"Perfume is the most intense form of memory." -Jean Paul Gaultier

Day Three

January 21, 2019: A.

Andy wasn't sure how to feel about this. If she had known that Miranda lived right next to her, she wouldn't have come here- probably. This was supposed to be a new beginning, and Andy had this whole glamorous plan about leaving the past behind. She supposed it was foolish to think that everything would magically get better.

We probably won't talk to each other again, Andy reminded herself. She wasn't sure if she'd even see Miranda again. The older woman was probably in her sixties, but she doubted that she had retired yet. She certainly hadn't slowed down.

She drained her water bottle in one gulp, and glanced at her dwindling supply of bottled water. A visit to the convenience store was in order. Andy stretched out, and pain flared up her leg. Maybe not today. Moving around all those boxes was pretty laborious, and she didn't particularly feel like going out anyways.

She picked up an old newspaper off the floor. There weren't a lot of newspapers produced these days, and the few she saw were used as packaging or thrown on the ground. Andy opened it up to a random page, and quickly flipped it when she saw the headline. She'd had enough of politics to last a lifetime. Andy found the Sunday comics, and had just begun to settle into the world of Garfield when a there was a sharp knock on her door. Andy leapt to her feet, her pain forgotten. It might be Miranda, although she wouldn't understand why she'd show up. After clumsily fumbling with the locks, the door finally creaked open.

A pretty, middle-aged woman beamed at her, but it wasn't Miranda, to Andy's disappointment. Her blonde hair glinted gold, and her hazel eyes sparkled playfully. She was well-dressed in a sharp black suit, and a pair of rectangular glasses framed her face.

"Hello! You're Andy Sachs, right? I'm Cathy, I live across the street from you." The lady spoke with a light British accent, high and warm. Without asking, she took Andy's hand in hers and shook it. Her grip was like a vice, uncomfortably tight.

Andy blinked and withdrew her hand, struggling to process this given information. Why was this loud lady at her door? "Yeah, that's me. May I help you with anything?"

"Oh, no. I just stopped by to welcome you to the neighbourhood," she explained. "Do you happen to have any children?" Andy's eyebrows shot up at this, but Cathy continued rambling.

"Because I plan out a lot of playgroups and would be more than happy to accomodate you- Oh! I also made a brisket. It's a sort of housewarming gift, I suppose. And don't worry about returning the dish, it's new and you can keep it." She laughed airily, and offered the cerulean ceramic plate to her. Andy accepted it, the smooth glass warm in her palms.

"Well, thanks for the food," Andy said slowly, drumming her fingers against the dish. "I guess I'll see you around, Cathy." The older woman nodded vigorously. "I bet you will!" With that, Andy waved her off and eventually closed the door.

The brisket was still warm, so she scrounged around her backpack for a plastic fork to eat it with. Andy didn't have any silverware, and made a mental note to go out and get some later. She'd likely forget, she knew it. Once she found one, she popped open the dish, a blend of fragrant herbs hitting her face. Andy sighed in contentment, and flopped onto her sleeping bag.

~x~

Andy supposed that it would be a good idea to go to the store before it closed. She slipped into a pair of bright-green Crocs, and nearly snorted when she looked down at them. The orange, fuzzy socks she had on really completed the look.

As she started down the steps, Andy noticed an Amazon package laying on the ground. It was weird because she hadn't even moven in yet, let alone given anyone her new address other than Doug. Curious, she picked it up, trying to gauge what its contents were. Then she saw the label. It was addressed to Miranda Priestly. A car door slammed shut and heels clicked against the sidewalk, which made her glance up.

Andy watched Miranda, with the same dizzying kind of wonder she had during her time at Runway. Tonight, she wore a cream-coloured pantsuit, and as always, her sunglasses. They were dark brown, gold-rimmed. Another thing that hadn't changed, despite the fact that Miranda likely owned several dozen newer, trendier glasses.

She wasn't exactly sure what compelled her to do this, but Andy waved at Miranda. The editor stopped, her face remaining impassive. Andy got a weird sense of déjà vu; this was oddly reminiscent of what happened twelve years ago, when she'd waved to the editor and then skipped off to Syria.

Much like the last time, Miranda stared stonily at her, but began walking towards her instead of up the stairs to her own home. Andy swallowed, and tried very hard to convince herself that she was an adult, and wasn't afraid of Miranda Priestly anymore. She failed, because despite all the time that had passed, that one thing had miraculously stayed the same.

