Rewind. Reverse.
Title: Rewind.Reverse.
Rating: pg13
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Summary: Miranda fidgeted with the long chain around her neck, twisting it between anxious fingers. More uncomfortable than the curt Englishwoman showing an interest in her past was the realization of what she’d given up to marry Greg. Her promising career, a chance to escape anonymity. It was all lost to a foolish and hasty coupling with a man who turned out to be nothing but selfish.
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: Whew! That was a long break from this little story. Like I mentioned earlier, I've been completely sunk in Meryl Streep films. It is SO hard to find the earlier ones: Falling in Love, Heartburn...*frustrated with Have You Seen rentals store*
Also, this chapter is kind of a strange mixture of haunted past meets fluff- massive juxtaposition, but hey. My brain is melted from Meryl.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
After Miranda delivered the diabetic macchiato, in a record setting two minutes after the barista set it on the beverage ledge, she approached Emily, who was comprising a list of alternative massage therapists to replace the one Andréa had no doubt fired.
The brit looked up from the mess of resumes on her desk and regarded the older woman almost thoughtfully.
“Andréa wants me to attend the benefit this Saturday with the two of you- she mentioned something about prepping for it?”
Emily nodded, somewhat vaguely. “Yes. Well, I’d be offended, really- usually it’s only the first assistant who attends with Andréa, but-” she looked meaningfully into the office, where the Lacroix dresses, and Miranda’s design still hung from the rack, “you obviously deserve to be there. You didn’t mention you were a designer before you were married.”
Miranda shook her head modestly. “I wasn’t. I was an assistant to designers, an occasional consultant. I didn’t produce one garment, never mind an entire line.” She smiled, somewhat ruefully. “It was a different time, then. Women were models, not designers- and I wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to grace the catwalk. Not that I wanted to. I was drawn by the creative aspect of fashion, of emerging ideas. I wanted to share that interest with the world, so I moved onto Chic, while moonlighting with Christian and several other Parisian designers. Then Greg came along, and- well. I put it all behind me. I had to.”
Miranda fidgeted with the long chain around her neck, twisting it between anxious fingers. More uncomfortable than the curt Englishwoman showing an interest in her past was the realization of what she’d given up to marry Greg. Her promising career, a chance to escape anonymity. It was all lost to a foolish and hasty coupling with a man who turned out to be nothing but selfish.
But because of him, she had her girls, and Miranda chastised herself for her lapse into nostalgia and self pity. Clearing her throat, she willed her hand to rest casually on the desk. The Chanel necklace didn’t deserve the strangulation being visited upon it. Besides. She had a job to do.
“The benefit?” she prompted, anxious to abandon the twisted path her thoughts were drawing her down.
Emily nodded briskly and pulled a double binder from a drawer in her sleek desk. “Right. Andréa attends the benefits, but we’re the ones responsible for making sure she doesn’t walk in blindly. Everyone knows who Andréa is, and everyone will want to speak with her during the evening. Obviously, she can’t be expected to remember who all of these people are. That lovely task is left to us. In these binders are pictures of everyone on the guest list, with corresponding names, titles, occupations, marital status and,” she sniffed disdainfully, “extramarital status.”
Miranda raised a disenchanted eyebrow. “Do you mean to say we are expected to not only memorize who these people are, but also the people they’re having affairs with?”
That went hard with Miranda. After suffering two unfaithful men, and the turmoil it had put her girls through, she didn’t especially feel she had the generosity of spirit required to extend her precious mental talents towards familiarizing herself with the side salads of philandering socialites.
Emily noted the distaste colouring Miranda’s eyes a cool slate grey, but it couldn’t be helped. “That’s exactly what I mean. I realise it’s a despicable situation to become privy to, however- it’s our job. We need to know who, when and where, so that when some nameless fellow with more money than manners approaches, we can feed Andréa enough information to glide effortlessly through the requisite small talk and free her up for more important and influential conversations. It’s crap, and it’s petty, but it’s what needs to be done. Will there be a problem?”
Wordlessly, Miranda shook her head. She needed this job, and she should be grateful that Andréa had given her the opportunity the benefit presented. She couldn’t afford to have a problem.
“Thank you, Emily,” Miranda offered tonelessly as she grabbed the proffered binder and stuffed it unceremoniously into her Mark Jacobs bag. “I suppose I’d better get a move on. Andréa emailed me an epic to-do list at three o’clock this morning. I would’ve started earlier, but the millinery doesn’t open until eight.” The older woman offered the first assistant a reserved smile, and left the office, the tails of her Prada trench flapping impatiently in her wake.
