As I examine my appearance in the mirror of the banquet hall bathroom, I catch the eye of my assistant, Andrea. Always able to anticipate my every need, she is standing there holding out my lipstick, with a small smile. I take it and apply a light coat. It's just to touch up what already would have looked flawless to anyone else, and she hands me a tissue to blot the excess from my lips.
My hair is next, and she wordlessly hands me the miniature hairspray from her purse. I have owned my iconic hair, since it first changed from blonde to silver 11 years ago, after the pregnancy and subsequent birth of my twin girls. It is part of me, and I have grown to not just accept it, but to like it, and I have to acknowledge that against this colour my eyes have never looked bluer. However, I won't tolerate the insubordination of a single curly lock of hair that endlessly tries to escape its binding to hang in the middle of my forehead. I pull it back, and spray it generously with the hairspray, gratified to see that it stays where it should be.
I smooth non-existent creases from my black Versace gown. I am ready.
I hate these events and the insipid people that attend them. Small talk is not something that I am fond of at the best of times, but certainly not when forced to breathe the same air as some of the people I loathe most in the world. I have turned up as late as I can within the realms of social etiquette, but I hope to be back at the hotel and in bed, before 11 pm if at all possible.
I allow myself a moment just to admire Andrea. She has come a long way since the days of her clunky shoes and lumpy sweaters. Standing here now, wearing a strapless Valentino dress and three inch Louboutins, she is the epitome of beauty and grace. My guilty pleasure in life is to choose outfits from the designers that I think she will look beautiful in, and then make sure that they are in the Runway closet for her to wear.
I have occasionally nudged Nigel, because I know he still sometimes helps Andrea to put her outfits together. He has started to give me a strange look when I do so, but he has, as yet, not called me on it.
Andrea chooses not to wear much make-up, and I admit that rather strangely I normally prefer to see her bare-faced, but today her make-up is stunning. Full, pouty red lips and dark smoky eyes, she is a siren, tempting me in every way. I avert my eyes from her reflection, realising just how long I have been ogling her in the mirror. One final glance at my own reflection, I straighten my necklace and take a deep breath.
"You look beautiful, Miranda," Andrea tells me, meeting my eyes in the mirror, and I can't help but feel pleased, even though I know she doesn't mean it in the way that I wish she did. I turn away from her reflection before she can notice the heat that creeps to my cheeks.
"Come, Andrea. It's time to play nice," I tell her, as I pull my features into a cool mask, and set my shoulders back, holding my head high. The effect is immediate and I know that when I walk into that room, there won't be a single head that isn't turned my way.
Andrea skips ahead, and opens the door for me, allowing me to pass through it. I walk across the hall in as dignified a manner as I can, weaving in and out of the tables and chairs as if I am gliding. I have spent so much of my life in heels that it is effortless for me to remain graceful, even in the most inconvenient spaces.
I ignore the eyes that I can feel on me and find our table. Andrea, always so chivalrous, pulls out my chair and guides me into it, before taking her place at my side. We are just in time for the speeches, such is my luck, and I try not to grimace as I see who is walking towards the platform at the front of the room.
As Irving takes to the stage, he catches my eye and grins maliciously. With a sinking feeling hitting my stomach, filling me with ice tendrils, I know at this moment that he has finally succeeded. As much as I steel myself to hear his words, they still leave me struggling to breathe. How have I missed what is inevitably about to happen? There is only one reason why Irving would be looking at me like that; he has replaced me as Editor-in-Chief.
"Welcome to our Annual Runway Paris Fashion Week Banquet. This has been a time honoured tradition, and a chance to reflect on the previous year, as well as look to the next." He pauses then, and stares boldly at me, before continuing with his little speech. "With that in mind, I am ecstatic to announce that Jacqueline Follett is returning to the Runway family, and will be taking over as Editor-in-Chief of Runway America." The words are mocking, as he glimmers with the satisfaction of finally removing me from the helm.
The blood is rushing in my ears and I can barely hear the rumble of chatter from the tables around me, but I know they are talking. A change in Editor-in-Chief would be one of the industry's worst kept secrets, so the fact that Irving has managed to surprise them all will invite questions I know.
I will not show weakness. I can not let him know that he has finally won. I stand, and start the applause, smiling at Jacqueline. I nod my head in her direction, and to all those around her, it is as if I am truly congratulating her on her position. The way she smiles so graciously at me in return makes me realise that perhaps she doesn't know what Irving has just done.
My legs are unsteady as I stand there, and my face is aching as I try to control my expression. I am equal parts furious and devastated. I can feel that my hands are clammy as I clap, and a trickle of perspiration rolls down the middle of my back. I can't stay here. I feel myself start to panic and I feel trapped, but I can't walk out and leave just yet. The only thing I can do is take my seat again and wait for it to be over.
The man is a snivelling coward. He tried to remove my crown in Paris two years ago and failed. Ironic that he yet again chooses Paris for his big reveal. This time it seems he has thrown the rule book out of the window, knowing I can not dispute the events after his announcement. He knows that it will just make me look bitter about my replacement, and so I can't fight it without damage to my pride and reputation. He also knows that after his announcement, my pride and reputation are all I'll have left. Maybe he is more cunning and sly than I ever gave him credit for. I wonder if the biggest mistake in my professional life to date, has been to underestimate him.
The surge of hatred that flows through me at this point brings a metallic taste to my mouth. As it fills with a gush of warm liquid, I realise that in my bid not to show any emotions, I have literally silenced myself by biting my own tongue.
He has replaced me. He has done so without even the courtesy of telling me in advance. I know that he has planned to not only destroy my career but also my image. He wants me to cause a scene, and he has done it this way in the hopes that I will humiliate myself, without a care for the fact that it would also humiliate Runway.
