Chapter Text
Miranda rarely did interviews.
Andy might’ve guessed as much from the past six months working as her personal assistant, but Emily verified the fact as they rushed around that morning.
“I have no idea why she’d agree to it,” Emily remarked, while exiting the small kitchen with a bottle of Pellegrino and passing it to Andy as she entered Miranda’s office.
Andy arranged the morning’s dailies on Miranda’s desk, poured the sparkling water into a glass, and placed the hot Starbucks next to it. She returned to the anteroom and helped Emily unzip blouses from their garment bags and line them up for Miranda’s morning perusal.
“Well, she does like to keep people on their toes,” Andy responded. “And it’s not like she’s doing it completely out of the blue.”
Runway’s centenary issue would hit the stands in just a couple weeks, and the energy surrounding the issue and its publicity had been driving everyone within a hair’s breadth of insanity. Even Nigel acquired some of Miranda’s imperious behavior, refusing everything but the very best and eviscerating those who didn’t live up to those standards. Both he and Miranda were on a warpath that thankfully brought them back together after a couple months of the cold shoulder post-Paris.
“Yes, but a television show?” Emily sneered. “And not even one with a dash of style.”
“Hey! I like The Daily Show!”
“You would. I’m sure it caters directly to your bleeding heart.”
“And my sense of humor,” Andy replied. “Something I need to keep in top form after an entire day with you.”
Emily rolled her eyes and hid a smile that Andy nonetheless noticed. They both quickly straightened up and silenced at the first echoes of stiletto heels heading straight towards them.
Miranda swept in. Andy took her coat and bag immediately. Ever since that day before Paris, Andy got into the habit of grabbing Miranda’s things before she could heave them onto Emily’s desk. If her raised eyebrow and smirk every time were anything to go by, Miranda saw through Andy’s maneuver. They might be alike — just the thought of that conversation in the back of Miranda’s town car made Andy shudder — but Andy still shrank from Miranda’s favorite pastime of pouring salt into a wound.
“Good morning, Miranda,” Emily greeted from behind Andy and began a run-through of the day’s schedule. She walked with Miranda into her office, while Andy took care of the coat and bag. She could hear Miranda’s low voice spouting off directions, then moments later, Emily emerged from the office and sidled up next to Andy’s desk.
“Congratulations, you’ll get to attend that tacky show with her.”
Andy beamed. “Really?!”
“Christ, can you keep the cheer to a minimum, please? While you’re playing the starry-eyed fan, I’ll be here keeping this place from turning into a free-for-all in her absence.”
Emily sniffed and looked through the glass doors around them, as if hoping to find someone not speed-walking in fright towards their next task.
“I doubt there’ll be much of that with Nigel around.”
“We can only hope,” Emily muttered. “You’re both leaving for the studio after lunch. Try not to overeat.”
Countless phone calls and a few sprints to the fashion district filled the rest of Andy’s morning until finally she strolled back into the office after having a mildly satisfying lunch from the cafeteria. She snuck a peek into Miranda’s office, but the editor-in-chief wasn’t there. Andy wondered for a heart-pumping moment whether she misheard Emily. Were they meant to leave before lunch? Had Miranda gone without her?
No, no, Andy assured herself. She’d never mistaken anything on Miranda’s schedule before, and she wasn’t about to start now. With a few deep breaths, she got herself under control again and just in time.
Miranda emerged from the executive washroom, wearing a very different outfit than the polished but still professional attire she arrived in that morning.
All Andy could think at the sight was one word: leather. Miranda wore a burgundy dress made of what looked like the softest, smoothest leather. Any other fabric, and it might’ve just been a simple wrap dress, but this was practically sculpted to Miranda’s body rather than merely draped. It seemed almost as if someone had taken a dark terra-cotta clay and thought it might work well against the pale marble of her skin. And did it ever.
The dress fell open in a deep, but still tasteful-for-television neckline that ended in a thick belt of the same material sewn into the dress. Three-quarter sleeves ended where a few cream-colored enamel bangles took over. When she zoomed out from the matte leather, Andy realized how the whole look had a distinctly 1970s vibe to it, conjuring that first wave of the working woman, but with decidedly more unabashed sensuality. A dash of barely-there makeup, nude pumps, and a slightly more tousled look to her signature hair completed the effect.
Andy stood there, processing it all, while Miranda switched out her earrings and read the latest copy dropped on her desk.
