Losing Miranda, (13/20), Miranda/Andy, PG13
Title: Losing Miranda
Chapter: 13 of 20
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Beta:ladyvivien (thank you, lover)
Spoilers: AU, but borrowing heavily from the movie!verse. Plot owes a lot to the Helen Mirren movie 'Losing Chase'.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters belong to their respective owners and no profit is being made. Miranda's holiday home is based, predictably, on Anna Wintour's.
Summary: Miranda has retreated to her home in the Hamptons following a serious accident. The young and idealistic Andrea Sachs accepts a position as a nanny/assistant combo. Since Miranda is resistant to outside help and new faces, this doesn't go over well.
A/N: This fic belongs, truly, to the wonderful abina2810 . Although this is late, the fic is a reward for her generous charitable donations. Comments and feedback are gratefully received.
Miranda lays out the three potential outfits and surveys them with her practiced eye. The flare of the Bill Blass pants will make her legs look more substantial, perhaps dissuading thoughts of the injuries wreaked on her right one. But something about them smacks of cowardice, of covering up, and that’s the last message she needs to send -- even in a meeting with Irv who doesn’t pick up on anything less subtle than a sledgehammer.
She turns away from that simple but striking ensemble and turns her attention to the Stella McCartney dress. Though Miranda has nurtured the woman’s career and has great personal affection for Stella’s father, something about it just screams ‘too young’ and that’s really very disconcerting to Miranda. She prides herself on dressing age-appropriate but with a splash of daring that most women never possess, and if they ever did it seems to be abandoned somewhere around forty.
The third serious option is a little something sent over from Oscar just last week. The champagne-hued skirt skims perfectly over Miranda’s knees, and avoids the restrictions of a pencil or A-line fit by having that hint of floating around the hem. Coupled with the matching, fitted jacket that creates a divine symmetry to the look, Miranda knows it will look good on her. The gold threading in the design offsets her hair perfectly, and she has her suspicions that the very inclusion of this ensemble on the runway a few long weeks ago was a gift directly to her.
Decision made at last, she pulls the tailored pieces on to join her black silk camisole, and surveys the finished look in the mirror. Her heels are Prada, the sole deceptively thick and providing some much-needed stability to the perilous height. Miranda surveys herself from four angles at once, checking that her concealer and foundation are doing their job with the scarring on her cheek, and in a moment of weakness she considers calling Andrea in for a second opinion.
Since that wouldn’t be far off consulting a deaf person on her singing voice, Miranda resists the impulse. She pushes her signature hoop earrings into place, and applies a final sweep of lipstick to complete it. Carrying her purse and bracelet in her right hand, she leaves her dressing area with one last glance towards her forgotten cane propped against the doorframe. She’s scarcely needed it since the new physio regime began, but there’s a flutter of panic at the thought of being caught without it today.
No, Miranda resolves, she’ll crawl on broken glass before she’ll let Irv see her struggle. Whatever happens, she will walk proudly in and out of the meeting with him: an artificially intimate business lunch at some leather-bedecked men’s club with overcooked steak, no doubt.
She checks her for her phone, cosmetic essentials and the folded piece of paper that should restore some balance to her employment position. Satisfied that everything is ready, she makes her way slowly downstairs to find Andrea waiting for her.
The Cavalli dress she’s wearing is a vibrant green that brings out everything appealing in Andrea’s coloring, and Miranda finds herself nodding in approval without thinking about it. The accessories aren’t particularly eye-catching, but they’re well-matched and Miranda wonders for a moment just how much time and stress this ensemble took to conjure. She’s kind enough not to ask.
Andrea has her hand on the doorknob, ready to lead Miranda outside to where Roy and the Mercedes are no doubt waiting. Raising her hand to halt their progress, Miranda jerks the bracelet slightly in Andrea’s direction.
She’s anticipating the suggestion already, reaching for the fine strand of gold and diamonds that Miranda needs fastened around her wrist. It’s strange that Andrea who seemed so awkward and gauche should have become one of the most effective assistants to date. That she takes suggestion and instruction well is a godsend, though Miranda knows by now when not to push. She has succeeded in getting Andrea to swim in suits and bikinis far more aesthetically pleasing than the fading black thing from Adidas though, and Miranda counts that amongst her best victories so far.
Which is not to suggest that, like her erstwhile husband, she has any inclinations towards the help. It’s not so much to ask that those around her dress in a way that doesn’t offend Miranda’s eyes, is it? And if Andrea should look even more attractive dressed in two slivers of material that cover almost nothing, well, Miranda’s just reflecting the beachwear trends that Roberto and Oscar and Miucca have set for the season. That’s surely the primary role of the arbiter of fashion, as so many unimaginative articles refer to Miranda?
Her mental wanderings are interrupted by the gentle slide of cool metal over the inside of her wrist. It’s one of her more sensitive spots, she remembers too late, as a surge of nervous energy greets Andrea’s inadvertent touch.
