NOT BESOTTED

SPOTTED: We hope you're sitting down for this one, dear readers, because we can scarcely believe what our spies are telling us took place on the floor of The Mirror newspaper yesterday.

And we do mean ON the floor. As in a certain devilish fashion maven ON HER KNEES, doubtlessly bespoiling her divine Pierre Mantoux nylons, before a certain former assistant-turned-cub Mirror reporter. Hands were held. Eyes met for meaningful glances.

Was it a proposal? Were whispers of sweet nothings exchanged between the clearly besotted pair?

Our cackling favorite social scribe at The Mirror, fearless gossip hound Louise Glass, tells us we should all fix our peepers on The Mirror's website for her glorious exclusive update in a few hours. We're all a-tremble, cherubs. Whatever will we find?

In the meantime: Send us your top wedding gift ideas befitting the Ice Queen and the adorable sweet minx who has melted her heart.

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

By Social Reporter Louise Glass

Darlings, yes, yes, I know all you want to talk about is our now-famous fabled newsroom encounter between Miranda Priestly and her ex-girl Friday - and my newest colleague - gorgeous obituaries writer Andy Sachs.

I have received 1500 new followers in the past hour. Website traffic is up 720 per cent. Pleas from Entertainment Tonight fill my phone. But alas, we received not 20 minutes ago, a letter from the Devil herself demanding we cease and desist running any and all of the fabulously exciting details. So any photos I may or may not have snapped on my trusty iPhone of Runway's queen of fashion bowed on her knees before a certain shocked reporter will have to stay between me and my Apple account. For now.

Would that I could let you all have sneak a peek but Ms Priestly's snapping legal guard dogs were most clear on all the ways their sharp teeth would bloody my beautiful corpse if we persisted with running anything.

But don't worry, darlings, our paper's own loyal bloodhounds are taking on the Devil's advocates and we should know whether the legal injunction has legs when the dust clears. Watch this space.

Miranda Priestly closed The Mirror's social website with a sigh. It would do for now. Lewis, she supposed, was good for something even if he had failed to adjust the First Amendment as per her earlier instructions. Some ridiculous bleating about the Forefathers and Supreme Court challenges and blah blah blah. She rolled her eyes. Good help was so hard to find.

Although how anyone had concluded she was "besotted" by Andrea based on that little scene in the newsroom was beyond her. Besides, she didn't do besotted. She didn't even do love – well, except for her darling girls.

She had often wondered in her earlier years whether the romantic love gene had simply bypassed her. If it even existed in the first place. She snorted.

It was probably some Disney-engineered artificial construct that led those suffering the first flush of lust to conflate it with a deeper intimacy. An entire industry had sprung up around it – from Valentine's Day to the wedding industry. Obviously no one would be bursting that bubble any time soon.

Still, if the discussion was about caring for someone, well, she could see how that related to what she felt for Andrea. A smile danced around her lips. Andrea had consented to dine with her at a rather romantic restaurant this evening. She had plans to show her exactly how needed she was. And how desirable. But she would not make the mistake she did last time of rushing things. No, no, she would slowly romance the girl, lest she got scared off and ran again. And that would not do.

That decided, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She wondered what Andrea was wearing to work today. Would it match those soft brown eyes? Did she even own anything to match such sweetness? She snapped her eyes open with a frown. Hmm. She thought not.

She snatched up the phone and dialled Nigel.

"Get me some outfits that do justice to Andrea's eyes," she snapped. "I think a dozen or two should suffice."

"Uh, wha… Miranda? Eyes? Do y…"

"That's all." She hung up and smirked.

Better. She tried to picture Andrea smiling up at her in happiness at the new wardrobe arriving. Her smile really did light up a room. She needed sunglasses to look at it directly. One of her best features. Although not her best one. She smirked again and wondered at the odd giddiness in her stomach. What on earth had she been eating?

An hour later a harried Nigel arrived hauling a rack of clothes.

"About time," Miranda sniffed, actually rather impressed she could see almost thirty outfits adorning the racks.

Her art director rolled his eyes and she almost laughed at how miffed he looked.

"Soooo," he said with a sly glance, rocking back on his heels as she nosed through the clothing articles, "Besotted?"

