Chapter 4
When Miranda sashayed into the office the next morning at twenty after six and presented Emily with another americano, the young woman actually dropped the pen she had been writing with as she tried to absorb the modified appearance of the older woman.
Miranda had donned a simple black dress with a flattering neckline that exposed her shapely shoulders. She was wearing the Chanel necklace that Nigel had left with her, and a wide, distressed leather belt cinched the fabric of the dress flatteringly around her curves. The shocking silver forelock, which was quickly to become her signature, fell playfully down over her deep blue eyes.
"Miranda," Emily began, her tongue twisting around the compliment she was attempting to pay, "you look so chic!"
Miranda smirked at the young woman's obvious shock and moved to place her bag in the closet.
"It's been known to happen," she commented derisively.
Emily shut her gaping mouth and returned to her notes, taking a grateful sip of the americano when she thought Miranda wasn't looking. The older woman rolled her eyes as she took her place behind the desk of the second assistant. Someone really needed to tell the brit to- how did Caro put it? Chill the frig out.
Miranda surveyed the young woman over the top of her monitor while pretending to familiarize herself with that day's schedule. Grumpy little thing, she thought to herself, and wondered if, for the sake of her own sanity, there was anything she could do to mellow out the high strung Englishwoman. She pursed her lips.
Perhaps the first assistant's rudeness was a character flaw, or maybe it was a front she erected to protect herself from the cutthroat atmosphere at Runway. Miranda could understand that. But Emily worked for Andréa directly, and that was the next best thing to immunity as far as how the other magazine employees treated her. Could it be that Andréa Saxton's incurable attitude had simply rubbed off on her? At a loss, Miranda's mind drifted to thoughts of her daughters and hoped that their father had remembered to give them money for lunch at school. Lunch.
Miranda peered over the top of her screen at Emily. The girl was thin, obviously- too thin as far as the older woman was concerned. Underneath the avant guard make-up, Miranda could see the tired, pinched looking skin around the brit's glassy blue eyes.
Knowing how grouchy she got when she missed a meal and her blood sugar dipped, Miranda was amazed that the young woman, who ran on empty, hadn't actually strangled anyone yet. Question answered, the older woman opened her desk drawer and pulled out one of the several snack bars she had stashed there. After the first day of running errands, Miranda had taken to tossing one into her purse whenever Andréa sent her out on one of her endless directives. Miranda glanced furtively towards Andréa's office and noted that the room was blissfully empty, save for a rack of stunning evening gowns. The off-centered neckline of several of the pieces looked somehow familiar, but now was not the time. She was on a mission.
"Here," she stated, tossing the bar across the narrow space between their desks. Emily fumbled briefly before she caught the offering. Clutching the gifted item in her hand, she glared at Miranda.
"What the bloody hell-
Miranda sighed. "Emily- you and your consistently empty stomach are not an endearing duo. The only thing I've seen you eat in the three days since I started here is that cube of cheese you furtively popped into your mouth yesterday afternoon." When the young woman stared at her like she'd lost her mind, Miranda had a sudden epiphany, coming to her as if out of a dream. "Don't read the label. Don't analyze it. Just eat it…… That's all."
Emily blinked. Then she removed the wrapper, surveyed the granola bar, and promptly ate the entire thing. Sighing contentedly, she tossed the empty cellophane into the wastebasket and looked at Miranda, who was busy printing out the set list of errands she had to run that morning. The arm of her glasses was trapped endearingly between her lips as she reviewed her orders.
The older woman glanced up to find the young woman actually smiling.
"Miranda I-
"Hmm?"
Emily bobbed her head awkwardly, though her smile widened. "Thank you."
Miranda shook her head, smirking. "You're welcome."
The unusually genial moment between the two assistants was cut short by Andréa's entrance. She was trailed by an older man, who was speaking animatedly with the assistance of broad, expressive hand gestures. Without comment, the young editor turfed her coat and bag in Miranda's general direction and strode briskly into her office. The man, who had briefly stopped his excited dissertation. nodded cordially to Andréa's assistants and walked into the young woman's office. Then he walked back out again.
"You," he murmured, pointing a knowing figure at Miranda. "Attends, je cherche."
Miranda smiled blankly at the strange Frenchman standing in front of her desk and was beginning to feel uncomfortable when a strange sense of déjà vu overtook her senses. If she took a few pounds off of the man, imagined a fuller head of hair, he looked like he could be-
"Miranda!" the gentleman exclaimed suddenly, a smile warming his intense features.
"Christian? Lacroix?"
"The same, Mademoiselle. The very same!"
Miranda laughed becomingly. "I don't think 'mademoiselle' applies anymore, Christian. I'm nearly fifty years old, you know!"
Monsieur Lacroix moved around the desk and brought Miranda's hand to his mouth for a delicate kiss. "Ah, but the light in your eyes is that of a young girl, and your gracious smile- hors du temp, ma minette."
