Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 2
-Somwhere in the Crowd-
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
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: Okay- second chapter up! The angst has ceased to dissipate thus far, so bear with me folks.
Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 1
Kalokairi: 7:18:34
Donna stirred, peeling back her sticky, dusty hair from her face and neck, the latex paint pulling at wisps like a band aid. Her body ached, a dull pain in her temple throbbed along with her heartbeat; shallow, irregular. She squinted, the large patio umbrella only partially shading her face from the amber glare of the sun, lowering in the darkening sky.
Hushed whispers hung in the air, a miasma of pity; conspiracy. Donna squirmed away from the cool cloth being pressed to her forehead, the fractured, surreal images of her broken husband clawing greedily into her awareness.
She struggled, wobbled off the lounge, staggering towards the villa, towards her bedroom. Agathe, fussing, shadowed her employer, murmuring about washing, tending wounds. The blond dismissed her with a limp wave, and lurched up the stairs. But Agathe was persistent; responsibility a forceful companion. Her old knees ached as she followed the younger woman up, finally put off when Donna growled a feral “Leave it,” before retreating into her room and slamming the door.
She turned the lock, fell onto the bed; covered her head with a brightly printed pillow. Time passed, as was it’s habit- the sun bathed itself in the Aegean waters; Donna drifted, unable to sleep. She reeked of oil, of iron and melting plastic, but couldn’t bring herself to mind, to wash the vestiges of her husband’s blood from her body. It had only been hours ago that she had kissed him, sent him off to the docks to receive the evening shipment of produce.
A persistent knocking crashed into the memory; Donna flinched and pressed the pillow tightly against her face. The knocking continued.
Donna-” a disembodied voice floated through the locked door. “Donna- the phone. It’s Sophia.”
Sophie.
Donna clambered from the bed to the vanity, grabbing the receiver, swallowing guilt.
“Soph?” Her mother’s voice sounded hoarse, small, tinny over the long distance connection. “Baby- where are you?”
“Ottawa,” Sophie offered carefully, “we were on a bus.”
“Oh god-” Donna moaned, pressing a hand over her eyes. “Are you hurt? Where’s Skye- is he with you? Jesus honey-”
“Mom, I’m fine, we’re fine. Skye broke his arm- we’re in the hospital now, waiting for a doctor. This place is a nuthouse.”
Donna sank to the floor, pulling the phone into her lap; her breathing short, low. She would not live it down, the disgusting shame that her daughter had slipped from her mind. She sobbed against the cool plastic.
Sophie panicked, shifting nervously on the vinyl settee in the waiting room. “Mom? What is it?” She asked then, the question her mother could not bear to answer. “Where‘s Sam?”
Donna choked, she couldn’t do this.
“Mom?”
Donna shuddered; wiped carelessly at her running nose. “He’s gone, baby.”
Sophie sat, stunned- the long miles between them seemed to fold, to pile up on one another into an insurmountable obstacle.
“I don’t know what to say,” the young woman whispered unevenly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come home.”
Sophie sighed, her growing frustration with the situation apparent. “Mom- I can’t. No one is flying- over eight hundred planes crashed in North American airspace alone, and nobody knows how long it’s gonna’ take before they open the airlines again.”
Donna nodded, which equated to little more than a disturbing silence at Sophie’s end of the line.
“Look,” her daughter began softly, “I’m going to get a hold of Tanya and Rosie- unless you’ve already spoken with them-”
Donna’s guilt coiled tighter. “No.”
Sophie’s heart balked at the confession- it had been hours since the blackout.
“Rosie is in Italy, I think- with Bill,” she offered. “Something about a cookbook. I’m going to see if she can come down there, they’ve still got the boat, as far as I know.”
Donna made an indiscernible sound; fading fast.
“Mom?”
“I love you, sweetheart,” her mother offered suddenly.
“I love you, too.” With regret, Sophie flipped her cell closed and stared up at the speckled tile ceiling of the waiting room.
Several thousand miles away, Donna slid the receiver back into it’s cradle before slumping further against the drawers of the rickety vanity. Secure in the knowledge that her daughter was safe, being looked after, there was little else to hold her fraying string to reality.