Her heart pounded fervently when Miranda stopped in front of her, almost uncomfortably close. In heels, she was around the same height as Andy, but it felt like the older woman towered over her. She could smell her perfume, fragrant but subtle, the scent unclassifiable. It evoked a lot of memories. Some pleasant, some not so much. It was intoxicating, and Andy dumbly decided that all she wanted to do for the rest of her life was smell it, lose herself in the sweetness that was purely Miranda.

Miranda opened her mouth, presumably to say something, but no words came out. That was understandable; Andy literally had no idea what they were supposed to talk about. Like the night before, they regarded each other silently. Carefully, waiting for the other to make the first move, ask the first question. Neither of them were ready to do that, clearly.

"T-this is yours." She pushed the package into Miranda's arms slowly, gently, and the editor blinked, her gloved hands holding the box securely. It seemed like Andy had confused Miranda for the time being, but once the older woman regained her senses, she'd probably tear her to pieces.

Andy shuffled back into the house frantically, grocery shopping of no importance to her now. She felt the older woman's eyes on her as she opened the door, and was beyond relieved that she had forgotten to lock it before heading out.

~x~

January 21, 2019: M.

All the bravado Miranda'd had when approaching Andrea left her almost instantaneously. This had been such a poor decision. Both of them had just gaped at each other like fishes out of water, until Andrea shoved a parcel into her arms and all but ran back into her house.

Miranda supposed that it was for the best that the girl had left, but was oddly frustrated. The whole ordeal was frustrating. Why was she incapable of saying anything to the girl, other than one or two word greetings? And why did she care about this to begin with? She continued to mull over these questions as she drank her brandy. She didn't have the Book tonight, because Victoria Domonkos, the future editor-in-chief of Runway did.

Victoria was the perfect candidate for her position. Young, pretty, ambitious, and Miranda's most promising protégé. "No one can do what I do," in Paris had been a bit of a stretch; as much as it pained Miranda to admit it, Runway was more than capable of staying afloat without her. Certainly not as effectively, but still. It could manage, especially now that the recently appointed chairman of Elias-Clark was much more competent than Irv.

Her phone rang shrilly, interrupting her increasingly depressing train of thought. Miranda pounced on it immediately, grateful for the distraction. She didn't bother to check the caller ID.

"Miranda Priestly."

"Hi Mom." Cassidy's voice was flat.

Miranda froze, things taking a moment to properly register. She tried to keep her voice even, which was difficult when all she wanted to do was break down into tears. Whether they would be of joy or sadness, she didn't know. "Bobbsey, how have you been?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "Fine. Listen, I'm going to be home sometime in March. I'm starting an internship there at the New York Times. I'll try to get an apartment soon, but until then, I may have to stay at the townhouse."

"Of course. Darling, you're more than welcome to stay. It's your home as well, after all." Miranda's voice cracked a bit, and she cursed herself.

"Not anymore. But I don't think I really have a choice," her daughter said a little acidly.

Miranda felt a pang of hurt, and was torn between snapping at her or crying. She decided neither, because she couldn't afford to antagonise her, nor make Cassidy feel uncomfortable. "Oh, I see. Well, I'm glad you'll be visiting."

"Yeah. Anyways, that's all I wanted to talk to you about." Cassidy spoke briskly. "Bye." Miranda was promptly hung up on, and she stared at her black screen for a minute before finally tearing her eyes away.

She noticed the brown package that Andrea had forced into her arms sitting across the glass table from her, curiosity nagging at her. Not the contents of the package, she was sure it was the ink cartridges for her Mont Blanc pen; but rather the girl herself. Andrea, who had once been her second assistant, was now her neighbour in the Upper East Side. It was all very interesting.

Andrea had always been refreshing. Her presence at Runway broke the monotony of everything, violating the unspoken but rigid guidelines that everyone followed without question. This should have aggravated Miranda, but there was something special about the girl that made it acceptable. Now she had burst into Miranda's neighbourhood, wearing shabby clothes and living alone.

The suburbs weren't exactly the best place to do that, which made Miranda wonder; why was she here? Whatever happened to her prestigious reporting position at CNN? What should Miranda do? She could easily avoid Andrea forever, but that didn't seem right. They had history together, and it would be immature of her to ignore that. There was something similar about the girl that reminded her of herself. I see a great deal of myself in you, she recalled saying to her, so long ago.

Miranda had been referring to their shared ambition and intelligence. Now however, the most prevalent qualities between the two of them weren't nearly as positive. Miranda was sad, lonely, and dejected. Andrea- she wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but it certainly had left an impression on her. A shadow had cut across Andrea's face when she stared out emptily, like she was only anticipating the worst to happen.

