When the Night Falls on You: Chapters 14 and 15
Title: When the Night Falls On You
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG/R
Chapters: 14 and 15/?
Words: 4,981 (24,527 for chapters 1-15.)
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.
Chapters 1-4
Chapters 5-8
Chapters 9 and 10
Chapters 11, 12, and 13
XIV.
The water sluiced its way down the length of her body, leaving trails of heat reddened flesh in its wake. The steam hung like fog in the confines of the bathroom, the moist vapor filling her lungs, catching in her throat as she dragged in deep breaths, one after another. Yesterday morning, standing in her own shower and feeling a rush of dread at the day to come, seemed like a lifetime away from this.
Or someone else’s life, anyway. Because her life included a small apartment on the Lower East side and a boss who brooked no hints of imperfection. It did not include this. Not the luxurious bed with indecently expensive sheets. Not the thick Berber carpet that felt as cushiony beneath her feet as a lawn of lush grass on a summer’s evening. Not this marble tiled shower in a gorgeous Upper East Side townhouse, a townhouse owned by aforementioned boss. The boss who had offered her gentleness and comfort instead of harsh words and recriminations, who had stood over her bed and brushed the hair from her face, not threatened to rip her head off.
This had to be someone else’s life. And yet, here she was. In Miranda’s house. Conversing quite naturally with Miranda’s children. It was almost enough to make Andy forget why she was here. Forget the dull gleam of the gun and the echoing sound of the shot as it buried itself in the wall over their heads. Almost.
Despite the relative, albeit surreal, normalcy of the evening, of sitting down to dinner with Miranda and the girls; despite the secret thrill of slipping into the blue nightshirt that smelled faintly, as the entire house did, of Miranda’s perfume; despite the luxury of sliding in between sheets of expensive Egyptian cotton, Andy hadn’t been able to completely shake the feelings trembling through her mind, like minor aftershocks from a major quake. She had lain awake for hours, replaying in her mind the events of the afternoon.
Any rational person would have been terrified. Would have been paralyzed by the fear of being shot, of dying. And in that first instant of seeing the gun, Andy had been scared out of her wits. But then, something happened, something that had loosened the fingers of fear tightening their grip around her heart. The feel of fingers, real fingers, in her own; the feel of smooth flesh against hers; the divine warmth of Miranda’s skin and the strength in her hand.
Standing there, facing down the proverbial barrel of a gun, had no longer been terrifying, because Miranda was there. Miranda was protecting her. Miranda was holding her hand. Miranda had pulled her close against her and Andy felt a sudden surging faith that nothing bad could happen to her, because Miranda Priestly didn’t wish it to and everyone knew that Miranda always got what she wanted.
Irrational. Idiotic. Asinine. It was all of those things. And of course, she fell apart the moment it was over, but that feeling of being cared for didn’t leave her. It stayed with her as Miranda comforted her. It occupied the chair next to hers at the Priestly dinner table. It padded behind her and slipped into the soothing warmth of the bed. It woke, drowsy and confused to find Miranda standing by the bed, and sank back into slumber at the gentle touch of Miranda’s hand.
Something had shifted inside her, imperceptibly, immeasurably shifted, and while tomorrow morning it might very well shift back to same old Andy, for now she allowed the thrill of it, the very idea of it to infuse her mind. Miranda cared about her. There was no other reasonable explanation for how the older woman had behaved. Miranda Priestly cared. For her.
Talk about feeling terrified.
Not surprisingly, the conversation with her parents last night before she went to bed hadn’t helped with her peace of mind. They had, of course, been nearly hysterical, having seen only the sensationalized media coverage. Andy had spent ten minutes reassuring them that she was fine and another fifteen minutes attempting to convince them that the whole thing wasn’t really Miranda’s fault.
The latter she knew was entirely her fault, as she had had little good to say of the woman in the year she had worked for her. Still, she had felt driven to make her parents understand that Miranda had protected her, a fact that did little to allay their concerns or, quite frankly, their dislike of the woman.
They had finally hung up with her promise to call them tomorrow and her half-hearted agreement to try and come home to visit in the near future. She knew that she would never make them believe that Miranda Priestly had done something selfless, but at least she knew it.
Doug had left a message on her cell, but she was too exhausted to call him back. Tomorrow. Besides, since Nate had left, Doug and Lily had been less and less present in her life. She knew that they disapproved, that they thought that she had sacrificed her principles at Miranda Priestly’s feet, but there didn’t seem to be much that she could do to change their opinions, and to be honest, at least part of her didn’t think she should have to.
Shaking her head, Andy forced herself to finish her shower, washing her hair efficiently before turning off the water and wrapping an inordinately thick towel around her. She dried her hair with the dryer she found in the bathroom closet, and then cautiously opened the door, uncertain whether the room would still be occupied by two small but dangerous Priestly females.
There was no sign of the twins and Andrea made quick work of dressing, surprised to find a pair of True Religion jeans and a Marc Jacobs 'Divore' Swiss Dot Blouse. The Jimmy Choos she had been wearing yesterday went perfectly. She applied a light layer of makeup and taking a deep breath, eased open the guestroom door.
No sound filtered up from downstairs. Her shoes sounded unnaturally loud on the wood of the stairs. She had made it down to the first floor when she heard the phone ring. It rang three times before someone, somewhere in the house answered it. Probably one of the twins. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard her name being bellowed from the floor above.
“Andy! Andy?”
Peering up the staircase, Andy spied first one red head, then the other.
“Hi again,” Andy smiled, trying to tap down the nervousness at being alone in Miranda’s house with her children.
“Mom’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you,” Cassidy informed her. She was pretty certain it was Cassidy, although from this angle, staring up at them with the light behind them, Andy couldn’t be sure. Still, there was something in the girl’s voice, a hint of impatience and something else, that made Andy think that this was definitely voice number one from earlier.
“Oh, sure. Um, is there a phone down here?” Andy replied, a quick visual survey of the hall not locating a phone.
