Chapter Text
Andy sprinted down the hall. After trying Miranda’s phone again and failing to get anything besides a dialtone, she figured the confrontational approach would do. She checked Miranda’s itinerary and felt her panic spike once again after confirming that a meeting with Irv began Miranda’s day. Irv’s suite came nearer, and she already decided in the elevator that she would bang on its door until Miranda heard what she just learned from Christian.
Mock-up. Jacqueline Follet. Younger. Fresher. Less money. She figured any of those keywords would trigger a response, so she shuffled them against her tongue, ready to burst through her lips before Miranda could slam the door in her face.
She finally reached the door and raised a fist as a battering ram, but before she could loose the first swing, the door flew open and Miranda nearly ran her over. The pale blur whooshed past her, and Andy quickly pivoted on a too-smooth Blahnik sole and tried to catch up. Once she did, she took a glance at her boss and knew the worst had happened. Miranda’s skin matched her crisp white blouse, and her lips were pursed together in an almost invisible line. Andy looked back quickly at the Royal Suite Miranda had emerged from and noticed Irv standing there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Andy turned back just in time to slap the down button at the elevator. Thankfully, the doors opened immediately, and they stepped in together. Miranda chose their destination, repeatedly tapping her own floor’s number.
“Miranda, I tried to—,” Andy began, once the doors shut.
Miranda hissed in a breath through clenched teeth and raised her hand for silence. Andy decided to shut up for however long Miranda deemed it necessary, but she’d follow Miranda whether she liked it or not.
They finally made it to her hotel suite, where Miranda lunged toward one of her bags and rifled through a few papers. She pulled out a piece of stationary that she’d used on the plane over to jot down a list of names in preparation for the conversation with Irv she knew was coming. Little did she know that this conversation would arrive much, much sooner than she’d anticipated. Right in the middle of fashion week, to be exact. It was illogical and would probably do as much damage to him as it would to her. Perhaps she should have thought more like him, then she would’ve been prepared for such a ridiculous step.
Andrea stood beside her, but Miranda pivoted closer in her direction.
“How many of these people do you think we could get on the phone?”
“Now?” Andy asked. Miranda responded with only a flare of her nostrils, and Andy ran her finger down the list Miranda kept clutched in her hand. “Um…these are…”
“Andrea, you know how I feel about excuses. If you could get the manuscript of a—”
“It’s fashion week, Miranda. Designers? Models? How could we possibly get these people on the phone?”
The paper crumpled slightly as Miranda curled her fingers in frustration. Andy tried to rack her brain for a solution to a problem that she barely understood at the moment, but could find nothing. She looked over at Miranda and watched her face harden by degrees as she stared at the names on this list, then she looked back at it herself trying to see what could be done.
“Maybe the photographers,” Andrea finally offered in a whisper. Miranda squeezed her arm in a mixture of gratitude and command.
“And I’ll try,” Miranda scanned the list once more and pointed at the top, “these.”
They took out their phones in unison and began dialing, then their voices finally disturbed the tense stillness with fake, positive tones. “I’m calling for Miranda Priestly” and “This is Miranda Priestly calling” began the barrage of calls and greetings that lasted less than a half hour.
Andy ended the final call with a sarcastic “thanks for the help” gritted through her teeth, while Miranda merely snapped her phone shut and stared blankly at the wall opposite them. At any other moment and with any other person, Andy would’ve muttered a “told you so,” but she valued her life far too much to do that now. And in truth, Andy felt zero elation at what was happening, could find no joy in being right that her boss had officially run out of options.
“How did you know?” Miranda finally rasped in a voice that signaled defeat.
“Christian Thompson,” Andy replied. Miranda answered with a frown, so she continued. “I found a mock-up of a Runway cover in his room.” Andy sneaked a look at Miranda to see her reaction, but her face remained as impassive as stone. “He explained that Jacqueline would be taking over, primarily because of the money issues.”
“Primarily?” Miranda missed nothing.
“Christian said something about a fresher take.”
