NEW FIC: THE RIGHT THING (5C/6), MIRANDA/ANDY
Title: The Right Thing (part 5C/6)
Author: damelola
Rating: PG this part, NC17 eventually
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Word Count: ~5000
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, these characters remain the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made, and no harm is intended (except the fun kind!) This story borrows from real-life events in cases such as Martha Stewart's, but I promise to keep it light on boring corporate stuff as much as possible.
Summary: Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?
With a million thanks to shesgottaread for a sterling beta a job :) She really goes above and beyond, and this story wouldn't be in any kind of shape without her! As ever, I'm very keen to read your thoughts about the story, especially as the end is getting very close!
Part 5B
Andy knew something was off as soon as she stepped into the newsroom. She’d stopped on her way back from Federal Plaza to grab Starbucks, eating a muffin and sipping at her coffee in the coffee shop itself for once, scribbling down questions that she’d be asking Stephen the next day. Her huge office, which never stopped bustling and making noise, fell almost quiet as she walked in. Considering that Andy didn’t even know half the people in it, that was a really bad sign.
Sure enough, John appeared at his office door before she could cross the vast space toward her desk. There was no friendly smile on his face as he waved her to him, and the impending dread that Andy felt simmering in the pit of her stomach was something she hadn’t experienced since working for Miranda. Feeling elated at Miranda’s touch seemed like a lifetime ago as Andy forced her suddenly leaden feet to make the short journey.
John waited to close the door behind her and indicated she should take a seat. Self-consciously, Andy swept her hand quickly over her mouth, worried about crumbs of all things for reasons that passed her understanding. When the editor finally took a seat, Andy realized she was holding her breath.
“So when were you going to tell me that you’re still working for Miranda Priestly?”
She’d never seen this stern side of John before, assuming all the rumors about his steely side to be nothing more than office gossip from oversensitive journalists. But the coldness of his stare was making her squirm, in the very, very bad way. Andy was practically wishing that the floor would open and swallow her up, but she knew she had to tough this out or she’d be fired for sure.
“I’m not working for Miranda. This is the only job I have.”
John looked unmoved by her denial. He turned toward his computer screen, turning the monitor to face Andy. Her breath caught as she saw the wirephoto of Miranda delivering what appeared to be a kiss to Andy’s cheek. She didn’t think semantics over angles and air kisses would do any good now though.
“I told you that she was my source. I worked for her, and she was willing to grant an exclusive, kind of.”
It was hard to keep the defensiveness out of her voice, but Andy was too preoccupied with staring at the photo of her and Miranda. She was startled at how good they looked together, casual smiles on both their faces. This was really not the time to be crushing on her former boss, but this looked different from all the tabloid and gossip site snaps from Runway days where Andy had only ever been background material.
John rubbed at his forehead, clearly still troubled by Miranda’s involvement.
“You’re a bright kid, Andy. And you’ve got a way with words that half my staff would kill for.”
Andy nodded in acknowledgment, suffused with the praise despite the very obvious ‘but’ that was heading her way.
“But I can’t have my reporters being lapdogs to the rich and famous. If Miranda Priestly wants to buy some good publicity, she’s got plenty of other places to go. I mean, Andy, do you get the risks you’ve exposed yourself to here? You could be accused of trying to contaminate the jury pool, never mind what it does to your credibility.”
Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Andy rose to her feet.
“Are you firing me?”
John looked down at the blotter on his desk, and Andy’s heart seemed to stop temporarily. He was really going to fire her over this? For getting an exclusive and pushing circulation through the roof?
“No. Not yet.”
Exhaling in relief, Andy felt her righteous indignation begin to rise instead.
“I’m nobody’s lapdog, John. That photo means nothing.” Other than the fact that Andy was giving serious consideration to having it blown up to poster size and hung in her bedroom, anyway. “Besides, if you’d asked before accusing me, you’d know that tomorrow I’m interviewing Miranda’s ex-husband. I doubt there’ll be anything flattering to write about her from that. I’m telling this story as fairly as I know how.”
Her boss nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That Tomlinson guy, right? He hasn’t said much to the press before now.”
There it was, the gleam of chasing another exclusive in the editor’s eye. Andy knew she wasn’t quite forgiven, and that it would take an age for the whispers to die down, but letting Stephen vent his spleen through the Mirror’s ink might just save her ass and her career.
“I’ll get something juicy from him, John, I can just tell.”
“See that you do. It’ll make it a lot easier to defend the charges that this paper is taking sides.”
Andy heard the note of dismissal in his voice, and she fled his office like the hounds of hell were after her. Not stopping until she reached the ladies’ room, Andy locked herself in a stall and forced herself to breathe normally. No doubt she’d given the rumor mill every reason to suspect that she actually had been fired, bolting from the room like that.
But Andy had much bigger problems than what her colleagues said behind her back. She had, she realized, just agreed to sell Miranda up the river in order to keep her job. Although Andy knew that she was entitled to do exactly that, it felt like a protesting too much about being an objective journalist. She was going to write a hatchet piece on someone who had given her career a huge boost to guarantee her reputation and a steady paycheck.
With her hands shaking slightly, Andy slipped out of the stall and looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She wanted to splash water on her face, but the makeup she had so carefully applied before meeting Miranda wouldn’t respond well to it. Instead, Andy was compelled to stare herself down, seeing no answers in her own dark eyes. She looked drawn under the harsh fluorescent lighting, but despite her revulsion at the idea, Andy already knew she wasn’t going to back away from the story. Let the other papers and the blogs get their shots in at her impartiality, let them call her a bimbo for having worked at a fashion magazine. If Andy was going to throw away this whatever the hell it was with Miranda, she was going to write the best damn article of her career to do it with.
After all, wouldn’t Miranda have done exactly the same?
Unfortunately for Andy, time seemed to speed up after that, and Tuesday evening rolled around far sooner than she would have liked. Rushing home after a fairly quiet day at work where she’d filed a couple of local interest pieces, she stared blankly at her assembled clothes as the clock continued to tick down.
She wasn’t an idiot; she knew that Stephen would be far more likely to open up to her if she was dressed attractively. Andy didn’t like that side of the job, but getting ahead by any means necessary had been drummed into her often enough. Working in the cutthroat environment of a sometimes-struggling newspaper had opened her eyes to these realities once and for all. She wasn’t planning to flirt, exactly, but assuring she had Stephen’s full attention could only work in her favor.
Forced to hurry, she selected a simple black Robert Cavalli dress, one of the two ‘emergency’ little black dresses Nigel had foisted on her over time. Throwing a blazer over it for warmth and a little less attention on her neckline, Andy touched up her makeup and headed out toward Midtown.
Early as ever, Andy scanned the tastefully decorated bar but saw no sign of Stephen. Perching on a comfortable bar stool, she turned enough to be watching the main entrance. The bartender seemed content to take his time with a grumpy older patron at the far end of the bar, and Andy was fine with that. Given the current climate at the Mirror, she didn’t like her chances of being allowed to expense such overpriced drinks, when the Accounting Department balked at anything over a couple of dollars.
She was saved from thinking about it too long by Stephen’s arrival. His shirt looked a little rumpled, but the clothes were still obviously expensive. His hair looked recently cut, shorter than Andy remembered anyway, and she forced herself to give a bright smile when his eyes alighted on her. Judging by the leer she earned in response, he was a fan of Andy’s own ensemble. This was going to be exactly as bad as she had expected.
Stephen ushered them to a corner booth, evidently waiting for her to be impressed by the fact that it had been kept for him. Andy feigned a murmur of excitement, and he seemed to fall for it. Impressive was how an entire ballroom parted like the Red Sea for Miranda, getting a table in a hotel bar didn’t seem like such a big deal in comparison.
He ordered for her (“let me guess, you like those fruity drinks?”) and Andy didn’t have the heart to correct him. She sipped politely at the Cosmopolitan once it arrived, and then arranged her recorder and notebook carefully on the table. She felt nervous for some undefined reason.
Andy knew that this was the first step in screwing Miranda over completely, and although she would still have opportunities to stop, she had effectively committed herself to being a mouthpiece for Stephen Tomlinson’s bitterness. Suppressing a sigh, Andy began her interview.
