June. A day later.

Across the town, Andy sprayed her morning coffee all over the Stella McCartney's Silk Linen Suits Runway spread.

The magazine landed on Lily's desk with a satisfying thump. She gave a startled squeak, looked up angrily then back down to the paper. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, shit."

"I thought you were my friend!"

"Andy,-" Lily gulped.

"How could you?"

Lily raised her hands. "It wasn't supposed to be that way!"

"Oh, really? I can't believe-"

"Just listen, please." She spoke urgently, not letting Andy interrupt her. "A bald guy shows up, and makes me an offer I can't refuse. Andy, my gallery – a setting for Runway shoot! Do you have any idea how valuable that is?"

"Yes, Lily, I actually do," Andy said through her teeth. "I bet a million of gallery owners would backstab their friends for that opportunity. Like you just did!"

"I did not!" Lily actually had a gall to look offended. "How can you say that? It was not intentional!"

"And that makes it right?" Andy felt tears forming in her eyes.

"No! Of course not!" Lily jumped out of her chair and rounded the desk. She looked at Andy pleadingly. "I didn't realize it would be so…so readable! They were shooting all over the place. Your panel is boring. They seemed so focused on Doug's piggy bank display. And they loved the decapitated teddy bear. I was sure it would be a blur. What could I do? Throw myself over it?"

"Shit, Lily." Andy dropped down on a sofa and buried her head in her hands.

The seat dipped as Lily sat down next to her. She put a tentative hand on Andy's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Andy shook her head.

"When was that shoot?"

"Two weeks ago." At Andy's outraged look she blurted. "I just didn't want to upset you. It seemed so harmless. Miranda never stepped a foot in the gallery. It was all about that bald guy. And he had eyes only for the angles and the lighting and his precious models."

"Still, you should have told me."

"Yeah." Lily shrugged helplessly. "But your panel is so dull; I really didn't think they'd use it."

"Gee, thanks." Andy slumped back.

"You know what I mean."

Andy just nodded dejectedly. They sat in silence for a while.

"Come on, it's not the end of the world, is it?" Lily leaned back next to her and nudged her shoulder.

"No, but…"Andy shook her head. "Oh, hell. Maybe you're right. It was ages ago in Runway time. Obviously, no one even noticed. But, God, what an irony!"

"Yes," Lily licked her lips. "Very ironic."

"And it's not like anyone actually reads the photos. If no one realized so far-"

"Um."

"What?"

Lily cringed. "Miranda was here last night, for a private viewing."

"Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck!" Andy felt, actually felt, the blood draining from her face. "Why did she come? How did she look? What did she say?"

"She looked too scary to ask anything after the May-I-help- you. The look she gave me…" Lily shivered. "Good Lord, Andy, couldn't you fall for someone cuddly?"

"I had cuddly. Didn't work," Andy said distractedly. "Then what happened?"

"She walked straight to your panel."

Andy's shoulders sagged. There goes a brief but uplifting notion Miranda's visit was a pure coincidence.

"And stared. And stared some more. By the time she was done, I think the letters were melting."

"What did she look like?" Andy gulped. "Did she purse her lips?"

"Huh?" Lily shook her head. "I don't know. I was sitting here, hiding behind my screen, pretending as best as I could that she wasn't there and that I wasn't here."

"Then?"

"Then she turned on her heel, marched towards me, and looked at me down her nose, like this." Lily attempted the look. In Andy's opinion, she pulled it off terrifyingly well. "She said the whole exhibition was very contemporary, as it was a monumental display of self-absorbed wallowing."

"She would," Andy snorted.

"You know," Lily said, her voice full of wonder, "she has an amazing insight. Only a few people..."

"Huh?"

Lily shook her head, pushed up from the sofa and walked to the desk.

"And then she gave me this." Lily passed Andy a white envelope. "For the sad, little collection."

Andy stared at the white rectangle, her stomach churning. She glanced at Lily, who shrugged. "Just read it, will you?"

