Chapter Text
Miranda Priestly was late. She was never late, normally, if she could help it. She hated being late. But today there was just nothing for it. First, one of her feature writers had called her with some excuse as to why the article he was supposed to send her wasn’t ready yet. She had chewed him out and told him not to bother, they wouldn’t be covering the textile industry in Nepal any longer. And neither would he be required to show up at his desk again. Then, already behind schedule, her daughters called her from their father’s place. Asking her if they could join him on a trip to Florida next month. And of course, that needed to be discussed and decided right that minute and not later tonight when they would return home. Suffice to say, by the time Miranda was ready to leave the house there was no way she would be making it on time.
“Darling, where are you? You’re on your way right? We just sat down and ordered you a drink. Please get here soon.”
“That drink better be cold still when I get there. In 5. That’s all.”
Carrie looked at her phone to check that indeed, the connection was broken. Miranda had hung up on her. As she always did. She chuckled and looked at Samantha and Charlotte, sitting at the other side of the table. “She’s on her way.”
At 45, at the top of her profession, an icon in the world of fashion and a powerhouse in New York publishing, not to mention twice divorced and mother to 10 year old twins Caroline and Cassidy, Miranda could honestly say that her only three real friends in the world were those ladies waiting for her for Sunday brunch. Well, them, and her dear colleague Nigel. But he was her colleague. So that didn’t really count. Or did it? Most of her colleagues would smilingly stab her in the back and dance on her grave, she was sure of it. Former colleagues as well. But she wasn’t in charge because she made friends and gave everyone a gold star. She was the boss because she was the best, had vision and demanded perfection. Apparently not everyone was able to appreciate that. Anyway, for as long as Miranda could remember, the four friends had been doing Sunday brunch. And she always made sure to be there, unless she was out of town for work. Always. And she was rarely late.
It didn’t just suddenly start with Sunday brunch, of course. In her early twenties, freshly returned from an internship at French Runway in Paris, Miranda had landed an assistant job to the senior features editor at Vogue in New York and was looking for a place to stay. Carrie’s roommate had just moved in with her boyfriend in Brooklyn and she had posted a message on the message board at a supermarket in her neighborhood. Miranda, who was temporarily staying at the apartment of a colleague who was on a photoshoot in Japan, found the notice and the rest, as they say, was history. They shared the apartment for a few years until Miranda had saved enough money (and got a pay raise when she made junior editor at Runway) to move out to a cute, tiny studio in West Village.
Samantha was an assistant first, and later a sales manager, at a large international fashion label. Miranda and she ran in to each other, quite literally, during a Vogue event, and became friends soon after. Charlotte was a friend of Carrie from college, who worked at an art gallery and was doing such a great job that she was soon allowed to organize exhibitions by herself. Carrie herself was an aspiring journalist who always thought she would become a famous war correspondent, but got stuck writing first the obituaries and later a small fashion column for a tiny New York newspaper.
They were all of an age, give or take a few years, and by the time they were 25 the four were thick as thieves. During the week careers took priority, but on the weekends, whenever possible, their nights lasted until early morning. Boys came and went and were discussed and debated in great detail over drinks. Then men came and went and were quite seriously evaluated. Until they didn’t. Go, that is.
Miranda was the first to move away from the West Village, to the Upper East side, to a beautiful brownstone townhouse close to the park. At 34 she was the youngest Editor in Chief of Runway in its history and this house was her first major purchase after years of investing. She shared the townhouse first with her husband James and not long after, with their twin daughters as well. By the time they were five, James had moved out. And Stephen, about three years ago, moved in.
Samantha was the next to change location, not too far away, to a large penthouse loft in Soho. She was now a VC at a major label and was on again – off again seeing Smith. Lately more on than off. She’d met Jerry (“but I go by Smith”) while she was out for a business dinner. Their connection was instant, even though because of the age gap, Samantha had been reluctant to admit this.
A few years after Miranda’s move, Charlotte met Harry, who lived in a nice apartment on Park Avenue, and Charlotte and all her art she had collected over the years, moved there as well. Their daughter Lily was only a few years younger than Miranda’s twins and went to the same school, Dalton.
Carrie stayed in the West Village though. Aiden came, Berger went, Ben hung around a while, Aleksandr almost stayed. Almost. But Carrie loved the Village, loved her job as a lifestyle columnist at a slightly larger New York newspaper and loved life. So all was well. At least she could walk to their favorite Sunday brunch spot.