By the time Stephen had finished ranting and raving about Miranda’s inadequacies as both a wife and a human being, he was on his fifth drink and beginning to talk in circles. Andy had given up scribbling down his diatribe, letting the recorder do the work for her. When he finally shut up, she seized her opportunity to escape.
“Well, that was just so helpful. I hope you don’t mind if I dash straight home to type up my article? My editor will be thrilled.”
Stephen blinked at her, not seeming to understand at first. Then he put his hand on her knee under the table. Andy, even on only one drink, was fighting a sudden urge to vomit.
“Why don’t you stay awhile longer? I have a suite here.”
He waggled his eyebrows in a manner that he obviously found seductive. Andy found it about as appealing as warm garbage. Gently removing his hand from where it rested on her stocking, having started creeping up her thigh, she slid out of the booth in one fluid movement, silently praying that he wouldn’t start a scene. The pity she had felt for him at first, in his first reluctant admissions about the way Miranda had belittled him and reduced their marriage to an afterthought had long since evaporated.
Hell, Andy was ready to divorce him after two hours, never mind the almost four years of this that Miranda had endured. She still couldn’t understand what Miranda had seen in the guy in the first place. Although trying to work out why Miranda did anything was a recipe for a headache, Andy reminded herself.
Saying goodbye, she made her way toward the exit. Only when she got there did she realize she’d left her jacket. Going back for it now would look as if she’d been playing hard to get, and fobbing off the sleazy financier for another hour was not her idea of fun. Seizing on a backup plan, Andy made her way back to the bar, at the end furthest from Stephen. She’d just have to hope he kept his back to her.
The bartender responded to her friendly smile and listened patiently while she essentially begged him to go retrieve her jacket. The bar wasn’t full, since most of the post-theater, post-gallery crowd had yet to descend and so he agreed quickly enough. As he made his way over, Andy heard the click of heels behind her. She only looked round to make sure Stephen hadn’t noticed her lingering presence, and nearly fell over at the sight of Emily trotting towards Stephen’s table in a shiny black pair of Louboutins and a skimpy silver dress that looked like a fabric NASA had rejected. Of course, it was probably the absolute height of fashion, but Andy didn’t keep track as she’d once been forced to.
Puzzled, Andy tried to remember a time in her old job when she’d been sent to track down Stephen. It was even weirder now that Miranda wanted nothing to do with him. As Emily reached the table, pausing to let the bartender and Andy’s forgotten jacket pass, it dawned on Andy like the nastiest of winter mornings.
Sure enough, Stephen stood to kiss Emily, and he only wobbled slightly. A kiss on the cheek meant nothing, Andy rationalized, nothing at all. Maybe they’d become friends of a sort, bonding over their seemingly unrequited love for Miranda.
But ass-grabbing was not friendly, not in any context outside of a locker room. The tiny squeal and giggle that Emily gave carried across the room, and Andy felt herself cringe reflexively. It sounded so fake, but then Andy realized she had never seen Emily happy, so had very little to compare it to. When Emily slipped into the same side of the booth as Stephen, Andy realized the age of plausible deniability was well and truly over.
She took her coat with effusive thanks and ran for the door, trying not to observe the surreal spectacle of Emily making out with Miranda’s almost-ex-husband. Andy was becoming more convinced by the second that she was going to require some industrial strength brain bleach before the night was out. Maybe she’d be able to invoice Runway for the therapy she was clearly going to need.
Knowing she’d be up late working on her article, Andy decided on a quick call to her slightly immoral compass while walking to the subway. Lily picked up after three rings, just leaving work for the night herself. Andy winced in sympathy at the long hours, but was pleased when Lily agreed to lunch the next day. Andy knew she had to sleep on it, make up her mind how she felt about what she knew before offering it up to the sacrificial altar of a friend’s advice, and she really would have to start typing the minute she got in the door.
Fortunately, Lily was too tired to talk much, and Andy got her notepad out as soon as she sat down on the train. It allowed her to ignore the guys staring at her legs, and by the time she got off at her own stop, she had four paragraphs and a decent head of steam.
Later, when Stephen’s ranting had been fashioned into the negative exposé that Andy had promised to write, she was left alone with a mug of warm milk and her own thoughts. Cuddled up with her pillows on the bed, Andy stared unseeingly at the Daily Show episode she was playing back on her TiVo. She scrolled aimlessly through the Pages document that comprised her article in its rough form, feeling a strong urge to delete every insult and slur against Miranda. Only when the show’s credits began to roll did Andy alight on the sentence that had been bugging her.
Somewhere in between the not-so-subtle digs about Miranda’s performance in the bedroom (which Andy tried really hard not to think about, more than she already had) and the ‘poor Stephen’ rhetoric about how Miranda had never appreciated his success (which made Andy want to call him Mr. Priestly, just to watch him foam at the mouth) he had said something to nag at the back of Andy’s mind.
Scrolling through her notes instead of the article, she read again where Stephen offered his admittedly expert opinion about Miranda’s financial behavior. Although she’d kept her finances completely separate, apparently she had sought his advice on the occasional stock purchase. Andy could already see through it as Miranda’s halfhearted attempts to boost her husband’s ego, but Stephen had apparently never gotten wise.
Then it hit her, just at the point where she’d given up scribbling and let the recorder take over: Stephen mentioned that Miranda had made a second trade that same day, selling stocks in a tech company whose price began to rocket a few hours later. He’d claimed it was a deliberate attempt to make Miranda’s earlier fraud seem innocent, but even with the entire editorial team at the Mirror breathing down her neck, Andy wouldn’t give column inches to that kind of conjecture. The problem was that Miranda’s second sale had never been made public. Not a single document, legally disclosed or illegally leaked, had contained details of that transaction. Andy had seen it, thanks to the private statements that Miranda had handed over, but it seemed odd that Stephen should know so much about something that happened three months after his filing for divorce. Especially when he hadn’t exactly been privy to those details in the first place.
Andy’s suspicions kicked into overdrive as she put the pieces together, reluctantly. As an assistant to Miranda, she had been given every password and account number possible to make sure Miranda never had to deal with anything as trivial as paying her bills or checking her accounts.
Which meant, of course, that Emily had all of the same passwords and probably more besides. Emily, who had been sprawled across the man who shouldn’t have that information; information that Emily herself could have provided access to.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Andy slammed the laptop closed. She had made sure to miss the print deadline for the night, and had no intention of sneaking into the last early morning run either. That bought her a little time to investigate, but she already knew it wouldn’t be enough to stall the publishing of this article.
She fired off a quick text to Josh, telling him that she’d want to see Judy in the morning if he could set it up and put off breaking her heart for at least a few more hours. Certain that she’d spend the night tossing and turning, Andy was surprised to find her eyes growing heavy as soon as her head hit the pillow. At least by sleeping, she might get a few hours of peace. The churning thoughts about Miranda seemed to suggest otherwise, and her dreams were chaotic.
Judy was sitting on Josh’s desk when Andy arrived, though the man himself was nowhere to be seen. With makeup a little too dark for Andy’s taste, Judy was still a knockout in her jeans and tight shirt. Andy wondered for a moment if paying more attention to how women looked was a hangover from Runway or a result of the Inappropriate Crush. Deciding that she needed to focus on that part of her life like she needed a hole in the head, Andy shook it off and offered the other woman her brightest smile. Well, brightest for eight a.m., at least.
“Josh said you needed some IT help?”
Andy couldn’t help but like Judy right off the bat, especially when she didn’t bat an eyelid at Andy suggesting something that might technically be a little bit unethical. Tapping a few notes into her own Blackberry, Judy said she’d need at least a day to track down the information Andy needed, especially since she’d need to do most of it at home so as not to cause trouble at the Mirror.
“I really appreciate this, Judy. Josh is a lucky guy.”
Judy screwed up her face a little at that, taking Andy by surprise.
“Just between you and me? I don’t see us working out. He’s a sweet guy, but a little, you know, needy? Anyway, I’ve got your number so I’ll let you know when I have everything.”
