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I.
“A Pride-themed issue of Runway?”
Andy blinked, as if expecting Nigel to laugh upon her opening her eyelids and say of course not, have you finally gone certifiably insane? Do we need to have you certified? Do we need to gather a psychiatric ward worthy couture wardrobe? Because we can do that, darling. We can absolutely do that.
“Wait. You're serious?”
“I am always perfectly serious, Six. Yes, we are running a Pride themed issue of Runway.”
“Miranda agreed to that?”
“I don’t know why you're surprised. It was her idea. Honestly, do you really think she…you do realise I've known her for many more years than my ego would like to contemplate, and would I have worked under her that long if -”
“- Jeez, I didn't mean it like that. I'm not saying she's homophobic! Just that with the psychotic level of supervision anything in an issue has to go through - I'm not sure she's that well versed in, um -”
“Gay culture?”
“Well, yeah.”
“We're talking about a woman who started in this industry in the ‘70s, Six.”
“Okay, okay. Maybe I'm wrong.”
Nigel smirked at her. “I'd say you're hoping you're wrong.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?”
“I've a pretty good gaydar. As I should have. Every time you ogle - sorry, look at her it goes off louder than twenty clackers trotting their little heels down to reception to hand in their passes after being fired.”
“I - Nigel!”
“Hmm, a denial that is not.”
Andy spluttered, then glared balefully at him.
“Can you - not? Not here, anyway. Some of us have an apartment lease expiring in two weeks and would really like to still have a job while finding a new one.”
“Come on. What's the worst that could happen?”
“We both know. Actually, maybe we don't. There's probably an obscure method of ancient excruciating torture unknown to any other living soul that she's perfected. Or something she came up with herself. Gotta be the latter, actually. She's way too creative to copy someone else.”
“What an interesting way to say ‘I'm so desperate to deflect from the fact I'm head over choos with the boss that I've resorted to churning out ramblings worthy of Page Six.”
“I am not! I'm just saying that I don't think a wildly successful, wildly straight woman who expects absolute perfection in everything in life would take very well to being told - well. That.”
“Hmm, I'm not so sure.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You love me anyway.”
“God help me, I do.”
“And someone else.”
“I'm going to need more than God’s help with that one, Nige.”
Unbeknownst to the two Runway employees who were definitely not being paid to engage in such conversation, said exchange was not confined to the ears of the contributors. If either had glanced up, they might have spotted a flick of silver retreating around the corner of the door to The Closet.
II.
“Ahn-drey-ah. Seventeen Hermès scarves, five samples from the upcoming Dior spread, three models with no recent history of substance abuse - don't look at me like that, they are not that difficult to find, recent only means five years - my steak at twelve forty-nine this afternoon, not a minute before or after. Oh, and The Price of Salt.”
“The Price of Salt?”
“Do I have to add deafness to the long litany of idiosyncrasies you bring to this office?”
“Sorry, Miranda. Do you just want one price? Or multiple?”
“What do you think?”
Even in her present state of confusion, Andy was capable of recognising a rhetorical question.
“Yes, Miranda.”
Unfortunately, while she might have been capable of discerning a rhetorical question, it appeared she was less adept at actually understanding the substantive nature of what she was being asked to do. Because at twelve fifty p.m on the dot Miranda finished slicing her steak into identically sized ribbons, reached across the desk, pinched with manicured thumb and index finger, and gingerly picked up the meticulously curated spreadsheet detailing the comparative costs of sodium chloride across New York City supermarkets and catering suppliers with such an expression of consummate disgust that she might have been holding one of Patricia's waste bags instead.
(Not that such a thing would ever occur. Removing the evidence that the youngest Priestly experiences basic bodily functions is Andy's job).
“What,” she queried softly, “is this?”
“The Price of Salt, Miranda. Is - is something wrong? Should I find more prices?”
