The Painter

Part 2: Finding the Spark

"There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms." - Charlotte Brontë

The shrill ringing of her phone woke Andy up at the ungodly hour of 5:45am on Sunday morning.

"'Ello?" she answered still half asleep.

"There has been a change of plans." The voice of a very alert British red head said.

"Who on earth—?" Henry asked groggily and Andrea groaned and got up to take the call in the next room.

"Miranda will be there at precisely seven o'clock this morning—"

"Emily…." Andy tried to interrupt the British woman who was obviously in a tizzy about the apparent last minute change of plans.

"—seeing as the Chairman decided to wait until yesterday afternoon to announce that the board meeting would be held at 3pm on a Sunday. Therefore please accept our sincere apologies and-"

The Brit seemed to not have heard her so she repeated, "Emily."

"Yes, what is it?" The Brit asked sharply on the other end of the phone.

"I can't this morning. I have a doctor's appointment. It's important and I really can't cancel it. So please don't go through all that trouble and ask Miranda what day next week would be better for her and we'll see what we can manage. Now, I'm going to hang up and go back to sleep."

The Brit had the gall to try and protest but Andy was having none of that. "And so help me god if you call back and start ranting again I will make sure Valentino never lets you wear anything he made again ever. Am I clear?"

She heard the Brit gasp and then gulp audibly. "Crystal."

"Good and Emily?"

"Yes?"

"Don't ever call at such an obscenely early hour again. It really is bad manners. Have a nice day." Andy said in a quiet, sickly sweet voice.

She hung up without waiting for any reply. 5:48am on a Sunday. Ridiculous.

Andy went back to the room and crawled back into bed and tried to get back to sleep, despite already dreading her doctor's appointment.

At 6:45am on the dot, another phone call woke Andy up. She picked up the phone groaning in annoyance.

"This doctor's appointment can't be postponed?" The cold, unforgettable and very irate voice of Miranda Priestly asked on the other end of the phone.

"Good morning Miranda."

"A good morning it is not." Miranda snapped.

"Your right it's not." Andy agreed, piqued now, "I keep getting calls from people far too early in the morning. I must be living in New-York or something."

"I asked you a question."

"No it can't. I really can't put it off any longer. If you had been able to come at 3pm as we'd agreed previously that would have been fine but—"

"Next Wednesday at 5pm."

"See you then." She could almost hear Miranda roll her eyes at Andy's falsely cheery voice.

She heard a click and realised Miranda had hung up.

Andy hmph'd at the phone in her hand. Till next Wednesday then.

Andy came back from the appointment, with only one thought in mind.

Getting the right color for the eyes. Those damnable, hypnotising, piercing blue eyes.

Andy sat down at her atelier and began to paint immediately. She mixed blues after blues together with greys, whites, and every color she could think of and still she was having trouble with finding the exact color of the eyes she had stuck in her mind.

A grey blue shade, the color of ice itself.

She spent the better part of the morning trying again and again. Frustrated, after hours of no success, she decided to give up and cleaned up her paints and brushes briskly.

She needed the live subject here or else she was sure she'd never get it right.

So instead she sketched Miranda's face, her profile, different angles, her smile, her curious expression, her cold indifference. By the time the sun was going down and she had at least a dozen different sketches of the woman whose face, voice and eyes she could not get out of her head.

She hung the drawings on the walls of her studio and was thankful for her husband's absence seeing as he would have probably forced her to stop and eat dinner.

She couldn't stop. It was unthinkable to her to stop working.

The need to draw and paint this woman was overwhelming to her. Something about her face, her mannerism, her elegance, the angle of her neck, the spark in her direct gaze as she spoke to you. All of that and more drew Andy in like a moth to flame.

As was her habit with every new subject, she began to do a thorough Wikipedia background check on Miranda Priestly on her computer. She printed images off of google and used them as temporary subjects.

Some hours later, a knock on the door and a dim awareness that the windows were now dark appeared in her mind.

"You aren't in bed yet?" Henry's voice said from the door behind her.

"Obviously not." She answered distractedly, but her tone implied no real sense of meanness, simply a distracted voice as though she was barely aware she'd said it.

"There is something bothering you. There has been for the past few weeks, I can tell. Won't you tell me?" Henry asked.

Andy made her chair swivel around to face her husband who was standing in the door frame.

"I'm pregnant." She murmured, her eyes shut tight, braced for the reaction. The tense silence that followed was so thick she could have cut the air with a knife.

"Andy, are you sure?" he asked, his words stilted.

"Yes."

Oh yes. She was sure. 100% sure. She could practically hear him thinking, 'Not again. Oh god not again.' In fact she was almost certain she could hear him thinking it, especially seeing as she too had thought those words a thousand times over since this morning.

