Fourth.
It's been over a week since Sean and she went to the photo exhibition, but all Andy could think about was the "Restroom Incident." And Miranda Priestly.
Damn the woman! Wasn't it enough for her that for almost a year she owned Andy's life, shredding it to pieces day in and day out? What did she want from Andy now? Had she run out of assistants to harass? Didn't she have a fashion world to reign over?
Well?
Well.
As much as Andy wanted to blame Miranda, the truth of the matter was it was all her own fault. She brought it on her own head with the irrational behavior, and now she had to diffuse the situation. And make it fast. It was one thing to know in principal how much damage to her career Miranda, if properly motivated, could inflict. And it was another thing all together to know that she gave the woman a perfect reason to destroy her. If Miranda truly believed that Andy was planning to go public with some seedy information about her--. Shit.
Andy spent the weekend writing the flash cards, trying to predict every possible Miranda's remark and find the right reply to all of them. On Monday she took an early lunch break, locked herself in one of the unused offices, spread the flash cards on the desk, and began dialing.
She got lucky on her second attempt, when, instead of Emily's (god, she still worked there?) British-accented snooty "Miranda Priestly's office," she heard an unfamiliar voice. The girl on the other end of the line was probably new, because it didn't take long to persuade her that Mrs. Whitaker had a perfectly good reason to speak to Ms. Priestly directly on some school matters.
After a brief pause Miranda picked up. "Mrs. Whitaker?"
Andy swallowed hard and straightened the flash cards in front of her with shaky fingers. "No, Miranda, it's Andy. Andrea Sachs. Um. How are you?"
For what seemed like an eternity there was no answer. Then came a curt "fine."
"Um." She pulled closer one of the cards and started reading. "I need to tell you that--. Um--."
"My house, tomorrow morning at eight thirty." Miranda fired.
"But--."
"Can I assume you still remember where I live?" Miranda inquired coldly.
"Yes, yes, but--." There was a clicking sound and the phone went dead. "Miranda?" Andy asked automatically. Then she slowly replaced the receiver.
Oh. Shit.
There was no way in the world Andy was going to meet Miranda. No. Fucking. Way.
She wasn't sure if she slept at all that night. She kept jumping up every hour or so and squinting at the clock, then flopping back on the pillow and counting over and over again the sheep, the cows, the chickens, the bunnies. In the morning she spent an enormous amount of time in front of the mirror, going from outfit to outfit, unable to decide in which one Miranda would hate her the least.
On the bus she went through her flash cards and repeated her opening remarks several times, while she walked from the bus stop to Miranda's house. At Miranda's door she looked around, as if saying good-bye to a beautiful April morning, and then knocked.
Miranda opened the door, stepped aside to let Andy in, and quickly shut the door, as if afraid that someone from the street would see her.
"Good morning, Miranda," Andy said quickly, before she lost her courage.
"You have fifteen minutes." Came in a lieu of reply.
The woman walked past her, the familiar scent of perfume floating in the air, and for a moment Andy forgot why she was there. "Um--." She started hesitantly.
"My housekeeper will be back from the market in half an hour. You have to be out of my house by then."
Startled, Andy looked at Miranda. The woman never explained anything. If Andy didn't know any better, she would say that her former boss was nervous. But she did know better, so she took a deep breath and began. "Miranda, I wanted to explain--. To apologize--."
"Haven't you decided what it is you want, Andrea? Explain or apologize?" Miranda inquired coldly.
"Er--." Was there a flash card for this? "Apologize for--. Well, explain--."
"It appears that your command of English language has significantly deteriorated in the last eighteen months, Andrea," Miranda noted with a sneer.
Andy frowned – not it hadn't. It's just--. It was something else.
"I guess," Miranda's sneer turned spiteful, "I will need to assist you if this conversation is to be over in a foreseeable future."
Oh, this was so frustrating, Andy wanted to grind her teeth. "No, Miranda, it's okay, I can do it."
"Very well." Miranda crossed her arms on her chest. How did she manage to look beautiful and intimidating at the same time?
Her eyes on the woman, Andy opened her mouth and closed it again – she had no idea what she was going to say. Instead, with a complete clarity she suddenly realized that she should have never come there. She should have explained everything over the phone with the flash cards in front of her. What was she thinking coming there?
But more importantly what was she thinking standing there, in the hallway of Miranda Priestly's house, the woman, who she had a very good reason to be wary of, and, instead of speaking, staring at the said woman? Hastily Andy shifted her gaze away.
"Well?" Miranda prodded, pursing her lips.
"Yes, um." The fact that Andy began talking didn't mean much as she couldn't meet Miranda's eyes. Yet, she had to go on. "I wanted to apologies for giving you an impression that I was…um…watching you. I had no idea your daughters would be in the concert. I got the program only when I actually came there, and…" Andy paused to take a breath. "And I wasn't planning to go to the photo exhibition. The colleague of mine invited me at the last moment, because the person he was supposed to go with, couldn't make it. I had no idea you'd be there. And--. So--."
