Part 1, Chapter 4

The next few weeks at work were rough to say the least. Stephen had insisted we try to work things out, apologizing over and over for humiliating me in front of my colleagues. What could I say? That I simply didn't love him and preferred to be alone? It sounded so simple in my head, but when it came to uttering the actual words, I simply nodded and agreed to "work on it" with him, knowing that it would never, in fact, work out. I would never understand how I could fire orders and make decisions in a split second at Runway, but when I came home, I was often frozen.

Over the following weeks, my team prepared for Paris Fashion Week. Seven employees and myself would be representing Runway. This year, I asked Andrea to go in Emily's place. I meant no disrespect to Emily, but Andrea was better at reading and responding to me. She and I could often communicate without speaking, and she wasn't afraid to ask questions for clarification when necessary, which, I will admit, saves a lot of time. Plus, between all of the parties and brunches and quiet afternoons, it would be nice to have a friendly companion there who might dispel any loneliness on my part.

When I asked Andrea, she did not accept right away, claiming that it was the First Assistant's duty, and citing how much it meant to Emily. I've been wondering if there was more to it, as even today, two days before our trip, Andrea was on edge.

"Andrea?" I called. When she stepped into my office, I instructed her to close the door. "Is everything okay? You seem off. Nervous or something."

"Everything is fine, Miranda," she replied, "just some pre-flight jitters, I guess. Was there something you needed?"

I stared at her, watching her movements. She was skittish, and it seemed she had dropped a size in the weeks since the Met Gala. "No. That's all," I said, shaking my head. Something was going on, but with the pace everyone was working at, I wouldn't have the chance to talk to her until Paris, and even then it was doubtful.

Paris fashion week really went by in a blur—more so this year than previously. Andrea had been keeping her professional distance, ensuring everything went smoothly and successfully as planned. In short, she was exactly like my other employees. I couldn't suddenly expect her to read my mind and think that I might want her company because we had one real conversation one night after we had both been drinking. Actually, I thought it was rather sweet that she never mentioned the night of the gala again.

It was late afternoon on Friday, our last night. Tomorrow morning was the Runway luncheon in honor of James Holt, and after that we would be headed home. We had a break this afternoon after the 2pm show, with dinner not scheduled until 7pm. Some of my staff were planning on attending a cocktail party in the hotel lobby at 5pm, but I thought I could take the opportunity to relax and take my time getting ready for the dinner, when I would be wearing a fantastic Lanvin gown that weighed over 40 pounds. I showered and prepped my face, deciding not to apply makeup until just before I would leave.

Knock, knock, knock. "Madame? J'ai une lettre pour vous." Sighing, I stood from the small stool in the dressing room and headed for the door. "Un moment!" I called, wondering why this letter was not left at the front desk with my other mail. When I opened the door, I was shocked to see a plainly dressed young man and not one of the hotel staff. "Miranda Priestly?" he asked. "Oui," I nodded. He handed me a large envelope and indicated where I needed to sign on his clipboard. "Merci," he said, running off down the hallway.

I closed the door and sat on the sofa, opening the envelope that had been sent via international overnight express mail. I gasped as the contents spilled out onto my lap. Cold, stark Times New Roman across the paper with which I was all too familiar: "Dissolution of Marriage: Tomlinson v. Priestly." As I read through the first few pages, I saw that Stephen had filed for a no-fault divorce, or, in other words, claiming irreconcilable differences. But still, what was so urgent that he felt the need to send these to me in Paris rather than waiting until I returned home? Or was he just trying to hurt me like I'd undoubtedly hurt him?

I picked up the phone and tried to call him, only to be directed to his voicemail. I didn't even know what time it was back home. Stuffing the papers back into the envelope, I threw it at the window, sinking back into the couch. He couldn't do this to me, not here, not now, not with the benefit tomorrow. I was the one who wanted the divorce a month ago, when his behavior had pushed me over the edge. He was the one who begged my forgiveness and wanted to work on our marriage. What a joke, I thought, we had dinner three, maybe four times since then.

But this, this was deliberate. I wanted the divorce on my own time so my lawyers would be able to handle it efficiently and keep it out of the press. But now, surely now those gossip rags had gotten hold of this news and were spinning stories every which way. I felt tears falling down my face, tears I didn't even know I had.

