I smiled a small, appropriate smile. One befitting an assistant accompanying her infamous, albeit gorgeous boss, to a publishing awards evening at the MET. Oh, but I didn't want to be appropriate. I didn't want to be platonic. I wanted to be one of those unabashed fools openly ogling the statuesque, refined beauty that was Miranda Priestly.
If you could call it refined. Gone, it seemed, were the days of teasing, off the shoulder Valentino's and striking, high collared Lacroix's. Gone were the hours of trailing after the editrix, admiring the smooth, rounded shoulders and the rippling silken muscles while trying to remember the names of the inconsequential rich. Gone were the moments of imagining the soft perfection hinted at by the tempting shadows playing across the barest whisper of the swell of her breasts.
I swallowed, hard. Tried to concentrate on anything but the plunging neckline of her couture, the way the mousseline draped so lightly over her form that a small breeze might reveal all. Focus, Sachs. Drink your champagne. Who is she presenting that award to, anyway? Your journalistic dreams should take priority here, and never mind your nonsensical prayers that someone will open a window, cause a draft, and move that silk over that one, agonizing inch to reveal a perfect, rosy…
I jolted at the loud applause that now filled the hall. Miranda's speech had come to a close somewhere amidst my lascivious musings, and the recipient, a man in his late fifties was taking to the stage and receiving a congenial embrace from the woman dressed to murder by lust-induced apoplexy. I bit back the sting of jealousy- who the fuck was that guy, whoever he was, to go up there and be welcomed into her arms like an old lover? I watched with limited amusement as he diligently tried not to stare at her chest in front of the hundreds gathered in the MET that evening. To be fair, he was performing admirably and I had to wonder, given the proximity, if under the same circumstances I'd be able to behave as chivalrously.
Probably not. As it was, I was only seated ten feet away from the exalted podium and I was having a world of difficulty keeping my wandering eyes to myself. If I didn't know so much better, I would suspect that Miranda had worn that dress just to torture me. But how cliché, and how completely misguided. I, Andrea Sachs, did not exist for Miranda Priestly beyond someone to fetch, berate, and insult. I was another Emily, nameless in the long line of harassed and abused assistants. Miranda would no more think of teasing me like that then she would contemplate getting her own damned latte for once in her career.
No- whatever the reasoning behind this evening's racy number, it certainly wasn't that. I sighed and attempted to focus once more on the proceedings. It would figure that the moment I decided to gaze back at the stage would be the moment of my complete undoing. The man had finished his acceptance drivel and was being led off the stage by the Snow Queen herself. As she turned into profile, the silk of her neckline bunched impossibly and revealed the sweet, contrasting line of her breast. As far as my well-fuelled imagination was concerned, Miranda might as well have been standing there topless.
Gurgling a little on the spit I seemed suddenly incapable of swallowing, I tried dubiously not to face plant into my flute of bubbly. Given the few ill-suppressed gasps of wonder I heard around me, I wasn't the only poor sap made breathless by the impromptu display of what would be the most talked about event of 'side boob' in page six history. Miranda was so not wearing a bra. And apparently, she didn't need to.
Fleetingly, I wondered how much longer I'd have to be here, because frankly, there was an empty bed at home and a cool, waiting darkness which would be a much better place to continue my explorations of desires unrequited. I fanned myself a little and hoped to god no one was any the wiser to my sudden feverish temperature.
Miranda glided back to the table and I'm sure I imagined the ghost of a self-satisfied smirk playing about her delicately coloured lips.
"Nice speech," I murmured, again unable to reign in my incessant babbling in moments of discomfort.
Miranda glanced sideways at me, a coolly raised eyebrow my only indication that she'd heard me at all. Officially shut up, I turned back to the new speaker who had deigned to take the stage. Minutes were lost as I chewed my tongue, willing myself never to speak again. Ever.
I half started when Miranda, stifling a half yawn delicately with the back of her hand said, "Time to go, I think. Call Roy and meet me outside. I assume you're ready to leave."
Nodding silently, I reached into my clutch and dialled the appropriate number, only vaguely aware of the unprecedented invitation to be driven home. As I walked on shaky legs to the outside steps of the MET and slid into the waiting town car, realisation struck hard and I had to remind myself to breathe. Riding shotgun, so to speak, with Miranda was not a novelty. I did it every day as her dutiful fashion lackey. But being driven home, after an event- it was unheard of.
