but according to fashion. (the devil wears prada, emily/serena & emily/jocelyn)
title: but according to fashion.
author: ellen m, aka quasiradiant
recipient: furies
fandom: the devil wears prada
pairing: emily/serena, emily/jocelyn
rating: r
word count: about 3,500
disclaimer/notes: owned entirely by other people, of whose names i am unaware. but they're certainly not me. section titles are taken from titles of articles in various 2006 issues of vogue magazine. summary by seneca (yes, shut up). please don't think too, too hard about all the dates in this; you'll just make your head hurt, i swear.
summary: ‘we live not according to reason, but according to fashion.'
+
april 2006
winner take all.
She shouldn't feel vindicated, but she does. She adjusts the bulletin on its stand, considers the simplicity of a day's schedule in black and white, and silently mocks new-Andrea's shoes.
New-Andrea isn't really so bad, and she certainly has better taste than Andrea ever could've hoped to, even with her Nigel-aided makeover. But next to Emily's 3.1 Phillip Lim dress and her brand new Valentino pumps, new-Andrea looks pretty sad, and those shoes are definitely, definitely 2004, which is just unacceptable.
She sniffs in new-Andrea's direction. "You can get lunch, if you want."
New-Andrea shrugs very unattractively. It's not that Emily has it out for her, it's just that Andrea had that lovely insanity, the one that made Emily feel normal and calm, which is something she hasn't felt, well, ever.
"I'm not hungry," new-Andrea says. "I'm on a new diet." Her voice is as high and as nasal and as unappealingly American as Emily's ever heard.
Emily never would've guessed that a month later, she would actually miss Andrea, that she'd still be stopping in front of Filene's windows and laughing because it makes her thinks of how Andrea dressed back in the beginning, that she'd still be considering (and rejecting, of course) the soup in the cafeteria.
"Fine, then I'll go." Emily pulls on her wrap, grabs her clutch. "Don't leave your desk."
New-Andrea's lip curls in offense. "Where would I go?"
No where, Emily thinks, no where. Even if Andrea had spent most of the last year fucking over friends and family, at least she'd had a little of both to go home to. Emily looks at new-Andrea poring over her Barney's catalogue and closes her eyes and all she manages to feel is tired.
may 1999
teen queen.
She finishes her A-levels and dreams of moving to London or Paris or New York. She's a prettier-than-average girl from an uglier-than-average town. She reads Runway and sits in the garden and tries to think of ways to explain to her mum and dad and to all of her friends that she's leaving.
Amy is the one that takes it hardest. She's tall and smart and on her way to university in Lancaster. She puts her hands on her hips and turns back towards the window. "I thought you said you'd stay."
"No, you said I'd stay," Emily says. "That's different."
Emily knows the set of Amy's jaw even though she can't see it. Amy, always too bloody honest for her own good, says, "You loved me." Emily wants to say: maybe, but I always kept you a secret, and I think that should've been your first clue.
"No, you thought I loved you," Emily says. "Love's not the same as sex." Emily's always been too blunt, but she can't help it. Amy's shoulders slump inward and they don't say anything else.
Later, Amy leaves and Emily leaves and that's the last time they'll see each other. Emily doesn't miss her, or at least not very much. It's good, though, because it taught her something important: attachments are totally overrated.
She's going to be editor of Runway one day, she knows, and with a job like that, there isn't going to be anytime for love or secrets. She's strong enough to take it, because this is what she was born to do. She just knows it.
When her wheels lift up from the Heathrow tarmac, she thinks of touching down at JFK and everything that comes after.
She's learned not to look back.
june 2004
natural selection.
Emily leans a palm against Donna's desk. Donna is laughing, "Just six months down in the trenches and you're already bucking for a promotion?"
"I was born to be a star," Emily says, flashing the kind of smile that makes Donna blush.
"So you were," Donna says. Emily thinks it's funny that no one expects her, after all these years, everybody still thinks of her as the neurotic English one with the good taste in shoes (because she really does have excellent taste in shoes). She doesn't have many friends to laugh about it with, and none outside the fashion business who could show her how ridiculous the whole thing was.
Even so, it's funny.
Finally, Donna says, "You might have heard, Miranda's second assistant has recently, mm, left us."
"From what I heard, she actually threw a Manolo Blahnik at Miranda's head." Emily leans a hip against the desk. "So if you mean, 'left us to face assault charges,' fine."
"I always thought the British were more tactful," Donna shrugs,
"We're more reserved," Emily says. "There's a distinct difference."
Donna rolls her eyes. "Jocelyn's coming down."
