Incognito - Chapter 1
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the easily recognizable characters. The rest is a nice mix between the real and fictional.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13(for now)
Word Count: ~ 2,700
Author's Note I: Based on
mxrolkr's great prompt, "What if Miranda blacklisted Andy from publishing and Andy wrote a set of children's books instead? What if the twins identified with the characters so much that they were desperate to meet the author? How would Miranda react when she found out?"
Constructive criticism is welcome and very much appreciated.
Author's Note II (*cough*an apology*cough*): I took very bold liberties of not replying to comments and pushing on with the story instead. I usually don't do this but I must confess that my muse has been so elusive recently that I am wary of letting its tail slip from my tight, sweaty clutches for even a second. I promise to reply to everyone before the next chapter is up but meanwhile thank you so much for all the lovely comments--I can assure you that I have read every single one and thoroughly appreciated them all.
Author's Note III: The fictional quote is very loosely based on Agatha Christie's quote, "Too much mercy... often resulted in further crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice had been put first and mercy second."
"As you grow older, I hope you’ll start to understand why I have always valued justice over mercy.” - Queen Alarice of Vespia, ‘The Seas of Aquallon’
2008
Priestly Townhouse
“Caroline, what time of the evening do you call-?” Unceremoniously barged out of the way, Miranda watched incredulously as her oldest daughter (if only by a couple of minutes), stormed past her, rushing up the stairs as if the hounds of hell themselves were on her heels. Trudging behind her at a snail’s pace, Cassidy did not escape Miranda’s indignant scrutiny, nor did she seem to want to, closing the front door with a resounding click. Heart squeezing as she noticed the droop to the shoulders, followed by the mute apology transmitted by a set of red-rimmed eyes when Cassidy at last deigned to turn around, Miranda fluidly adjusted from attack to defence, ferocity of a different kind rising up within her. “What happened, bobbsey?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, obviously not. Why don’t you let me make you a cup of cocoa and we can talk?” Softening her voice, Miranda tentatively put her arm around her youngest, warily watching for any signs of resistance. When she felt the slender body lean in, albeit ever so slightly, she thanked whatever deity was watching over her that at least one of her teenage daughters still thought her mother capable of solving their problems.
Guiding Cassidy through to the breakfast nook, she set about quickly and efficiently pulling the remedy together, but despite the maternal instincts which increased her speed, when she turned, drinks in hand, it was only to encounter fresh tears seeping out from under Cassidy’s thick lashes.
“Sorry.” Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the Dalton sweatshirt, Cassidy reached for the cocoa, suppressing a cross between a sob and sigh as she cupped its welcome heat. “You remembered the mini marshmallows...”
“Would I ever forget?”
“I guess we forget more than you do.”
“Hmm, that tends to be a folly of youth, you’ll learn. Now about earlier...?” Gently, yet firmly, Miranda broached the purpose of the tète a tète.
“It’s stupid. Just something that happened in school.”
“Something that kept you out till eight o’clock?”
“Well, there’s this boy in our class…”
Trying not to visibly expel a sigh of relief, Miranda allowed her body to settle into the stool, taking a sip of the luxurious, and yet apparently needless, calories.
“He said some stuff…”
Familiar schoolyard taunts ran through Miranda’s head, as fresh as if the words had been spat into her face just yesterday. She drifted for an instant, thinking of the counsel her own mother would have given her had she actually taken the time to get sober which, of course, had been only one of the minor obstacles to her dispensing any sort of valuable advice. Then again, where would she be without the drive and determination that those years had instilled in her? Where-
“…cold-hearted bitch and that’s why we don’t have a father. He said we should just get used to not having a two parent family because no man is ever going to give a shit about defrosting your ice shield, not even if you don’t sign a pre...” Cassidy faltered for a moment, chewing on the sugary treat thoughtfully, “...nuptial agreement.” Gaze dropping to stare into her cocoa, she muttered, “I hate that word. I hate even more that I know exactly what it means.”
A myriad of thoughts darted through Miranda’s mind, the most pressing one being how to get the key piece of information that she required, without tipping her hand. “Well, bobbsey, people say a lot of things. He could be projecting -- perhaps his parents are going through a divorce? Or maybe -- you remember the chat we had about boys your age and how they struggle to express themselves. Granted, this does seem a little extreme, but is it possible he simply likes you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. You should have seen him -- he was just being mean because he knew he’d get to us. And then Caroline told him to take it back and he started taunting her that she was going to grow up to be exactly like you and that… she should just get like a thousand cats right now and save herself the trouble.”
“Well,” taking a deep breath, Miranda tried to clear a veil of red mist rapidly descending over her vision, “a better person takes the high road. Did Caroline taunt him back?”
“No,” protesting so vigorously that a length of auburn curls shook loose from the already precarious ponytail, Cassidy confirmed, “she wouldn’t stoop to that. Just like you’ve always taught us. She said that he was ignorant if he really believed what he was saying. And then we both walked away.”