Miranda Priestly is famous for being unpredictable. Doug's words never rang truer for me, than in this moment. Folding my hands in my lap to disguise their trembling, I stared out the window.
"Do you know why I wore this dress, Andrea?"
I shook my head dumbly. Offering my own input that she was trying to drive me insane with want wasn't an option.
Miranda continued in that soft, detached timbre she was so renowned for. "I always wear the same dress- a commissioned design, divine in it's simplicity, seductively modest."
I looked over at her then, surprised to find her gaze directed, not out the window, but at me. I nodded my understanding, what little of it there was.
She lightly ran a finger over her mouth, like she always did when she was contemplating something. My own tongue darted out, and I bit my lip, unable to stop the warm flush at actually being the centre of her attention, however fleeting. She continued to sit in silent musing, and I, completely bereft of self control, allowed myself to glance at the dress in question. Or more pointedly, what the dress revealed. At least, it was only supposed to be a glance. But once more, I was drawn in by that seductive, shadowy realm where material left off and smooth skin, glowing in the streetlight, began.
"Eyes up, Andrea," she whispered, amusement warming the request. For it was a request.
At once embarrassed and emboldened, I met her dangerous, sapphire eyes.
"I always wear the same dress, Andrea," she continued, as though she hadn't just caught me staring at her breasts. "But not tonight. Do you know why?"
I floundered a little, realising at once that the inquiry was not rhetorical. How was I to answer that? Quickly, I pondered her reasoning. No one else knew better what Miranda had gone through the last year- the second divorce, the barely staved off coup to overthrow her reign of Runway, the belittling comments about her age-
"I think," I began quietly, praying I would not be fired. "I think you wore it to show them, I mean everyone, the press, the media, people in publishing-" Oh god. I was babbling again. If ever there were a time when minced words would be my downfall, this was it. But Miranda was watching me patiently, waiting for me to continue. "You wore it to make them want you. To make them realise how desirable you still are- as Runway's editor, as a woman."
I glanced up hopefully, though I suspected any moment the bottom would fall out of this particular basket. It didn't, and Miranda looked at me pensively.
"And am I?"
No thought required there.
"Yes."
She smiled then, and unlike every smile before that, it reached her eyes. Just as suddenly, it faded, and she turned towards me, her expression warring between confusion and humility. I sat frozen, wondering what she wanted. There was a pain in my chest at that strange sadness I had only seen twice before. But I knew what I wanted, and maybe that was enough.
"Can I-" my hand inched forward on the seat.
The briefest nod. A whimpered "Yes."
I moved forward with aching reserve, I would not rush this. Slow, slow. I moved towards her, hand sliding over her gently rounded stomach, over her ribs, underneath the gauzy silk until the soft weight of her breast rested warmly in my hand. Her eyes closed, she sighed breathily, her face turned towards me, so close, right there. I leaned forwards, and I kissed her then, and tried to tell this woman how honestly she was desired, how she could show up in a bathrobe or a rugby jersey or a black garbage bag cinched with a bungee cord, and I would still want her.
Breathless, she rested against the cool leather of the seat, and I slid my hand out of the infamous dress, resting it protectively on her hip.
"What happens now?" I hated to speak, this was dangerous territory.
She slid a warm hand down to cover mine. "I don't know." She said it softly, her honesty a comfort. I could be honest, too.
"I want you, Miranda."
She bit her lower lip. That was new. "Why?"
Oh, she of the difficult one-liners. But this was another question easily answered.
"Not because of this dress, though you are a knockout. Not because of your power as editor, however brilliant you are. Especially not because of your money. I'm just a backwater woman from Cincinnati, after all. I just want you. Just you. Capiche?"
She absently ran a thumb over my knuckles, and I couldn't help pressing against her a little closer. She sighed again, quietly, and leaned into me.
"May I think about this?"
What was a girl to say to that. "Of course you can," I smiled. "I'll be here, fetching lattes, delivering scarves, tripping over my Jimmy Choos to get it all done a little faster. I can wait."
Miranda nodded into my neck, and I melted a little, her hair soft against my cheek.
"I want you to keep the dress," she offered suddenly.
I nodded, smirking. And since we were being honest.
"I have to warn you," I began, fingering the soft material, "I'm probably going to roll it up in a ball and sleep with it every night."
A gentle peal of laughter escaped her lips. "I can live with that."