Although Andrea hadn’t stated it explicitly, Miranda understood that her age was a factor. Her silent sneer heralded as much.
“What else?”
“He said he would be running the editorial content. After that, I left and started calling you.”
Miranda took a deep breath and approached one of the large windows that overlooked the broad avenue below her rooms. She watched the luxury town cars idling in the valet drop-off and followed a few of her own fashionably-dressed set exiting the hotel. Some got into cars, while others seemed to debate it for a moment then began their journey on foot down the street. Her eye travelled from one person to a couple to a car to a bicycle, then up and down the full vista from one end of the avenue to another; her view afforded her that panoramic.
“I won’t be attending the luncheon,” she said, knowing Andrea would hear her and take note. “When is the next show?”
“Givenchy at four o’clock,” she replied without hesitation. Then Miranda heard her shuffle and clear her throat slightly. Finally, “Don’t you think not going to the luncheon would—”
Miranda merely turned slightly in Andrea’s direction, and something in her posture and profile silenced Andrea immediately.
“If that’s all...,” then after a few moments with no reply, Andy figured it was safe to pick up her things and leave the room. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. Taking a deep breath, it’d felt as if she hadn’t the chance to do so since she first started sprinting from Christian to Miranda.
Hours later, Andy waited for Miranda in the lobby. Each time the elevator doors opened, she shifted her weight forward, but Miranda tarried. In the time since the morning fiasco, Andy had taken a nap that felt more like a coma, then as she showered and dressed, she mentally ran through the different scenarios of the day. She began to wonder what came next, but banished the thought before she drowned in stress.
As she waited, Nigel emerged from the elevator instead. As soon as his gaze fell on Andy, he sped towards her.
“What the hell is going on? Where was she?”
“At the luncheon, you mean?”
“Yes, at the luncheon!” Nigel answered, once he finally reached Andy. “That bastard let Jacqueline Follet lead the remarks once he realized Miranda was a no-show. He didn’t seem to mind it though, which was perhaps the most frightening part.”
“I knew it!” Andy cried. “I told her she should go.”
“Andy, what’s going on?”
She debated whether to tell Nigel everything or if that was up to Miranda. She shifted between the two options, then the elevator doors opened and Miranda arrived, effectively taking the decision from her. Nigel turned at Miranda’s approach and began to speak, but Miranda stopped him.
“Do you still have the position at James Holt?”
“Wh—I—,” Nigel stuttered, not expecting that question. “Yes, Miranda. But I don’t underst—.”
“But there’s still time before you officially transition to his company, correct?”
“Yes, it’s still being set up, so I’m staying with you for the next six weeks, at least.”
“Staying with Runway.” And with that correction, Nigel’s features went slack, one by one. “I’m going to need you to do a few things for me, Nigel. The sooner, the better. In fact, if you could return to New York earlier than the others, I would...appreciate it.”
Miranda asking for a favor was a new experience. She commanded, critiqued, even reprimanded, but never would she plead. Just a few hours and already certain intrinsic attributes were falling from her, stolen by an insecure little man with an overgrown ego.
“I understand,” Nigel replied, almost solemnly. “What do you need?”
“I sent you an email with a list. Do what you can or what you have access to. The rest—,” she paused and sneaked a glance up at Andrea, who wasn’t sure whether she should even be listening or not. Miranda must’ve found something in her glance though because she finally continued. “—Andrea can try her hand at.”
“Should I get in touch with Emily?” Andrea asked, already retrieving her phone.
“No,” Miranda immediately replied. “Only we, here, can know about this.”
Both Andy and Nigel nodded.
“I guess I’ll go check for flights then,” Nigel said, then shifted his weight on his feet. After seeming to physically brace himself, he finally blurted out the rest. “This is despicable, Miranda. You don’t deserve this.”
Miranda winced at Nigel’s words. Andy noticed her reaction that passed in under a second, leaving a placid exterior, but Andy nevertheless wondered why Nigel’s sympathetic words would cause her pain.
Miranda merely nodded in response, while Nigel awkwardly patted her arm and left for his room. She then took a deep breath and gazed outside.
