A/N: Thank you for the lovely response! Let me know what you think, I'd love to hear (read) it.
Chapter 2: March 2006
From: Emma Swan emmaswan
To: David Swan davidswan
Sent: Thursday, March 9th, 2006 00:25 AM
Subject: RE: Friday Plans
Hey Dad.
Yes, everything's scheduled for Friday…oh my, that's tomorrow! I can't believe it's already after midnight again.
Work is being crazy, but anyway, I'm really glad you and Mom are coming over on the weekend. Can't wait to see you!
See you tomorrow! (Tell Mom I miss her, because you know how she is.)
[SQ]
It's the end of a hectic week, and Emma is so glad. They've just started digging deeper into the April issue, so everyone's on edge. March went without a hitch, as Jefferson had predicted.
Having Regina's itinerary updated on her computer comes in handy for making weekend with her parents. Since her boss is flying out to Miami tonight, Emma is able to book dinner and Chicago tickets for the evening.
The day passes by in a blur of either answering calls, going out on errands every hour or so and taking notes from the run-through so Regina can look over them afterwards.
Today is one of those blessed days she doesn't have to stay at the office after hours. It's already 6 pm; she's just waiting her boss dismiss her.
Regina appears a few minutes later on the threshold and says to her, "Get me Demarchelier," in that perfect French of hers.
And it makes Emma giddy to recall that, just over a month ago, she had no clue who Demarchelier was.
So Emma dials his number, which she has engraved in her memory. "Hi. I have Regina Mills calling for Mr. Demarchelier…" she trails off, waiting for her cue. "I have Patrick!" she shouts to Regina.
"Oh, Friday…" she sighs, relieved, when Regina picks up. "You doing anything over the weekend?" Emma asks Lena from her spot in the office.
She's met with silence and a look that says 'You're really talking to me?' while Lena reorganizes her own desk.
"At least we won't have to be on call this weekend, right?"
"Yes. I'm so excited," Lena says, rolling her eyes and moving away from her station to deliver some papers to the Art Department.
Emma gives up trying to make small-talk with her after that. She won't let whatever is bothering Lena to bring her down.
[SQ]
"This place is lovely, Emma. How did you find it?" her mom asks once they are sitting at their table for three at Craft Restaurant.
"Oh, Neal recommended it. He applied here, but they wanted someone with more experience, I guess…"
They are looking at the menu and everything is mouth-watering. The best part: her parents said it's their treat. Best parents ever.
"Here," her father says after they've ordered, handing over an envelope to Emma.
"David," Emma hears her mother admonish quietly, placing a hand on his arm from her place beside him. "We were going to wait to bring this up."
"What's this?" Emma asks, alternating her stare between the two. She glances down at the envelope as she opens it. She closes it immediately after, groaning when she sees the amount of money inside. "What the hell, why did you—"
"We don't want you to get behind on your rent, sweetie," her mom says softly, flinching at Emma's obvious discontentment. "See, David, this is why I wanted to wait."
"You know we would have to touch on the subject either way, darling…" David tries to defend his case. Emma can already imagine them bickering about this on the way to their hotel afterwards, and making up as soon as possible because they can't handle being mad at each other for a long period. Her parents have the sickliest sweet relationship she's ever seen. They've been in love for over thirty years. If that isn't true love, she doesn't know what is.
Emma watches as Mary Margaret pushes back a strand of hair behind her ear, a habit she performs when she's either nervous or agitated. The problem is, her mother's hair is pixie cut, so she doesn't really push anything back with this move. Mom sighs and admits, "We're just worried, Emma."
"Wha— why?"
"Well, your pay is terrible, for starters… We get e-mails from you at work in the middle of the night, like yesterday for example!" Dad exclaims, and Mom nods eagerly.
It's so annoying the fact that they play the 'united front' so effortlessly — it meant no way to trick or sway one of her parents to do something she wanted when she was little.
"You're not writing anything, honey," Mary Margaret reminds her.
"Hey! That's not true… I'm writing…e-mails," she mumbles, frowning — even she realizes her defense is weak.
"You were accepted at Stanford Law. Turned it down to be a journalist…" Oh God, here it comes. Emma hates this, how everything's always shifts back to her choice and how Dad still doesn't fully support or understand it. He wanted her to choose something closer to his sheriff job in Storybrooke. "And now…now you're not even doing that."
"David—" Mom tries to intervene, but Emma speaks instead.
"No Mom, let me…" she glances briefly at Mary Margaret before she stares right into her father's eyes, and speaks her mind. "Look Dad, I get it. I do. But you have to trust me and my decisions. Being Regina's assistant could be my ticket to anywhere in the publishing world...take Lena, for example," she says, gesturing with her hands like she does whenever she's passionate about something. "She's going to Paris in a few months with Regina, and she'll get to meet writers and editors!"
Dad sighs but doesn't comment any further. Mom, however, places a hand on top of Emma's and says, "Okay, Emma, I'm going to support what you're doing if that's what you think is best. But I'd really like if you could go to bed earlier, sweetheart."
