Work Text:
Emily Charlton did not lose focus.
She did not get distracted, she did not get emotional, and she certainly did not, under any circumstances, experience anything as gauche as jealousy in the middle of a workday.
Which was why, as she stood across the street from a café she absolutely did not have time to notice, she told herself, very firmly, that the tight, unpleasant sensation in her chest was nothing more than irritation, something brief, sharp, and easily dismissed. Not this slow, creeping thing, lodged somewhere beneath her ribs, dull and insistent and impossible to dislodge. Irritation was efficient. Irritation was useful.
This, whatever this was, was not.
Through the glass, Andrea Sachs was laughing. Laughing, openly, easily, like she had nowhere more important to be and no one more important to impress. It was wrong on principle.
And it was because of a man. A man was making her laugh.
Emily narrowed her eyes. He was… aggressively average. That was the only way to describe it. Perfectly forgettable in the way that suggested a tragic lack of ambition. Soft hair, uninspired jacket, the kind of posture that implied he had never once been told no by anyone important enough to matter. The sort of man who would say something mildly amusing and expect to be rewarded for it.
The sort of man Andrea Sachs was, apparently, leaning towards now, her elbow brushing his, her head tilting just enough to suggest interest.
Emily’s grip tightened around her phone.
“Andrea, raise your standards, for crying out loud,” she muttered, her voice low and cutting.
The man said something else, something that made Andy laugh again, all crinkly eyes and creased dimples. And then, inexplicably, she leaned in, her shoulder knocking lightly against his.
That did it. It was neither pleasant nor aesthetically acceptable.
“Your bar is nonexistent,” Emily added sharply, already turning on her heel.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. “You don’t care. You cannot possibly care. You have a job. A very important job. And you love it.”
She did not need to see any more of this. She did not want to see Andrea, her Andrea, fold herself into something so ordinary.
Her Andrea. The thought was so absurd Emily almost laughed. Andrea Sachs had never belonged to anyone, least of all her.
She crossed the street without looking back. (That was a lie. She glanced back twice.)
-
The image refused to leave her.
It followed her all the way back to Runway, lingered as she crossed the floor, as she set her bag down, as she sat, too stiffly, at her desk.
Andrea Sachs, laughing. Andrea Sachs, leaning in. Andrea Sachs, choosing—that.
Emily opened her drawer before she could stop herself and pulled out her notebook. If this was going to persist, and it clearly was, then she would deal with it properly. Logically. Systematically.
She flipped to a clean page.
Andrea Sachs is insufferable, she wrote, the pen pressing harder than necessary.
From Miranda’s office, her voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable. “Emily, did Demarchelier confirm for Thursday?”
“I’ll follow up right now,” Emily replied instantly.
She did not move to pick up the phone. If something was interfering with her concentration, it needed to be identified, itemised, and eliminated. That was simply efficient. So instead, she lowered her gaze back to the page and began again, faster now, the words coming in a relentless stream:
1. I hate your absurdly bright, wide-eyed expression. No one is that surprised by everything. It cannot be genuine.
(and yet it somehow always is.)
2. I hate your voice. It’s entirely too soft and far too sincere. One would think you’d learn to moderate it in professional settings.
3. I hate your smile—those ridiculous dimples are deeply distracting and frankly, unnecessary.
4. I hate that you took Paris from me and then had the nerve to come back with Chanel as though that settles anything and thinking I would accept consolation prizes. I don’t.
(I did. And it only makes it harder to hate you properly.)
5. I hate that you are so relentlessly earnest, particularly toward people who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
(including me.)
It was absurd, the things her mind chose to retain. The exact cadence of Andrea’s voice when she was trying not to argue. The way she hovered, just slightly, before setting a coffee down, as if waiting for approval she would never ask for.
Useless details. Entirely irrelevant.
Her pen dug deeper into the paper.
6. I hate that you have catastrophically appalling taste in men. Truly. That situation this afternoon was borderline offensive, and I refuse to believe that is the best you can do.
I refuse to believe that is what you chose.
She paused, just for a fraction of a second, before continuing.
7. I hate that you are… competent. Annoyingly so. Irritatingly so. The New York Mirror is, regrettably, better for it.
(And Runway is not.)
Emily’s jaw tightened.
8. I hate your fashion sense. It is, objectively, quite dreadful and deeply questionable, in fact, and yet somehow not nearly as offensive as it ought to be, which is irritating in ways I refuse to examine.
The lines were getting messier now, the ink pressing harder, the words losing their careful spacing.
9. I hate you.
(I hate that I—
I hate that this has followed me, all day, like something unfinished.
I hate that I look for you without meaning to.)
She stopped. Then started again, harsher.
I hate you. I hate that this is—
Another sharp strike through the line. Her breath caught, just slightly. Then, in one furious, unbroken motion:
9. I hate you. I hate that I am apparently, against all reasons and professional standards, rather attached to you.
(I hate that I notice when you’re not in a room anymore.
I hate that you left and everything carried on as if that was acceptable.)
She continued.
I hate that I fucking love you, and I hate that you are so pathetically oblivious that it makes me look like a complete fool.
Silence settled around her desk, heavy and suffocating.
Emily stared at the page. Her grip tightened on the pen. One last line.
10. And I fucking hate you, I fucking hate that you have absolutely no idea that I love you.
(And worse, that you might not care if you did.)
The pen stilled. For a moment, she didn’t move at all.
“Emily.” Miranda’s voice again, sharper, expectant.
Emily snapped the notebook shut, sliding it back into the stash of books on her desk with practiced precision. It disappeared, neat and precise, as if it had never been opened at all.
“Right,” she said, already reaching for the phone this time. “Demarchelier.” Her hand was perfectly steady.
It took her three attempts to dial correctly.