A.N.
Disclaimer. I own none of the characters and have no financial interest in them. I am simply grateful for being allowed to have some fun with them.
A/U. Set before Paris. I don't think Andy will hang on to her job long enough to be allowed to go to Paris!
Chapter One.
She had tried Commandos, they had already run a feature on Navy Seals, and if she wasn't careful, Coastguards were likely poised to provide the next wretched theme for a Runway photo shoot. Everyone in the media those days seemed to relish the undercurrents of war, violence, terrorist attacks and general misery and mayhem. It seemed the readers of Runway would not be allowed to avoid the same bandwagon.
The forecast for the next season's fashions seemed to be only about militarism and grunge. Editor-in Chief Miranda detested both, and as the so-called Queen of New York fashion, she resented that they were "In". She thought she was supposed to set the trends, not be forced to follow them.
"Is it too much to ask for you to find positive stories about the emergency services? I suppose we could focus on fire-fighters, but their outfits are horrendous. You can't do much with a fire helmet, helmets in general. People who wear helmets. Girls in helmets. Should we run a feature on those?"
Miranda perched at the head of a large oval table in the editorial conference room at Runway's Manhattan office. She refused to sit in her chair. This position enabled her to look down at her senior staff sitting positioned in order of seniority around her.
All eyes were on her, their glorious leader. There was much gripping of pens hovering over note pads. It was supposed to be a brain-storming session.
Miranda glanced round and saw the absence of any notes on the notepads. Nobody had any ideas for the new issue, no evidence of brains, storming or even drizzling. She'd been driven to ever greater extremes of self-parody, but it wasn't even recognised as such.
"Maybe astronauts or deep sea divers," said one brave soul
(Please, somebody, say something sensible for once.)
To her left, there was a little cough. Her younger second assistant Andrea was there to take minutes, not venture an opinion. Miranda gave her one of her most condescending stares.
"Hmm? You have something you wish to contribute to this "discussion?" She did love to bait Andrea, to make a blush rise up her delightful, unmade up cheek. It was rather sadistic, but fun, and it always worked. Andrea's naturally strong voice sank to a whisper to match her own.
"If we went to the NYPD, they have lots of good stories, about acts of bravery and kindness. I saw one on the TV news last night, about this female officer who rescued a child from a storm drain . . . . And the uniforms are kind of sexy . . . "
She dried up and her voice faded, as the beautiful ones round the table raised their eyebrows. Everyone knew how dykes loved police uniforms. It was a code for a lot of things no-one was going to mention in a mainstream fashion magazine. The fashionista editorial team waited for Miranda to toss her head in derision, or maybe let them know they could run with this idea.
She spoke, the oracle spoke. "Police. Well. Banal but some scope for imaginative back-drops."
They began to endorse and feed the idea. "Holding cells." "Light through barred windows." "Features on women's progress in the Force." "Modern day Cagney and Lacey". "Who?!" "Guns, boots, handcuffs" "Black Leather." "Squad cars."
Andy's journalism degree speedwriting module came into its own, as she took down the various ideas and followed the various conversations. She thought they all sounded slightly mad.
Beside her, Miranda bit the edge of her glasses frame, and gazed at her assistant's bent head and tangled hair. Didn't the girl own a comb for God's sake? She shook herself free of the thought of Andrea in black leather and looked round the table again.
"Right, I want a fully formed concept on my desk by tonight, to fit in with the current collections. And keep to budget. I'm not having Irv bellowing at me, like he did over Argentina last time. That's all."
The chairs scraped back, and her people fled. Only Andrea kept writing, with her cheap plastic ballpoint, until she'd finished her notes. Miranda sat on the table next to her, swinging her leg. They seemed to do this often, sit for a few moments in mutual silence. It unnerved Andrea. What it did to Miranda remained a mystery.
"Well, what?"
Miranda asked the question she could see Andrea was itching to answer.
"I thought I might chase up the police officer story about the storm drain. She looked nice. On the news. She might enjoy being interviewed."
"And when did your responsibilities extend to editorial, pray?"
Miranda for some reason did not think she wanted to encourage Andrea to chase up "nice" female police officers.
"I could do it in my own time. When I leave Runway next year, you know, I hope to do some more. . (She nearly caught herself saying "proper") . . . journalism."
"When you leave? What right do you think you have to say when you'll leave?"
Oh no, Miranda was going into dragon mode. She could see smoke beginning to rise already.
"I understand this is only a year's placement. Emily says I shouldn't expect to make it that long if I don't sharpen up."
