DWP fic: Nate's Fault - "After"
Title: Nate’s Fault
Author: Mercury
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: M
Archive: P&P
Summary: Andy’s world is thrown into chaos and she blames it all on Nate.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to random_flores, who encouraged me to write a DWP fic like, a million years ago. I promised hotness, so hopefully I delivered. This one’s for you!
Author’s 2nd Note: A huge thank you to my betas, skeeter451 and thelastgoodname, without whom this story would be much less cohesive. You guys rock!
Part 1: Before
~~~ After ~~~
Awareness danced on the edge of her consciousness, as if toying with the idea of waking up. Her first sensation was of the silken feel against her cheek and the rather sharp brightness that prodded at her eyelids. She blinked, only to shut her eyes again immediately. A ray of light had made its way through a gap in the heavy curtains, and shone in a taunting sort of way directly into her bleary eyes. She rolled onto her back and ran a hand over her face, her lips smacking in protest at the dry, cottony texture that had invaded her mouth.
When she was feeling marginally more up to the task, she opened her eyes slowly and glanced at the bedside clock. 5:45am. She groaned at the injustice of morning.
Why was the sun even up at this hour? She cursed the over-eager pre-dawn light that, on closer inspection, was not all that bright after all, but more of a fledgling glimmer, a mere impression of daylight as night toiled towards dawn.
As her brain struggled to catch up to the rest of her body in its awakened state, a memory flitted across her mind as if through a half-dream. Soft sheets. A phone call. Something about a red dress. Her eyes snapped open. Miranda.
Holy shit, oh holy fucking shit. If she’d been in any state of mind suitable for self-analysis, she might have been amused at her body’s ability to go from half-asleep to adrenaline-infused, heart-pounding alertness in less than a second. The effect was better than the most heavily-caffeinated Starbucks. She sat up in a wild panic and looked around blindly, as if trying to find something, anything, to focus on. Her eyes landed on the phone on the bedside table. She groaned and flopped back into her pillow, which she then grabbed and placed over her face as she stifled a scream. When she could barely breathe any longer, she removed the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
As she stared blankly at the elaborate ceiling rosette, her eyes wandered across a small crack that travelled through the moulding. She found it vaguely noteworthy that even expensive décor such as this had flaws. With such innocuous musings, her heart began its slow descent to a reasonable, non-life-threatening pace.
She ran a hand over her face again and rubbed her eyes as she tried to make sense of the jumbled emotions that ran rampant through her mind.
How on earth was she going to face Miranda today? This was not just some measly, life-altering erotic dream. This time, there had been audience participation. It was one thing to place Miranda on a dais as some sort of statue of seduction, an icon of her sexual fantasies. But that was the thing about icons - they were, by definition, untouchable, nothing more than false representations of the real. Although her interaction with Miranda had been admittedly intangible last night, the point was that she had still interacted with the fantasy. That phone call had been like breaking the fourth wall, so to speak, and it left her with a jarring sense of dissonance.
As fascinating as this introspective interlude was, Andy was still left with one crucial, unanswered question: How in holy hell was she supposed to face Miranda?
As if sensing that thought, her phone rang. The familiar ringtone made her stomach flop. She glanced at the clock. The display read 6:04. Andy blinked. She knew Miranda didn’t have any appointments until 8am. She hadn’t been planning on waking up, let alone needing to be at Miranda’s beck and call, for at least another forty-five minutes.
With some trepidation, she pressed the call answer button.
“Hello?” her voice croaked out, to her horror.
“Andrea,” came Miranda’s cool and efficient voice, “I expect you to be at my suite with coffee in fifteen minutes.” Click.
Andy looked at the phone, incredulous. The brisk tone had been so familiar it had almost made her forget the events of last night.
Almost.
~~~
She paced just outside the door to Miranda’s hotel suite, the Starbucks scalding her hand through the java sleeve. Would she be able to face her, after last night? At just the thought, Andy found herself practically hyperventilating. Okay, first rule - don’t think about last night. Andy nodded with resolution, trying to control the pounding of her heart.
But what if Miranda wanted to talk about it? Even thinking it, she could have laughed. She could just picture Miranda broaching the subject, sitting down and having a heart to heart. Yeah right, and then they’d braid each other’s hair. She snorted, remembering Nigel’s gentle teasing. Okay, she told herself: Second rule - don’t mention last night, in any shape or form.