Closing the simple clasp seems to take an eternity, and if Miranda isn’t mistaken, Andrea is lingering over this excuse to have contact with her. That damn kiss, despite the calm dismissal and glossing over, hangs in the air between them still - like the Ghost of Terrible Mistakes Past. What Miranda was thinking that rainy night in her kitchen she might never know, but she’s sure one of the overpaid shrinks she’s visited over the years would have a mortifying theory or two.
Andrea breaks contact all too soon, and Miranda finds herself mourning it. Clearly-- she chides herself-- she’s feeling a little affection-starved with the girls away, and it will be another long week before they’re back at her side.
She stifles a sigh as Andrea leads the way out into the bright summer sunshine, both women sliding dark glasses into place as they walk. Roy is slow off the mark, because before he can get out to open Miranda’s door for her, Andrea has done the honors. Although she’s healing much better, Miranda still reaches for Andrea as a steadying presence without realizing, but it’s a momentary grasp of Andrea’s hip through her dress and neither woman comments on it.
They travel in companionable silence, other than when one phone or the other interrupts. Somewhere along the way, Miranda realizes they’re sitting far closer than she normally allows. Only the girls invade her personal space this way, but Andrea seems to be doing it without realizing. This magnetic shift between them unsettles Miranda, for fear she’ll end up looking foolish, if nothing else. She won’t be just another aging executive chasing twenty-somethings in a doomed bid to recapture lost youth.
It’s hardly ground-breaking to find a woman attractive, Miranda knows. That it should be this particular woman, with her horrible khaki pants and hell, even Birkenstocks, is definitely more confusing. Miranda can write off the constant glances she allows herself at her assistant as mere interest, as fascination with something quite different to the usual vapid clotheshorses who work for her.
But these deflections and excuses don’t seem to stand up to the curve of Andrea’s shoulder, or the way her lightly toned biceps flex as she holds the phone to her ear or searches in her bag for something. The excuses can’t explain away the hitch in Miranda’s breathing when Andrea happens to turn that damn smile on her for no apparent reason.
Regardless, Miranda forces herself to ignore these fluttering feelings, because there are far more important things to focus on today. Although entertaining the notion of a mutual attraction is good for her confidence, Miranda directs her thoughts to reviewing strategy: which details she can drop at the perfect moment in conversation, or which name she will conveniently forget to fluster or embarrass. It’s all leading towards the lunch showdown with Irv, and Miranda finds her teeth gritting at the thought.
Once the skyscrapers of Manhattan loom closer, Miranda begins issuing rapid-fire commands have Andrea scrambling for her notepad. Truth be told, she doesn’t have that much to do at Runway today, but with Jacqueline away supervising a shoot, Miranda is going to seize the opportunity to regain some of her kingdom.
While Miranda takes meetings with her loathsome boss and various local designers who could be rustled up by Emily at short notice, Andrea will be free to roam the city for a while. Miranda hasn’t asked what she intends to do with the time, but has made it quite clear that she doesn’t want Andrea within the walls of Elias-Clarke today. Still, New York is a young woman’s city, and there’s no end of diverting ways to pass an hour or three.
When the car rolls to a stop outside the Elias-Clarke building that’s every bit a home to Miranda as her townhouse is, she can feel the last few months slipping from her shoulders. A weight she hasn’t been aware of lifts as she prepares to make her grand return, even if only a fleeting one. For a brief, insane moment she feels like clutching Andrea’s hand. This excitement bubbling in her chest is a lot like the day she first saw ‘Editor-in-Chief’ beneath her name on freshly printed business cards, and no gnawing anxiety can take that from her.
This time Roy is the one to open her door, his scrubbed red face almost a sight for sore eyes as he carefully avoids eye contact with Miranda. He’d been on vacation during the accident, his replacement barely adequate at best. In Miranda’s few sojourns recently they haven’t talked much, but then they rarely did beyond discussing traffic conditions or the quickest route when Miranda seemed particularly impatient.
She does feel a certain fondness for the man, perhaps just from sheer familiarity. Though his suits and shirts are always spotless, he has that hangdog expression of so many men of his generation-sad eyes lost in the expanse of a weather-beaten face. His drivers’ cap never sits quite straight on top of his salt and pepper curls, and it’s the sight of this more than anything else that allays the last of Miranda’s nerves. She’ll be steel and ice once more, a queen planning her own coronation as their returning savior.
It would seem that Emily’s early-warning system remains as efficient as ever, because by the time Miranda exits onto the 17th floor, there’s not one scurrying clacker to be seen in the hallways. Every employee that Miranda runs her eyes over seems to be staring a little unconvincingly at a computer screen, or standing around with piles of paper, trying to fake creativity and busywork.
