Archive of Our Own

“Emily.”

“Yes, Miranda?”

Miranda gestured at the back of the security guard who’d just headed towards the elevators. “Get that box back from him.”

A line formed between Emily’s eyes as she glanced at the retreating guard. “Sorry, um—Andy’s box?”

Miranda flexed her jaw, and it was all she needed to get her assistant hobbling after the man.

Andrea’s desk had sat empty for four days after Miranda returned from Paris, but she hadn’t allowed anyone to touch it. She wasn’t entirely sure why, nor was she particularly interested in interrogating that matter any further, but she assumed that part of her hoped that her second assistant would come to her senses and return to work after throwing that silly fit abroad.

But Andrea did not return, neither to her desk nor the calls that Miranda had Emily place for the first three days. Each one went straight to voicemail, and on the fourth day Emily nervously entered Miranda’s office to let her know that the phone carrier could no longer track the phone outside of France.

“Well,” Miranda had said through gritted teeth, “Did you remind them that we pay tens of thousands of dollars for our Runway accounts, not to mention discounted advertising?”

“I did, but they said there’s nothing they can do if a phone gets lost.” Emily wrung her hands from where she’d clasped them before her, and Miranda rolled her eyes, exhausted by her incompetence and bored by the conversation.

But all of her frustration with Emily did nothing to quell the pit in Miranda’s stomach or the ache in her chest every time she glanced at the empty desk — which, unfortunately, happened multiple times a day. She’d even turned towards it expectantly one morning, instinctively looking for what outfit Andrea had chosen that day, only to be disappointed again by the empty chair and darkened computer monitor.

She was, however, intrigued by the plentiful neon post-its stuck on various surfaces, most covered with messy but fastidious bullet points. Others seemed more sparse, the cursive a little neater, sometimes with a small scribble or illustration. Miranda had just begun to lean forward to look closer when Nigel swept into the office with a rack of the latest Bill Blass collection, and she’d turned on her heel before he could ask what she was doing.

She’d only just sat down at her desk the following morning when she noticed the security guard crouched on the ground near Andrea’s desk, digging in drawers and pulling cords from various places. She looked over her laptop screen to watch him fill the banker’s box, and it was only when he’d begun to walk away when she decided to call in Emily.

Her assistant returned a moment later, crutches clacking loudly as the security guard trailed her. Miranda ignored them both, feeling oddly embarrassed by her request, and was thankful that Emily at least knew her well enough not to question the decision, and had the guard set the box on a side table before they both departed silently.

It screamed for attention in Miranda’s peripheral vision for the remainder of the day, and she was driven to distraction through every meeting and run-through until sundown. No one dared to ask what the ugly brown box was doing in her office, though Nigel had given it a discerning once-over multiple times.

To Emily’s surprise and poorly-masked dismay, Miranda sent her home early. With Andrea gone, Emily had been nothing short of desperate to prove herself to Miranda, and her ego was more easily bruised than usual. She had brought in five potential replacements for Miranda to interview that week, each one worse than the last, and was very clearly at the end of her rope.

No matter, Miranda thought, watching her limp away in her stilettos and leather dress. Girls like her always weeded themselves out eventually.

When she was certain that Emily was gone, she finally got up and stood over the box. It was only halfway full, but its contents were a mess, clearly tossed in blindly. Miranda traced the perforated cardboard edge, suddenly nervous, and before she really knew what she was doing, she was carrying the box to Andrea’s desk, pulling out the Herman Miller chair, and sitting down.

She’d never sat at an assistant’s desk before, and had hardly ever stood behind them with the exception of a few rare visits to the kitchen. It was a bizarre experience, and as she turned to look through the glass and into her own office, she was seized with a memory that she’d been trying to push away since returning from Paris.

The first time that she’d caught Andrea staring at her from this very desk had been nearly two months prior. Miranda had been leafing through the latest Variety in between meetings and, bored by its contents, looked up to see if the accessories team was on their way yet. But all she saw was Andrea, her chin perched on her palm, and her big eyes grew wide when they met Miranda’s almost immediately. She spun around in her chair, smacking her knee in the process as she looked away.

