4.

James Bond: Do you expect me to talk?
Goldfinger: No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!

"Godlfinger"

Andy rarely enjoys her meals any less than she does it in a small café, in the middle of Paris, across the street from La Tremoille. As she chews on a piece of baguette, she studies Miranda's schedule, paying close attention to every item on it for the first time since this whole nonsense has began. However, no matter how carefully she looks, she can't see anything there, which even remotely sounds like "five minutes available for listening to the former assistant on the subject of evil plots." Instead, there are show attendances, a breakfast with Runway France staff, a private cocktail party…

Shit. How is she supposed to do it? It was practically impossible to get Miranda's attention while Andy was still her assistant. And now?! Andy snorts mirthlessly. She can just imagine herself being hauled away by a couple of security guards to the sounds of Miranda's soft but deadly murmur, "If I am to be accosted in Paris, a capital of the fashion world, mind you, could it be by someone skinnier and with more fashion sense than--," mouth twists in disgust, "this? Am I reaching for the stars here?"

Andy's palms are damp again, and she wipes them on the ends of her yellow scarf. God, she hates Miranda Priestly.

And on top of it all, the damn woman may very well know the danger her position at the magazine is in at the moment. And she may very well have already taken necessary measures to protect the said position.

Andy frowns and for a moment allows herself to think about a pint of Ben and Jerry. (Do they have Ben and Jerry's in France?) And screw the size four ass, she's been maintaining since leaving Runway. It's precariously close to expending back into six as it is, considering the way her career has been going lately.

Andy inhales and exhales. Isn't it why she is here? Her career and all? So. So--

She stares at the schedule some more. It's not that she discount the necessity of networking per se, it's just she has very serious doubts that Miranda Priestly could ever be a part of her, Andy's, network. Saving act or not. Andy rubs her forehead – the woman, probably, despise her so much she'd personally hand the Runway to Jacqueline Follet before having lunch with Andy. Well, may be not so much. Still--

Andy glances at her team, who, oblivious to her conundrum, chats happily, consuming their lunches. Thankfully, they has stopped staring at her in expectation that she is about to send them into a battle or, at the very least, reveal something earth shattering about their idol. So. Andy sighs and swallows the last piece of her sandwich. Then she says, "Okay, let's do it," and three pair of eyes are on her at once. God, it's going to be a very long weekend.

"Okay," she repeats, "here's what we'll do. You," she looks between Ashley and Jake, "go to the lobby," she nods toward La Tremoille, "and see if there is a lounging area, or a bar, or something, where we can stay without drawing attention." Because, really, if one wants to speak to a person, staring at them from across the street isn't all that conducive to the task at hand.

"Then," Andy continues, "get on the phone and call anyone you can think of, who works or has any access to any of these venues," she slides her finger along Miranda's the schedule, "or can score an invitation." She looks thoughtfully at Ashley, who grins widely in return, nods several times, and hops of the chair. Under the weight of her enormous Mark Jacobs bag, hanging on the armrest, the chair falls sideways, and the content of the bag pours out. The girl, the grin never leaving her face, hurriedly stuffs everything back in. There is a lot of junk there, but no pom-pons. Andy shrugs and, as she watches Ashley walk right into an unoccupied table on the way out, thinks that may be the girl didn't make that squad after all. Well, what are you going to do - sometimes enthusiasm is simply not enough. Meanwhile, Ashley already is pulling Jake across the street, disregarding honking and brake screeching, and Andy feels that it's going to be a very, very long weekend.

Suppressing the urge to sigh, she turns to Doug. "You have to tell me everything, and I mean, every little detail, you know about the whole Miranda business."

Without chewing Doug swallows in one gulp the remainder of his food, which appears more than his esophagus can safely handle. The tears fill his eyes, and Andy winces in sympathy. But Doug recovers quickly and proceeds with the report.

It is actually very clever, Andy has to admit, the way Irv and Co. are going about it.

Alexandra Rizzo, the fashion director for Runway Italia, will come to New York to take over the Runway while Miranda enjoys her worry-free honeymoon. Of course, all the attention is going to be on Signora Rizzo, and, if there are any suspicions about Miranda being ousted, everyone will assume that it is the Italian, who will get the Editor-in-Chief's job. But in fact, she is going back to Rome as soon as Miranda returns. There is a different person Ms. Priestly should worry about, namely Anna Wintour, the rising star of the Australian fashion publishing world, who's been at the head of Australian Glamour magazine for the last three years.

"Australian?" Andy looks at Doug. "How? And if it is such a big secret, how come you know about it?"

Quite by accident, it appears, because no one knows about Ms. Wintour coming to New York. Well, almost no one.

"My buddy, the one from research," Doug explains, "had lunch with his friends, and they were all complaining about long hours and bosses' outrageous requests."

