Taking Risks (6A of ?)
Title: Taking Risks (6A of ?)
Authors: 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 of 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.
A/N I messed with canon a little bit in this section of the story. In this AU Stephen called Miranda asking for a divorce while she was overseeing a photo shoot in Milan some months prior to Paris Fashion Week , which will eventually occur in this story.
Special Thanks to those that tried to help me with fashion faux pas of 2009. Kali Blue and Sammie S. Sammie S is responsible for the humorous bon mot in Andy's article. Also a note of thanks to Fic_Addict for constructive criticism. I hope the characterization in question is better.
Credit where credit is due: Special thanks to both of my wonderful Beta's Jazwriter and Mxrolkr. You two ROCK really hard.
Thursday October 1st, 2009
Orla Frostrop stood frozen with fear as she peeked out from behind the cheap garish sets of the haunted house. Fog poured from the fog machine and rolled down the runway. The Halloween attraction's actors were all made up and in costume, ready to shamble down the catwalk. The dressers, stylists, and makeup artists were fussing with last minute touch-ups as the models in her couture waited to stroll to the end of the stage. In moments Michael Jackson's Thriller would blare from hidden loudspeakers, and the show would begin.
Miranda Priestly...The Miranda Priestly had descended with what must be her magazine's entire creative staff. There were more people from Runway magazine here now than the total attendance of her first show less than a week ago. The Icon sat not twenty feet away from her in an uncomfortable metal chair with lips firmly pursed. Orla knew the legend of La Priestly; anyone who gave half a damn about fashion in this town did. She knew what pursed lips meant. The Devil in Heels was not pleased with what she was seeing.
Orla glanced around nervously, the sets, the fog, the cheap cobbled together catwalk, the cheesy monster costumes, nothing was good enough. Nothing here rated the Ice Queen's attention. This was all Andy Sachs' fault, and when she saw the columnist again she intended to strangle her with her bare hands. Then her eyes fell on one of her designs worn by a model who was waiting to take her stroll down the runway. Something here was good enough. Orla believed in her work. And Andy did too, believed enough to write about it in her column and to go out of her way to make this moment possible. Orla sighed. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought looking at her stage manager and giving him the nod. He signaled one of the crew. With the flip of a switch the first strains of Thriller burst from the speakers, and the first of the monsters shambled down the catwalk followed closely by the first of her designs.
****
The end of the presentation came all too swiftly for Miranda's liking. Suddenly it was done, and Orla Frostrop was standing on stage among her designs accepting flowers from one of the models. Miranda had waited for most of her life for this moment. Before her was a raw talent unlike anything she had encountered before. In a hundred years they would speak of Coco Chanel, Orla Frostrop, and the other greats in the same breath, and she, Miranda Priestly, would be the hand that forged this potential legend into one of the immortals. She spoke over her shoulder to Emily. “I will be taking Ms. Frostrop to lunch at Keens Steakhouse. Make reservations immediately. Have the collection moved to Runway. We will be featuring one, three, six, seven, ten and twelve in the November issue. Have Nigel find appropriately sized models. I want photo shoot concepts that play on the ghostly beauty of the designs on my desk before I return to the office from lunch. We will shoot tomorrow. Call Massimo to do the photography. If necessary remind him that he owes me for forgiving him that tacky Vale debacle. The balance of the collection will be the centerpiece of January's issue,” she instructed. Then she rose from her seat and smiling softly, applauded the designer.
****
With her column for tonight already put to bed, the one for tomorrow ready for an editor to review, and her interview article of Orla Frostrop polished to shining and e-mailed to Nigel Kipling at Runway, Andy took a long moment to consider the bouquet that had been delivered early this morning. It had arrived sans card so she had no idea who sent it. The arrangement was unusual. The flowers used were widely varied, beautiful, a riot of shapes and colors. The arrangement itself was very formal with types of flowers tightly bunched by colors and size. On an inebriated evening several years ago, her best friend Lily, who at the time had been working for a florist, had postulated an elaborate theory that you could tell a great deal about the person who sent a bouquet from the flowers contained there-in and the way said flowers were arranged. Andy couldn't for the life of her remember all the subtleties of Lily's theory, but she wanted to know everything she could about whoever anonymously sent the beautiful bouquet. She picked up the phone and dialed Lily. Drinks at Andy's place after work were definitely on the menu.
