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Miranda Priestly was having a bad day. A spanner was thrown in the works of her regimented morning routine: In between styling her hair and having her morning coffee, she had to kill a man.
Usually, she followed a strict routine; wake up, shower, style hair, choose outfit- but this morning she was rudely disrupted. When she walked into the kitchen, she noticed a scuff on the polished floorboards. Not skipping a beat, she acted like she hadn't seen it and continued walking. She remained outwardly serene, but her mind raced as she went through the motions of preparing and pouring her first blisteringly hot coffee of the day (contrary to popular opinion, she could in fact pour her own coffee. Caffeine was her main indulgence, and she knew how she liked it). Now, in any regular household with two boisterous young girls, this wouldn't present an issue. Indeed, most people wouldn't have noticed it.
But Miranda knew better than that.
The house was kept immaculate, as that was the way she preferred it. Her cleaner, Anne, knew better than to leave any marks on a surface she was supposed to have cleaned. What's more, she doesn't permit shoes in the Priestly household, with no exceptions. All shoes are kept on a rack in the foyer. Far too much can be unthinkingly trailed in on the bottom of a shoe; mud, grass stains. Blood.
Miranda finished pouring and ever so quietly placed her cup down. She quietened her breathing and paused, listening for any sounds out of place. The house was silent, as it should be; the girls were away at their boarding school. The girls were a crucial part of her cover story, but she loved them- in as much as she was capable of loving anyone. Miranda had married the girls' father, had twins, then eventually divorced him. They had been unsuited for each other, and anyway, she had never planned to stay with him long. She was well aware that people would look for chinks in the armour of Miranda Priestly, especially as she made a name for herself in the world of fashion. If people saw her apparent weakness on the surface (the scandal of divorce, being a working single mother), they wouldn't bother to look further. Any further than, say, two decades back. But who would look for Miriam Prenchik in eccentric fashion icon and known diva Miranda Priestly?
But whoever this intruder was should count himself lucky the girls were away. If anything happened to them... The person who did it wouldn't live long enough to enjoy it.
Regardless, right now, the house should be empty. She should be alone. For some reason, she was not.
She heard a creak, then another one. Fair enough, an old manor house has its creaks. Except that, when she moved in, she had all the floors replaced and checked for creaks. Now, it isn't quite possible to remove all the creaks, not in an old house like this. But. Miranda had taken care to memorise all the creaks in the house.
That particular floorboard was at the entry to the kitchen, and it only made noise when someone put weight on it. Someone was here, and more damningly that someone was trying to make their movements sound like the house settling naturally. She smoothly picked her coffee up again, taking a sip. She had to make it seem like she was unaware. The unknown person would be taking extra care now, after that creak.
So she sipped her coffee, pretending to gaze out the window, waiting. Waiting for-
There. Slight air displacement, right behind her; she would never have noticed if not for the fact that she was paying attention. That, and the window was firmly closed; there should have been no such breeze.
She calmly picked up the coffee maker, taking a moment to mourn the loss of her favourite appliance. Then she whirled into action, smashing the glass edge on the bench and whirling with a sharp piece in her hand. She took a moment to coolly observe the startled look on the man's face and the garrote wire in his hands, and expertly slashed his jugular with the glass piece. Before the pain even registered in his eyes, she pivoted again and leaned into him, pushing him onto the floor where his head hit with an unpleasant thud. She turned back, throwing the tea towel from the bench until it settled over his face and neck. She didn't want to stem the blood loss, but that was no reason to let it make a mess of her kitchen.
She looked at the man who'd tried to attack her, lying in a spreading pool of blood on her polished floorboards, then up at the clock on the wall, and her mouth thinned. She was going to be late to work. As the boss she wouldn't get in trouble, but she didn't like the precedent it would set.
She couldn't leave the body there for Anne to find when she came in later that morning, and the bloodstain on the floor was also something of a giveaway. She sighed and mentally resigned the robe she was wearing to the trash. Luckily she had a selection of identical bathrobes; she did enjoy her morning comforts.
