Chapter 2: Self-doubt
"I had some ambition. I meant everything to be different with me. I thought I had more strength and mastery." – George Elliot, 'Middlemarch'.
Miranda barely paid any attention to Emily who offered a falsely bright smile as she entered the office, throwing her bag and coat onto the desk. She had left the hotel early, leaving a note for one Andrea Sachs on the coffee table before she left. A cruel smirk pulled at her lips as she thought of the simple five words she had written.
How's that working for you?
Childish, vindictive, and yet entirely accurate.
Miranda took a sip of the waiting Starbucks, letting the caffeine work its wonders. It had been a good benefit before Andrea Sachs had made her appearance. She had rubbed shoulders with the right people, kissed the right cheeks and laughed at the right jokes. She flicked the page of the first newspaper and fought the urge to laugh.
'Fashion Legend Miranda Priestly!'
Not their usual description. Only last month she had been given the moniker 'Dragon Lady' by the same journalist. Perhaps Rupert Murdock was growing fonder of her as the years passed.
"Miranda?"
She looked up, unsurprised to see Nigel walking into her office. Things were decidedly more frosty between them since Paris. They didn't laugh the way they used to; they didn't work with the same easy camaraderie. They were both professional enough that Runway hadn't suffered, but it simply wasn't as easy as it had been previously. She had tried to apologise once, months ago, but he had simply held up his hand and cut her off mid-sentence.
"Would you do it again?" he had demanded, letting some of the understandable anger leak into his voice. She hadn't bothered to answer, merely nodded. "Then don't say it, if you don't mean it!"
"Yes, Nigel?" she asked, bringing herself back to the present.
He frowned for a moment, and she thought for a second she recognised concern. Concern that vanished a second later as he placed down the latest Runway draft and flicked to a relevant page.
"These look dreadful," he said bluntly. "The colour scheme doesn't work; the model isn't right and the lighting is dull."
"Then we need to fix it, don't we?" she snapped irritably, a sarcastic tone in her voice. "We have another week for that piece." She reached for the draft and began to write in the margins. "First," she said, her pen rushing across the page. "Change the colour scheme to one that's more pastel, we can use this same model but we'll sharpen her make-up. Use blood red for lipstick? Perhaps give a deep, dark eyeshadow. Nearly black. You know the drill. Also, use a stronger contrast for the light. Perhaps a harsher fluorescent?" She finished writing with a small dot and took a deep breath before handing the draft back to Nigel. "Anything else?" she demanded.
He looked at her, taken-aback, his eyes wide. His brief concern had vanished to be replaced with a grudging respect that he also quashed down before giving a small nod.
"Then I guess, that's all," she said, picking up the book and handing it back to him. "Shut the door behind you."
He left without another word, closing the door a little harsher than usual. She reached again for her Starbucks.
Truth is there is no one who can do, what I do.
Her words from over a year ago echoed in her mind.
She hadn't been lying.
-o-
The weather tried claw its way inside, buffeting against the glass and making the window frames shudder. Thunder could be heard from every direction, followed by bursts of lightning that sent the clouds into sharp relief. Rain felt down in heavy sheets, until one couldn't see six foot ahead. Andy took a breath before she bolted from the cab and into her office. The few seconds in the rain ensured her coat and hair were drenched and she hurriedly hung up her trench, eager to stop further water soaking into her shirt.
Her colleagues barely glanced up from their desks as she entered. It had seemed wonderful and warm when she had been interviewed those months before. Now, of course, she knew the system far better and had discovered a harsh and corrupt system which seemed to revolve around petty jealousies between reporters and newspapers.
"Andy, I need you in here."
Her new boss, Edward Stokes, waved her in from his desk and she stopped only to throw her bag on her desk before going inside.
"Close the door, please." His voice was brisk, harsh, authoritative. Andy shut the door and he nodded towards the chair, waiting until she had sat down before speaking again. "I need you to go to a luncheon tomorrow," he said without further preamble. "This one is going to be held downtown."
She found herself slumping slightly in her chair. This wasn't what she was meant to be. She was meant to be investigating, writing things that mattered, notwriting meregossip pieces.
"Edward, please," she protested. "I can do more than this if you'll just let me …"
"You don't have the experience," he interrupted.
"You won't let me have any!" she spat back, fuming "If I try and do something, you tell me it's irrelevant and then you send me all over the city to these lunches and dinners. And for what? So I can tell New Yorkers who is dating who?"
