Rewind. Reverse.
Title: Rewind. Reverse.
Rating: M for language
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Summary: Miranda is hired on as Andréa Saxton's second assistan. Madness ensues.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: second chapter up! Thanks so much to everyone for reading this, I had no idea it would actually get read at all!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“Honestly Emily- what in god’s name is so difficult about confirming a simple appointment?”
The young English woman made a mad grab for the coat flung in front of her before the garment fell to the floor. “Actually, Andréa, I did confirm but-”
“Save it.”
Emily shut her mouth and ran to the closet to dispose of the jacket and purse, wary that her blathering on might well get her fired.
Yet unnoticed, Miranda took the opportunity to study the young editor, who was flipping through the large spiral bound book she still held in her hands. Andréa maintained an impassive expression, her large brown eyes focused intently on the pages in front of her. A shock of dark chestnut hair framed the young woman’s face in a saucy bob, severe straight cut bangs ending just above the expressive eyebrows. Miranda mused on Andréa’s features- the young woman would be attractive if she ever dared smile. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.
Miranda’s gaze lowered slowly over the rest of the slim form, noting the edgy sophisticatication of a cowl-neck blouse, and the chic pencil skirt ending just above the knees. The older woman blithely noted the presence of sling back Prada stilettos.
When Miranda returned her focus back to the editor’s face, the young woman was looking at her piercingly, book forgotten.
“I didn’t realise I was the one being interviewed,” she commented scathingly. “Who are you?”
If the woman expected Miranda to fall all over herself in terror, she was sorely mistaken. “Miranda Princhek-” she offered coolly. “I was admiring the Prada sling backs you‘re wearing.”
If Andréa Saxton was taken aback by the lack of awkwardness in the older woman’s answer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she placed the book on Emily’s desk as stalked into her office. Miranda looked to Emily, who was breathing shallowly in the space between the closet and the kitchen. The young woman rolled her eyes and gestured dramatically towards the office for Miranda to follow.
For a brief moment, Miranda allowed herself to feel nervous, if only to reign in her reaction to Andréa‘s acerbic nature. Regardless of her initial impression of Andréa Saxton as rude, arrogant and catty- the young editor was also clearly talented, and her potential gateway to a serious career, a career Miranda had long abandoned hope of ever entering into while confined by overbearing husbands. Now that she finally had her prerogatives in the forefront, she could ill afford to sacrifice this opportunity for the sake of dressing down the snotty editor.
With a steadying breath, Miranda Princhek entered the den of the dragon.
Andréa looked up from the paper she was reading, shifting a stray lock of hair back into it’s regimented position.
“What brings you to Runway?” she asked, nine tenths of her attention still on the news rag. Miranda found herself riling against the deliberate display of ignorance.
“Before I was married, I worked as a design consultant for several of the lead designers in Paris at the time. I had just started my job as junior editor at the French Chic when I met my first husband and got myself dragged pregnant back to America. After sixteen years in two stifling travesties of marriage, I find myself divorced again and needing more.”
The young woman let the pages of newsprint fall to the desk, her full attention on Miranda. “An impressive resume- or it would be, if it were current. You are, self-confessed, over a decade past date Ms. Princhek. What possible use could I have for a washed up relic?”
Miranda winced slightly- that had stung. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Nigel’s gentle prodding, but to be likened to an expired container of yogurt forgotten in the refrigerator was a little more than even Miranda could bear.
She exhaled heavily, absently adjusting the broad leather belt at her waist.
“I’ll admit that I’ve been on the outside of fashion for several years, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t talented or dedicated when I worked in Paris. I’m not young, and I’m not gorgeous- but I’m intelligent, experienced and-” she paused to inhale, embarrassed at the timorous shaking audible in her breath, “-and I need this job.”
Shit, Miranda cursed inwardly, how did that slip out? Not wanting to sound desperate, though she was, the older woman amended her last statement.
“I’m tired of standing around in the background like some useless housewife. I want back into fashion, and working for the most prominent publication in couture has obvious attraction. I think you’ll find I’m quite capable.”
Much better, Miranda told herself, and then willed her mouth shut to give Andréa a moment to consider her statement.
It was a long moment. Andréa lowered her chin, eyeing Miranda from beneath a shock of dark, silky bangs. The seconds stretched immeasurably to the point where the older woman actually considered cutting her losses and getting the hell away from that surreal, x-ray gaze.
