"Eliza, call Serena into my office— immediately"
As her assistant scrambled to dial the Head of the Beauty Department, Miranda shot a scathing look in the direction of her current Art Director, whose face had a rather odd green tinge. Beads of sweat forming at his forehead and temples completed the pathetic picture presently sitting on one of the chairs across her sleek desk. She rolled her eyes.
"Honestly, Nigel, grow a pair." She scolded. The sweat stains beginning to show at his collar clashed horribly with his tie.
Nigel opened his mouth to speak, no doubt with a sarcastic retort at the ready, but his attempt was thwarted by the disembodied voice of Eliza informing them that Serena was on her way. He swallowed nervously before trying again.
"I can't do this, Miranda. This will tear them apart." He whispered, almost supplicating.
"Don't be daft. What would such a professional opportunity have to do with their personal matters?" she stated, entirely unfazed.
Nigel just stared at his mercurial boss incredulously. He was aware that Miranda was by no means an idiot; this was just her very particular way of saying that she really didn't give a damn.
"You're sending Emily across the ocean! This is not a move to the next town over, you're sending her to another continent! It's not like she'll be able to visit frequently!" he hissed in one breath, gripping the arms of the chair he occupied in quiet fury.
"Not. A. Word." Miranda murmured, effectively silencing him with a particularly glacial glare just as Serena politely made her way in.
"You called for me, Miranda?" she asked almost timidly in her heavily accented timbre, eyeing Nigel curiously once she noticed the Art Director in the room.
"Of course I did. Would you be standing here otherwise? I think not. Have a seat." Miranda said with her usual iciness.
The Brazilian did as she was asked, doing her best to ignore the Art Director seated by her side, profusely sweating.
"Serena" Miranda started unceremoniously "You have been in the Beauty Department since the very beginning of your tenure with us. You have done exceptionally well."
"Thank you" Serena responded gratefully. It was not always that the Ice Queen commended someone for their work.
"However, even now as a Head of Department, a position you have held for the past three years, it is not enough for you. You want more."
"Actually, I…" Serena tried before Miranda's gaze sharpened.
"No, no" the silver haired Editor cut her off, wagging an impatient finger. "That wasn't a question. I believe that your talents has been largely underutilised in your current position. I'm aware that you have a great eye for colour, light and composition, a talent that has not been properly explored in the Beauty Department. I would like to offer you the opportunity to hone these abilities in a more appropriate setting. Like our Art Department.
Serena's eyes widened, and she smiled. The bespectacled man next to her saw through her misunderstanding at once. The poor fool thought she'd eventually be working with Emily. His grip on the arm of his chair tightened.
"Therefore" Miranda continued "it has been decided that you will begin our training under Nigel, effective immediately."
The Brazilian's features mirrored her confusion.
"Training under Nigel?" she asked.
"Yes" the Editor continued, sounding remarkably bored "you must be ready by Autumn, so you are ready and able to take over the reins of the Department once Nigel moves on after Paris Fashion Week."
All the colour drained from the other woman's face as understanding dawned. Her eyes mirrored her complete and utter shock, and she quickly turned to Nigel seeking an explanation, but he was of no help.
"Me? Miranda, there's been a mis-"
"This is no mistake. I know you are more than capable of keeping up your high standards in a more challenging post such as Art Director."
"Yes, Miranda, thank you very much, but you see, I…"
"I do hope you realise" Miranda continued, her voice dropping suddenly to a lower, more menacing register "that this is not an offer I make lightly. An opportunity such as this one only comes once in a lifetime."
Serena blinked in confusion, her mouth opening to respond, but the Editor continued.
"When I offer such a promotion, I expect you to know full well why I do so. If you don't think you are up to it, all you have to do is tell me that your work would not meet our standards."
Serena at once understood the message. Take it or leave it, but by choosing the latter, she would effectively be leaving Runway, not just declining a promotion.
"Yes, Miranda. Thank you. I won't let you down" she rasped out. The Editor leaned back on her chair and waved a hand, dismissing her employees.
"Good. That's all."
Nigel was the first one to stand, jumping out of his seat as if something had bitten him in the behind. He gently but hurriedly nudged the tall Brazilian to stand up, as she seemed to have been frozen in place, biting her bottom lip in a clear attempt to hold back a sob.
Once they finally made it out of the Dragon's outer office, Nigel turned to the visibly distraught woman.
"Serena?" he called softly.
"Oh my god, Nigel. What am I going to do?" she gasped suddenly.
"You're going to take over for me after Paris" he said with newfound conviction, while still trying to keep his tone gentle.
"But this is going to kill Emily! She's wanted this, she's wanted your job for years!" the Brazilian choked out indignantly.
"All I am allowed to tell you" Nigel began softly "is that Emily will get her chance" he reassured her, rubbing her arms in soothing motions.
"Don't worry, Emily's a big girl. She'll understand." He continued, injecting some false confidence in his voice.
Emily Charlton was prone to headaches. That was simply a fact of her life— an unpleasant, but not entirely unbearable one. As a child, she would get headaches when she got in trouble, be it for sneaking in a cookie before dinner or for blaming the cat on a mess she had made. In school, looming exams caused them with an exasperated consistency. In university, the culprit was her imminent dissertation. At Runway, her biggest, most enduring headache was one Miranda Priestly, and subsequently on ditzy second assistant the latter had hired on a whim, one Andrea Sachs.