“In the study at the end of the hall. You’d better hurry. Mom doesn’t like waiting.” Definitely Cassidy.
Like that was something Andy didn’t know first-hand. She hurried down the hall, stepping into the study and spying the phone on the large table under the window. She tried to ignore the fact that her hand was shaking a bit as she picked up the extension.
“Um, hi, Miranda,” Andy stammered, her brain registering yet again how bizarre it was to be in Miranda’s house like this.
“Andrea. Good, the girls thought that you might still be showering,” Miranda’s voice sounded almost hesitant. “I told them to let you sleep in this morning. They didn’t wake you, did they?”
Andy smiled to herself as she answered, “No, Miranda. They did bring me the clothes you sent over. Thank you, that was sweet of you.”
Not something one could say to Miranda Priestly very often and mean it, Andy thought.
“Yes, well. You needed clothes. You could hardly wear the same ones you had on yesterday.” Miranda sounded a little embarrassed at Andy’s words. “Um, well. How are you today? After the incident yesterday?”
Only Miranda would call being taken hostage by a despondent gunman and threatened with death an “incident”. Andy couldn’t help but grin at the euphemism.
“I’m fine. I was just going to run home and put on some work clothes and come in to the office. I know it’s late, but there are a few things I can take care of this afternoon,” Andy could hear the sound of a telephone ringing in the background and the faint echo of Emily’s voice.
“Andrea, if I had intended for you to come into work, you would not have been left to lounge in bed all morning. As I said, I want you to take today off. It isn’t often that I make such gestures, Andrea. Do not waste it,” Miranda stated calmly. Andy could just picture her sitting at her desk, glasses perched on the bridge of that lovely Roman nose, long fingers flipping over bright, glossy pages.
“I just feel I should be at work. I mean, you’re there. I should be, too,” Andy found she couldn’t stop herself from arguing, despite the warm feeling that had suffused her at Miranda’s words. “After all, Emily is still on crutches and there may be errands to run, and…”
“Andrea, did you hit your head yesterday and not inform me of it? That is the only reason I can surmise why you would still be belaboring this point.” There was just the suggestion of an edge to Miranda’s voice but it was enough to send Andy the warning to back off.
“No, I didn’t hit my head. And I get it. I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow, okay?” Andy breathed, oddly happy to concede this argument.
“Yes. Are you planning on going home now?” There was a hint of something Andy didn’t recognize in Miranda’s tone now. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought it was wistfulness.
“I, um, yeah, I was going to. Unless you need me to stay with the twins or something?”
“No, Cara is there with them. You should be aware that there are no doubt paparazzi loitering outside the house,” Miranda stated evenly. “You do not have to answer any of their questions. In fact, I would prefer that you not.”
“Oh. Well, I can slip out the back or something,” Andy began, only to be interrupted by Miranda.
“They know you came home with me last night, Andrea. As it is, it may be that single, concerned gesture will garner better PR than Leslie could manage in a month of press releases and cozy pictures with the girls. Not that that was my motivation. At all.” Miranda informed her, her voice quiet and firm.
A not entirely awkward silence followed her pronouncement, as both of them digested what Miranda had said, and even more, what she had implied. Andy didn’t know how to respond, or even if she should. Mercifully, Miranda spared her the decision.
“Besides, if those vultures don’t see you leave, they’ll begin to suspect that I lured you home in order to silence you and hide the body.”
It took a few seconds for Andy to realize that Miranda was teasing her.
“Miranda, did you just make a joke?” Andy asked, in spite of months of conditioning not to ask Miranda anything.
“Apparently not a very amusing one, Andrea, if you had to ask,” came the dry response.
“No, it was funny. Just unexpected, that’s all.” Andy’s smile carried through the line.
“Yes, well. Believe it or not, many people find me quite witty,” Miranda murmured, clearly at a loss as to where this conversation had wandered away from her. “As I said, please do not speak to the media. You should go home and relax. I expect you early tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Miranda. And Miranda?”
She was met with a beleaguered sigh.
“What is it, Andrea?”
“Thank you. For…well, for everything.” Andy tried to squeeze every ounce of sincerity and gratitude into her voice, wishing that she could see Miranda’s face right now.
“You’re welcome, Andrea,” the voice on the line sounded like the one Andy remembered from the middle of the night. Gentle, tender. “Now, go home. Given that I am short one assistant, someone around here has to get some work done.”
So much for tender.
XV.
Having questions hurled at her by the paparazzi, while camera strobes flashed in her eyes wasn’t Andy’s idea of a fun time. However, the press were much more interested in Miranda than in her, the accidental victim in the whole fiasco, and so she was able to make it to her waiting taxi without much incident. In spite of making it home in relative peace, she wasn’t looking forward to weathering the storm outside Elias-Clarke again tomorrow. As chance would have it, however, Andy didn’t have to worry about the continued annoyances of the press. That afternoon, a clearly intoxicated Lindsay Lohan had a screaming match with a friend on the street in front of Magnolia Bakery.
Miranda Priestly and her would-be assassin were briskly pushed aside for a myriad of camera phone pictures of the young starlet hurling yellow and pink icing-ed cupcakes down Bleecker Street. That, combined with the ongoing uproar surrounding Mark Foley and his inappropriate emails to Congressional pages, pushed the gunman and the Dragon Lady right off the map. Sitting at her desk and waiting for Miranda’s arrival, Andy shook her head in wonder as she gazed at the photos. Even when Miranda wasn’t directly manipulating situations, Fate appeared to kindly step in and take up the slack.
Andy had arrived extra early today, in what she recognized was a futile attempt to appease Emily’s wrath. She knew that the red-head was probably seething after having to deal with Miranda alone yesterday. She’d considered getting Emily some coffee or even one of those amazing apple fritters that Starbucks made, but she knew that the gesture would be misconstrued, so for once, she didn’t bother.