“Hired,” Andréa offered suddenly, returning her attention to the newspaper on her desk. “Your first task upon your re-entry into fashion: Starbucks. Emily will fill you in on the details. Scoot.”
Miranda blinked, turned quickly on her Prada heel, and evacuated.
When the elation at having gotten the job dissolved, Miranda had the presence of mind to be offended that she’d just been sent from the editor’s office like a five year old to bed. Rolling her eyes heavenward in a moment of much needed derision, Miranda quickly approached Emily for the details on her first assignment.
“Andréa wants coffee- what are the particulars?” Miranda figured that anyone with Andréa’s certain brand of drive would be after something laden with espresso. “Americano? Triple shot latte?”
Emily looked up from the magazine she was dutifully marking with coloured flags. “Decaf tall non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, caramel macchiato- extra caramel.”
Miranda’s well sculpted eyebrows rose dubiously. “Should I bring back an insulin injection as well?”
Emily’s face screwed up in horror. “Shush! If Andréa hears you, we’ll both get sacked. Don’t be a smartass, just memorize that order and shift yourself downstairs before she inquires why you haven’t left yet!” The young brit glanced around, then leaned towards Miranda in obvious conspiracy. “The woman is like a hummingbird on crack,” she whispered suddenly. “She drinks about five of those things a day, never puts on a pound, and has teeth like pearls!”
Miranda nodded, her eyebrows climbing nearly into her hairline. Without a word, she strode briskly to the closet, collected her coat and bag, and left the office to begin what would become an all too familiar jaunt to the neighbourhood Starbucks.
As Miranda waited in line, she realised it was nearly ten thirty, at time she knew both of her fifteen year old daughters had a spare study period. She removed her cell phone from the recesses of her Chanel bag and after a moment of indecision, dialled Caroline’s number. She’d call through Cassidy next time. The phone rang several times before her daughter picked up.
“Mum? Where are you? Did you get the job?” Caroline sounded breathless with excitement.
“Hi sweetheart,” Miranda began, smiling. “I’m fetching coffee. And yes, I got the job.”
At the other end of the line, the woman heard the ecstatic recount for the benefit of Cassidy. Miranda laughed warmly. “Put me on speakerphone, darling, so I don’t have to endure your frantic twin-speak.”
“Mum,” Caroline groaned, but the sequence of beeps told Miranda that her daughter had done as she asked. “There- Cass can hear you too. So- tell us what happened!”
Miranda sighed happily. If there was one aspect of sacrificing her career for marriage she was grateful for, it was the closeness she shared with her twin daughters now.
“Nothing terribly exciting, my girls. I went in, got called ‘grandma’, was compared to expired dairy products, and got hired on the spot. The woman I now work for looks young enough to be your slightly elder sister, and the woman I work with has a pole stuck so far up her british ass she-”
Miranda was interrupted by twin gasps of horror at the mild expletive.
“Don’t play innocent with me you horrors,” the woman laughed, stepping closer to the counter as the line moved slowly forwards. “Anyway,” she murmured, allowing her insecurities to shine through only for a moment, “I don’t think anyone in this building is over thirty years old, except Nigel. Your poor mother might go through a midlife crisis before the week is out.”
Caroline piped up first. “Mummy, don’t be ridiculous. You’re gorgeous! And stylish and a genius- those barbies won’t know what hit them!”
“Thank you, sweet thing,” Miranda replied gently.
There was a pause in the conversation, then Cassidy’s voice could be heard on the other end. “And who’s Nigel ?”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “He’s the director of the art department at Runway, and don’t even think about any ill-conceived matchmaking because my gay-dar read a clear seven point nine this morning and the last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”
Identical giggling filled the twin’s end of the line. “What time will you be home tonight Mum?” That was Cassidy.
“I’m not sure Cass. Are you two still heading to Annie’s after school to work on that presentation?”
“Yes Mum,” came the chorused reply.
“That’s good. I have a feeling I might be late. You both have keys, so make sure you eat something at Anne’s house, and for goodness sakes, let her mother drive the pair of you home. I don’t want any late night cab excursions. Understood?”
“Yes Mother,” came the exasperated reply. Realising that mother-daughter camaraderie only extended so far, Miranda smiled.
"Good girls. I’m next in line, so I’ll let the two of you get back to the schoolwork I’m sure you were diligently completing before I interrupted. Take care of each other, I’ll see you later tonight.”
