Chapter Text
Miranda opens her eyes. She turns off her alarm. The glaring digits on the clock read, "07:00, 2.10.2006."
Today is going to be a good day.
Yesterday, not so much. There's nothing like receiving a phone call from one's husband, declaring resolutely that he wants a divorce, to ruin one's Fashion Week. On top of that, she had final touches to her plan to put into motion, and in order to do so, Stephen and his cowardly timing had to be put in the background, to be dealt with later. He will remain there today as she secures her position as the one and only editor-in-chief of Runway and proceeds to do her most important work on the most important week of her year.
Her plan is established, and today she will send a loud and clear message to all those who think they can trump her: "Don't mess with me." Miranda Priestly does not yield easily. Miranda Priestly does not let things, important things, slip through her fingers. Her job will not be another thing she loses.
And, when this mess is done and dealt with, she will make Stephen see just how foolish his latest idea is. After all, it's in his best interest to stay with her. He knows as well as she does that being Miranda Priestly's husband has boosted his reputation in recent years--along with his career. She's elevated him, just as she's elevated Runway throughout the years; just as she's put the majority of dollar bills in Irv Ravitz's wallet. Throwing her to the curb is a stupid, reckless decision whichever direction it comes from.
A shower helps calm her nerves and remind her that she has nothing to be nervous about; she's the one dictating the rules of this game, and soon everyone who doubted her will stand corrected.
Her morning coffee tastes like victory. Her outfit is sharp and powerful. She feels better already.
The phone rings.
Picking it up from the cradle, she murmurs, "Alló," in perfectly accented French.
But on the other end is not a polite, French response. "Oh! Oh! You're there!"
Oh. It's Andrea. Sounding frantic and far from polite, although what reason she has to be distraught at 8 o'clock in the morning is beyond Miranda and not on the list of things she burdens herself with caring about. She does take issue with the tone, however, because by now Andrea should know better. "Excuse me?" she demands with an exasperated sigh.
Andrea maintains the same irritating attitude when she says, "I need to talk to you right away." And Miranda's already losing her interest, checking her wrist watch instead. Just in time, too, because she's about to be late, which would set the worst precedent. "It's about Jacqueline Follet," Andrea continues in the same breath, but Miranda's already returning the phone to its cradle. She has bigger fish to fry.
She takes one last look at herself in the mirror, satisfied with what she sees, and leaves, heading for the suite at the end of the corridor. Irv Ravitz is up for one hell of a wake-up call if he thinks he can one-up Miranda. He didn't consider the fact that Miranda answers to nobody but herself. Not even him.
He pastes on a fake smile upon seeing her on his threshold, which Miranda mirrors, and welcomes her inside, offering breakfast and coffee. She accepts.
"How are you enjoying Fashion Week so far?" he asks after filling her cup, feigning courtesy.
"Quite nicely, thank you," Miranda replies, matching his tone. She hates small talk, which Irv knows, but she also can't mess this up. Not when her career is on the line. "It's about to get a lot better."
"Oh?" His gaze lifts to meet hers, and he looks intrigued. And pretty self-assured that he'll be ruining the week for her nonetheless.
And this is where she cuts the small talk short. "Irv," she says knowingly, and that one syllable contains enough gravitas for the look on his face to morph from smug to puzzled and finally to understanding.
Realization dawning fast, Irv's lips pinch in displeasure, and his nostrils flare as he exhales a breath through them. "How did you find out?" he questions in a tight voice.
"Oh, Irv," she says condescendingly, "you should know by now that I know everything there is to know about my magazine."
The transformation from fake friendliness to anger on Irv's face is gradual and subtle, but Miranda notices it nevertheless and takes great pleasure in her effect on him. It's like watching a child being denied dessert for misbehaving. She feels much, much lighter when she continues, "Unfortunately, our dear friend Jacqueline is no longer available to take my job."
"Why not?" he asks with an edge to his voice. "What did you say to her?"
Miranda wants to laugh at his implication, that she would have had to warn or threaten Jacqueline in order to get her to back off. No, Miranda doesn't need to stoop to those lows to get what she wants, and like most French women, Jacqueline was incredibly easy. So she stops herself just as a chuckle threatens to come out, allowing poor Mr. Ravitz to maintain some shred of dignity. "Oh, nothing, nothing." She shakes her head, but a small, victorious smile does form on her lips. "She just found a better opportunity, that's all. Better-paid, too."