“Andrea,” she called, after screwing on the last earring and pulling her attention away from the mountain of work that would still be there when they returned.
“I’m here, Miranda,” Andy responded and walked into her office, “but I’ll need to run and fetch a different coat for you.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Andy might’ve still lagged behind everyone else when it came to coordinating an outfit, but she knew that morning’s coat and purse wouldn’t work for the paparazzi that were no doubt already waiting outside The Daily Show’s studio doors.
Before Andy could figure out what would work — More leather, maybe? A trench? — Emily entered the office and interrupted the thought. She passed Andy a wool coat the same creamy color as Miranda’s accessories and a Gucci green, crocodile-skin bag. Andy would’ve never picked this combination, but then Miranda moved towards her, Andy slipped the coat around her shoulders, passed her the bag, and watched it all miraculously come together.
Andy tried to think of it like a story, as Miranda had advised her once as they sat looking at the Book together one evening when Andy had asked about the most recent shoot. The bag hinted at a daring surprise, the coat lulled the viewer into a false sense of security, and then came the big reveal of what lied beneath.
Miranda strutted through the anteroom and out the door. Andy took a millisecond to herself to watch the full story in motion, then grabbed her own bag and coat and sprinted to catch up to Miranda, just in time to slip into the elevator with her and make their descent to the car and finally to the big television interview.
Andy might’ve thought Miranda would use the time spent waiting in the dressing room to make phone calls, dictate notes, or just generally keep tabs on whether everyone back in the office was still doing their job. Instead, they both sat together on the couch and watched the first half of the program, which featured segments and skits that highlighted the day’s political news.
Miranda even seemed amused by some of the featured correspondents. Andy could tell because, unlike other people who just laughed at a joke, Miranda either hummed softly or exhaled out a small huff. Andy laughed outright, couldn’t help it. She loved this show, and it felt amazing to be sitting behind the scenes with her boss, waiting to be a part of it, even if indirectly.
“You enjoy this kind of reporting,” Miranda observed after Andy chuckled during a segment from Stephen Colbert.
“I do,” Andy responded. “I could never pull off satire in my writing, but I’ve always admired people who could. Everyone on here is pretty much the best of the best.”
Miranda merely nodded twice in agreement.
“Would political reporting be the kind of news you’d like to cover in the future?”
Andy pulled her gaze from the small screen in their room. “Maybe. Although I’m usually most intrigued by the social issues that politics often forget or ignore.”
“I see,” Miranda murmured, still watching the screen. “So more The Atlantic than The New York Times?”
“Well, uh...I guess...I mean if we’re just comparing those two,” Andy stammered, “then yeah, The Atlantic’s more my...style. Although I always saw myself at like a small, local paper.”
Miranda turned her head towards Andy and raised an eyebrow. “We don’t do small, Andrea.”
Miranda had been starting to drop comments like this into their short conversations here and there. Whenever she kept Andy a little longer after dropping off the book, Miranda might explain her editorial decisions from a fashion perspective, but then she also would adapt those decisions for different contexts. Or she’d highlight a featured article not explicitly about fashion, but rather about women’s issues or the national zeitgeist.
Andy knew Miranda didn’t have to do this, but cherished these small asides and wondered whether they heralded some upcoming transition. Weirdly, she felt an odd ache at the thought of moving forward after her time at Runway. One year with her and you can have any job you want, she remembered Emily saying on that first day. And yet...
When Andy’s mind wandered into that terrain, she merely shook her head and reminded herself that Emily hadn’t been promoted yet. There was still time to learn and grow under Miranda’s whispered advice and surprisingly kind counsel.
Three loud knocks came from the door, then a shout. “Ready in five!”
Andy gasped and jumped up from the couch, while Miranda smoothly stood and righted her skirt. Miranda moved to the mirror once more and took stock of her hair and makeup. Andy wanted to say something then about how wonderful she looked, but instead shook her head to herself. The EIC of Runway didn’t need Andy Sachs, recent discoverer of bias cuts and mixing patterns, to tell her she looked gorgeous.
But then moments passed and Miranda remained rooted in front of the vanity. She kept staring at herself and, when Andy looked closer, seemed to be getting her breathing under control. Andy didn’t know whether to act like she didn’t notice, but she decided to do what she would for anyone else she liked.
“Knock ‘em dead, boss.” Andy offered one of her broadest smiles.