“Bye Mum. We love you.”
“I love you too, babies.”
Miranda ended the call just as the man in front of her moved to the side to collect his order. A spirited, if frazzled girl looked inquisitively at her. The newest assistant to Runway’s editor in chief delved into her eidetic memory for the convoluted beverage specs and approached the counter.
“I need one- dear god, bear with me. It’s a decaf tall, non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, caramel macchiato-
“With extra caramel?” the young woman inquired cheekily.
Miranda smiled wryly. “You’ve got it.”
The girl called the drink out to a stoic barista, who quickly set about steaming milk. Miranda contemplated ordering an americano for herself, quickly deciding against it for fear she would upset some unspoken office taboo.
“So,” the girl began casually as Miranda handed over the cash, “you work for Andréa Saxton?”
The platinum head nodded. “Started all of ten minutes ago. Should be… interesting.”
The cashier offered a commiserating look and handed Miranda her change. “You seem like a nice lady- good luck with that.”
Miranda, who couldn’t decide whether or not to thank the young woman, pocketed the money and the receipt, and moved to the right to wait for the syrupy drink.
When Miranda returned to the office, coffee -if you could call it that- in tow, the place was in renewed upheaval. Miranda hadn’t even been gone ten minutes.
At least ten frantic women were tottering back and forth out of Andréa’s office, arms laden with clothing, Emily was standing off to one corner furiously writing down whatever stray comment left the editor’s pouted lips, and Nigel, Miranda noticed, was standing to Andréa’s right with a mildly amused expression on his face.
What the hell is this all about? Miranda pantomimed, nearly sloshing Ms. Saxton’s coffee all over Emily’s Parisian themed screen.
Run-through Nigel mouthed back, rolling his eyes.
Miranda nodded vaguely. Run-through her forty-seven-year-old behind. This was a travesty. The last run-through she bore witness to, albeit over fifteen years ago. had been an organized affair with only herself, the editor in chief, and a couple of competent assistants present. The utter chaos that now occupied the inner sanctum of Andréa Saxton was laughable.
Smirking, Miranda breezed into the office and deposited the coffee on Andréa’s desk.
The younger woman, who had been in the middle of a tirade concerning the lack of interesting jackets to accompany a particular skirt, stopped mid-sentence to glare at her.
“Something amusing?”
Miranda quickly checked her expression in favour of a look of feigned curiosity. “Not at all. It’s been too long since I’ve witnessed a run-through. Who designed that-
“Whatever,” Andréa offered flippantly, snatching the macchiato off the pristine glass surface. “I need you to go to the millinery of Jane Taylor and pick up several hats I had delivered from London. Scoot.”
Miranda glanced at Nigel, who gave her a sympathetic, if abrupt smile. “West 34th and 8th,” he whispered, “Third floor.”
Miranda mouthed a sincere thank you and exited the office at a near sprint. In that moment, it became obvious to the re-emerging fashionista that if nothing else, she wasn’t going to have to pay for a gym membership any longer.
After visiting the millinery and realising Andréa Saxton’s penchant for extremely expensive, custom made hats, Miranda was then fielded off to Chanel for skirts, Blahnik for shoes, and finally, The Ritzy Canine Carriage House on 40th east to collect the fetching Charles himself from his three day stay at the doggie spa, required of course to de-stress the great dane and deal with his arthritic right forepaw. Those were the highlights. Miranda also had to make a trip to a lingerie shop to pick up a non-descript garment bag, run to the nearest pharmacy to purchase fucking tampons- not for herself- and then off to Hallmark where she spent at least forty minutes trying to find an appropriate anniversary card from Andréa to her husband of one year, tomorrow.
During all of this, Miranda also purchased and delivered in person three more rounds of Andréa’s preferred beverage, from barista to desk in less than three minutes flat.
At eight o’clock that evening, the second assistant deposited the small, beige envelope with card on Andréa’s thankfully vacant desk, and was told none too kindly by Emily to bugger off home before the editor thought of any other unpleasant task she needed Miranda to perform. Miranda fled.
Upon arriving home, the wilting presence of Miranda Princhek staggered painfully to the long tweed chaise she’d managed to claim during the divorce proceedings, and flopped unceremoniously backwards into the welcoming softness. She was asleep before she fully connected with lounge, Prada heels still on her feet.
