The Beacon Benefit, December 1st, 7:45:32
Miranda paced expectantly through the poignantly bedecked event hall of New York's Metropolitan Museum. For the first time in however many years, the editor in chief of Runway, dressed in a shimmering platinum hued gown, had deigned to arrive hours before her quintessential, fashionably-late-standard. In fact, she'd entered the venue before the event had even gotten underway, and the first guests were only now beginning to trickle into the space.
Andrea had entirely overcome her initial insecurities, surpassing even Miranda's best hopes of what the young woman was capable of. Tacitly, the editor had mentioned her satisfaction to the younger woman, who had blushed profusely before scurrying off, mumbling something about a sound check for the podium microphone.
Miranda stood now in the centre of the hall, the ethereal lighting blessing her presence with an ivory glow; a kind of beacon in her own right. She smiled.
The grand architecture of the museum was accentuated by large, low contrast black and white photographs. The prints, which were framed by the building's large windows, depicted mundane city scenes; a couple walking through central park, a young woman dashing across a busy street, an old street vendor foisting mystery meat onto unsuspecting tourists; comforting snapshots, intimate portraits of New York's lifelines.
From the centre of the hall hung a large installation of glass globes, each illuminated by a small, spherical bulb; the effect was that of a sort of ghostly cloud, hovering low from the ceiling, imparting a soft illumination, a murmur of those lost, a reminder of those spared.
Miranda made a note to inquire after the artist.
People were beginning to file in through the large double doors, their frantic chatter falling under a blanket of calm; the atmosphere not oppressive, but one of quiet respect. And they kept coming in, a steady flow; for it seemed, like Miranda, everyone had abandoned tasteful tardiness for another time, a more frivolous venue. Then, the initial hush having befallen the crowd began to lift, and conversation filtered through the air.
As Miranda began to mill through the throng, greeting those she met with rare, genuine smiles, the soft, mellow tones of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue lilted over the thrum of human voices. Miranda turned to look at the small ensemble ensconced between two indomitable stone pillars, and catching the eye of a flautist, nodded her thanks.
The music itself had been a point of contention between herself and Andrea; the young woman had wanted to have something sombre playing. But Miranda had shot the bleeding heart of her assistant through quickly with her ever famous, brooks-no-argument 'No.' The tone, she said, the ambient backdrop for such an important event, was integral to delivering the correct message.
"No funereal dirges," Miranda had commented fervently, when presented with Andrea's potential play list for the benefit, insisting that the music should be something that spoke of rebuilding, of vitality.
This was the only point during the planning in which Miranda had 'intervened', and of course, she had triumphed.
Now, instrumental renditions of classically New York melodies advocated a sense of looking forwards; the vibrato of a lone violinist; the clear, pure tones of a muted trumpet; a chorus of breathy flutes. And despite Andrea's originally abysmal choice of score material, it was not lost on Miranda that her assistant had somehow managed to finagle Itzhak Pearlman himself into playing at Runway's soiree.
The tide of incoming guests had begun to ebb, and now people were moving in swirling currents, pooling leisurely around the large glass display cases housing the items up for auction; the silent affair had been another of Andrea's ingenious schemes, and Miranda had been astounded by the near stampede of designers who had pounced on the opportunity to donate items for the fundraising effort.
Miranda had been considering making several large contributions in favour of a few of the more outstanding lots, when the presence of a woman not six metres away struck her so strongly with recognition, the editor hardly dared breathe. A woman, her woman, was poised indignantly in front of a striking garnet cocktail dress, eying Valentino's contribution to the silent auction with ill-disguised scepticism. At first glance, the woman looked- Miranda struggled to surpass the clichés, and finding herself at a loss, settled on breathtaking. The blond was wearing, however impossible it seemed, a stunning Vera Wang dress in a turquoise so rich it could almost be called topaz; the neckline plunged and revealed delicately curved shoulders, one of which was the recipient of a cascade of curled, golden hair which tumbled down from an elaborately twisted side-sweep. However, as the editor surreptitiously approached the vision of her future, she noticed that beneath the couture and the flawlessly applied make-up, the woman looked tired, haggard; her cheekbones too pronounced, the laugh lines around her eyes turned pinched, deeper with sleepless nights.
Unbidden, images from Miranda's flash forward taunted her with the contented smile and healthier appearance of her personal muse, and overcome with the phantom sensations of the warm body pressed so trustingly to her own, the editor found her footsteps drawing her inexorably nearer the wraith-like woman, pausing a few feet away to continue her unlikely pursual.
