Chapter Text
M.
Miranda hates staying at hotels. She’s uncomfortable with being surrounded on all sides by other rooms, occupied by people she doesn’t know, and in a space smaller than her bedroom at that. A suite, no matter how spacious, still rouses that suffocating kind of feeling in her. That’s why she owns what some call an excessive number of properties, the Aspen cabin, the Hampton summer home, the townhouses in London and New York. She regrets not purchasing one in Paris, especially now.
Andrea’s sitting at the foot of the bed— their bed, and she can feel the girl’s eyes on her as she paces about the room.
Miranda pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes in annoyance. That gratingly snarky teenager from the concierge desk had put her on hold, and that was eleven minutes ago. Andrea had meekly offered to take over the call, but Miranda needs to handle this personally. These people need to know exactly who they inconvenienced, and the price that would come along with it.
Finally there’s someone on the other end. “Hello, welcome to the Renaissance, I’m Derek Finnigan, manager of the resort. How may I help you?”
Miranda wastes no time at all, refusing to reciprocate the pleasant greeting. “Miranda Priestly. I fail to understand how you could be so incompetent as to not inform my assistant that we’re one room short,” she snaps into her phone. She’s still walking back and forth across the room, even more frantically than before. Now Andrea’s looking at her like she’s insane, which isn’t very far off, but Miranda tries to get herself under control. She shoots the assistant a glare, daring her to comment.
Andrea’s face pales slightly, and Miranda turns to peer out the window at the dots of people on the street. She can make out the faint outline of Parisian apartments in the distance.
“Oh my god, ma’am, I’m so sorry,” the manager— she’s already forgotten his name— is saying tremulously. “It w-won’t happen again, I promise. We’ll make sure that you—”
“Oh, it most certainly won’t be happening again,” Miranda reassures him, her legs betraying her as they carry her all over the room once more. “Because this is the last time we’ll be staying here, and by the time this is over, what little of a reputation you have will be gone.”
Andrea’s mouthing something to her, so Miranda covers the receiver with one hand and hisses, “What?”
Andrea flinches, then bites her bottom lip before speaking. “I could always stay at some other hotel, you know. Maybe a motel, if you’re worried about Irv complaining about costs.” She’s looking at Miranda with her head tilted slightly to one side, almost as if expecting her to agree.
Miranda nearly snorts at the notion of Andrea staying more than a few feet away from her, during Paris Fashion Week. How on earth would they get any work done? Instead of bursting into hysterical laughter however, Miranda simply rolls her eyes.
“No.”
Before Andrea can protest, she’s back on the phone, taking immense satisfaction in reducing the manager to incoherent stammering and profuse apologies. Despite Miranda’s best efforts, she’s still unable to get them another hotel room. She doesn’t realise how late it is until Andrea’s donning her tweed coat and heading out the door.
“What are you doing?” Miranda asks her sharply, and Andrea freezes in the doorway like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m getting us dinner.”
Miranda scowls, because it’s not late enough for that. Dinner was at 6:30 sharp and Andrea should know that considering all the times she’s had to go out and fetch it for her. “I never asked for dinner,”
“It’s seven, Miranda,” Andrea informs her in that gentle, helpful way of hers, and they regard each other for a moment.
“Ah. Of course,” she says faintly. “That’s all.” Then Miranda waves her off as if nothing happened and returns her attention to unpacking.
Tonight will be the last free moment they’ll have for the next eight days, might as well use it productively. Miranda feels a flash of irritation with herself for wasting so much time belittling the people at the concierge desk. Was it therapeutic? Yes. Could she have spent it doing something like going over schedules and seating charts instead? Perhaps. Did she regret using her time to cut some imbeciles down to size? A resounding ‘no’.
She unzips her Louis Vuitton suitcase and frowns at one of her blouses, which is slightly wrinkled. Miranda sighs as she rummages around the designer case, searching for both suitable nightwear, and the sanity she feels she left in New York.
She finds one of the two, and it’s just her nightwear.
___
“You could have gotten room service instead,” Miranda says archly when Andrea bursts into their suite, staggering under the weight of all the takeout bags.
Andrea makes quick work of getting the meals out. “But it’s L’Atelier Carnem,” is the only response she supplies, surprising Miranda with her perfectly acceptable French. Then she goes about neatly transferring the food onto some glass plates from the kitchen. L’Atelier Carnem is all the way across the city, and one of Miranda’s favourite restaurants. She knows Andrea’s aware of how much she enjoys it.
“You didn’t have to,” Miranda tells her, but she’s still appreciative.
Andrea beams at her, her eyes shining. “I know.” Then she presents one of the plates to Miranda, which has a juicy steak and salad arranged artfully on it. It takes every bit of self-control for Miranda to not grab it and not bite into her food like a starved animal.
“Be right back,” Andrea says, and then disappears into another room. The agony Miranda experiences as she calmly cuts the steak into tiny bits is unbelievable, and she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy… actually, maybe she would. Especially Irv. Especially Stephen and Jacqueline.
