Chapter Text
On Emily Charlton’s self-created and self-reviewed scale of human disasters, Andrea Sachs ranks as a Category Six. Previously, the scale reached its maximum at Category Five, but Andy is so utterly singular in her ability to emulate total catastrophe that Emily has redesigned the system to accommodate her. And, well. There’s also the fact that Andy Sachs wears a size six, but that is besides the point.
The point is that Andy, dowdy and gawky and likely to faceplant if she continues to run about like that, is a hazard in every sense of the word— she is hopeless at fashion as much as she is a lanky nightmare, and she tears through the hallways of Runway like a cerulean hurricane cloaked in frumpish tartan. It is disgusting; she is an eyesore. Emily cannot concentrate when there is a distraction like that, causing a scene even when she’s given the simplest task imaginable.
She pauses for breath: Serena, leaning against the row of bathroom sinks, appears to have forgotten to synchronise her practised nods with Emily’s intermittent huffs and groans of frustration.
“You’re not listening,” Emily hisses, and she realises belatedly that she sounds dangerously similar to a petulant, whining teenager. God, nobody understands her in this godforsaken building. She feels like she’s about to go insane; she starts reapplying a third layer of eyeshadow. “She’s so… she’s just… I can’t even talk about it. It makes me physically sick.”
“You’ve seen worse, though,” Serena says, trying—and failing, might Emily add— to be helpful. “What is it about her that makes her a Category Six, when she is marginally better than the Fives we saw in the lobby this morning?”
“Because,” grinds Emily, “that was the lobby. This is Runway. And anyone wearing— whatever she’s got on is in the halls of a hallowed institution such as this one is nothing short of a… a...”
“Fever dream,” Serena supplies. Emily resists the urge to slam the compact she’s holding against the marble countertop.
“No,” says Emily, sharp enough to cut obsidian. Serena, she thinks, is in desperate need of someone who can teach her how to empathise properly. “She’s a tragedy. A stain on this institution’s otherwise impeccable reputation.”
“But Miranda did hire her.”
Her brown twitches; her lips tighten. Emily feels every muscle in her body tense as if she were a snake in a garden, frightfully aware of how she is both hunting and being hunted.
Yes. Despite the girl’s absolutely horrendous attitude (who showed up to Runway for an interview and asked who Miranda was?) and equally atrocious faux-leather briefcase, Miranda had hired Andy Sachs—perhaps the woman had intended to diversify the office by throwing amongst the pigeons a girl who thought it ridiculous to care about what she put on her back every morning. Or maybe Miranda, too, had looked into the chocolate-brown irises of Andy’s eyes, and realised that the girl wouldn’t look half-bad if someone were smart enough to swathe her in black silk.
Still, it is utterly ridiculous that a figure of Miranda Priestly’s calibre had deigned to hire someone who didn’t feel obligated to demonstrate even a modicum of respect for the industry she’s entered. It makes Emily’s blood boil to think about the horde of girls who would’ve slit little Andy Sachs’ throat in a heartbeat if it meant they could take calls from Dolce & Gabbana, or fetch a bottle of San Pellegrino for the editor-in-chief of Runway. Lord knows that Emily herself had been amongst that horde, once.
What on Earth had Miranda seen in her? Intelligence? A solid work ethic? Potential, perhaps, to become more than what she currently is? Emily doesn’t want to think about it.
“Shut up, Serena,” she hisses. She flips the compact shut, shoves it into her makeup bag, and doesn’t even bother to see if she’s being followed. To her frustration, the bathroom door doesn’t slam; it just swings on its hinges as she click-clacks her way back to her desk. To her delight, however, she returns just in time to see Miranda chewing out a hunched figure in a lumpy sweater and a hideous skirt. It’s almost enough to silence the voice in the back of her head: that hissing voice that won’t stop whispering reasons as to why Andy Sachs is here instead of canvassing at publishing houses with her briefcase clutched in front of her.
That night, Emily will lie in bed as she sneers at contestants on the Great British Bake-Off and contemplate how the universe seems to have a strange sense of humour. How funny it all is; it’s been two years since she started at Runway, and all Emily knows for certain about anything and anyone at her job is that the frumpish new second assistant is a Category Six on the Charlton Scale.
***
The final shred of workplace-associated surety that Emily clings to for dear life is ripped from her when Andrea fucking Sachs struts in with thigh-high, high-end Chanel boots and a matching blazer so chic it looks like something Emily would pick out for herself. Who knew that a slap on the wrist from Miranda would be enough to invigorate the girl into waking up from her nightmarish rotation of scratchy-looking sweaters and unflattering dress pants? If she weren’t so shocked, Emily thinks she might almost be impressed.