She took a deep breath, counted to five, and then knocked. She couldn’t put it off all day. Besides, her hand was starting to burn.
“Good morning,” Miranda murmured as she opened the door for Andy and then proceeded back into the suite. Andy stood at the door in shock. When had Miranda ever said anything as pleasant as ‘Good morning’ to her? Aside from last night, of course. Although she wasn’t sure whether that qualified as ‘pleasant’ so much as -
Miranda turned around and gave her an impatient look that said, ‘Well? Are you coming in?’ and Andy was shaken out of her internal monologue. She hustled in and pasted on one of her cheerful smiles.
“Good morning, Miranda,” she said, handing over the Starbucks. “Did you sleep well?” Andy could have kicked herself. Two minutes in and she had already broken both rules. She turned bright red and willed the floor to swallow her whole.
Miranda took a moment to regard Andy through narrowed eyes as she took a sip of her coffee. She surprised Andy when she simply said, “Not particularly well, no.”
Andy gave what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, but she found her own pulse accelerating. To cover her reaction, she began fumbling in her bag, searching for her notepad.
“So, ah, was there something that you wanted me to do for you this morning?” she asked absentmindedly, finally finding the notepad and pulling it out. She clicked her pen open and glanced up at Miranda, whose eyes averted as soon as their gaze made contact.
Was… was Miranda Priestly blushing?
Andy thought back to what she’d just said, and felt a flush rise in her own cheeks.
Miranda cleared her throat and began giving her notes for the day. But the instructions were given haltingly, as if she were making them up as she went along, and Andy noted with a pang in her gut that Miranda was still avoiding her gaze. In fact, partway through her orders Miranda had turned fully around and was looking out at the brightening day through the large windows, completely ignoring Andy’s presence but for the tirade of commands that had gained in momentum, streaming from her as if on autopilot.
It suddenly occurred to Andy that this was a defence mechanism. Miranda was obviously just as nervous about the unexpected events of last night as Andy was. The realization gave Andy a boost of confidence. To hell with her rules. She stepped towards her boss and willed her to turn around as she said, “Miranda. ”
The intensity with which she uttered that one word evoked a memory of the night before, when she’d cried out those same syllables as she climaxed. She could tell that similar thoughts were passing through Miranda’s mind by the way her head snapped around to look directly into Andy’s face.
Andy’s breath caught at the look she received from Miranda. Her eyes were cutting and clear as ice, but that couldn’t be right, Andy thought. No ice could ever radiate such heat. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. The world seemed to narrow in for Andy, until there was nothing left but those scorching eyes and the sound of rushing blood pounding in her ears.
As if against her will, she took a step forward. The motion seemed to snap Miranda out of her trance-like state. She blinked and took a step backwards, colliding with the edge of a side-table and causing a lamp to teeter precariously. It was the first non-elegant move Andy had ever seen her make.
Miranda straightened and absentmindedly adjusted the belt at her waist. Her face morphed back into its cold and closed state, just this side of pursed lips. She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her notepad and said, “Well? Those tasks aren’t going to complete themselves.” Her voice had taken on the signature timbre that simultaneously expressed utter boredom and cool distain at the world’s incompetence. The transformation was complete.
Okay, Andy thought, Miranda wanted to act as though nothing had happened. That was, after all, what she had expected. That was what the rules were for, remember?
She blinked back a pooling wetness in her eyes, determined not to let this bother her. Most importantly, she was determined not to let Miranda see that it totally didn’t bother her. Because it didn’t.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and backed out of the room, ready as always to do Miranda’s bidding.
~~~
That night, Andy struggled with some boxes as she entered Miranda’s suite. She set the key card on the side-table and moved through the foyer to set down her armload.
She knew Miranda was at a dinner, so any hesitations that she normally would have had at entering Miranda’s space were non-existent. She was free of the tension that she had held coiled all day long in Miranda’s presence, for fear of letting slip some innuendo or vague reference to the night before. Where her gaze had freely soaked in the magnificent presence of the Editor-in-Chief throughout fashion week, now she trained her eyes just above her shoulder or, whenever possible, anywhere where Miranda was not. She had even managed to keep her thoughts from their unruly ways. Whenever she would notice her mind wandering towards the treacherous terrain of the night before, and what it all meant, she would force herself to recite as many famous first lines of novels as she could remember: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself” or “The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new” or “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” And so on.
