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“Another divorce… Splashed across page six. Just imagine what they’re going to write about me.”
Miranda Priestly dangled her shades on the edge of her thumb, looking from the luxurious paintings, to the decorative box overflowing with fresh flowers, to Andrea Sachs. The woman was sitting just slightly hunched over her notepad, lips parted and eyes holding a soft gaze that conveyed a thousand different apologies. Unable to hold her stare for much longer, Miranda glanced away again, focusing instead on the lavish designs of the rug.
Her mind wandered to the press headlines.
“Dragon Queen. Career-obsessed. Snow queen drives away another Mr. Priestly.” A sigh escaped her, trembling against her will. “Rupert Murdoch should cut me a check for all the papers I sell for him.”
There was a pause between the two women. It only lasted a few seconds, though it was unmistakably heavy.
“I don’t…” When Miranda finally looked up at Andrea, her eyes were startlingly red-rimmed. She whispered, pressing her lips into a thin line, “I don’t really care what anyone writes about me.” The editor shook her head. “Oh my… My girls. It’s just so unfair to the girls. It’s just…”
Doe-eyes watched her break with far too much compassion than Miranda deserved.
“...It’s just another disappointment,” Miranda finished simply, with an uncharacteristic shrug of her shoulders. “Another let-down. Another father…Figure. Gone. Anyway, the point is… Point is…” She lifted the pages before her and flipped through the first few. “The point is, we really need to figure out where to place Donatello because she’s barely speaking to anyone.”
Oddly enough, her assistant didn’t move to pick up her pencil, nor turn her attention to the files on the coffee table.
Instead, something in Andrea’s eyes hardened.
Without a word, the young woman set her notepad aside and rose from her chair, moving swiftly into the kitchen. The clink of glass. The sound of running water. After a few seconds, Andrea returned to the parlor and sat beside Miranda, shoving a glass of water into her grasp.
“Let’s take a break,” she said suddenly.
Miranda stared. “What?”
“We can do this later,” Andrea insisted. “What can I do for you?”
“You can do your job,” Miranda spat, only to have a blanket—seemingly procured from thin air—thrown over her shoulders. Her teeth gritted together. “You’re fired.”
Her assistant only continued to tuck the blanket around her. “Andrea Sachs,” Miranda fumed, “get out.”
“No.” Andrea placed a hand on her arm, thus signing her death warrant. “I’m not leaving. Just… Breathe, Miranda. Please. Just for a second. I know your schedule; you can spare ten minutes.” In a tone dangerously soft, she added: “And call me Andy.”
Miranda’s gaze was unreadable. For a split-second, Andrea feared she’d gone too far.
“Put on the radio,” the other woman said suddenly, giving a curt nod to the gold-plated radio perched on a tripod table. “101.1 FM, ‘Radio Classique’ or whatever it’s called. And make me an Earl Grey. You know how to make tea, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Miranda raised the glass of water to her lips and took a delicate sip. As she watched her assistant move into the kitchen, she called again: “One more thing.”
Andrea stepped backwards, her hair dangling over one shoulder as she peered around the corner of the wall. “Yes, Miranda?”
“...Thank you, Andy.”
The sound of Miranda’s voice using her nickname sent warmth through her chest— And maybe, if she was being honest, an ounce of pride on her boss’ behalf. Letting down her guard was something the editor had always struggled with.
“You’re welcome,” Andrea replied. Her lips curled into a soft, genuine smile.
“This is a one-time thing,” added the older woman quickly. “You will never speak of this to anyone, understood?”
“Understood.” Her assistant was already arranging scones onto a plate. Scones were, as she clocked during her last visit to the Priestly home, one of Miranda’s comfort foods.