She’s about to tell Andrea to fetch her some wine when the younger woman comes back with a bottle. She eyes the label. It’s merlot, another one of her favourites. Miranda is glad that in a world surrounded by idiots, a few people manage to make themselves somewhat useful. Well, she may change her mind, as Andrea’s hovering around her unhelpfully.
“Civilised people sit down for dinner, Andrea,” Miranda says disparagingly.
Andrea gives her a nervous smile. “Right. Sorry.” She sinks into a chair on the other side of the table. Miranda’s about to protest when she realises that they’re going to be no farther than a couple feet away from each other for the next five days. Maybe it’s for the best.
Despite the distance, however, Miranda can still feel Andrea shaking her foot, causing the glass table to wobble a little. The girl isn’t even sparing her food a glance.
“Andrea. Eat your dinner,” Miranda tells her sternly. If she has to baby Andrea for the entirety of the trip and incessantly remind her to complete simple tasks such as eating, then they’re going to have some (read: many) issues.
“Sorry. I was just thinking. About how crazy this is.”
“Are you referring to our living arrangement?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, I should have double-checked that there were enough rooms before we left.” Andrea frowns, her forehead wrinkling slightly.
Miranda shakes her head. “It is what it is,” is all she says, pointing her fork to Andrea’s plate, which still remains untouched.
“I guess,” Andy says as she pierces a piece of broccoli with her fork, still sounding unconvinced.
Miranda sniffs and takes another bite of steak, not bothered to figure out what else there is to say. It's a very good steak, she thinks privately.
They finish their dinner quickly, only exchanging a few words during the meal. Neither of them had ever eaten together until now, and Andrea leaps out of her seat as soon as Miranda’s finished to put the dishes in the sink. In her haste, she and Miranda end up bumping arms, eliciting pained expressions from the both of them. It doesn’t hurt, but Miranda instinctively holds the place on her forearm where Andrea touched her. Her skin tingles.
Miranda decides to spare them any further embarrassment and doesn’t berate Andrea for this. God knows the girl is close to dropping dead as it is, and she really can’t afford to be assistantless during Paris Fashion Week. Thank God for the two bathrooms, Miranda thinks, surveying her bathroom appreciatively. If they had to share, she’d have thrown herself off the balcony into the Parisian streets below.
She scrutinises her face in the mirror, which is now bare of makeup. This is not the first time Andrea has seen her like this, but she’s still hesitant to go out now.
There’s a staccato of knocks on the bathroom door followed by a timid, “Miranda? You still in there?”
Miranda rolls her eyes. “Of course. This suite is so small, where else could I possibly be?”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t pack any toothpaste so, um...” A scuffling noise can be heard outside the door.
Miranda sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today. Andrea’s standing there, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. She’s wearing silken pajamas, the bottoms cropped to resemble boyshorts. Her hair is disheveled, chestnut curls loose and falling across her shoulders.
“Just don’t use it all up,” Miranda informs her with a sniff.
“Yes, Miranda,” Andrea says weakly, her eyes shutting for a moment. “Sorry for bothering you.”
Miranda hands her the tube of toothpaste and closes the door on her face without further fanfare. She doesn’t look in the mirror again, and she ignores the heavy sigh from the other side of the door.
Once they’re both out of their respective bathrooms, they stare at the two beds, and then at each other. It’s apparent that neither of them know how to proceed.
“So,” Andrea begins. “Which side do you want?”
“I don’t care,” Miranda says sourly. “You don’t happen to snore or talk in your sleep, do you?”
“Not that I know of.” Andrea looks worried. Miranda’s displeased with this response but whatever the case, she’ll discover the truth tonight.
“Fine.” She settles onto the right bed, tossing the extra pillows to the floor carelessly and positioning her single pillow, where she rests her head. She makes sure to face away from Andrea, to both let herself forget that the girl’s there, and to provide Andrea with enough privacy to get in bed. Which she still hadn’t done.
“Andrea,” she says impatiently. “What on earth are you waiting for, a handwritten invitation?” Even without looking at her, she can tell the girl is scrambling to comply with her instruction. Although Miranda’s still uncomfortable with this whole situation, she finds sleep quickly.
She never thought that she’d say it, but thank god for jet-lag.
___
A.
Andy’s thoughts keep her up until five in the morning, which she can’t really blame herself for, because this is insane. That and the fact that Miranda snores a little. She’s not surprised.
She rises with the autumn sun and leaves a still-dozing Miranda in the bed (what a crazy reality). Andy prepares herself quickly for the day, organising her and Miranda’s schedules, forwards them to Nigel and Lucia, and orders room service for breakfast. She’s glad she has some time to herself because Miranda will undoubtedly be a headache once she wakes up.
When she walks back into the bedroom, Miranda still manages to be absolutely terrifying half-awake, stretching out on the bed like a cat, and shooting Andy a venomous glare. Even at the crack of dawn, it’s apparent that this is going to be a really rough day.
