When the Night Falls on You: Chapters 16 and 17
Title: When the Night Falls On You
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG/R
Chapters: 16 and 17/?
Words: 4,831 (29,358 for chapters 1-17 linked below.)
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
Chapters 14 and 15
XVI.
“Do you think that Tolstoy was correct?”
The question came, apropos of nothing, as the car moved at a tortoise-like pace through clogged city streets. They were on their way back from a ten o’clock preview at Donna Karan. Normally, the sluggish speed would have sent Miranda’s blood pressure soaring, but for reasons yet to be revealed to Andy, that hadn’t happened. If anything, Miranda appeared reflective, her head tilted back against the smooth leather of the seat.
Glancing sideways at Andy, one of Miranda’s eyebrows rose slightly, although Andy was fairly certain it was in interrogation and not impatience.
Swiftly juggling through the various things about which Tolstoy might have been wrong, Andy remembered the wistful look that had ghosted across Miranda’s face earlier this morning when she spoke to Cassidy. The girl was home sick today, but given her schedule, Miranda had not been able to stay with her, leaving her instead to the patient ministrations of Cara. Andy knew that given a choice, Miranda would have stayed home with her daughter, but final print deadlines were looming, along with all the other appointments, meetings, and previews that made up a normal day for Runway’s editor. Something had to be sacrificed. Today it had been a slice of Miranda’s faith in her ability to be a good parent.
Hence the question.
“About happy families, you mean?” Andy asked, trying to gauge what she thought Miranda wanted to hear. Given the mood brought on by having to be at work while her child was sick, and the two or three heads that had already rolled this morning because of it, Andy figured it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe.
“No, Andrea, about the vagaries of war and the sum of human history,” Miranda snapped, her eyes slipping shut at the harsh tone of her voice. She took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice far less waspish. “Yes, about families.”
“I don’t know if I can judge. I mean, my family is just one example but we were, well are, pretty happy, I guess. Don’t get me wrong. We have disagreements and there were a lot of times when I was younger that I hated being treated like a kid, but I guess, compared to some people, I had a happy childhood,” Andy replied, aware that she hadn’t answered Miranda’s question, but uncertain of how to proceed.
Her first instinct was to reassure Miranda that the girls loved her, but she couldn’t quite shake the fear that doing so would be crossing a line, one that might bring to a screeching halt these conversations she had quickly come to treasure. And that was not something that she was willing to risk if she could help it.
“So your perfect little suburban family- you and Mom and Dad and station wagon- are what happy families are comprised of then?” Miranda sniffed, lips pursing in displeasure.
“No. No, that’s not what I meant. I meant that I know there are plenty of happy families that look completely different from mine, families with two parents, with one parent, with two parents who don’t live together. It doesn’t have anything to do with stereotypes and picket fences. They’re all different and yet, they’re all happy,” Andy backpedaled a bit, sensing that she managed to say the wrong thing, but not sure what the right one was.
“And how do you know that they’re happy, Andrea? Did you have them all fill out a questionnaire?” Miranda asked, turning finally to face her across the seat, eyes blank and cool as they waited for her response.
“Of course not. And you’re right. I don’t know if my friends’ families are happy. I guess I don’t know for sure if my family is happy. But what I’m trying to say is that no, I don’t think that Tolstoy was right. I think that happiness comes in as many shapes and forms as unhappiness. And to try and categorize people according to some unverifiable, societal standard of what is or is not a happy family is ludicrous. I also know this, Miranda. The girls adore you. They understand that work gets in the way sometimes. They’re happy kids. Well, as happy as kids can be. They’re smart, well-adjusted, articulate. You’re doing a really great job with them,” Andy said, her own eyes warm and sincere.
She had realized suddenly that this was what Miranda needed from her, had needed when she began the conversation; just as she knew when Miranda needed coffee, or when to distract her because she was on the verge of biting someone’s head off.
Those blue eyes met hers challengingly, the gaze unflinching as the city slipped slowly by outside the car windows. Andy simply stared back, willing Miranda to believe in the truth of her words. After a few uncomfortable minutes, the older woman looked away, leaning her head back against the seat.
“Perhaps,” Miranda said finally, her tone dismissive, although Andy could see the tightness in her face slowly relax.
They rode in silence for the next ten minutes, until the car slid to a stop in front of Elias-Clarke. As she turned to open her door and get out, Andy was startled to feel Miranda’s hand on her arm.
“I hope that your parents have the good sense to be proud of you,” Miranda said softly, before swiveling and stepping out of the car, her stride purposeful as she crossed the pavement to the building’s glass doors, confident that Andy was following her.
Grinning and shaking her head, Andy did exactly that.
And so, the conversations continued, unabated. Always in private, sandwiched into the rare moments of downtime in Miranda’s hectic days. In the car, in the elevator, in the office late at night. Once or twice in the entranceway of Miranda’s townhouse. Brief, transient moments, when Miranda ceased to be Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of Runway, and Andrea her stalwart assistant. Ephemeral, fleeting minutes when they were merely two tired, overworked, lonely people who just might have found in each other an anchor in an increasingly chaotic world.
It seemed to Miranda that the chance to have a quiet, pleasant conversation had created a small hole in her own personal dam, allowing the water to flow slowly but determinedly, each stolen moment washing away a bit more of her reserve. After the first initial failures, she had found Andrea to be as bright and inquisitive as she had imagined she would be, a fact that pleased her far more than she was comfortable admitting to herself.
From the profound to the profane, their conversations ran the gambit: history, art, music, politics, religion. Miranda found herself reading the Times at night before bed, staying up long after she had finished the Book, her mind cataloging the various articles and ideas that she wanted to discuss with Andrea. It was a bit disconcerting to realize that she had begun to look forward to those moments when she and Andrea were alone with a sense of anticipation somewhat unbecoming in a woman her age. But there it was.
