A/N: Gaah! JUST made it! Sorry if this is coming later than usual; my computer thought it would be a lovely time to go completely crazy. I lost pretty much all my documents, including this chapter. I took it to the store for data recovery, but they weren't able to get it done today, so I just rewrote this entire thing. It has not been reviewed as well as I would have liked, so please forgive any mistakes you happen to encounter. Once again, thank you so much for reviewing/favoriting/following, I hope you all are enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I'll shut up now!
~Naralanis
Alexandra Saxton: The Woman Behind the Myth
Vogue's very own Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour had the wonderful opportunity to sit down with the one and only Alexandra Saxton for an exclusive, first-of-its-kind interview. This unprecedented development right during this year's London Fashion Week caught us all by surprise. Alexandra Saxton has had a meteoric rise since her inception seven years ago, and has so far held her own with even the most established, well-known fashion houses in the world. Follow along her first interview and discover the wonder that is Alexandra!
Anna Wintour: Well, this is certainly exciting. It's so nice to put a face— and such a lovely face! to the name we have heard over and over for the past few years. Let me please thank you again for this interview—what a development!
Alexandra Saxton: My pleasure; it was a bit sudden, but I'm happy to be here.
AW: Sudden indeed. Now, you know we're going to absolutely grill you here, but you can't blame us; the unveiling of Alexandra Saxton is big news!
AS: Oh, God. Hit me, I'm ready— I hope!
AW: Well, for starters; your name. Alexandra Saxton; it is an alias, correct?
AS: Correct.
AW: What would your real name be? In other words, what should we call you?
AS: Haha, Alexandra is just fine. My real name is Andrea, but when it comes to fashion it's always Alexandra— it's like I developed another personality!
AW: That is so interesting! Well, since we're talking fashion, we'll stick to Alexandra— the name that absolutely everybody knows you by. Young lady, you're a phenomenon, are you aware of that?
AS: (laughs) I had an inkling…
AW: Should be more than that by now. The world loves your clothes! But why the secrecy?
AS: Well… It's kind of a funny story. When I started, I didn't think anyone would like my designs, and I had a couple of… Eh, acquaintances in the fashion industry, so I didn't want to go over their heads. Plus, I had another career at the time; I didn't want any overlap.
AW: It is beyond my why you would think that no one would 'like' your designs… I think I speak for everyone when I say we're all obsessed!
AS: Yeah, that was such a surprise. I had no idea it would turn into this, this massive, world-wide, wonderful thing.
AW: You said you had 'acquaintances' in the fashion industry; as well as another career. Can you explain?
AS: Oh, wow, that's a long story. Before I started designing like crazy, I was a journalist. Well, not quite a journalist, more like a cub reporter, I had just started when I realised that path was wrong for me. I was enamoured with words, but I was swept off my feet by clothes!
AW: And your fashion friends…?
AS: Oh, right! After I graduated from university, I was desperate to find a job in New York. You know the drill; wholesome mid-western girl trying her luck in the big city— it was brutal. I sent resumes everywhere, with no luck. Then, finally, I scored an interview at a magazine; a fashion magazine, to work as an assistant. It really wasn't what I wanted— I had no interest in fashion back then — but I was desperate.
AW: Not interested in fashion? You? That's hard to imagine.
AS: (laughs) I know, I know… If someone back then had told me I'd be where I am now, I'd have them committed! But, here I am.
AW: Here you are! Now, you know you have to indulge us here; which magazine did you interview for? Certainly not Vogue; I don't think I could live with myself if I had let you go!
AS: No, not Vogue, don't worry! I interviewed for a junior assistant position to the Editor of Runway.
AW: Oh, my God. You mean you worked for Miranda Priestly?
AS: Yes, Ma'am. She conducted the interview herself and ended up hiring me. Well, actually, she dismissed me first— I made a pretty bad first impression— but for whatever reason called me back and the rest is history.
AW: Sorry, I'm still processing that you worked for Miranda. She has quite a reputation with her treatment of her assistants… So rare to see one alive!
AS: (laughs) Well, she does occasionally let them live! Though she didn't exactly let me go; I quit.
AW: Not surprising, dear, it's a gruelling existence, or so my sources tell me!
AS: Well, it was tough. But then again, I suppose it's how it should be: you and Miranda have reputations due to your demand for excellence, so it really is sink or swim.
AW: That is true. (laughs) You know you're making me miss my first deadline in twelve years, young lady?
AS: Whoops. Sorry!