"You're my baby girl, Emma," her dad starts. Emma rolls her eyes but smiles fondly. "So when I receive e-mails of your daily complaints about the job, you can imagine why I worry."
Messing with her long curls, Emma lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She can handle her father being slightly skeptical about it, but her mother always tries to see the good side of things or people, so having her support at least, means a lot.
"Okay, Mom, I'll try… And Dad, I'm fine, I promise." She pauses. "Now, where's the food, I'm starving!" Emma grins, trying to alleviate the tension in the air.
It works, because even Dad laughs and says, "You've definitely got my appetite."
They are drinking some wine when her phone goes off. She closes her eyes and winces. There's only one person with this shrill ring enabled.Regina.
"Oh, that's my boss. I really have to take it…"
"No worries, take it, take it," her mom motions to the cellphone in her hand.
Emma can't even look at her parents when she answers the phone with "Hi. Regina?"
Regina, never one for pleasantries, gets straight to the point. "My flight has been canceled."
Wait, what? Regina was going to come back to New York the same day she left? "Oh, why—"
"It's some absurd weather problem…I-I need to get home tonight. Henry has a poetry reading tomorrow morning at school," her voice trembles a bit.
"Um…" Oh my God, what is she going to do?
"Are you deaf? I need a flight back to New York," Regina barks over the phone and it's slightly terrifying how her tone completely changes in the span of a minute, but Emma doesn't let her horror show on her face, lest her parents have more ammunition against her job.
"I'll see what I can do and then call you back," she says resolutely, back to being as professional as she can, even if Regina's only response is to sigh and end the call.
It turns out there's a hurricane in Miami, and that's why Regina's flight was cancelled.
Emma tries everything in her I'm-Regina-Mills'-assistant-so-you-better-help-me powers with no luck. Her parents are driving her crazy as they walk through Times Square to the musical. They don't care— no, they don't understand what this all means. She fails, she's out. Probably. And she's terrified, because Regina just said this is her responsibility; this is, basically, her job.
What she discovers is that no one is flying out in that weather. Not even Donatella's jet or Maya's or Mr. Gold's are available. So she breaks the terrible news to Regina and she's pretty sure come Monday morning she's dead. Or fired. Or both?
[SQ]
She is confined to her hotel room thanks to this damned hurricane, and her incompetent assistant could not find a solution.
Regina is aware that it's unfair to place the blame entirely on Emma's shoulders; however, she is angry, disappointed and afraid of calling Henry to tell him she will not be there to watch him.
She breathes out and removes her glasses, giving up on trying to read and edit the article in her hands. It's no use delaying the inevitable.
"Hello, sweetheart," is what she says on the phone when he answers it.
"Hi Mom! "
"Is everything alright there? You're not giving your nanny too much trouble, right?"
"Everything's okay, mom. Of course not. I've been rehearsing for tomorrow's poetry reading, you know."
"Henry, look—"
"I can't wait for tomorrow! And I can't believe I managed to hide my poem from you! " he laughs.
Her heart breaks just a little, because it has been so long since he's sounded this excited over anything from school — he has few friends, because of his intelligent and creative mind. And now she will not be there to support him. She sighs and interrupts her talkative son. "Henry! Calm down. I have to talk to you…"
"Oh no. I know that voice." He groans. "Mom."
He's so perceptive, her little prince. She wonders if he got that from her or Daniel. Probably both. "I'm so sorry, Henry. There was a problem with my flight, so I can't fly out of here today." She leaves out the 'hurricane' part. No need to worry him.
"Oh. Where are you? I thought you were still at the office or something."
"Miami." She bites her lip. "I'll bring you something from here, how does that sound?"
"Nah, I'm good…" he sounds sad now. Regina would do anything to be on his side.
"I can ask for Robin to go either way and record it?"
"Okay…" His responses to her questions are short and clipped.
She tries to think of anything that could make him feel slightly better, for she cannot bear to hear him like this. "Would you read it to me?" she whispers.
There's a shift of papers on the other side of the line before he says, "Here it is! Yes! You can help me with my reciting!"
She smiles fondly. That's her boy. "Of course, Henry. Whenever you're ready."
He clears his throat and begins.
By the time they say their goodbyes, Regina is sobbing: proud and so, so enraged that she will not be there to watch her son say his beautiful words — his vocabulary is so advanced for his age; the editor in her wants to change a few things to better accommodate the metric, but the mother in her cannot help but cry, for the poem is clearly inspired by her and written for her.
Regina does not think she deserves it.
[SQ]
Monday morning arrives with no small sense of dread. Emma gets Regina's coffee order and breakfast and is disappointed that it doesn't take long to complete it. Apparently, the universe must be ready with popcorn to watch her be murdered by Regina's Prada heels or something equally horrifying like that.
She places both the coffee and breakfast tray on Regina's table, setting it beside the magazines and newspapers Regina peruses in the morning. Once everything's neat, she sits at her desk and avoids Lena's inquisitive eyes — she knows she must look like a crazy person, fiddling constantly with her ponytail and glasses.
But there's a reason for it, she thinks as she arranges the papers on her desk and opens Regina's schedule for the day on her computer. Regina sounded really upset over the phone the other day. Her son must be really important to her, and—
Oh my god, she's here.
