Preparing for Battle

"Willie!" Marc St James burst into his boss' office, waving a party invitation like a dainty flag. "Guess what tonight is?"

"Thrill me, Marc," Wilhelmina replied dryly, not bothering to look up from her work.

"The Fashion Institute Gala!" Marc cried out happily. He frowned as he examined the invite again, "I think it's for AIDS or starving children or girls in need of an eyebrow wax."

"Will you-know-who be there?" Wilhelmina looked up, arching her eyebrow.

"I-I-I don't think so," Marc suddenly became very nervous. He began to fiddle with his tie.

"Marc," Wilhelmina kept her voice low—a sure sign that her anger was building. "Either she is or she isn't. And if she is making an appearance tonight, we need to find out what time—so we can show up, shake a few hands, and get out before the Wicked Bitch of West Manhattan shows up."

"Absolutely," Marc wheezed, producing his inhaler and quickly disappearing to call up the offices of Runway.

~*~

"Miranda Priestley's office," Emily answered the phone in her usual snide tone. A beat passed. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Yes, yes, of course Miranda will be attending tonight's gala."

Another pause. This time, her perfectly-lined lips flew open in shock, reminding Andrea Sachs of a fish.

"Of course," Emily's tone did an about-face. She suddenly sounded…scared? She nodded vehemently, "Yes. Yes, I understand."

Emily hung up the phone and gave a stifled a scream of frustration.

"What's wrong, Em?" Andrea asked, genuinely concerned with her coworker's bizarre behavior.

"Why me?" Emily looked heavenward. "I mean, was I Jack the Ripper in a former life? This always happens—every year!"

"What? What happens?"

Emily gave an exasperated sigh, as if explaining this to Andrea drained her already limited supply of patience, "Every year, the Fashion Institute hosts a gala. For AIDS or starving children or something of that depressing nature—anyways, as Head of the Fashion World, Miranda is expected to be there. But of course, every year, the imbeciles who send out the invitations always send one to that flop of a magazine, Mode."

"And that's bad because…" Andy was still lost.

"Oh, God, do I have to spell it out with pictures?" Emily rolled her eyes. Really, this child was hopeless!

"Two words, six," Nigel seemed to appear from nowhere. "Wilhelmina Slater."

~*~

"Why are you panting like a fat girl at homecoming?" Amanda sat prissily atop Marc's desk, a smug grin on her pretty features.

Marc looked up at his partner in crime. He held up the invitation, his voice filled with absolute terror, "She's coming."

Amanda gave a gasp of horror. She immediately produced a bag of potato chips from seemingly nowhere and began eating as if her life depended on it.

Betty Suarez, who happened to witness the entire exchange, approached the two with a quizzical glance, "Everything OK?"

"No," Amanda moaned through a mouthful of chips.

"She's coming," Marc hissed, pushing the invitation in Betty's face as he fell to the floor with a dramatic wail.

"Who?" Betty looked at her companions in confusion.

Both looked around furtively before answering in a stage whisper, "Miranda Priestly."

~*~

"Miranda hates Wilhelmina," Nigel whispered, casting a wary eye at her office door. "For years, they have avoided each other like the plague—but they always get invited to the same events. It's really quite stressful."

"But…why does she hate Wilhelmina?" Andy looked up, her brown eyes wide with innocence.

Nigel chuckled softly, patting her head like a puppy, "I forgot you lived under a rock, sweetheart. Five years ago, at the Milan shows, Miranda and Wilhelmina showed up in the exact same outfit."

Emily nodded solemnly in agreement, as if this was the most horrible offense that one could imagine. Nigel continued, "I mean, for years they shared the same designers, the same models, the same writers and photographers, even the same men—"

"The Fashion World is quite small," Emily agreed.

"But this was the final straw," Nigel concluded. "I mean, the exact same outfit!"

"Right down to the Jimmy Choos," Emily added, shaking her head sadly.

~*~

"Right down to the Jimmy Choos," Marc finished his story, his voice now a horrified whisper. Amanda looked heavenward, as if such a horror was too much to bear.

"So what?" Betty seemed unaffected by this earth shattering incident.

"So what?!" Marc hissed. He looked around quickly, as if to make sure no one heard his coworker's heinous comment, "Haven't you heard a word I just said?!"

"They wore the same shoes, Marc; it's not that big of deal," Betty retorted.

"Look, Betty," Amanda set down her bag of chips—her fourth one in a matter of minutes. "Imagine coming to work and discovering that I am wearing your shoes."

Amanda quickly looked down at Betty's footwear and stifled a gag.

"Or that I'm wearing your poncho," Marc added gleefully.

"Marc, you already did that," Betty rolled her eyes. "For Halloween."

"Truly scary," Amanda quirked her eyebrows. She turned to Marc, "Those eyebrows should've won Scariest Costume."

"Well if Fat Carol hadn't dressed as an ogre, I would have won, hands down," Marc grumbled, crossing his arms and pouting.

"Marc!" Wilhelmina's voice thundered from her office. The three assistants jumped, darting about in fear.

"C-c-coming, Willy!" Marc snatched up his inhaler and his notepad, turning to look viciously at Betty, "Speak of this to no one!"

~*~

"Don't dare mention it in front of Miranda," Emily warned, giving Andy the evil eye. Andrea Sachs nodded vehemently, although she still didn't understand what the fuss was about.

"I've got to go," Nigel glanced at his watch. "T-minus seven hours til the Gala. Tons to do."

He quickly disappeared. Emily tapped away at her keyboard, "Now, Andrea, don't forget to pick up Miranda's gown from Wardrobe. She's wearing Chanel tonight."

"Nice," Andrea said appreciatively.

"It's Miranda," Emily said icily. "She's always nicely dressed."

~*~

"Wot does that old cow wohn' me to do?" Christina looked heavenward. "Imma seamstress, noh' a miracle werka!"

"Keep your voice down, you old drunk!" Marc warned, looking around furtively. Willie had been on pins and needles all day—he would not allow this stupid Scotswoman to make things worse.

"Look, she chose tha gown months ago," Christina tried to explain in a patient tone. "She can't just decide tha night of tha par-tay to wear somethin' else."

"She's Wilhelmina Slater; she can do what she wants," Marc snapped. Christina gave a slight shrug of agreement—he had a point.

~*~

The hours seemed to crawl—the offices of Mode and Runway were at a virtual standstill as both sets of staff prayed that the two glamazons would not meet during the gala.

"Emily," Miranda's voice called softly from her office. It held a certain hint of impending doom.

Emily jumped to her feet and scurried into the room, "Yes, Miranda?"

"Call the car around. I'm going home."

Emily gave a curt nod and hurried back to her desk, dialing up the driver and relaying Miranda's instructions.

Wordlessly, Miranda marched through the outer office, taking her bag and coat from Andy's hand without so much as a backward glance.

Emily gave a deep sigh. Andrea turned to her coworker expectantly, "Now what?"

"Now we go home," Emily replied, gathering her things and glancing carelessly down at her blackberry. "We go home and prepare for battle."