Emily smiles, the big, wide smile she usually reserves for sample sales and sushi. "Is she?"
"Do you know each other? She asked for you personally," Donna says, then takes a long sip of Diet Coke. Emily considers for the thousandth time buying stock in Coke, because she knows that so long as there are clothes, there'll be models, and as long as there are models, there'll be a bunch of hungry people desperate for something with no calories and a satisfyingly chemical aftertaste.
"We've met each other a couple times, of course," Emily says. "I'd think everybody knows Miranda's first assistant, though," she says, very modestly.
Jocelyn comes down. Her hair is pin-curled and she's wearing a white pinstriped Gaultier suit that stretches her legs from her neck to the ground fifteen stories below. "Emily," she says. There's something shockingly meek about her, and Emily wonders every time they meet how Jocelyn withstands the brunt of hurricane Miranda. "Don't suppose you're interested in a promotion."
She's so sweetly genuine. She smiles. Her eyes are wide-set and huge against her pale face. Emily may not be Jocelyn's best friend, but she knows her well enough to know this is all a farce. She wants to ask how she manages it, to keep her real self buried so deep underneath the layers of makeup and couture.
Instead, she decides to learn through observation.
Emily tilts her chin down, smiles, says, "I might be."
july 2001
a grand affair.
Her second summer in New York, she's conned her way into a job at Anna Sui. She, of course, has never actually met Anna Sui, nor does she hope to, but it turns out she's an excellent gopher. She's learned to be pretty and pushy and get back with everybody's Starbuck's in record time. Nobody says thank you, but she never expects them to.
It's the summer she meets Serena. Serena is Brazilian and insanely foreign and beautiful, and when Emily tells her so - later and under the influence, she wants it to be known -Serena just laughs, "I could say the same about you."
Serena's trying to be a model, but there's no city in the world where that's easy. She's decided, she tells Emily, that if she's not on the runways by the end of 2002, she's hanging up her stilettos and finding another way. Emily can't imagine that she'll fail, but Serena smiles, sadly maybe, and says, "You haven't been here long, have you?"
Anna Sui isn't interested in her portfolio, but Serena doesn't seem worried. She stops by Emily's desk as she leaves. "You want to get a cup of coffee?"
Emily blinks. "Now? Perhaps you've forgotten what it's like, but some of us work. All day. Can't just run off for a cup of coffee at two in the afternoon."
"Yikes," Serena says, and in her accent it's the most perfect thing Emily's ever heard anybody say. "How about a drink, then? My treat."
Emily doesn't know how or why she agrees. Friday night at Bar 89 and Serena's talking them past a man not thrilled about letting them through the door. But Emily's not alone, apparently, in thinking that Serena can do no wrong and they're inside and drinking expensive drinks and Emily's trying to be cool enough to be here.
Serena asks, "What do you think?"
"It's okay," Emily says, smiling. She downs the last of her drink. They're in a dark corner and nobody's looking at them. Serena puts her hand on Emily's knee, and Emily resists the urge to ask, "How did you know?" Instead, she says, "Aren't you worried about being seen?"
"All press is good press," Serena says, and it sounds particularly sage after a few shots of vodka. She turns in her seat, slides her hand farther up Emily's leg and kisses her. Emily finds that she has no idea what one is supposed to do in a situation like this. Slumber parties after lights-out is one thing, and this is something else altogether.
Serena whispers in her ear, "Don't think so hard."
Emily thinks this might be the best advice anyone's ever given her. She presses her hand to Serena's, helps it even higher beneath her Dolce & Gabbana skirt. The music is loud, but Serena's mouth makes the blood in Emily's ears that much louder.
Just don't think so hard, she says to herself, and everything will be perfect.
august 2005
white heat.
It's the hottest summer she can remember, and it's possible her skin is melting off.
Andrea looks up from her computer. "Oh," she says. "Are you hot?"
Andrea is somehow powdered and fresh and clean-smelling. Emily hates her more than life itself.
Emily says, "You're fired," and then slinks past to organize Miranda's breakfast. "And I mean it this time!"
september 2003
the art of seduction.
Emily's at Taj. She's discovered, ever since she's been friends with Serena, that it's easy to get in wherever you please if you wear the right clothes and know the right names.
She's finished her first exceptionally expensive Elderflower cocktail (she prefers, really, the Juniperotivo, but she can't bring herself to say the name to the bartender) and starting in on her second, when someone behind her asks, "Have I met you before?"
