Taking Risks, Chapter 2 of 12
Title: Taking Risks, Chapter 2
Total Chapters: Prologue, 12 Chapters & Epilogue
Author: duwinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Eventually Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: A continuation of a story written for Calliopedawn in answer to her prompt in the Barren Desert Exchange. I hope I get to the spirit of what you desired. I'm certainly have a good time writing to your prompt.
Setting: Slight AU, and set during the time-frame of the events in the movie.
Prompt: Andy got a job at The New York Times instead of Runway. Nate never existed and Andy was actually into fashion. Andy could go freelance or be offered to write for Runway therefore introducing Miranda :)
Summery: See prompt.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit being made here. I'm just playing with them for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through.
Comment: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.
Very Special Thanks: to my wonderful Beta jazwriter. Your help has been invaluable. It is because of people with your willingness to teach that I someday might be a better writer.
Chapter 2
Thursday September 17th, 2009
Andy sat at her desk, feeling miserable. Danielle Gold seemed to be making it a point to stalk her at every opportunity. In each encounter the hostile woman again berated her as a no-talent hack.
The “star” reporter of the Style section didn't pull any punches and wasn't above saying what she had to say in front of any available audience, including Andy's co-workers. Andy found the repeated harsh verbal assaults horribly humiliating, but she restrained herself from losing her temper and fighting back or going to her boss to complain about the situation. This wasn't some schoolyard thing. This was the real world and the career she wanted in a big city newsroom. She wanted to show everyone that she was tough enough to take whatever was dished out and still do her job professionally. She glanced at the copy she was working on. Adding insult to injury, the articles she's been assigned to write copy for the last couple of days seemed last page of the paper, below the fold unimportant. She had begun to become seriously concerned about just how far Danielle's power and influence might reach within the hierarchy of The Times’ management.
*****
A truly excellent lunch at a five-star restaurant in the charming company of Miranda Priestly had left Roger Hoskins feeling well-satisfied and yet, at the same time, completely incompetent. Miranda was a force to be reckoned with, a legend in the publishing industry. The purpose of the lunch meeting, he had discovered, was that she had wished to trade information. Early in the meal she had offered up several interesting tips, spanning inside information on a high society scandal, a tip on a major corporation about to go belly-up and take it's employees’ pension plans with it, and details on a celebrity drug bust that was just breaking news. He wondered where she got her information, but he didn't doubt for one single second that when his reporters followed up they would discover each tip was good. All she had desired in return was one trivial and insignificant piece of information, and he discovered he didn't have it to give her. He had no idea who had actually written the column Miranda had enough interest in to actually bring a copy of it with her to lunch. He also didn't immediately know why the balance of the article Miranda was so interested in hadn't been printed the next day as promised. He was Editor-in-Chief of one of the premier newspapers in the world. He wasn't used to feeling like a schoolboy, chastised for not completing his lessons. All it had taken was one purse of the elegant woman's lips. He didn't presently know the information Miranda had asked about, but he was damn well going to find out.
In the back of a taxi on the way back to his office Hoskins read the column that Miranda Priestly had handed him. It was good writing. Damn good writing. It moved the reader, lured the reader towards the writer's point of view. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the car seat. Pulling out his cell phone, he speed-dialed his executive assistant. “Carol,” he said as she picked up. “Contact the editor of the Style section. Find out from Karen who wrote the fashion column that was run on Tuesday under Danielle Gold's by-line. Tell Karen I said to scrap whatever Danielle is getting ready to run tonight and run Tuesday's column again in tonight's edition. I want it run in its entirety. Contact Bill McGrath in the print-room. If I know that old print-monkey, he has the text in a file somewhere in the computer. Tell him to expand the scheduled column inches for the fashion column as necessary to make room. Trim other columns and cut ads if necessary. Also make sure you tell McGrath to run it under the by-line of the person who actually wrote it. Have a messenger standing by in the press room. I want the first copy hot off the presses hand-delivered to Miranda Priestly at her office at Runway before the ink has time to dry. ”
*****
Miranda returned from lunch to her office at Runway and immediately terrorized her executive staff. Emily, a seasoned survivor of life in the trenches of Runway, read the white-haired woman's body language at a glance and dove for cover, leaving Miranda's hapless new second assistant Heather Gray to take the brunt of Miranda's dark mood. Surprisingly, the girl got off with a fairly minor tongue lashing and just might keep her job if she managed to bring Miranda a center-of-the-sun hot latte in the next five minutes. Now Miranda sat fuming silently in her office. The information she had given away at lunch had significant value in the publishing world. She was discontent that Roger did not have the information she had desired in exchange at the tip of his fingers, but she also knew how the game was played. She'd been one of the most powerful figures in New York City for almost twenty years. CEOs of major companies and seasoned politicians quaked in their shoes when her shadow crossed theirs. As appealing as instant gratification was, achieving it was rarely the norm. Getting things done took time. She had given Roger and The Times something of value. Now he was in her debt. He would find out what she wished to know and would have the information delivered to her.
She sat back and spun her chair towards the window. The next step would be to see what the mystery writer could really do. Was she capable --for Miranda was unreasonably hopeful that the “she” in question was the beautiful brunette in the Ellie Saab gown-- of producing more than one insightful article? As Miranda saw it there were two ways this scenario could play out. She could have her minions at Runway approach the writer and have them encourage her to submit freelance articles for possible publication in Runway, or she could convince Roger of the wisdom of having this potentially wonderful new talent produce articles for The Times.
