Kalokairi, October 6th, 17:45:53
Donna eased the lid from a can of turquoise paint, grunting as the end of the screwdriver became stuck in the petrified latex. Since her impromptu marriage to Sam Carmichael several months prior, hope waned for an end to her DIY endeavours around the villa- her husband over-eagerly instigating renovation almost the moment after she'd said 'I do'.
Graciously, the rusted lid gave way with a satisfying hiss of escaped air, and the woman gave the liquid a cursory stir before holding the stick critically against the freshly plastered wall of the Villa's central courtyard.
It'll do, she mused, discarding the stick on a nearby drop cloth. Sam had found the paint, all seventeen gallons of it, at a surplus outpost on the mainland, and mindful of Donna's frugal nature, happily had the lot shipped to the small island of KaloKairi several days later. Now, faced with an overwhelming expanse of architecture, shimmering newly in the evening light, the villa owner pondered the virtues of a more natural aesthetic.
"This is the new colour?"
Donna turned, a frown creasing her forehead at the accusing tone in the other woman's voice. Agathe, a long tenured employee, had never been known for her tact. The older Greek woman surveyed the situation, arms crossed loosely over her floral printed bosom.
"This is the paint Sam bought," the blond replied a little testily, dipping a brush into the offending can and slapping it wetly onto the low wall, a sense of rebellion in her movements.
"It is- vibrant," commented Agathe carefully, glancing around the courtyard as if trying to envisage the painted walls. "But the sun will bleach it out in a month or two, yes?"
Donna glared at the garish patch of paint, before reloading her brush and continuing. "It had better," she groused quietly, and Agathe turned to leave. "Is Sam still down at the docks with Pepper? I swear, those deliveries from the mainland are getting later and later-
Agathe moved to the wall, squinting down the steep, craggy cliff to the water. "I do not see the Jeep- he must come."
"Good," the paintbrush squelched as Donna forced the bristles into the uneven surface. "Neither of us is eating until this section is done- I don't need paint lines compounding how hideous this colour is."
Agathe clucked, and patted the younger woman on the shoulder before retreating to the kitchen to begin fixing dinner. Fish, she muttered to herself in Greek, or perhaps a cheese pie…
Donna returned half-heartedly to her task- each second that passed without her husband was making the hue uglier. Despite her griping, and the increased workload, her marriage to Sam had become a comfortable, supportive situation. It wasn't idyllic. What partnership was? But she and the architect had fairly successfully leapt the two decade gap between their affairs, and had learned to love and respect the evolved versions of one another.
Donna stood, scrutinizing the wall under the shifting evening light, and leaned towards the drop cloth to-
"Mummy- she's here!"
Donna shifted from one foot to the other, grinning as she was bombarded by an identical pair of affectionate redheads, who dragged her down a sleek hallway and into a sitting room. Freckled faces pressed kisses to her cheeks and flannel-clad bodies snuggled close.
And then they were gone, summoned, it seemed by the delicate staccato gait of someone approaching from the hallway. Donna smiled to herself, her chest suffused with warmth.
An elusive perfume drifted lazily into her senses as someone approached and leaned casually against the arm of the sofa. Donna's grin widened as she turned against cushions and pressed her face into silky fabric, her hands sliding possessively around the slender waist of a woman who smelled of bergamot and pink pepper and…
Donna blinked, wincing- a world of turquoise, canvas; pain lancing up her back and under a shoulder blade. Rolling fitfully sideways, she encountered another three cans of paint and stilled, staring up at the azure evening sky. She blinked again, her perspective finally aligning the cobbled stones beneath her back with the cooling light, illuminating the fringes of dissipating clouds, spreading like un-spun wool across the sun.
Gradually coming to a sit, the nausea dissipating, Donna glanced around, perplexed- Agathe was hauling her stout body up against the door frame of the kitchen, and a trembling girl who helped with the housework, Eleni, was crawling on all fours from the direction of the guesthouses, a nasty gash on her forehead bleeding freely, dark eyes panicked. Peeling paint-slick hair away from her cheeks, Donna eased herself to a stand, and approached the young woman, kneeling down to inspect the cut.