As a silent thank you to Emily, Miranda is sure to place her bag on the second assistant’s desk for storing, despite never having laid eyes on the girl before. Her bold hairstyle and slight French accent give the girl away as a Jacqueline protégé, and Miranda can’t help but feel sympathy for her, at least for a fleeting second or two.
Miranda has to brace herself for the return to her lair, the de facto Throne Room of all things Runway. To her dismay, Jacqueline hasn’t even the decency to make sweeping changes for her (short) tenure, opting instead to insinuate tacky little trinkets in amongst Miranda’s decorations and signature style. There’s a fleeting moment of blood-curdling rage when Miranda considers cleansing the once sacrosanct space with the nearest available flame-thrower, but by gritting her teeth and flexing her fingers, she can be calm once more.
Taking her familiar seat behind the now-messy glass desk (Jacqueline really is a terrible slob in most aspects of her life, Miranda remembers now) she calls Emily in. Keeping her voice as quiet as possible while still making sound, Miranda is quietly pleased by her first assistant’s Pavlovian reaction to the slightest whisper.
“I’ll see Nigel now, before my first meeting.”
There’s a fleeting panic in Emily’s eyes, no doubt she’s wondering if Miranda was expecting Nigel to be there waiting, but Miranda doesn’t torture her by implying that was the case. She shakes off the unfamiliar feeling of leniency, promising herself inwardly that it will be the last time today.
Seemingly moments later, when Miranda is leaning back in her now adjusted office chair, Nigel appears looking vaguely flustered. And that, she thinks, is exactly how she likes it.
*
Almost two hours, three pathetic exhibitions of crying, one firing and five short meetings later, Miranda is ready for her meeting with Irv. A return to the arena has been like a shot in the arm for her, far more invigorating than any pill or exercise conjured up by that torturer named after a breakfast preserve. The adrenalin is coursing quietly in her veins, and she’s feeling more powerful than she has in a long time. It’s perhaps for the best that Jacqueline is out of state, since Miranda feels almost giddy enough to do something ridiculous like challenge her to a fight in the midst of the production room floor.
Oh, of course she wouldn’t actually go that far. Despite the exaggerated fables of her cruelty, they never extend to physical violence. If only these gossips had known the Miranda of eighteen, with a different name and voice, and the scrappy instincts to match. She supposes that now she can pay someone to do these things for her, should the need ever arise.
Irv keeps her waiting, in one of the dustiest power plays from his last-century book. Poor Mr. Ravitz, who can’t understand a business world where women are anything more than objects for him to harass. No doubt Jacqueline has been grinning her way through countless advances, if not more; it was how she’d always chosen to get ahead in the past.
Over time Irv’s fear of Miranda and his inability to intimidate her has crystallized into pure loathing. That’s just as easy for Miranda to handle, but she’s been aware of the whispers in her absence. The moves to oust her have been afoot since the day she signed her first executive contract, and though she’s more accustomed to thwarting rivals or ambitious subordinates, Miranda’s defenses have never been lowered around the chairman who wants her ability and star quality, but not to reward her for it. God knows Miranda can sympathize with using the brilliance of others to advance her own career, but she’s smart enough to return the favor eventually. Most of the people who hate her breathing guts are also in her debt in some way, and that’s the greatest security of all.
Just as she’s considering walking away from the reception area outside Irv’s office suite, the man finally emerges from behind the heavy mahogany doors. Even in a building of glass and steel he’s somehow managed to revert his domain to another century, and Miranda shudders every time she’s exposed to the ugliness of it.
“Miranda!” He has the gall to greet her with cheerfulness, as though he’s missed her presence for so much as a second. Still, at least his assistant sent a nice bouquet while Miranda lay in hospital. He isn’t completely ignoring the social niceties.
“Irv,” Miranda greets him with her customary indifferent air kisses, ignoring his proffered handshake. His little trick has always been to desexualize her, and though Miranda might accept the courtesy of being treated like a man in some circles, she won’t accept this slap in the face that he intends.
“The day got away from me a little. Trimming budgets, you know how it is.”
No doubt Runway will have been top of his list when wielding the axe. To his eternal dismay, most of his sweeping cuts require board approval, and the directors of Elias-Clarke don’t share his animosity for their flagship publication.
“I think I remember. Lots of spreadsheets, terribly dull-am I close?”
Let him talk to her like an invalid who no longer knows the ways of the world. It will make crushing him all the more pleasant. Miranda can taste that faintly metallic tang of excitement in her mouth-she likes to imagine this is how a lion might feel before bringing down its prey.
“You look well,” he concedes, and Miranda knows for a fact that it’s true. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered in. Time is just too tight today for a long lunch, as much as I’d like one.”
That’s brazen, even for Irv. To suggest that Miranda isn’t important enough to take out for a full business lunch, that he’s merely squeezing her in between more important things is confirmation of everything she suspected when this meeting was arranged.
Well, for now she can play along. She bares her teeth in one of her fakest smiles and nods as though it’s the most flattering idea she’s ever heard.