****
Orla sat across a crystal and silver dressed table in, she was certain, one of the fanciest eateries in New York City. In a few moments her meal would be delivered, as if she was really going to be able to eat anything. She was far too nervous. Across from her sat Miranda. She swallowed and blinked again. It was like a beautiful dream. Here she sat, unbelieving that she was now on a first name basis with Miranda Priestly. Miranda, who claimed to like her work and wanted to be her patron. By a force of will she brought herself back to focus on what Miranda was saying.
“Paris fashion week is in three weeks,” Miranda said quietly as she stirred her coffee. “We will need to have the sets broken down and shipped immediately. Coordinate with Emily on what you require. My other assistant Heather will make arrangements for transportation and lodging for your models and actors. I understand that time is short, but I do hope you'll consider working with Nigel to select different musical accompaniment. Michael Jackson has just been done to death.”
“Paris?” Orla began, “Models and actors?...Miranda, the sets don't belong to me. I borrowed them from the man the runs the haunted house. The actors are volunteers that play the monsters in the haunted house. My stage hands are friends of mine. The models are the only people who were paid. Finances have been a...challenge. I...I want to cooperate...but I don't own...”
“Nonsense,” Miranda answered, her tone almost bored. “You have too incredible a future as a designer ahead of you to allow such a little thing to stop us. Just call Emily. What you need to show in Paris, Runway will provide. I just ask that when the time comes, you remember who your friends are.”
Orla's heart almost stopped. Miranda Priestly believed in her and had just called her a friend.
****
Cynthia Parnell stood stiffly in the office of the senior partner, Randolph Barnaby, of Barnaby, Greer and Treat, the law firm where she was a junior partner. He shook his head and sighed. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Roger Hoskins is a long term client of this firm. This suit you filed embarrassed us. Both Treat and Greer want me to fire you.”
Cynthia nodded and shamed, hung her head, “I understand sir.”
“Oh no,” Barnaby said. “You don't get off that easy. I've used my senior partner status and intervened. You are, by God, going to stay here and clean up your mess. You have too much potential to become a great lawyer. I am not going to allow your lapse in judgment to end a promising career.”
Cynthia looked at the man she considered a mentor. “What is it you want me to do?” she asked softly, beginning to hope that her career as a lawyer might somehow survive the hole she'd dug herself.
Barnaby looked at her. “The paperwork for the suit has been served but there hasn't been time for any response yet. You still are within the window of opportunity where you can withdraw as Ms. Gold's counsel. You will notify the court and Ms. Gold that you are doing just that. Barnaby, Greer and Treat will not be going forward with this law suit and if you wish to remain part of this firm neither will you.”
****
After two glasses of an inexpensive but tasty Chardonnay Andy showed Lily the flowers. Lily walked around the arrangement carefully considering the types and colors. Andy knew that with her art background and having worked her way though college in a florist’s shop, Lily knew what each individual stem was supposed to signify. She trusted her friend's interpretation. “No card?” Lily asked.
“Nope,” Andy responded. “Just the flowers.”
“And the vase?” Lily asked.
“Came with the bouquet,” Andy answered pouring both of them another glass of wine.
“Girl,” Lily said, “that vase is Waterford crystal. It goes for well over a hundred bucks. The cost of individual stems is all over the place but the whole arrangement cost four to five hundred bucks, easy.” She glanced at her friend. “You sure some rich guy didn't get lucky recently?” she asked, teasing.
Andy smiled and handed her the refilled wineglass. “Not unless my whole sexual history is out the window,” she laughed, “and when I went on the only date I've had in forever, my best friend stepped in and stole the woman I was out with.”
“Not my fault that Karen has good taste,” Lily said, smiling evilly and sipping her wine.
“Ouch. Okay, you win,” Andy laughed. “Now tell me about this person I don't know that would spend so much to send me flowers.”
Lily nodded and considered the flower arrangement again. “Girl, you just have to look at it to know that the person who sent this is passionate, fiery,” she began. “Look at the way the colors are used. But you can tell from the formality in the arrangement that the fires are carefully banked. The person is artistic but very controlled. And she knows her flowers.”
Andy looked at Lily. “She?” she asked.
Lily nodded. “Unless a gay man sent you an expensive flower arrangement to say he's madly in love with you, a woman made this. No straight guy I've ever met knows as much about what flowers mean as the person who put this bouquet together does.”
Andy, thinking, shook her head. “The florist could be female. You used to put together arrangements that said what the people buying them asked you to make them say.”
