Small Favors, Part II
Small Favors, Part II
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox do.
Rating: M
===
Andy frowned at Billy’s tux as the cab raced up Broadway.
“Geez, Sachs, it’s a rental. I only had an hour to get ready, what the hell do you expect?”
“Whatever. As long as your camera works, I can’t complain.”
“Dixon thinks we’re crazy for covering this thing. It’s not exactly hard news.”
“You never know where something might lead. Good stories tend to pop up in unexpected places, dontcha know,” Andy said, but she didn’t think he bought it. She hardly did.
“Well, you look nice, anyway. How come you don’t dress like that every day?”
She shifted the strap of her Chanel mini dress in discomfort. His gaze was a little too admiring. “Because I work at the Mirror, that’s why. My clothing budget’s limited.”
“Too bad,” he said, and Andy squirmed. If she pulled her wrap on now it would be obvious, and she didn’t want to hurt the poor guy’s feelings.
The cab pulled up to Cipriani, and Andy took a deep breath. I belong here, she chanted to herself. I was invited. Billy ungracefully exited the cab after her, and started snapping photos as New York’s brightest and most beautiful entered the restaurant. The place was dripping with diamonds, that much was certain. The doorman barely let them in when he saw Billy’s camera, but the invitation was too authentic to be denied. Andy had just accepted a glass of champagne and was searching out hors d’oeuvres when Miranda breezed up to them.
“Hi, Miranda, thank you so much--”
“You have fifteen minutes,” she said. “Get some quotes, snap a few pictures, and then I want you to walk straight out the front door. Is that clear?”
Andy almost dropped her glass. “What?”
Miranda’s voice lowered dangerously. “I said, I want you to leave this establishment in fifteen minutes. Not twelve minutes. Not twenty-two. Fifteen.”
Andy blinked. Miranda’s eyes were hard, glittering chips of ice.
This was it then, Andy thought. This was her future. To be led around by the nose by Miranda Priestly. To do her bidding, to jump when asked, to be let down every time. How had this happened? She didn’t even work for the woman anymore.
“Sure, Miranda. I didn’t have anything else going on tonight. Awesome.” She turned to Billy. “Hear that, photographer? Get some shots of the glitterati and we’re outta here.”
Miranda sighed. “I expect you to be more grateful tomorrow, Andrea. I look forward to it.”
“Sure,” Andy said. She lifted her pen and waved it at Miranda. “Thanks, by the way. It’s pretty.”
Miranda’s lips thinned into an enigmatic line. She turned abruptly and walked away.
Bitch, Andy thought. Miranda’s behavior was incomprehensible. She ran lukewarm and frigid. Whatever.
She and Billy made nice for a few minutes as Andy watched the minutes tick by on her cellphone. And as good as her word, she yanked him toward the door when her fifteen ticks were over. “Let’s go get drunk,” she said to him, and his face lit up.
Outside, Andy’s plans changed.
Something was going on. Traffic was at a standstill in front of the restaurant, and at the corner of Park as well. Horns blared, and Andy’s eyes widened when she saw the crowd lining the streets. Hundreds of people were walking amongst the cars, carrying signs. Those on the sidewalks had full sized coffins hoisted on their shoulders, draped with American flags. “Holy shit, it’s a protest.”
Billy’s eyes were hungry as he checked his camera battery. “I guess this is your story popping up in an unexpected place, huh.”
Andy barely heard him as she whispered a prayer of thanks that she’d only gone with three-inch heels tonight. She tied her wrap around her waist and fished the digital recorder from her purse. The Mont Blanc was tucked away for safe keeping. “Let’s go.”
They plunged into the throng, never once looking back.
===
At 7:00 on Saturday morning, Andy exited a cab in front of Miranda’s townhouse. The lights were on inside, and she was certain the twins were awake. Any nervousness about seeing Miranda again had fled; after the night she’d had, this was going to be a cakewalk.
She rang the doorbell. Seconds later, the deadbolt was thrown open. There Miranda stood, dressed in the gray robe Andy had thought of so often over the past year. “Well,” she said. “I take it your evening was a success?”
“It was,” Andy replied. “This is me being grateful.” She held up a box of Dunkin’ Donut Munchkins.
“I’m sure we can scrounge up something less deadly. Don’t let the girls see those.”
“See what?” one redhead said from behind the door. Andy handed the box over when the girl came into view. There was a squeal of delight, and the box and its recipient unceremoniously vanished up the stairs.
“Thank you so much.” Miranda’s tone was dry, but light. “It’s just what they need.”
“Don’t worry. I gave most of them away at the precinct.”
Miranda glanced at her sharply. “Mm.” They walked toward the kitchen. “Carina, can we have two Bloody Marys please? And a full breakfast for the jailbird.”