But now, with Miranda off at her dinner, Andy could finally relax.
Which is why her walls were down and she was utterly unprepared for the sight of Miranda, sitting on a loveseat in a grey bathrobe.
“Oh!” Andy faltered in her step. It took everything in her not to sneak away backwards and leave Miranda to her private moment.
But she was also drawn to the scene before her. Never before had she seen Miranda so raw, without any makeup or fancy clothing to mask the woman underneath. Andy also marvelled at just how small she looked, sitting there in her bare feet. On her mildest of days, Miranda Priestly was a force of nature to behold - she could overpower an entire banquet hall merely with her presence. But tonight, she was stripped of that aura that made her seem so formidable. She was just purely… human.
And then she spoke, fiddling with her glasses and stumbling over what she was saying. So un-Miranda-like.
Andy blinked, realizing she had been staring. Right. The seating chart. She took a moment to search through her bag. It was telling that Andy was actually relieved by Miranda’s impatience as she held out her hand, waiting, spewing something about moving at a glacial pace. If she could be huffy about that, it was probably a good sign.
And then came three words that at first held less meaning to Andy than they should have: “Stephen isn’t coming.”
She was so daft as to make some vapid comment about fetching him from the airport. Andy reeled when the words finally struck home. They were getting a divorce.
She felt an odd sense of ambivalence at the revelation. She wanted to be concerned for Miranda - she was certainly saddened by the pain pouring from her in waves - but at the same time she felt as though her chest might burst as it flared with hope.
“You’re fetching,” Miranda intoned softly. Andy felt her heart clench at the words “Go fetch.”
The words sounded as though they were meant to sting, but Andy knew Miranda well enough to know that her abrasiveness was her last layer of armour. If anything, Andy was all the more enchanted as she sat and listened to Miranda worry about her children, her voice catching as she held in a sob. Andy’s heart almost melted at just how human she was in that moment.
As Miranda wound down, Andy took her chance: “Is there anything else I can do?” Her voice was yearning, hoping against hope that Miranda would let her do something, anything, to ease the pain. That she would finally let her in, after a day of strained emotions and closed walls.
But the words she wanted to hear, desperately needed to hear from Miranda never came. Instead, she got the standard-issue response, cold and presumptive.
“Your job.”
She felt her world sinking. Because Andy realized she wanted more from her, wanted to be more for her, than some full-time lackey, part-time sexual fantasy. Miranda was so much more than the sexualized icon that she had built up in her mind. Andy felt a pang deep in her gut as she looked at her, really looked, at the face without makeup, at the woman stripped bare and at her most vulnerable.
In that instant, Andy felt a shattering within herself as if a glass wall exploded apart and rained down in tiny, jagged pieces.
She was in love.
And she couldn’t do anything about it.
Her heart rate quickened and she felt the ground giving out under her. She heard Miranda’s dismissal as if through a fog, and her only thought was that she needed to escape.
~~~
That night she practically threw herself at Christian. He was charming and articulate and comfortingly normal in his slightly sleazy, womanizing manner. And most importantly, he was absolutely not her boss. She didn’t answer to his every beck and call.
Screw Nate and his high and mighty attitude, thinking he knew anything at all about Andy. She was going to prove that she could very well have a relationship with someone whose calls she did not take.
And it would be so easy. With Christian, she didn’t get flustered, tripping over herself with her raging hormones. She was in complete control of her emotions. She was the one who dictated when and how her body would react, and how far she would take it.
It was almost refreshing the way Christian was so upfront about what he wanted from her. Tonight, after a day full of veiled words and suppressed emotions, direct and inviting was exactly what she needed.
And she needed that release, to be able to lose herself, to relinquish any thoughts and doubts that cluttered her mind. She needed to give in to the sense of touch, that wordless communication of the skin that could set her free.
But he was hard and stubbly and angular, bulging muscle and fake smiles, and it was all wrong.
~~~
The next day Andy didn’t wear the red Valentino dress, but some safe black thing that she threw on at the last minute. She still felt dirty after last night, even after having showered and changed in time for the luncheon.
Miranda looked her up and down, but said nothing. No sneer of disapproval, no indication of disappointment, as though she’d had absolutely no expectations whatsoever. Instead, she made some mundane threat about the freesias.