While the first method would allow Miranda to control the situation to a greater extent, even to the point of directing what kind of articles she wanted to see from the writer in question, she had to admit that the second method held a certain bonus incentive. If the mystery writer was writing Fashion columns for The Times several times a week, it would mean that Danielle Gold was not producing those columns, thus reducing her ability to spread the infection of her aberrant ideas about fashion to her readers. The danger in this method was that Roger might realize what he has in this new talent and make things difficult if and when Miranda made her play and attempted to lure the woman away to work at Runway.
As her assistant rushed in breathless and afraid with Miranda's steaming latte clutched in her trembling hands, Miranda smirked. This new second assistant might actually have the where-with-all to remain employed at Runway for a little while longer. Miranda took the latte from the nervous woman's hand and relished the fact that now she had a plan which would not only fulfill her desire to learn more about this talented new writer but would at the same time send Danielle Gold into another fit of figuratively frothing at the mouth. The image of Danielle Gold in a fit of apoplexy from being told someone else would be published in “her” fashion column played across Miranda's mind's eye, causing her cold blue eyes to twinkle at her terrified second assistant and her face to crease in a small wicked smile. “That's all,” she said softly. Heather fled Miranda's office as if all the demons of hell were chasing her.
*****
Karen Wilson finished reading the printout of the article that the Editor-in-Chief had demanded be run in the evening edition in place of the scheduled Fashion column. She placed the pages neatly on her desk. The writing was good, granted that the opinions expressed in the column weren't what had been asked for. It was supposed to have been a report on the MoMA fashion retrospective, not a condemnation of it. If it came down to explaining to the editor-in-chief why the balance of the column hadn't been run on Wednesday --and from what she had learned from her telephone conversation with Roger's executive assistant, Karen had a very uncomfortable premonition that she would soon be standing before his desk doing exactly that-- that was her story, and she was sticking to it. She sighed and picked up the phone, dialing Jack Prentice in the copy and fact checking department. “Jack,” she said as soon as he picked up the phone. “Karen Wilson in Style here. I need to know the name of the person who wrote Tuesday's fashion column.”
“I'm surprised you don't know it already, Karen,” Jack answered rather coldly. “Your protégée, Danielle, has been harassing Andy since the morning after Andy bailed her ass out by having that column ready to print. And may I add that Andy had it ready to go two days before she was due to turn it in...”
“I know...I know....” Karen said apologetically. It suddenly seemed to her that she was always apologizing for Danielle's temperamental and volatile nature. “You know how it is when you're working with an artist,” she temporized, using the same lame excuse she'd used a dozen times before in the last month alone. “Anyway, first name Andy, what's his last name?” she asked into the telephone receiver.
“Sachs,” Jack said in response. “Her name is Andy Sachs. That's S-A-C-H-S.”
“Andy Sachs.” Karen repeated, looking up and seeing Danielle standing in the doorway to her office. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, hanging up the phone.
“So,” Danielle asked, a nasty smile on her face, “You finally moving to get that no-talent that messed up my column fired?” she asked lazily.
Karen looked down at her desk and sighed, well aware of the coming explosion. “No.” she answered. “I'm running her column tonight in its entirety. Orders from the top.”
“Running it?” Danielle asked, evidently momentarily confused. “Running it where? It's a weekend-length column.”
Karen looked up at the woman that was her drug of choice and steeled herself for what was to come. She knew for certain that Danielle would throw a hissy-fit and punish her for what she must say next. She swallowed and looking Danielle in the eye she said, “I'm running it in place of your column. The print room is going to cut other columns' lengths or drop ads to make up the necessary space.”
For a moment the way Danielle's mouth worked reminded Karen of a fish she'd caught one time when she went fishing with her father, who had an interest in the sport. She'd gotten the hook out of it and watched it lay there on the pier with its mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. She couldn't stand to see it suffer and threw it back into the water. Her father had laughed at her all the way home.
Karen watched Danielle's eyes narrow and her mouth set in a thin line. “You're going to run that no-talent little bitch's column in place of my column?!” she shrieked.
Karen had suddenly had enough. She stood angrily from her desk and slammed both hands palms down onto its surface. “I'm going to run it because I've been told to by my boss,” she said dangerously. “And may I remind you that I'm your boss!”
Danielle stiffened. “Well,” she said, anger vibrating in her tone. “I have other friends in this paper. If you won't do what's right, I'll go to somebody that will!”
Karen looked sadly at the woman that she was nearly obsessed with. “Danielle,” she said very quietly, “I'm the only friend you have left at this paper. Your prima donna act has alienated everybody else. I've put my own job in jeopardy protecting you and making excuses for you! Now drop this and leave Sachs alone. Her column runs tonight because that's the way the editor-in-chief wants it. And there's not anything you can do about it.”
Danielle turned angrily to leave the office. Before going she looked back over her shoulder and smirked cruelly. “Well, I know somebody who won't be getting any for a while.” she said nastily as a parting shot.
