Chapter Text
They have barely landed in New York before Benji breaks up with her.
Emily can’t say it’s entirely unexpected; quite the opposite, if anything. He had been livid about losing Runway to Sasha - he hated being beaten by his ex-wife - and the furious fight they had about it had not helped smooth things up.
She knows she’s supposed to feel sad about it, or angry, or at least disappointed. And yet all Emily can feel is a vague sense of relief, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. No more pretending to be interested in the latest AI advancements, no more talks about Tesla and stocks and cryptocurrencies.
(No more him brushing her cheek with his beard, no more feeling his rough hands on her back or smelling that overbearing cologne. But she is not supposed to feel relief at the thought that he will never touch her again, so she tries not to dwell on it)
A couple of days later, she hands in her letter of resignation at Dior. There’s no point waiting for them to fire her, anyway, and at least this way she can retain some sort of dignity. She has no idea about her future; Miranda still holds enough power to make her a pariah in New York, if not the entire United States.
She could always return home, of course. She misses London (at times), her parents would be close to her and could help with the children, and no fashion house would reject her solely because of Miranda’s opinion. McQueen might not be Dior, sure, but it’s still a dignified institution of fashion. It’s not like she’ll have to work at H&M, for heaven’s sake.
Frank would probably be elated, too, relieved of any responsibility toward his own flesh and blood - as if he didn’t already do as little as possible.
She’s still pondering her next move when her phone rings up. The woman on the other end of the line is a senior recruiter from Coach, one of those preppy types who radiates the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. There’s a role ready for her at Coach, coming with a long, fancy title that promises endless hours and days filled with stress.
She half-heartedly agrees to an interview with one of their executives, fully convinced that the interest will wane once they start digging around her flight from Dior. She watches Roark and Bronwyn playing in the pool, splashing each other as they loudly laugh, and settles back on the deckchair. Maybe she could take a sabbatical and spend more time with them, instead of constantly feeling the gnawing guilt of her absence.
Two weeks later, she pens her signature on the contract with Coach.
*
The pace at Coach is fast, though nowhere near as much as Dior. Most mornings she actually manages to sleep until six - some days even six-thirty, if her agenda is particularly light - and not being stuck in endless meetings with people screaming at her in French is a remarkable perk.
The stunt with Benji and her mortifying exit from Dior have lost her a lot of goodwill in the industry, so initially she focuses on rebuilding her reputation. She’s already way too similar to Miranda for her own comfort, divorced from a useless bum, with two children she loves more than anything but with whom she can’t spend as much time as she’d like.
She might not be a visionary like her, but at least she can try becoming a better boss. Which is not an easy feat, considering that Miranda - for all her faults - is still capable of inspiring undying loyalty from those who surround her.
So she notes down the birthday of her assistants - Theo, a quiet young man from Connecticut, and Amelia, whose ambitious eyes are way too familiar - and commits to treating them as human beings, rather than outlets for all her frustrations. She politely asks about her coworkers’ weekends, even though she really couldn’t care any less, says please and thank you and tries to refrain from yelling at people at the smallest inconvenience.
It does require a herculean effort from her, of course. If anyone is surprised about her behaviour, they don’t show it, though it takes very little before her colleagues start smiling when they greet her. It’s very… different, to say the least, from her past experiences.
At least she’s not the only Brit working at Coach; Stuart, the creative director, is from Yorkshire, and takes a liking to her almost immediately. They work well together, and he’s patient in a way she has rarely seen in the fashion world. He can be demanding, too - he wouldn’t have reached such heights otherwise -, but with a calmness that always manages to placate those around him.
All in all, the job is better than her old one at Dior. At least she’s back in corporate, instead of retail, only one step below the C-suite. She doesn’t have to speak French, no one is making impossible demands, the hours are better and she doesn’t have to see Miranda Priestly every week. It’s all terribly civilised, and she fucking hates it.
Sometimes, when she returns home and wishes she could just cry, she reminds herself that there’s no one she can blame but her own choices.
*
It takes Emily one month, six days and eleven hours to call Andrea.
Not that she’s counting, of course. That would be beyond pathetic - and she has made herself enough of a fool already in front of the other woman. The humiliation suffered at Miranda’s hands still burns, obviously, but her real concern is not related to her former boss - but rather to her former colleague.
They have yet to speak again after Milan. In fact, they still have yet to exchange a word after the whole debacle, when her plan had been uncovered and her character utterly humiliated.