Emily's mouth goes dry as soon as she turns. It's Jocelyn Adams, Miranda's first assistant. Emily genuinely had no idea that Miranda allowed her assistants time for things like visiting Taj, and she'd never have thought Jocelyn would recognize her, especially from behind, and she's so flustered by the whole thing that all she manages to say is, "Um, yes."
Jocelyn laughs. "You're Emily," she says. "From accessories."
Yes! Emily wants to say, I'm Emily from Accessories!, like it's her new surname. "You're Jocelyn," Emily says, instead. She glances at Jocelyn's mostly-empty glass. "Can I get you another-"
"Manuka," Jocelyn says. "I'm never brave enough to order anything with a more complicated name."
Emily grins. "I know exactly how you feel."
Later, Emily's pressed up against the inside of a stall in the ladies' room. Jocelyn's mouth is against the inside of her thigh, and her tongue is so hot Emily wonders if she's snuck a cup of tea or something.
Jocelyn pushes Emily's extremely expensive Roberto Cavalli skirt up around Emily's hips, and Emily wants to say, "Be careful, I make half of what you make," but she doesn't. Instead, she grabs a handful of Jocelyn's hair and pulls her closer. Emily wonders if being this wet will ruin her also-very-expensive La Perla thong.
Then Jocelyn runs her tongue expertly along the crease between Emily's thigh and her panties and her breath is warm against Emily's brazilian-waxed skin and Emily pulls her head in even tighter.
"How did you know my name?" Emily asks, her voice all breath and sandpaper.
Jocelyn looks up, eyebrows raised. "You want to talk about this now? Really?"
"I'm just asking," Emily says, hooking her leg over Jocelyn's shoulder. "One should never fuck a stranger. My mother taught me that."
"I noticed you in the elevator, okay?" Jocelyn asked.
"Yes, okay," Emily says, tugging on Jocelyn's hair to force her to look up again. "But how did you know I was, I was-"
"Into girls?" Jocelyn laughs. "I can just tell, okay? It's a gift."
Jocelyn lowers her mouth again and Emily thinks: A gift, indeed.
october 2004
big girls don't cry.
Any time Miranda's about to return from a big trip, the whole building tenses up. It's as if the actual steel beams begin to shudder, as if they know the Dragon Lady's coming back and they dislike it as much as anyone.
Emily starts wearing the expensive eyeliner again, goes back to the three-inch from the one-inch heels, picks a push-up bra instead of something soft and comfortable. Miranda ruins, Emily thinks, everything. Everything.
Jocelyn and Miranda breeze into the office. Jocelyn looks radiant in new clothes nicked from the London shows for nothing but a drop of IworkforMirandaPriestly and a pretty smile, and Miranda looks angrier than usual and Emily wants to throw her fucking coat right back in her face but chooses to retrain herself.
"How was your trip?" Emily asks through gritted teeth.
Jocelyn smiles and sighs happily. "Oh, it was wonderful. You really should've been there."
"Well, I would've been, if I hadn't been chained to-hi, Miranda," Emily says, pasting on a hugely fake smile and counting down the days to her one damn year when she can leave and go work for Runway Paris and live on la Rive Gauche and never have to see Miranda Priestly again.
Miranda turns from Jocelyn's desk, and looks at Emily like she's some kind of alien. "Are you talking to me?"
Emily swallows. "Yes. But I apologize for my impertinence."
Miranda smiles slowly, a long, slow, feral smile. "As well you should," she says, and then resumes ignoring Emily, as she has for months before and will for months to come.
november 2001
extraordinary machines.
Her apartment may, in fact, be nothing more than a glorified hallway, and it may be located in the decidedly un-posh Upper West Side, but it's Emily's alone, at least until the lease runs out, and nobody can take that away from her.
And it's not entirely bad, she supposes. There are, after all, on her block alone, two Starbucks', a pizza shop (not that she ever eats there, but the smell is nice, at least), a book shop with every important fashion magazine right there on display, and a florist where she can buy tulips at eleven thirty at night.
Emily discovers that perhaps America really isn't so bad.
And then she discovers Thanksgiving.
Even someone as snooty - she hears this descriptor at least once a week, usually from complete strangers - as Emily can appreciate the idea, if not the action, of giving thanks. She's thankful for things, of course, like Fendi bags and no-carb-no-fat-no-sugar brownies and hair color in a box so good nobody has to know she's too poor for a good salon job. And it's not that she's not thankful for being in America, too; everyone says New York's so expensive, but all she knows is that in London, the same bottle of Fiji water would cost her two quid fifty, and that is simply ridiculous.