Karen slumped back down at her desk and placed her head in her hands. Danielle wasn't good for her, and she knew it. Had known if for some time. Karen was perfectly aware that Danielle didn't feel about her the way she felt about Danielle. She knew that Danielle manipulated her and threw her name around to get what she wanted in the workplace. Karen was also aware that Danielle lied to her on a regular basis and that she cheated on her outrageously. Although Danielle insisted she was faithful, Karen knew for a fact about at least two of Danielle's other lovers, including the one who was in Miami with her when the hurricane hit. With tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat, she reached for the telephone and called her therapist to see if she could get her appointment moved up. It was time to go cold turkey and kick the habit before it cost her the only other thing she loved. Her job.
*****
Miranda was surprised when, only a few hours after her lunch with Roger Hoskins, Emily announced that a private messenger service had delivered a copy of the evening edition of the paper. From nearly a lifetime of living in Manhattan Miranda was aware that even the many newsstands that littered the cityscape would not yet have received copies of the evening edition, and they were the first places to do so. She took the paper from Emily's outstretched hand and moved behind her desk while picking up her reading glasses. “Generously tip the messenger from petty cash Emily. That's all.” she said taking her seat and seeking out the Style section.
Fifteen minutes later Miranda had finished reading the column. Twice. She was experiencing a strange, satisfying sensation, almost like the proverbial desire for a cigarette after sex. This woman -and Miranda had no doubt that a woman had written the column since not even the great gay male designers that Miranda knew intimately had the kind of insight into fashion this writer showed she clearly had-- this Andy (a rude and provincial bastardization, Miranda was certain the name was something more elegant, Andrea perhaps) had touched a place deep inside Miranda with her words. Miranda was certain now that there was a kindred spirit out there. Someone that understood fashion as she did. Understood that it was all about the acceptance and balancing of risk. Andy Sachs, Miranda thought as she looked up from the paper on her desk. “Emily,” she called out quietly. Emily was in the doorway in less than five seconds. “Contact Roger Hoskins' assistant at The Times. Find out if Roger is going to attend the Darfur charity benefit scheduled for tomorrow evening. If he is going to be there, contact the planners of the event and RSVP that I will also attend. Then tell them to move my place to Roger's table. That's all.”
*****
Andy hugged her best friend Lily to her tightly. “Girl,” she said playfully, “where you been?”
The swirl and the noise of the after work crowd in the bar they were in almost drowned out the friendly banter. Lily smiled. “Well, since you helped me move into my apartment a few weeks ago I've been running my behind off for the gallery I'm working for.” she answered. Looking down she shuffled a little bit.
It was something that Andy had seen ever since they became best friends forever as teenagers. Lily wanted something from Andy and was embarrassed to ask. Andy lifted her drink and waited patiently for Lily to get around to what she wanted. “Andy,” Lily started, “I need a favor.”
Andy looked at her friend. “If it's within my power Lily, it's yours. You should know that.” Lily nodded.
“I sort of let it slip at work that I had a contact at The New York Times,” she said looking down at the bar. “Now the owner of the gallery is all over my behind to use that connection to get us some press. We're a new gallery, and we're really struggling. If we don't get some publicity soon the place isn't going to survive.”
Andy blew out a breath. “I'll do what I can Lil,” she replied. “I can't promise anything, but I know somebody I can talk to at the paper. Maybe get them to come out and see your place. Didn't you tell me you had an opening tomorrow night?”
Lily nodded. “It would be great if you could get somebody to come take a look. It's going to be a fantastic show. We're featuring some virtually unknown new artists that are really talented,” she said excitedly.
*****
Friday September 18th, 2009
Friday morning found Andy moving nervously through enemy territory. Danielle Gold had accosted and verbally assaulted her in many different departments of the paper, but positively the last place Andy wanted to get caught was on Danielle's home turf in the Style department. Especially today when last night for some unknown reason the powers that be had chosen to completely take leave of their senses and reprint her column in its entirety in the evening edition. Not only had they printed her article, they had printed her by-line. She had an article in The New York Times.
She'd gone out and bought a dozen copies to send home. Her parents were going to be so proud, and she knew they'd want a copy to give to every relative. Fortunately for Andy, early mornings at the office were not something Danielle did. Andy sighed as she saw the office doorway she sought. Now came the really stupid part of her plan. Convincing a woman she’d heard was Danielle Gold's lover to attend the opening at Lily's gallery that night. Bracing herself, she knocked on the door and reminded herself that what she did was for her BFF.
“Come in,” came a woman s voice that, if Andy were trying to write about it, she could only describe as sultry.
Andy opened the door to the office and faced, Karen Wilson, Style Editor, across the woman's desk. “Ms Wilson?” she swallowed nervously, watching the attractive woman's head come up and regard her curiously. Karen had maybe ten or twelve years on her, but Andy always seemed to have a thing for older women. Even the one long-term relationship she had in college had been with an older woman. A professor at Northwestern. “My name is Andy Sachs; I work in copy and fact checking,” she said. “I....ummm....I know of a gallery opening tonight. I thought that the Style section might be interested in it for inclusion in the things to do over the weekend column...” Andy babbled, as she was prone to do when nervous.
Karen nodded. “Okay,” she said, a small smile on her face making her even more attractive. “I'm listening.”
