Paris. The famous City of Lights. She wanted to enjoy herself, her surroundings, be grateful for the experience, but between replacing Emily at the last minute and Miranda's absolutely foul mood, she just wanted to be home in NYC in her tiny apartment.
The night before the Runway event to close Fashion Week, Miranda was anxious and exhausted. She had to finish writing her remarks for the next day, but the divorce papers Stephen so tactfully had sent via overnight post were staring up at her on the coffee table. She needed to focus on her job, just for a little while longer. Just until tomorrow. Her daughters weren't around, so it wouldn't be terrible, but where would she get it in this city?
Just then, the answer to her problems came hurrying in the door and froze at the sight of Miranda on the couch, in her bathrobe, without makeup.
"Oh, there you are," Miranda said dryly. "I have a favor to ask of you."
"Yes?"
She decided to earn some sympathy points first. "Stephen sent over divorce papers today," she said, gesturing at the envelope on the table.
"Miranda, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, well." She looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away. "This is just all happening at the worst possible time. I'm trying to prepare my remarks for tomorrow. And I have to choose my words very carefully because, well, Nigel is not getting the job at Holt, just between us. Then this divorce, my life, splashed across Page Six, again. The girls were just starting to take to Stephen."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
"I hate asking you. Really, I do, but, I just—I need something to take the edge off. Just to get me through the next 24 hours."
Andrea opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. At least Miranda had the good sense to leave it at home for fear of being denied access to the country. She nodded curtly. "How much?"
"An eight ball, if you can get it."
Andrea rolled her eyes. "Do you have cash?"
Miranda nodded and pointed to her wallet on the desk.
Andrea took six 100€ notes out of the wallet and slipped them into her own. "Anything else?"
Miranda shook her head, and for the first time, she felt ashamed to ask her assistant to do this. She knew she was taking advantage of the young woman's kindness and loyalty, but it was as though she had no other option.
Andrea walked out without another word. After paying an English-speaking bartender at the neighboring hotel to tell her where she could get cocaine, she took a cab to a nightclub, asked for Marc, and gave him 400€ in exchange for an eight ball. He told her it was "really good stuff, high quality" when she asked him if it was pure, and after the horror stories she read online about cocaine laced with heroin and fentanyl, she hoped he was telling the truth.
Hours later, she returned to Miranda's suite and handed her the small bag of powder. "I know nothing about this, so I don't know if the dealer was reputable or what, but he said it was 'really good' and that it was 'high quality' stuff."
Miranda opened the bag and dipped her pinky finger inside, then placed it on her tongue. "I'm not sure how they cut it here. It tastes the same, though. I think I brought a Fentanyl test strip, actually."
"Just—be careful, Miranda. Please."
"I will," she said. "Like I said, just to take the edge off."
Andrea sighed and walked out of the room.
The next morning, Miranda seemed normal—as in, the insanely pissed-off horrid human being she had been all week. Andrea followed her to breakfast and the last show, then they were riding in the car back to the hotel for the closing event.
Miranda pressed a button to raise the privacy screen in the car, and she pulled the bag out of her purse, more than half of which Andrea could see was already gone. She opened her compact mirror and put a small amount on there, crushing it with her fingernail. Then, she pulled a very short straw out of her bag and in seconds, the powder was gone.
Andrea couldn't stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. When the car came to a stop, Miranda reached out for her arm, but Andrea pulled away too quickly. She ran out and crossed the street to a little plaza with a fountain, far away from Miranda and where she actually needed to be. She saw Miranda turn to look for her, but the woman gave up quickly and went inside alone.
Andrea decided then that she needed to leave Runway, quit her job. She couldn't be involved in this any longer, and perhaps more importantly, she couldn't stand by and watch the editor do this to herself. The woman needed help, but Andrea couldn't stage an intervention on her own. Miranda would never listen to her. Sadly, she knew Miranda would likely need to screw up majorly before she could begin to confront her problem. And as much as she cared about her, she didn't want to be around when that happened.