At ten-thirty, Cassidy and Caroline Princhek entered the small flat they shared with their mother, gabbing and giggling as only fifteen year old twins could manage.
Caroline stopped short when she noticed her mother’s sleeping figure draped limply over the living room couch. One delicate hand was flung over her face, presumably blocking out the fluorescent light of the kitchen that someone had left on during the morning rush to vacate the apartment. At some point, her hair had come undone and was fanned lightly around her face in a silvery halo. The woman was still wearing her work clothes, her trench coat, and Caroline noted with a small sigh that yes, her mother was still wearing her shoes, too.
Cassidy giggled.
“Shut up, Cass,” Caroline admonished gently. “She’s totally exhausted. Help me get her to bed- she can’t sleep there all night.”
Cassidy nodded and each twin linked their arms under opposite armpits, hauling their near comatose mother to her feet.
Upon the disturbance, Miranda stirred slightly and muttered something about not wanting to buy any more tampons. At this statement, Caroline and Cassidy simultaneously dissolved into giggles, nearly dropping Miranda in the middle of the ten meter excursion from chaise to bed.
“Carrody?” Miranda muttered sleepily, combining her twins names. “Wha- what time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven,” Caroline offered as she sat her mother on the bed and removed the Prada pumps from her feet. Miranda’s toes curled in relief.
“Lie back Mum,” Cassidy instructed, lying down on the comforter, pulling Miranda with her.
Sleepily, Miranda let her exhausted body flop backwards onto the welcoming bed. Cassidy held her mother’s hand, softly tracing designs on the palm. Caroline, still at the foot of the bed, grabbed the coverlet and settling down on the other side of Miranda, pulled the warm blanket over the three of them.
Gingerly, Caroline ran her fingers through her mother’s long, soft hair before leaning over and kissing Miranda’s smooth cheek.
“Love you Mum,” she murmured, snuggling against Miranda’s side.
“Love you Caro,” Miranda yawned. She turned her head slightly to face her other daughter.
Cassidy kissed her mother on the point of her nose. “Love you Mummy.”
Miranda smiled, wrinkling the aquiline feature. “Love you Cass.”
Miranda Princhek fell into a deep sleep, ensconced by twin daughters, and content with the fact that she’d already set her alarm for five-thirty the next morning.
Rating: M for language
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Summary: Miranda is hired on as Andréa Saxton's second assistan. Madness ensues.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: second chapter up! Thanks so much to everyone for reading this, I had no idea it would actually get read at all!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“Honestly Emily- what in god’s name is so difficult about confirming a simple appointment?”
The young English woman made a mad grab for the coat flung in front of her before the garment fell to the floor. “Actually, Andréa, I did confirm but-”
“Save it.”
Emily shut her mouth and ran to the closet to dispose of the jacket and purse, wary that her blathering on might well get her fired.
Yet unnoticed, Miranda took the opportunity to study the young editor, who was flipping through the large spiral bound book she still held in her hands. Andréa maintained an impassive expression, her large brown eyes focused intently on the pages in front of her. A shock of dark chestnut hair framed the young woman’s face in a saucy bob, severe straight cut bangs ending just above the expressive eyebrows. Miranda mused on Andréa’s features- the young woman would be attractive if she ever dared smile. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.
Miranda’s gaze lowered slowly over the rest of the slim form, noting the edgy sophisticatication of a cowl-neck blouse, and the chic pencil skirt ending just above the knees. The older woman blithely noted the presence of sling back Prada stilettos.
When Miranda returned her focus back to the editor’s face, the young woman was looking at her piercingly, book forgotten.
“I didn’t realise I was the one being interviewed,” she commented scathingly. “Who are you?”
If the woman expected Miranda to fall all over herself in terror, she was sorely mistaken. “Miranda Princhek-” she offered coolly. “I was admiring the Prada sling backs you‘re wearing.”
If Andréa Saxton was taken aback by the lack of awkwardness in the older woman’s answer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she placed the book on Emily’s desk as stalked into her office. Miranda looked to Emily, who was breathing shallowly in the space between the closet and the kitchen. The young woman rolled her eyes and gestured dramatically towards the office for Miranda to follow.
For a brief moment, Miranda allowed herself to feel nervous, if only to reign in her reaction to Andréa‘s acerbic nature. Regardless of her initial impression of Andréa Saxton as rude, arrogant and catty- the young editor was also clearly talented, and her potential gateway to a serious career, a career Miranda had long abandoned hope of ever entering into while confined by overbearing husbands. Now that she finally had her prerogatives in the forefront, she could ill afford to sacrifice this opportunity for the sake of dressing down the snotty editor.