Why was I so upset? I wondered. I knew I didn't love Stephen, and it was clear that he could no longer accompany me to public events. On top of that, we weren't even having sex anymore, as I was locking my bedroom door most nights before he even got home. There was only one word that came into my mind as I sat on the couch, staring off into space: failure. Those papers were evidence of yet another one of Miranda Priestly's public failures.

I don't know how long I was sitting there, or even what I was thinking about for all that time, but I was jolted from my thoughts when Andrea stepped into the room and gasped. I hadn't even heard her enter the suite.

"We need to go over the seating…um, chart," I said, holding my hand out and looking down at my lap.

Andrea fumbled in her bag, finally producing the folder. I opened it, slipped my glasses on, and perused the sheet. "We need to move Snoop Dogg to my table," I said matter-of-factly.

"But your table's full," she said.

I tilted my head up, trying to keep my eyes down. "Stephen isn't coming," I said.

"Oh? So I don't need to fetch him from the airport?" she asked as she fumbled once again with a small notebook from her bag.

"Not unless he decides to rethink the divorce," I said, pulling my glasses off. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes, but did not want to cry in front of Andrea. She knew how I felt about my husband, and revealing anything more would make me seem too weak in front of her.

"Miranda, I'm so sorry," she said, slowly closing her notebook, sitting still for once. "I can cancel your evening if you'd like."

"No, don't do that," I choked out, my voice cracking as tears began to fall. I don't know how she got there, but two seconds later, Andrea was sitting next to me on the sofa, softly stroking the back of my hand. "Andrea," I choked out, "This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman and I can't handle my own emotions."

"It's okay," Andrea said reassuringly. "You know, everyone deals with things differently. It's okay," she repeated, softly stroking my back with her other hand. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to curl up against her chest, her long arms wrapping tightly around me. Sighing, I stood and walked over to the window. "Is there anything else I can do?" Andrea asked quietly from the sofa.

"Yes, your job," I said, nodding. Andrea understood, and quietly packed up her things and returned to her own room. As I finished preparing myself for the evening, I sighed, relaxing knowing Andrea would not be there to follow me around with that pitiful look in her eye. That look did not bode well for my ego.

The next morning, I met with Irv to discuss the new president of James Holt International. I know he was expecting me to nominate Nigel—and I did mention his name when this position was first tossed about. But I saw that Irv was pushing Jacqueline Follet in my face, that she was at his side all week. I introduced Jacqueline to James, and it became very clear that in order for me to keep my position at Runway, Jacqueline would need to accept the position at JHI, not Nigel..

The luncheon turned out to be a success, toasting to Runway and our partnership with James Holt. Everyone fawned over Jacqueline's new role, except perhaps Irv and Nigel, the latter of which was nowhere to be found.

I found Andrea and gestured for her to meet me in the car. We had one last show to make an appearance at before we would be able to catch our flight back to New York. In the backseat of the towncar, I could see that Andrea was again unnerved. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, but decided against it, given the state of agitation she was experiencing. "You've really impressed me," I said quietly to her, opting for words instead. "I see a great deal of myself in you, Andrea." I smiled, looking out the window. Everyone knew how rarely I gave compliments, and I presumed Andrea's silence was due to the shock of hearing the words coming from me.

"No, I don't think so," she said, her voice shaky. "I couldn't do what you did to Nigel, Miranda."

I focused my gaze out the window, knowing I would melt if I watched her plump red lips quivering. "Don't be silly," I said, "You already have. To Emily."

Realization sank in, and Andrea tried in vain to claim that what she did to Emily was different, but I didn't respond. I didn't intend to start this argument, I merely wanted Andrea to know that she had impressed me, and that I saw a lot of potential in her.

As the car pulled to a stop, I smiled, then stepped out. I learned long ago that putting on your camera face before you open the door and exit the vehicle yielded fewer awkward, twisted photos. I began heading up the stairs swarming with photographers, and felt a hand guiding me through the crowd. After climbing several steps, I realized it was not Andrea's hand, but a gentleman's hand, a security guard it seemed. Turning around, I looked for Andrea in the sea of reporters, but could not find her. The guard urged me forward, and once I stepped inside, Andrea was no where to be found. I tried calling, but her phone went instantly to voicemail.

I was ushered to my seat in the front row, but could not focus on the runway at all, my eyes scanning the crowd for a glimpse of my chocolate-haired assistant. I kept trying her phone with no luck. Halfway through the show, I caught Christian's attention in the wings and blew him a kiss, making a mental note to send him a note explaining my departure. I had to get out, had to find the one who deserted me.

