December 5, 1997 —
James and Miranda Priestly…Miranda Priestly…it has a certain ring to it. Nigel thinks it was worth it for me to marry him for the last name alone.
We closed on our new place the week before Thanksgiving, and moved in the next day. Lucky for me, James hired movers to pack up our things and unpack them in the new place. He is so good to me. We only have furniture in about one-fourth of the new house, but we're both too busy now to worry about decorating. Except for the nursery—I already have ideas for that room.
Our wedding last week was perfect—not more than twenty people, and really just a celebration of our shared happiness.
My babies have been growing a lot, but no one seemed to notice at our wedding. Last week, fatigue and dehydration were wearing on me, and I collapsed in my office and ended up in the hospital. Nigel was so wonderful about everything, so now all of my coworkers know about the pregnancy (though I am not sure if they suspect how far along I am). It's certainly made it easier to not hide my symptoms at work. James and I decided we will wait until Christmas to tell his parents. So far, everyone has been overwhelmingly supportive, and James and I could not be happier.
This afternoon, I will be traveling to Paris for Fashion Week, and I am praying that the nausea finally subsides, as I will be in my second trimester. One of the medications Dr. Lowry gave me works really well, so I am hoping I will be able to manage.
"Miranda, I upgraded us to First Class," Nigel said, handing her a ticket.
"What? That wasn't in our budget—"
Nigel held up his hand to silence her. "I paid for it. It's a congratulations on the baby, the house, the wedding, the job, whatever else you want it to be gift," he said with a smile.
"I know I should protest and say something like 'you shouldn't have,' but honestly, I am just incredibly grateful."
Nigel smiled. "How are you holding up today?"
"So far so good. I'm glad we're going a whole day early, so we don't have to get off the plane and go straight to a show or luncheon or something."
"Agreed. When is James coming?"
"His plane lands on Thursday haven't spent six days apart in, oh, I don't know how long."
"It's going to go by so fast," Nigel said. "Plus, you've got me."
"That is true. Oh, looks like we're going to be boarding now," Miranda said.
They made their way onto the plane, and Miranda moaned a little bit at the delight that was her first-class seat. The chair was a soft, buttery leather, and it was roomy and wide, and she could easily stretch her legs out in front of her. The armrest between hers and Nigel's seats was wide enough for multiple cup holders, and it lifted up if they needed even more room.
Miranda closed her eyes and smiled as she leaned back against the seat. A few minutes later, she sat up and looked around. Nigel was in his seat, gazing out at all of the airport workers moving around on the ground beneath them. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly felt the familiar wave of nausea come over her. Quickly getting up, she made her way to the small lavatory in the front of the plane, where she successfully emptied her stomach of the contents of her lunch, and along with it, the anti-nausea medication she had taken.
So, that didn't work, and now she had an empty stomach, was still nauseous, and the flight attendant was knocking on the door, asking her to return to her seat so they could take off.
She splashed cold water on her face and took a few deep breaths. If James were here, he'd probably wet some paper towels and put them on the back of her neck. Instead, she put her cool, damp hands on her neck and prayed that she could get through the flight.
Nigel had some saltine crackers and ginger ale waiting for her when she returned to her seat. She took a bite of one cracker and pushed the rest away as she closed her eyes and groaned.
"Sweetie, can I get you anything else?" he asked.
"James? He does this—this thing—with his hands on my back. Not rubbing, just, I don't know. It almost tickles."
"Okay, well I can't make James appear, but I can try. Do you want to lean forward for me?"
Miranda nodded, putting her elbows on her knees and resting her head on her hands. "Oh Nige, I can't do this. I need to get off this plane."
"No, you're going to be okay," he said, softly tracing his fingertips on her back. The plane suddenly lurched forward and began speeding down the runway, lifting off and soaring out over the ocean. Miranda was quiet, so he was hoping the ascent hadn't upset her stomach. "How is this?"
"I—I don't know. I—ugh," she groaned, pressing the back of her hand to her lips.
Nigel quickly pulled one of the little white bags out of the seatback pocket in front of them, grateful that even in first class they had 'barf bags.' He opened the bag and put it in Miranda's hand, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Don't worry, sweetie, it's going to be okay," he said, his fingers continuing to circle her back.
After a few minutes, her wrenching subsided, and she dropped the still empty bag to the floor. She sat back and took a deep breath. Nigel could see her face and neck were flushed.
"Is it warm in here?" she asked.
"Here, let's take your cardigan off," he said, helping her out of the sweater. He reached up and turned the air vent on, pointing it at her.
Nearly twenty minutes later, Miranda opened her eyes and slowly sat up, draping her sweater over her shoulders and reaching for the vent. She looked over at Nigel who was trying to hold in his laugh, and she couldn't help but laugh herself.
"Thank you so much for helping me," she said.
"Don't worry about it. You'll pay me back someday, I'm sure." He chuckled, "definitely not anything pregnancy-related, but, you know."
When their plane landed in Paris, Miranda and Nigel both were relieved. Though her stomach had settled after takeoff, she was still mildly nauseous and uncomfortable for the rest of the flight.