A cart is soon wheeled in by one of the building’s catering staff; it’s full silver service at least. Miranda endures the small talk about Auto Universe and the problems Irv’s been having with his jet in the past month while the young man sets out their lunch. For her part she brags a little about the twins and their school progress from the year just finished. She mentions little about her own recovery, other than how well its going-better, in fact, than any of her doctors predicted.
“Which brings us,” Irv has barely finished chewing when he blurts this out, and Miranda’s repulsion hits an entirely new level. She can’t help hoping he chokes on his mouthful of overcooked steak. “To Runway, and your role there.”
“It was my understanding,” Miranda replies, “that my role there is secure until such a time as I decide to return. My attorneys certainly interpret my contract that way.”
“Yes, yes,” Irv mutters, clearly irked. “The company will always make reasonable accommodations for health issues. That’s why we provide that stellar health care that’s been looking after you so well.”
His leer is enough to make Miranda want to write a check on the spot, refunding every red cent of her medical bills so that Elias-Clarke has no involvement. It’s a spiteful impulse, but she suspects it won’t be the worst one before this conversation is over.
“And as I’ve just said, my recovery has gone even better than hoped.”
“I’m pleased for you,” he retorts, with a tone that implies he’s anything but. “But the fact remains that Runway needs a full-time captain at the helm. And I can’t say that I haven’t been considering a change for a while. Aren’t you always telling me how fashion is about dramatic changes and taking risks?”
There’s a strong temptation to hit him over the head with the carafe that sits between them on the table, but Miranda restrains herself just in time.
“That’s true, in a way. However, the true lover of fashion appreciates consistency. The most coveted items aren’t the new season debuts, Irv. No, on the contrary, it’s the classics. People pay $4000 for a brand new evening gown. But they’ll pay $100,000 for Dior from the fifties.”
He shifts a little in his seat, fixing his tie in a way that might seem like nerves to the casual observer, but Miranda’s seen it before. The little bastard is excited at the prospect of getting rid of her. And fuck, it had better not be giving the lecherous bastard an erection, because some thoughts are just completely beyond the pale.
“Be that as it may Miranda, I feel your time at the helm is coming to an end. Hey, look on it as early retirement. You might actually get to see your kids this way-by the time my Paul graduated I barely recognized him.”
Carefully, Miranda places her silverware back on the table. As calmly as possible she removes her napkin from her lap, and goes through the motions of a person finished with an average meal. Only then, with Irv watching her every move suspiciously, does she reach for her purse.
With forced theatricality, she retrieves the neatly folded sheet of paper and slides it across the table towards her boss. Miranda is the picture of composure, she knows, as he reads the apparently random string of names.
“What’s this-your Christmas card list?” He’s sneering, though there’s a note of doubt in his voice, Miranda notes with relish.
“This is what I refer to as ‘the List’. It may not be obvious to someone like yourself, but this is a list of photographers, models and designers.”
“Like I said,” Irv sneers once more, “are you sending them cards?”
“No. However, should there come a day when I leave Runway, whether to start or rescue the countless publications I’ve been offered before now, these people will not work for the magazine ever again.”
Irv doesn’t look quite so smug now, not if the thin line of sweat beneath his hairplugs is any indication. Miranda’s stomach does a happy somersault at the impending victory. He’s still staring at the List incredulously, and Miranda knows losing even a handful of those names would wreck any credibility that Runway has as a leader in the fashion industry. And though it makes her sick to think of wrecking her own decades of hard work in that way, Miranda has no doubt in her own resolve to do it without ever looking back.
She’s about to hammer her point home when the sound of a commotion reaches them from just outside the heavy outer door. Miranda’s about to make a sarcastic comment about assistants gone wild when the door bursts open. She’s beyond shocked to see her own employee is the one to invade, Irv’s buxom assistant trying and failing to hold Andrea back.
“Miranda!” Andrea is red in the face, her hair disheveled and her dress slightly askew. Miranda, for her part, is both mortified and intrigued.
“Andrea, you have five seconds to get out of this room,” Miranda hisses, letting her irritation win out over anything else.
“Miranda, I need to talk to you. Right. Now.”
“Walk out right now, or you’re fired.”
Andrea actually wails in frustration, and for a fleeting moment Miranda worries that there’s bad news about the girls. Reassuring herself, she checks her phone to discover nothing but missed calls from the girl currently making a spectacle of herself. Regardless of Andrea’s supposed emergency, Miranda knows she has to finalize this conversation with Irv before he has a chance to circle the wagons against her newest attack.
“But Miranda-“
“Wait outside. Now.”
Miranda’s tone is pure steel, and something in her face seems to convince Andrea at last. Turning back to face Irv, she forces one more fake smile from her reserves.
“Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were about to beg me to stay on at Runway…”
Irv glares at her over his now empty plate, and Miranda swallows her strange confusion over Andrea’s action. That little fiasco can wait; right now, she has a future to secure.