She had wanted to, of course. There is little she had wanted more than to pick up her phone and explain everything - the anger, the resentment, everything that had accumulated in the years after Andy had left Runway. She could have explained her plan, how Miranda was her only target, the future she had envisioned for the magazine…
But there is no point, isn’t there? Andy had chosen to stand by her, and in any case, a vendor cannot have a vision. A vendor simply sells - they take someone else’s vision, pack it up neatly in some nice wrapping paper, and then they propose it to the public.
Emily lets her body drop on the sofa, trying to stop the usual train of thoughts. Her iPhone almost taunts her, sitting on the table and vibrating with messages she doesn’t care about.
I’m being ridiculous, she decides, grabbing the phone. Truly, what’s the worst thing that might happen? Another call ringing and then fading into the voicemail? Another message she will not leave? Another twenty years spent avoiding any thought of Andrea Sachs?
(Another rejection?)
Well, she might as well stop behaving like a teenager and make that bloody call. She’s forty-three, for heaven’s sake, it’s well past the time to move on from that… situation, if it could even be called that. Andy will thank her for calling, say that things are terribly busy right now and she really has no time to meet her, and they’ll leave things at that. Maybe in a few months they’ll meet at some party, exchange some awkward greetings and-
“Hello?” asks a voice from the other end of the line. Emily swallows her nerves down, steadying herself.
“Hello, Andrea. This is Emily - don’t hang up,” she adds in a rush.
Lord, the entire situation is incredibly humiliating. Begging Andrea Sachs of all people to not hang up the phone on her. How the mighty have fallen.
And then there’s a laugh coming from the other woman - the rich, gentle laugh that she has come to know so well. “I’d never hang up on you, Em,” says Andrea, amused. “Hi. How are you doing?”
Her easygoing attitude - as if Milan had not happened, as if the betrayal, Miranda’s humiliation, their victory, as if all of that had been just a bad dream - is even more disarming than the expected hostility.
“I’m well. Doing well. What about you?”
“Great, thanks. I mean, I’m swamped by work, I have two pieces that I don’t think I’ll be able to deliver before the deadline and my team is probably going to kill me, but I’m doing great.”
The rambling is entirely too Andy and at the same time too endearing, and Emily finds herself smiling despite her own nervousness.
“It doesn’t mean I have no time to speak with you, I just meant-“
“Andrea,” interrupts Emily. “Would you like to have lunch together tomorrow?”
*
It’s okay. Everyone screws up.
You’re gonna get your shot to be whatever it is that you do want to be.
So… friends?
The conversation plays over and over in Emily’s mind, a kind of sweet torture she willingly submits to. Andy’s laughter, her teasing tone, the impossible ease with which she forgives.
The relief is almost unbearable. She had thought - feared - that Andy was meeting her just out of sheer politeness. Not even in her wildest dreams she could have imagined to receive not only her mercy, but her friendship too.
Friends. Such a strange term to define Andrea Sachs.
They have been colleagues, allies, enemies; but above all, they are strangers to each other. Emily remembers something about a chef boyfriend twenty years ago, and that’s mainly it. Andy has lived ‘everywhere’, she has no children nor a husband. That’s all she knows about her new friend.
(She’s also still the same ridiculously kind woman she had been at twenty-three, the one who finds forgiveness as easy as breathing, who eats things that Emily wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole and who smiles at her own jokes)
So their first, cautious rendez-vous focus on getting to know each other. They speak of trivial matters, of memories and of their lives in the past twenty years.
She finds out that Andy is a terrible cook, that she has a sweet tooth - so surprising - and is addicted to coffee; learns what are her favourite books, the shows she watches to relax and that she supports the Cincinnati Reds (Emily is almost positive they’re a baseball team).
She hears about the places Andy has lived in and the stories she has chased - about Berlin and Beijing, the six months in Kyiv and the year in Buenos Aires, about Marrakesh and Toronto.
She hears about Peter, immediately renamed the Australian guy in Emily's mind, and their newest attempt at a relationship.
And in exchange, Emily lets herself go, bit by bit. She speaks of Roark and Bronwyn, of the divorce from Frank and how difficult it is to co-parent - or rather, of being the only parent who gave a fuck.
