New Fic: The Right Thing (4/6), Miranda/Andy
Title: The Right Thing (part 4/6)
Author: lauriestein (my first fic in this amazing fandom!)
Rating: PG this part, NC17 eventually
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Word Count: ~5000
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, these characters remain the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made, and no harm is intended (except the fun kind!) This story borrows from real-life events in cases such as Martha Stewart's, but I promise to keep it light on boring corporate stuff as much as possible.
Summary: Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?
With a million thanks to girlie_girl_23 and shesgottaread for a sterling beta and first reader job :) They really go above and beyond, and this story wouldn't be in any kind of shape without them.
Our conversations are like minefields,
No one's found a safe way through one yet
The Mountain Goats - Southwood Plantation Road
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
After her little self-revelation about Miranda and the Inappropriate Crush, as she’d immediately started calling it, Andy decided the only way to maintain her sanity was burying herself in work. Which would have been a great idea, if not for the fact that all her work seemed to revolve around the person she was trying not to think of. After all, the woman was basically Manhattan royalty, and the city was abuzz with gossip. So Andy treated herself to more than the regulation glass of wine, greasy takeout, and an early night instead.
Being on general assignment usually meant getting all the crappy stories that beat reporters wouldn’t waste their time on. In Andy’s case that almost always meant covering late night crime stories when it was too cold or rainy for the crime beat guys to get out of bed. After all, it was rare for a murder in New York to actually be a big deal, even after Giuliani’s clean up. In between catching all the ‘boring’ crime stories that jaded New Yorkers skimmed over, Andy was left doing filler pieces and the occasional local interest story.
But the next morning, John asked Andy to write a profile on Miranda for the website’s coverage of the case. It seemed he was willing to uphold his end of the bargain if she would keep providing the goods on La Priestly. Everyone from the Mirror’s gossip columnist to the Business Editor wanted a word, wanted to run their impressions of both Miranda and her alleged crimes past Andy, and she was beginning to worry that thinking about Miranda 24 hours a day was unhealthy; it certainly had been at Runway
.
Doug interrupted the steady stream of visitors to her desk with a phone call, and she was glad for an excuse to slip out onto the fire escape, even if she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get a change of subject with it. He apologized for giving her a hard time the day before, and reiterated his concern for her being back in the midst of craziness. Andy decided to take his words in the spirit of friendship, and agreed to see him Friday at Lily’s newest gallery opening. His initial explanation of the numbers had really helped her get a handle on exactly what was going on, and she promised him ridiculously flavored cocktails as grateful payment. She’d have to think of a better reward when he gave her the full analysis, and hell, maybe John would let her expense it too.
For the next two days, Andy was able to lose herself in work quite successfully, and her editor made a point of praising her efforts. She still felt uneasy about withholding, but until she had some cold, hard facts there was no point in blabbing around the newsroom. Her contacts at Runway proved invaluable, and the wider fashion industry seemed to remember that rarest of things: an assistant to Miranda Priestly who had actually been nice. With a little persuasion, Andy had been able to gather enough quotes to write a biography on Miranda, if she’d chosen to.
By the time Friday night rolled around, Andy was more than ready for the weekend. The hours hunched over her laptop and on the phone were certainly taking a toll, and all next week she was getting face time with everyone from Miranda’s broker to Irv’s assistant. When John winked and told her to enjoy the weekend, Andy felt confident that for once she wouldn’t be getting a last minute call to cover any puff pieces. She’d earned it.
SoHo had been her favorite part of moving to New York at first, though Andy had soon discovered that bohemian and free-spirited didn’t mean cheap, not in Manhattan. But the myriad galleries and bars and achingly hip restaurants were still fun to look at, even if most of the truly amazing stuff was in a different galaxy from her price range.
Lily’s gallery was a small one by New York standards, but Andy took a lot of pride in the fact that her best friend had gone from assistant to coordinator in two short years. Andy had helped where she could, slipping notes to her Arts Editor whenever a show needed a bit more mainstream buzz, but with the contacts and hype Lily had generated in the past few months, she didn't really need that any more.
The only downside was Lily's new boyfriend: the living, breathing stereotype of the tortured artist. At least he came from a wealthy family, so Andy could be reasonably sure that he wasn't taking advantage of her friend. God, why couldn't anyone she loved date someone bearable? Between Doug's frosty models or brainless actors, and Lily's angsty artists who thought eternal damnation a good discussion topic over brunch, Andy realized she'd been too kind to them by seeing Nate for all those years. Between his cooking skills and his good nature, he'd been a welcome addition to their little group right away. Andy found herself missing him for the first time in months, and it was almost a relief after the weird bubbling sensation of thinking about Miranda.
Who, of course, had crept right back into her thoughts.
Damn it, thought Andy. Her first move was to swipe some free, awful, champagne from a passing server. She almost let it hit a tastebud or two before pouring it straight down her throat.
She felt confident in her looks, at least. Dressing in labels again, without the spectre of the clackers' judgement, had put the fun back into dressing up. Her skinny jeans looked great with the burgundy Louboutins, and the Chanel blazer that she had once struggled to button now sat perfectly on her frame. She didn't beat herself up over every emergency breakfast muffin or comfort pasta dish now, but not living with a conveyor belt of amazing food had certainly made it easier to keep in shape without reverting to Emily’s strange fixation on cheese cubes.
Lily waved enthusiastically from across the cavernous space, and since it was still early, it took Andy hardly any time to get to her side. Thankfully, the boyfriend was nowhere in evidence.
"Hey Lil, this place looks amazing, again."
Not bothering to be modest, Lily nodded enthusiastically. She launched into her usual explanation of the theme, of the music choices and all the other things that she'd been stressing out over in her emails for weeks. Andy smiled at Lily's obvious excitement, and found herself caught up in it. She didn't refuse the second or the third glass of cheap bubbly that came her way, and by the time the gallery had begun to fill with art scenesters, Andy was getting quite a happy little buzz on.
Doug arrived soon after, with a bored-looking Thomas in tow. Almost immediately, Thomas took off to join a group of equally pretty and disaffected boys who all looked like simply existing was torture. Well, if that's what they called having fun at the weekend, more power to them.
Despite the awkwardness earlier in the week, Andy was soon cracking up as Doug regaled her with stories of his dorky coworker who had outdone herself by stapling her jacket to her desk. He didn’t seem eager to rush off and join Thomas, which was pretty cool; Andy’s Garbo-like insistence that she was perfectly fine by herself didn’t always extend to social functions.
Unfortunately, Doug seemed to be sticking by her for a reason, as it turned out. A few minutes later, Lily and her whiny boyfriend, Preston, appeared with a fairly good-looking guy in a fashionably distressed suit. When both Lily and Doug were practically falling over themselves to introduce the newcomer, Andy got that sinking feeling in her stomach.
