Fic: The Right Thing 6C/6, Miranda/Andy (the penultimate instalment!)
Title: The Right Thing (part 6C/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 6D - our final part, will be with you very soon.
When the company goes public
You've got to learn to love what you own
Destroyer, Hey Snow White
"Emily, were you alone when you received this information?"
Stephanie's voice remained neutral, as though she were confirming any other detail. Andy couldn't bring herself to look at Emily and assess her acting abilities (although being British, she'd probably be doing something Tony-worthy) because all her attention was on the tightly coiled spring of silent rage where Miranda Priestly used to be.
To others who didn't know the danger signs, Miranda might just have been taking a casual interest in the people discussing sleeping arrangements, but even from halfway across the room, Andy knew. The almost imperceptible clenching of that strong jaw, the sudden tightness around Miranda's eyes, even in profile Andy still knew the tell-tale signs. If Emily dared to meet that gaze, she'd be transformed into a human popsicle on the spot, because when Miranda's rage flared up like this, her victims burned cold.
"No, I was not alone."
Forcing her attention away from Miranda, Andy took a sweeping glance at the jury, and saw the intrigue of some salacious gossip lighting up at least three faces. They didn't even know the half of it.
"Can I ask whose company you were in at the time?"
Emily simmered in a very good impression of defiance for a few long moments, though Andy already knew she would answer.
"Do I have to answer that?"
The plaintive look towards the judge was a nice touch Andy had to concede. Another turn of her head confirmed that Miranda had taken the unprecedented step of gripping the mahogany table with both hands, and those knuckles had to be very, very white by now.
Judge Kendall directed Emily to answer with a bored nod, clearly not expecting anything more than fashion industry tittle-tattle that would soak up more of the court's time. Emily stared at her lap for a minute before tossing her head back and affecting her most disdainful expression.
"Fine. If you must know, I was with my uh, boyfriend, I suppose you would call him? He's not really into labels, that way."
Andy was still scribbling furiously, already a few pages ahead on this script. She didn't suppose Stephen would be any quicker to apply any labels after his name got splashed across the papers in the less-than-flattering way. Stephanie still hadn't looked back at her own team, but Jake's apparently unruffled state suggested that the strategy had been pre-agreed with everyone but Miranda herself. Folding her hands behind her back, Stephanie continued her gentle line of inquiry.
"Does your not-boyfriend have a name, Emily?"
The murmurs had died down thanks to the piecemeal nature of the questioning, but Andy held her breath as she waited for the room to explode in noise.
"Yes. Stephen. Oh, alright. Stephen Tomlinson."
The tidal wave of noise swept over Andy from every direction. She heard the fragments through the din. "isn't that?" "husband" "Mr. Priestly?" until the judge was forced to gavel the room back into some semblance of order. Andy could feel the stares burning into her like unsubtle lasers from her esteemed colleagues, apparently her lack of shock had been duly noted and that was not going to go over well if she showed up for post-court drinks.
Stephanie continued her questioning, providing a welcome distraction. Andy couldn't bear to risk a look at Miranda, because any of the reactions she could imagine were too much to handle.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Emily, but isn't that Miranda Priestly's ex-husband?"
Emily nodded, and was asked to say "yes" for the benefit of the court transcript. Not for the first time, Andy experienced a surge of sympathy for her former colleague. Nobody deserved to have their dirty laundry aired in public like this.
"In fact, as of today, has Mr. Tomlinson succeeded in obtaining a divorce from Ms. Priestly?"
Stumbling a little, with a flush to her cheeks that suggested this was more now than a simple performance, Emily responded meekly.
"Not as such. It should be any day now, obviously. But they were already estranged. I would never have--"
Stephanie cut Emily off with a snappish tone.
"So you were in the company of a man who, it should be noted, was involved in a long and drawn out divorce process with the accused? A divorce that even a cursory glance at Page Six would show has been far from amicable?"
Emily shrugged her shoulders before mumbling out a reply.
"I don't see what that has to do with anything."
Stephanie turned back towards the jury, still avoiding Miranda's death glare.
