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On the 28th of March, Emily wakes up slightly hungover.
On the 28th of March, Emily also wakes up officially one year older, because the 28th of March is her birthday.
So, yes. On the 28th of March, Emily wakes up slightly hungover, and 24.
And, as has been the way on every single 28th of March since her 19th birthday, Emily wakes up to… nothing.
Because Emily does not celebrate her birthday. And, as such, neither does anyone else.
Why? Because nobody else knows that the 28th of March is her birthday.
Well, she supposes Colette from HR knows, on account of it being on her file, but even still, Runway isn't exactly the type of workplace that makes note of employee birthdays. So, really, Colette probably doesn't know, but is the only one with access to the knowledge at work.
In terms of family, Emily is an only child, born to an only child mother and an only child father, meaning no siblings and no cousins to wish her well. As for her parents, her mother doesn't wish her well because her mother is a bitch, and her father doesn't wish her well because her father is dead.
So, Emily wakes up to nothing. And that's absolutely bloody fine.
Birthdays are a waste of time, money, effort, and efficiency.
Emily doesn't need people to spend time with her for her birthday; people are annoying, and the idea of prolonged interaction with almost anyone sounds like hell, rather than a gift. Sure, she gets the occasional drink with Serena or Nigel, but she can do that any day. It doesn't count.
Emily doesn't need people to spend money for her birthday; she makes a fine wage and can afford what she needs. Everything else, she finds a way to get. She always has.
Emily doesn't need people to go to an effort for her birthday; she wouldn't go to an effort for anyone else, so she refuses to expect it in return.
And, regarding efficiency, what Emily does need is for everyone to get on with their jobs and lives without faffing around over something as stupid as a birthday.
Something as stupid as a message to wake up to, or a card in the post, or a surprise coffee on her desk, or an invitation to share a cocktail, or a warm smile or kind words or just anything, anything-
Stupid. It's stupid.
Birthdays are stupid.
The 28th of March is just another bloody day.
The Runway office is exactly how the Runway office is every other day of the year, which, yes, includes Christmas, because she did work one Christmas for a total of 47 minutes and it required her to be here.
Anyway, it's normal.
Andrea smiles at her, big and beatifically, just as she always does.
"Good morning, Em," she says nicely, just as she always does.
Then she wakes up her computer and starts to work after Emily glares at her and says a begrudging "hello", just as she always does.
And they start their day.
Emily makes herself a coffee in the kitchenette. It's way better than any surprise coffee could ever be.
Some intern rips a vintage Galliano skirt, Runway's favoured model agency are imbeciles, and Miranda is a complete and utter witch.
Truly, a day like any other. Nothing special. Because birthdays aren't special. Because Emily isn't spe-
No one says anything. Not even a birthday-adjacent compliment. Not even a good old fashioned wink.
Well, for goodness sake, why would they?
They don't know. Emily hasn't told them. Which is fine and what she wants.
Emily's pen spins in her hand once, twice, before she starts to absentmindedly doodle on a post-it.
She's alone in the open space outside Miranda's office. The woman herself is at a private meeting on the top floor, no one is stopping by to ask questions, Emily has somehow caught up on all of her most pressing tasks, and Andrea is at lunch.
The work phones are quiet.
Her own phone is quiet.
Her mother hasn't messaged or tried to call.
Emily definitely wasn't hoping she would, despite how things are between them. She wasn't hoping for a simple acknowledgement. Certainly wasn't hoping for a 'happy birthday, darling Emmie'.
She refocuses on the post-it note. She's drawn a rudimentary balloon.
Emily scrunches up the paper with a scoff and chucks it in the bin.
She'll go see Serena for lunch once Andrea returns.
A day like any other.
Serena's birthday is the 7th of August.
Emily knows because she just asked.
Serena didn't ask back.
The afternoon goes.
The skirt is carefully stitched but will never be the same. The model agency are still imbeciles but have sent Emily alternative headshots to pass on to relevant staff. Miranda is still a witch.
And Andrea is quiet.
She seems incredibly focused today. It's not too unusual, nowadays, Emily must admit. It's with grim reluctance that she accepts that Andrea has really come into the role. She's highly efficient, incredibly professional, and handles livid callers almost better than Emily does.
Almost.
