December 1, 1996 -
I have been at Runway since May of 1993, over three and a half years. Before that, I spent my time jumping from one job to the next, never spending too long in the same place. That was me. I grew bored easily and welcomed the challenges that came along with learning a new company, a new department, a new position. For the most part, I worked within publishing—everything from the newsroom to advertising sales.
But now, I was thirty-six years old, and I was sick of watching rich white men dictate which careers were available to me.
Fashion, it seemed, was the singular exception to the otherwise patriarchal industry. The number of female-led fashion publications in New York alone was growing rapidly, so I set my sights on Runway and joined the ranks as an editorial assistant, just before the magazine's shares plummeted to an all-time low.
Nigel Kipling joined the team just two months before I did. He was my assigned on-the-job trainer, but soon became my mentor and best friend—the big brother I never had. Tonight, for example, he convinced me to attend the charity ball with him. I despised these events, but I knew he was desperate to meet someone. Since that could hardly happen naturally with our schedules, I agreed to be his arm candy for the red carpet, and his chaperone home if things didn't work out.
Never did I expect the night to turn out as it did.
Tonight was one of the first fashion industry events that Miranda Princhek ever attended. It was the CFDA's annual charity ball, and she attended with Nigel Kipling, her coworker extraordinaire and guru for all things fashion. He found a vintage Dior in an estate sale and custom tailored it for her. She had never seen herself as traditionally beautiful, but the rich black velvet dress perfectly complemented her porcelain white skin and deep auburn hair. Looking in the mirror, she saw that she looked stunning.
"Miranda, are you sure you don't want to dance with any of those men just drooling over you?" Nigel said, handing her another martini.
She rolled her eyes. "No thank you. I mean, can any of them even string a coherent sentence together? They work in fashion—they're surrounded by beautiful women all day—and to think they have sex written all over their faces. It's disgusting and humiliating. I need a new job."
"Whoa, calm down. Drink up, honey. Think of Christmas, and charity. They're harmless, just look the other way," he said.
"Easy for you to say," she added, downing her drink.
"Ms. Princhek?" a voice called.
She turned and looked up to see a handsome young man with the bluest eyes standing next to her. For a moment, she almost entertained the thought of a one-night stand. Shaking her head, she repeated to him what she'd said to all her other would-be suitors that night: "I'm not interested in whatever you have to offer."
"Ah, you see, that probably worked on those other putzes, but what's going to stop them at the next party?" he said.
Miranda looked up in surprise as he extended his hand.
"James Priestly, financial adviser at J.P. Morgan."
She cautiously took his hand. "Miranda, Runway," she said. It seemed perfectly acceptable to shorten the title for formal introductions. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
He smiled and nodded. "Miranda, do you dance?"
"What? Yes of course, but not here," she said. "And probably not the type you're thinking."
"Why not here? This is a perfectly good ballroom, and you'll be happy to know that my mother sent me to ballroom dance lessons every Sunday for most of my childhood," he said. He saw Miranda's face light up at that, so he continued. "And furthermore, I know for a fact that the only way to keep those other men away forever is to make them feel disgustingly inadequate," he added.
"Oh, really?" she said, a smirk forming on her lips.
"Yes. Miranda, will you dance with me?"
She stared at him as if he had just grown two heads.
"Trust me?" he said, extending his hand.
Miranda didn't know this man, but he was charming and she hadn't been dancing—real dancing—in such a long time. She reached out and took his hand. "One condition: tell me why you're interested in helping me avoid them," she said, gesturing to the group of pathetic men.
"Because you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and you're at a party by yourself, sitting at a table in the corner and tapping your toes to the music," he said. "It's just a dance."
"I hope you're ready, Mr. Priestly," she said, tucking her bag into the chair and following him to the empty dance floor.
To be honest, she wasn't expecting him to be that great of a dancer. Miranda figured he could lead a waltz or two-step, but was blown away by his strength and finesse on the dance floor. After dancing through several songs, she caught herself trying to trick him into a misstep, but he was too sharp.
It seemed like hours that they were twirling around, laughing and getting to know one another. Finally, the orchestra announced their last song for the night, and James and Miranda took the opportunity to grab another drink from the bar before it closed.
"Miranda, you were fantastic," he said. "Not that I expected anything less."
"You know, you're not so bad yourself," she said.
He handed her a drink and raised his glass.
"To Christmas, and charity—"
"—and dancing," he added. "Now, if any of those putzes try to bother you again, you know what to do."
They finished their drinks as the party ended. The lights were on, the musicians were packing their equipment, and the bartender was cleaning up. Miranda retrieved her purse and wrap, and James led her out of the ballroom, his hand gently resting on her lower back.
Whatever was in that last martini really hit Miranda once they were outside. She was suddenly flushed and lightheaded all at once.
James wrapped his jacket around her shoulders and led her out to the car. Nigel and Miranda had been planning to share a taxi home, but when she looked around, it appeared he had already left.
