Lonely Ladies chapter 2
Miranda waited patiently in the closet until she was sure that Andrea had left the building. It wouldn't do for the girl to know that she'd been discovered in the midst of her treachery. The extra time allowed Miranda to focus instead on the more important issue of how she would handle the Daniel Brown plagiarism case: She went through the rest of the closet for the works of Nevagos and then went back to the office to search on-line and in the Runaway databases for more of Nevagos' designs. It was five a.m. when Miranda finally decided she had enough evidence to prove her case: This was not the mere flattery of imitation, this was an out-right theft.
For Miranda, and for most artists, stealing a person's ideas was much worse than stealing a possession or money. To steal a dress, a painting, or money, meant to steal that which is replaceable, but to steal an idea was an attempt to steal an identity, a life's work, and the very thing that made the artist live and breathe. It was the worst kind of theft, and the mark of a craven coward, incapable of appreciating what made art, Art.
Miranda had decided that the best way to handle the theft was not to draw attention to the thief directly, but to plan a retrospective on deceased artists that would highlight what was immortal about pure creativity. When she was through with her issue on John Nevagos, Willi Smith, and Gianni Versace, no-one would be willing to look at the fraud that was Daniel Brown. She would also allow the very people that he had fooled and betrayed (the very people who imagined that they could understand and dismiss what it was that Miranda produced every single month--in every single issue of Runway--absolutely wrung from herself and her staff), to destroy him for his hubris.
Arriving at the townhouse at 5:30 a.m., she had just enough time to shower and redress for her day before she made breakfast for the twins. When Miranda didn't get to say goodnight to the girls before their bedtime, she was always sure to be in the kitchen early in order to make their breakfast; likewise, she packed their lunches every school-day that they spent with her--carefully quartering the sandwich for Cassidy and halving it for Caroline. Cassidy preferred smooth peanut butter with grape jelly, and Caroline insisted on crunchy peanut butter with strawberry jam.
Although Miranda felt the gesture was pitifully small, she hoped that Cassidy and Caroline would remember these tiny efforts when they grew up and had children of their own. She went to the espresso machine and brewed herself the first of many coffees she would use to keep herself awake after a sleepless night. It was not a new occurrence for her to spend a sleepless night; although, from the look of her flawless hair, make-up, and clothing, you would never know that her head hadn't touched a pillow for over twenty-four hours.
"Good morning babies!" Miranda chirped as they entered the kitchen.
Both of the girls rolled their eyes, but Cassidy still walked over to hug her mother. Even as an infant, Cassidy had been the more affectionate of the two girls: She took after Miranda. Secretly, Miranda couldn't refuse those she loved anything: At home, the editrix was putty in the hands of her daughters. Caroline took after her father; she was no-nonsense, and she was already planning on her day at school and afternoon piano lessons.
"Roy has to take us to Madame Boulanger's this afternoon. Make sure he's at the school at 2:45 p.m. sharp. We have to practice the Rachmaninoff," Caroline said as she reached for the buttered toast and added the slices to her plate next to the eggs Miranda had scrambled. Miranda walked over and drew the girl's head to her stomach, which Caroline pretended to endure, even as she presented her cheek upwards for a kiss from her mother.
"Yes Bobsie, I haven't forgotten that your big recital is coming up--I'm looking forward to it, and so is Stephen."
The twins instinctively made snorting noises at the mention of Stephen's name: Although he had tried to put on a show of being a new 'father-figure' when he and Miranda had first married, within months it had become clear that the best Miranda could hope for between her husband and children was mere toleration. The girls were not won-over with his efforts to impress them, and Stephen was frankly jealous of the way that Miranda always put her daughters first. While Miranda would never cancel a work function, or put aside the Book, for Stephen, as soon as the twins became ill or had a school function, they took precedence over everything else. It seemed to enrage Stephen even more that there was one thing that could distract Miranda from her single-minded career drive, but Miranda thought Stephen was a fool--what kind of adult male would even want to compete with little girls?
"You look pretty today mommy!" said Cassidy; ever the peace-maker, she saw that
her mother had winced when they had snorted.
Miranda kissed the top of Cassidy's head and drew her hand over Caroline's hair: It gave her comfort to simply touch them, she feared that soon enough they would be typical teenagers, and that they would become increasingly estranged from her. It was something that all teenage girls were supposed to go through with their mothers, but Miranda wanted them to be her babies just a little bit longer--she remembered being happy, sewing with her own mameleh, before Miranda had become a woman--before she had disappointed her family so thoroughly and permanently by wanting another kind of life. Her desire to stop time with the twins had the added pang of nostalgia for her own lost childhood and mother. She drew in a sharp breathe and walked over again to the coffee machine.
