Nigel sits across my desk and is looking increasingly puzzled as I have yet to speak a single word. I've told both Emilys to not disturb us unless the building is on fire and the flames have reached the Runways office.
I pretend to go over something on my computer and I should know better. He knows my intimidation tactics and they never work on him.
"Miranda? How long am I going to sit here and wait for you to get to the point?" he asks kindly.
I open my mouth to answer but close it again. Eventually I slam the laptop lid closed so fast, I nearly get my newly manicured nails caught. "Fine. Fine." Standing up, I stare out of the window, which is such a cliché. I tug at my statement necklace, also Chanel, and then swivel toward him. "She wants to interview me. I accepted."
It isn't hard to see when the lightbulb goes off in Nigel's head. It takes him all but three seconds. "Six?" His voice is very soft.
"Andrea. Yes."
"And that's why you look like this?" He motions with his hands at me.
"Like what?" I growl. He doesn't get to mock me. Not even Nigel.
"Sweetheart, you look like you're frozen in place on a train track." Nigel gets up and guides me to the couch that is out of sight of the outer office. The glass doors are shut, but…well, they're glass.
"I must cancel it, but then—"
"Then she'll know you chickened out and God knows what she'll read into that?" Nigel sits down with me, holding onto both my hands. "She'll just assume you've changed your mind, as is the prerogative of Miranda Priestly."
"No. She will know, or suspect, that it's more. More than that." Blinking hard now, I try to stay focused. "And I can't have that. I couldn't bear it if she would think that, and pity…I mean pity me." I'm furious now. Furious at myself and at Andrea for putting me in this position.
"And if you do the interview, it'll be very professional, right? You'll be here in the office…" His voice tapers off. "Oh, no, you didn't."
"I did." I want to get up and pace the room, but his hands are still holding onto mine. "I told her to come for a working lunch at the townhouse. On Wednesday."
"God, Miranda. I have told you before, but clearly it requires repeating," Nigel says. "You are your own worst enemy. Thought in this case, I think that trait of yours might just bring the both of you some closure." He tilts his head and looks at me. "Or something else," he adds gently.
"What? What do you mean? Something else? Honestly, Nigel, you're not making sense." I feel like pulling free, but his big, soulful eyes area looking at me with such knowing kindness, it is impossible. I can eviscerate just about anybody under the sun, except my daughter and this man. Perhaps when I face Andrea, I'll find it that she's yet another exception to the rule.
"You have been going on autopilot for quite a while, haven't you?" Nigel asks. He lets go of one of my hands and pushes my bangs out of my eyes.
"Again. Not making sense." I aim for haughty, but I can only manage a hoarse croak.
"Six walked out on you when you needed her the most. She left you in the middle of one of your most important weeks of the year and, remember, I was there. I saw your fear when we couldn't find out fast enough if she went home right away, or if she was lying dead in an alley somewhere. You began already then to go through the motion on autopilot. I admit, I was of little help, licking my own wounds."
"It was all my own doing. I failed you."
"To save Runway and countless jobs, including mine, as it were," Nigel says and shrugs. "And since I'm heading toward new and better things with Runway Men in six months, I'll say you kept your word to me much better than anyone could ever have imagined. But this is not about me. This is about you panicking."
"I don't pa—" I cover my eyes briefly with my free hand. "All right. I suppose there's an element of panic when it comes to my regretting this interview."
"Let me ask you something." Nigel taps his chin in a silly, pondering gesture. "What is the worst-case scenario in your mind?"
I don't want to answer that. I don't think I can answer that. "I have no idea."
"Let me suggest some then. That Andy will do a hack job and miss the ball completely?"
"No, she won't. She's a solid journalist," I say quickly.
"All right." Nigel continues. "Do you dread that she'll gush about how she's missed you and how great it is to see you again? You know, be all clingy?"
I snort derisively. "Andrea? Hardly. She rambles, but she doesn't gush. Not like the new girl in the office." I motion with my head at the outer office.
"I see. Then, do you worry Andy will understand how much you've missed her?"
I go rigid and now I do pull my hand free. "I—" Clearly, I'm out of words again.
"And when she understands this, what if she lets you know how much she's missed you in return, on a personal level?" Nigel places a hand on my knee, squeezing gently.
"Preposterous," I say weakly. "Utterly preposterous."
"Is it?" Nigel cups my cheek and swipes a gentle thumb under my left eye, and then my right. "Don't cry. I can promise you that it won't be that bad."
"I'm not crying." I object, already knowing that I'm lying, as my vision is blurred.
"Sweetheart. You've got nothing to lose. You've invited Andy so the two of you can do the interview, and there'll be time to talk if that's what needs to happen." Nigel pulls my reluctant body in for a brief hug. "You'll be fine. Both of you."
"How can you possibly know this?" I glare at him, but something has settled inside me, at least a little bit.
"Because I had this talk with Andy two weeks ago. She wanted to do with interview, but she has much the same apprehensions as you do. I bet you telling her to join you at the townhouse means that I'll have her on the phone shortly." He chuckles kindly.
"You can't tell her…anything!" I'm staring at him, aghast at the thought.
"Hey. Calm down. I don't break confidences. I haven't told in detail what Andy shared with me. I won't repeat any of what you've told me today either. Just keep the appointment, do the interview, and know that you'll both be fine, no matter what happens. All right?"
I want to say no. I want to call it all off, but his words, though he left out almost everything, which is reassuring as well as frustrating, make me hope I can see this interview through—and perhaps get some closure, finally. "All right," I mutter. "I'll do it."
I should be feeling reassured and empowered since Nigel is so certain it will go well, but I'm not. The risk of all this blowing up in my face is great. And that's not even taken into consideration how it might shatter my heart.
