Miranda pursed her lips upon reviewing the day's schedule. Her own schedule was no worse than usual, but Andréa had scheduled four—four—interviews. And knowing her very competent, conscientious assistant as she did, Miranda knew that those interviews would be extensive and thorough and therefore would also most likely be exhausting for the young woman.
As much as Miranda wanted another assistant in place as quickly as possible, she did not want Andréa risking her health to make it happen. Miranda suspected that the girl, driven by a misplaced sense of guilt and a genuine desire to make Miranda's life easier, would run herself into the ground in an attempt to please the editor. She certainly had in the past, though Miranda had little doubt the motivation was completely different.
The young woman had been ready and waiting for Miranda the requisite fifteen minutes early this morning. Miranda had given her the usual once-over, noting with approval how well the girl wore the bronze silk tank top, elegant loose flowing chocolate-colored slacks, and gorgeous Christian Louboutin stilettos Miranda had selected for her. She assumed Andréa was also wearing the lingerie she had brought, and the thought of luscious curves defined by sheer lace caused heat to surge through her.
Andréa had headed immediately to Hair and Makeup upon their arrival at Runway, returning to Miranda's office with her hair straightened, the last traces of dark circles under her eyes completely concealed, and a light application of blush, lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner. She looked more sophisticated and glamorous, but Miranda was oddly disappointed by the disappearance of the fresh-faced young woman with hair tumbling around her shoulders in loose waves.
As she ate breakfast at her desk, the editor overheard Jessica greet Andréa warmly and respond enthusiastically and gratefully to the suggestions the senior assistant made for dealing with the stickier scheduling issues related to the cover shoot.
"Oh, the first interviewee is due in any second," Miranda heard Andréa say as the editor opened her laptop and brought up the schedule. "Gotta run. See you later."
"Good luck, Andy," Jessica called after her. "Find us a good one!"
And Andréa was gone before Miranda could warn her not to overtax herself.
Following the final interview, Andy made her way back to her desk and sank shakily into her chair. She was exhausted and in considerable pain, but elated.
She had put all four candidates through their paces in an effort to determine which if any possessed the qualities necessary to survive and succeed as Miranda Priestly's assistant—and she believed that one of them, a petite Asian-American go-getter named Laurel, did. Plus Jessica would like her, which Andy knew from personal experience would make the job easier for both assistants. Laurel just needed the stamp of approval from the editor herself.
Andy opened a drawer and fumbled clumsily for the Percocet she had placed there earlier. As she found it, she remembered that its container had a childproof cap. Shit. Jessica was nowhere to be found—Andy assumed Miranda had either dismissed her for the day or allowed her to go until the Book was ready—and Andy refused to bother Miranda, who, if Andy recalled the schedule correctly, was on an international conference call.
With a quiet groan, Andy put her head down on the desk.
Even in the midst of her important conference call, Miranda had been aware the moment Andréa entered the outer office. She was eager to see the girl, to reassure herself that her assistant was all right, and was dismayed to see Andréa practically fall into her chair and, shortly thereafter, lay her head wearily on her desk.
As soon as she hung up the phone, a very concerned Miranda hastened into the outer office.
"Andréa," she said, worry making her voice sharper than she intended.
Andy jerked upright to find her boss standing in front of her, lips pursed. Fuck, Andy thought, tensing in anticipation of a verbal evisceration. What was I thinking, resting my head on my desk like a tired schoolgirl? This is the office of Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of Runway, not an elementary school classroom. "I'm s-sorry, Miranda."
Miranda did not like seeing that look on Andréa's face, which clearly communicated that she was bracing herself for a dressing down the likes of which the editor had not directed her way in months. She liked even less the underlying pallor of her assistant's skin, the clench of her jaw, the tightness around her eyes and mouth, and her obvious exhaustion.
Miranda wanted to shake the girl. She wanted to wrap her in her arms. She wanted to scold her. She wanted to protect her from her own desire to please Miranda at any cost.
Of course, the young woman had no way of knowing that the pursing of lips was as much a reflection of Miranda's irritation with herself as it was her frustration with and worry about Andréa. Miranda should have called Andréa into her office this morning and made her cancel two of those damn interviews.
Miranda exhaled slowly and forced her facial features to relax. Reacting to feelings of helplessness by lashing out in anger was proving to be a hard habit to break, but she was determined to do so.
When she understood that no harsh reprimand was forthcoming, Andy relaxed fractionally. She opened her mouth to report to Miranda on the results of her interviews, but was preempted by the editor's extending an elegant hand toward her. She stared at it in incomprehension until she realized that Miranda wanted the bottle of Percocet.
Miranda took it from Andréa's trembling fingers, twisted off the cap, tipped a pill into her palm, and handed the tablet to Andréa. "I'll get you some water," Miranda said, turning on her heel.
She returned moments later with a bottle of water, which she opened for Andréa before giving it to her.
"Thank you," Andy murmured, then proceeded to down the Percocet under Miranda's watchful gaze.
"Come," Miranda ordered, striding toward her office.
Andy dutifully followed.
The editor pointed to the couch in the corner. "You will rest there while I finish up. I shouldn't be much longer."
"But I still need to—"
"Andréa," Miranda cut her off. "Do not make me repeat myself."
"Yes, Miranda."