"Thank you, sweetheart. You look lovely too." Was all that she said.
Miranda had chosen her clothing carefully, even agonizingly, that morning. On the one hand, she wanted to punish Andrea for looking at her, but on the other, Miranda was more than a little embarrassed to recall the words the young woman had used to describe her physical attributes--so frankly discussing her sexual attraction to Miranda.
Miranda was used to looking at other women, to judging other women as beautiful or not: To be the object of another woman's gaze, to be the object of a beautiful young woman's gaze. (Miranda had noticed how beautiful Andrea was, even from the first split-second she had laid eyes on the girl, but she had chosen instead to focus on her hideous clothing.) made Miranda exceedingly uncomfortable. Even when men paid attention to Miranda, she was cool, after all, she didn't need anyone else to get ahead, and all men left her vaguely unmoved. The models were as mere mannequins to her, but Andrea had been hired because she had struck a chord in Miranda. That was why Miranda had suddenly, and whimsically--she who never gave into whims, even if others did not recognize her careful deliberations--had Emily run down to the lobby to catch this odd girl. Miranda Priestly was full of a strange dread whenever confronted with Andrea Sachs, but it was a dread she would never admit to or accommodate.
After dropping off the girls at school, Miranda arrived at the Runway offices. She always travelled alone in the elevator in order to have a few precious moments to herself before the next onslaught of work demands began. In the mornings it also gave her the necessary time in which she could transform her demeanour from a doting mother into an unappeasable employer.
Staring straight ahead, Miranda managed to charge by and tried hard to appear to nonchalantly throw her coat and bag onto Andrea's desk; all the while carefully avoiding the girl's eyes and expression--just as Miranda had before she had become acutely aware of Andrea's every gesture and look.
"Call a full staff meeting and get the printers to stop the pages from this past week, we’re going to revise the cover as well, so make sure Mr. Ravitz knows that there will be a considerable budget over-run this month." Miranda called over her shoulder.
In her office was waiting her Latte--Thank God! At least the impertinent snip of a girl had managed to learn that part of her job! Miranda could hear the sound of Emily gasping and the scurrying of both assistants suddenly and frantically calling the staff together for the unexpected meeting. She sat down and contentedly drank her coffee, pleased at the knowledge that she had once again managed to throw everyone else, off-balance.
Nigel was the first to come into her office. He was supposed to be the 'dragon-tamer' on the staff. Miranda loved and appreciated Nigel, but she also knew that he was no match for her talents, when she allowed Nigel to mediate her decisions, it was a conscious act of clemency, not a matter of being 'managed.' She waited for him to begin his spiel, wondering how long it would take him to notice the dresses hanging from the lamp next to her desk and draped over the furniture in the room.
"Miranda, my dahr-ling, as much as I lohng to witness the moment when Irv Ravitz finally bursts the pea-shell that houses his minuscule brain, I have to wonder why you're intent on killing everyone else on the staff in the..."
Miranda smiled at the pause.
"What are Daniel Brown's dresses doing here? Miranda, sweetie, we both know that ship has sailed. It's too late to suddenly have discovered the man when the issues of Anna's little rag have already been on the stands for days! Subscribers received the issue two weeks ago!"
"Thank you Nigel, I am ever so slightly aware of how magazine publishing works, but your efforts at making sure that I haven't forgotten how deadlines proceed, or my own name, and the names of the children I gave birth to, are much appreciated."
Miranda swung around in her seat to face Nigel. Even though she considered Nigel one of her few friends and confidants, she couldn't resist the desire to tease him for having doubted her during the past two weeks.
"These are not the work of the man who calls himself Daniel Brown; although, heaven only knows the name and identity of a man who would sink to such fraud as he has with his sewing. These gowns, as I'm sure you'd have recognized-- if you really thought about it for a few moments-- are the work of John Nevagos, deceased. That dress is from 1979, and it is the work we will be highlighting in our next issue, and on the cover as well. None of these beautiful creations are the work of a certain fraud, who managed to deceive a certain hack journalist three months ago, when her magazine would have gone to the printer for this month's issue."
Nigel stood and gaped.
