Premise: Emily starts and ends this gambling tale, with a yummy Miranda/Andrea intermission
Disclaimers: My sincere gratitude to sheknowsnofearfor her editing/beta work. Some tweaks have been made since she reviewed this, so any errors found are mine and mine alone. Oh, if I owned any of the DWP universe, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't be studying 2000+ page legislative bills on U.S. health care reform and federal stimulus packages as if they were the Dead Sea Scrolls.
A/N: This fic began as a superfluous betting scene trimmed from another story. I let it marinate and then sautéed it with a few additional spices for your reading pleasure. Bon appétit -
Smart Money
Definition: Investments or bets made by individuals with experience and/or insider information
It was Friday morning and Emily was less than ecstatic. Four 2nd assistants had been sacked in the last three weeks – and now the newly arrived fifth might as well.
Perhaps saying a prayer to the pair of Jimmy Choo's in the Closet might help – a gorgeous golden pair that, once done being featured in a shoot for the August issue, she had plans to pinch.
At half-past ten, Miranda sent the newest 2nd assistant off to Starbucks. As soon as the demand left the Editor's lips, Emily sent a template text to nearly half of the 12th floor and the bets started rolling in.
Mary down in Features won for being closest to the correct time – which meant $100. When the Nordic blonde came to collect the payout, she indicated she had used her birth date as the winning time (6:22) and was pleased she was off by less than ten seconds. Emily restrained a desire to yank the Dolce & Gabbana eyewear from Mary's studious face and smash the expensive frames.
Instead, the Brit simply glowered while slapping the envelope full of cash into Mary's outstretched hand.
Monday morning, the same 2nd assistant was still there. Emily gave the girl an accusatory look from across the space between them as she went to log into her computer; the mouse had been moved from the right to the left side of the keyboard.
Didn't she have her own computer?
As the morning progressed, Emily noted that the ingratiating twit wasn't a lefty after-all. This only served to further infuriate the redhead.
Who the bloody hell had dared to touch her computer?
As far as she was able to tell, none of her files had been altered, and there weren't any noticeable changes to Miranda's schedule.
During her fifteen-minute lunch break, Nigel let Emily spend time picking through the Closet. When she returned to her desk with a bright green shrug ala Thakoon, the irritable 1st assistant was in a much better mood.
That cheery disposition probably prevented her from giving Serena's actions appropriate scrutiny that afternoon. The director of the Hair & Make-up Department stopped at her desk on the way out from a meeting with Miranda. Emily glanced over her shoulder while emailing some pictures to Michael Kors' studio.
"For the café latte club."
Emily glanced down at the envelope the Brazilian dropped before her, a phone number and name neatly printed on the front. She shrugged, tucked it under her keyboard, and snatched up the ringing telephone before giving Serena a cursory nod of acknowledgement.
"Miranda Priestly's office—"
As she sat waiting for the Book that evening, she pulled out the envelope and entered the name and phone number into the contact list on her cell phone. Americans had some seriously insane ideas about acceptable forenames.
Nellie Bly? What kind of name was that?
The cash in the envelope was added to the lockbox she kept tucked in one of the nearby filing cabinets. Each individual deemed 'safe' to include on the scheme made a weekly contribution to the rotating jackpot. Besides the daily prize (on days when Miranda was in the office) of $100, any and all leftover funds were allowed to accumulate for whenever (rarely) someone guessed the time on the nose.
Emily also kept a constantly changing roster of a smaller group of individuals, the department heads to be exact, who made bets on the length of employment for Miranda's 2nd assistants. The money for that fund wasn't collected until there was a winner - a change in practice that occurred with the anomaly that was Andrea Sachs. Andy had confounded them all, creating a certain amount of skittishness in making predictions on her successor. The last few weeks had bolstered confidence, though, despite the lagging economy. Indeed, it seemed that Miranda had returned to her usual revolving door policy with regards to front office staff. The bets on the current 2nd assistant had grown fairly long, as morbid optimism had taken root once again along the corridors of Runway.
Because of the nature of their job (getting coffee) and the fact that the length of their employment was (at least partly) under their own control, the 2nd assistant was never included in this informal office morale club.
Currently, the 'exact time' coffee pool held almost $950, and the bets over the demise of the current "Number 2" totaled a fairly healthy $1100. With a quick check to make sure the metal cabinet was properly locked, Emily took the newly arrived Book and left for the night.