"I suppose what it has to do with is what you did after relaying Katherine Hoffman’s message to Ms. Priestly. Tell me, was Mr. Tomlinson aware of who had left the message for his wife?”
With reluctance, Emily confirmed that yes, he had been aware. After all she had said the woman’s name out loud in the course of leaving a voicemail for Miranda. Andy wondered if Stephanie would make the point that Miranda had never listened to a voicemail in her life. Pressed on her actions after that, Emily was compelled to list them.
“Well, I had my laptop with me. So I checked my email and started my daily tasks.”
Striding towards the witness stand, Stephanie was all business.
“Which tasks would those have been?”
Emily gave a wary look toward the defense table, and visibly paled (even further) at whichever stony glare was radiating back at her. Andy found herself wishing for any other viewpoint, because while it could be scary as hell, Miranda in her full vicious glory was certainly a sight to behold.
“Well the usual. Checking Miranda’s diary for the day, confirming reservations, placing orders, settling her accounts. That’s what a First Assistant does.”
“So it would be fair to say,” Stephanie began, “that Ms. Priestly entrusts you with a significant amount of access into her personal affairs.”
Emily agreed with the assessment, a little too readily for Andy’s liking. Oh God, Andy thought with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, was Emily about to fall on her sword for Miranda? Was this the blind devotion, that Miranda had sneered about, in action? The sudden impulse to jump up and yell something-- anything--to stop the proceedings gripped Andy. Luckily, she stopped herself before making a scene, but the gnawing concern for Emily continued unabated.
“She trusts you with keys to her home, the safety of her children and herself, and indeed personal information like her computer passwords, is that correct?”
“Yes, she simply doesn’t have time to do everything herself. That’s what she pays me for.”
Emily had slipped back into a defensive posture, the familiar territory of standing up for Miranda and for her job as natural to her as breathing. Andy found herself wondering about the promotion that Emily had pretty much just thrown away - how would she have adjusted to not being at Miranda’s beck and call every minute of the day? Sure, Andy had survived just fine, but she had been nowhere near as invested as Emily, and even then she had gone into a weird kind of withdrawal once the drama of her exit had worn off.
“So it’s true, Ms. Charlton, that you have access to Ms. Priestly’s personal accounts with Chase Manhattan?”
The hush in the room seemed to deepen at the mention of a financial institution.
“Yes.”
Stephanie was leaning on the witness stand by that point, her body language carefully projecting calm detachment.
“And her investment accounts with Ziegler?”
To her credit, Emily looked genuinely uncomfortable at the mention of the brokerage firm. She squirmed a little in her seat, and since every eye in the room was on her the nervousness didn’t go unnoticed.
“That’s correct.”
The urge to object, to save Emily’s painfully skinny ass, was burning through Andy like a red-hot poker had replaced her spine. Before she got a chance to publicly humiliate herself, Stephanie had launched back into the questioning.
“On the day in question, when the sale of Wisteria stock was made, did you access Ms. Priestly’s account?”
“Yes.” Emily lips had progressed into a full-on pout by now.
“Did you make the sale?”
“No! I mean, I wouldn’t know where to start. I only access those accounts out of habit, so that if Miranda asks me whether certain things have been done I can answer her.”
Stephanie turned towards the jury with open arms, the disbelief on her face readily apparent.
“Really, Ms. Charlton? You just check these things? Are you sure you didn’t use your initiative to dump Ms. Priestly’s stock before she made a loss and somehow took it out on you?”
Gripping the edge of the witness stand, Emily leaned forward to address the accusations levelled at her.
“Now, you listen to me. I don’t make trades or do anything more complicated than paying Miranda’s utility bills and checking her account balances. I’m an assistant. My degree is in Art History. If you want a rundown of every item in De La Renta’s collection for the spring, or an essay on Rembrandt, I’m your girl. But what I know about finance could fit on the top of a thimble.” Emily paused for breath. “And I’d like to keep it that way. That’s what brokers and accountants are for.”
Andy watched the ripple of reactions across the jury at Emily’s passionate little outburst. At least some of them seemed irritated by her snotty demeanour, but there was certainly sympathy present in some expressions.