-----------------------------------------oOo---------------------------------------------
Miranda slid into the waiting car in front of the majestic Elias-Clark building, the large binder falling out of her purse and onto the soft leather seat beside her. Frowning, she picked up the offending item and with a sense of resignation, began to flip somewhat fiercely through the photographs.
While she realised the importance of appearances and public image, Miranda couldn’t imagine that anyone sane actually went to such lengths as a Polaroid reference guide to maintain their iconic status. More and more apparent was the fact that Andréa was not, in fact, sane. As far as Miranda was concerned, Andréa was completely cracked.
She sighed with a betraying heaviness, causing the driver’s eyes to flicker concernedly at her in the rear view. This one’s name was Tom, and almost every time Miranda was sent out on a slew of errands, she found the cheerful young man leaning causally against a particularly sexy brand of Runway’s town cars, calmly awaiting her arrival. Amidst a maelstrom of high strung, half starved coworkers, Miranda likened Tom to a lifeguard’s Zinka Zinc whitened nose. Entertaining to look at, and helpfully protective.
“Everything copasetic, Miranda?”
She could not belay a smirk at the younger man’s archaic surfer lingo. The young, sandy haired driver had most certainly not even been a twinkle in his parents eyes when the phrase was last used in context- yet he spoke as if he and his kaleidoscopic surf board had just been washed up on tawny sands under the blistering Californian sun.
“Radical,” Miranda murmured, brushing a thoughtful thumb over her lower lip. “Positively fucking radical.”
“Language, lovely lady,” Tom intoned cheerfully, though the edges of his eyes crinkled a little with worry. If sometimes curt, the woman he considered to be the silver fox among ferrets didn’t usually lose her cool.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Miranda amended, a little louder. Tom bobbed his head in silent acceptance. “I’ve had a trying morning.”
The young man grinned rakishly into the mirror. “You don’t need to explain yourself to lowly servants like moi, Miranda. Just keep the swearskis to a minimum. My virgin ears can’t hack it.”
A snort of amusement emanated from the back seat. “If your ears are virgin, Thomas, that must be the only part of your anatomy left un-christened.” The young driver howled with laughter, and despite her foul mood, Miranda grinned.
“Miranda, my minx- you have no idea.” Tom chuckled a little, and while stopped at a red light, turned in his seat to eye the older woman in feigned appraisal. “Or do you?”
Miranda lifted her chin and regarded the attractive upstart through heavily lidded eyes. “I can chat with you baby, flirt a little maybe. But does your mother know that you’re out?”
Tom slapped a tortured hand to his forehead, and dragged it down his face with a groan. “Abba, honey? You shouldn’t date yourself like that.”
Miranda pouted becomingly. “Says the twenty five year old spouting sixties idioms like the reincarnation of Maurice Gibb. Besides,” she continued pragmatically, “don’t tell me that the throwback likes of you isn’t aware of the Mamma Mia movie that just graced the box offices. What did you think of Christine Baranski‘s performance- and don‘t tell me you haven‘t seen it. I‘m sure you were camped out there three days before opening night in some dilapidated pup tent you bought off EBay- likely from Woodstock.”
Tom had the decency to look sheepish. “Maybe I was- but anyway, nerts to Christine Baranski. Did you not see Meryl Streep in that film? She was tragically freakin’ hip, and I’m talking gorgeous. No offence to Baroness Baranski of Broadway, but I don’t think anyone with eyes was looking twice at her if mamma Meryl was in the scene.”
Still watching Miranda in the mirror, the young man caught the deep role of blue eyes underneath the bewitching wave of silver hair. He smirked.
“You know,” he began coyly, “before you got your hair cut, you kinda looked like Mer---
The woman in the back seat snorted disdainfully. “Do not go there young man. I have daughters closer to your age than I am. And it’s the crooked nose.”
Tom raised a plaintive hand. “Sorry, sorry. A little harmless small talk.” The young man brought his focus back to the busy New York streets, and in minutes, he pulled up out front of the Taylor millinery, which was fast becoming Miranda Princhek’s second home.
The young driver leapt from the car, and gallantly swept the door open, as if someone very famous were about to step from within. Shaking her head, Miranda slid out of the seat and began the short walk to the side entrance of the building. Upon approaching the door, she heard a low whistle from the street, and saw Tom standing there, his arms thrown carelessly across his chest.
“I always thought her nose was kind of cute!” he bellowed, causing several passers by to stop and stare at him quizzically.
Miranda shot a pointed glare over her shoulder as she slipped through the doorway, though the high collar of her coat hid a small smile of satisfaction.