She enjoyed the girl’s company. She enjoyed the easy give and take, the exchange of opinions and even emotions that had quickly developed between them. It was clear that once Andrea realized that there was no hidden agenda to Miranda’s sudden bout of talkativeness, no trap waiting to be sprung, she threw herself into the situation wholeheartedly. The fact that Andrea recognized that these times were special, and not to be discussed, pleased Miranda all the more.
This was not to say that Miranda had suddenly stopped being Miranda. She still evoked terror in her staff, leaving tears and ugly epithets trailing in her wake. She could still be arrogant, thoughtless, and cruel. She still expected perfection and was unwilling to accept anything less than what she demanded. She was capricious, mercurial, and absolutely infuriating most of the time. Just as it should be. That she tried to be less so with Andrea was a sign to her that she was far more invested in the young woman than she had thought possible. Or prudent.
As for Andrea, she found the glimpses into the real Miranda far more intoxicating than the finest bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape. There still had been no discussion of the “incident”, but Andy found she didn’t mind. Regardless of whether or not she and Miranda ever talked about what had happened that day, it was obvious to both of them that a shift had occurred. For Andy, at least, it wasn’t felt as a major earthquake but instead like the barely noticeable movement of tectonic plates, sending minor tremors, subtle vibrations through the soles of her feet. And into other places that Andy didn’t think she was ready to contemplate yet.
Because, along with the conversation, Miranda had begun to touch her. Nothing more than brushing her fingers across Andrea’s back as they walked, or laying her hand lightly on Andrea’s arm as she made a particular point. Casual, meaningless gestures. And yet, Miranda Priestly did not touch people. Andy couldn’t remember seeing her willingly touch anyone, other than a limp handshake or an indecently brief faux hug, complete with air-kiss, at parties or with people Miranda knew she needed for some reason.
But she touched Andy. And she talked to Andy, her voice no longer bored and derisive, but warm and engaged, a sparkle in her eyes that sent little tendrils of heat through Andy’s body.
Again, things Andrea did not want to contemplate right now, at least during waking hours. Not if she wanted to continue to be able to look Miranda in the eye. Once she drifted off to sleep however, her subconscious had other plans. Nearly every night she woke, aroused and unsatisfied, soaked in sweat, from a dream of silver hair slipping along the silken skin of her stomach. The odious, smug voice of that theory which had spoken to her so sternly in Paris attempted to remind her again that forming unhealthy attachments to one’s boss were nearly always disastrous.
This time, Andy simply told the theory to shut the fuck up.
XVII.
The house was so quiet with the twins gone. For two beings who, between them, weighed a hundred pounds, they made enough noise to rival a Sumo wrestler as they thumped, stomped and clattered around the townhouse. Clearly a quirk of fate and genes, given her own refined, elegant movements. Unfortunate that they had obviously taken after their father’s side of the family when it came to grace. Still, despite evenings filled with exasperated sighs and pleading admonitions to a modicum of decorum, Miranda found that she missed them, missed the loud, mysterious thuds from upstairs, missed their good-natured bickering.
A tumbler of Macallan sat at her elbow but she’d barely touched it. A single lamp by the door threw a golden swath of light across the floor, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, as Miranda tried to ignore the slinking feeling of anticipation that even now curled around her like the sleek silhouette of a cat around her ankles: Andrea was due anytime now with the Book. Feeling a bit like the spider waiting none too patiently for the fly’s arrival, Miranda took a heady sip of the Scotch, enjoying the fiery burn of it as it slipped down her throat. She could taste in the amber liquid the peaty soil of the Highlands and the long, lonely years it had spent trapped in its oaken prison.
She could sympathize.
The click of a key in the lock and the sound of high heels on the floor of the foyer signaled Andrea’s entrance. Miranda listened for the quiet snick of the closet door as the girl hung her dry cleaning, and the soft staccato of her heels as she turned to leave.
“Andrea.”
If she closed her eyes, Miranda could imagine the expression on her assistant’s lovely face: part anticipation, part trepidation. One of these days, perhaps the anticipation would be far more than the trepidation.
“Yes, Miranda?” Andrea asked softly, taking the few steps into the study necessary to hand Miranda the Book.
Miranda reached out for the Book, a twinge of regret slipping across her mind as Andrea’s fingers failed to brush her own. The young woman stood diffidently before her, a slight smile of expectation on her lips, a barely noticeable glimmer of anxiety in her eyes, clearly waiting for Miranda to begin spouting instructions. Miranda didn’t speak, her eyes narrowed as she regarded the girl. She watched the tip of Andrea’s tongue slip out to moisten apparently dry lips, those large eyes widening slightly under Miranda’s perusal.
“Andrea, are you frightened of me?” Miranda asked finally, leaning back against the plush fabric of the chair, her head tilted speculatively, the very tip of her glasses resting gently against her bottom lip.
“Um. Not really. Well, sometimes, a little. I mean, not really scared,” the words rushed out of Andrea’s mouth, breathless and slightly incoherent. At the sight of Miranda’s raised eyebrow, the girl took a deep breath and began again. “I used to be scared of you. Terrified, actually. But now, I’m not. Now, you just make me nervous, sometimes.”
Given her abominable track record in inspiring devotion in others, Miranda had to admit that this was definitely going to be an uphill battle. Still, all things being equal, nervous was a far sight better than terrified, at least to Miranda. Amazing how she had gone from trying rather pointedly to force Andrea to want to leave, to just as pointedly attempting to make her want to stay. Not stay at Runway, but stay with her.
“Um, was there anything else you need, Miranda?” Andrea managed to ask the question without appearing too awkward, or anxious, a feat Miranda found quite impressive, given that the young woman was still standing in front of her like a delinquent school-girl.
“Did you have somewhere you need to be, Andrea?” Miranda inquired, slipping her reading glasses back on, turning the switch on the lamp at her elbow, and opening the Book without glancing back up at Andy.