As Judy headed back to the dark corners of the IT department, Andy felt a fresh wave of nerves wash over her. She’d just asked Judy to hack into Runway’s computer system and if Miranda ever found out…well, Andy would deal with that when she came to it. In a few hours she’d be filing a story that might save her ever having to deal with Miranda again, a prospect that would have any sensible person jumping for joy.
The day dragged on impossibly, even worse when Lily canceled their impromptu lunch, and when she could put it off no longer Andy filed just before the first deadline. With a couple of minor edits, Andy already knew she’d be getting a two-page spread for her exclusive. This one she wouldn’t be cutting, framing or sending to her parents, though. Instead, she nibbled at a tasteless sandwich while watching her story progress through the editing queue until the dreaded green tick appeared next to it, the point of no return.
When seven p.m. rolled around, Andy knew she had to get out of the newsroom or risk driving herself completely crazy. She couldn’t concentrate on anything else to write about anyway, and until Judy confirmed her suspicions the bigger story had ground to a halt. She knew it was an urge that she should ignore, but she desperately needed to see Miranda. Whether to explain, to get the inevitable dismissal over and done with, or just because she needed to see Miranda, Andy wasn’t sure.
Her first instinct on reaching for her Blackberry was to call Emily and check on Miranda’s schedule for the evening. Although even a casual observer would have noted that Miranda had reduced her social commitments drastically, whether through choice or lack of invitations, Andy didn’t want to speculate. But talking to Emily meant thinking about Stephen, and the nauseating image of Emily and Stephen, which made Andy keep on scrolling until she hit the ‘M’s.
Miranda picked up after two rings, a weary “yes?” her only greeting.
“It’s me, Andy.”
“Yes, I’m quite capable of reading my phone’s display. Did you want something?”
Swallowing nervously, Andy ran her fingers over the freshly printed copy of her act of treachery. Any other time thinking about what she ‘wanted’ from Miranda could have provided a fun little distraction, but tonight nothing could compete with the dread.
“I have something you need to see. Are you busy, or can I come over?”
Miranda sighed, and Andy braced herself for rejection, even as she was fervently hoping for it. Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back to an existence where she never expected to see Miranda Priestly again? A place where calm and logic had a fighting chance, where Andy’s sudden and inexplicable crush could be allowed to die with some dignity.
“Fine.”
The pause meant that Miranda had considered excuses, ranging from not being at home to being far too busy to be interrupted by some cub reporter. Andy thought of another twenty questions in those few seconds, every one a delaying tactic. Questioning whether she should bring anything, or whether the girls had returned from their self-imposed exile could result in Miranda changing her mind.
Although it would postpone the inevitable, Andy knew she had to suck it up. Her cowardly side was cheering on the thoughts of self-sabotage, but Andy ignored it in favor of telling Miranda that she’d be straight over. Throwing her things into a functional blue backpack that might well give Miranda palpitations, Andy waved goodbye to Josh who was kicking at the photocopier in frustration and trudged downstairs to hail a cab. She didn’t even care about expensing it; she just wanted to avoid provoking Miranda any further by dallying with the subway.
Miranda must have been waiting downstairs, because she answered the door just moments after Andy rapped firmly on the frosted glass. Sure enough, Miranda led Andy to the overstuffed gray armchairs in the small room just off the kitchen, the same place that the instruction to screw Emily out of Paris had been given. The familiar smell of brewing coffee filtered out from the kitchen itself, and Andy’s mouth watered at the rich scent.
Motioning for Andy to sit, Miranda disappeared into the bright, white warmth of the kitchen. Andy pulled her article from her backpack, and then stashed the offending bag down the side of the chair, the better to not offend Miranda with. Lost in her thoughts as she gazed at Miranda’s immaculate home, Andy was momentarily stunned at the sight of her former boss returning with a tray in her hands.
On it sat two steaming mugs of coffee, with a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Though she was tempted to crack some kind of joke about Miranda finally fetching her own coffee, Andy didn’t dare disturb the odd little moment of domesticity. She forgot, for a moment, why she’d come there in the first place and allowed herself to enjoy a further glimpse of Miranda in private. Although it was a shame to stay quiet, because honestly Miranda serving coffee had seemed about as likely as George Bush eloping to Vermont with Newt Gingrich.
Having added a splash of cream and ignoring the sugar out of self-consciousness, Andy sat back in the supremely comfortable chair, careful not to disturb the folder resting on top of her crossed legs.
“I could have brought Starbucks, if you’d asked.”
Miranda glared at Andy over her first sip of the scalding coffee.
“I’m not incapable, as you might have worked out by now. We can’t all be coffee-making scientists like you, but I do what I can.” A glint in Miranda’s eye suggested she might not entirely mind being ribbed by Andy. She also seemed to be conflating Andy’s ability to buy Starbucks and make the occasional pot of decent coffee with being some kind of connoisseur. “Besides, as you like to point out, you don’t work for me anymore.”
As punctuation, there followed a signature Priestly head tilt. Not unique to Miranda any longer, since Andy had experienced it at least once from each of her daughters, but it had transformed from a mocking affectation into something Andy found adorable. As soon as this story was finished, as soon as Andy could quell this ridiculous addiction to staring at Miranda in close proximity, she was checking herself in at the nearest psychiatric facility, because adorable matched Miranda about as well as cheeseburgers went with supermodels.
“Well, I still would have done it,” Andy offered weakly. “Speaking of working for you, my boss is under the impression that I still am.”
Miranda quirked an eyebrow to indicate that Andy should continue, before shifting her position in the other armchair. Folding one leg under herself, Miranda was cradling the coffee cup in her hands like it was the only source of warmth in the world. She looked relaxed in flowing gray pants (that probably cost more than Andy’s monthly rent) and a tight cream sweater, and apart from the brief interlude in her robe in Paris, this was as casual as Andy had ever seen Miranda.
Casual and hot, her own brain mocked her. Not for the first time, Andy found herself wishing for some kind of internal mute button. She just hoped the sudden flush of heat in her face was due to the thermonuclear temperature of the coffee, and not some kind of obvious blush that Miranda would notice.
“There were photos, from Federal Plaza. John accused me of being in your pocket.”
Miranda leaned forward to place her mug back on the tray, which was balanced on the small wooden table between them. With her hands free, Miranda folded them in her lap; her eyes alight once more with what appeared to be curiosity.
“Do you think you are? I seem to inspire a sort of blind devotion at times, after all.”
Andy thought of Emily, even as she winced slightly at Miranda’s uncanny ability to ask the one question that Andy didn’t much feel like answering. It might be a phenomenal asset at Runway, but Andy didn’t like it being aimed at her.
“Of course not. Well, maybe at first I felt a little compromised because it seemed like I was trading your exclusives for bylines. But you haven’t restricted me from investigating, you’ve been pretty open about the whole thing.”
A nod was the only response, and so Andy plowed on.
“And I think my willingness to give you a chance, to write about facts instead of your reputation, was more objective than the hysterical gossip everyone else is printing about you. So what if I’m also getting ahead at the same time, you have to grab these chances, right?”
Miranda smirked. She probably knew all too well the importance of grabbing her chances, wasn’t that how she’d risen from some unknown designer’s assistant to become the most powerful woman in fashion, if not publishing?
Andy froze as she realized there was nowhere left to go but the confession. She fidgeted a little, her fingers plucking at the edge of the folder containing her article. Miranda looked thoughtful as she broke the suddenly
awkward silence.
“I believe I sense a ‘but’ in our immediate future?”
Now there was definitely a flicker of amusement on Miranda’s face as she watched Andy squirm. If Andy’s obvious panic was causing any concern, it didn’t show for a second.
“Maybe.”
It was a pansy-ass answer, Andy knew, and Miranda stiffened in disapproval. Stumbling over her words slightly, she continued, “But uh, yeah, John gave me a chance to prove my objectivity.”
Breathing had suddenly become a task that Andy had to concentrate on, but even as she forced each breath in and out, she watched Miranda’s lightning-fast mind put the implications of that statement together. All traces of playfulness were wiped as she drew the unfortunate conclusion.
“Oh.”
It was as close as Andy had ever seen Miranda to speechless. Gathering the last wilting scraps of her courage, Andy offered the folder from her lap with a trembling hand.