“You look good,” says Serena— that traitor— and Andy brightens, unfurling like a flower to meet the light of Serena’s praise.
“She looks passable,” Emily corrects. She ignores how her throat clogs when she notices how Andy wilts a little as she turns back to her computer. She doesn’t say goodbye when Serena sighs like a long-suffering ghost and heads off.
This whole Chanel get-up should not bother her; Andy’s suddenly gorgeous head of hair (and the way it curls against her breast) should be the least of her worries; the self-assurance that now radiates from this enigma of a girl is not something she should be concerned with. Emily knows that she is still the best dressed among the two of them, the effortlessly gorgeous right-hand woman of the Ice Queen who rules this publication with an iron fist. As for Andy’s newfound confidence? It is nothing but a facade, Emily tells herself, and facades of this sort never last long when you’re Miranda Priestly’s assistant.
But there is something about seeing Andy flourish— and unseat herself from her lonely spot at the echelons of the Charlton Scale—that sends a shiver running down her spine. It is as if the second assistant is a snake; a snake that has shed its wrinkled skin to reveal something sleek, patterned, and beautiful underneath. It hurts Emily to admit this, but she cannot help but watch as Andy sashays about the office to fetch coffee and run notes to Nigel and whatnot, her hips accentuated by the shape of the skirt. And to think that all of that had been hiding under clearance items from TJ Maxx.
When Andy says goodbye to her that evening, Emily is just as surprised as the other girl is to hear herself return the favour. She doesn’t dwell on it— she doesn’t let herself.
The next morning, Emily doesn’t find it in herself to laugh when Andy’s “good morning, Miranda” is smothered by the fur coat that lands on her desk.
***
Coming to terms with Andy Sachs’ existence in her life is— to her chagrin— easier than she’d thought it would be.
Right off the bat, she had never expected Andy to last so long; some other girl without her tenacity would’ve fled within the first thirty minutes of her first day at work. Hell, some other girl would’ve probably run so fast from the lobby after her trainwreck of an interview that she wouldn’t even have had time to be called back to receive her offer of employment. But here Andy still is, three months into working for the most particular woman on this side of the pond, and she’s admittedly looking better than ever.
Andy still scurries about like a rat on steroids, but she does all that in heels, now. And she hasn’t come into the office with a lumpy sweater in about thirty-two days— not that Emily is counting, of course. She’s all about couture, now; mostly from last season, but good pieces nonetheless. Emily likes to tell herself that that’s why she’s spent so much time staring at the girl when Andy thinks she isn’t looking: she is merely admiring Andy’s newfound taste for couture. Or maybe she’s scowling at Andy’s incompetence. Or maybe she’s mourning all the years that Andy Sachs spent clothed in sorry excuses for clothes that may as well have been made of sackcloth.
Anyway, there’s also the fact that Andy is… nice to her. It is baffling and almost sickening to think that Andy is the type of person who is nice and does not expect anything in return. She’s like an alien species; anyone and everyone who walks through the doors of Runway is typically corrupted within the first ten minutes. Everything becomes a competition; everyone becomes a competitor, not to mention a potential backstabber. There are no Ides of March to beware of, for every day is an opportunity to recreate Caesar’s assassination, or Judas’ betrayal. Emily hates it, but there is no other way for her to climb the ladder of success at this publication. Distance and cruelty, she has learned, are a necessity if she wishes to keep herself safe.
But Andy is nice and kind— an outlier in their office who floats above the bloodied battlefield that is their place of employment with doves perched on either shoulder. And Emily just knows that Andy is not the type of person to feign amicability to get close and pulverise her when the time is right, because Andy had behaved the same way when she’d been drowning in skirts made from her grandmother’s old curtains. She had been kind, even when she’d seen this job as nothing but a stepping stone to journalistic glory. She had remained kind, even when Emily had bared her teeth at her time and time again.
Emily doesn’t know what to do with that.
It starts with smiley faces drawn on her morning Starbucks cup. At first, Emily scoffs and dismisses them as the work of a barista with too much time on their hands, but it is undeniable who they come from when the faces evolve into doodles of the Eiffel Tower, or short but targeted messages of encouragement. She would never admit it to Andy’s face, but they make Emily feel less like a twenty-three-year-old, friendless, neurotic British expat, and more like whatever idealist she’d been when she’d first set foot in this office.