While opening the envelope with trembling fingers, Andy tried to guess at the most probable content. For the collection? Yeah, right.She had no doubt it was aimed at her, whatever it was. At least, she could be certain it wasn't a horse head.

Perhaps, an eviction notice for the gallery? No, Lily appeared too calm for that.

A restraint order for the psycho ex-employee?

Or the long expected You'll-never-work-in-this-city-again?

Finally, Andy unfolded… a sheet of standard office paper. It looked like a photocopy of an abused, crumpled letter. She read the first line.

This is my formal notification that I am resigning from Elias Clarke...

Andy's own signature was scrawled at the bottom. A photocopy of Andy's letter of resignation.

She stared for a minute, incomprehensively. Then she gave a bitter laugh. "My god, she really knows how to twist that knife."

"Yeah." Lily said. "That was my first thought as well, but…"

"No buts about this, Lily. Trust me." Andy took a shuddering breath. "This is a very pointed reminder that I deserve all my wallowing."

"Hmm." Lily perched on her desk and scrunched her nose. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"No, you're right." Andy gulped. "It could be a threat as well. Something like, quit before I have you fired-"

Lily rolled her eyes. "That's so not what I was implying."

"You don't understand!" Andy wailed. "That's the way she operates. Open insults and thinly veiled threats."

"Be that as it may, this is a copy, Andy."

"So?"

Lily studied her with a patronizing smirk. "Even you should know by now that in arts, the technique is as important as the subject."

Andy stared, mouth half opened. Good God, was the snootiness contagious? And what the Hell?WasLily trying to elucidate her in intricacies of Miranda's mind?

She narrowed her eyes. "Lily,-"

"She kept the original. She's using your own method, Andy." Lily said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Perhaps, the message is similar, as well."

That Andy was considering it even for a second, showed the level of her desperation. Crazy.

She shook her head.

"Right. And, sometimes, a urinal is just a urinal."

"Whatever." Lily shrugged, her last shreds of guilt used up far too quickly for Andy's liking. "In any case, I invited her to the closing party next Friday."

"You WHAT? Why? Are you insane?"

"It was only right. All of the contributors are invited." Lily nodded towards the letter in Andy's hand.

The problem with the art historians, Andy mused while donning her high-thighs, was that they were so used to seeing hidden layers of meaning they went looking for them even if there were none.

There could have been several plausible explanations as to why Lily was handed that copy, one perfectly reasonable being that the original was filed with HR department.

But no, Lily was already flying high with her damned theories and references and fucking examples, citing Lichtenstein and Warhol and God only knew who else.

As if she needed one more shot of false hope. Andy angrily plunged her feet in the old, faithful pair of Jimmy Choos. As if she weren't already disseminating every possible meaning behind Miranda's deeds. The last thing she required was the theory to support her pitiful fantasies.

She didn't really expect Miranda to attend the closing party, but she dredged out her best dress just in case.

Andy kept as far away from her damned panel as she physically could. She had snatched a nice little corner for herself in the back of the room, half hidden behind a gigantic plant. A perfect place to observe without being seen.

A respectful crowd was milling around the gallery, spilling out to the street in front. To Lily's obvious delight, there were quite a few faces from the art circles. Even Andy recognized a critic or two.

Of course, mostly it was the socialites herded in by the Runway shoot. If she ever needed a reminder of Miranda's long hand of influence, this was it.

She noticed some fellow contributors as well. It wasn't that difficult to pick them out; they were hovering close to their own exhibits, enjoying their fifteen minutes in the dubious spotlight.

Well, as long as nobody was pointing fingers at her, she didn't give a shit what other people were doing. And thank God, Lily did not put Miranda's contribution on display. Something about it being against the rules.

At least, the whole catharsis thingy seemed to work for Doug. The last time she'd seen him, a handsome blonde was fixing his tie in the other corner of the room.

Andy tried to take another sip of the champagne and found the glass empty. Shit. She put the flute on the shelf, next to the epoxied pile of shredded letters. No alcohol and no Miranda. She might as well leave.

Was she really expecting her to show up? And what would've she done even if Miranda did show?