This seemed to push Miranda out of her trance. She nodded and moved towards the door, but stopped briefly as she passed. Her hand reached out to grab Andy’s forearm, then slid down to squeeze her palm briefly. Now, Andy felt as if she’d been knocked over dead.
“It’s just television,” Miranda muttered to herself, then left.
Andy stood stunned in the middle of the room for a second. Why did this woman keep showing her these tantalizing moments of vulnerability? It started in Paris with reddened eyes and a gray robe, an image that had kept her close to Miranda when she almost walked away after the “betrayal luncheon,” as she mentally called it. It didn’t stop after that, though. Discussions of a preview as they went down on an elevator that Andy somehow could share with her. Passing along a joke her daughters had told her over breakfast. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, her knee nudging into Andy’s thigh as she wondered whether they’d be able to pull off this centenary issue.
Applause and music jolted Andy’s attention back to the screen, where she watched Miranda finally emerge from backstage and take a seat at Jon Stewart’s news desk. Miranda sat on the very edge of her chair, poised, polished, and in complete command of her faculties, thanks to whatever breathing technique she had to rely on just a moment ago.
Having worked in close proximity with her, Andy nevertheless knew that she was too collected, her posture too rigid. No one could beat Miranda’s poise, but Andy loved the natural fluidity of it, how she seemed to move more like a dancer than an editor, each movement capped with a superfluous flourish. Andy exhaled and willed Miranda to do the same.
As the applause ended and now that Miranda had gone, Andy turned to the table full of snacks and drinks and surveyed the options, finally deciding to just stick to coffee. What with Miranda out of the office for the afternoon, who knew how long this day would go?
Jon welcomed Miranda and introduced her to the audience, explaining the occasion for her visit. He mentioned the centenary issue and hinted that they’d talk about that at more length. Then, his traditional late night talk show intro took a sharp left turn.
“You know,” he began, “Everyone talks about the magazine, your talent, the depth of your ability, and I think not often cited or not cited enough...?” He waited a beat and smiled. “The hotness. You bring the hotness.”
Andy choked on her coffee, scalding her throat and instantly drawing tears to her eyes. She managed to swallow and gasped at the new breath of oxygen, but still coughed in pain and a new unbearable tightness down her throat. By the time she regained her ability to breathe, the moment on TV passed, and the interview seemed to be in full swing. Somehow Miranda still sat there answering Jon’s lighthearted questions about the anniversary and what it means for her and Runway.
Andy decided to leap into damage control. Miranda had been so nervous before going out there, then that clown had to pull a stunt to get a rise out of her. Well, she wouldn’t allow it to air. Simple as that. She busted out the door and into the hallway, searching for a control room or a producer or somebody in charge. She decided to try the stage first and, when she arrived, honed in on two men who looked like they just rolled out of bed after last night’s frat party.
“Excuse me, I need to speak to one of the producers now.” Andy heard the audience laugh around her and looked over at the stage again. Jon smiled too, while Miranda looked like her usual impenetrable self, although there seemed to be the addition of a small quirk of the lips. Andy’s ire only rose at this.
“You’re talking to both of them,” one of the hoodie-clad men responded.
Fighting her initial snobby reaction to how these show producers dressed — Runway really was having an effect on her — she got straight to the point. She introduced herself, then explained how she needed the tapes from the show to vet them back at their own offices. When the producers exhibited their shock and began to refuse her, Andy leveled up her game and channeled Miranda.
“Look, I don’t know what dog and pony show you’re trying to pull here, but at Runway we take our publicity very seriously. Miranda Priestly deigned to appear on your show, but we made it perfectly clear that we would decide what could and could not air. The secrecy surrounding the next issue is airtight, so you can either pass me the tapes once we’re done or we’ll pull the whole interview. Your choice.”
Andy exhaled and felt as if she breathed fire. Judging by the reaction from these producers, she wouldn’t be surprised if she literally had.
“Alright alright, geez,” one of them muttered. “We’ll give you the tape of her interview, but we’ll need it back within a couple hours. I mean, this runs tonight.”
“Might run tonight,” Andy clarified, her eyes narrowing on their target.
“Sure,” the other said. “I doubt you’ll have much of a problem anyways. Jon’s pretty much stuck to the questions that your boss pre-approved.”
Bullshit, Andy thought.
The interview seemed to be wrapping up behind them, and Andy turned to watch it conclude. She barely even took in that she was standing so close to a stage and comedian she’d watched on her own television every night since she started college. And then, the bastard did it again!