“Ow,” Miranda heard her hiss.

“Can you keep it down?” Emily snapped from her own desk. “I’ve been on hold for a bloody hour and if you keep screaming I won’t hear the receptionist.”

“Sorry,” Andrea grumbled, and Miranda wished that she would turn around and face her. She always looked beautiful when she blushed.

The first time that Andrea had caught Miranda staring was barely two weeks after that first incident. Her second assistant had worn an infuriatingly alluring Chloe dress, the luxurious fabric clinging to her curves and highlighting her pale, supple skin. Miranda had delivered her morning instructions with her eyes glued to her laptop, not trusting herself to keep her gaze from wandering to the dress’s low neckline and edging-on-inappropriate short hem.

But from the privacy of her desk a few hours later, she stared. Andrea was standing in front of her own desk with the phone to her ear, leaning over the inbox as she scribbled in her notebook. The strappy Jimmy Choos that she’d chosen accentuated her long, muscular legs, which flexed as she nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Miranda only realized that Andrea had hung up the phone when she looked up to see the girl staring back at her.

This time she caught Andrea’s blush as it began, and she was the one to whirl around in her chair, reaching for an empty file folder just for something to do.

She felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory as she leaned back in Andrea’s desk chair. Former desk chair, she reminded herself. It was only then that she noticed something bright pink stuck inside the sliding keyboard drawer. She slid it out slowly, and felt her eyebrows lift when she discovered that the entire surface was covered in pink post-its with Andrea’s handwriting.

rouge guerlain #402
reddish brown, closer to pink
think, mink, sink

makes my heart sink

Miranda instinctively touched her lips, which were painted, as they often were, in that exact shade. Blinking quickly, she set the post-it aside and reached for another.

a kiss is just a kiss
a sigh is just a sigh
the fundamental things apply
as time goes by

She narrowed her eyes as she traced the words, the melody coming to her quickly. She and the twins had watched Casablanca a few weeks prior, and she inhaled sharply when she remembered that Andrea had been the one that she’d asked to put it on her Netflix queue. She suddenly wished that she would have asked Andrea if she’d ever seen it, or what movies she enjoyed.

Miranda caught herself before she reached for the next post-it. There were at least ten more, and she suddenly felt like she was intruding on something private. Unsure if she was willing to reach some point of no return, she slid the drawer shut and reached for the box instead.

She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed by its contents. Emily had likely gone through it first and removed any Runway property, so the box was mostly trash: broken pens, an unopened packet of gum, a half-used sample of Lancôme hand lotion. A small, plastic solar-powered flower toy was buried under a giant ULINE catalog, its petals moving lazily when Miranda pulled it out.

Also underneath the ULINE catalog was something that smelled so familiar that Miranda actually looked up, expecting to see Andrea come through the door. It was a small sample bottle of the Chanel fragrance that her assistant had come to favor over the last few months. The scent was light and citrusy, often calling to mind the first day of summer when Andrea would walk past her. She took a shaky breath as she pulled it out and set it on the desk.

The final item was a mousepad with a large, amateurish logo of a justice scale, a gavel, and… Miranda squinted, trying to focus without her glasses.

Her eyebrows twitched as she took this in: yet another reminder of how little she knew Andrea, after feeling so deeply convinced in Paris that she’d gotten to know the girl better than anyone. She hadn’t even known what Andrea’s parents did, or if she liked them — did she have siblings? A family pet?

Clenching her jaw, Miranda tossed the now-empty box on the ground and slid the items back inside, enjoying the drama of the thumps and clacks as the items collided. She almost never threw things, and hardly ever wished to, but she felt a brief reprieve from the twisting in her gut once it had all hit the ground. She inhaled slowly before pulling the keyboard drawer back out and pulling off another post-it.

osteria nando
la pecora
sandro’s

The girls’ favorite neighborhood restaurants. Miranda couldn’t recall ever having a conversation with Andrea about this, but she occasionally had her assistants have dinner delivered to her home. This felt like an odd place to keep this information — each one was written in a different color of pen, as if it had been added later — but something about it made her chest feel warm.