She glared at him. "Tabloid nonsense," she said with a dismissive wave. "Really Nigel. You know me – do I look like the besotted type? Oh, this one," she paused pulling a slinky dress from the rack and examining it. "The new Stella. Oh yes."

"No Miranda, you normally do not do besotted," Nigel agreed and tilted his head as he regarded her. "But you don't normally ask me for outfits to match your lover's eyes either."

She pursed her lips at his impertinence. "Well of course not," she retorted, "All my previous lovers have been male."

"Men do have eyes that can be seen as beautiful and outfit-matching," he objected with a wounded tone.

She snorted at that before her face lit up as she spotted another outfit. Oh yes. Nigel had outdone himself. She licked her lips as she imagined Andrea in it.

"Ah, the Vivienne," Nigel smiled. "I knew you'd like that one. Six'll knock em dead at work."

"Don't be ridiculous – I shall never let her leave the house wearing this. It's a safety issue: She'd cause riots!"

His hearty chuckle made her smile, too.

"Well," she nodded. "Good. Have one of each of these sent to that dreary apartment of hers. Make it a morning delivery as she's working from noon today. And Nigel – I want store purchases, not from the Closet. Put it on my personal account. The last thing I need is Irv using my interest in Andrea as an excuse to stir up trouble."

"I'm actually surprised he hasn't already," Nigel muttered, making notes of the clothes she'd selected. "I mean he knew about you and Six while she was working here."

"Yes but at the time we were in an old-fashioned stalemate. He was involved with his secretary."

"Mavis?" Nigel recoiled in shock. "But she's so nice. And sweet."

"And lacking in taste," Miranda added. "And discretion. Unfortunately he's 'reallocated' her to another masthead now so any mutually assured destruction leverage I had has gone."

"Ah. By the way, at the risk of veering into the personal..." Nigel began, eyes flicking up to hers.

Miranda sighed. "As if I could stop you."

"I just want to say it was a ballsy move what you did at The Mirror yesterday. When I told you to apologize 'spectacularly' I had no idea how literally you'd take me."

"Well but of course Nigel it was all about you," Miranda flashed him an incredulous look. "I mean really."

"No, no I didn't mean that. I mean – I know you and you'd never have done that on the floor of Stephen's office, or Gary's or even Jonathan's. So… ah, wow."

Miranda frowned. She supposed that was true. She wondered briefly what it meant. Her perplexed expression must have been easy to read because suddenly Nigel dared to go that little bit too far.

"You love her," he suddenly said and grinned. "You really really do. You might even be," he gasped theatrically, and clutched his chest, "Besotted…"

"Get out!" she barked, pulling an appalled face and he disappeared, laughter accompanying him as he pushed the rack back down the hall.

Ridiculous. Her eyes narrowed.

SPOTTED: Our favorite Devil with the new-found Sapphic streak has been observed wining and dining her beloved brunette devilette at Serafina Fabulous. It's the tenth sighting out and about this month of the pair we're now dubbing Mirandy - so the famously private Runway queen is not exactly keeping her romance on the down-low. Interestingly our spies camped out at both ladies' homes say there's no evidence of, ahem, sleepovers. So color us confused and dip us in rainbow sprinkles: are our lesbi-licious lovebirds waiting for their wedding night? How delightfully old-fashioned.

On that topic, cherubs, keep your suggestions coming in for wedding gifts. Topping the short list – and our personal favorite – is a shiny diamante-encrusted red trident.

SPOTTED: The Devil herself, and you know the one, but we'll give you a clue, white coiff, adorably sweet girlfriend half her age, increasingly satisfied smirk (and wouldn't you have one, too?) – in a fuming rage outside her offices. And we all know why. Our lovely rival at The Mirror broke the news yesterday that a certain bottle-blonde ex-Second Assistant of Miranda "Don't Screw With Me, Minions" Priestly had defected to Anna Wintour's lair.

But not only that, the ungrateful poppet, Amelia Winthrop, 23, is reportedly shopping around to various mags and rags the secrets of her time clasped to the ice-cold bosom of the Devil. Ms Winthrop promised, to any who would listen, a tell-all article that involves the threats, bizarre whims, and, most curiously, grovelling "roses to say sorry" requests.

Well, well. What on earth could Her Devilship have to be sorry about? Oh how our mind boggles. Everything from dangling subordinates from rooftops to global warming springs to mind.