That, Andy thinks bitterly, she can write volumes about, and nobody will be able to say she has no access to the right information.

"And they all have stuff to tell."

Andy fights a sneer – have any of those wooses worked for Miranda Priestly?

"So, one of the guys tells them about his girlfriend, who works for a very exclusive real estate agency that serves only corporate accounts. And this girlfriend of his has been assigned to find a house for someone from Australia. At first, she doesn't think it's going to be a problem – she's worked with plenty of high-end long-distance anonymous buyers. However, later it turns out this client, on top of the right neighborhood, a certain number of bedrooms, separate servants' quarters, and so on and so forth, expects that "the house speaks to them." And they are very particular about it."

"What?" Andy puts her cup down and looks at Doug.

"Yes." Doug shrugs. "That's actually how my buddy got a wind of the whole thing."

Andy continues to look at him, flummoxed.

"See, this Ms. Wintour apparently wants other things to speak to her too – magazine covers, gowns--. It's been kind of her request of choice, and she is adamant about getting it satisfied. People in the business know. So does my buddy. He puts two and two together and starts digging. And, here we are."

Andy still thinks about the poor real estate girl, while Doug and she leave the café and head to La Tremoille. It's really hard to say what's worse – "find a house that 'speaks to me'" or "get me a copy of an unpublished Harry Potter". It is a tough call.

Half of the hotel's enormous lobby is a lounging area, filled with coffee tables and elegant armchairs. Ashley and Jake have found a rather good spot to station, with a view of the entrance and the elevators. There is enough people, sitting around, reading newspapers or talking, for Andy and her troops to remain inconspicuous. That is what Andy thinks until Ashley notices Doug and she come in, and jumps up from her seat, grinning and waving her both hands wildly.

"Here! Over here!" she hisses in kind of loud, dramatic whisper. A number of people turn to look at the girl, then at Andy and Doug, and Andy has to clamp her mouth shut, before a string of choice words makes it out.

Then, she wants to flee.

But she doesn't. She breathes deeply in and out her nose, and stomps to Ashley, whose grin is withering, the closer Andy is getting.

"Hi," the girl utters carefully, when Andy reaches the table. "Um--" she furrows her brows, as if she's forgotten what she is going to say, and, finally, thankfully, sits down.

Andy sits down too and takes a long, shattering breath – it's going to be a very, very, very long weekend.

For the next half an hour, while Doug, a BlackBerry in hand, catches up on his messages (talking about long working hours), and Jake and Ashley quietly (thanks, God) make phone calls or discuss people, who might be of help, Andy studies the surroundings and mulls over her options.

Can she intercept Miranda here, in the lobby? Could she go up to the woman's suite? Should she try and get her on the hotel phone or leave a message for her with the concierge? And what exactly is she going to say?

Andy hasn't made a decision yet, when, according to the schedule, it is time for Miranda to go to the Valentino show. As if on cue, Miranda storms out of the elevator followed by a skinny, tall girl with harassed, exhausted look on her face. The pair rips through the lobby, people scatter before them. Andy, her hands gripping the scarf once again, pauses in almost admiration – she's completely forgotten what a force of nature Miranda Priestly is. But then a more sobering thought comes to her mind – unless she plans to make a spectacle of herself, she won't be able to approach the woman on the move like this. Impossible.

Unfortunately, Ashley thinks differently. "Look!" she grabs Jake's shoulder, "look, it's her!" And then, to Andy's complete horror, she shouts, "Miranda! Miranda! Miranda Priestly!"

The woman halts, the girl behind her barely avoids the collision, and swiftly turns. Her gaze skids around the room until it stops on Andy. Then, her eyes narrow.

God help me, Andy thinks, breaking in sweat. She is on her feet before she really has a chance to consider her actions. Probably, she should start with "I am sorry" and take it from there. But she only has time to make several steps toward the woman (for some reason, Andy is sure that screaming 'sorry' across the lobby won't endear her to her former boss), when Miranda's grimaces, turns, and continues on her way out.

Surprised (if not somewhat relieved) Andy looks around and freezes. Standing next to her is her whole team - Ashley, wide grin on her face, both hands in the air, Jake and Doug, both smiling and waving. Oh, god--.

Suppressing a moan, Andy turns to see Miranda and her assistant, already on the sidewalk, getting into a car. Then, she moans. Just fucking great.

And yet, she knows it is going to get even greater as she notices a hotel clerk approaching her team. His grimace may rival Miranda's.

Well, it's going to be a very, very--, oh forget it, this fucking weekend will never end.

…

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A/N Thank you for reading and reviewing.

The TDWP site. Yes, I know about it. But since I don't have an LJ account, I have no way of posting there.