She tells Andy of the years at Dior, of the achievements that made her proud of herself and the travels around Europe. They find that, five years before, they had been in Boston at the same time - their hotels close enough that they would have just needed to cross a road to meet. Andy treats it as a fun coincidence, and Emily laughs it off, too.
(But she wonders, oh. What if they had met by chance, back when she was fresh out of divorce and utterly alone with two small children who didn’t understand why Papa was no longer home? Would they have still become friends? Would she have found in Andy someone she could rely on?)
*
They don’t speak of Miranda.
It’s sort of an unspoken rule - a silent agreement to never mention the ice queen of Runway. It’s for the good of their friendship and for the sake of Emily’s bruised pride, which step by step is being rebuilt. Andy seems to understand the extent of her hurt, of her resentment, even without talking about it.
But Emily knows that it cannot last for long; Miranda Priestly has been haunting her ever since she had left Runway, and there is no reason to think she’ll stop now.
One evening, Andrea arrives to the restaurant fraught and exhausted, eyes heavy with a tiredness that Emily finds all too familiar. She drops on her chair with a long sigh, and shoots her friend a tight smile.
“I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of time. Nigel and Miranda kept-“
She immediately stops and frowns in contrition, fully aware of the misstep.
“Oh, there she is,” mutters Emily, unable to stop herself. “Are they already driving you mental? The peace lasted less than the chardonnay at the last MET.”
Andy visibly winces. “Let’s just say I had a rough day and leave it at that,” she says, before flashing a smile that might even have been convincing if Emily had known her any less well. “How was your meeting with Michael? Did you-”
“Andy,” interrupts Emily. “You know you can talk about Runway, right? It’s not like I don’t hear the name every day.”
Which is true, of course - despite the past issues, Runway is still a force to be reckoned with, and Miranda Priestly is recovering her old reputation with a speed that should be alarming.
“How about this. You have…” she steals a look at her watch. “Twenty minutes to complain about work. You can speak about Miranda, Nigel, whatever you want. Deal?”
“I…” Andy hesitates. “I don’t want to bother you with that sort of stuff, Em. We already work too much, I don’t-“
“Oh, stop it. We’re friends, aren’t we?” interrupts again Emily. Andy gives a nod. “And friends listen to each other when they complain about work and overbearing bosses.”
At least she’s pretty sure they do - friendships have always been a sore point for her, between her testy temper and no nonsense attitude. But for Andy… well, she can make the effort.
There’s still reluctance painted on Andy’s face, so Emily lets out a ridiculously exaggerated sigh. “Nineteen minutes now, Andrea,” she drawls her name a little, sarcastic. “You better start talking.”
(It takes way longer than nineteen minutes, but two hours later, when they go their separate ways, Andy is sporting again a brilliant smile. If Emily’s heart flutters a bit, that’s for her - and only her - to know)
*
It takes a while to accept it, but despite her initial reservations, working at Coach has its perks.
To begin with, the decision-making process is far faster than the one she is used to. At Dior, every important decision had been made in Paris, and had to go through an infinite chain of approvals that often made Emily want to rip her hair out; she had lost count of the amount of ideas that had disappeared into meetings and committees. Maybe that was why Miranda had shipped her off there - influencing the vision at Dior was almost impossible, unless you were at the top of the food chain.
Things at Coach, however, are different. The CMO listens to her, and so does the creative director; her opinion is sought in each and every meeting, noted down before she has even finished explaining it, and people actually pay attention. The first time she proposes a new partnership with a well-known singer, the answer is not the we’ll discuss it that she is used to hearing, but a rather enthusiastic let’s make it happen.
It’s… well, it’s a welcome change. Feeling that she is actually making a difference, and not just being a minor character in someone else’s story, is both incredibly invigorating and thrilling. She can’t really say that she loves working for Coach - the brand still feels as far removed from her as possible - but being heard is nice.
On top of that, Andy loves their bags.
The downside - one of the few - is the sheer number of events she must attend. CFDA galas, launch shows, fundraising dinners - the invites stack up in her inbox, and soon she finds herself crossing paths with former colleagues and too many people she knows.
And while talking about Miranda is one thing - especially since she is not a recurring topic of conversation -, the idea of meeting her is enough to fill Emily’s stomach with nausea.
On this specific night, Emily would rather be anywhere else. She’s tired - no, scratch that, she’s exhausted. She should be home, focusing on the upcoming party to launch the new NBA collaboration, trying to rework for the umpteenth time the seating chart after some stupid feud between influencers has ruined her carefully devised map.