*****
Karen stood amid the scattered outfits and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. The pencil skirt and blouse with the jacket over it were flattering to her body. She knew she looked good in them. Her hair was acceptable, and her make-up just right for the evening crowd she'd soon be joining. During their session yesterday afternoon, her therapist had told her if she wanted to break it off with Danielle and make the separation work she needed to start getting out among people. Just working all the time wasn't going to fulfill her need to be social and would only serve to re-enforce what was already an unhealthy and somewhat obsessive pathology in Karen.
In short her therapist recommended that she needed to get out in public and date. See that there were other fish in the sea. Make herself understand that Danielle wasn't the only lover she could ever have. Meet potential partners, and with any luck find someone else to love. Someone who would be better for her. So when Andy Sachs came into her office and suggested someone attend a gallery opening, she’d jumped at it. There was only one catch. She grinned as she remembered Andy's face when the woman realized that Karen expected them to attend the opening together. Turning from the mirror she smiled viciously. “Well, Danielle,” she said softly to the empty room. “You’re out with one of your lovers on a date tonight, so I suppose that it's all right if I go out on a date, too.”
*****
Miranda sat humming softly to herself in the back of her town-car on the ride home from the benefit. She was exhilarated and not quite ready to surrender the evening. It had been so terribly easy, she thought to herself. She had turned on the charm, becoming a fascinating dinner companion, and acted as if only Roger and she existed in that crowded banquet hall. By the time she had said her farewells, she had left him believing it was his idea that Andy Sachs get a shot at writing the Fashion column in his newspaper.
She glanced up to where Roy sat in the driver's seat. “Is your wife waiting on you at home, Roy?” she asked.
“No, Ma'am,” he answered, “She's away visiting her mother this week,” he answered, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
Miranda nodded, “Then if you don't have somewhere you need to be immediately, let's take a drive through the park. It's such a lovely evening,” she confided, glancing out the window. “And I'm not quite ready to go home, yet.” She sat back and, stretching, returned to humming softly to herself.
***
Andy had arrived at the gallery with Karen and introduced her to Lily. Lilly had smiled at the woman and shown both of them around the exhibits. As always Andy lost the thread of what Lily was saying about all the different pieces. Lily always became so energized and excited when talking about art that she spoke a mile a minute and often failed remember that those listening didn't have her extensive art history background or her practical experience as a sketch artist, painter, and potter. Lily came alive when she talked about art. At one point Andy excused herself to get the three of them glasses of wine from one of the roaming waiter's trays. When she came back the dynamic of the group had somehow shifted and Andy found herself suddenly a third wheel. Soon after, she struck up a conversation with another of Lily's co-workers whom she had met while helping Lily move into her apartment. She watched with some amusement as Lily moved from exhibit to exhibit with Karen in tow, who was hanging almost breathlessly onto every word.
*****
Saturday September 19th 2009
Saturday morning found the ringing of Andy's phone waking her from a sound sleep. She groggily reached across the nightstand and glancing at the clock realized that is was just after seven A.M. She lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Andy!” came Lily's excited voice. “Get yourself up girl! I'm taking you to breakfast!”
Andy glanced at the clock again, “Okay,” she mumbled, “Maybe about eleven?”
“No, girlfriend!” Lily gushed. “Now. Get your behind out of bed and throw something on. I'm just down the block, and I'll be there in five minutes!”
“Lily, it's Saturday morning,” Andy complained. “You know, the day we're allowed to sleep in?”
“Not today! Too much celebrating to do. Now get up. Sooner you're dressed and ready, the sooner you’ll have a cup of coffee in your hand.”
Andy grumbled again into the receiver, but it was too late. Lily had already hung up. Andy dragged herself from bed and started to put herself to rights.
*****
Lily wouldn't say anything to Andy about what was going on or what they were celebrating until the waiter had taken their breakfast order at a small cafe down the street from Andy's apartment. Once they were seated with coffee and waiting for their food, Lily excitedly produced the Style section from the morning's edition of The Times. Andy's breath caught. She had hoped to get a half inch of column space back in the to-do over the weekend column, one of those that mentioned how such and such gallery was having an opening featuring avant-garde artwork with an address for the gallery and its hours of operation. What she saw instead was a major article. Half a page of reporting, page one of the section, above the fold. Even pictures of some of the art and a shot of the outside of the gallery were included.
“I didn't know what she was going to do when Karen asked if I had any photos of the art and the gallery,” Lily exclaimed. “I thought she was just being nice. We talked for a little while after you left, and then she said she had to get back to the office. She asked about the photos, and I gave some to her and this morning, this,” she continued pointing to the article sitting in front of Andy on the table. “Girl, I am golden with the gallery owner,” she continued excitedly. “He called me at something like just after six this morning and told me to get a hold of The Times. Andy, he's so pleased about the publicity that he's going to let me coordinate the next show! There are people that are working at the gallery that have been in the business for years that haven't been allowed to coordinate a show!”
Andy smiled. “I'm glad for you Lily. I really wasn't expecting this, I thought I might be able to get you some mention in the paper but this...this is pretty major. If you want to thank someone for it, I would suggest you thank Karen.”
Lily grinned and Andy could swear her friend blushed. “Oh I intend to,” Lily said softly, “on our date tonight.”
Surprised, Andy nearly choked on her coffee as it went down the wrong pipe.
