Miranda had been right – no one even noticed Andy. Apparently young women in designer outfits trailing behind Miranda and answering to "Emily" were hardly worth a second glance. The security guard barely looked at her visitor's pass.
When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Andy paused uncertainly as Miranda strode inside. The older woman shot her an impatient look and inclined her head.
"You let me share your elevator," Andy murmured once the doors shut. "People will notice."
"I can't trust you lolling about the lobby on your own," Miranda said, idly adjusting a costume jewellery ring on her right hand. "Your inability to stay silent for more than five seconds or cease that …" she waved her hand airily "incessant beaming of yours would blow your cover in minutes."
Andy leaned against the lift wall and eyed her former boss challengingly. "You know I'm a cynical journalist now, right? Hardly a chattering ingénue."
Miranda's eyes glittered. "If the Choo fits."
Andy laughed and her smile broadened when she noticed Miranda's lips twitch.
They watched the numbers creeping up for three floors until the reporter realized what was different.
"What gives?" she asked, straightening. "I can walk faster than the elevator's going. This used to be lightning fast."
"Yes," Miranda sighed. "I'm well aware. It's a maintenance issue. They've been saying for two months they're working on it. It takes upwards of four minutes to reach Runway's floor now."
"Four minutes?! So do you add four minutes to the time you tell your assistants they have to get you your Starbucks by?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Andrea. Where would be the challenge in that?" Miranda asked, eyes half lidded. "Besides, I understand some of my assistants have become quite efficient now at taking the stairs."
"It's nineteen flights!"
Miranda shrugged faintly, seemingly unconcerned.
So. Conversation closed.
Andy drummed her fingers impatiently on the steel hand rail and stared briefly up at the ceiling. Wonky reflections stared down at her. She repressed the urge to pull a face.
"Do you always fidget this much?" Miranda asked testily after awhile. "Must we order restraints for you?"
Andy grinned. "Restraints?" It came out way more innuendo-laden than she intended.
Miranda pursed her lips. "You know, I think I preferred you when you were still afraid of me."
Andy broke into a lazy smile. She fluttered her eyes closed, feeling the slow upwards pull against her back where she leaned against the elevator wall. "I was never afraid of you, you know," she said honestly. "I wanted to impress you, sure. Actually I wanted to dazzle you just to wipe the smug expression off your face half the time," she confessed.
"Smug expression?" The words were icy and precisely enunciated. Her nostrils flared.
Andy cracked an eyelid. "Oh, please," she sighed and closed her eyes again, hypnotised by the thrum in the walls. "You know exactly how smug you can be. I'm not even arguing it's unwarranted. You're an incredible businesswoman. It's just … annoying for your employees at times. But my point is wanting to please you is not the same thing as fearing you."
She opened her eyes when Miranda didn't immediately reply.
"You were afraid of me though," Miranda said in her most dangerous whisper. She shifted closer and Andy noticed the hint of exotic scent. "In Paris. When I explained all the ways we were actually alike." Her lip curled down. "You recall you hated being told that everyone wants to be us. And you fled in horror, clutching your superior morals around you like a cloak."
Andy exhaled. "So it's confessions in an elevator, huh?"
"Excuse me?"
"It's this thing my friends and I used to do at college. This one building had a creaky old elevator and we'd joke it was just slow enough to confess our sins but not so slow that we'd have to face the consequences."
"You're making little sense."
"Well we began this game, that what was said in the elevator, stayed in the elevator. We would never mention it outside unless the confessor chose to bring a topic up again. It was our safe zone. A cone of silence. No consequences. It was useful to get stuff off our chests. I found out my friend Doug was gay in that elevator. And when Lilly first fell in love."
"You wish to get something off your chest?" Miranda purred. Curiosity burned in her sharp eyes.
"I think we both do," Andy suggested cautiously. "About Paris."
"My conscience is clear," Miranda said tersely.
"Is it? Even after what you did to Nigel?"
"I made things up to Nigel long ago. Can you say the same for how you conducted yourself?"
Andy reddened. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was unprofessional. How I left."
"Understatement of the epoch," Miranda said archly. "But it's not the abrupt exit that I was referring to. And I did get that twee card of apology you sent a month after you cut and ran."