Four months ago she might have tried, but Andy had finally realized that Emily had an unnatural ability to deter any and all attempts to be nice to her. Being kind to Emily was sort of like standing in a steel lined room and shooting off a BB gun. You just knew that at least some of them would ricochet back at you and you’d be the one left bleeding. Even odder was the fact that while kind words and considerate actions had a way of bouncing off Emily, harshness and even cruelty seemed to be absorbed like water by a sponge.
Andy wondered sometimes if Emily’s unwillingness to accept kindness was a misguided attempt on her part to protect herself; as if allowing any sign of affection or empathy in her life would leave her too vulnerable. Like a child who only breaks down and cries when offered comfort, Emily held the world at arm’s length, only allowing in the insults and the criticism, bracing herself against any sudden onslaught of compassion.
Watching Miranda interact with her first assistant on a daily basis, Andy knew that Miranda had long ago sussed out Emily’s peculiar weakness. Not that it was in any way surprising. Miranda had an unerring ability to make an instant assessment of character, find the soft, susceptible spots, and more often than not, take advantage of them. It was one of the things that made her the best at what she did. Still, Andy couldn’t help but imagine Miranda as a scientist, intently experimenting, seeing just what and how much Emily could take, like verbal Chinese Water torture, just waiting for the Englishwoman to crumble suddenly with the fall of the final drop.
Not Miranda’s most endearing side. The fact the Andy thought that Miranda had endearing sides should probably be of great concern to her and her mental health, but after what they had experienced the day before yesterday, Andy was more than willing to give Miranda the benefit of the doubt.
The police had contacted her when she got home yesterday, sending a very considerate detective over to take her statement. Miranda had given her own very brief statement, of sorts, at the office. Andy could well imagine Miranda’s irritation at having to waste more time recounting what had happened. Andy had expected to find rehashing the events of yesterday to be traumatic, but the police officer was so professional that she found herself telling him the story, slowly and precisely, as if leaving out any detail would be akin to failure. The whole thing was simply a formality, given that Dobson had been captured, gun in hand, in Miranda’s office. Still, it made Andy feel better to tell someone, anyone, how remarkable her boss had been.
The detective shared enough to tell her that Dobson had made a full confession. According to what he told the police, he had lost his job a few months after his wife’s suicide. He had begun to show up late, if he went at all, drinking throughout the day. The final straw had come when he lost a client several million dollars, forgetting to place an order to sell. His firm had to let him go. He had become obsessed with the idea that Miranda Priestly was responsible for his wife’s depression and suicide, although it became apparent, in speaking with her sister, that Susan had a history of depression, something that Andy could believe.
There had always been a shadow of something in Susan’s eyes, something Andy had been unable to place at the time: sadness. Michael Dobson had managed to get himself hired by Elias-Clarke maintenance and simply bided his time, his rage and desire for revenge blocking out everything else. It was a tribute to the man he used to be that he hadn’t just snapped and shot Miranda in the lobby. Still, given his motive and taking into account the fact that he had not harmed them, the D.A. was considering amending the charges to take into account the mitigating circumstances.
Andy had a feeling that might not happen if Miranda found out. Andy couldn’t quite imagine Miranda being generous or understanding of someone who held her at gunpoint, but who knows; the woman had surprised her more than anyone she had ever known. Perhaps she would again.
Andy heard the singular rhythm of Emily’s gait as the woman made her way down the hall from the elevator. Jumping up, she held the door open for the red-head, earning nothing more than a glare of disgust as Emily thumped by her. Andy offered up her brightest smile, part of her knowing that it would simply irritate the Englishwoman further, but unable to help herself. There were brief moments when Andy understood a little of the satisfaction that Miranda seemed to gain from making Emily miserable.
“I see you’ve deigned to join us today. How sweet of you,” Emily sniffed archly, trying to keep the look of relief off her face as she dropped into her chair. “Yesterday was hellish. Nothing and no one was right, not even Nigel. While you were lounging about, watching soap operas and eating donuts, the rest of us were here, doing our jobs. You do realize that it won’t last, don’t you, being Miranda’s new favorite? It never does. There is a long line of former assistants and a few ex-husbands who can attest to that.”
Remembering the feel of Miranda’s hand in her own, the sensation of Miranda’s fingers tracing gently across her forehead, Andy had an immediate urge to lash out at Emily. She wanted to vehemently deny the statement, to tell her that she was wrong, that she wasn’t like the others, but as soon as the impulse seized her, the words died in her throat. Of course she was. Miranda discarded people as readily, as easily as she discarded last year’s Gabbana; when they no longer pleased her; when they no longer served their purpose. When they were no longer fashionable.
As her mouth opened and then slowly snapped shut, Andy saw the gleam of jealous triumph in Emily’s eyes. The day only went downhill from there. Miranda sauntered in and immediately began spewing orders like Vesuvius, her tone low and pleasant and deadly. By mid-morning, two of the girls that helped keep the Closet were packing their meager belongings into boxes and being escorted to the exit. By the time eleven-thirty rolled around, Andy was incredibly relieved to be able to slip out and collect Miranda’s lunch.
Not once during that day or the ones that followed that week did Miranda mention to Andrea what had happened in her office. Nor did she bring up Andy’s stay at her home, or the promise she had made Andrea that they would discuss it, all of it. There were moments when Andy fantasized about marching into Miranda’s office and demanding that Miranda tell her what the hell it had all meant, but she knew she never would. She delivered the Book each night, just as she had for months, but neither Miranda, nor the twins appeared, and she left the townhouse more depressed than when she arrived.
In fact, for the rest of that week Miranda was in rare form, causing her terrified employees to conclude that her brush with her own mortality had served only to ratchet up her demands for the impossible. If she was perhaps slightly more patient with Andrea than with everyone else, no one would have dared to mention it. Just as no one, not even Nigel, would have been so bold or so foolish as to note the often lingering glances that Miranda directed at her young assistant, glances made only when Miranda was convinced no one was looking.