When it just so happened that Simon was, shock, a writer and a movie critic; well wasn’t that just a freaky coincidence? Not wanting to ruin what had been a pretty good night so far, Andy went along with it, although Simon didn’t do much for her that she could see. He was tanned, with light-brown hair that wasn’t too fussy, and a smile that seemed genuine. She had definitely been fixed up with a lot worse.
He might not be her type, but at least he wasn’t horrible to look at, Andy figured as she accepted her fourth glass of carbonated rainwater, or whatever the hell they were passing off as champagne. She idly wondered if Miranda would appreciate her realization that once you’ve had the good stuff, you can’t go back?
But for the next hour or so, she forced herself to make small talk in front of garish canvases whose central theme appeared to be assaulting her eyeballs with primary-colored paint vomit. Admittedly, Andy had about as much interest in art as she did in nuclear fission, but she usually found some things bearable. Like on her last day in Paris, killing time until she got on her hastily rearranged flight, she’d wandered around the Pompidou Centre and found a hundred things that struck her as beautiful. This stuff just looked like an angry toddler had reenacted scenes from The Exorcist with Baby’s First Paint Set. Wow, she was getting bitchy, Andy realized. At least she wasn’t sharing these thoughts out loud.
Simon, for his part, didn’t try to convince her about the art, since her disinterest was probably pretty obvious. Andy appreciated that he tried to ask interesting questions, and he wasn’t quite as overbearing as most movie buffs she’d encountered before; in fact he had plenty of funny things to say about Ghostbusters and in Andy’s book that made for a decent human being.
She was almost coming around to the idea of saying yes, should he ask her out, when the pealing notes of her cell phone sounded over the soft jazz playing in the background. Andy made her apologies and bolted for the side door, knowing all the exits like the back of her hand from all the occasions she’d run out early on some errand or story.
Of course, it was Miranda calling, because if something made no sense whatsoever, that was what Miranda would do. Andy had another unfortunate moment of déjà vu, remembering the fight with Nate that had effectively ended their relationship, running out of this gallery and then seeing Miranda’s name on her phone’s screen.
She snapped out of it to answer before her voicemail picked up, though Andy had a feeling she would regret it.
“Why haven’t you called Emily to make an appointment?” Miranda snapped at her, with no formalities or greetings to soften the blow.
Which, again with the not making sense, because shouldn’t Emily be the one asking that? Andy began to regret her adventures in substandard grape drinks, because she was feeling distinctly hazy when she most needed her wits about her.
“I don’t … I guess I didn’t need her for anything yet?”
Miranda exhaled sharply at that, the little huff of annoyance that Andy had once dreaded the way French aristocrats had dreaded sharp-edged metal. Tonight it was just another detail.
“I swear, Miranda, as soon as I have my story together, I’ll let you know. Or I’ll let Emily know, whatever.” She almost felt like apologizing, though she had no idea what for.
“Fine.” Miranda sounded distracted, like it was anything but fine, but she wasn’t going to waste any more time on it.
A thought struck Andy in that moment, and because the filter between her brain and her mouth had been dissolved in champagne, she blurted it out.
“Do you have someone you can talk to about all this? I mean, not the legal stuff, but to vent, you know?”
It was the most personal question Andy had ever asked her former boss, and she was already fervently praying that someone would invent time travel so that she could go back and have never said the stupid words in the first place.
“As you well know, I have a legal team, and--”
Ratcheting from bold, straight past brave and directly into suicidal, Andy cut her off.
“Yeah, and three nannies, an assistant, a driver and a jet. You’re a regular Madonna.”
Andy was beginning to regret not taking out a life insurance policy. It would have been nice to cover the funeral costs, at least. The damage done, she plowed on.
“But that wasn’t what I asked you, Miranda. You know you hate it when people duck questions. In fact, it’s just baffling to you why people can’t answer what they’re asked, right?”
That caused Miranda to actually splutter, the least dignified noise that Andy had ever heard her make.
“Are you mocking me?”
Andy held her breath, as though that would somehow erase her actions. Good luck getting another front page in this lifetime, she figured. Miranda was going to slice her into pieces and feed her to Patricia, Andy was almost sure of it.
“Not that it’s any of your business Andréa, but no, there’s nobody I need to talk to. I’ve been advised not to, unless the conversation is privileged.”
That made Andy sad for some inexplicable reason. She knew, of course, that Miranda had the kind of steely disposition that didn’t require hugs and muffin baskets every time the world got a little tough, but surely even the Ice Queen needed to get the anger, if not the other emotions, off her chest?
“You could talk to me. Off the record. I’ve kept your secrets before.”
The faint noises from the street were all that Andy could hear instead of a response, and she pulled the phone from her ear to confirm that Miranda had not, in fact, hung up on her. Eventually, Miranda deigned to reply.
“Perhaps you could…”
“Hey, babe. You’ve been out here forever! Everything okay?”
Andy spun around in horror at Simon’s interruption. Simon, who she probably wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup come morning, had just intruded on the most crucial moment in her entire relationship with Miranda, and it left Andy with a strange urge to remove one of her gorgeous shoes and stab him with the elegant four-inch heel.
Because Miranda had ended the call.
Miranda who didn’t accept anything less than her own laser-like focus at all times, had been usurped by some stranger at a party, who had seen fit to talk to Andy as if he owned her. Andy felt sick to her stomach as she stood there, staring in disbelief at the now dim screen of her phone. She tried calling back, only for the call to be dropped instantly.
“I … have to go. Work.”
She didn’t owe him an explanation, but one skill Andy hadn’t picked up yet was the ability to sweep out and leave everyone guessing. She wasn’t entirely sure she could sweep out anyway, considering she was standing in a blocked-off alleyway, with Simon between her and the door back into the building.
He looked a little hurt at her announcement, but damn, did he really think she owed him her undivided attention for the rest of the night just because they’d talked some crap about Bill Murray and the Stay-Puft Man under artistically arranged lights?
With a faint smile, Andy pushed gently past him, intent on retrieving her things from the cloakroom and getting out of there as soon as possible. She tried Miranda twice more, getting voicemail each time. She’d never even heard Miranda’s voicemail message before tonight, since Miranda never missed a call unless it was from her husbands.
“Can I call you?” He yelled after her, though it occurred to Andy that she hadn’t actually given him her number. Well, she’d be texting both Lily and Doug to inform them that anyone else who gave her number to Simon would soon find themselves as an ex-friend. She did not need this bullshit right now.