Careful not to let blood go everywhere, she crouched next to the man's body and peeled under the tea towel. It was Bert Sawyer, the gardener for the house next door. She didn't recognise him, but that didn't mean anything in this day and age. She flipped up a section of his hair, near his ear, looking for a sign- there it was. Plastic surgery. He could be anyone- and besides, she certainly didn't remember every face that had ever passed through her school.
She'd only seen him next door in the last few months- he must have got the gardening job to learn her routine. And another thing; why had he tried to attack her in such a way? It was mostly luck that she had even caught him. Sure, she knew every inch of her house, but he'd gotten in somehow. If he had a way in, why didn't he just kill her in her sleep? She curled her lip; she would never have let her students get away with such sloppy behaviour.
Which raised the question: who sent him? And for what reason? She made no few enemies in her old line of work, but it had been almost two decades since then. And Miranda Priestly's enemies probably weren't the sort to resort to outright assassination attempts. The fashion industry was cutthroat in rather a different way than her previous job.
Still. She could deal with that later. For now she had a body to hide, and hot coffee to drink. There was little point in letting it go to waste, after all.
-
Disposing of the body took slightly longer than anticipated; having to work within the confines of the very posh neighbourhood she now lived in made hiding more difficult.
For the first time in years, she almost missed the anonymity of living in a poor neighbourhood.
Almost.
Still, she eventually got the job done. It was better to be safe than sorry. It took an hour and a half to carefully clean her manicure, take a second shower to scrub off any trace of blood, and choose a new outfit for the day.
But finally she was on her way to Runway, the Book on the seat next to her. She'd called in saying she would be late, of course; at least the staff should be able to get something done without her there.
The new second assistant, Andrea, took her call. For a nice change, the girl had seemed unflustered. A few months into the job and the girl was showing actual signs of improvement. Miranda had to admit, Andrea may even have potential, something she wouldn't have thought possible during her interview.
Miranda could admit, in the privacy of her mind, that she enjoyed the whirlwind life of Runway. The business had become important to her, in its own way, and she would do anything to preserve the magazine's reputation.
Anything.
She ran a tight ship, and she expected much of her employees, but no one could deny she got results. When she entered the office, she was pleased to see the second assistant waiting at her office door with her coffee. She waved the girl into the office, gesturing for her to recite the day's schedule. She'd had quite enough disturbance for one morning, and her schedule was already running behind. The instruction was a little unusual- assistants weren't always welcome in her office- but her staff knew better than to question her.
Andrea waited for Miranda to sit, then began rattling off the list of people and meetings and for the day. Miranda was only half paying attention until the end of the list, when Andrea hesitated. She gave the girl the look that had reduced grown adults to tears.
'Don't stand there all day, spit it out.'
'There's a Human Resources issue. One of the photo staff, Clay Meacham, has been making inappropriate comments to the models during photo shoots. One of them has come forward to say he went so far as to feel her up. I thought you ought to know.'
When she finished, the girl put a file on her desk and retreated a step back, keeping her head up to watch for Miranda's reaction. Miranda busied herself with examining the file, which contained the statement of the model in question, and the employee files of the model and cameraman in question. What's more, the model in question was a bright up and comer, with an excellent career before her if she played her cards right. If the news of this got out, Runway's reputation would take a hit. This was the sort of potential scandal she monitored very closely. She wasn't particularly fussed about an isolated incident or two; models needed to grow a thick skin, after all- but repeated episodes made it more likely the press would catch wind of it. No, better to nip it in the bud before it can get that far. She looked up to see Andrea still watching her and absentmindedly lifted her hand to dismiss the girl, then paused. Something about the expression on her face... it was almost expectant. But expecting what?
'Send a message to the photography department. I would like to speak to this cameraman.'
Something changed in Andrea's face. For a moment, her eyes gleamed in something approaching triumph, then shadowed into something more like cautious approval. There was something almost familiar about her expression. She lowered her eyes demurely, covering the crack in the mask as soon as it appeared. And just when did Miranda start thinking of the girl's expression as a mask?
'Do I know you?' Miranda asked sharply.