On to Chapter 3
Total Chapters: Prologue, 12 Chapters & Epilogue
Author: duwinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Eventually Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: A continuation of a story written for Calliopedawn in answer to her prompt in the Barren Desert Exchange. I hope I get to the spirit of what you desired. I'm certainly have a good time writing to your prompt.
Setting: Slight AU, and set during the time-frame of the events in the movie.
Prompt: Andy got a job at The New York Times instead of Runway. Nate never existed and Andy was actually into fashion. Andy could go freelance or be offered to write for Runway therefore introducing Miranda :)
Summery: See prompt.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit being made here. I'm just playing with them for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through.
Comment: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.
Very Special Thanks: to my wonderful Beta jazwriter. Your help has been invaluable. It is because of people with your willingness to teach that I someday might be a better writer.
Chapter 2
Thursday September 17th, 2009
Andy sat at her desk, feeling miserable. Danielle Gold seemed to be making it a point to stalk her at every opportunity. In each encounter the hostile woman again berated her as a no-talent hack.
The “star” reporter of the Style section didn't pull any punches and wasn't above saying what she had to say in front of any available audience, including Andy's co-workers. Andy found the repeated harsh verbal assaults horribly humiliating, but she restrained herself from losing her temper and fighting back or going to her boss to complain about the situation. This wasn't some schoolyard thing. This was the real world and the career she wanted in a big city newsroom. She wanted to show everyone that she was tough enough to take whatever was dished out and still do her job professionally. She glanced at the copy she was working on. Adding insult to injury, the articles she's been assigned to write copy for the last couple of days seemed last page of the paper, below the fold unimportant. She had begun to become seriously concerned about just how far Danielle's power and influence might reach within the hierarchy of The Times’ management.
*****
A truly excellent lunch at a five-star restaurant in the charming company of Miranda Priestly had left Roger Hoskins feeling well-satisfied and yet, at the same time, completely incompetent. Miranda was a force to be reckoned with, a legend in the publishing industry. The purpose of the lunch meeting, he had discovered, was that she had wished to trade information. Early in the meal she had offered up several interesting tips, spanning inside information on a high society scandal, a tip on a major corporation about to go belly-up and take it's employees’ pension plans with it, and details on a celebrity drug bust that was just breaking news. He wondered where she got her information, but he didn't doubt for one single second that when his reporters followed up they would discover each tip was good. All she had desired in return was one trivial and insignificant piece of information, and he discovered he didn't have it to give her. He had no idea who had actually written the column Miranda had enough interest in to actually bring a copy of it with her to lunch. He also didn't immediately know why the balance of the article Miranda was so interested in hadn't been printed the next day as promised. He was Editor-in-Chief of one of the premier newspapers in the world. He wasn't used to feeling like a schoolboy, chastised for not completing his lessons. All it had taken was one purse of the elegant woman's lips. He didn't presently know the information Miranda had asked about, but he was damn well going to find out.
In the back of a taxi on the way back to his office Hoskins read the column that Miranda Priestly had handed him. It was good writing. Damn good writing. It moved the reader, lured the reader towards the writer's point of view. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the car seat. Pulling out his cell phone, he speed-dialed his executive assistant. “Carol,” he said as she picked up. “Contact the editor of the Style section. Find out from Karen who wrote the fashion column that was run on Tuesday under Danielle Gold's by-line. Tell Karen I said to scrap whatever Danielle is getting ready to run tonight and run Tuesday's column again in tonight's edition. I want it run in its entirety. Contact Bill McGrath in the print-room. If I know that old print-monkey, he has the text in a file somewhere in the computer. Tell him to expand the scheduled column inches for the fashion column as necessary to make room. Trim other columns and cut ads if necessary. Also make sure you tell McGrath to run it under the by-line of the person who actually wrote it. Have a messenger standing by in the press room. I want the first copy hot off the presses hand-delivered to Miranda Priestly at her office at Runway before the ink has time to dry. ”
*****
Miranda returned from lunch to her office at Runway and immediately terrorized her executive staff. Emily, a seasoned survivor of life in the trenches of Runway, read the white-haired woman's body language at a glance and dove for cover, leaving Miranda's hapless new second assistant Heather Gray to take the brunt of Miranda's dark mood. Surprisingly, the girl got off with a fairly minor tongue lashing and just might keep her job if she managed to bring Miranda a center-of-the-sun hot latte in the next five minutes. Now Miranda sat fuming silently in her office. The information she had given away at lunch had significant value in the publishing world. She was discontent that Roger did not have the information she had desired in exchange at the tip of his fingers, but she also knew how the game was played. She'd been one of the most powerful figures in New York City for almost twenty years. CEOs of major companies and seasoned politicians quaked in their shoes when her shadow crossed theirs. As appealing as instant gratification was, achieving it was rarely the norm. Getting things done took time. She had given Roger and The Times something of value. Now he was in her debt. He would find out what she wished to know and would have the information delivered to her.
She sat back and spun her chair towards the window. The next step would be to see what the mystery writer could really do. Was she capable --for Miranda was unreasonably hopeful that the “she” in question was the beautiful brunette in the Ellie Saab gown-- of producing more than one insightful article? As Miranda saw it there were two ways this scenario could play out. She could have her minions at Runway approach the writer and have them encourage her to submit freelance articles for possible publication in Runway, or she could convince Roger of the wisdom of having this potentially wonderful new talent produce articles for The Times.