The next couple of days went by without anyone winning either of the large jackpots. It had been almost two months since the last time someone had guessed the exact cafè latte delivery time, and Emily was starting to worry about the fact that the lockbox might not be so safe in its current location.
On Wednesday, the betting had been botched by the fact that the 2nd assistant had spilt the molten hot beverage while crossing the threshold into Miranda's outer office area and had to repeat the trip. Emily was sure that Miranda was going to fire the girl. But, she didn't. The woman was infuriating in her unpredictability.
Thursday arrived and Emily watched as the 2nd assistant flew into Miranda's office, unconsciously grimacing at the cup in the girl's hand. She tapped the stopwatch icon on her smartphone and noted the time. Reviewing the bets that had come in, she gasped.
Bollocks!
She looked again. Yep. Nellie, the employee Serena had asked her to add to the roster last week, had won the full load.
With a sigh, she sent the winner a text, confirming her win. As she sat there, wondering just who the hell this Bly girl was, she realized that Amy, the 2nd assistant, had been in Miranda's office for longer than it took to deposit the steaming beverage. She took a peek around the doorframe and recognized the body language of the room's two occupants, instantly deducting what was transpiring.
With a flurry, she pulled up the 2nd assistant betting roster on her computer while placing a call to Human Resources.
Damn if I have to train yet another numpty.
"Cheryl, it's Emily." She tried not to sound as irritated as she felt. "We're going to need another candidate. I'll be sure to send Amy down once Miranda's done reading her out."
"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I think you may," she glanced at the spreadsheet now prominently displayed on her screen.
"Actually, no. I have you down for 'between 3½ and 4 weekdays.' According to my accounting, she lasted just over 4. If it makes you feel any better, I thought she'd only last 2 hours."
Just then, both Miranda and Amy appeared in the doorway. Emily hung up and watched as the mousy girl went to clear out her desk.
"Emily, please call Human Resources. Perhaps they can find someone with more grace than Pinocchio this time."
The redhead sat a little straighter in her seat, proud as a peacock.
"I've already notified Cheryl."
It was then that she noticed Miranda wasn't paying her one whit of attention. The woman was tapping away at a cell phone and, from the looks of it, the device wasn't the Editor's usual Blackberry. She took in a sharp breath as Miranda drew in closer to her desk.
"I don't have all day."
"Um," Emily carefully crept a hand over to her mouse, hoping to minimize or close the spreadsheet file before her employer's sharp gaze noticed it.
Rather than look at the screen, icy blue eyes focused on her.
"Emily," came the smooth drawl.
"Yes, Miranda," she cringed at her own wavering voice.
Damn it, Emily. Buck up.
"My winnings." With that, Miranda looked back to the cheap cell phone in her hand with a triumphant half-smirk before dropping it to her side.
There was only the sound of Amy's sniffling behind them for a moment.
"Emily. Don't play coy. It really doesn't suit you. Daft, perhaps, but even that is a matter of opinion. Three minutes and eighteen seconds. You have my winnings, do you not?"
The gulp was loud, unmistakable, and Miranda's eyes sparkled, sending Emily's empty stomach, like a lead weight, right to her toes.
"You-you're Nellie ?"
"Emily, you are much slower at capturing facts than I would expect from someone who has had the impudence to run such an intricate operation less 25 feet from my desk. And, I have to admit, I'm more than a little surprised that Runway personnel are willing to entrust their money to you, of all people. Hand it over. Now." The last few words came out with the sting of a sharply snapped wet towel.
Emily gave a small jump and pulled out the lockbox. With a shaking hand, she passed the stack of bills over and watched on as Miranda quickly palmed it.
Without further conversation, Miranda turned to Amy, who at this point was hovering with her few belongings bulging in an oversized hobo bag from last season. It seemed that Amy thought she needed to wait for some sort 'by your leave.' As soon the Editor shot her a frosty look, the ex-2nd assistant made for the elevator, darting onto a car whose doors had fortuitously just opened.
"Emily," the silky, low voice brought the Brit's attention back to the mysterious scene that had just taken place.
"Emily, I believe that I won more than just this. There is a certain term of employment…"
Green eyes widened.
"Shite."
Her boss's left eyebrow crept up, disappearing under a curl of white hair.
"Sorry, Miranda."
"Emily, what you and your little friends failed to consider, is that the guards downstairs and even those tiresome teenage baristas can be encouraged to ensure steps are taken to streamline coffee delivery times. I take my work seriously, guaranteeing perfection in every detail. And, of course, I ultimately make the decision on when – exactly when – to dismiss a miserable excuse for a 2nd assistant."