Rating: pg13
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Summary: Miranda fidgeted with the long chain around her neck, twisting it between anxious fingers. More uncomfortable than the curt Englishwoman showing an interest in her past was the realization of what she’d given up to marry Greg. Her promising career, a chance to escape anonymity. It was all lost to a foolish and hasty coupling with a man who turned out to be nothing but selfish.
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: Whew! That was a long break from this little story. Like I mentioned earlier, I've been completely sunk in Meryl Streep films. It is SO hard to find the earlier ones: Falling in Love, Heartburn...*frustrated with Have You Seen rentals store*
Also, this chapter is kind of a strange mixture of haunted past meets fluff- massive juxtaposition, but hey. My brain is melted from Meryl.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
After Miranda delivered the diabetic macchiato, in a record setting two minutes after the barista set it on the beverage ledge, she approached Emily, who was comprising a list of alternative massage therapists to replace the one Andréa had no doubt fired.
The brit looked up from the mess of resumes on her desk and regarded the older woman almost thoughtfully.
“Andréa wants me to attend the benefit this Saturday with the two of you- she mentioned something about prepping for it?”
Emily nodded, somewhat vaguely. “Yes. Well, I’d be offended, really- usually it’s only the first assistant who attends with Andréa, but-” she looked meaningfully into the office, where the Lacroix dresses, and Miranda’s design still hung from the rack, “you obviously deserve to be there. You didn’t mention you were a designer before you were married.”
Miranda shook her head modestly. “I wasn’t. I was an assistant to designers, an occasional consultant. I didn’t produce one garment, never mind an entire line.” She smiled, somewhat ruefully. “It was a different time, then. Women were models, not designers- and I wasn’t tall enough or thin enough to grace the catwalk. Not that I wanted to. I was drawn by the creative aspect of fashion, of emerging ideas. I wanted to share that interest with the world, so I moved onto Chic, while moonlighting with Christian and several other Parisian designers. Then Greg came along, and- well. I put it all behind me. I had to.”
Miranda fidgeted with the long chain around her neck, twisting it between anxious fingers. More uncomfortable than the curt Englishwoman showing an interest in her past was the realization of what she’d given up to marry Greg. Her promising career, a chance to escape anonymity. It was all lost to a foolish and hasty coupling with a man who turned out to be nothing but selfish.
But because of him, she had her girls, and Miranda chastised herself for her lapse into nostalgia and self pity. Clearing her throat, she willed her hand to rest casually on the desk. The Chanel necklace didn’t deserve the strangulation being visited upon it. Besides. She had a job to do.
“The benefit?” she prompted, anxious to abandon the twisted path her thoughts were drawing her down.
Emily nodded briskly and pulled a double binder from a drawer in her sleek desk. “Right. Andréa attends the benefits, but we’re the ones responsible for making sure she doesn’t walk in blindly. Everyone knows who Andréa is, and everyone will want to speak with her during the evening. Obviously, she can’t be expected to remember who all of these people are. That lovely task is left to us. In these binders are pictures of everyone on the guest list, with corresponding names, titles, occupations, marital status and,” she sniffed disdainfully, “extramarital status.”
Miranda raised a disenchanted eyebrow. “Do you mean to say we are expected to not only memorize who these people are, but also the people they’re having affairs with?”
That went hard with Miranda. After suffering two unfaithful men, and the turmoil it had put her girls through, she didn’t especially feel she had the generosity of spirit required to extend her precious mental talents towards familiarizing herself with the side salads of philandering socialites.
Emily noted the distaste colouring Miranda’s eyes a cool slate grey, but it couldn’t be helped. “That’s exactly what I mean. I realise it’s a despicable situation to become privy to, however- it’s our job. We need to know who, when and where, so that when some nameless fellow with more money than manners approaches, we can feed Andréa enough information to glide effortlessly through the requisite small talk and free her up for more important and influential conversations. It’s crap, and it’s petty, but it’s what needs to be done. Will there be a problem?”
Wordlessly, Miranda shook her head. She needed this job, and she should be grateful that Andréa had given her the opportunity the benefit presented. She couldn’t afford to have a problem.
“Thank you, Emily,” Miranda offered tonelessly as she grabbed the proffered binder and stuffed it unceremoniously into her Mark Jacobs bag. “I suppose I’d better get a move on. Andréa emailed me an epic to-do list at three o’clock this morning. I would’ve started earlier, but the millinery doesn’t open until eight.” The older woman offered the first assistant a reserved smile, and left the office, the tails of her Prada trench flapping impatiently in her wake.