Andy snorted. “What, do I smell like prison?”
“No, but I’ve got eyes.” She ushered Andy into an adjacent sitting room and pointed to a plush loveseat. Andy paused briefly before sitting. Miranda might need to have the thing cleaned when she left. But after three hours spent crouched on a cold, hard bench in the city lockup, it felt like a miracle.
Andy sighed as she gazed at Miranda. That knowing smile was there, the rare one Andy coveted. “You could have just told me, you know. You didn’t have to make me think you were so unfeeling.”
“Unfeeling? I believe I sensed a different word from the look on your face.”
Andy laughed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t love every second of it. Honestly, Miranda, you are the most inscrutable woman I have ever met in my life.”
“I simply enjoy a surprise, that’s all.”
Andy shivered at the familiar words, said in such a foreign tone. This was Miranda at her most human, Andy decided. She was beautiful. A sight for her painfully sore, tired eyes. Carina soon arrived carrying a pitcher of blood red liquid and two glasses. Miranda poured. Andy took the drink and drained half of it, the liquor blazing a warm trail down her throat. “God, that’s good.”
“I want to hear everything. I’ll check on the girls and be back in a moment.”
“Sure.” Andy took another sip before setting her drink on the side table. The surface was glass, which was a relief since Andy was certain she couldn’t find the energy to hunt down a coaster. She relaxed happily, feeling safe and pleased with herself in a way she’d only occasionally experienced in life. An hour before she’d filed an exceptional story with Dixon, replete with a set of pictures that would make for a hundred image gallery for the paper’s site. Now, she sat comfortably in the home of the woman who had handed her the story on a silver platter. Pleasure coursed through her system, carried buoyantly along by the generous portion of vodka from her Bloody Mary.
Her eyes drifted shut. Within a minute, she was asleep.
===
The room was dark when Andy opened her eyes. She still felt exhausted, but waking up in an unknown space shocked adrenaline into her system. Squeezing her eyes shut, she remembered arriving at Miranda’s. A blanket covered her, and a pillow as soft as a cloud cushioned her head. When she sat up, her head throbbed, and she realized she hadn’t eaten a full meal since lunch yesterday. Not that she had any clue what time it was now. Her phone was in her bag, which still sat at the base of the sofa. The digital readout said 1:13pm.
Quietly, she crept into the kitchen. Carina was there, stirring something that smelled unbelievably good. “Ah, Signorina, you awake. Come sit. Your lunch is almost ready.”
“That’s all right, Carina. I should go.”
“No.” Carina was firm. “You stay. Clothes are upstairs in the special room. She had them brought this morning. Go change, and you eat. She will be back soon.”
“I really should--”
“No!” Carina almost shouted. Andy recognized that look. Sheer terror. She supposed Miranda had made it clear that Andy was to stay until she returned.
“Fine, I’ll stay.”
Carina visibly deflated. “Good.”
“Where are they?”
“Football practice. Soccer, I mean. For the girls.”
Andy raised her eyebrows. That was different. “Okay. I’ll just… go change. Which room?”
“Second on the right on the top floor. You see everything.”
Andy crept upstairs, recalling the first time she’d ever been in the house. What a nightmare. Stephen was long gone now, so at least she wouldn’t interrupt anything untoward. The door to the room Carina had indicated was open, and there was a small pile of clothing on the bed. True Religion jeans in Andy’s size were waiting for her, along with a beautiful Dolce keyhole neckline tunic. In all, the outfit was worth more than Andy made in a week. Or two. She almost gasped when she found La Perla lingerie hiding beneath the top, and Andy held the sheer garments up against the light.
Who had chosen this for her? An assistant? Emily? A clacker who stocked the Closet?
Or Miranda herself… Her skin tingled at the thought.
She turned around, suddenly sure Miranda was standing there, watching her. But she was alone. The open bathroom door beckoned, and sure enough, towels and toiletries were lined up along the vanity. Quickly she shed her clothes (which, now that she thought about it, stank beyond belief) and stepped into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, she felt like a new woman. Her hair was sleek as she brushed it out; there really was a difference between Suave and the good stuff, she was sorry to say. She pulled on her lingerie, admiring the curves of her body as defined by the silk and lace. It was… delicious. She licked her lips, and laughed at the wanton expression staring back at her in the mirror.
She’d better get rid of any ideas of Miranda seeing her in lingerie she may or may not have chosen to fit her. That way was the road to madness, surely.
But the thought reminded Andy, who admitted this to herself only once in a great while, that her attraction to Miranda wasn’t exactly intellectual. Somehow thinking about it here, half-dressed in Miranda’s guest bathroom, didn’t feel ridiculous. After all, Miranda was a gorgeous woman. She reeked of power, charm, brilliance. And when she paid attention to Andy, she felt like the most important woman alive.