“How much time before the Givenchy show?” Miranda asked.
“A little less than an hour,” Andy responded. “I already have your car waiting.”
“Why don’t we walk?”
Andy knew little about Paris, but she felt certain that the Givenchy show wasn’t just a walk away. Before Andy could offer that response though, Miranda had already exited the hotel, and she sped up to follow.
They kept a leisurely pace down a wide avenue, cars and scooters speeding past them and whipping up the cool, early autumn breeze. Andy got to see a bit of Paris last night, but now they were on another side of the Seine. She remembered reading about the Left and Right Bank, their different arrondissements and different styles, like the boroughs and neighborhoods of New York City. Christian was a good tour guide, but a bit cheesy. And the intervening events certainly hadn’t helped her view of last night.
After a few blocks, Miranda turned into a covered alleyway filled with small shops and bakeries. Andy followed and looked up at the glass ceiling, which filtered the afternoon light until it felt as if the alley below were lit with electricity. The whole scene felt both old and new at once and even reminded her a little bit of...
“A mall,” Miranda commented after noticing Andy’s gaze. “The first of its kind.”
“I thought those hadn’t started until the 80s,” Andy laughingly replied.
“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Miranda responded. “This is one of the oldest. Opened around the 1820s, I believe. But if we’re defining a mall as a covered promenade that houses multiple shops of different varieties, then this would be the first. Paris was a shopping capital before it was ever a fashion capital. Malls, department stores, and then finally the fashion houses arrived.”
“What are they called?” Never ask Miranda anything, a clipped British voice intruded upon Andy’s thoughts, but then she realized she’d broken that rule half a dozen times already today. “These covered alleyways.”
“Different names. Passages, galleries, arcades.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yes,” Miranda said, while opening the door to a small pastry shop. “Cool.”
The richly-scented pastry shop immediately made Andy’s mouth water. She stared at all the tarts, danishes, croissants, cookies, and other flaky pastries decorating the shelves, while Miranda spoke to the women behind the counter. Miranda pointed at a few boxes of macaroons and spoke in French to the attendants, while Andy gazed upon a pain au chocolat. It was probably from the morning; maybe she could get it for a discount. Did they do that in Paris?
“Do you want it?” Miranda asked before passing her card across the counter. “I’m getting these for the girls.”
“No, I’m fine,” Andy replied, more out of manners than actual desire and gave the pastry one last longing glance.
Miranda finished paying, then passed Andy the bag to carry as they entered the passage again, walking through it until they emerged in a network of small streets, all bustling with cafes.
Miranda paused momentarily at one cafe on the corner of a street and a wider plaza. She looked at her watch and noted the time, twenty minutes until the Givenchy show, but only the mechanics of the day brought the show to mind. She looked around her, at the Parisians hunched over their espressos, teenagers leaning against the Metro entrance across the street, and her assistant standing patiently next to her, also glancing at the time.
A waiter wiped down one table in the shade and with a rather enticing vantage point. Miranda involuntarily moved towards it and sat down. She watched Andrea through the corner of her eye, hoping she’d just sit and not make a fuss. Of course, that’s exactly what she did, but not without a few more looks at her watch and sidelong glances at Miranda.
“Pour manger?” A waiter asked as he passed their table.
“Non,” Miranda replied. “Juste deux cafés.”
And with that, Miranda settled back in her chair and stared out at the people walking past. After a few moments, Andy’s rigid posture finally eased, and she settled back too. Miranda felt as if she could instantly breathe more freely. The waiter returned and placed their espressos on the table.
“Merci,” Andy said to his retreating back, while Miranda placed her fingertips on the ceramic cup, testing the temperature and finding it wanting. She took her first sip and wished it burned more. Across the table, Andy took a tentative sip and hissed, “Hot,” between her teeth. Miranda’s eyes rolled.
Andy couldn’t help but wonder what the hell they were doing. Miranda had already missed the luncheon and now — what? She was going to just sit out the rest of fashion week? She’d expected a lot of different reactions from Miranda, but they all just radiated different shades of rage. She hadn’t expected this, which looked suspiciously like surrender.
