emily. I could stay down there all day scrubbing it and it still won’t come out,” Andy said firmly, slipping her shoulder from beneath Emily’s hand and standing up. “Just stand there when she comes in. Maybe she won’t notice it.”
“Notice what, Andrea?” It really was inevitable, and Andy didn’t even flinch when she heard the smooth tones of Miranda’s voice from behind her.
Emily actually answered, hoping no doubt to make herself look better for having found the stain and having made Andrea attempt to clean it, while shifting the brunt of Miranda’s wrath onto the cleaning crew. It was a false hope.
“Emily, can you explain to me why, instead of simply calling building maintenance the moment you noticed this unsightly blemish on my office carpet, you thought that it would be better to have Andrea rubbing the stain even further into my Berber? Even a minimum wage maid at the Holiday Inn would have sense enough not to do that, wouldn’t she, Emily?” The chill in Miranda’s tone was matched by the icy sparkle in her eyes as they swept over Emily. Her lips thinned noticeably.
With one last glance at the carpet, Miranda turned and walked to her desk, issuing orders as she went. “Andrea, get me my coffee and then get Lissette at Donna Karan’s and make me a reservation for lunch tomorrow at that place that has the salads that I like. That’s all.”
Emily blanched, her skin taking on a sickly hue.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I’ll get maintenance up here now,” Emily murmured, her eyes a little glassy. If she noticed that Miranda hadn’t directed any of her ire at Andrea, she was too upset to mention it.
The day went downhill from there, at least in terms of Miranda’s mood, something that, given yesterday’s series of fiascos, Andy hadn’t believed possible. Miranda had sent her across town to meet with Calvin Klein’s assistant and pick up some samples and so Andy was free for an hour or so from the toxic atmosphere that seemed to be hanging like mustard gas in the cream and glass hallways of Runway.
When Miranda was like this, even Andy’s short tenure at Runway had taught her to simply duck and cover and hope that Miranda’s latest volley was aimed in someone else’s direction. Which had been the case, Andy realized with a jolt, hanging onto the strap in a crowded subway car. A frown creased her forehead as comprehension dawned.
Miranda had been gunning for everyone but her.
So far she had taken repeated, particularly nasty shots at Emily, at Jocelyn, at Paul, at the entire art department, at a nationally renowned essayist, even at Nigel. Hell, she had even fired Tamara. Or rather, had her fire Tamara.
But she hadn’t taken a single shot at her.
Granted, she had been well within range for almost all of them, but Miranda had simply let fire her guns at whomever happened to be handy and then glancing speculatively at Andy, turned away, usually with Andy in close attendance behind her.
Andy was so taken aback by the realization that she nearly dropped the bags she was carrying from Calvin Klein. It was absurd. She had to be wrong. Maybe it was just that she hadn’t messed up. No, there was the missed call from Michael Kors.
The fact that Andy only missed the call because Emily was at lunch and Miranda had ordered Andy to find Jocelyn and return with her in five minutes or suffer the consequences was immaterial. Such an error should have resulted in a blistering glare and threat of bodily harm, but Miranda had simply sighed deeply, rolled her eyes heavenward as if seeking divine assistance and told Andrea to call them back.
At the time, Andy had been too consumed with getting Kors back on the line in record speed to worry about Miranda’s reaction, or lack thereof. Then the whole catastrophe with the mislabeling of a candid shot from one of Lagerfeld’s Paris shows had distracted everyone and anyone within a two mile radius of Miranda’s voice (for a woman who never yelled, Miranda’s voice certain did carry when she wanted it to) and the phone incident had slipped Andy’s mind.
Until now.
No, she had to be wrong. Miranda Priestly did not forgive mistakes. Miranda Priestly did not give second chances, much less third or fourth. Emily and Nigel and the rest of Runway, not to mention waiters, writers, photographers and assistants all over Manhattan could attest to that. Andy could attest to it as well, having been made to witness nearly every verbal evisceration, every humiliation since they had returned from Paris.
Except for her own.
Stepping off the subway, Andy couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Miranda was playing at and, more importantly, why.
VIII.
Maintenance had arrived by the time that Andy returned to the office. Setting the bags from Calvin Klein on her desk, Andy could see one of the maintenance crew in his grey uniform, kneeling on the floor of Miranda’s office. Next to him was a carry-cart full of cleaning materials and a carpet cleaner. Andy couldn’t quite believe that Miranda was actually still in the office while her carpet was being cleaned, but then Andy remembered that Miranda had a meeting with Irv this afternoon. She was undoubtedly examining the very over-budget budget before she had to explain it to Elias-Clarke’s CEO.