It was a lie, though. A beautiful one, but a falsehood nonetheless. She was just a girl, a reporter, and this day would come to an end and Andy would go back to her real life. She’d have the Mont Blanc pen as proof of it all, and she’d probably keep these clothes, since Miranda wouldn’t ask for them back.
But this was a blip in the course of her life, like Runway. Evanescent. But memorable. Miranda was nothing if not memorable.
She finished dressing, surprised there were no shoes to go with everything else. Her remaining pair of Jimmy Choos weren’t too beaten up even after a night in the slammer, so she’d be fine. As she climbed down the stairs, eagerly anticipating whatever marvel Carina had whipped up in the kitchen, Andy heard the key turn in the lock. Her chest swelled in anticipation, but it was not Miranda’s face that came through the door. Nor was it Cassidy’s or Caroline’s.
Emily gaped at her, and screamed.
Andy’s hand flew to her mouth. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“What are you doing? Get out! Miranda will be home in less than half an hour. How did you get in here, did you break in with your old key? Did you make a copy to keep for yourself in case you ever had the chance to sneak in? Christ, you’re unbelievable. And why are you wearing those clothes? Miranda had me send them over… this… morning…”
Emily ran out of gas, sputtering to a stop.
“You’re a guest here,” she said finally, and the bag she carried dropped to the carpet with a thud. It fell over, and a shoe box slid partway out. “It was all for you.”
For a brief, shining moment, the question of the lingerie was on the tip of Andy’s tongue. But she stayed silent, uncertain of her safety. The look on Emily’s face was one of pure rage. Jealous, murderous rage.
“You’ve been… ‘socializing’ with Miranda?” she asked, the words dripping from her lips.
“No,” Andy said quickly. “I had a rough night, and Miranda lived nearby, so I stopped in. She gave me a tip on a story, and I wanted to say thanks.”
“A rough night,” Emily said.
“Yeah, I was arrested.”
“Arrested,” Emily repeated again, her voice rising in hysteria. “You were arrested, so you decided, ‘Oh, I know, I’ll just visit my old boss, the most powerful bloody woman in the fashion industry, since she’s so good with people who’ve just spent time in jail.’ What in god’s name is wrong with you? Don’t you know Miranda is an extremely busy woman?”
“Yes, I recall something like that,” Andy said with a smirk.
“Then you should not be wasting her time. Or my time for that matter. I actually had plans today, and what did I have to do instead? Rummage through the Closet for an hour searching for half a dozen outfits. Do you know how hard it was to find a size six in those jeans? For you! Ridiculous, irresponsible, fat little you!”
“Sorry about that, honestly. But half a dozen? I only saw this one.”
“Miranda rejected everything else.”
“Oh.” Andy searched for some righteous indignation, and found it as she looked over Emily’s ensemble. “That’s a nice skirt, Em. Valentino?”
“Yes, of course, it’s from--” She stopped. It was one of the dozen pieces Andy had given her last year from Paris. Emily nearly bared her teeth. “Well, yes. There is that. How long will I have to be grateful?”
“Till you hand over the very last piece to the Goodwill. Or sell it on ebay.”
That seemed to sap Emily of the last of her anger. “Fine. Whatever. Here,” she said, kicking the box on the floor toward her. “Size 8 and a half. I don’t care if they fit.”
“Thanks, Em.” She left the box where it was. “How’ve you been?”
Emily took a huge breath, revving up again. “Crazed. The holiday party is going to be a disaster unless I find the right chef. And the February issue is in a shambles since Nigel left.”
“He’s gone?”
“Of course, don’t you read?” Emily asked. Andy almost laughed. “He’s taken over for Jacqueline at James Holt. She was forced out last month, gone back to handle Runway Italia with her tail between her legs.”
Andy grinned. “That’s great.”
“You would say that. Idiotic. We’re short two people since Jocelyn is on maternity leave. For some reason she thought it would be a good idea to have a baby. Please.”
“Ah, right.” Andy observed Emily’s face. She looked great, though harried as ever. “I actually meant, how are you?”
“Me,” Emily said, staring. “How am I?”
“Yeah.”
She appeared confused. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“Good. Me too. Despite the whole being arrested thing.” Emily’s mouth twisted sideways, and Andy realized she’d missed her former partner in misery. She was nuts, she was tormented, but under it all, she was a good person. “You went to Paris.”
Emily’s shoulders straightened; she looked at least an inch taller. “Obviously.” Her accent was haughtier than ever.
“Good for you, Em. I’m glad.”
Emily shook her head once. Andy’s generosity had always baffled her. “Right,” she said. “Right. So, I’m leaving.”
Andy called out, “See you,” as Emily slammed the door and locked it behind her.
That could have gone worse.
===
Part III