With a steadying breath, Miranda Princhek entered the den of the dragon.
Andréa looked up from the paper she was reading, shifting a stray lock of hair back into it’s regimented position.
“What brings you to Runway?” she asked, nine tenths of her attention still on the news rag. Miranda found herself riling against the deliberate display of ignorance.
“Before I was married, I worked as a design consultant for several of the lead designers in Paris at the time. I had just started my job as junior editor at the French Chic when I met my first husband and got myself dragged pregnant back to America. After sixteen years in two stifling travesties of marriage, I find myself divorced again and needing more.”
The young woman let the pages of newsprint fall to the desk, her full attention on Miranda. “An impressive resume- or it would be, if it were current. You are, self-confessed, over a decade past date Ms. Princhek. What possible use could I have for a washed up relic?”
Miranda winced slightly- that had stung. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Nigel’s gentle prodding, but to be likened to an expired container of yogurt forgotten in the refrigerator was a little more than even Miranda could bear.
She exhaled heavily, absently adjusting the broad leather belt at her waist.
“I’ll admit that I’ve been on the outside of fashion for several years, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t talented or dedicated when I worked in Paris. I’m not young, and I’m not gorgeous- but I’m intelligent, experienced and-” she paused to inhale, embarrassed at the timorous shaking audible in her breath, “-and I need this job.”
Shit, Miranda cursed inwardly, how did that slip out? Not wanting to sound desperate, though she was, the older woman amended her last statement.
“I’m tired of standing around in the background like some useless housewife. I want back into fashion, and working for the most prominent publication in couture has obvious attraction. I think you’ll find I’m quite capable.”
Much better, Miranda told herself, and then willed her mouth shut to give Andréa a moment to consider her statement.
It was a long moment. Andréa lowered her chin, eyeing Miranda from beneath a shock of dark, silky bangs. The seconds stretched immeasurably to the point where the older woman actually considered cutting her losses and getting the hell away from that surreal, x-ray gaze.
“Hired,” Andréa offered suddenly, returning her attention to the newspaper on her desk. “Your first task upon your re-entry into fashion: Starbucks. Emily will fill you in on the details. Scoot.”
Miranda blinked, turned quickly on her Prada heel, and evacuated.
When the elation at having gotten the job dissolved, Miranda had the presence of mind to be offended that she’d just been sent from the editor’s office like a five year old to bed. Rolling her eyes heavenward in a moment of much needed derision, Miranda quickly approached Emily for the details on her first assignment.
“Andréa wants coffee- what are the particulars?” Miranda figured that anyone with Andréa’s certain brand of drive would be after something laden with espresso. “Americano? Triple shot latte?”
Emily looked up from the magazine she was dutifully marking with coloured flags. “Decaf tall non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, caramel macchiato- extra caramel.”
Miranda’s well sculpted eyebrows rose dubiously. “Should I bring back an insulin injection as well?”
Emily’s face screwed up in horror. “Shush! If Andréa hears you, we’ll both get sacked. Don’t be a smartass, just memorize that order and shift yourself downstairs before she inquires why you haven’t left yet!” The young brit glanced around, then leaned towards Miranda in obvious conspiracy. “The woman is like a hummingbird on crack,” she whispered suddenly. “She drinks about five of those things a day, never puts on a pound, and has teeth like pearls!”
Miranda nodded, her eyebrows climbing nearly into her hairline. Without a word, she strode briskly to the closet, collected her coat and bag, and left the office to begin what would become an all too familiar jaunt to the neighbourhood Starbucks.
As Miranda waited in line, she realised it was nearly ten thirty, at time she knew both of her fifteen year old daughters had a spare study period. She removed her cell phone from the recesses of her Chanel bag and after a moment of indecision, dialled Caroline’s number. She’d call through Cassidy next time. The phone rang several times before her daughter picked up.
“Mum? Where are you? Did you get the job?” Caroline sounded breathless with excitement.
“Hi sweetheart,” Miranda began, smiling. “I’m fetching coffee. And yes, I got the job.”
At the other end of the line, the woman heard the ecstatic recount for the benefit of Cassidy. Miranda laughed warmly. “Put me on speakerphone, darling, so I don’t have to endure your frantic twin-speak.”