And then Andy starts bringing her personalised salads from the cafeteria when Emily’s too busy to take her twenty-minute lunch break. Emily tries rebuffing them at first— she insists they’re too much, or too loaded with calories for her to reach her goal weight before Fashion Week— but she finds herself hiding in the kitchen with them anyway, picking her way through vinegared mesclin leaves. It takes her two weeks to realise she had never told Andy her go-to order from the salad bar, but Andy had managed to get it right anyway, so there’s no point addressing what isn’t broken.
They start talking, too— mostly short, one-sided conversations that involve Andy chattering away about something or other whilst Emily pretends to be too annoyed to pay attention. But she listens anyway, because Andy doesn’t talk to her about which editor is going to get fired if they keep suggesting the most banal ideas during meetings. No: Andy asks if she’s been to the new bagel place on West 54th, if she’s found the time to catch up on Gilmore Girls, and whether she’ll be OK getting home safe when the Book takes a little longer than usual to be ferried over to their side of things.
“No, I have not,” says Emily, when Andy, after raving for two minutes about a garlic lox bagel, asks her yet again if she’s finally set foot in that godforsaken deli yet. “For the last time, Andrea— I am going to Paris Fashion Week. Carbs are not on the menu.”
She pauses, her lips pursing as the last word leaves her mouth. She breathes in, exhales. Emily thinks about the odd mating rituals she’d engaged in at school just to make friends. Given how much of it she’d done in the lead-up to her GCSEs, there is nothing that sickens her more than the thought of hair-twirling and endless giggling. Maybe they do things differently here in America; maybe endless chatter about a bagel place is an invitation to… hang out.
Emily considers this. “Well, at least until I get back, anyway.”
“I could always take you,” Andy says. A smile works its way onto her face, glowing in the dim light of the space around them.
Bingo, Emily thinks, as her cheeks start to sting a little with heat: a sure-fire sign of victory, she tells herself. Nothing more.
“It isn’t that far from here,” continues Andy, bustling about her workstation as she gets ready to go home to her apartment and her boyfriend. There is something frightful about the thought of Andy crawling into bed with a hairy-chested, beer-glugging man. “It’s an eight-minute walk; five if we’re quick about it. And it really isn’t that busy after the lunch rush, so—”
“You’re not thinking of going on our lunch breaks together, are you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then who’s going to handle the phone? Or handle Miranda’s coat if she comes back when we’re gone? You don’t think at all, do you?”
Andy flushes, then ducks her head. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh,” Emily mimics. A million insults tear through her head like a crawling horde of snakes, each one dripping with venom strong enough to kill. She could be mean. She could be oh-so-cruel and deal with Andy’s pestering as she had dealt with the last two second assistants and their astonishing incompetence. She could rip Andy Sachs apart if she wanted to, and digest her fleshy remains in record time.
She will live to regret this, she thinks, but the words tumble out anyway. “But,” sighs Emily, “my weekends are somewhat free,” and she pretends not to notice how Andy’s grin multiplies in size.
God. That girl has never hidden a single feeling in her life.
***
Emily decides that she rather likes Andy Sachs for the person she’s becoming; she is somewhat fashionable, but she is genuine, too; as tall as she is kind, as tenacious as she is (somewhat) funny. And because Andy is kind, and nice, and altogether too prone to believe that everyone around her is equally overflowing with goodwill, she is also a bit of a fool when she is put under pressure.
She all but drags her into the kitchen, having rooted her nails into the soft, supple skin that pads Andy’s forearm. Emily’s pulse quickens when she glares at the struggling idiot to her right— a clear indicator, she concludes, of her burgeoning rage.
“You went upstairs.” Emily feels a headache coming on; at least Andy has the decency to look somewhat ashamed of herself. “Oh my God, you went upstairs. Why didn’t you just climb into bed with her and ask for a bedtime story? Did you want a side of hot chocolate with that, too?”
Andy’s ears are red, and there’s a panic in her eyes that Emily has never seen before. It’s a little unsettling— not that Emily would ever admit it, of course. “Well, the twins! They said—”
“Would you do as they said if the twins told you to free-fall from the top of the Empire State?” Emily counters. “What were you thinking?”
“I— I’m sorry. I–”
“Clearly you weren’t thinking,” Emily continues, and she finally, finally remembers to let go of Andy. Her hands clench against her sides after the loss of contact. “And you better not get fired, because— because—”
Her train of thought grinds to a halt. The snakes have rounded on her, now, with their eyes narrowed to slits. Shit. Shit.
Andy cannot be fired because she is the best second assistant Miranda has had since Emily was promoted.
Andy cannot be fired because she is the closest thing Emily has to a, dare she say it, friend in this company.
Andy cannot be fired because she is the only one who understands her, who has also been put through the wringer by Miranda Priestly, and lived to tell the tale.