Andy was even more confused than she had been the night before. She had a moment of panic where she thought Miranda could smell Christian on her, but no that was absurd. She couldn’t have any way of knowing. Andy gulped.
Upon waking up this morning, feeling sticky and hung over and utterly disgusted with herself, Andy knew that she could never make it work with Christian. No matter how much she wanted to prove to Nate that he was wrong.
She still had no idea what she was going to do with her feelings for Miranda, but the first step had been to close all possible avenues with Christian. She did that by breaking his trust as she tried to warn Miranda about the plot to oust her from Runway. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
So why was Miranda avoiding her gaze?
It took only two words, four insignificant syllables, for Andy to understand. Jacqueline Follet. She felt a deep sinking of her heart and a tightening of her throat as the realization of who Miranda was, what she was actually capable of, took hold.
The audience clapped at the unveiling, their dainty, gloved hands evoking a dampened, polite brush of fabric rather than rapturous applause. Andy glanced around the room, her gaze falling on Nigel.
With some consideration, she admitted to herself that she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Miranda’s fierceness was one of the things she loved most about her. It wouldn’t have made sense for her to simply roll over and expose her throat to Irv Ravitz, no matter that she had to squash Nigel’s dreams in the process. But, as Nigel said, she would pay him back, somehow, at some point. Wouldn’t she? …She had to.
As the applause died down and the speeches continued, Andy suddenly had the vague sense that the room had gone deathly silent. She could see Miranda at the podium, her lips moving as she no doubt praised James for his revolutionary line of fashion. But Andy didn’t hear a sound. Instead, she was fighting a silent battle within herself.
Her confusion over her feelings for Miranda had been bubbling under the surface, but Andy had pushed them back and tried to ignore them, thinking she had no control over her body’s reactions. Blaming Nate.
But as Miranda stood at the front of the room, having taken a hold of her own fate and steered it the way it needed to go, Andy realized that she could do the same.
It came as a revelation, but it occurred to her that she’d already made up her mind. She’d chosen Miranda over Christian, just like she’d chosen her over Nate. And she knew, she knew, that she would continue to choose her, time and again. Because she was drawn to her, in a way she had never been before. By anyone. She was drawn to her strength, her resolve, her unerring devotion to the magazine and her children, to those that mattered most to her. She was drawn to her vulnerability, that elusive creature so rarely brought to light, but of which Andy was all too aware.
The sound in the room came flooding back and Andy was surprised to note that Miranda was already halfway back to her table, the audience clapping wildly. She looked around at the faces in the crowd, the fashion elite who gazed adoringly at the only woman in the room who mattered.
That was when Andy realized she had to leave.
~~~
After the luncheon, after… everything, Andy stood by the fountain, tears streaming down her face. Her phone was ringing. She didn’t have to look at the display to know it was Miranda. She was reminded of that night on the phone, was it just two days ago? She considered tossing the phone into the fountain, to drown her despair along with the short circuiting electronics. Why not? She shrugged, and with a great heave, tossed it into the air. She watched it arc up and across, and then plummet down with a wimpy splash as the water enveloped it. With a sigh, she realized it didn’t make her feel any better.
“Everyone wants to be us.”
Not true, Andy thought. I can do better. She looked up at the fountain, watched the droplets cascading down over the statue even as her own tears dried on her cheeks. We both can.
She turned around and leaned back against the edge of the fountain, feeling the spray begin to soak the back of her dress. She didn’t care. It was almost refreshing, cleansing in a way that her tears hadn’t been. She sniffed and ran a gloved hand across her runny nose as she looked out at the bustling street.
She watched a business man, holding his briefcase with determined purpose as his polished shoes shuffled across the cobbled walkway. Another man walked hand in hand with a young girl, pointing and laughing at the pigeons. The cars swerved past, smaller than their American cousins, but just as aggressive, with honking horns and frustrated drivers.
She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. Her nose had stopped running. She could smell exhaust mingled with a hint of chlorine in the air.
This was for the best, Andy told herself. Although she felt as though her heart was ripping from her chest, she knew it would be okay. Miranda would understand. Eventually.
She took in a shaky breath, and then exhaled with a strengthened resolve. She could do this. She took a step away from the fountain, turned and smiled up into the spray of water. With a little laugh, she shook her head and headed back towards the hotel to pack her things. She walked with a lighter heart, because she knew that the next time she encountered Miranda, well… that part wouldn’t be Nate’s fault at all.