But Thanksgiving, this ridiculous thing. One day, she's walking down Columbus towards her apartment, and there are disgusting, gargantuan balloons - yes, she tells her mother later on the telephone, balloons! - being inflated right there in that pretty little park she always passes.
Balloons! She works for the most fashionable magazine in the world, lives in the most fashionable city in the world, wears the best shoes of anybody she's ever met, and yet here, on this street, she is watching a giant balloon version of Snoopy come erect.
"For God's sake," she says, shaking her head. "It's a country full of madmen."
december 2004
natural selection.
Jocelyn leaves Miranda's office in a swish of Alexander McQueen and a vindicated smile.
"So?" Emily asks. She needn't. It's written all over Jocelyn's face, but she asks anyway, because Jocelyn wants to be asked. And as of right now, Jocelyn's powerful enough around here to toss Emily right out onto the curb.
Jocelyn nods towards the kitchen. As soon as Emily's out of Miranda's potential eye-shot, Jocelyn pulls her in, close and closer, and kisses her. Emily doesn't expect it, but she's not surprised, and there's the thrill of knowing that if they're caught, at least they'll both be fired, and Jocelyn will owe her forever.
Jocelyn's mouth tastes like sugar-free gum and Diet Coke with lime and her hands are as dry and soft as her powdered cheeks. Emily struggles not to make a noise as Jocelyn nudges a knee between Emily's thighs.
"I got the job," Jocelyn breathes against Emily's ear. No shit, Emily wants to say, but instead she says, "Congratulations." Jocelyn's tongue traces her ear and Emily holds her breath, waiting to hear:
"You're the new me." Jocelyn says it, and Emily's stomach twists in something smack between pleasure and pain. She's the new first assistant to Miranda Priestly and it's the best thing that's ever happened to her and possibly the worst and her hands are on Jocelyn's ass, pulling her in tight and she wonders what Jocelyn would say if she knew how wet she was and-
The phone rings, and Emily almost falls over Jocelyn in her rush to answer before the third ring.
"Miranda Priestly's office," she says, breathless, tucking the receiver against her ear. She's smoothing her skirt and reaching for a pen and Jocelyn slides by her, smiling. It's Erin from Stella McCartney on the other end of the line and Emily's trying to take a message and from her desk, Jocelyn whispers, "Don't say I never did anything for you."
january 1990
brilliant disguise.
Emily is seven years old. She is tall for her age and her arms and legs are long and she enjoys climbing trees and reading books and most especially playing dress up.
On Sundays, while her mum's at church, Emily sneaks into her closet. She pulls on skirts too long for her and shirts too big and she teeters around in what she thinks are the smartest-looking shoes she's ever seen.
When her mother comes home, she's asleep in her parents' big bed, dreaming of being a grown up and wearing the prettiest clothes she can imagine and never having to fight with her sister again and her mother coming up to her and saying, "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Then she wakes up.
february 2003
where the wild things are.
Serena is a slow curve under satin sheets. Her naked shoulders and arms are exposed and they shine under the street light coming in through the unshaded window. It's nice, this friends-with-benefits thing, Emily thinks, watching Serena breathe, really nice. Serena's hair is across the pillow and Serena's lips are parted and Serena's eyes are closed.
Emily thinks maybe she finally understands how Amy felt all those years ago. Serena may be the best friend Emily's ever had, but Serena's destined for great things. Sometimes, Emily's afraid to fall asleep, because she's worried that when she wakes up, Serena will be nothing but a voicemail ("I got the greatest new job in Hong Kong, don't miss me too much, kisses, bye") and the smell of the Frederic Fekkai shampoo Emily can't stand on Emily's pillow.
Amy's married now. Emily can't possibly say she's sorry, not now, not after so long.
She whispers, "Don't go." Serena doesn't stir. Emily says, "I'm afraid, you know."
Serena doesn't open her eyes when she says, "I know." She moves her hips a little, shimmies to the side to give Emily more room. She says, "Come back to bed. I'm cold."
Emily smiles, but just a little. She slips under the sheet, splays her fingers against Serena's hip. "It's not nice to listen in on a girl's secret confessions, you know."
Serena presses back against Emily's stomach and chest and legs, and she's warm and tall and beautiful and sleepy. Serena says, "Go to sleep," and Emily does.
march 2007
built for speed.
The weather has been so cold and grey. It is the worst February Emily remembers, and then the worst March.
But one day Miranda says, "Congratulations, Emily. You made it." It's been years, now, since Emily started at Runway, and she finds herself blushing. "You can go anywhere you want to go."
Emily flicks her eyes towards the windows, realizes the sun's come out, that there's a thaw on.