"We're changing this coming month's issue to feature a review of John Nevagos, Willi Smith, and Gianni Versace. True genius is irreplaceable by the likes of Brown, and unrecognizable by the likes of a certain other Editor. Make sure you explain this to the staff when they come to you in order to question my decisions and judgment; I do so hate to repeat the obvious." Miranda purred, and she swung her seat back to face her desk without giving another look to Nigel. "That's all."
Even though he felt the sting of Miranda's sarcasm, Nigel couldn't help but laugh. "You're a wonder Miranda! An absolute force of nature, I'll get Jocelyn and the others together into the conference room. I couldn't put my finger on it, but you..." He trailed off as he left the room.
Now all Miranda had to do was wait for Irv to explode, before she explained how she was going to disgrace the thief and his champion--it was good to be queen! While she waited for the shock-waves to spread through the masses, she would have time to deal with that girl outside and her filthy mind. The thought of Andrea took the smile from Miranda's face. Normally it made her happy to put others in their places, but this was making her Latte chill and turn bitter. Perhaps she could wait until tomorrow to deal with Andrea. Today was a big day, and she had a great deal to do if she wanted to change the next issue so suddenly. Yes, she would wait until another, more appropriate time, when she could focus the full force of her wrath on Andrea.
But Andrea would insist on barging into her office just as Miranda had decided to grant the girl a temporary reprieve.
"His secretary called! Mr. Ravitz is on his way right now. He's putting off his meeting with the board of directors in order to drive here: He'll be here in ten minutes!" Andrea seemed almost breathless with fear.
Miranda suddenly felt the effects of her sleepless night fall on her like a heavy weight as if it had been thrown from a high place. What did it matter to Andrea? Why did she appear to be so panicked and worried for Miranda's safety? What was all this to Andrea?
'What was she to Hecuba, or Hecuba to her?' The girl didn't give a damn about fashion or about Miranda--well, except to leer. Thinking again of the words that she had heard the night before, and the hours without sleep or rest made Miranda flush ever so slightly.
"Fine. I'm prepared, as ever, to meet with Mr. Ravitz. Show him into the conference room with the others. Cancel my lunch with Stephen and make an appointment with my masseuse, Heather; tell her my shoulder is killing me and that her suggestions about stretches have not helped. See if we can get Mauro to stay past tomorrow, and make sure that they have the correct Klein skirts at the shoot. Tell Roy to get the twins at 2:40 p.m. and to take them for their lessons. Have Emily come in, and be prepared to cover her phone today while she reschedules my week. That's all." Miranda stopped and attempted a convincing glare at the girl.
The girl refused to wilt. Instead she stared at Miranda.
Miranda looked down at her own cleavage--Damn-it! It was too much, she was losing her own dignity by wearing something that was so low-cut. She had tried on seven different blouses this morning and three different suits, but it had been a mistake to pick one that exposed her breasts in such a vulgar fashion. Fatigue had clouded her judgement! She had wanted to make the girl nervous, but now Miranda felt a burn sweep up her neck towards the tip of her ears and threaten to set her famous hair on fire.
"What are you staring at, An-dray-yuh!" Miranda demanded, grabbing at her authority like a drowning man would grab at straws.
Andrea was, in fact, staring directly at Miranda's face--and not her chest; however, that realization did not help Miranda's face and neck to cool down. She had not experienced such an uncomfortable blush since she was sixteen.
"I understand it now," whispered the girl.
"What?! What do you understand? What are you staring at?" Miranda was afraid she was going to panic and start shouting at any moment. It was the sheer force of habit and will that allowed Miranda to keep her volume at a threatening whisper.
"Your eyes. They're cerulean, like you said. Your suit is indigo, your blouse is lapis, and together they make your eyes reflect cerulean. They all complement one another. That's what you were trying to explain about colors."
For one of the first times in recent, or even distant, memory, Miranda could not respond. It was as if she had been struck in the head with the broad side of a shovel. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She wondered briefly, if she'd just experienced a stroke of some kind.
In an act of mercy from a God that Miranda hadn't prayed to in decades, the girl suddenly seemed to realize that her behavior was both boorish and grounds for dismissal.
"I'm sorry. Oh, Sorry. Uh. Mmm. Sorry! Ravitz. Stephen. Heather. Mauro. Klein. Roy. Piano. Emily." The girl panted out the words and then spun around, practically running out of Miranda's office.