"Andrea." The familiar voice froze her in place. Her heart stopped, then started beating again. In her throat, at double speed.

She whipped around with an undignified squeak. "Miranda!"

Miranda raised her eyebrow in response.

"You came. Obviously. I mean, I'm glad. Um." Well, that answered that question. She would act like a blabbering idiot, just as she always had.

Miranda regarded her coolly, apparently satisfied to let Andy cringe herself to death. "I did sponsor this, in a way."

"Yes. Of course." Andy bit her lip, harshly, to shut herself up. She wished, fervently, she still had that glass in her hands. At least she wouldn't be wringing them. Shit.

"Not to mention, I simply had to meet the author," Miranda tipped her glass in a general direction of Andy's unfortunate display, "of the piece I so prominently featured."

Andy winced. She knew that tone, the overly sweet pitch that induced a mortal strain of diabetes, reserved for the worst transgressors only, like Jacqueline Follet or Mirada's second husband.

And Andrea Sachs.

They scrutinized each other. Well. No. Miranda did the scrutinizing, her upper lip curled, making Andy feel like a particularly disgraceful bug.

Andy did her best not to twitch. She opened her mouth and promptly shut it. All those things she was planning to say…how could the words just disappear? A look from those half hooded eyes, a purse of those too thin lips and she was gone. Replaced by a gaping simpleton.

While still at Runway, Andy used to rationalize it – and at that time she refused to even speculate what "it" exactly was – as some sort of the Stockholm syndrome. A natural survival technique she'd adopted until out of Miranda's clutches.

Then, immediately after she'd left, she consoled herself It was some kind of post-traumatic disorder; a craving for the stress and the adrenaline Miranda had provided on a daily basis.

Even later, when she knew better, while she was writing her heart out on that panel, she thought It would pass. Lily, after all, had promised the catharsis.

Now, her stomach clenching, her palms sweating, she gave up the hope of ever being cured.

And that was really, really shitty.

She had this silly notion – and seeing Miranda's stone cold expression she realized just how silly it was – that her words would be enough to bury the hatchet, at least. To wipe the slate clean. To forget about the unfortunate misjudgment called Paris.

Miranda's awareness of Andy's…attachment was downright embarrassing, but at least some good should come out of it. Andy's obvious suffering should appeal to Miranda's sense of revenge.

Shouldn't it?

Except, Miranda didn't look pleased. She, in fact, looked thoroughly pissed off.

"Um, about that display-"

"You should stick to writing," Miranda interrupted, giving her a syrupy smile, "obituaries."

"Uh, yeah, haha." Andy attempted a laugh and failed utterly. Did nothing escape that woman? Why the fuck did she have to know about Andy's macabre little niche? "You see-"

"Ironic, isn't it?" Miranda said blithely. "I swore to myself I'd rather cut my hand off than give you a chance to ever publish a single line in Runway."

She licked her lips. "Miranda,-"

She could have guessed pretty accurately how Miranda felt about her leaving in Paris. For months, she had been waiting for the axe to drop. Why do her words hurt so much, then?

"And there I go spreading that sob story of yours all over my spread."

Andy felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She closed her eyes. Not the axe; the execution by mortification. If she ever wondered how Miranda really felt, here was her clue.

"Tell me, Andrea," Miranda said icily, dropping any pretense at a polite conversation. "What was the point of that little exercise?"

"Huh?" Andy blinked. Wasn't that obvious?

"You see, there are only two possible explanations for this…art piece." Miranda spat the last two words. Andy flinched at her disdain. A tiny flare of anger ignited in her belly. Miranda couldn't care less about Andy's feelings, fine. But did she have to be so cruel about it?

The next words almost toppled her over.

"One, and most likely, this was purposely published in Runway." Miranda tilted her head in faked wonder. "I do not believe in coincidences. Are you threatening me, silly girl? Do remind your accomplice of the non-disclosure agreement you had both signed."

"Accompl-" Andy's eyes almost bulged out. She could feel the blood pounding in her temples.