“No. I just thought that you might want something.” Andy assured her quickly, her voice betraying far less unease than customary, bringing a momentary quirk to Miranda’s lips.
“What I want is for you to stop shuffling back and forth on those four inch heels before you either scuff my carpet or topple over. Sit,” Miranda stated quietly, although without the usual sardonic tone. She absentmindedly motioned Andrea toward the wide leather sofa, her eyes already focused on several glaring errors in the Book. “There’s an article or two in that Atlantic that you may find interesting, given our conversation the other day about hard work and success. Something about searching for the American Dream.”
Andy smiled shyly, aware that Miranda was no longer looking at her, and moved to sit gingerly on the impossibly soft cushions of the couch. Miranda was already completely absorbed in her corrections and didn’t even glance her way to see if Andrea had followed her directive. Not that she needed to. Andrea always did as Miranda told her. Still, despite Miranda's apparent indifference, Andy felt a rush of warmth seep across her chest. Clearly Miranda wanted her company. Not to take notes. Not to make phone calls, or fetch her coffee. But simply to be with her. Andy couldn’t quite stop what she instinctively knew was a wide, very foolish grin from plastering itself on her face.
Picking up the magazine from the coffee table, Andy quickly scanned the table of contents, easily finding the articles to which Miranda had referred. After a few minutes of engrossing reading, Andy slid off her shoes, slipping back on the smooth leather to tuck her feet under her, one elbow leaning against the wide armrest. She became so immersed in the article and the one that followed it, that she failed to notice that Miranda had finished with her corrections and was regarding her, eyes again narrowed speculatively. The soft sound of Miranda’s voice brought Andy back to the moment with a startled jump.
“So, what do you think?” If Andy had a slightly difficult time processing the question, it was because her eyes were focused on Miranda’s face and the tumbler in Miranda’s hand, as Miranda slowly snaked out her tongue and captured a stray drop of amber liquid along the rim of the glass.
“Um, think about what?” Andy squeaked, her brain momentarily short-circuiting. The slow, terrifying sexy smile that ghosted across Miranda’s face did little to un-befuddle Andy’s very befuddled mind.
“The price of tea in China. The articles, Andrea. Success, the American Dream? Ringing any bells?” Miranda had noticed, with a rush of triumph, the hazy look of desire in Andrea’s normally clear eyes as the girl watched her.
Not that she had been unaware of the element of attraction in their interactions. She had. There was little that Miranda failed to notice. Still, she hadn’t put much thought to it. Sex was just sex, after all. The fact that she was even contemplating having it with a woman twenty-five years her junior was a trifle unexpected. Not unheard of, but surprising. However, right now, she was far more interested in capturing the girl’s mind than her body. Bodies much more gorgeous than Andy’s were offered to Miranda on a daily basis. She wanted more than a quick tumble, more than the feel of silken, sweaty skin against her own.
She wanted…well, more. What exactly that comprised Miranda hadn’t allowed herself to analyze all that deeply yet, but she knew the key to it lay in the astonishing synchronicity that had grown between them. Andrea understood her, and she, Andrea. In that lay enticing possibilities on which Miranda tried not to allow herself to dwell. Well, not excessively. The whole issue of actively chasing after her assistant really was something she was going to need to address, and soon. Just not tonight.
Still, such a blatant show of desire sent a stream of heat through her, one that bore a striking resemblance to the fiery burn of the Scotch as it slid down her throat. Schooling her features, she regarded Andrea evenly, one brow quirking upward as she waited for her words to make their way through what appeared to be a fog of lust in Andrea’s mind.
“The articles. Um, right. I think they have a point.” Andy realized as soon as the words left her mouth that they sounded inane and markedly ambiguous, but for the moment, she was simply pleased to have gotten a complete, relatively coherent sentence out. Miranda always had a slightly debilitating affect on Andy’s nervous system. Tonight though, Miranda’s evident enjoyment of her drink and the accompanying expression on her face had sent a shower of sparks through her synapses, one that was not dissipating with nearly enough speed to suit Andy.
“They have a point? Who exactly are they, Andrea? And on what point do you feel that these mysterious they are correct?” Miranda knew that she probably shouldn’t be getting this much pleasure at Andrea’s expense, but honestly, the girl was simply too adorable and far too easy to unnerve for Miranda to ignore.
Andy could see the gleam of amusement in Miranda’s eyes at her discomfort. Just four months ago it would have upset and angered her, but now she could see the affection in the expression, the fondness in those blue eyes. She wasn’t certain what was going on between them, but she knew that they quite clearly had moved beyond the strictures of boss and assistant to something else, something more. What that something else was, and where it might lead, was murky at best, but Andy was more than willing to take it, and Miranda, on faith.
“The authors of the two companion pieces,” Andy clarified, full lips turning up in an answering grin. “I think that the point that both are making, that the American dream as part of our national mythology has remained, while the actual experience, of each generation eclipsing the one before it in standard of living and success, has died.”
“And you agree with this perspective?” Miranda asked quietly, leaning forward in her chair so that Andy could see the lace-clad suggestion of a breast as her white Dolce and Gabbana blouse puckered open to reveal an expanse of creamy skin.
Andy took a minute to tear her gaze away from Miranda’s cleavage and concentrate on the question at hand. Letting her eyes roam over the classic lines of the room, the muted colors, the soft fabrics, gave her some much needed focus.
“For the most part. I mean, things have changed so much since the end of the nineteenth century, when an immigrant coming to this country could expect a tremendous increase in salary and corresponding standard of living for his children and his grandchildren. Now, that usually isn’t the case. Kids born into poverty have only a fifty percent chance of making it out of poverty. I think that, to all intents and purposes, the American dream is dead,” Andy expounded, trying to sound confident when a faint whisper in the back of her mind kept reminding her again how extraordinary it was that she was having this conversation with Miranda Priestly. In Miranda’s house. Late at night, for no reason other than Miranda seemed to enjoy her company.