Miranda rose from her seat and crept by the window, and saw that Andrea was sitting on the steps, looking out. Twilight was creeping in, white strips of clouds against light violet. The editor pulled on a coat, the fur draping comfortably around her, and stepped out into the cold. Dry leaves crunched under her heels as she walked, her Hermès scarf rippling behind her. The barren branches of the maple trees whistled in the wind, and if it weren't for that, the neighbourhood would be dead silent.

She strided towards Andrea, but her steps slowed the nearer she got. Andrea gazed up at her, not looking at all surprised. Her face was indecipherable. Miranda felt a flash of uneasiness. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea, and she should head back in. Perhaps Andrea wanted to be left alone.

Still battling with this apprehension, she sat down on the steps next to Andrea. The girl gave her the faintest of smiles before turning her head back to watch the sky. Miranda did the same, observing the wave of lavender yielding to indigo. None of them said anything, but they didn't need to.

~x~

January 21, 2019: A.

Andy shivered, even though she was wearing her bulkiest parka. New York was colder than she remembered. She buried her face in the fur ruff of the hood, which tickled her cheek but didn't do much to warm her.

"You're cold," Miranda said, her voice low. Andy looked at her, even though the other woman wasn't. Her feathery hair was trussed by the wind, and she had a thoughtful expression on her face, head tilted upwards to peer at the sky. Andy wasn't sure if Miranda was even paying attention to the the incoming twilight; her mind looked as though it was wandering elsewhere.

"Eh, sort of. You?" Without a word, the editor draped her own coat around Andy, who blushed uncontrollably. It was incredibly warm, and smelled heavily of Miranda. Coffee, subtle perfume, maybe wine. A really odd but comforting combination of things. Andy found herself involuntarily relaxing.

"Thank you. But aren't you-"

"Oh, please." Miranda rolled her eyes, beginning to seem more like herself. "I've been living in New York for nearly fifty years, and you think I'm unaccustomed to the cold?"

Andy toyed with a corner of the coat, the fur practically melting in her hands. It was no doubt real, and expensive. "That makes sense, I suppose."

"Yes."

There was even more silence, and this time it was more awkward than natural.

Andy cleared her throat. "So how have you been, Miranda? With Runway, and uh... stuff." God, she had to be the worst conversationalist to ever live.

Miranda's eyes met hers, brilliantly blue, with an eyebrow arched. "Fine. I retire this year." Thank God, she'd mercifully decided to not comment on Andy's stupidity.

"Oh. Congratulations?"

"No, I'm dreading it."

Andy bit her lip, not knowing how to respond to that. "Oh."

"People tend to favour particular words when they speak, Andrea," Miranda said. "I'm beginning to believe that 'oh' is a recurring one for you. Considering you were once a journalist, I wouldn't expect your vocabulary to be so lackluster."

Andy couldn't help but feel a little hurt at the jab, but was more curious about how the older woman knew that she was no longer employed. "Once?"

"Yes," Miranda answered a bit impatiently. "You reported from Syria, but now you're here. Not to mention, you've spent the past couple of days doing nothing else but lugging around those boxes. I know a good moving company that could do it for you." Andy opened her mouth to answer, but Miranda silenced her with a hand and kept speaking.

"Honestly Andrea, you're not exactly young anymore. It's dangerous to do that kind of heavy lifting all at your age." Her lips quirked into an almost imperceptible smile.

"So you're saying I'm old." Andy knew she sounded a little sour, but she thought it was well-justified, considering the fact that her old boss was making fun of her.

"Well, of course. It's not that you can help it, of course, it happens to all of us."

"Are you sure? You look exactly the same, it's almost like you haven't aged at all."

Miranda looked amused. "Oh? How interesting."

"You do look great though," Andy said truthfully. "Much better than I do."

"That's a routine compliment, but I'll accept it." She sighed, suddenly looking very tired. Andy had a feeling that this.. conversation was over.

"I'll be going home now, it's late and I have work to do. This has been dreadfully bland, but I'm sure we'll be seeing plenty of each other in the future, regardless of whether we want to or not." She rose, her back arching languidly as she stretched. Andy wondered how it was humanly possible to have that body at her age. Then again, this is Miranda we're talking about, she reminded herself. Of course she still looks fantastic.

Andy supposed she might as well head in too, since it was almost totally dark out. After she climbed up the steps, she paused in front of her door. Miranda was ambling up her own steps gracefully, a remarkable feat for someone wearing six inch heels. She shook her head, feeling a smile tugging at her lips. Perhaps being neighbours with Miranda wouldn't be nearly as unpleasant as she'd initially thought.

She carefully hung up Miranda's coat on a peg on the wall. It still smelled like her.