Fic: Colorblind (part 6)
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: M (previous chapters have been rated T, so if you're not comfortable with M, skip over the first section)
Summary: (see previous chapters)
It was seven PM on a Friday and Andy was back at the townhouse. Miranda had made it clear that nothing would get in the way of making the Eliza Elisabeth spread as good as it could be, so Andy had been scheduled for a few meetings since her first with Miranda, although all since then had taken place at Runway. Now, she was back at the townhouse, and from what Nigel had implied, Andy surmised that Miranda had left work early so they could meet and that her mood was getting increasingly hard to read throughout the day.
Fantastic. Just what Andy needed - a moody Miranda Priestly. She knocked and a few moments later the door swung open to reveal one of the twins in one of her dresses.
“Hey you’re Andrea Sachs right?”
She hadn’t even gotten through the door yet. “Yeah,” she winced as it came out almost as a question.
“Awesome. I heard what happened with Cassidy… sorry,” Caroline sort of cringed. “We really do love your clothing.”
Andy smiled wide, “I can see that. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Caroline beamed. “Mom’s in the kitchen,” she turned around and walked down the hall, leaving Andy to close the door. Making her way back to where she knew the kitchen was, Andy wiped her hands nervously on her skirt. It was one of her own designs, tight but the material stretched, it went just above mid-calf. The blouse she wore was Chanel, and quite sheer, making visible her bra underneath. Andy realized now that maybe she’d unconsciously dressed up for Miranda. Of course you did, you moron.
She entered the kitchen and was immediately hit with the sight of Miranda tossing a salad, an apron covering a navy wrap dress with a boat neck that - Jesus Christ - showed off her chest in a way Andy thought maybe should be at least a little bit illegal.
“Andréa,” Miranda smiled at her slightly. That was something Miranda was doing more and more often around her - smiling. Not anything too big, just small little smiles or smirks, making Andy feel as though she were in on some joke, often making her insides warm.
“Miranda,” Andy smiled right back, and felt as though she’d just had life breathed into her. “Cooking?”
Miranda quirked an eyebrow. “A salad. And wine, of course.”
“Of course.”
Suddenly a loud “Bye Mom!” was shouted down the hallway and seconds after that the two women heard the front door slam.
“They’re going to some party,” Miranda said, turning her attention back to the salad. Deciding it was done, she pulled off her apron and motioned to the kitchen table, “Shall we?”
Dinner, Andy was surprised to find, was a very normal affair. She and Miranda spoke on a range of subjects - there was no awkwardness, in fact it felt as if they had been doing this for years. It tore slightly at Andy’s heart, but she pushed it down, wanting to make the most of whatever time she could get with Miranda.
They were in her study again, in the corner with the fireplace and the soft couches. Miranda was seated at her desk checking something for work while Andy perused the large bookshelves. Seeing that she had at least a few more minutes until Miranda was done, she pulled down a book of poetry and flipped through it randomly. Seeing a poem by John Donne, Andy turned towards Miranda and caught her eye.
“A fan of poetry, are you?” Miranda smiled slightly again, like she’d been doing for the past week now.
Andy just stared at her, looking on, holding the older woman’s gaze. Then something opened up inside of her, and Andy felt almost as if she were about to cry, because she was so in love with this woman. This woman whose silver forelock was slightly out of place now, who was pressing the edge of her glasses into her bottom lip and looking at her as though she knew her. Which, Andy realized, was entirely possible, because she felt as though she knew Miranda. In the few meetings they’d had, they’d managed to somehow get off track of work each time, the conversation turning more personal. And now, Andy became conscious of the fact that this remarkable woman sitting in front of her probably knew her better than anyone.
“Have you traveled much?” Miranda looked up from her work, quirking an eyebrow.
“I didn’t use to, before.” They both understood that ‘before’ meant ‘before I left you and became a designer.’
“And now?”
Andy shrugged, tilting her head. “Here and there for the shows - London, Milan, once to Australia.”
“Anywhere tropical?”
She cracked a smile, “Australia was hot,” and so does Miranda. Andy was desperate to ask why she was being questioned on her travel habits, but that was one of their unspoken rules during these conversations - you don’t ask why. “What’s your favorite place?”
A warm smile graced Miranda’s face, “St. Lucia.”
“Really?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “I had you pegged for somewhere like Amsterdam.”
“I took the girls there once, to St. Lucia, when I was… in between husbands,” Andy let out a bark of laughter at that and Miranda chuckled along. “We were there for a photo shoot, but I stayed behind with the girls for a few days afterwards. If it were up to them they would have spent the entire trip in the ocean.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It -“ She paused and look at Andy, then gave her a big, wistful smile. “It really was.”
She glanced down at the poem and started to read, knowing that Miranda wouldn’t take her eyes off her.
“I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.”
At this point Andy looked up and locked eyes with Miranda, continuing to recite the rest from memory, her voice velvety, caressing the familiar words.
“If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;”
“Stop,” Miranda whispered. Andy could see that there were tears in her eyes now, and watched as one slipped down her cheek. Miranda stood and walked over to where Andy was, invading her personal space just enough. “What do you want me to say?”
Andy shook her head slightly, her lip quivering. “I don’t know,” she whispered hoarsely, tears falling down her cheeks now.
Miranda brought her hands up and cupped Andy’s cheeks, wiping away her tears with her thumbs. “What are you thinking?” It came out as a low murmur, and Andy closed her eyes, finding the moment unbearable.
“I’m so in love with you it hurts,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.
“Look at me.” Andy shook her head and Miranda spoke with a little more urgency. “Look at me.”
Andy smiled sadly and opened her eyes, “I can’t do this Miranda.”
Miranda slid one of her hands down to Andy’s neck and breathed out shakily. “You must know you are not alone in this.” Andy nodded. “My God, how did this even happen?”
“Ask an easier question,” Andy said, throwing Miranda’s own response back at her. “You once told me that you live on hope,” Andy stepped closer and held Miranda’s chin so as not to break eye contact. “Well here I’ve been, for six months, hoping against hope that I would stop loving you,” she brought their faces so close together they were breathing each other’s air. “But I fear it’s a lost cause, and that I may never feel about another the way I feel about you.” She stopped then, waiting for Miranda’s reaction.
Suddenly she was being pulled forward and she felt her lips crush against Miranda’s. There was a fire between them that Andy had never experienced with anyone else before, and she whimpered with the knowledge. Opening her mouth she slid her tongue across Miranda’s bottom lip, and felt Miranda open up to her. She dropped the book as they explored each other’s mouth, and felt herself being pushed back against the bookshelf.