“A good ensemble.”
Miranda’s comment jolted Andy out of her thoughts, and she scanned the people around them to find the object of Miranda’s gaze. A woman about Miranda’s age sat on a low stone bench directly opposite them in the plaza. Andy first noticed the woman’s severe black bob, cut at the exact level of her cheekbones, then the rest was just a sea of red. Red lips, red dress, red trench, red low-heeled sandals, even a red bag.
“What don’t you like?” Miranda asked, noting how Andy’s nose wrinkled in distaste.
“It’s just so…red.”
“Observant. And?”
“And? And that’s it.”
“You don’t like red?”
“No, I do.”
“So then what’s the problem?”
Andy took a deep breath. She felt as if she were being tested, a sudden pop quiz on what’s hot and what’s not. She was just barely getting the hang of dressing herself, so she felt decidedly out of her depth. Nevertheless, she looked again.
“I guess,” Andy began, after a few moments, “I’d always heard that you shouldn’t do head-to-toe one color.”
Miranda hummed. “Not entirely wrong, but here we see an exception to the rule.”
“Why?” Andy asked, deciding to humor the sudden professorial role Miranda seemed determined to adopt this afternoon.
“What you mention is when same-colored fabrics are mixed haphazardly. If you see a man wearing a blue shirt, blue jeans, and blue trainers, then I give you full permission to make the face you made earlier.” Andy immediately thought of Nate’s often monochromatic clothes and began to understand where Miranda was going with this. “What do you know of art, Andrea?”
“My friend owns a gallery, but for me personally, I don’t know much outside of high school Art and trips to museums in New York.”
“The Guggenheim?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“So, you’ve seen a Rothko?”
“That’s the guy that just paints those big squares, right?”
“Be more specific, Andrea. Think like a writer for a moment. With that description, I’d think you were talking about Mondrian.”
“Well,” Andy thought for a moment, trying to remember the day Lily took her to the Guggenheim when she first moved to New York City with Nate. What had Lily told her? “He does color studies.”
“Precisely,” Miranda said. “And what is this but a color study?”
Andy looked at the woman again and noticed the color, but also a few other elements she hadn’t seen before.
“What do you see?” Miranda whispered over the rim of her espresso cup.
“There’s a slight variation in the…value?” Andy blurted the word from some dark corner of her memory. Miranda nodded though, so she kept going. “The dress and the shoes are more like a tomato red, the trench is like wine, the bag like blood.”
Miranda’s lips ticked upward slightly. She wasn’t looking at the woman, but directly at Andrea as she spoke. “And what causes that variation?”
The dye, Andy wanted to say, but she thought for a moment, knowing that was the wrong answer. It’s another art word. “The texture,” Andy realized. “Well, the fabrics in this case, since it’s clothes.”
“Try to name them from here.”
“The dress is linen. The shoes—”
“A slightly brighter red.”
“Satin,” Andy realized. “The bag is leather. And the trench—”
“Not a trench.”
“The—uhh—long coat is also linen, but different—”
“Coarser.”
“—coarser than the dress.”
Miranda nodded once, and Andy finally breathed again. She felt as if she’d just run a hundred meter sprint.
“And do you like it now?” Miranda asked.
Andy shifted her head back and forth. “I think I appreciate it now.”
And at that, Miranda nodded twice.
“Do you like everything you put in the magazine?”
“Perceptive question,” Miranda responded. “If by ‘like,’ do you mean ‘would I wear’ everything I put in the magazine?”
“I guess.”
“Of course not.”
“Then why…”
“Does your curator friend only exhibit the art she’d personally place in her home?”
“No, but that’s different.” It’s art. Although she hadn’t said the words aloud, Miranda intuited them nonetheless.
“And that distinction,” Miranda leveled her with a strangely penetrative glance, “is precisely the one I mean to dismantle.”