The girl's lips curved up. It wasn't - quite - a smile.
'I'll deliver your message. Was there anything else you wanted?'
Miranda paused again, thinking, then waved the girl away. She had enough to think about already. Further investigation into her second assistant would have to wait.
She buried herself in paperwork. Though usually it was the easiest thing in the world to switch off and focus on Runway, today she found herself watching the clock tick by painfully slowly.
'Miranda, Clay Meacham is here to see you.'
Andrea was standing next to the young photographer with the cocky smirk, just beyond the threshold of Miranda's door. 'Come in,' Miranda said, effectively mimicking her usual unruffled tone.
But something in Andrea's eyes as she turned to leave said she wasn't buying it. Miranda rather suddenly found herself irritated; who did this girl think she was? But for now she had other things to deal with, so she pushed the emotion down to deal with later.
'Ah, Chad, come in. Close the door behind you.'
Clay's smirk faltered, just a little, but it bounced back with remarkable dedication. Miranda smiled internally; she'd read him right. He wasn't used to people getting his name wrong. He knew better than to be too cocky, having heard the stories of La Priestly, but he was the sort of boy who knew, deep down, that everyone loved him and would always do so. She knew his type well; it was the sort of attitude she took pains to train out of her old students. He'd been popular in high school, a classic case of big fish, small pond. What's more, he was convinced he was god's gift to women, and in his mind that included Miranda. Clearly she needed to spend more time around the photography staff, if the myth of the Ice Dragon wasn't enough to intimidate him. She could start right now.
He stepped into the office, pulling the door closed. 'Uh, it's Clay, Miranda. Mrs Priestly.' He hastily tacked on the honorific at the less than impressed look on her face. She favoured him with one of her infamous looks, and his jaw shut snapped shut, cutting off anything else he might say.
'Do you know why you're here, Chad?'
His smirk was back. Despite her apparent memory loss regarding his name, he was feeling confident.
'Well, I asked to see you, didn't I? I wanted to talk to you about my uncle.'
'Your uncle.' She said, minus any inflection.
He kept talking, clearly warming up to his topic. 'Yeah. My uncle, Irv Ravitz-'
'Ah.' Miranda interrupted him, leaning back in her seat. She had a feeling she knew where this was going and she felt a pang of chagrin; she should have checked the employees more carefully when she took over the company.
'This used to be his company, before you came along. It's the family business.'
Miranda waited. There was no reason to respond; he would get to the point eventually. This sort of man could never resist filling a silence with his voice.
She was right.
'He cared a lot about this company. Sometimes more than his own family, it felt like. And I don't think he would have ever committed suicide like he did.'
Interesting. She gave him another silence, but he didn't seem interested in filling it. Understandable. This sort of thing was well above his pay grade. Finally she fixed her patented sneer onto her face, and asked the question. 'Are you accusing me of something, Mr Meacham?' Her voice was dangerously soft, and he had to lean forward to hear her. There was no evidence, nothing he could stick to her, but clearly he felt he had something on her. Otherwise he wouldn't be here.
'Well,' he was a little hesitant now. Even someone of his limited intelligence could tell he had to tread carefully here. 'Some people might think it's suspicious that you came on the scene just after he died.'
Some people... she watched him, and came to realise he wasn't actually conjecturing. Someone had put him up to this. She'd had to hide a body this morning. Coincidence? Or something else.
Someone was sending people after her. But why now? She kept her face calm as she thought it over. Still, Clay could be dealt with easily enough. Rumours could ruin his reputation just as easily as hers. Probably more easily, given that she had evidence and he didn't.
'And why are you telling me this?' She leaned over the desk, making sure to keep her intonation flat. 'You suspect me of… what, murder? I’m sure you have evidence to support your accusation. Why not go to the police? It's quite the serious crime, or so I'm told.’' He leaned back in his chair, trying to put some distance between them.
‘Ah… I was thinking you could-’
He trailed off into a nervous mumble.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t quite hear that.’
She wasn’t going to throw him any bones on this one. ‘I… before my uncle died, he said I would get promoted soon. I thought you might… give me that promotion.’