As the days progressed, Andy had almost convinced herself that she had imagined Miranda’s behavior, had conjured up in her mind the sight of Miranda standing over her as she slept, tenderly brushing the hair from her brow. Almost convinced herself that the twins had known she was awake and had played one of their typically unkind tricks on her.
That is, until Miranda starting talking to her.
Not issuing orders. Not making demands. Talking. Asking questions. Questions about Andy’s life, about her views on things. Questions that evinced a genuine interest in Andy’s replies.
The first time it happened, on the way to James Holt’s for a preview, all Andy could do was stare at the back of Roy’s head and attempt to control the look of confused terror on her face as she muttered monosyllabic responses to Miranda’s questions about her views on modern art. After the fifth, “Yes, Miranda”, the woman gave what could only be described as a snort of disgust and turned away from Andy to gaze out the window of the car.
The second and third times, once more in the car and then once in the elevator of all places, an elevator that Miranda had told her to get in with her, Andy managed to do a little better. She wasn’t going to win any awards for public speaking, but she did answer in complete sentences. Four or five word sentences to be sure, but it was an improvement. At least there was no look or sound of displeasure from Miranda.
The fourth time was in the office, long after everyone else had gone home. Miranda had stayed late and demanded that Andy stay as well, although for the life of her, Andy couldn’t figure out why Miranda wanted her there. The Book was finished and on Miranda’s desk, so clearly she didn’t need Andy to bring it to her. Andy finished up all the correspondence she could, cleaned out some files on her computer, straightened her desk. Even straightened out the kitchen. She was completely out of work, and Miranda hadn’t spoken to her in an hour.
She was just contemplating how insane it might be to ask Miranda if there was anything she could do for her, when she heard Miranda call her name.
“Andrea. Come in here.”
“Yes, Miranda?”
Miranda didn’t answer immediately, her gaze fixed on the glossy pages of the Book that gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. Finally, after an uncomfortably long silence, she looked up.
“Sit.” She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk.
Andy gingerly lowered herself to perch on the edge of the seat, a nervous smile gracing her lips. Miranda’s eyes narrowed as they regarded her, slits of dark blue that revealed nothing as they traveled from Andrea’s face down the length of her body and back again.
“Do you vote, Andrea?” Okay, even for Miranda this one was out of left field.
“Um, yeah. I mean, yes. I do. I have. Since I turned eighteen,” Andy replied, trying this time to sound even marginally articulate. She could see by the look on Miranda’s face that she was failing. Try again. “I think that voting is a responsibility of citizenship. I went and registered on my eighteenth birthday and I’ve voted in every election since then.”
One eyebrow rose against the smooth skin of Miranda’s forehead. Well, that had to be better than the snort, right?
“Good. So many people your age,” Miranda began, refusing to use the words, ‘your generation’ for obvious reasons, “are not merely apathetic, but proud of their apathy. I find it incredibly troubling.”
“I can’t imagine not being concerned,” Andy could feel a sliver of her normal self-confidence creep into her voice as she responded. “Especially given the utter stupidity and corruption of the current administration and their complete abdication of any sense of responsibility for the state of this nation. And I’m not even going to start on the war for oil we’re currently fighting.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Andy felt an inordinate sense of dread wash over her. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What were the odds that a woman who owned several fur coats, rode around in a chauffer driven Mercedes, and had a house in the Hamptons was a Republican? Pretty damn good, Andy thought, a slight grimace crossing her face as she waited for that silver voice to cut her to shreds for impugning the honor of George W. Bush.
To her shock, Miranda smiled. Well, it was as close to a smile as Andy had seen. Not snarky, not even a little scary. Well, maybe a little scary. It was Miranda, after all.
“Andrea, you do not approve of the way the President and his administration are governing this country?”
“Um. Well, not really. I mean, no. But I’m sure that all Republicans aren’t that horrible. I mean, I’m sure that there are lots of nice, well meaning Republicans,” Andy stammered a little, making a half-gesture with her hand in Miranda’s direction, fearing once again to meet those blue eyes.
Then Miranda laughed. Andy had never heard Miranda laugh. Well, not an amused, “you actually said something funny” laugh. The sound of it slithered deliciously along her skin and down her spine.
“You know, Andrea, I’ve been called a great number of things in my life, most of them unkind and some not even worth mentioning, but I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been insulted quite as badly as that,” Miranda’s eyes had a distinct twinkle in them and her voice was amused. “A Republican?”
“I just assumed, I mean, well, you are rich and you wear a mink to work, Miranda,” Andy knew she sounded ludicrous, but it was the best she could do when Miranda had that look on her face. Like several of its brethren before it, it was an expression for which Andy had no reference. She struggled to put a name to it, sensing that this one was important.
“Andrea, I am one of only a handful of women in positions of power in publishing. I work in a field dominated by gay men and believe me when I tell you, I have more than a passing knowledge of economics. Despite my own personal wealth and my penchant for the occasional fur, what in any of that would lead you to hypothesize that I am at all conservative in my political beliefs?” The words, stated flatly in that no nonsense tone, might have stung a bit had they not been coupled with the continued look of affectionate amusement on Miranda’s face. That was it: affection. For her.
When Andy was in sixth grade, her father had won her a goldfish at the county fair, a large orange and gold specimen that apparently possessed a suicidal streak. Every week the fish would launch itself from its bowl, landing with a “plop” on the pale green carpet of Andy’s room, its gills fluttering futilely, the circle of its mouth opening and closing as it flip-flopped around the floor. Andy suspected that she was doing a damn good impression of that fish right about now.
“I’m sorry?” It wasn’t her most impressive effort to date, but it seemed to do the trick. Miranda laughed again, and again Andy felt the sound brush like fingertips along her skin.
“As well you should be, Andrea, as well you should be. Come on, let’s go home,” Miranda said, picking up the Book and rising gracefully from her seat, her lips still curved in amusement.
Following Miranda onto the elevator, Andy concluded that, for an evening that had all the earmarks of ending badly, this one had turned out to be pretty fucking wonderful.
