Chapter 1
Miranda Princhek was desperate. She knew this. She knew her twins knew this, and yet for some unfathomable reason, she still regretted wholly her ascent through the swishy floors of Elias-Clarke building for what would surely be yet another disappointing interview.
When her second husband had filed for divorce, the only thing Miranda regretted the loss of was his support financially. Put plainly, she had grown accustomed to being taken care of. The personal chef, the housekeeper- those luxuries were now a pleasant dream of the night before, just waiting to be snatched away by reality as soon as she opened her eyes.
She'd been able to live off of the alimony for months, keeping her twins housed, clothed and fed, but while the constant stream of child support was enough to put a roof over her small family's head, it was hardly enough for anything else. Miranda needed work, and she needed it fast. And not just any job would do.
For if nothing else, Miranda Princhek still had her pride. God, she lived on it.
So when human resources at EC called and told her that a very important job as a personal assistant to a young, prominent editor had just come up, Miranda hauled her girls off to Dalton in a filthy cab she could ill afford, threw on what she hoped would be an appropriate outfit, and split for the publishing sector of grand NYC.
The elevator doors opened with a small chime. Miranda inhaled deeply, realising she'd stopped breathing some time ago. This wouldn't do. She was acting like a nervous child. This might be her last shot for a job at anyplace besides some grease-pit restaurant, but if anyone thought she was coming into this interview blind, they had another thing coming. Right after the summoning phone call from Elias-Clarke, Miranda had whipped out the last vestiges of her previous life: and expensive Blackberry she'd insisted Stephen pay for so she could keep in touch with her girls, regardless of where they were. The phone, being what it was, also had an indispensable connection to the internet and fabulous browsing capabilities.
Over that morning's breakfast with her children, in the taxi, while riding the subway and walking from the underground through the mountainous high rises, Miranda had been scrambling for information on her potential employer.
Andy Sachs had begun a young, driven woman of humble Midwest beginnings who had dropped out of high school at the age of sixteen and run away to New York, weaseled her talented way amidst designers and writers, only to leave them all miles behind, choking on her golden dust. At age twenty three, she began her career as a junior editor at Seventeen magazine, and when it was clear that little Andy was destined for far greater things, she was snatched up by Irv Ravitz of Elias-Clarke to begin her tenure as the editor in chief of the famous Runway magazine. At the tender age of twenty five, Andy Sachs became Andréa Saxton, trading in the mantle of her no-name origin for the chic pseudonym which was to quickly become one of the most iconic names in the fashion industry. Miranda could understand the switch- hell, she'd changed her own name from granny-bags 'Miriam' as soon as she was of age to do so.
Andréa Saxton. Miranda rolled her eyes. The young woman was barely out of fucking diapers, and yet…
She was the editor in chief of the fashion magazine which, worldwide, had the final published word on a multi-billion dollar corporation responsible for countless jobs, and a massive facet of the economy. Miranda smirked admirably. The girl must have done something right.
She'd read on. The woman also appeared to be a notorious sadist, a demanding control freak, and all out nearly impossible to please. Miranda revelled in this last detail. If nothing else, Miranda was a people pleaser. And she would have this job.
With that thrilling motivation, Miranda Princhek gathered her wits about her, took another deep breath, and waltzed purposefully into the hallowed glass halls of Runway.
Emily Chalton was sitting behind her curved, wooden desk, typing furiously away at the newest revision of Andrea's schedule. A bead of sweat had the audacity to trickle down the shallow valley between her non-existent cleavage, and the young Brit patted it away absently with her five hundred dollar couture tank.
This was promising to be the day of all days. Not only had Andréa decided to move up, throw back and all out cancel about a dozen meetings, seemingly on nothing but a whim, her tyrannical boss had also fired the last two assistants Emily had worked so hard to find, and in less than five minutes, the newest lamb was being sent up from HR to the slaughterhouse. While it was Emily's job to pre-interview this woman, this last hope at ever making it to Paris as Andréa Saxton's first assistant- the decision, of course, would rest with the editor herself. Emily prayed to god human resources had at last found someone competent.
When the frantic Englishwoman heard her name being queried at the reception desk outside the private offices of Runway's editor in chief, she began to lose that hope. When she rounded the corner on her four inch Blahnik's and saw the newest candidate, she nearly swallowed her tongue.
"Miranda Princhek?" she choked through ironic, hysterical laughter. "Well, Human Resources certainly has an odd sense of humour!" The young woman beckoned quickly, and walked away.
Miranda rolled her eyes and followed the now retreating, twiggy upstart into the inner offices, smiling wryly at the cringing woman who sat at reception. The woman merely winced back. No matter. Despite the less than warm welcome, she was going to do what she came here to do.
Inside the twin-desked office, Miranda lay her Chanel trench and bag on the emptier of the two surfaces, adjusting the belt which cinched her silk blouse closely around her waist. She smoothed the soft fabric of her patched tweed pencil skirt over her thighs, and quickly checked her suede Prada pumps for evidence of having taken the subway.