She was almost disappointed. That was his big motivation? He wanted a promotion, so he dropped in to (poorly) accuse her of murder? That didn’t add up. No, something else was going on here. But Clay Meacham was clearly not the brains of the operation. Someone else was pulling the strings.
The longer she sat and thought, the more he squirmed in his chair. He was trying to keep it subtle, but it wasn’t working. She’d seen hundreds of intimidated employees in that very chair over the years; she kept an uncomfortable chair in her office for that exact reason. In this situation it was better to wait for them to talk. Silence made people uncomfortable; even people without a guilty conscience rushed to fill it. Braver men than Clay Meachem had broken down in the face of her unforgiving silence.
They sat in silence for a minute longer before he broke. But when he started talking, he didn’t stop; it was like a dam had broken. She listened in silence as he outlined what felt like his entire life story, barely pausing for breath. As she’d suspected, he hadn’t come up with the idea that Irv Ravitz’ death wasn’t what it seemed on his own. That made her feel a little better; if Clay Meacham had figured it out, she would have had to rethink her life.
As it turned out, it had come in the form of an anonymous email sent to him. There was no evidence, or at least none that had been given to Clay; just suspicion. Someone with a better sense of self preservation would never have tried to confront her without at least trying to find evidence of any wrongdoing- but Clay was the type of guy who knew nothing bad could ever happen to him. She stayed quiet as he kept talking, building a profile of him in her mind. He’d never faced any sort of consequences in his life, and as such had a ton of unearned confidence. Which was presumably why he’d been pointed in her direction; anyone else would have been suspicious of the source of the email.
But whoever sent him after her didn’t know about Clay Meacham’s proclivities, let alone that she had a file full of evidence about his sexual harassment of her employees.
‘I’m good at my job, and my uncle always said-’
She finally interrupted him, cutting off the flow of his monologue.
'Your uncle always said. Tell me, Chad-' He looked like he wanted to correct her, but he didn't. Wise of him. '-Did your uncle also say you were allowed to feel up the models?'
He froze then, looking like a deer in headlights. He was smart enough to know he was in trouble, then. She wouldn't have credited it, but she supposed he had to have some intelligence. He just didn't exercise it often enough.
'I have a folder full of complaints about you, from your work ethic to your attitude towards the models in my employ. Now, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that your uncle's former role in this company allows you to act in any way you choose. This is not acceptable behaviour.'
Finally, she was getting through to him. His ever present smirk faltered, and she smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile. It was Miriam Prenchik's smile, not Miranda Priestly's. She would have to rebury herself in her new character all over again, but it felt so good to let Miriam out. It had been too long.
Miss Priestly, I-'
'My name , Mr Meacham , is Miranda.' Now he looked afraid. Good.
'This behaviour will not be tolerated at Runway. Really, I should have done this before. You can act as my example to any others like you. You're fired.'
'But-'
She looked at him, and he shut up. 'Mr Meacham, you are fired. I'm afraid that's non-negotiable. You do, however, have a couple of options open to you. You can leave quietly, and I won't pursue the case against you. Or you can object, and I will send a copy of this file to every employer in my contacts list. Be advised; it's a very long list.'
He sagged in his chair. There was no way for him to win this, and he knew it.
He didn’t have any significant evidence against her; she had a whole file against him. For a moment she wanted to sink back in her chair and rub her eyes. She was tired of dealing with this. But no one else would, so it was up to her.
And she had to get back to work. One problem was dealt with, and she could deal with the rest later.
She smiled as he walked out the door, defeated. As she closed the door behind him, she made eye contact with Andrea Sachs. The girl was smiling broadly.
-
On the drive home that night, Miranda looked out the window as they passed a particular nondescript gravel road leading off into the countryside. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about the road, except that she'd hidden Bert Sawyer's body at the end of it.
She wasn't sure what, exactly, she was looking for, but she found it. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a car turning back onto the main road. The car turned and started travelling in the opposite direction, but as it did, Miranda recognised the driver. Andrea Sachs made eye contact as she drove past, and Miranda's throat went dry. She found the body; she must have. But what was she planning to do about it? She didn't seem to have told anyone about it. And for some reason, Miranda didn't think she was going to.