During the next two days, Donna moved from the floor, to the bed, to the large armchair which sat near the balcony window, facing the sea. She rose only to use the washroom, but even those small quests were decreasing in frequency; she’d had nothing to eat or drink- save a cursory mouthful of tap water- since she’d locked herself away eighty-two hours prior.
Donna received one other call from Sophie; the two MIA Dynamos confirmed safe and well. Rosie and Bill had been sharing a quiet deck side supper; Tanya had lost consciousness on a massage table, blissfully unawares she had even blacked out until the startled commotion in reception roused her.
On the third day of her descent, a reoccurrence of insistent banging threatened once more to interrupt her miserable solitude. Donna ignored it, and continued to stare at the sea; the forlorn cry of the gulls an etude of companionable disquiet.
The knocking continued.
“Donna- open this sodding door!” Rosie, then. Donna turned her face into the sticky shoulder of her shirt, otherwise unmoving. “Don? Sweetheart- let me in!”
In the upstairs hallway, a short british woman hoofed the wall in frustration. As far as Rosie knew, no one had laid eyes on the Villa’s owner since the evening of the blackout; all of Donna’s previous avoidance issues combined fell short in comparison; this was wrong.
The banging had stopped, though a scraping, shuffling noise, incongruous with the shrieking gulls, eked it’s presence into the silence. Rosie, with an indelicate grunt, hauled herself over the wrought iron rail of the small balcony, leaning against the warm metal for support.
Donna was a singular catastrophe in the otherwise orderly bedroom; lank blond hair barely visible under a congealed marriage of paint, dust; blood. Her favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt and much bemoaned dungarees had suffered a similar fate; even from several feet away the smell of her was sour.
Flustered, Rosie cleared her throat, buried her shock- not that Donna had even acknowledged her presence- and approached her friend slowly; as one might a rabid animal.
“Don, lovey?” The brit crouched down at the other woman’s knees, taking a limp hand in her own. Donna flinched, the burn on her palm still fresh. “Oh, honey-” Rosie murmured, glancing at the rude, red blisters. “What happened?”
Donna looked down at her friend, her band mate, the woman who had offered a hand to squeeze at the birth of her fatherless child; the woman who gazed up at her now with such understanding silence. She slipped from the chair into waiting arms
Rosie held her until some of the bitter tension left the blond woman’s body. “Honey- I’ll hold you for as long as it takes- but you’ve got to have a shower lovey, you smell like a camel.”
Donna remained unphased by the remark, so Rosie pulled her to a stand and navigated her bodily into the bathroom, forcing her into the brightly tiled shower; wrenching the uncooperative tap.
As the steam rose, Donna was gently coaxed out of the filthy remnants of her clothing; small hands meticulously scrubbed at her skin and hair, mindful of the dark bruising along a delicate spine. As Donna watched the flecks of turquoise mingle with greying suds, all of it flowing as one down the drain, she began to cry.
It was an awful absence of sound, her mouth parted in a silent plea, her naked body tensed and shaking; she pulled at the tangled strands of her long hair; fingers trapped in knots; golden strands snapping under the assault.
Rosie bit her lip, but with a matronly fuss she soothed the tearing hands away and pulled Donna from beneath the streaming showerhead; wrapped the trembling body in a blue chinoise robe. Ignorant of her own wet clothing, the brit directed her friend towards the bed, pulled her down; curled around her tightly from behind. In as much as Rosie was trying to offer comfort, she was more aware of the fact that she was trying physically to hold Donna Sheridan together. She wouldn’t let her come apart.
A 73rd Street Townhouse, October 7th, 2:37:54
-believe that because of the state of the hippocampus, the activity we’ve observed directly relates to that of the ’waking’ state, and the complete synchronicity of the event, down to corroborating stories with identical dates and time-
Miranda flicked the television off and levelled a glare at Nigel. “Satisfied?” Nigel blinked, and the editor sighed testily. “You would think, for all that the United States vehemently professes it’s unequalled scientific aptitude, that someone would have some kind of concrete evidence as to what caused the blackout. Honestly,” she continued, disdainful fingers poised in a refined air quote pantomime, “a ’temporal anomaly in global consciousness’? Who in god’s name are we as taxpayers funding, to provide us with such enlightening segments of egomaniacal tripe?”