~
Part 3: “Now”
~
Author: Mercury
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: M
Archive: P&P
Summary: Andy’s world is thrown into chaos and she blames it all on Nate.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to random_flores, who encouraged me to write a DWP fic like, a million years ago. I promised hotness, so hopefully I delivered. This one’s for you!
Author’s 2nd Note: A huge thank you to my betas, skeeter451 and thelastgoodname, without whom this story would be much less cohesive. You guys rock!
Part 1: Before
~~~ After ~~~
Awareness danced on the edge of her consciousness, as if toying with the idea of waking up. Her first sensation was of the silken feel against her cheek and the rather sharp brightness that prodded at her eyelids. She blinked, only to shut her eyes again immediately. A ray of light had made its way through a gap in the heavy curtains, and shone in a taunting sort of way directly into her bleary eyes. She rolled onto her back and ran a hand over her face, her lips smacking in protest at the dry, cottony texture that had invaded her mouth.
When she was feeling marginally more up to the task, she opened her eyes slowly and glanced at the bedside clock. 5:45am. She groaned at the injustice of morning.
Why was the sun even up at this hour? She cursed the over-eager pre-dawn light that, on closer inspection, was not all that bright after all, but more of a fledgling glimmer, a mere impression of daylight as night toiled towards dawn.
As her brain struggled to catch up to the rest of her body in its awakened state, a memory flitted across her mind as if through a half-dream. Soft sheets. A phone call. Something about a red dress. Her eyes snapped open. Miranda.
Holy shit, oh holy fucking shit. If she’d been in any state of mind suitable for self-analysis, she might have been amused at her body’s ability to go from half-asleep to adrenaline-infused, heart-pounding alertness in less than a second. The effect was better than the most heavily-caffeinated Starbucks. She sat up in a wild panic and looked around blindly, as if trying to find something, anything, to focus on. Her eyes landed on the phone on the bedside table. She groaned and flopped back into her pillow, which she then grabbed and placed over her face as she stifled a scream. When she could barely breathe any longer, she removed the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
As she stared blankly at the elaborate ceiling rosette, her eyes wandered across a small crack that travelled through the moulding. She found it vaguely noteworthy that even expensive décor such as this had flaws. With such innocuous musings, her heart began its slow descent to a reasonable, non-life-threatening pace.
She ran a hand over her face again and rubbed her eyes as she tried to make sense of the jumbled emotions that ran rampant through her mind.
How on earth was she going to face Miranda today? This was not just some measly, life-altering erotic dream. This time, there had been audience participation. It was one thing to place Miranda on a dais as some sort of statue of seduction, an icon of her sexual fantasies. But that was the thing about icons - they were, by definition, untouchable, nothing more than false representations of the real. Although her interaction with Miranda had been admittedly intangible last night, the point was that she had still interacted with the fantasy. That phone call had been like breaking the fourth wall, so to speak, and it left her with a jarring sense of dissonance.
As fascinating as this introspective interlude was, Andy was still left with one crucial, unanswered question: How in holy hell was she supposed to face Miranda?
As if sensing that thought, her phone rang. The familiar ringtone made her stomach flop. She glanced at the clock. The display read 6:04. Andy blinked. She knew Miranda didn’t have any appointments until 8am. She hadn’t been planning on waking up, let alone needing to be at Miranda’s beck and call, for at least another forty-five minutes.
With some trepidation, she pressed the call answer button.
“Hello?” her voice croaked out, to her horror.
“Andrea,” came Miranda’s cool and efficient voice, “I expect you to be at my suite with coffee in fifteen minutes.” Click.
Andy looked at the phone, incredulous. The brisk tone had been so familiar it had almost made her forget the events of last night.
Almost.
~~~
She paced just outside the door to Miranda’s hotel suite, the Starbucks scalding her hand through the java sleeve. Would she be able to face her, after last night? At just the thought, Andy found herself practically hyperventilating. Okay, first rule - don’t think about last night. Andy nodded with resolution, trying to control the pounding of her heart.
But what if Miranda wanted to talk about it? Even thinking it, she could have laughed. She could just picture Miranda broaching the subject, sitting down and having a heart to heart. Yeah right, and then they’d braid each other’s hair. She snorted, remembering Nigel’s gentle teasing. Okay, she told herself: Second rule - don’t mention last night, in any shape or form.