"What the Christ happened?" Donna murmured, wiping the blood away with a corner of the girl's shirt. "Earthquake?" Eleni shook her head, confused, wincing as the older woman inspected the gash. "Put some ice on that, honey- and sit by the radio. Agathe?" Donna continued, striding towards the cook, "You good?"
The woman nodded, straightening her linen apron. Donna offered a tight smile.
"Good. Help Leni with the ice, and for god's sake, don't use stuff that the fish was sitting on- I'm going to find Sam."
As her grimy canvas shoes carried her smoothly down the stone steps towards the road, panic fluttered in Donna's chest, the eerie calm in the air suddenly interrupted with shouts of confusion and horror. Her pace quickened.
Spilling onto the road, the worn soles of her runners slipped and slid on the steep gravel nearer a group of people making slow progress up the uneven slope towards the villa, a staggering, incoherent Pepper in their midst. No.
Donna stepped forward, as if wading against a strong current, and stopped. She fought for breath. No.
Pepper, shaking, saw her frozen there and stumbled, tripped, sank to his knees. Donna's gut churned, she moved again, closer- the young man was choking, babbling, and as she approached; his face upturned and she saw the tears dripping down his dark cheeks, streaking through drying blood. Their eyes locked and he wilted, cowered, looked away.
Donna searched the faces of her staff and found pity, remorse- sickening knowledge. An old man with kind eyes reached towards her to take an arm and she shrugged him off with a whimper.
Spinning, tripping, sick with dread, Donna sprinted past the small throng and hurtled down the dusty roadway, skidding once more to a standstill as the acrid sting of sooty, oily smoke forced entry to her aching lungs. There it sat, in it's fuming mockery; her jeep, wrapped around a jagged outcropping of the hill; her husband, her lover, pinned behind the large steering wheel; a corpse.
It's very Greek, she thought, hysterical laughter rising on a wave of bile; she retched.
Quivering weakly, Donna moved through the spiralling smoke, the hood of the jeep hot, searing her hand. She climbed in beside him, then, his body still warm against her own. She closed her eyes, locked in a juvenile game of pretend, his cologne barely discernable underneath the tangy smell of blood and oil.
Panicked voices seemed a distant echo and Donna writhed away from invasive hands, struggling against the arms that locked around her chest; dared to haul her away. She lashed, squirming, shrieking, clinging onto his bloodied shirt until, in a gracious twist of irony, she felt her head connect with the large rear view mirror and sunk once more into unconsciousness.
Manhattan, October 6th, 10:59:06
Smirking, Miranda absently twirled a length of coiled cord between her fingers, amused at the panic which had slowly crept into the voice of the woman at the other end of the line.
"Brigitte," she began, the timbre of her voice in no way betraying her particular brand of mirth. "You're babbling. I thought the last shoot was relatively successful, so I see no reason why a second spread of your photographs shouldn't be featured in Runway's December issue."
Dead air.
"Brigitte?" Had the woman succumb to a fit of nerve-induced apoplexy?
"T-thank you Miranda, I-"
The editor pinched the bridge of her nose- as brilliant as Lacombe was, the french photographer's lacking sense of entitlement was beginning to grate. Fleetingly, she wondered what on earth was taking Lyla so bloody long to fetch her coffee. "Get in touch with Nigel before next Thursday, I'm sure he will have several suggestions of note. That's a-
Miranda leaned casually against the counter, warm soapy water leaving small rings of bubbles around her bare forearms. The doorbell rang, and she smiled.
"Would somebody get that?"
The pounding of two pairs of feet signalled the twin's descent, and moments later, Miranda heard squeals of excitement and a warm, familiar laugh.