For the entirety of the day, they don’t get any farther than a yard away from each other. Andy has a feeling that if it were up to Miranda, they’d be miles apart, but it really isn’t. That probably sucks for her, who almost always gets what she wants. Andy can’t find it in her heart to feel sorry for her, though, especially when she’s chewing out Jocelyn for being only ten minutes early as opposed to the expected fifteen minutes early. Andy scrambles to keep an eye on the time, takes notes at the shows, answers everyone’s questions, and keeps her skin as thick as she can. It’s the best she can do for herself considering the circumstances. Miranda is in a remarkably foul mood, finding flaws in everyone’s work, much to the chagrin of the numerous designers, photographers, editors, and literally everyone else.
She wonders vaguely why she’s so tolerant of Miranda’s cruelty, but she’s too tired to ever figure out the answer to that. Whether it be fetching hot coffee, confirming appointments, fixing the seating charts, she works her ass off. Miranda’s notorious for her outrageous demands, but Andy’s used to it at this point. Or so she thinks until today, where she barely has enough time to breathe or think. She has a feeling that this is retribution for failing to get them another room, but you can never know with Miranda. It would take a psychoanalyst to understand Miranda’s mess of a thought process.
“Andrea, keep up,” is snapped at her no less than eight times that day and it’s stressful as fuck, but by the end of it all, Miranda isn’t late once, doesn’t miss a single scrap of fabric that walks down the catwalk, and she most certainly wants for nothing (apart from maybe her own suite, but Andy could only do so much).
When it’s just the two of them, whether it be in an elevator or taxi, Miranda is totally silent. Andy wishes she would complain, snap, or do something other than stare out the window listlessly. It’s making her uncomfortable.
It isn’t until late that they get back to the hotel. Obscenely late, at who-the-fuck-knows-anymore o’clock. Andy doesn’t have the energy to even check the time. She just wants to sleep, preferably after a shower, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Unsurprisingly, the editor has other plans. As soon as they step through the door, Miranda tosses her coat and bag onto a nearby table. Andy sighs resignedly and tucks them away in the closet. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the lamp flicker on, its warm light filling the room.
Andy decides to risk her life by asking a question. “Are you going to bed?”
Miranda settles onto the couch, seemingly pulling the Book out of nowhere, rolling her eyes. “What do you think?” She gestures to the set-up she has, then scowls.
“Okay. We have a show at seven thirty tomorrow,” Andy says, hoping that Miranda takes the hint to not stay up too late.
Miranda waves her hand. “Yes, yes. I’m well aware.” She slips on her reading glasses and looks squarely at her. “Get ready for bed now. That’s all.”
It isn’t until the steam settles in the shower that Andy realises that she’s left her pajamas on her side of the bed (again, what a crazy reality). Usually it wouldn’t mean anything serious, but now it means that she has to do one of two things. One, ask Miranda to divert her attention away from the precious Book to retrieve her night clothes, or two, go out into the suite, praying to God that Miranda doesn’t notice her. Both choices are pretty shitty. She decides on the latter option.
Andy tests the integrity of the towel wrapped around her, then opens the door cautiously. A wave of cold air hits her, and she can’t help but shiver. There’s absolute silence, which means Miranda is deeply involved with the Book and likely to be unobservant to her surroundings. It’s a small blessing to Andy, whose career, and quite possibly life, is dependent on a tiny excuse of a towel. She sighs in relief and steps out of the bathroom into the bedroom. Andy takes no more than three steps before she freezes in place.
Miranda’s ensconced on the bed, biting the top of her red pen thoughtfully as she frowns at the Book. Andy feels like her legs are going to give out at any moment. Shit, she was not expecting that.
Almost as if she can feel Andy’s gaze, Miranda looks up at her through the thin frames of her glasses.
Andy doesn’t know why, but her mouth has gone dry, and she is acutely aware of how exposed she is. Miranda isn’t saying anything, which is oddly terrifying. She’s just staring at her with this unreadable expression. Tension knots itself into her stomach, whether it be fear, surprise, or something else entirely, she isn’t sure. Some part of her brain in charge of self-preservation urges her forward to grab her neatly folded clothes at the end of the bed, and in her haste, nearly trips.
Miranda seems to have regained her composure, because says smugly, “You’d think that one would know how to walk after doing so for twenty-something years.”
Andy’s face flushes in embarrassment.
For the remainder of the night, Miranda doesn’t say a word to her, which is frustrating as it is perplexing. How the hell is she supposed to manage her schedule if she’s not cooperating? Then again, this is Miranda, and part of the implied job description is being psychic. Which is difficult enough under normal circumstances, but Miranda isn’t even deigning to look at her.
They go to bed at the same time as the day before, except this time they’re both adamantly facing away from each other, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Sleep remains elusive for Andy. Nothing new, but still annoying.
Andy wakes up to sunlight streaming through the window, and the older woman giving an inscrutable look from the couch. What could she possibly want from her?