Miranda gazed covertly at the woman, her guise a subtle interest in the Valentino gown. The editor warred with herself. What was she doing, sidling up this woman like a sociopathic puppy; stealing clandestine glances around the tuxedoed shoulders of a tall man; furtively peering around the poorly contained chest of his wife, or perhaps, his mistress. Miranda contained a small snort of ironic amusement. She was La fucking Priestly; this was her shindig. And yet- here she was, nervous as anything, trying fitfully to avoid doing precisely what her heart wanted her to do.
The flash forwards were quickly become fact in the minds of the masses, but Miranda was loathe to submit herself to fate; a faith, no longer blind. But here was the woman, coincidence or not; Miranda had not gone looking for her vision, but she had found her.
Unawares of their crucial contribution to Miranda's evasive manoeuvring, the couple filling the space between the hostess and her fixation moved on to the next lot. The editor, still lost in her acerbic inner diatribe, did not notice their abandonment.
"Hey there," Donna offered, seeing a silver gilt woman standing awkwardly off to her left, staring blankly in her general direction.
Miranda started, glanced tentatively over her shoulder, and seeing no one else the woman could be talking to, fixed the blond with a dubious smile.
Donna gunned her fingers in Miranda's direction, singling her out as the object of her casual greeting. "My name's Donna."
Grasping for her quickly slipping mantel of refined indifference, Miranda moved forwards and offered a welcoming hand, which Donna clasped warmly. "Miranda," the editor offered gently. "What do you think of the Valentino?"
The other woman gave a cursory glance in the direction of the gown. "It's stunning," Donna offered half-heartedly. "I couldn't pull it off, though." What she meant, however, was that there was no way in hell she could afford to pull it off.
Miranda gave the dress in question an appraising look, and gazed back at the woman beside her. "Of course you could," she offered emphatically. "You've the shoulders for it."
Donna wrinkled her nose, and the editor was hard-pressed to find the expression anything but adorable. "Are you in fashion, or something?"
Miranda passed a few delicate fingers in front of her lips to disguise her growing smirk of amusement. "Or something," she offered obtusely.
Donna nodded, her focus back on the glass-encased item. "To be frank," she offered wittily, "I wouldn't know what's in style if crept up behind me and bit me on the ass. My friend forced me out to this event because, apparently, I was 'stagnating'. She had to dress me, too, for fear I would've shown up in a pair of dungarees and a straw hat."
Miranda grinned. She couldn't stop herself. "The Vera Wang is a stunning colour on you- your friend has taste."
Donna bit her lip and shot the other woman a perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised endearingly. "Vera who?"
Miranda tried, really tried not to laugh, but Donna's blissful and refreshing ignorance of the couture scene reminded her so fondly of overhearing Andrea's conversation with the D&G rep, asking them if they could please spell 'Gabbana', that the editor of the world's leading fashion magazine couldn't help herself giggling.
Donna shot the older woman an affronted glare, but her scowl quickly softened in the face of her unlikely companion's infectious peals of laughter.
"Sorry," Miranda chuckled, regaining control. "It's nice to be reminded, occasionally, that the entire world doesn't necessarily revolve around what we put on our backs. But," she added, her features transforming into an epic version of her 'die cretin' glare, "don't you dare tell anyone I said that."
Donna snorted irreverently at the editor's current expression, though she was beginning to suspect that the woman she was holding conference with wasn't just another of the event's many guests. "Are you a designer?" Donna queried guilelessly.
Miranda paused. It had come to this, already. Was she ready for Donna to meet the editrix; was she ready to frighten this engaging creature off already? The other woman's intelligence was obvious; if she lied now, Donna would know. Somehow.
"I'm actually an editor," Miranda offered as nonchalantly as she could.
Donna nodded, and then narrowed her eyes. "An editor?" she gazed in wonder at the elegantly bedecked hall of the Met; at the Runway name which seemed to appear now in neon lights, though actually small and quite modest relative to the word 'Beacon' on the large banner capping the podium. Hadn't Tanya mentioned that the editor of Runway was hosting this event? "As in, the editor?"
Miranda forced back a wince and instead, offered a guilty smile. Her jig was officially up. "That would be me, yes. Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of American Runway."
Donna regarded the other woman disapprovingly, and for a moment Miranda wondered if she hadn't blown it already. The blond smiled wryly. "You might've introduced yourself a little better the first time around, don't you think?"