Indulging in a quiet smile, Miranda poured two glasses of wine and headed into the living room, to be met by her retreating daughters, on their way to bed. She received two sleepy hugs, and throwing a 'goodnight' over her shoulder, she walked up behind the blond sitting on her sofa.
Though the woman's face was turned away, Miranda saw the relaxed, smile, the eyes closed in quiet contentment; the large gilt mirror across the room formed a candid glimpse into that secret expression.
Miranda inhaled deeply, drawing her affection for this woman close as she leaned casually against the arm of the sofa, and the blond turned into her, nuzzling her face against Miranda's stomach…
Miranda stirred to the drone of a dial tone; her phone had hung itself over the edge of her desk, and swung pendulously. The tepid latte she had been contemplating drinking, desperate for caffeine, had landed on the floor and was pooling near her face; sinking into the expensive fibres of the office rug.
Miranda shifted, groaning as an impressive charlie horse coiled up her arm. Wondering what exactly the fuck was going on, the editor gripped the edge of her desk, fighting off a wave of vertigo, and stalked out to accost her first assistant.
Maddy, who had only just crawled into her chair, seemed to be suffering the same bout of dizzying confusion and Miranda realised quite quickly that something entirely untoward had just taken place.
"Madeleine," Miranda seethed quietly. "Find out what's going on. Now."
Fingers flying over her keyboard, Maddy pulled up a streaming news report within seconds. "There- there's been some kind of- god-" the girl choked at the images of chaos filling the window. "It's happened all over the city, people just blacked out- everywhere- fuck."
No longer interested in the details, and overcome by a desperate urgency, Miranda snatched the phone from the assistant's desk and dialled Caroline's cell. It rang. And rang. Miranda was finding it difficult to breath, and god help whoever was responsible for this if anything had happened to--
"Mommy?" The terrified sound of her daughter's voice tore Miranda abruptly away from the surfacing death threats whizzing through her mind.
"Are you both alright?" Miranda shuddered at how much fear had crept into her voice. Over the static, she could hear children wailing and the harried female voice of the girl's teacher.
"We're fine- Mommy what-"
"Stay where you are, I'm coming to get you right now." Miranda allowed herself a singular, calming breath. "I love you, both." Betraying her nerves, Miranda crashed the phone back into it's cradle, fetched her own purse for the first time in two decades, and sprinted from the office.
In her haste, the editor nearly pulled a mac truck on her startled art director, who was emerging from the studio, a flustered but otherwise unharmed Emily close on his heels.
"Shit-" Miranda cursed, "-sorry. The girls, I have to-"
Nigel stepped forward and place a stalling hand on the editor's shoulder, while Emily gawked. He was worried. "Are they hurt, Miranda?"
The editor tossed her head distractedly, the usually coiffed forelock tussling out of place. "They're fine- scared. I have to go-" she shook off the restraining hand.
"Miranda," Nigel began calmly. "Have you looked out a window? The street's are chaos, there are accidents everywhere- people are already looting for Christ's sake. If the girls are safe, there's no sense you going out there in that and getting-"
Miranda spared a precious second to affix the art director with an eviscerating glare. "They are my children," she seethed, before taking off again down the hallway.
"Mama bear," Nigel mused quietly, as Emily collapsed in a nearby chair with a resounding bloody hell.
Panting, Miranda exited the staircase and bolted through the lobby as fast as her four inch heels would allow. As she shoved her way through the heavy revolving door, the collective wail which had become the Manhattan soundscape washed over her, a thick fog of crying, pleading, screaming.
The streets ceased to exist as a thoroughfare, constipated with wrecked vehicles; the wounded; the dead. Miranda choked, swallowing her nausea- this was not her city.
The girls.
Steeled against the turmoil surrounding her, Miranda set her questing eyes on an abandoned bicycle; having given into the reality- after five minutes of aching arches gifted to her by her impossibly high Prada pumps- that she wasn't going to make to Dalton anywhere as quickly as her desperation required on foot.