“Well I’m sure after this, people will go out in droves to buy the next issue because now they know” — Jon waited for the pin to drop, and Andy damned his comedic timing — “it’s not just talent. It’s also hotness.”
Andy immediately spun back towards the producers and hissed, “The tapes. Now!”
“Jesus, alright. I’ll get them from the control room and drop them off at your dressing room.”
Amidst audience applause, Andy stomped back to said dressing room and began to collect their things. She felt like some wandering knight who’d just defended the honor of a fair lady, but rather than feel pride and a sense of accomplishment at her action, Andy still felt angry and even somewhat hurt. She couldn’t trace her emotions right now, but nonetheless her hands trembled as they picked up Miranda’s coat, the soft wool scratching her oversensitive fingertips.
The door swung open again and Miranda entered, still looking immaculate if a little flushed. Andy tried not to get riled up at seeing Miranda embarrassed, but she failed miserably.
“I’m so sorry, Miranda,” she muttered, while helping Miranda into her coat. “I’m already taking care of it.”
With Andy’s hands still grasping the coat’s collar, Miranda turned towards her. They were close enough for Andy to see how the blue of her eyes shone. Yet, her brow furrowed as she looked quizzically at Andy.
“Taking care of what exactly?” She asked, while slipping from Andy’s grasp and heading towards the door. They had a meeting to catch at Runway in twenty minutes.
“His inappropriate comment,” Andy replied and watched as Miranda’s shoulders dropped in what must be relief. Curiously, though, she stopped at the door and looked towards Andy again, her demeanor turning from query to dismay.
Andy wondered why for a moment, but then the door opened from the outside once more. One of the producers entered and offered Andy the tape, extending it out towards her as if it were a sword of surrender.
“Your highness,” he chuckled.
Andy snatched it out of his hand. “You’ll be hearing from me in the next hour.”
“Got it, sweetheart,” he said with a smirk and turned towards Miranda. “We’re really glad you could visit our show, Ms. Priestly. I don’t know what put us on your radar, but it means a lot to get someone like you on here. We’re usually just limited to authors and friends of friends.”
Miranda merely nodded and was about to move around him, but stopped herself. She opened her mouth a couple times. Hesitating! Andy looked on in shock.
“Tell Mr. Stewart it was my pleasure. He was…a nice surprise.”
Andy felt as if she’d dropped into a parallel universe. Before she could get her bearings though, Miranda had already slipped out the door and towards the elevators. Andy moved to follow her through the maze of hallways and had finally caught up right when the elevator doors opened. Miranda slipped in and quickly slammed the “Close Door” button, although Andy had already begun to take her privileged spot next to Miranda in the same elevator. Instead, Andy jumped back and watched the doors close upon Miranda’s pale, cold face staring back at her.
Andy’s heart pounded. She waited for the elevator to move, then pushed the down button. One separate elevator ride later, and she was once again dashing across a New York sidewalk and stepping into the open sedan door that Roy held for her. The door closed after her, and Andy immediately felt as if she were back in Paris, sitting in the backseat of a town car and an atmosphere thick with tension.
Miranda, for her part, stared out of her window, while reflexively tightening and loosening one hand around her leather gloves. Andy watched this fidgeting and felt as if that tightened fist clenched around her own throat. She could barely breathe. Had she done something wrong? Overstepped? But that’s what Miranda wanted from her and commended in her work, wasn’t it? She solved problems before they even became problems. Andy’s own hand trembled against the videotape she clutched in a sweaty palm.
“Was it really so shocking to you?” Miranda’s gravelly murmur travelled across the backseat, although she kept her eyes trained out the window. “That someone would say that to me? Someone found your evil boss attractive, stated it aloud, and you went out of your mind, jeopardizing our connection to a new audience.”
Andy felt herself go cold. She was getting fired. It was finally happening. A couple close calls had been evaded, but still she sat here at the inevitable outcome. She didn’t know what to say. Miranda, on the other hand, turned towards her, and Andy felt that gaze land on her like a slap. Miranda looked at her through a tragic mix of surprise and, if Andy were reading her correctly, something like grief.
“Of course, I’m still the monster to you.” Miranda scoffed and then shook her head, as if dissuading herself of some foolish notion. “The bitch who betrayed Nigel. Your demanding, heartless boss.”
“No, that’s not—,” Andy choked out, but Miranda didn’t let her finish.
