Disclaimer: I don't own The Devil Wears Prada.
It is October before Miranda and Andrea run into someone Miranda knows on the streets of New York.
Nigel, scarf artfully draped around his neck, sees them before they see him. By the time Miranda notices him, he has watched them stroll the entire block from 49th to 50th street, matching coffee cups in hand and deep in conversation regarding the dangers of deforestation in South America. His mouth hangs slightly open; his eyebrows have risen to his nonexistent hairline. His eyes flit from Miranda, in her usual impeccable attire, to Andrea, in her usual peccable attire, and back.
She shoots him a quelling look, warning him to keep his distance. Naturally, he disregards it completely.
"Miranda!" he cries as soon as they are within earshot. "How lovely to see you!"
Andrea glances at Miranda sidelong, perhaps suspecting, correctly, that there is a joke and it is on her.
Miranda grits her teeth. "Nigel, I saw you two hours ago."
He ignores her completely in favor of holding his hand out to Andrea. "Nigel Kipling," he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Runway's artistic director."
"Andy Sachs," Andrea says with her usual wide grin.
"An-dy Sachs," Nigel repeats with absurd emphasis on each syllable. "What a pleasure."
Andrea blinks at him in confusion.
Miranda scowls. "Andrea, why don't you go ahead without me. My employee and I have some things to discuss."
Nigel's face shows a great deal less fear than she would like. His long tenure as her right hand man has had the unfortunate effect, it seems, of giving him a spine.
Andrea reaches out to squeeze Miranda's arm, which she often does to say goodbye and which Miranda has paid little heed to until this very moment, under Nigel's keen gaze. "Talk to you later, Miranda," she says. "Nice to meet you, Nigel."
Nigel moves to stand beside Miranda as they watch Andrea walk away. Those terrible knockoff flats clash horribly with Andrea's brown skirt and maroon sweater. Her lustrous but unkempt dark hair swings side to side with each step.
Miranda, who has somewhere along the way become almost fond of Andrea, imagines seeing the younger woman through Nigel's eyes. She knows exactly what the next words out of his mouth will be.
"Miranda," Nigel says, staring at her in complete befuddlement. "What."
Over the months since their first coffee meeting, Miranda has found herself constantly astonished by one simple fact: Andrea Sachs does not go away.
She did not go away when Miranda read her article on the merits of hybrid vehicles and then went and bought the most environmentally unfriendly sports car she could find. She did not go away when Miranda instructed her to write an article about "young people in New York who think they're more important, talented, and interesting than they really are". And she did not go away when Miranda, on a bad day, dragged all of her articles out of their drawer, slashed them to pieces with a red pen, and had Emily deliver their mangled, bloody corpses to Andrea's cubicle eight floors below Runway.
Miranda is not used to people who don't go away. The only people she's ever kept in her life are the ones she pays (Nigel, for example) or the ones who have no choice in the matter (her daughters). But Andrea does not seem to want anything from Miranda besides her weekly prompts and her company, and short of the potential to enact a Machiavellian scheme to get her fired, Miranda has no power over Andrea's day-to-day life.
Andrea's persistence is admirable, Miranda supposes. Her willingness to endure Miranda's scorn is baffling. Her insistence that they continue their weekly coffee outings (and Miranda still isn't sure whether she herself agreed to those meetings or whether she'd been hijacked), on the other hand, is...something else.
After that unfortunate encounter with Nigel, Miranda knows that something has to change. Nigel is her creature, and knows better than to gossip about her. If anyone else, however, had seen Miranda socializing with someone like Andrea, it could have been disastrous. This could be just the sort of ammunition Irv Ravitz has been sniffing around for.
No, either she needs to cease this...association...with Andrea Sachs, which she is unwilling to do, or she needs to take certain steps to remedy the situation.
"I am not free for coffee tomorrow," Miranda announces over the phone in lieu of a greeting the week after running into Nigel.
"Oh, okay," Andrea says, with what Miranda has come to recognize as genuine disappointment.
"However, my lunch date just cancelled on me, if you are available at noon today. I hate to waste a reservation at La Bernardin."
There's a long, long pause. Miranda imagines the younger woman gaping at her phone, wondering whether Miranda has been replaced with a pod person.
"If you prefer not to—" she says stiffly when the pause seems destined to continue interminably.
"No!" Andrea says, her voice strangled. "No, I'd love to!"
"Well. Good." Miranda hangs up. She taps her pointer finger against her lip, pleased and thoughtful. Then, realizing she's left herself little time, she calls for Emily II, barely waiting for the subpar second assistant to scurry into the room before saying, "Get me all of the 2004 black Dolce and Gabbana clutches from the Closet. That's all."
Andrea, as usual, is waiting for Miranda in the lobby when Miranda steps out of the elevator. The younger woman wears her typical disaster of an outfit. Still, her beaming grin, so unlike any expression that graces Runway's halls, upgrades her appearance from abysmal to merely unacceptable.
"Miranda, hey!" Andrea says, falling into step beside her. "Thanks for the invite."
Miranda rubs her thumb against the smooth leather of her large Prada purse. "It's a short walk," she says.