Clearing his throat, Irv straightens in his seat and scratches the back of his head. He looks well and truly uncomfortable--at being caught or losing Jacqueline or both--but Miranda almost appreciates his persistence as he says, "This is nothing personal, Miranda. I'm not denying that you're good at your job, but you have..." he falters, searching for the right words, and Miranda arches a questioning, challenging eyebrow at him. He gives her a pointed look. "Expensive demands. I simply can't afford to keep you on."
Then she does chuckle, low and deep in her throat, because if Irv can afford a second jet for him and his wife, then sulking over a few hundred thousand dollars every once in a while is pettiness at its finest.
She can tell he's trying his best to look tough, and it almost works, except he still seems a bit shaken from recent developments. "If it's not Jacqueline, I'll find someone else, Miranda. There's a lot of people who will be happy to do this job. But you have to understand that this decision is final."
Yes, Miranda assumed he'd pull that card, and she can't even fault him; only getting rid of Jacqueline would have been too easy--a Band-Aid on a gushing bullet wound. But she's had some time to prepare, and prepare she did, which is why she's not upset at his words. Instead, she smiles confidently and says, "I know."
As Irv's frown deepens, she reaches into her bag, where the single sheet of paper she carefully placed earlier did not wrinkled a bit. Pulling it out, she continues, "Which is why I brought you this," and lets go, letting it land gently between their plates. Silently, he picks it up and scans the page, his lips pressing together into a hard line. Taking hold of her cup of coffee, she casually says, "I'm assuming you don't need me to explain?"
His eyes still glued to the paper, Irv takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. Then closes it when a sound redirects both of their attention to the suite's door: someone knocking. Before he has a chance to get up, several successive knocks follow, and in the ensuing silence, Irv leaves the table. He barely gets as far as two feet away before the knocking resumes, growing more persistent until it escalates into full-blown banging. Miranda watches from her seat as he opens the door with an impatient "Yes," and although she can't see the person in front of him, she recognizes the voice almost immediately.
"Oh, hello, um, Mr. Ravitz, I'm so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering--" before the intruder can finish her babbling sentence, Miranda is at the door, standing before her frazzled-looking assistant. Who knew Miranda had a meeting she didn't want to be bothered during.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" she drawls in a mixture of disbelief and outrage while her eyes roam over Andrea's attire: a classy evening outfit, complete with disheveled hair, ruined makeup, and a crazy look in her eye. Completely inappropriate.
"I need to talk to you," Andrea whispers insistently, completely unafraid. Miranda has never seen her this intent, this stubborn, this unruly. She's a little impressed, but only a little bit, since her assistant is disturbing a very important meeting that could determine Miranda's future. Andrea better hope that this interruption hasn't made her lose her momentum.
"Do not disturb me again," she scolds as she moves away from Andrea and back into the room, where Irv is quick to close the door behind them.
"Your assistant?" He raises an eyebrow.
"She's not important right now," Miranda dismisses. "Shall we return to the table? I imagine we have a lot to discuss."
The next time she sees her assistant is outside the luncheon that's waiting for her to begin, where Andrea corners her when she's barely had a chance to walk through the lobby doors.
"Miranda? Miranda. Wait, I need to talk to you," she says urgently when Miranda does not even slow her step. She does take in the new outfit: a dress Andrea got the day before that fits her surprisingly well. Has she lost weight?
Andrea plunges into her speech while Miranda averts her gaze and removes her gloves. "Irv is making Jacqueline Follet the editor-in-chief of Runway," she says breathlessly. "Christian Thompson told me. He's gonna work for her, and Irv is gonna tell you today, so I thought that maybe if I told you, that you could fix it--"
Miranda wonders where this resourcefulness is coming from: to abandon etiquette, to disregard authority that makes in a minute more than Andrea could ever even dream of, to grow a backbone. No assistant she's ever had has cared this much about her, not to mention would have tried to keep her from losing her job. She can imagine a long line of past assistants celebrating at the notion of getting a nicer, less monstrous boss. Champagne and all. Not Andrea, apparently.