Andy tried to keep her features neutral as Miranda looked at her, but as soon as the woman looked away again, Andy allowed pity to color her face. What was she talking about? Andy thought of Christian’s words that morning: It’s done. She glanced again at her watch. The Givenchy show had begun with one empty seat in the front row, and here they were talking about the color red and sipping espressos as if they weren’t both out of a job.
She thought of that day, which seemed ages ago, when Miranda had sent her on the impossible task of getting the Harry Potter manuscript. She remembered how she’d called Nate, finally giving up. He had congratulated her, made her quitting a cause worth celebrating, and she recalled how that grated against her skin. Then, only moments later, she got a second wind and immediately raced to meet the goal this indomitable woman had set for her, despite her momentary surrender and her boyfriend’s encouragement.
Somehow, Miranda hadn’t given up yet, all evidence to the contrary. She was waiting for her second wind, her call from an unlikely source, or maybe just for her next idea. Andy couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take and whether she’d even go along for the ride. Whether she’d be allowed a seat. Whether she wanted it.
As Andy sat contemplating what came next, Miranda checked the bill on their table, threw down a few euros, and rose up from her chair. Andy gathered the bag from the pastry shop and her purse, then joined Miranda on the corner. They crossed the street, walked onto the plaza that contained multiple stone benches surrounding a small fountain, and passed the woman in red. Up close, Andy noticed, the outfit was even more intricately styled. She hadn’t been able to see the jewelry before, gold mixed with red.
With her purse pulled against her, Andy felt an insistent vibrating and pulled her phone out, its blaring ring filling the half-empty plaza. Miranda stopped at the sound.
“Sorry,” Andy muttered. “It’s Emily.”
Miranda reached across Andy and grabbed the phone, still loudly ringing.
“Do you have your contacts saved elsewhere?”
“Yes,” Andy automatically replied. “On the office computer and my laptop at the hotel.”
And with that, Miranda launched the phone past Andy, and they both watched it plunk into the greenish water of the plaza’s fountain.
“I’ll get you another one once we’re back in the States. There’s supposedly something coming from Apple next year that’ll make that look like a rotary phone. Perhaps we can get an early version.”
She’s gone insane, Andy thought. But nonetheless, she kept walking alongside Miranda, through the Paris maze of streets, shops, alleys, and bridges.
Miranda only stopped to get something for the girls at various small stores she remembered from the years when she allowed herself time to explore this beautiful city. Andrea carried the weight of her purchases.
She looked at Andrea now, as she craned her eyes across the Seine to observe the lines of Notre Dame after they’d left another store, and again the thought arose that had been annoying her for weeks now. They were both so alike. Granted, Andrea could use more experience, more education, but soon she’d have her first protégée since Nigel. She needed that diversion now more than ever, so she paused for a moment at their view of the cathedral and pointed out the nave’s flying buttresses and the rose window visible to them from this vantage point.
“From the 13th century,” Miranda explained.
“Whoa, that’s old,” Andrea responded.
Yes, Miranda still had much work to do.
“You know a lot,” Andrea added after a moment.
“You sound surprised,” Miranda scoffed.
“Most people are specialists. I thought you were too, but you’re not.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?” Andrea shrugged, then hesitantly nodded. “Let’s head back to the hotel. Get a taxi.”
“No can do,” Andy replied.
“Excuse me?”
“Taxi drivers are on strike.”
“Is it too much to ask that people just do their jobs?” Miranda muttered to herself.
“Well,” Andy interrupted, and Miranda merely stared, one eyebrow raised, waiting for her repartee. “There’s apparently a new transport law that they’re not too happy about. Their parliament seems to favor a privately-held new group of taxi companies rather than the traditional ones that have always been unionized. Hence, the strike.”
“Good to know,” Miranda responded sarcastically. “Still sounds like people refusing to do their job.”
“That’s the point, though! Maybe if we had more strikes in New York City, there’d be some change to the system rather than gridlock 24/7 and a rotting subway system.”
“Andrea, I’ve been to Paris countless times over the past few decades,” she explained, while retrieving her phone from her bag. “There’s always a strike. Nothing changes, the world keeps spinning, and no one cares. Except for those of us who are inconvenienced by the mess.”