Regina struts in with a red fur coat and a white Prada handbag both of which she throws unceremoniously on top of Emma's desk, before Emma can squeak out a barely audible "Good morning, Regina!"
Just as she's done with hanging the coat, she hears, loud and clear, "Lena."
Emma glances at Lena and she's pointing to Regina's office, not picking up the tension or simply not caring. Emma's feet start walking in that direction and she's just glad she hasn't fallen yet in the only pair of heels she has. It was a 'present' from Jefferson after he saw her 'horrible and scuffed' Dr. Martens and said, "Humor me, Emma. You don't want to wear better clothes, fine, but if you really want to wear those boots, at least make sure they are new." She hasn't received her first paycheck yet, there's no way she can afford new shoes at the moment.
Oh, great. This is going to be fantastic. Regina is not behind her desk, no — she's perched in front of the desk in a sinfully tight black dress that reaches just above her knees, paired with black Louboutin's (even Emma can discern those from other types of shoes) and a gold chain around her neck. Her makeup is rather dark today, as well. And, worst of all, if looks could kill…
"Henry's poetry reading was absolutely inspiring. A work of his own. Everyone loved it, of course..." Emma is distinctly aware of where this is going and can't do anything besides wait for the unavoidable. "…except me. I had to hear his poem over the phone the day before his recital, sadly, because I was not there."
Emma fiddles with her hands, her expression both sad and contrite, despite knowing there's nothing else she could have done. "I'm so sorry, Regina."
"I don't need apologies. I needed my flight back home and you did not do your job. " Regina doesn't raise her tone of voice, keeping it on that arrogant and balmy line. "Do you know why I hired you?"
This is a trick question, most likely a rhetorical one. Therefore, she stays silent, and braces herself for the devastating blow that's sure to come.
"I always hire the same kind of girl. Skinny, stylish… Worships the magazine. I looked at you with all those clothes," Regina gestures to Emma's outfit of the day, "and just knew you were not any of those things. However, your impressive résumé and so-called work-ethic told me you were… different." She sighs, moves away from her desk, invading Emma's personal space. "I told myself, 'Take a risk. Hire the candidate who has nothing to do with the magazine, perhaps she'll succeed. Differently from the other three who lasted only a day.' Apparently, I made the wrong choice." She examines Emma from head to toe, and if her gaze falls on Emma's trembling lips for a few seconds, Emma will later think she must have imagined it, especially since she's doing everything in her power not to cry. She's screwed it up, and it's only her second month on the job.
"I had hope," Regina tuts. She goes back to her chair, and Emma nearly exhales with relief — with the woman so close, Emma had almost fallen in a heap, right there on the perfectly polished marble floor. Just as Regina is sitting down, she smirks, "But you ended up disappointing me…"
Emma opens her mouth, but no sound comes out at first — there's a huge lump in her throat, she can't figure out what to say. To her horror, she realizes her eyes are tearing up, and thinks to herself, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry Emma! She's never felt so much repressed anger and disappointment being directed at her like this before. There's this… whatever-it-is about Regina that makes her memory fuzzy and treacherous, so much so that Emma forgets all the grief Regina has ever given her and instead feels like she's been kicking puppies or kitties during her lunchtime.
Emma fiddles with her glasses to buy herself some time. When she does find her voice, it is small and tremulous. She doesn't apologize again, knowing how that turned out the first time. "I-I tried everything I could think of—"
"Have I asked for something truly unreasonable?" Regina interjects. Um… yes, she has? "I think not. That's all," she concludes, shaking her head and waving her hands dismissively. She regards Emma with an unreadable expression on her face, until Emma can't stand it anymore and has to leave to try and pull herself together.
[SQ]
When Emma hurried out of the office, she didn't dare glance at Lena's desk, because she can't stand to see another person let down — with the door open, it was certain that Lena had heard the conversation occurred inside Regina's office.
"Bloody hell, where do you think you're going?" Lena hissed, pivoting on her chair to stare at Emma as she almost ran through the exit of the corner office.
"Shut up Lena," Emma answered and winced right after. No time for apologies, though, not with a runny nose and hair already askew from her ponytail thanks to her uncanny need to fidget whenever she's faced with troublesome situations.
She's now ended up outside the Art Department, where she sees Jefferson working. She's dragging her feet through the hallways, trying to muster up the courage to return to her desk. Is she fired? She doesn't even know if she's fired!
Pushing open the glass door she enters Jefferson's turf. Emma's been here a thousand times before, running errands for Regina, but never stopped to actually take in the papers affixed to the walls. The photos of gorgeous models and Runway covers and different layouts would be a mess anywhere besides here. There's a big touchscreen that displays the thirty day monthly planner for Runway's layout, full of various pieces to compose the magazine — it's amazing. If she had more time, she'd stop to analyze everything. Unfortunately, that's not the case — she's in the middle of a breakdown.