“One other thing, Emily.” Stephanie spoke softly as Emily collected herself a little. “Did anyone else have access to your laptop while you were logged in to Ms. Priestly’s accounts?”
Were someone to drop a pin anywhere on the courtroom floor, the noise of it would be deafening compared to the fresh hush that had descended on the room.
“Well, I did leave it there on the bed, when I went to jump in the shower. I had to hurry, or I’d be late.”
Andy could practically hear the clicking of mental abacus beads as the entire room made the very quick calculation. Emily’s confession led to one very obvious conclusion.
“Meaning Mr. Tomlinson had access to those accounts on that morning?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t-“
“Even if what you said before is true, Emily, it still means that at least two other people potentially had access to Ms. Priestly’s personal account that morning besides the account holder.” Stephanie turned on her heel, probably for dramatic effect at this point. “Tell me, if I took a show of hands in this room right now about Miranda’s account passwords, would you be the only one raising your hand?”
Emily glared directly at Andy as Stephanie made that point, and Andy found herself fervently wishing she’d gone for a seat further back.
“Probably not, no.”
Chad leapt to his feet with a loud ‘objection’, and the judge was forced to sustain it due to the speculation Stephanie had invited. With an insincere apology, the lawyer continued her careful weaving of the defence.
“Regardless, it’s clear that more than one person could have logged on to that account. “
“Objection!” Chad sputtered, having barely sat down from his last one.
“Withdrawn, your honor.” Stephanie replied.
“Funnily enough, the prosecution haven’t mentioned in their countless documents and accusations where the account was accessed from. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to question why that is. You are, after all, entitled to all the facts of this case.”
There was an uproar in the courtroom as Stephanie took her seat, her closing “nothing further” almost completely drowned out. With slumped shoulders, Chad confirmed that he had no further questions from the prosecution, which Andy figured made sense given that any discussion of IP addresses and account access would only weaken his case further.
Judge Kendall dismissed Emily with a sympathetic smile before letting fly with the gavel once more. At least half a dozen spectators were threatened with contempt charges before the room regained some semblance of order.
Chad sat stock still at the prosecution table, his once-promising career no doubt flashing before his eyes. He hadn’t done his due diligence, cashing in on the FBI and US Attorney’s zeal for a quick and high-profile conviction. They’d all been blinded at the thought of headlines and promotions and finally winning big in front of the watching public, which Andy couldn’t exactly blame them for. What she could get very angry about was that they’d been hoping to hide the fact that the account hadn’t been accessed by Miranda or anyone at Runway, relying on public opinion and some legal sleight of hand to get a high-profile conviction.
With the room quiet, the judge called the two lead attorneys over for a sidebar. Although the content of the conversation couldn’t be overheard, there was no mistaking the judge’s annoyance and Chad’s increasingly desperate gestures as he explained. Before long the judge called a halt and requested to see both parties in chambers.
Andy was no legal expert, a couple of college courses hadn’t prepared her for the intricacies of the case against Miranda. In the press it was playing out as a slam-dunk, the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side being brought to justice at last, caught out because she thought she was above the law. From everything she’d learned, Andy knew there should be enough to get Miranda off (oh God, don’t use that phrase, she chided her subconscious) but not how it would play out.
Miranda had said, after all, that she wanted a ‘not guilty’ verdict delivered in court for the world to hear. Andy couldn’t help but find that too simplistic - even then people would mutter about her buying off the jury or the rich and powerful being simply untouchable. A dismissal of charges seemed like the dream outcome to Andy, but she had to admit that Miranda had a point that the muttering might be even louder if she wasn’t ‘cleared’ by a jury of her peers.
Which was when Andy was forced to concede Miranda might also have had a point all those weeks ago when they’d been arguing about feminism and trying to stop kissing each other: now that the accusation had been levelled, Miranda was always going to be tarnished by it. Maybe there had been some sense to the notion of not dragging Stephen into the mix, Andy concluded, feeling a little queasy.
It wasn’t long before the lead counsel from each side emerged from the judge’s chambers - a quiet smugness on Jake’s face while poor, foolish Chad was looking almost green. Andy might have scrounged up some pity for the young prosecutor if he hadn’t made the past month a circus of attacking people she cared about.