Glancing in at Miranda’s desk, Andy could see the frown of concentration creating little furrows across her forehead beneath the fall of silver hair. Miranda had an amazing ability to tune out the rest of the world. Other than a first, cursory glance, she probably hadn’t even noticed the man kneeling on her floor, diligently scrubbing at the unsightly stain on the carpet.
Occasionally it occurred to Andy that people had a tendency to become little more than pieces of furniture to Miranda, useful only when she needed them. There were no doubt whole warehouses full of people from Miranda’s life that had been left, in Miranda’s mind at least, white cloth tarps thrown over them, to sit in a dark, dusty room until such time as Miranda required them for something. Andy had found that she spent every day making certain that Miranda never had the urge to throw a tarp over her.
“Dear Lord, did you walk back from Calvin Klein? Not that the exercise would hurt you,” Emily muttered, her expression disdainful. She quickly gathered up her coat and bag, tossing a glare Andy’s way. “You’ve been gone for days. I’m going to lunch now. Try to manage not to miss any important calls while I’m gone? As you can see they’re here cleaning the small stain on the carpet that you seemed incapable of getting out. Miranda has run-through at 4:00 and Irv at 5:00, so for God’s sake, don’t talk to her if you can help it.” This last directive was so low that Andy barely heard it as Emily thumped as gracefully as possible down the hall.
“Have a nice lunch, Em,” Andy smiled cheerfully at Emily’s retreating back.
Andy sat at her desk and took a deep breath, reminding herself again, as she did every day, that she really did like Emily. Some days it was harder than others to convince herself that it was true. Still, Andy knew, under the hard, lacquered veneer was soft wood, easily damaged and difficult to mend. She knew that most of Emily’s animosity arose from her perception, unfortunately validated by Miranda taking her to Paris with her, that Andy was after Emily’s job.
She wasn’t, of course, but no amount of groveling and explaining was ever going to convince Emily of that and Andy was damned if she was going to be bad at her job and risk disappointing Miranda simply to make Emily feel a little more secure. Because, for Andy at least, disappointing Miranda wasn’t an option.
Ever.
Despite what her assistants thought, Miranda missed very little, her lips twitching ever so slightly in amusement at Emily’s words. Part of her couldn’t help being entertained by Emily’s apparently inexhaustible grudge against Andrea, nor did she care in the least that Emily’s resentment was a direct result of her actions. When it came to her magazine, Miranda’s decisions had nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with making certain that Runway was as close to perfect as she could manage, given the incompetence that surrounded her. If Emily had been as good at her job as Andrea, it wouldn’t be an issue. Period. Well, perhaps a small issue.
Andrea.
The line of figures on the paper in front of her began to blur as Miranda’s mind meandered yet again down a path with which she was becoming all too familiar. Her attempts to force Andrea to want to leave had so far been unsuccessful, a fact that was puzzling to Miranda and Miranda wasn’t fond of puzzles. Even forcing the girl to fire Tamara, without question an exceptionally harrowing experience, given Tamara’s penchant for melodrama, had failed to elicit so much as a disgusted look or a trembling lip on Andrea’s part. Miranda had expected righteous indignation, contempt even, but had received nothing but resigned compliance from Andrea.
A fact that caused that slight, white-clad figure of hope inside Miranda’s chest, the one that, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, she guarded fiercely; the one she swore she lived for, to edge ever closer to the surface, attempting to gain a foothold in her mind from which she couldn’t quite shake it. Could it be possible that the girl was serious, that she really wouldn’t leave, no matter how horrible and uncaring Miranda showed herself to be?
Impossible.
Clearly Miranda wasn’t trying hard enough. Deliberately pushing that stubborn, flimsy figure in white aside, Miranda took a deep breath. She was just going to have to show Andrea exactly why they called her the Dragon Lady. The run-through today should be helpful in proving just how vicious and cruel she could be. She’d move it up an hour, just to throw everyone off their pace, and she steeled herself for an Oscar winning performance. As an added bonus, she’d be prepared to meet Irv in full battle mode. Two birds, indeed.
Little did she know, fate had some other plans for Miranda’s afternoon.
“Andrea.” If she hadn’t been distracted with her own machinations, Miranda might have noticed the sudden stilling of movement from the maintenance worker as she called her young assistant into the office.
Andrea appeared, pad in hand, cheerful smile firmly in place, the requisite, “Yes, Miranda”, on her tongue.