Jefferson glances up from his work and almost returns to it — until he sees she's a mess, so he frowns. "What the hell happened to you, ugly duckling," he inquires. Jefferson's dubbed her that after he realized what her last name was. "You still have a long way to go before becoming a swan, Emma," he'd proclaimed. She rolls her eyes inwardly. What a funny joke.
"She hates me."
With a sardonic smile, immediately aware of whom she's complaining about, he says, "Sweetheart, that's hardly news. Regina doesn't particularlylike anyone here." Emma watches as he sets aside the magnifying glass he was using to examine a couple of Polaroids from the Dior campaign. "Which brings me to an important question…"
Emma removes her glasses and places them on the LED light table full of drawing materials, magazines and pens. Lots of pens… She shakes her head to rearrange her thoughts. "What?" she asks while roughly brushing away her tears. She hates crying, especially in front of people.
"That's my problem because…?" Jefferson's eyebrow quirks. Emma glares half-heartedly at him. "Oh right, it isn't."
"I'm just... Ugh." She groans and covers her face with her hands before attempting to fix her ponytail. "It's so infuriating! I do something right, she doesn't acknowledge it…" She grips the table in front of her. "But if I do something wrong, then I'm basically dead."
"Well, so quit." Jefferson supplies so matter-of-factly she takes a few seconds to answer.
"Wait, what?"
"Quit."
"Quit? Why would I do that?"
Jefferson looks at her like she should know the answer to her own question. "I can get another girl to fill your position in the blink of an eye. One who really wants this job."
"Hey!" She steps away from the table, taking a deep breath. "That's not fair. I want this. I just want… a little credit for the fact that I'm killing myself trying."
"Let's be honest here. You're not trying." He gathers the Polaroids and puts them away behind him in the drawing table. "You're complaining." He shrugs.
"No, I'm not…" her voice sounds unconvincing even to her. "Maybe a bit?" she grimaces.
"It's time for some advice, honey. Listen up." Jefferson says, steepling his fingers on top of the table. "She's not here to feel sympathy for an assistant. Your workload can be considered light in comparison to what Regina does. She carries the flagship of Runway on her back every day and she never once complains. That isn't to say you should feel sympathy for her instead. She won't thank you and you won't thank her either..." he fiddles with his Louis Vuitton scarf and tilts his head, regarding her with contempt. "There's no time for it. This is a demanding job, but you ought to have known that when you signed up for it."
Emma listens carefully as Jefferson tells her the harsh truths about her job, which she was avoiding up until this point. "So I should just… what? Pretend it doesn't bother me?" she finally asks.
He shakes his head. "You must take this job seriously, something you're not doing. You shouldn't even think about belittling Regina's job, you know why?" he pauses, waiting to have her full attention. "Do you have any idea how hard that woman has battled to be where she is today? When she started, there was no support. They expected her to fall. Seven years later, she's still running the ship. Is she ruthless? Of course she is. But if she backed down only once, there are hundreds of people lurking, eager to take her job." He stops, holding out a copy of Runway's March issue to her.
Emma takes it and places it on the table. She glances down at it like it will somehow hold the answers to her afflictions.
"What we're creating here is greater than art. Because we get to live our lives in it." He pauses and stares at her for a few seconds. "Not you, obviously, but some people. You think her work, this magazine, is something whimsical or unimportant just because it's about fashion? Here, look at this," he points to the model on the magazine's cover she's holding. "You saw us working on that cover from the day you stepped inside this building. The final product is in your hands. Because of Regina's taste and eye, the sales beat the other month's already. She's the arbiter of a four-hundred billion dollars a year industry. Billions. Every year."
She almost chokes on her saliva. That's… she can't even grasp it.
"And that's just the beginning, Emma. This is also a beacon of hope for many people… For example, um… let's say… a little boy in Brooklyn, saving up a few dollars to buy a copy that he'll read in secret, skipping soccer practice to go to sewing class…" he clears his throat, and Emma understands the meaning behind his words.
"Jefferson…" she touches the hand he has on top of the magazine with hers.
He removes it and gestures wildly around, clearly agitated. "You have no idea how many legends have walked these halls! The greatest artists of the century. Lagerfeld, Halston, de La Renta— to name a few. What's worse is that you don't care— this place— this magazine where so many people would die to work, you only deign to work. And then you wonder why she doesn't congratulate you and kiss your forehead at the end of the day," he says, done with his speech.
Emma stares at him in surprise — who knew he would be so passionate? She can't even refute any of it, because Jefferson's right. Emma's been saying she's getting better on her job, when she should know that staying late in hopes of impressing Regina won't mean a thing with the way she's been going at this. It won't make up for the fact that she tells herself every night I take myself too seriously to care about what I put on my back. She hasn't embraced her job or her opportunities. Not when she gets up every morning and puts on the first thing she sees in her closet, for starters.
Taking the magazine and hugging it to her chest, Emma takes a deep breath and comes to a decision on the spot. "Can you do me a favor?"
He smirks. "I thought you'd never ask. I've been waiting for this since day one, ugly duckling. It's time to transform you into a true Swan."
She rolls her eyes, but feels excitement bubbling up to the surface.