"Do I smell freesias?" She stops, making Andrea do the same and turn with a horror-filled look.
"What? No," she stammers. "I-I specifically told them that--"
"If I see," Miranda drawls in her deadliest tone while flinging her heavy fur wrap into Andrea's arms, "freesias"--the gloves go on top of the wrap--"anywhere," and she finishes so softly she can almost feel the anxiety radiating from Andrea, "I will be very disappointed."
Deflection. Excellent.
With that, she turns and enters the luncheon hall, where all eyes turn to her almost simultaneously. She never feels more powerful than she does upon entering a room or a gathering, where even if the occasion doesn't revolve around her, she knows that she's the most important person among peasants.
The forced greetings and small talk section of the event begins while everyone pretends they're not dying to eat and move on with their day. Miranda congratulates James Holt, exchanges knowing looks with Irv, gives Jacqueline compliments they both know she doesn't mean in the slightest, and returns Nigel's smile.
Nigel... Well. It's too bad for him; she knows he was excited about the new opportunity. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so hasty to put him up for the job when the idea to give it to Jacqueline instead came shortly thereafter, but he'll get over it. In time, he'll understand that she did what she had to do. Runway's best interest has always been the top priority for the both of them.
He gives her another one of those dreamy smiles from his table before getting up and taking his place behind the podium.
"For seventy-two years, Runway has been more than a magazine," he begins. "It has been a beacon of elegance and grace. Miranda Priestly is the finest possible guardian of that beacon,"--Say it louder for the people in the back, Miranda thinks sourly--"setting a standard that inspires people across the globe. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miranda Priestly."
The applause commences immediately, thunderous and admiring, as if at least half of the people in the room don't hate or fear her, and evolves into a standing ovation from the occupants of her table as she gracefully rises and makes her way to the podium. Helping her up, Nigel kisses both of her cheeks before descending the steps.
"Thank you, my dear friend," she softly says into the microphone, making him turn around and bow his head respectfully, almost reverently.
Show time.
"Bonjour," she says and chuckles along with the crowd. They're all looking up at her as if she's a god about to set them on the right path. She hopes Irv is taking notice, but she doesn't need to prove anything to him anymore. Today has been proof enough that power dynamics are merely an illusion; Miranda will always come up on top.
"Thank you very much for coming today to help celebrate our dear friend, James Holt." She pauses momentarily to allow another round of applause, during which James rises from his seat and bows. "But before I talk to you about James and his many accomplishments, I would like first to share some news with you." From the corner of her eye, she catches Irv's tight smile.
"Um... as many of you know, uh, recently Massimo Corteleoni has agreed to finance the expansion of the James Holt label, transforming the work of this visionary artist into a global brand, which is really an exciting enterprise.
"Runway and James Holt share many things in common, chief among them a commitment to excellence. And so, it should come as no surprise that when the time came for James to choose the new president of James Holt International, he chose from within the Runway family." Locking eyes with the man in question, she sees his smile fade and his jaw harden because they both know he hadn't a minuscule of choice in the matter.
"And it's my great happiness today to announce to all that that person is my friend and long-time esteemed colleague, Jacqueline Follet."
As another round of applause fills the room and Jacqueline basks in the approval, Nigel loses his smile; poor, sad Christian Thompson looks completely baffled; and Irv folds his arms over his chest and sends her one look that says, "Well-played."
And Miranda looks right back, her eyes conveying the words she's been repeating in her head all day like a mantra: "Don't mess with me."
"And now to the main event," she continues, "our celebration of James Holt."
Her French chauffeur starts driving as soon as the back seat door closes behind Andrea, and where earlier she couldn't stop talking Miranda's ear off, she's now silent, staring out of her window with her hands in her lap.
She tried to warn Miranda. Thought Miranda needed saving. Now she's been blindsided, along with all those who tried to cross Miranda.
"You thought I didn't know," Miranda says quietly, looking out of her own window. She feels rather than sees Andrea turn to her. "I've known what was happening for quite some time." And, once again, she feels the anger resurface: anger at the betrayal, at the secrecy, at people trying to take what is rightfully hers. At yet another thing she could have lost, narrowly avoiding the blow.