Not risking the delay of explaining to her friends, Andy went straight from the tiny cloakroom to the street, flagging down the first cab she came across. The driver regarded her with suspicion, though she had no idea why. When he asked for a destination, it was kind of hilarious to Andy that she couldn’t remember her own address all of a sudden.
So what else was a girl to do? She gave him Miranda’s address instead.
What seemed like a few seconds later, Andy was too many dollars lighter and swaying slightly on the first step outside Miranda’s townhouse. East 73rd looked much quieter tonight, though she saw a few shutter monkeys a couple of doors down, clearly taking a break from their paycheck-mandated stalking session.
Where had the Friday night gridlock of cabs and weekend visitors been when Andy had needed it most? Not one accident, road closure, or street party to create total chaos? Now she was back at the entrance to the lion’s den without benefit of time to think, or more importantly, to sober up.
Miranda’s house was, typically, lit up like an incredibly tasteful Christmas tree. Warm light poured from every window, as if contributing to global warming would somehow compensate for Miranda’s natural iciness. Summoning up the remnants of her courage, Andy rang the doorbell with a heavy touch.
It took so long to get a response that Andy had convinced herself nobody was home. She was just about to shuffle down the steps and set off for the subway when the door finally opened an inch or two, revealing Miranda herself.
And then common sense came flooding in. Miranda’s young children were probably in bed, or worse, she was entertaining important people at a dinner party. Maybe Miranda had a date; after all, her divorce had all but been finalized. Why hadn’t Andy thought of all this before hurtling uptown in a panic?
Miranda regarded her coolly through the minimal gap in the doorway, her lips approaching pursed, which was distinctly not good for Andy’s odds of survival. As Andy fumbled for an explanation, Miranda appeared to come to a decision and opened the door fully, indicating with the slightest tilt of her head that Andy should enter.
Andy felt awkward at having to pass so close to Miranda, but she offered up a silent prayer of thanks that she had made it into the foyer without some kind of clumsy fall. The thought of angering Miranda further made her feel weak in the knees, so she tried to shake off the fuzzy feeling from the alcohol and appear as if she belonged there.
Miranda closed the door with a cursory glance to see if any of the predatory photographers had noticed Andy’s late evening visit, and turned back to face her guest. One eyebrow was raised in question as her arms folded over her chest. Her bare foot tapped against the cool black and white marble, unable to contain her impatience as ever. Andy registered the defensive body language, but also the smooth lines of the black cashmere sweater that hugged Miranda’s curves in a frankly distracting way.
“You wouldn’t answer the phone. And I didn’t want to… but I just realized that I could have woken the girls. I wasn’t thinking, Miranda. I’m sorry.”
The apology hung in the air between them, and Andy felt that she had been apologizing for much more than simply being an uninvited guest. She only hoped Miranda would see that too. Besides, Miranda could easily have ignored her, or slammed the door in Andy’s face. Letting her in had to be a good sign, right?
“Our conversation no longer seemed important to you. Is it so much to ask to have someone’s complete attention? I hardly think so. It certainly doesn’t warrant you turning up on my doorstep like a stray puppy.”
The sneer in Miranda’s words was somehow not as strong as usual. Perhaps she was tired, or perhaps she didn’t really feel it, another Priestly command performance for Andy’s benefit.
“Well, I just wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’. And hey, I’ve said it twice now, so I’ll get going before you call the cops.”
Miranda raised one hand to her forehead, smoothing at the lines now faintly visible under her expertly-applied foundation. Andy recognized the move as pure frustration, something Miranda rarely let show except in her pointed little sighs.
“You’re here now, I suppose.”
With that, Miranda turned and padded down the hallway. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she looked back at Andy in expectation. As soon as Andy gathered her wits enough to move, Miranda took off again, confident that her unspoken instructions were being followed.
Meanwhile, Andy was conducting a very frantic inner monologue about not completely freaking out. Because she kind of had good reason, given the extremely weird situation she had found herself in. Doug would lose it if he knew where she was, having blown off the date her friends had so painstakingly set up for her. But she couldn’t think about explanatory phone calls and the excuses she’d make during them, because she was on the second floor of Miranda’s town house, where Miranda was waiting by an open door.
“Do you think you can fix drinks competently? I have to make a call.”
There was a challenge in the question, another item on Miranda’s eternal checklist for approval. Perhaps she wanted to judge Andy’s level of intoxication, or maybe it was just an old-fashioned power trip, but Andy found herself nodding dumbly and following the direction Miranda pointed in, to the strange little sitting room she’d been in just a few nights ago.
Miranda evaporated in her usual, slightly creepy way, the lack of heels making her more silent than normal (and thus, as good as deadly). Andy closed her eyes as she stood at the discreet little cabinet that comprised the bar, trying desperately to recall how Miranda had served up the Scotch for them both.
Since she couldn’t recall the clinking of ice, Andy opted to pour two generous measures, neat, into the waiting glasses. She attempted to take the same seat as on her previous visit, but found a stack of papers barring her way. Knowing better than to touch anything without permission, Andy was left with the couch, which would also be the only option for Miranda when she returned.
Even sipping, Andy was almost done with her drink by the time Miranda reappeared. The lines of Miranda’s face were more evident now, her eyes clouded darker which usually meant someone was about to get fired, or at least quietly and efficiently eviscerated. Andy really hoped she wasn’t about to become the unlucky victim.
“That took longer than I thought.”
No apology, of course. Which was good in a way, because it proved Andy hadn’t actually crossed over into the Twilight Zone, and on nights like this you had to cling to whatever you could.
Snatching her glass from the end table (Andy mentally congratulated herself on thinking to use a coaster) Miranda drained it in one gulp. Without offering Andy more, she refilled it and took up her seat at the opposite end of the couch. Probably just as well, since Andy was already more than halfway to drunk.
“I hope I didn’t wake Caroline and Cassidy.”
At a loss for what to say Andy had assumed the girls, usually Miranda’s favorite topic, would be safe ground. She had apparently miscalculated, given the tightening of Miranda’s face at the mention of their names.
“The girls aren’t here.”
It looked as though it physically pained Miranda to spit the words out.
“Apparently it was getting really lame to have to avoid the paparazzi, and their father just happened to suggest that he has room for them anytime. So they asked to go there. It’s for the best, obviously.”
Oh, shit.
Andy couldn’t claim to be an expert in the emotions of Miranda Priestly, other than the fact that she didn’t exactly seem to experience the full range, but even on Andy’s first day at Runway she could have guessed how much that had to hurt. Children could be the most selfish creatures in the world, and not mean the slightest bit of harm in asking for whatever they wanted. So they’d walked out on Miranda when she probably most wanted them around. Andy tried not to dwell on how that was becoming a theme.
“Yeah, probably for the best. I mean, if that’s what you’ve decided.”