Chapter 14 -->
Chapter: 13 of 20
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Beta:ladyvivien (thank you, lover)
Spoilers: AU, but borrowing heavily from the movie!verse. Plot owes a lot to the Helen Mirren movie 'Losing Chase'.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters belong to their respective owners and no profit is being made. Miranda's holiday home is based, predictably, on Anna Wintour's.
Summary: Miranda has retreated to her home in the Hamptons following a serious accident. The young and idealistic Andrea Sachs accepts a position as a nanny/assistant combo. Since Miranda is resistant to outside help and new faces, this doesn't go over well.
A/N: This fic belongs, truly, to the wonderful abina2810 . Although this is late, the fic is a reward for her generous charitable donations. Comments and feedback are gratefully received.
Miranda lays out the three potential outfits and surveys them with her practiced eye. The flare of the Bill Blass pants will make her legs look more substantial, perhaps dissuading thoughts of the injuries wreaked on her right one. But something about them smacks of cowardice, of covering up, and that’s the last message she needs to send -- even in a meeting with Irv who doesn’t pick up on anything less subtle than a sledgehammer.
She turns away from that simple but striking ensemble and turns her attention to the Stella McCartney dress. Though Miranda has nurtured the woman’s career and has great personal affection for Stella’s father, something about it just screams ‘too young’ and that’s really very disconcerting to Miranda. She prides herself on dressing age-appropriate but with a splash of daring that most women never possess, and if they ever did it seems to be abandoned somewhere around forty.
The third serious option is a little something sent over from Oscar just last week. The champagne-hued skirt skims perfectly over Miranda’s knees, and avoids the restrictions of a pencil or A-line fit by having that hint of floating around the hem. Coupled with the matching, fitted jacket that creates a divine symmetry to the look, Miranda knows it will look good on her. The gold threading in the design offsets her hair perfectly, and she has her suspicions that the very inclusion of this ensemble on the runway a few long weeks ago was a gift directly to her.
Decision made at last, she pulls the tailored pieces on to join her black silk camisole, and surveys the finished look in the mirror. Her heels are Prada, the sole deceptively thick and providing some much-needed stability to the perilous height. Miranda surveys herself from four angles at once, checking that her concealer and foundation are doing their job with the scarring on her cheek, and in a moment of weakness she considers calling Andrea in for a second opinion.
Since that wouldn’t be far off consulting a deaf person on her singing voice, Miranda resists the impulse. She pushes her signature hoop earrings into place, and applies a final sweep of lipstick to complete it. Carrying her purse and bracelet in her right hand, she leaves her dressing area with one last glance towards her forgotten cane propped against the doorframe. She’s scarcely needed it since the new physio regime began, but there’s a flutter of panic at the thought of being caught without it today.
No, Miranda resolves, she’ll crawl on broken glass before she’ll let Irv see her struggle. Whatever happens, she will walk proudly in and out of the meeting with him: an artificially intimate business lunch at some leather-bedecked men’s club with overcooked steak, no doubt.
She checks her for her phone, cosmetic essentials and the folded piece of paper that should restore some balance to her employment position. Satisfied that everything is ready, she makes her way slowly downstairs to find Andrea waiting for her.
The Cavalli dress she’s wearing is a vibrant green that brings out everything appealing in Andrea’s coloring, and Miranda finds herself nodding in approval without thinking about it. The accessories aren’t particularly eye-catching, but they’re well-matched and Miranda wonders for a moment just how much time and stress this ensemble took to conjure. She’s kind enough not to ask.
Andrea has her hand on the doorknob, ready to lead Miranda outside to where Roy and the Mercedes are no doubt waiting. Raising her hand to halt their progress, Miranda jerks the bracelet slightly in Andrea’s direction.
She’s anticipating the suggestion already, reaching for the fine strand of gold and diamonds that Miranda needs fastened around her wrist. It’s strange that Andrea who seemed so awkward and gauche should have become one of the most effective assistants to date. That she takes suggestion and instruction well is a godsend, though Miranda knows by now when not to push. She has succeeded in getting Andrea to swim in suits and bikinis far more aesthetically pleasing than the fading black thing from Adidas though, and Miranda counts that amongst her best victories so far.
Which is not to suggest that, like her erstwhile husband, she has any inclinations towards the help. It’s not so much to ask that those around her dress in a way that doesn’t offend Miranda’s eyes, is it? And if Andrea should look even more attractive dressed in two slivers of material that cover almost nothing, well, Miranda’s just reflecting the beachwear trends that Roberto and Oscar and Miucca have set for the season. That’s surely the primary role of the arbiter of fashion, as so many unimaginative articles refer to Miranda?
Her mental wanderings are interrupted by the gentle slide of cool metal over the inside of her wrist. It’s one of her more sensitive spots, she remembers too late, as a surge of nervous energy greets Andrea’s inadvertent touch.