Ms. Princhek may be a single mother of twins, a recent divorcee, and living in a raggedy two bedroom apartment on the upper-west side, but it certainly could not be said she didn't have a sense of fashion. And with all of the couture clothing purchased during her marriage to Stephen, what was the man going to do? Give it all to his twenty-nothing, size zero airhead of a mistress become girlfriend? Miranda didn't think so.
She was startled out of her self-satisfied reverie.
"So Miranda," Emily began, barely containing a snicker. "What brings you after the job of Andréa's personal assistant?"
Miranda held back a sneer, with difficulty. "Actually, I'm recently divorced, looking for work, and when I heard that Andréa Saxton was in need of a new assistant, I realised it as an opportunity to reintroduce myself into the world of fashion."
Emily nodded, a malicious twinkle in her ice blue eyes. "While it's obvious you have the experience and interest in fashion, you must realise that as Andréa's second assistant, you'll be running around the entirety of New York, without pause, often balancing a tray of lattes, five or six bags filled with clothing, your phone, and often-" Emily did snicker then, "Andréa's great Dane, by the name of Charles. A certain level of stamina is required."
Miranda narrowed her eyes dangerously. "If you are implying that my age, all forty seven years of it, may impede my ability to run errands, you are mistaken. I've been running around after twins for fifteen years, demons the pair of-
Emily's phone chirped, cutting off the older woman's defensive diatribe. Miranda watched, an eyebrow quirked, as all traces of arrogance slid off the young woman's face to be replaced by a look of horror.
"No. No no no." Ageist harassment forgotten, Emily quickly whirled to the phone on her desk and frantically hit an in-office speed dial. "She's here! Tell everyone."
With those four words, Miranda Princhek watched as a seemingly statuesque office full of equally composed beauties transformed into a circus performance of panic and incompetence. Half-eaten meals were discarded and hidden, working messes were gathered and stashed. Everyone, male or female, seemed to be touching up flawlessly painted faces. Bemused, she turned her attention back to Emily, who was now hopping around the office in her stiletto boots, trying to carry magazines, push a rack full of dresses, and open a bottle of Pellegrino without falling off her heels and breaking an ankle.
Wordlessly, Miranda snatched the bottle from Emily's desperate grasp, twisted the lid off with strong fingers, and poured the sparkling liquid into a glass.
"Left side!" Emily hissed, depositing the magazines on the desk with a harried thump.
"Yours or mine?" Miranda inquired lightly.
"Yours!" the ginger brit exploded, splaying the glossy books across the glass surface like a magician with a deck of cards.
"Anything else?" Miranda queried, depositing the beverage on a coaster and sliding it to the left corner of the desk.
Emily glared at her, then snapped her fingers in a movement which looked like it might rip the scrawny arm out of it's socket. "Move that rack against the far wall, then shift yourself back out there and hang up your coat!"
As Miranda complied, a well-tailored man close to her own age strode into the office, looking pointedly at her before directing his attention to the whirlwind of couture and limbs which was Emily.
"She wasn't supposed to be here for another hour," he muttered to the young woman, annoyance furrowing his brow.
"Yes, well- her bloody masseuse had to go and tear a ligament in her wrist, didn't she?" Emily snatched a pile of boxes from atop her desk and hurriedly chucked them into an expansive filing cabinet. "Miranda- coat," she harped, straightening a loose pile of papers.
Miranda walked back out of Andréa's office, snatched her coat and bag off the desk, and leisurely hung them in the closet towards the kitchen.
"Who's grandma," the man inquired, so low he didn't think Miranda would hear.
"Don't even get me started on that," Emily croaked in obvious dismay.
Miranda pursed her lips, and closing the closet door, turned around in the most languorous manner she could manage. "Miranda Princhek," she purred, extending her hand. "And if I'm a grandmother, what on earth does that make you?"
Nigel smiled coyly, trying to disguise both his delight at the saucy remark and his surprise at the much younger face on the other side of the shocking white hair. He swept the proffered hand to his mouth for a chivalrous kiss. "My apologies, Miranda. My name is Nigel, I run the art department."
Miranda smiled her acquiescence. "How nice to meet you Nigel. As you may have guessed, I'm after the new assistant's job- though I'm beginning to wonder if I should have dyed my hair before I came in."
Nigel clasped the hand he still held on to, spinning Miranda this way and that. "The low pony is a little maternal," he mused, "but dye- withnatural silver like that? I'd strangle you myself."
Miranda almost blushed.
"Don't touch it for now, but when you get the job, which you will, come down to the art department and we'll see about a new style for that gorgeous platinum of yours."
Miranda laughed warmly as Nigel exited the office, mirroring the little wave he gave as the doors closed behind him. At least someone in this office was sane.
That brief reprise soon went flying out the window, however, as Andréa Saxton entered the office, a scrambling Emily close on her heels.