Nigel shrugged obtusely, ghosting a palm over his balding head. There wasn’t a right answer to that question. “What are you going to do about Lyla?” The second assistant had been struck by a careening car, indeed on the return trip from a latte-fetching excursion.
“Well- obviously I’m not going to fire her. Though,” Miranda continued pensively, “I’ll have to have Madeleine find a temporary replacement. God only knows how long it’s going to take the girl to recuperate, and I need two fully functioning assistants if we’re going to meet deadline.”
Miranda wondered if Emily, who had been shipped off into training in the art department, would be willing to suffer a temporary demotion. She could almost imagine the look of horror on the brit’s face.
“The point,” Miranda stated, tapping the end of her pen against the coiled wire binding of the Book, lost briefly in thought. “The point is-
“Is there a point to this, Miranda?” Nigel interrupted. “Because I’m not sure re-shooting the Lacoste ad is going to be high on anyone’s priority list in the foreseeable future.”
Miranda twisted the cap on the end of the pen; the sound like a strangled call in the quiet of the living room. “Why-” she countered softly. “In the event that, whatever happened, happens again, and we all die?”
“In crudest terms.”
“If it happens, it happens.” Miranda rolled her head, the stress in her neck aching across her shoulder blades. “If it doesn’t,” she sighed, circling an offensive type face on the mock up page, “I still have a magazine going to print in three weeks.”
Nigel’s undoubtedly cutting retort was stopped short by the door chime, which echoed plaintively in the quiet house. Miranda glanced curiously towards the hallway, but the art director seemed unsurprised by the interruption; he sported a guilty smile.
“It’s Andy,” he offered, then added quickly, “She got a hold of me this morning, wanted to make sure we were all fine.” Nigel affixed the editor with a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “She was scared for you, Miranda, so be nice.”
Miranda glowered at his presumption, though she had to quell a relieved sigh that the young woman had survived the blackout. Unwilling as she was to admit it, even to herself, the editor had grown fond of her young protégé, before the girl had surreptitiously taken her leave in the thralls of Paris fashion week. So unprofessional.
Miranda stood in a singular lithe movement and stalked towards the door, her heels clacking harshly on the hardwood. Upon opening the door, the editor was immediately clobbered in a stranglehold by her former assistant.
Andy, as if suddenly surprised by her own audacity, pulled away quickly, awkwardness scrawled across her honest features. “Sorry-” she offered, shifting her weight from one stiletto suede boot to the other. “I was worried.”
Miranda raised a brow in disbelief- though old suspicions of an ill-harboured attraction on the part of one Andrea Sachs reclaimed a large portion in the forefront of the editor’s consciousness; strange little journalist.
“You’re always,” Andy’s voice cracked, “you’re always in that f-fucking car, going to meetings, or you could have been on a plane. And the girls- don’t they leave school for private lessons sometimes? They could have been in traffic or something, and- well, I know I haven’t seen you in months, and you probably don’t want me to-
Miranda raised a silencing hand, though she was warmed by the girl’s obvious concern, especially for that of her children. Andy sniffled and a fat tear tracked down her reddening cheek; god, she was embarrassed for coming here like this, throwing herself at the editor; her eyes welled.
“Andrea,” Miranda admonished gently, yet she opened her arms in an uncharacteristic moment of compassion, and Andy leaned in gratefully. “I’m fine- we’re all fine-”
The young journalist sobbed into the older woman’s shoulder, vaguely aware that she was probably wiping snot all over her ex-bosses silk Donna Karan blouse; and then, so mollified by the solid, very safe Miranda in her arms, flipped quickly into embarrassment anew.
Nigel, who had been watching the interaction with veiled interest from the entrance to the living room, choose that opportune moment to intercede.
“Nige,” Andy grinned, grateful for the diversion, her eyes still red-rimmed and wet.
“Six,” he countered, embracing the young woman.