Closing the simple clasp seems to take an eternity, and if Miranda isn’t mistaken, Andrea is lingering over this excuse to have contact with her. That damn kiss, despite the calm dismissal and glossing over, hangs in the air between them still - like the Ghost of Terrible Mistakes Past. What Miranda was thinking that rainy night in her kitchen she might never know, but she’s sure one of the overpaid shrinks she’s visited over the years would have a mortifying theory or two.
Andrea breaks contact all too soon, and Miranda finds herself mourning it. Clearly-- she chides herself-- she’s feeling a little affection-starved with the girls away, and it will be another long week before they’re back at her side.
She stifles a sigh as Andrea leads the way out into the bright summer sunshine, both women sliding dark glasses into place as they walk. Roy is slow off the mark, because before he can get out to open Miranda’s door for her, Andrea has done the honors. Although she’s healing much better, Miranda still reaches for Andrea as a steadying presence without realizing, but it’s a momentary grasp of Andrea’s hip through her dress and neither woman comments on it.
They travel in companionable silence, other than when one phone or the other interrupts. Somewhere along the way, Miranda realizes they’re sitting far closer than she normally allows. Only the girls invade her personal space this way, but Andrea seems to be doing it without realizing. This magnetic shift between them unsettles Miranda, for fear she’ll end up looking foolish, if nothing else. She won’t be just another aging executive chasing twenty-somethings in a doomed bid to recapture lost youth.
It’s hardly ground-breaking to find a woman attractive, Miranda knows. That it should be this particular woman, with her horrible khaki pants and hell, even Birkenstocks, is definitely more confusing. Miranda can write off the constant glances she allows herself at her assistant as mere interest, as fascination with something quite different to the usual vapid clotheshorses who work for her.
But these deflections and excuses don’t seem to stand up to the curve of Andrea’s shoulder, or the way her lightly toned biceps flex as she holds the phone to her ear or searches in her bag for something. The excuses can’t explain away the hitch in Miranda’s breathing when Andrea happens to turn that damn smile on her for no apparent reason.
Regardless, Miranda forces herself to ignore these fluttering feelings, because there are far more important things to focus on today. Although entertaining the notion of a mutual attraction is good for her confidence, Miranda directs her thoughts to reviewing strategy: which details she can drop at the perfect moment in conversation, or which name she will conveniently forget to fluster or embarrass. It’s all leading towards the lunch showdown with Irv, and Miranda finds her teeth gritting at the thought.
Once the skyscrapers of Manhattan loom closer, Miranda begins issuing rapid-fire commands have Andrea scrambling for her notepad. Truth be told, she doesn’t have that much to do at Runway today, but with Jacqueline away supervising a shoot, Miranda is going to seize the opportunity to regain some of her kingdom.
While Miranda takes meetings with her loathsome boss and various local designers who could be rustled up by Emily at short notice, Andrea will be free to roam the city for a while. Miranda hasn’t asked what she intends to do with the time, but has made it quite clear that she doesn’t want Andrea within the walls of Elias-Clarke today. Still, New York is a young woman’s city, and there’s no end of diverting ways to pass an hour or three.
When the car rolls to a stop outside the Elias-Clarke building that’s every bit a home to Miranda as her townhouse is, she can feel the last few months slipping from her shoulders. A weight she hasn’t been aware of lifts as she prepares to make her grand return, even if only a fleeting one. For a brief, insane moment she feels like clutching Andrea’s hand. This excitement bubbling in her chest is a lot like the day she first saw ‘Editor-in-Chief’ beneath her name on freshly printed business cards, and no gnawing anxiety can take that from her.
This time Roy is the one to open her door, his scrubbed red face almost a sight for sore eyes as he carefully avoids eye contact with Miranda. He’d been on vacation during the accident, his replacement barely adequate at best. In Miranda’s few sojourns recently they haven’t talked much, but then they rarely did beyond discussing traffic conditions or the quickest route when Miranda seemed particularly impatient.
She does feel a certain fondness for the man, perhaps just from sheer familiarity. Though his suits and shirts are always spotless, he has that hangdog expression of so many men of his generation-sad eyes lost in the expanse of a weather-beaten face. His drivers’ cap never sits quite straight on top of his salt and pepper curls, and it’s the sight of this more than anything else that allays the last of Miranda’s nerves. She’ll be steel and ice once more, a queen planning her own coronation as their returning savior.
It would seem that Emily’s early-warning system remains as efficient as ever, because by the time Miranda exits onto the 17th floor, there’s not one scurrying clacker to be seen in the hallways. Every employee that Miranda runs her eyes over seems to be staring a little unconvincingly at a computer screen, or standing around with piles of paper, trying to fake creativity and busywork.
As a silent thank you to Emily, Miranda is sure to place her bag on the second assistant’s desk for storing, despite never having laid eyes on the girl before. Her bold hairstyle and slight French accent give the girl away as a Jacqueline protégé, and Miranda can’t help but feel sympathy for her, at least for a fleeting second or two.
