NOT DATING

OK, so they were friends. If she was pushed, Miranda Priestly would reluctantly agree it was so, had anyone dared to ask. Which they hadn't. But that absolutely did not mean she was dating Andrea Sachs, thank you very much.

She wasn't sure where that silly rumor got started in the first place, however Monday morning saw her art director Nigel Kipling in her office airily espousing this view as though it were peer reviewed, iron-clad fact. The man clearly needed his head read. And a new hobby.

"So, matching dresses, huh?" he began as he slid into the chair opposite with a squeak of his grey Armani suit. "Something you want to tell me, Miranda?"

He bent one leg over his knee and twiddled with the laces on his sleek black Salvatore Ferragamo shoes as he waited.

She sniffed at him. "A coincidence, I can assure you." She ignored his probing eyes and smug smirk and continued jotting notes down for the Acessories Department. Finally she muttered: "As if I'd co-ordinate outfits with my assistant."

"That's not what Donatella thought," Nigel said and dropped his foot back to the floor with a plop. He leaned forward and added conspiratorially, "In fact, dear Donna said it was 'divine' you used her event to make a 'bold public statement' about your new relationship. She declared it 'che figata' to anyone within earshot. Or so my well-placed sources tell me. And, from my rusty Italian, I believe that means she thinks it's verrrry cool."

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I know what che figata means," Miranda hissed and sent him a warning glare before scribbling more notes on her page. "And I am not dating my assistant. I do not date assistants, period. Nor women. Especially not women 20 years my junior who are my assistants! Honestly Nigel!"

Nigel lifted his hands in surrender. "OK, OK, so you're saying you're absolutely not laying one little pinkie on our adorable Six?"

Miranda paused and her cheeks reddened slightly. "I didn't say that," she admitted hoarsely and licked her lips anxiously.

Nigel peered at her in confusion. "Uh…" he said helplessly, before looking lost. "Um... So this is, what, friends with benefits then?"

Miranda finally looked him in the eye and dropped her pen to her desk. "I suppose you could call it that. We are friendly. Well, friends. Of sorts. And there are," she cleared her throat in faint embarrassment, "certainly benefits. But nothing more. How utterly ridiculous the idea! At my age, a twice divorced mother of two dating the twenty-something office junior?! I'm fairly certain I have not taken leave of my senses. Now make yourself useful, Nigel, and ensure that information worms its way into Donatella's addled brain, too. Her imagination does run riot."

"Mmm," Nigel said thoughtfully and suddenly perked up. "So that other story about you going toe-to-Prada heel with some beefy action star you saw chatting up Six at the benefit was all just Donatella's wild imagination, too?"

She rolled her eyes to disguise her wince at the unappealing flashback of that neckless brute with enormous pecs drooling over Andrea's spectacular cleavage. He was nine parts sinew, one part fake tan.

It did not bear thinking about.

Fortunately she'd witnessed the slimey lothario make his move. He'd been all perfect white-toothy smiles and oozing charm and - Miranda scowled darkly - touchy feely, so she'd been there instantly to step in, slide a reassuring arm around Andrea's waist and shoot the irritating A-lister one of her most lethal death stares. By rights he should have immolated on the spot.

But really what was she supposed to do? She glared at Nigel.

"I suppose you thought it was acceptable a hulking stranger ogled and pawed her in some crude seduction attempt?" she whispered coldly.

"Noooo," Nigel said his eyes wide at the sharpness of her voice. He shrunk back a little. "But telling him he'd only be fit to work as a Peewee League mascot if he continued 'plaguing Andrea with sweaty unwanted attentions' was a noteworthy step. The watching crowd certainly seemed to think so."

"Hardly noteworthy," she sniffed, but she was perplexed. So what if she'd threatened that odious walking steroids advertisement with a little career-ending hellfire? That was neither here nor there. If he'd kept his eyeballs from Andrea's delectable cleavage and his meaty mitts in his pockets then none of this would be an issue. Honestly, she frowned. What was wrong with people that she couldn't rescue her guileless assistant from a famous, handsome millionaire who kept wilfully flirting with her?

"If we're done here?" she told her art director, without looking up. "Some of us have work to do."

"No, uh… actually..." He shuffled some papers.

"Good," she told him. "Send Emily in on your way out."

She tsked under her breath as he left eyeing her uncertainly.

That evening was equally mystifying when her two daughters demanded to know over dinner why she was "hiding" her relationship with Andrea.

"We like her, Mom," Cassidy said, reassuringly. "Don't worry. You don't have to pretend. We think she's awesome."

"We really do," Caroline added, "And she's great with soccer training. My footwork has improved so much. Even the coach thinks so. He wants Andrea to help a few of the other girls on the team. Can you ask her?"

Miranda paused. "Where in heaven's name are you two getting the idea from that I am dating my assistant?"

"Um hellooo," Cassidy said with a spectacular eye roll. "Matching outfits? You were wearing them when you picked us up from Dad's on Friday. Even he noticed and he's like totally fashion blind."

"That was just a coincidence, darlings," Miranda said. "Two designers can both make sky blue outfits with a diamante embellished waist. Honestly, everyone has the wrong idea. It's ludicrous."

"Everyone?" asked Caroline curiously. "Who else thinks you're dating?"

"Oh, I can't keep up," Miranda sighed and waved her hand in exasperation. "Just Donatella, Nigel and a few other… oh … dozen or so people who sent me these odd congratulatory emails today."

"Whoa," Cassidy said. "So you're famous now for dating Andy!"

"No don't be silly – it's only close associates who think this is happening. Associates who should know better. Because Bobbsey, as I've been saying, we're not dating. We're just friends who stay over at each other's places any time we need some special company. We're certainly not a couple."

"Uh huh," Caroline said pleasantly. She nudged her sister and they looked at each other intently.

"Um, sure but ..." Cassidy began, then at Miranda's sharp glance, she faded out with a helpless shrug. "OK Mom."

Cara, the housekeeper, knocked gently on the door frame and poked her head in. "Oh Miss Miranda, you're home. Miss Andy stopped in earlier and wanted to let you know she put some of her home-made lasagne in the fridge in case you get home hungry tomorrow after the late Stella showing. She said to remind you that you mustn't skip meals because it makes you "cranky". I apologize for saying that but she made me agree to say her message exactly. Also, she said don't forget the music revue at Dalton is on Wednesday, and she says she'll meet you all at seven. Pizza beforehand at Lucio's. Her treat. Good evening. Good night, girls."

Cara nodded and left the twins eyeballing each other, elbows nudging ribs, but saying nothing out loud.

"Seven, pizza," Miranda repeated distractedly and made a mental note. "I do like Andrea's lasagne," she added fondly. "Even if she uses far too much cheese. And three kinds! That is not even remotely healthy."

"We know," Caroline said. "You always say that."

"Although I do not get cranky. Such a thought. I mean really." Her lips pressed together in dissatisfaction.

Both twins giggled as they rose to leave the table. Miranda fondly watched her darlings head upstairs and their earlier conversation came back to her.

She sighed.

Dating her assistant?! No, no, definitely not. Honestly. How DID these rumors get started?