Emily scanned the file on her monitor, vision halting incredulously on line 11. There it was. Amidst all the other names on the screen: 'Miranda, 4 days, 2 hours'. The woman hadn't bothered to use the silly pseudonym for this, and her bet didn't even include a range of hours (or days), like the others. Emily wondered when it was that Miranda had accessed the electronic file to place her wager and why she hadn't noticed.
With a heavy heart, she prepared an email for the other individuals who had bets on Amy's demise, requesting they pay up.
"You'll have the money in hand before the end of the day." This was definitely the end of the very little joy she had while at work.
"I admit, I almost let the girl go after the disastrous incident yesterday, but-" the woman paused to shrug, indifferently, "I was so incredibly close to achieving my goal that it would have been a shame to lose on both fronts."
As the Editor turned to re-enter her office, she called over her shoulder, "Be sure to let the others know your little scheme has come to its natural conclusion. And, I suppose, pass along my thanks." For the first time, ever, Emily was sure that Miranda Priestly sounded jubilant – at her expense, no less! The thought made her want to wretch.
"Keep calm and carry on," she recited the words to the mantra of her grandfather's generation.
That evening over drinks, she explained the scene in detail to Nigel, Serena, and Cheryl. The girls merely groaned at all the right spots. Nigel, though, interrupted along the way to theorize with insightful and perverted awe on how Miranda had been so devious – that he had seen Miranda and her daughters in the building over the weekend. And that the twins had sat at the assistant desks while their mother did some work. Obviously, whichever daughter had been at Emily's desk had discovered the spreadsheet for the 2nd assistant betting pool. It only seemed natural that Miranda would use this discovery to her advantage – especially since Emily hadn't even bothered to encrypt the file.
Nigel also explained that Miranda had been aware of the coffee bets for quite some time – she had even once made a passing comment to him about it. Newly aware of the assistant betting, she must have decided to rub their noses in both schemes simultaneously. Surely, Miranda had threatened the employment of the Starbucks' baristas and even the Security staff to ensure the timely creation and delivery of her beloved caffeine.
No one at the table countered his claims, as none of them doubted their leader's ability to be so meticulous…and cunning.
Serena indicated that Miranda had been fairly nonchalant on Monday, handing over the envelope to her as she said, 'I found this in one of your files on hairstyles for the August spread'. Serena had made a natural assumption as to the envelope's intended purpose.
Cheryl sighed at the other three at the table when they were done kvetching, "I can NOT believe that the name 'Nellie Bly' didn't tip you off. She was a famous journalist and, well, if anyone from the Features department finds out how utterly stupid…"
Nigel looked appropriately thoughtful, "Speaking of journalists, I suppose, all things considered, those Page Six stories about Miranda and her intrepid little reporter being spotted together around town will evolve into something worthy of the New York Times soon enough."
The implications of that remark ensured that the group went through several more rounds of drinks that evening.
Meanwhile, that same night in the master suite of the Priestly home, Miranda watched as Andrea finished tugging at the recently self-constructed (albeit temporary) addition to the bedroom. She sighed in exasperation as the younger woman adjusted the bra strap of her new lingerie and kicked a box across the floor. The shape of her sinewy calves was deliciously enhanced by four-inch heels.
"Andrea, I can't wait forever. The Book will be here soon, and I'd like to see at least one performance tonight."
The brunette wrapped a leg around the pole she had carefully erected earlier that the evening, following the directions from the box with painstaking care. Finally deeming it stable enough to suit its intended purpose, she turned her back on Miranda and glanced over her shoulder with a wink.
"Hit 'play' then, big spender, and we'll see how long you can wait, won't we?" She rolled her eyes in amusement as the older woman wasted no time in reaching across to the docked iPod and started the highlighted song.
"Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls began to fill the room and Miranda pulled a wad of bills out from behind her back as Andrea made suggestive moves and gestures around the gleaming metal while allowing a silk and lace robe to slip from her shoulders.
Miranda watched the material pool on the floor, feeling a similar pooling of moisture between her legs. She shifted unconsciously.
After a moment, Andrea stepped closer to where Miranda sat at the edge of the bed. She slowly bent over, the scraps of lace that covered her young, firm breasts passed within an inch of Miranda's mouth.
"Oh!" She exclaimed.
Miranda had tucked several of the bills into the string caressing one of Andy's hips, obviously surprising her lover with the move.
"You are a big spender, aren't you?" Eyebrows wiggled, teasingly.