“Oh good, you’re awake.” She’s still wearing her silk robe, her head tilted at Andy. As always, Miranda’s face offers zero insight on what’s on her mind. At least they’re on speaking terms again.
She can’t suppress a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
Oh, shit. Andy scrambles out of bed, kicking the covers off. “We’re going to be late!”
Miranda watches her passively, making no effort to get up. “It’s far too early in the morning for these kinds of theatrics, Andrea.” Her eyes carry a strange light that could be amusement. “We’re not leaving for a while.”
Andy tries not to sigh in relief and flops back onto the bed.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering room service,” Miranda says. “I tried waking you up but you were completely comatose.” She crosses and uncrosses her legs. The charcoal silk rides up, partially exposing smooth, pale thighs. Andy’s embarrassed for looking, but then reminds herself that Miranda’s seen her in a worse state of undress. That makes her face grow warm, and memory of last night’s humiliation promptly smacks her in the face.
“The show has been cancelled because apparently the designer’s had a nervous breakdown.” Miranda rolls her eyes.
“Oh. So now we don’t have to go out until twelve?” For Andy, that would be really nice. Eating her breakfast at a leisurely pace, and maybe going out for a bit to enjoy the weather.
“If only he had notified us in advance,” Miranda says, totally ignoring Andy. “Or at least postponed his breakdown to tomorrow, because now we have five hours with nothing to do.” The older woman huffs, and she tucks her hair behind an ear.
Andy isn’t really sure how to respond to that, considering this is the most Miranda has talked to her in the past two days. Actually, she doesn’t speak much to Andy in general, even back at Runway , unless she’s issuing orders.
“You should take this time to see the city.” Andy jerks her head up to stare at Miranda, who is watching her carefully as she tugs on the collar of her robe. “There’s Moulin Rouge, the Louvre, the Rodin museum, Versailles, et cetera.” She shrugs. “Typical tourist attractions.”
“Oh,” is all Andy says. “Will you be going out too?” She knows what her answer is as soon as she asks the question.
“No,” Miranda answers, her voice not unkind. “There’s a great deal of work that must be done, though I won’t be needing you for it. That being said, I still expect you to be on call, if the situation changes.” Her gaze sharpens, and Andy nods fervently.
There’s a knock on the door, and Andy once again hops off the bed. Miranda simply folds her legs underneath her. Of course she won’t be the one answering the door, even though she’s the one closest to it and not wearing shorts that have a tendency to ride up her ass. She moves the dishes of breakfast food to the table with the assistance of the delivery man.
“Merci beaucoup,” she says kindly, to which the gentleman nods.
“Miranda, breakfast is here,” she announces as she begins arranging the plates. There’s a fluffy omelette, French toast with fruit, tomato soup, and two flukes of orange juice. Andy wonders how Miranda expects her to watch her weight when they’re eating a truckload of food for breakfast. She picks some fruit off the plate and eats as unobtrusively as she can manage. Miranda’s omelette looks full of vegetables and ham that Andy thinks must taste wonderful.
“I did not order so many plates of food for you to eat like a bird, Andrea.”
Andy looks up from her berries and to Miranda’s piercing eyes. Andy tilts her head, not quite understanding what Miranda wants from her. With all the grace of a queen, Miranda points her fork to the French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar.
“Eat,” she says firmly.
Andy hesitates for only a moment to make sure she’s not about to fail some strange test before grabbing a knife and fork. Andy keeps her eyes trained on the food in front of her as she eats, instead of on Miranda, who is definitely watching her.
___
Andy is about to step into a cab when her phone trills an incoming call. She doesn’t even have to glance at the caller ID to know who it is. She apologises to the driver, who shakes his head and drives off.
Andy inhales and answers the phone, putting a hand to her other ear to block out the noise around her. “Hi, Miranda.”
“Where are you?”
Andy looks up and surveys the people walking around her, the rising morning sun illuminating the roofs of buildings. She wonders if this might be the most she’ll see of Paris.
“Right outside the hotel.” Andy doesn’t know what’s got Miranda so ticked off, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Miranda replies acerbically. “I’ll be joining you within a few minutes.” Andy isn’t sure what to make of that. “Okay.” She bites her lip. “Should I—”
The call ends, and Andy just stares out into the street.
Within a few minutes, Miranda comes out the revolving door of the hotel. She looks like a million bucks, with those gold-rimmed sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, creamy Armani pantsuit tailored to perfection.
“I’ve called my driver,” Miranda says. “Keep an eye on the time while we’re out, we have that luncheon at twelve thirty.”
Andy nods. She isn’t sure if she’ll be able to eat anything then, considering how bloated she feels after that breakfast. Probably a good thing since she always has to be careful about what she eats at public gatherings, and usually leaves starving.
“Did you send the updated itinerary to everyone?” Miranda gives her a once-over, and Andy can practically feel the older woman’s eyes dragging over her form. As always, she holds her breath until Miranda gives her a curt nod of approval.
“Yes, I did. Also, um, I just got an email from Irv.” Andy prepares herself for the worst. Ever since Paris last year, the two have been butting heads in the workplace, an unspoken corporate war underway. It shows no signs of slowing down anytime soon.