A wry sense of irony caused Miranda to roll her eyes as she swerved around a particularly nasty car accident: if the press could see her now; burgundy pencil skirt riding high on her thighs, cream trench dragging dolefully on the bike's rear tire.
In what should have been a fifteen minute endeavour, Miranda arrived at the school an actual thirty seven minutes after setting out, having had to detour, backtrack; all out hauling the bike over the wreckage that had been her domain.
Breathing heavily, a clammy sheen of sweat chilling her skin, the editor abandoned her transport and strode towards the school, wiping the moisture from her breastbone with her silk scarf.
She entered the school, and found her girls standing amidst a throng of eerily subdued children waiting to be rescued. Cassidy and Caroline dashed fitfully towards their mother, throwing disinterested waves over their shoulders at a frazzled, middle-aged woman who dutifully stroked her pen across a clipboard. Miranda nodded her thanks towards the flustered woman, stowed a girl under each arm, and set off once more into the streets.
Twenty minutes later, two very shaken children and their anxious mother crossed the threshold from disaster into the familiar; the safe, quiet sanctuary of the 73rd street townhouse. As the twins stampeded up the stairs, Miranda shrugged off her jacket, unrealised tension uncoiling from her shoulders.
A smile ghosted across her lips as she retrieved the neglected school bags from the foyer, stowing them carefully at the bottom of the front closet.
The walk had been-- trying; Miranda navigated around the worst of the carnage, attempting to spare her children's eyes the gruesome aftermath of- whatever the hell had happened. Briefly, the editor had contemplated blindfolding them, leading them in innocence, making a game of it. Soon, though, a quiet realisation of her children's intelligence, their lack of naivety, prevented such trickery from taking place. Besides which, news footage of the disaster was sure to be flooding homes around the world from every technological orifice; Miranda could not successfully invoke a house-wide media ban; multiple televisions, the laptops- even their cell phones were connected.
No- the thing to do now was to arrange the twins in the den, distract them with a film or games, and avoid answering uncomfortable questions for a long as possible.
Goddamit. She needed to call Greg- she needed to tell him that his daughters-
Miranda's hand flew to her mouth, and she sat heavily on the stairs, knees knocking together as she trembled. In her all-consuming terror that something would happen to her children before she could reach them, she hadn't spared a thought for their father.
Greg and Miranda had carried on amicably enough following their divorce; just after the girl's second birthday. Despite the rumours of infidelity pandered back and forth between New York's leading tabloids, the dissolution of their marriage had been internal; the arguments, the wounded glances; the silence. She couldn't think about this now- she couldn't go back there now-
Miranda's cell chirped from inside her nearby bag, and in an undignified scramble, knees bumping on the smooth hardwood, she retrieved her phone and mashed the 'talk' button with a shaking finger.
"Miranda? It's Greg, are the girls-
"They're fine," she breathed, leaning heavily against the maple newel post. "I've just brought them home from school."
The man on the other end released a whoosh of pent up worry. "Randi- are you-"
"Don't call me that," Miranda snapped, and thinking the better of it, sighed in quiet frustration. "I'll put the girls on." Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Miranda cocked her head sideways and looked up the looping flights of stairs. "Cass, Caro- your father is on the phone!"
Miranda met the descending twins on the third floor landing and handed off her cell, turning once more down the stairs. Almost as an afterthought, she looked back over her shoulder.
"I'm making coco," she stated blandly.
Caroline's eyes widened. "Marshmallows?"
Miranda's eyes flickered between the disbelieving faces of her children, their unwavering blue gaze full of innocent hope. She nodded; continued down the stairs.
In the kitchen, organic milk was put in a saucepan to heat, it's bathing companion a stick of cinnamon; sweetly warming the room as she searched for the canister of Dutch cacao powder, the box of cane sugar. Did she have marshmallows? Miranda considered, briefly, that in this instance, even she was not above looting the local convenience store. She was salvaged by a hazy recollection of Cara, the girl's nanny, introducing the plebeian fare into the pantry several weeks before; the girls had wanted to make squares to bring into class.