Lily shook her head. “Too many rules are broken in this arrangement. No professional did this. They wouldn't have bunched the individual types of flowers together but would have spread them out through the arrangement. That's where I get how controlled this person is. I'd say she's almost rigid.”
Andy's eyes opened wide. “You said...in love...”
“I said madly in love,” Lily grinned. “That's what every stem in this thing tells me. This isn't a bouquet, it's a love letter. First start with the roses, all thorn-less, which means 'love at first sight' in the what-flowers-mean dictionary. Then the colors of roses selected: red roses equal 'I love you,’ but every idiot knows that. Pink usually means 'perfect happiness,' but in this case I think it's used for its other meaning which is 'please believe me.’ The primroses mean 'I can't live without you'. The gardenias mean 'you’re my secret love.' With the carnations, pink is for 'I'll never forget you' and red for 'my heart aches for you.' The gloxinia means 'love at first sight’ again-that seems to be a recurring theme.” Lily chuckled and sipped her wine before continuing. “The rest of the flowers all tell the same story from the arbutus to the red tulips. Whoever she is, Andy, she's got it bad for you, and I'm hurt you’ve never mentioned anything like this might be going on. Now spill, girl, who do you know that could be pining for you big time?”
The image of a white haired goddess flashed through Andy's mind, but that thought was laughable. As much as she might fantasize about it, the Ice Queen did not pine after junior fashion columnists. “As God is my witness Lils,” Andy said, her wide eyes looking from Lily to the bouquet and back again, “there's not a soul I can think of.”
****
As twilight turned to darkness Miranda stood stiffly, looking out her office window. She detested cowards, and she felt herself one. At the last moment yesterday she had withheld the card she had written and sent the flowers to Andrea anonymously. She longed to know what “her” columnist thought of them. She wondered if the woman...if Andrea...had any clue who they might be from. She knew the desire for Andrea to somehow recognize that she had sent them was ridiculous. She had met the woman only once, and she hadn't been very nice to her then. She needed to meet the woman again, but how to arrange it? Andrea was writing the November article on Orla Frostrop. Delivery was due by Friday morning. Nigel was handling that, and there was really no reasonable cause for Miranda to involve herself. Her mind turned to the problem at hand. An invitation to dine was too forward. Their first meeting must be kept casual, within the bounds of propriety. They did not attend the same social circles, so an introduction at a party was unlikely. It was possible that Miranda could arrange for Andrea to attend any number of the benefits and charitable functions that she would attend. The Times would want to cover those events. The difficulty lay in the fact that Paris Fashion Week was looming, and Miranda’s schedule was so full that she simply did not attend such events. There was too much to do at work. She sighed, frustrated with the knotty problem.
She glanced again at the latest copy of The Times on her desk. Tonight's column was again a triumph. It was a frank look at what Miranda thought was a terribly tacky trend of wearing Ugg fur-lined boots with shorts or a miniskirt during the summer. Andrea attacked this hideous fashion faux pas as presented in Miranda's rival magazine Vogue, taking Anna Wintour to task for featuring a model in the get-up with dry wit as sharp as a scalpel. Miranda closed her eyes and could see Andrea's printed bon mot:
The model, looking much like a clash between Joan of the Arctic and Malibu Barbie in a hot pink tankini, denim microshorts, and plumdale Uggs, begs the question: which rehab did she tumble out of?
As her eyes traveled over the page of the Style section, Miranda remembered how all of the paparazzi were always calling out questions, asking for interviews. She hadn't allowed an interview in more than a decade. If she were to offer The Times an interview...”Emily,” she said not turning around.
In a moment Emily was in the doorway, “Yes Miranda?” she asked.
Miranda continued to look out the window. “Tomorrow morning,” she said quietly, “first thing, I want you to get a hold of the Style editor at The Times and tell them that I will make time to give their new fashion columnist an interview...”
****
Andy poured the last of a second bottle of wine into her glass as she sat and stared at the flowers. Lily had called a taxi and left half an hour ago, telling Andy that she'd promised to call Karen before bed. Andy smiled for her friend. Normally, Lily's romantic life was chaotic. Brief, passionate flings that never went anywhere. The way Lily had spoken about the woman, Karen seemed to be becoming something more than that. Andy closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the scent of the flowers. Of the two women she'd met recently that she was truly attracted to, one was a co-worker exploring a relationship with her best friend and the other was Miranda freaking Priestly. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.