It wasn’t exactly a sophisticated tactic, but sometimes the quickest way to get Miranda past her annoyance was to convince her that you thought it was her idea all along. It was far from foolproof, allowing her to save face, but at this stage Andy would try anything.
Mollified for the moment, Miranda allowed herself to sink back against the couch, glass still in hand. Andy was pleased to note that this seat was far more comfortable than the chair she’d been stuck in previously, but it didn’t allow her to feel much more relaxed with Miranda barely a foot away.
“So what did you want to talk about, Andréa?”
Unfortunately for Andy, her inner smartass was still drunk at the wheel.
“I don’t know Miranda; how about the weather? Or the price of silk these days? Read any good books lately?”
She held her breath as she waited for a response. That it was a chuckle from Miranda almost blew Andy’s mind.
“You want to talk about that damn trade. Shouldn’t you be getting your little notebook out?”
There was confrontation in the words: throwing down the gauntlet and seeing if Andy would accept.
“I told you, I can be off the record. If you want me to be.”
Miranda snorted, contempt once again radiating from her.
“Oh yes, Andréa. I tell you all my deep, dark secrets and complain about how the press are treating me, only to find it all in tomorrow’s Mirror. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
Bristling at the accusation, Andy placed her glass to one side, not trusting herself to react calmly.
“I would never do that. I would never betray a confidence. I would never betray you.”
Miranda fixed her with one of her mocking glares, and suddenly time reeled back to Paris, to the back seat of a Mercedes in elaborate black dresses. Andy saw the words forming on Miranda’s lips all over again, wincing as she spoke each painful one.
“You already have.”
Paris, goddamn fucking Paris. Everyone else went there and had the most romantic few days of their lives, or at least had a comically bad experience that made for interesting stories to tell. Andy had come back with something akin to post-traumatic stress, having turned her whole life inside out with a split-second decision. She’d checked the photo archives in her first week at the Mirror, thinking of the paparazzi on those steps, needing in some masochistic way to see Miranda’s reaction for herself.
The hurt, the snarling confusion and anger on Miranda’s frozen expressions had stunned Andy, leaving her racked with guilt no matter how many times she told herself that leaving was the smartest, safest thing she could have done.
And now Miranda sat there leveling this accusation, and Andy had no defense that would stand up to scrutiny.
“It wasn’t a betrayal, Miranda. We both know it was right for me to go.”
Miranda gave no indication that she might agree, her gaze as stony as Andy had ever seen it.
“You were offering me something, I don’t really know what, but it required making a choice. I couldn’t choose that path because I wasn’t supposed to be on it in the first place.”
Draining her second glass, Miranda shrugged in her delicate way. It was barely a lift of her shoulders, but it was an acknowledgment, nonetheless.
“You can see why I might have trouble trusting you?”
Andy nodded, unsure of how to convince Miranda, who had gotten to her feet.
“And I’ll admit you haven’t technically betrayed me-- not yet. But you will; of course you will. Once there’s no more story to get-- once I’m no longer useful to you. That’s how people work.”
Well, that might be how Miranda worked, but Andy didn’t care to be thought of in such unfair terms. She stood up too, literally standing up to Miranda in a way she had never dared to attempt before.
“I don’t care about the stupid stories.”
Danger, Will Robinson. So much danger that someone should be wearing protective gear. Miranda looked skeptical at Andy’s announcement, which had the unfortunate effect of spurring her on.
“I mean it, I don’t need to write another word about it. I’m a good writer, Miranda. Someone was bound to notice someday, with or without your very public disgrace.”
Miranda turned toward her with something like disbelief on her face, although whether at the sentiment or Andy’s nerve, Andy couldn’t really say. She felt a chill down her spine, aware that she could be in the process of making a huge mistake. And yet, she stepped closer, like there were magnets in the soles of her $600 shoes, drawing her to Miranda and her spine of steel. Just as Andy feared she might be invading Miranda’s personal space a little too much, Miranda raised a hand to stop her. Andy was amazed to note that the fingers were trembling slightly. Miranda spoke again, perhaps to distract them both.
“Then it’s not about what you might gain from it. You’re just scared of what I can do to you.”
Andy gave a shallow little laugh.
“I’m not scared of you, Miranda.”
Unbelievable though it seemed to her in that moment, Andy actually meant those words. She still felt nervous around Miranda, awkward in so many ways, but the pulse-racing, mouth-drying, trembling fear had gone once and for all. She’d first felt the shift the other day in Miranda’s office, but it almost blew her mind to realize the change might be permanent.
Having lived and breathed her job for almost a year, Andy didn’t believe all the horror stories about Miranda’s frosty grip on the New York publishing industry. For every five fawning acolytes, there was at least one earnest editor who didn’t believe the editor of Runway could dictate their hiring choices. Andy was now confident that John was among that number.
With no other way to prove her point, Andy reached out as though moving in slow-motion and took Miranda’s cool hand in her own. Their joined hands dropped down to hip height, with Miranda staring as though unable to believe what she was seeing. For her own part, Andy could hear nothing beyond the thundering of her heart in her chest, an entirely new and not a little bit delicious kind of fear suddenly gripping her. She’d crossed another line, run across it really, and had no intention of looking back. Before she could say more, Miranda withdrew her hand.
Not violently, and not without something that looked like regret flickering across Miranda’s face. Miranda cleared her throat gently, and then spoke as softly as ever, her tone measured and precise.
“I think you’d better go. For now.”
To push any further would be disaster, Andy knew. Not that she knew quite which direction she’d be pushing in. A grand gesture to prove her courage didn’t mean anything, really. Not that the Inappropriate Crush feelings seemed to acknowledge that. They were currently conducting something that felt like a carnival with her hormones, her whole body suddenly singing from the simple act of taking Miranda’s hand.
The ‘for now’ was promising, Andy reasoned, and she nodded her assent. Without delaying another second, she left the study and jogged downstairs toward the front door. She couldn’t help lingering a few long seconds in the foyer, the reflective crystals of the chandelier making her think of Miranda’s eyes and the unshed tears that had accompanied her announcement about her daughters. Shaking off the distraction, she accepted that there would be no change of heart from Miranda and simply slipped out into the night.
She hadn’t blown it. Faced with the most impossible of subjects, Andy Sachs was still in the race for a career-making story. And if that meant getting to care a little about Miranda along the way, well that didn’t exactly hurt.
Checking her phone, Andy felt the alcohol finally beginning to wear off. She’d deal with Doug and Lily and the rest of the world in the morning. The rest of tonight was reserved for freaking out about exactly how great it had felt to touch Miranda. It had almost been worth all the panic.
<--- Part 3 | Part 5A --->
Author: lauriestein (my first fic in this amazing fandom!)