"You want to know why I did it then?" Andy asked anxiously.
"I do not," Miranda said, biting the final word sharply. "That was also self explanatory. Your judgmental doe eyes need no subtitles. But the night before it happened, however, has me … perplexed." Her eyes slid slowly up to Andy's.
The reporter froze. She never thought Miranda would ever bring that up. Her moment of weakness after Miranda had appeared before her, exposed. Vulnerable. Hurting. Red-eyed, scrubbed free of make-up. Achingly beautiful.
When Miranda never said a word the next day about Andy's momentary lapse, she assumed she never would. To spare both their blushes.
Andy swallowed anxiously, her face on fire.
"Well do tell. This is a 'safe space', after all," Miranda mocked. "No consequences, I believe you said?"
Andy felt those eyes drilling into her and she winced, looking down. "Maybe another time," she whispered.
Miranda pinned her with a hard stare as Andy's courage sputtered, then burnt out.
"I see," the editor said and pursed her lips. "How disappointing. Yet again."
A silence fell between them.
Miranda cleared her throat as the elevator's number finally neared floor 19.
"I have temporarily placed Emily Charlton back on her old duties for the duration of your stay. The fewer people who know who you really are, the better. My usual assistants have been reallocated elsewhere. You are free to research and write and use our office facilities. But you will play the part of an assistant whenever others are around who don't know who you are. A professional assistant."
Andy's head snapped up at the warning seared into the sentence.
"Yes," Miranda drawled. "To be clear, that means no fleeing my side in dismay should someone have the gall to point out you have an ambitious streak."
Andy winced at the derision dripping from her voice. The elevator dinged.
The doors opened and Andy followed Miranda who pulled out her cell phone immediately and made a call only three words long.
"My office, now."
Emily Charlton rounded the corner moments later in a waft of in-season silk and overpowering perfume as Andy unpacked her bags and notes at her old second assistant desk. Miranda had already vanished into her office with a dismissive: "That's all".
Sharp blue eyes landed on Andy. "Oh, right," Emily huffed. "It's you. So it's time then."
She sighed and settled into her old first assistant desk, facing Andy, adjusting her swivel chair, and shooting her an accusing look. "You'd better bloody bring down the government since I have to suffer a temporary demotion for you."
"That's the aim," Andy said pleasantly. "Good to see you, too, Em. You look great. Thin enough to see through."
"Suck-up. Seriously, though, tell me you'll get the job done. That man is creepy."
"I will," Andy said firmly. "I have enough dirt to keep Mayor Cantrill on the front page for another two weeks."
"Good. All right, I suppose it's OK that you stay then. Besides, a fat lot of good you'd do anyone in prison. Although the mugshot alone would almost be worth it. Make me a great Christmas card." She picked up her phone and dialled an extension.
"This is Miranda Priestly's acting first assistant Emily Charlton. I need a security pass for a new second assistant. Yes. Today. Her name's ..." She paused and hissed at Andy, covering the receiver. "Who do you want to be?"
"Emily? Wha?"
"Emily Wah?" Emily repeated to Andy with an eyebrow tilt. "By all means - Asian is very 'in' this season. You'll be on trend for once in your miserable, unfashionable life."
"Emily!" Andy protested. "Don't you dare."
"Well hurry up then. Choose."
"Andrea Tomlinson. It's my mother's maiden name."
"Are you insane?! I'm not asking for a pass in Miranda's ex-husband's surname, you bleeding idiot."
"Oh shit, I forgot. Andrea … er…."
"You can't call yourself Andrea, either!"
"It's a common name! Why not?"
"But when Miranda says it, it's distinctive. People will remember that at least."
"She won't call me that. She's going to call me Emily. And everyone else knew me as Andy. It's less complicated if I don't have to learn to respond to an entirely new name."
"Yes, I'm still here," Emily suddenly spoke into her phone. "Sorry for the delay. We need a pass for an Andrea Duncan. Thanks. I will email you her photo and details at once."
"Duncan?" Andy hissed as Emily put down the phone.
"As in, Dunkin' Donuts. In honor of your carbs habit." Emily's eyes sparkled wickedly. "Don't say I never celebrate your 'differences'."