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG/R
Chapters: 14 and 15/?
Words: 4,981 (24,527 for chapters 1-15.)
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.
Chapters 1-4
Chapters 5-8
Chapters 9 and 10
Chapters 11, 12, and 13
XIV.
The water sluiced its way down the length of her body, leaving trails of heat reddened flesh in its wake. The steam hung like fog in the confines of the bathroom, the moist vapor filling her lungs, catching in her throat as she dragged in deep breaths, one after another. Yesterday morning, standing in her own shower and feeling a rush of dread at the day to come, seemed like a lifetime away from this.
Or someone else’s life, anyway. Because her life included a small apartment on the Lower East side and a boss who brooked no hints of imperfection. It did not include this. Not the luxurious bed with indecently expensive sheets. Not the thick Berber carpet that felt as cushiony beneath her feet as a lawn of lush grass on a summer’s evening. Not this marble tiled shower in a gorgeous Upper East Side townhouse, a townhouse owned by aforementioned boss. The boss who had offered her gentleness and comfort instead of harsh words and recriminations, who had stood over her bed and brushed the hair from her face, not threatened to rip her head off.
This had to be someone else’s life. And yet, here she was. In Miranda’s house. Conversing quite naturally with Miranda’s children. It was almost enough to make Andy forget why she was here. Forget the dull gleam of the gun and the echoing sound of the shot as it buried itself in the wall over their heads. Almost.
Despite the relative, albeit surreal, normalcy of the evening, of sitting down to dinner with Miranda and the girls; despite the secret thrill of slipping into the blue nightshirt that smelled faintly, as the entire house did, of Miranda’s perfume; despite the luxury of sliding in between sheets of expensive Egyptian cotton, Andy hadn’t been able to completely shake the feelings trembling through her mind, like minor aftershocks from a major quake. She had lain awake for hours, replaying in her mind the events of the afternoon.
Any rational person would have been terrified. Would have been paralyzed by the fear of being shot, of dying. And in that first instant of seeing the gun, Andy had been scared out of her wits. But then, something happened, something that had loosened the fingers of fear tightening their grip around her heart. The feel of fingers, real fingers, in her own; the feel of smooth flesh against hers; the divine warmth of Miranda’s skin and the strength in her hand.
Standing there, facing down the proverbial barrel of a gun, had no longer been terrifying, because Miranda was there. Miranda was protecting her. Miranda was holding her hand. Miranda had pulled her close against her and Andy felt a sudden surging faith that nothing bad could happen to her, because Miranda Priestly didn’t wish it to and everyone knew that Miranda always got what she wanted.
Irrational. Idiotic. Asinine. It was all of those things. And of course, she fell apart the moment it was over, but that feeling of being cared for didn’t leave her. It stayed with her as Miranda comforted her. It occupied the chair next to hers at the Priestly dinner table. It padded behind her and slipped into the soothing warmth of the bed. It woke, drowsy and confused to find Miranda standing by the bed, and sank back into slumber at the gentle touch of Miranda’s hand.
Something had shifted inside her, imperceptibly, immeasurably shifted, and while tomorrow morning it might very well shift back to same old Andy, for now she allowed the thrill of it, the very idea of it to infuse her mind. Miranda cared about her. There was no other reasonable explanation for how the older woman had behaved. Miranda Priestly cared. For her.
Talk about feeling terrified.
Not surprisingly, the conversation with her parents last night before she went to bed hadn’t helped with her peace of mind. They had, of course, been nearly hysterical, having seen only the sensationalized media coverage. Andy had spent ten minutes reassuring them that she was fine and another fifteen minutes attempting to convince them that the whole thing wasn’t really Miranda’s fault.
The latter she knew was entirely her fault, as she had had little good to say of the woman in the year she had worked for her. Still, she had felt driven to make her parents understand that Miranda had protected her, a fact that did little to allay their concerns or, quite frankly, their dislike of the woman.
They had finally hung up with her promise to call them tomorrow and her half-hearted agreement to try and come home to visit in the near future. She knew that she would never make them believe that Miranda Priestly had done something selfless, but at least she knew it.
Doug had left a message on her cell, but she was too exhausted to call him back. Tomorrow. Besides, since Nate had left, Doug and Lily had been less and less present in her life. She knew that they disapproved, that they thought that she had sacrificed her principles at Miranda Priestly’s feet, but there didn’t seem to be much that she could do to change their opinions, and to be honest, at least part of her didn’t think she should have to.
Shaking her head, Andy forced herself to finish her shower, washing her hair efficiently before turning off the water and wrapping an inordinately thick towel around her. She dried her hair with the dryer she found in the bathroom closet, and then cautiously opened the door, uncertain whether the room would still be occupied by two small but dangerous Priestly females.
There was no sign of the twins and Andrea made quick work of dressing, surprised to find a pair of True Religion jeans and a Marc Jacobs 'Divore' Swiss Dot Blouse. The Jimmy Choos she had been wearing yesterday went perfectly. She applied a light layer of makeup and taking a deep breath, eased open the guestroom door.
No sound filtered up from downstairs. Her shoes sounded unnaturally loud on the wood of the stairs. She had made it down to the first floor when she heard the phone ring. It rang three times before someone, somewhere in the house answered it. Probably one of the twins. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard her name being bellowed from the floor above.
“Andy! Andy?”
Peering up the staircase, Andy spied first one red head, then the other.
“Hi again,” Andy smiled, trying to tap down the nervousness at being alone in Miranda’s house with her children.
“Mom’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you,” Cassidy informed her. She was pretty certain it was Cassidy, although from this angle, staring up at them with the light behind them, Andy couldn’t be sure. Still, there was something in the girl’s voice, a hint of impatience and something else, that made Andy think that this was definitely voice number one from earlier.
“Oh, sure. Um, is there a phone down here?” Andy replied, a quick visual survey of the hall not locating a phone.