Whimsically, Miranda poured the dark liquid from the saucepan into three large mugs; heaped soft, sugary pillows into two of them before adding to the third; the hot milk gratefully enveloped the donation, swelling with pride, overflowing the rim. A quick finger wiped the side of the mug, travelled to parted lips. Miranda smiled.
"Did you find the marshmallows?" Caroline inquired, plopping onto a barstool. Their mother gestured proudly towards the steaming mugs.
"Excellent," Cassidy admired, settling on the stool nearest her mother, eagerly accepting her drink.
"It's hot, baby," Miranda admonished, handing over another mug and sitting beside her daughter. Caroline rolled her eyes.
"Hot chocolate usually is, Mom," the girl quipped from across the island, though she sipped at the drink mindfully.
"Dad's okay," Cassidy offered suddenly, "Grandma, too." Miranda nodded, she didn't want to think about this now.
Across the counter, Caroline poked at a marshmallow which was threatening escape. "I- we're glad you're okay Mom. We were so scared."
Cassidy nodded; grabbed her mother's hand tightly. A lump invaded the editor's throat; she searched her child's face, and smiled.
The desire to reach out and wipe the chocolate from the sides of her daughter's mouth was quelled; it wasn't hurting anyone; she looked so guileless, sitting there with dark coco gathered rebelliously in the corners of her light, soft lips.
"I'm glad you're okay, too." She offered a wobbly smile. "My girls."
Kalokairi: 7:18:34
Donna stirred, peeling back her sticky, dusty hair from her face and neck, the latex paint pulling at wisps like a band aid. Her body ached, a dull pain in her temple throbbed along with her heartbeat; shallow, irregular. She squinted, the large patio umbrella only partially shading her face from the amber glare of the sun, lowering in the darkening sky.
Hushed whispers hung in the air, a miasma of pity; conspiracy. Donna squirmed away from the cool cloth being pressed to her forehead, the fractured, surreal images of her broken husband clawing greedily into her awareness.
She struggled, wobbled off the lounge, staggering towards the villa, towards her bedroom. Agathe, fussing, shadowed her employer, murmuring about washing, tending wounds. The blond dismissed her with a limp wave, and lurched up the stairs. But Agathe was persistent; responsibility a forceful companion. Her old knees ached as she followed the younger woman up, finally put off when Donna growled a feral "Leave it," before retreating into her room and slamming the door.
She turned the lock, fell onto the bed; covered her head with a brightly printed pillow. Time passed, as was it's habit- the sun bathed itself in the Aegean waters; Donna drifted, unable to sleep. She reeked of oil, of iron and melting plastic, but couldn't bring herself to mind, to wash the vestiges of her husband's blood from her body. It had only been hours ago that she had kissed him, sent him off to the docks to receive the evening shipment of produce.
A persistent knocking crashed into the memory; Donna flinched and pressed the pillow tightly against her face. The knocking continued.
"Donna-" a disembodied voice floated through the locked door. "Donna- the phone. It's Sophia."
Sophie.
Donna clambered from the bed to the vanity, grabbing the receiver, swallowing guilt.
"Soph?" Her mother's voice sounded hoarse, small, tinny over the long distance connection. "Baby- where are you?"
"Ottawa," Sophie offered carefully, "we were on a bus."
"Oh god-" Donna moaned, pressing a hand over her eyes. "Are you hurt? Where's Skye- is he with you? Jesus honey-"
"Mom, I'm fine, we're fine. Skye broke his arm- we're in the hospital now, waiting for a doctor. This place is a nuthouse."
Donna sank to the floor, pulling the phone into her lap; her breathing short, low. She would not live it down, the disgusting shame that her daughter had slipped from her mind. She sobbed against the cool plastic.
