Summary/Rating/Disclaimer - found on first entry. +1 to whoever gets the reference to The Philadelphia Story; there's also a lot of Paul Simon references and an excerpt from a Margaret Atwood poem and a line from Tolkien. Julia Fullerton-Batten is a real photographer who I've taken the liberty of fictionalizing.
AN - Sorry for the delay in posting, life has been keeping me busy and these chapters keep growing in depth... If you've made it this far, thank you. Every view or review means more than you (despite my shyness in replying)
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Chapter Nine
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"You lose something? Say a story entitled 'With the Rich and Mighty'?" The voice on the other end of the line asks.
"Oh my Gaultier! I thought I lost it!" Nigel exclaims in relief, motioning for his assistant to close the door on her way out. "Where was it?"
"Mixed in my with papers. That's what happens when you leave your stuff lying about…"
"Thanks for the lecture Mom!" Nigel teases, tucking into this salad at his desk.
"Don't ever call me that again." His boyfriend teases on the other end. "I hope it's not secret, Edward Snowden. I read it. It was good. It was…very good. But then again, I'm a numbers man, so what do I know?"
"Clearly not much if you're with me." Nigel teases. "Are you working late tonight?"
"I can be convinced otherwise…"
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As he talks to his boyfriend about such mundanities as who took the last clean pair of socks and who finished the last of the almond butter, Nigel replies to Miranda's initial email:
ReplyTo: mpriestly
From: nkippling
Subject: Re: Read this now.
M -
Loved it. Needs some shaping, but nothing a decent editor can't do (shame we don't know any ;)
If you don't snap this person up, I shall hunt them down and steal them from your very clutches.
N.
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"Miranda, it's Andy…Obviously it's Andy. You have my number. Don't you? Anyways… I just got this email, and it's like, freaking me out and I don't … are you serious with this? This is a mistake, isn't it? Call me."
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It's not often that Miranda Priestly gives in to bouts of self pity or ennui - but sometimes it all becomes too much. Too many people looking at her to guide them, to strengthen them, inspire them and be consumed by them. As her phone kept lighting up, with calls and messages piling on, she wishes she could disappear, even for a day, from everyone and everything right now. From death and life and fashion and people. So many people. She is loathe to admit it to herself, but even her darling Bobbsies.
She closes her suitcase and sighs. Looks like she may get her wish, even if it's just for a little while anyways. She goes downstairs and wordlessly enters the car, watching without seeing as her driver loads the suitcases and bags in the trunk.
She finally returns Andrea's call from the back of her car, stuck in traffic. How there's traffic in between rush hours, she'll never understand - what do these people do with their lives? Shouldn't they be working? Shouldn't they be at home tending to they children, their spouses, their education? Shouldn't they be anywhere but in her damned way? She supposes she should be grateful for the opportunity to call Andrea back before she arrives at the airport.
She looks at her phone, as if willing herself to move her fingers, to call the other woman. Instead, she looks out the window, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. Everything is moving slowly, even her thoughts and feelings. It takes a moment to realize that the phone is ringing. "Yes?" She doesn't bother to look.
"Hi." The voice on the other end is tentative and full of concern.
"Andrea."
"Caroline told me. How are you?"
"Fine, yourself?"
"Miranda." The tentativeness is gone, replaced by a mild level of exasperation. She can however still hear the concern. She is taken, for a moment, by the red 'Silvercup Studios' sign. You don't see that type of signage anymore. So ubiquitous when she had first arrived here in New York. How long ago was that? What was that even like? Who was she now compared to that bright, young creature, hand-in-hand with her best friend. "I'm sorry Andrea, I was lost in thought for a moment. What did you say?"
"Nothing Miranda. I didn't say anything. I just… wanted to see how you were."
"I don't quite know…how I am." Or how to talk about it, she thinks to herself.
"Did you want me to come over? I can bring a coffee and you can tell me it's not hot enough."
"Actually yes." She scoffs at herself. "Unfortunately, I'm on my way to the airport. The girls are already on her way down."
"Miranda, are you sure?"
"Am I sure what, Andrea?" She asks, her voice bitter with frost.
"Nothing. I…I'm sorry."
"They were both…extraordinarily kind to me. He is…was…the closest thing to a father I had. And Greg, and the girls…" If she allowed herself, she could breakdown crying, sobbing even, not just at Peter's death, or his widow's life without him. She could cry tears for Greg being fatherless, or her children losing their only grandfather. Miranda allowed herself almost every luxury but the luxury of tears, aware of the knowledge that once they began, they could never end, as she could cry for so many reasons, so many people… "Let's talk of something else. You received an email from Leticia?"
