"Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends." -Joan Didion

Day Four

January 22, 2019: M.

Miranda didn't particularly want to go to therapy, but her doctor kept incessantly nagging at her to try it. So she finally caved, something she'd only done a few times in her life.

So far, she'd torn through one, two, three, four, five, six different therapists. Each lasted about one session, or sometimes even less than that. She'd walked out on the fifth one. Now, Miranda was sitting in front of victim number seven, Dr. Esther Park, who wore a kind smile and was studying her carefully over the rims of round glasses. Miranda didn't smile back.

"Hello, Miranda, I'm Dr. Esther Park," she said pleasantly. "So what brings you here today?"

Miranda offered nothing in response. If this woman's job was to pry information out of her, she wasn't off to a strong start. They both knew damn well why she was here today, and she just wanted to get this over with, without having to answer redundant questions.

Dr. Park's helpful smile was unwavering. "I see that this isn't your first time here." She began flipping through a stack of papers on a clipboard, and Miranda stole a wary glance at it. "How's your family?"

Miranda stuck her tongue inside her cheek. "Fine. We're fine." She let her eyes roam about the room, taking in the ecru-painted walls and minimalistic paintings hanging from them. There were several plants scattered around the office, their pots the same mustard-yellow as the upholstered chairs. Simple, but tasteful, she supposed. Though petite wood tables would match better than the crude slab of grey glass being used as a table.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that," Dr. Park said. "Why don't you tell me about them?"

"What should I tell you?" Miranda zeroed in on the lamps. The one next to her was giving off a different kind of light than the one behind Dr. Park. It made the office feel a little less sterile, a little more homely. She wasn't sure if that was intentional or not.

"Anything, really."

Miranda drew her attention back to the therapist, because the room was small and she was done looking. "Well. My daughters are named Cassidy and Caroline. They're both 20 and are now attending university." She didn't know what else to say. Other than their majors, she knew virtually nothing about what they were doing. The call from Cassidy offered little information, and was the first time the girls have made any attempt to contact her since they left.

Dr. Park scribbled something down that was too messy for Miranda to make out. "That's great, you must be so proud of them. How are they liking it so far?"

"I- I think they're enjoying themselves." Miranda heard the stutter in her voice, and knew by Dr. Park's raised eyebrow that she was in trouble.

"I see. When was the last time you talked to them?" Dr. Park tilted her head at Miranda in question.

"I spoke to Cassidy yesterday," Miranda said with a sigh. "She'll be coming home sometime in March, as she has some sort of internship with the New York Times." She wasn't looking at the therapist now.

"Oh, how impressive." Dr. Park's wrist was flying across the clipboard now. "And Caroline?"

Miranda stared at the framed watercolour daffodils hanging on the wall, above the therapist's head. They were messy and there were dried water stains dotting the paper. It looked like some child's craft project, and likely was. "It's been a while since we've spoken."

"How long?"

"It doesn't matter." Miranda said, a little too sharply. It did matter, but she didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want this woman to know how broken she was, how desperate she was to see her girls again, how many wasted nights she'd spent wallowing in self-pity, then anger.

Dr. Park's face was sympathetic, and her voice was remarkably gentle when she said, "Miranda, I'm sorry but you'll have to give me a little more than that because-"

"No."

"The more you tell me, the more I'll be able to help you," she finished as if Miranda hadn't spoken. Dr. Park gave her a small smile. "Tell you what, we can discuss something else if you're not ready to talk about this yet. I know it's Tuesday, but did you do anything fun over the weekend?"

The first thing that came to mind was Andrea. That inexplicably sad smile and smooth, freckled shoulders under a light purple sky. "Not particularly," she lied.

"Well, what did you do?" Dr. Park set down her clipboard and turned her full attention onto Miranda, dark eyes curious.

"I attended a benefit event on Sunday, and I spent my Saturday in the office, doing work," Miranda said flatly.

Dr. Park was either unaware of how disgruntled Miranda was or deciding to ignore it. "Ah, how nice. Do you often spend your Saturdays this way?"

"If my schedule allows, yes. Why do you ask?"

"What do your friends think of this?"

Miranda's face grew hot. "I don't... I'm not sure what you mean." Dr. Park was frowning now, and looked like she wanted to say something, but Miranda cut her off quickly. She'd played along with Dr. Park's game of 70 Stupid Questions, now she needed to get to the point.