Rating: PG this part, NC17 eventually
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Word Count: ~5000
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, these characters remain the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No profit is being made, and no harm is intended (except the fun kind!) This story borrows from real-life events in cases such as Martha Stewart's, but I promise to keep it light on boring corporate stuff as much as possible.
Summary: Set after the movie!verse of DWP. Andy is working at the Mirror and receives an unexpected phone call. Miranda needs her, again. It seems Miranda has run into a little legal trouble, and who better to help get her side of the story out, right?
With a million thanks to girlie_girl_23 and shesgottaread for a sterling beta and first reader job :) They really go above and beyond, and this story wouldn't be in any kind of shape without them.
Our conversations are like minefields,
No one's found a safe way through one yet
The Mountain Goats - Southwood Plantation Road
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
After her little self-revelation about Miranda and the Inappropriate Crush, as she’d immediately started calling it, Andy decided the only way to maintain her sanity was burying herself in work. Which would have been a great idea, if not for the fact that all her work seemed to revolve around the person she was trying not to think of. After all, the woman was basically Manhattan royalty, and the city was abuzz with gossip. So Andy treated herself to more than the regulation glass of wine, greasy takeout, and an early night instead.
Being on general assignment usually meant getting all the crappy stories that beat reporters wouldn’t waste their time on. In Andy’s case that almost always meant covering late night crime stories when it was too cold or rainy for the crime beat guys to get out of bed. After all, it was rare for a murder in New York to actually be a big deal, even after Giuliani’s clean up. In between catching all the ‘boring’ crime stories that jaded New Yorkers skimmed over, Andy was left doing filler pieces and the occasional local interest story.
But the next morning, John asked Andy to write a profile on Miranda for the website’s coverage of the case. It seemed he was willing to uphold his end of the bargain if she would keep providing the goods on La Priestly. Everyone from the Mirror’s gossip columnist to the Business Editor wanted a word, wanted to run their impressions of both Miranda and her alleged crimes past Andy, and she was beginning to worry that thinking about Miranda 24 hours a day was unhealthy; it certainly had been at Runway
.
Doug interrupted the steady stream of visitors to her desk with a phone call, and she was glad for an excuse to slip out onto the fire escape, even if she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get a change of subject with it. He apologized for giving her a hard time the day before, and reiterated his concern for her being back in the midst of craziness. Andy decided to take his words in the spirit of friendship, and agreed to see him Friday at Lily’s newest gallery opening. His initial explanation of the numbers had really helped her get a handle on exactly what was going on, and she promised him ridiculously flavored cocktails as grateful payment. She’d have to think of a better reward when he gave her the full analysis, and hell, maybe John would let her expense it too.
For the next two days, Andy was able to lose herself in work quite successfully, and her editor made a point of praising her efforts. She still felt uneasy about withholding, but until she had some cold, hard facts there was no point in blabbing around the newsroom. Her contacts at Runway proved invaluable, and the wider fashion industry seemed to remember that rarest of things: an assistant to Miranda Priestly who had actually been nice. With a little persuasion, Andy had been able to gather enough quotes to write a biography on Miranda, if she’d chosen to.
By the time Friday night rolled around, Andy was more than ready for the weekend. The hours hunched over her laptop and on the phone were certainly taking a toll, and all next week she was getting face time with everyone from Miranda’s broker to Irv’s assistant. When John winked and told her to enjoy the weekend, Andy felt confident that for once she wouldn’t be getting a last minute call to cover any puff pieces. She’d earned it.
SoHo had been her favorite part of moving to New York at first, though Andy had soon discovered that bohemian and free-spirited didn’t mean cheap, not in Manhattan. But the myriad galleries and bars and achingly hip restaurants were still fun to look at, even if most of the truly amazing stuff was in a different galaxy from her price range.
Lily’s gallery was a small one by New York standards, but Andy took a lot of pride in the fact that her best friend had gone from assistant to coordinator in two short years. Andy had helped where she could, slipping notes to her Arts Editor whenever a show needed a bit more mainstream buzz, but with the contacts and hype Lily had generated in the past few months, she didn't really need that any more.
The only downside was Lily's new boyfriend: the living, breathing stereotype of the tortured artist. At least he came from a wealthy family, so Andy could be reasonably sure that he wasn't taking advantage of her friend. God, why couldn't anyone she loved date someone bearable? Between Doug's frosty models or brainless actors, and Lily's angsty artists who thought eternal damnation a good discussion topic over brunch, Andy realized she'd been too kind to them by seeing Nate for all those years. Between his cooking skills and his good nature, he'd been a welcome addition to their little group right away. Andy found herself missing him for the first time in months, and it was almost a relief after the weird bubbling sensation of thinking about Miranda.
Who, of course, had crept right back into her thoughts.
Damn it, thought Andy. Her first move was to swipe some free, awful, champagne from a passing server. She almost let it hit a tastebud or two before pouring it straight down her throat.
She felt confident in her looks, at least. Dressing in labels again, without the spectre of the clackers' judgement, had put the fun back into dressing up. Her skinny jeans looked great with the burgundy Louboutins, and the Chanel blazer that she had once struggled to button now sat perfectly on her frame. She didn't beat herself up over every emergency breakfast muffin or comfort pasta dish now, but not living with a conveyor belt of amazing food had certainly made it easier to keep in shape without reverting to Emily’s strange fixation on cheese cubes.
Lily waved enthusiastically from across the cavernous space, and since it was still early, it took Andy hardly any time to get to her side. Thankfully, the boyfriend was nowhere in evidence.
"Hey Lil, this place looks amazing, again."
Not bothering to be modest, Lily nodded enthusiastically. She launched into her usual explanation of the theme, of the music choices and all the other things that she'd been stressing out over in her emails for weeks. Andy smiled at Lily's obvious excitement, and found herself caught up in it. She didn't refuse the second or the third glass of cheap bubbly that came her way, and by the time the gallery had begun to fill with art scenesters, Andy was getting quite a happy little buzz on.
Doug arrived soon after, with a bored-looking Thomas in tow. Almost immediately, Thomas took off to join a group of equally pretty and disaffected boys who all looked like simply existing was torture. Well, if that's what they called having fun at the weekend, more power to them.
Despite the awkwardness earlier in the week, Andy was soon cracking up as Doug regaled her with stories of his dorky coworker who had outdone herself by stapling her jacket to her desk. He didn’t seem eager to rush off and join Thomas, which was pretty cool; Andy’s Garbo-like insistence that she was perfectly fine by herself didn’t always extend to social functions.