She says, "It's about damn time." And the two of them, Miranda and Emily, they laugh together.
author: ellen m, aka quasiradiant
recipient: furies
fandom: the devil wears prada
pairing: emily/serena, emily/jocelyn
rating: r
word count: about 3,500
disclaimer/notes: owned entirely by other people, of whose names i am unaware. but they're certainly not me. section titles are taken from titles of articles in various 2006 issues of vogue magazine. summary by seneca (yes, shut up). please don't think too, too hard about all the dates in this; you'll just make your head hurt, i swear.
summary: ‘we live not according to reason, but according to fashion.'
+
april 2006
winner take all.
She shouldn't feel vindicated, but she does. She adjusts the bulletin on its stand, considers the simplicity of a day's schedule in black and white, and silently mocks new-Andrea's shoes.
New-Andrea isn't really so bad, and she certainly has better taste than Andrea ever could've hoped to, even with her Nigel-aided makeover. But next to Emily's 3.1 Phillip Lim dress and her brand new Valentino pumps, new-Andrea looks pretty sad, and those shoes are definitely, definitely 2004, which is just unacceptable.
She sniffs in new-Andrea's direction. "You can get lunch, if you want."
New-Andrea shrugs very unattractively. It's not that Emily has it out for her, it's just that Andrea had that lovely insanity, the one that made Emily feel normal and calm, which is something she hasn't felt, well, ever.
"I'm not hungry," new-Andrea says. "I'm on a new diet." Her voice is as high and as nasal and as unappealingly American as Emily's ever heard.
Emily never would've guessed that a month later, she would actually miss Andrea, that she'd still be stopping in front of Filene's windows and laughing because it makes her thinks of how Andrea dressed back in the beginning, that she'd still be considering (and rejecting, of course) the soup in the cafeteria.
"Fine, then I'll go." Emily pulls on her wrap, grabs her clutch. "Don't leave your desk."
New-Andrea's lip curls in offense. "Where would I go?"
No where, Emily thinks, no where. Even if Andrea had spent most of the last year fucking over friends and family, at least she'd had a little of both to go home to. Emily looks at new-Andrea poring over her Barney's catalogue and closes her eyes and all she manages to feel is tired.
may 1999
teen queen.
She finishes her A-levels and dreams of moving to London or Paris or New York. She's a prettier-than-average girl from an uglier-than-average town. She reads Runway and sits in the garden and tries to think of ways to explain to her mum and dad and to all of her friends that she's leaving.
Amy is the one that takes it hardest. She's tall and smart and on her way to university in Lancaster. She puts her hands on her hips and turns back towards the window. "I thought you said you'd stay."
"No, you said I'd stay," Emily says. "That's different."
Emily knows the set of Amy's jaw even though she can't see it. Amy, always too bloody honest for her own good, says, "You loved me." Emily wants to say: maybe, but I always kept you a secret, and I think that should've been your first clue.
"No, you thought I loved you," Emily says. "Love's not the same as sex." Emily's always been too blunt, but she can't help it. Amy's shoulders slump inward and they don't say anything else.
Later, Amy leaves and Emily leaves and that's the last time they'll see each other. Emily doesn't miss her, or at least not very much. It's good, though, because it taught her something important: attachments are totally overrated.
She's going to be editor of Runway one day, she knows, and with a job like that, there isn't going to be anytime for love or secrets. She's strong enough to take it, because this is what she was born to do. She just knows it.
When her wheels lift up from the Heathrow tarmac, she thinks of touching down at JFK and everything that comes after.
She's learned not to look back.
june 2004
natural selection.
Emily leans a palm against Donna's desk. Donna is laughing, "Just six months down in the trenches and you're already bucking for a promotion?"
"I was born to be a star," Emily says, flashing the kind of smile that makes Donna blush.
"So you were," Donna says. Emily thinks it's funny that no one expects her, after all these years, everybody still thinks of her as the neurotic English one with the good taste in shoes (because she really does have excellent taste in shoes). She doesn't have many friends to laugh about it with, and none outside the fashion business who could show her how ridiculous the whole thing was.
Even so, it's funny.
Finally, Donna says, "You might have heard, Miranda's second assistant has recently, mm, left us."
"From what I heard, she actually threw a Manolo Blahnik at Miranda's head." Emily leans a hip against the desk. "So if you mean, 'left us to face assault charges,' fine."
"I always thought the British were more tactful," Donna shrugs,
"We're more reserved," Emily says. "There's a distinct difference."
Donna rolls her eyes. "Jocelyn's coming down."
Emily smiles, the big, wide smile she usually reserves for sample sales and sushi. "Is she?"