“As did I.” Miranda’s face remains passive, spare for the hard line her mouth draws into. “It’s of zero consequence right now.” Not really, Andy thinks. It’s a nasty email, one clearly meant to antagonise Miranda, but Andy doesn’t disagree with her. It’d be a shame to be fired abroad (“or quit, for that matter,” says a bitter little voice in her head).
The contents of the email still bother her though. She just can’t figure out how Irv’s even able to stage these coups, even if they fail each time. Andy’s been thinking about it and she’s narrowed it down to two possibilities. One, Irv is as cunning as Miranda, if not more so-- which Andy believes is as likely as Miranda dying her hair black and wearing Birkenstocks-- or two, someone that knows Miranda personally is helping Irv dig up some dirt.
Of course, that doesn’t exactly narrow it down. Andy knows that Miranda has made a lot of enemies to get where she is, so the metaphysical list Andy has devised in the last few weeks is neither short nor concise. Andy never lets her panic rise too much though, because for as many enemies Miranda has made, she’s made a few very good allies, too, one of which Andy considers herself. So, perhaps her list of motives is short, but her list of evidence is far more plentiful, waiting for just the right moment to see the light of day.
“We’re meeting with Carlysle Fredenham,” Miranda says as they step into the car.
Andy knows the name but has to wrack her mind for a face and his significance as she fumbles to buckle her seatbelt.
“He’s the chairman of Stargate Publications.” Miranda says, apparently lacking the patience for Andy to figure it out herself.
“Elias-Clark’s rival.” Andy comes to the realisation that no, she’s not going to brunch. She’s going to war.
“Is it? I had no idea.” Miranda turns to look at her, eyes alight in a way that’s a little scary. Andy swallows, tries to ignore her heart plummeting and focus on the situation at hand. “By the way, the updated itinerary you forwarded includes this meeting.”
Miranda is making her move by having lunch with a known rival of Irv’s not an hour after that email. In the most simplest terms, it’s a threat, to serve as a reminder that she can leave Runway whenever she wishes, so that he knows better than to further cut down her magazine’s budget. Andy wonders if Miranda has taken into consideration that Irv may have another step to his plan or if she just assumes he will crack under the pressure.
Andy’s stomach hurts, and it’s not from breakfast.
When they pull up on yet another curb of Parisian affluence, Andy decides that whatever bind Miranda gets in, she’ll do her best to get her out. Nevermind the memory of running across Paris in five inch heels to have a door slammed in her face and a mildly villainous monologue in the back of a town car.
They’ve arrived at one of the finest cafes on this side of the Seine, Andy notes. French hipsters chat animatedly over coffee, wealthy businessman work side-by-side on their laptops, and tourists snap pictures of their desserts. It all seems very peaceful, but Andy knows it’s only a matter of time before the Stargate guy shows up, and Miranda clearly isn’t in the mood to play nice. So much for taking the extra time to go sightseeing.
“Don’t take notes, Andrea,” Miranda says as soon as they’re seated. It’s just as well, because Andy didn’t grab a notebook under the assumption that she’d be exploring Paris. She nods, unfolds the serviette and places it on her lap. It’s the best she can do without fidgeting, which Miranda hates.
“Is he late?” Andy dares to ask. She’s not sure why she feels confident enough to, but Miranda doesn’t reproach her. Instead she tilts her head at Andy, her gaze level and considering.
“No.”
“Oh.“
“I’m sure you’ve figured out why we’re here,” Miranda says, as she pulls the menu up.
“Uh, to meet with Mr. Fredenham?”
From above the menu, the older woman purses her lips, as if displeased with her poor answer. “We’re here to be seen,” Miranda says, her sharp eyes turning to something behind Andy.
“Watch and learn, Andrea,” she murmurs. Then a forced smile spreads across her face. “Carlysle, so good to see you!”
Carlysle is exactly how Andy thinks he should look. He is conventionally handsome and well-dressed; looks to be from old money with salt-and-pepper hair. He gives Miranda a charming, if not reserved smile.
“Miranda, it’s been too long.” They exchange air kisses before they both sit down again.
Miranda whispers something into his ear, sneaking a sidelong glance at Andy. Andy’s stomach twists, because whatever she’s saying can’t possibly be good. Carlysle just nods, his blank expression betraying nothing.
“This is Andrea,” Miranda says, gesturing to Andy as she maintains eye contact with Carlysle, that subtle smile still playing across her face. “Andrea, you’ve heard of Mr. Fredenham.”
The two of them exchange greetings, handshakes, and other pleasantries while Miranda sips a mimosa, watching them closely. Andy wants to tell her that she shouldn’t be drinking this early in the morning-- even if it’s breakfast alcohol and they’re in Paris-- but also doesn’t want to piss off Miranda before the day has even really started. She only half-heartedly pays attention to what Carlysle is saying, far more focussed on Miranda, who keeps checking her watch, as if impatient for them to finish talking despite asking him to meet her.