They take the elevator to the Closet, as Jefferson calls it, which occupies nearly an entire floor and deserves the capital letter. It's huge, full of sample sizes of designer clothes and accessories from new collections, as well as past and still-to-occur photoshoots.
Jefferson goes through aisle after aisle with a calculating glint in his eyes. It's the look of someone who knows exactly where everything is (that's not possible, Emma reasons, because people must move stuff all the time!) and tosses her an article of clothing on the way.
She can barely keep up as he rattles off a bunch of designer's names. "Here's some Dolce dresses…Shoes! We need shoes. Take these Jimmy Choo's. Manolo Blahnik…" he moves to the next shelf. "Um, let me see… Nancy Gonzalez. Love that bag..." he groans. "You are in desperate need of Narciso Rodriguez. Yes, this coat will do quite nicely with the black dress..." he mumbles to himself, and Emma is blithely aware that she's in good hands. Jefferson is evidently in his element here. "Chanel. We cannot forget Chanel. Follow me."
Leading her to one of the fitting rooms somewhere in the aisle maze, he orders Emma to get rid of the 'ridiculous outfit' she's wearing, taking some of the items from her arms and leaving her with a new wardrobe choice that 'will make her cost a million bucks'.
"Once you're done here, we've got to go to the Beauty Department and take care of that mane you call a hair."
[SQ]
"Lena," she calls.
Regina hears the tell-tale sign of Lena's approach. Her pace is always hurried and the heels… that restlessness is nauseating, quite honestly.
"Yes, Regina." Her first assistant's sentence ends with an interrogative inflection.
"Take this away," she gestures to the breakfast tray with her head while marking an X on one of the pictures in front of her. Dreadful. She looks up when Lena takes the tray. "Schedule an editorial meeting for 8:15 in the conference room. If any of them are missing by the time I get there…" she smirks and gathers that Lena will understand the meaning behind her words. In all probability, most of them will be late. Her impromptu decisions make them nervous — no time to prepare in thirty minutes.
Regina is feeling particularly diabolical today. Under the guise of instructing those fools and shooting down bad ideas, lies the chance to relieve some tension.
"Will do." Lena answers, nodding and already waiting for more instructions.
She sighs. "Get me more coffee. And aspirin," she says as an afterthought. Regina can feel a headache setting in already. "Incompetence should not exist this early."
Not only had she missed Henry's recital on Saturday, she arrived home from Miami on Sunday and had not been able to talk to Henry that much. She hopes her little prince can find it in his heart to forgive her. Her mood further deteriorated today when she noticed Emma and that constant fidgeting of hers first thing in the morning.
Truth be told, it wasn't Emma's fault. Regina may have been slightly unfair in her handling of the situation. But she hated the sense of powerlessness — she's Regina Mills, for god's sake. Since when did flights become unavailable to her? Hurricanes notwithstanding.
After a pathetic excuse for a meeting, why is no one ready?, she has the wonderful sensation of everything going downhill from there. Emma hasn't returned by the time nine o'clock rolls around. Has she gone too far? A few sharp words and the woman is running away? She twirls her favorite pen between her fingers and makes up her mind on the topic at hand, because she is feeling benevolent all of a sudden. If tomorrow Emma does not show up, she's fired.
Regina writes down neatly on a post-it: Replace the lace. And smacks it on top of one of the sketches she was reviewing.
She flicks the page on the portfolio and inspects the next drawing. Her pen is flying across the paper before she can finish her thought properly. Costume jewelry.
The next one, Change the color. Saffron is so overused.
And then, No, no. The neckline is too low.
I need a jacket here.
What is this. She slams it too forcefully on the next dress sketch.
Even a two-year-old would know this is a terrible cho-
She removes the pen from the post-it and refrains from rubbing her eyes in disbelief. Never before has she been this aggressive in her notes for Merlin Knight's designs. She bunches up all the little papers and throws them in the trash can beneath her desk. It doesn't make any noise when they fall inside, and she has the sudden urge to kick it just to produce some sort of… sound?
Regina pinches the bridge of her nose and scoffs at herself mentally. What is she doing?
Putting a lock of straightened hair behind her ear, she counts to ten under her breath. She then schools her features into the emotionless mask she has carefully perfected and that her employees have come to expect. Lastly, Regina calls for Lena once more.
"Yes?"
"Two o'clock we'll be leaving for the photoshoot. Be ready. Where are the Demarchelier's Polaroids from 15 to 25C? I want them before I leave for my appointment."
"Right away, Regina," says Lena.
"And tell Lena , when you find her, that if she's not back by tomorrow morning she's fired."
"I can call—"
She shakes her head. "That's all."
Her appointment is with her masseuse. Let it be hoped Helen can remove some of what's clearly tension from her shoulders. She closes the portfolio and sighs. This is a trying day to say the least.
[SQ]
As the chair is turned, Emma can't believe she's staring at herself in the mirror — it certainly doesn't seem like her. Well, her blonde hair is there. Her green eyes and pale skin too, but… she has been given a thorough makeover, from her style to her appearance.
Jefferson had someone bag an entire month's worth of clothes for her before they left the Closet. Emma has already promised him she will do some research on each brand and learn to differentiate between them. So many!