Just like that Miranda’s hands were all over her, pulling at her shirt, and when she couldn’t maneuver the buttons properly, tearing it down the middle. Andy gasped at this and clutched at the older woman’s waist, but Miranda didn’t even slow down, shoving Andy’s bra up and capturing a breast in her mouth. Andy moaned loudly at this and brought her right hand up behind her, holding onto the bookshelf.
As Miranda moved onto the other breast, she shoved Andy’s skirt down, leaving it bunched around her knees, and tore off the flimsy lace thong she’d been wearing. Andy reached her other hand behind her so that both were now holding onto bookshelves as Miranda ran her hands over Andy’s breasts, down her stomach and thighs, and then back up to her ass, squeezing slightly.
Andy let her head fall back against the bookshelf and groaned, and Miranda latched onto the pulse point on her neck, kissing down to her collarbone. Just when Andy thought she couldn’t take any more, she felt two of Miranda’s fingers thrust into her without warning, and she cried out, practically sobbing. Holding onto the shelves behind her so hard her knuckles turned white, Andy cried out over and over again as Miranda set a relentless pace, thrusting in and out of her while she peppered hot kisses on Andy’s neck.
Andy felt the buildup of her orgasm rushing towards her, and apparently so did Miranda, who stopped kissing her and caught her eye. Looking into the dark blue eyes of this woman, Andy felt her hips jerk and heard herself scream as she came. The world was falling down around her and Andy would have been lost to it but for the eyes of the woman holding her up.
Andy panted, leaning her forehead against Miranda’s. “Oh my god.”
“Mmm… you’re quite the sight,” Miranda’s voice was thick with arousal, and she stepped back to take in the image before her. Andy thought she probably looked a little ridiculous - shirt ripped open, bra shoved up to her chin, skirt bunched around her knees, trapping her legs - but as she watched Miranda watch her, Andy, with a groan, started to feel her own arousal build back up again.
Miranda saw this and chuckled, “It appears my work here is far from done.”
Andy smirked, pushing her skirt down until it pooled around her ankles. “My work hasn’t even begun.”
****
It was two days until the first show, and Miranda, quite out-of-character, found that the only thought persistently invading her mind was that of Andréa. They’d seen each other every day since that first night, spending hours together working, or making love, or doing absolutely nothing. Miranda felt she knew the other woman better than she knew herself, and she was sure the other woman knew her better than anyone else.
Sitting in her office Miranda looked over the first draft of the article that would accompany Andréa’s spread in Runway. It was… personal. Would people know of the connection they shared, just by reading it? Perhaps she should tone it down a bit? But the thought that the world not know who the real Andréa Sachs was, especially when the alternative was something close to what Cassidy had described two weeks ago, was unacceptable.
Andréa had stayed over the night before - the twins were off to some friend’s house and Lucas was on another business trip - when she’d been called into work at seven AM. Suffice it to say, when she got home a few hours later she wasn’t in the best mood.
Shoving her coat onto a hanger in the hall closet and throwing her purse onto a nearby table, Miranda was about to make her way back upstairs to where she’d left her lover when she heard music coming from the kitchen - and the smell of pancakes. Walking through the house to the kitchen, Miranda stopped in the doorway, just out of sight of Andréa, who was wearing an oversized t-shirt and panties, standing at the stove flipping perfectly-brown pancakes onto a plate, and dancing in a most awful way to - was that Van Morrison?
She watched as the younger woman spun around with the now-full plate of pancakes, swinging her hips back and forth until she caught sight of Miranda, at which point she grinned and - to Miranda’s increasing amusement - started dancing in an even more dramatic fashion. She watched as Andréa reached out for her hands and brought them above their heads, swaying their bodies together.
And somehow, between walking through the front door and walking through the kitchen door, Miranda’s awful mood had dissipated. Because they were standing in her kitchen dancing to Van Morrison and Oh fuck, I’ve fallen in love with her.
Miranda spun around in her chair to look out the large windows, thinking back on that morning-turned-afternoon. What am I going to do?
**
She stifled a yawn as she made her way to her lover’s suite. The past week was a blur. Fashion show after fashion show, a never-ending torrent of praise and gifts showered upon her, and except for one night, no time with Andréa.
The one night they’d had during Fashion Week had been, well, mind-blowing to say the least. Andréa’s was the last show of the day, and it was, as all her previous had been, a huge success. No doubt she’d be requested for interviews and magazine spreads. No one knew it yet, but Runway would have the first interview, and the first spread. Miranda smiled as she imagined the shock of the publishing world when that issue hit the stands. For some reason they always seemed to underestimate her.
Miranda thought back to that night though, they’d returned to Andréa’s suite and she’d been absolutely ravaged by the younger woman. They had lain in bed after, exhausted, Andréa stroking her back, her head resting softly on the younger woman’s stomach.
“How’s the piece going?”
“Hmm?”
“The interview… the one you insisted on doing?” An amused tint to her voice let Miranda know what the other woman was really thinking.
“Oh, yes. Well, you know.”
“Coming along and all that?”
“All of that, yes.”
That’s all they spoke of that night, and in the morning they left for the next round of shows. And in two days Andréa would leave New York.
Miranda knocked, a huge weight pressing down upon her. Andréa didn’t say anything as she led Miranda into the living room, and they both sat down on one of the couches.
“Should I offer you something to drink?”
Miranda almost smiled at that. “We should talk about it.”
“Is there even much to talk about?” Andréa’s answer surprised Miranda, and she took a good, long look at the younger woman. What she saw took her aback, because Andréa knew what she was going to say, and she was, it seemed, not going to argue. Miranda had come here expecting a fight, but Andréa had done what she always did, and took Miranda by surprise.
Miranda took Andréa’s hand. “I do love you.”
“I know,” she smiled in a small way. “But you’re married to a good man, and I won’t leave my job for you.”
“Nor would I leave mine for you.”
Andréa inclined her head, “As it should be.”
“How do you know me?” Miranda whispered, almost in wonderment.
“The same way you know me, I suppose.”
“It’s cruel, this much love.”
“Yes.” Andy nodded. Tears slipped down both their cheeks. Miranda stood up without another word, her hand slipping from Andy’s, and walked out the door. She cried in the car on the way home.
**
“Bloody hell, I can’t take it anymore,” cried Emily, doing her best to slam the door of Nigel’s office.
“What’s the problem now?” Nigel asked, tone bored. For the last seven months Emily had come storming in a few times every couple of weeks exclaiming that she’d “had enough” and “couldn’t do it anymore.” Invariably, she always did continue on in whatever it was she apparently couldn’t handle, but Nigel enjoyed these little chats if for nothing else than entertainment.