"Do you know each other? She asked for you personally," Donna says, then takes a long sip of Diet Coke. Emily considers for the thousandth time buying stock in Coke, because she knows that so long as there are clothes, there'll be models, and as long as there are models, there'll be a bunch of hungry people desperate for something with no calories and a satisfyingly chemical aftertaste.
"We've met each other a couple times, of course," Emily says. "I'd think everybody knows Miranda's first assistant, though," she says, very modestly.
Jocelyn comes down. Her hair is pin-curled and she's wearing a white pinstriped Gaultier suit that stretches her legs from her neck to the ground fifteen stories below. "Emily," she says. There's something shockingly meek about her, and Emily wonders every time they meet how Jocelyn withstands the brunt of hurricane Miranda. "Don't suppose you're interested in a promotion."
She's so sweetly genuine. She smiles. Her eyes are wide-set and huge against her pale face. Emily may not be Jocelyn's best friend, but she knows her well enough to know this is all a farce. She wants to ask how she manages it, to keep her real self buried so deep underneath the layers of makeup and couture.
Instead, she decides to learn through observation.
Emily tilts her chin down, smiles, says, "I might be."
july 2001
a grand affair.
Her second summer in New York, she's conned her way into a job at Anna Sui. She, of course, has never actually met Anna Sui, nor does she hope to, but it turns out she's an excellent gopher. She's learned to be pretty and pushy and get back with everybody's Starbuck's in record time. Nobody says thank you, but she never expects them to.
It's the summer she meets Serena. Serena is Brazilian and insanely foreign and beautiful, and when Emily tells her so - later and under the influence, she wants it to be known -Serena just laughs, "I could say the same about you."
Serena's trying to be a model, but there's no city in the world where that's easy. She's decided, she tells Emily, that if she's not on the runways by the end of 2002, she's hanging up her stilettos and finding another way. Emily can't imagine that she'll fail, but Serena smiles, sadly maybe, and says, "You haven't been here long, have you?"
Anna Sui isn't interested in her portfolio, but Serena doesn't seem worried. She stops by Emily's desk as she leaves. "You want to get a cup of coffee?"
Emily blinks. "Now? Perhaps you've forgotten what it's like, but some of us work. All day. Can't just run off for a cup of coffee at two in the afternoon."
"Yikes," Serena says, and in her accent it's the most perfect thing Emily's ever heard anybody say. "How about a drink, then? My treat."
Emily doesn't know how or why she agrees. Friday night at Bar 89 and Serena's talking them past a man not thrilled about letting them through the door. But Emily's not alone, apparently, in thinking that Serena can do no wrong and they're inside and drinking expensive drinks and Emily's trying to be cool enough to be here.
Serena asks, "What do you think?"
"It's okay," Emily says, smiling. She downs the last of her drink. They're in a dark corner and nobody's looking at them. Serena puts her hand on Emily's knee, and Emily resists the urge to ask, "How did you know?" Instead, she says, "Aren't you worried about being seen?"
"All press is good press," Serena says, and it sounds particularly sage after a few shots of vodka. She turns in her seat, slides her hand farther up Emily's leg and kisses her. Emily finds that she has no idea what one is supposed to do in a situation like this. Slumber parties after lights-out is one thing, and this is something else altogether.
Serena whispers in her ear, "Don't think so hard."
Emily thinks this might be the best advice anyone's ever given her. She presses her hand to Serena's, helps it even higher beneath her Dolce & Gabbana skirt. The music is loud, but Serena's mouth makes the blood in Emily's ears that much louder.
Just don't think so hard, she says to herself, and everything will be perfect.
august 2005
white heat.
It's the hottest summer she can remember, and it's possible her skin is melting off.
Andrea looks up from her computer. "Oh," she says. "Are you hot?"
Andrea is somehow powdered and fresh and clean-smelling. Emily hates her more than life itself.
Emily says, "You're fired," and then slinks past to organize Miranda's breakfast. "And I mean it this time!"
september 2003
the art of seduction.
Emily's at Taj. She's discovered, ever since she's been friends with Serena, that it's easy to get in wherever you please if you wear the right clothes and know the right names.
She's finished her first exceptionally expensive Elderflower cocktail (she prefers, really, the Juniperotivo, but she can't bring herself to say the name to the bartender) and starting in on her second, when someone behind her asks, "Have I met you before?"
Emily's mouth goes dry as soon as she turns. It's Jocelyn Adams, Miranda's first assistant. Emily genuinely had no idea that Miranda allowed her assistants time for things like visiting Taj, and she'd never have thought Jocelyn would recognize her, especially from behind, and she's so flustered by the whole thing that all she manages to say is, "Um, yes."