"Flatterer", Miranda mumbled, but she felt a warm blush colouring her cheeks. When was the last time a dashing Parisian told her that her smile was timeless? Fifteen years ago, she thought ruefully.
"How touching," came the scathing comment from the editor's doorway.
Miranda tore herself away from her old friend and saw that Andréa was glowering at her from underneath dark bangs. Remembering herself, the older woman decided damage control was pertinent next step.
"Well, my dear friend," she began warmly. "I won't deter you from your business further. A talented man like yourself must be very busy. It was wonderful to see you again."
Christian waved the awkwardness away with a flippant movement of his hands. "Nonsense, cherie. I am here on business, yes, but it is a business in which I think you might be quite interested. I am to open a salon of couture in this very city, and Mademoiselle Andréa has kindly offered to run an exposé of my humble shop in the next issue of Runway. Come," he said, pulling her gently towards the office, "there are several pieces I have brought with me which I think you would like to see."
Miranda glanced at the editor, who's expression had shifted into one of carefully contained rage, hidden under a façade of geniality. The older woman smirked inwardly. Andréa was clearly caught between denying Miranda entrance- which would obviously be quite distressing to the famous Parisian designer- and playing nice to keep Lacroix under her thumb. If Runway were the first American couture publication to endorse the entrance of the Christian Lacroix line into the bosom of New York's fashion scene, the designer would obviously owe some kind of loyalty to the young editor, and Andréa Saxton liked people best when they owed her something. This was going to be fun.
Lacroix drew Miranda into the office, his hand barely present at the small of her back. He stood expectantly in front of the rack of clothing, waiting for her input.
"These are yours?" she asked, stepping forwards to finger the delicate fabric of an evening gown. Christian nodded, pleased that his old friend felt comfortable enough to engage with his work.
"À l'oeuvre on reconnaît l'artisan," Miranda offered, entranced. "I'd recognize that daring asymmetrical neckline anywhere."
Beaming, the older man shifted several garments aside and produced a startling gorgeous cocktail dress in a luxurious champagne coloured silk. The neckline was a delicately folded, off the shoulder style with a simple bodice that flowed seamlessly into the asymmetrical skirt. Along the hemline, another fold echoed the design and caused the fabric to fall in a delicate arch. Miranda, not usually one to become emotional in public, was surprised to feel tears stinging at her eyes.
"À l'oeuvre on reconnaît l'artisan. You can tell an artist by her handiwork." Christian said gently. "Touché, ma minette. What do you think?"
"Where-" Miranda noted with distress that her voice wavered, betraying the effect the older man's gesture was having on her. She cleared her throat. "How have you done this?"
Lacroix grinned. "When I moved studios last year, an assistant found the sketch and recognizing the quality of the design, brought it to my attention. Imagine my surprise when I found that flourished 'MP' scrawled hastily in the corner. As soon as we were set up in the new location, I began work on the piece immediately. It is fate, I think, that you should be here now to witness the realisation of your talent." Christian stepped closer to Miranda and gently took her trembling hand. "We were sorry to see you leave when that cretin you married stole you away to America. Such a waste, we thought. I, especially."
Miranda could only nod, not trusting herself to maintain the required air of calm in front of Andréa, who was at this point staring at the dress in ill-disguised shock. Sensing an immediate need to lighten the mood, Lacroix stepped in again.
"So tell me, Miranda- how is the cretin?"
Miranda laughed outright. "Stealing someone else away, actually. So is the second cretin I married. You know what they say: Qui se marie à la hâte se repent à loisir. And my god, I repent."
A bark of amusement left Christian Lacroix. "So you will have no qualms in joining me for dinner this evening, no? I hear there is a wonderful french restaurant near the hotel I am staying at, Le Bernardin it is called."
"Tu me gâtes, Christian!" Miranda exclaimed delightedly. "C'est le coup de barre, là."
"C'est mon plaisir, Miranda, and my nose's as well. It is good to see an old friend again."
Miranda smiled warmly at the designer before remembering the editor. The woman in question was still staring at the dress in Lacroix's hands, a bemused expression on her face.
"Miranda, I need coffee. When you get back, I want you to have Emily prep you for the benefit this Saturday. You will be attending with me. Also, have Emily give you the key to my penthouse. You will be delivering the book tonight. You received the lists of other tasks I sent you this morning?" Miranda managed to nod. "Good. Make sure to bring the jackets from Dolce to me as soon as you get back."
Miranda waited, the requisite scoot not having been present to signal the end of the conversation. When it didn't come, Miranda turned to Christian and placed a light kiss on both of the older man's cheeks.
"Jusqu'à ce soir, Monsieur."
"Mieux vaut tard que jamais," Christian replied quietly, smoothing the silk of Miranda's dress.
Better late than never.