Sophie panicked, shifting nervously on the vinyl settee in the waiting room. "Mom? What is it?" She asked then, the question her mother could not bear to answer. "Where's Sam?"
Donna choked, she couldn't do this.
"Mom?"
Donna shuddered; wiped carelessly at her running nose. "He's gone, baby."
Sophie sat, stunned- the long miles between them seemed to fold, to pile up on one another into an insurmountable obstacle.
"I don't know what to say," the young woman whispered unevenly. "I'm so sorry."
"Come home."
Sophie sighed, her growing frustration with the situation apparent. "Mom- I can't. No one is flying- over eight hundred planes crashed in North American airspace alone, and nobody knows how long it's gonna' take before they open the airlines again."
Donna nodded, which equated to little more than a disturbing silence at Sophie's end of the line.
"Look," her daughter began softly, "I'm going to get a hold of Tanya and Rosie- unless you've already spoken with them-"
Donna's guilt coiled tighter. "No."
Sophie's heart balked at the confession- it had been hours since the blackout.
"Rosie is in Italy, I think- with Bill," she offered. "Something about a cookbook. I'm going to see if she can come down there, they've still got the boat, as far as I know."
Donna made an indiscernible sound; fading fast.
"Mom?"
"I love you, sweetheart," her mother offered suddenly.
"I love you, too." With regret, Sophie flipped her cell closed and stared up at the speckled tile ceiling of the waiting room.
Several thousand miles away, Donna slid the receiver back into it's cradle before slumping further against the drawers of the rickety vanity. Secure in the knowledge that her daughter was safe, being looked after, there was little else to hold her fraying string to reality.
During the next two days, Donna moved from the floor, to the bed, to the large armchair which sat near the balcony window, facing the sea. She rose only to use the washroom, but even those small quests were decreasing in frequency; she'd had nothing to eat or drink- save a cursory mouthful of tap water- since she'd locked herself away eighty-two hours prior.
Donna received one other call from Sophie; the two MIA Dynamos confirmed safe and well. Rosie and Bill had been sharing a quiet deck side supper; Tanya had lost consciousness on a massage table, blissfully unawares she had even blacked out until the startled commotion in reception roused her.
On the third day of her descent, a reoccurrence of insistent banging threatened once more to interrupt her miserable solitude. Donna ignored it, and continued to stare at the sea; the forlorn cry of the gulls an etude of companionable disquiet.
The knocking continued.
"Donna- open this sodding door!" Rosie, then. Donna turned her face into the sticky shoulder of her shirt, otherwise unmoving. "Don? Sweetheart- let me in!"
In the upstairs hallway, a short british woman hoofed the wall in frustration. As far as Rosie knew, no one had laid eyes on the Villa's owner since the evening of the blackout; all of Donna's previous avoidance issues combined fell short in comparison; this was wrong.
The banging had stopped, though a scraping, shuffling noise, incongruous with the shrieking gulls, eked it's presence into the silence. Rosie, with an indelicate grunt, hauled herself over the wrought iron rail of the small balcony, leaning against the warm metal for support.
Donna was a singular catastrophe in the otherwise orderly bedroom; lank blond hair barely visible under a congealed marriage of paint, dust; blood. Her favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt and much bemoaned dungarees had suffered a similar fate; even from several feet away the smell of her was sour.
Flustered, Rosie cleared her throat, buried her shock- not that Donna had even acknowledged her presence- and approached her friend slowly; as one might a rabid animal.
"Don, lovey?" The brit crouched down at the other woman's knees, taking a limp hand in her own. Donna flinched, the burn on her palm still fresh. "Oh, honey-" Rosie murmured, glancing at the rude, red blisters. "What happened?"
Donna looked down at her friend, her band mate, the woman who had offered a hand to squeeze at the birth of her fatherless child; the woman who gazed up at her now with such understanding silence. She slipped from the chair into waiting arms
Rosie held her until some of the bitter tension left the blond woman's body. "Honey- I'll hold you for as long as it takes- but you've got to have a shower lovey, you smell like a camel."
