[6]

Miranda and Jessica came back a day early, which should have had me elated, but it didn't, it had me freaked. I was expecting them Tuesday morning, not Monday, when Miranda's driver called to tell me they were on the way. I flew to Starbucks, flew to her office with it, and rushed downstairs just in time to see her walking in the front doors of the building.

Any other time, I would have been thrilled to see her, but now all I could think about was my dress, which hung too loosely on me, even when cinched with a belt. All I could think about was the off-the-rack cardigan I wore over it, because the building was chilly, and because my coat, which was even shabbier, was too heavy to wear all day. And all I could think about was my shoes. My shoes, which were clogs.

She strode across the lobby looking me right in the eye, apparently glad to see me, and then she caught sight of my clothing, and her expression became cold. Her eyes made it down to my shoes, and I thought her face would freeze my feet to the floor.

She didn't respond to my 'good morning', to my question about the trip. She didn't look at me, she shrugged away from me as soon as I got her coat off, and she treated me very much as a great disappointment all day.

It hurt and I didn't know how to change it. I couldn't wear Runway's clothes. I couldn't bear her disapproval.

#

On Tuesday, I wore a skirt that fit; it was outdated by Runway standards, but it was still fashionable and it looked good on me. I wore a blouse that was too loose for my slender frame, but it didn't look terrible; it was one of my better blouses. My shoes were some that Nigel had given me a while back, and, though they were chic, they were worn. I didn't look like someone who worked at Runway, really, but it was the absolute best I could do with my wardrobe. And if she was going to be a twelve year-old and pitch a fit, I could at least act mature enough for both of us. I was doing the right thing, after all.

I waited by the elevator. I always saw Miranda right away. Sometimes I ran to peek at her exiting the car, so I could get the elevator timed right if it was a busy morning and lots of people were going up, but mostly I stood and waited and watched as she strode across the lobby, people scattering away from her as though she were an evil warlord.

"Oh for fuck's sake," I said none too softly when I saw her this morning. Miranda was wearing a Dennis Basso fur, and though I really hated the entire concept of fur, it was hard to feel disgust, because Miranda made everything look so good.

"Good morning, Miranda," I said quietly. I held my arm across the elevator door as she entered it.

She turned to me immediately upon the door closing and jerked her head, indicating that I should come closer. "Touch it," she commanded.

I reached out instantly and began rubbing the fur at her shoulder, down her arm.

"Your clothing choice is becoming appalling," she said.

I didn't reply.

"Well? Do you have an explanation? You were wearing decent outfits, and now you look almost as hideous as you did when you first came to Runway ."

Hideous. I stepped away from her. "I'm not taking anything else from the closet."

"Why?"

I didn't reply. Hideous. I stared at the floor.

"Andrea, your insolence is wearing on me. You're here, now. You still work for Runway. Start dressing like it."

I nodded, but didn't look at her or say anything, and I didn't intend to wear anything from the closet.

That entire day, I couldn't look at her. I felt ugly and awkward and I wanted to leave. After Jessica came back with Miranda's lunch, I ran the other errands Miranda had meant for her, not me, just to get away. I took my time about them, and there was a period of time when I was between shops that I thought about just slipping into the crowd and not returning. It was really unsurprising that during this time, Miranda called me. I stared at my phone, but didn't answer. I sat, instead, outside, in the cold, and tried not to think for a while.

When I finally returned, Miranda was at Nina Ricci and wouldn't be at the office the rest of the day. I offered to take the book - Jessica's job now - but she smiled kindly and shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea, Andy," she said. "She's furious that you didn't come back."

#

I wasn't nervous about seeing Miranda this morning, despite Jessica's warning that she was angry. I was tired of her insults. I chose to do the right thing by not borrowing from the closet now that I was a temp, and she rewarded me with hideous. I was ugly to her. Add that to fat and stupid.

This morning, I wore a Chloé wool dress from several seasons ago with dark tights and my Jimmy Choo flat boots which I knew Miranda hated, but they were chic, and they allowed my feet to rest after days of five inch heels. I didn't issue a 'good morning' to Miranda, just stood by the elevator and silently boarded it after her, and pressed our floor. I felt her staring at me, and though I was facing the elevator doors, I kept my head down and away from the reflection in them. I wasn't taking from the closet, and she couldn't force me to. This outfit would have to do for today.

"Andrea," she said.

I straightened. "Yes?" But I didn't turn around.

She grabbed my elbow and whirled me around, astonishing me. "Look at me," she snarled.

I looked in her direction, but not at her. I wasn't trying to be disrespectful; I just found it hard to look at her whenever I disappointed her. She loomed over me again, because I was wearing flats and she wore exaggerated heels. She yanked off her sunglasses. "Look at me."

I couldn't. I tried, but somehow my focus turned entirely away from her then, to the elevator wall. She jerked me hard, so hard that I stumbled, and I did look up at her, in total shock. She held me in place, staring down into my eyes. "Don't ever ignore my phone calls," she said. "No matter how angry you are at me." Something flickered in her eyes. "Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Don't mess this up."

Her face didn't reveal anything. I had no idea what she thought I was messing up. I searched her eyes, but they only seemed to hold a warning.

She pushed me away, then, and looked at my outfit thoughtfully. Before the elevator chimed our floor, she had removed the magenta and gold Hermès scarf from her neck and put it around mine. "There," she said. "Not so hideous."

It was as if she had declared me beautiful, had crowned me queen. I was on a cloud all day, inhaling her scent.

#

The next morning, I stood by the elevator and waited for her in an outfit I had practically worn out last year, one that I knew she was sick of, because she'd made a comment last winter about it. But I was short on clothes.

I had placed her Hermès scarf on her desk when depositing her Starbucks right before coming back down to await her arrival. I was still floating from it, and nothing, no insult could touch me today, because I wondered now whether maybe her insults weren't about me personally, but about the choices I made. My clothes, for instance. My clothes, which were hideous, or which made me look fat. The insults about my intelligence were ridiculous; they weren't about me at all, were they? They couldn't be.

She stalked over in a leather coat and Valentino cashmere dress that played off it both in color and texture, and I found myself staring. "You look… amazing," I told her, when we entered the elevator.

"You still look like an orphan," she said as she eyeballed my clothes. "What are we going to do about that? Oh, I know." And she thrust two bags at me.

One was from Phillip Lim; the other from Jimmy Choo. I looked up at her, my mouth dropped open. "What-?"

"You cannot refuse this, Andrea, it's not borrowing."

I was dumbfounded.

She looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary. "That's for today. Change when we get to the office. You're depressing me with your dreary clothes. I think you might be depressing yourself, too."

I wanted to be indignant, appalled, outraged. But my stupid heart fluttered, and I smiled. "Thank you."

"Oh, a smile," she said. "I thought you had lost the ability."

"You fired me," I reminded her.

"It's not the end of the world. Really, Emily." And she rolled her eyes.

I grinned hugely. It didn't feel so very much like the end of the world at this moment. It would, later, but in the elevator with Miranda so close, everything else, all sense of time seemed to disappear. She had given me something.

"The other clothing will be delivered to your home tonight," she informed me. "I didn't choose your taste." She ran her eyes down my dress and boots. "Although you'll find a few Chanel pieces that should please you. You could have chosen what you prefer from the closet, but you didn't. So what you have instead is what I have chosen for you."

I wanted to tell her that I had chosen what I preferred – my shabby clothes – but that was a lie. That I had chosen what I preferred - working for her. But that was another lie. If I were to choose, there would be no work separating us.