"I'm here because my doctor says that I need therapy," Miranda growled. "Now tell me, what is wrong with me, and how do I fix it?"

"It's not that there's something wrong with you," Dr. Park answered patiently, seemingly unaffected by Miranda's outburst. "It's just that, it sounds like you have a lot going on."

"Yes, I'm the editor-in-chief of Runway, I'm very busy." Miranda couldn't help but roll her eyes at the obvious. "I'm sure you're a busy person as well."

Dr. Park took a deep breath, pressing a hand to her temples. She suddenly looked very tired. "Well, yes. But it sounds to me like you're not really... you don't do much other than work. You aren't in close contact with your daughters, you've avoided my question regarding your friendships. Are you romantically involved with anyone?"

Miranda bristled. "No." Why would she, after three failed marriages, and even more short-lived relationships? Anyways, they demanded an absurd amount of attention, and soon her partner went from being about "us" to being about "me." It was annoying, but nowhere as irritating as Dr. Park continuing to prod her with questions, despite how clear she was making it that she didn't want to answer them.

"Okay," Dr. Park said weakly. "What would you like to talk about then?"

"I don't know, perhaps I'd like for this session to actually be productive, considering how much time and money this is costing me," she snapped. Really, how difficult was it to understand? So far nothing had been accomplished, and it had almost been an hour already. She had opted to leave a runthrough in Catherine's still-inexperienced hands for this, so she had been expecting it to be slightly more worthwhile.

"You know what? I think we're done here, actually." Miranda said cooly, rose to her feet, and Dr. Park did as well, a strained smile on her face.

"Oh. Well, I hope to see you again." She offered Miranda a handshake, who simply glared at it. Dr. Park didn't seem to flinch. "When you find a new therapist, please keep this in mind; we can only help as much as you'll let us, so next time you need to be willing to share more information."

Miranda scowled, but Dr. Park's voice was just as chipper as it was initially when she said, "Goodbye, and thanks for coming."

Miranda slid into the leather seats of the car, where her first assistant Amara was waiting for her, notepad in hand. Her brown eyes widened considerably and she scooted closer to her own window, away from Miranda.

"Hello, Miranda." She gave her a small smile and handed her a cup of Starbucks coffee. Miranda accepted it, and began rattling off a list of instructions, while Amara frantically tried to keep up with her, the sounds of pen scratching on paper filling the car.

"Tell Peter that no, we're not using the golden hoop earrings, they'd clash horribly with the silver sequins. Cancel my meeting with Lina, move it up to Friday. Hana will wait for the book tonight instead. I expect you to take careful notes during the meeting regarding Herrera's autumn collection for Paris Fashion Week." Miranda narrowed her eyes at Amara, who made a nervous, little noise in the back of her throat. "Yes, Miranda."

Miranda tapped her lips thoughtfully. There was something else- what was- oh. "Book another appointment with Dr. Park sometime next 's all."

Amara nodded and shook her wrist, like she always did, as if it hurt from writing. Miranda raised an eyebrow. "That's been happening rather frequently. Have you gotten it checked?"

Her assistant was staring at her as if she'd grown a second head. "What? Oh- no, I haven't. Maybe I should?" She sounded alarmed.

"Yes, do that," Miranda said. "It may be carpal tunnel, which is not only a major inconvenience, but also excruciatingly painful." She kept her eyes trained on Amara, who was beginning to squirm under her scrutiny. "Book an appointment with my doctor, as soon as possible."

Amara's eyes darted from Miranda to her wrist, and back at Miranda, clearly uncomprehending. "What?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. Amara was a dutiful assistant, but terribly slow on the uptake sometimes. "Dr. Patridge should be able to help you, tell him I sent you. If you encounter any trouble with him, I'll talk to him myself."

Her assistant continued to look blankly at her, and Miranda frowned. "Oh... that's very nice of you," the assistant said finally. "Thank y-you." She glanced at her notes, and then uneasily at Miranda once more, before going onto her phone.

Miranda pressed her cheek against the window, looking out the windows blurred by rainwater, and not for the first time that day, found her thoughts drifting to Andrea.

