Rewind. Reverse.
Title: Rewind.Reverse.
Rating: pg13
Pairing: Miranda Princhek/Andréa Saxton
Summary: Miranda Princhek needed a job. Andréa Saxton needed an assistant. In an ironic sort of way, they needed each other.
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: It's a MIRACLE! I'm actually posting an update to this fic! I've had a not so brief haitus from this story, and frankly, I think I'm ready to finish this little devil. Hope you guys still want to read it!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
At eight thirty, Miranda, Emily, and least endearingly Andréa, were all still ensconced within the glass walls of Runway. There was a palpable air of tension in the office- Andréa only stayed this late when something about the upcoming publication was on her mind. And when Andréa Saxton had something on her mind, anyone with sense realised that it wouldn’t be long before the bottom fell out of the Mark Jacobs bag, in which rattled around the few precious moments in each day where everything had been going smoothly.
Emily chewed on the end of a pencil, trying to rearrange several meetings around Andréa’s schedule, ever in a state of flux. Miranda wished the girl would eat something besides the bits of paint that were flecking off the stationary, but knew without question that the scrawny brit would rather strip down and dance the Charleston through the halls of Runway than eat in the slightly removed presence of the editor in chief. Frankly, Miranda was beginning to commiserate, and so was her empty stomach. She fantasized longingly about the dinner she would have shared with Lacroix that evening- wondering if and when it was going to take place at all, now. The Parisian gentleman had promised to phone the office when his availability to dine was secured, but his lateness was really of no consequence.
When leaving the millinery that afternoon, Miranda realised her oversight. She had graciously accepted the invitation to the upscale french bistro, and in the next breath had acquiesced to Andréa’s request to deliver the Book that evening. Leaving the office was obviously out of the question- even though Miranda wasn’t actually doing anything- and under no circumstance would she beg reprieve from her duty of delivering the mock-up to Andréa’s penthouse. When Christian called, she would politely inform him of her misstep, and pray that he wouldn’t be insulted.
Sighing quietly, she flipped through the glossy pages of a Runway competitor. With satisfaction, she noted that some of the layouts were sloppy, most of photographs were disinteresting, and the articles were barely disguised versions of things previously written about in Andréa’s publication. While imitation was said to be the most sincere form of flattery, badly executed bunko artistry tended to get on Miranda’s nerves.
With a sniff of disgust, she let the magazine flap closed and hauled the heavy binder from under her desk, where the contemptible item had been ostracized for the better part of the evening. With the caustic editor still sitting in the next room, it would look much better if Miranda were studying the guest list than staring off into space, daydreaming about steak au poivre.
A pale, toad faced man squinted up from out of the Polaroid. Harold Whiten. Married to Sylvia Whiten, formerly Oliver. CEO of…
The phone’s in the outer office began to ring insistently. Without looking up from the book, Miranda cradled the phone against her cheek.
“Andréa Saxton’s office,” she offered in a bored voice.
“Âllo, Miranda?”
Miranda perked up marginally at the sound of her former colleague’s voice.
“Christian,” she said warmly, a small smile curving her lips. “Bon soir.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, and she heard disgruntled voices in the background, arguing about the validity of using slate in preference to marble for the storefront counter.
“I apologize for the lateness of this call, ma minette. A meeting with the designer ran a little late, yes, and this was the first opportunity I have had to telephone you. You will not be angry with me, I hope.”
Miranda sighed. “Not at all, Christian. Actually,” she continued, injecting an appropriate level of sheepish accountability, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make our engagement this evening. It seems I’ve double-booked myself.”
“What a shame,” Lacroix offered amiably. “Should I be jealous?”
Miranda’s smiled broadened. “Not unless you have a secret desire to deliver the mock up of the current issue of Runway to the esteemed editor this evening.” She hoped like hell Andréa hadn’t heard that one.
Christian chuckled at the other end of the line. “She did mention something about that, didn’t she? Will you be very late?”