"How far along are you?" His voice was filled with a strained curiosity.

"3 months now."

She watched as he covered his face with his hand, and sighed heavily.

Andy's hand wound unconsciously to her middle. She didn't know if she could bare it if they lost this one too.

"Come to bed. We'll talk more in the morning." Henry held out his hand to her and she stood and took it.

Once both were in bed, and the lights were switched off, the realness of her pregnancy finally washed over Andy.

"I can't lose this one. I won't survive it." She murmured to the dark celling. Henry's hand reached out under the covers and took her own small one in his.

"I know."

Silent tears streaked down the sides of her face and wet the pillowcase beneath her head.

If she lost this child, she would die.

The doorbell rang at precisely 15 minutes before 5pm, just as Emily had predicted. She thanked god for the British woman's foresight in telling her to expect Miranda to be early for their appointment.

Andy opened the door and swiftly moved out of the small hallway to allow the white haired woman to enter into the flat.

"Hello Miranda, thank you for coming." Andy said in a pleasant voice.

"Andrea," she replied in greeting, using that same accent on her name that she'd used at the benefit. Andy couldn't help the small smile that found its place on her mouth.

Miranda looked her up and down once quickly assessing Andy's appearance. It was a habit of hers apparently. Andy had noticed her doing it at the party each time she had greeted someone.

Miranda removed her black fur coat and Andy took it from her and hung it quickly in her hall closet.

She seemed determined to get right to it and Andy was in a likewise mood.

They were not here to socialise.

"This way please," Andy said.

Andy was undeniably anxious. Her breathing shallow and she could only hope Miranda wouldn't notice. It had been a long time since she'd had a live subject to work with. And something about this woman drew her in.

Andy fidgeted nervously with the long silver necklace she'd decided to wear the night before.

What had prompted Miranda to accept her offer of a portrait? The woman barely knew her, much less her work and yet—here she was.

Andy wondered if she would ever get the answers to that question. 'Probably not' and suppressed a smirk.

She led Miranda down the hall and into the flat towards her studio. The room in question was painted ivory and was decorated with neo-classical accents, a bust of a roman statue, a comfortable brown leather settee, a pair of matching brown leather armchairs, white roses in a vase on her mahogany coffee table, huge floor length windows that had a view over the city around it. Andy's father had suggested the flat for her and Henry when they had come back from their honey moon.

She'd been so young and naïve back then.

Andy suppressed a sigh.

As soon as Andy had set eyes on the studio, she'd accepted. It had become her sanctuary. Only a precious few people had been allowed in. She had filled it with her art hung on the walls, her work table with all her pencils and papers, which was currently buried under sketch upon sketch of Miranda.

Andy watched Miranda, glancing around the room. She didn't appear displeased, but Andy doubted she would ever be able to read this woman's reactions with any basis of accuracy. Miranda was wearing a Thakoon plum coloured sheath which cut smartly across her shoulders accentuating her regal neck and the sharpness of her face.

She wondered, if Miranda had any idea of how truly beautiful she looked in that instant. Andy's eyes traced the lines of her form, in the way she did when appraising a work of art. Much like an architect might look at a building plan, Andy mapped out the shape of Miranda with her artist's eyes.

"What exactly is it that we are doing today?" Miranda asked.

Andy started. She had been caught staring. Shit.

Andy made a mental note; no drifting off into Andy–land with Miranda around. Got it.

"Sorry." Andy muttered as an apology, vaguely embarrassed. Miranda waved her hand dismissively. Alright then. Andy took a deep steadying breath.

"The first thing we should do, is figure out what poses you are most comfortable in for the duration of— oh, say an hour— and then work from there." This time Miranda nodded.

"Where would you like me to be?" Miranda said, looking at Andy for the first time since entering the room. "On the armchair, if that's alright with you. Please make yourself comfortable."

Miranda nodded and did as she was bid.

"Would you like some tea? Coffee maybe?"

"No." She replied continuing to glance around the room.

Andy was getting the distinct impression that Miranda would rather not be here. Her posture was stiff, her manners restrained, and she appeared for all the world like she was reading lines from a book while a gun was being pointed at her. Why on earth was she here if that was how she felt about it?

Andy didn't yet dare ask, sensing that it would be an unwelcome avenue of questioning. It wasn't as though Andy had any right to know such a thing. They weren't friends after all…they were—Andy didn't really know what they were. Business partners maybe?

"Alright then." Andy said, reaching for a sketch pad and pencil, "We'll start with sketches and move on from there."

Miranda nodded absentmindedly. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't that she didn't want to be here. Maybe it was something entirely different bothering her today. Her husband maybe.