Miranda's eyes fluttered closed. The sheet flutterd, too, drifting to the floor as Miranda’s newly free hand drifted to pinch the bridge of her nose instead.
“Andréa. Tap the side of your pretty little skull.”
Another bizarre request. She obliged anyway.
“My, Andréa. Remarkably, I heard no echoing. In the absence of having precisely nothing in your head at all as a reason, would you care to explain why you thought this” - she waved at the desk - “was acceptable?”
Andy opened her mouth to apologise, or protest, or something, and was abruptly cut off.
“No, no. That wasn't a question. You see, when I ask questions, I expect answers. And if you had an answer worth my time, you would not have given me this.”
She took a bite of steak. Chewed it with slow, aggressive delicacy. Then:
“I did not want a high-school quantitative study of supermarket seasonings. What I would like, and I trust you might now be remotely capable of acquiring, is a copy of the seminal Highsmith novel from 1952.”
Andy nodded. What else could she do? It's a miracle she still has a job, and one which she had no desire to jeopardise.
“That's all.”
She buys three copies, just in case. A spare for Miranda, and one for her. She tells herself it's because she wants to expand her literary consumption beyond non-fiction. It is definitely not because she is unduly curious about her boss’ choice in casual reading matter.
Curiosity does not quite kill the cat that night, but it comes rather close. Andy walked into Runway the next day a little more briskly than usual, and if her eyes appear abnormally wide, it is not from the sleep deprivation, but the reason for said three hours total of rest. If she bore a greater resemblance to a racoon on acid than usual, so be it. She excuses herself. Had she been asked to bet on Miranda’s literary tastes, she would have lost more money than the entire cumulative worth of The Closet. An age-gap romance between a wealthy older pale-haired woman escaping an unhappy marriage and a financially precarious younger brunette emerging from a failed relationship would have seemed more risky a punt than a textbook on quantum mechanics. Or Playboy magazine. And Miranda despised Playboy magazine, as she had informed Andy in no uncertain terms a couple of months before - ‘tasteless, classless, fake and bereft of culture. And always far too few clothes to look at.’ Andy had remained silent, and spent the rest of that afternoon torturing herself over whether the use of the word ‘always’ implied that Miranda had looked at said magazine with a degree of frequency.
At seven twenty-three, Miranda swept into the office, gracefully threw her vintage bag and fur coat onto Emily’s desk, then pivoted around and slowly placed her leather gloves onto the Andy’s own. That was the point when Andy discovered that it is in fact possible to choke on air.
That afternoon it happened again, when Miranda asked her to source a train set for the twins, and Emily enquired if her appetite requires her to eat ‘raw oxygen’ as well as food. Andy decided it to be less humiliating to ignore the comment than to explain that Miranda has taken to cosplaying both in action and outfit the protagonist of a lesbian novel. Even if she did explain, she would sound positively mad. She must be reading too much into it. Projecting. Unless - no. Her life is not fiction.
III.
“Why has Patricia got a carabiner attached to her collar?” Nigel hissed.
“I don't know!” Andy weakly protested. “I had nothing to do with it. She just - showed up wearing it.”
“Shame my vice is alcohol and not gambling, really. If I were a betting man I'd be putting down an advance on the destruction of a certain closet.”
“Better than selling it to Page Six.”
“Indeed.”
Two days later, Miranda safely ensconced away at a working lunch, Nigel appeared in the doorway of the office, pale as the grave.
“This is bad, Six.”
“What is?”
“I enquired after Patricia’s new accessory. And do you know what she said to me?”
“Oh God. Go on.”
An immaculately raised eyebrow and tilt of the head comprise the non-verbal start of a scarily accurate Miranda impression.
“Really, Nigel. I have standards. It would have clashed with my earrings.”
IV.
“This is new.”
“I know. Miranda’s just had it refurbished.”
“How lovely,” Serena quipped. “Her closet - sorry, office - door is quite literally made of glass. Word on the street is that The Closet is next.”