Miranda didn’t know- but the fact that the Book hadn’t yet arrived meant that it probably wasn’t going to for at least another two hours. “In all likelihood. Perhaps we could reschedule?”
Lacroix seemed to sift mentally through his appointments, but before he could respond, Miranda heard her name being called from within the sanctum of the editor in chief.
“Christian- would you hold for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Cursing herself silently, the woman walked into Andréa’s office, wondering if she’d perhaps be able to make the dinner after all. She would hardly need to deliver the Book if Andréa fired her in the next five minutes.
“Yes Andréa?” Miranda offered calmly, though her stomach twisted a little with nerves.
The editor flicked her heavy bangs somewhat viciously out of her kohl-lined eyes, glancing at her assistant before focusing her limited attention on a fan of proofs littering her desk. “Why are you still here?”
Miranda frowned, and hazarded a helpless glance over her shoulder at Emily, who shrugged and continued to chip away at her stationary with pearly teeth.
“I thought you wanted-
Andréa laughed humourlessly. “As it seems to have escaped you, Miranda- I don’t pay you to think. As I recall,” she continued scathingly, “you accepted a dinner invitation issued by Monsieur Lacroix for this evening. While I am loathe to understand his interest in you-” the older woman bristled at this subversive backhand, “I am sure your little outing would benefit the magazine far more than you sitting around here until all hours, pretending to look busy. Emily will deliver the Book tonight, if those idiots in the art department don’t manage to have it finished before I leave for the evening. So go out- network with Lacroix. Make Runway look good.”
Miranda nodded, and before the editor could offer her coupe de grace, the assistant smirked slightly. “Scoot?”
Andréa blinked, shock at the older woman’s insubordination making the whites of her eyes shine in the dwindling daylight. Miranda continued to smirk irreverently at the young woman until Andréa did something completely unexpected.
She grinned. The transformation was- extraordinary. Her ash brown eyes warmed to a gooey caramel colour, the harsh, displeased pout of her lips turned up and lifted her whole visage, pushing her disapproving eyebrows underneath her bangs.
Miranda stood a little straighter, her spine stiffening, her head cocked at a disbelieving angle. Then she did the only thing she could do in the face of such a brilliant display. Miranda Princhek smiled back.
Andréa nodded slightly before returning to her work, her features falling back into their usual frown. “You’re not scooting,” she warned lowly.
Miranda actually had the audacity to chuckle softly as she exited the office and returned to her phone.
“Christian?” she inquired, hoping the older man was still on the line.
“You’ve survived the summons, I take it?” he inquired lightly.
Miranda laughed. “Better than that,” she began, packing up her purse. “I’ve been freed for the evening. Can you still make dinner?”
“Of course!” the designer answered excitedly. “I’ll meet you at the office with a car in, oh, ten minutes?”
The platinum haired woman actually beamed. “That sounds lovely, I’ll see you soon.” Miranda replaced the receiver in it’s cradle with a flourish, and caught Emily staring quizzically at her from across the small outer office.
“You’ll need to deliver the Book tonight after all,” the older woman directed as she headed to the closet to retrieve her coat.
The brit was obviously trying to look displeased, but Miranda’s pleasure at having escaped another two hours of mindless waiting seemed to be contagious. “I take it Andréa is sending you out on a little reconnaissance mission with our Parisian gentleman?”
“Something like that,” Miranda offered elusively. “Sorry to stick you with the Book again.”
Emily actually smiled, and the older woman wondered if there was some sort of carbon monoxide emissions or something in the office which would explain everyone’s strange mood this evening. Perhaps one of the staff had stashed a canister of nitrous oxide under a desk somewhere, left on a slow leak.
“Have fun,” the brit directed, shooting a pointed wink in the older woman’s direction. Miranda pursed her lips at the insinuation, but was hard-pressed to do much about it but make faces. Let Emily think that she was having lascivious relations with the designer, if she must- but she and Christian knew better than that. In truth, Nigel would have a better chance at making any moves on the frenchman. With that naughty little thought in mind, Miranda swung her coat playfully over her shoulder and sashayed out of the office.