-----------------------------------------oOo---------------------------------------------
Miranda slid into the waiting car in front of the majestic Elias-Clark building, the large binder falling out of her purse and onto the soft leather seat beside her. Frowning, she picked up the offending item and with a sense of resignation, began to flip somewhat fiercely through the photographs.
While she realised the importance of appearances and public image, Miranda couldn’t imagine that anyone sane actually went to such lengths as a Polaroid reference guide to maintain their iconic status. More and more apparent was the fact that Andréa was not, in fact, sane. As far as Miranda was concerned, Andréa was completely cracked.
She sighed with a betraying heaviness, causing the driver’s eyes to flicker concernedly at her in the rear view. This one’s name was Tom, and almost every time Miranda was sent out on a slew of errands, she found the cheerful young man leaning causally against a particularly sexy brand of Runway’s town cars, calmly awaiting her arrival. Amidst a maelstrom of high strung, half starved coworkers, Miranda likened Tom to a lifeguard’s Zinka Zinc whitened nose. Entertaining to look at, and helpfully protective.
“Everything copasetic, Miranda?”
She could not belay a smirk at the younger man’s archaic surfer lingo. The young, sandy haired driver had most certainly not even been a twinkle in his parents eyes when the phrase was last used in context- yet he spoke as if he and his kaleidoscopic surf board had just been washed up on tawny sands under the blistering Californian sun.
“Radical,” Miranda murmured, brushing a thoughtful thumb over her lower lip. “Positively fucking radical.”
“Language, lovely lady,” Tom intoned cheerfully, though the edges of his eyes crinkled a little with worry. If sometimes curt, the woman he considered to be the silver fox among ferrets didn’t usually lose her cool.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Miranda amended, a little louder. Tom bobbed his head in silent acceptance. “I’ve had a trying morning.”
The young man grinned rakishly into the mirror. “You don’t need to explain yourself to lowly servants like moi, Miranda. Just keep the swearskis to a minimum. My virgin ears can’t hack it.”
A snort of amusement emanated from the back seat. “If your ears are virgin, Thomas, that must be the only part of your anatomy left un-christened.” The young driver howled with laughter, and despite her foul mood, Miranda grinned.
“Miranda, my minx- you have no idea.” Tom chuckled a little, and while stopped at a red light, turned in his seat to eye the older woman in feigned appraisal. “Or do you?”
Miranda lifted her chin and regarded the attractive upstart through heavily lidded eyes. “I can chat with you baby, flirt a little maybe. But does your mother know that you’re out?”
Tom slapped a tortured hand to his forehead, and dragged it down his face with a groan. “Abba, honey? You shouldn’t date yourself like that.”
Miranda pouted becomingly. “Says the twenty five year old spouting sixties idioms like the reincarnation of Maurice Gibb. Besides,” she continued pragmatically, “don’t tell me that the throwback likes of you isn’t aware of the Mamma Mia movie that just graced the box offices. What did you think of Christine Baranski‘s performance- and don‘t tell me you haven‘t seen it. I‘m sure you were camped out there three days before opening night in some dilapidated pup tent you bought off EBay- likely from Woodstock.”
Tom had the decency to look sheepish. “Maybe I was- but anyway, nerts to Christine Baranski. Did you not see Meryl Streep in that film? She was tragically freakin’ hip, and I’m talking gorgeous. No offence to Baroness Baranski of Broadway, but I don’t think anyone with eyes was looking twice at her if mamma Meryl was in the scene.”
Still watching Miranda in the mirror, the young man caught the deep role of blue eyes underneath the bewitching wave of silver hair. He smirked.
“You know,” he began coyly, “before you got your hair cut, you kinda looked like Mer---
The woman in the back seat snorted disdainfully. “Do not go there young man. I have daughters closer to your age than I am. And it’s the crooked nose.”
Tom raised a plaintive hand. “Sorry, sorry. A little harmless small talk.” The young man brought his focus back to the busy New York streets, and in minutes, he pulled up out front of the Taylor millinery, which was fast becoming Miranda Princhek’s second home.
The young driver leapt from the car, and gallantly swept the door open, as if someone very famous were about to step from within. Shaking her head, Miranda slid out of the seat and began the short walk to the side entrance of the building. Upon approaching the door, she heard a low whistle from the street, and saw Tom standing there, his arms thrown carelessly across his chest.
“I always thought her nose was kind of cute!” he bellowed, causing several passers by to stop and stare at him quizzically.
Miranda shot a pointed glare over her shoulder as she slipped through the doorway, though the high collar of her coat hid a small smile of satisfaction.