When she got home, she had other things to worry about. How had Bert gotten in? She had the best security system money could buy. Well. She of all people knew any security system could be bypassed, but- she had alarms on all the windows and doors. The alarms were designed to alert her, of course, before the police. All the windows and doors... except the attic.
She cursed and removed her heels. She took the time to place them in the shoe rack carefully (they were Chanel, after all) before climbing the stairs to the attic. She stepped carefully, avoiding the few creaking spots. She didn’t think there was anyone still hiding- but she hadn’t thought there was anyone hiding this morning, either.
The cleaner wouldn't have been in the attic today; no one lived there day to day, so Miranda only asked her to give it dust once a month and a deeper clean twice a year.
She pushed open the attic door, casting her eyes over the room's contents. Black and white photos of a couple that could easily be her grandparents, a music box, and two or three pieces of jewellery that could be family heirlooms, an old quilt that had been made by someone's grandmother, and two boxes of old fashion magazines. All the personal memorabilia Miranda Priestly might have accumulated over the course of a lifetime.
Her gaze fell on the pile of broken glass under (what had formerly been) the window. She closed her eyes in frustration, allowing herself to wallow briefly. She'd become complacent, and she could have been killed in her own home as a result. The oversight was unacceptable on her part. The attic windows hadn't been alarmed. She would have an assistant call tomorrow to remedy that; for now she pursed her lips and got to work cleaning the broken glass. Looking out the window, she couldn't tell how he had scaled the wall. He couldn't exactly have snuck a ladder in, and there were no signs of a rope. He must have come in during the early hours when no one was likely to be around to see. She saw the signs that he had stayed in the attic, waiting. There was a footprint just under the window, and a dust-free spot where he must have sat and waited. Careless of him.
Still, that was lucky for her. If he'd been any less careless, she might not have even noticed him. Life as Miranda Priestly had made her soft. She'd been too busy looking out for the pitfalls of the fashion world to pay sufficient attention to the goings-on of her own home. Still, she'd learnt her lesson, and she couldn't just wallow. An assistant would also call a repairman tomorrow; Miranda Priestly didn't do her own house repairs.
She left it for the moment, locking the attic door on her way out.
As she descended the stairs, the front door opened and Andrea Sachs walked in. Miranda looked at the clock on the wall; sure enough, it was eleven. Time for the delivery of the Book.
Andrea looked straight at her with none of the reservation Miranda was used to. She took her time coming in, methodically placing the dry-cleaning in the closet and placing the Book on the table. When she was done, she looked up expectantly. Miranda beckoned her upstairs into the lounge room. They sat in silence on opposite couches, then Miranda heard herself saying, 'Who are you?'
Andrea smiled, and Miranda could see no trace of the shrinking violet she knew from the office.
'Well, as you've probably figured out, Andy is not the name I was born with, but I'm planning on keeping it for some time, if at all possible. I know you're Miriam Prenchik; my older brother was in your Tenth class.' Miranda sat and considered that for a moment.
'I assume you're aware of the incident, then?'
'The one that got you fired? Yes.'
'Why are you here? At Runway, of all the places?'
'I did similar training, but at the other school. The guy in charge was almost as tough as you. David Angola.'
Miranda nodded at that. It made sense; David Angola had saved her ass at the secret hearing.
'It's a tough school. I lost one in every class; that's actually better than the record before I took over. Given how rigorous the training has to be, it's generally considered the price of doing business. Obviously the testing was rigorous. It had to be, to ensure the graduates were prepared for anything they might face. Of course my standards were high, but that's what kept the death count so low. Anything less than perfection doesn't result in a long lifespan in our line of work. Until my tenth year, one loss was considered more than acceptable.' She shook her head regretfully. 'Unfortunately, that year the lost student had the family connections required to make waves.'
Andrea smiled slightly, and there was admiration in it.
'You're legendary in the schools. David said you were the best. Said he would never be as good as you.'
