LIAB 2: In the Soup, 7/15
PART SEVEN
In which Andy goes to physical therapy for the first
time ... and the Priestlys return to their regularly
scheduled programs. Unfortunately.
Author: Medora MacD (medoramacd@yahoo.com)
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Mirandy
Rating: For language, R now and PG eventually. Also M, as in Mmm, for rampant “foodiness.” Which is to food as “truthiness” is to truth. Which is to say, I cook and I eat, but not often at the refined levels which will be referred to in these stories. I hope you find this delectable, nonetheless.
Trigger Warning: Those sensitive to the subject of eating disorders should be aware that they play a very small part in this story.
Length/Word Count: 27,000+
Genre: Drama, Comedy, Romance
Summary: AU - What might occur in an alternative universe where Miranda Priestly's assistant was one Nate Cooper and Andrea Sachs is an aspiring chef. This is the second "course" in a series called "Life is a Banquet" - aka LIAB.
You could read this story without reading the first one, but really: Why deprive yourself of that pleasure - and the insight it will provide into this one? You can begin it here.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada belongs to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Not for profit, just fun.
Banner: By Medora MacD, using stills from The Devil Wears Prada and Rachel Getting Married.
A/N: Sincere, deep, and lasting thanks to corchen, gsdcow, and the amazing raiderl for helping me amp up the “cowbells.” Credit to Marge Kennedy, whose paraphrased comment about soup is the theme for this installment. All comments and feedback are welcome.
Tags: all: fiction, genre: AU, pairing: andy/miranda, rating: R, status: wip, series: life is a banquet, user: Medora_macd
______________________________________________________________________
IN THE SOUP
( Part One ) | ( Parts Two and Three ) | ( Part Four ) | ( Part Five ) | (Part Six) |
PART SEVEN
Monday, June 9, 2008
On Monday morning the Priestlys returned to their regularly scheduled programs. While Christina made breakfast for Andy and helped her prepare for her first trip to physical therapy, her upstairs neighbors ate breakfast (she presumed) and dressed for work and day camp. At 8 she and Christina heard the staccato of stilettos descending the front steps and saw Miranda, the Book under her arm, striding to the curb where Roy was holding open the door to the town car. This was followed half an hour later by a stampede overhead as Caroline and Cassidy went out front to be driven to Dalton.
How could something called “sneakers” make so much racket? Andy wondered, marveling at the girls’ energy.
She and Christina rolled out at 8:45, Christina pushing the wheelchair over Andy’s objections. “There’s rough road ‘tween here and the hospital,” Christina said, “and you’re not used to getting around in this thing yet. Let me do the driving until you get up to speed.”
Much as Andy hated looking like some kind of gimboid, by the time they got to Lenox Hill she was glad she had relented. Everything looked different - and terribly confusing - when viewed from wheelchair level instead of her normal height of five foot nine. There’d been more foot traffic on the crosswalks than she had expected. It would have been difficult to make her way through that and power herself up and down the curb cuts.
When Christina offered, ninety minutes later, to let her “drive” on the way back, she had just enough strength to flip her off.
“None of that, missy, or I’ll hit every pothole,” Christina responded with a smile. “You have a good time in physical therapy?”
“‘Therapy,’ my ass,” Andy said. “The T in P.T. stands for ‘torture.’ I’m sure of it now.”
Actually, it had been better than she expected. Loren, her physical therapist, was really a decent guy. He hadn’t cut her any slack, but he’d put her through her paces with humor and thoughtfulness, explaining what they were doing and why. And before she left, he’d pasted a gold star on her cast, something that had made her absurdly proud. She was looking forward to showing it to the twins.
Back at the townhouse, she stayed awake through a much-needed shower and the lunch Consuelo fixed for her. She was out like a light, though, as soon as Christina helped her into bed afterwards.
The next thing she knew Consuelo was waking her up. “Sorry, Miss Andy. But it’s 4:30. Do you need anything besides dinner before I leave?”