She sighed again as she rinsed the wine glasses and disposed of the two wine bottles into her recycle bin. She already knew that her white-haired fantasy would be visiting her in her dreams again tonight. It was really twisted to be so involved with a woman she'd barely even met. Of course her fantasies predated her ever meeting the icon. Turning the lights off in the living room of her apartment, Andy headed for bed and the dreams lying in wait there.
Friday October 2nd, 2009
The subway proved to be more than its usual nightmare during rush-hour, and ended up with Andy arriving a few minutes later than usual to work.
The junior editor, Barbara Campbell, who had picked up Karen's duties while the Style editor was on “vacation” seemed to be lying in wait for her arrival. Andy hadn't put her coat down before Barbara called “Andy, could you step in here please?” from the doorway of Karen's office.
Andy quickly divested herself of her coat and strode from her desk into the editor's office. “Yes, Barbara?” she asked.
Barbara looked up from her desk and eyed the newest addition to her department speculatively. “What I want to know is how you did it?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Andy questioned, confused.
Barbara shook her head and smiled ruefully. “Miranda Priestly hasn't given an interview in like, forever. Now I get a call from her assistant over at Runway. She told me that Miranda would make time to allow you an interview before she leaves for Paris for fashion week. So my question is how did you land the most in-demand interview in the city for The Times?”
Andy immediately knew that there was a time for truth and honesty and there was a time to build one's legend. Thinking quickly Andy chose the latter. “I'm just that good?” she asked sheepishly.
Barbara eyed her co-worker. “This is big Andy. Big enough that the next thing I'm gonna do is call our editor-in-chief’s assistant and tell her to tell him that The Times has landed the hottest interview we've had happen in the last five years! You pull this off and you're gonna be golden with management. This is gonna sell a whole lot of papers!”
“Wonderful,” Andy said, feeling trepidation rise in her chest. She was to face her fantasy. “When and where?” she asked.
“Her assistant is making arrangements. They'll call you later today. Clear your schedule, and when she says Miranda can see you, be there.”
Andy nodded. “Will do,” she answered.
****
Nigel walked into Miranda's outer office and found Heather busily on the phone making dinner reservations for two. He smiled to himself wondering when Miranda had found time to contact the object of her romantic interest and invite her. He imagined that it must have been when the woman called to thank Miranda for the flowers. It was then that he saw Emily sitting at her desk, hyperventilating. He stopped in front of the redhead. “What's going on?” he asked.
“Nigel, I don't know if I can take this.” Emily wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “I can't figure out what's going on! First she's getting her own coffee, then she’s humming tunes to herself and getting the flowers, and now she's going to do an interview. Nigel,” she whispered, “she never gives interviews.”
“An interview?” Nigel said, surprised. “Let me play psychic,” he smiled, pressing his fingertips to his temples, closing his eyes, and camping it up. “It wouldn't be by chance to the new fashion columnist at The Times would it?”
Emily nodded, seemingly speechless.
Nigel glanced at Heather as she hung up the phone. “The interview is to be at Le Bernardin?”
Heather nodded, glancing nervously at Miranda's office. “How did you know?” she almost whispered.
“Like I said, I'm psychic,” Nigel chuckled. “That and I've worked with her for twenty years.”
Turning he sighed softly as he started towards Miranda's office. Miranda was being Miranda. She had arranged to have an interview with the woman in the most romantic five-star French restaurant in the city. The one she had favored when she was courting her three husbands and when she had engaged in the occasional romantic fling. It was likely that in Miranda's mind this was going to be a date. It was time for Nigel to step in and speak to her as a friend before she moved too fast and frightened her intended off.
****
A newspaper's purpose is to pass information. This means that news tidbits inside the walls of the newspaper's offices are transmitted at the speed of gossip, which occurred seemingly close to if not exceeding the speed of light.
Danielle Gold overheard two of the other copy-writing/fact checking peons talking about Andy Sachs' good fortune almost as soon as it had occurred. She immediately saw the danger to her position. If Sachs really had landed an interview with the most sought after subject in the city, there was no way that Roger would fire the upstart. Not fire her or demote her back to copy-writing/fact-checking. If Danielle didn't do something quickly to derail Andy Sachs' interview with Miranda Priestly, her chances of ever again being the only fashion writer for The Times were non-existent. Her devious mind turned away from the fact checking assignment she had been given and toward finding a way to secure her future at the paper and ending Andy Sachs'.