After calling the airline and learning that her ticket was not eligible to be switched to a different flight, she sent an email to her HR contact at Elias Clarke, explaining that "irreconcilable differences" had come between her and her boss, Miranda Priestly, and that she was tendering her resignation from Paris, effective immediately. HR did not seem surprised in the least, and they instructed Andrea she could still take her ticketed flight home, and that she could come in to turn in her badge and other materials once she was back in New York.
The whole thing was so easy, it hardly felt like she just quit her job. Quit Miranda Priestly. She wondered how common that actually was. Clearly, Miranda's reputation preceded her, and HR must have known how difficult she was to work for. Then why did she feel like the first and only person to ever do this to Miranda when she likely needed her most?
Their flight wasn't until late in the evening, but Andrea took advantage of the fact that all her coworkers were at the event and slipped back into her room, changed into jeans and a white button-down shirt, and packed up her bags. Then, she went into Miranda's room to return her room key and give her all the flight information. She saw a notepad on the desk, and scribbled a note to Miranda before leaving the room—and the job.
She still had some cash—Miranda's cash—leftover from the night before, so she decided to head to the airport early and grab something to eat at one of the cafes there and use the free airport wi-fi to begin searching for a new job.
When Miranda returned to her room, she was absolutely gutted. Stealing away Nigel's dream job was one thing, but watching his face as he realized her betrayal was something else entirely. And Andrea. She knew the young woman was upset, but after searching the event multiple times and not seeing her, she hoped she would be waiting for her at the hotel. To apologize. Or be apologized to, either one, really. Miranda thought again about the divorce papers, and she realized she couldn't lose Andrea, too. The beautiful, somewhat awkward, bold, caring young woman she'd actually grown fond of.
She instantly spotted the note on her desk, carefully placed next to Miranda's plane ticket home, room key, and driver's phone number. It felt like a punch to the stomach and she had to lean against the desk to keep her balance.
Miranda— I hate to do this to you now, today of all days, but I have to draw the line. I loved my job and its challenges. I loved taking care of you. But I care about you too much to facilitate what you're doing. My offer still stands: anytime—now, next month, next year—you're ready to get help, I'm there. I'll arrange it or go with your or just support you from afar. You are loved. Remember that. —A
Miranda sank into the desk chair as the tears fell down her face. Andrea was gone. Stephen was gone. Nigel would soon be gone. Her daughters would probably be next, unless they miraculously decide to forgive her for Stephen's departure.
A while later, she stood and changed into black high-waisted trousers and a white blouse, something comfortable for the plane ride home. She packed up her bags and the trunks of couture, then called down to the front desk to have someone come retrieve them. "Can you tell me—did my assistant Andrea Sachs check out?" she asked before hanging up.
"Oui, madame."
"Merci." She hung up the phone and went straight to her purse, taking what was left out and flushing it down the toilet. She wrapped the bag in a tissue and decided to dispose of that somewhere in a public trash receptacle.
After ensuring the hotel would send her bags to the airport with the rest of the Runway trunks, she called her driver and headed to Charles de Gaulle. She needed time to think, to talk to her daughters, to Stephen.
Walking through the airport to the first-class lounge, she passed a large cafe where she saw Andrea, working on her laptop. She was sitting right along the walkway, her back turned to passersby. Miranda walked closer, but just as she was about to say something, she saw her computer screen: Open Positions - NY Daily Mirror - Staff Reporter. She brought her hand up to her mouth, willing herself to keep quiet and not catch the woman's attention. Blinking back tears, she kept walking.
Back in New York, the first thing Miranda did was email John Griffin, Editor-in-Chief at the Daily Mirror, a recommendation for Andrea Sachs. In it, she praised Andrea's talents and humility and included Andrea's contact information. Knowing Andrea, she would probably have thought she wasn't qualified enough for that position. She knew that her email would at least secure the woman an interview, if not a job on the spot. And Miranda was certain she could do the job.