“Mum,” Caroline groaned, but the sequence of beeps told Miranda that her daughter had done as she asked. “There- Cass can hear you too. So- tell us what happened!”
Miranda sighed happily. If there was one aspect of sacrificing her career for marriage she was grateful for, it was the closeness she shared with her twin daughters now.
“Nothing terribly exciting, my girls. I went in, got called ‘grandma’, was compared to expired dairy products, and got hired on the spot. The woman I now work for looks young enough to be your slightly elder sister, and the woman I work with has a pole stuck so far up her british ass she-”
Miranda was interrupted by twin gasps of horror at the mild expletive.
“Don’t play innocent with me you horrors,” the woman laughed, stepping closer to the counter as the line moved slowly forwards. “Anyway,” she murmured, allowing her insecurities to shine through only for a moment, “I don’t think anyone in this building is over thirty years old, except Nigel. Your poor mother might go through a midlife crisis before the week is out.”
Caroline piped up first. “Mummy, don’t be ridiculous. You’re gorgeous! And stylish and a genius- those barbies won’t know what hit them!”
“Thank you, sweet thing,” Miranda replied gently.
There was a pause in the conversation, then Cassidy’s voice could be heard on the other end. “And who’s Nigel ?”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “He’s the director of the art department at Runway, and don’t even think about any ill-conceived matchmaking because my gay-dar read a clear seven point nine this morning and the last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”
Identical giggling filled the twin’s end of the line. “What time will you be home tonight Mum?” That was Cassidy.
“I’m not sure Cass. Are you two still heading to Annie’s after school to work on that presentation?”
“Yes Mum,” came the chorused reply.
“That’s good. I have a feeling I might be late. You both have keys, so make sure you eat something at Anne’s house, and for goodness sakes, let her mother drive the pair of you home. I don’t want any late night cab excursions. Understood?”
“Yes Mother,” came the exasperated reply. Realising that mother-daughter camaraderie only extended so far, Miranda smiled.
"Good girls. I’m next in line, so I’ll let the two of you get back to the schoolwork I’m sure you were diligently completing before I interrupted. Take care of each other, I’ll see you later tonight.”
“Bye Mum. We love you.”
“I love you too, babies.”
Miranda ended the call just as the man in front of her moved to the side to collect his order. A spirited, if frazzled girl looked inquisitively at her. The newest assistant to Runway’s editor in chief delved into her eidetic memory for the convoluted beverage specs and approached the counter.
“I need one- dear god, bear with me. It’s a decaf tall, non-fat, three-pump-vanilla, caramel macchiato-
“With extra caramel?” the young woman inquired cheekily.
Miranda smiled wryly. “You’ve got it.”
The girl called the drink out to a stoic barista, who quickly set about steaming milk. Miranda contemplated ordering an americano for herself, quickly deciding against it for fear she would upset some unspoken office taboo.
“So,” the girl began casually as Miranda handed over the cash, “you work for Andréa Saxton?”
The platinum head nodded. “Started all of ten minutes ago. Should be… interesting.”
The cashier offered a commiserating look and handed Miranda her change. “You seem like a nice lady- good luck with that.”
Miranda, who couldn’t decide whether or not to thank the young woman, pocketed the money and the receipt, and moved to the right to wait for the syrupy drink.
When Miranda returned to the office, coffee -if you could call it that- in tow, the place was in renewed upheaval. Miranda hadn’t even been gone ten minutes.
At least ten frantic women were tottering back and forth out of Andréa’s office, arms laden with clothing, Emily was standing off to one corner furiously writing down whatever stray comment left the editor’s pouted lips, and Nigel, Miranda noticed, was standing to Andréa’s right with a mildly amused expression on his face.
What the hell is this all about? Miranda pantomimed, nearly sloshing Ms. Saxton’s coffee all over Emily’s Parisian themed screen.
Run-through Nigel mouthed back, rolling his eyes.
Miranda nodded vaguely. Run-through her forty-seven-year-old behind. This was a travesty. The last run-through she bore witness to, albeit over fifteen years ago. had been an organized affair with only herself, the editor in chief, and a couple of competent assistants present. The utter chaos that now occupied the inner sanctum of Andréa Saxton was laughable.
Smirking, Miranda breezed into the office and deposited the coffee on Andréa’s desk.