The judge called the room to order once more, and the hush fell instantly as everyone in the room strained to hear the decision. She made no attempt to hide her disdain for wasting her valuable time, not to mention everyone else’s.
“It would appear,” Judge Kendall began, “that the prosecution thought it wise to bring this case before the court with woefully insufficient evidence. Perhaps the desire to generate headlines outweighed their attention to criminal case procedures, but it is now clear from testimony and the prosecutor’s own admission that they have no evidence to tie this action to any one person.
“I trust that the US Attorney’s office will learn from this misadventure, but all that remains is for me to inform you, Ms. Priestly, that you are free to go. The charges against you in this case are dismissed due to insufficient evidence. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the court thanks you for your service.”
Miranda rose from her seat, momentarily parting the crowd around her like the noble prow of a ship. Hands landed oher regal shoulders in thundering gestures of congratulations, her most loyal and devoted entourage members making loud and public displays that they had known all along.
Andy couldn't help but notice that most of that group had refused to go on the record saying that they thought Miranda to be innocent. So not that loyal; not really.
She scrambled to the exit, determined to get a head start towards the overcrowded steps. Her strategy was a desperate one, formed on gut instinct and the hope that she would retain her privileged status with Miranda, and so Andy opted to head straight for the car. Perhaps if it was driven by someone she recognised she'd even ask to sit in the back seat and wait for Miranda there.
It ran the risk of not getting a quote, not getting the immediate reaction that the rest of the pack would be clamoring for, but Andy could think of nothing else. She was almost out of breath by the time she reached the gleaming silver Mercedes, though the short run hadn't tired her at all. No, her chest felt tight because of the sheer nervousness at seeing Miranda, and from the relief she had not yet found a way to express bearing down on her.
The doors of the courthouse soon spewed forth the surging mass of bodies of the press corps, moving as one disjointed body while reporters bounced off one another and prayed they'd keep their footing. Even across the plaza, with all the open air and din of Manhattan traffic from every side, Andy could hear the rising hubbub reaching crescendo pitch.
As the reporters stumbled and practically bounced their way down the stone staircase, soon the familiar posse of suits emerged in formation, a flash of silver hair in their midst confirming the more petite presence of Miranda. Even in her deadly heels, most of the group still towered over her. Andy felt a surge that started somewhere around her knees course through her body at the thought of being near Miranda in her moment of victory.
Would Miranda be impulsive and pull Andrea away from prying eyes for a celebratory kiss? It would be Miranda's call now, because the young guy waiting in a chauffeur's uniform was nobody Andy recognized from her Runway days. She almost considered attempting a bribe, but there wasn't generally a price for getting people to accept the wrath of the Ice Queen.
Tapping her foot impatiently on the sidewalk, Andy couldn’t hide her frustration at the crowd's slow progress across the paved expanse between the courthouse and the car. The camera shutters were deafening, even the advent of digital hadn't made the damn things quiet and it seemed like a thousand were pointed at Miranda as she moved at the glacial pace she so detested toward her escape. She hadn't stopped on the stairs to make a statement, which was unusual for someone who had been vindicated like that. Andy chewed at her lip as she realized it was probably in order to duck questions about Stephen, since the tabloid press at least would latch on to that fresh scandal immediately.
The crowd finally pushed itself around the waiting car, the driver doing well to hold the door open amidst the encroaching scrum. Andy seized her chance, slipping around to the far side and yanking the door open. Miranda didn't see her as she ducked into the back seat of the Mercedes, and Andy was relieved to see that nobody from her legal team joined her. After all cars, like elevators, were usually somewhere that Miranda preferred to be alone.
Not that Miranda was alone now, a fact she couldn’t help but realize as Andy landed ungracefully on the seat beside her. Miranda didn’t seem at all rattled by the insanity she’d just escaped, but her stunned silence at an unexpected guest certainly pointed to her being slightly off her game.
The driver opened his own door a moment later, offering a wide-mouthed stare at the second passenger, but when both he and Andy looked to Miranda for some word of protest, nothing was said. Sensing that it was more than his job was worth to question his employer, the young guy turned back to the steering wheel and pulled the car smoothly and swiftly away from the curb.