Most of all, she's a dab hand at problem solving. Emily will never admit it out loud, of course, but that part she is better at than Emily. She has a way of… well, getting her way. AKA Miranda's way.
And, fine, she looks good, too. Very good. Nigel's makeover and subsequent lessons have done wonders, alright? Andrea is gorgeous. Stop asking.
But, anyway, today the other woman is rather intensely focused on something, and it's starting to annoy Emily.
"What are you doing?" Emily asks into the quiet.
It makes Andrea jump.
"Um… working," Andrea answers, shifting uncomfortably. "What are you doing?"
"Working, obviously," Emily sniffs.
"Well, okay then," Andrea says.
They're both quiet for a few moments, staring at each other, until Andrea tilts her head.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," Emily says quickly, clearing her throat and looking at her screen before rapidly typing random letters into her own schedule to appear busy. "You're just being… quiet."
"I'm trying to get something that is really very difficult to get," Andrea admits. Emily watches out of the corner of her eye as Andy refocuses on her own screen, crease between her brows as she frowns.
"For Miranda?" Emily asks.
"Um…" Andrea says, distractedly. "Yeah."
And then she's back to whatever she's squirrelling away on, and Emily is left staring at a screen full of nonsense.
The corner reads Thursday 28 March, 4:07pm.
Eight hours left until the 29th of March.
Another day just as unspecial as this one.
Miranda leaves at six, and things are pretty much tied up enough for her and Andrea to leave at just before seven.
"Oh, um," Andrea says, "Miranda mentioned a new Dior blouse, she needs it on her desk to check as soon as she comes in."
Emily sighs, pressing the inner corners of her eyes. "Fine. Which blouse?"
"Um…"
Emily glances up to see Andrea trail off awkwardly. She rolls her eyes.
"Don't tell me you don't know," Emily drawls. "Christ, I'll do it."
"No, it's fine," Andrea says, voice… strangely high and eyes far too wide, "I can-"
"No, no," Emily dismisses, already getting up onto tired feet in excellent heels. "I'll go. Clearly I'm the more competent of the two of us."
Andrea says nothing, immediately relaxing, which is rude and also lazy, but she smiles. It's a somewhat nervous smile, which Emily assumes means Andrea still feels intimidated by her prowess.
Good. Still got it.
There is no blouse, and Emily is going to commit a crime on her 24th birthday because of it.
She spent 13 bloody minutes rummaging around in the closet, only to discover that unless Miranda is expecting to see a Dior blouse from three seasons ago, Andrea must've gotten her instructions confused.
Her heels clack angrily on the marble floor as she storms back into their anteroom, only to find Andrea-
Only to find Andrea, holding a cupcake.
Emily freezes.
Seeing Emily's entrance, Andrea smiles giddily.
From her pocket, she pulls out a slim gold candle, which she pushes into the dough. Next, she pulls out a lighter, giving a furtive look around before clicking it.
A flame flickers to life, and she lights the candle.
It casts her face in a warm, golden glow.
"Happy birthday, Em."
Emily truly cannot move.
"How…" is about all she manages, eyed wide and fixed on the cake.
"I have my ways," Andrea shrugs one shoulder, smile turning mischievous. "Ways that may or may not involve bribing a certain member of HR who is definitely not Colette."
"Oh," Emily breathes. She looks at Andy, dazed. "…What did you offer her?"
"Babysitting, months ago," Andrea grimaces a little, but it's with good humour. "I've gotten to know her space-obsessed eight year old daughter very well. Anyway," Andrea waves a dismissive hand with a little laugh. "Who cares. It's your birthday! Here," Andy steps closer to Emily, holding out the cupcake. "Make a wish."
A wish. A birthday wish.
Emily makes one.
A wisp of smoke curls from the burnt wick. It dances in front of Andrea's rather lovely face.
"I hope it was a good one," she says with a grin.
Emily manages a shaky smile.
Five years of nothing. Five years of no messages, no cards, no gifts. Five years of a special day turned sour.
But now, this.
Now, Andrea.
"It's red velvet," Andrea explains with a nod to the cupcake. "I got it from that fancy bakery on 26th you talked about last week."
Emily had mentioned that Parisian bakery briefly when asked about her weekend, sang its incredible chocolate éclair praises in an excitable rush before remembering herself and scoffing at Andrea's endeared grin.