Andy slapped the dapper man playfully on the arm. “Still a four, monsieur- don’t be a jerk.”
Miranda cleared her throat, interrupting their banter. Her front foyer was no place for a high school reunion.
“How’s your family?” The inquiry sounded mundane enough, but in this context, Miranda realised that what she was really asking was if anyone had died.
Andrea relaxed visibly. “My mom and dad are fine- god, I’ve never been so glad that both my parents are such incorrigibly boring homebodies. My sister clocked herself on the head when she lost consciousness- minor concussion there-” the young woman paused, her face falling, she wilted visibly. “I uh, had a friend- well, she was a friend- she was on the subway when it happened, so she- she didn’t make it.”
Miranda winced- she had been so lucky, as had Nigel. Awkwardly, the editor pressed a hand into the small of the young woman’s back and directed into the living room. Andy settled carefully onto a long couch, Nigel in an armchair opposite, and Miranda, after intense deliberation, sat on the couch next to the young woman. As loathe as the editor was to encourage the journalist’s emerging- and misguided- feelings, Miranda could not bring herself to be callous in this instance; the girl seemed to derive comfort from her presence.
Nigel leaned forwards and poured a cup of coffee from the french press set on the low table, and handed it to a grateful Andy who clutched the mug close to her chest, trying to settle her nerves.
Taking a sip of the appropriately scalding liquid, she relayed that Lily had not spoken to her in months, since before Paris.
“Everything sort of fell apart when Nate and I split up- even though we’d been best friends since we were kids. I was hoping-” she sighed. “I was hoping Lily would forgive me, with time- that we could try the friendship out again. Now-” Andy trailed off, staring into her coffee, the essential oils like a grease slick rainbow on the dark surface. Quality stuff.
She started when Miranda’s hand slipped gently onto her knee, and stared at the anomaly for long seconds, before grabbing it gratefully.
“You’ve got us, Six,” Nigel offered, subdued.
Miranda nodded her acquiescence, and Andy was inclined to believe them. During the blackout, the young journalist had found herself keeping a familiar late-night vigil, waiting for a particular book to be delivered into her expectant D&G bag.
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
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: Okay- second chapter up! The angst has ceased to dissipate thus far, so bear with me folks.
Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 1
Kalokairi: 7:18:34
Donna stirred, peeling back her sticky, dusty hair from her face and neck, the latex paint pulling at wisps like a band aid. Her body ached, a dull pain in her temple throbbed along with her heartbeat; shallow, irregular. She squinted, the large patio umbrella only partially shading her face from the amber glare of the sun, lowering in the darkening sky.
Hushed whispers hung in the air, a miasma of pity; conspiracy. Donna squirmed away from the cool cloth being pressed to her forehead, the fractured, surreal images of her broken husband clawing greedily into her awareness.
She struggled, wobbled off the lounge, staggering towards the villa, towards her bedroom. Agathe, fussing, shadowed her employer, murmuring about washing, tending wounds. The blond dismissed her with a limp wave, and lurched up the stairs. But Agathe was persistent; responsibility a forceful companion. Her old knees ached as she followed the younger woman up, finally put off when Donna growled a feral “Leave it,” before retreating into her room and slamming the door.
She turned the lock, fell onto the bed; covered her head with a brightly printed pillow. Time passed, as was it’s habit- the sun bathed itself in the Aegean waters; Donna drifted, unable to sleep. She reeked of oil, of iron and melting plastic, but couldn’t bring herself to mind, to wash the vestiges of her husband’s blood from her body. It had only been hours ago that she had kissed him, sent him off to the docks to receive the evening shipment of produce.
A persistent knocking crashed into the memory; Donna flinched and pressed the pillow tightly against her face. The knocking continued.
Donna-” a disembodied voice floated through the locked door. “Donna- the phone. It’s Sophia.”
Sophie.
Donna clambered from the bed to the vanity, grabbing the receiver, swallowing guilt.
“Soph?” Her mother’s voice sounded hoarse, small, tinny over the long distance connection. “Baby- where are you?”
“Ottawa,” Sophie offered carefully, “we were on a bus.”