Over the years, Emily had learned to live with and deal with the Priestly headache. What she had never expected, however, was for that ditzy second assistant to reappear years down the line, manifesting itself as a monstrous migraine.
Massaging her temples in vain to prepare herself for the inevitable, Emily looked over yet another spread suggestion for Runway France that Andrea had unceremoniously tossed to the floor with disinterest. They had been at it for hours on end, and nothing seemed right to the brunette.
For the sake of fairness, Emily mused, it wasn't entirely Andrea's fault. Jacqueline Follet would bark out ridiculously subpar suggestions on one end, while the brunette would merely scoff at them in disgust and toss them to the floor with a whispered "No." Small wonder, then, that the Brit had a headache. The big difference was that the French Editor-in-Chief never induced headaches.
She just induced bouts of nausea.
"No."
"Not a chance."
"No."
At this point Andrea was barely looking at the prints, which was really what was driving Emily off her rocker at the moment. If the woman would at least look at the bloody things…
"Andrea…" she began through gritted teeth. "Just make up your mind. It's not like Runway France is up to the same standard as Runway in any case, so really just pick one."
Almost immediately the redhead realised that had been the wrong thing to say. Andrea's eyes turned to glass and her jaw tensed. The brunette's lips quirked in a frighteningly predatory smirk that eerily reminded Emily of her Devil of a boss. She tried her hardest not to gulp audibly. Andrea calmly deposited the 8x10s she had been reviewing on the table, her gaze never wavering.
"Runway France's standards should be the least of your problems, Emily." She said in a deceptively soft voice the redhead knew only too well. "The reason you're here is to ensure that that fool Jacqueline respects my standards, is that absolutely clear? My opinion is the one that counts— not hers."
Emily fiddled with her necklace for a moment, unsure of what to do. The Alexandra side of Andrea always threw her for a loop, not to mention how frightened it made her— it was simply too much like a certain Dragon Lady to handle.
"On the other hand…" Andrea continued, her voice losing its previous petrifying quality. "We have been at this for hours. A break wouldn't hurt."
"Thanks be to bloody god" Emily let out. Thankfully, the flash of Alexandra Saxton that had burned with such intensity in Andrea's eyes seemed to have vanished. The brunette smiled freely at the Brit's general direction and rolled her shoulders, clearly demonstrating she was a lot more tired than she she had been giving away.
"Sorry, Em. I just get really task-oriented" she said as she cracked her neck with gusto.
"I noticed" Emily retorted playfully. "Thank God we can take a break, my head would burst otherwise"
"Still with the headaches, huh?" Andrea asked as she put some of the rejected prints away. Emily whirled to face her.
"How in the bloody Hell do you remember my headaches?" she squeaked in surprise.
"How could I not?" Andrea laughed "They were legendary. And if memory serves me right, I think I caused most of them in my time at Runway, did I not?" she added with a knowing smirk.
"Well" the Brit said sheepishly "you were quite exasperating back then."
Their break consisted of eating take-away in one the Runway Britain offices Elizabeth James had loaned them. The British offices were located in London's Hanover square, right across the offices for Condé-Nast International, which made things interesting. The conference room they used was littered with papers, and a sleek TV hung neatly on the wall— where they'd occasionally see Jacqueline Follet's caked up features whenever they needed had a video call.
At present, both women ate in companionable silence; Andrea indulged in some steak, while Emily nibbled daintily at a Greek salad.
"Sorry for being exasperating" Andrea said out of the blue after a few moments.
"Oh, Andrea, it's been years. I'm over it" Emily said matter-of-factly.
"I mean now. I know I make things difficult sometimes, but I have a reason to." The brunette clarified.
The Brit seemed to almost choke on her salad at first, but the immediately masked it expertly with a well-timed cough.
"It's nothing, really" she said, meaning it. "We both know that it's that insufferable Jacqueline" she motioned towards the TV on the opposite side of the room "Honest to God, I don't know what the Board sees in her"
"Money" Andrea stated simply, earning a reluctant nod from the redhead.
It was true. Save for Runway— the original— Runway France was the most profitable Elias-Clarke publication. It was their cash-cow in Europe, and it was powered not only by fashion, but by gossip and tabloid material. Jaqueline herself regularly contributed to a sorts of 'Worst Dressed' column bashing celebrities' fashion choices at various important events. That, along with a strong online presence in every type of social media platform, made Runway France prime material for a certain demographic: pre-teens.
Presently, what was making Emily's job so damn difficult was the Frenchwoman's insistence on the placement of unrelated ads and irrelevant columns breaking apart a carefully constructed Saxton spread. Emily had been playing mediator, but Andrea wouldn't budge and Jacqueline would not see reason.
"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have one or two ads in the spread…" Emily mused absentmindedly.
The immediate clatter of cutlery drew her attention to the suddenly angry brunette.
"Jeez, Andrea, take a joke. I'd never allow it, Miranda would have my neck." The redhead backtracked.
Andrea's features instantly softened as she chuckled along.
"Forget Miranda. I'd have your head on a platter."