The younger woman, who had been in the middle of a tirade concerning the lack of interesting jackets to accompany a particular skirt, stopped mid-sentence to glare at her.
“Something amusing?”
Miranda quickly checked her expression in favour of a look of feigned curiosity. “Not at all. It’s been too long since I’ve witnessed a run-through. Who designed that-
“Whatever,” Andréa offered flippantly, snatching the macchiato off the pristine glass surface. “I need you to go to the millinery of Jane Taylor and pick up several hats I had delivered from London. Scoot.”
Miranda glanced at Nigel, who gave her a sympathetic, if abrupt smile. “West 34th and 8th,” he whispered, “Third floor.”
Miranda mouthed a sincere thank you and exited the office at a near sprint. In that moment, it became obvious to the re-emerging fashionista that if nothing else, she wasn’t going to have to pay for a gym membership any longer.
After visiting the millinery and realising Andréa Saxton’s penchant for extremely expensive, custom made hats, Miranda was then fielded off to Chanel for skirts, Blahnik for shoes, and finally, The Ritzy Canine Carriage House on 40th east to collect the fetching Charles himself from his three day stay at the doggie spa, required of course to de-stress the great dane and deal with his arthritic right forepaw. Those were the highlights. Miranda also had to make a trip to a lingerie shop to pick up a non-descript garment bag, run to the nearest pharmacy to purchase fucking tampons- not for herself- and then off to Hallmark where she spent at least forty minutes trying to find an appropriate anniversary card from Andréa to her husband of one year, tomorrow.
During all of this, Miranda also purchased and delivered in person three more rounds of Andréa’s preferred beverage, from barista to desk in less than three minutes flat.
At eight o’clock that evening, the second assistant deposited the small, beige envelope with card on Andréa’s thankfully vacant desk, and was told none too kindly by Emily to bugger off home before the editor thought of any other unpleasant task she needed Miranda to perform. Miranda fled.
Upon arriving home, the wilting presence of Miranda Princhek staggered painfully to the long tweed chaise she’d managed to claim during the divorce proceedings, and flopped unceremoniously backwards into the welcoming softness. She was asleep before she fully connected with lounge, Prada heels still on her feet.
At ten-thirty, Cassidy and Caroline Princhek entered the small flat they shared with their mother, gabbing and giggling as only fifteen year old twins could manage.
Caroline stopped short when she noticed her mother’s sleeping figure draped limply over the living room couch. One delicate hand was flung over her face, presumably blocking out the fluorescent light of the kitchen that someone had left on during the morning rush to vacate the apartment. At some point, her hair had come undone and was fanned lightly around her face in a silvery halo. The woman was still wearing her work clothes, her trench coat, and Caroline noted with a small sigh that yes, her mother was still wearing her shoes, too.
Cassidy giggled.
“Shut up, Cass,” Caroline admonished gently. “She’s totally exhausted. Help me get her to bed- she can’t sleep there all night.”
Cassidy nodded and each twin linked their arms under opposite armpits, hauling their near comatose mother to her feet.
Upon the disturbance, Miranda stirred slightly and muttered something about not wanting to buy any more tampons. At this statement, Caroline and Cassidy simultaneously dissolved into giggles, nearly dropping Miranda in the middle of the ten meter excursion from chaise to bed.
“Carrody?” Miranda muttered sleepily, combining her twins names. “Wha- what time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven,” Caroline offered as she sat her mother on the bed and removed the Prada pumps from her feet. Miranda’s toes curled in relief.
“Lie back Mum,” Cassidy instructed, lying down on the comforter, pulling Miranda with her.
Sleepily, Miranda let her exhausted body flop backwards onto the welcoming bed. Cassidy held her mother’s hand, softly tracing designs on the palm. Caroline, still at the foot of the bed, grabbed the coverlet and settling down on the other side of Miranda, pulled the warm blanket over the three of them.
Gingerly, Caroline ran her fingers through her mother’s long, soft hair before leaning over and kissing Miranda’s smooth cheek.
“Love you Mum,” she murmured, snuggling against Miranda’s side.
“Love you Caro,” Miranda yawned. She turned her head slightly to face her other daughter.
Cassidy kissed her mother on the point of her nose. “Love you Mummy.”
Miranda smiled, wrinkling the aquiline feature. “Love you Cass.”
Miranda Princhek fell into a deep sleep, ensconced by twin daughters, and content with the fact that she’d already set her alarm for five-thirty the next morning.