Andy wanted to cry.
V.
“I genuinely cannot believe I am saying this, but this is the one time you are more experienced than me. Ridiculous. Have you any idea how humiliating it is to ask you of all people for advice?”
“Not really, Em. I’d need to know what exactly the advice you’re asking me for is first.”
Emily huffed, but Andy could tell it was one borne of embarrassment rather than anger.
“Someone has asked me on a date. I’ve said yes.”
“Okay?”
“You’re impossible. It’s - she. Ugh. She’s a woman. And I know you’ve been on dates with women, and I haven’t, but -”
“You want to?”
“Fine. Yes. Yes, I've said yes and I have absolutely no idea what to do. Or say.”
“It's kind of the same principle, Em. Just do what you would normally do on any date. Don’t be presumptuous, chill out. Only difference is if all goes well and she likes you back you’ll have a U-Haul turn up outside your apartment in no time. Oh, relax. I’m only joking. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you meet her?”
“I do mind you asking that, actually.”
Andy threw up her hands in a parody of surrender. “Hey, hey. I’m just trying to help.”
Emily shifted from foot to foot.
“Hang on, do I know her?”
(Andy really, really hopes she knows her.)
The shifting increased.
“It’s Serena, isn’t it?”
Emily’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Uh, gaydar?” Andy neglected to mention the fact said queer antennae did not belong to her, but instead resided inside of an immaculately smooth head approximately two corridors away.
“Christ, not you too. Nigel’s bad enough. Leave the slang out of Runway, ok? Save it for the dive bars you undoubtedly frequent.”
Andy rolled her eyes, but understood that the rudeness, unusual for even Emily, had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Emily’s own awkwardness.
“For what it’s worth, she’s liked you for ages. You’ll be fine.”
The expression she was greeted with resembled that of an offering on ice at the fishmongers. Except Emily appeared neither dead nor unhappy, merely flabbergasted.
“I’m not even - what? Right. Right, are you sure there’s no general pointers you have for dates with women?”
“Lose the nails, Emily.” Both heads swivelled in tandem to see Miranda closing the door to her office behind her. She did not bother to look at them as she stalked past.
“Sorry, Miranda?”
“Your hands appear to have mutated into those hideous implements found in cheap, rigged lucky dip arcade machines. Terribly impractical. Even if that’s not a consideration for a first date, initial impressions are important, and those” - she sneered - “scream that one is either hideously clueless or spectacularly lazy. The incompetence in this office is staggering.”
With that, she swooped out into the corridor.
“What did she mean by that?” Emily appeared vaguely pained.
“Trust me,” Andy spluttered. She didn't trust herself to speak any louder than a strangled hush. “You don't want to know. Not yet, anyway. If it’s what I think it is. I cannot believe this. I cannot believe her.”
“What does your - um” She lowered her voice, as if speaking more quietly will absolve her of the verbal blasphemy of using slang within the hallowed halls of Elias-Clarke. “What does your, er…gay-dar read there?” A weakly waved hand in the direction of their recently departed boss was superfluous to indicating precisely what (or rather, who) ‘there’ was referring to.
“Error 404. Gay icon, three failed straight marriages, three hundred and three mixed messages. Who the fuck knows.”
Cue Emily’s turn to look sympathetically at her, and Andy’s turn to defensively glare.
VI.
“Your coffee, Miranda.”
“Acceptable. I require samples for the Versace spread. In these colours.” She gestured towards her own outfit.
Andy blinked. “Yes, Miranda.” She walked out of the office and towards The Closet on unsteady legs. Said trembling had nothing to do with the obscenely high heels she thought were a good idea for some reason that morning.
“Oh my God, Nigel,” Andy muttered, burying her head in her hands.
“Spill it, Six. What’s she done now?”
“It’s what she hasn't done. I swear, there's queerbaiting and then there's this. Have you seen her today?”