“Miranda, of course. She’s been just impossible since coming back from London. I’d had thought that the shows would have calmed her down a bit, but she’s just been worse. Especially since the issue featuring Eliza came out. I mean, god! She’s been dying to find her for the last five - six years? And when she finally gets a spread and interview out of that woman, she can’t even have the decent courtesy to look happy about it!” Emily was flailing her arms about now, but Nigel was very aware of the fact that she was still having trouble thinking about Andy Sachs and Eliza Elisabeth in the same terms. But it wasn’t his problem.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Say something to her?”
“Yes!” Emily cried, “I would bloody well love it if you said something to her!”
Nigel rolled his eyes again and shook his head slightly. “Maybe. Now get out, I’m busy.”
Dear God, he thought, Miranda really needs to get it together. It’s been seven months for crying out loud.
**
Miranda sat in her study on the couch, the door closed, the lights all off save one. On the table in front of her was her laptop and the issue of Runway featuring Andréa, and in her lap was the book of poetry Andréa had pulled off the shelf that night.
That night. Miranda was still unsure that she’d made the right decision. She’d go back and forth in her mind, because was all that pleasure worth so much pain? It had been seven months and still she found it hard to face what she’d lost.
The girls had noticed, too, although they were now off in college.
“Hey mom, you know Andrea Sachs?”
“Yes, sweetheart what about her?”
“Didn’t she used to be your assistant? Andy? Cassidy and I remembered the other day when you had your assistant get us the Harry Potter book - she said her name was Andy Sachs, and well, she looks a lot like Andrea…”
“Yes, she was my assistant.”
“Oh.”
“What is it?”
“We heard she left you in Paris.”
Miranda shucked off her glasses, resting her hand over her eyes. Tightening her hold on the poetry book, she let silent tears slowly fall. This is too hard. Miranda thought maybe she understood some of those famous poets, now, because this kind of love, the kind people write poetry about, it hurt. Like an ache that spread from heart to lungs to belly to feet; borne within her and her lover, exchanging pieces of self between them. When together, the ache, while present, is warm, wrapping its tentacles around the two and keeping them safe, but when apart it’s a blinding pain - and this must be, Miranda thought, why they were all so miserable.
Hearing her laptop ping Miranda opened her eyes, checking the new email. It was from Nigel, who, instead of sending her the new layout had sent her a link to a fashion gossip blog. Might as well, she thought.
It’s an article about Andréa, of course - she should have known. The headline reads A New Dragon Emerges, and underneath: Andrea Sachs, designer behind the line Eliza Elisabeth, has been spotted throughout the streets of Paris these last few weeks. Notorious for shutting herself in (or at least doing an expert job of avoiding the paparazzi), Sachs, it would seem, has come out to play. Most notable, however, are her large Chanel sunglasses - she’s yet to be photographed without them. After her article in Runway a month ago, it leaves us wondering, is Andrea the new Miranda? Are we looking at a new Dragon Queen? Wonder what La Priestly thinks of all this…
Miranda shut her laptop after finishing the article, although she didn’t think it deserved even that title. Sighing, Miranda leaned her head back against the couch, closing her eyes.
Sometime later she’s shaken awake. “Miranda?”
Blinking slowly, she sits up, seeing Lucas leaning over her. “Lucas.”
He moves away to the other couch, taking a seat. “I was wondering when you were coming to bed.”
She’s fully awake now, and slightly defensive. “You know I’m very busy.”
He puts up a hand, “I’m not mad, Miranda, just worried.”
“Whatever for?”
“You’ve been, I don’t know,” he shrugs, “sad.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t - I don’t know what to do to help.”
“There’s nothing to do.” She shrugs it off as if it’s nothing.
“There must be something, Miranda. You’ve been like this for months and… I only want to help.”
And goddamn him, because he really is a good man. “There’s nothing, Lucas. You can’t help it, I can’t help it. Just let it be.”
He sighs then, rubbing his palm across his jaw. “You don’t love me.”
“I -“
“No, no.” He waves her off. “It’s okay. I knew it when I married you, I just thought that maybe I could make you happy. I thought that maybe, even though we weren’t in love, we could be happy together; content.”
“Lucas -“
“But I don’t think you want contentment.” He looks at her then, questioning.
“No,” she whispers.
He nods slowly, “I didn’t think so.”
“What do you want?” She’s almost afraid of the answer.
“I want my first wife back,” he cracks a smile. “What do you want?”
“I won’t ask you for a divorce.”
“That’s not what I asked, Miranda. What do you want?”
And in a moment of weakness she answers him, “I want marriage to mean something again.”
“Like the first time? When you thought it would be the last?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
They look at each other, taking everything in. They don’t love each other, but there is a warmth there, a friendship, almost, and most certainly understanding. “Is there someone else?” He asks.
“Not anymore.” Her voice is gravelly.
“Why not?”
“I’m married. It could never have lasted.”
“It could never have lasted because we’re married?” He looked confused, and Miranda could practically kiss him for that, because his first thought wasn’t that she’d cheated on him, his first thought was why aren’t you still together? Almost like he expected her to find someone with whom she could be ‘not just content.’
“It could never have lasted because it could never have lasted,” she huffs. “We’re not good for each other.”
“Do you drive him crazy?” She can tell he’s partially joking by the way he smiles.
“It’s a woman.”
He rolls his eyes, “Fine. Do you drive her crazy?”
She just stares at him for a moment, before saying softly, “No. For reasons I cannot fathom, no.”
“Then why are the two of you doomed to fail?” He asks, the question genuine.
“Sometimes love isn’t supposed to last a lifetime. Sometimes you’re supposed to love, and then let go.” She’s speaking quietly now, as if explaining it to herself.
“And sometimes, Miranda, sometimes you’re wrong.”
“Not often,” she whispers.
“And if you are?”
“It doesn’t change the fact that we’re married. It doesn’t change my job, or her job, or where we live,” she was growing increasingly louder. “Let it drop, Lucas.”
“We don’t make each other happy, Miranda.”
“What do you want me to say to that?” She bit out.
“Five weeks ago I had my lawyer draw up divorce papers.”
“Excuse me?” The shock was evident in her voice.
“We both take what we came into this with, plain and simple.”
“Lucas -“
“I can’t watch you like this anymore,” He says softly. “You broke, somewhere along the way, and I can’t fix it. The only thing I can give you is your freedom, because I know you won’t ask for a divorce this time.” He pulls out a folder from his jacket pocket. “Here they are.” He stands. “You can wait and have your lawyers look them over, or you can trust that I’m trying to make this as painless as possible. I’ve already signed.”
As he’s walking out he hears a small “Thank you,” and thinks that it’s shame people can’t see Miranda for who she really is.