Journalism without a moral position is impossible
Every journalist is a moralist. It’s absolutely unavoidable
Marguerite Duras

Miranda blinked. She’d paraphrased that in a debate with Nigel following a run-through; he’d been going on about some issue with the mayor and the Post’s coverage of it. She had no idea that Andrea had been listening.

But she’d been listening a lot, Miranda realized, as she pulled off post-it after post-it of very particular information either about or from her, none of which Andrea would have needed to do her job.

all or nothing at all - frank sinatra

The song had been playing in the corridor at the Plaza, and Miranda had caught herself smiling as they waited for the elevator.

It was a good song.

Someone might look into its meaning far too much.

And there were more: more song lyrics, more lists of fragrances and artwork and movies and quotes, of throwaway comments that Miranda had made and crossed-out daydreams that she couldn't totally interpret, even if she'd wanted to. Her cheeks were burning by the time she reached the final note; she felt as if she were reading someone’s diary and could be caught at any moment.

miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda miranda

Andrea had left these post-its here, had collected and stored them like some sort of scrapbook, including one that was just her name. In cursive, in print, in tiny scribbles and sprawling lines, like someone testing the way each letter felt in their hand.

Miranda wasn’t sure how long she sat staring at the final note, but the sun had gone down and the motion-sensor hallway lights had long been dim when she finally reached for her phone to call Roy. She shoved the box back under the desk, then stopped to take the mousepad out, along with every post-it.

“Andrea Sachs’ home,” she told Roy as he opened the door for her. To his credit, he was paid enough to never ask questions, and as he pulled up to a three-story walkup twenty minutes later, he shut the car door quietly with a promise to circle the block until she called.

With a deep breath, she adjusted her jacket, fixed her hair, and pressed the buzzer for the unit labeled 307 NATANDY SACHS. A cacophony of static came from the speaker, followed by the click of the front door, and Miranda barreled through before she could change her mind.

When she reached the third floor, Andrea was already peering out of her front door, and her eyebrows reached her hairline when she finally saw Miranda.

“Oh my god, um… hi?” she said, holding her fingers up in a pathetic wave as she looked Miranda up and down before gluing her eyes to the ceiling.

Miranda crossed her arms, the post-its crinkling in her armpit as she stared down her now-ex-second-assistant. Andrea’s eyes followed the sound, and her eyes grew wider than Miranda had ever seen them when she saw the neon pink paper.

“Oh no.”

Miranda smirked. “Oh yes.”

Andrea waved her hands, her long brown hair shimmering in the dim hallway lighting as she shook her head. She wore almost no makeup, and her jeans were ill-fitting and top two seasons old. But she looked beautiful, and even though Miranda’s heart was pounding, her chest also felt a little less tight for the first time in a week, and she held out the post-its until Andrea reached for them with a shaky hand and a grimace.

“I read them all, and…” Miranda opened her Birkin and produced the mousepad. “This as well.”

Andrea blinked, looking dazed as she accepted the mousepad, then bit her lip before looking up at Miranda. “But… why?”

“You left them there for a reason, didn’t you?” Miranda said. “You wanted me to see them.”

“I…” Andrea looked close to tears, but her expression held none of the misery or anxiety that Miranda had seen in the past. It was more guarded, and her voice was steady when she continued. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Well, I have.”

Andrea pressed her lips together, and Miranda rolled her eyes.

“Are you going to let me in or not? You wrote a ridiculous amount of these — I wouldn't be surprised if it took all night to get through them all.”

She saw Andrea swallow, but her mouth curled into a tiny smile as she stepped aside to let Miranda in. “All night, huh?”