They departed New York City just after 7:00 PM, and after a seven hour flight plus the time difference, it was nearly 9:00 AM in Paris. Neither of them slept or ate much on the flight over, so they were both very anxious to get through customs, retrieve their luggage, and make their way to the hotel.
"Would you like something to drink? Tea, or maybe a decaf latte?" Nigel asked as they passed a small beverage cart in the airport.
"Actually, a small latte sounds wonderful," she said, taking a seat on a nearby bench.
When Nigel returned with the drinks—a small decaf for Miranda and a large caffeinated one for himself—they met their driver at the baggage claim, where he already had their luggage stacked on a cart.
"Is this everything?" Miranda asked.
"Mademoiselle, it shows six checked items, and I have all six right here," he said, in perfect English.
"Well then, let's go."
At the hotel, Miranda was delighted to know they had upgraded her room to a suite, however, it meant that she and Nigel were staying on different floors entirely. They split up to get situated in their rooms, and while Miranda was unpacking a few items that would need to be pressed, Nigel knocked at her door.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving. Room service?"
"Oui, oui!" he said, walking over to the desk and picking up the phone. "Your usual?"
"Yes. Well, and maybe a croissant. Or a few," she added.
Nigel grinned at her.
"What? The three of us," she said, gesturing to her abdomen, "have not eaten in the past twenty four hours!"
"No, it's not that. It's just incredible to see you, my best friend, like this. You're going to be such an amazing mother, Miranda. I—"
"Oh please, will you just order something to eat?" she said, rolling her eyes and walking back into the bedroom. She was feeling too self-conscious to accept Nigel's praise at the moment. Most days it felt like she was still struggling with the whole concept of pregnancy, let alone motherhood—of twins.
She stayed in her room until the food arrived, changing into her pajamas and pulling on a robe. When there was a knock at the door, she emerged, and was surprised to see not only two carts full of food, but two dozen white roses.
"What's this?" she asked, pulling at the card: To Mrs. Priestly, with love. XO, Mr. Priestly
"Care to share?" Nigel asked as he uncovered all of the food. He ordered a basket of fresh fruit and some various breads in addition to their breakfast, should Miranda want a snack later on.
She walked over and handed him the card. "It's sickeningly sweet, I know." She took her plate and poured herself a cup of green tea and sat at the table.
As they were eating, Nigel could see how heavy Miranda's eyelids were. She was exhausted, and he wanted to make sure she got enough rest—in fact, he promised James he would take care of her.
"You know, I think I'm going to finish my tea in my own room, if that's okay. It's like the fact that I haven't slept in 36 hours is hitting me all of a sudden," he said.
"I know what you're doing, Nigel, and I want to tell you that you do not have to. Just tell me that I look like hell and that I should go to bed," she said, setting down her teacup.
Nigel smiled at her. "Sweetie, go lay down. I'll clean up here. We don't have anywhere to be until tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you," she said. "I just want to get a few hours to take the edge off."
"Whatever your majesty wishes," Nigel said, dramatically bowing.
Miranda rolled her eyes and headed into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She pulled the curtains shut, and was grateful that they were very thick curtains, so the room was perfectly dark. She crawled into bed and reached over to set the alarm clock for 2:30 PM. She hoped to be awake before then, but just in case.
She spent almost ten minutes rearranging the pillows on the bed, and once she was comfortable, she realized the only thing missing was her husband's arm wrapped around her. Tossing the covers back, she reached over and turned on the light, then picked up the phone and dialed his number.
"Miranda?" he answered.
"Yes, honey, oh god I miss you," she said.
"Darling, I do, too. How was the flight? Are you in the hotel now? Did you have something to eat?"
"Yes, yes. Nigel is taking wonderful care of me. The flight was rough, but I'm in the hotel now—my room was upgraded to a suite—and we had some breakfast, but Nigel sent me to bed," she said.
"Good, you need to rest," James said. "But you're feeling okay?"
"Yes, aside from missing you. Oh, and thank you for the beautiful roses. I just spent ten minutes rearranging the pillows, and I realized that I'm just missing you."
"Did you unpack yet?"
"No, just a few things that needed to be hung."
"Go in your smaller suitcase, in the front compartment," he said.
"Okay, um, hold on," she said, setting the phone down on the nightstand while she unzipped the suitcase. She gasped, and ran back over to the phone. "James Priestly, have I told you how much I love you?" she said breathlessly.
"You may have mentioned it once or twice," he said. "Darling, I can't wait till Thursday when I can see you again and hold you in my arms."
"Honey, I'm putting your grey t-shirt on this pillow right now, over my pillowcase. You are perfect, do you know that?"
"Not as perfect as you."
"James, darling, I'm going to get some rest now. Can I call you later tonight before I go to bed? It should be a reasonable hour in New York."
"Sounds wonderful. Sleep well, darling. I love you."
"Love you, too. Bye," she said, hanging up the phone. She switched the light off and quickly fell asleep, her face pressed against James' favorite grey t-shirt.