Manipulations
A DWP (MirAndy) story
By Gun Brooke
Part 3
Miranda looked down at the flash drive and then closed her hands so hard around it, the edges of it cut into her palm. It held all twelve of the manipulated photos she had erased from her computer, as well as all the clips and files connected to her…hobby. Feeling nauseous from the violation of her privacy, she sipped the ice cold Pellegrino. She had never been foolish enough to actually store private things on Runway's computer system, but she did have access to her home network from work, for convenience. Whoever Irv, the maggot, had hired, had been a skilled hacker who could find out these things. Miranda decided on the spot to have an independent contractor install impenetrable firewalls between home and work, and at the same time, trace the invader.
Glancing at her watch, Miranda realized she couldn't put it off any longer. "Time to get this show on the road," she murmured and put her thumbnail into her purse. "Andrea. Coat. Bag." She didn't even slow down, but kept walking, certain that Andrea would catch up with her before she reached the elevators.
"Right here." Andrea's gentle voice wrapped around her as she stepped into the elevator. This time she didn't have to tell Andrea to ride with her down. The girl learned very fast. As much as her lovely assistant seemed willing and caring enough to go along with this rather insane plan of hers, it would be prudent to keep in mind that Andrea only agreed to do this out of kindness. She had never showed any of the usual signs of being star struck or indulging in hero worship like so many assistants before her. Miranda's thoughts came to a full stop. What if this reckless plan of hers destroyed Andrea's prospects…her future? Perhaps the young woman was so eager to assist her demented boss that she couldn't fathom what the rumor mill could to do you when you had no money, no connections, and nothing to fall back on. When Andrea received her promotion, people were going to assume she got that from sleeping with the her.
"Damn." Miranda had no idea that she'd spoken aloud until she saw Andrea flinch.
"Something wrong, Miranda?" Andrea whispered. "I mean, more wrong?"
"Let's wait until we're at Pastis. I've changed my mind. We will talk this over one more time."
"Oh. Okay. Sure." Andrea, clever girl, fished out her cell phone and confirmed the reservation for Miranda Priestly and guest 'at the table she likes," at Pastis. Miranda had to smile at how incredibly bossy Andrea sounded when she carried out her job. She wondered if Andrea was aware of how stern she could sound. This particular tone of voice caused shivers to ripple up and down her spine and her belly to tremble. Then again, any of Andrea's tones had some sort of effect on her. Even that horrendous cackling laughter she'd been privy to hear many times in the office. She'd seen Emily roll her eyes at her colleague, but even the snobbish Englishwoman had to smile when Andrea got going.
"Your…our table is waiting." Andrea tucked her phone into her enormous tote bag. "Roy's waiting."
"Good."
The ride was short, which was a blessing as Miranda might have asphyxiated otherwise. Andrea's light perfume was intoxicating and she tried to inhale as little of it as possible, which of course only caused her to gasp for air after a while. Andrea was far too polite to ask what the hell Miranda was up to, but she had to wonder.
The maître d' at Pastis ushered them past the line and through the door, made sure their coats were tended to and then gave them the least conspicuous booth in the restaurant. Even if they could still be seen, nobody sat close enough to overhear if they were careful.
"Do you like meat, Andrea?"
Andrea jumped and lowered her menu. "Uhm. Yes. I do prefer chicken though."
"Then I can recommend their grilled chicken."
"Thank you. Good suggestion."
Miranda hadn't even opened her menu, always having the same dish that the master chef created for her several years ago. Predictable? Only when it came to food, really. Miranda knew what she liked. Why change that?
Their waiter appeared discreetly, refrained from listing specials and did not offer any cocktails, which was what Miranda expected of the Pastis staff. Last time someone had started spouting and endless list of dishes in minute detail, she had actually left. That was the first time she took Stephen to one of her favorite restaurants. Perhaps the staff had thought they must put on a show for the new 'Mr. Priestly' at the time? Miranda shrugged inwardly.
They ate in silence and only when they sat sipping their respective wine, did Miranda feel comfortable enough to talk. The waiter looked like he meant to approach them, perhaps to ask if they wanted coffee, and as much as Miranda loved coffee, she still frowned in his direction. It was enough to keep him away.