Miranda had just gotten comfortable in her study and was leafing through a novel she'd started ages ago. No Book yet.

She wondered vaguely where Agatha Christie got inspiration for such an intricate story like this. Miranda was by no means a writer, but she knew good work when she saw it. It was so meticulously crafted, every completed page by no means sating her intrigue, merely feeding the flames. She had just reached the part where the murderer was about to be revealed, when there was an insistent knock on her door. Miranda shut her eyes in frustration. Perhaps whomever it was, they'd disappear if she didn't answer. It wasn't Amara, because she had a key to the house.

Unsurprisingly, the knocking continued, and Miranda got up with a huff to open the door. Whoever had the gall to disturb her at 9:00 at night was out of their mind, and she decided that she'd tell them so.

"What? What do you want?" Miranda snapped, a wave of cold air hitting her. She tugged her robe around her tightly. God, it was freezing.

"Did I come at a bad time?" Andrea inquired. She had a coat- Miranda's coat- tucked in one arm, and held an umbrella with the other. "I wanted to return your coat a couple hours ago, but I fell asleep." She smiled sheepishly, and it reminded Miranda of the Andrea she once knew. Miranda instantly forgave her, but she arched an eyebrow. "Well, are you going to dither in the doorway until we both drop dead, or do you plan on coming inside sometime this century?"

Andrea's face broke into a radiant grin. "Sure, I'd love to." Miranda nudged the door open a bit more so that Andrea could step in.

"I'll take your umbrella and shoes," Miranda said. She'd invited Andrea in on an impulse, but that didn't mean she'd have to drop all common courtesies. Andrea looked surprised for a moment, but nodded and slipped out of her shoes, which Miranda realised with a jolt were an atrocious pair of Crocs. And not the Balenciaga platform ones, which were still disgusting but not nearly as grubby as those.

"I ought to put these in the trash can, where they belong," Miranda said. "Or better yet, burn them." She picked one up with two fingers delicately, wrinkling her nose. "These are horrendous. An insult to- what in God's name are those?" She stared in disbelief at the furry, Saint-Patrick's-Day-green monstrosities that covered Andrea's feet.

"These are my socks, and they're very cozy," Andrea said with something that almost sounded like pride. "I have another pair at home if you want one." Her eyes danced with laughter.

"No, thank you. It's miraculous that you've managed to forget everything Nigel and I have taught you," Miranda said wryly. Her eyes raked over Andrea. The faded Northwestern sweatshirt, the garish, flannel pajama pants. No, no, no. "Absolutely unacceptable," she proclaimed. "If you insist on parading about my home, you are not permitted to wear that."

"But you're the one who invited me in," Andrea protested, though Miranda has a feeling it was in jest. "It's technically your own fault that I'm in your house, wearing comfort clothing. If you didn't want me here, you could have just taken the coat and made me leave." She raised an eyebrow in the same manner Miranda did.

Miranda's lips quirked. "Keep in mind you could have declined the invitation."

"Nah, I couldn't have," Andrea said good-naturedly. "I didn't want to." Heat suffused in Miranda's stomach. This was nice, so familiar. How long had it been since she'd talked to someone like this? She couldn't recall. Miranda had no idea until now how starved she was for a normal, easy conversation.

"Oh god, I came in here to give you your coat, and I'm still holding it." Andrea's laugh was gentle. She offered it to Miranda, but she shook her head.

"No, keep it." Miranda already had enough coats to clothe an army, and she wasn't fond of that one anyways. "You could really use it, considering your current attire." She gave Andrea a mean little smile.

"I'm sorry I don't own cashmere pajamas, Miranda. Not all of us can afford it." Andrea's smile wasn't as wide now.

Miranda felt a flicker of irritation at Andrea for souring the mood. "If you can't afford it, why are you occupying a townhouse in the Upper East Side? And not to mention, you're living alone," she huffed.

"Well... I don't really know. I just wanted to try something new." Andrea shrugged, as if it completely was normal to purchase a 25 million dollar home on a whim. "Besides, I didn't know what else I could have used the money for."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe food, or clothing, electric bills, or you could have saved it." Miranda said snidely as she counted these off on her fingers.