"Hey, I'm still a size four," Andy growled as she rummaged through her things looking for her laptop cable. She fished it out triumphantly and began uncoiling it. "And you are truly evil. I say this as someone who now writes about human despair and corruption for a living."
"Pfft. As if I can take anything seriously from the woman who eats corn chowder."
Andy glanced up and let a little of her newfound grit show. "You don't want to know all the crap I've seen and done since I worked here but your weird Runway food fetishes are the least of my worries.
"You know I once had this thug threaten to break my legs after I wrote a story about his family's crooked dry cleaning business. And here's the thing – he was only thirteen! His crowbar was bigger than he was! I almost laughed.
"It's so messed up what's outside Runway's doors. In here it's all just fantasy. A weirdly sarcastic bubble of froth and nonsense," Andy said earnestly. "So if you're done with all the fat cracks and eye rolls, I have to get to work." She plugged her laptop into the Ethernet port on her desk and prodded the computer's power button. "One of us has a deadline to meet."
Emily stared at Andy as if trying to work out whether she was for real. Her phone began to ring but still she studied the brunette, her expression finally flickering into something approaching respect. She flapped her hand dismissively as she reached for the phone. "Fine," she told Andy with a sniff. "Truce. Now go lynch us a shady mayor."
It had not taken long for Andy to finish and email her story to Steve. He shot her back an email ten minutes later.
"Stupid asses," he wrote. "I mean who in the hell raids a newspaper office then gets astonished when we're in their faces filming the whole thing, filing our copy and tweets live on the website? The mayor's looking like a freedom-hating douche right now.
"You knew didn't you? No wonder you took off when you did. And don't tell me how you found out. Just stay away and file remotely like you're doing. But don't go back to your apartment. Cops went to raid it when they came up clean here. Now, if you ever need to talk to the editor, find a non traceable phone, call our switchboard, ask for Lisa Burns in Marketing and she'll get Greg on her line to talk to you. It's just in case the boss's phone has 'ears' now.
"By the way, he told me to say 'good job' on that last wrap. That'll have Cantrill squirming. We'll splash it this evening right next to the raid coverage. Oh, and heads up, we're running a page one sidebar profile on you, too. Hope you like being famous, kid. Cheers, Steve Owens."
Andy re-read the last par again then jumped to her feet in a panic, about to head to the street and find a payphone when Emily appeared out of nowhere to drop a cell phone on her desk.
"Compliments of Miranda. It's completely clean – the IT department did something to it, don't ask me what, my eyes glazed over when they explained – and it's loaded with credit. Miranda says if you 'lose' this one like you did the last one you can expect to be up for the bill. Her sarcasm; my air quotes."
"How does she know what happened to the last one?" Andy asked, a little spooked. There was no way her former boss had seen her toss the ringing device into a fountain in Paris.
"Yes, Miranda sat me down and shared all about your flighty escapades around Paris," Emily said. "Honestly, Andrea, how should I know? Now take it and be bloody grateful."
Andy picked up the phone and examined it. Two people had been entered into its contact database. Miranda and Emily. She called The Mirror switchboard.
"Lisa Burns in Marketing, please," she said.
The phone rang until an older woman's voice answered pleasantly.
"Hello, um, Greg Hart asked me to…" Andy began.
"Oh yes, this is … of course. I'll get him. Hang on."
Moments later she heard her boss's voice. "Well you sure set the cat among the pigeons. Thirty years in journalism and no one has ever raided one of my papers. Till you came along."
"Uh. Sorry?" Andy squeaked.
"Hell, don't be sorry, it's great. This will double our circulation tomorrow and I've been interviewed by every TV and radio station in the city and quite a few nationally. I need you to email Steve a first-person statement commenting on the raid as well. Something about how shocked you are by it and you aren't going to be bullied to back down. We'll run it on page one tomorrow with that profile about you."
"Um, about that profile – Greg, I don't really think I want to be the story."
"Too late, kid, you are now. We'll find a nice pic, don't worry. Remind me, where the hell did you work before here? Vogue or something? I have my secretary hunting your resume now. Hell the readers will eat this up. Unlikeliest career shift ever." He laughed.
"Greg, ah, you can't say where I worked before this. Trust me. You really don't want to."