(God, she hates influencers. Parasites, that’s what they are. If twenty years before someone had told her that her job would involve pampering idiots whose greatest skill is pointing a phone at their own face, she might have retrained as something else entirely)
But Andy is there, too, almost dazzling in her Versace silk dress, and it would be terribly rude to leave before saying hello. Except the hello turns into a drink, then two, and at some point Emily realises she has been monopolising Andy’s attention for most of the evening - and that someone does not look happy about it. At all.
“You should go,” she sighs, with a subtle head gesture towards the Runway party. “I told you I’m persona non grata - Miranda looks like she’s out for blood. Yours, specifically.”
A small part of Emily hopes, against all facts, that Andy will actually choose to stand by her for once. That the other woman will not shoot her an hesitating but grateful smile, that she won’t murmur a quick thank you before drifting back to Miranda’s side.
It’s foolish, and honestly a little pathetic.
She is not surprised when Andy gives a low sigh, mutters an excuse and makes her way to Miranda. It’s what is expected from Runway’s features editor - what is expected from Miranda Priestly’s right hand.
It’s a sort of relief, in some way. At least she knows where they truly stand - and it’s exactly where they stood twenty years before, when Andy told her about Paris, how sorry she was about it, how she couldn’t refuse Miranda.
She’s not enough, again. And maybe she will never be - maybe Andy will always choose Miranda above her.
Well, might as well go home now, she sighs. The children are with Frank, so she’ll return to an empty house. It’s still early enough, she might be able to-
“Sorry, had to ask them if they needed anything,” comes a casual voice from behind her.
It's not just Miranda - Nigel is watching too, and Amari, Miranda's assistant, seems personally offended on her boss's behalf.
But none of that matters. Because Andy is back at her side, wearing a smile of faint exasperation, and Emily can only stare, gratitude and bewilderment fighting for the upper hand.
“Earth to Em?” says Andy, after the silence drags for a few seconds. “Are you all right?”
She needs a few seconds to nod back, baffled as she still is. “Yes. I just thought you’d join the rest of the team.”
Andy gives a shrug. “I’ll do that later. I already spend the entire day in the same office as them - a bit of distance can make wonders. Unless you want to say hi, of course.”
There’s hope underneath her tone - as if a simple chat could mend everything. The years of hurt, her resentment and treachery… no, it won’t be a simple hello to cure it all.
“I don’t think she even wants to see me, Andrea. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“At some point the two of you will have to speak,” says Andy, lightly. “And you’ll get your chance to change her mind. I know it.”
The laugh that escapes Emily’s lips is hollow. “She’s never wrong, Andy, so there’s no change to be made. But…” the bitterness softens, and the smile that follows is genuine. “I do appreciate the vote of confidence. It’s nice to know that I have you in my corner.”
Andy tilts her head, affection sparkling in her eyes. “Not going anywhere, Em.”
*
After that night, something changes.
Emily isn’t really able to understand what has changed. Every time she tries to pin it down, the truth shifts and escapes from her fingers, almost mocking her lack of understanding.
It starts - or maybe it just continues - one evening, as they sit on the veranda of some ridiculously expensive place in SoHo. Andy has been strangely detached, as if turning something over in her mind; her usual smile dimmed, and never quite reaching her eyes.
At some point, Andy leans back in her chair, absently stirring her drink. “Do you ever wonder if this will last?”
Emily frowns. “This as in our friendship, or…?”
“No, no,” laughs Andy. “Sorry. Zero doubts about us. I was talking about fashion - or, well, the industry. Do you think it will last?”
Emily studies her. “All right, what’s going on with you?” she sighs, shooting her friend a side-eyed look. “You’ve been even more bizarre than the usual - which is saying a lot, considering two weeks ago you tried to convince me that fries should be dipped into ice cream-”
“You need to be more open to new things-”
“Andy,” she interrupts, a note of finality tempered by the gentleness in her gaze. “What’s going on?”
Andrea lets out a long sigh, gaze evading Emily’s own. It feels strange to see her so… dejected.
“Peter broke up with me.”
For a long moment, neither of them speak. Emily tries to digest the news, stubbornly ignoring the tight feeling in her stomach.
“Is he a complete imbecile?” she says at last. “How… He was just out of your league, he should have worshipped the ground you walk on.”