"Just... took me a little while to find a suitable alternative for Jacqueline, and that James Holt job was just so absurdly overpaid, of course she jumped at it." Chuckling at Jacqueline's foolishness--poor, stupid Jacqueline, who still hasn't realized she's been played like a pawn in a much, much grander scheme--she adds, "So I just had to tell Irv that Jacqueline was unavailable."
As the Parisian beauty passes blurrily by her eyes, she voices the words that have been leading her through this battle all along: "Truth is, there is no one that can do what I do, including her." She reminds herself that she's not being vain; just stating a true and simple fact. Above all, it was never herself she put first. "Any of the other choices would have found that job impossible, and the magazine would have suffered. Especially because of the list."
She finally turns to Andrea and sees the question on her face. She elaborates, "The list of designers, photographers, editors, writers, models, all of whom were found by me, nurtured by me, and have promised me they will follow me whenever and if ever I choose to leave Runway." She chuckles again, but this time it lacks humor. "So he reconsidered."
As the car continues to glide through the drizzling rain, she turns again to Andrea, who's no longer looking at her. "But I was very, very impressed by how intently you tried to warn me. I never thought I would say this, Andrea," she says while laughing to herself, because this has just occurred to her: as irritating as Andrea was all morning, she's also opened Miranda's eyes to something. "But I really... I see a great deal of myself in you."
The realization hits her without warning, the words hard to part with. Somehow, without her noticing, Andrea has changed and grown and become someone... someone that Miranda likes to be around. And those people are so scarce.
She gives Andrea a small nod when her impossibly large eyes widen even further, as though she herself can't believe Miranda's words. "You can see beyond what people want and what they need, and you can choose for yourself."
"I don't think I'm like that," Andrea finally whispers her first words since the beginning of the ride. She suddenly, after the morning's bravado, sounds weak and almost insulted, as if she doesn't see Miranda's observation for the compliment that it is. "I--" she starts, but stops herself, turning back to the window. Then, a few moments later, it comes out in a surer tone, "I couldn't do what you did to Nigel, Miranda, I couldn't do something like that."
And Miranda allows the smallest smile to lift the corners of her lips, because this is confirmation enough that she knows Andrea far better than Andrea knows herself. Or believes in herself. "Mmm. But you already did." Again, she feels Andrea's eyes on her and meets her gaze with her own unyielding one. "To Emily," she whispers.
Andrea frowns. "That's not what I--" Then she shakes her head, seemingly more to convince herself than Miranda. "No, that w-- that was different. I didn't have a choice--"
"Oh, no, you chose," Miranda replies calmly, knowing she will eventually make Andrea see what she does. "You chose to get ahead. You want this life? Those choices are necessary."
She's had to learn that lesson the hard way, she thinks as she turns away again, watching as the car approaches its destination. Her road to the top was bumpy and curvy, leaving behind genuine relationships, precious time with her children, and now yet another marriage. Hopefully, she can make Andrea's path just a little smoother, just a little less painful. Hopefully, this won't be another thing that blindsides her, and maybe then--
"But what if... this isn't what I want?" Andrea says, sounding small and feeble again. "I m-- I mean, what if I don't want to live the way you live?"
Facing her one last time before the car comes to a halt, Miranda dismisses at once, "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us."
She slips her sunglasses on just as the car stops and gives Andrea a small, gentle smile that turns bigger and insincere right on cue as she opens her door and climbs out into the herd of photographers and reporters. Cameras flash in her face and shouted questions surround her as she slowly mounts the hotel steps, the masses around her parting for her like the Red Sea. They all want to be them. Every single one. She turns around, opens her mouth to tell Andrea, "See?" only to find that Andrea is not behind her. She looks around, but Andrea is nowhere to be found: not farther down the steps, not swallowed by the crowds, not by the car.
Somewhere beyond the suffocating amount of people, she sees a flash of brown hair and a green dress, and Andrea keeps walking away.
With great difficulty--caused by the swarm of people and something else Miranda can't identify--she makes it to the top of the stairs, and her phone is at her ear before she's through the door, but Andrea doesn't pick up.
She's not by her side, she's not behind her, and Miranda's call goes to voicemail. Andrea is gone.
Miranda opens her eyes. She turns off her alarm. The glaring digits on the clock read, "07:00, 2.10.2006."
Today is going to be a good day.