****
Andy numbly thumbed through the pages of - what she refers to as - her issue of Runway. Monica had brought a copy to the studio for her as soon as it had hit the stands, and Andy had studiously ignored it for a week. When she finally took it home, she couldn’t bear to open it, and so it had lain next to her chair for another few days. When she finally had the courage to crack it open, she couldn’t stop. It was as if the magazine was her life-source, and she read Miranda’s words over and over, her heart breaking each time she realized just how deeply the editor knew her, and she wondered if other people would be able to tell.
Yesterday, in a fit of rage, she’d torn the magazine into hundreds of pieces, and as they scattered over her floor Andy felt an acute pain. Seven months was a long time. A lifetime was longer, though, and Andy didn’t know if she quite had it in her.
She woke up the next morning and instantly regretted her actions, so here she was now, back in her apartment, flipping through a new copy of the old issue. She had to admit, the spread was beautiful. She’d ultimately decided to let Miranda use her collection from New York Fashion Week, and, as promised, she’d done it justice. She’d done it beyond justice, if that was a thing.
Last week Monica had brought some gossip-infused-fashion blog to her attention, as they’d put up some paparazzi photos of her. It wasn’t until she’d read the accompanying article that she’d even been aware that her large Chanel sunglasses resembled Miranda’s. But it made sense, nonetheless. If Miranda had taught her anything, it was how to stay hidden as a public figure, and not letting them see your eyes was, in Andy’s opinion, a big part of that. She supposed it was a good thing they couldn’t see her eyes, for surely they would pick up on the sadness that was just under the surface.
She had taken great pains to avoid Miranda during the London shows, arriving a day before her own show and leaving a day after. She suspected Miranda would not have sought her out though. There was a mutual understanding between them, though unspoken, that while they may love each other - and Andy had no doubt about that - they would not be together. In another life, maybe, but not this one, no matter how much it hurt.
The ringing of her phone brought Andy out of her thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Andrea?”
“Yes - who is this?” She was in no mood.
“Yes, well, it’s Emily.”
“Charlton?”
“Who else would it be?” Andy could tell the Brit hadn’t changed at all.
“Emily is a common name,” Andy rolled her eyes.
“I suppose. Well, it is me… Emily, that is.”
“Yeah, Em, I got that. Why are you calling me?” She sighed, too tired for this.
“Just to say… congratulations, I suppose… on your… work.” Andy thought she sounded almost pained at having to put those words into a sentence aimed at her.
“Thank you,” Andy sighed again. “Why did you really call?”
“What - fine,” she heard Emily huff. “Fine. I’m not - I’m not supposed to be calling.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rather, what I’m calling about is really off-limits, but Andrea, seriously, I’m at my wits-end!”
“Get to the point, Em,” there was only so much of this she could take.
“It’s Miranda.” Of course it was.
“I don’t think -“
“No, no! You must help me!”
“Do you even still work for her?”
“Not as her assistant, but, well, you know.”
“You never stop working for Miranda.”
“Yes. Well. She’s been absolutely miserable since the New York shows.”
“Why are you calling me?” There was no way Emily knew of their involvement, was there?
“Now, I realize that this is going to sound rather idiotic, but…” she hesitated, but Andy waited her out, wanting to know what she was going to say with intervening. “You just - well when you worked for her, you always knew her the best. So, what do I do? What did you do when she was unhappy?”
I smiled at her. “I got her coffee extra hot - I don’t know, Emily, just maybe try not to screw up too much.” Andy covered her forehead with her hand, closing her eyes. This was too much.
“Andrea. Andrea. I need real advice. Please.” Goddamnit, thought Andy, I can’t not do anything, not if she’s this unhappy. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she, too, was this unhappy.
“Alright, alright. I’ll send you something for her.”
She heard a sigh released on the other end of the line, “Thank god. Thank you, Andrea, really,” a pause. “And congratulations on your line.” She sounded sincere this time, at least.
“Thanks Emily,” she paused. “Good luck,” and hung up.
**
Four days later Miranda walked into her office to find a framed cover of the first edition of Runway that she’d edited. She smiled, and for the rest of the day, she was ‘not mean.’
**
A month later Andy woke up in a most unpleasant fashion, as she fell from her stool onto the floor below. She was in her studio, working, as always. The lights had been turned off long ago as everyone had left, and there was an empty bowl of soup sitting on the little side table a few feet away.
Shivering, she found her way to the storage closet and pulled out a large blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders. Making her way to the back office, she flicked on the lights and started the coffee machine, turning on the television for background noise. Of course, Monica had it set it one of the US channels - E News - fantastic.
It was just wrapping up a segment on the Emmys, when Andy noticed one of her designs flash across the screen. It was Fashion Police - was that right? - talking about one of the stars of some TV show, a star that was wearing one of her gowns.
She turned up the volume.
“Well the color, of course, is exactly what it should be, but you know, it always is with Eliza.”
“I know! But aside from color - I mean just look at that stitching! The design is exquisite!”
“But is it too old for her, do you think? Is she trying just a little too hard?”
“Nonsense! I like it when the girls dress up - makes me feel young again!”
She put it on mute. At least they hadn’t been trashing her dress. Turning towards the coffee maker she took out a mug, filled it, then added some milk. She was about to turn off the television when she saw an image of Miranda on screen.
Don’t do it. She couldn’t help herself.
“You know the Dragon Lady is always dressed to impress - I don’t think she’s worn one controversial outfit in her entire career until now.”
“I have to agree with you there, Joan. I’ve always admired how Miranda stays classic with her formal wear - nothing too flashy or overstated. But this, I mean, what a risk!”
“But can I just say, she pulls it off wonderfully?”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes! Who would have thought that we’d ever see the Ice Queen in a salmon-colored evening gown? And one from a designer so young?”
“Well I agree with you that the color’s quite unusual for her - but I have to say, after that article she wrote - I mean she’s clearly setting this designer up for success.”
“Did you know that Andrea Sachs used to be her assistant?”
“No!”
“I know! After all the rumors about what her assistants go through it’s a wonder Miranda’s promoting her.”
Andy pressed the power button, she couldn’t listen to this anymore. Miranda had worn one of her gowns to some benefit last night, and she’d looked breathtaking. There was no other way to describe it, no way to get around it, so she didn’t try.