Miranda has to brace herself for the return to her lair, the de facto Throne Room of all things Runway. To her dismay, Jacqueline hasn’t even the decency to make sweeping changes for her (short) tenure, opting instead to insinuate tacky little trinkets in amongst Miranda’s decorations and signature style. There’s a fleeting moment of blood-curdling rage when Miranda considers cleansing the once sacrosanct space with the nearest available flame-thrower, but by gritting her teeth and flexing her fingers, she can be calm once more.
Taking her familiar seat behind the now-messy glass desk (Jacqueline really is a terrible slob in most aspects of her life, Miranda remembers now) she calls Emily in. Keeping her voice as quiet as possible while still making sound, Miranda is quietly pleased by her first assistant’s Pavlovian reaction to the slightest whisper.
“I’ll see Nigel now, before my first meeting.”
There’s a fleeting panic in Emily’s eyes, no doubt she’s wondering if Miranda was expecting Nigel to be there waiting, but Miranda doesn’t torture her by implying that was the case. She shakes off the unfamiliar feeling of leniency, promising herself inwardly that it will be the last time today.
Seemingly moments later, when Miranda is leaning back in her now adjusted office chair, Nigel appears looking vaguely flustered. And that, she thinks, is exactly how she likes it.
*
Almost two hours, three pathetic exhibitions of crying, one firing and five short meetings later, Miranda is ready for her meeting with Irv. A return to the arena has been like a shot in the arm for her, far more invigorating than any pill or exercise conjured up by that torturer named after a breakfast preserve. The adrenalin is coursing quietly in her veins, and she’s feeling more powerful than she has in a long time. It’s perhaps for the best that Jacqueline is out of state, since Miranda feels almost giddy enough to do something ridiculous like challenge her to a fight in the midst of the production room floor.
Oh, of course she wouldn’t actually go that far. Despite the exaggerated fables of her cruelty, they never extend to physical violence. If only these gossips had known the Miranda of eighteen, with a different name and voice, and the scrappy instincts to match. She supposes that now she can pay someone to do these things for her, should the need ever arise.
Irv keeps her waiting, in one of the dustiest power plays from his last-century book. Poor Mr. Ravitz, who can’t understand a business world where women are anything more than objects for him to harass. No doubt Jacqueline has been grinning her way through countless advances, if not more; it was how she’d always chosen to get ahead in the past.
Over time Irv’s fear of Miranda and his inability to intimidate her has crystallized into pure loathing. That’s just as easy for Miranda to handle, but she’s been aware of the whispers in her absence. The moves to oust her have been afoot since the day she signed her first executive contract, and though she’s more accustomed to thwarting rivals or ambitious subordinates, Miranda’s defenses have never been lowered around the chairman who wants her ability and star quality, but not to reward her for it. God knows Miranda can sympathize with using the brilliance of others to advance her own career, but she’s smart enough to return the favor eventually. Most of the people who hate her breathing guts are also in her debt in some way, and that’s the greatest security of all.
Just as she’s considering walking away from the reception area outside Irv’s office suite, the man finally emerges from behind the heavy mahogany doors. Even in a building of glass and steel he’s somehow managed to revert his domain to another century, and Miranda shudders every time she’s exposed to the ugliness of it.
“Miranda!” He has the gall to greet her with cheerfulness, as though he’s missed her presence for so much as a second. Still, at least his assistant sent a nice bouquet while Miranda lay in hospital. He isn’t completely ignoring the social niceties.
“Irv,” Miranda greets him with her customary indifferent air kisses, ignoring his proffered handshake. His little trick has always been to desexualize her, and though Miranda might accept the courtesy of being treated like a man in some circles, she won’t accept this slap in the face that he intends.
“The day got away from me a little. Trimming budgets, you know how it is.”
No doubt Runway will have been top of his list when wielding the axe. To his eternal dismay, most of his sweeping cuts require board approval, and the directors of Elias-Clarke don’t share his animosity for their flagship publication.
“I think I remember. Lots of spreadsheets, terribly dull-am I close?”
Let him talk to her like an invalid who no longer knows the ways of the world. It will make crushing him all the more pleasant. Miranda can taste that faintly metallic tang of excitement in her mouth-she likes to imagine this is how a lion might feel before bringing down its prey.
“You look well,” he concedes, and Miranda knows for a fact that it’s true. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered in. Time is just too tight today for a long lunch, as much as I’d like one.”
That’s brazen, even for Irv. To suggest that Miranda isn’t important enough to take out for a full business lunch, that he’s merely squeezing her in between more important things is confirmation of everything she suspected when this meeting was arranged.
Well, for now she can play along. She bares her teeth in one of her fakest smiles and nods as though it’s the most flattering idea she’s ever heard.