“Andy.”
“Que?”
“Just Andy.” She cleared her throat. “Just like Miranda is Miranda. Unless you think I’m more important than she is.”
She started to sit up.
“Bloody hell!” She looked at Consuelo apologetically. “Sorry. I’m trying to cut back on the cursing. But … I got even more of a workout than I realized in P.T. today. My abs are in agony. Fudge!”
“Can I get something for your pain?”
“Please,” Andy replied, “but not the prescription stuff, okay? Tylenol - on the counter in the bathroom - should take care of the aches and won’t make me babble in front of the girls.”
“The girls won’t be home tonight,” Consuelo said, heading to the bathroom. “Mindy invited them to a sleepover. Mr. TerHorst will take them to school tomorrow.”
Andy was upset at the news, she discovered. Unreasonably so, she decided upon reflection. It was ridiculous to feel slighted. She was a grown woman, fully capable of entertaining herself for an evening.
Consuelo returned with a glass of water and two pills.
“Miranda has given Salma and Esperanza tonight off since the twins are at their friend’s house and she has a business dinner and a meeting. Will you be okay on your own?”
Andy shook her head, still not quite awake. “Supper would be nice, yes, but it doesn’t have to be fancy. I can cope until the aide comes at 9. If something comes up, I’ll call. Your number is in here, right?”
She patted the cell phone on the nightstand beside her bed. Or would have, if it had been there. “Shit! I mean … Sugar! Where’s that thing gone to now?”
Consuelo bent over, picked it off the floor, and handed it to her.
“Gosh, thanks. I must have knocked it off. … Anyway, you make sure I get out of bed okay, get me a sandwich or something, and I’ll be set.”
* * * * *
Everything was quiet after Consuelo left. Too quiet. Finding herself in too much discomfort for reading, Andy indulged in some rabid channel surfing, settling at last on the Food Network and Dinner: Impossible. Host Robert Irvine was preparing a four-course meal for 300 spellers and 800 adults at the Scripps National Spelling Bee. The contortions he was going through to make sure every letter of the alphabet was represented in the ingredients were almost enough to distract her from her aches and pains and loneliness …
The Food Network had cut to a commercial and she’d put the TV on mute when Andy heard a noise overhead that she couldn’t identify. She checked the time. It was 8:05. Too early for the Book to be delivered or for Miranda to be home. She was getting ready to roll into the utility room and bar its door against the onslaught of blood-thirsty burglars when she heard the jingle of a dog leash, the plodding steps of Patricia, and a chipper but unfamiliar voice. “Ready for walkies, girl? It’s a beautiful night. Let’s go check it out.” Seconds later, the door upstairs clicked shut.
Shazbat! Andy patted her chest, trying to still her racing heart. Get a grip, Sachs. You’re twenty-eight, not twelve, and you have a phone and you know how to use it …
She felt for the cell in her pants’ pocket and then looked around frantically until she spotted it sitting beside the remote control. Frell it! She slipped the phone in the pouch of the sweatshirt she was wearing against the coolness of the building’s air conditioning, picked up the remote, and un-muted the TV. After a moment’s thought, she goosed the volume.
No harm in letting potential intruders know that there’s someone down here. A big bad mofo who’s watching … She checked out the action on the screen and laughed. Yeah. A mofo who’s watching someone make ratatouille! Sheesh! That’ll scare the crap out of them!
“Augh, eggplant and zucchini! She’s got … vegetables! Run!”
The dog walker brought Patricia back after twenty minutes or so, and the upstairs lapsed back into silence. Finally, at 9 on the dot, Andy heard a rattle at her front door and the turn of a key. The door opened to reveal a young woman toting a heavy backpack.
“Andrea Sachs?”
“Hi, you must be … damn, I’ve totally forgotten your name.”
“Rachel Wasserstein.”