Andy didn't wait for the silence to become oppressive, she'd had weeks of biting her tongue, of being left with her own thoughts. Miranda hadn't answered the few calls that Andy had made, and her emails hadn't garnered so much as a read receipt, never mind a reply. So here she was, left to pray that Miranda wouldn't have a fit and push her former assistant out into moving traffic. Could be worse, Andy rationalized, late afternoon gridlock meant nothing that hit her would be going very fast. She'd learned almost two years ago to be grateful for small mercies.
"Congratulations, I guess?"
Miranda turned her head slowly, greeting Andy's asinine comment with one of her colder glares.
"No thanks to you, Andrea."
A few hours ago, Andy would have been filled with indignation at Miranda's lack of gratitude, but her moments of realization earlier had left a bitter taste in Andy's mouth. Didn't Miranda usually have a pretty good reason for insisting on things being done in a certain way? Not only had Andy overlooked that in her zeal to play the heroine (another pathetic bid for approval? She didn't want to dwell on it) but she'd roped Emily, and by extension Stephanie into her idiotic scheme.
"Well, the important thing is that it’s done. You’re a free woman.”
Miranda treated Andy to a disdainful glare over the top of her sunglasses, which she subsequently removed and popped carelessly into her Prada purse.
“Are you here for another exclusive, Andréa?”
There was challenge in the question, no mistaking that. Andy hesitated for a moment, not sure what test was being set for her. She’d become rusty at reading Miranda’s moods and implications, but ultimately, the thirst for a good story won out. Not that she wouldn’t kick herself if she’d screwed up a chance for something more… fun.
“Depends. Are you going to give me one?”
Miranda reached towards the door and for a panicked instant, Andy thought her earlier prediction about being hurled out onto Centre Street was about to come true. Instead there was a dull thud followed by the gentle creaking of a privacy screen sliding up behind the driver’s head.
Well. That was new.
Andy stared at the plain gray panel in stupefied silence as she tried to force breaths to go first in and then out. Something that was really not helped by Miranda’s hand grasping delicately around Andy’s wrist, because then it became impossible to focus on anything else, much less a trivial matter like breathing.
Turning her face back to Miranda left only one possible outcome that Andy could conjure up, and though she’d fantasized about it in detail for weeks and months now, the reality of it still left her a little terrified. Summoning up the last scraps of her courage, and discarding the last of her sanity, she turned towards Miranda. Andy didn’t stop to marvel in the unguarded beauty of Miranda’s face at close quarters, nor did she pause to wonder which floral notes of Miranda’s perfume were subtly filling the air between them.
Andy pressed her free hand tentatively against Miranda’s cheek, reasoning that if she had somehow misread or misconstrued the moment, it might be a little less embarrassing as a first move. But from the shuddering little sigh that escaped Miranda’s mouth, and the way she pressed her face into Andy’s touch, there was little doubt of her intentions.
“Is this how you want to celebrate, Miranda?”
Not giving Miranda a chance to answer, Andy captured her lips in a crushing kiss borne of weeks without contact, the first heady rush of a renewed addiction sweeping over her. Miranda kissed back like she’d be shot at dawn, as though the trial had delivered a life sentence with no chance of parole. Straddling Miranda in the back seat of a town car wasn’t Andy’s most elegant move, but too much space between them was more than she could bear.
Which seemed to suit Miranda just fine, judging by the way she gripped Andy’s hips and pulled her even closer. Even through the material of her pants, Andy could feel the heat of Miranda’s fingers, and the thought of where else they might go left her dizzy. Or maybe it was oxygen deprivation because breaking the knee-weakening kiss didn’t appear to be an option, not that Andy was in any state to complain.
Eventually they pulled apart, the harshness of their breathing almost deafening in the confined space. Miranda had a healthy flush to her face, her eyes glistening with some primal emotion that almost made Andy fear for her safety. Until Miranda grabbed Andy by the waistband of her pants and pulled her into another searing kiss, at least. By the end of that, Andy didn’t have enough firing neurons left to feel anything beyond a kind of overpowering lust.