"So, it was all a pure coincident, wasn't it?" Miranda inquired softly. "And a misunderstanding on my part?"
"Yes, it was." Andy, foolishly hoping this would be enough, forgot about caution and looked at Miranda. The woman, the bright red spots on her cheek coming through the layers of perfect make-up, was livid.
"You. You, little sh--."
"Miranda?" Andy squeaked.
"How dare you to come to my house and lie through your teeth?"
Andy gulped, "I--." Oh yes, she should have never come. She knew it wouldn't end well.
But to her surprise, Miranda didn't press on with her attack. Instead, visibly pulling herself together, she sneered and gave Andy a calculating once over. "It certainly didn't take you too long to loose your provincial morals."
"I don't understand--."
"You don't, do you?" Miranda tapped her chin with her finger. "Andrea," it was hard to imagine anyone could infuse a three-syllable name with any more venom, "you followed me for at least three floors in the Guggenheim. Was it a pure coincident too?"
Well, there was that.
After a brief wait Miranda nodded, taking Andy's silence for a reply. "Now, lets pretend the previous conversation never happen." She looked sharply at Andy. "Lets assume that you do understand the consequences of making me upset with you."
"Miranda, I--," Andy tried to interject, but the woman raised the hand to stop her. "I don't--," Andy made another attempt. Miranda arched an eyebrow, and Andy finally gave in.
"Very well," announced the woman with grim satisfaction. She checked her watch, and, having thrown a detached "wait here," walked away to come back a minute later with a cell phone pressed to her ear. "Emily, tell Jocelyn to be ready by 11. Then call my housekeeper and tell her to pick up a couple of pastries for the girls. There is this bakery on the West Side. I bought a cake there once. I also want to see the prints for the Fall on my desk by this afternoon." Miranda snapped the phone shut and looked at Andy. "So, here is how we'll proceed." She began pacing. "First of all, you are going to tell me what kind of information you looking for and who is paying for it. Then, I want to know who in my office is selling you my schedule. Also--."
"Miranda, listen--." This was getting out of hand.
The woman glared at Andy and continued, "Also, I want to have all the notes, pictures, and whatever else you have collected."
"Miranda, please, it's not--." This had all the signs of a disaster waiting to happen written all over it, and Andy had no idea how to prevent it.
The woman ignored her. "You also need to tell me if you have already passed any information. And when."
As Miranda was passing her, in desperation Andy grabbed her by the elbow. "Miranda, stop!"
The woman froze.
"Oh. My. God." Andy thought, looking at her hand on Miranda's. ""What have I done?!"
Meanwhile, Miranda was also looking at Andy's hand on hers. Then she turned and looked straight at Andy. "Andrea?"
Shaking slightly, with "I am so sorry" ready on her tongue, Andy finally met Miranda's eyes. However, instead of apology, suddenly all she could think of was how warm Miranda's hand was under her fingers, and how strange the scent of Miranda's perfume made her feel, and how sad the lines around Miranda's mouth made the woman look, and how blue Miranda's eyes were, and--. "Miranda," Andy whispered and stepped forward.
She wasn't sure who made the next move, but when she felt Miranda's lips brushing hers, Andy realized just how long she had been waiting for this. She sighed, tilted her head a little for a better angle, and melted into the kiss.
For the next few moments nothing existed for Andy, except for the softness of Miranda's lips, and the light taste of coffee of Miranda's mouth, and the enthralling movements of Miranda's tongue against hers, and the feel of Miranda's fingers on the nape of her neck. Someone gasped, and someone whispered "oh," and someone whimpered, and someone murmured "more," but it was impossible to say who was doing any of these things. Not that anyone cared. All Andy could worry about just then was to be able to remain upright, seeing as her knees felt wobbly.
And then there was a high, persistent sound. A phone? Someone's phone was ringing, and the ring tone was strangely familiar. Her former boss used to have the ring tone just like that, Andy thought nibbling on Miranda's lower lip. Why would she start hearing Miranda Priestly's phone again, though? She didn't even work for the woman any longer. She was just in Miranda's house--. Oh, god--. Suddenly, it clicked.
Andy let go of Miranda and quickly backed away. Simultaneously, Miranda probably came to the similar realization, as she also hastily removed her hand from Andy's neck, and stepped back.
Then, they both looked at the phone, still ringing in Miranda's other hand. When the phone finally stopped, Andy looked at Miranda.
The woman's blue eyes seemed unfocused for a moment, wide and delirious. "What are you doing?" she barely moved her lips, like she wasn't sure if she could speak.
"I don't know," Andy whispered in response. She was doomed. She just kissed Miranda Priestly in her own house. She was dead.
And so she ran. Out the door, down a short flight of stairs, across the street, faster and faster Andy ran and ran until she couldn't run any more.
She stopped, gulping air, as if she hadn't breathed for days. Then she looked around and realized she had no idea where she was. Then again, it didn't matter. Really. With a groan, Andy buried her face in her hands. God, she just committed a suicide. A suicide by kissing Miranda Priestly. Weren't there simpler ways of finishing with ones life? Andy could swear there were.