“Do you want to read it? It runs in the morning. Maybe you could call…”
Miranda gave one of her hollow little laughs, like ice falling into a glass. It was the laugh that was usually followed by a public firing or at least some kind of verbal evisceration. Andy cursed her loyalty--no, stupidity--once more, for forcing her to come here. Anyone smart would have let the piece run and dodged Miranda’s wrath from afar. Why did Andy feel she owed Miranda this token act of honesty, anyway?
“You have, I assume, assassinated my character in print, and then you bring it here in the hopes that I can fix it?” Miranda’s voice was almost raised, certainly louder than the almost breathy tones Andy was used to. This was definitely scarier. “No, you’ll tell me the worst of it, and then send it to Leslie for her to minimize the damage.”
With a face that had regained the impassivity of marble, Miranda’s eyes were stormy behind the frames of her designer glasses. Where just moments ago she had looked as soft and approachable as Andy had ever known her to be, now every sharp edge was back in place. Tense, like a cobra ready to strike, all traces of the Miranda who made warm drinks and jokes at her own expense had vanished. Andy figured she should try to mount some kind of defense before she was thrown out into the street.
“I’ve already emailed it to Leslie. She has a strategy in place, I think.”
If she was impressed by this last burst of initiative, Miranda made no sign. She drummed her fingers rapidly on the arm of the chair, apparently lost in thought for a moment. Her eyes closed as she bit down on her lower lip. If Andy didn’t know better, she’d assume Miranda was genuinely upset. She was so bewildered at the thought that she almost missed Miranda’s next question.
“And this ‘objectivity’? Is it based solely on your own experience?”
Miranda didn’t just ask loaded questions, she made it sound like an entire arsenal was waiting for the response. Andy realized too late that she could have gone about it another way, shared some horrific anecdotes from her own experiences and the legends of Runway terror that were whispered in the lunch line and the ladies’ bathroom. She had gone a step too far in her betrayal, but there was no point in denying it now.
“Stephen.”
For one terrifying moment, Andy though Miranda was going to throw up-her color drained and a hand moved reflexively towards her flat stomach. When nothing happened, Andy forced herself to keep talking.
“He was, uh, next on my list for the story anyway. He gave me what I needed to get my editor off my back, and I think I might have found-“
Miranda raised a finger to silence Andy, her eyes open and blazing with something that could have been hurt or just pure, deadly rage.
“I’m so glad someone found a use for my ex-husband. God knows I never could.” The words were couched in one of Miranda’s crueler smiles. “You certainly know how to take your revenge, Andréa, I’ll say that for you.”
When Andy attempted further protest, Miranda cut her off with a glare that could have halted Niagara Falls. Apparently, interruptions were not permitted.
“So tell me, what delights can I expect my daughters to be greeted with tomorrow? Lurid discussion of their mother’s sex life? More assertions that I’m barely human, and just a step away from ruling Hell all by myself? Perhaps they’ll find some aspersions on my abilities to raise them? That’s always a pleasure.”
Although Miranda had started her rant with the usual quiet venom, the hint of tears crept into the last few words. Andy had questioned Miranda’s humanity often enough, but seeing this all too painful reminder of it made her feel like a heel.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
Miranda turned the full force of her glare on Andy. The redness appearing around her eyes did nothing to diminish its impact, and Andy began to fear she’d prove the theory of human combustion right there in that chair.
“That would be so much more sincere, if you’d actually admit to what you’ve done.”
Of course, Miranda hated euphemisms and other such signs of weakness. Andy had tried to deflect the blow of her choices, but in dancing around the exact nature, she’d only angered Miranda further. With a sigh, Andy stared at the floor while she made her admission.
“I screwed you over to save my job!”
Andy didn’t recognize herself in that plaintive whine, but there was no point in trying to pretend to be anything other than emotional-Miranda had always been able to see through that.
“Not a pleasant feeling, is it?”
Miranda had her usual air of nonchalance, but the questioning lift of an eyebrow gave away her investment in Andy’s answer. This was proving her right, that speech in Paris that had driven Andy towards the fountain and her freedom coming back to hang over them both now.
“Is this how it felt when you did it to Nigel?”
There it was. The topic they’d been studiously avoiding ever since the unexpected reunion, and Andy was reminded of exactly why when the ghost of a snarl played out across Miranda’s otherwise impassive mouth.
“I wondered when that particular low blow would land. To your credit, Andréa, I would have expected it much earlier from just about anyone else.”
With that, Miranda stood and motioned for Andy to do the same. Wait a goddamned minute, Andy thought to herself, was she seriously trying to leave things there?
Tapping her foot with impatience, Miranda jerked her head toward the door. The Book had arrived before Andy, and it lay waiting beside Miranda’s chair. It was perfectly plausible that she was just too busy to spend any time letting Andy apologize, but Miranda’s cool dismissal just left Andy bubbling with anger.
“Miranda, we’re not done here.”
Uh oh. Pursing of the lips. Andy knew that if she were a dress she’d be consigned to the trash from that little action alone. Andy’s guilt and hand-wringing emotion was fading now, the familiar frustrations of dealing with Miranda having taken their place.
Because she wasn’t a goddamned dress, she was someone who’d been put in an impossible situation, and Miranda Fucking Priestly had been the one to put her in that situation. So Miranda wasn’t going to score cheap points and throw Andy out into the night. She would accept the goddamned apology even if it got Andy slapped across her face.
“We’re done when I say we’re done. This is my house, or at least it was last time I checked.”
Not thinking, Andy stepped forward and straight into Miranda’s personal space. She couldn’t help the thrill that coursed down her spine when Miranda made no move to step away. They stared each other down, neither conceding an inch.
“You have to let me apologize. Don’t you get it? I had to do it, so I could keep writing these stories; so I could keep helping you.”
Miranda snorted lightly, probably at the very idea of her needing anyone’s help.
“Why on earth would you try to help me?”
It was painfully, abundantly clear from the surprise on Miranda’s face that she’d assumed Andy’s involvement in this whole story exchange had been purely selfish.
“That’s what some people do when they, oh God-“ Miranda was still looking at Andy with the same stunned expression. “when they care about someone.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she finished; even Miranda seemed to struggle to hear it.
“You’re trying to tell me that you care for me?” Miranda managed to make the word sound like a felony and an unfortunate disease all at the same time. “Trashing me in the media is a funny way of showing it.”
The predatory gleam was back in Miranda’s eyes now: she’d found a weakness to latch onto, like a shark sensing blood in the water.
“Is that why your boyfriend didn’t last, Andréa? How did you show your feelings for him? Pan his restaurant in a review?”
Andy wasn’t sure which was more frightening--that Miranda was discussing her love life, or that Miranda knew anything about Andy’s boyfriends, current or otherwise. Try though she might, she just couldn’t call Nate to mind, not when presented with the magnificent sight of an irate Miranda just inches away.
“That’s none of your business. And after listening to your crybaby ex for hours, I’m sure I could go to town on your romantic life, if I wanted to sink that low.”
Miranda shrugged in that infuriating way of hers. The shrug that said how silly anyone was to possibly think they could get to her with mere insults.
“Unlike you, Miranda, I’m perfectly capable of showing people how I feel.”
And then something just…snapped.
Maybe it was the way Miranda parted her lips for another sarcastic retort, or the sudden rush of blood to Andy’s head, or maybe the planets had just aligned in the right way to leave her absolutely batshit insane, but in that moment, Andy saw no other option but to kiss Miranda.
She struck quickly, a swift meeting of the lips, ostensibly to just shut Miranda up before she could say anything else hurtful, but Andy knew from the first millisecond of contact that one little kiss wasn’t going to be enough.
“What the-“ Miranda began when Andy pulled back, and clearly, shutting her up hadn’t been effective enough. Determined to stick with her plan, whether Miranda slapped her or had her arrested, or just tossed her out like a sack of garbage, Andy didn’t care about any damn thing that wasn’t kissing Miranda Priestly.
For all the fear, outright panic and confusion she felt as their lips met again, harder this time and with almost enough pressure to bruise, Andy knew it had been worth it.
Because Miranda was kissing her back.