Later that afternoon, as the hole in her chest widened just that much more, Andy stood up, and without thinking too much about it, threw a few pairs of clothes in her Louis Vuitton duffle bag. Grabbing her passport she flung the door open to reveal Miranda Priestly herself, knuckles poised to knock, an expression of shock on her face.
tbc
part seven... the last and final section :)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: M (previous chapters have been rated T, so if you're not comfortable with M, skip over the first section)
Summary: (see previous chapters)
It was seven PM on a Friday and Andy was back at the townhouse. Miranda had made it clear that nothing would get in the way of making the Eliza Elisabeth spread as good as it could be, so Andy had been scheduled for a few meetings since her first with Miranda, although all since then had taken place at Runway. Now, she was back at the townhouse, and from what Nigel had implied, Andy surmised that Miranda had left work early so they could meet and that her mood was getting increasingly hard to read throughout the day.
Fantastic. Just what Andy needed - a moody Miranda Priestly. She knocked and a few moments later the door swung open to reveal one of the twins in one of her dresses.
“Hey you’re Andrea Sachs right?”
She hadn’t even gotten through the door yet. “Yeah,” she winced as it came out almost as a question.
“Awesome. I heard what happened with Cassidy… sorry,” Caroline sort of cringed. “We really do love your clothing.”
Andy smiled wide, “I can see that. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Caroline beamed. “Mom’s in the kitchen,” she turned around and walked down the hall, leaving Andy to close the door. Making her way back to where she knew the kitchen was, Andy wiped her hands nervously on her skirt. It was one of her own designs, tight but the material stretched, it went just above mid-calf. The blouse she wore was Chanel, and quite sheer, making visible her bra underneath. Andy realized now that maybe she’d unconsciously dressed up for Miranda. Of course you did, you moron.
She entered the kitchen and was immediately hit with the sight of Miranda tossing a salad, an apron covering a navy wrap dress with a boat neck that - Jesus Christ - showed off her chest in a way Andy thought maybe should be at least a little bit illegal.
“Andréa,” Miranda smiled at her slightly. That was something Miranda was doing more and more often around her - smiling. Not anything too big, just small little smiles or smirks, making Andy feel as though she were in on some joke, often making her insides warm.
“Miranda,” Andy smiled right back, and felt as though she’d just had life breathed into her. “Cooking?”
Miranda quirked an eyebrow. “A salad. And wine, of course.”
“Of course.”
Suddenly a loud “Bye Mom!” was shouted down the hallway and seconds after that the two women heard the front door slam.
“They’re going to some party,” Miranda said, turning her attention back to the salad. Deciding it was done, she pulled off her apron and motioned to the kitchen table, “Shall we?”
Dinner, Andy was surprised to find, was a very normal affair. She and Miranda spoke on a range of subjects - there was no awkwardness, in fact it felt as if they had been doing this for years. It tore slightly at Andy’s heart, but she pushed it down, wanting to make the most of whatever time she could get with Miranda.
They were in her study again, in the corner with the fireplace and the soft couches. Miranda was seated at her desk checking something for work while Andy perused the large bookshelves. Seeing that she had at least a few more minutes until Miranda was done, she pulled down a book of poetry and flipped through it randomly. Seeing a poem by John Donne, Andy turned towards Miranda and caught her eye.
“A fan of poetry, are you?” Miranda smiled slightly again, like she’d been doing for the past week now.
Andy just stared at her, looking on, holding the older woman’s gaze. Then something opened up inside of her, and Andy felt almost as if she were about to cry, because she was so in love with this woman. This woman whose silver forelock was slightly out of place now, who was pressing the edge of her glasses into her bottom lip and looking at her as though she knew her. Which, Andy realized, was entirely possible, because she felt as though she knew Miranda. In the few meetings they’d had, they’d managed to somehow get off track of work each time, the conversation turning more personal. And now, Andy became conscious of the fact that this remarkable woman sitting in front of her probably knew her better than anyone.
“Have you traveled much?” Miranda looked up from her work, quirking an eyebrow.
“I didn’t use to, before.” They both understood that ‘before’ meant ‘before I left you and became a designer.’
“And now?”
Andy shrugged, tilting her head. “Here and there for the shows - London, Milan, once to Australia.”
“Anywhere tropical?”
She cracked a smile, “Australia was hot,” and so does Miranda. Andy was desperate to ask why she was being questioned on her travel habits, but that was one of their unspoken rules during these conversations - you don’t ask why. “What’s your favorite place?”
A warm smile graced Miranda’s face, “St. Lucia.”
“Really?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “I had you pegged for somewhere like Amsterdam.”
“I took the girls there once, to St. Lucia, when I was… in between husbands,” Andy let out a bark of laughter at that and Miranda chuckled along. “We were there for a photo shoot, but I stayed behind with the girls for a few days afterwards. If it were up to them they would have spent the entire trip in the ocean.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It -“ She paused and look at Andy, then gave her a big, wistful smile. “It really was.”
She glanced down at the poem and started to read, knowing that Miranda wouldn’t take her eyes off her.
“I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.”
At this point Andy looked up and locked eyes with Miranda, continuing to recite the rest from memory, her voice velvety, caressing the familiar words.
“If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;”
“Stop,” Miranda whispered. Andy could see that there were tears in her eyes now, and watched as one slipped down her cheek. Miranda stood and walked over to where Andy was, invading her personal space just enough. “What do you want me to say?”
Andy shook her head slightly, her lip quivering. “I don’t know,” she whispered hoarsely, tears falling down her cheeks now.
Miranda brought her hands up and cupped Andy’s cheeks, wiping away her tears with her thumbs. “What are you thinking?” It came out as a low murmur, and Andy closed her eyes, finding the moment unbearable.
“I’m so in love with you it hurts,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.
“Look at me.” Andy shook her head and Miranda spoke with a little more urgency. “Look at me.”
Andy smiled sadly and opened her eyes, “I can’t do this Miranda.”
Miranda slid one of her hands down to Andy’s neck and breathed out shakily. “You must know you are not alone in this.” Andy nodded. “My God, how did this even happen?”
“Ask an easier question,” Andy said, throwing Miranda’s own response back at her. “You once told me that you live on hope,” Andy stepped closer and held Miranda’s chin so as not to break eye contact. “Well here I’ve been, for six months, hoping against hope that I would stop loving you,” she brought their faces so close together they were breathing each other’s air. “But I fear it’s a lost cause, and that I may never feel about another the way I feel about you.” She stopped then, waiting for Miranda’s reaction.
Suddenly she was being pulled forward and she felt her lips crush against Miranda’s. There was a fire between them that Andy had never experienced with anyone else before, and she whimpered with the knowledge. Opening her mouth she slid her tongue across Miranda’s bottom lip, and felt Miranda open up to her. She dropped the book as they explored each other’s mouth, and felt herself being pushed back against the bookshelf.