AW: No apology necessary, dear. I bet Miranda is just green with en—
Miranda crumpled the pages of that blasted magazine in fury after reading that damn interview for the umpteenth time, not bothering to finish it. She worked to calm her breathing as she glanced at the muted television in her room. It seemed to be stuck on a continuous Alexandra Saxton loop, showing the reveal, the subsequent luncheon and reception— both of which Miranda had deliberately refused to attend, choosing to barricade herself in her hotel suite instead, with the company of the finest malt whisky money could buy. The news were currently showing Andrea getting into a black car, swamped by the paparazzi who followed the vehicle for miles even. It looked like something out of a movie.
"Miranda, are you still there?" called a voice from the speakerphone.
"Where else would I be, Stanley?" she retorted curtly, quickly composing herself.
"Sorry, it sounded like I had lost you for a bit there." Stanley said good-naturedly. Miranda had to hand it to him, he was taking all of this mess remarkably well. Certainly better than she was, because there was no chance in hell he would drown his sorrows and humiliation with the exquisite taste of a couple of decades' worth of Macallan. It was his loss, really— it did the job wonderfully.
Stanley Walsh was 'Irv 2.0', as Nigel liked to call him. Miranda understood the nickname, but refused to associate one with the other, simply because Stanley had something Irv's little brain was incapable of accomplishing: he had vision. More importantly, he didn't meddle with her budget willy-nilly, and that was a great first step in guaranteeing at least a civil working relationship with the Fashion Queen. He understood the decisions and the risks Miranda had to take to keep her magazine running, and was a lot more capable at the helm of Elias-Clarke than Irv Ravitz had ever been.
"But as I was saying, I'd like to keep on top of things. Advertisers and investors are going kind of crazy, but…"
"Get to the point, Stanley. How bad is it?" she interrupted, running her fingers through her hair, mussing it up completely, and, for once, not caring one bit.
"Not too bad, I mean, nobody's dropped anything yet. But Vogue's going to have a fantastic couple of weeks, that's for sure."
"She missed a deadline, Stanley. Surely that's got to count for something."
"Well, ordinarily it would, but they've unveiled Alexandra Saxton. The faceless woman who everyone has tried to publish, including us, and they got to her first. That's huge, their sales are through the roof."
"If they've got her now, there's nothing we can do, is there?" Miranda was tired. She wanted to go back to New York and bury herself under covers that had an impossibly high thread-count and never emerge again. Bested by her former assistant and Anna Wintour on the same day. Surely that was enough of an excuse to take her first sick day in years?
"Not exactly. From what I've heard, it's a one-time thing— she's not exclusively with Vogue, if you get my drift."
"Yes, Stanley, I get your drift" Miranda said, rolling her eyes. She had to hand it to Andrea; the girl had certainly learned how to play hardball. She had revealed herself on her own terms, and rather spectacularly. To add insult to injury, she had done it through her bitterest rival. If it hadn't been so humiliating, Miranda would have been amazed. To make matters worse, the insolent girl had brought light to her previous employment at Runway, basically letting the whole world know that Miranda Priestly had let a genius slip through her fingertips. That the girl didn't know Gucci from Gabbana when she first started was of little consequence; Miranda had had her, and now there she was in Anna Wintour's pages.
"So we need to regroup. We need to get her on the page, whatever the cost." Stanley continued, obviously entirely oblivious to Miranda's plight.
"Stanley, pardon me, but are you out of your mind? How do you suppose we do that? Please enlighten me, because last I heard— or read, rather— Alexandra Saxton wants absolutely nothing to do with Runway." Correction, Miranda thought to herself, she wants absolutely nothing to do with me. But there was no way in Hell she would tell Stanley that the reason for Andrea's surprise unveiling had been her ultimatum. She had not taken leave of her senses. Yet.
"Miranda, we may be able to work with this. She was your assistant, maybe she went to Vogue so it doesn't seem like she had an advantage, y'know? Or at least that's what we can make it look like."
"Well, it's great that you once again have an infallible plan to save the day, Stanley. But it won't work. I have a reputation, as you're well aware. She knew exactly what she was doing when she went to Anna." Miranda downed the last of the Macallan in her glass and seriously considered getting another. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot. She should have just returned the bloody binder. Really, it was Eliza's fault. Or Emily's. Anybody but Miranda's. She cringed with how pathetic that sounded even to her own ears.