<--- Part 5B | Part 6A --->
Author: damelola
Rating: PG this part, NC17 eventually
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Word Count: ~5000
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, these characters remain the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made, and no harm is intended (except the fun kind!) This story borrows from real-life events in cases such as Martha Stewart's, but I promise to keep it light on boring corporate stuff as much as possible.
Summary: Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?
With a million thanks to shesgottaread for a sterling beta a job :) She really goes above and beyond, and this story wouldn't be in any kind of shape without her! As ever, I'm very keen to read your thoughts about the story, especially as the end is getting very close!
Part 5B
Andy knew something was off as soon as she stepped into the newsroom. She’d stopped on her way back from Federal Plaza to grab Starbucks, eating a muffin and sipping at her coffee in the coffee shop itself for once, scribbling down questions that she’d be asking Stephen the next day. Her huge office, which never stopped bustling and making noise, fell almost quiet as she walked in. Considering that Andy didn’t even know half the people in it, that was a really bad sign.
Sure enough, John appeared at his office door before she could cross the vast space toward her desk. There was no friendly smile on his face as he waved her to him, and the impending dread that Andy felt simmering in the pit of her stomach was something she hadn’t experienced since working for Miranda. Feeling elated at Miranda’s touch seemed like a lifetime ago as Andy forced her suddenly leaden feet to make the short journey.
John waited to close the door behind her and indicated she should take a seat. Self-consciously, Andy swept her hand quickly over her mouth, worried about crumbs of all things for reasons that passed her understanding. When the editor finally took a seat, Andy realized she was holding her breath.
“So when were you going to tell me that you’re still working for Miranda Priestly?”
She’d never seen this stern side of John before, assuming all the rumors about his steely side to be nothing more than office gossip from oversensitive journalists. But the coldness of his stare was making her squirm, in the very, very bad way. Andy was practically wishing that the floor would open and swallow her up, but she knew she had to tough this out or she’d be fired for sure.
“I’m not working for Miranda. This is the only job I have.”
John looked unmoved by her denial. He turned toward his computer screen, turning the monitor to face Andy. Her breath caught as she saw the wirephoto of Miranda delivering what appeared to be a kiss to Andy’s cheek. She didn’t think semantics over angles and air kisses would do any good now though.
“I told you that she was my source. I worked for her, and she was willing to grant an exclusive, kind of.”
It was hard to keep the defensiveness out of her voice, but Andy was too preoccupied with staring at the photo of her and Miranda. She was startled at how good they looked together, casual smiles on both their faces. This was really not the time to be crushing on her former boss, but this looked different from all the tabloid and gossip site snaps from Runway days where Andy had only ever been background material.
John rubbed at his forehead, clearly still troubled by Miranda’s involvement.
“You’re a bright kid, Andy. And you’ve got a way with words that half my staff would kill for.”
Andy nodded in acknowledgment, suffused with the praise despite the very obvious ‘but’ that was heading her way.
“But I can’t have my reporters being lapdogs to the rich and famous. If Miranda Priestly wants to buy some good publicity, she’s got plenty of other places to go. I mean, Andy, do you get the risks you’ve exposed yourself to here? You could be accused of trying to contaminate the jury pool, never mind what it does to your credibility.”
Summoning every ounce of strength she had left, Andy rose to her feet.
“Are you firing me?”
John looked down at the blotter on his desk, and Andy’s heart seemed to stop temporarily. He was really going to fire her over this? For getting an exclusive and pushing circulation through the roof?
“No. Not yet.”
Exhaling in relief, Andy felt her righteous indignation begin to rise instead.
“I’m nobody’s lapdog, John. That photo means nothing.” Other than the fact that Andy was giving serious consideration to having it blown up to poster size and hung in her bedroom, anyway. “Besides, if you’d asked before accusing me, you’d know that tomorrow I’m interviewing Miranda’s ex-husband. I doubt there’ll be anything flattering to write about her from that. I’m telling this story as fairly as I know how.”
Her boss nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That Tomlinson guy, right? He hasn’t said much to the press before now.”
There it was, the gleam of chasing another exclusive in the editor’s eye. Andy knew she wasn’t quite forgiven, and that it would take an age for the whispers to die down, but letting Stephen vent his spleen through the Mirror’s ink might just save her ass and her career.
“I’ll get something juicy from him, John, I can just tell.”
“See that you do. It’ll make it a lot easier to defend the charges that this paper is taking sides.”
Andy heard the note of dismissal in his voice, and she fled his office like the hounds of hell were after her. Not stopping until she reached the ladies’ room, Andy locked herself in a stall and forced herself to breathe normally. No doubt she’d given the rumor mill every reason to suspect that she actually had been fired, bolting from the room like that.
But Andy had much bigger problems than what her colleagues said behind her back. She had, she realized, just agreed to sell Miranda up the river in order to keep her job. Although Andy knew that she was entitled to do exactly that, it felt like a protesting too much about being an objective journalist. She was going to write a hatchet piece on someone who had given her career a huge boost to guarantee her reputation and a steady paycheck.
With her hands shaking slightly, Andy slipped out of the stall and looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She wanted to splash water on her face, but the makeup she had so carefully applied before meeting Miranda wouldn’t respond well to it. Instead, Andy was compelled to stare herself down, seeing no answers in her own dark eyes. She looked drawn under the harsh fluorescent lighting, but despite her revulsion at the idea, Andy already knew she wasn’t going to back away from the story. Let the other papers and the blogs get their shots in at her impartiality, let them call her a bimbo for having worked at a fashion magazine. If Andy was going to throw away this whatever the hell it was with Miranda, she was going to write the best damn article of her career to do it with.
After all, wouldn’t Miranda have done exactly the same?
Unfortunately for Andy, time seemed to speed up after that, and Tuesday evening rolled around far sooner than she would have liked. Rushing home after a fairly quiet day at work where she’d filed a couple of local interest pieces, she stared blankly at her assembled clothes as the clock continued to tick down.
She wasn’t an idiot; she knew that Stephen would be far more likely to open up to her if she was dressed attractively. Andy didn’t like that side of the job, but getting ahead by any means necessary had been drummed into her often enough. Working in the cutthroat environment of a sometimes-struggling newspaper had opened her eyes to these realities once and for all. She wasn’t planning to flirt, exactly, but assuring she had Stephen’s full attention could only work in her favor.
Forced to hurry, she selected a simple black Robert Cavalli dress, one of the two ‘emergency’ little black dresses Nigel had foisted on her over time. Throwing a blazer over it for warmth and a little less attention on her neckline, Andy touched up her makeup and headed out toward Midtown.
Early as ever, Andy scanned the tastefully decorated bar but saw no sign of Stephen. Perching on a comfortable bar stool, she turned enough to be watching the main entrance. The bartender seemed content to take his time with a grumpy older patron at the far end of the bar, and Andy was fine with that. Given the current climate at the Mirror, she didn’t like her chances of being allowed to expense such overpriced drinks, when the Accounting Department balked at anything over a couple of dollars.
She was saved from thinking about it too long by Stephen’s arrival. His shirt looked a little rumpled, but the clothes were still obviously expensive. His hair looked recently cut, shorter than Andy remembered anyway, and she forced herself to give a bright smile when his eyes alighted on her. Judging by the leer she earned in response, he was a fan of Andy’s own ensemble. This was going to be exactly as bad as she had expected.
Stephen ushered them to a corner booth, evidently waiting for her to be impressed by the fact that it had been kept for him. Andy feigned a murmur of excitement, and he seemed to fall for it. Impressive was how an entire ballroom parted like the Red Sea for Miranda, getting a table in a hotel bar didn’t seem like such a big deal in comparison.
He ordered for her (“let me guess, you like those fruity drinks?”) and Andy didn’t have the heart to correct him. She sipped politely at the Cosmopolitan once it arrived, and then arranged her recorder and notebook carefully on the table. She felt nervous for some undefined reason.
Andy knew that this was the first step in screwing Miranda over completely, and although she would still have opportunities to stop, she had effectively committed herself to being a mouthpiece for Stephen Tomlinson’s bitterness. Suppressing a sigh, Andy began her interview.