Rating: pg13
Pairing: Miranda Princhek/Andréa Saxton
Summary: Miranda Princhek needed a job. Andréa Saxton needed an assistant. In an ironic sort of way, they needed each other.
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: It's a MIRACLE! I'm actually posting an update to this fic! I've had a not so brief haitus from this story, and frankly, I think I'm ready to finish this little devil. Hope you guys still want to read it!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
At eight thirty, Miranda, Emily, and least endearingly Andréa, were all still ensconced within the glass walls of Runway. There was a palpable air of tension in the office- Andréa only stayed this late when something about the upcoming publication was on her mind. And when Andréa Saxton had something on her mind, anyone with sense realised that it wouldn’t be long before the bottom fell out of the Mark Jacobs bag, in which rattled around the few precious moments in each day where everything had been going smoothly.
Emily chewed on the end of a pencil, trying to rearrange several meetings around Andréa’s schedule, ever in a state of flux. Miranda wished the girl would eat something besides the bits of paint that were flecking off the stationary, but knew without question that the scrawny brit would rather strip down and dance the Charleston through the halls of Runway than eat in the slightly removed presence of the editor in chief. Frankly, Miranda was beginning to commiserate, and so was her empty stomach. She fantasized longingly about the dinner she would have shared with Lacroix that evening- wondering if and when it was going to take place at all, now. The Parisian gentleman had promised to phone the office when his availability to dine was secured, but his lateness was really of no consequence.
When leaving the millinery that afternoon, Miranda realised her oversight. She had graciously accepted the invitation to the upscale french bistro, and in the next breath had acquiesced to Andréa’s request to deliver the Book that evening. Leaving the office was obviously out of the question- even though Miranda wasn’t actually doing anything- and under no circumstance would she beg reprieve from her duty of delivering the mock-up to Andréa’s penthouse. When Christian called, she would politely inform him of her misstep, and pray that he wouldn’t be insulted.
Sighing quietly, she flipped through the glossy pages of a Runway competitor. With satisfaction, she noted that some of the layouts were sloppy, most of photographs were disinteresting, and the articles were barely disguised versions of things previously written about in Andréa’s publication. While imitation was said to be the most sincere form of flattery, badly executed bunko artistry tended to get on Miranda’s nerves.
With a sniff of disgust, she let the magazine flap closed and hauled the heavy binder from under her desk, where the contemptible item had been ostracized for the better part of the evening. With the caustic editor still sitting in the next room, it would look much better if Miranda were studying the guest list than staring off into space, daydreaming about steak au poivre.
A pale, toad faced man squinted up from out of the Polaroid. Harold Whiten. Married to Sylvia Whiten, formerly Oliver. CEO of…
The phone’s in the outer office began to ring insistently. Without looking up from the book, Miranda cradled the phone against her cheek.
“Andréa Saxton’s office,” she offered in a bored voice.
“Âllo, Miranda?”
Miranda perked up marginally at the sound of her former colleague’s voice.
“Christian,” she said warmly, a small smile curving her lips. “Bon soir.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, and she heard disgruntled voices in the background, arguing about the validity of using slate in preference to marble for the storefront counter.
“I apologize for the lateness of this call, ma minette. A meeting with the designer ran a little late, yes, and this was the first opportunity I have had to telephone you. You will not be angry with me, I hope.”
Miranda sighed. “Not at all, Christian. Actually,” she continued, injecting an appropriate level of sheepish accountability, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make our engagement this evening. It seems I’ve double-booked myself.”
“What a shame,” Lacroix offered amiably. “Should I be jealous?”
Miranda’s smiled broadened. “Not unless you have a secret desire to deliver the mock up of the current issue of Runway to the esteemed editor this evening.” She hoped like hell Andréa hadn’t heard that one.
Christian chuckled at the other end of the line. “She did mention something about that, didn’t she? Will you be very late?”
Miranda didn’t know- but the fact that the Book hadn’t yet arrived meant that it probably wasn’t going to for at least another two hours. “In all likelihood. Perhaps we could reschedule?”