Which is entirely true; the Australian guy is, in her absolutely unbiased opinion, not suited to someone like Andy. She deserves only the best, of course, and he is far from it. Not that she had ever expressed that opinion aloud before.
“That’s… not really helpful,” snorts Andrea, though a small smile opens on her face.
“I think it is, or you wouldn’t be smiling,” observes Emily, immediately hit by a small napkin. “I’ll overlook that, since you’re clearly heartbroken. So, why did he break up with you? Is he returning to the former penal colony known as Australia?”
Two drinks later, Emily has some parts of the story. Apparently they had been fighting for a while about Andy’s job - the hours, the commitments, every bit of life missed because of work. It all feels painfully familiar; Frank had given her much of the same spiel, before cheating on her with his secretary.
“… and at that point he said it’s not like fashion has much of a future!”
Emily shares her outrage, of course.
“As if fashion has not been a centre of focus of humanity for the past millennia.”
“Exactly!” half yells Andy, raising her arms. “Exactly.”
She deflates then, perhaps because of the alcohol. Emily shoots an half apologetic smile at the neighbouring table, before turning back to her friend. “He’s an idiot, Andy. You can do much better than him.”
"I suppose." Andy stares at her drink. "It's just - he reminded me of myself, twenty years ago. When I thought fashion was ridiculous and all of you were weirdly obsessed with something that didn't matter."
She pauses, face tightening. "And then I changed. But Nate - you remember Nate?" Emily nods. The grilled-cheese guy. "He thought the same as Peter. And now I keep wondering if I've dedicated my life to something that will simply crumble in a few years."
Silence settles. Self-doubt doesn't suit Andy - it's unnatural, like a piano playing out of tune.
Emily can't say the same thought has never crossed her mind. The world is changing, people are changing, and technology is driving that change; fashion, like most arts, is having to reckon with what it is and what it's for.
"Even if you are, you won't alone," says Emily at last. It doesn't come out as reassurance, exactly - but there's a promise of companionship in it.
*
On a dull day at work, Emily hears some joke that makes her snort into her coffee. Theo and Amelia look at her as if she has committed a minor act of violence, and she shoos them away with a bark.
Then she picks up her phone and opens her chat with Andy. She'll love it - it's exactly the kind of ridiculous thing she-
Emily stops.
What am I doing?
*
Only a couple of weeks later, Emily finds herself stranded at home. Bronwyn has come down with chickenpox, despite being vaccinated, Frank is - of course - out of town, the babysitter is unavailable and every single force in the universe seems to be conspiring against Emily.
At least until someone rings at the door, and Emily finds herself staring at Andy.
“Hi. I brought some goods to survive,” she says, waving the bag she’s holding. She gets past a puzzled Emily, moving to the kitchen with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where she needs to go. Which is not surprising, since it’s not her first time there.
“What…” starts Emily, finally recovering her senses. “Andy, you do realise I have a walking vessel of chickenpox here at home, don’t you?”
“Don’t worry, I already caught it when I was seven,” says Andy with a dismissive gesture. She lays the groceries on the table - a liberty that, from anyone else, would have sent Emily into a quiet fury - and starts pulling out everything she has bought. “How’s Bronwyn, by the way?”
“Still sleeping. You know you can catch it again, don’t you?”
Andy snorts. “It’s okay. You’ll fuss over me for a few days and make soup. Doesn’t sound too bad.”
It’s by pure luck that Andy is turned and cannot see her face - and Emily cannot be grateful enough for that, because the blush that follows is as fiery as a Valentino red.
“I most certainly won’t,” she responds, once she’s sure enough that her voice won’t crack. Except that, despite her best efforts, it still comes out as a squeak - undignified and awkward.
And of course Andy notices.
“Aw,” she coos with a grin that Emily should definitely not want to slap away from her face. “Managed to make you blush, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Liar.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” grins again Andy, yelping when Emily hits her with a dishrag.
*
“Frank, I’m not asking. I’m telling you to behave like their father for once in your life.”
Emily is seething - and of course the source of her anger is no one else than her former husband. The dimwit has forgotten - or rather pretended to forget - that it’s his week with the children, and that he needs to bring them to the museum today.
Said children are currently sitting on her sofa with matching somber expressions, spectators to a show they have seen already too often.
It’s not entirely Emily’s fault. Emily tries, whenever possible, to shield them from the uglier parts of co-parenting; but considering she and Frank can barely survive a conversation without trying to throttle each other, some arguments are unavoidable.