By the time Stephen had finished ranting and raving about Miranda’s inadequacies as both a wife and a human being, he was on his fifth drink and beginning to talk in circles. Andy had given up scribbling down his diatribe, letting the recorder do the work for her. When he finally shut up, she seized her opportunity to escape.
“Well, that was just so helpful. I hope you don’t mind if I dash straight home to type up my article? My editor will be thrilled.”
Stephen blinked at her, not seeming to understand at first. Then he put his hand on her knee under the table. Andy, even on only one drink, was fighting a sudden urge to vomit.
“Why don’t you stay awhile longer? I have a suite here.”
He waggled his eyebrows in a manner that he obviously found seductive. Andy found it about as appealing as warm garbage. Gently removing his hand from where it rested on her stocking, having started creeping up her thigh, she slid out of the booth in one fluid movement, silently praying that he wouldn’t start a scene. The pity she had felt for him at first, in his first reluctant admissions about the way Miranda had belittled him and reduced their marriage to an afterthought had long since evaporated.
Hell, Andy was ready to divorce him after two hours, never mind the almost four years of this that Miranda had endured. She still couldn’t understand what Miranda had seen in the guy in the first place. Although trying to work out why Miranda did anything was a recipe for a headache, Andy reminded herself.
Saying goodbye, she made her way toward the exit. Only when she got there did she realize she’d left her jacket. Going back for it now would look as if she’d been playing hard to get, and fobbing off the sleazy financier for another hour was not her idea of fun. Seizing on a backup plan, Andy made her way back to the bar, at the end furthest from Stephen. She’d just have to hope he kept his back to her.
The bartender responded to her friendly smile and listened patiently while she essentially begged him to go retrieve her jacket. The bar wasn’t full, since most of the post-theater, post-gallery crowd had yet to descend and so he agreed quickly enough. As he made his way over, Andy heard the click of heels behind her. She only looked round to make sure Stephen hadn’t noticed her lingering presence, and nearly fell over at the sight of Emily trotting towards Stephen’s table in a shiny black pair of Louboutins and a skimpy silver dress that looked like a fabric NASA had rejected. Of course, it was probably the absolute height of fashion, but Andy didn’t keep track as she’d once been forced to.
Puzzled, Andy tried to remember a time in her old job when she’d been sent to track down Stephen. It was even weirder now that Miranda wanted nothing to do with him. As Emily reached the table, pausing to let the bartender and Andy’s forgotten jacket pass, it dawned on Andy like the nastiest of winter mornings.
Sure enough, Stephen stood to kiss Emily, and he only wobbled slightly. A kiss on the cheek meant nothing, Andy rationalized, nothing at all. Maybe they’d become friends of a sort, bonding over their seemingly unrequited love for Miranda.
But ass-grabbing was not friendly, not in any context outside of a locker room. The tiny squeal and giggle that Emily gave carried across the room, and Andy felt herself cringe reflexively. It sounded so fake, but then Andy realized she had never seen Emily happy, so had very little to compare it to. When Emily slipped into the same side of the booth as Stephen, Andy realized the age of plausible deniability was well and truly over.
She took her coat with effusive thanks and ran for the door, trying not to observe the surreal spectacle of Emily making out with Miranda’s almost-ex-husband. Andy was becoming more convinced by the second that she was going to require some industrial strength brain bleach before the night was out. Maybe she’d be able to invoice Runway for the therapy she was clearly going to need.
Knowing she’d be up late working on her article, Andy decided on a quick call to her slightly immoral compass while walking to the subway. Lily picked up after three rings, just leaving work for the night herself. Andy winced in sympathy at the long hours, but was pleased when Lily agreed to lunch the next day. Andy knew she had to sleep on it, make up her mind how she felt about what she knew before offering it up to the sacrificial altar of a friend’s advice, and she really would have to start typing the minute she got in the door.
Fortunately, Lily was too tired to talk much, and Andy got her notepad out as soon as she sat down on the train. It allowed her to ignore the guys staring at her legs, and by the time she got off at her own stop, she had four paragraphs and a decent head of steam.
Later, when Stephen’s ranting had been fashioned into the negative exposé that Andy had promised to write, she was left alone with a mug of warm milk and her own thoughts. Cuddled up with her pillows on the bed, Andy stared unseeingly at the Daily Show episode she was playing back on her TiVo. She scrolled aimlessly through the Pages document that comprised her article in its rough form, feeling a strong urge to delete every insult and slur against Miranda. Only when the show’s credits began to roll did Andy alight on the sentence that had been bugging her.
Somewhere in between the not-so-subtle digs about Miranda’s performance in the bedroom (which Andy tried really hard not to think about, more than she already had) and the ‘poor Stephen’ rhetoric about how Miranda had never appreciated his success (which made Andy want to call him Mr. Priestly, just to watch him foam at the mouth) he had said something to nag at the back of Andy’s mind.
Scrolling through her notes instead of the article, she read again where Stephen offered his admittedly expert opinion about Miranda’s financial behavior. Although she’d kept her finances completely separate, apparently she had sought his advice on the occasional stock purchase. Andy could already see through it as Miranda’s halfhearted attempts to boost her husband’s ego, but Stephen had apparently never gotten wise.
Then it hit her, just at the point where she’d given up scribbling and let the recorder take over: Stephen mentioned that Miranda had made a second trade that same day, selling stocks in a tech company whose price began to rocket a few hours later. He’d claimed it was a deliberate attempt to make Miranda’s earlier fraud seem innocent, but even with the entire editorial team at the Mirror breathing down her neck, Andy wouldn’t give column inches to that kind of conjecture. The problem was that Miranda’s second sale had never been made public. Not a single document, legally disclosed or illegally leaked, had contained details of that transaction. Andy had seen it, thanks to the private statements that Miranda had handed over, but it seemed odd that Stephen should know so much about something that happened three months after his filing for divorce. Especially when he hadn’t exactly been privy to those details in the first place.
Andy’s suspicions kicked into overdrive as she put the pieces together, reluctantly. As an assistant to Miranda, she had been given every password and account number possible to make sure Miranda never had to deal with anything as trivial as paying her bills or checking her accounts.
Which meant, of course, that Emily had all of the same passwords and probably more besides. Emily, who had been sprawled across the man who shouldn’t have that information; information that Emily herself could have provided access to.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Andy slammed the laptop closed. She had made sure to miss the print deadline for the night, and had no intention of sneaking into the last early morning run either. That bought her a little time to investigate, but she already knew it wouldn’t be enough to stall the publishing of this article.
She fired off a quick text to Josh, telling him that she’d want to see Judy in the morning if he could set it up and put off breaking her heart for at least a few more hours. Certain that she’d spend the night tossing and turning, Andy was surprised to find her eyes growing heavy as soon as her head hit the pillow. At least by sleeping, she might get a few hours of peace. The churning thoughts about Miranda seemed to suggest otherwise, and her dreams were chaotic.
Judy was sitting on Josh’s desk when Andy arrived, though the man himself was nowhere to be seen. With makeup a little too dark for Andy’s taste, Judy was still a knockout in her jeans and tight shirt. Andy wondered for a moment if paying more attention to how women looked was a hangover from Runway or a result of the Inappropriate Crush. Deciding that she needed to focus on that part of her life like she needed a hole in the head, Andy shook it off and offered the other woman her brightest smile. Well, brightest for eight a.m., at least.
“Josh said you needed some IT help?”
Andy couldn’t help but like Judy right off the bat, especially when she didn’t bat an eyelid at Andy suggesting something that might technically be a little bit unethical. Tapping a few notes into her own Blackberry, Judy said she’d need at least a day to track down the information Andy needed, especially since she’d need to do most of it at home so as not to cause trouble at the Mirror.
“I really appreciate this, Judy. Josh is a lucky guy.”
Judy screwed up her face a little at that, taking Andy by surprise.
“Just between you and me? I don’t see us working out. He’s a sweet guy, but a little, you know, needy? Anyway, I’ve got your number so I’ll let you know when I have everything.”