She took a deep breath, counted to five, and then knocked. She couldn’t put it off all day. Besides, her hand was starting to burn.
“Good morning,” Miranda murmured as she opened the door for Andy and then proceeded back into the suite. Andy stood at the door in shock. When had Miranda ever said anything as pleasant as ‘Good morning’ to her? Aside from last night, of course. Although she wasn’t sure whether that qualified as ‘pleasant’ so much as -
Miranda turned around and gave her an impatient look that said, ‘Well? Are you coming in?’ and Andy was shaken out of her internal monologue. She hustled in and pasted on one of her cheerful smiles.
“Good morning, Miranda,” she said, handing over the Starbucks. “Did you sleep well?” Andy could have kicked herself. Two minutes in and she had already broken both rules. She turned bright red and willed the floor to swallow her whole.
Miranda took a moment to regard Andy through narrowed eyes as she took a sip of her coffee. She surprised Andy when she simply said, “Not particularly well, no.”
Andy gave what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, but she found her own pulse accelerating. To cover her reaction, she began fumbling in her bag, searching for her notepad.
“So, ah, was there something that you wanted me to do for you this morning?” she asked absentmindedly, finally finding the notepad and pulling it out. She clicked her pen open and glanced up at Miranda, whose eyes averted as soon as their gaze made contact.
Was… was Miranda Priestly blushing?
Andy thought back to what she’d just said, and felt a flush rise in her own cheeks.
Miranda cleared her throat and began giving her notes for the day. But the instructions were given haltingly, as if she were making them up as she went along, and Andy noted with a pang in her gut that Miranda was still avoiding her gaze. In fact, partway through her orders Miranda had turned fully around and was looking out at the brightening day through the large windows, completely ignoring Andy’s presence but for the tirade of commands that had gained in momentum, streaming from her as if on autopilot.
It suddenly occurred to Andy that this was a defence mechanism. Miranda was obviously just as nervous about the unexpected events of last night as Andy was. The realization gave Andy a boost of confidence. To hell with her rules. She stepped towards her boss and willed her to turn around as she said, “Miranda. ”
The intensity with which she uttered that one word evoked a memory of the night before, when she’d cried out those same syllables as she climaxed. She could tell that similar thoughts were passing through Miranda’s mind by the way her head snapped around to look directly into Andy’s face.
Andy’s breath caught at the look she received from Miranda. Her eyes were cutting and clear as ice, but that couldn’t be right, Andy thought. No ice could ever radiate such heat. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. The world seemed to narrow in for Andy, until there was nothing left but those scorching eyes and the sound of rushing blood pounding in her ears.
As if against her will, she took a step forward. The motion seemed to snap Miranda out of her trance-like state. She blinked and took a step backwards, colliding with the edge of a side-table and causing a lamp to teeter precariously. It was the first non-elegant move Andy had ever seen her make.
Miranda straightened and absentmindedly adjusted the belt at her waist. Her face morphed back into its cold and closed state, just this side of pursed lips. She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her notepad and said, “Well? Those tasks aren’t going to complete themselves.” Her voice had taken on the signature timbre that simultaneously expressed utter boredom and cool distain at the world’s incompetence. The transformation was complete.
Okay, Andy thought, Miranda wanted to act as though nothing had happened. That was, after all, what she had expected. That was what the rules were for, remember?
She blinked back a pooling wetness in her eyes, determined not to let this bother her. Most importantly, she was determined not to let Miranda see that it totally didn’t bother her. Because it didn’t.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and backed out of the room, ready as always to do Miranda’s bidding.
~~~
That night, Andy struggled with some boxes as she entered Miranda’s suite. She set the key card on the side-table and moved through the foyer to set down her armload.
She knew Miranda was at a dinner, so any hesitations that she normally would have had at entering Miranda’s space were non-existent. She was free of the tension that she had held coiled all day long in Miranda’s presence, for fear of letting slip some innuendo or vague reference to the night before. Where her gaze had freely soaked in the magnificent presence of the Editor-in-Chief throughout fashion week, now she trained her eyes just above her shoulder or, whenever possible, anywhere where Miranda was not. She had even managed to keep her thoughts from their unruly ways. Whenever she would notice her mind wandering towards the treacherous terrain of the night before, and what it all meant, she would force herself to recite as many famous first lines of novels as she could remember: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself” or “The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new” or “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” And so on.