“Move the run-through up to three. Call Lagerfeld and confirm our lunch for tomorrow. Order two of those Kindle things for the girls, along with a complete catalog of books. You know what they like. Tell Paul that the layout had better be on my desk by eight a.m. or don’t bother coming to work, ever again,” Miranda dictated, trying to keep her eyes focused on the pages on her desk and not the long-legged woman in front of her. It was so much easier when she didn’t have to look at those huge, doe eyes.
“Of course, Miranda,” Andrea began, her mouth opening to assure her boss that she had already thought to confirm her luncheon with Lagerfeld, when the sudden movement of the man in gray caused her to pause, her eyes automatically swiveling to follow his motions as he moved quickly to the double doors, swinging them shut and locking them efficiently, before either woman could speak.
The outraged, incredulous words that sprang to Miranda’s lips died there instantly at the dull gleam of metal in the man’s right hand. The gun was black and square and looked for all the world like a toy pistol, but one glance at the man’s face belied that fact. It was as dull and emotionless as the weapon he held and Miranda felt a thin tendril of fear slither snakelike through her chest.
Andrea had spotted the gun as well and began to back away from it, towards Miranda’s desk, her eyes wider than Miranda had ever seen them. Without conscious thought, Miranda reached out suddenly, her hand latching on to Andrea’s arm with a grip of steel as she pulled the girl around the corner of her desk, placing Andrea behind her, out of the line of fire. She could feel the warmth of the girl’s body against her back, as Andrea automatically moved closer, her breathing fast and shallow.
The man said nothing as he watched the tableau unfold before him, although there was a decided quirk to his lips as Miranda hauled the younger woman behind her. Knowing what he did about the woman, he might have expected her to put the girl in front of her as a shield. But this? Perhaps there was a bit more here than met the eye.
He had waited for Miranda to call one of the girls into the office because he wanted a witness, someone to tell his story for him when it was all over, but now, now he might have something even more valuable than that. Dear Lord, was it possible that this tyrannical bitch actually had a soft spot for her assistant?
The Ice Queen was glaring at him, her face blank of expression, eyes so clear and blue they almost hurt to look at, as her gaze moved slowly from his face to the gun to the door and back again, assessing the situation, trying in a few seconds to gain the measure of her position. He simply stood and waited. He expected nothing less.
Nor did he expect anything other than the words that finally left her lips.
“Were you going to actually make some ridiculous demands or simply stand there waving that gun around and expecting me to play twenty questions, a game, I might add, that I deplored even as a child?” Miranda demanded, her voice full of the same disdainful irritation that she expressed when her coffee was late.
His expression became almost puzzled, a concentrated frown creasing his forehead.
“I can’t actually imagine you as a child, but I’ll take your word for it. Still, in the grander scheme of things, playing twenty questions will no doubt be the least of the things you won’t enjoy today,” he said softly, the flatness of his voice and the lack of any emotion in his eyes making his pronouncement all the more menacing.
Standing so closely behind Miranda, the scent of the older woman’s perfume, combined with the low, calm, ever contemptuous tones of Miranda’s voice, provided a surprisingly comforting dose of reality amid the utter surrealism of the situation. Andy found that she was having trouble following the conversation, her mind firmly fixed on the dull metallic gleam of the pistol pointed so casually in their direction. Still, a few words here and there snagged along the jagged surface of her mind, like wet leaves on rough pavement.
Andy couldn’t quite imagine a young Miranda either. An image of Miranda, emerging from the head of Coco Chanel, fully grown and clad in the perfect black dress and heels, floated across the periphery of Andy’s mind, only to be chased away as the weight of what was happening settled on her. Miranda hadn’t spoken again, her posture seemingly relaxed as she stood, apparently intent on waiting for the gunman to speak again.
Great, nothing like Miranda’s natural stubbornness getting them both killed. Except standing so close to her, Andy could see, even feel the tension in Miranda’s body, the tightness across her back and shoulders, the awkward tilt of her head.
The gunman smirked again suddenly, nodding his head as he began to walk slowly around the office, glancing at the photographs that lined the walls, taking in the vase of flowers on the table beneath the mirror, the books on the window sills behind them, the firmness of his grip on the gun unaltered.
“You know, if I didn’t know better, I would think that someone almost human worked here,” he said finally, his tone even and conversational. “But I do know better, which makes this facade all the more pathetic.”
“Please tell me you didn’t bother to bring a gun and hold us hostage just to comment on my taste in interior decorating,” Miranda stated dryly. Only someone as familiar as Andy was with the nuances of Miranda’s voice would notice the slender thread of tension interwoven with the apparent boredom.