The next few weeks were torturous for Miranda. As she expected, news of her divorce appeared in every tabloid imaginable, fueling salacious rumors about her temperament, her body, her parenting skills, her sex life. It was also bad, she asked Emily to find them a cottage somewhere upstate so she could pull the girls away from all the publicity.
As expected, her daughters were upset that Stephen was leaving. Miranda was even a little upset. She wasn't even sure what happened between them. It seemed to be going so well for a while, and then, this. And while Caroline and Cassidy welcomed the opportunity to get away from New York where all their friends seemed to know about their mom's personal life, Miranda was certain they would rather be here with their father, not her.
She worked from the cottage for two weeks while the girls worked on the assignments their teachers emailed every day. Cara came with, and would sometimes take the girls into town, one at a time in case anyone recognized them. They seemed to be doing fine. Runway was doing fine. Everyone seemed to be doing fine—that is, except Miranda.
She found herself thinking back to Andrea's words, offering to get her help. As if she had a drug problem, she thought. Here, at the cottage, it had been more than 10 days since she last used and she was fine. Totally fine. Not addicted, she reminded herself.
The following week, the news shifted to a teen pop star who shaved her head and seemed to be losing control of reality, and Miranda could finally take a deep breath. The media had moved on, and they were able to return home that evening. It was a Friday, so the girls went straight to their father's, while Miranda returned to the townhouse, totally empty after Cara unpacked and left. Emily had left a copy of the book, so she went up to her office and began working through the pages.
Everything was wrong, and suddenly she felt like she had been on vacation for the past two weeks, despite working long days from the cottage. Miranda felt a headache coming on, so she sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose. What she wanted was a hit, something to re-energize her. She'd been so good since Paris, it couldn't hurt—and her daughters weren't around. However, when she went to retrieve the bag from her stash in the closet, it was gone, as were all of Stephen's things.
The next morning at the office, she used the phone in the reception area to call Roger and arrange to come by later. She worked for a few hours, then changed into some designer athleisure from the closet and left the building. She hailed a cab and gave them an address in the Lower East Side, a large apartment complex a block away from the bodega, and after the driver pulled away, she walked around the corner and into the bodega.
"Hello, Roger," she said impatiently. She hated being here and could only imagine how scared Andrea must have been, not knowing what to expect.
"My silver fox, it's been a while. You cheating on me?"
"I was on vacation, out of the country. I—"
"Say no more. Customs is a bitch, am I right?"
Miranda smiled and nodded. She did not want to make small talk with her dealer. She wanted what she came for, and she wanted to leave. "So, what can $1500 get me? You know my schedule doesn't permit me to come here often."
"For you, I'll give you six of these," he said, pulling some eight balls from his duffel bag.
Miranda handed him the cash and put the bags of powder in her bag. But as she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm and she turned around in shock.
He released her and held his hands up in surrender. "Didn't mean to scare you. I've got a new supplier and he got me some candy to try—only for my VIP customers, though."
"Candy?"
"Crack cocaine. Candy."
"Oh, I've never—I don't use that," Miranda explained.
"Let me show you how to smoke it. Come on, I'll give you some to take home. Use it or don't, but if you like it, I've got more where that came from."
Miranda shrugged and watched him take a small square of foil and hold it over a lighter with a tiny rock in there.
"Here," he said, "hold this, right her." He gave her the lighter, and she held it under the foil. Then, he took a small glass straw and used it to inhale the smoke coming from the crackling rock. "You want to try?"
"Not right now," Miranda said, handing him his lighter back.
"No, keep it. and take this." He handed her a small bag of crack. "On the house," he added.
"Thanks."
"See you soon!" he called after her.
She quickly walked a few blocks to a small neighborhood bar and hailed a taxi to take her back to the office—or rather, the Starbucks across from the office. From there, she got into her waiting car and returned to the townhouse, all the while, telling herself she was not addicted and did not have a drug problem.