Jocelyn laughs. "You're Emily," she says. "From accessories."
Yes! Emily wants to say, I'm Emily from Accessories!, like it's her new surname. "You're Jocelyn," Emily says, instead. She glances at Jocelyn's mostly-empty glass. "Can I get you another-"
"Manuka," Jocelyn says. "I'm never brave enough to order anything with a more complicated name."
Emily grins. "I know exactly how you feel."
Later, Emily's pressed up against the inside of a stall in the ladies' room. Jocelyn's mouth is against the inside of her thigh, and her tongue is so hot Emily wonders if she's snuck a cup of tea or something.
Jocelyn pushes Emily's extremely expensive Roberto Cavalli skirt up around Emily's hips, and Emily wants to say, "Be careful, I make half of what you make," but she doesn't. Instead, she grabs a handful of Jocelyn's hair and pulls her closer. Emily wonders if being this wet will ruin her also-very-expensive La Perla thong.
Then Jocelyn runs her tongue expertly along the crease between Emily's thigh and her panties and her breath is warm against Emily's brazilian-waxed skin and Emily pulls her head in even tighter.
"How did you know my name?" Emily asks, her voice all breath and sandpaper.
Jocelyn looks up, eyebrows raised. "You want to talk about this now? Really?"
"I'm just asking," Emily says, hooking her leg over Jocelyn's shoulder. "One should never fuck a stranger. My mother taught me that."
"I noticed you in the elevator, okay?" Jocelyn asked.
"Yes, okay," Emily says, tugging on Jocelyn's hair to force her to look up again. "But how did you know I was, I was-"
"Into girls?" Jocelyn laughs. "I can just tell, okay? It's a gift."
Jocelyn lowers her mouth again and Emily thinks: A gift, indeed.
october 2004
big girls don't cry.
Any time Miranda's about to return from a big trip, the whole building tenses up. It's as if the actual steel beams begin to shudder, as if they know the Dragon Lady's coming back and they dislike it as much as anyone.
Emily starts wearing the expensive eyeliner again, goes back to the three-inch from the one-inch heels, picks a push-up bra instead of something soft and comfortable. Miranda ruins, Emily thinks, everything. Everything.
Jocelyn and Miranda breeze into the office. Jocelyn looks radiant in new clothes nicked from the London shows for nothing but a drop of IworkforMirandaPriestly and a pretty smile, and Miranda looks angrier than usual and Emily wants to throw her fucking coat right back in her face but chooses to retrain herself.
"How was your trip?" Emily asks through gritted teeth.
Jocelyn smiles and sighs happily. "Oh, it was wonderful. You really should've been there."
"Well, I would've been, if I hadn't been chained to-hi, Miranda," Emily says, pasting on a hugely fake smile and counting down the days to her one damn year when she can leave and go work for Runway Paris and live on la Rive Gauche and never have to see Miranda Priestly again.
Miranda turns from Jocelyn's desk, and looks at Emily like she's some kind of alien. "Are you talking to me?"
Emily swallows. "Yes. But I apologize for my impertinence."
Miranda smiles slowly, a long, slow, feral smile. "As well you should," she says, and then resumes ignoring Emily, as she has for months before and will for months to come.
november 2001
extraordinary machines.
Her apartment may, in fact, be nothing more than a glorified hallway, and it may be located in the decidedly un-posh Upper West Side, but it's Emily's alone, at least until the lease runs out, and nobody can take that away from her.
And it's not entirely bad, she supposes. There are, after all, on her block alone, two Starbucks', a pizza shop (not that she ever eats there, but the smell is nice, at least), a book shop with every important fashion magazine right there on display, and a florist where she can buy tulips at eleven thirty at night.
Emily discovers that perhaps America really isn't so bad.
And then she discovers Thanksgiving.
Even someone as snooty - she hears this descriptor at least once a week, usually from complete strangers - as Emily can appreciate the idea, if not the action, of giving thanks. She's thankful for things, of course, like Fendi bags and no-carb-no-fat-no-sugar brownies and hair color in a box so good nobody has to know she's too poor for a good salon job. And it's not that she's not thankful for being in America, too; everyone says New York's so expensive, but all she knows is that in London, the same bottle of Fiji water would cost her two quid fifty, and that is simply ridiculous.
But Thanksgiving, this ridiculous thing. One day, she's walking down Columbus towards her apartment, and there are disgusting, gargantuan balloons - yes, she tells her mother later on the telephone, balloons! - being inflated right there in that pretty little park she always passes.