“Glad to meet you, Rachel. Call me Andy, please. I’m looking forward to talking with you at greater length sometime. But right now, I need you to tuck me in. It’s been a long day.”
“First day of P.T., huh?”
“Yeah, I feel like I’ve run the obstacle course on Parris Island. I’m not sure I have the strength to wheel myself down the hall.”
“Allow me.” Rachel slung her pack onto the nearest chair. It landed with a thunk.
“Whatcha got in there, rocks?”
“I wish. It’s textbooks. I’m trying to get a head start on fall classes.”
Andy studied the young woman’s T-shirt. It was emblazoned with familiar Hebrew characters.
“So, do you actually keep kosher?” She enjoyed the look of surprise on the brunette’s face. She gestured at the shirt. “כשר - That’s kashér, right? It’s required reading for New York City chefs. Is that why the Monday to Thursday schedule? I thought it was maybe so you could party hearty all weekend.”
“That’s me. Or not. I’m a rabbinical student.”
“Cool. Where?”
“Hebrew Union College.”
“Reform, right?”
“How do you know that? Are you…?”
“My dad’s parents were. And HUC is based in Cincinnati, right? That’s where I’m from. One of Dad's partners has a daughter who graduated from there a few years ago.”
During the time it took Andy to brush her teeth, take a pain pill, and slip into her jammies, she learned that Rachel had spent the previous year in Israel, her family was Sephardic, and her grandmother had taught her how to make the world’s best falafel.
“You’ll have to show me,” said Andy, settling back in bed. “You’re going to stick around until 10:30, right? I’m probably going to conk out in three nano-seconds or less, but the house is empty at the moment except for an old, slow St. Bernard, and I’m not used to all its creaks and pops yet. The house, I mean, not the dog. It’s got me a little spooked.”
“No problem,” Rachel said. She turned off the light beside Andy’s bed. “I’m going to sit out there and review Hebrew grammar. Holler if you need anything.”
Andy stayed awake just long enough to hear Rachel slide onto the seat of the banquette and open her book.
On to Parts Eight and Nine
In which Andy goes to physical therapy for the first
time ... and the Priestlys return to their regularly
scheduled programs. Unfortunately.
Author: Medora MacD (medoramacd@yahoo.com)
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Mirandy
Rating: For language, R now and PG eventually. Also M, as in Mmm, for rampant “foodiness.” Which is to food as “truthiness” is to truth. Which is to say, I cook and I eat, but not often at the refined levels which will be referred to in these stories. I hope you find this delectable, nonetheless.
Trigger Warning: Those sensitive to the subject of eating disorders should be aware that they play a very small part in this story.
Length/Word Count: 27,000+
Genre: Drama, Comedy, Romance
Summary: AU - What might occur in an alternative universe where Miranda Priestly's assistant was one Nate Cooper and Andrea Sachs is an aspiring chef. This is the second "course" in a series called "Life is a Banquet" - aka LIAB.
You could read this story without reading the first one, but really: Why deprive yourself of that pleasure - and the insight it will provide into this one? You can begin it here.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada belongs to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Not for profit, just fun.
Banner: By Medora MacD, using stills from The Devil Wears Prada and Rachel Getting Married.
A/N: Sincere, deep, and lasting thanks to corchen, gsdcow, and the amazing raiderl for helping me amp up the “cowbells.” Credit to Marge Kennedy, whose paraphrased comment about soup is the theme for this installment. All comments and feedback are welcome.
Tags: all: fiction, genre: AU, pairing: andy/miranda, rating: R, status: wip, series: life is a banquet, user: Medora_macd
______________________________________________________________________
IN THE SOUP
( Part One ) | ( Parts Two and Three ) | ( Part Four ) | ( Part Five ) | (Part Six) |
PART SEVEN
Monday, June 9, 2008
On Monday morning the Priestlys returned to their regularly scheduled programs. While Christina made breakfast for Andy and helped her prepare for her first trip to physical therapy, her upstairs neighbors ate breakfast (she presumed) and dressed for work and day camp. At 8 she and Christina heard the staccato of stilettos descending the front steps and saw Miranda, the Book under her arm, striding to the curb where Roy was holding open the door to the town car. This was followed half an hour later by a stampede overhead as Caroline and Cassidy went out front to be driven to Dalton.