Unfortunately, Doug seemed to be sticking by her for a reason, as it turned out. A few minutes later, Lily and her whiny boyfriend, Preston, appeared with a fairly good-looking guy in a fashionably distressed suit. When both Lily and Doug were practically falling over themselves to introduce the newcomer, Andy got that sinking feeling in her stomach.
When it just so happened that Simon was, shock, a writer and a movie critic; well wasn’t that just a freaky coincidence? Not wanting to ruin what had been a pretty good night so far, Andy went along with it, although Simon didn’t do much for her that she could see. He was tanned, with light-brown hair that wasn’t too fussy, and a smile that seemed genuine. She had definitely been fixed up with a lot worse.
He might not be her type, but at least he wasn’t horrible to look at, Andy figured as she accepted her fourth glass of carbonated rainwater, or whatever the hell they were passing off as champagne. She idly wondered if Miranda would appreciate her realization that once you’ve had the good stuff, you can’t go back?
But for the next hour or so, she forced herself to make small talk in front of garish canvases whose central theme appeared to be assaulting her eyeballs with primary-colored paint vomit. Admittedly, Andy had about as much interest in art as she did in nuclear fission, but she usually found some things bearable. Like on her last day in Paris, killing time until she got on her hastily rearranged flight, she’d wandered around the Pompidou Centre and found a hundred things that struck her as beautiful. This stuff just looked like an angry toddler had reenacted scenes from The Exorcist with Baby’s First Paint Set. Wow, she was getting bitchy, Andy realized. At least she wasn’t sharing these thoughts out loud.
Simon, for his part, didn’t try to convince her about the art, since her disinterest was probably pretty obvious. Andy appreciated that he tried to ask interesting questions, and he wasn’t quite as overbearing as most movie buffs she’d encountered before; in fact he had plenty of funny things to say about Ghostbusters and in Andy’s book that made for a decent human being.
She was almost coming around to the idea of saying yes, should he ask her out, when the pealing notes of her cell phone sounded over the soft jazz playing in the background. Andy made her apologies and bolted for the side door, knowing all the exits like the back of her hand from all the occasions she’d run out early on some errand or story.
Of course, it was Miranda calling, because if something made no sense whatsoever, that was what Miranda would do. Andy had another unfortunate moment of déjà vu, remembering the fight with Nate that had effectively ended their relationship, running out of this gallery and then seeing Miranda’s name on her phone’s screen.
She snapped out of it to answer before her voicemail picked up, though Andy had a feeling she would regret it.
“Why haven’t you called Emily to make an appointment?” Miranda snapped at her, with no formalities or greetings to soften the blow.
Which, again with the not making sense, because shouldn’t Emily be the one asking that? Andy began to regret her adventures in substandard grape drinks, because she was feeling distinctly hazy when she most needed her wits about her.
“I don’t … I guess I didn’t need her for anything yet?”
Miranda exhaled sharply at that, the little huff of annoyance that Andy had once dreaded the way French aristocrats had dreaded sharp-edged metal. Tonight it was just another detail.
“I swear, Miranda, as soon as I have my story together, I’ll let you know. Or I’ll let Emily know, whatever.” She almost felt like apologizing, though she had no idea what for.
“Fine.” Miranda sounded distracted, like it was anything but fine, but she wasn’t going to waste any more time on it.
A thought struck Andy in that moment, and because the filter between her brain and her mouth had been dissolved in champagne, she blurted it out.
“Do you have someone you can talk to about all this? I mean, not the legal stuff, but to vent, you know?”
It was the most personal question Andy had ever asked her former boss, and she was already fervently praying that someone would invent time travel so that she could go back and have never said the stupid words in the first place.
“As you well know, I have a legal team, and--”
Ratcheting from bold, straight past brave and directly into suicidal, Andy cut her off.
“Yeah, and three nannies, an assistant, a driver and a jet. You’re a regular Madonna.”
Andy was beginning to regret not taking out a life insurance policy. It would have been nice to cover the funeral costs, at least. The damage done, she plowed on.
“But that wasn’t what I asked you, Miranda. You know you hate it when people duck questions. In fact, it’s just baffling to you why people can’t answer what they’re asked, right?”
That caused Miranda to actually splutter, the least dignified noise that Andy had ever heard her make.
“Are you mocking me?”
Andy held her breath, as though that would somehow erase her actions. Good luck getting another front page in this lifetime, she figured. Miranda was going to slice her into pieces and feed her to Patricia, Andy was almost sure of it.
“Not that it’s any of your business Andréa, but no, there’s nobody I need to talk to. I’ve been advised not to, unless the conversation is privileged.”
That made Andy sad for some inexplicable reason. She knew, of course, that Miranda had the kind of steely disposition that didn’t require hugs and muffin baskets every time the world got a little tough, but surely even the Ice Queen needed to get the anger, if not the other emotions, off her chest?
“You could talk to me. Off the record. I’ve kept your secrets before.”
The faint noises from the street were all that Andy could hear instead of a response, and she pulled the phone from her ear to confirm that Miranda had not, in fact, hung up on her. Eventually, Miranda deigned to reply.
“Perhaps you could…”
“Hey, babe. You’ve been out here forever! Everything okay?”
Andy spun around in horror at Simon’s interruption. Simon, who she probably wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup come morning, had just intruded on the most crucial moment in her entire relationship with Miranda, and it left Andy with a strange urge to remove one of her gorgeous shoes and stab him with the elegant four-inch heel.
Because Miranda had ended the call.
Miranda who didn’t accept anything less than her own laser-like focus at all times, had been usurped by some stranger at a party, who had seen fit to talk to Andy as if he owned her. Andy felt sick to her stomach as she stood there, staring in disbelief at the now dim screen of her phone. She tried calling back, only for the call to be dropped instantly.
“I … have to go. Work.”
She didn’t owe him an explanation, but one skill Andy hadn’t picked up yet was the ability to sweep out and leave everyone guessing. She wasn’t entirely sure she could sweep out anyway, considering she was standing in a blocked-off alleyway, with Simon between her and the door back into the building.
He looked a little hurt at her announcement, but damn, did he really think she owed him her undivided attention for the rest of the night just because they’d talked some crap about Bill Murray and the Stay-Puft Man under artistically arranged lights?
With a faint smile, Andy pushed gently past him, intent on retrieving her things from the cloakroom and getting out of there as soon as possible. She tried Miranda twice more, getting voicemail each time. She’d never even heard Miranda’s voicemail message before tonight, since Miranda never missed a call unless it was from her husbands.
“Can I call you?” He yelled after her, though it occurred to Andy that she hadn’t actually given him her number. Well, she’d be texting both Lily and Doug to inform them that anyone else who gave her number to Simon would soon find themselves as an ex-friend. She did not need this bullshit right now.