She didn’t know which designer had hand-stitched Miranda’s exquisite silk top, but then Andy wasn’t remotely interested in checking the label either. With Miranda’s suit jacket pushed roughly down her arms, the unbelievably soft blue silk was the last obstruction between Andy and some of the many places her mouth was quite intent on visiting.
Just as she reached blindly for the hem of the top (her mouth occupied with kissing firmly against Miranda’s regal throat) the car began to slow to a stop. Andy assumed gridlock must be to blame, but Miranda’s sudden shove suggested otherwise. As Andy managed to tip herself back onto the seat instead of the floor, she thought to look out of the tinted window. She couldn’t quite believe that the sight of the Elias-Clarke building met her eyes; how the hell long had they been making out for anyway?
Andy waited for Miranda to bark out an instruction to the driver, either pointing out his mistake or a sudden change in plans. Because surely not even the Snow Queen could stop cold from a make-out session like that? Andy herself was practically panting, both from arousal and the sudden shock of stopping. Didn’t Miranda feel this same burning need to continue?
Seeing Miranda pat at her mussed hair and shrug her jacket back on, Andy realized that apparently Miranda felt no such thing.
“You’re going back to work?”
It came out sounding a lot squeakier than Andy had been going for, but there was no taking it back. Miranda had already retrieved her sunglasses, readying her mask once more for the outside world. She looked at Andy as though a kiss had never passed between them, much less something that seemed well on its way to rounding all the bases in very short order.
“Of course. I still have a full day. The magazine doesn’t produce itself, or had you forgotten that?”
Of the ways that a normal person might celebrate dodging a pretty significant legal bullet, Andy would have pegged Miranda for champagne toasts (or preferably, the long overdue fucking of a former assistant) rather than a humble return to the workplace as though nothing had ever happened.
“What about us? This, I meant this. I kind of thought we were-“
“What?” Miranda snapped. “I don’t know why you persist in exploiting this little weakness of mine, but surely you didn’t think I was about to make you the Ellen to my Portia? I have work to do, now that this nonsense has been dealt with.”
Well, first of all, Andy wanted to point out, she would definitely be the Portia in this particular equation. And second of all, what the hell was Miranda talking about?
“I wasn’t talking about a commitment ceremony. I thought we were going somewhere a lot more interesting that a few kisses, but hey, those pictures of emaciated models won’t publish themselves.”
Miranda gave that little jibe the derisive snort it deserved. She’d heard far worse criticisms of her precious Runway from far more impressive sources.
“Honestly, Andréa, this is nothing more than an indulgence. After what you did to me today, roping Emily and Stephanie into your little crusade, what right do you think you have to me?”
The warm pink glow that had suffused Miranda’s complexion just moments ago had faded completely, her face restored to its usual frosty state.
“Well, shouldn’t we talk about that. I didn’t-“
Miranda cut her off by raising her hand in dismissal, a gesture that would have sent an entire floor of Elias-Clarke into a tailspin, but Andy found herself quite unmoved, although she still shut up out of habit.
“There is nothing to discuss, understood? Go back to your sad little newspaper, Andréa. I should never have called you in the first place. God knows better journalists owe me favors. It’s just mystifying that you would choose to act this way.”
Andy didn’t get her chance for a response, to point out the hypocrisy of Miranda kissing one minute and eviscerating the next. Andy knew she had done nothing wrong, and yet here she sat on warm leather seats, being punished anyway as Miranda slipped her sunglasses on and eased her way out of the car in one fluid move. Only a handful of journalists and photographers waited for her, but before Andy could observe any further, the door was slammed closed.
The privacy screen creaked slowly down, and the driver barked out his question without turning around, clearly suspicious of Andy’s continued presence.
“Where to, miss?”
Andy watched as Miranda disappeared through the revolving door, shaking her head at what the hell had just happened between them. Miranda and her denial, Miranda and her odd little games, or just another weird moment in their thoroughly weird relationship? Andy honestly didn’t know.
“I’m getting out here; but thanks anyway.”