Authors: 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 of 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.
A/N I messed with canon a little bit in this section of the story. In this AU Stephen called Miranda asking for a divorce while she was overseeing a photo shoot in Milan some months prior to Paris Fashion Week , which will eventually occur in this story.
Special Thanks to those that tried to help me with fashion faux pas of 2009. Kali Blue and Sammie S. Sammie S is responsible for the humorous bon mot in Andy's article. Also a note of thanks to Fic_Addict for constructive criticism. I hope the characterization in question is better.
Credit where credit is due: Special thanks to both of my wonderful Beta's Jazwriter and Mxrolkr. You two ROCK really hard.
Thursday October 1st, 2009
Orla Frostrop stood frozen with fear as she peeked out from behind the cheap garish sets of the haunted house. Fog poured from the fog machine and rolled down the runway. The Halloween attraction's actors were all made up and in costume, ready to shamble down the catwalk. The dressers, stylists, and makeup artists were fussing with last minute touch-ups as the models in her couture waited to stroll to the end of the stage. In moments Michael Jackson's Thriller would blare from hidden loudspeakers, and the show would begin.
Miranda Priestly...The Miranda Priestly had descended with what must be her magazine's entire creative staff. There were more people from Runway magazine here now than the total attendance of her first show less than a week ago. The Icon sat not twenty feet away from her in an uncomfortable metal chair with lips firmly pursed. Orla knew the legend of La Priestly; anyone who gave half a damn about fashion in this town did. She knew what pursed lips meant. The Devil in Heels was not pleased with what she was seeing.
Orla glanced around nervously, the sets, the fog, the cheap cobbled together catwalk, the cheesy monster costumes, nothing was good enough. Nothing here rated the Ice Queen's attention. This was all Andy Sachs' fault, and when she saw the columnist again she intended to strangle her with her bare hands. Then her eyes fell on one of her designs worn by a model who was waiting to take her stroll down the runway. Something here was good enough. Orla believed in her work. And Andy did too, believed enough to write about it in her column and to go out of her way to make this moment possible. Orla sighed. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought looking at her stage manager and giving him the nod. He signaled one of the crew. With the flip of a switch the first strains of Thriller burst from the speakers, and the first of the monsters shambled down the catwalk followed closely by the first of her designs.
****
The end of the presentation came all too swiftly for Miranda's liking. Suddenly it was done, and Orla Frostrop was standing on stage among her designs accepting flowers from one of the models. Miranda had waited for most of her life for this moment. Before her was a raw talent unlike anything she had encountered before. In a hundred years they would speak of Coco Chanel, Orla Frostrop, and the other greats in the same breath, and she, Miranda Priestly, would be the hand that forged this potential legend into one of the immortals. She spoke over her shoulder to Emily. “I will be taking Ms. Frostrop to lunch at Keens Steakhouse. Make reservations immediately. Have the collection moved to Runway. We will be featuring one, three, six, seven, ten and twelve in the November issue. Have Nigel find appropriately sized models. I want photo shoot concepts that play on the ghostly beauty of the designs on my desk before I return to the office from lunch. We will shoot tomorrow. Call Massimo to do the photography. If necessary remind him that he owes me for forgiving him that tacky Vale debacle. The balance of the collection will be the centerpiece of January's issue,” she instructed. Then she rose from her seat and smiling softly, applauded the designer.
****
With her column for tonight already put to bed, the one for tomorrow ready for an editor to review, and her interview article of Orla Frostrop polished to shining and e-mailed to Nigel Kipling at Runway, Andy took a long moment to consider the bouquet that had been delivered early this morning. It had arrived sans card so she had no idea who sent it. The arrangement was unusual. The flowers used were widely varied, beautiful, a riot of shapes and colors. The arrangement itself was very formal with types of flowers tightly bunched by colors and size. On an inebriated evening several years ago, her best friend Lily, who at the time had been working for a florist, had postulated an elaborate theory that you could tell a great deal about the person who sent a bouquet from the flowers contained there-in and the way said flowers were arranged. Andy couldn't for the life of her remember all the subtleties of Lily's theory, but she wanted to know everything she could about whoever anonymously sent the beautiful bouquet. She picked up the phone and dialed Lily. Drinks at Andy's place after work were definitely on the menu.