Not risking the delay of explaining to her friends, Andy went straight from the tiny cloakroom to the street, flagging down the first cab she came across. The driver regarded her with suspicion, though she had no idea why. When he asked for a destination, it was kind of hilarious to Andy that she couldn’t remember her own address all of a sudden.
So what else was a girl to do? She gave him Miranda’s address instead.
What seemed like a few seconds later, Andy was too many dollars lighter and swaying slightly on the first step outside Miranda’s townhouse. East 73rd looked much quieter tonight, though she saw a few shutter monkeys a couple of doors down, clearly taking a break from their paycheck-mandated stalking session.
Where had the Friday night gridlock of cabs and weekend visitors been when Andy had needed it most? Not one accident, road closure, or street party to create total chaos? Now she was back at the entrance to the lion’s den without benefit of time to think, or more importantly, to sober up.
Miranda’s house was, typically, lit up like an incredibly tasteful Christmas tree. Warm light poured from every window, as if contributing to global warming would somehow compensate for Miranda’s natural iciness. Summoning up the remnants of her courage, Andy rang the doorbell with a heavy touch.
It took so long to get a response that Andy had convinced herself nobody was home. She was just about to shuffle down the steps and set off for the subway when the door finally opened an inch or two, revealing Miranda herself.
And then common sense came flooding in. Miranda’s young children were probably in bed, or worse, she was entertaining important people at a dinner party. Maybe Miranda had a date; after all, her divorce had all but been finalized. Why hadn’t Andy thought of all this before hurtling uptown in a panic?
Miranda regarded her coolly through the minimal gap in the doorway, her lips approaching pursed, which was distinctly not good for Andy’s odds of survival. As Andy fumbled for an explanation, Miranda appeared to come to a decision and opened the door fully, indicating with the slightest tilt of her head that Andy should enter.
Andy felt awkward at having to pass so close to Miranda, but she offered up a silent prayer of thanks that she had made it into the foyer without some kind of clumsy fall. The thought of angering Miranda further made her feel weak in the knees, so she tried to shake off the fuzzy feeling from the alcohol and appear as if she belonged there.
Miranda closed the door with a cursory glance to see if any of the predatory photographers had noticed Andy’s late evening visit, and turned back to face her guest. One eyebrow was raised in question as her arms folded over her chest. Her bare foot tapped against the cool black and white marble, unable to contain her impatience as ever. Andy registered the defensive body language, but also the smooth lines of the black cashmere sweater that hugged Miranda’s curves in a frankly distracting way.
“You wouldn’t answer the phone. And I didn’t want to… but I just realized that I could have woken the girls. I wasn’t thinking, Miranda. I’m sorry.”
The apology hung in the air between them, and Andy felt that she had been apologizing for much more than simply being an uninvited guest. She only hoped Miranda would see that too. Besides, Miranda could easily have ignored her, or slammed the door in Andy’s face. Letting her in had to be a good sign, right?
“Our conversation no longer seemed important to you. Is it so much to ask to have someone’s complete attention? I hardly think so. It certainly doesn’t warrant you turning up on my doorstep like a stray puppy.”
The sneer in Miranda’s words was somehow not as strong as usual. Perhaps she was tired, or perhaps she didn’t really feel it, another Priestly command performance for Andy’s benefit.
“Well, I just wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’. And hey, I’ve said it twice now, so I’ll get going before you call the cops.”
Miranda raised one hand to her forehead, smoothing at the lines now faintly visible under her expertly-applied foundation. Andy recognized the move as pure frustration, something Miranda rarely let show except in her pointed little sighs.
“You’re here now, I suppose.”
With that, Miranda turned and padded down the hallway. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she looked back at Andy in expectation. As soon as Andy gathered her wits enough to move, Miranda took off again, confident that her unspoken instructions were being followed.
Meanwhile, Andy was conducting a very frantic inner monologue about not completely freaking out. Because she kind of had good reason, given the extremely weird situation she had found herself in. Doug would lose it if he knew where she was, having blown off the date her friends had so painstakingly set up for her. But she couldn’t think about explanatory phone calls and the excuses she’d make during them, because she was on the second floor of Miranda’s town house, where Miranda was waiting by an open door.
“Do you think you can fix drinks competently? I have to make a call.”
There was a challenge in the question, another item on Miranda’s eternal checklist for approval. Perhaps she wanted to judge Andy’s level of intoxication, or maybe it was just an old-fashioned power trip, but Andy found herself nodding dumbly and following the direction Miranda pointed in, to the strange little sitting room she’d been in just a few nights ago.
Miranda evaporated in her usual, slightly creepy way, the lack of heels making her more silent than normal (and thus, as good as deadly). Andy closed her eyes as she stood at the discreet little cabinet that comprised the bar, trying desperately to recall how Miranda had served up the Scotch for them both.
Since she couldn’t recall the clinking of ice, Andy opted to pour two generous measures, neat, into the waiting glasses. She attempted to take the same seat as on her previous visit, but found a stack of papers barring her way. Knowing better than to touch anything without permission, Andy was left with the couch, which would also be the only option for Miranda when she returned.
Even sipping, Andy was almost done with her drink by the time Miranda reappeared. The lines of Miranda’s face were more evident now, her eyes clouded darker which usually meant someone was about to get fired, or at least quietly and efficiently eviscerated. Andy really hoped she wasn’t about to become the unlucky victim.
“That took longer than I thought.”
No apology, of course. Which was good in a way, because it proved Andy hadn’t actually crossed over into the Twilight Zone, and on nights like this you had to cling to whatever you could.
Snatching her glass from the end table (Andy mentally congratulated herself on thinking to use a coaster) Miranda drained it in one gulp. Without offering Andy more, she refilled it and took up her seat at the opposite end of the couch. Probably just as well, since Andy was already more than halfway to drunk.
“I hope I didn’t wake Caroline and Cassidy.”
At a loss for what to say Andy had assumed the girls, usually Miranda’s favorite topic, would be safe ground. She had apparently miscalculated, given the tightening of Miranda’s face at the mention of their names.
“The girls aren’t here.”
It looked as though it physically pained Miranda to spit the words out.
“Apparently it was getting really lame to have to avoid the paparazzi, and their father just happened to suggest that he has room for them anytime. So they asked to go there. It’s for the best, obviously.”
Oh, shit.
Andy couldn’t claim to be an expert in the emotions of Miranda Priestly, other than the fact that she didn’t exactly seem to experience the full range, but even on Andy’s first day at Runway she could have guessed how much that had to hurt. Children could be the most selfish creatures in the world, and not mean the slightest bit of harm in asking for whatever they wanted. So they’d walked out on Miranda when she probably most wanted them around. Andy tried not to dwell on how that was becoming a theme.