"We can talk about that later…"
"Actually we can't -" The car begins to speed up, they've cleared the traffic. "I had hoped to brief you in person, I like to meet my new writers before their assignments, mainly to reassure myself they aren't completely incompetent." Her voice clears, grows stronger, more in charge. She can do this. She can be the Devil for a little bit, even if it is with her...Andrea. "Your short story - it had a voice that we don't hear often. It's not just my opinion, but the opinion of others, others I trust and-"
"What?! Miranda, I shared that in private -"
"You wanted to be a writer Andrea. It's good. It's very good. I'm not the right editor for it, but I suspect you'll hear from Mr. Curtis' assistant soon."
"Like, when you say Mr. Curtis?"
"C. Michael."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh." Miranda picks a spot of invisible lint off her skirt and flicks it to the floor. She had assumed Andrea would be more excited. She showed more enthusiasm over a damn slice of chocolate cake instead of this opportunity.
"Miranda…I care for you very much, but we need to talk about this."
"Isn't that what we're doing now?"
"No, I mean, in person."
"Well that's not going to be possible for a few days Dear." Her voice takes on an airy lilt. She needs to be the Devil again for a little bit longer. "In the meantime, I have a proposition. A writer's dropped out, some nonsense about rehab or something. We've an interview with Julia Fullerton-Batten set. We've tried to reschedule it, but she'll be in town to do this before she goes off backpacking somewhere remote for months and months. I want this so that it's ready to go to coincide with her new series." She didn't want to talk to Andrea any longer. There were too many emotions rising up, too many thoughts swirling around her mind and she can't share them now, when she's expected to step out in public in just a few moments. She isn't sure she'd ever be able to share them with the other woman. What does a woman Andrea's age know of death? She knows it isn't a fair thought, but then life's not fair, nor is she at times "I've got to go Andrea. We may not get a chance to speak for a few days,"
"Miranda please -"
Miranda struggles for a moment but slips her glasses on and takes a breath. "Bye bye Andrea."
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The airport is practically rural and nearly empty, but all she can see is her family. Her daughters with their suitcases at their feet, and Greg, between them. The girls rise, hearing her heels clack on the floor, and greet her with hugs. They step away and watch as their parents embrace, awkwardly. "Miranda, it's good of you…"
"I'm sorry it's not under better circumstances. Bobbsies, can you find a Starbucks?" She looks at their girls and expertly dismisses them with an errand as Mother and Father watch on. "I am sorry Gregory. How is Susan?"
"Mother's good. You know her, hearty New England stock and all that. Stephanie's with her now."
"Is she alright with…me?"
"You being here? Miranda, you're the girl's mother, and let's be honest, I think my parents like you more than they like me at times."
"I can't blame them, can you?" She remarks, raising an eyebrow and struggling to keep her lips from curling up.
"No. Stephanie on the other hand is…nervous. She's heard a lot about you. Please, try to be nice."
"If the girls are to be believed, she's an improvement over the last one. We'll see what I can do." She spies the girls down the hall, one carrying a tray. "Now," She takes a step back and peers at her ex-husband, "And I mean it, how are you?" He smiles and shrugs. "My father's gone."
"Yes dear, he is." She smiles sadly and clasps his hand in hers. "But he had a hell of a life before he left."
An hour into the two hour drive to Greg's parent's house the girls are curled up in the back seat, asleep like children. "You keep looking at your phone." He notices. "Do you want to call him?"
"Him?" Miranda asks, only half paying attention, staring at the last text from Andrea before they lost service in middle of nowhere.
"The girls said you're dating someone."
"The girls have very active imaginations."
"So you're not?"
"I…don't know what it is we are doing Gregory."
"Still, sure you don't want to call him?" He asks, "I promise I won't listen in."
"Drive." Miranda commands.
"Yes ma'am."
A few minutes pass, maybe five, maybe fifteen - it's hard to mark the passage of time with the flatness of the desert surrounding them and Paul Simon softly playing, when Greg looks at her. "Do you remember the trip we took, what, fifteen, sixteen years ago?"
"How could I forget? I had to call in for my messages in every road stop between New York and here. I practically had to turn tricks for quarters in... Somewhere in the middle."
"The girls, they remind me of that trip, knocked out in the back. I miss them when they were that age. I miss you." He looks down and takes her hand in his.
"Good Lord Greg, this isn't a late-in-life conversion, is it?" She looks at him, he's still handsome, his hair is still thick, but getting lighter and grayer.