Lacroix seemed to sift mentally through his appointments, but before he could respond, Miranda heard her name being called from within the sanctum of the editor in chief.
“Christian- would you hold for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Cursing herself silently, the woman walked into Andréa’s office, wondering if she’d perhaps be able to make the dinner after all. She would hardly need to deliver the Book if Andréa fired her in the next five minutes.
“Yes Andréa?” Miranda offered calmly, though her stomach twisted a little with nerves.
The editor flicked her heavy bangs somewhat viciously out of her kohl-lined eyes, glancing at her assistant before focusing her limited attention on a fan of proofs littering her desk. “Why are you still here?”
Miranda frowned, and hazarded a helpless glance over her shoulder at Emily, who shrugged and continued to chip away at her stationary with pearly teeth.
“I thought you wanted-
Andréa laughed humourlessly. “As it seems to have escaped you, Miranda- I don’t pay you to think. As I recall,” she continued scathingly, “you accepted a dinner invitation issued by Monsieur Lacroix for this evening. While I am loathe to understand his interest in you-” the older woman bristled at this subversive backhand, “I am sure your little outing would benefit the magazine far more than you sitting around here until all hours, pretending to look busy. Emily will deliver the Book tonight, if those idiots in the art department don’t manage to have it finished before I leave for the evening. So go out- network with Lacroix. Make Runway look good.”
Miranda nodded, and before the editor could offer her coupe de grace, the assistant smirked slightly. “Scoot?”
Andréa blinked, shock at the older woman’s insubordination making the whites of her eyes shine in the dwindling daylight. Miranda continued to smirk irreverently at the young woman until Andréa did something completely unexpected.
She grinned. The transformation was- extraordinary. Her ash brown eyes warmed to a gooey caramel colour, the harsh, displeased pout of her lips turned up and lifted her whole visage, pushing her disapproving eyebrows underneath her bangs.
Miranda stood a little straighter, her spine stiffening, her head cocked at a disbelieving angle. Then she did the only thing she could do in the face of such a brilliant display. Miranda Princhek smiled back.
Andréa nodded slightly before returning to her work, her features falling back into their usual frown. “You’re not scooting,” she warned lowly.
Miranda actually had the audacity to chuckle softly as she exited the office and returned to her phone.
“Christian?” she inquired, hoping the older man was still on the line.
“You’ve survived the summons, I take it?” he inquired lightly.
Miranda laughed. “Better than that,” she began, packing up her purse. “I’ve been freed for the evening. Can you still make dinner?”
“Of course!” the designer answered excitedly. “I’ll meet you at the office with a car in, oh, ten minutes?”
The platinum haired woman actually beamed. “That sounds lovely, I’ll see you soon.” Miranda replaced the receiver in it’s cradle with a flourish, and caught Emily staring quizzically at her from across the small outer office.
“You’ll need to deliver the Book tonight after all,” the older woman directed as she headed to the closet to retrieve her coat.
The brit was obviously trying to look displeased, but Miranda’s pleasure at having escaped another two hours of mindless waiting seemed to be contagious. “I take it Andréa is sending you out on a little reconnaissance mission with our Parisian gentleman?”
“Something like that,” Miranda offered elusively. “Sorry to stick you with the Book again.”
Emily actually smiled, and the older woman wondered if there was some sort of carbon monoxide emissions or something in the office which would explain everyone’s strange mood this evening. Perhaps one of the staff had stashed a canister of nitrous oxide under a desk somewhere, left on a slow leak.
“Have fun,” the brit directed, shooting a pointed wink in the older woman’s direction. Miranda pursed her lips at the insinuation, but was hard-pressed to do much about it but make faces. Let Emily think that she was having lascivious relations with the designer, if she must- but she and Christian knew better than that. In truth, Nigel would have a better chance at making any moves on the frenchman. With that naughty little thought in mind, Miranda swung her coat playfully over her shoulder and sashayed out of the office.