Climbing over my colleagues to reach the exit, I didn't care if I was making a scene. My heart was beating rapidly as horrid images floated through my mind—Andrea kidnapped, hit by a car, shot by a sniper. I was desperate to find her, regardless the reason she wasn't at my side. The two-mile ride in the towncar to the hotel took ages. The front desk informed me that the young American girl with red lips had just left the hotel. I hurried up to my room, piling my remaining belongings into the Runway trunk and directing the hotel staff to carry it out to the car.

The minute I shut the car door, I dialed Nigel's number and pleaded with my driver to drive as quickly as possible. Where is Roy when you need him? I thought.

"Well, hello, Miranda. I seriously debated answering your call," Nigel said.

"Listen, are you at the airport yet?" I urgently asked.

"We just pulled up. Why? What's wrong?" he said.

"Andrea. Is she with you? Have you seen her?"

"No, I thought she was with you," he said.

"Well, I can't find her. She didn't come to Christian's show, and the hotel said she was on her way to the airport," I said, trying to catch my breath. "Please keep an eye out for her, and tell the girls, too!" I said.

"Okay. If it's any consolation, I happen to know that our flight is the only one scheduled from Paris to New York in the next twenty-four hours, and the last flight out was early this morning," he said.

I took off my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course Nigel would know that, because he was trying to run from me, too. I sighed. "Nigel, I'm sorry, I tried to find you after the benefit," I said.

"Miranda—" he began.

"Take Andrea's seat," I said, cutting him off, "Sit in coach where you won't have to look at me for eight hours then!" I snapped the phone shut, throwing it onto the seat next to me.

I rode the remaining twenty minutes to the airport in silence, suddenly missing the young woman's fidgeting. Once the car arrived, I rushed through Charles de Gaulle, quickly making my way to the gate. I joined Nigel, Jocelyn, and Serena, sitting one seat away from Nigel and placing my bag on the chair between.

Lucia came walking over. "Nigel, you were looking for Andy? She's in the bathroom," she said, pointing to the women's restroom in the terminal.

"Was she okay?" I asked, jumping from my seat and interrupting their conversation.

"Yes, I think so. I don't think she noticed me," Lucia said.

"I'll go get her," I said, hurrying off.

When I entered the bathroom, I saw her seated on a bench in a small sitting room off the main bathroom. She gasped as I sat next to her. "I'm sorry, Andrea," I said. I reached for her hand, which she reluctantly let me take in my own. "Whatever it was that I said, please don't look into it. I was merely trying to give you a compliment. I think you've been doing a remarkable job for us here at Runway, and I was trying to say that I see so much potential in you, that's all," I said, tears threatening to fall down my eyes.

"Bu—but, Nigel?" she asked, her big brown eyes looking up at me.

"Nigel is okay. I think he understands. Just between us, there is going to be an even better opportunity for him in New York with Runway."

"And you knew that? That's why you didn't give him the JHI position?"

"Andrea," I said, "The Holt position was not mine to ultimately decide. But even then, I would only wish a partnership with James on my worst enemy."

"I'm sorry I walked away this afternoon," Andrea said, squeezing my hand tightly.

"Water under the bridge, darling," I said as I stood up, dabbing my eyes with a tissue.

"Were—were you looking for me all this time?" she asked as I helped her with her handbag.

"Yes. I was," I said, leading her back to the gate. "Oh, and by the way," I said, leaning over and whispering into her ear, "you're switching seats with Nigel for the flight."

"Oh…um, okay I guess," she said.

"You don't mind, do you?" I asked, stopping shortly before we reached our group. "I just thought…well, no one else…I mean…Nigel has always been the only one to volunteer, and after this morning, even I couldn't do that to him." I had no idea why I was stumbling on my words, or worse, why I felt the need for the explanation in the first place. The brunette just had that effect on me.

"It's not a problem," she said.

"Flight 2394 for New York, LaGuardia will now be boarding at Gate A18" suddenly came the voice over the speakers. I turned to join the others, but Andrea stopped me, softly placing her hand on my forearm.

"Would you—do you—Miranda, I need to make a personal call before we get on the plane. I'm so sorry, but I will be there in five minutes," she said. I examined her. Yes, something was amiss. I initially thought it may have been due to the way she left me earlier, but it appears something else was going on in her life, maybe the demanding boyfriend Nate.

"Fine, just don't miss the flight," I said, running off with the others.

TBC