Just like that Miranda’s hands were all over her, pulling at her shirt, and when she couldn’t maneuver the buttons properly, tearing it down the middle. Andy gasped at this and clutched at the older woman’s waist, but Miranda didn’t even slow down, shoving Andy’s bra up and capturing a breast in her mouth. Andy moaned loudly at this and brought her right hand up behind her, holding onto the bookshelf.
As Miranda moved onto the other breast, she shoved Andy’s skirt down, leaving it bunched around her knees, and tore off the flimsy lace thong she’d been wearing. Andy reached her other hand behind her so that both were now holding onto bookshelves as Miranda ran her hands over Andy’s breasts, down her stomach and thighs, and then back up to her ass, squeezing slightly.
Andy let her head fall back against the bookshelf and groaned, and Miranda latched onto the pulse point on her neck, kissing down to her collarbone. Just when Andy thought she couldn’t take any more, she felt two of Miranda’s fingers thrust into her without warning, and she cried out, practically sobbing. Holding onto the shelves behind her so hard her knuckles turned white, Andy cried out over and over again as Miranda set a relentless pace, thrusting in and out of her while she peppered hot kisses on Andy’s neck.
Andy felt the buildup of her orgasm rushing towards her, and apparently so did Miranda, who stopped kissing her and caught her eye. Looking into the dark blue eyes of this woman, Andy felt her hips jerk and heard herself scream as she came. The world was falling down around her and Andy would have been lost to it but for the eyes of the woman holding her up.
Andy panted, leaning her forehead against Miranda’s. “Oh my god.”
“Mmm… you’re quite the sight,” Miranda’s voice was thick with arousal, and she stepped back to take in the image before her. Andy thought she probably looked a little ridiculous - shirt ripped open, bra shoved up to her chin, skirt bunched around her knees, trapping her legs - but as she watched Miranda watch her, Andy, with a groan, started to feel her own arousal build back up again.
Miranda saw this and chuckled, “It appears my work here is far from done.”
Andy smirked, pushing her skirt down until it pooled around her ankles. “My work hasn’t even begun.”
****
It was two days until the first show, and Miranda, quite out-of-character, found that the only thought persistently invading her mind was that of Andréa. They’d seen each other every day since that first night, spending hours together working, or making love, or doing absolutely nothing. Miranda felt she knew the other woman better than she knew herself, and she was sure the other woman knew her better than anyone else.
Sitting in her office Miranda looked over the first draft of the article that would accompany Andréa’s spread in Runway. It was… personal. Would people know of the connection they shared, just by reading it? Perhaps she should tone it down a bit? But the thought that the world not know who the real Andréa Sachs was, especially when the alternative was something close to what Cassidy had described two weeks ago, was unacceptable.
Andréa had stayed over the night before - the twins were off to some friend’s house and Lucas was on another business trip - when she’d been called into work at seven AM. Suffice it to say, when she got home a few hours later she wasn’t in the best mood.
Shoving her coat onto a hanger in the hall closet and throwing her purse onto a nearby table, Miranda was about to make her way back upstairs to where she’d left her lover when she heard music coming from the kitchen - and the smell of pancakes. Walking through the house to the kitchen, Miranda stopped in the doorway, just out of sight of Andréa, who was wearing an oversized t-shirt and panties, standing at the stove flipping perfectly-brown pancakes onto a plate, and dancing in a most awful way to - was that Van Morrison?
She watched as the younger woman spun around with the now-full plate of pancakes, swinging her hips back and forth until she caught sight of Miranda, at which point she grinned and - to Miranda’s increasing amusement - started dancing in an even more dramatic fashion. She watched as Andréa reached out for her hands and brought them above their heads, swaying their bodies together.
And somehow, between walking through the front door and walking through the kitchen door, Miranda’s awful mood had dissipated. Because they were standing in her kitchen dancing to Van Morrison and Oh fuck, I’ve fallen in love with her.
Miranda spun around in her chair to look out the large windows, thinking back on that morning-turned-afternoon. What am I going to do?
**
She stifled a yawn as she made her way to her lover’s suite. The past week was a blur. Fashion show after fashion show, a never-ending torrent of praise and gifts showered upon her, and except for one night, no time with Andréa.
The one night they’d had during Fashion Week had been, well, mind-blowing to say the least. Andréa’s was the last show of the day, and it was, as all her previous had been, a huge success. No doubt she’d be requested for interviews and magazine spreads. No one knew it yet, but Runway would have the first interview, and the first spread. Miranda smiled as she imagined the shock of the publishing world when that issue hit the stands. For some reason they always seemed to underestimate her.
Miranda thought back to that night though, they’d returned to Andréa’s suite and she’d been absolutely ravaged by the younger woman. They had lain in bed after, exhausted, Andréa stroking her back, her head resting softly on the younger woman’s stomach.
“How’s the piece going?”
“Hmm?”
“The interview… the one you insisted on doing?” An amused tint to her voice let Miranda know what the other woman was really thinking.
“Oh, yes. Well, you know.”
“Coming along and all that?”
“All of that, yes.”
That’s all they spoke of that night, and in the morning they left for the next round of shows. And in two days Andréa would leave New York.
Miranda knocked, a huge weight pressing down upon her. Andréa didn’t say anything as she led Miranda into the living room, and they both sat down on one of the couches.
“Should I offer you something to drink?”
Miranda almost smiled at that. “We should talk about it.”
“Is there even much to talk about?” Andréa’s answer surprised Miranda, and she took a good, long look at the younger woman. What she saw took her aback, because Andréa knew what she was going to say, and she was, it seemed, not going to argue. Miranda had come here expecting a fight, but Andréa had done what she always did, and took Miranda by surprise.
Miranda took Andréa’s hand. “I do love you.”
“I know,” she smiled in a small way. “But you’re married to a good man, and I won’t leave my job for you.”
“Nor would I leave mine for you.”
Andréa inclined her head, “As it should be.”
“How do you know me?” Miranda whispered, almost in wonderment.
“The same way you know me, I suppose.”
“It’s cruel, this much love.”
“Yes.” Andy nodded. Tears slipped down both their cheeks. Miranda stood up without another word, her hand slipping from Andy’s, and walked out the door. She cried in the car on the way home.
**
“Bloody hell, I can’t take it anymore,” cried Emily, doing her best to slam the door of Nigel’s office.
“What’s the problem now?” Nigel asked, tone bored. For the last seven months Emily had come storming in a few times every couple of weeks exclaiming that she’d “had enough” and “couldn’t do it anymore.” Invariably, she always did continue on in whatever it was she apparently couldn’t handle, but Nigel enjoyed these little chats if for nothing else than entertainment.