"No, no, no. Those glasses you're wearing won't do," he'd said at one point, his hand on his chin. "If you really must wear glasses, take these." He handed her sturdy and fancy frames, not unlike her old, black-rimmed ones, but Dolce & Gabbana instead. "Do trade yours for those as soon as possible. For parties, though, they are a no-no," he warned.
Sporting a black turtleneck sweater from Miu Miu, Valentino slacks, and three-inch Louboutin's, Emma was dragged to the Beauty Department. There, they washed her hair (she almost fell asleep — it felt so good) and then she was seated with her back to a mirror. Her hair was fussed over by so many people who, and she quotes, "loved the vibrant, golden color of her hair; however, this is a mess, dear". The professionals cut and blow dried and styled her hair, but didn't let her see the final product because "the makeup is next"!
And now she stares at herself with her mouth open. Is that really Emma Swan?
"Close your mouth, honey. You'll catch flies." Jefferson comments from his place beside her after he'd shooed away the stylists.
"Am I— do I… look okay?" she asks self-consciously.
"I told you I would transform you into a Swan, didn't I?" he quips, and Emma laughs. "Now take this coat and let's go," he throws her a Chanel red trench coat, so soft and beautiful she could cry. "You've got work to do," he says, already exiting the department without her.
With one last look to the mirror, she imperceptibly nods at her reflection and mutters, "I could get used to this."
[SQ]
"I mean, I have no idea why Regina hired her."
Emma is certain that's Lena's callous voice; if anything, the accent gives it away.
Lena's conversation is echoing around the hallway. Not even Emma's heels are as loud as they clack on the floor to the outer office. She wonders, briefly, if Lena cares she's essentially gossiping about Emma for everyone to hear. But then, Emma sighs and shakes her head, Lena is not one for subtlety. Never was, never will be. None of the people who work here are — they don't like you, they'll let you know, one way or another.
Emma's steps slow down as she waits to hear the response.
Silence meets her for a few seconds, though, so either the other person speaks in lower volumes than Regina when she's being scary or…Lena is on the phone, which seems more plausible.
A bark of laughter resounds before Lena says, "I knew from the moment I saw her that she was a complete and utter disas…" she trails off because Emma's had enough and finally appears, pushing open the glass door. It shouldn't be this satisfying to render Lena speechless. She mumbles on the line. "Disaster… I'll… talk to you later."
Emma recognizes she must look totally different from the I-don't-care-about-fashion attitude she had before. She looks grown-up in her gorgeous clothes, impeccable make-up and soft, loose, pretty hair. She feels powerful. She feels beautiful. Who knew a makeover had that power? Who knew that's what she needed?
It takes her a few hours to get used to the heels. (That is, on the premises. Running errands will turn out to be a real can of worms, she imagines.)
On the other hand, it takes her only few minutes to realize Regina won't be coming back to the office today, and she wonders why she feels upset by that.
Lena's utter astonishment improves her mood, though. She's smug for the rest of the day. When Neal sees her in this, he won't believe it either, Emma is certain.
[SQ]
"Have a good day, Ms. Mills."
Sidney is the only person to call her that. No matter how many times she corrected him in the first year he started working as her driver, he insisted on it. And she let him, partially because he's been putting up with her... fine, idiosyncrasies for over three years now, and partially because he never uses the 'Mrs.', which she can't stand. She can't stand it for one simple reason: it tells her she is married.
And now is not the time to dwell on it, she admonishes inwardly, grinding her teeth.
Regina pushes the button for her not-yet-private elevator and concludes there are more pressing matters to worry about. For example, there's the fact that she'll most likely be asking Lena to call HR to get a replacement for Emma today, despite hoping otherwise.
She cannot pinpoint why she is worried about it. Why does she care?
Regina admits that, while Emma's lack of respect and knowledge about anything to do with fashion is decidedly disconcerting, she is (was?) shaping up to be a damn good assistant. Much smarter than Lena, that is irrefutable.
She waits for the 18th floor's doors to open with a heavy heart, and cannot understand the dread in the pit of her stomach, the waves of regret that are usually reserved only for where Henry's concerned.
After stepping off the elevator, as she's striding past reception her cellphone rings. Thankfully not one of those dumb celebrities and their party invites; instead, it's Valentino.
She flips open her Motorola and greets him with, "Buongiorno! My dear, it is good to hear from you." Valentino is one of the few she can stand. His designs usually do not disappoint her.
"Yes, yes, I saw the first sketch." Glad for the reprieve on her wayward emotions, she places her coat and bag on top of the second assistant desk by mistake. "Mhmm, yes, the gowns are fabulous. We're going to use the burgundy…"
There is a stranger in her office. Light skin. Honey blonde hair, glowing with the sun contrasting behind her from the window. A fashionable woman, dressed in formal, designer clothes, arranging the periodicals on her desk with precision.
She reminds herself to answer Valentino, "Yes, yes, we'll see each other in a few months—" But as the person behind her desk raises her head and smiles almost shyly, and as Regina's brown eyes meet sparkling greens, she stops talking for a few seconds, caught off guard. And it's so uncharacteristic she almost pinches herself. Clearing her throat as silently as possible, she brushes past Emma just as she is working around her to her own desk.