“Good. I am very proud of you.” Reaching over, Miranda squeezed her daughter’s hand, sadness momentarily stealing over her anger. It seemed just yesterday that she had held their tiny chubby bodies for the first time and swore to protect them from everything that would ever do them harm. Thirteen years had flown by in an instant, and now -- well, now the time for them to stand on their own feet approached at a breakneck pace. But… not quite yet. “Tomorrow, you and Caroline will find this…?”
“Jeremy,” the trap neatly sprung shut over her daughter’s head.
“Yes… Jeremy.” A trickle of triumph at Cassidy’s intent, unsuspecting gaze flowed through Miranda. “Well, you tell him that his parents should teach him to be more careful about picking his battles because one day someone less honourable than you might not hold back. Will you do that for me, bobbsey?”
“Yes, Mum.” Slurping the last of the cocoa, Cassidy jumped off the stool, dutifully walking over to place her mug in the sink, an instant later launching herself at Miranda with a python’s grip. “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Miranda clutched back, bending down to place a kiss on the messy mop of hair.
“I don’t think it would be so bad to be you,” her daughter’s moist breath tickled her ear.
“Well, let’s hope you still think that when you’re all grown up.” Tapping a freckled nose, Miranda asked conspiratorially, “Now, do you think a cup of cocoa will similarly cure your sister’s ills?”
“No.” Rolling her eyes, Cassidy reverted back to more familiar sibling mockery. “She’s decided to take drama next year and I think she’s started practicing already!”
“Well,” diplomatically swallowing a smile, Miranda drawled, “perhaps if I bring it up in half an hour?”
“Okay.” Grabbing her backpack, Cassidy flew out of the kitchen, throwing, “Thanks, Mum!” over her shoulder.
Any hint of affection bleeding out the instant that the flash of red disappeared around the corner, she reached for her cell phone, less than two seconds later greeted with a crisp, “Yes, Miranda?”
“Emily, get me everything there is on a boy called Jeremy. He attends Dalton with the twins. Have it emailed to me in fifteen minutes.”
“On it’s way to you in two, Miranda. The name is,” there was a short pause and a furious clacking of the keys, “Northam. Jeremy Northam.”
“The mind-reading skills are certainly a welcome addition to your meagre repertoire.”
“We’ve kept a record of everyone in their class. Have done since kindergarten.” The tinge of haughtiness was poorly disguised.
“Well…” impressed with her assistants’ rare moment of anticipation, Miranda simply ended the call. In the time it took to add her barely touched drink to Cassidy’s empty cup, and rinse them both, a melodious ping brooked the stillness of the kitchen, faithfully confirming the arrival of the requested information.
The act of flicking the email open and scanning its contents curved Miranda’s lips in a bitter smirk. Of course-nothing worthwhile was ever cheap or simple.
That always went double for revenge.
Hitting the speed dial for a frequent contact, she jammed the offending Blackberry between her shoulder and ear, methodically preparing another cup of cocoa, this one with just a hint more chocolate and marshmallows than the one she’d made for her somewhat less headstrong child. Between the droning bleeps, she just had long enough to ponder the bitter irony of the fact that while Caroline continued to frustrate everyone around her, her ways would see her get far more, both from her mother and the world, than the placating Cassidy would ever see from her kind-hearted, gentle methods.
“Miranda, it’s after eight. I know that you happen to believe-”
“John, this will take five minutes. How much of my assets can you liquidate on Monday?”
“I-hang on-what? Miranda, what the hell is going on?” Her financial advisor’s irritated tone was tinged with both bewilderment and anger.
“I need a favour. But first I need to know that I can write a banker’s draft on Monday, upwards of six figures if necessary.”
“Of course. But it’s going to cost you. Handsomely. May I enquire as to the hurry? If you give me a few days…”
“I don’t have a few days. And the hurry is about to become patently clear. Now, do you remember the charming Thai man at your beach house last year...?”
After a minute’s silence, the peevish changed to curt. “What do you want, Miranda?”
“So many things. But in this instant-I’ll settle for Theodore Northam’s head on a silver platter.”
“Why? You don’t move in his circles.”
“The reason is of no consequence to you. What matters is a single name.”
“Miranda...”
“Don’t. We both know that I can destroy your reputation with one call.”
“Do ten years of business count for nothing?”
“Yes. I will be sure to tell the partners that I take no pleasure in your downfall. And John-I will mean that-but it won’t stop me.”
An even longer silence was followed by a loaded exhalation. “This can’t get back to me, Miranda, do you understand?”
“As clear as crystal. You are not my only source, just simply one that’s most convenient.”
“And the beach house matter…?”
“What matter?”
“Anna Wintour.”