As Judy headed back to the dark corners of the IT department, Andy felt a fresh wave of nerves wash over her. She’d just asked Judy to hack into Runway’s computer system and if Miranda ever found out…well, Andy would deal with that when she came to it. In a few hours she’d be filing a story that might save her ever having to deal with Miranda again, a prospect that would have any sensible person jumping for joy.
The day dragged on impossibly, even worse when Lily canceled their impromptu lunch, and when she could put it off no longer Andy filed just before the first deadline. With a couple of minor edits, Andy already knew she’d be getting a two-page spread for her exclusive. This one she wouldn’t be cutting, framing or sending to her parents, though. Instead, she nibbled at a tasteless sandwich while watching her story progress through the editing queue until the dreaded green tick appeared next to it, the point of no return.
When seven p.m. rolled around, Andy knew she had to get out of the newsroom or risk driving herself completely crazy. She couldn’t concentrate on anything else to write about anyway, and until Judy confirmed her suspicions the bigger story had ground to a halt. She knew it was an urge that she should ignore, but she desperately needed to see Miranda. Whether to explain, to get the inevitable dismissal over and done with, or just because she needed to see Miranda, Andy wasn’t sure.
Her first instinct on reaching for her Blackberry was to call Emily and check on Miranda’s schedule for the evening. Although even a casual observer would have noted that Miranda had reduced her social commitments drastically, whether through choice or lack of invitations, Andy didn’t want to speculate. But talking to Emily meant thinking about Stephen, and the nauseating image of Emily and Stephen, which made Andy keep on scrolling until she hit the ‘M’s.
Miranda picked up after two rings, a weary “yes?” her only greeting.
“It’s me, Andy.”
“Yes, I’m quite capable of reading my phone’s display. Did you want something?”
Swallowing nervously, Andy ran her fingers over the freshly printed copy of her act of treachery. Any other time thinking about what she ‘wanted’ from Miranda could have provided a fun little distraction, but tonight nothing could compete with the dread.
“I have something you need to see. Are you busy, or can I come over?”
Miranda sighed, and Andy braced herself for rejection, even as she was fervently hoping for it. Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back to an existence where she never expected to see Miranda Priestly again? A place where calm and logic had a fighting chance, where Andy’s sudden and inexplicable crush could be allowed to die with some dignity.
“Fine.”
The pause meant that Miranda had considered excuses, ranging from not being at home to being far too busy to be interrupted by some cub reporter. Andy thought of another twenty questions in those few seconds, every one a delaying tactic. Questioning whether she should bring anything, or whether the girls had returned from their self-imposed exile could result in Miranda changing her mind.
Although it would postpone the inevitable, Andy knew she had to suck it up. Her cowardly side was cheering on the thoughts of self-sabotage, but Andy ignored it in favor of telling Miranda that she’d be straight over. Throwing her things into a functional blue backpack that might well give Miranda palpitations, Andy waved goodbye to Josh who was kicking at the photocopier in frustration and trudged downstairs to hail a cab. She didn’t even care about expensing it; she just wanted to avoid provoking Miranda any further by dallying with the subway.
Miranda must have been waiting downstairs, because she answered the door just moments after Andy rapped firmly on the frosted glass. Sure enough, Miranda led Andy to the overstuffed gray armchairs in the small room just off the kitchen, the same place that the instruction to screw Emily out of Paris had been given. The familiar smell of brewing coffee filtered out from the kitchen itself, and Andy’s mouth watered at the rich scent.
Motioning for Andy to sit, Miranda disappeared into the bright, white warmth of the kitchen. Andy pulled her article from her backpack, and then stashed the offending bag down the side of the chair, the better to not offend Miranda with. Lost in her thoughts as she gazed at Miranda’s immaculate home, Andy was momentarily stunned at the sight of her former boss returning with a tray in her hands.
On it sat two steaming mugs of coffee, with a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. Though she was tempted to crack some kind of joke about Miranda finally fetching her own coffee, Andy didn’t dare disturb the odd little moment of domesticity. She forgot, for a moment, why she’d come there in the first place and allowed herself to enjoy a further glimpse of Miranda in private. Although it was a shame to stay quiet, because honestly Miranda serving coffee had seemed about as likely as George Bush eloping to Vermont with Newt Gingrich.
Having added a splash of cream and ignoring the sugar out of self-consciousness, Andy sat back in the supremely comfortable chair, careful not to disturb the folder resting on top of her crossed legs.
“I could have brought Starbucks, if you’d asked.”
Miranda glared at Andy over her first sip of the scalding coffee.
“I’m not incapable, as you might have worked out by now. We can’t all be coffee-making scientists like you, but I do what I can.” A glint in Miranda’s eye suggested she might not entirely mind being ribbed by Andy. She also seemed to be conflating Andy’s ability to buy Starbucks and make the occasional pot of decent coffee with being some kind of connoisseur. “Besides, as you like to point out, you don’t work for me anymore.”
As punctuation, there followed a signature Priestly head tilt. Not unique to Miranda any longer, since Andy had experienced it at least once from each of her daughters, but it had transformed from a mocking affectation into something Andy found adorable. As soon as this story was finished, as soon as Andy could quell this ridiculous addiction to staring at Miranda in close proximity, she was checking herself in at the nearest psychiatric facility, because adorable matched Miranda about as well as cheeseburgers went with supermodels.
“Well, I still would have done it,” Andy offered weakly. “Speaking of working for you, my boss is under the impression that I still am.”
Miranda quirked an eyebrow to indicate that Andy should continue, before shifting her position in the other armchair. Folding one leg under herself, Miranda was cradling the coffee cup in her hands like it was the only source of warmth in the world. She looked relaxed in flowing gray pants (that probably cost more than Andy’s monthly rent) and a tight cream sweater, and apart from the brief interlude in her robe in Paris, this was as casual as Andy had ever seen Miranda.
Casual and hot, her own brain mocked her. Not for the first time, Andy found herself wishing for some kind of internal mute button. She just hoped the sudden flush of heat in her face was due to the thermonuclear temperature of the coffee, and not some kind of obvious blush that Miranda would notice.
“There were photos, from Federal Plaza. John accused me of being in your pocket.”
Miranda leaned forward to place her mug back on the tray, which was balanced on the small wooden table between them. With her hands free, Miranda folded them in her lap; her eyes alight once more with what appeared to be curiosity.
“Do you think you are? I seem to inspire a sort of blind devotion at times, after all.”
Andy thought of Emily, even as she winced slightly at Miranda’s uncanny ability to ask the one question that Andy didn’t much feel like answering. It might be a phenomenal asset at Runway, but Andy didn’t like it being aimed at her.
“Of course not. Well, maybe at first I felt a little compromised because it seemed like I was trading your exclusives for bylines. But you haven’t restricted me from investigating, you’ve been pretty open about the whole thing.”
A nod was the only response, and so Andy plowed on.
“And I think my willingness to give you a chance, to write about facts instead of your reputation, was more objective than the hysterical gossip everyone else is printing about you. So what if I’m also getting ahead at the same time, you have to grab these chances, right?”
Miranda smirked. She probably knew all too well the importance of grabbing her chances, wasn’t that how she’d risen from some unknown designer’s assistant to become the most powerful woman in fashion, if not publishing?
Andy froze as she realized there was nowhere left to go but the confession. She fidgeted a little, her fingers plucking at the edge of the folder containing her article. Miranda looked thoughtful as she broke the suddenly
awkward silence.
“I believe I sense a ‘but’ in our immediate future?”
Now there was definitely a flicker of amusement on Miranda’s face as she watched Andy squirm. If Andy’s obvious panic was causing any concern, it didn’t show for a second.
“Maybe.”
It was a pansy-ass answer, Andy knew, and Miranda stiffened in disapproval. Stumbling over her words slightly, she continued, “But uh, yeah, John gave me a chance to prove my objectivity.”
Breathing had suddenly become a task that Andy had to concentrate on, but even as she forced each breath in and out, she watched Miranda’s lightning-fast mind put the implications of that statement together. All traces of playfulness were wiped as she drew the unfortunate conclusion.
“Oh.”
It was as close as Andy had ever seen Miranda to speechless. Gathering the last wilting scraps of her courage, Andy offered the folder from her lap with a trembling hand.