That's… Emma. Of course it is Emma, who else would be organizing her office? Regina stops herself before she looks over her shoulder to examine more in depth. But it doesn't look like Emma at all. Her hair, no longer lifeless and stiff, nor held by an elastic band in a loose ponytail, now flows down her back in soft curls. She is even wearing heels confidently. There's a… radiance that was not there yesterday.
Where are these adjectives coming from? Regina thinks with pursed lips. She sits down with slow, deliberate movements and barely registers anything else the designer is saying, providing the occasional hum when appropriate. She startles from her musings when he finally says, "Ciao ciao, amore mio! "
She answers in similar fashion and ends the call, still stunned, because— Emma. Emma wearing a cream Chanel coat and dark pants and a blouse that matches her emerald eyes and even Dolce & Gabbana glasses! She's completely transformed, and…
Why is she rambling? Her thoughts don't ramble. Rambling gets on her nerves.
What was that?, she nearly mutters out loud.
Feeling disgruntled, Regina decides to pretend she has not noticed anything different, because this makeover does not mean Emma has proven herself. Absolutely not.
[SQ]
In hindsight, as a few weeks pass, Emma understands why her attitude wasn't going to get her anywhere — she has a lot to learn and, if she's to be technical, was supposed to know all of this already. It should have come with the job description, really.
There are perks that come from having lasted nearly two months on the job now, something that none of the previous second assistants after Lena had accomplished.
What's so odd is that these presents drop out of nowhere, or are delivered from Lena or Jefferson.
"Here, take this. Reg— I cannot handle you glued to that tiny screen because you can't make sense of the words. Not to mention the keyboard." Lena walks to Emma's side of the office and places the new mandatory cellphone on top of some articles she was organizing in alphabetical order for Regina. And oh my god it's the T-Mobile Sidekick 2, she's been dying for one of these! "Do copy Regina's calendar to the planner, and synchronize your number. Actually, I don't care what you do with it, as long as you answer Regina's calls and texts."
The presents are never from Regina, and yet, her name slips several times during the deliveries.
"Wear this tomorrow. Regina… has nothing to do with it; I don't know why I said that." Jefferson coughs and hands her a grey beanie. "Wear it. Ciao!"
Emma rolls her eyes just remembering it, and focuses on the movie she was supposed to be watching. So much for relaxing and forgetting about work like Neal had suggested.
She's munching on some popcorn when the shrill noise from her phone alerts her to an incoming call. Please let it be my parents, please let it be my parents, pl— who am I kidding.
"You really gonna stop our Star Wars marathon to answer that?" Neal asks.
"Yeah? Sorry, but this could be important…" She sucks her teeth and eyes Regina's name in the screen with anticipation. For what, she doesn't know. "Go on without me, it's fine…" she tells him. Getting up from the couch in a swift move, she answers the phone, quickly dashing to their bedroom for some peace and quiet.
"Where are the notes from Friday's run-through?" demands Regina in lieu of a greeting.
She rubs the back of her neck. "I'm pretty sure I sent you an email with it…"
"'Pretty sure' will not get me anywhere, I'm pretty sure," Regina sasses back.
Emma resists collapsing on her bed and screaming into her pillow. This woman will be the death of her. So damn infuriating. "The email is named 'Run-through — March 24th'"
The sound of Regina's forceful clicking of the mouse is what she hears for the next minute or so, until Regina huffs. "Not so incompetent after all. Here it is. See you on Monday."
"S-see you…" she stutters, caught off guard, and the line clicks.
A farewell from Regina? That's new. She smiles — the tides are turning.
She throws herself back on the couch and Neal presses pause on the movie, turning to her. "It's Saturday," he says, frowning. "She asks for you on the weekend?"
"Small stuff," Emma replies. "Sometimes that's picking up a few things, other times it's contacting someone from another department, or booking a reservation somewhere… Nothing big." She shrugs.
"Still, Em. It's the weekend."
"It's really not that bad," she insists, playing with his fingers. "She's a decent person most of the time, I guess."
"Aww, you have a soft spot for the Evil Queen?"
She puts his hand down. "The Evil Queen?" she repeats.
"Regina. The Evil Queen?" She gives him a blank stare. "You never heard of that nickname they have for her?"
"Nickname?"
His eyes twinkle in amusement. "You really didn't know!"
She pushes him half-heartedly, pretending to be annoyed by his teasing. "Know what?"
"That's what Page Six calls her. And probably her co-workers. Everyone says she's a nightmare."
"Huh. Well, you know I don't like the gossip columns."
Neal nods in acquiescence. "Come here…" He pulls her to his chest and kisses the top of her head. "Enough about her. Let's watch the rest of this. So, what you missed was …"
(She may have tuned him out a bit while she internally decided she would do research about this as soon as possible.)
On Tuesday, after a surprisingly short day at work, Emma is sitting on the couch, a New York Post newspaper on her lap, closed. She's yet to find the courage to open it to the infamous Page Six, where the gossip columns live. Why, though? Why this… hesitation?