Her patience extended to hearing the dial tone before she let out an uncustomary curse. Leaning over the counter, she took several deep breaths, phone drumming against the granite. There were favours and there were favours. Certain people slipped up just once a lifetime, or to be more accurate, were caught by others only once. To play her trump card now… for this… But then again, how many more times would she get to be the white knight riding to the rescue? How soon before her children didn’t need her anymore? As if of their own volition, her fingers danced through her contacts, the eventually selected number rigorously updated by her assistants but unused for nearly three years. Her thumb hovered over the ‘call’ button, the other hand questioningly tapping out a halting rhythm on the counter top.
The sudden piercing squeal startled her, thumb automatically pressing down before her brain had even processed the caller’s name. By the time she raised the phone to within hearing distance, all she could make out was a tail-end of a hissed instruction, “... that drink now. Oh and offer to read The Seas of Aquallon. We still love it when you read to us and it’s her favourite right now. Okay, bye!”
Making a note to remind Cassidy that being upset was no excuse to use a cell phone instead of coming down to speak to her, Miranda made a split second decision, a pristinely manicured digit bringing up the previously displayed contact, this time showing no hesitancy in pressing the necessary button. Either through courtesy or curiosity, perhaps a mixture of both, the phone was answered almost instantly. “Miranda Priestly, how lovely to hear from you. I thought I felt the house get a little… chilly.”
“Anna.” Clenching her jaw till her teeth were almost audibly grinding together, Miranda reminded herself that the end always justified the means. “How are you this evening?”
“Oh cut the crap, darling. If I believed all I needed to receive a ‘how do you do’ from the great Miranda Priestly was to land in the hospital with a silly stomach bug, I would be inundated by your calls.”
“All recovered then. I’d hate to be accused of trumping you when you aren’t at your best.”
“Darling, the day that either one of us concedes we lost because we had an off-day, will be a day that neither of us are in charge of our current publications.”
“Sometimes I forget why it is that I am supposed to hate you. You can be so damned amusing when you want to.”
“You should see me in the boardroom. Alas, let us dispense with kid gloves... to what do I really owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I need a favour.”
“A favour? Well, this must really be a matter of life and death. May I assume that you are finally ready to rid yourself of the unwelcome snake in Runway’s Garden of Eden?”
“Unfortunately, I need the snake as much as he believes he doesn’t need me. No, this is a… private matter.”
“Don’t tell me someone has finally caught you, how shall I put it, in flagrante?”
“No, those kinds of activities I leave to you.” Without preamble, Miranda launched into the thick of things, aware that if anyone were to catch an undercurrent’s drift, it would be the only woman she considered her equal. “Theodore Northam.”
“Small fry. Not enough to wager what you have on me.”
“I haven’t even begun…”
“And I don’t need to hear the rest. Perhaps it’s foolish of me to aid you in whichever morbid quest you’ve chosen to undertake, but if I am to ensure anyone’s survival, it would be yours. We are both smart enough to know we sink or swim together.”
“Nevertheless, I am cashing in my chips. By the time trading begins on Monday morning, I want him to be a smeared stain simply waiting to be wiped away.”
“There are penalties.”
“You’ll have a banker’s draft on Monday. Call his partners tonight and let me know your price.”
“What could he possibly have done?”
“He made the girls cry.” Miranda felt a moment’s shame that her own eyes prickled at this admission of failure.
“I see. Well… it must be that time of the year for a charitable donation. I’ll write off as much as I can-the rest I will expect in full on Monday afternoon.”
“You have my word.”
“That of Miranda Priestly or a mother?”
“Which one means more?”
Anna’s hollow laugh echoed Miranda’s vulnerabilities. “If I was to let it, I’d find it unbearably depressing that the very things which would portray us both as more human are the very things which we are fighting tooth and nail to conceal.”
“A mother’s lot in life; it’s not a lot… but it’s a life.”
“And their lives will always matter more.”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise.”
“Why is it that we don’t converse more often? Tell me, who have you earmarked for your December cover?”
Softly chuckling, Miranda admonished, “Goodbye, Anna. I am sure that we’ll speak again. Meanwhile… thank you.”
Ending the call, she stood stock still, immersed in contemplation; thinking again, as she’d been doing so often recently, of what it really meant when those who could most empathise with you were the wolves that bayed outside your door. Trying to physically shake the distasteful thoughts away, she reached for the phone one last time. “Emily,” barely hiding her overwhelming weariness, she bit out, “find a way to anonymously contact every newspaper that’s ever owed Elias Clarke and circulate a rumour that Peterson, Smith & Northam are about to be investigated for financial mismanagement and that their biggest client is going to walk tonight. And when Theodore Northam calls, no matter what, let his calls go through to voicemail. When he begs, and he will, agree to an appointment on Monday morning, 7:30 sharp.”
“Of course, Miranda, I’ll see you at 7:30.”
A jarring silence hit, Emily awaiting more instructions, Miranda waiting for-well-for the question that had only ever rung true more than two years ago, from the one person that still menacingly lurked in the dusty, murky corners of her mind. The rebuke and consternation emanating from that imaginary voice spurred Miranda on, she snapping, “I will be in at 9.30. Make sure Northam doesn’t leave. That’s all.”