Premise: Taking on the queens of the fashion industry can reveal interesting alliances…
Rating: PG-13 (language)
A/N: Takes place about five years post-film (DWP): Caroline/Cassidy are young teens; Miranda/Andrea an established couple; Emily still Miranda's assistant (largely b/c I see her staying on until approx. this point in time). Mix of The Devil Wears Prada, Ugly Betty, and The September Issue
Disclaimers: I extend immense gratitude to 'sheknowsnofear'for her editorial/beta skills. As adjustments were made after she last reviewed this, all errors are mine (and mine alone). I don't own any of the fictional characters or publications alluded to in this story. Shocking statement, no doubt. Real people have had their names changed and/or personalities fictionalized to suit my requirements. Bon appétit…
Unholy Trinity
At ten-thirty, Miranda sent Emily for her usual late morning caffeine fix. By eleven, a steady hum was coursing through her veins as her visitor arrived. The girl was there to present her work in hopes of securing much coveted acclaim as a celebrity designer in an upcoming feature. She had declined to speak with the Runway contributing writer in charge of the story, demanding an audience with Miranda herself. Emily was less than amused that the girl had used her dubious fame to deliver such an ultimatum. Miranda had similar thoughts as she regarded her guest disdainfully.
After the usual pleasantries had been dispensed with, the presentation of the proposed clothing line began.
'What a waste of perfectly good caffeine,' the Editor lamented less than four minutes later. 'Even on her first day, Andrea would have recognized the lacking sense of fashion.' With a sigh, she stood from behind her desk, effectively ending the meeting. Using the tip of her pen, she slid a sketch back across the smooth cherry-wood surface, her cool gaze focused on the almost anorexic young woman standing before her. A quivering hand carefully claimed the sketch, its owner fixing Runway's Editor-in-Chief with a fiery glare.
"By all means, continue your designs. I'm sure they have a need for them at PetSmart and other canine boutiques. Be sure to enjoy the sense of accomplishment your work provides, especially when you see your pieces on pampered Pomeranians as they deign to piddle on a hydrant along 5th Avenue. We each have a gift. It seems yours lies in creating canine couture."
The statement is delivered without venom, without malice, without any inflection whatsoever. It elicits a strong reaction.
"Fuck you, bitch."
This did not seem to surprise Miranda in the least. She carefully smoothed her skirt as she sat down at her desk, her mind already moving on to the delinquency of the Advertising Department in responding to a request she had made that morning. Impatient eyes settled on her laptop screen. She tapped a key with one-hand to 'wake' the machine up, her other hand making a half-hearted wave in the general direction of the 'designer', shooing the volatile socialite from her presence.
"That's all."
Her lips pinched in dismay, not at the retreating figure, but at the lack of any messages in her Inbox. After a moment of considering the other tasks before her, Miranda glanced up, "Emily, get me Ashley in Advertising."
"Ashley, Line 1," came the rapid reply from the front office.
"Is the elevator broken? Are the stairs blocked? I want her in my office, Emily."
"Miranda, Ashley's en route."
"Unless you are auditioning to be a play-by-play announcer, I don't need to hear every detail. Where are the files for my four o' clock with Walter? Have you confirmed that dressmaker for Saturday?"
With movements that reminded the older woman of a hummingbird, the redhead flitted into her office, carefully placing a manila folder on the corner of the expansive desktop.
"Here's the file for your meeting with Walter. The car will be out front for you at a quarter to. I have confirmed all of your weekend appointments, including the tailor." A cocky edge became more pronounced by the end of Emily's ramble and Miranda momentarily wondered if it might be time to 'help' Emily find a new position –– elsewhere.
As her trustworthy, if addle-brained assistant awaited her dismissal, Miranda frowned. She tilted her head, pursed her lips in a troubled pout. It didn't take a rocket scientist to detect the woman's displeasure, which was lucky for Emily; the only degree in her personnel folder was a certificate of attendance for 'Pumps, Slingbacks, and Mules: An Introduction to Feminine Footwear'. The Brit concealed a gulp as she took a fearful step back in hasty retreat.
"I need a moment. When Ashley finally finds her way down here, have her wait. Close the door behind you. That's all."
The words flew out in rapid fire, and the tightly wound assistant quickly completed her departure. As soon as the opaque doors to her office clicked shut, Miranda pulled open her phone and launched the contact list stored there. The usually calm fashion editor felt her heart briefly clench.
Ah, yes, under the M's – Last name: Mean; first name: Median. After depressing the 'call' button, she tapped a finger impatiently on the desktop, feeling less than happy that she'd been forced to change the surface from glass to wood in order to make her office appear 'warmer'. Between that and the cream-colored rug, the space was almost comfortable. It irritated her to no end that she'd been swayed to adjust her image, even if it was simply cosmetic. Thank goodness most of the staff knew better than to be lulled by the makeover. The whole remodel had been done at her publicist's insistence as a counterpoint to the insipid tell-all piece of trash published last year about someone with a similar job title and disposition. Supposedly, it was important for the office of Runway's EIC to appear 'approachable' by comparison. Miranda was of the belief that warmth was superfluous. This wasn't kindergarten, after all.