She never lets them become part of it, though. Even when Frank tries.
“I’m about to board the flight to DC,” he says back, his tone suggesting this wasn’t his problem. “You can take them to the fucking museum for once.”
“Frank-”
“Bye, Emily.”
The line goes dead, and for a long, tense moment Emily considers throwing her phone against the wall.
She should be already at her computer, putting the final touches on a presentation whose importance had been repeatedly stressed - it’s the CEO, Emily, we need to be in our best form - or participating to a call with the Asian general manager, or doing anything else but yelling at her ex-husband on the phone. It’s the fourth time in the last three months, for heaven’s sake.
She turns to look at Bronwyn and Roark. They stare back with mirror expressions - the face they make when they’re already bracing for disappointment.
They know her next phrase will be a variation of I’ll see if the babysitter is available or we can’t go to the museum, I have too much work to do.
The sight makes something switch painfully in her stomach. God, she hates him sometimes.
Instead, she plasters a smile on her face. “So,” she says brightly. “Are we ready for a little trip?”
-
She texts Theo and Amelia in the car, ordering them to postpone her meetings and triple review the presentation, and tries to ignore her inbox. Monday is always the worst day of the week, with all the emails piling up from Sunday, and they’re almost at the end of the quarter, which means an endless rigmarole of reporting.
Luckily, Theo and Amelia are competent enough that Coach will probably still be standing by the time she returns.
Once they finally arrive, Bronwyn bounces out from the car, and Emily rushes behind her. Despite how early it is, people seem to be already loitering outside the museum. Some are taking pictures of the facade, others stand aimlessly looking at their phones.
Emily inhales deeply, slowly, and forces herself to calm down. She can’t start hitting tourists, for God’s sake.
“Maybe we could go another day,” whispers Roark, quietly falling into step beside her.
He has always been far too good at reading her moods. Emily isn’t sure whether that makes her proud or ashamed.
“No, no,” she whispers, then takes her phone and makes a big show of putting it on silent. “There. No one will disturb us.”
He smiles, bumping into her side with his shoulder, and runs away when she tries to straighten his hair. “Come on, I want to see the planetarium!”
Apparently all the people waiting outside were just wasting their time, because the queue for the tickets is very short - or maybe people are just choosing to buy them online nowadays. Seventy-five dollars later (God, she misses the museum in London, how can everything be so bloody expensive in New York), they start making their way to the first hall. She can already hear faint childish shrieks in the distance, and she takes a deep breath, grounding herself.
“All right,” starts Emily. “Ground rules. No running around. Inside voices. Don’t push-”
“Emily?”
A well known voice comes from behind, and Emily turns to find Andy staring at her, a look of surprise on her face that soon morphs into a smile.
“Thought you’d be busy with that presentation,” she beams. “Didn’t expect to meet you here.”
For some reason that not even Emily can understand, she feels something that tastes like… well, not quite embarrassment, but similar, that ties her tongue.
“Oh! And you must be Bronwyn and Roark,” adds Andy. Emily dearly hopes to not see her crouch at their level - Roark absolutely loathes when adults do that. “It’s great to meet you, at last. Your mom speaks about you all the time.”
Which is patently untrue, but Bronwyn lights up instantly, so Emily lets the lie stand.
“Bronwyn, Roark, this is my friend Andrea - she goes by Andy,” she adds with a half smile. “Andy, these are my children. Roark, my eldest,” she touches his shoulder, then does the same with her daughter. “And Bronwyn.”
“Hi,” mutters Bronwyn.
“Nice to meet you,” adds Roark, and he extends his hand in greeting.
It’s a bit ridiculous - he’s terribly polite, lordling-like. But Andy doesn’t laugh; she extends her hand, shakes his own, and gives him her trademark warm smile. Roark looks at her with faint approval in his eyes.
“Nice to meet you both,” she repeats, before turning to Emily. “So, how come you’re all here instead of working or being at school?”
“We were supposed to come with daddy, but he’s out of town,” says Bronwyn, solemnly. “Every month our schools give us a free day to visit a museum.”
Andy’s gaze softens with recognition. “Oh, that’s really cool of them. Well, it’s a great day to be here, you know? Have you been already to the Milky Way exhibition? It’s one of my favourites.”
“We’ve just arrived, Andy,” sighs Emily. “What are you doing here, by the way?”