Balloons! She works for the most fashionable magazine in the world, lives in the most fashionable city in the world, wears the best shoes of anybody she's ever met, and yet here, on this street, she is watching a giant balloon version of Snoopy come erect.
"For God's sake," she says, shaking her head. "It's a country full of madmen."
december 2004
natural selection.
Jocelyn leaves Miranda's office in a swish of Alexander McQueen and a vindicated smile.
"So?" Emily asks. She needn't. It's written all over Jocelyn's face, but she asks anyway, because Jocelyn wants to be asked. And as of right now, Jocelyn's powerful enough around here to toss Emily right out onto the curb.
Jocelyn nods towards the kitchen. As soon as Emily's out of Miranda's potential eye-shot, Jocelyn pulls her in, close and closer, and kisses her. Emily doesn't expect it, but she's not surprised, and there's the thrill of knowing that if they're caught, at least they'll both be fired, and Jocelyn will owe her forever.
Jocelyn's mouth tastes like sugar-free gum and Diet Coke with lime and her hands are as dry and soft as her powdered cheeks. Emily struggles not to make a noise as Jocelyn nudges a knee between Emily's thighs.
"I got the job," Jocelyn breathes against Emily's ear. No shit, Emily wants to say, but instead she says, "Congratulations." Jocelyn's tongue traces her ear and Emily holds her breath, waiting to hear:
"You're the new me." Jocelyn says it, and Emily's stomach twists in something smack between pleasure and pain. She's the new first assistant to Miranda Priestly and it's the best thing that's ever happened to her and possibly the worst and her hands are on Jocelyn's ass, pulling her in tight and she wonders what Jocelyn would say if she knew how wet she was and-
The phone rings, and Emily almost falls over Jocelyn in her rush to answer before the third ring.
"Miranda Priestly's office," she says, breathless, tucking the receiver against her ear. She's smoothing her skirt and reaching for a pen and Jocelyn slides by her, smiling. It's Erin from Stella McCartney on the other end of the line and Emily's trying to take a message and from her desk, Jocelyn whispers, "Don't say I never did anything for you."
january 1990
brilliant disguise.
Emily is seven years old. She is tall for her age and her arms and legs are long and she enjoys climbing trees and reading books and most especially playing dress up.
On Sundays, while her mum's at church, Emily sneaks into her closet. She pulls on skirts too long for her and shirts too big and she teeters around in what she thinks are the smartest-looking shoes she's ever seen.
When her mother comes home, she's asleep in her parents' big bed, dreaming of being a grown up and wearing the prettiest clothes she can imagine and never having to fight with her sister again and her mother coming up to her and saying, "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Then she wakes up.
february 2003
where the wild things are.
Serena is a slow curve under satin sheets. Her naked shoulders and arms are exposed and they shine under the street light coming in through the unshaded window. It's nice, this friends-with-benefits thing, Emily thinks, watching Serena breathe, really nice. Serena's hair is across the pillow and Serena's lips are parted and Serena's eyes are closed.
Emily thinks maybe she finally understands how Amy felt all those years ago. Serena may be the best friend Emily's ever had, but Serena's destined for great things. Sometimes, Emily's afraid to fall asleep, because she's worried that when she wakes up, Serena will be nothing but a voicemail ("I got the greatest new job in Hong Kong, don't miss me too much, kisses, bye") and the smell of the Frederic Fekkai shampoo Emily can't stand on Emily's pillow.
Amy's married now. Emily can't possibly say she's sorry, not now, not after so long.
She whispers, "Don't go." Serena doesn't stir. Emily says, "I'm afraid, you know."
Serena doesn't open her eyes when she says, "I know." She moves her hips a little, shimmies to the side to give Emily more room. She says, "Come back to bed. I'm cold."
Emily smiles, but just a little. She slips under the sheet, splays her fingers against Serena's hip. "It's not nice to listen in on a girl's secret confessions, you know."
Serena presses back against Emily's stomach and chest and legs, and she's warm and tall and beautiful and sleepy. Serena says, "Go to sleep," and Emily does.
march 2007
built for speed.
The weather has been so cold and grey. It is the worst February Emily remembers, and then the worst March.
But one day Miranda says, "Congratulations, Emily. You made it." It's been years, now, since Emily started at Runway, and she finds herself blushing. "You can go anywhere you want to go."
Emily flicks her eyes towards the windows, realizes the sun's come out, that there's a thaw on.
She says, "It's about damn time." And the two of them, Miranda and Emily, they laugh together.