Her mind was brought back to the task at hand by the sound of a phone ringing. After two rings there was a pause and then a slight click as the call rolled over to another line. This was not a conversation she was eager to have.
A snide male voice intoned, "Mode magazine, Office of – "
Miranda quickly tapped the 'end' call button and placed her cell phone down on the desk. She paused to ponder whether she was actually happier that her counterpart at Mode magazine hadn't answered.
Sliding her reading glasses into place, she squinted at the contact list once again. Next attempt – Last name: Nuclear; first name: Bernice. Once the name was highlighted on the phone's screen, she clicked 'call' once again and took a calming breath. Attempting calls to not one, but two archenemies would definitely etch the day in her memory. And not in a positive way.
This call was answered after only one ring, the feminine voice at the other end audibly irritated.
"I'll call you back in five." The line went dead. Miranda rolled her eyes. Setting down the phone once more, she leaned back in her chair, the leather headrest cradling her perfectly coiffed head.
After an immeasurably long wait, the small device sprang to life, 'Look around. Leaves are brown. And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.' After a second, the melody repeated, 'Look around. Leaves are brown…' Miranda allowed a small glint of humor to grace her eyes, tiny crow's feet fanning out as she picked up the call.
"We have a problem…Yes. I'm certain…You do still wear that perfume with a freesia base," Miranda arched an eyebrow as she spoke.
"Sydney Millington ring a bell?...Yes…Well, she was just here…Her sketches were atrocious…I know you saw them, the lingering scent was as overpowering as her attitude…Look, Anna, I'm not in the habit of calling over false concerns." Miranda dug her nails into the seams along the armrests.
"No…I almost gagged over that one in particular…Well, if she's making the rounds…Yes, that's what I thought as well…Probably already in Wilhelmina's office at this point…No, she wasn't answering her phone…It could work to our advantage if she were to…Well, it is named after the most common variable isn't it? Just replicating…Yes, well, if you want to deal with it…Be my guest."
Miranda tapped the 'end' call button and stared at the gadget in contemplation for a moment before she rose, crossed the room, and allowed Ashley into her office.
Emily watched on as fresh bait entered the chamber, eyes glinting with terror and fascination as Miranda, like a panther, moved in for the kill on the unsuspecting advertising representative.
"Miranda?" Andy hastily threw her raincoat on a hanger in the closet, kicked off her shoes under an entryway table, and wandered towards the bright lights of the kitchen.
"Heya, Cassidy. How was school?"
"Fine."
"Did you make the volleyball team?"
"Duh. I can serve and spike with the best of 'em."
"That's my girl." Andy gave Cass a warm smile. Tucking her long tresses behind her shoulders, she gave the room a quick scan.
"What happened today? Mom is really pissed." Cassidy asked as she twisted the lid off a small bottle of Pellegrino and tipped the slender green bottle back to take a long drink.
"Pissed to the highest degree of pissivity," Caroline chimed in as she waltzed past Andy and opened the freezer to dig out a half-hidden container of Ben & Jerry's.
Andy chuckled, "Well, that's a new phrase."
"I like it." Caroline smirked.
At that, the muffled sound of someone coming downstairs silenced the threesome. When Miranda entered the room, her frustration was palpable.
"Andrea. You're home. Our dinner reservations are for seven."
"Oh, good. I still have ten minutes to change and freshen up before we go, right? And then you can tell me in the car about why Sydney Millington
is mouthing off to all the major news outlets with a wild story about how Vogue, Mode, and Runway are in cahoots and have turned their backs on fresh talent – that there is a dire need for young blood to be injected into the 'old girl network.'" As she crossed the room, Andy made little air quotes for the last few words.
"Andrea, I don't know what you are talking about. If Sydney Millington – or any other celebrity – wishes to become a designer, they are afforded the same opportunity as anyone else when it comes to publication and endorsements, at least by Runway. And I've ensured the sponsorship of more than a dozen young designers since the inception of the Runway Scholarship Program." The Editor ran her fingers through the fine hairs at the back of her neck in agitation.
"As far as being in 'cahoots' or having any other…arrangement with those outside the Elias-Clarke family…well, such an allegation isn't even worthy of comment."
Andy, about to ascend the back staircase, turned around to face Miranda, a dubious expression on her face.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right." She paused."Could you imagine the look on Irv Ravitz's face if you, Anna Wintour, and Willie Slater did collaborate – or whatever – against anyone, let alone a celebutante? I'm sure the rumor alone might kill him."
Miranda couldn't contain the smirk that graced her features, nor did she try. Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously.
"Indeed."
~That's All~
Closing A/N: Surreptitious naming in Miranda's contact list for Wilhelmina Slater and Anna Wintour should be fairly self-explanatory. If rationale for Anna being listed as 'Bernice' not obvious, I recommend a quick review of a great short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'Bernice Bobs Her Hair' [found at www (dot) sc (dot) edu (slash) fitzgerald (slash) bernice (slash) bernice (dot) html ] Yes, I am a bit mad.