“I don’t have time for your useless additions or excuses, Andrea. I’m sorry you had to endure such a shock today. At least you can rest assured that it won’t be happening again any time soon.” Andy’s heart really and truly dropped now. Her fingertips felt numb. “Let me make something perfectly clear. You nor anyone else have any control over how I present myself or the magazine to the public. You will call their producers as soon as we return to Runway. You will apologize and tell them to air the interview as it went. That’s all.”
Now, Miranda’s gaze projected only mildly-controlled fury. She put on her sunglasses, then turned to look outside again, leaving Andy bereft across from her and quietly trying to regain her breath.
Miranda must’ve been on to something back in Paris when she said they were similar because Andy could barely contain her own fury. This was now the second time that she’d tried to help Miranda, and once again Miranda threw it in her face. Couldn’t Miranda see that she was just doing her job? And doing it damn well? She only had Miranda’s best interests in mind, just as she had that early morning when she rushed across Paris to tell Miranda about the Runway takeover. Just as then, Miranda shut her down, not with a door to the face or a random question about freesias, but with biting words and barely concealed disdain.
“Yes, Miranda,” Andy hissed through clenched teeth, then silence prevailed until they finally reached Runway. Miranda took her own elevator up, leaving Andy in the lobby to continue stewing in her rage.
When she made it up to the offices, Andy decided not to even make a stop at her desk to remove her coat. She stalked straight towards Nigel’s office, glanced around to see that they were alone, then closed the door behind her.
“She’s an ungrateful, sadistic shrew! I’m done!”
Nigel didn’t even glance up from the last-minute spread he was creating from scratch after Miranda scrapped the one his department previously offered. He held a pencil in his mouth, while cutting different photographs together.
“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” he muttered around the pencil between his teeth.
“Well that time, I was the idiot. Now, she’s the one in the wrong.”
“And this is news? Remember who you’re talking to, Six.”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to,” Andy exclaimed. “She screwed you over without a second thought. You know better than anyone how she—”
Nigel grasped the pencil from his teeth and lifted it in the air, bidding Andy to cease speaking mid-sentence…for the second time in the last fifteen minutes.
“Let me stop you right there,” Nigel said. “She did what she did because she had to, and I’m still here. Done. If I’m not bearing a grudge, I won’t let you have that privilege in my stead. Now, explain what she could’ve done in the past two hours that somehow gives you more of a right to quit than I had.”
Nigel turned towards her and crossed his arms.
Andy dithered for a moment, realizing how going straight to Nigel might not’ve been the best plan, but she was here now.
“Alright,” she said and waved the tape in his face. “You’ve got a place for me to show you this?”
Nigel pointed towards the small television and VCR in the corner, where they ran tape of runway shows after returning from fashion weeks. Andy strode over, inserted the tape, and fast-forwarded past the first half of the episode and pressed play when she saw Miranda enter.
Andy turned back to Nigel, now with her own arms crossed and waited for his reaction. He stared at the screen with a half-bored look on his face. When Jon said the infamous line, Andy couldn’t help herself.
“See! Now, how would you react to that, Nigel? I heard that and immediately—”
“Will you shut up?” He said with an exasperated groan. “Watch the tape! Run it back.”
Andy rolled her eyes, frustrated with the fact that she’d have to listen to this yet again. She rewound the tape and, this time, stood next to Nigel and watched. After the line left Jon’s lips, Andy kept watching this time and felt shock wash over her.
“Wait a second,” Andy muttered. “Is she…?”
“Blushing!” Nigel exclaimed. “She’s — oh God, I haven’t seen that look on her face in ages — she’s pleased.”
Nigel was right. Andy watched as Miranda looked away from the audience for a moment, her chin tucked against her chest in a classic pose of bashfulness, then she turned back towards Jon with a small smile gracing her lips. The interview continued as Jon transitioned to a discussion of the magazine, its history, and Miranda’s enormous impact on reviving its slowly dying brand over the past decade.
Andy felt her insides wither. It was an incredible interview. Of course, it was. This was Jon Stewart, and Andy knew from years and years of obsession that he and his crew never faltered. She began to slowly realize what might have really triggered her reaction and now saw Miranda’s reprimand in a new light. She’d fucked up. Big time.
“Does she pour her coffee on him or something?” Nigel’s voice interrupted Andy’s thoughts. “I keep waiting for her to act like — what was it you said? — a shrew, but I’m beginning to sense that it’s not on this tape.”