“Miranda, of course. She’s been just impossible since coming back from London. I’d had thought that the shows would have calmed her down a bit, but she’s just been worse. Especially since the issue featuring Eliza came out. I mean, god! She’s been dying to find her for the last five - six years? And when she finally gets a spread and interview out of that woman, she can’t even have the decent courtesy to look happy about it!” Emily was flailing her arms about now, but Nigel was very aware of the fact that she was still having trouble thinking about Andy Sachs and Eliza Elisabeth in the same terms. But it wasn’t his problem.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Say something to her?”
“Yes!” Emily cried, “I would bloody well love it if you said something to her!”
Nigel rolled his eyes again and shook his head slightly. “Maybe. Now get out, I’m busy.”
Dear God, he thought, Miranda really needs to get it together. It’s been seven months for crying out loud.
**
Miranda sat in her study on the couch, the door closed, the lights all off save one. On the table in front of her was her laptop and the issue of Runway featuring Andréa, and in her lap was the book of poetry Andréa had pulled off the shelf that night.
That night. Miranda was still unsure that she’d made the right decision. She’d go back and forth in her mind, because was all that pleasure worth so much pain? It had been seven months and still she found it hard to face what she’d lost.
The girls had noticed, too, although they were now off in college.
“Hey mom, you know Andrea Sachs?”
“Yes, sweetheart what about her?”
“Didn’t she used to be your assistant? Andy? Cassidy and I remembered the other day when you had your assistant get us the Harry Potter book - she said her name was Andy Sachs, and well, she looks a lot like Andrea…”
“Yes, she was my assistant.”
“Oh.”
“What is it?”
“We heard she left you in Paris.”
Miranda shucked off her glasses, resting her hand over her eyes. Tightening her hold on the poetry book, she let silent tears slowly fall. This is too hard. Miranda thought maybe she understood some of those famous poets, now, because this kind of love, the kind people write poetry about, it hurt. Like an ache that spread from heart to lungs to belly to feet; borne within her and her lover, exchanging pieces of self between them. When together, the ache, while present, is warm, wrapping its tentacles around the two and keeping them safe, but when apart it’s a blinding pain - and this must be, Miranda thought, why they were all so miserable.
Hearing her laptop ping Miranda opened her eyes, checking the new email. It was from Nigel, who, instead of sending her the new layout had sent her a link to a fashion gossip blog. Might as well, she thought.
It’s an article about Andréa, of course - she should have known. The headline reads A New Dragon Emerges, and underneath: Andrea Sachs, designer behind the line Eliza Elisabeth, has been spotted throughout the streets of Paris these last few weeks. Notorious for shutting herself in (or at least doing an expert job of avoiding the paparazzi), Sachs, it would seem, has come out to play. Most notable, however, are her large Chanel sunglasses - she’s yet to be photographed without them. After her article in Runway a month ago, it leaves us wondering, is Andrea the new Miranda? Are we looking at a new Dragon Queen? Wonder what La Priestly thinks of all this…
Miranda shut her laptop after finishing the article, although she didn’t think it deserved even that title. Sighing, Miranda leaned her head back against the couch, closing her eyes.
Sometime later she’s shaken awake. “Miranda?”
Blinking slowly, she sits up, seeing Lucas leaning over her. “Lucas.”
He moves away to the other couch, taking a seat. “I was wondering when you were coming to bed.”
She’s fully awake now, and slightly defensive. “You know I’m very busy.”
He puts up a hand, “I’m not mad, Miranda, just worried.”
“Whatever for?”
“You’ve been, I don’t know,” he shrugs, “sad.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t - I don’t know what to do to help.”
“There’s nothing to do.” She shrugs it off as if it’s nothing.
“There must be something, Miranda. You’ve been like this for months and… I only want to help.”
And goddamn him, because he really is a good man. “There’s nothing, Lucas. You can’t help it, I can’t help it. Just let it be.”
He sighs then, rubbing his palm across his jaw. “You don’t love me.”
“I -“
“No, no.” He waves her off. “It’s okay. I knew it when I married you, I just thought that maybe I could make you happy. I thought that maybe, even though we weren’t in love, we could be happy together; content.”
“Lucas -“
“But I don’t think you want contentment.” He looks at her then, questioning.
“No,” she whispers.
He nods slowly, “I didn’t think so.”
“What do you want?” She’s almost afraid of the answer.
“I want my first wife back,” he cracks a smile. “What do you want?”
“I won’t ask you for a divorce.”
“That’s not what I asked, Miranda. What do you want?”
And in a moment of weakness she answers him, “I want marriage to mean something again.”
“Like the first time? When you thought it would be the last?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
They look at each other, taking everything in. They don’t love each other, but there is a warmth there, a friendship, almost, and most certainly understanding. “Is there someone else?” He asks.
“Not anymore.” Her voice is gravelly.
“Why not?”
“I’m married. It could never have lasted.”
“It could never have lasted because we’re married?” He looked confused, and Miranda could practically kiss him for that, because his first thought wasn’t that she’d cheated on him, his first thought was why aren’t you still together? Almost like he expected her to find someone with whom she could be ‘not just content.’
“It could never have lasted because it could never have lasted,” she huffs. “We’re not good for each other.”
“Do you drive him crazy?” She can tell he’s partially joking by the way he smiles.
“It’s a woman.”
He rolls his eyes, “Fine. Do you drive her crazy?”
She just stares at him for a moment, before saying softly, “No. For reasons I cannot fathom, no.”
“Then why are the two of you doomed to fail?” He asks, the question genuine.
“Sometimes love isn’t supposed to last a lifetime. Sometimes you’re supposed to love, and then let go.” She’s speaking quietly now, as if explaining it to herself.
“And sometimes, Miranda, sometimes you’re wrong.”
“Not often,” she whispers.
“And if you are?”
“It doesn’t change the fact that we’re married. It doesn’t change my job, or her job, or where we live,” she was growing increasingly louder. “Let it drop, Lucas.”
“We don’t make each other happy, Miranda.”
“What do you want me to say to that?” She bit out.
“Five weeks ago I had my lawyer draw up divorce papers.”
“Excuse me?” The shock was evident in her voice.
“We both take what we came into this with, plain and simple.”
“Lucas -“
“I can’t watch you like this anymore,” He says softly. “You broke, somewhere along the way, and I can’t fix it. The only thing I can give you is your freedom, because I know you won’t ask for a divorce this time.” He pulls out a folder from his jacket pocket. “Here they are.” He stands. “You can wait and have your lawyers look them over, or you can trust that I’m trying to make this as painless as possible. I’ve already signed.”
As he’s walking out he hears a small “Thank you,” and thinks that it’s shame people can’t see Miranda for who she really is.