Irving is selfish though and has become blinkered in his desire to see me fall from grace. The ongoing success and reputation of Runway mean far less to him than seeing me suffer. This has not been professional for a long time, because for Irving, it became a very personal thing to remove me after I countered his last attempts.
Before I met Stephen, and before Irving met his second wife, he asked me out on a date. I declined, citing professionalism, but I knew I had been unable to hide my disdain for him at that moment. He knew, and because I didn't want him, he decided to punish me for it. Ever since, he has taken every chance he has gotten to make my working life difficult, all because I hurt his precious ego.
The man continues to speak, looking directly at me, smugness radiating from him. I stare back at him cooly, refusing to be the first to break eye contact. He falters then, in the face of my reserve, but continues to speak.
"We would like to take this opportunity to thank Miranda Priestly for all that she has done for Runway in the last 20 years. It was the gracious acceptance of the end of her reign, and her decision to retire, that has enabled us to place Runway in the capable hands of the next generation."
All eyes are on me now. I smile at the people around me, not seeing a single face, and sitting rigidly in my chair. My hands are shaking so I tuck them into my lap and wait for this awful soirée to be over.
Andrea looks over at me, concern evident in her eyes, but I discreetly shake my head. I can't accept her sympathy right now, or I will fall apart. I have only a small slither of self-control left, but I will use it for this. I refuse to let him watch me fall apart. I will not allow him to win. She discreetly reaches across and squeezes my hand. She doesn't linger, but it is enough to bring me comfort in a small way. Andrea is there for me. She knows how this news will have affected me and she is letting me know that she understands. The gratitude I feel for my assistant in this moment is unrivalled.
Oh. My assistant. If I am no longer Editor-in-Chief of Runway, then she is no longer my assistant, and more than the devastation of losing my job, I am distraught at the idea of never seeing her again. Whatever feelings I hold for Andrea, the same is certainly not true for her. I am just her boss, and when I leave here tonight I will likely never see her again.
I realise that Jacqueline has been speaking, and is just finishing off, as she turns and smiles at me, offering a quirky bow before leaving the stage. I incline my head in her direction in acknowledgement.
The formalities are over and done with, the speeches are finished and I know what I must do. I can't lose this wonderful woman now. I turn to Andrea, "I need you to come with me." I get up and walk as slowly as I can force myself to the side door. I won't give Irv the satisfaction of letting him see me run. I know Andrea is close behind me, and I would know that even without the sound of her heels tapping on the marble floor behind me. Andrea will always follow me without question.
A quick nod to the man standing at the door, when he opens it for me, and I step through, and outside onto the sidewalk. It's dark, but in the middle of Paris I can't see the stars, even though the sky is clear. My breath leaves my body in a cloud of fog, and it is bitterly cold. Normally I wouldn't leave an event unless I knew my driver was waiting for me outside, and I am certainly not dressed appropriately for weather this cold. I take a deep breath, trying to get the air back into my lungs, as the magnitude of what has just happened, really settles in.
"What do you need, Miranda? Tell me what you need from me?" Andrea speaks softly as she joins me outside. She is calm, and her tone is soothing but not full of pity. She removes the shawl that she artfully paired with her outfit, and wraps it around my bare shoulders. It's thin, but offers some protection against the chill of the wind.
"Me or Runway, Andrea. Tell me now and I will accept your decision, either way."
Hurt flickers across her face, and I hate that I have put that emotion there.
"You know where my loyalties lie, Miranda," Andrea replies, and I wonder why I even need to ask her because her eyes tell me the answer to my question.
"I need you to come back to the hotel with me, and then I need you to get us away from here. I can't go back to New York. Not yet."
"Of course," Andrea gets the cell out of her purse without hesitation, and I can see who she is going to call.
"No. Runway's driver is no longer at our disposal. We need a cab," I tell her, wrapping my arms around my middle as if I can literally hold myself together. I feel like if I let go then everything will unravel, and I will be left boneless.
She walks to the edge of the curb without another word and successfully hails the first cab that drives toward us. She opens the door and gentle hands guide me to sit first before she slides in after me.
Andrea turns to the driver and directs him to take us to the hotel, in near-perfect French, much to my surprise. I look at her questioningly, wondering how I have missed this so far.
"I've been learning, so I could be a better assistant. Italian and Spanish too," she answers my unspoken question with a smile.
I have to look away from her then. Her soft voice speaking the French language so eloquently is making me feel things I really can't deal with here and now. For the preservation of my sanity, I try not to imagine how beautiful she will sound speaking Italian or Spanish.
I need to distract myself, so I turn to face the window, trying to ignore the scent of her perfume. What are we going to do now? I have been hasty in asking her to come with me, but when faced with the option of leaving alone, without her, I had found myself asking her to join me. She has always had the ability to make me act rashly.
In Paris two years ago she had tried to leave me, but I hadn't let her. I will never forget the shock on her face as she spun around, with guilty eyes, when I ran across the road and confronted her at the fountain. She had cried then, and I had realised just how beautiful she was. So stunning, that even with tears running down her face, I desired her.
For the first, and last time, I held her in my arms, and for those brief moments, I felt like the earth had stopped revolving. There was a tranquillity that came from the presence of having her in my arms, that I had never experienced before. I have yearned for it ever since, but I have never been brave enough to embrace her again.
My feelings for her have only grown since that point and she has become my closest friend and my only confidante. Not that she has any idea how much comfort she is to me.
I wish I could tell her how much I need her in my life. I want to, but I can't risk exposing myself and making her run from me again. If her presence in my life as my assistant, is all that I can have, then I will accept it. I will offer her employment working directly for me. The alternative, of being without her, just isn't one I can consider. I fear it would extinguish the light from me, and plunge me into a darkness of my own making.