Eventually Miranda cuts into their conversation and diverts the topic to talk about Elias-Clark and Stargate, and Andy is immediately on high alert.
Miranda must see something in Andy’s face, because she narrows her eyes at her. “Andrea, do you mind leaving us for just a moment?”
Andy really wants to hear whatever they’re going to talk about. Hell, the suspense would probably kill her if she had to leave now. “Are you sure I can’t stay?” She looks between the both of them hopefully, and when Miranda’s lip curls into a sneer, her resolve remains unwavering. Andy needs to stay, for both her own sanity and Miranda’s, whom she knows will soon get fed up with Carlysle, and won’t be bothered to remember every detail from this exchange.
“I don’t see why not,” Carlysle says amicably, and Andy is pretty sure he doesn’t see the quick glare Miranda throws his way.
“Miranda dear, tell me, how is Runway ?”
“Spectacular, of course,” Miranda says with a smile, this one seeming almost genuine. “Sales are skyrocketing and we’ve sold twice as many copies of the last issue as we did two months ago. But you already knew that , didn’t you?” She affixes him with an intent look. “Let’s cut to the chase.”
Carlysle swallows visibly, and Andy is awed that even he’s scared of Miranda. “Right. Stargate is launching a fashion publication called Tournesol, and we have yet to find a suitable editor-in-chief for it. All of our candidates have proven to be inadequate.”
Andy’s heart goes cold, barely registering Miranda’s small nod.
“Mm, I heard about that. And what would you offer if I were to take this position?”
“Well, your salary would definitely go up, perhaps a little over two million? We’re investing a lot into this launch, so your spending would be fairly limited until things take off. If things go well, you’ll more or less be free to do as you please.”
There is no question of whether or not things would take off under Miranda’s supervision. They don’t call her a miracle worker for nothing.
“I’ll consider it,” Miranda says. She looks unfazed by this information. Andy on the other hand, is pretty sure she’s gaping like a dope and doesn’t hear what they say next. Should she really be surprised that Miranda wasn’t bluffing? No-- but her mind reels all the same. Andy doesn’t know if she’s concerned about her own career, or if this panic has something to do with Miranda’s well-being, despite the fact that the woman is pretty much untouchable.
“If you’ll excuse us, Carlysle, we really must go now,” Miranda says smoothly, already rising from her seat. Still in a daze, Andy checks her watch, and is startled to see that they’ve only been here for twenty-ish minutes.
Miranda types something into her phone before setting it down again. “Shall I pay the bill?”
Carlysle shakes his head and produces a wallet from his jacket. “No need. It was wonderful seeing you again, Miranda. And nice to meet you, Andrea.” Andy nods and watches them exchange parting air kisses before they go off into the street.
They’re in a pretty busy area, so they have to walk to reach the car, which is parked quite a while away. Their stroll down the stony road of the Seine is silent, spare for the gentle sloshing of the river, or occasional wisp of a conversation from a passerby.
They walk in a silence that seems almost companionable to Andy, especially with the way Miranda glances at her every now and again (it’s as if she forgets Andy is there). The way they simply walk side by side, taking in the sounds from the river and the people around it. Andy almost imagines they’re sightseeing together, but stomps on the thought nearly as soon as it’s conceived.
“This is only your second time in Paris.” Miranda phrases it like a question, but it’s not.
“Yes.”
Affixing her with a serious expression, the older woman adds, “There’s nothing like being a young woman that’s new to Paris, Andrea. Enjoy it while you can.” Her eyes beckon towards the skyline of the Notre Dame, sloping trees, the reflection of the sun cast upon the river’s water. “I’m sure you’ll spend plenty of time here, even if you think you’re too smart to work in fashion. Like most things, its charm fades over the years.”
Andy tries and fails to come up with a suitable response to that. It’s always awkward but in its own way, flattering, whenever Miranda lets real parts of herself trickle into their conversations. Even though there are few boundaries between them due to the nature of their jobs, Andy sometimes finds herself wishing they could talk more freely all the time. Which is ridiculous, because any sane person would value their privacy at work.
“The driver is waiting.” Miranda says suddenly, giving Andy another one of those sidelong looks. Then she strides off, leaving Andy floundering to catch up.
___
The luncheon is quick, because Miranda leaves not ten minutes after she arrives. Maybe no one else can see it but to Andy, the older woman looks just as winded as she feels. The smiles she gives the other attendees are strained, and a traitorous part of Andy worries for her. Once in the safety of the car, Andy decides to say something. “If you want, Nigel and I could bring notes from the show to you. And you could stay back at the hotel and uh, rest.”
“Fine,” Miranda sighs.
Andy tries not make her relief so obvious. She didn’t even put up a fight. “So. Um, we’ll have the rest of the day off?”
“No. We’re skipping this one showing, but if you recall correctly, there are several others scheduled for today. So we’ll have a couple free hours.” Miranda drums her fingers on the armrest. Andy is stunned. Miranda actually answering a question, point blank? The world must be coming to an end.