But right now, she has a cupcake. Fluffy red sponge and soft cream cheese icing. Neat paper casing. Cooling candle.
And a birthday wish.
Her chest warms.
"Thank you, Andy," Emily says softly.
Andrea smiles even wider.
"You're so welcome, Em," she replies, just as soft. "It didn't look as though you wanted to celebrate, but there was no way I'd let the day pass without at least a little something special."
Special.
Emily is not going to cry.
"Well," she says, swallowing hard, "I-"
"Oh, shoot, wait!" Andrea suddenly bursts out. She pushes the cake into Emily's hand and dashes towards her desk. "Hold on, shit. I mean, shoot."
After rummaging a moment in her desk drawer, she pulls out an envelope.
"Ah ha!" Andrea crows triumphantly. "I cannot believe I almost forgot this. It's literally what I've been doing all afternoon."
"I thought you were working," Emily attempts to say with reprimand, but it's softened by an unbearable fondness she suddenly can't shake and a shy smile she can't shift.
"I was working," Andrea replies casually. "On this."
She proudly holds out the envelope.
Emily places the cupcake down on her desk with extreme care before taking the offered item. It's just paper, pale pink, but feels magical in Emily's hands. She tears it open.
A birthday card. After five years, a birthday card.
It's simple. A rough pencil drawing of two hands holding a bunch of stems topped with colourful flowers. It's immediately familiar to her.
"Picasso?"
"Yes!" Cheers Andrea. "I know you like art, especially the classics. You… you do, right?"
There's no controlling the smile on Emily's face, she can feel it dimple at the corners, can feel the way the corners of her eyes crinkle, just slightly.
"I do," Emily says. Bloody hell, she sounds shy. Bloody hell, she feels shy. All flustered and flattered and sweet in the face of this woman who, an hour ago, was nothing more than a beautiful nuisance.
Emily's defences may as well have been tissue paper, the way Andrea has charged through them quite suddenly.
"Open it," Andrea says happily.
There's something inside the card, a thick piece of cream card stock, but Emily reads the message first.
Happy birthday Em!!
I hope you have a day just as special as you are.
Love, Andy xo
She's underlined her name in thick black ink, as if really stressing the point.
And the message isn't much, is it, but god does Emily's traitorous heart skip at the words.
The rectangle of thick card in its centre has a rather poor attempt of a drawing on it, a knife and fork if Emily's not mistaken. She flips it over.
Em, please enjoy a table for two at Via Violetta this Saturday at 7pm. Bring whoever you'd like and treat yourself.
I know it's slightly belated, but it's the best I could do, even with my newfound string-pulling skills ;)
Emily looks up sharply.
"Via Violetta?" She asks, shocked. "The- the new Italian place? Are you serious? They're booked up months in advance!"
"Yep," Andrea grins, a little smug and, okay, a lot attractive. "I spoke to some people. I have contacts now," she finishes with a wink. "So, yeah, I can't pay for the full meal, but I'll cover your drinks or dessert. Just let me know after how much you spend and-"
"Come with me."
Emily doesn't mean to say it.
Except she does, she does mean to say it, because it's the 28th of March and for the first time since she was 18 years old, someone has taken the time and the money and the effort to make the day feel special, make Emily feel special.
And that someone is a someone who has always been nothing but kind and warm and generous in the face of Emily's bitchy little attitude, and she's really, quite suddenly, everything.
Andy blinks, surprised.
"What?"
"Come with me," Emily repeats. "To the dinner, this Saturday. Please."
"Oh," Andy smiles again, big and bright. "I'd love to! Okay, so-"
"A date."
Again, Emily doesn't mean to say it.
Except, again, she does.
Andrea's cheeks turn pink.
"A… a date? You'd- with me?"
She's cute. God she's cute. How irritating. How special.
"I'd like to," Emily says firmly, smiling, probably awkwardly, definitely happily, "if you would. If not, we can forget I asked, but-"
"No, no I'd like that a lot," Andrea rushes. "I didn't think there was a chance you'd feel like that about- well, anyway, yeah. Yes. A date."
Emily bites her lip, smile now completely out of control.
"A date."
The 28th of March is Emily's birthday.
It's a day like any other, until it's not.
It's a day like any other, until it's the day Emily's life is made special.