Ok, yet another new story, annoying, I know. But I keep getting requests for a redux of my Mirandy stories so I'm throwing the first chapter of this one in for assessment. I think I might skip a bunch of stuff and have them jump right into the chaos in chapter 2. But for now, this is just the intro and background
It is early on Saturday morning, and Miranda Priestly does not have to be at the office (according to her own schedule) for at least an hour. Between 5am and 6am, she treats herself to espresso and a berry salad, while her empty home drones around her. She must call the twins, but as young teens, they sleep at odd hours and with the time difference…well. She'll have to wait.
An article catches her eye. The new coffee trends of Manhattan, against a backdrop of increasing economic and political discontent. As though coffee had become a symbol of the decadent island—an island much darker, more intelligent, (arrogantly so) than some tropical paradise. The author writes of coming storms. Coffee will soon be a luxury item. Coffee has always been a luxury item. Entire nations subservient to their own economies of export—selling the best that they have.
It is somewhat self-indulgent, but not without humor. All in all…
"Not bad." Miranda mutters aloud.
She has admired this author's work, grudgingly and from afar, but with a small twinge of pride.
Andrea Sachs, her former employee, co-exists on the same decadent island. Miranda's recommendation led, apparently, not only to a thriving career in journalism (freelancing for The New Yorker already), but also to a major book deal, the details of which Miranda has only recently been informed.
The book is, from the sounds of it, an irreverent take on Andrea's time at Runway. Co-authored by another former employee, the book worries Miranda only slightly. The editor has already delayed publication and demanded key rewrites of particularly scathing (and untrue) little diatribes.
Strangely enough, Miranda is not particularly bothered by the book. When her old friend contacted her, she had laughed. His editorial interruptions came after he demanded, some control over what was said about a woman who had essentially guaranteed his ascension in the publishing industry. Andrea and Emily (yes, her as well) remain oblivious to the connections.
What bothers Miranda, really, is that Andrea—who had once at least nodded in her direction—seems to harbor some grudge.
On one sunny day in July, Miranda Priestly asks her therapist,
"Do you think I'm being obsessive?"
To which he replies,
"Do you think that you're obsessing over Andrea Sachs?"
She narrows her eyes and thinks of other, far more pleasant things. But the city is clogged down in heat and pollution and a food and gasoline shortage that took them all by surprise. Miranda just wants to go home. She also wants to stop worrying about her former employee.
Once, she had even considered impeding Andrea's progress, so that Andrea would suspect her former boss to be behind it all and perhaps give second thought to her.
It is an unsavory line of thinking, but Miranda doesn't always have the self-awareness to realize these things. It does feel sort of weak. So she does nothing to alter Andrea's trajectory, and simply watches from afar as her former assistant grows more and more confident.
They'd once passed each other by at the Met Gala, when Andrea revealed (inadvertently because her back was to Miranda) that the little newspaper she worked for was collapsing. Miranda already knew about it but it felt much more poignant coming from the horse's mouth, so to speak.
In the weeks that followed, there were protests in three major American cities—hundreds of thousands demanding citizenship and an entry point or, at the very least, protection from disappearance. A series on the events was poignant commentary. Miranda enjoyed Andrea's take on the matter immensely, and the subtext about the newspaper's decline (buried in a few lines about mass media's increasingly narrow take on the basic human rights in a police state) was also oddly moving.
And then the paper released its final burst of inspiration. The retrospective contained one of Andrea's previous articles, a snippet of which inspired Miranda to have her Features Editor commission an essay on fashion as storytelling.
The noose had been tightening around Miranda as well.
Printed words and paper images in a cyber age are losing some of their power. Miranda considers commissioning an article on the subject. She thinks about this as she orders coffee for herself, emailing and simultaneously planning her so-called 'retirement.'
The issue, Miranda thinks, is not about written or visual mediums, but about information saturation. She is already working on a plan to work her way into larger media forums, unbeknownst to any of Runway's dusty higher-ups.
Her plans unfold as the weeks move in a colorful blur.
Miranda's daily routine is rarely altered, but on a Tuesday—when she'd normally be in the office for lunch—she decides to treat herself to her usual Thursday ritual. Pastis is crowded and noisy. She brings her tablet and orders wine.
Two things happen at once. An old friend sends her a series of texts updating Miranda about the little book that could. The new title has something to do with devils and clackers. Miranda rolls her eyes.
And then…just then, one of the book's authors, Andrea Sachs herself, waltzes into the restaurant. Alone. She could faint with glee. Instead she orders more wine.
Miranda watches Andrea tapping on her phone, swiping it in that annoying two finger gesture that dominates a shocking number of social interactions these days. Andrea's hair is longer than she recalls, and fuller, with subtle tinges of deep red.
She hears the order. A quad macchiato. Excessive. Miranda chuckles and the sound carries.
Andrea turns and their eyes meet. The smile that greets her own is lined with fatigue. Miranda nods toward the vacant chair across from her…
A risky move. Andrea could decline. And knowing what Miranda knows about the contents of that book, she may very well.
But instead, Andrea nods and makes her way over. She is wearing a Chanel printed blouse and black pencil skirt. Miranda looks her quickly up and down, noting the curve of her left calf as she crosses it beneath the chair. The Prada heel (a lovely shade of plum from two years ago) accentuates Andrea's lean form.
"They have this fish special that slays me. Every Tuesday. I…umm…highly recommend it." Andrea smiles and it is like a moment has not passed from their easy interactions in the backs of limos and at Valentino's show, before the storm of accusations, by Stephen first, then by Andrea herself.
What you did to Nigel...
With an enigmatic smile, Miranda shifts in her seat and uncoils her shoulders. She is uncertain about the look in Andrea's eye, but defiance seems to mix with an odd sort of sweetness.
Kindness. Well, then.
It is certainly no wonder that the scathing book hasn't reached its public yet.
And then, while Andrea is chattering about circulation numbers and giving kudos for Miranda's next to last issue, Miranda makes a decision.
If they are saturated with information, they must also capitalize on the chaos. In a sea of change, Miranda will continue at the helm.
"Fashion is communication." Miranda's words interrupt an amusing diatribe on Ann Coulter's latest book. She files that one and awaits Andrea's response.
The gears turn and turn and Andrea's eyes flash with excitement. Miranda lets her own gaze ease down the neckline of Andrea's dress. The jewelry is a lovely thin gold necklace with a single diamond. It shines briefly in the light and draws attention to Andrea's pulse and the curve of her neck.
Later that night, after she has had some time to bury herself in work and forget her odd little lunch, she receives a series of texts. They are all from the man she has been seeing for some time. Miranda decides to end it that very night. There is work to be done…
Miranda is in control. Her fashion house will also be a media house, like a certain social media site, but much, much better. There is a staff of bloggers, waiting in the wings, and the list of designers has all committed. Now she needs someone fresh, someone with unique insight, to run editorial content. Fashion is information. And information is her commodity.
Miranda's laughter is rich and loud when Christian Thompson's name is thrown into the mix. Still, Miranda is not ready to ask the one person who does come to mind. The timing is not yet right.
In fact, she tells her financial backers that she will slow down the process for yet another six months. In the meantime, there is a magazine to run and an editor or two to fire.
Then there is the matter of Andrea's commissioned piece. She is still, apparently, working hard on it.
It is a Wednesday evening, drab and damp, when she sits in her home office and reads the first draft. A phone call to Andrea reveals nerves, procrastination…
They meet at Miranda's favorite French restaurant. It is absolutely thrilling, to watch Andrea weave between the small tables and chattering patrons, so intent on pleasing her yet again.