"My driver will take you home," James said.
She gave the driver her address on the other side of town and looked over at her companion. "I had so much fun tonight, James. Thank you," she said, resting her hand on his knee.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Saying thanks implies a need, a debt that has been filled. I am happy that you enjoyed yourself, but I know you did not need me."
Miranda looked up at him and studied his eyes. He was smart and cunning devilishly handsome. His confidence was incredibly attractive. She was sure of what he wanted tonight, and against her better judgment, she was more than willing to give it. Miranda slid her hand up his thigh and leaned forward to hiss him.
He grabbed her hand and pulled it away while gently pressing a single kiss to her lips. Miranda kissed him back and once again moved her hand to his chest, but James' strong grip kept her from going further.
She closed her eyes and laid against his chest, holding his hand for the rest of the ride home. When the car stopped at Miranda's building, she asked James to come upstairs, and after saying something to his driver, he followed her inside. She wanted to kiss him again once they were in the elevator, but just before the doors shut, someone else joined them.
Miranda opened the door to her unit on the 28th floor and expected him to follow inside. Instead, he stood in the hallway.
"Mr. Priestly, aren't you coming inside?"
"No, Ms. Princhek, I'm not. I just wanted to see you home safely," he said.
She returned to the door and handed him his jacket back. "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a drink?"
"We seemed to have attracted some attention with our dancing this evening," he said. "I believe there are photographers outside, and, well I wouldn't want any less-than-accurate depictions in tomorrow's Post."
"Oh. Um, than—that's, um, that's kind of you," she said.
He smiled and took my hand, "I had a lovely time this evening, Miranda. I would very much like to get to know you more. Perhaps dinner next week?"
"Yes, I think I would like that. Goodnight."
On Monday morning, there were two dozen white roses at her desk, as well as a hand-written note card.
M, I thought of you all weekend but had no way to contact you. I selected white roses, as they provide a lovely backdrop for your own beauty. No flower could ever surpass you. Meet me at the Fairmont Tues 7. -JP
She tucked the card in her bag just as Nigel was walking up to his desk.
He smiled and rolled his eyes, then tossed this morning's copy of the Post at his co-worker. "Page Six, sweetie," he said.
Miranda quickly opened it and was shocked to see several pictures of herself and James dancing at the ball. There was one photo of him following her into her building, but the caption read "Chivalry is not dead: Mr. Priestly leads his mystery woman home and returns to his car minutes later."
She smiled and pointed out that caption to Nigel. "He knew the photographers were out there. He actually cared about my reputation enough to leave."
"Or he just wasn't into you," Carol said from the other side of the office.
"Oh, shut up and get back to work," Miranda said.
That afternoon, she told Nigel all about James—what little she actually knew—and he asked if she could see herself marrying him. Miranda had known him for less than three days, and despite having very little to base her decision on, she told him, yes, she could.
"Why on earth would you ask that?"
"Because, sweetie. You're 36. I know you can do better than this cubicle. I just want to see you out there, ruling the world," he said.
"Someday soon," she teased.
Over the next few weeks, Miranda met James for drinks and dinner and lunch and brunch. It was very peculiar how every date was centered around food and alcohol, but it was also December, so between shoppers, the freezing temperatures, and holiday parties, there wasn't all that much to do.
She didn't invite him back to her place again, but one evening, after an early dinner, he asked if she would like to come over for a drink. "Just a drink, nothing more," he said.
Miranda agreed, and to be honest, she would have agreed to more than a drink, too. It had been a long time since she had been seeing anyone seriously, and she'd been dating James for almost three weeks without much more than a few kisses here and there.
"Do you have plans over Christmas?" he asked. "Do you celebrate?"
"No. I was raised Jewish, but I stopped practicing long ago. Are you Christian?"
"Yeah, Catholic. I haven't been to mass since my father died. I was twenty," he said.
They talked about their families for a while. His mother and step-father lived in Maine. He wasn't very close with her, but saw her whenever his sister would invite everyone over. Lately, he said it seemed to revolve around the birth of another child—he had five nieces and nephews under the age of twelve.
Miranda confessed that she really didn't have any family except for a few cousins and distant aunts and uncles. She was an only child and her parents died several years ago, before she started at Runway. She told him that Nigel was her closest friend, like a brother, and that they usually spent the holidays together when all else failed.
"Well, Christmas is on a Monday this year, and I was thinking about heading out of town for a while. Maybe leave on Friday and come back Monday night. Just out to East Hampton. Would you want to come with me?" he asked.
Miranda took a deep breath and struggled to contain her excitement. "Yes, that sounds lovely. I was planning to take off Friday through Tuesday, so I am free whenever."
"Great," he said. "Let's do dinner on Thursday night. I have a meeting with a client, so I will have to meet you. Bianco's maybe? We can swing by your place afterwards to get your bags, and then head out that night."
She nodded and walked over to him, sitting in his lap. "I can't wait for this week to be over," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.