"Hmm. That may be true. For a start, at least go to the beauty department and ask them for a comb. You look like you've been pulled through a hedge backwards."
Miranda then swept out, leaving Andrea embarrassed but also amused. "That's all," she could hear her call behind her as she went back to her office out of earshot.
Andrea went to Walgreen's drug-store in her tiny lunch break and bought herself a new brush and comb set. It was far too scary to ask the princesses in the beauty department for such a thing. But she did take the initiative to look up the name of the police officer she'd mentioned, and set about finding out how to contract her.
Following the meeting, various theatrical props pertaining to TV police dramas started appearing in Runway corridors, along with a large boxful of general paraphernalia, badges, holsters, dummy guns, tasers, and handcuffs, which the cleaners deposited on Andrea's desk when they polished the office floors.
The concept had been accepted, and the idea began to incubate. A piece about women in the NYPD fighting misogyny was suggested from editorial, and some delightful frothy dresses against a backdrop of a police precinct HQ routine were proposed by the art department. There were so many "Law and Order" lookalike TV shows being made in New York, that the props were easy to assemble, ready for a shoot in a week or so's time.
A summer heatwave invaded the city over the next few days. Everyone in New York seemed irritable, sticky, and almost happy to stay at work late into the evening if it meant they could remain in air-conditioned offices.
Miranda a for once did not ask for centre-of –the–earth-hot coffee but switched her Starbucks orders to Frappuccinos, after Andrea bought her one to test. She sipped it, preparing to pull a face, but then realised she was converted. Her blue eyes crinkled with pleasure, she smiled and Andy thought she looked gorgeous. She gave an inner high five to herself. "Yesss!"
"Hmm, that's quite acceptable. I also see you've paid some attention to your personal grooming. Well done."
Andrea nearly fell over. Her hair was tightly plaited into a braid and pinned up round her head, purely for the sake of coolness. It was the very first word of praise Miranda had ever given her in six months, not for her work, her organisational skills, her repeated acts of miraculously pulling rabbits out of hats, but for braiding up her hair!
She stuttered and fell into the next sentence before she considered it. "I thought I would cut it all off anyway if the heat wave continues. I've worn it like this since grade school. I know it's a mess."
Miranda had liked the new hair-do purely because it revealed Andrea's beautiful neck and collar bones. She'd been fantasizing about hanging emerald ear-rings to dangle against said neck.
She stopped drinking the iced coffee and her smile turned to a furious glare.
"You certainly are not going to cut your hair. You're not even going to think about it. Many girls would die for hair like yours. You just need to look after it, comb it once in a while."
Andrea was not going down without a fight.
"Pixie cuts are in. If I did not have to wash my hair to straighten it every morning, I could give so much more time to being a better Assistant for you." She smiled sweetly.
Miranda refused to be led deeper into the marsh of personal dialogue with her second assistant. She couldn't imagine how it had come about anyway. She would never have condescended to make similar observations to Emily, her first assistant, even about her reckless use of primary colours in her eyeshadow, or her constant extreme dieting.
"Stop being ridiculous," was all she said, but whether she was addressing herself or Andrea she was unclear. "That's all."
The heatwave deepened. Jackets were discarded. Sleeves were avoided. The clackers reverted to ribbon shoulder straps, and wore frocks which by rights should have been classified as beach wear.
Andy came to work stripped down to a tank top and linen skirt. Her arms were toned and sun-tanned from Sundays playing soft-ball in a lower Bronx ladies team, and her legs were bare. The air-con was turned up to maximum, until their CEO Irv complained about the cost, so it was lowered again making the temperature rise until they all sweated profusely.
Miranda, whose ancestry was obviously Viking, and who was approaching the menopause, suffered more than most. She wore sleeveless linen shirt-waist dresses, and carried a bottle of chilled Pellegrino water to press against her cheek and neck when things became too hot to handle. But her ivory skin was permanently damp. And her hair drooped languidly over her eyes.
The weekend was approaching and she realised she had what one might call a "situation". Andy and Emily regularly acted as a pair of minders when she attended official functions, researching the key players beforehand, and buffering her against having to spend too much time talking to any one boring person.
Miranda's pain threshold for tedium was extremely low, too low really for someone who needed to network as part of her job description. She had never in her life been known to suffer a fool gladly, and she met a lot of fools.
The Saturday event in her calendar that week was a major reception at the French Consulate on Fifth Avenue, which was hosting the fashion movers and shakers from New York to a party to meet young French designers wanting to make further inroads into the US market.