"Or two, I was never meant to see it. Yet another theatrical flinging of the phone in the fountain, Andrea? These dramatic exits get old quickly."

What the fuck? Miranda was slapping her with absurdities so fast, her brain was swaying like a battered boxer. Miranda was pissed off because of suspected foul play? Or was she mad because she was not meant to see it? Why would it bother her? Andy needed a gong. A minute to regroup. Why would it bother her? She needed Lily to wipe the blood off. Anything to stop this barrage.

Miranda, like a true champ, went for the kill. "In any case, both possibilities are equally contemptible. I simply wonder, which is it?"

Andy lashed out desperately. "Or three, maybe it isn't about you at all!"

"Isn't it, Andrea?" Suddenly, Miranda seemed much closer than she was a second ago. Her eyes were glinting only inches from Andy's. "My twenty-four carat gold pen…"

"Twenty-four carat?" Andy croaked, the shock diluting her bewilderment for a second.

Miranda continued, leaning even closer. "My Hermès scarf…or did you think I would not notice that potato on four sticks you have drawn in place of a logo?"

Andy's nostrils twitched. Miranda's perfume, and straight from the source. It was not helping to clear her mind. Why would it bother her?

"And my room number in Plaza Athenee Hotel on that card key."

Andy asked, hating the anxiety in her own voice, "What do you want from me?"

"The truth, for once. Was Nigel in on it?" Miranda waved her hand dismissively. "No, no. In fact, you don't need to answer that. Of course he was. How else-"

Her anger flared back to life. She clung to it, desperately. At least, this horrifyingly unfair accusation was something she could fight against.

"Just wait a-" she said loudly then instinctively dropped her voice to a fierce whisper. "-fucking minute now!"

"You have humiliated me once, Andrea." Miranda's eyes flashed. "Foolishly, I let it slide. No more."

"Nigel had nothing to do with it!" Andy sputtered. She could feel the tears rising. "This was my story to tell! Mine! And god damn it, I will not allow you to belittle it!"

"Why not? You belittled it yourself, when you put it on that display. What's next? A bestseller tell-it-all, by Andy S.?"

"Did you even read the words? Or were you just looking for the fingerprints on that panel?"

"That eulogy? Oh yes, I've read it." Miranda snorted.

"It is so easy to write about the dead things, isn't it?" she continued, her voice full of scorn. "To scribble those polite, fuzzy little exposes, secure in the knowledge there wouldn't be a follow up story."

Miranda gave her a slow, measuring once over, and Andy had a distinctive feeling she was found lacking.

She was misunderstanding something crucial. And some huge, life changing opportunity was passing her by.

"You'll never amount to much, Andrea." Miranda stated with finality. "You might possess the intelligence, the wit, the education. But you don't have the guts."

It was like a punch to the stomach. Miranda's scorn had always hurt worse than her fury.

"Miranda,-" Andy whispered, almost begging.

Miranda raised her hand, silencing her.

"Grow up, Andrea. Or grow a spine. Whichever comes first."

And then, she turned on her heel and walked away.

"Miranda!" Andy cried desperately.

To her shock, Miranda halted.

"The copy of my notice." Andy blurted to Miranda's back the first thing that came to mind. "Why?"

Miranda spoke over her shoulder. "It seemed fitting."

June, a day later

Andy got drunk as a skunk that night. Consequently, she spent Saturday with her head in the bowl.

Sunday, she was downing aspirins and staring at the wall. Thinking.

It took her a while. So long, in fact, that she became intimately familiar with the crack along the door jamb and an antique spaghetti stain.

But, finally, a year too late, everything made sense.

On Monday, she turned up in The Mirror wearing her 3-inch heels, told Bill Garson to go fuck himself and asked for an assignment in same breath.

Her article on New York pet owners was good enough Jake dropped another filler to run it whole.

Her next article, on the recent troubles with graffiti artists, actually drew five hate mails.

Jake was impressed.

When Lily asked her about her recent make-over, Andy told her it was the catharsis.

There was only one more thing left to do.