"I don't usually have to introduce myself at all," the editor qualified. "It was," she paused, searching, her fingers itched to run nervously through her waved silver locks. "It's a rare moment when I don't have to pretend to be anyone but 'Miranda'. Anyway," she continued abruptly, desperate to shift the focus from herself, from her uncomfortable admission. "Did you come with anyone? You mentioned a friend, but is your poor husband wandering lost among the couture?"
Any warmth which had been growing in Donna's eyes seemed to flicker, then vanish; like a mirage when one approached it too closely; the woman seemed to wither and shrink inside her gown.
Shaking, Donna bit her lip, squeezed her reddening eyes tight against an embarrassing onslaught of tears, and finally had to muffle a treacherous whimper with a hand clamped painfully tight across her mouth.
Miranda watched, frozen in a kind of terrified stasis, as Donna wordlessly bolted from the crowded hall. Fuck.
The editor called out once after the hastily retreating woman, and then, as if waking from a dream, realised where she was, who she was, and why she couldn't afford to go on some Cinderella-inspired footrace after the fleeing Donna.
Miranda surveyed the exit forlornly before resignedly turning away, only to be confronted by a tall, slim woman wearing a Jane Taylor Lotus hat, and a shorter, much angrier looking woman with spunky hair.
"What did you do to her?" accused the latter, her spiky coiffure seeming to stand on end.
The lotus hat woman winced, glared at her comrade in arms, and turned appealingly towards Miranda. "You'll have to please excuse my friend, Ms. Priestly- what she meant by that was, is everything alright?"
"You must be the friends Donna mentioned," Miranda said, extending her hand cordially. "And call me Miranda."
"Tanya," the tall woman offered, clasping the proffered hand. "And," she added, risking a glance at the still fuming brit, "the bristling porcupine behind me is Rosie. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miranda."
Miranda nodded distractedly, and hazarded another glance towards the exit. Donna was nowhere to be seen.
Rosie, impatient and protective, stepped forwards, hands on her hips. "What did you say to her?"
"I'm not entirely sure," the editor sighed, focusing her waning attention on the simmering woman. "We were talking, I inquired as to whether or not her husband was with her, and th-
"Oh christ," Rosie drawled, looking heavenwards. The mild expletive earned her a smart jab from a very pointy elbow. "Sorry," the brit added unrepentantly.
Miranda was becoming more confused by the second, a state to which she was unaccustomed, and had very little patience with. "What?" she queried shortly, her temper flaring.
Tanya looked at Miranda, then at Rosie, who shrugged noncommittally and gestured back at the silver-haired woman, as if to say this is your party, princess. Tanya sighed heavily, and turned back to the editor. "Donna's husband was killed during the blackout," she offered simply.
"Oh christ," Miranda echoed faintly. "I'm sorry- I hadn't even thought-" she passed a weary hand across her eyes. "I am sorry. Will she be alright?"
Rosie, mollified by the woman's obvious remorse, lowered her hackles. "We forced her out to this thing, Miranda. It's as much our fault as yours, if we're going to pass the blame around. We're both of us hoping she'll come out the other side of this, but she's having a tough go of it, really." The brit inhaled deeply, and pushed her glasses back up her nose. "I can't get her to eat," she confessed, somewhat brokenly.
Miranda's gaze shifted between the two women; they obviously cared about Donna, and were just as obviously fiercely protective of her best interests. With Donna missing in action, Miranda realized she would have to go through them if she wanted to speak with the blond woman from her vision again. And, god help her, she did.
"Tanya," Miranda began, fixing the taller woman with her most sincere expression. "I think I've really shoved my Louboutin clad foot at least halfway down my throat this evening. Would it be possible for you to arrange a meeting between Donna and I? I'd like to apologize to her in person, and I'd consider it a personal favour if you would make it happen."
Tanya blinked. In the face of the Miranda Priestly, she was loathe to protest, even despite the fact that Donna had likely already made it back to the penthouse and firmly rooted herself on the rooftop patio; her insomniac haunt of preference. Never mind the fact that the innkeeper cum houseguest would probably throttle her. "Tonight?" she inquired unevenly.
Miranda shook her head. "I'll be stuck here all evening," she gestured to the large crowd by way of explanation. "Do you think a lunch, tomorrow, would be possible?"
Tanya looked a Rosie, who seemed to have gone mute again. "I'll see what I can do," she offered, flashing a bright smile at the editor.
"Have you got a pen?" Miranda asked, suddenly wishing she hadn't given Madeleine the night off from her assistantly duties. Wordlessly, Rosie produce both pen and paper from a large bag she had slung over her shoulder, ever the writer. The editor scrawled her name and personal cell number across the scrap, and handed the note to Tanya, who stashed it in her small clutch.