Miranda continued to sit with a tense posture and tried to stay as still as possible. Oh no, this wouldn't do at all.

"Miranda—" Andy began, then stopped when she saw the way Miranda looked at her. A look that said, 'Go ahead, question me, I dare you.' Andy wasn't in any way shape or form interested in taking her up on that dare. She rather put her head in a lion cage then face an annoyed Miranda Priestly, if she was being completely honest.

"Yes?" Miranda asked turning to look at her sharply.

Instead of answering, Andy just smiled patiently and decided it would be easier to show her what she wanted than to try and explain it.

Andy walked over to where Miranda was sitting and then reached out hesitantly to just almost touch Miranda's shoulders.

"May I?" Andy asked permission to pose her.

Miranda nodded, appearing surprised by her request. Andy supposed it was a normal reaction for someone like Miranda. Not very many people touched her willingly. She was a very intimidating person after all. Andy doubted, anyone would dare touch her casually.

Andy pressed lightly on Miranda's shoulders until they were lower down, more relaxed. Then she took Miranda's hand and placed it lightly on the arm of the chair. The other, she placed across her lap. Her hands were cool, some small part of Andy's mind noticed.

She tilted Miranda's chin towards the window, brushing her fingers along her jaw. Andy felt her flinch, but did not stop. She knew exactly what she was looking for, and she would brave Miranda's ire to get that perfect pose. The light had to catch her eyes and her white hair just so, to make everything luminous and create the air of 'caught-in-a-moment' that Andy was searching for.

"Are you quite finished?" Miranda glared at Andy, her lips pursed in annoyance.

"Not quite." Andy said, ignoring her annoyance, but making a note for future reference. Miranda didn't appreciate being touched unless absolutely necessary. Ok. Andy could do that.

Then Andy saw, it. That look, that angle of the head, the light in her cold eyes, the way her hair fell across her forehead. Right there. Perfect.

"Freeze right there." Andy murmured.

Miranda as if sensing Andy's urgency, did as she was bid and stood stock still.

Andy rushed back to her easel and sketch pad and began drawing the lines furiously, sketching the outlines and then quickly filling in the detail as she went.

Miranda kept her eyes on Andy, the whole time. This was certainly going better than Andy had imagined it would. She'd been worried Miranda wouldn't be receptive to her directions and would leave, annoyed by her intrusive take on portrait painting.

By the time she was done, a good half hour had passed and Andy had the first sketch done. The look in Miranda's eyes was very striking but also unreadable. It was full of heated emotion but hid everything all at once. Strangely similar to the woman it belonged to, Andy mused.

"Alright," Andy said at last. "Would you like to take a break?"

Miranda seemed to snap out of her reverie and blinked at Andy.

"Yes." Miranda said, in a clipped, slightly rough voice. Miranda stood up slowly and surreptitiously rolled her shoulders back, stretching slightly.

"Water?" Andy offered and instantly regretted it. Great. No of course not, stupid. Shit. If Miranda had wanted water she would have asked for it— instead of the glare Andy had been expecting, Miranda simply nodded again.

Andy left the studio to get a bottle of Perrier and a glass for her, while at the same time, giving her the chance to stretch out without being watched. She got the sense that Miranda was a very private person.

She went back to the studio, glass and bottle in hand. Miranda was standing in front of her easel, looking at the sketch Andy had started. Andy had to stop herself from sighing as she looked at Miranda, enjoying the way her form was silhouetted by the sun going down. She really was elegance made flesh. But then, 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder', always had run true with Andy.

She'd been told by many people that she saw beauty where few even dared to look for it. Especially in people. Henry had commented that it wasn't the person's appearance that mattered to Andy; if they had a personality Andy found beautiful, she would see it, and attempt to translate that beauty to paper.

"Here you go."

Miranda started and spun around.

"Oh sorry." Andy apologized, slightly abashed that she hadn't made her presence known before speaking.

She needed to be more careful around Miranda. God only knew how many missteps the woman would allow before she got truly fed up an just stormed out like a dragon heading to high dungeon.

"It's fine. Thank you." Miranda said and took the glass of water from her. Andy put the bottle on the coffee table.

"How did your doctor's appointment go?" Miranda surprised her by asking. She wasn't looking at Andy. Why wasn't she looking at her? Was she nervous as well? That seemed unlikely.

"Fine." Andy replied not able to prevent her shoulders from tensing. "It went fine, thank you for asking."

"How far along are you now?"

"About three months." Andy replied trying not to sound terse and failing. She cleared her throat lightly and looked away from Miranda.

"Not quite out of danger then." Miranda said with no small amount of implication

'No,' Andy agreed silently. 'Not quite out of danger at all.'