“No. Should I be scared? More scared than usual?”
“She’s a walking semaphore! Pink-blue-purple everything.”
“You're telling me Miranda Priestly is up there” - he roughly waved his hand in the space above his head - “dressed as the bisexual flag?”
“Unbelievably, yes I am. It could be for the theme of this month’s issue, though.”
Nigel instinctively mimicked her position- or at least tried to. It was rather difficult, he found, to rake one’s hands through one’s hair when one does in fact not have any hair to speak of.
“Please, Six,” he groaned. “Please. This is unbearable. Just take one for the team.”
“The team?”
“The one you play for. The one she seems to as well, as of late.”
“Believe me, Nige. If I didn’t value my continued heartbeat, I would.”
“Aw, Six. I always knew you were a romantic.”
VII.
“Ahn-drey-ah.”
“Yes, Miranda?”
“The Gala. Everyone is obligated to dress in a manner inspired by an Old Hollywood figure. I will not have you embarrassing me, and Nigel is sourcing our costumes. Would you prefer to use Katherine Hepburn or Greta Garbo as inspiration?”
“Um - “
“I find myself inspired by Marlene Dietrich. Nigel informs me the Met is sending a menswear tuxedo of hers to be picked up by you in twenty-five minutes. Now, my question?”
Andy was going to brutally murder Nigel Kipling. She'd invent a whole new method of death for this. She'd suffered enough nocturnal little ones on Miranda’s account in the solitude of her own apartment already.
The need for plotting imminent collegiate annihilation only increased after the Gala. Miranda’s tux was bad enough. The provision of a thoroughly complementary Hepburn-esque outfit for Andy was worse. The “Andrea, Nigel appears to have forgotten a cufflink” and prompt acceptance of one of Andy’s own - quickly fastened around Miranda’s wrist - trumped both of them. She had spent the rest of the night with one hand in her pocket, and the knowledge that they were wearing two halves of one set had her head spinning in a way alcohol could only dream of touching.
VIII
Andy groaned as she folded the cardboard lid onto yet another moving box. Her lease being up in two days - and having failed thus far to secure a new apartment elsewhere - meant she should probably ask Doug if she could crash on his couch until she had managed to sort out her accommodation situation. But she had forty-eight hours yet. She'd do it tomorrow.
A sudden revving outside cut through the night, making her jump and the duct tape to crinkle. It progressively increased in volume - whoever the driver was, they weren't very good, to say the least - until it sounded like it was right outside her apartment building. Then the sound abruptly cut out. Pure curiosity more than anything induced her to scuttle over to the window overlooking the street and peer down.
The source of the late-night disturbance was a white van. Specifically, a U-Haul, with “$19.95: Rent This Van!” emblazoned across the back door in an unsightly vivid hue of green. It honked once, then twice more, the notes impatient and sharp. Catching a glimpse of the building's reflection in the mirror of the store opposite, it struck Andy that her light seemed to be the only one lit in the entire building. Odd. She turned away from the window, only to be stopped by five more sharp honks. Whatever the driver could possibly be wanting, well. It was apparently her. And she had no wish for her parting gift to the apartment block to be several noise complaints.
Two minutes later, Andy had padded down the stairs and slowly latched the front door of the complex open. The window of the drivers’ side rolled down, and if it weren't contrary to basic physics, she would not have been shocked to hear a dull thunk of her jaw hitting the floor.
Miranda Priestly. In a U-Haul. With a - oh God. A cerulean baseball cap perched backwards on her silver swoop, somehow managing to appear crownlike.
“What?” Miranda asked imperiously. “Is this not how the sapphics do it?”
“Do it?”
“Do keep up, Andrea. Contrary to how it may seem, I don't have all night. I am in fact aware that your lease expires in two days. Is deigning to operate this hideous contraption masquerading as a poor excuse for a vehicle not how I am supposed to go about asking you to move into my house?”
FINIS