A cart is soon wheeled in by one of the building’s catering staff; it’s full silver service at least. Miranda endures the small talk about Auto Universe and the problems Irv’s been having with his jet in the past month while the young man sets out their lunch. For her part she brags a little about the twins and their school progress from the year just finished. She mentions little about her own recovery, other than how well its going-better, in fact, than any of her doctors predicted.
“Which brings us,” Irv has barely finished chewing when he blurts this out, and Miranda’s repulsion hits an entirely new level. She can’t help hoping he chokes on his mouthful of overcooked steak. “To Runway, and your role there.”
“It was my understanding,” Miranda replies, “that my role there is secure until such a time as I decide to return. My attorneys certainly interpret my contract that way.”
“Yes, yes,” Irv mutters, clearly irked. “The company will always make reasonable accommodations for health issues. That’s why we provide that stellar health care that’s been looking after you so well.”
His leer is enough to make Miranda want to write a check on the spot, refunding every red cent of her medical bills so that Elias-Clarke has no involvement. It’s a spiteful impulse, but she suspects it won’t be the worst one before this conversation is over.
“And as I’ve just said, my recovery has gone even better than hoped.”
“I’m pleased for you,” he retorts, with a tone that implies he’s anything but. “But the fact remains that Runway needs a full-time captain at the helm. And I can’t say that I haven’t been considering a change for a while. Aren’t you always telling me how fashion is about dramatic changes and taking risks?”
There’s a strong temptation to hit him over the head with the carafe that sits between them on the table, but Miranda restrains herself just in time.
“That’s true, in a way. However, the true lover of fashion appreciates consistency. The most coveted items aren’t the new season debuts, Irv. No, on the contrary, it’s the classics. People pay $4000 for a brand new evening gown. But they’ll pay $100,000 for Dior from the fifties.”
He shifts a little in his seat, fixing his tie in a way that might seem like nerves to the casual observer, but Miranda’s seen it before. The little bastard is excited at the prospect of getting rid of her. And fuck, it had better not be giving the lecherous bastard an erection, because some thoughts are just completely beyond the pale.
“Be that as it may Miranda, I feel your time at the helm is coming to an end. Hey, look on it as early retirement. You might actually get to see your kids this way-by the time my Paul graduated I barely recognized him.”
Carefully, Miranda places her silverware back on the table. As calmly as possible she removes her napkin from her lap, and goes through the motions of a person finished with an average meal. Only then, with Irv watching her every move suspiciously, does she reach for her purse.
With forced theatricality, she retrieves the neatly folded sheet of paper and slides it across the table towards her boss. Miranda is the picture of composure, she knows, as he reads the apparently random string of names.
“What’s this-your Christmas card list?” He’s sneering, though there’s a note of doubt in his voice, Miranda notes with relish.
“This is what I refer to as ‘the List’. It may not be obvious to someone like yourself, but this is a list of photographers, models and designers.”
“Like I said,” Irv sneers once more, “are you sending them cards?”
“No. However, should there come a day when I leave Runway, whether to start or rescue the countless publications I’ve been offered before now, these people will not work for the magazine ever again.”
Irv doesn’t look quite so smug now, not if the thin line of sweat beneath his hairplugs is any indication. Miranda’s stomach does a happy somersault at the impending victory. He’s still staring at the List incredulously, and Miranda knows losing even a handful of those names would wreck any credibility that Runway has as a leader in the fashion industry. And though it makes her sick to think of wrecking her own decades of hard work in that way, Miranda has no doubt in her own resolve to do it without ever looking back.
She’s about to hammer her point home when the sound of a commotion reaches them from just outside the heavy outer door. Miranda’s about to make a sarcastic comment about assistants gone wild when the door bursts open. She’s beyond shocked to see her own employee is the one to invade, Irv’s buxom assistant trying and failing to hold Andrea back.
“Miranda!” Andrea is red in the face, her hair disheveled and her dress slightly askew. Miranda, for her part, is both mortified and intrigued.
“Andrea, you have five seconds to get out of this room,” Miranda hisses, letting her irritation win out over anything else.
“Miranda, I need to talk to you. Right. Now.”
“Walk out right now, or you’re fired.”
Andrea actually wails in frustration, and for a fleeting moment Miranda worries that there’s bad news about the girls. Reassuring herself, she checks her phone to discover nothing but missed calls from the girl currently making a spectacle of herself. Regardless of Andrea’s supposed emergency, Miranda knows she has to finalize this conversation with Irv before he has a chance to circle the wagons against her newest attack.
“But Miranda-“
“Wait outside. Now.”
Miranda’s tone is pure steel, and something in her face seems to convince Andrea at last. Turning back to face Irv, she forces one more fake smile from her reserves.
“Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were about to beg me to stay on at Runway…”
Irv glares at her over his now empty plate, and Miranda swallows her strange confusion over Andrea’s action. That little fiasco can wait; right now, she has a future to secure.
Chapter 14 -->