“Yeah, probably for the best. I mean, if that’s what you’ve decided.”
It wasn’t exactly a sophisticated tactic, but sometimes the quickest way to get Miranda past her annoyance was to convince her that you thought it was her idea all along. It was far from foolproof, allowing her to save face, but at this stage Andy would try anything.
Mollified for the moment, Miranda allowed herself to sink back against the couch, glass still in hand. Andy was pleased to note that this seat was far more comfortable than the chair she’d been stuck in previously, but it didn’t allow her to feel much more relaxed with Miranda barely a foot away.
“So what did you want to talk about, Andréa?”
Unfortunately for Andy, her inner smartass was still drunk at the wheel.
“I don’t know Miranda; how about the weather? Or the price of silk these days? Read any good books lately?”
She held her breath as she waited for a response. That it was a chuckle from Miranda almost blew Andy’s mind.
“You want to talk about that damn trade. Shouldn’t you be getting your little notebook out?”
There was confrontation in the words: throwing down the gauntlet and seeing if Andy would accept.
“I told you, I can be off the record. If you want me to be.”
Miranda snorted, contempt once again radiating from her.
“Oh yes, Andréa. I tell you all my deep, dark secrets and complain about how the press are treating me, only to find it all in tomorrow’s Mirror. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
Bristling at the accusation, Andy placed her glass to one side, not trusting herself to react calmly.
“I would never do that. I would never betray a confidence. I would never betray you.”
Miranda fixed her with one of her mocking glares, and suddenly time reeled back to Paris, to the back seat of a Mercedes in elaborate black dresses. Andy saw the words forming on Miranda’s lips all over again, wincing as she spoke each painful one.
“You already have.”
Paris, goddamn fucking Paris. Everyone else went there and had the most romantic few days of their lives, or at least had a comically bad experience that made for interesting stories to tell. Andy had come back with something akin to post-traumatic stress, having turned her whole life inside out with a split-second decision. She’d checked the photo archives in her first week at the Mirror, thinking of the paparazzi on those steps, needing in some masochistic way to see Miranda’s reaction for herself.
The hurt, the snarling confusion and anger on Miranda’s frozen expressions had stunned Andy, leaving her racked with guilt no matter how many times she told herself that leaving was the smartest, safest thing she could have done.
And now Miranda sat there leveling this accusation, and Andy had no defense that would stand up to scrutiny.
“It wasn’t a betrayal, Miranda. We both know it was right for me to go.”
Miranda gave no indication that she might agree, her gaze as stony as Andy had ever seen it.
“You were offering me something, I don’t really know what, but it required making a choice. I couldn’t choose that path because I wasn’t supposed to be on it in the first place.”
Draining her second glass, Miranda shrugged in her delicate way. It was barely a lift of her shoulders, but it was an acknowledgment, nonetheless.
“You can see why I might have trouble trusting you?”
Andy nodded, unsure of how to convince Miranda, who had gotten to her feet.
“And I’ll admit you haven’t technically betrayed me-- not yet. But you will; of course you will. Once there’s no more story to get-- once I’m no longer useful to you. That’s how people work.”
Well, that might be how Miranda worked, but Andy didn’t care to be thought of in such unfair terms. She stood up too, literally standing up to Miranda in a way she had never dared to attempt before.
“I don’t care about the stupid stories.”
Danger, Will Robinson. So much danger that someone should be wearing protective gear. Miranda looked skeptical at Andy’s announcement, which had the unfortunate effect of spurring her on.
“I mean it, I don’t need to write another word about it. I’m a good writer, Miranda. Someone was bound to notice someday, with or without your very public disgrace.”
Miranda turned toward her with something like disbelief on her face, although whether at the sentiment or Andy’s nerve, Andy couldn’t really say. She felt a chill down her spine, aware that she could be in the process of making a huge mistake. And yet, she stepped closer, like there were magnets in the soles of her $600 shoes, drawing her to Miranda and her spine of steel. Just as Andy feared she might be invading Miranda’s personal space a little too much, Miranda raised a hand to stop her. Andy was amazed to note that the fingers were trembling slightly. Miranda spoke again, perhaps to distract them both.
“Then it’s not about what you might gain from it. You’re just scared of what I can do to you.”
Andy gave a shallow little laugh.
“I’m not scared of you, Miranda.”
Unbelievable though it seemed to her in that moment, Andy actually meant those words. She still felt nervous around Miranda, awkward in so many ways, but the pulse-racing, mouth-drying, trembling fear had gone once and for all. She’d first felt the shift the other day in Miranda’s office, but it almost blew her mind to realize the change might be permanent.
Having lived and breathed her job for almost a year, Andy didn’t believe all the horror stories about Miranda’s frosty grip on the New York publishing industry. For every five fawning acolytes, there was at least one earnest editor who didn’t believe the editor of Runway could dictate their hiring choices. Andy was now confident that John was among that number.
With no other way to prove her point, Andy reached out as though moving in slow-motion and took Miranda’s cool hand in her own. Their joined hands dropped down to hip height, with Miranda staring as though unable to believe what she was seeing. For her own part, Andy could hear nothing beyond the thundering of her heart in her chest, an entirely new and not a little bit delicious kind of fear suddenly gripping her. She’d crossed another line, run across it really, and had no intention of looking back. Before she could say more, Miranda withdrew her hand.
Not violently, and not without something that looked like regret flickering across Miranda’s face. Miranda cleared her throat gently, and then spoke as softly as ever, her tone measured and precise.
“I think you’d better go. For now.”
To push any further would be disaster, Andy knew. Not that she knew quite which direction she’d be pushing in. A grand gesture to prove her courage didn’t mean anything, really. Not that the Inappropriate Crush feelings seemed to acknowledge that. They were currently conducting something that felt like a carnival with her hormones, her whole body suddenly singing from the simple act of taking Miranda’s hand.
The ‘for now’ was promising, Andy reasoned, and she nodded her assent. Without delaying another second, she left the study and jogged downstairs toward the front door. She couldn’t help lingering a few long seconds in the foyer, the reflective crystals of the chandelier making her think of Miranda’s eyes and the unshed tears that had accompanied her announcement about her daughters. Shaking off the distraction, she accepted that there would be no change of heart from Miranda and simply slipped out into the night.
She hadn’t blown it. Faced with the most impossible of subjects, Andy Sachs was still in the race for a career-making story. And if that meant getting to care a little about Miranda along the way, well that didn’t exactly hurt.
Checking her phone, Andy felt the alcohol finally beginning to wear off. She’d deal with Doug and Lily and the rest of the world in the morning. The rest of tonight was reserved for freaking out about exactly how great it had felt to touch Miranda. It had almost been worth all the panic.
<--- Part 3 | Part 5A --->