“In the study at the end of the hall. You’d better hurry. Mom doesn’t like waiting.” Definitely Cassidy.
Like that was something Andy didn’t know first-hand. She hurried down the hall, stepping into the study and spying the phone on the large table under the window. She tried to ignore the fact that her hand was shaking a bit as she picked up the extension.
“Um, hi, Miranda,” Andy stammered, her brain registering yet again how bizarre it was to be in Miranda’s house like this.
“Andrea. Good, the girls thought that you might still be showering,” Miranda’s voice sounded almost hesitant. “I told them to let you sleep in this morning. They didn’t wake you, did they?”
Andy smiled to herself as she answered, “No, Miranda. They did bring me the clothes you sent over. Thank you, that was sweet of you.”
Not something one could say to Miranda Priestly very often and mean it, Andy thought.
“Yes, well. You needed clothes. You could hardly wear the same ones you had on yesterday.” Miranda sounded a little embarrassed at Andy’s words. “Um, well. How are you today? After the incident yesterday?”
Only Miranda would call being taken hostage by a despondent gunman and threatened with death an “incident”. Andy couldn’t help but grin at the euphemism.
“I’m fine. I was just going to run home and put on some work clothes and come in to the office. I know it’s late, but there are a few things I can take care of this afternoon,” Andy could hear the sound of a telephone ringing in the background and the faint echo of Emily’s voice.
“Andrea, if I had intended for you to come into work, you would not have been left to lounge in bed all morning. As I said, I want you to take today off. It isn’t often that I make such gestures, Andrea. Do not waste it,” Miranda stated calmly. Andy could just picture her sitting at her desk, glasses perched on the bridge of that lovely Roman nose, long fingers flipping over bright, glossy pages.
“I just feel I should be at work. I mean, you’re there. I should be, too,” Andy found she couldn’t stop herself from arguing, despite the warm feeling that had suffused her at Miranda’s words. “After all, Emily is still on crutches and there may be errands to run, and…”
“Andrea, did you hit your head yesterday and not inform me of it? That is the only reason I can surmise why you would still be belaboring this point.” There was just the suggestion of an edge to Miranda’s voice but it was enough to send Andy the warning to back off.
“No, I didn’t hit my head. And I get it. I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow, okay?” Andy breathed, oddly happy to concede this argument.
“Yes. Are you planning on going home now?” There was a hint of something Andy didn’t recognize in Miranda’s tone now. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought it was wistfulness.
“I, um, yeah, I was going to. Unless you need me to stay with the twins or something?”
“No, Cara is there with them. You should be aware that there are no doubt paparazzi loitering outside the house,” Miranda stated evenly. “You do not have to answer any of their questions. In fact, I would prefer that you not.”
“Oh. Well, I can slip out the back or something,” Andy began, only to be interrupted by Miranda.
“They know you came home with me last night, Andrea. As it is, it may be that single, concerned gesture will garner better PR than Leslie could manage in a month of press releases and cozy pictures with the girls. Not that that was my motivation. At all.” Miranda informed her, her voice quiet and firm.
A not entirely awkward silence followed her pronouncement, as both of them digested what Miranda had said, and even more, what she had implied. Andy didn’t know how to respond, or even if she should. Mercifully, Miranda spared her the decision.
“Besides, if those vultures don’t see you leave, they’ll begin to suspect that I lured you home in order to silence you and hide the body.”
It took a few seconds for Andy to realize that Miranda was teasing her.
“Miranda, did you just make a joke?” Andy asked, in spite of months of conditioning not to ask Miranda anything.
“Apparently not a very amusing one, Andrea, if you had to ask,” came the dry response.
“No, it was funny. Just unexpected, that’s all.” Andy’s smile carried through the line.
“Yes, well. Believe it or not, many people find me quite witty,” Miranda murmured, clearly at a loss as to where this conversation had wandered away from her. “As I said, please do not speak to the media. You should go home and relax. I expect you early tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Miranda. And Miranda?”
She was met with a beleaguered sigh.
“What is it, Andrea?”
“Thank you. For…well, for everything.” Andy tried to squeeze every ounce of sincerity and gratitude into her voice, wishing that she could see Miranda’s face right now.
“You’re welcome, Andrea,” the voice on the line sounded like the one Andy remembered from the middle of the night. Gentle, tender. “Now, go home. Given that I am short one assistant, someone around here has to get some work done.”
So much for tender.
XV.
Having questions hurled at her by the paparazzi, while camera strobes flashed in her eyes wasn’t Andy’s idea of a fun time. However, the press were much more interested in Miranda than in her, the accidental victim in the whole fiasco, and so she was able to make it to her waiting taxi without much incident. In spite of making it home in relative peace, she wasn’t looking forward to weathering the storm outside Elias-Clarke again tomorrow. As chance would have it, however, Andy didn’t have to worry about the continued annoyances of the press. That afternoon, a clearly intoxicated Lindsay Lohan had a screaming match with a friend on the street in front of Magnolia Bakery.
Miranda Priestly and her would-be assassin were briskly pushed aside for a myriad of camera phone pictures of the young starlet hurling yellow and pink icing-ed cupcakes down Bleecker Street. That, combined with the ongoing uproar surrounding Mark Foley and his inappropriate emails to Congressional pages, pushed the gunman and the Dragon Lady right off the map. Sitting at her desk and waiting for Miranda’s arrival, Andy shook her head in wonder as she gazed at the photos. Even when Miranda wasn’t directly manipulating situations, Fate appeared to kindly step in and take up the slack.
Andy had arrived extra early today, in what she recognized was a futile attempt to appease Emily’s wrath. She knew that the red-head was probably seething after having to deal with Miranda alone yesterday. She’d considered getting Emily some coffee or even one of those amazing apple fritters that Starbucks made, but she knew that the gesture would be misconstrued, so for once, she didn’t bother.