“Got us talking about French politics, didn’t it?” Andy reached over to Miranda’s phone without looking her in the eye and began dialing. “Hello, I’m calling for one of your guests Miranda Priestly. We need a car.”
Miranda watched her look around for the street names, then give their location. When Andy finished, she passed the phone back to Miranda and finally looked up into her eyes haltingly.
“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” Andy said. “Do you mind if I…?” She pointed to a bookshop that she’d just noticed and remembered from travel brochures. Miranda nodded and strolled toward a small park they passed minutes before, while Andy skipped across the street and inside the dark shop.
Miranda took a turn about the park and began a mental overview of her day, which felt more like a year. This morning’s events seemed to reside in another time and place, far removed from where she stood now. She’d accomplished much in her hotel room since that morning. Now, she only had to wait for Nigel to get certain important materials, then for tomorrow’s meetings. She still felt unsure about her decision. There were so many gaps and unanswered questions and even glaring red lights, but she put them out of mind for the time being. Only action would serve her now.
Action like Andrea’s that morning. Through her rage-filled haze and honest panic, she still noticed Andrea’s determined then dismayed face as she turned on a dime and followed her from Irv’s door back to her room. And even though she balked at Miranda’s initial request, she called models, photographers, and publicists anyways. Of course, Andrea is her assistant; she didn’t really have a choice. Yet, for weeks now, she felt as if something else besides professional duty lied beneath Andrea’s actions and lurked behind her focused gaze. Miranda had seen that look many times, most recently just a few hours ago after a long shower, when she’d stared at herself in the mirror and finally realized what to do next.
About to take her second turn around the park, Miranda spotted a black Mercedes pull up to the corner Andrea had specified and a harried driver emerging and looking around. Less than ten minutes, taxi strike be damned. She walked towards the car and gestured to the driver. He sped around to open her door, and Miranda explained they’d have to wait for her assistant. The driver nodded, closed the door after her, and stood sentinel.
Miranda waited a few minutes, then a few more. She probably should’ve left and let the girl find her own way back, but the thought didn’t take hold, like a bad habit she’d long ago dismissed. Andrea had that effect, for some reason, making her habitual actions towards others into a guilt trip. Finally, she watched Andrea emerging from the shop with all their bags from the day, along with a couple more.
Andy noticed the car immediately and practically sprinted towards it. Once the driver opened the door for her, she flung herself in and took a deep breath. The multiple bags piled between them, and Andy did her best to keep them from encroaching upon Miranda’s space. Naturally, they crowded her own legs and bit into her side instead.
“Sorry, Miranda,” she gasped. “I lost track of time. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“Go,” Miranda commanded the driver as soon as he took his seat.
They glided into the Paris traffic, and Andy stared out her window, taking a few last looks at the bookshop. Then she turned to look across the car and out towards Notre Dame again. In the process, she crashed straight into Miranda’s stare. She blushed immediately, hoping she wouldn’t get a dressing down for keeping her waiting. How was she supposed to know the hotel’s car service would get there in almost half the time?
Right at the moment when Andy was going to cave in and apologize, Miranda began speaking.
“You know, I see a great deal of myself in you.” Andy felt her eyes grow twice their size and didn’t even make an attempt to mask it. “You don’t stop when someone tells you what you can’t do. Those words don’t break you; they fuel you. You grow as a result of critique, even when it's unwarranted or unfair. You don’t crumble like so many others, like so many women usually.”
Andy’s feminism twinged a bit at that last remark, but the rest of the speech hit her like a strong wave. She blushed harder now and barely knew how to respond.
“I—I don’t,” she stammered. “I don’t think I’m like that, Miranda. I don’t think I could survive what you’ve gone through today. I couldn’t endure what Irv did to you.”
But Miranda interrupted her.
“You already have. You’ve endured it from me.”
Miranda turned back to her window and watched as they rode along the Seine, passing its bookstalls and tourists crowding the sidewalks. She felt Andrea’s shocked look weighing upon her, and she honestly felt surprised at her own words. She hadn’t planned them, and they seemed to emerge out of her musings while walking through that park. She was glad though—glad that Andrea knew and hoped that she’d see it for what it was: an apology.