Andy cannot be fired because Emily has grown used to seeing her face every morning and hearing her soft chatter before she leaves every night.
Andy cannot be fired because Emily remembers being sixteen and head-over-heels in love and heartbroken, all at once. It had been her foolish decision to fall in love with a girl who looked as if she would end up marrying a soccer player in four years, but Emily remembers being smitten, disgusted with herself, and furious at the world for making her behave in such a way. Emily remembers. Andy Sachs cannot be fired, because Emily remembers.
Andrea Sachs cannot, cannot, cannot be fired because Emily would miss her smile, and the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she is holding back a laugh, and the way her eyebrows, horrific as they are, always scrunch together when she is perplexed—
“—because that might jeopardise Paris for me. If your mistake puts my head on the chopping block, I will track—”
“She’s not going to fire me, is she?” Andy’s eyes are wide as saucers, now, looking every bit the ingenue Emily hopes she’ll play when Miranda grills her sometime in the next five minutes.
“I don’t know,” says Emily.
“Andrea,” comes a dangerous, lilting voice, wonderfully melodic and horrifying all at once. Emily never knows if she wants to be Miranda or be Miranda’s favourite.
“Oh, God,” says Andy: in her attempt to whisper and hiss at the same time, it sounds as if she has inhaled a lungful of helium. “Am I sweating? Does it look like I’m sweating?”
She can’t answer her because it doesn’t look as if Andy Sachs is anything but gorgeously dressed today. Instead, Emily snaps her fingers in the direction of Miranda’s office. She forces herself to look away as Andy obeys with trepidation, inching closer and closer to the dragon’s den.
Blocking out whatever is happening in the other room, she lets herself drift to a world that consists of nothing but fashion houses, designers, terribly slim models dressed head-to-toe in couture, and a glittering opportunity for herself to use what little she remembers from A-Level French. Andy Sachs and her big, brown, chocolate eyes will not help Emily achieve her goal. Andy is not the one who has the power to take her to Paris Fashion Week. Detachment, she reminds herself, is paramount. Distance is what she needs to survive here. Not friends, not someone to talk to, and definitely not anything else of the sort.
(Later, when a frantic Andy all but begs her to wish her luck before hightailing it out the door in search of an impossible manuscript, Emily crosses her toes for her instead.
Paris aside, she really, really, really hopes that Andy Sachs does not get fired.)
***
Andy is a visionary in black.
The sneeze in Emily’s throat dies when she spots Andy milling about the foot of the grand staircase. Every inch of resentment she had felt towards Andy’s sudden inclusion in the Benefit evaporates; her heart takes charge, and ushers every last inch of rationality to the passenger’s seat. This, she thinks, must’ve been the potential that Miranda had seen when she’d decided to hire her all those years ago.
As Andy dodges paparazzi on her way up to join her, Emily uses the other girl’s momentary distraction as an excuse to stare at the way the fabric curves against Andy’s waist; to marvel at the neckline, which is a touch more modest than Emily’s own, but imbued with an understated elegance. Sick or not, Emily’s heart has plunged to her stomach and seems to have splashed into a pool of acid.
Emily wants to unzip the gown from Andy’s back and slip into it herself; Emily wants to pluck the flower from Andy’s hair and tuck it against her own bosom. Emily wants to take Andy by the hand, find a quiet spot amidst this glittering hubbub of couture and flashing cameras, and tell her how singular she looks tonight.
But having a flu-addled, somewhat starved brain means that “you look so… chic” is all that Emily can rustle up at the moment. She almost hates herself for it.
“Thanks, Em,” says Andy. Smoothing out invisible creases in the crisp fabric, Andy gives her a smile that shines brighter than any flashlight ever could.
Emily wobbles a little in her heels. It’s the flu, she tells herself. After all, the flu is not a feeling that one can get. Dizziness is a symptom. It is not love.
“You look so… thin,” Andy says, after a beat. They have started making their way into the main hall, both of them pressed so close that Emily’s bare shoulder brushes the lace that hems Andy’s sleeve.
Her breath catches in her throat. Thin. You look so thin. She noticed a difference. She’s looking at me. Oh my God, she’s looking at me. She’s looking at the shape my figure cuts in this dress. Oh my God, she’s looking she’s looking she’s—
“Do I?” Emily gushes, before she can control herself. And before she knows it, she is blabbing to Andy Sachs as if she’s not her coworker but a friend, her previous protocol of distance and detachment completely forgotten. “It’s proving to be quite effective, if I do say so myself.”