Miranda smiled, a wry twist of her lips. 'That's quite the compliment, coming from David. He's right, though.' Then, more seriously:
'That woman’s brain aneurysm could have gone at any time, but it was described as a result of ‘undue rigor’ and ‘borderline cruelty.’ Her bad luck, and mine. Her mom had a lot of connections; quite a rich family, that one.'
Andrea nodded, and her expression held no judgement. She understood; she'd been through the same training. 'Did they give you the name when they fired you?'
'Complete with references.'
'Me too.'
Miranda raised an eyebrow at that.
'Wrong place at the wrong time. Someone had to take the fall.' Miranda wasn't satisfied, but after a moment she nodded. She could get the full story later. 'And why are you here?'
'David suggested it. He heard there's some people coming after you. You've got some enemies, huh?'
'Most people do, in this business. Still, before this morning, no one had tried in five years.'
She pursed her lips at the thought of how careless she'd become.
They sat in silence for a moment, before Miranda spoke. She wanted- no, needed- more information.
'So the interview? I know you're not interested in fashion, but you could have faked it to get the job. Why didn't you?'
Andrea leaned back in the chair and gave a cocky smirk. 'I figured it was a good way to get your attention. It worked, didn't it? Besides, you needed someone to challenge you. And-' she ducked her head, though there was still a sparkle in her eye. 'I admit, I was a little bored.'
Miranda surprised herself with a small chuckle. She had to admit it had worked.
Maybe she had been bored, too.
‘David Angola sent you here.’ Miranda said, after a while.
‘Yes, he did.’ Andrea agreed.
‘Why you?’ Miranda took care to ask, rather than demand. It was a day for firsts, it seemed. Only after she said it did she realise the question could be considered rude. It surprised her to realise that she didn’t want to be rude to Andrea.
Luckily though the girl in question seemed to take it in stride.
Except, Miranda noted with interest, for a small blush spreading over her cheekbones. Interesting.
‘I… wanted to meet you.’ The girl confessed, and finally that familiar sheepish expression was back. ‘David always spoke so highly… and my brother was in awe of you. I wanted to see if you lived up to the legend.’
Miranda smirked. She stood up and made her way across the room, noticing- to her satisfaction- Andrea watching her progress. She sat down on Andrea’s sofa and the girl turned to look at her as if her gaze was drawn like a magnet. After such an unusual day, Miranda appreciated the return of their usual dynamic.
She leaned slowly in towards Andrea, closing the distance between them. The girl’s breath was coming shorter now. It was a subtle difference- anyone else may not have noticed- but Miranda’s job relied on noticing things others did not. Having an assistant with a little crush on her wasn’t new to Miranda, but reciprocating it was new territory indeed. Finally they were close enough to touch, and she brushed her lips over Andrea’s. The kiss was chaste, but it held the promise of more. Miranda leaned back enough to see the girl’s reaction. They smiled at each other, both a little breathless.
Some tension between them had broken, and they knew there would be plenty of opportunity to satisfy the attraction between them. They sat in silence for a time, but it was a relaxed silence. Miranda hadn’t felt so comfortable just sitting quietly with someone since… as far back as she could remember.
'By the way," Andrea said, apropos of nothing. "What did happen to his uncle- Irv Ravitz, wasn't it? Didn't you become editor a little after he committed suicide?"
Miranda nodded, her expression showing just the right amount of sorrow. "Mr Ravitz was having an office affair with his much younger, married, secretary. Serena heard about it and came to me with it."
"That would have been quite the scandal." Andrea smiled conspiratorially. "Very proactive of you."
Miranda leaned over and twined their fingers together, returning the smile. It should have felt strange, but it didn’t.
Miranda had to admit, she'd had her doubts. Having someone around who knew about her past was something of a security risk, but she had to admit she appreciated having Andrea around. The girl was, as it turned out, quite the conversationalist when she wanted to be.
Later that night, as she tangled her fingers in the girl's hair and arched back against her bedsheets, she had to admit that she appreciated Andrea's other skills as well.
She could get used to this.