Mixed Signals, Chapter 3
Title: Mixed Signals
Author: ficburd
Rating: NC-17 (somewhere down the line)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Summary: It’s a Mirandy fic. What more do I need to say?
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the movie the Devil Wears Prada; sadly, they belong to someone else. I make no money out of writing this story and therefore there's absolutely no reason to sue me.
A/N: Not beta-ed. Feedback...brings me joy.
Chapter 3
It was already starting to get dark when Miranda parked the rental car in front of the Sachs family home in the outskirts of Cincinnati. The drive-way appeared to be free of cars, but the lights shining through the downstairs windows spoke of people being home.
Nervously walking up a stone path to the front porch, Miranda questioned her own sanity for the hundredth time since leaving New York. Still, if she were to get cold feet now and turn back, there were no guarantees somebody hadn't already spotted her in the yard. How embarrassing it would be if people found out just how insecure the Ice Queen had become.
So, gathering up all of the remnants of her self-confidence, she shouldered on and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door in quick succession.
Knock, knock, knock.
As if someone had been waiting just behind it, the door flew open.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
The woman looked just like her Andrea--uh, just like Andrea--only older.
“Hello,” Miranda breezed. “Is Andrea home?”
“Who's asking?” the woman had the nerve to inquire.
“Miranda Priestly. I'm Andrea's boss.”
“I see,” the brunette answered, appearing not surprised at all by the unexpected arrival of the high-flying New York editor on her doorstep. “Please, come in.” Miranda did.
Showing her guest to the living room, and pointing politely towards a rather weathered sofa, the woman spoke again. “Do have a seat.”
Thinking it'd probably be considered impolite not to, Miranda obeyed. Despite initial appearances, at least the leather felt like it was good quality. Looking at her surroundings with absent-minded interest, Miranda asked again, “Is Andrea home?”
Scrutinizing the silver-haired woman with an unreadable look on her face, the woman replied, “I'm afraid you have just missed her. Andy left for the airport a mere half an hour ago.”
Beginning to rise to her feet, indignant, Miranda said, “Well, why didn't you say so. The only reason I came here was to--”
“Yes, why did you come, Ms. Priestly?”
The question spoken in that calm but yet curious way, was enough to unsettle the editor. “Mrs. Sachs, I presume?” she asked. Receiving a solid nod as reply, she continued, “Your daughter has inconvenienced me enough already by the juvenile stunt she pulled on me in Paris. I ask you not to increase the amount of trouble she is in with me by posing random, irrelevant questions.”
“See, I don't think it's so irrelevant. You wouldn't have traveled all the way to Cincinnati if it meant nothing to you.”
Miranda felt her face flushing pink.
“Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”
The editor knew then that she must be dreaming. This certainly ranked in the top five most bizarre conversations she'd ever found herself a participant in. Not coming up with any other rational reply, she merely stared at the odd woman and said, “Thank you. Tea would be lovely.”
“Good. Please follow me to the kitchen. I believe we can just as easily continue our conversation there.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, the two women sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, cradling steaming-hot beverages in their hands. For a while neither said anything. The silence didn't exactly feel pressing, but the words waiting to be spoken still lurked around them. Anxious. Unrelenting.
“Did Andrea tell you about her reasons for quitting her job?” Miranda braved.
“She did,” was the short reply.
“Then she must have told you how badly I behaved towards her,” Miranda said quietly. Getting only silence from the other end of the table, she let out a hollow laughter before continuing, “You see, during the years I've cultivated a certain image, or a certain image has been cultivated for me. I've been called the Ice Queen, the Dragon Lady, the Fashionista from Hell...Anything from despot to devil really--”
An amused smile tugged at Andy's mom's lips. “Yes, I think I remember having heard Andy use some of those titles.”
Miranda couldn't help but be a little hurt by the words. She knew that generally speaking almost everybody that she'd ever had dealings with either despised or feared her, but that sweet, innocent Andrea would--
“You were hurt by the way Andy left you in Paris.”
Now there was the understatement of the year.
“I--” Taking in a deep breath, Miranda tried to think of a way to get out of answering that one. When none came to her, she resigned to her impending humiliation, breathed out, and mumbled, “--yes.”
A seriousness shining through in her eyes, Mrs. Sachs continued on her path of bold statements. “You like my daughter.”
“Well, I used to think her a likable enough personality. An intelligent young woman,” Miranda confessed, so lost in her own thoughts of the past that she didn't even realize how honest she was being with her answers. Then, recognizing her own slip, she was quick to backtrack, “That is of course before the moronic thing she did in Paris.”
“By moronic thing, are you referring to her kissing you?”
Having just taken a sip of tea, Miranda ended up spraying the liquid all over the lovely handwoven tablecloth covering the kitchen table.
“I--What?!” Oh good God. Miranda had always known Andrea to be honest, but this? The editor had never really understood what people meant by the phrase 'wanting to sink through the floor' but she did now.
Seemingly unperturbed by the editor's reaction, the brunette pushed on, “I repeat my earlier statement; you like my daughter.”
Closing her eyes, Miranda felt all the energy in her body suddenly drain away, leaving her feeling naked and powerless. Apparently there were no secrets that could be kept from this woman. It had to be witchcraft. How else would she have known something that Miranda had only herself been aware of for less than a week?
In a whisper barely audible, she admitted, “Yes.”
“Good. Now, if you hurry, you might still be able to catch the 7.30 flight back to New York.”
Incredulous, Miranda opened her eyes to regard the woman sitting mere feet away from her. The words were English, but they might as well have been Hindi for all she knew, because she could not have just used the word 'good'.
“I--What--Did you just say--” the fashionista sputtered helplessly.
“Yes, yes,” the brunette was quick to interrupt. “Now, you really must leave, for the person you need to continue this conversation with isn't here. She's in New York.”
“She's--” Miranda began, breathless. “--yes.”
Both women got up and walked slowly to the front door.
“Mrs. Sachs. I don't have the words to express--”
“Katherine, please,” the brunette said, her features lighting up in a warm smile.
“--Katherine. Please know that I--”
“Just don't hurt her.” The smile had been wiped away and a deep seriousness had replaced the warmth in both the voice and the face.
Shuddering even at the idea of someone hurting Andrea, Miranda hastened to promise, “I won't.”
“Good. Good.” Now the smile was back again, but only five times brighter this time. “It was lovely to finally meet you, Miranda. Andy speaks so--Well...she speaks a lot about you.”
“I--yes. Goodbye, Katherine,” Miranda spoke, still feeling like she'd stepped into the twilight zone and was having a hard time finding the exit.
“Goodbye, Miranda,” Katherine replied softly, and watched the silver-haired editor make her way down to the street on shaky legs.
Smirking to herself as she played the two separate conversations on the same matter she'd had today over in her head, the brunette carefully closed the door and returned to the kitchen where her unfinished drink awaited her.
Miranda and Andrea.
They sure made an odd pair, but not an unbalanced one. Somehow she knew that in the much older, much different woman, her Andy had found the perfect match. Richard might have some other things to say on the matter, but he'd simply have to adjust. Besides, men were so easy to manipulate that she was convinced it wouldn't be too hard to turn his head round.
Best to go on upstairs and get started with the preparations, she thought, a wicked smile curling on her lips. I find my persuasive methods always work best in the bedroom.