“It sounds pretty effective, too,” Andy says. Miranda is tucked away from all the proceedings, a flute of champagne in hand; they sidle through the crowd, wielding a trained, polite ‘excuse me’ as if it’s a weapon. “But make sure you’re taking care of yourself, Em. You’re already sick.”
Emily Charlton is not the type of girl to stutter. She is most certainly not the type of girl to be at a loss for words. But as they jog the last few steps to get to Miranda’s side, her mind is devoid of potential responses to Andy’s concern. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself, Em: a sentence that sounds like something a friend would say. Or better yet, a lov—
“I was beginning to think that you’d both been swallowed by a sinkhole,” says Miranda, unloading a stapled runsheet into Andy’s waiting arms.
“Sorry, Miranda,” Emily lies, smoothly sliding into her designated place by Miranda’s left. Flashes of black lace, coiled against Andy’s forearm, swim to the forefront of her mind; for the first time since she started working here, the idea of disappointing her boss doesn’t leave her feeling very sorry at all.
In between whispered reminders of which executive, senator, or supermodel is approaching their cotillion of three, Andy hands her wadded-up balls of tissue she had clearly stuffed into her clutch.
“For you,” Andy mouths.
Emily blinks. She takes the tissue, mouths “thank you” back, blows her nose, and hopes that the honking buzz the action sends up her ears is enough to drown out Andy’s concern for her. Rubbing her nose and giving her sinuses a quick massage, Emily tries her hardest to fight the smile that threatens to climb onto her face. Being thoughtful is Emily’s job; it has been too long since someone has been thoughtful to her.
She lets her eyes wander, and they travel across the domed ceiling and the tiled flooring before settling on Andy’s body like a layer of dust. The girl’s preferred, tomboyish moniker does nothing to reflect the borderline divine femininity exuding from her stance, her slinky dress, and her smile; this is Andrea. Why had she hidden herself beneath cheap, shapeless clothes for so long, when there was something so unmistakably gorgeous underneath?
Answers cycle through like painted horses on a merry-go-round until a man starts walking towards them, pulling Emily from her reverie. He is familiar, of course: one of the many faces she has spent the past few weekends studying from dawn til dusk. He is so, so familiar. She knows who he is. She knows— and yet his name evades her, a snake that has mischievously ducked into a field of tall grass. And he will strike when she is least expecting it, leaving her vulnerable and exposed, a piece of prey clothed in Valentino for Miranda to rip to shreds.
“Well?” hisses Miranda. The practised expression of serene calm never wavers.
“Uh,” says Emily, eloquent as always. “I– I know him. I just saw him this morning in the book. He’s, uh.”
Drowning. Emily is drowning, clawing at nothing as she sinks deeper and deeper into the abyss. She has failed. Paris slips from her fingers; she sees herself restocking shelves in a decrepit Target in Wisconsin. She must remember who he is. She must. She—
“That’s Ambassador Franklin, and that’s the woman he left his wife for,” Andy whispers, leaning in and out as if nothing has happened at all. As if swooping in like a knight in shining armour and saving Emily from the jaws of a tragic end is all in a day’s work.
For a moment, time seems to stop. The ambassador’s smile is frozen; Miranda’s sweeping arms stay right where they are. Andy— bright, brilliant, and intelligent Andy— stands off to the side, her eyes wide as if she isn’t quite sure how to process what she just did.
Four months ago, before she met Andy Sachs, Emily might’ve considered a second assistant capable of executing such a maneuver to be a calculated one; someone cunning enough to exploit Emily’s vulnerability in a twisted bid to demonstrate their own superiority. After all, there are no rules within the viper’s den that is Runway when it comes to clawing for a promotion.
But Andy would never do that to her. Not Andy, who had squeezed tissues into her clutch for the express purpose of making sure she wouldn’t choke on her own snot. Not Andy, who has just stepped in and saved Emily from the wrath of a woman who has far too much power and control over all their lives than is healthy. Emily will deal with her self-inflicted shame in her own time, but this? This is thoughtful. This is nice. This is kind.
“Thank you,” she mouths again, because that seems to be the only thing she can say to Andy Sachs without risking implosion.
Andy smiles at her so warmly that Emily thinks she’ll melt under it. The other girl has truly never been able to hide a feeling in her life. It’s refreshing, Emily thinks, to see someone flaunt their emotions so openly. How wonderful it must feel not to compress everything and then bury it beneath a mental embargo.
Maybe the Charlton Scale is in need of fine-tuning. Maybe Emily had been wrong about Andy being a disaster. And maybe, just maybe, there will be enough grace within Emily’s soul for her to admit to the shape of love before the world makes her think otherwise.