“While some of the points made in the articles are valid, as are a few of your conjectures, I fear I must disagree,” Miranda stated matter-of-factly, rising from her chair to cross the room and seat herself at the other end of the sofa. “Every person in this country, immigrant or native, has the opportunity to succeed, if he or she works hard enough. I simply cannot accept the idea that merely because the global economy has altered and the percentage of change between generational incomes has shrunk, that the reality of achieving a better life for oneself and one’s family has disappeared completely.”
“Okay. But that isn’t what’s being shown in study after study. Even in other countries, the concept that someone can rise from extreme poverty to extreme wealth, or even to the middle class, has been disproved. Given the empirical facts, why do you still believe that there is any hope of making that dream real anymore?” Andy still felt a hint of residual anxiety at asking Miranda a question, much less arguing with her, but after the conversations of the past weeks and the change in Miranda when they were alone, she knew those particular rules did not apply anymore. At least not here, not to her and Miranda and whatever this thing between them was.
“Simply because this is the American dream.” Miranda intoned firmly, eyes dark and intense, her hand making a graceful arc as she gestured to the room, the house and all in contained. “I am the American dream, Andrea. Me.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrea replied, her face echoing the confusion in her voice.
“I am the American dream. My parents fled here from Poland in the thirties with less than nothing. They trudged through life, scrimping, saving, eking out an existence. I had my first job when I was twelve, helping my mother, who took in sewing to earn some extra money. I put myself through college working as a seamstress down on Canal Street. And now, I run the most prestigious, most successful fashion magazine in the world. My opinion shapes thousands of jobs, hundreds of millions of dollars in commerce. I worked hard for every single thing I have, to ensure that I would never look in the mirror one day and see my mother’s tired, broken face. To make certain that my daughters never want for anything, never know what it is like to go to bed hungry for anything.” Miranda’s expression had grown fierce and determined while she spoke, her voice steely and low.
Meeting her eyes, Andrea could see the demons that drove Miranda Priestly staring out at her from behind those clear blue irises.
“I’ve never told anyone that. You will not repeat it,” Miranda told her stiffly, turning her face away to stare at their reflected images in the dark panes of the window behind them.
“No, of course not,” Andy murmured, overwhelmed at the revelation and the aura of vulnerability that she sensed from Miranda. “I would never tell anyone anything we talk about, Miranda. Never.”
“Good.”
A silence fell in the room, and in the distance, Andy could hear the faint ticking of the tall grandfather clock on the second floor landing. Finally, she hazarded a glance at Miranda and found crystal blue eyes staring intently into her own, the expression in them guarded.
“So, is that one of the reasons that you expect so much from the people who work for you?” Andy asked tentatively, still a trifle unsure of Miranda’s mood.
“No, Andrea. I expect so much from my employees because that is what they are paid to do. Their jobs. Period. I do not run a charity organization nor am I a kindergarten teacher. I run a business and I find it mind-boggling that people would ever begin to assume that they should be patted on the head, or given a gold star for doing what they are paid to do,” Miranda said sharply. Despite having chosen the topic for tonight’s conversation, she had not intended to reveal so much of herself and her past to Andrea, a past that she had not even shared with her husbands or her children. The fact that she had done so left her feeling off-balance. Off balance was not a feeling Miranda Priestly tolerated, much less enjoyed.
“I know. I guess what I meant was, do you think if you were, well, nicer to them, they wouldn’t do their jobs as well?” The second the words left her lips, Andy squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the coming eruption as she had in Paris, the scene of her previous foot meets mouth production. Just as in Paris, it did not come.
“I am not paid to be nice, Andrea. I am paid, quite handsomely, to produce the best magazine possible. If I have to be the Dragon Lady to do so, then so be it,” Miranda informed her sternly, a brief look of askance flitting across her face.
“It’s just that most of the people at Runway worship you, Miranda. They’d happily walk off a cliff for you, if you asked them,” Andy whispered, her smile more grimace than glee.
Andrea looked down, staring at the weave in the carpet, a faint blush stealing across her cheeks at Miranda’s stare. This evening had turned out to be a rollercoaster ride of emotion and even Miranda had to admit, she was beginning to feel a little sea-sick. Perhaps it was time to slow the ride down.
“Really? Well, Andrea, perhaps you would be so good as to get me a list of names of those willing to make such a sacrifice. I’ll be sure to personally send out embossed invitations.” Miranda’s tone had lightened a tad, and as Andy glanced at her under her eyelashes, she could see that the some of the equilibrium had been restored in Miranda’s lovely features. “It’s late. You should get home. You will not take the subway at this hour. Call a cab.”
“Miranda, the subway is perfectly safe. I take it all the time,” Andy protested, rising to her feet, dreading slipping back on the tortuous heels.
“Andrea. That was not an invitation to discussion. It’s one in the morning. Call a cab.” Miranda still had her shoes on and was pleased to see that with Andrea barefoot, their height disparity had vanished. Why she cared about such a thing, she wasn’t ready to contemplate.
“Yes, Miranda,” Andy said, intentionally keeping her tone resigned, forcing the pleased look off her face, as she pulled out her phone and called one of the several cab companies she had on speed dial, just in case she had to get somewhere for Miranda quickly and the car wasn’t available.
Walking to the door, Andy felt as if she needed to tread carefully, as the earth had again shifted, the plates moving once more, leaving the ground uneven and most unfamiliar. She had the sensation of being an explorer, venturing out onto earth newly grown from volcanic lava; new land to traverse and to map. Slipping into the back of the cab, Andy remembered the adage that ancient mapmakers had appended along the edges of the known world: “beyond here, there be dragons”.
Leaning her head back against the cracked vinyl seat, Andy couldn’t help but chuckle. In her case, just one dragon.