Andrea waves her hand, pointing at a group of people not far from them. “Scouting for a shoot for the next issue. The exhibition about endangered species is well suited to what we have so far, and Miranda wants to include something about ethical fashion.”
Emily hums. “Interesting. There was a similar shoot in the dinosaur hall a few years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Mooooom,” says Bronwyn, voice slightly whiny. The message is clear - no work talk allowed.
Andy shoots a look of amusement at Emily; her lips quiver, but she manages to keep serious. “Sorry, sorry. How about…” she trails off for a moment, frowning, and looks at the Runway crew for a few seconds. “Just give me a minute.”
She makes her way to her colleagues, whispers something to one of the assistants. The photographer nods and says something that makes her laugh; and then Andy’s back.
“All right,” she starts, clapping her hands in a way that is both entirely ridiculous and strangely endearing. “No time to waste. Let’s see some fossils!”
It takes a moment before Emily can understand the meaning of her words.
“Andy, no,” she says, gratitude and sheepishness mixing together. “You’re working, I’d never want to bother-”
“It’s no bother at all,” grins Andy. “They’re mostly discussing lighting now, which means I have at least an hour free before they come to an agreement. I can join them later.”
She takes a look at the children, and her voice drops a few notes. “Unless you wanted this to be some you-and-kids time, of course.”
Emily shakes her head. “No, just… I mean, it’s fine. If you want to come with us.”
It comes out flatter than she means, as if it was a concession and not something Emily is utterly grateful for. She makes to speak again, but Andy’s fingers close briefly around her arm, warm through the sleeve of her coat, and Emily abruptly loses track of whatever she had been about to say.
“Ready for the adventure?”
Bronwyn cheers immediately, and Roark nods with considerably more dignity.
And Emily refuses to think about why the sight of Andrea Sachs voluntarily spending her Monday with them sends warmth pooling low in her chest.
-
The Dinosaur Hall is obviously a hit.
“Look, Mum,” says Bronwyn, pointing at the skull of some huge dinosaur - is that a triceratops? - with a look of amazement. “It’s bigger than you are!”
“Taller, bunny,” quietly corrects Emily, letting herself get dragged to the next fossil. Ahead of them, Andy and Roark are already looking at the T-Rex, awe shining in his eyes.
“You know, some scientists think they might have been covered in feathers as babies, and that they lost them in adulthood,” she hears Andy say.
“I knew that! I have a book with a lot of facts about dinosaurs,” he responds, excited. “Did you know that T-Rex were as big as a grown turkey when they’re hatched?”
“I had no idea.”
Of course Andy’s great with children. It had taken Emily years to learn how to speak to her own children without sounding like she was conducting a one-on-one. Andy, instead, seems just… natural.
“They’re a bit scary,” observes Bronwyn, low. Her brother rolls his eyes, and Emily shoots him a look of warning.
Andy, of course, seems to pick on that. “They can be,” she says, reassuringly, a hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder. “But, y’know, now the animals that are closest to dinosaurs are chickens. Not that terrifying if people turn them into chicken nuggets, no?”
“That’s not funny,” huffs Roark, though he sounds more offended on the dinosaurs’ behalf than on his sister’s.
Just like that, some of the tension leaves Bronwyn’s shoulders.
Later, Emily watches Bronwyn edge a little closer to Andy as they move toward the mosasaurus, debating about whether they would have survived swimming in the Hudson.
-
The Ocean Hall is quieter than the rest of the museum.
The moment they step inside, all the noise seems to soften into murmurs and distant footsteps. The last remnant of Emily’s tension fades away under the silence and the blue light. Suspended above the hall hangs the blue whale, enormous and still graceful; even Emily has to admit it’s breathtaking.
“It’s beautiful.”
Andy hums in agreement. “There are some stairs over there, heading down,” she says quietly. “You can see the whale from below.”
That is apparently the correct thing to say, because both children immediately head toward the stairs.
“Don’t run,” calls Emily automatically after them. “And stay where I can see you.”
She hears an agreeing yell, and then she and Andy find themselves alone for the first moment of the day.
Neither of them rushes to say anything at first. They both lean against the banister, relaxing, gazes following Roark and Bronwyn below, until Emily speaks.
“I never came here before.”
