Unexpected Grace - Chapter Two
Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief of Runway magazine and High Priestess of Fashion stood by the window of her office high above the city streets watching the people pass below, riding the tide of the traffic lights. There was a rhythm to that ebb and flow and she watched carefully. She was hoping for a glimpse of a certain tall, brunette figure. It had been weeks since she had had a sighting but still hoped, always hoped that she would catch a glimpse of that one buoyant spirit bopping along in the current.
Not finding the one she had hoped to see, if only for a moment, she looked up, scanning the towering cityscape. New York always reminded her of a hive-like version of the Grand Canyon. Flying in over the city, one saw deep caverns of earthy colors like soaring cliffs of all heights. Windows sparkled with the reflected light of the sun. The traffic and people flowed like water between those artificial cliffs to the flat expanse of ocean. The stone channels etched by wind and rain echoed in the underground tunnels of the subway system winding through the city.
This morning, the clouds were ominous, promising rain as low, far away thunder sounded. A few angled raindrops had just begun to hit the window with the growing wind. The flow of humanity thinned as people ran to get out of the rain. One arm crossed protectively across her middle while the other toyed aimlessly with the gold links of the heavy chain she wore around her neck dipping below the V of her white, draped silk blouse. Miranda let her forehead drop forward to touch the coolness of the glass, wishing that at least she had this much of her, that occasional glimpse from high above.
As the rain increased, she stepped back, honoring a power far beyond herself of wind and rain and meteorological energy. It still made her slightly anxious to be so enclosed, so high in this prestigious corner office fishbowl. Even she could not stare down a lightning bolt.
Her thoughts drifted to the past. It had taken years, decades for Miranda to get to where she was now. From poverty to riches, she had fought her way to the top. She may never have worn the crudely tattooed numbers on her forearm that her mother and so many others wore but the effects echoed through the following generation as if they had. Having survived the concentration camps after that vicious war, her mother was placed with a family in England and married once she came of age. An only child born late to her parents, Miranda grew up knowing she wanted more, so much more than the poverty and smothering protectiveness that surrounded her.
Scrambling bit by bit, she shed naivety like a serpent shedding an old skin over and over again. She slowly lost the innocent vision of a young woman who found passion in the touch and color of fabric and, even deeper, in the fashion that was created with it. With her eyes closed, she could name any cloth by its feel against her skin. She was a woman for whom color was an entire language only barely translatable into any spoken words. Designers swore she had a vision beyond that of an ordinary human in the spectrum of her sight, Dragon sight perhaps.
Besides art, she understood process and business and was able to merge all of these together with a brilliant mind, unforgiving drive and hard earned education. With time, she achieved all she had wanted. But there was a cost. She had bargained with her body, her mind and ideas, paid in friendships and in the gradual loss of the heart of the woman she was, all sacrificed on the altar of her ambition. With those shedding skins, she became brittle despite the thickening exoskeleton. Yes, she still had passion but it had become muted and tasteless. The once brilliant color of her life had washed out to a dull echo of what it once was.
Miranda found herself alone, separated by an increasing distance from others. Her intimate circle had shrunk to so few. Her parents were long gone. If anything, it was her daughters who kept her heart anchored. Marriages of convenience seemed her only possibility and they were simply a more demanding business relationship bound by contract and legal spider webs. And one more was gone with the last divorce.
Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her desk and sat, swiveling back to watch the rain, her face carefully facing away from the office door. She could name the stimulus that led to such introspection. She went through assistants like no one else, all those identical clones, loving the pretty trinkets and flashy jewels of the Dragon, wanting what she had but not able to pay the price of excellence demanded. Then there was that one, the smart one with that stubborn chin, beauty hidden behind hideous clothing, and those incredible eyes. The one she took a chance on, Andréa.
She had shaped and tuned and watched her grow into this sleek, efficient, beautiful, astonishing woman. She succeeded in every trial she was given with incredible resilience and resourcefulness. Yet over time, Miranda found herself caressing Andréa with her eyes, wishing it was her hands that could run through that thick hair, over silken curves. Besides the physical attraction, she was drawn to the warmth, intelligence, humor and compassion of this enigma. Miranda found herself simply caring and that caring starting to become more, a very dangerous more, an almost forgotten more. Looking at her own life, and this vivacious woman, she could not let her follow the same path. Miranda knew she had to drive her away.
Paris was the outcome. Paris, the city of love. But this was done from love. Miranda hardened her heart and made choices of words and actions that left Andréa one choice, and only one choice, the choice to walk away. And Andréa did just that, thinking it was her own decision.
Now, months later, in the quiet of the early morning, long before the bustle and hum of the day took over, Miranda swore, "Merde, merde, merde. C'est totalement fucké!"
She hardly noticed her shift into the language of her early working years. The tiniest frisson of fear crawled up her back. Letting Andréa go had cut deeply. The initial sharp pain had eased to a constant ache of a poorly set bone. Had she gone too far in sending her away and given up her last chance of finding a path back to her own humanity?
Miranda knew love was the anchor of a life. And oh, she did miss the warmth of laughter in the night, of hands finding all those aching places, of silken skin sliding, of tangled tongues, lips moaning, of slick wetness dissolving in orgasmic tsunamis. She missed the depth of caring in eyes that hid nothing, of love that was not afraid of truth and time, that forgave before forgiveness was needed. One particular pair of eyes was all she could imagine.
The thunder of the storm brought her back, the water running down the windows, a reflection of the tears she could not allow herself to have. She shook herself, running hands up and down her arms to warm them, telling herself there was no use in thinking these thoughts, allowing these emotions to surface. There was no use in mourning the impossible.
Miranda turned back to her waiting work, struggling a little harder than usual to put the professional mask back in place. She would survive this as she had all else, burying the broken pieces as deeply as possible.
But she could not shake the feeling of being adrift in an endless, unforgiving sea.