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG/R
Chapters: 16 and 17/?
Words: 4,831 (29,358 for chapters 1-17 linked below.)
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
Chapters 14 and 15
XVI.
“Do you think that Tolstoy was correct?”
The question came, apropos of nothing, as the car moved at a tortoise-like pace through clogged city streets. They were on their way back from a ten o’clock preview at Donna Karan. Normally, the sluggish speed would have sent Miranda’s blood pressure soaring, but for reasons yet to be revealed to Andy, that hadn’t happened. If anything, Miranda appeared reflective, her head tilted back against the smooth leather of the seat.
Glancing sideways at Andy, one of Miranda’s eyebrows rose slightly, although Andy was fairly certain it was in interrogation and not impatience.
Swiftly juggling through the various things about which Tolstoy might have been wrong, Andy remembered the wistful look that had ghosted across Miranda’s face earlier this morning when she spoke to Cassidy. The girl was home sick today, but given her schedule, Miranda had not been able to stay with her, leaving her instead to the patient ministrations of Cara. Andy knew that given a choice, Miranda would have stayed home with her daughter, but final print deadlines were looming, along with all the other appointments, meetings, and previews that made up a normal day for Runway’s editor. Something had to be sacrificed. Today it had been a slice of Miranda’s faith in her ability to be a good parent.
Hence the question.
“About happy families, you mean?” Andy asked, trying to gauge what she thought Miranda wanted to hear. Given the mood brought on by having to be at work while her child was sick, and the two or three heads that had already rolled this morning because of it, Andy figured it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe.
“No, Andrea, about the vagaries of war and the sum of human history,” Miranda snapped, her eyes slipping shut at the harsh tone of her voice. She took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice far less waspish. “Yes, about families.”
“I don’t know if I can judge. I mean, my family is just one example but we were, well are, pretty happy, I guess. Don’t get me wrong. We have disagreements and there were a lot of times when I was younger that I hated being treated like a kid, but I guess, compared to some people, I had a happy childhood,” Andy replied, aware that she hadn’t answered Miranda’s question, but uncertain of how to proceed.
Her first instinct was to reassure Miranda that the girls loved her, but she couldn’t quite shake the fear that doing so would be crossing a line, one that might bring to a screeching halt these conversations she had quickly come to treasure. And that was not something that she was willing to risk if she could help it.
“So your perfect little suburban family- you and Mom and Dad and station wagon- are what happy families are comprised of then?” Miranda sniffed, lips pursing in displeasure.
“No. No, that’s not what I meant. I meant that I know there are plenty of happy families that look completely different from mine, families with two parents, with one parent, with two parents who don’t live together. It doesn’t have anything to do with stereotypes and picket fences. They’re all different and yet, they’re all happy,” Andy backpedaled a bit, sensing that she managed to say the wrong thing, but not sure what the right one was.
“And how do you know that they’re happy, Andrea? Did you have them all fill out a questionnaire?” Miranda asked, turning finally to face her across the seat, eyes blank and cool as they waited for her response.
“Of course not. And you’re right. I don’t know if my friends’ families are happy. I guess I don’t know for sure if my family is happy. But what I’m trying to say is that no, I don’t think that Tolstoy was right. I think that happiness comes in as many shapes and forms as unhappiness. And to try and categorize people according to some unverifiable, societal standard of what is or is not a happy family is ludicrous. I also know this, Miranda. The girls adore you. They understand that work gets in the way sometimes. They’re happy kids. Well, as happy as kids can be. They’re smart, well-adjusted, articulate. You’re doing a really great job with them,” Andy said, her own eyes warm and sincere.
She had realized suddenly that this was what Miranda needed from her, had needed when she began the conversation; just as she knew when Miranda needed coffee, or when to distract her because she was on the verge of biting someone’s head off.
Those blue eyes met hers challengingly, the gaze unflinching as the city slipped slowly by outside the car windows. Andy simply stared back, willing Miranda to believe in the truth of her words. After a few uncomfortable minutes, the older woman looked away, leaning her head back against the seat.
“Perhaps,” Miranda said finally, her tone dismissive, although Andy could see the tightness in her face slowly relax.
They rode in silence for the next ten minutes, until the car slid to a stop in front of Elias-Clarke. As she turned to open her door and get out, Andy was startled to feel Miranda’s hand on her arm.
“I hope that your parents have the good sense to be proud of you,” Miranda said softly, before swiveling and stepping out of the car, her stride purposeful as she crossed the pavement to the building’s glass doors, confident that Andy was following her.
Grinning and shaking her head, Andy did exactly that.
And so, the conversations continued, unabated. Always in private, sandwiched into the rare moments of downtime in Miranda’s hectic days. In the car, in the elevator, in the office late at night. Once or twice in the entranceway of Miranda’s townhouse. Brief, transient moments, when Miranda ceased to be Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of Runway, and Andrea her stalwart assistant. Ephemeral, fleeting minutes when they were merely two tired, overworked, lonely people who just might have found in each other an anchor in an increasingly chaotic world.
It seemed to Miranda that the chance to have a quiet, pleasant conversation had created a small hole in her own personal dam, allowing the water to flow slowly but determinedly, each stolen moment washing away a bit more of her reserve. After the first initial failures, she had found Andrea to be as bright and inquisitive as she had imagined she would be, a fact that pleased her far more than she was comfortable admitting to herself.
From the profound to the profane, their conversations ran the gambit: history, art, music, politics, religion. Miranda found herself reading the Times at night before bed, staying up long after she had finished the Book, her mind cataloging the various articles and ideas that she wanted to discuss with Andrea. It was a bit disconcerting to realize that she had begun to look forward to those moments when she and Andrea were alone with a sense of anticipation somewhat unbecoming in a woman her age. But there it was.