How could something called “sneakers” make so much racket? Andy wondered, marveling at the girls’ energy.
She and Christina rolled out at 8:45, Christina pushing the wheelchair over Andy’s objections. “There’s rough road ‘tween here and the hospital,” Christina said, “and you’re not used to getting around in this thing yet. Let me do the driving until you get up to speed.”
Much as Andy hated looking like some kind of gimboid, by the time they got to Lenox Hill she was glad she had relented. Everything looked different - and terribly confusing - when viewed from wheelchair level instead of her normal height of five foot nine. There’d been more foot traffic on the crosswalks than she had expected. It would have been difficult to make her way through that and power herself up and down the curb cuts.
When Christina offered, ninety minutes later, to let her “drive” on the way back, she had just enough strength to flip her off.
“None of that, missy, or I’ll hit every pothole,” Christina responded with a smile. “You have a good time in physical therapy?”
“‘Therapy,’ my ass,” Andy said. “The T in P.T. stands for ‘torture.’ I’m sure of it now.”
Actually, it had been better than she expected. Loren, her physical therapist, was really a decent guy. He hadn’t cut her any slack, but he’d put her through her paces with humor and thoughtfulness, explaining what they were doing and why. And before she left, he’d pasted a gold star on her cast, something that had made her absurdly proud. She was looking forward to showing it to the twins.
Back at the townhouse, she stayed awake through a much-needed shower and the lunch Consuelo fixed for her. She was out like a light, though, as soon as Christina helped her into bed afterwards.
The next thing she knew Consuelo was waking her up. “Sorry, Miss Andy. But it’s 4:30. Do you need anything besides dinner before I leave?”
“Andy.”
“Que?”
“Just Andy.” She cleared her throat. “Just like Miranda is Miranda. Unless you think I’m more important than she is.”
She started to sit up.
“Bloody hell!” She looked at Consuelo apologetically. “Sorry. I’m trying to cut back on the cursing. But … I got even more of a workout than I realized in P.T. today. My abs are in agony. Fudge!”
“Can I get something for your pain?”
“Please,” Andy replied, “but not the prescription stuff, okay? Tylenol - on the counter in the bathroom - should take care of the aches and won’t make me babble in front of the girls.”
“The girls won’t be home tonight,” Consuelo said, heading to the bathroom. “Mindy invited them to a sleepover. Mr. TerHorst will take them to school tomorrow.”
Andy was upset at the news, she discovered. Unreasonably so, she decided upon reflection. It was ridiculous to feel slighted. She was a grown woman, fully capable of entertaining herself for an evening.
Consuelo returned with a glass of water and two pills.
“Miranda has given Salma and Esperanza tonight off since the twins are at their friend’s house and she has a business dinner and a meeting. Will you be okay on your own?”
Andy shook her head, still not quite awake. “Supper would be nice, yes, but it doesn’t have to be fancy. I can cope until the aide comes at 9. If something comes up, I’ll call. Your number is in here, right?”
She patted the cell phone on the nightstand beside her bed. Or would have, if it had been there. “Shit! I mean … Sugar! Where’s that thing gone to now?”
Consuelo bent over, picked it off the floor, and handed it to her.
“Gosh, thanks. I must have knocked it off. … Anyway, you make sure I get out of bed okay, get me a sandwich or something, and I’ll be set.”