The interview ended, and Andy pressed eject. She turned her shamefaced eyes towards Nigel and whispered, “Okay, so it’s me. I’m the problem.”
“Now, I’m really having deja vu. What did you do?”
Andy recounted the whole scene to Nigel. How she’d lunged from the room as soon as Jon’s words left his lips and thus didn’t notice Miranda’s reaction. How she’d insulted the producers of The Daily Show and threatened them with pulling the interview. Nigel’s eyes widened almost comically, but Andy didn’t laugh. She felt terrified and now really wondered why Miranda hadn’t just fired her outright. Was she waiting until after Andy called the producers?
“Look, I’ll be completely honest,” Nigel said after Andy described the drive back to Runway. She kept most of the details to herself, but explained how Miranda had ordered her to call the show and apologize. “I’m shocked she didn’t fire you. Very few people get between Miranda and her magazine. I’m one of those few who can have an opinion, but — and I hate to put it like this — you’re a PA. You don’t get the luxury of an opinion. Why’d you do it? What possessed you to act like some jealous idiot?”
Andy was barely holding herself together at this point. She looked down and tried to regain control of her trembling jaw, her beating heart, and her shaking hands. She felt Nigel’s art pencil beneath her chin, lifting her face up and giving him a good look at her watery eyes.
“Oh shit,” Nigel muttered. “No, Andy. You can hate Miranda, but don’t…” He stopped for a moment and looked at Andy in pity. “You can’t fall for her.”
“I’m not,” Andy whimpered. “I’m not. I can’t be. She’s…”
She shook her head and covered her face with her still shaking hands. Nigel stepped forward and grasped Andy’s wrists, pulling them down and rubbing her hands for comfort.
“Let’s just put that to one side for right now,” Nigel said. “Go to your desk, call them, and put this all to rights. You’re good at that. Just say that there was some miscommunication between you and Miranda, but that the interview was great.”
“She’d even told them,” Andy gasped, “how much she enjoyed herself. I should’ve known then. I shouldn’t have taken the tape.”
“It’s fine! You’ve gotten yourself out of bigger messes. Call them, and I bet they’ll get a laugh out of it.”
Andy nodded. She placed the tape into her bag and tried to pull herself together in order to head back to her desk and to Miranda. Nigel wordlessly commended her and went back to work, knowing that they’d have to revisit this conversation again when they weren’t both under strict deadlines.
“There’s still one thing that I don’t get,” Andy said, right before walking out of the door. She shifted back and forth on her feet, but finally said what she’d been thinking all day. “Her surprise, almost. When he said that. She must know that she’s beautiful.”
“Beauty and hotness are two different things, Six,” Nigel responded, again trying not to call attention to the fact that Andy was not following his advice and obviously letting herself fall for their boss. “And I doubt Miranda’s been called much of either. The best I’ve ever heard someone come up with for her is ‘intimidating,’ which is just a backhanded compliment that manipulative men give to anyone with half a brain.”
Nigel struck out a few negatives with force as he spoke, and Andy wondered how many times he’d been on the receiving end of that same “compliment.” She thought about Nigel’s words for a moment and found the truth in them instantly. She remembered all the ways Miranda was described in the press, discussed by her employees, and even derided by her ex-husbands. She was someone to be feared, not to be loved. That thought saddened Andy, but she nevertheless left Nigel and returned to her desk to call the show and finish her work for the day.
“Coat. Bag.”
These were the first words Miranda uttered vaguely in her direction since they returned from The Daily Show.
Over the past few hours, Andy’s mood hadn’t improved. She supposed it took more than an afternoon to internalize the idea that you wanted your boss and that you were probably going to lose your job at end-of-day. She tried not to be too hard on herself for refusing to accept these facts immediately.
At Miranda’s command, Andy pulled the coat and bag from the closet, then returned to Miranda, coat wide open, to help her into it as she’d begun to do ever since Paris. Miranda snatched the coat by its collar, flung it over a shoulder, grabbed her bag, and left Andy standing in the now empty office. Emily had gone on an errand that would also end her day, so Andy had nothing to do now but wait for the book and think.
She’d followed Nigel’s advice and told The Daily Show that she hadn’t seen Miranda’s latest notes for the interview. She thought they weren’t to touch upon the specific shoots and names attached to the centenary issue, but “You guys were right! She made it clear that this was safe territory. Sorry about that. I’m still new to this job.”
Andy hated taking that route, dumbing herself down in order to save her skin, but the producers took it in stride and barely stayed on the phone with her for two minutes. They bid her enjoy the show that evening and hung up.