Andy shook her head even though Miranda couldn't see her.

"Do you like the sketch? Are there any changes you would like for me to make?" Andy dared to ask wondering if she actually wanted Miranda to answer that or not. Maybe it would have been better not to know.

"You have talent." Miranda said, looking back at the sketch. Which did not necessarily mean she liked it, but Andy would take what she could get.

"Thank you. I trained in Flor—"Andy began.

"In Florence. Yes I know." Miranda interrupted her. Andy gaped at her.

"How did you— Emily. Of course. I should have known... What else did she tell you about my past?" Andy asked, now certain she did not care to know the answer.

"Very little." Miranda replied cryptically.

A dragging silence, ensued. Andy watched Miranda. Miranda looked right back at her, her gaze unflinching.

"Right then. Let's get back to work. I'm sure you have appointments after this."

"My daughters have a recital later this evening but otherwise, no, I have no appointments as such Andrea." Miranda replied, nevertheless sitting back down in the armchair, and attempted to turn her head back to where it had been when Andy had placed her.

"Not quite." Andy said, and moved forward to place her once more. Andy thought Miranda would object, but for some reason Andy didn't fully understand, she allowed the touch.

Andy guided her back to the position she needed it to be, her finger on Miranda's jaw once more. She had soft skin, Andy noted absentmindedly. It must be all the products she used. It was no secret that Miranda was nearing 50 after all.

Andy looked at Miranda's face as she adjusted it ever so slightly, mapping out the lines of her face, the slight crease at the corner of her eyes, the angle of her nose in her mind. Creating a labyrinth for Andy to recreate and discover all at once.

"There. Right there." Andy murmured lost in her artist's world.

"What do you see when you draw me Andrea?" Miranda asked, her voice sounding far away, like an echo at the bottom of a well.

"I see you—er, I mean, your outward appearance, of course." Andrea said, pulling her hand away, satisfied with where Miranda was placed.

'But that's not what I'm looking for. I'm looking for the spark which shows you're individuality. A piece of your outward appearance that can transmit your humanity to paper. For you, the spark I see is in your eyes.' Andy thought, returning to her easel.

"Hmph," Miranda glanced at her, careful not to move, but her gaze was searching Andy's face intently, as though the answer she was looking for was hidden there. "Few see that distinction."

Andy pressed her lips into a thin smile. She knew that only too well.

Andy returned to her sketch and began to bring to life once more, the figure of Miranda Priestly.

"It's getting to be late." Andy sighed, placing her pencil at the edge of her easel.

"Yes and my daughters' recital will no doubt last till even later," Miranda stood from the armchair and followed Andy down the hall back to the entrance of the loft.

She took her coat when Andrea offered it to her.

They stood at the doorway, neither speaking yet both saying much with the looks they were giving each other.

They were appraising each other, and neither one found the other lacking… yet.

This session had gone well. There would be more. That had been settled. They did not dislike one another. Perhaps next time they would be able to maintain the semblance of a conversation.

"Good night Miranda. Enjoy your daughters' recital." Andy said, breaking the silence first.

"Good night." Miranda replied absentmindedly, "Remember to set up another appointment with Emily sometime next week perhaps." She opened the door without waiting for an answer and with only the determined clicking of her heels left behind her, she was gone.

Andy shut the door and leaned her head against its cool wood surface. She took a long shuddering breath. She'd done it. She'd sketched a live subject for the first time in over two years now.

She hadn't had a panic attack, she hadn't been overly stressed, and she'd even managed to keep her cool when Miranda had mentioned her daughters.

She'd done it. Now, to do it all over again next week.

Andy took another deep breath. She checked her watch. Exactly one hour and a half had passed and yet, it had felt much longer.

She wondered briefly, if Miranda had felt the same way. Or if she had enjoyed their short interactions at all. It was unlikely.

After all, based off Andy's research, Miranda was known for her cold behavior towards anyone she considered non-essential or disposable in her life. Andy certainly fit into that category.

She was just a painter. Just another peon Miranda could use to create the chessboard world around her.

She sighed and decided a good cup of tea was in order. Henry would no doubt be home in a few hours, and then Andy would suffer through his pathetic attempt at feigned interest and answer his inane questions with even more inane answers.

But if truth be told, for a moment there, when Andy had touched Miranda's jaw to guide her into place, she felt a tingling sensation in her finger tips which she'd never felt before. A kind of warmth she couldn't have anticipated or imagined.

"What a strange and cold woman." Andy murmured to herself as she headed to her kitchen to set the kettle on to boil.

-To be continued-

(A/n: If you've got the time, I'd love to hear from you. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.)