****
Orla sat across a crystal and silver dressed table in, she was certain, one of the fanciest eateries in New York City. In a few moments her meal would be delivered, as if she was really going to be able to eat anything. She was far too nervous. Across from her sat Miranda. She swallowed and blinked again. It was like a beautiful dream. Here she sat, unbelieving that she was now on a first name basis with Miranda Priestly. Miranda, who claimed to like her work and wanted to be her patron. By a force of will she brought herself back to focus on what Miranda was saying.
“Paris fashion week is in three weeks,” Miranda said quietly as she stirred her coffee. “We will need to have the sets broken down and shipped immediately. Coordinate with Emily on what you require. My other assistant Heather will make arrangements for transportation and lodging for your models and actors. I understand that time is short, but I do hope you'll consider working with Nigel to select different musical accompaniment. Michael Jackson has just been done to death.”
“Paris?” Orla began, “Models and actors?...Miranda, the sets don't belong to me. I borrowed them from the man the runs the haunted house. The actors are volunteers that play the monsters in the haunted house. My stage hands are friends of mine. The models are the only people who were paid. Finances have been a...challenge. I...I want to cooperate...but I don't own...”
“Nonsense,” Miranda answered, her tone almost bored. “You have too incredible a future as a designer ahead of you to allow such a little thing to stop us. Just call Emily. What you need to show in Paris, Runway will provide. I just ask that when the time comes, you remember who your friends are.”
Orla's heart almost stopped. Miranda Priestly believed in her and had just called her a friend.
****
Cynthia Parnell stood stiffly in the office of the senior partner, Randolph Barnaby, of Barnaby, Greer and Treat, the law firm where she was a junior partner. He shook his head and sighed. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Roger Hoskins is a long term client of this firm. This suit you filed embarrassed us. Both Treat and Greer want me to fire you.”
Cynthia nodded and shamed, hung her head, “I understand sir.”
“Oh no,” Barnaby said. “You don't get off that easy. I've used my senior partner status and intervened. You are, by God, going to stay here and clean up your mess. You have too much potential to become a great lawyer. I am not going to allow your lapse in judgment to end a promising career.”
Cynthia looked at the man she considered a mentor. “What is it you want me to do?” she asked softly, beginning to hope that her career as a lawyer might somehow survive the hole she'd dug herself.
Barnaby looked at her. “The paperwork for the suit has been served but there hasn't been time for any response yet. You still are within the window of opportunity where you can withdraw as Ms. Gold's counsel. You will notify the court and Ms. Gold that you are doing just that. Barnaby, Greer and Treat will not be going forward with this law suit and if you wish to remain part of this firm neither will you.”
****
After two glasses of an inexpensive but tasty Chardonnay Andy showed Lily the flowers. Lily walked around the arrangement carefully considering the types and colors. Andy knew that with her art background and having worked her way though college in a florist’s shop, Lily knew what each individual stem was supposed to signify. She trusted her friend's interpretation. “No card?” Lily asked.
“Nope,” Andy responded. “Just the flowers.”
“And the vase?” Lily asked.
“Came with the bouquet,” Andy answered pouring both of them another glass of wine.
“Girl,” Lily said, “that vase is Waterford crystal. It goes for well over a hundred bucks. The cost of individual stems is all over the place but the whole arrangement cost four to five hundred bucks, easy.” She glanced at her friend. “You sure some rich guy didn't get lucky recently?” she asked, teasing.
Andy smiled and handed her the refilled wineglass. “Not unless my whole sexual history is out the window,” she laughed, “and when I went on the only date I've had in forever, my best friend stepped in and stole the woman I was out with.”
“Not my fault that Karen has good taste,” Lily said, smiling evilly and sipping her wine.
“Ouch. Okay, you win,” Andy laughed. “Now tell me about this person I don't know that would spend so much to send me flowers.”
Lily nodded and considered the flower arrangement again. “Girl, you just have to look at it to know that the person who sent this is passionate, fiery,” she began. “Look at the way the colors are used. But you can tell from the formality in the arrangement that the fires are carefully banked. The person is artistic but very controlled. And she knows her flowers.”
Andy looked at Lily. “She?” she asked.
Lily nodded. “Unless a gay man sent you an expensive flower arrangement to say he's madly in love with you, a woman made this. No straight guy I've ever met knows as much about what flowers mean as the person who put this bouquet together does.”
Andy, thinking, shook her head. “The florist could be female. You used to put together arrangements that said what the people buying them asked you to make them say.”