And now, she sat in the darkening office, double-checking Miranda’s schedule for the rest of the week and wondering again why she had acted that way this afternoon.
Looking back, she couldn’t remember another time where a sudden impulse had propelled her into an action that, now upon reflection, seemed absolutely nonsensical. Both Miranda and Nigel’s reaction only proved the absurdity of her behavior. “You went out of your mind,” Miranda had said. And Nigel had only corroborated Miranda’s judgement, “What possessed you to act like some jealous idiot?”
Nigel, of course, had gone a couple steps further and put a painful light upon Andy’s actions, clarifying the motivation behind her response. And, of course, he was right. As always. Brutal, but painfully right. Just like their boss.
Andy thought back to that moment in the dressing room before Miranda had taken the stage and when she had looked to Andy for support. Andy felt it then, an overwhelming need to help this woman who meant more to her than anyone else in her life at the moment. Nate was gone. Her friends were gone. Was that why she felt this way? Was she merely displacing her lost relationships onto the one person who still kept her close? No, she knew it was more than that.
Andy didn’t want to fall in love with her straight, divorced, older, impervious, demanding boss, but she was coming dangerously close to a feeling completely out of her control. Love or not, she felt herself on a brink, and today’s unwitting actions only pushed her further into unknown territory.
The book dropped onto her desk. The printer’s assistant muttered goodnight. Andy shook herself out of her — what was it? — third trance of the day, gathered the book and her things, then made her way down to Roy and the car ride to Miranda’s townhouse.
The trip seemed to last mere moments. Andy had spaced out again, trying to collect her feelings and also wonder whether Miranda would let her go right now in the townhouse rather than tomorrow morning in the office. She’d given Andy the Paris opportunity while sitting in her study cross-legged in an off-shoulder knit, so perhaps it’d be fitting to fire her in the same place she’d promoted her. Andy wondered what she’d be wearing this time.
She made her way up the townhouse steps, lugging the dry cleaning across one shoulder and clutching the book to her chest. She got the door open and stumbled through, immediately leaving the dry cleaning in the closet and dropping the book at the table with the flowers.
Andy stared down at the cover, which featured contemporary fashion’s greatest designers and their muses. She remembered all the phone calls, previews, mock-ups, and run-throughs that went into making this book. For the first time since joining Runway, she felt like she’d been a part of something that went beyond herself and wondered whether she’d get that type of opportunity again wherever she landed next.
The soft padding of bare feet on the stairs drew Andy’s gaze up to Miranda. The hectic day seemed to have tired her out more than most. Some of her makeup still remained, but she’d already run a brush through her silver locks to soften its hair-sprayed hold and changed into soft pajama pants and an oversized sweater that left only her fingertips visible. She looked comfy and tempting enough to squeeze and find the soft body hidden beneath layers of fine fabric.
Andy almost laughed at herself. She couldn’t even control her thoughts when standing in front of the woman. For her part, Miranda seemed to be collecting herself to say something that Andy didn’t want to hear. So Andy decided to pull a trick she’d learned back in high school when trying to beat her first boyfriend to the punch and break up with him before he broke up with her. Childish, but she couldn’t bear to watch Miranda let the axe fall.
“You looked beautiful today,” she began in a soft whisper, while staring somewhere between herself and Miranda, still standing at the bottom steps of her staircase. “Stunning, really. It’s no wonder that he said that to you, and I’m sorry that I reacted that way. I thought that you wouldn’t like that to air, but maybe…”
Andy took a deep breath and raised her gaze up to Miranda’s face, which remained stoic. She couldn’t help but notice, however, Miranda’s slightly increased breathing and a dash of reddened skin across her neck.
“Maybe I didn’t want it to air,” she continued, “because I had to watch somebody else tell you something that I wish I could tell you every day. You deserve to hear it every day.” Andy swallowed and decided to go the full nine. “You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever known.”
Andy’s heart pounded recklessly with her final words. Miranda stared at her without even a twitch in her facial features. Her breathing still raced though, and the pallor of her skin remained a blotched pink. Whatever Miranda had meant to say moments before never managed to leave her lips, and Andy decided not to let it.
She spun around and walked towards the door, grasping its handle like a lifeline and pulling it towards her to see whether the air outside felt less stifling. Her eyes watered, but she chalked it up to a lack of oxygen rather than the crushing pain in her chest.