Donna remained unphased by the remark, so Rosie pulled her to a stand and navigated her bodily into the bathroom, forcing her into the brightly tiled shower; wrenching the uncooperative tap.
As the steam rose, Donna was gently coaxed out of the filthy remnants of her clothing; small hands meticulously scrubbed at her skin and hair, mindful of the dark bruising along a delicate spine. As Donna watched the flecks of turquoise mingle with greying suds, all of it flowing as one down the drain, she began to cry.
It was an awful absence of sound, her mouth parted in a silent plea, her naked body tensed and shaking; she pulled at the tangled strands of her long hair; fingers trapped in knots; golden strands snapping under the assault.
Rosie bit her lip, but with a matronly fuss she soothed the tearing hands away and pulled Donna from beneath the streaming showerhead; wrapped the trembling body in a blue chinoise robe. Ignorant of her own wet clothing, the brit directed her friend towards the bed, pulled her down; curled around her tightly from behind. In as much as Rosie was trying to offer comfort, she was more aware of the fact that she was trying physically to hold Donna Sheridan together. She wouldn't let her come apart.
A 73rd Street Townhouse, October 7th, 2:37:54
-believe that because of the state of the hippocampus, the activity we've observed directly relates to that of the 'waking' state, and the complete synchronicity of the event, down to corroborating stories with identical dates and time-
Miranda flicked the television off and levelled a glare at Nigel. "Satisfied?" Nigel blinked, and the editor sighed testily. "You would think, for all that the United States vehemently professes it's unequalled scientific aptitude, that someone would have some kind of concrete evidence as to what caused the blackout. Honestly," she continued, disdainful fingers poised in a refined air quote pantomime, "a 'temporal anomaly in global consciousness'? Who in god's name are we as taxpayers funding, to provide us with such enlightening segments of egomaniacal tripe?"
Nigel shrugged obtusely, ghosting a palm over his balding head. There wasn't a right answer to that question. "What are you going to do about Lyla?" The second assistant had been struck by a careening car, indeed on the return trip from a latte-fetching excursion.
"Well- obviously I'm not going to fire her. Though," Miranda continued pensively, "I'll have to have Madeleine find a temporary replacement. God only knows how long it's going to take the girl to recuperate, and I need two fully functioning assistants if we're going to meet deadline."
Miranda wondered if Emily, who had been shipped off into training in the art department, would be willing to suffer a temporary demotion. She could almost imagine the look of horror on the brit's face.
"The point," Miranda stated, tapping the end of her pen against the coiled wire binding of the Book, lost briefly in thought. "The point is-
"Is there a point to this, Miranda?" Nigel interrupted. "Because I'm not sure re-shooting the Lacoste ad is going to be high on anyone's priority list in the foreseeable future."
Miranda twisted the cap on the end of the pen; the sound like a strangled call in the quiet of the living room. "Why?" she countered softly. "In the event that, whatever happened, happens again, and we all die?"
"In crudest terms."
"If it happens, it happens." Miranda rolled her head, the stress in her neck aching down across her shoulders. "If it doesn't," she sighed, circling an offensive type face on the mock up page, "I still have a magazine going to print in three weeks."
Nigel's undoubtedly cutting retort was stopped short by the door chime, which echoed plaintively in the quiet house. Miranda glanced curiously towards the hallway, but the art director seemed unsurprised by the interruption; he sported a guilty smile.
"It's Andy," he offered, then added quickly, "She got a hold of me this morning, wanted to make sure we were all fine." Nigel affixed the editor with a pointed look, eyebrows raised. "She was scared for you, Miranda, so be nice."
Miranda glowered at his presumption, though she had to quell a relieved sigh that the young woman had survived the blackout. Unwilling as she was to admit it, even to herself, the editor had grown fond of her young protégé, before the girl had surreptitiously taken her leave in the thralls of Paris fashion week. So unprofessional.