Four months ago she might have tried, but Andy had finally realized that Emily had an unnatural ability to deter any and all attempts to be nice to her. Being kind to Emily was sort of like standing in a steel lined room and shooting off a BB gun. You just knew that at least some of them would ricochet back at you and you’d be the one left bleeding. Even odder was the fact that while kind words and considerate actions had a way of bouncing off Emily, harshness and even cruelty seemed to be absorbed like water by a sponge.
Andy wondered sometimes if Emily’s unwillingness to accept kindness was a misguided attempt on her part to protect herself; as if allowing any sign of affection or empathy in her life would leave her too vulnerable. Like a child who only breaks down and cries when offered comfort, Emily held the world at arm’s length, only allowing in the insults and the criticism, bracing herself against any sudden onslaught of compassion.
Watching Miranda interact with her first assistant on a daily basis, Andy knew that Miranda had long ago sussed out Emily’s peculiar weakness. Not that it was in any way surprising. Miranda had an unerring ability to make an instant assessment of character, find the soft, susceptible spots, and more often than not, take advantage of them. It was one of the things that made her the best at what she did. Still, Andy couldn’t help but imagine Miranda as a scientist, intently experimenting, seeing just what and how much Emily could take, like verbal Chinese Water torture, just waiting for the Englishwoman to crumble suddenly with the fall of the final drop.
Not Miranda’s most endearing side. The fact the Andy thought that Miranda had endearing sides should probably be of great concern to her and her mental health, but after what they had experienced the day before yesterday, Andy was more than willing to give Miranda the benefit of the doubt.
The police had contacted her when she got home yesterday, sending a very considerate detective over to take her statement. Miranda had given her own very brief statement, of sorts, at the office. Andy could well imagine Miranda’s irritation at having to waste more time recounting what had happened. Andy had expected to find rehashing the events of yesterday to be traumatic, but the police officer was so professional that she found herself telling him the story, slowly and precisely, as if leaving out any detail would be akin to failure. The whole thing was simply a formality, given that Dobson had been captured, gun in hand, in Miranda’s office. Still, it made Andy feel better to tell someone, anyone, how remarkable her boss had been.
The detective shared enough to tell her that Dobson had made a full confession. According to what he told the police, he had lost his job a few months after his wife’s suicide. He had begun to show up late, if he went at all, drinking throughout the day. The final straw had come when he lost a client several million dollars, forgetting to place an order to sell. His firm had to let him go. He had become obsessed with the idea that Miranda Priestly was responsible for his wife’s depression and suicide, although it became apparent, in speaking with her sister, that Susan had a history of depression, something that Andy could believe.
There had always been a shadow of something in Susan’s eyes, something Andy had been unable to place at the time: sadness. Michael Dobson had managed to get himself hired by Elias-Clarke maintenance and simply bided his time, his rage and desire for revenge blocking out everything else. It was a tribute to the man he used to be that he hadn’t just snapped and shot Miranda in the lobby. Still, given his motive and taking into account the fact that he had not harmed them, the D.A. was considering amending the charges to take into account the mitigating circumstances.
Andy had a feeling that might not happen if Miranda found out. Andy couldn’t quite imagine Miranda being generous or understanding of someone who held her at gunpoint, but who knows; the woman had surprised her more than anyone she had ever known. Perhaps she would again.
Andy heard the singular rhythm of Emily’s gait as the woman made her way down the hall from the elevator. Jumping up, she held the door open for the red-head, earning nothing more than a glare of disgust as Emily thumped by her. Andy offered up her brightest smile, part of her knowing that it would simply irritate the Englishwoman further, but unable to help herself. There were brief moments when Andy understood a little of the satisfaction that Miranda seemed to gain from making Emily miserable.
“I see you’ve deigned to join us today. How sweet of you,” Emily sniffed archly, trying to keep the look of relief off her face as she dropped into her chair. “Yesterday was hellish. Nothing and no one was right, not even Nigel. While you were lounging about, watching soap operas and eating donuts, the rest of us were here, doing our jobs. You do realize that it won’t last, don’t you, being Miranda’s new favorite? It never does. There is a long line of former assistants and a few ex-husbands who can attest to that.”
Remembering the feel of Miranda’s hand in her own, the sensation of Miranda’s fingers tracing gently across her forehead, Andy had an immediate urge to lash out at Emily. She wanted to vehemently deny the statement, to tell her that she was wrong, that she wasn’t like the others, but as soon as the impulse seized her, the words died in her throat. Of course she was. Miranda discarded people as readily, as easily as she discarded last year’s Gabbana; when they no longer pleased her; when they no longer served their purpose. When they were no longer fashionable.
As her mouth opened and then slowly snapped shut, Andy saw the gleam of jealous triumph in Emily’s eyes. The day only went downhill from there. Miranda sauntered in and immediately began spewing orders like Vesuvius, her tone low and pleasant and deadly. By mid-morning, two of the girls that helped keep the Closet were packing their meager belongings into boxes and being escorted to the exit. By the time eleven-thirty rolled around, Andy was incredibly relieved to be able to slip out and collect Miranda’s lunch.
Not once during that day or the ones that followed that week did Miranda mention to Andrea what had happened in her office. Nor did she bring up Andy’s stay at her home, or the promise she had made Andrea that they would discuss it, all of it. There were moments when Andy fantasized about marching into Miranda’s office and demanding that Miranda tell her what the hell it had all meant, but she knew she never would. She delivered the Book each night, just as she had for months, but neither Miranda, nor the twins appeared, and she left the townhouse more depressed than when she arrived.
In fact, for the rest of that week Miranda was in rare form, causing her terrified employees to conclude that her brush with her own mortality had served only to ratchet up her demands for the impossible. If she was perhaps slightly more patient with Andrea than with everyone else, no one would have dared to mention it. Just as no one, not even Nigel, would have been so bold or so foolish as to note the often lingering glances that Miranda directed at her young assistant, glances made only when Miranda was convinced no one was looking.