Silent minutes passed with both women staring out of their respective windows and lost in their private thoughts. The driver finally turned onto their hotel’s avenue and into the valet area. Both of his passengers emerged without waiting for him to open the door. Andy quickly grabbed their bags, and Miranda seemed about to walk up the steps, but waited instead. They walked together into the lobby, where Andy passed Miranda’s bags back to her.
“And this one,” Andy whispered, handing over the last purchase.
“No, this is from Shakespeare & Co.”
“Yeah, I wandered into the younger readers’ section and found a couple books I thought the girls might like.”
Miranda peeked into the bag and noticed two small paperbacks, their pages yellowed slightly and giving off the unmistakeable aroma of an old bookshop. She nodded and looked back up at Andrea.
“I have a few meetings tomorrow,” Miranda said and hesitated before continuing. “Will you be joining me for them?”
Another request from the woman who never requested, but then Andy realized Miranda’s true question. The thought had only flitted through her mind momentarily throughout the day, but Andy was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed right now. She was an assistant to the editor in chief of Runway, but the editor in chief of Runway no longer stood before her. It was just Miranda Priestly now. Her thoughts ended there, and she replied.
“Yes, Miranda. What time should I request your car?”
“At ten, I think,” Miranda answered, without missing a beat, but Andy noticed her shoulders lower slightly and lose their former tension. “That should give us sufficient time to get there.”
“Right,” Andy responded.
Miranda nodded. “I’ll send you more details this evening. Through your email.”
Finally, she turned and walked towards the elevators. Andy watched as she boarded an elevator alone, and an attendant pressed the corresponding floor. The elevator doors closed, and Andy nearly shook her head to perhaps help her brain catch up to this afternoon’s events. Andy assumed the rest of her day was free, so she looked at her watch and wondered what she could get up to at this time, what else she could see.
“Six!” Andy swiftly turned to see Nigel emerging from the hotel bar. “Where have you been?”
“Uhh. It’s been a…weird afternoon.”
“Everyone’s been going crazy about Miranda’s no-show at Givenchy. And I’m about to head up and finish packing for my flight tomorrow morning. Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”
“Miranda threw my phone into a fountain.”
“She what?!” And Nigel guffawed into the cavernous lobby, attracting a few scornful looks at the loud American.
“Yeah! Nigel, I’m pretty sure she’s lost it,” Andy whispered.
“Oh no, honey,” Nigel smirked. “Granted, the phone-throwing seems a bit…gauche for her.” Andy actually thought it was kind of ballsy at the time, but her aesthetic always seemed a bit off amongst this crowd. “But if I’m reading her email to me correctly and connecting the dots of what she wants me to get…”
“What? She hasn’t told me anything besides some cryptic fun facts about colors and windows and other stuff and that we have some meetings tomorrow.”
“Meetings where?” Nigel’s interest piqued.
“She didn’t say.”
“Damn, that’s the last clue I needed.”
“What do you think she’s doing? To be honest, if you’d asked me a few hours ago, I’d have said she’s throwing in the towel.”
“No, no, no,” Nigel chided with a grin. “I’m pretty sure she’s taking a page out of Diana Vreeland’s book.” When Andy looked at him still completely lost, he clarified. “She’s going after the Met. The Costume Institute.”
“The Met?” Andy thought about it for a moment, but then the other shoe dropped. She remembered the recent benefit and what their calendar for spring included. “Runway organizes and throws the Met Gala. But that’s like…”
“Like taking the Oscars away from Hollywood?” Nigel finished with a laugh. “She’s brilliant. When we’re all honest with ourselves, we know there’s two things that get people to buy the magazine: celebrity covers and the Met Gala. Hell, that event fuels most of our budget for the rest of the year. She hasn’t given up a damn thing.”
Andy’s lips curved into a very satisfied smile. She couldn’t wait to find out where those meetings would be tomorrow.