But now, with Miranda off at her dinner, Andy could finally relax.
Which is why her walls were down and she was utterly unprepared for the sight of Miranda, sitting on a loveseat in a grey bathrobe.
“Oh!” Andy faltered in her step. It took everything in her not to sneak away backwards and leave Miranda to her private moment.
But she was also drawn to the scene before her. Never before had she seen Miranda so raw, without any makeup or fancy clothing to mask the woman underneath. Andy also marvelled at just how small she looked, sitting there in her bare feet. On her mildest of days, Miranda Priestly was a force of nature to behold - she could overpower an entire banquet hall merely with her presence. But tonight, she was stripped of that aura that made her seem so formidable. She was just purely… human.
And then she spoke, fiddling with her glasses and stumbling over what she was saying. So un-Miranda-like.
Andy blinked, realizing she had been staring. Right. The seating chart. She took a moment to search through her bag. It was telling that Andy was actually relieved by Miranda’s impatience as she held out her hand, waiting, spewing something about moving at a glacial pace. If she could be huffy about that, it was probably a good sign.
And then came three words that at first held less meaning to Andy than they should have: “Stephen isn’t coming.”
She was so daft as to make some vapid comment about fetching him from the airport. Andy reeled when the words finally struck home. They were getting a divorce.
She felt an odd sense of ambivalence at the revelation. She wanted to be concerned for Miranda - she was certainly saddened by the pain pouring from her in waves - but at the same time she felt as though her chest might burst as it flared with hope.
“You’re fetching,” Miranda intoned softly. Andy felt her heart clench at the words “Go fetch.”
The words sounded as though they were meant to sting, but Andy knew Miranda well enough to know that her abrasiveness was her last layer of armour. If anything, Andy was all the more enchanted as she sat and listened to Miranda worry about her children, her voice catching as she held in a sob. Andy’s heart almost melted at just how human she was in that moment.
As Miranda wound down, Andy took her chance: “Is there anything else I can do?” Her voice was yearning, hoping against hope that Miranda would let her do something, anything, to ease the pain. That she would finally let her in, after a day of strained emotions and closed walls.
But the words she wanted to hear, desperately needed to hear from Miranda never came. Instead, she got the standard-issue response, cold and presumptive.
“Your job.”
She felt her world sinking. Because Andy realized she wanted more from her, wanted to be more for her, than some full-time lackey, part-time sexual fantasy. Miranda was so much more than the sexualized icon that she had built up in her mind. Andy felt a pang deep in her gut as she looked at her, really looked, at the face without makeup, at the woman stripped bare and at her most vulnerable.
In that instant, Andy felt a shattering within herself as if a glass wall exploded apart and rained down in tiny, jagged pieces.
She was in love.
And she couldn’t do anything about it.
Her heart rate quickened and she felt the ground giving out under her. She heard Miranda’s dismissal as if through a fog, and her only thought was that she needed to escape.
~~~
That night she practically threw herself at Christian. He was charming and articulate and comfortingly normal in his slightly sleazy, womanizing manner. And most importantly, he was absolutely not her boss. She didn’t answer to his every beck and call.
Screw Nate and his high and mighty attitude, thinking he knew anything at all about Andy. She was going to prove that she could very well have a relationship with someone whose calls she did not take.
And it would be so easy. With Christian, she didn’t get flustered, tripping over herself with her raging hormones. She was in complete control of her emotions. She was the one who dictated when and how her body would react, and how far she would take it.
It was almost refreshing the way Christian was so upfront about what he wanted from her. Tonight, after a day full of veiled words and suppressed emotions, direct and inviting was exactly what she needed.
And she needed that release, to be able to lose herself, to relinquish any thoughts and doubts that cluttered her mind. She needed to give in to the sense of touch, that wordless communication of the skin that could set her free.
But he was hard and stubbly and angular, bulging muscle and fake smiles, and it was all wrong.
~~~
The next day Andy didn’t wear the red Valentino dress, but some safe black thing that she threw on at the last minute. She still felt dirty after last night, even after having showered and changed in time for the luncheon.
Miranda looked her up and down, but said nothing. No sneer of disapproval, no indication of disappointment, as though she’d had absolutely no expectations whatsoever. Instead, she made some mundane threat about the freesias.
Andy was even more confused than she had been the night before. She had a moment of panic where she thought Miranda could smell Christian on her, but no that was absurd. She couldn’t have any way of knowing. Andy gulped.