“Okay.”
“And there’s also the dinner later tonight with everyone,” Miranda says with a deep sigh, as she straightens out a nearly imperceptible crease on the side of her jacket. Andy almost forgot about that— it’s a really glamorous event. There are bound to be lots of peppy socialites flitting around, which she knows the older woman is dreading.
“My ex-husband will be there.”
Andy’s eyes go wide. “Um, wow. That’s uh...” Which one? she wants to ask but doesn’t.
“He will be exhausting,” Miranda growls, placing a hand to her temples delicately. “Gallivanting around the room with that teenager on his arm.”
The news of Mr. Tomlinson and his new fiancee, who was three decades his junior, had splashed in New York two months before with an almost nauseatingly desperate aim at Miranda. It certainly was made worse by the fact that the woman, Kelly, Andy thought her name was, was an editor at a lifestyle magazine. The domestic column, which really was something else. Andy could feel a surge of misplaced protectiveness rise up in her, which she pushed down with some zest.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Andy says pathetically, wishing she had something more interesting or useful to add. “Am... am I going with you?” She hopes Miranda doesn’t point out she’s being presumptuous.
Miranda seems to mull over this for a moment, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “I suppose...” She draws out that last word, as if uncertain. “Well, yes,” Miranda says, sounding more sure of herself, and nods unnecessarily.
Andy faces the window so Miranda can’t see her smile. “Cool.”
___
Andy appreciates the short respite from running around the city all day long, and takes the time to unwind a little. The occasional rustle of a newspaper or clearing of a throat serve as the only reminders that she’s not entirely alone. Other than that, Miranda is silent, but Andy becomes acutely aware of the older woman’s presence after an hour or so.
She glances up from the novel she’s reading— The Great Gatsby — and finds Miranda standing right in front of her with an expectant, but not demanding, look on her face. Once Andy meets her eyes, she starts talking.
“Nigel has gotten back from the previews, and has notes for you to pick up.” She runs a hand along the back of her neck and provides no further information, like where Nigel is. Once Andy’s out of the room, she shoots off a text to Nigel, who’s waiting for her in the lobby.
She finds him sitting at the lounge, and when he sees her, he raises an eyebrow.
“You look well. Don’t tell me you’ve been snoozing while I was out doing your job for you.” He hands her a folder stuffed with loose leaf paper, and Andy takes it with a grin.
“Good to see you too, Nigel.”
He makes a noncommittal hum. “You were missed greatly, Six, as well as your bonkers roommate.”
Andy snorts. “Miranda would kill you if she heard you calling her that.”
“Maybe so, but she isn’t here, hm?” He raises a finger to his lips, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. Andy can’t help but roll her eyes. “So, how is she?”
“Better than usual,” Andy offers. “But she is bringing me everywhere with her. Like tonight I’m going to that dinner, and this afternoon I got to stay in with her, and this morning I went to a meeting with-” she nearly says Carlysle Fredenham, but catches herself just in time. “-yeah.”
“Oh, my,” Nigel says wryly. “Keeping you on a tight leash, I see.”
Andy suddenly conjures up a mental image of Miranda keeping her on a leash and nearly dies at the thought. “She sure is. Metaphorically speaking.” She waits a beat. “I don’t get it, though. I know she likes to be alone, and I’m pretty sure she’s not happy sharing a room with me.”
“You’re wondering why she’s doing this.”
“Yeah.”
Nigel clicks his tongue. “My theory is that she has an insecure attachment style and likes having you around under the guise of necessity. Paris is always... difficult for her. You remember last year. And your little stunt back then didn’t help either. You know what I’m talking about.”
Wincing, Andy nods. “Yeah.” The version of herself that threw her phone in that fountain feels like a lifetime ago. Doing something like that now, even contemplating leaving her place at Runway, is inconceivable. How would she have even gotten a job elsewhere after such an unprofessional move like that?
It’s at that moment her phone starts ringing. She fumbles around in her purse for it, and hastily flips it open. “Miranda?”
“Andrea,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Get here now.” Miranda hangs up on her again, and Andy is left in a daze that always follows the abrupt end of a call, even after a year.
“I think I have to go,” she says finally, grimacing.
Nigel waves her off, already making a beeline for the bar. “Au revoir, Six.”
When Andy removes her keycard from the door and steps into the room, Miranda practically pounces on her. “Do you have them?” she demands.
Andy flinches, and fumbles a moment for the folder. She tries to get her heart rate back to normal, and Miranda snatches it from her hands, already flipping through them viciously. “Acceptable,” she says, and snaps it shut after what has to be less than a minute. “We’re leaving now.” She tosses the folder onto a nearby desk.
“W-what?”
“I know you’re not hard of hearing, Andrea. We’re going out.” Miranda pushes past Andy, who nearly falls over from the force of their collision. When Andy doesn’t follow her out the door, Miranda sighs audibly and beckons for her to follow. “What do you expect to wear to the dinner tonight when you didn’t pack any formalwear? Really, Andrea.”