While the first method would allow Miranda to control the situation to a greater extent, even to the point of directing what kind of articles she wanted to see from the writer in question, she had to admit that the second method held a certain bonus incentive. If the mystery writer was writing Fashion columns for The Times several times a week, it would mean that Danielle Gold was not producing those columns, thus reducing her ability to spread the infection of her aberrant ideas about fashion to her readers. The danger in this method was that Roger might realize what he has in this new talent and make things difficult if and when Miranda made her play and attempted to lure the woman away to work at Runway.
As her assistant rushed in breathless and afraid with Miranda's steaming latte clutched in her trembling hands, Miranda smirked. This new second assistant might actually have the where-with-all to remain employed at Runway for a little while longer. Miranda took the latte from the nervous woman's hand and relished the fact that now she had a plan which would not only fulfill her desire to learn more about this talented new writer but would at the same time send Danielle Gold into another fit of figuratively frothing at the mouth. The image of Danielle Gold in a fit of apoplexy from being told someone else would be published in “her” fashion column played across Miranda's mind's eye, causing her cold blue eyes to twinkle at her terrified second assistant and her face to crease in a small wicked smile. “That's all,” she said softly. Heather fled Miranda's office as if all the demons of hell were chasing her.
*****
Karen Wilson finished reading the printout of the article that the Editor-in-Chief had demanded be run in the evening edition in place of the scheduled Fashion column. She placed the pages neatly on her desk. The writing was good, granted that the opinions expressed in the column weren't what had been asked for. It was supposed to have been a report on the MoMA fashion retrospective, not a condemnation of it. If it came down to explaining to the editor-in-chief why the balance of the column hadn't been run on Wednesday --and from what she had learned from her telephone conversation with Roger's executive assistant, Karen had a very uncomfortable premonition that she would soon be standing before his desk doing exactly that-- that was her story, and she was sticking to it. She sighed and picked up the phone, dialing Jack Prentice in the copy and fact checking department. “Jack,” she said as soon as he picked up the phone. “Karen Wilson in Style here. I need to know the name of the person who wrote Tuesday's fashion column.”
“I'm surprised you don't know it already, Karen,” Jack answered rather coldly. “Your protégée, Danielle, has been harassing Andy since the morning after Andy bailed her ass out by having that column ready to print. And may I add that Andy had it ready to go two days before she was due to turn it in...”
“I know...I know....” Karen said apologetically. It suddenly seemed to her that she was always apologizing for Danielle's temperamental and volatile nature. “You know how it is when you're working with an artist,” she temporized, using the same lame excuse she'd used a dozen times before in the last month alone. “Anyway, first name Andy, what's his last name?” she asked into the telephone receiver.
“Sachs,” Jack said in response. “Her name is Andy Sachs. That's S-A-C-H-S.”
“Andy Sachs.” Karen repeated, looking up and seeing Danielle standing in the doorway to her office. “Thanks, Jack,” she said, hanging up the phone.
“So,” Danielle asked, a nasty smile on her face, “You finally moving to get that no-talent that messed up my column fired?” she asked lazily.
Karen looked down at her desk and sighed, well aware of the coming explosion. “No.” she answered. “I'm running her column tonight in its entirety. Orders from the top.”
“Running it?” Danielle asked, evidently momentarily confused. “Running it where? It's a weekend-length column.”
Karen looked up at the woman that was her drug of choice and steeled herself for what was to come. She knew for certain that Danielle would throw a hissy-fit and punish her for what she must say next. She swallowed and looking Danielle in the eye she said, “I'm running it in place of your column. The print room is going to cut other columns' lengths or drop ads to make up the necessary space.”
For a moment the way Danielle's mouth worked reminded Karen of a fish she'd caught one time when she went fishing with her father, who had an interest in the sport. She'd gotten the hook out of it and watched it lay there on the pier with its mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. She couldn't stand to see it suffer and threw it back into the water. Her father had laughed at her all the way home.
Karen watched Danielle's eyes narrow and her mouth set in a thin line. “You're going to run that no-talent little bitch's column in place of my column?!” she shrieked.
Karen had suddenly had enough. She stood angrily from her desk and slammed both hands palms down onto its surface. “I'm going to run it because I've been told to by my boss,” she said dangerously. “And may I remind you that I'm your boss!”
Danielle stiffened. “Well,” she said, anger vibrating in her tone. “I have other friends in this paper. If you won't do what's right, I'll go to somebody that will!”
Karen looked sadly at the woman that she was nearly obsessed with. “Danielle,” she said very quietly, “I'm the only friend you have left at this paper. Your prima donna act has alienated everybody else. I've put my own job in jeopardy protecting you and making excuses for you! Now drop this and leave Sachs alone. Her column runs tonight because that's the way the editor-in-chief wants it. And there's not anything you can do about it.”
Danielle turned angrily to leave the office. Before going she looked back over her shoulder and smirked cruelly. “Well, I know somebody who won't be getting any for a while.” she said nastily as a parting shot.