"Have you thought this through, Andrea?" Miranda asked quietly, folding her arms along the edge of the table in order to lean closer.
"I have." Andrea nodded. "Have…have you changed your mind?"
"No. Not because of me, at least. I admit I was panicked enough to completely disregard the repercussions for you…long term."
Andrea's expression equaled that of a professional poker player. Her big eyes, normally so expressive and too telling, showed absolutely nothing. Then she drew a deep breath. "I'm glad you mentioned it. I did worry. I did."
"Did?"
"How could I not help you? How could I turn my back on your when that…thatman, is up to his dirty games again?" Andrea spoke quietly and mimicked Miranda's position, leaning forward. "Yes, I realize people might think I slept my way to the first assistant position, but I will know the truth."
"And your family? Your friends? Your future employers?"
Andrea looked a little sad. "Yeah. Those."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Miranda straightened, but did not avert her eyes.
"My social life is non-existent, more or less. Too little time," Andrea said apologetically. "And they don't like 'what I've become', what the hell that means. My family is even less understanding, and since Nate left for Boston, well…let's say, I wonder if my father loved him more than me? I'm joking of course, but—" She flushed. "Oh, sorry. I'm rambling. Rule no. 3, don't ramble."
"What? What rule? What are you talking about?" Miranda blinked, trying to follow Andrea's chain of association.
"Oh, don't get me started on the freaking rules." Andrea smiled self-deprecatingly. "So you see, if I worry for anything, really…it's the future employer, but then again, that will be more than a year away, if I follow in Emily's footsteps for my tenure. Surely stuff like this dies down within a year?"
"Normally you're not naïve, but when it comes to the tabloid press, and how far back an editor will go to check references and track record, you just don't have the experience."
"So…we call your plan off? And then we call the Post and demand a denial and a retraction?"
"God." Miranda just couldn't see her way out of this. Not without jeopardizing a lot for Andrea, or complete humiliation for herself. Perhaps it was as simple as that. "I should not involve you."
"I seem to be involved," Andrea said in a whisper.
Miranda sipped her wine. "Would you come home with me to the townhouse, where we can talk more in private? If I give you all the details how this mess came about in the first place, you can take an informed decision. The girls are not home." Miranda could see the wheels turning in Andrea's beautiful head. "No matter what, we need to make a decision."
"Agreed. So, no hugging while waiting for Roy?" Andrea smiled, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
"As much as I'd looked forward to that part; no." It pleased Miranda to no end to tease Andrea back. "Let's go."
"Holy smokes," Andrea muttered behind her as they walked out of the restaurant. "The freaking twilight zone again."
At a loss as to what Andrea was talking about, Miranda walked right by the paparazzi that had showed up like clockwork, not acknowledging them whatsoever. Roy held her door open and she slipped into the backseat. She saw Andrea round the car and open the door. Just as she was about to step in, it happened. A photographer threw himself forward and shoved at Andrea. Miranda acted out of sheer dismay and caught Andrea as the young woman literally fell into the car. The flash of the man's camera went off in their faces. Roy showed up like a menacing protector and hauled the man off, who was kicking and screaming, as Miranda helped Andrea sit up.
"Are you injured?" Miranda slid her hands up and down Andrea's arms and shoulders while scanning her face.
"N-no. No. I'm okay. Thank you. Where the hell did he come from?" Her brown eyes huge, she looked over at Miranda. "He—I think he took some photos. Oh, God."
"Yes. Well." Miranda rubbed her temple, holding on to Andrea's wrist with her other hand. "I think the variation of methods how to handle everything were just reduced. A lot."
"No kidding." Andrea looked unhappy. "Guess he'll sell those to Page Six in a heartbeat. Wonder how they'll put a spin on that?"
Roy entered the car.
"The townhouse, Roy." Miranda leaned back and briefly closed her eyes. She was well aware of the fact she was still holding on to Andrea's arm, but the touch anchored her somehow. If her life was one big mess before; it certainly wasn't getting any tidier.