“Oh god-” Donna moaned, pressing a hand over her eyes. “Are you hurt? Where’s Skye- is he with you? Jesus honey-”
“Mom, I’m fine, we’re fine. Skye broke his arm- we’re in the hospital now, waiting for a doctor. This place is a nuthouse.”
Donna sank to the floor, pulling the phone into her lap; her breathing short, low. She would not live it down, the disgusting shame that her daughter had slipped from her mind. She sobbed against the cool plastic.
Sophie panicked, shifting nervously on the vinyl settee in the waiting room. “Mom? What is it?” She asked then, the question her mother could not bear to answer. “Where‘s Sam?”
Donna choked, she couldn’t do this.
“Mom?”
Donna shuddered; wiped carelessly at her running nose. “He’s gone, baby.”
Sophie sat, stunned- the long miles between them seemed to fold, to pile up on one another into an insurmountable obstacle.
“I don’t know what to say,” the young woman whispered unevenly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come home.”
Sophie sighed, her growing frustration with the situation apparent. “Mom- I can’t. No one is flying- over eight hundred planes crashed in North American airspace alone, and nobody knows how long it’s gonna’ take before they open the airlines again.”
Donna nodded, which equated to little more than a disturbing silence at Sophie’s end of the line.
“Look,” her daughter began softly, “I’m going to get a hold of Tanya and Rosie- unless you’ve already spoken with them-”
Donna’s guilt coiled tighter. “No.”
Sophie’s heart balked at the confession- it had been hours since the blackout.
“Rosie is in Italy, I think- with Bill,” she offered. “Something about a cookbook. I’m going to see if she can come down there, they’ve still got the boat, as far as I know.”
Donna made an indiscernible sound; fading fast.
“Mom?”
“I love you, sweetheart,” her mother offered suddenly.
“I love you, too.” With regret, Sophie flipped her cell closed and stared up at the speckled tile ceiling of the waiting room.
Several thousand miles away, Donna slid the receiver back into it’s cradle before slumping further against the drawers of the rickety vanity. Secure in the knowledge that her daughter was safe, being looked after, there was little else to hold her fraying string to reality.
During the next two days, Donna moved from the floor, to the bed, to the large armchair which sat near the balcony window, facing the sea. She rose only to use the washroom, but even those small quests were decreasing in frequency; she’d had nothing to eat or drink- save a cursory mouthful of tap water- since she’d locked herself away eighty-two hours prior.
Donna received one other call from Sophie; the two MIA Dynamos confirmed safe and well. Rosie and Bill had been sharing a quiet deck side supper; Tanya had lost consciousness on a massage table, blissfully unawares she had even blacked out until the startled commotion in reception roused her.
On the third day of her descent, a reoccurrence of insistent banging threatened once more to interrupt her miserable solitude. Donna ignored it, and continued to stare at the sea; the forlorn cry of the gulls an etude of companionable disquiet.
The knocking continued.
“Donna- open this sodding door!” Rosie, then. Donna turned her face into the sticky shoulder of her shirt, otherwise unmoving. “Don? Sweetheart- let me in!”
In the upstairs hallway, a short british woman hoofed the wall in frustration. As far as Rosie knew, no one had laid eyes on the Villa’s owner since the evening of the blackout; all of Donna’s previous avoidance issues combined fell short in comparison; this was wrong.
The banging had stopped, though a scraping, shuffling noise, incongruous with the shrieking gulls, eked it’s presence into the silence. Rosie, with an indelicate grunt, hauled herself over the wrought iron rail of the small balcony, leaning against the warm metal for support.
Donna was a singular catastrophe in the otherwise orderly bedroom; lank blond hair barely visible under a congealed marriage of paint, dust; blood. Her favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt and much bemoaned dungarees had suffered a similar fate; even from several feet away the smell of her was sour.
Flustered, Rosie cleared her throat, buried her shock- not that Donna had even acknowledged her presence- and approached her friend slowly; as one might a rabid animal.
“Don, lovey?” The brit crouched down at the other woman’s knees, taking a limp hand in her own. Donna flinched, the burn on her palm still fresh. “Oh, honey-” Rosie murmured, glancing at the rude, red blisters. “What happened?”