"Well, one of us is a year later-in-life than the other, aren't we?" Greg teases, letting go of her hand. "I found all these photos at the house yesterday, and it made me wonder, do you ever forget the fights and the words and just remember when we liked each other enough to think that getting married was a good idea? Do you remember what it was like to be friends? Because I miss you, I miss my friend 'Randi."
"Gregory Priestly don't you dare!" Miranda exclaims, half laughing, half horrified. "You swore you would never, ever say that name again!"
"I not only swore, I had to initial that clause in our divorce papers!" He remarks, shooting her a twinkling smile.
"I could sue you for breach of contract!" She threatens, shooting him her best glare.
"I'm not afraid of you 'Randi!"
"Stop it! Stop it right now! You know how much I hate it!" She practically whines. That name, that name is so far removed from who and what she is now. How many names did she go through? How many versions of herself? Where and when will it stop?
"How can you hate it? It was who you were! You were my Randi! You were my best friend. You were my…and this is going to sound trite, so please forgive the sentiment, but you were … my everything. You made me feel like I could do anything. That WE could do anything."
"And we did."
"And we did. We took on the world and won, so to speak. So what happened to us?"
"We grew up. As all children must."
"But why?"
"If I knew, I'd be a better…everything."
"You're a great everything Miranda."
"That's a lie."
"Yes it is. But you are pretty fantastic at a lot of things. You became an exceptional mother, after a while. You were and still are, undoubtedly one the most shrewd humans I've ever known, you're a phenomenal editor -"
"But I'm a lousy wife and friend."
"Well…one more than the other. I'll tell you a secret. Just between us. When Mother called, when I got the call about -" He can't say the words just yet. "The first person I wanted to see wasn't Stephanie (and don't you DARE tell her, otherwise Page Six'll get wind of 'Randi') but you. I wanted to see you. I felt like I was a kid again and all I wanted was for my best friend to tell me it's all going to be alright, and it was a mistake and…" His voice dies as the thoughts end.
They drive for a bit, listening to the familiar songs on the car stereo. Just like the road trip they took as a family fifteen years ago. The one where they started out as a family and ended fractured and alone.
Miranda looks out the window, at the flatness of it all and feels empty. Openness has always this effect on her. So did Paul's voice, always so wistful at the possibilities of what could have been, always so light despite the weight of his words. 'And I know a father who had a son' Paul Simon sings to them, and she doesn't look look at Greg, but wordlessly reaches out and places her hand atop his. It's been so many years. So many tears. But she can't begrudge him this small comfort. 'He longed to tell him all the reasons for the things he'd done, he came a long way just to explain, he kissed his boy as he lay sleeping, then he turned around and he headed home again' "I miss him. And it's not just him…" Greg begins. "I miss…so much. I miss who we were together, and who we were apart and I miss fishing with him and I miss the girls being so young and not being there for their first…well everything."
"I remember your parents telling me one night after you'd gone to bed" She begins, "That every generation feels like they're the first to ever feel…everything. Anything."
"It…sounds infuriatingly like them."
Signs of life begin to appear in the distance. They're almost at the Priestly's estate. First other cars, then lights, then buildings. The sun has stained everything orange and red and darkness has begun to creep into the east and casts the shadow over the sprawling, low building at the foot of Mt. Lemmon. They drive up to the garage and Greg turns off the motor of the car and they take a moment and a breath, "So here we are again…" he smiles up at her softly before turning back and gently nudging the girls awake.
It's a flurry of activity from there on out. There's bags to be unloaded, grandparents and ex-in-laws and new wives and old relatives to meet, rooms to be arranged and dinner to help with and so much more. The gathering of family was meant to be more of an Irish wake than a staid funeral, Susan said that's how her husband wanted it. It had been so long that their house was filled with family and friends, it was a shame Peter wasn't around to enjoy it, she admits, shrugging as she leads Miranda to the last of the guest rooms. "Stay," Miranda says, inviting her former mother-in-law to stay with her as she unpacks, as she changes from her travel clothes. "You look like you haven't had a minute to yourself."
"Should everyone be so lucky to be surrounded by love." Susan admits, opening the patio door and stepping outside, glancing at the stars. "It's…hard though," She begins, her back to Miranda, "To think he won't see these stars again. Thank you, by the way, for sending the girls down last summer."
"They're women now, Susan. I didn't send them anywhere." Miranda admits, taking a look at the missed call from Andrea before putting her phone face down and making her way to the patio.
The two women stand there - each lost in their thoughts, each looking out at the darkening sky, at the twinkling stars, listening to the guests downstairs.