Karen slumped back down at her desk and placed her head in her hands. Danielle wasn't good for her, and she knew it. Had known if for some time. Karen was perfectly aware that Danielle didn't feel about her the way she felt about Danielle. She knew that Danielle manipulated her and threw her name around to get what she wanted in the workplace. Karen was also aware that Danielle lied to her on a regular basis and that she cheated on her outrageously. Although Danielle insisted she was faithful, Karen knew for a fact about at least two of Danielle's other lovers, including the one who was in Miami with her when the hurricane hit. With tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat, she reached for the telephone and called her therapist to see if she could get her appointment moved up. It was time to go cold turkey and kick the habit before it cost her the only other thing she loved. Her job.
*****
Miranda was surprised when, only a few hours after her lunch with Roger Hoskins, Emily announced that a private messenger service had delivered a copy of the evening edition of the paper. From nearly a lifetime of living in Manhattan Miranda was aware that even the many newsstands that littered the cityscape would not yet have received copies of the evening edition, and they were the first places to do so. She took the paper from Emily's outstretched hand and moved behind her desk while picking up her reading glasses. “Generously tip the messenger from petty cash Emily. That's all.” she said taking her seat and seeking out the Style section.
Fifteen minutes later Miranda had finished reading the column. Twice. She was experiencing a strange, satisfying sensation, almost like the proverbial desire for a cigarette after sex. This woman -and Miranda had no doubt that a woman had written the column since not even the great gay male designers that Miranda knew intimately had the kind of insight into fashion this writer showed she clearly had-- this Andy (a rude and provincial bastardization, Miranda was certain the name was something more elegant, Andrea perhaps) had touched a place deep inside Miranda with her words. Miranda was certain now that there was a kindred spirit out there. Someone that understood fashion as she did. Understood that it was all about the acceptance and balancing of risk. Andy Sachs, Miranda thought as she looked up from the paper on her desk. “Emily,” she called out quietly. Emily was in the doorway in less than five seconds. “Contact Roger Hoskins' assistant at The Times. Find out if Roger is going to attend the Darfur charity benefit scheduled for tomorrow evening. If he is going to be there, contact the planners of the event and RSVP that I will also attend. Then tell them to move my place to Roger's table. That's all.”
*****
Andy hugged her best friend Lily to her tightly. “Girl,” she said playfully, “where you been?”
The swirl and the noise of the after work crowd in the bar they were in almost drowned out the friendly banter. Lily smiled. “Well, since you helped me move into my apartment a few weeks ago I've been running my behind off for the gallery I'm working for.” she answered. Looking down she shuffled a little bit.
It was something that Andy had seen ever since they became best friends forever as teenagers. Lily wanted something from Andy and was embarrassed to ask. Andy lifted her drink and waited patiently for Lily to get around to what she wanted. “Andy,” Lily started, “I need a favor.”
Andy looked at her friend. “If it's within my power Lily, it's yours. You should know that.” Lily nodded.
“I sort of let it slip at work that I had a contact at The New York Times,” she said looking down at the bar. “Now the owner of the gallery is all over my behind to use that connection to get us some press. We're a new gallery, and we're really struggling. If we don't get some publicity soon the place isn't going to survive.”
Andy blew out a breath. “I'll do what I can Lil,” she replied. “I can't promise anything, but I know somebody I can talk to at the paper. Maybe get them to come out and see your place. Didn't you tell me you had an opening tomorrow night?”
Lily nodded. “It would be great if you could get somebody to come take a look. It's going to be a fantastic show. We're featuring some virtually unknown new artists that are really talented,” she said excitedly.
*****
Friday September 18th, 2009
Friday morning found Andy moving nervously through enemy territory. Danielle Gold had accosted and verbally assaulted her in many different departments of the paper, but positively the last place Andy wanted to get caught was on Danielle's home turf in the Style department. Especially today when last night for some unknown reason the powers that be had chosen to completely take leave of their senses and reprint her column in its entirety in the evening edition. Not only had they printed her article, they had printed her by-line. She had an article in The New York Times.
She'd gone out and bought a dozen copies to send home. Her parents were going to be so proud, and she knew they'd want a copy to give to every relative. Fortunately for Andy, early mornings at the office were not something Danielle did. Andy sighed as she saw the office doorway she sought. Now came the really stupid part of her plan. Convincing a woman she’d heard was Danielle Gold's lover to attend the opening at Lily's gallery that night. Bracing herself, she knocked on the door and reminded herself that what she did was for her BFF.
“Come in,” came a woman s voice that, if Andy were trying to write about it, she could only describe as sultry.
Andy opened the door to the office and faced, Karen Wilson, Style Editor, across the woman's desk. “Ms Wilson?” she swallowed nervously, watching the attractive woman's head come up and regard her curiously. Karen had maybe ten or twelve years on her, but Andy always seemed to have a thing for older women. Even the one long-term relationship she had in college had been with an older woman. A professor at Northwestern. “My name is Andy Sachs; I work in copy and fact checking,” she said. “I....ummm....I know of a gallery opening tonight. I thought that the Style section might be interested in it for inclusion in the things to do over the weekend column...” Andy babbled, as she was prone to do when nervous.
Karen nodded. “Okay,” she said, a small smile on her face making her even more attractive. “I'm listening.”