Donna looked down at her friend, her band mate, the woman who had offered a hand to squeeze at the birth of her fatherless child; the woman who gazed up at her now with such understanding silence. She slipped from the chair into waiting arms
Rosie held her until some of the bitter tension left the blond woman’s body. “Honey- I’ll hold you for as long as it takes- but you’ve got to have a shower lovey, you smell like a camel.”
Donna remained unphased by the remark, so Rosie pulled her to a stand and navigated her bodily into the bathroom, forcing her into the brightly tiled shower; wrenching the uncooperative tap.
As the steam rose, Donna was gently coaxed out of the filthy remnants of her clothing; small hands meticulously scrubbed at her skin and hair, mindful of the dark bruising along a delicate spine. As Donna watched the flecks of turquoise mingle with greying suds, all of it flowing as one down the drain, she began to cry.
It was an awful absence of sound, her mouth parted in a silent plea, her naked body tensed and shaking; she pulled at the tangled strands of her long hair; fingers trapped in knots; golden strands snapping under the assault.
Rosie bit her lip, but with a matronly fuss she soothed the tearing hands away and pulled Donna from beneath the streaming showerhead; wrapped the trembling body in a blue chinoise robe. Ignorant of her own wet clothing, the brit directed her friend towards the bed, pulled her down; curled around her tightly from behind. In as much as Rosie was trying to offer comfort, she was more aware of the fact that she was trying physically to hold Donna Sheridan together. She wouldn’t let her come apart.
A 73rd Street Townhouse, October 7th, 2:37:54
-believe that because of the state of the hippocampus, the activity we’ve observed directly relates to that of the ’waking’ state, and the complete synchronicity of the event, down to corroborating stories with identical dates and time-
Miranda flicked the television off and levelled a glare at Nigel. “Satisfied?” Nigel blinked, and the editor sighed testily. “You would think, for all that the United States vehemently professes it’s unequalled scientific aptitude, that someone would have some kind of concrete evidence as to what caused the blackout. Honestly,” she continued, disdainful fingers poised in a refined air quote pantomime, “a ’temporal anomaly in global consciousness’? Who in god’s name are we as taxpayers funding, to provide us with such enlightening segments of egomaniacal tripe?”
Nigel shrugged obtusely, ghosting a palm over his balding head. There wasn’t a right answer to that question. “What are you going to do about Lyla?” The second assistant had been struck by a careening car, indeed on the return trip from a latte-fetching excursion.
“Well- obviously I’m not going to fire her. Though,” Miranda continued pensively, “I’ll have to have Madeleine find a temporary replacement. God only knows how long it’s going to take the girl to recuperate, and I need two fully functioning assistants if we’re going to meet deadline.”
Miranda wondered if Emily, who had been shipped off into training in the art department, would be willing to suffer a temporary demotion. She could almost imagine the look of horror on the brit’s face.
“The point,” Miranda stated, tapping the end of her pen against the coiled wire binding of the Book, lost briefly in thought. “The point is-
“Is there a point to this, Miranda?” Nigel interrupted. “Because I’m not sure re-shooting the Lacoste ad is going to be high on anyone’s priority list in the foreseeable future.”
Miranda twisted the cap on the end of the pen; the sound like a strangled call in the quiet of the living room. “Why-” she countered softly. “In the event that, whatever happened, happens again, and we all die?”
“In crudest terms.”
“If it happens, it happens.” Miranda rolled her head, the stress in her neck aching across her shoulder blades. “If it doesn’t,” she sighed, circling an offensive type face on the mock up page, “I still have a magazine going to print in three weeks.”
Nigel’s undoubtedly cutting retort was stopped short by the door chime, which echoed plaintively in the quiet house. Miranda glanced curiously towards the hallway, but the art director seemed unsurprised by the interruption; he sported a guilty smile.
“It’s Andy,” he offered, then added quickly, “She got a hold of me this morning, wanted to make sure we were all fine.” Nigel affixed the editor with a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “She was scared for you, Miranda, so be nice.”