Andrea's face was blank. "Yeah. Maybe I could have done that, but I didn't, because I'd just gotten back from Syria. It's pretty hard to think in the long-term when you narrowly avoided getting blown up and move back to a country that you barely recognise." Miranda was tempted to apologise, but she simply pursed her lips and looked askance.

There was another uncomfortable silence, as if they'd once again, forgotten how to talk to each other. Andrea must have found her floor very interesting, considering how intently she was staring at it.

"Have you eaten dinner yet?" Miranda asked, then wondered why she had. She was too tired to cook anything, and her chef Jimena had gone home for the day. She didn't even know if there was enough food in the refrigerator for a meal.

"Nope. Why are you asking though?" Andrea blinked. "I mean- I was planning on ordering Chinese take-out later."

Miranda made a face. The thought of all that greasy, diabetes-inducing food was nauseating. "That won't do at all. Come with me, Andrea." She beckoned for Andrea to follow, and as she tied an apron around her waist, she asked herself what the hell she was doing. Miranda couldn't come up with an answer to that.

January 22, 2019: A.

Andy watched Miranda glide around the kitchen, her eyes refusing to believe what she was seeing. Miranda Priestly, for some unknown reason, was making her dinner. Not that she was complaining, of course- but wow.

Miranda had opened the fridge, and was assessing its contents with a hard stare. "Do you like latkes, Andrea?"

Andy didn't know what those were, but said, "Sure." Miranda was looking at her now. "You've never had latkes before, have you?"

"No," Andy admitted, and Miranda rolled her eyes. If Miranda thought it was a food worth cooking, then she trusted it. Besides, it's not like she was picky- living on the run in the Middle East didn't really give you many options. "I think it would be cool to try them though, whatever they are."

"Latkes it is then," Miranda murmured, pulling various containers and bags out of the fridge. Andy immediately got up to help her, but Miranda waved her off. "I can handle myself. Sit down, Andrea."

"No, I insist."

Miranda pursed her lips, likely displeased with the fact that Andy wasn't listening to her. "Fine." She bristled a little when Andy approached.

"Okay, so how can I help?" Andy glanced at the ingredients laid out on the counter, unsure where to begin. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually cooked. Uh oh.

"Well," Miranda began haughtily. "You would be most useful sitting down, out of the way. But since you're intent on quote-unquote 'helping,' you should chop up those potatoes."

"Shouldn't I wash them first?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I thought that much was obvious."

"Okay," Andy said, feeling as small as she had under Miranda's employ. It wasn't a good feeling, but familiar at least.

The water that ran over her hands was jarringly cold, and even with her back turned, she knew the older woman was watching her. Andy didn't comment on it, and Miranda just kept staring at her. Eventually Andy just turned off the faucet and set down the potatoes.

"What?" It came out a little harsher than she had meant it to, and she cringed. "I mean, uh. How are your kids?" Wow, what a great save, Andy thought to herself, wanting nothing more than to melt through the floor in that moment.

Miranda just kept looking at her, her gaze steely. "They're fine." The only sound filling the house was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, which echoed off of the marble countertops. "Let's go back to fixing up dinner, shall we?"

"Did you eat dinner yet?" Andy found herself asking. Miranda simply shook her head. "I usually don't."

Andy was determined to have an actual conversation with Miranda, despite her resistance. "How's Runway? Any particular designers or collections you're looking forward to seeing at Paris Fashion Week?"

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "I agreed to dinner, not an interview."

"This isn't an interview, this is a conversation," Andy retorted with a huff. "Is it a crime for me to want to talk to you, considering I'm making dinner with you in your house, seeing you for the first time in twelve years?" Miranda simply pursed her lips.

Andy sighed. "I'm not asking for you to give me your life story, Miranda. It's just that I never really got to know you when I was your assistant, but I want to."

Miranda affixed her with an incredulous stare. "This is pointless, on so many levels." Then her jaw tensed. "Allow me to ask you a question, Andrea. Where have you been for the past thirteen years?"

Andy's throat went dry. "I can't answer that."

"Well," Miranda said haughtily, reaching out for a bottle of white wine on the table. She poured out two glasses, sliding one over to Andy. "It seems as though neither of us are ready to have a conversation like this. Let's drop this, shall we? And hand me those potatoes."

Andy had to admit that Miranda made a good point, and they finished preparing dinner in silence.