Jefferson's rhetorical question of 'Do you have any idea how hard that woman has battled to be where she is today?' comes to mind for some reason. The answer is no. She still doesn't know anything besides that Regina is powerful, demanding, stylish, really beautiful, wears her hair in different ways depending on her mood, enjoys her coffee searing hot, has a son called Henry, a husband called Robin.
And, of course, there's the damn moniker she can't stop mulling over.
She opens the newspaper at last, flipping to the gossip column. Just as she'd imagined, there's Mr. Mills spotted alone… again below the 'Sightings' header and it paints Regina as a terrible person for missing dinner yesterday evening. It's ridiculous: Emma knows Regina stayed until late revising the '30's Fashion' story that had an insane amount of grammatical errors.
Is the Copy Editing Department broken, by any chance? (Wow. That sounded a lot like Regina in her head. She winces.)
She throws the newspaper to the floor, not caring that the pages scatter around. This is why she avoids gossip columns — more often than not, they are liars. The kind of journalism she hates, and hopes never to write.
Okay, so Page Six won't answer her questions. She grabs her MacBook (she can't believe it — this might be the best gift of all) perches it on her lap and Google's logo glares back at her for a few seconds before she's typing the Queen of Fashion's name on the search box. Regina Mills, she finishes and presses enter.
There are hundreds of results, unsurprisingly, but the one she clicks is the Wikipedia article.
Regina Victoria Mills (born February 1st, 1974) is an American journalist and editor. She has been editor-in-chief of Runway since 1999. With her trademark short dark hair styled in different ways throughout the years and different sunglasses every day, Mills has become an important figure in international fashion, widely praised for her eye for fashion styles and trends, as well as her support for modern, younger designers. Her reportedly aloof and demanding personality, however, has earned her the nickname of 'Evil Queen'.
"Regina was twenty-five when she started?!" exclaims Emma to the empty apartment — Neal is working a shift at the restaurant and won't be home for another hour.
She reads on, the whole thing, from Regina's start in the publishing world as an intern to Food & Wine Magazine, (which, Emma finds out, was directed by Regina's mother, Cora Mills, for twenty years before she passed away) to Regina's climb in the professional ladder to a job worth billions of dollars. All done in less than ten years.
Emma spends the whole night researching — she writes a summary of colors, of materials, of brands, of designers. Now she only has to update her roster and actually learn this information. Back to studying, it seems.
[SQ]
A Roster by Emma Swan (Updated March 27th )
· Regina Mills – Editor-in-chief
· Jefferson Hatter – Art Director
· Lena Green – First Assistant
· Robert Gold – Chairman of Elias-Clarke (creepy guy)
· Demarchelier – Photographer
· James – Photography Department (never seen him in my life but I know he exists)
· Kathryn – Accessories Department
· Greg – Pattern Department
· Ursula – Style & Trends Department
· Ingrid – Casting Department
· Ashley - Beauty Department
· Belle – Beauty Department (no pun intended)
[SQ]
It's Sunday and Regina can hardly believe her evening is free to some extent. Emma's attention to detail in the run-throughs means it is rare now for Regina to have to inquire about something that was settled or that she fixed pertaining to outfits or articles, depending on which type of run-through they'd done. The first time Regina read her notes after a run-through (after demanding they typed; that chicken-scratch handwriting is impossible to read) it became evident that Emma has talent — her writing is concise, and she is able to summarize thoroughly what Regina needs.
Regina is sitting at the dining room, one of her least favorite places of late. The interactions there are stilted, matching the tasteful yet formal decoration of the interior. Robin is on her left and Henry on her right at the round mahogany table.
The sound of their cutlery clinking against expensive dishes is aggravatingly loud and pronounced when their silence starts to suffocate. Regina clears her throat softly. "I'm glad we had the time to do this." She smiles, but it wavers.
"Yeah," Henry mumbles to his plate, at the same time as Robin nods on the other side of the table. Henry's been subdued for weeks. Since it's the end of the month, work is being awfully demanding.
It's been a long time since the three of them have had dinner together. And she knows it's primarily her fault. However, with the way things have been recently with the board, she also knows the latest disputes with Mr. Gold will greatly increase the likelihood of a strike from the Elias-Clarke board members.
They don't address her miserable attempt at small talk.
Lying in bed with Robin a few hours later, Regina pretends she isn't the cold-hearted "Evil Queen" or "Regina Mills, the editor-in-chief of Runway". Sighing dejectedly as Robin rolls over and covers her with his arm across her midsection, she closes her eyes and paints the blissful picture of Regina Victoria Mills, a woman with no significant burden on her shoulders, no disappointments to her son, and no fights with a husband that she was never in love with in the first place. She has a happy ending, this woman. She smiles and laughs joyfully; never a dull moment besides her loved one and her little prince. So in contrast with the Regina that lets a single tear fall unbidden to the pillow, mourning her losses and foregone opportunities, even after six years…
She comes to her senses when Robin mumbles incoherently at the nape of her neck. You foolish girl, Mother's voice still haunts her today, love is weakness.