Lily shook her head. “Too many rules are broken in this arrangement. No professional did this. They wouldn't have bunched the individual types of flowers together but would have spread them out through the arrangement. That's where I get how controlled this person is. I'd say she's almost rigid.”
Andy's eyes opened wide. “You said...in love...”
“I said madly in love,” Lily grinned. “That's what every stem in this thing tells me. This isn't a bouquet, it's a love letter. First start with the roses, all thorn-less, which means 'love at first sight' in the what-flowers-mean dictionary. Then the colors of roses selected: red roses equal 'I love you,’ but every idiot knows that. Pink usually means 'perfect happiness,' but in this case I think it's used for its other meaning which is 'please believe me.’ The primroses mean 'I can't live without you'. The gardenias mean 'you’re my secret love.' With the carnations, pink is for 'I'll never forget you' and red for 'my heart aches for you.' The gloxinia means 'love at first sight’ again-that seems to be a recurring theme.” Lily chuckled and sipped her wine before continuing. “The rest of the flowers all tell the same story from the arbutus to the red tulips. Whoever she is, Andy, she's got it bad for you, and I'm hurt you’ve never mentioned anything like this might be going on. Now spill, girl, who do you know that could be pining for you big time?”
The image of a white haired goddess flashed through Andy's mind, but that thought was laughable. As much as she might fantasize about it, the Ice Queen did not pine after junior fashion columnists. “As God is my witness Lils,” Andy said, her wide eyes looking from Lily to the bouquet and back again, “there's not a soul I can think of.”
****
As twilight turned to darkness Miranda stood stiffly, looking out her office window. She detested cowards, and she felt herself one. At the last moment yesterday she had withheld the card she had written and sent the flowers to Andrea anonymously. She longed to know what “her” columnist thought of them. She wondered if the woman...if Andrea...had any clue who they might be from. She knew the desire for Andrea to somehow recognize that she had sent them was ridiculous. She had met the woman only once, and she hadn't been very nice to her then. She needed to meet the woman again, but how to arrange it? Andrea was writing the November article on Orla Frostrop. Delivery was due by Friday morning. Nigel was handling that, and there was really no reasonable cause for Miranda to involve herself. Her mind turned to the problem at hand. An invitation to dine was too forward. Their first meeting must be kept casual, within the bounds of propriety. They did not attend the same social circles, so an introduction at a party was unlikely. It was possible that Miranda could arrange for Andrea to attend any number of the benefits and charitable functions that she would attend. The Times would want to cover those events. The difficulty lay in the fact that Paris Fashion Week was looming, and Miranda’s schedule was so full that she simply did not attend such events. There was too much to do at work. She sighed, frustrated with the knotty problem.
She glanced again at the latest copy of The Times on her desk. Tonight's column was again a triumph. It was a frank look at what Miranda thought was a terribly tacky trend of wearing Ugg fur-lined boots with shorts or a miniskirt during the summer. Andrea attacked this hideous fashion faux pas as presented in Miranda's rival magazine Vogue, taking Anna Wintour to task for featuring a model in the get-up with dry wit as sharp as a scalpel. Miranda closed her eyes and could see Andrea's printed bon mot:
The model, looking much like a clash between Joan of the Arctic and Malibu Barbie in a hot pink tankini, denim microshorts, and plumdale Uggs, begs the question: which rehab did she tumble out of?
As her eyes traveled over the page of the Style section, Miranda remembered how all of the paparazzi were always calling out questions, asking for interviews. She hadn't allowed an interview in more than a decade. If she were to offer The Times an interview...”Emily,” she said not turning around.
In a moment Emily was in the doorway, “Yes Miranda?” she asked.
Miranda continued to look out the window. “Tomorrow morning,” she said quietly, “first thing, I want you to get a hold of the Style editor at The Times and tell them that I will make time to give their new fashion columnist an interview...”
****
Andy poured the last of a second bottle of wine into her glass as she sat and stared at the flowers. Lily had called a taxi and left half an hour ago, telling Andy that she'd promised to call Karen before bed. Andy smiled for her friend. Normally, Lily's romantic life was chaotic. Brief, passionate flings that never went anywhere. The way Lily had spoken about the woman, Karen seemed to be becoming something more than that. Andy closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the scent of the flowers. Of the two women she'd met recently that she was truly attracted to, one was a co-worker exploring a relationship with her best friend and the other was Miranda freaking Priestly. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.
