A big thank you to my wonderful beta - Delilah Moon - for all her help.
This first chapter is a prologue of sorts... enjoy.
"…That's all."
Miranda lowered her eyes back to the spreads in front of her and dismissed the harried second assistant with little more than a wave of her fingers. The spread was Dolce, and it was, as were most things that surrounded the fabled Editor-in-Chief, imperfect.
No, no. This wouldn't do at all. The Dolce wouldn't do. Neither would the Donna Karan. Nor the Yves Saint Laurent. It didn't matter how many times the layout was re-worked; they could do fifty re-shoots and find hundreds of different models and still the spread would remain imperfect. Because when Miranda Priestly has her mind set on something – a certain something – everything else pales in comparison.
And so it was on this Thursday afternoon that found the Dragon Lady in her lair, once again hoping that against all odds her underlings would uncover enough information on the designer she actually wanted for this spread. The designer whose work had made quite the splash during Paris Fashion Week five years ago. The designer who remained utterly and irritatingly illusive.
Miranda looked up, acknowledging Nigel's presence. "Anything?" The man gave a quick head shake, confirming what Miranda already knew to be true. Once again, she would remain in the dark. Once again, this designer, whose work had been coveted in recent years, would remain anonymous, disallowing any publication to publish her work.
"Well, it's to be expected I suppose," said Miranda, looking past Nigel.
"Yes, however I can say that it does not deter my – I don't know – giddiness, at seeing the newest line in Paris." Nigel was practically bubbling with excitement.
"Another year wasted, I should think."
Nigel chuckled, "You don't really mean that, Miranda. Come on, you know the work is impeccable. Eliza Elisabeth, whoever she may be, never fails to disappoint." Miranda had to hum her agreement at that.
Dismissing Nigel after going over the layout for another piece, Miranda turned her thoughts back to Paris. Paris, which held so many memories. Paris, where seven years prior her most competent assistant had walked out on her. As always when her mind turned toward Paris, Andrea Sachs butted her way into Miranda's stream-of-consciousness.
Obviously Miranda harbored a soft-spot for the girl who'd walked out on her. Fully expecting herself to blacklist Andrea from publishing when she returned to New York, Miranda had done quite the opposite, instead writing a recommendation of all things. Because as much as it pained Miranda to admit it, she wanted to see Andrea succeed. She had followed her former assistant's progress in that rag the Mirror until suddenly, eight months after her first article had been published, no more seemed to come. At first Miranda had thought perhaps the girl had moved onto greener pastures, after all, her writing was more than passable. But after much searching, she had to conclude that Andrea Sachs had simply vanished from the face of the Earth. What other possible explanation was there?
Running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck Miranda sighed, willing herself to forget Andrea. She had no claim to the other woman, yet the other woman had such a hold over her. Miranda dared not examine further the whys and the how's.
No, her time was better suited to rolling her eyes at the incompetence of her staff, furthering her impatience with this relatively new, unknown designer working under the label Eliza Elisabeth. Who was this woman to hide in the shadows, to remain out of reach to even those highest on the fashion food chain? No name, no face, only the clothes. The magnificent, awe-inspiring art that this Eliza Elisabeth dared to display in London, Paris, Milan and every other major fashion hub in the world except New York. The nerve.
Miranda huffed under her breath. This was the year. She would pull teeth if she had to – maybe even if she didn't have to – but this year she would gain an audience with the woman (or man – who knows?) who had evaded the fashion industry's heavyweights for the last five years. Clenching her fist in her lap, Miranda was almost tempted to send up a prayer that she finally meet this designer – but then, if Miranda Priestly couldn't achieve the seemingly-impossible, then God had no hope.
TBC... I love me some reviews... let me know what you think and if you'd like to read more.