*****
Karen stood amid the scattered outfits and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. The pencil skirt and blouse with the jacket over it were flattering to her body. She knew she looked good in them. Her hair was acceptable, and her make-up just right for the evening crowd she'd soon be joining. During their session yesterday afternoon, her therapist had told her if she wanted to break it off with Danielle and make the separation work she needed to start getting out among people. Just working all the time wasn't going to fulfill her need to be social and would only serve to re-enforce what was already an unhealthy and somewhat obsessive pathology in Karen.
In short her therapist recommended that she needed to get out in public and date. See that there were other fish in the sea. Make herself understand that Danielle wasn't the only lover she could ever have. Meet potential partners, and with any luck find someone else to love. Someone who would be better for her. So when Andy Sachs came into her office and suggested someone attend a gallery opening, she’d jumped at it. There was only one catch. She grinned as she remembered Andy's face when the woman realized that Karen expected them to attend the opening together. Turning from the mirror she smiled viciously. “Well, Danielle,” she said softly to the empty room. “You’re out with one of your lovers on a date tonight, so I suppose that it's all right if I go out on a date, too.”
*****
Miranda sat humming softly to herself in the back of her town-car on the ride home from the benefit. She was exhilarated and not quite ready to surrender the evening. It had been so terribly easy, she thought to herself. She had turned on the charm, becoming a fascinating dinner companion, and acted as if only Roger and she existed in that crowded banquet hall. By the time she had said her farewells, she had left him believing it was his idea that Andy Sachs get a shot at writing the Fashion column in his newspaper.
She glanced up to where Roy sat in the driver's seat. “Is your wife waiting on you at home, Roy?” she asked.
“No, Ma'am,” he answered, “She's away visiting her mother this week,” he answered, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
Miranda nodded, “Then if you don't have somewhere you need to be immediately, let's take a drive through the park. It's such a lovely evening,” she confided, glancing out the window. “And I'm not quite ready to go home, yet.” She sat back and, stretching, returned to humming softly to herself.
***
Andy had arrived at the gallery with Karen and introduced her to Lily. Lilly had smiled at the woman and shown both of them around the exhibits. As always Andy lost the thread of what Lily was saying about all the different pieces. Lily always became so energized and excited when talking about art that she spoke a mile a minute and often failed remember that those listening didn't have her extensive art history background or her practical experience as a sketch artist, painter, and potter. Lily came alive when she talked about art. At one point Andy excused herself to get the three of them glasses of wine from one of the roaming waiter's trays. When she came back the dynamic of the group had somehow shifted and Andy found herself suddenly a third wheel. Soon after, she struck up a conversation with another of Lily's co-workers whom she had met while helping Lily move into her apartment. She watched with some amusement as Lily moved from exhibit to exhibit with Karen in tow, who was hanging almost breathlessly onto every word.
*****
Saturday September 19th 2009
Saturday morning found the ringing of Andy's phone waking her from a sound sleep. She groggily reached across the nightstand and glancing at the clock realized that is was just after seven A.M. She lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hello?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Andy!” came Lily's excited voice. “Get yourself up girl! I'm taking you to breakfast!”
Andy glanced at the clock again, “Okay,” she mumbled, “Maybe about eleven?”
“No, girlfriend!” Lily gushed. “Now. Get your behind out of bed and throw something on. I'm just down the block, and I'll be there in five minutes!”
“Lily, it's Saturday morning,” Andy complained. “You know, the day we're allowed to sleep in?”
“Not today! Too much celebrating to do. Now get up. Sooner you're dressed and ready, the sooner you’ll have a cup of coffee in your hand.”
Andy grumbled again into the receiver, but it was too late. Lily had already hung up. Andy dragged herself from bed and started to put herself to rights.
*****
Lily wouldn't say anything to Andy about what was going on or what they were celebrating until the waiter had taken their breakfast order at a small cafe down the street from Andy's apartment. Once they were seated with coffee and waiting for their food, Lily excitedly produced the Style section from the morning's edition of The Times. Andy's breath caught. She had hoped to get a half inch of column space back in the to-do over the weekend column, one of those that mentioned how such and such gallery was having an opening featuring avant-garde artwork with an address for the gallery and its hours of operation. What she saw instead was a major article. Half a page of reporting, page one of the section, above the fold. Even pictures of some of the art and a shot of the outside of the gallery were included.
“I didn't know what she was going to do when Karen asked if I had any photos of the art and the gallery,” Lily exclaimed. “I thought she was just being nice. We talked for a little while after you left, and then she said she had to get back to the office. She asked about the photos, and I gave some to her and this morning, this,” she continued pointing to the article sitting in front of Andy on the table. “Girl, I am golden with the gallery owner,” she continued excitedly. “He called me at something like just after six this morning and told me to get a hold of The Times. Andy, he's so pleased about the publicity that he's going to let me coordinate the next show! There are people that are working at the gallery that have been in the business for years that haven't been allowed to coordinate a show!”
Andy smiled. “I'm glad for you Lily. I really wasn't expecting this, I thought I might be able to get you some mention in the paper but this...this is pretty major. If you want to thank someone for it, I would suggest you thank Karen.”
Lily grinned and Andy could swear her friend blushed. “Oh I intend to,” Lily said softly, “on our date tonight.”
Surprised, Andy nearly choked on her coffee as it went down the wrong pipe.
On to Chapter 3