As the days progressed, Andy had almost convinced herself that she had imagined Miranda’s behavior, had conjured up in her mind the sight of Miranda standing over her as she slept, tenderly brushing the hair from her brow. Almost convinced herself that the twins had known she was awake and had played one of their typically unkind tricks on her.
That is, until Miranda starting talking to her.
Not issuing orders. Not making demands. Talking. Asking questions. Questions about Andy’s life, about her views on things. Questions that evinced a genuine interest in Andy’s replies.
The first time it happened, on the way to James Holt’s for a preview, all Andy could do was stare at the back of Roy’s head and attempt to control the look of confused terror on her face as she muttered monosyllabic responses to Miranda’s questions about her views on modern art. After the fifth, “Yes, Miranda”, the woman gave what could only be described as a snort of disgust and turned away from Andy to gaze out the window of the car.
The second and third times, once more in the car and then once in the elevator of all places, an elevator that Miranda had told her to get in with her, Andy managed to do a little better. She wasn’t going to win any awards for public speaking, but she did answer in complete sentences. Four or five word sentences to be sure, but it was an improvement. At least there was no look or sound of displeasure from Miranda.
The fourth time was in the office, long after everyone else had gone home. Miranda had stayed late and demanded that Andy stay as well, although for the life of her, Andy couldn’t figure out why Miranda wanted her there. The Book was finished and on Miranda’s desk, so clearly she didn’t need Andy to bring it to her. Andy finished up all the correspondence she could, cleaned out some files on her computer, straightened her desk. Even straightened out the kitchen. She was completely out of work, and Miranda hadn’t spoken to her in an hour.
She was just contemplating how insane it might be to ask Miranda if there was anything she could do for her, when she heard Miranda call her name.
“Andrea. Come in here.”
“Yes, Miranda?”
Miranda didn’t answer immediately, her gaze fixed on the glossy pages of the Book that gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. Finally, after an uncomfortably long silence, she looked up.
“Sit.” She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk.
Andy gingerly lowered herself to perch on the edge of the seat, a nervous smile gracing her lips. Miranda’s eyes narrowed as they regarded her, slits of dark blue that revealed nothing as they traveled from Andrea’s face down the length of her body and back again.
“Do you vote, Andrea?” Okay, even for Miranda this one was out of left field.
“Um, yeah. I mean, yes. I do. I have. Since I turned eighteen,” Andy replied, trying this time to sound even marginally articulate. She could see by the look on Miranda’s face that she was failing. Try again. “I think that voting is a responsibility of citizenship. I went and registered on my eighteenth birthday and I’ve voted in every election since then.”
One eyebrow rose against the smooth skin of Miranda’s forehead. Well, that had to be better than the snort, right?
“Good. So many people your age,” Miranda began, refusing to use the words, ‘your generation’ for obvious reasons, “are not merely apathetic, but proud of their apathy. I find it incredibly troubling.”
“I can’t imagine not being concerned,” Andy could feel a sliver of her normal self-confidence creep into her voice as she responded. “Especially given the utter stupidity and corruption of the current administration and their complete abdication of any sense of responsibility for the state of this nation. And I’m not even going to start on the war for oil we’re currently fighting.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Andy felt an inordinate sense of dread wash over her. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What were the odds that a woman who owned several fur coats, rode around in a chauffer driven Mercedes, and had a house in the Hamptons was a Republican? Pretty damn good, Andy thought, a slight grimace crossing her face as she waited for that silver voice to cut her to shreds for impugning the honor of George W. Bush.
To her shock, Miranda smiled. Well, it was as close to a smile as Andy had seen. Not snarky, not even a little scary. Well, maybe a little scary. It was Miranda, after all.
“Andrea, you do not approve of the way the President and his administration are governing this country?”
“Um. Well, not really. I mean, no. But I’m sure that all Republicans aren’t that horrible. I mean, I’m sure that there are lots of nice, well meaning Republicans,” Andy stammered a little, making a half-gesture with her hand in Miranda’s direction, fearing once again to meet those blue eyes.
Then Miranda laughed. Andy had never heard Miranda laugh. Well, not an amused, “you actually said something funny” laugh. The sound of it slithered deliciously along her skin and down her spine.
“You know, Andrea, I’ve been called a great number of things in my life, most of them unkind and some not even worth mentioning, but I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been insulted quite as badly as that,” Miranda’s eyes had a distinct twinkle in them and her voice was amused. “A Republican?”
“I just assumed, I mean, well, you are rich and you wear a mink to work, Miranda,” Andy knew she sounded ludicrous, but it was the best she could do when Miranda had that look on her face. Like several of its brethren before it, it was an expression for which Andy had no reference. She struggled to put a name to it, sensing that this one was important.
“Andrea, I am one of only a handful of women in positions of power in publishing. I work in a field dominated by gay men and believe me when I tell you, I have more than a passing knowledge of economics. Despite my own personal wealth and my penchant for the occasional fur, what in any of that would lead you to hypothesize that I am at all conservative in my political beliefs?” The words, stated flatly in that no nonsense tone, might have stung a bit had they not been coupled with the continued look of affectionate amusement on Miranda’s face. That was it: affection. For her.
When Andy was in sixth grade, her father had won her a goldfish at the county fair, a large orange and gold specimen that apparently possessed a suicidal streak. Every week the fish would launch itself from its bowl, landing with a “plop” on the pale green carpet of Andy’s room, its gills fluttering futilely, the circle of its mouth opening and closing as it flip-flopped around the floor. Andy suspected that she was doing a damn good impression of that fish right about now.
“I’m sorry?” It wasn’t her most impressive effort to date, but it seemed to do the trick. Miranda laughed again, and again Andy felt the sound brush like fingertips along her skin.
“As well you should be, Andrea, as well you should be. Come on, let’s go home,” Miranda said, picking up the Book and rising gracefully from her seat, her lips still curved in amusement.
Following Miranda onto the elevator, Andy concluded that, for an evening that had all the earmarks of ending badly, this one had turned out to be pretty fucking wonderful.