Andy gives her a look of disbelief. “I’m sorry,” she starts, slowly. “Did you just say that you’ve never been-”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
“-you’ve lived in New York for more than twenty years, it’s beyond impossible that this is your first visit to the Natural History Museum-”
“Not the museum, moron,” Emily rolls her eyes. “Just the Ocean Hall. Never found a reason to visit, since I was here mainly for work.”
Andy’s expression seems to soften. “You’re good with them.”
Emily snorts, shaking her head. “That’s because you caught me on a relatively successful day. And the bar is pretty low, thanks to their father.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Em. They clearly adore you.”
There’s a knot in Emily’s throat now, and for a few seconds she is unable to say anything.
“Thank you.”
It comes quieter than she has intended, but Andy still hears it.
The other waves a hand. “Don’t mention it. Your children are both lovely,” she hesitates for a moment. “You know, they are exactly as I had imagined them.”
“Two little nerds in love with dinosaurs and space?” she says drily, trying to add some levity in her voice.
Andy laughs, quietly. “Smart, kind. Funny. A lot like you.”
This time there’s no mistaking the blush.
Below them, Bronwyn is laughing at Roark while he explains something with grave seriousness, arms waving. Andy watches them with quiet amusement beside Emily, shoulder almost brushing hers.
I can’t remember the last time we did something like this with Frank.
Suddenly, Emily is aware of how painfully domestic all of this is. How natural it feels to have Andy by her side as she watches her children.
“Mum! Did you know that blue whales are bigger than dinosaurs?”
Just like that, the moment is over - probably for the best. Emily blinks, smiling at her daughter.
“Well. Thank God they don’t eat humans.”
-
The cold air outside the museum hits them like a reset. Emily immediately adjusts Bronwyn’s scarf, debating on whether she should also make her wear the hat she is carrying in her purse.
“Mum, can we get a hot dog?”
Roark’s hopeful voice breaks that small silence. Emily gives a quick look at the watch - it’s almost one, they have yet to have lunch, God knows what’s in those hot dogs they sell at the stalls around the museum, and-
“Fine,” she relents, and her son gives a winning smile. “But tonight you’ll get double the veggies, and you will eat all of them.”
“I always eat them, Mum.”
A little break from their routine won’t kill them. Just this once.
“Ohhh, hot dogs,” says Andy, giving a meaningful nod towards the truck, before turning to Emily with a mischievous look. “Last one’s a slug!”
She runs off, immediately followed by two laughing children. Roark gets past her with a sprint, and soon Bronwyn overcomes her, too.
“Andrea!” huffs Emily, trailing off behind them. Emily doesn’t run - it’s not dignified.
(And she’s wearing heels)
A few minutes later, they’re all holding a hot dog - even Emily. They cross the road and start walking in Central Park until they find a bench warming under the sun.
“So,” starts Roark, a happy smile on his face. “Andy, how did you meet our mum?”
Andy exchanges a look with Emily, almost asking for permission, and the other woman nods. It’s not like there’s anything to hide.
“We both worked at Runway for a time. We were assistants to the editor-in-chief - your mom a much better one than me,” she adds with a small wink that makes the children laugh. “She taught me everything I needed to survive the job.”
“You were decent enough,” adds Emily, a half smile. “After a while.”
Bronwyn turns to Andy, serious. “That’s really high praise from Mum.”
And Andy just laughs, affection shining in her eyes. “Don’t I know that, kid.”
-
Once they’re finally back home, the children still riding the excitement of the museum, Emily leans back on the sofa, closing her eyes. There are probably a thousand emails in her inbox and a hundred messages on Slack, but for once she can’t find the strength to care.
It’s been a good day. Possibly the best in a long while.
“Mum, Andy is really nice.”
Emily laughs, softly. “That she is, honey. Did you have fun this morning?”
“Yep,” says Roark, then hesitates for a second. “Thanks for today, Mum. I love you.”
“Love you too,” she says, her voice catching slightly. “Now go do your homework. I want to see an A for this report, okay?”
He agrees with a half laugh, then goes back to his room, and Emily finds herself alone. She takes her phone, opens the chat with Andy and starts typing a message.
Thanks again for today. The children had a lot of fun.
She hesitates, fingers hovering over the screen, until she finds the courage to type again. I had a great time, too.
The response is almost immediate. Me too. We should do it again. I bet they’d love the Intrepid.
A second later, the phone vibrates again. Oh, tell Roark I’ll give him that book about the T-Rex the next time we see each other, okay?
Oh.
This is worse than she thought.