She sighed again as she rinsed the wine glasses and disposed of the two wine bottles into her recycle bin. She already knew that her white-haired fantasy would be visiting her in her dreams again tonight. It was really twisted to be so involved with a woman she'd barely even met. Of course her fantasies predated her ever meeting the icon. Turning the lights off in the living room of her apartment, Andy headed for bed and the dreams lying in wait there.
Friday October 2nd, 2009
The subway proved to be more than its usual nightmare during rush-hour, and ended up with Andy arriving a few minutes later than usual to work.
The junior editor, Barbara Campbell, who had picked up Karen's duties while the Style editor was on “vacation” seemed to be lying in wait for her arrival. Andy hadn't put her coat down before Barbara called “Andy, could you step in here please?” from the doorway of Karen's office.
Andy quickly divested herself of her coat and strode from her desk into the editor's office. “Yes, Barbara?” she asked.
Barbara looked up from her desk and eyed the newest addition to her department speculatively. “What I want to know is how you did it?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Andy questioned, confused.
Barbara shook her head and smiled ruefully. “Miranda Priestly hasn't given an interview in like, forever. Now I get a call from her assistant over at Runway. She told me that Miranda would make time to allow you an interview before she leaves for Paris for fashion week. So my question is how did you land the most in-demand interview in the city for The Times?”
Andy immediately knew that there was a time for truth and honesty and there was a time to build one's legend. Thinking quickly Andy chose the latter. “I'm just that good?” she asked sheepishly.
Barbara eyed her co-worker. “This is big Andy. Big enough that the next thing I'm gonna do is call our editor-in-chief’s assistant and tell her to tell him that The Times has landed the hottest interview we've had happen in the last five years! You pull this off and you're gonna be golden with management. This is gonna sell a whole lot of papers!”
“Wonderful,” Andy said, feeling trepidation rise in her chest. She was to face her fantasy. “When and where?” she asked.
“Her assistant is making arrangements. They'll call you later today. Clear your schedule, and when she says Miranda can see you, be there.”
Andy nodded. “Will do,” she answered.
****
Nigel walked into Miranda's outer office and found Heather busily on the phone making dinner reservations for two. He smiled to himself wondering when Miranda had found time to contact the object of her romantic interest and invite her. He imagined that it must have been when the woman called to thank Miranda for the flowers. It was then that he saw Emily sitting at her desk, hyperventilating. He stopped in front of the redhead. “What's going on?” he asked.
“Nigel, I don't know if I can take this.” Emily wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “I can't figure out what's going on! First she's getting her own coffee, then she’s humming tunes to herself and getting the flowers, and now she's going to do an interview. Nigel,” she whispered, “she never gives interviews.”
“An interview?” Nigel said, surprised. “Let me play psychic,” he smiled, pressing his fingertips to his temples, closing his eyes, and camping it up. “It wouldn't be by chance to the new fashion columnist at The Times would it?”
Emily nodded, seemingly speechless.
Nigel glanced at Heather as she hung up the phone. “The interview is to be at Le Bernardin?”
Heather nodded, glancing nervously at Miranda's office. “How did you know?” she almost whispered.
“Like I said, I'm psychic,” Nigel chuckled. “That and I've worked with her for twenty years.”
Turning he sighed softly as he started towards Miranda's office. Miranda was being Miranda. She had arranged to have an interview with the woman in the most romantic five-star French restaurant in the city. The one she had favored when she was courting her three husbands and when she had engaged in the occasional romantic fling. It was likely that in Miranda's mind this was going to be a date. It was time for Nigel to step in and speak to her as a friend before she moved too fast and frightened her intended off.
****
A newspaper's purpose is to pass information. This means that news tidbits inside the walls of the newspaper's offices are transmitted at the speed of gossip, which occurred seemingly close to if not exceeding the speed of light.
Danielle Gold overheard two of the other copy-writing/fact checking peons talking about Andy Sachs' good fortune almost as soon as it had occurred. She immediately saw the danger to her position. If Sachs really had landed an interview with the most sought after subject in the city, there was no way that Roger would fire the upstart. Not fire her or demote her back to copy-writing/fact-checking. If Danielle didn't do something quickly to derail Andy Sachs' interview with Miranda Priestly, her chances of ever again being the only fashion writer for The Times were non-existent. Her devious mind turned away from the fact checking assignment she had been given and toward finding a way to secure her future at the paper and ending Andy Sachs'.