Miranda glowered at his presumption, though she had to quell a relieved sigh that the young woman had survived the blackout. Unwilling as she was to admit it, even to herself, the editor had grown fond of her young protégé, before the girl had surreptitiously taken her leave in the thralls of Paris fashion week. So unprofessional.
Miranda stood in a singular lithe movement and stalked towards the door, her heels clacking harshly on the hardwood. Upon opening the door, the editor was immediately clobbered in a stranglehold by her former assistant.
Andy, as if suddenly surprised by her own audacity, pulled away quickly, awkwardness scrawled across her honest features. “Sorry-” she offered, shifting her weight from one stiletto suede boot to the other. “I was worried.”
Miranda raised a brow in disbelief- though old suspicions of an ill-harboured attraction on the part of one Andrea Sachs reclaimed a large portion in the forefront of the editor’s consciousness; strange little journalist.
“You’re always,” Andy’s voice cracked, “you’re always in that f-fucking car, going to meetings, or you could have been on a plane. And the girls- don’t they leave school for private lessons sometimes? They could have been in traffic or something, and- well, I know I haven’t seen you in months, and you probably don’t want me to-
Miranda raised a silencing hand, though she was warmed by the girl’s obvious concern, especially for that of her children. Andy sniffled and a fat tear tracked down her reddening cheek; god, she was embarrassed for coming here like this, throwing herself at the editor; her eyes welled.
“Andrea,” Miranda admonished gently, yet she opened her arms in an uncharacteristic moment of compassion, and Andy leaned in gratefully. “I’m fine- we’re all fine-”
The young journalist sobbed into the older woman’s shoulder, vaguely aware that she was probably wiping snot all over her ex-bosses silk Donna Karan blouse; and then, so mollified by the solid, very safe Miranda in her arms, flipped quickly into embarrassment anew.
Nigel, who had been watching the interaction with veiled interest from the entrance to the living room, choose that opportune moment to intercede.
“Nige,” Andy grinned, grateful for the diversion, her eyes still red-rimmed and wet.
“Six,” he countered, embracing the young woman.
Andy slapped the dapper man playfully on the arm. “Still a four, monsieur- don’t be a jerk.”
Miranda cleared her throat, interrupting their banter. Her front foyer was no place for a high school reunion.
“How’s your family?” The inquiry sounded mundane enough, but in this context, Miranda realised that what she was really asking was if anyone had died.
Andrea relaxed visibly. “My mom and dad are fine- god, I’ve never been so glad that both my parents are such incorrigibly boring homebodies. My sister clocked herself on the head when she lost consciousness- minor concussion there-” the young woman paused, her face falling, she wilted visibly. “I uh, had a friend- well, she was a friend- she was on the subway when it happened, so she- she didn’t make it.”
Miranda winced- she had been so lucky, as had Nigel. Awkwardly, the editor pressed a hand into the small of the young woman’s back and directed into the living room. Andy settled carefully onto a long couch, Nigel in an armchair opposite, and Miranda, after intense deliberation, sat on the couch next to the young woman. As loathe as the editor was to encourage the journalist’s emerging- and misguided- feelings, Miranda could not bring herself to be callous in this instance; the girl seemed to derive comfort from her presence.
Nigel leaned forwards and poured a cup of coffee from the french press set on the low table, and handed it to a grateful Andy who clutched the mug close to her chest, trying to settle her nerves.
Taking a sip of the appropriately scalding liquid, she relayed that Lily had not spoken to her in months, since before Paris.
“Everything sort of fell apart when Nate and I split up- even though we’d been best friends since we were kids. I was hoping-” she sighed. “I was hoping Lily would forgive me, with time- that we could try the friendship out again. Now-” Andy trailed off, staring into her coffee, the essential oils like a grease slick rainbow on the dark surface. Quality stuff.
She started when Miranda’s hand slipped gently onto her knee, and stared at the anomaly for long seconds, before grabbing it gratefully.
“You’ve got us, Six,” Nigel offered, subdued.
Miranda nodded her acquiescence, and Andy was inclined to believe them. During the blackout, the young journalist had found herself keeping a familiar late-night vigil, waiting for a particular book to be delivered into her expectant D&G bag.