She enjoyed the girl’s company. She enjoyed the easy give and take, the exchange of opinions and even emotions that had quickly developed between them. It was clear that once Andrea realized that there was no hidden agenda to Miranda’s sudden bout of talkativeness, no trap waiting to be sprung, she threw herself into the situation wholeheartedly. The fact that Andrea recognized that these times were special, and not to be discussed, pleased Miranda all the more.
This was not to say that Miranda had suddenly stopped being Miranda. She still evoked terror in her staff, leaving tears and ugly epithets trailing in her wake. She could still be arrogant, thoughtless, and cruel. She still expected perfection and was unwilling to accept anything less than what she demanded. She was capricious, mercurial, and absolutely infuriating most of the time. Just as it should be. That she tried to be less so with Andrea was a sign to her that she was far more invested in the young woman than she had thought possible. Or prudent.
As for Andrea, she found the glimpses into the real Miranda far more intoxicating than the finest bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape. There still had been no discussion of the “incident”, but Andy found she didn’t mind. Regardless of whether or not she and Miranda ever talked about what had happened that day, it was obvious to both of them that a shift had occurred. For Andy, at least, it wasn’t felt as a major earthquake but instead like the barely noticeable movement of tectonic plates, sending minor tremors, subtle vibrations through the soles of her feet. And into other places that Andy didn’t think she was ready to contemplate yet.
Because, along with the conversation, Miranda had begun to touch her. Nothing more than brushing her fingers across Andrea’s back as they walked, or laying her hand lightly on Andrea’s arm as she made a particular point. Casual, meaningless gestures. And yet, Miranda Priestly did not touch people. Andy couldn’t remember seeing her willingly touch anyone, other than a limp handshake or an indecently brief faux hug, complete with air-kiss, at parties or with people Miranda knew she needed for some reason.
But she touched Andy. And she talked to Andy, her voice no longer bored and derisive, but warm and engaged, a sparkle in her eyes that sent little tendrils of heat through Andy’s body.
Again, things Andrea did not want to contemplate right now, at least during waking hours. Not if she wanted to continue to be able to look Miranda in the eye. Once she drifted off to sleep however, her subconscious had other plans. Nearly every night she woke, aroused and unsatisfied, soaked in sweat, from a dream of silver hair slipping along the silken skin of her stomach. The odious, smug voice of that theory which had spoken to her so sternly in Paris attempted to remind her again that forming unhealthy attachments to one’s boss were nearly always disastrous.
This time, Andy simply told the theory to shut the fuck up.
XVII.
The house was so quiet with the twins gone. For two beings who, between them, weighed a hundred pounds, they made enough noise to rival a Sumo wrestler as they thumped, stomped and clattered around the townhouse. Clearly a quirk of fate and genes, given her own refined, elegant movements. Unfortunate that they had obviously taken after their father’s side of the family when it came to grace. Still, despite evenings filled with exasperated sighs and pleading admonitions to a modicum of decorum, Miranda found that she missed them, missed the loud, mysterious thuds from upstairs, missed their good-natured bickering.
A tumbler of Macallan sat at her elbow but she’d barely touched it. A single lamp by the door threw a golden swath of light across the floor, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, as Miranda tried to ignore the slinking feeling of anticipation that even now curled around her like the sleek silhouette of a cat around her ankles: Andrea was due anytime now with the Book. Feeling a bit like the spider waiting none too patiently for the fly’s arrival, Miranda took a heady sip of the Scotch, enjoying the fiery burn of it as it slipped down her throat. She could taste in the amber liquid the peaty soil of the Highlands and the long, lonely years it had spent trapped in its oaken prison.
She could sympathize.
The click of a key in the lock and the sound of high heels on the floor of the foyer signaled Andrea’s entrance. Miranda listened for the quiet snick of the closet door as the girl hung her dry cleaning, and the soft staccato of her heels as she turned to leave.
“Andrea.”
If she closed her eyes, Miranda could imagine the expression on her assistant’s lovely face: part anticipation, part trepidation. One of these days, perhaps the anticipation would be far more than the trepidation.
“Yes, Miranda?” Andrea asked softly, taking the few steps into the study necessary to hand Miranda the Book.
Miranda reached out for the Book, a twinge of regret slipping across her mind as Andrea’s fingers failed to brush her own. The young woman stood diffidently before her, a slight smile of expectation on her lips, a barely noticeable glimmer of anxiety in her eyes, clearly waiting for Miranda to begin spouting instructions. Miranda didn’t speak, her eyes narrowed as she regarded the girl. She watched the tip of Andrea’s tongue slip out to moisten apparently dry lips, those large eyes widening slightly under Miranda’s perusal.
“Andrea, are you frightened of me?” Miranda asked finally, leaning back against the plush fabric of the chair, her head tilted speculatively, the very tip of her glasses resting gently against her bottom lip.
“Um. Not really. Well, sometimes, a little. I mean, not really scared,” the words rushed out of Andrea’s mouth, breathless and slightly incoherent. At the sight of Miranda’s raised eyebrow, the girl took a deep breath and began again. “I used to be scared of you. Terrified, actually. But now, I’m not. Now, you just make me nervous, sometimes.”
Given her abominable track record in inspiring devotion in others, Miranda had to admit that this was definitely going to be an uphill battle. Still, all things being equal, nervous was a far sight better than terrified, at least to Miranda. Amazing how she had gone from trying rather pointedly to force Andrea to want to leave, to just as pointedly attempting to make her want to stay. Not stay at Runway, but stay with her.
“Um, was there anything else you need, Miranda?” Andrea managed to ask the question without appearing too awkward, or anxious, a feat Miranda found quite impressive, given that the young woman was still standing in front of her like a delinquent school-girl.
“Did you have somewhere you need to be, Andrea?” Miranda inquired, slipping her reading glasses back on, turning the switch on the lamp at her elbow, and opening the Book without glancing back up at Andy.