“Do you want to read it? It runs in the morning. Maybe you could call…”
Miranda gave one of her hollow little laughs, like ice falling into a glass. It was the laugh that was usually followed by a public firing or at least some kind of verbal evisceration. Andy cursed her loyalty--no, stupidity--once more, for forcing her to come here. Anyone smart would have let the piece run and dodged Miranda’s wrath from afar. Why did Andy feel she owed Miranda this token act of honesty, anyway?
“You have, I assume, assassinated my character in print, and then you bring it here in the hopes that I can fix it?” Miranda’s voice was almost raised, certainly louder than the almost breathy tones Andy was used to. This was definitely scarier. “No, you’ll tell me the worst of it, and then send it to Leslie for her to minimize the damage.”
With a face that had regained the impassivity of marble, Miranda’s eyes were stormy behind the frames of her designer glasses. Where just moments ago she had looked as soft and approachable as Andy had ever known her to be, now every sharp edge was back in place. Tense, like a cobra ready to strike, all traces of the Miranda who made warm drinks and jokes at her own expense had vanished. Andy figured she should try to mount some kind of defense before she was thrown out into the street.
“I’ve already emailed it to Leslie. She has a strategy in place, I think.”
If she was impressed by this last burst of initiative, Miranda made no sign. She drummed her fingers rapidly on the arm of the chair, apparently lost in thought for a moment. Her eyes closed as she bit down on her lower lip. If Andy didn’t know better, she’d assume Miranda was genuinely upset. She was so bewildered at the thought that she almost missed Miranda’s next question.
“And this ‘objectivity’? Is it based solely on your own experience?”
Miranda didn’t just ask loaded questions, she made it sound like an entire arsenal was waiting for the response. Andy realized too late that she could have gone about it another way, shared some horrific anecdotes from her own experiences and the legends of Runway terror that were whispered in the lunch line and the ladies’ bathroom. She had gone a step too far in her betrayal, but there was no point in denying it now.
“Stephen.”
For one terrifying moment, Andy though Miranda was going to throw up-her color drained and a hand moved reflexively towards her flat stomach. When nothing happened, Andy forced herself to keep talking.
“He was, uh, next on my list for the story anyway. He gave me what I needed to get my editor off my back, and I think I might have found-“
Miranda raised a finger to silence Andy, her eyes open and blazing with something that could have been hurt or just pure, deadly rage.
“I’m so glad someone found a use for my ex-husband. God knows I never could.” The words were couched in one of Miranda’s crueler smiles. “You certainly know how to take your revenge, Andréa, I’ll say that for you.”
When Andy attempted further protest, Miranda cut her off with a glare that could have halted Niagara Falls. Apparently, interruptions were not permitted.
“So tell me, what delights can I expect my daughters to be greeted with tomorrow? Lurid discussion of their mother’s sex life? More assertions that I’m barely human, and just a step away from ruling Hell all by myself? Perhaps they’ll find some aspersions on my abilities to raise them? That’s always a pleasure.”
Although Miranda had started her rant with the usual quiet venom, the hint of tears crept into the last few words. Andy had questioned Miranda’s humanity often enough, but seeing this all too painful reminder of it made her feel like a heel.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
Miranda turned the full force of her glare on Andy. The redness appearing around her eyes did nothing to diminish its impact, and Andy began to fear she’d prove the theory of human combustion right there in that chair.
“That would be so much more sincere, if you’d actually admit to what you’ve done.”
Of course, Miranda hated euphemisms and other such signs of weakness. Andy had tried to deflect the blow of her choices, but in dancing around the exact nature, she’d only angered Miranda further. With a sigh, Andy stared at the floor while she made her admission.
“I screwed you over to save my job!”
Andy didn’t recognize herself in that plaintive whine, but there was no point in trying to pretend to be anything other than emotional-Miranda had always been able to see through that.
“Not a pleasant feeling, is it?”
Miranda had her usual air of nonchalance, but the questioning lift of an eyebrow gave away her investment in Andy’s answer. This was proving her right, that speech in Paris that had driven Andy towards the fountain and her freedom coming back to hang over them both now.
“Is this how it felt when you did it to Nigel?”
There it was. The topic they’d been studiously avoiding ever since the unexpected reunion, and Andy was reminded of exactly why when the ghost of a snarl played out across Miranda’s otherwise impassive mouth.
“I wondered when that particular low blow would land. To your credit, Andréa, I would have expected it much earlier from just about anyone else.”
With that, Miranda stood and motioned for Andy to do the same. Wait a goddamned minute, Andy thought to herself, was she seriously trying to leave things there?
Tapping her foot with impatience, Miranda jerked her head toward the door. The Book had arrived before Andy, and it lay waiting beside Miranda’s chair. It was perfectly plausible that she was just too busy to spend any time letting Andy apologize, but Miranda’s cool dismissal just left Andy bubbling with anger.
“Miranda, we’re not done here.”
Uh oh. Pursing of the lips. Andy knew that if she were a dress she’d be consigned to the trash from that little action alone. Andy’s guilt and hand-wringing emotion was fading now, the familiar frustrations of dealing with Miranda having taken their place.
Because she wasn’t a goddamned dress, she was someone who’d been put in an impossible situation, and Miranda Fucking Priestly had been the one to put her in that situation. So Miranda wasn’t going to score cheap points and throw Andy out into the night. She would accept the goddamned apology even if it got Andy slapped across her face.
“We’re done when I say we’re done. This is my house, or at least it was last time I checked.”
Not thinking, Andy stepped forward and straight into Miranda’s personal space. She couldn’t help the thrill that coursed down her spine when Miranda made no move to step away. They stared each other down, neither conceding an inch.
“You have to let me apologize. Don’t you get it? I had to do it, so I could keep writing these stories; so I could keep helping you.”
Miranda snorted lightly, probably at the very idea of her needing anyone’s help.
“Why on earth would you try to help me?”
It was painfully, abundantly clear from the surprise on Miranda’s face that she’d assumed Andy’s involvement in this whole story exchange had been purely selfish.
“That’s what some people do when they, oh God-“ Miranda was still looking at Andy with the same stunned expression. “when they care about someone.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she finished; even Miranda seemed to struggle to hear it.
“You’re trying to tell me that you care for me?” Miranda managed to make the word sound like a felony and an unfortunate disease all at the same time. “Trashing me in the media is a funny way of showing it.”
The predatory gleam was back in Miranda’s eyes now: she’d found a weakness to latch onto, like a shark sensing blood in the water.
“Is that why your boyfriend didn’t last, Andréa? How did you show your feelings for him? Pan his restaurant in a review?”
Andy wasn’t sure which was more frightening--that Miranda was discussing her love life, or that Miranda knew anything about Andy’s boyfriends, current or otherwise. Try though she might, she just couldn’t call Nate to mind, not when presented with the magnificent sight of an irate Miranda just inches away.
“That’s none of your business. And after listening to your crybaby ex for hours, I’m sure I could go to town on your romantic life, if I wanted to sink that low.”
Miranda shrugged in that infuriating way of hers. The shrug that said how silly anyone was to possibly think they could get to her with mere insults.
“Unlike you, Miranda, I’m perfectly capable of showing people how I feel.”
And then something just…snapped.
Maybe it was the way Miranda parted her lips for another sarcastic retort, or the sudden rush of blood to Andy’s head, or maybe the planets had just aligned in the right way to leave her absolutely batshit insane, but in that moment, Andy saw no other option but to kiss Miranda.
She struck quickly, a swift meeting of the lips, ostensibly to just shut Miranda up before she could say anything else hurtful, but Andy knew from the first millisecond of contact that one little kiss wasn’t going to be enough.
“What the-“ Miranda began when Andy pulled back, and clearly, shutting her up hadn’t been effective enough. Determined to stick with her plan, whether Miranda slapped her or had her arrested, or just tossed her out like a sack of garbage, Andy didn’t care about any damn thing that wasn’t kissing Miranda Priestly.
For all the fear, outright panic and confusion she felt as their lips met again, harder this time and with almost enough pressure to bruise, Andy knew it had been worth it.
Because Miranda was kissing her back.
<--- Part 5B | Part 6A --->