"We'll say tomorrow," Miranda offered, smoothing invisible wrinkles in the flawless silk of her gown. "At Pastis. One o'clock. Please call if she won't be coming- I have my girls this weekend."
Tanya nodded solemnly, resisted the ridiculous urge to curtsy in front of the fashion maven, and offered a strangled 'goodbye' as Rosie dragged her off in search of their runaway friend.
Miranda allowed a small, private smile to pull at the corners of her mouth. She'd lost the unlikely princess, but she'd found something even better than a glass slipper.
With mammoth resolve, the editor continued through the rest of the benefit, made the requisite speeches, and at the end of the evening, all but collapsed into a chair near one of the large windows. Andy, equally, if not more exhausted, joined Miranda to congratulate the other woman on an event well-executed.
"It went well, I think," Andrea offered, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. She slumped a little in her chair next to the older woman.
Miranda nodded, distracted. "Who won the Valentino?"
Andy glanced at the clipboard in her lap, flipping quickly through the pages. "Some insurance high roller. Why?"
The editor narrowed her eyes. "Put me down for double what he bid," she instructed, avoiding the question.
Andrea gazed at her boss confusedly, and quailed under the resulting glare. She penned Miranda's name and bid in, crossing out the former winner.
Perhaps because she was tired, or maybe because Miranda had grown to trust the young woman, the editor deigned to explain herself. "I'm giving it to someone I met this evening," she began carefully.
Andy frowned, and tried to quell the unbecoming rise of jealousy in her throat. "That's generous of you."
Miranda grabbed an abandoned flute of champagne off a nearby table and tossed it back expertly. "During the blackout, I saw a woman. She was in my home, and the girls seemed to know her, and we," Miranda paused and glanced about for another glass of alcohol, coming up empty.
Andy was beginning to feel slightly nauseous. If Miranda were attracted to women, if Andy had somehow missed her chance-
"Were you with her?" the journalist asked suddenly. Miranda blanched. The silly girl had always been able to read her. Well, let Andrea read her now.
Andy couldn't believe it. Miranda's attraction to this mystery woman was scrawled with painful accuracy all over her crestfallen features. "Miranda?"
"I met her tonight," the editor offered quietly. "And I frightened her off. Because that's what I do, isn't it Andrea? I scare everyone away."
The younger woman bit her lip, her chest aching. "I came back."
Miranda look up from the empty glass she was still clutching in her lap, saw the miserable hurt in the younger woman's large, expressive eyes.
"I'm sorry, Andy," the older woman whispered sadly.
Andrea sniffled and wiped a straying tear before it slipped from her cheek. "Why?"
Miranda wanted to run. She wanted to hide under the nearest table and pretend she didn't have to have this conversation. But she owed Andrea more than that.
"Because I can read you, too, my girl. And I can feel what you want from me. And you have to know that it's not going to happen." Miranda sighed heavily. This was too much honesty to swallow. She continued. "I can't lie to you. I have been with women, before. But you, Andrea," she looked at the younger woman then, saw her quaking in the chair. She took Andy's hand. "You're at such a different stage of your life. Do you understand?"
Andy nodded. She certainly couldn't speak; her mouth, firmly clamped shut, contained a sob waiting to escape.
"I don't want you to feel as if I'm treating you like a child," Miranda murmured. "You have been the most competent assistant I've ever had, and more than that, you've been a friend. And, against my better judgement, or perhaps because of it, I have come to care about you. What I want to know," she squeezed the hand in hers, "is if a friendship between us is valuable enough for you to move past this, if you're able."
Andy regarded the older woman, shocked, heartbroken, terrified. In the last ten minutes, Miranda had given more of herself than she had in the two years the journalist had known her, and in a bittersweet, ironic, slap-in-the-face kind of way, it only made Andrea want her more.
But what did Andy expect? That Miranda would chuck caution into the nearest sewer grate in favour of shacking up with her twenty five year old assistant? And to be honest, what did Andy want at this point? To continue lusting after someone she couldn't have, or to man up and stay in the editor's life as her friend. If she thought hard about it, Andrea could rationalize her attraction, and in time, being Miranda's friend could really be enough.
Andrea thought again of her flash forward; waiting for the book, how content she had been. And suddenly, things looked like they might be okay.
Andy offered a wobbly smile. "We good?"
Miranda nodded, and in an uncharacteristic display of deplorable grammar, she replied in kind. "We're good."