“No. I just thought that you might want something.” Andy assured her quickly, her voice betraying far less unease than customary, bringing a momentary quirk to Miranda’s lips.
“What I want is for you to stop shuffling back and forth on those four inch heels before you either scuff my carpet or topple over. Sit,” Miranda stated quietly, although without the usual sardonic tone. She absentmindedly motioned Andrea toward the wide leather sofa, her eyes already focused on several glaring errors in the Book. “There’s an article or two in that Atlantic that you may find interesting, given our conversation the other day about hard work and success. Something about searching for the American Dream.”
Andy smiled shyly, aware that Miranda was no longer looking at her, and moved to sit gingerly on the impossibly soft cushions of the couch. Miranda was already completely absorbed in her corrections and didn’t even glance her way to see if Andrea had followed her directive. Not that she needed to. Andrea always did as Miranda told her. Still, despite Miranda's apparent indifference, Andy felt a rush of warmth seep across her chest. Clearly Miranda wanted her company. Not to take notes. Not to make phone calls, or fetch her coffee. But simply to be with her. Andy couldn’t quite stop what she instinctively knew was a wide, very foolish grin from plastering itself on her face.
Picking up the magazine from the coffee table, Andy quickly scanned the table of contents, easily finding the articles to which Miranda had referred. After a few minutes of engrossing reading, Andy slid off her shoes, slipping back on the smooth leather to tuck her feet under her, one elbow leaning against the wide armrest. She became so immersed in the article and the one that followed it, that she failed to notice that Miranda had finished with her corrections and was regarding her, eyes again narrowed speculatively. The soft sound of Miranda’s voice brought Andy back to the moment with a startled jump.
“So, what do you think?” If Andy had a slightly difficult time processing the question, it was because her eyes were focused on Miranda’s face and the tumbler in Miranda’s hand, as Miranda slowly snaked out her tongue and captured a stray drop of amber liquid along the rim of the glass.
“Um, think about what?” Andy squeaked, her brain momentarily short-circuiting. The slow, terrifying sexy smile that ghosted across Miranda’s face did little to un-befuddle Andy’s very befuddled mind.
“The price of tea in China. The articles, Andrea. Success, the American Dream? Ringing any bells?” Miranda had noticed, with a rush of triumph, the hazy look of desire in Andrea’s normally clear eyes as the girl watched her.
Not that she had been unaware of the element of attraction in their interactions. She had. There was little that Miranda failed to notice. Still, she hadn’t put much thought to it. Sex was just sex, after all. The fact that she was even contemplating having it with a woman twenty-five years her junior was a trifle unexpected. Not unheard of, but surprising. However, right now, she was far more interested in capturing the girl’s mind than her body. Bodies much more gorgeous than Andy’s were offered to Miranda on a daily basis. She wanted more than a quick tumble, more than the feel of silken, sweaty skin against her own.
She wanted…well, more. What exactly that comprised Miranda hadn’t allowed herself to analyze all that deeply yet, but she knew the key to it lay in the astonishing synchronicity that had grown between them. Andrea understood her, and she, Andrea. In that lay enticing possibilities on which Miranda tried not to allow herself to dwell. Well, not excessively. The whole issue of actively chasing after her assistant really was something she was going to need to address, and soon. Just not tonight.
Still, such a blatant show of desire sent a stream of heat through her, one that bore a striking resemblance to the fiery burn of the Scotch as it slid down her throat. Schooling her features, she regarded Andrea evenly, one brow quirking upward as she waited for her words to make their way through what appeared to be a fog of lust in Andrea’s mind.
“The articles. Um, right. I think they have a point.” Andy realized as soon as the words left her mouth that they sounded inane and markedly ambiguous, but for the moment, she was simply pleased to have gotten a complete, relatively coherent sentence out. Miranda always had a slightly debilitating affect on Andy’s nervous system. Tonight though, Miranda’s evident enjoyment of her drink and the accompanying expression on her face had sent a shower of sparks through her synapses, one that was not dissipating with nearly enough speed to suit Andy.
“They have a point? Who exactly are they, Andrea? And on what point do you feel that these mysterious they are correct?” Miranda knew that she probably shouldn’t be getting this much pleasure at Andrea’s expense, but honestly, the girl was simply too adorable and far too easy to unnerve for Miranda to ignore.
Andy could see the gleam of amusement in Miranda’s eyes at her discomfort. Just four months ago it would have upset and angered her, but now she could see the affection in the expression, the fondness in those blue eyes. She wasn’t certain what was going on between them, but she knew that they quite clearly had moved beyond the strictures of boss and assistant to something else, something more. What that something else was, and where it might lead, was murky at best, but Andy was more than willing to take it, and Miranda, on faith.
“The authors of the two companion pieces,” Andy clarified, full lips turning up in an answering grin. “I think that the point that both are making, that the American dream as part of our national mythology has remained, while the actual experience, of each generation eclipsing the one before it in standard of living and success, has died.”
“And you agree with this perspective?” Miranda asked quietly, leaning forward in her chair so that Andy could see the lace-clad suggestion of a breast as her white Dolce and Gabbana blouse puckered open to reveal an expanse of creamy skin.
Andy took a minute to tear her gaze away from Miranda’s cleavage and concentrate on the question at hand. Letting her eyes roam over the classic lines of the room, the muted colors, the soft fabrics, gave her some much needed focus.
“For the most part. I mean, things have changed so much since the end of the nineteenth century, when an immigrant coming to this country could expect a tremendous increase in salary and corresponding standard of living for his children and his grandchildren. Now, that usually isn’t the case. Kids born into poverty have only a fifty percent chance of making it out of poverty. I think that, to all intents and purposes, the American dream is dead,” Andy expounded, trying to sound confident when a faint whisper in the back of her mind kept reminding her again how extraordinary it was that she was having this conversation with Miranda Priestly. In Miranda’s house. Late at night, for no reason other than Miranda seemed to enjoy her company.