Shuffling across the space where Miranda had just been sitting, Andy opened the door and tried her hardest not to fall as she stepped out. Thankfully her legs didn’t betray her, and she was able to stumble her way first to Starbucks and back to the Mirror without too much incident.
She’d have to write something about the trial of the year, but for the first time since being summoned to Miranda’s home in the middle of the night, Andy had absolutely no idea what to say.
John greeted her as she trudged into the office, his edgy smile and rapid-fire questions about the trial left Andy feeling like she had in fact been greeted by machine gun fire instead. Making polite excuses, she pointed out that she had a deadline to meet, and John couldn’t get out of her way fast enough.
Dumping herself into her desk chair, with its ripped stitching and padding that was about as effective as sitting on a couple of tortillas, Andy exhaled the kind of sigh that came all the way from her toes. It was enough to jerk Josh out of his white-earphone isolation, shooting her a quizzical look across the in-trays that formed the only barrier between their desks.
“’Sup Woodward? Has your own little Watergate finally lost its shine?”
They might not share all their intimate secrets over Xerox paper and lukewarm coffee, but Josh knew Andy well enough to know when work was kicking her ass.
“Oh you know, turns out my trial of the year just got kicked out of court. And I have to write up the story of the most impossible woman I have ever met. Just another day at the office.”
Josh leaned back in his chair, clearly not having learned his lesson from the number of times he’d landed flat on his ass from trusting flimsy office furniture.
“I heard the judge threw it out. That’s good news, right?”
Unable to muster much more than a shrug, Andy pulled her notebook and earphones from her bag, having opted for a slightly more fancy Chloé number that had been one of Nigel’s first ‘gifts’. It might have been pretty, but it had no internal compartments and so basically all of Andy’s possessions had crumpled together in one big mess. It looked a lot like the contents of her head felt.
“Good news for Miranda, yeah. Now I need to write about it and I am so not in the mood.”
Josh flashed her a sympathetic smile before popping his earphones back in. Clearly Andy’s personal drama wasn’t interesting enough to keep him from writing up some merger or other. She logged into her computer, squared her shoulders and cracked her knuckles in reluctant preparation. Swigging from the water bottle on her desk one last time, Andy stared down the blank document in all its startling bright whiteness.
From the instant she hit the first key, the story began writing itself; Andy just held on and hoped for the best.
As the deadline approached, she selected all of the text and let her finger hover over the backspace key. Instead, she saved it and emailed it straight over to Josh. Before he even had a chance to get the notification, Andy had gathered up every scrappy note on her desk and dropped them in a pile on his cluttered workspace.
“What the hell?”
Well, it was behavior worthy of Josh removing both earbuds, at least. Small victories, Andy consoled herself.
“I can’t write this. I can’t, I’m just so wrapped up in it all that… I’m walking away, Josh. There’s a Business feature in there somewhere, you take it. I’m done.”
Josh began to argue, but Andy had scooped up her bag and jacket and was already striding towards the exit. She thought she heard John call after her as she hit the stairs running, but she didn’t look back or stop running until she hit the muggy air of a New York evening.
The tears began to well as she rooted around in her bag for her cellphone, and there was no holding back the sobs as she pressed speed dial one and got Lily within three rings, which had to be a record.
“Lily, I fucked up. I had this crush, and it’s all gone wrong. And now I think I’m in love with her, and she wants nothing to do with me.”
Not one person on the sidewalk stopped to stare at Andy, even though she was a loud and tearful mess. She consoled herself that she wasn’t the weirdest sight most people would encounter on their way home that night. Lily, to her credit, took only a moment to gather her wits.
“Girl, get your ass in the nearest cab and go home. I am leaving right now and coming to your place.”
Andy hung up gratefully, hailing a cab just as she’d been instructed. She didn’t need to tell her best friend to bring basically all the booze, because that had been a given even back when they were buying on fake IDs.
The cab driver didn’t seem remotely interested in his teary passenger, and Andy was grateful for the lack of conversation. She replayed her own words to Lily over and over again as they crawled through rush hour traffic, and the realization got no less horrifying the more she thought about it.
In love with Miranda Priestly? They’d locked people up for less.
NOW COMPLETE: Chapter 6D this way -->