"I suppose we should go back down," Susan sighs after a while, not quite moving.
"I never do anything I'm supposed to. It's part of my allure." Miranda comments, smirking at the older woman. "But in your case, I'll make the exception."
"It's good to have you back." The older woman laughs, looking at the woman to her right, clasping her hand tight.
"It's…good to see you too. I… You and Peter were both exceptionally kind to me, Susan. Better than you should've been and I-"
"Miranda, no. No more of that. No 'shoulds' in love."
"But you -" She struggles to keep her voice steady. "You were both, better to me than my own parents, and I left."
"You left. Do you think that makes it mean less?"
"No, but it wasn't fair. I wasn't fair."
"Not to Peter and myself, no. But we still loved you. And do love you. And understand. You and Greg were in a bad place, and if I can be honest, he was a bit of a shit." The women both laugh. "But he grew up, and I suspect Miranda, you have too. If you haven't, then…" She sighs. "You have bigger issues."
Miranda wonders, she's grown older, but has she grown up?
"You're thinking too deeply. I'm the newly widowed one of us, remember?" Susan teases.
"I'm just thinking. Why do people leave?"
"People, Miranda? Or you?" She lets that one sink in for a moment. "There is this idea that people are around us forever, but they're not - not even the memories are. So give it all away Miranda. The love and the feelings. Send it out to the world, and maybe someone will remember a fragment, a piece of it. Now, are you going to answer your phone?"
"What? Oh." Miranda realizes her phone is vibrating in her pocket. Andrea no doubt. She slips her hand in and silences it. "How did you hear that?"
"New hearing aid. Advantage of getting older than time."
They head down together, arm in arm, and spend the night remembering the life of the man who brought them together.
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Miranda doesn't sleep that night, not well anyways. She finds herself on the futon on the balcony, wrapped in a chic cashmere wrap, and when the desert gets colder, the blanket from the bed. She dozes off and on as she is watching the stars and thinking. Stars were the constant in her life. From her youth to tonight, no matter where on Earth she found herself, no matter what she was doing, the stars were her only constant, her only true friends. She isn't getting any younger, and yet, here she is wondering the same questions she wondered as a child, as young woman - who was she, really? And what did she want? It's one thing to act as if you know, and another thing to actually know these things. She presses the voicemail button on her phone and listens once more to the message:
"Hi Miranda, it's me. I… just wanted to say good night. I…miss you. Not in a needy way. Just in a normal, healthy level of ... missing. I don't want to interrupt your family time, so I just wanted to call and say good night, and I miss you and call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
Oh, the topic of Andrea. Andrea who's heart she had to break. That much Miranda knows. How could she not break her heart? There was no way out without it. Andrea was too young, too earnest, too invested - too…dangerous. What she wouldn't give to see the other woman right now. To curl up into her arms and just be still. To hear her heart beat, to hear her breathe.
She listens to the voicemail once more.
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The next few days fly by in a whirl of memories and preparations and more togetherness than Miranda, or even her children are comfortable with. The Priestly women are nothing if not tight knit and independent, relying on themselves and if need be, each other, but very rarely others. The nights however, seem to crawl by for Miranda, who catches up on work from Peter's desk in the den, while everyone mills about reminiscing. She stays there until the last person has gone to bed, until the last ember in the fire place dies out and the desert chill forces her up to her bedroom and at last she has to face herself and her phone. Her phone that has been lighting up like a pinball machine all day, with messages from anyone and everyone except for the one person she wants to hear from.
Andrea, true to her implied word, has kept quiet - 'Silly Girl,' Miranda thinks to herself one night, washing her face, distracted from her normal routines. When has she ever done what was right? What was expected? It's entirely too infuriating. She should call her, give her a piece of her mind. Except… What's the point? Isn't she going to end it? Isn't that what this radio silence on her end is? A means of widening the gulf between them - making it easier on herself in the long run? She's so lost in thought that she doesn't hear the phone's first ring, or it's second. She doesn't know what number it's on, but when she realizes, she quickly taps the 'answer' button to be greeted by silence. "Andrea?" She finally speaks, "It's customary to speak when you call someone."
"I'm sorry Miranda - I just…"
"What's wrong? Why are you up so late?"
"I was working. I missed you. I couldn't sleep. Take your pick." The younger woman scoffs quietly. "How's everything there?"