Andy’s face grows warm. “You went through my closet?”
“ Our closet, by some incredible turn of events,” Miranda says waspishly. “Now, let’s go .”
The car is already waiting for them by the time they’re outside, and then they’re off to the French Runway building. Miranda talks to her again, and Andy manages to fudge her way through a conversation about architecture and wine. That they’re talking about those things only registers as out of the ordinary after the fact. Andy was too busy pretending to be a functioning human being in the moment.
When Andy approaches the front desk and in careful French asks the receptionist to get ahold of Eloise Beaumont— the newly appointed editor-in-chief of French Runway — the girl more or less ignores her. Well, until she sees Miranda and goes very, very pale. Soon they’re going up the elevator en route to the top floor.
One of Eloise’s assistants come rushing out of the hall, greeting them in a whirlwind of French. “My name is Veronique,” she says. “We heard that you need a dress. Come, come, quickly.”
As Andy is practically dragged to French Runway ’s Closet, Miranda is ushered into Eloise’s office. They meet each other’s eyes before they’re whisked off by frenzied assistants, Miranda’s lips quirked in amusement.
After an unreasonable amount of time in the Closet, Andy emerges. White organza flows around her neck and down to the ground, black belt cinching her waist. She’s not sure how her makeup looks— it had been difficult to catch a glimpse of her reflection when several makeup artists are hovering around her.
“Miranda Priestly, she said to meet you at the event,” Veronique says, her accent heavy but melodious. “There’s a car for you downstairs.” She gives Andy a tight smile. “You look très belle. S'amuser.”
“Merci.” They exchange goodbyes before Andy makes her way downstairs and into the waiting car. She takes the time to text Miranda of her whereabouts before realising that the woman never checks her phone during events. Great.
When she pulls up to the hotel, she’s blinded by flashbulbs and bombarded with reporters. Nigel materialises out of thin air to offer a hand to Andy, who gratefully takes it. He pulls her away from the cacophony of shutters clicking and clamour of people. “I’m glad to see you’ve made it here in one piece. Miranda’s in a mood and keeps asking me where you are.”
“I sent her a couple of texts but she never checks her phone,” Andy says glumly. “The traffic was bad and it took forever to escape French Runway .”
“Well, time to suck it up. By the way, I love your dress. Is that Versace?”
When she makes it to Miranda, after at least a ten minute delay, she receives a glare and a once over, and then the strangest thing happens. Miranda’s face of displeasure— at being kept waiting for her assistant, surely— fairly melts from her face. A blank curiosity is left in its wake which makes Andy nervous. Is she wearing the wrong thing?
She overcomes it quickly, and nods (twice) before stepping up beside Andy and telling her to stick close. Andy does, of course, and she murmurs the names in a bejewelled ear all evening. She is less like a sentry compared to the Runway benefit at the museum benefit the year before, and more like a colleague schmoozing with champagne in her hands and names on her lips. It was all going really well until Andy hears the most frustratingly forced laugh. She turns and sees that she’s not imagining it.
Stephen is here, and he’s very, very drunk.
The woman on his arm is not a teenager at all, but she is certainly younger than Miranda. She must be just shy of thirty, and she’s slender and blonde and very pretty. She also seems mortified by her fiance. And Stephen really is trying to one-up himself compared to the last event Andy saw him at. His glass is full but it’s clear to everyone that it had been drained a few times too many. Miranda, from Andy’s periphery, purses her lips and steps closer.
When Stephen spies Miranda, Andy really does just move in front of the older woman, making eye contact with the drunkard and glaring at him while guiding Miranda to another group of people at the party. She whispers all of their names to her and keeps an eye on Mr. Tomlinson and Kelly. Andy only feels remorse for the blonde as she pulls her fiance to the other side of the room, but is selfishly glad that it’s not Miranda anymore. She wishes Kelly all the luck in the world. Kelly’s head turns in Andy’s direction, and across the room their eyes meet in an awkward but necessary exchange. The message is obvious; they need to keep Miranda and Stephen away from each other. Kelly ducks her head apologetically before redirecting her attention to her obnoxious date.
As she looks to Miranda, who is glowing despite the interruption, she wishes herself whatever luck is left. Because god, she thinks as Miranda tips her head back to laugh, she will certainly need it.
Unfortunately, Miranda seems to notice something’s amiss in that uncanny way of hers, narrowing her eyes at Andy while still engaged in the conversation at hand. She maintains her dazzling smile, ever the faithful assistant, and guides Miranda in a route around the room with the clear purpose of avoiding Stephen. Kelly, it seems, does the same, and after only half an hour, the young woman can be seen making a quiet exit with her inebriated partner. Andy breathes in relief before turning to Miranda’s suspicious gaze.
“You’re not subtle at all,” Miranda says once they have no people to entertain. Andy flounders for just a moment, watching as Miranda sips some champagne nonchalantly.
“You’re welcome,” Andy says. She doesn’t even stutter.