Well, whoever snaps up the salacious tell-all story, Page Six can assure you we'll be first in line to take copious notes. In the meantime, we suggest dear clueless Ms Winthrop should probably read her Runway Non-Disclosure Agreement. She's doubtlessly in for a rude shock.

SPOTTED: It's all happening at Runway this week, cherubs. Lawyers were seen serving papers on Amelia Winthrop for breaching that NDA. We warned her last week to read the fine print, tsk tsk. There's a reason no other minions have ever spilled any of the gossip lollies before.

Also spotted: The Devil stepping out at the Black and White Ball with her pretty paramour, Mirror reporter turned freelancer Andrea Sachs, on her arm. It was a bold statement – and yes the startling silver dresses we all loved on the Best Dessed lists were indeed designed to complement both ladies as a pair. And this time the prickly Ice Queen didn't bother denying it when asked. How times change.

Meanwhile Runway Art Director Nigel Kipling made waves in The Advocate's fabulous closeted executives feature. Why – because the talented former designer reveals his Devilish boss had been the one who nominated him to speak out – all without a hint of irony. Which makes us wonder: just what label does Ms Priestly affix to herself these days? Well, beyond "Besotted", of course. Because, by all reports, that one's sticking.

"It's sticking, huh?" Andrea murmured against Miranda's neck as the editor lowered her newspaper with a displeased hiss. "Good," the journalist added firmly. "I'm glad to hear it."

They were twined on Miranda's couch at the townhouse, after catching a lunch and matinee together. Snuggling, which Miranda definitely did not do, was accidentally happening. Quite a lot. And had been for weeks.

"I'm not besotted," Miranda protested feebly as that tongue was whispering its way around her neck. Oh God. She'd have to have the patience of a saint to resist her adorable companion if she kept this up. It had been months of chaste dates, and less-than-chaste kisses, as Miranda had tried to show Andrea that she cared enough to show their reconnecting was not about Miranda merely getting her rocks off. But good lord, that wicked tongue was talented.

"Not besotted?" Andrea replied with a disappointed fake growl against her throat. "How disappointing. So, Ms Priestly, your adoring public wishes to know: How would you characterize your affections for me?"

"Are you fishing, Andrea?" Miranda arched her eyebrow.

"Always. You're so damned hard to read."

"Please," Miranda sighed. "You make me sound impossible."

The laughter against her chest made a bubble of delight fill her.

"Mmm," Andrea said, "Ri-ight. You're a pussy."

Miranda's breath caught and she tried not to get distracted. "I may not be besotted," she began, "Because besotted people are all 12-year-olds and find that boy, what's his name, Justin Beebs…"

"Bieber.."

"Whatever. Those besotted fans find untamed sacks of teen hormones like that man-boy to be adorable. So, no, I do not fit into that class."

"I see," Andrea said biting teasingly at the skin beneath her lips. "So what class are you in?"

"I suspect it would be in the realms of appreciative, caring, don't-wish-you-to-leave," Miranda said with a groan as that tongue spun another swirl around her neck. And before she could engage the brakes on her brain, the word "Ever" popped out next.

The tongue froze its miraculous circles.

"So you 'appreciate' me ... for ever?" An amused voice asked. "Why Miranda – your silver tongue."

Miranda blushed hotly.

"Well," the white-haired woman said and licked her lips. "The girls are so fond of you. It would be difficult to break in a new model at this late stage."

"Hey!" Andrea slapped her arm indignantly and Miranda laughed. Her eyes fixed on her girlfriend and she smiled.

"I do want you to consider moving in actually," Miranda said quietly. "For a long, long, long while. If you could manage that, the girls would indeed be appreciative. Because they – we - care for you. Immensely. And it would be more convenient. For … for, ah, soccer practice attendance and so forth."

Andrea smiled against Miranda's neck. "Mmm," she said as though weighing it up seriously. "I care for you all too. And I think I'd like to move in. For soccer practice car-pooling purposes of course. Because that's important." Her eyes met Miranda's and they were dancing with amusement. "But just to be clear – you're 'appreciative', and 'caring', but you're absolutely not besotted."

"Of course not," Miranda snorted, a matching gleam in her eyes.

She leaned forward and dropped a kiss on the lips that had been teasing her all afternoon. "The very idea."