"Sure, but we can make it water under the bridge. I know it must irk you on a personal level, but we must get her on Runway. Mend fences, bury the hatchet, kiss and make up— are you there Miranda?"
"Yes" Miranda gasped out, that last gulp whisky burning her throat after she had choked on it as Stanley kept on talking.
"Anyhow, why don't you stay in London for another week or so? Win her over, it shouldn't be terribly hard, right? You're her biggest fan, after all."
Oh, how she wished glares could be effective via telephone. Stanley had no way of knowing how what he was asking for was so far-fetched. Or impossible, rather.
"Not a chance Stanley. Everyone has tried, what makes you think I'd get her, especially now?"
There was a pause on the phone.
"Well, you are Miranda Priestly, aren't you?"
That she was. But now, for the first time in her life, she wished she could be someone else. Like Anna Wintour, perhaps, who had seized and conquered the prize she had coveted for over seven years.
"That won't be any of any use. Need I remind you of how much we tried to lure her to Runway over the years? It has never worked, what makes you think she'd come now?"
"All I'm saying is that it would be worth a try. The reunion of an assistant turned legendary designer and the Queen of Fashion? Come on, Miranda. Anna's scooped the reveal, but we can still get Alexandra if we play our cards right."
Miranda rolled her eyes once more. Stanley was annoyingly persistent. He and Irv had that in common. But Stanley at least had brains, not to mention an ego that wasn't so disproportionately massive. Still, she was sure he wouldn't be too happy with her if he ever got wind of how exactly Vogue had gotten their scoop.
"I'll see what I can do, Stanley." She finally said, defeated. There was no way she could get Andrea on Runway now. So she'd make an effort, go back to New York, and probably go on a long vacation with the girls to somewhere exotic and, most importantly, remote. She laughed inwardly at herself— no way was that happening either. Miranda Priestly did not cower. She glanced at her TV screen; a throng of paparazzi had set up camp at the 'residence of Alexandra Saxton', or so it read at the strip at the bottom of the screen. She remembered how she was subjected to the same ordeal, countless times in her career. For whatever reason she hoped Andrea could deal with it, because if she couldn't, she'd be in for a whole lot of pain.
Ending the call with Stanley, Miranda finally decided to indulge in a little more whisky. She would need it to do what she presumably did best: plotting. Not that it had gone over that well the last time she tried it. But she was Miranda Priestly, and what Miranda wants, Miranda gets. Sighing, she wondered just how inaccurate that was in reality. It was impossible; there was no way Andrea would even consider being published on Runway. It served Miranda right; she was so absorbed on reclaiming the brunette to her side that she completely forgot about the game for a crucial moment. In that moment, Andrea had gone and moved three steps ahead, blindsiding Miranda and the rest of the world.
Miranda physically shivered when she remembered Andrea's expression on the runway as she rid herself of that strip of cloth concealing her eyes. She might as well have flipped the bird to Miranda, her eyes held such triumph, shouting clear victory with their gleam. Watch me. I won.
Truth be told, at that moment Miranda wished to throttle the woman. Andrea would never do that; Andrea squirmed under her gaze alone. But once again she had to force herself to understand that she was dealing with Alexandra, not Andrea. It was another variable altogether, and if she were to be honest, it scared her a little. Alexandra seemed to be a disconcerting mix of Andrea's burning ambition with Miranda's maliciousness, and the combination was nothing if not startling, not to mention terrifying.
Miranda shook herself away from her thoughts, glancing one last time over the television. No doubt Anna Wintour would laugh at this for years to come; Miranda Priestly grovelling for a designer to be published on her magazine after the latter had been revealed by Vogue. Thank God Anna didn't know just how much Miranda had screwed up, though she supposed there was nothing impeding Andrea from sharing that juicy tidbit with the world.
She suddenly paused. Andrea hadn't shared that little tidbit. Why? If Miranda were in her shoes, she would have gone out of her way to humiliate her adversary to the point of no return. She would have recounted, in great detail, just how a heavy-handed Editor basically forced an ultimatum upon her, only to completely blindside her opponent, tipping the scales in her favour entirely.
The realisation hit her with unprecedented force, and all of a sudden, Miranda Priestly was giggling in her hotel room. She'd blame the giggles on the Macallan later, but right now she was laughing at her own blindness. She knew what she would do if she were in Andrea's shoes. But she wasn't. There was still hope, because Andrea had not just irrevocably tipped the scales to her advantage. No, no, she had merely balanced them. There was still hope. And Miranda lived on hope..