Miranda needed to be there. Runway had four reservations. But Nigel, the Art Director was away in Toronto researching a Christmas special and Emily had succumbed to extreme hay fever. She was sneezing and spluttering in a most undignified way all day, despite constant doses of anti-histamine medicine.
Even Miranda's most sadistic tendencies were neutralized by her misery.
"Oh for heaven's sake, go home, lock all the doors and windows and keep out any fresh air," she instructed her on Friday afternoon. "Don't return until you can function like a normal human being."
Emily sneezed for the eleventh time, and fled the building. Miranda then faced Andrea.
"You'll have to do it on your own. What are you wearing?"
"Are ….. Aren't you coming?"
Miranda rolled her eyes in exasperation.
"Yes, of course I shall be there. You and I together. You have the folder of notes Emily prepared on the French contingent?"
"Yes."
"Well then. So, what are you wearing? "
"Um, maybe something French?"
"Yes, that might possibly be a good idea"
"Nigel has found me a light summer gown by Chanel."
"Where is it? Show me."
Andrea went to the closet and fetched the dress. It was a floaty number in a wispy vanilla cream colour, and stopped just above her bust, so her shoulders would be naked. She would need a strapless bra. But it was pretty and definitely not Grunge.
Miranda sniffed. "Shoes?"
"These." Andrea held up perilously high heeled silver sandals.
"They will do. You haven't any tan lines on your shoulders have you?"
Andrea tried to look down at her top and arms.
"I'm not sure."
"Well let me see."
"Huh?"
"Take off your top. You obviously can't wear a strapless dress if you're covered in sun-tan blotches. It's elementary."
"I'm not a model."
"You don't say? I hadn't realised. "
Miranda could resist any chance to throw pepper. "But you will be representing Runway. Oh for goodness sake, girl, don't keep me waiting! "
Andrea pulled off her tank top, but refused to part with her lacy bra.
Miranda approached her from behind and scrutinised her professionally. Then she slipped down the bra straps briefly before replacing them with a slight ping. She then turned her round to inspect her from the front.
Andrea's skin tingled under her fingers, but she kept her eyes up and gazed at Miranda face as she examined her. There was always so much unspoken communication between them, the silences could get quite noisy. Andrea wished it could somehow be translated into actual conversation.
There was so much she longed to ask Miranda, so much which fascinated her about her boss. But according to Emily, asking questions was a forbidden privilege. Andy had broken that rule many times in small ways without being sanctioned, but she didn't push her luck now.
"It will do. All one tone. But don't expose your skin to the sun too much in future."
Andrea's neck chest and back were all actually a delicious apricot colour. The summer sun suited her well and Miranda suddenly had an insane urge to take a nibble at the soft flesh facing her. The phrase "good enough to eat" flashed through her mind.
"Leave the dress here overnight. I don't want it spoiled by you lugging it back and forth to your apartment. We'll meet here tomorrow at six pm. We'll both change here, and then we can go over the notes before we leave for the Reception. It will start early, at seven thirty."
Andrea began to reply, but then changed her mind. She pulled her tank top back on to avoid further scrutiny, and returned to her desk. She had actually arranged to meet Sal McCarthy, the heroine police officer at six on Saturday, but perhaps Sal could manage an hour earlier in a nearby coffee shop maybe.
It remained a secret project. Andrea didn't want Miranda to know about the interview, not after her unhelpful comment earlier. But if she could produce a decent piece of writing from it, then the Editor might at least critique it for her. Getting as far as the pages of the fashion magazine was way beyond her ambitions at this stage.
They worked on through the heavy heat of the Friday afternoon. Miranda stood it until six, then said, "That's it for today. And forget the Book for this weekend. I'm packing the twins off to Camp for two weeks tomorrow, so I'll have no time anyway. "
Andrea thanked her guardian angel. All she wanted was a long cold shower and a chance to drink iced beer with her friends outside her stuffy apartment in the cool of the evening. Miranda watched her leave as she literally ran out of the door.
Oh, to be that young, to be so positive, so uncompromised. Andrea pressed all the wrong buttons for her, filled her with unworthy thoughts and such seriously unwanted desires that she could hardly bear to work alongside her. And yet she couldn't bear the thought of not seeing her every day.
She rang for her driver, gathered her bag of assorted bits and pieces, and followed her assistant out of the office.
"Forget the Book," she called out to the editorial room staff as she passed. "It's too darn hot."
They all gasped in amazement, but as soon as she had passed, whooped with joy.