Miranda held up the remaining cash.
"What do you suppose, this will get me?"
They smiled at one another, faces mirroring a swirling mix of lust, love, and humor.
"I'm guessing, from that Cheshire cat grin that someone's covert plans to collapse an illegal betting ring within Runway went well. I've always liked the idea of a woman working undercover. Or should I say, under the covers."
Long, slender fingers fanned the bills as Andy stepped closer to straddle her partner's lap while taking care to not actually make physical contact. Her hazel eyes glinted wickedly as the sexually suggestive lyrics ignited passion in the face so close to her own.
"How many...undercover adventures…" Miranda's voice croaked unexpectedly.
Andy eyed the hefty bundle, "Well, provided it is you offering it to me, I'd say…an endless number of adventures…perhaps a lifetime's worth?"
"Whose lifetime? Yours or mine?"
"Ladies' choice." Miranda's brain skittered to a stop, as much from the statement as the heat emanating from Andrea's torso hovering so close to her own.
Blue eyes narrowed, searching wide brown ones.
"Whatcha thinkin', darlin'?" Andrea's lips tickled her lover's ear.
Miranda responded by dropping the money to the floor and tracing her fingers up Andrea's outer thighs, over her hips, along the speed bumps that were the younger woman's ribs, and back to pull shoulder blades in towards her own body, burning with desire. Their lips smashed together as Andy pushed Miranda back on the bed, one hand sliding up under Miranda's blouse as the other slid down, deftly undoing the fastening on a designer skirt.
A short time later, Andy cuddled against Miranda's chest while the older woman attempted to reclaim her hold on reality.
"Did I hit the right buttons?"
"God, yes," came the breathy reply.
Monday evening, when Emily came to deliver the Book, Cassidy was waiting for her.
The older redhead eyed the younger for a moment, then glanced around, looking to see if the coast was clear.
"You tattled, little gutter snipe. I had to shut down the entire operation after you and your sister told your mother about what you found on my computer."
"Yeah, well, that's only part of the story. There is an account you have with Caroline and I that requires settling."
Emily pointed a glittery blue fingernail at the young Priestly, "I think not."
"Did you forget?" Cassidy raised her left hand, palm facing inward, and wriggled her fingers.
"Andy? She didn't!"
"Oh, yes, she did." Cassidy's eyes, greyer than her mother's, glared victoriously.
"Who is that yelling in the —" the Devil herself stepped out of a doorway and into the hall, spotting the suspicious scene.
"Emily."
Cassidy lowered her eyes as her mother approached. Emily smiled tightly, handed the Book over to her employer, noticing the glittering of diamonds in a platinum setting.
For the love of Jimmy Choos, would she EVER catch a break?
"Hey, Em. Did Miranda tell you the news?" Andrea descended the stairs to greet her old co-worker.
The Brit couldn't conceal the irritation in her voice at the unending nightmare that was her life.
I need a new job.
"No. But, I would guess it has something to do with what I see," she pointedly glared first at the rock on Andy's left hand, then back down to Miranda's ring, before settling on Cassidy's smug grin.
"You'll never guess who proposed," Cassidy pinched her lips into a thoroughly audacious smirk that Emily had seen far too many times on another face to be intimidated by it.
"Well, really, Cass, I didn't actually propose. Or, I hadn't really meant it to come out like it did, I don't think. Or, maybe I did. But, well, when your mom, when Miranda, started talking about it…Well, I realized it was a long overdue idea. It was more of a mutual proposal, in all honesty."
'For once, Andrea, I could literally kiss you for being such a chatterbox,' thought Emily.
"Oh, cuss," Cassidy whispered. Emily didn't hear, even though she was only a foot away. She was too caught up in the cheery haze that had descended upon her.
"Andy, they're lovely rings, really. I'm sure there will be a million plans to be discussed. Congratulations."
As Emily turned to take her leave, she could hear the faint hint of a whine in Cassidy's voice, "If Mom says you proposed, then that's the truth."
"Bobsey, it doesn't matter. I can think she proposed and she can think I did. Either way, the outcome is the same."
"Yeah, right," was the petulant response.
The Brit hummed to herself as she stepped outside. While she would have been delighted to take the bratty little twins' money over their bet on who would eventually propose to whom, it was enough to know she wasn't going to be paying out after the week she'd had.
I love my job.
~That's All~
"Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls can be found on Youtube: [www (dot) youtube (dot) com (slash) watch?v=VCLxJd1d84s ]