Miranda stood in a singular lithe movement and stalked towards the door, her heels clacking harshly on the hardwood. Upon opening the door, the editor was immediately clobbered in a stranglehold by her former assistant.
Andy, as if suddenly surprised by her own audacity, pulled away quickly, awkwardness scrawled across her honest features. "Sorry-" she offered, shifting her weight from one stiletto suede boot to the other. "I was worried."
Miranda raised a brow in disbelief- though old suspicions of an ill-harboured attraction on the part of one Andrea Sachs reclaimed a large portion in the forefront of the editor's consciousness; strange little journalist.
"You're always," Andy's voice cracked, "you're always in that f-fucking car, going to meetings, or you could have been on a plane. And the girls- don't they leave school for private lessons sometimes? They could have been in traffic or something, and- well, I know I haven't seen you in months, and you probably don't want me to-
Miranda raised a silencing hand, though she was warmed by the girl's obvious concern, especially for that of her children. Andy sniffled and a fat tear tracked down her reddening cheek; god, she was embarrassed for coming here like this, throwing herself at the editor; her eyes welled.
"Andrea," Miranda admonished gently, yet she opened her arms in an uncharacteristic moment of compassion, and Andy leaned in gratefully. "I'm fine- we're all fine-"
The young journalist sobbed into the older woman's shoulder, vaguely aware that she was probably wiping snot all over her ex-bosses silk Donna Karan blouse; and then, so mollified by the solid, very safe Miranda in her arms, flipped quickly into embarrassment anew.
Nigel, who had been watching the interaction with veiled interest from the entrance to the living room, choose that opportune moment to intercede.
"Nige," Andy grinned, grateful for the diversion, her eyes still red-rimmed and wet.
"Six," he countered, embracing the young woman.
Andy slapped the dapper man playfully on the arm. "Still a four, monsieur- don't be a jerk."
Miranda cleared her throat, interrupting their banter. Her front foyer was no place for a high school reunion.
"How's your family?" The inquiry sounded mundane enough, but in this context, Miranda realised that what she was really asking was if anyone had died.
Andrea relaxed visibly. "My mom and dad are fine- god, I've never been so glad that both my parents are such incorrigibly boring homebodies. My sister clocked herself on the head when she lost consciousness- minor concussion there-" the young woman paused, her face falling, she wilted visibly. "I uh, had a friend- well, she was a friend- she was on the subway when it happened, so she- she didn't make it."
Miranda winced- she had been so lucky, as had Nigel. Awkwardly, the editor pressed a hand into the small of the young woman's back and directed into the living room. Andy settled carefully onto a long couch, Nigel in an armchair opposite, and Miranda, after intense deliberation, sat on the couch next to the young woman. As loathe as the editor was to encourage the journalist's emerging- and misguided- feelings, Miranda could not bring herself to be callous in this instance; the girl seemed to derive comfort from her presence.
Nigel leaned forwards and poured a cup of coffee from the french press set on the low table, and handed it to a grateful Andy who clutched the mug close to her chest, trying to settle her nerves.
Taking a sip of the appropriately scalding liquid, she relayed that Lily had not spoken to her in months, since before Paris.
"Everything sort of fell apart when Nate and I split up- even though we'd been best friends since we were kids. I was hoping-" she sighed. "I was hoping Lily would forgive me, with time- that we could try the friendship out again. Now-" Andy trailed off, staring into her coffee, the essential oils like a grease slick rainbow on the dark surface. Quality stuff.
She started when Miranda's hand slipped gently onto her knee, and stared at the anomaly for long seconds, before grabbing it gratefully.
"You've got us, Six," Nigel offered, subdued.
Miranda nodded her acquiescence, and Andy was inclined to believe them. During the blackout, the young journalist had found herself keeping a familiar late-night vigil, waiting for a particular book to be delivered into her expectant D&G bag.