There was a pause. A deep intake of breath. Andy wondered just how smart her boss was as he turned her comment over in his head.
"I see. Least, I think I do. We'll talk about you editing that college paper instead, right? Wholesome mid-western kid comes to the big city and blasts apart entrenched corruption. That'll work, too. OK, so three pars on what you think of the raid, in by six. Thanks. Stay safe and as far as hell away from here as you can. Gotta go. G'luck."
The phone went dead.
She sat back in her chair, a little uncertain as to what to make of the call. She hadn't become a journalist to be turned into a celebrity. Or worse, a newspaper's publicity tool. She stared at the cell phone and then tossed it onto the desk in distaste.
"What's wrong?" Emily asked, looking up. Then she blinked and put up her hand. "No, never mind, I just realized I don't care. Just keep it all on your side of the office. I think my complexion would clash with prison orange anyway."
She rose and gave a shake of her red hair. "Can you watch the phones? I need to dash to the loo."
"Sure," Andy said, still in a daze.
Miranda walked out of her office. "What did your boss say? Mr Hart is it?" she began then stopped. "What's wrong? Did you herniate something?"
Andy shook her head. "He's turning me into the damned story. Now people will know what I look like and who I am. And I'll be a target, too. You know what social media is like. I'll be out there."
"And you won't be able to hide anonymously any more," Miranda finished for her. She eyed her for a moment and said quietly: "It's a disconcerting feeling being famous. Losing a part of yourself. Losing control of what people know about you and say about you."
Andy nodded. "I'm not ready. I don't know if I'll ever be. This isn't why I became a reporter."
Miranda's expression was inscrutable as she studied her. "Yes, they will judge you now. Enemies will probe your life. Treat you like public property. Even when you didn't ask for it. They'll want more. They'll write more even if you don't give them anything."
"Yeah."
"And you can't understand why your editor is doing this to you?"
"No."
"Really? You can't understand why he's pitting his photogenic idealistic young reporter against the unappealing corrupt mayor? Andrea, the moment that raid happened, your editor had to find a way to put a face on the fight for press freedom that would make the public care. To share his outrage. Of course he was going to co-opt you as the paper's poster girl. This was inevitable."
Andy bit her lip. "I can't believe you agree with him."
Miranda eyed her. "He does what's necessary to win. So do I. And, frankly, so should you. Your privacy is collateral damage for the bigger goal. To stop Cantrill."
"But it's so ... Why can't my work stand for itself – on its merits? This is unnecessary."
"I seem to recall less than an hour ago you glibly told me you weren't some clueless ingénue," Miranda said, eyebrows rising. "It's never just about the work. If it was, Rupert Murdoch's hit squad would care more about the magazine I create that employs hundreds and inspires millions than who their Devil is seen eating with this week." Her lips thinned.
"The question is not 'are you ready' but how you deal with it. It's only fame. Fight it or use it on your own terms. But don't cry about it. Save your tears for what really matters. It's time to grow up, Andrea.
"Now after you've put on your big-girl pants and grown a spine, track down my mystifyingly AWOL first assistant and tell her to get me a dozen scarves from Patrick's indigo collection. We need to redo the spread on page sixteen. That's all."
Miranda stalked off without another word.
Andy stared after her in acute humiliation mixed with anger. Grow a spine?! Her cheeks bloomed with heat. She finally turned to find Nigel leaning against the door to the outer office. His face was a picture of curiosity.
"Well, well, an ethics debate before lunch? That's a first in here. And you've only been back 30 minutes, Six. What do you do for your next trick?"
Andy gave him a delighted grin and enveloped him in a hug. "Nigel! I've missed you! For my next trick? I bring down a corrupt mayor. But only after I put on my big-girl pants apparently," she said with a wry grimace.
"Well, Six," he snickered, "fortunately for you you're in a place with a plentiful supply."
Author's note: Thanks so much for the generous reviews. You've blown me away. I was inspired to watch the DWP movie again last night as a refresher and I noticed so much more than I had before. Like how hilarious and bitchy Nigel starts out. And all the cameos of people ducking out of Miranda's way in the background. I believe 'scuttling' is the operative word. Hell this movie is funny.