"That's what sells papers, these days," he said with a shrug.
She shook her head. "You can't truly believe that."
He snickered. "Oh yes, I can. So, luncheon tomorrow. I expect a draft by Wednesday. Do you have anything about what happened last night?"
Andy faltered. Last night. Too much alcohol. And a very blunt ex-boss.
"I can do more than this, Edward," she tried again. "Please, just let me …"
"Draft about the luncheon by Wednesday," he said, pulling his keyboard towards him. "Notes about last night by this evening. I think we can make it part of a larger piece."
She knew when an argument was lost and rose to her feet again, making her way to her desk. She sat down, pulling her laptop from its case and hooking it up to the power point. It was nearly flat, courtesy of her night at the hotel and took a few moments to boot up. Andy twisted in her seat, hearing the faint sound of the Miranda's note rustle in her jeans pocket.
A-
How's that working for you?
-o-
Hours later, the rain hadn't lessened and Andy sat on the edge of her windowsill watching as it thundered against the pavement, bouncing up from the sidewalk. It was pitch black outside, the streetlamps faint bursts of light through the rain and reflected on the pavement. She reached for a bottle of water as she stuck one leg out the window and stared down the street. She'd been forced to move to a tiny flat after Nate had gone, but had come to love the small apartment with its rickety walls and wooden floors.
It was hers and hers alone.
A runaway umbrella bounced down the street, startling her. She had written up a piece for Edward about the dinner. Not adding her tete-a-tete with Emily or with Miranda. It had been frivolous and unimportant, but well-written and Edward had taken it with a small smile and sent it down to the printing room within an hour of receiving it deeming it could be 'one of many.'
She knew she should feel proud, after all she was a published author but it still felt like nothing. Her mother and father were of the opposite view; both rung her frequently to congratulate her on her latest by-lines. But the fact remained, she was writing gossip pieces. Meanwhile, a certain white-haired editor had just managed to land an interview with one of her favourite authors, complete with an excerpt from their latest book.
Turns out there's more to Runway than just fancy purses …
No one believed her then, and no one believed her now. That didn't stop her from buying the magazine and she often found herself flicking through the pages, noting the photograph shoots by Nigel and – to her surprise – an article from Emily which was surprisingly good. A particularly loud clap of thunder startled her from her reverie and she jumped up and closed the window.
Her eyes fell for what felt like the umpteenth time on the note which now rested on the hall table. She knew she should throw it away, but found herself reading and re-reading the slightly slanted script. Miranda had beautiful handwriting, which almost resembled calligraphy.
Andy went into the kitchen, filling up her bottle of water. Miranda had been quick that morning, leaving in the few minutes Andy had been in the shower. She had expected to see the editor-in-chief before she left, wanting to say 'thank you' for letting her sleep on the hotel sofa. Instead, she'd received a note that cut her to the quick.
And continued to, she added bitterly.
She took a deep breath before she turned off the light and headed to her bedroom, leaving the note on the table. In reality, should she have expected anything else? The woman was, as she'd said before numerous times, vicious. But this … she had known exactly what it would do even as she wrote the note. She knew that Andy would read and re-read. Wanting to know exactly what she meant; wanting her to doubt her choice those months ago. Wanting her to doubt herself.
And she'd done a superb job, Andy thought bitterly. Superb.
-o-
The second photoshoot had gone wonderfully, Miranda noted with a degree of vindictive glee as she flicked through the latest book, delivered barely ten minutes ago by her newest second assistant. She hadn't said anything to the girl, waiting until she'd left before going downstairs to retrieve the book. Now, in her living room with a glass of wine, she made annotations and crossed out anything she deemed unnecessary.
After 20 years at the helm, it was all done relatively quickly and she headed back upstairs towards her bedroom. The girls were at their father's house for the week, but had called earlier that evening. She hated the days they were not there; hated the silence. She moved into her en suite where she began the lengthy process of disassembling the 'fashion icon.' The make-up was rinsed away, the dress and underwear thrown into the laundry basket, the jewellery replaced into its cases. Minutes later, she barely recognised herself in the mirror.
Right here, right now; she wasn't the Miranda Priestly. She was a 50-year-old woman in a far-too-empty house who missed her children.
A-
How's that working for you?
She closed her eyes for moment. It may not have been working well for Andy but, if she were honest with herself, it wasn't working too well for her either.
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