He answered just as dryly, an odd light appearing in his eyes, one that sent a jolt of fear through Andy’s body.
“Oh, no. I brought the gun to shoot someone. Originally, of course, it was going to be you, Ms. Priestly. But you have, quite unwittingly I’m sure, provided me with something far better. I’m going to shoot her,” he gestured at Andy with the gun, although his eyes never left Miranda’s.
Andy heard the gasp that left her own lips as the air rushed from her lungs. She felt Miranda reach back, her hand seeking and finding Andy’s, linking their fingers together as she pulled the girl a little closer to her.
“Pardon me? You came here with the intent of shooting me, a woman more than capable of killing you right where you stand, had I the opportunity, but instead have now decided to shoot my assistant, a girl incapable of harming so much as a fly?” Miranda’s voice was dangerously low and equally incredulous. Trust Miranda to be insulted at not being the one chosen to die today.
His eyes had narrowed speculatively as he watched the interaction between the two women, Miranda’s subtle movement only serving to confirm his theory. She had not merely tried to keep the girl out of harm’s way, she was actually holding her hand. This was going to be even more satisfying than he had dared dream.
“Exactly. Although I realized from the outset that killing you would be doing the world a huge favor, I found that I could live with that. Aside from your daughters, there honestly isn’t another living soul who would truly mourn you, is there, Miranda? Well, perhaps one more person. She’d mourn you, wouldn’t you, Andy?” He didn’t wait for Andy’s response.
“But, more importantly, I now have a strong suspicion that you’ll mourn her. You see, when I came here, I was planning on killing you, Miranda. But now, I think it would be far better to make certain that you suffer. Really suffer. And the one way I know to do that is take away from you something you value. Someone you value. But you value so little in this world. I’m not a monster and I would never harm a child, but you’ve quite obligingly provided me with the lovely Ms. Sachs. Sorry, Andy, nothing personal,” he explained, his voice so eerily calm that he might have been explaining the infield fly rule in baseball.
Andy felt Miranda’s fingers tighten around her own, the ring on her hand cutting into Andy’s flesh. The pain as the ring dug into her fingers and the feel of Miranda’s smooth skin against her own were an anchor to cling to as the waters of panic slowly closed over Andy’s head. This couldn’t be happening. This was a fucking fashion magazine. People don’t walk into fashion magazines with guns. Andy felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh well up within her, at the sheer absurdity of it. However, as her mind registered the complete lack of emotion in the gunman’s eyes, the laugh came out as something much more resembling a choked sob.
Miranda’s fingers squeezed tighter around her own.
“While it may be a trifle reckless to argue with a man pointing a loaded weapon in my direction...I am assuming, of course, that it is loaded, yes? Yes....Well, despite that, I must inform you that you seem to be laboring under a tremendous misconception. Andrea is my assistant, and while being adequate at her job, has no importance to me beyond that whatsoever. So, I’m afraid that if your plan is to hurt me through her, it is hopelessly flawed. Let her go and you and I will settle this,” Miranda’s voice was almost mockingly amused, and Andy could close her eyes and see the expression on Miranda’s face, one she had seen so many times, the “I can’t believe I have to explain everything because you’re an idiot” look.
To Andy’s shock, the man laughed. A full-barreled laugh that never reached the dead brown pools of his eyes.
“After reading what the gossip rags and most of Manhattan say about you, I would normally be inclined to believe that. We all know that the Devil isn’t the sentimental sort. Yet, if that was really true, why did you, Miranda Priestly, the most self-centered, uncaring bitch on the planet, grab her lowly assistant and drag her behind you to protect her from the evil gunman? And why is it that even now, while you’re making this blatantly contrived speech, are you holding that merely adequate assistant’s hand?
“Please, don’t mistake me for one of the ass-kissing idiots you surround yourself with, Miranda. I’ve spent the better part of two months watching and listening and learning, and I know what an horrible excuse for a human being you are. And yet, here you are, shielding this girl from harm. What’s funny is that no one would believe any of this if I told them, but given that actions speak loudly, I think that she means a hell of a lot more to you than just someone to fetch your coffee.”
God, how surreal and ridiculous was it that, as the truth of the man’s words registered in her brain, Andy felt a surge of warmth spread up her arm and across her chest from where Miranda’s hand entwined with her own? Miranda had placed herself between Andy and the gun; she had reached back to hold Andy’s hand, to offer comfort and reassurance. An absurd little voice in Andy’s head whispered, albeit a trifle hysterically, that if she was going to die today, at least she’d die knowing that Miranda Priestly cared.