****
Andy numbly thumbed through the pages of - what she refers to as - her issue of Runway. Monica had brought a copy to the studio for her as soon as it had hit the stands, and Andy had studiously ignored it for a week. When she finally took it home, she couldn’t bear to open it, and so it had lain next to her chair for another few days. When she finally had the courage to crack it open, she couldn’t stop. It was as if the magazine was her life-source, and she read Miranda’s words over and over, her heart breaking each time she realized just how deeply the editor knew her, and she wondered if other people would be able to tell.
Yesterday, in a fit of rage, she’d torn the magazine into hundreds of pieces, and as they scattered over her floor Andy felt an acute pain. Seven months was a long time. A lifetime was longer, though, and Andy didn’t know if she quite had it in her.
She woke up the next morning and instantly regretted her actions, so here she was now, back in her apartment, flipping through a new copy of the old issue. She had to admit, the spread was beautiful. She’d ultimately decided to let Miranda use her collection from New York Fashion Week, and, as promised, she’d done it justice. She’d done it beyond justice, if that was a thing.
Last week Monica had brought some gossip-infused-fashion blog to her attention, as they’d put up some paparazzi photos of her. It wasn’t until she’d read the accompanying article that she’d even been aware that her large Chanel sunglasses resembled Miranda’s. But it made sense, nonetheless. If Miranda had taught her anything, it was how to stay hidden as a public figure, and not letting them see your eyes was, in Andy’s opinion, a big part of that. She supposed it was a good thing they couldn’t see her eyes, for surely they would pick up on the sadness that was just under the surface.
She had taken great pains to avoid Miranda during the London shows, arriving a day before her own show and leaving a day after. She suspected Miranda would not have sought her out though. There was a mutual understanding between them, though unspoken, that while they may love each other - and Andy had no doubt about that - they would not be together. In another life, maybe, but not this one, no matter how much it hurt.
The ringing of her phone brought Andy out of her thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Andrea?”
“Yes - who is this?” She was in no mood.
“Yes, well, it’s Emily.”
“Charlton?”
“Who else would it be?” Andy could tell the Brit hadn’t changed at all.
“Emily is a common name,” Andy rolled her eyes.
“I suppose. Well, it is me… Emily, that is.”
“Yeah, Em, I got that. Why are you calling me?” She sighed, too tired for this.
“Just to say… congratulations, I suppose… on your… work.” Andy thought she sounded almost pained at having to put those words into a sentence aimed at her.
“Thank you,” Andy sighed again. “Why did you really call?”
“What - fine,” she heard Emily huff. “Fine. I’m not - I’m not supposed to be calling.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rather, what I’m calling about is really off-limits, but Andrea, seriously, I’m at my wits-end!”
“Get to the point, Em,” there was only so much of this she could take.
“It’s Miranda.” Of course it was.
“I don’t think -“
“No, no! You must help me!”
“Do you even still work for her?”
“Not as her assistant, but, well, you know.”
“You never stop working for Miranda.”
“Yes. Well. She’s been absolutely miserable since the New York shows.”
“Why are you calling me?” There was no way Emily knew of their involvement, was there?
“Now, I realize that this is going to sound rather idiotic, but…” she hesitated, but Andy waited her out, wanting to know what she was going to say with intervening. “You just - well when you worked for her, you always knew her the best. So, what do I do? What did you do when she was unhappy?”
I smiled at her. “I got her coffee extra hot - I don’t know, Emily, just maybe try not to screw up too much.” Andy covered her forehead with her hand, closing her eyes. This was too much.
“Andrea. Andrea. I need real advice. Please.” Goddamnit, thought Andy, I can’t not do anything, not if she’s this unhappy. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she, too, was this unhappy.
“Alright, alright. I’ll send you something for her.”
She heard a sigh released on the other end of the line, “Thank god. Thank you, Andrea, really,” a pause. “And congratulations on your line.” She sounded sincere this time, at least.
“Thanks Emily,” she paused. “Good luck,” and hung up.
**
Four days later Miranda walked into her office to find a framed cover of the first edition of Runway that she’d edited. She smiled, and for the rest of the day, she was ‘not mean.’
**
A month later Andy woke up in a most unpleasant fashion, as she fell from her stool onto the floor below. She was in her studio, working, as always. The lights had been turned off long ago as everyone had left, and there was an empty bowl of soup sitting on the little side table a few feet away.
Shivering, she found her way to the storage closet and pulled out a large blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders. Making her way to the back office, she flicked on the lights and started the coffee machine, turning on the television for background noise. Of course, Monica had it set it one of the US channels - E News - fantastic.
It was just wrapping up a segment on the Emmys, when Andy noticed one of her designs flash across the screen. It was Fashion Police - was that right? - talking about one of the stars of some TV show, a star that was wearing one of her gowns.
She turned up the volume.
“Well the color, of course, is exactly what it should be, but you know, it always is with Eliza.”
“I know! But aside from color - I mean just look at that stitching! The design is exquisite!”
“But is it too old for her, do you think? Is she trying just a little too hard?”
“Nonsense! I like it when the girls dress up - makes me feel young again!”
She put it on mute. At least they hadn’t been trashing her dress. Turning towards the coffee maker she took out a mug, filled it, then added some milk. She was about to turn off the television when she saw an image of Miranda on screen.
Don’t do it. She couldn’t help herself.
“You know the Dragon Lady is always dressed to impress - I don’t think she’s worn one controversial outfit in her entire career until now.”
“I have to agree with you there, Joan. I’ve always admired how Miranda stays classic with her formal wear - nothing too flashy or overstated. But this, I mean, what a risk!”
“But can I just say, she pulls it off wonderfully?”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes! Who would have thought that we’d ever see the Ice Queen in a salmon-colored evening gown? And one from a designer so young?”
“Well I agree with you that the color’s quite unusual for her - but I have to say, after that article she wrote - I mean she’s clearly setting this designer up for success.”
“Did you know that Andrea Sachs used to be her assistant?”
“No!”
“I know! After all the rumors about what her assistants go through it’s a wonder Miranda’s promoting her.”
Andy pressed the power button, she couldn’t listen to this anymore. Miranda had worn one of her gowns to some benefit last night, and she’d looked breathtaking. There was no other way to describe it, no way to get around it, so she didn’t try.
Later that afternoon, as the hole in her chest widened just that much more, Andy stood up, and without thinking too much about it, threw a few pairs of clothes in her Louis Vuitton duffle bag. Grabbing her passport she flung the door open to reveal Miranda Priestly herself, knuckles poised to knock, an expression of shock on her face.
tbc
part seven... the last and final section :)