Upon waking up this morning, feeling sticky and hung over and utterly disgusted with herself, Andy knew that she could never make it work with Christian. No matter how much she wanted to prove to Nate that he was wrong.
She still had no idea what she was going to do with her feelings for Miranda, but the first step had been to close all possible avenues with Christian. She did that by breaking his trust as she tried to warn Miranda about the plot to oust her from Runway. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
So why was Miranda avoiding her gaze?
It took only two words, four insignificant syllables, for Andy to understand. Jacqueline Follet. She felt a deep sinking of her heart and a tightening of her throat as the realization of who Miranda was, what she was actually capable of, took hold.
The audience clapped at the unveiling, their dainty, gloved hands evoking a dampened, polite brush of fabric rather than rapturous applause. Andy glanced around the room, her gaze falling on Nigel.
With some consideration, she admitted to herself that she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Miranda’s fierceness was one of the things she loved most about her. It wouldn’t have made sense for her to simply roll over and expose her throat to Irv Ravitz, no matter that she had to squash Nigel’s dreams in the process. But, as Nigel said, she would pay him back, somehow, at some point. Wouldn’t she? …She had to.
As the applause died down and the speeches continued, Andy suddenly had the vague sense that the room had gone deathly silent. She could see Miranda at the podium, her lips moving as she no doubt praised James for his revolutionary line of fashion. But Andy didn’t hear a sound. Instead, she was fighting a silent battle within herself.
Her confusion over her feelings for Miranda had been bubbling under the surface, but Andy had pushed them back and tried to ignore them, thinking she had no control over her body’s reactions. Blaming Nate.
But as Miranda stood at the front of the room, having taken a hold of her own fate and steered it the way it needed to go, Andy realized that she could do the same.
It came as a revelation, but it occurred to her that she’d already made up her mind. She’d chosen Miranda over Christian, just like she’d chosen her over Nate. And she knew, she knew, that she would continue to choose her, time and again. Because she was drawn to her, in a way she had never been before. By anyone. She was drawn to her strength, her resolve, her unerring devotion to the magazine and her children, to those that mattered most to her. She was drawn to her vulnerability, that elusive creature so rarely brought to light, but of which Andy was all too aware.
The sound in the room came flooding back and Andy was surprised to note that Miranda was already halfway back to her table, the audience clapping wildly. She looked around at the faces in the crowd, the fashion elite who gazed adoringly at the only woman in the room who mattered.
That was when Andy realized she had to leave.
~~~
After the luncheon, after… everything, Andy stood by the fountain, tears streaming down her face. Her phone was ringing. She didn’t have to look at the display to know it was Miranda. She was reminded of that night on the phone, was it just two days ago? She considered tossing the phone into the fountain, to drown her despair along with the short circuiting electronics. Why not? She shrugged, and with a great heave, tossed it into the air. She watched it arc up and across, and then plummet down with a wimpy splash as the water enveloped it. With a sigh, she realized it didn’t make her feel any better.
“Everyone wants to be us.”
Not true, Andy thought. I can do better. She looked up at the fountain, watched the droplets cascading down over the statue even as her own tears dried on her cheeks. We both can.
She turned around and leaned back against the edge of the fountain, feeling the spray begin to soak the back of her dress. She didn’t care. It was almost refreshing, cleansing in a way that her tears hadn’t been. She sniffed and ran a gloved hand across her runny nose as she looked out at the bustling street.
She watched a business man, holding his briefcase with determined purpose as his polished shoes shuffled across the cobbled walkway. Another man walked hand in hand with a young girl, pointing and laughing at the pigeons. The cars swerved past, smaller than their American cousins, but just as aggressive, with honking horns and frustrated drivers.
She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. Her nose had stopped running. She could smell exhaust mingled with a hint of chlorine in the air.
This was for the best, Andy told herself. Although she felt as though her heart was ripping from her chest, she knew it would be okay. Miranda would understand. Eventually.
She took in a shaky breath, and then exhaled with a strengthened resolve. She could do this. She took a step away from the fountain, turned and smiled up into the spray of water. With a little laugh, she shook her head and headed back towards the hotel to pack her things. She walked with a lighter heart, because she knew that the next time she encountered Miranda, well… that part wouldn’t be Nate’s fault at all.
~
Part 3: “Now”
~