“While some of the points made in the articles are valid, as are a few of your conjectures, I fear I must disagree,” Miranda stated matter-of-factly, rising from her chair to cross the room and seat herself at the other end of the sofa. “Every person in this country, immigrant or native, has the opportunity to succeed, if he or she works hard enough. I simply cannot accept the idea that merely because the global economy has altered and the percentage of change between generational incomes has shrunk, that the reality of achieving a better life for oneself and one’s family has disappeared completely.”
“Okay. But that isn’t what’s being shown in study after study. Even in other countries, the concept that someone can rise from extreme poverty to extreme wealth, or even to the middle class, has been disproved. Given the empirical facts, why do you still believe that there is any hope of making that dream real anymore?” Andy still felt a hint of residual anxiety at asking Miranda a question, much less arguing with her, but after the conversations of the past weeks and the change in Miranda when they were alone, she knew those particular rules did not apply anymore. At least not here, not to her and Miranda and whatever this thing between them was.
“Simply because this is the American dream.” Miranda intoned firmly, eyes dark and intense, her hand making a graceful arc as she gestured to the room, the house and all in contained. “I am the American dream, Andrea. Me.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrea replied, her face echoing the confusion in her voice.
“I am the American dream. My parents fled here from Poland in the thirties with less than nothing. They trudged through life, scrimping, saving, eking out an existence. I had my first job when I was twelve, helping my mother, who took in sewing to earn some extra money. I put myself through college working as a seamstress down on Canal Street. And now, I run the most prestigious, most successful fashion magazine in the world. My opinion shapes thousands of jobs, hundreds of millions of dollars in commerce. I worked hard for every single thing I have, to ensure that I would never look in the mirror one day and see my mother’s tired, broken face. To make certain that my daughters never want for anything, never know what it is like to go to bed hungry for anything.” Miranda’s expression had grown fierce and determined while she spoke, her voice steely and low.
Meeting her eyes, Andrea could see the demons that drove Miranda Priestly staring out at her from behind those clear blue irises.
“I’ve never told anyone that. You will not repeat it,” Miranda told her stiffly, turning her face away to stare at their reflected images in the dark panes of the window behind them.
“No, of course not,” Andy murmured, overwhelmed at the revelation and the aura of vulnerability that she sensed from Miranda. “I would never tell anyone anything we talk about, Miranda. Never.”
“Good.”
A silence fell in the room, and in the distance, Andy could hear the faint ticking of the tall grandfather clock on the second floor landing. Finally, she hazarded a glance at Miranda and found crystal blue eyes staring intently into her own, the expression in them guarded.
“So, is that one of the reasons that you expect so much from the people who work for you?” Andy asked tentatively, still a trifle unsure of Miranda’s mood.
“No, Andrea. I expect so much from my employees because that is what they are paid to do. Their jobs. Period. I do not run a charity organization nor am I a kindergarten teacher. I run a business and I find it mind-boggling that people would ever begin to assume that they should be patted on the head, or given a gold star for doing what they are paid to do,” Miranda said sharply. Despite having chosen the topic for tonight’s conversation, she had not intended to reveal so much of herself and her past to Andrea, a past that she had not even shared with her husbands or her children. The fact that she had done so left her feeling off-balance. Off balance was not a feeling Miranda Priestly tolerated, much less enjoyed.
“I know. I guess what I meant was, do you think if you were, well, nicer to them, they wouldn’t do their jobs as well?” The second the words left her lips, Andy squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the coming eruption as she had in Paris, the scene of her previous foot meets mouth production. Just as in Paris, it did not come.
“I am not paid to be nice, Andrea. I am paid, quite handsomely, to produce the best magazine possible. If I have to be the Dragon Lady to do so, then so be it,” Miranda informed her sternly, a brief look of askance flitting across her face.
“It’s just that most of the people at Runway worship you, Miranda. They’d happily walk off a cliff for you, if you asked them,” Andy whispered, her smile more grimace than glee.
Andrea looked down, staring at the weave in the carpet, a faint blush stealing across her cheeks at Miranda’s stare. This evening had turned out to be a rollercoaster ride of emotion and even Miranda had to admit, she was beginning to feel a little sea-sick. Perhaps it was time to slow the ride down.
“Really? Well, Andrea, perhaps you would be so good as to get me a list of names of those willing to make such a sacrifice. I’ll be sure to personally send out embossed invitations.” Miranda’s tone had lightened a tad, and as Andy glanced at her under her eyelashes, she could see that the some of the equilibrium had been restored in Miranda’s lovely features. “It’s late. You should get home. You will not take the subway at this hour. Call a cab.”
“Miranda, the subway is perfectly safe. I take it all the time,” Andy protested, rising to her feet, dreading slipping back on the tortuous heels.
“Andrea. That was not an invitation to discussion. It’s one in the morning. Call a cab.” Miranda still had her shoes on and was pleased to see that with Andrea barefoot, their height disparity had vanished. Why she cared about such a thing, she wasn’t ready to contemplate.
“Yes, Miranda,” Andy said, intentionally keeping her tone resigned, forcing the pleased look off her face, as she pulled out her phone and called one of the several cab companies she had on speed dial, just in case she had to get somewhere for Miranda quickly and the car wasn’t available.
Walking to the door, Andy felt as if she needed to tread carefully, as the earth had again shifted, the plates moving once more, leaving the ground uneven and most unfamiliar. She had the sensation of being an explorer, venturing out onto earth newly grown from volcanic lava; new land to traverse and to map. Slipping into the back of the cab, Andy remembered the adage that ancient mapmakers had appended along the edges of the known world: “beyond here, there be dragons”.
Leaning her head back against the cracked vinyl seat, Andy couldn’t help but chuckle. In her case, just one dragon.