"Oh, as good as can be, I suppose." Miranda turns off the light and crawls into bed. "Susan's handling it all very gracefully - but I worry when we leave. I may, and I'm speaking not to her boss, but to my…" What was Andrea to her, anyways? "But I may see if the girls would be willing to stay a day or two after we all leave, just make sure. Gregory's wife isn't awful, and it hurts me to admit that. I know she's not my stand in, but still. At least she's past puberty."
"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" Andrea teases, and for a moment, Miranda can swear she can see the smile spread across the other woman's face. She settles into the pillows and huffs. "That is quiet enough from the peanut gallery, thank you very much."
"Why, threatening to trade me in for a younger model?"
"I will hang up Andrea."
"I miss your voice." The honesty cuts to Miranda's core. Could she really give up this woman? And if so, at what cost to herself?
"I'll be back soon." Miranda promises, her voice dropping down to a whisper. "Now, it's entirely too late for you, and without your brilliant intern to do your work for you, you'll be forced to fetch your own coffee tomorrow. Don't you think you should get some sleep?"
"I told you, I can't." The voice on the other end confesses.
"No, neither can I." She sighs.
"Want me to sing to you?"
"I can live without that."
"Are you sure? The audience that applauds in my head when I sing in the shower thinks I'm great!"
"I bet." She tries to ignore the warmth the sources through her body at the thought of Andrea in the shower.
"You're thinking of me in the shower, aren't you?" She laughs, "Close your eyes Miranda."
"I…am not, we are not…doing this." She can feel a blush spread all across her body.
"No, we are not. But I am asking you to close your eyes for a moment." She waits a moment. "Are they closed?"
"Yes Dear." She tries to ignore how natural that was. It seems Andrea has a nickname in her heart. Dear. How, very quaint and old fashioned.
" I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen." She begins, her voice a near whisper. "I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head…"
Andrea continues and before long, she has reached the end, and Miranda's breathing has leveled off, and Andrea can only suspect the other woman has fallen asleep. She whispers good night and hangs up the phone, somehow suspecting that she may get some sleep after all.
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The next morning Miranda wakes up - and though it takes a moment to recall why the phone is stuck to her face, she does, and it makes her smile. She's done all she can do right now and there's somewhere else she should be. She buys her ticket home (because truth be known, she can, in fact function without the aide of two assistants and a full staff) and readies herself and makes her way downstairs for breakfast.
Goodbyes are eventually said, hugs and kisses exchanged, and even a promise between Susan and Miranda to speak, to write, to visit more often. Before she knows it, she's alone in the car with Greg.
They make it about 12 minutes before Greg speaks. At first it's about the weather. Then the last trip he took. Then the girls. Anything. She had forgotten how much he hated silence. Maybe that was one of their (many) incompatibilities? "Why don't you say it Greg?" She finally speaks, giving in to his need for conversation.
"Say what?"
"Whatever it is you're dancing around. The time you told me you were cheating, you gave me a play-by-play of all 9 innings of a baseball game before you got to the point."
"By which time you had already packed a bag."
"Yours." She arches an eyebrow over her newest pair of sunglasses.
"Oh, you're slipping, Randi. I used to be afraid of that look. The withering glance of the goddess."
"I'll try harder to instill a sense of terror into you next time." She teases.
"Please do." He laughs, "Do you remember how excited we used to get?"
"Over?"
"Over everything. Over music and museums and books and designers and science and politics and food."
"Vaguely." She answers cautiously, unsure of where this is going.
"I… miss that. Maybe I'm just getting old, but you were the best friend I ever had, Miranda. And I'd like to work on getting back there. Seeing if we can be friends again. We liked each other at one point didn't we?"
"We loved each other. Completely." She feels her chest constrict at the thought of what that was like, complete and utter love and surrender to another person. All she remembers is the pain. But there more - there had to be. "I don't know if I want to be friends Greg. I don't know if I remember how."
"It's a simple as this, isn't it?" He asks, "Speak to each other? Share news? Maybe dinner with the girls, and Stephanie? And whoever your mystery man is?"
"It's not a mystery." She scoffs, blushing.
"You can't hide anything from me Randi. That's the danger of your deathly pallor."
"Go to hell." She laughs, throwing the lid from her San Pellegrino in his direction.
"Only if you're there with me!"
"Together through thick and thin and eternal damnation?" She asks.
"So it seems." He shrugs.
She looks at him, and in the glare of the desert sunshine, she sees every version of Greg all at once: the boy she met in London, so many years ago, and the husband he was, and the father he is, and the man he eventually became. And she realizes, if she was going to have to be stuck with a friend she never asked for, she could do worse than this one right here.
"I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things."
"You know, Randi, I forgot you were a big, fat nerd."