* * * * *
Everything was quiet after Consuelo left. Too quiet. Finding herself in too much discomfort for reading, Andy indulged in some rabid channel surfing, settling at last on the Food Network and Dinner: Impossible. Host Robert Irvine was preparing a four-course meal for 300 spellers and 800 adults at the Scripps National Spelling Bee. The contortions he was going through to make sure every letter of the alphabet was represented in the ingredients were almost enough to distract her from her aches and pains and loneliness …
The Food Network had cut to a commercial and she’d put the TV on mute when Andy heard a noise overhead that she couldn’t identify. She checked the time. It was 8:05. Too early for the Book to be delivered or for Miranda to be home. She was getting ready to roll into the utility room and bar its door against the onslaught of blood-thirsty burglars when she heard the jingle of a dog leash, the plodding steps of Patricia, and a chipper but unfamiliar voice. “Ready for walkies, girl? It’s a beautiful night. Let’s go check it out.” Seconds later, the door upstairs clicked shut.
Shazbat! Andy patted her chest, trying to still her racing heart. Get a grip, Sachs. You’re twenty-eight, not twelve, and you have a phone and you know how to use it …
She felt for the cell in her pants’ pocket and then looked around frantically until she spotted it sitting beside the remote control. Frell it! She slipped the phone in the pouch of the sweatshirt she was wearing against the coolness of the building’s air conditioning, picked up the remote, and un-muted the TV. After a moment’s thought, she goosed the volume.
No harm in letting potential intruders know that there’s someone down here. A big bad mofo who’s watching … She checked out the action on the screen and laughed. Yeah. A mofo who’s watching someone make ratatouille! Sheesh! That’ll scare the crap out of them!
“Augh, eggplant and zucchini! She’s got … vegetables! Run!”
The dog walker brought Patricia back after twenty minutes or so, and the upstairs lapsed back into silence. Finally, at 9 on the dot, Andy heard a rattle at her front door and the turn of a key. The door opened to reveal a young woman toting a heavy backpack.
“Andrea Sachs?”
“Hi, you must be … damn, I’ve totally forgotten your name.”
“Rachel Wasserstein.”
“Glad to meet you, Rachel. Call me Andy, please. I’m looking forward to talking with you at greater length sometime. But right now, I need you to tuck me in. It’s been a long day.”
“First day of P.T., huh?”
“Yeah, I feel like I’ve run the obstacle course on Parris Island. I’m not sure I have the strength to wheel myself down the hall.”
“Allow me.” Rachel slung her pack onto the nearest chair. It landed with a thunk.
“Whatcha got in there, rocks?”
“I wish. It’s textbooks. I’m trying to get a head start on fall classes.”
Andy studied the young woman’s T-shirt. It was emblazoned with familiar Hebrew characters.
“So, do you actually keep kosher?” She enjoyed the look of surprise on the brunette’s face. She gestured at the shirt. “כשר - That’s kashér, right? It’s required reading for New York City chefs. Is that why the Monday to Thursday schedule? I thought it was maybe so you could party hearty all weekend.”
“That’s me. Or not. I’m a rabbinical student.”
“Cool. Where?”
“Hebrew Union College.”
“Reform, right?”
“How do you know that? Are you…?”
“My dad’s parents were. And HUC is based in Cincinnati, right? That’s where I’m from. One of Dad's partners has a daughter who graduated from there a few years ago.”
During the time it took Andy to brush her teeth, take a pain pill, and slip into her jammies, she learned that Rachel had spent the previous year in Israel, her family was Sephardic, and her grandmother had taught her how to make the world’s best falafel.
“You’ll have to show me,” said Andy, settling back in bed. “You’re going to stick around until 10:30, right? I’m probably going to conk out in three nano-seconds or less, but the house is empty at the moment except for an old, slow St. Bernard, and I’m not used to all its creaks and pops yet. The house, I mean, not the dog. It’s got me a little spooked.”
“No problem,” Rachel said. She turned off the light beside Andy’s bed. “I’m going to sit out there and review Hebrew grammar. Holler if you need anything.”
Andy stayed awake just long enough to hear Rachel slide onto the seat of the banquette and open her book.
On to Parts Eight and Nine