"Hey, I'm not the one wearing stilettos. I don't know how you walk in those things."
"You'll learn," Miranda says, amused when her ominous tone makes Andrea pale.
At the restaurant, they are quickly seated in a booth with a moderate amount of privacy.
"How are things at the magazine?" Andrea asks, fiddling with the cloth napkin before spreading it across her lap.
Miranda raises her eyebrow at the small talk. They usually don't have time for such things in the five minute walk to Starbucks, the three minutes Andrea waits in line, the two minutes spent drinking their beverages, and the five minute walk back to Elias-Clarke. That time is typically spent discussing Andrea's most recent article and Miranda's suggestion for the next one.
"Disappointing, as always," Miranda says, perusing the wine list for a moment before cocking her head at the waitress and ordering a bottle that costs significantly more than Andrea's weekly earnings. "I'm confident, however, that the final product will be excellent."
Andrea grins and tilts her water glass at Miranda in a silent toast. "I'd expect nothing less from you."
It's an odd comment from someone who has never read a single issue of Runway. Miranda would find Andrea's complete disregard for her life's work offensive if the younger woman's refreshing honesty were not so disarming.
Their wine comes, and Miranda gestures for the sommelier to pour the sample for Andrea rather than herself.
Andrea gives her a look. "You know the wine I drink at home comes in a box, right?"
Miranda shudders. "Andrea, you are old enough to begin learning about the finer things in life."
Andrea snorts. "It's not about age so much as budget. Nate and I definitely can't afford whatever this is." She takes a sip of the wine, shrugs, and nods at the sommelier, who does a poor job of masking his horror at their conversation as he pours them each a full glass and leaves the bottle.
"Nate?" Miranda inquires. They have never discussed their personal lives.
"My boyfriend."
The waitress comes back, notepad in hand. Miranda goes first, ordering both appetizer and entree, well aware that Andrea is taking her cue as to what is appropriate from her. The younger woman follows suit, and as soon as they are alone, Miranda says, "Tell me more about him."
So Andrea babbles for a while about a young man with culinary aspirations who works as a sous chef at a restaurant in the Village. He supports her dream of being a journalist but seems perfectly happy with her position at Auto Universe, since the easy, regular hours give them plenty of time together. The picture she paints is blissful, perfect, until the end:
"Actually, the only thing he ever complains about is how much time I spend on my articles for you."
It's the first time Miranda has ever heard annoyance in Andrea's voice. Intriguing. "Oh?"
The corner of Andrea's mouth quirks. "I mean, it's important to me to do good work on those articles, and they take time, you know? Like, I didn't know anything about African pygmies until you mentioned them to me, so if I was going to write something good it was going to take a lot of research. Nate doesn't understand why I keep writing stuff that isn't for publication. He thinks it's a waste of time."
"Do not say 'stuff', Andrea. Copy editors at Auto Universe say 'stuff'. Aspiring journalists do not."
"Yes, Miranda," Andrea says obediently, then immediately returns to her previous topic. "What's your home life like?"
Has she truly never researched Miranda's life? So much of her past is public knowledge, splashed across Page Six and other tabloids for decades.
"I have two wonderful daughters." As always, it is a pleasure to speak of Cassidy and Caroline, even if "wonderful" is not an adjective most would use to describe the girls. However, Miranda is well aware that geniuses are rarely appreciated in their own time. "Twins, Caroline and Cassidy."
"Twins? I bet they're a handful."
"I'm told they can be. My husband is a great help with them." The lie trips off her tongue before she can catch it, so familiar and rote she doesn't even think before speaking. She blinks, takes a sip of wine, and corrects herself. "That's not true. Actually, Stephen is no help at all. They spend more time with their nanny than they do with either of us. I try, but Runway is a demanding mistress."
Andrea takes another sip of wine. Miranda refills her glass, though the other woman hasn't drunk much yet.
"Women struggling to balance work and life," Andrea sighs. "It's the age-old conundrum, isn't it?"
"Write me an article about that," Miranda says. "Something optimistic."
Andrea bobs her head, no doubt filing the prompt away for later. "Tell me more about your girls."
Miranda is happy to oblige.
Wine and water flow freely over the course of their meal. Miranda is unsurprised to find that conversation with this guileless young woman is freer and more enjoyable than any of her regular lunch dates. Miranda always has to watch her words with Donatella and the others in their industry, fearful that a misstep will lead to calamity. She has no such reservations with Andrea.
After they finish their appetizers and entrees, she can feel Andrea's surprise when she asks for the dessert menu.
"I'm not ready to head back to work just yet," Miranda says, which is true but conceals her real purpose in drawing the lunch out as long as necessary.
Andrea looks skeptical, but the sumptuous dessert offerings drive a greedy expression across her face. "I'll take the sugar free cheesecake."
Clearly, she's holding back to avoid taunting Miranda with sugar. Miranda finds herself touched by the gesture. "The cheese plate," she orders.
They finish the bottle of wine as they wait. Due to Miranda's careful pouring, Andrea has imbibed more than half of the bottle. The younger woman's cheeks are noticeably flushed. She hopes she won't encounter any trouble returning from lunch late and tipsy.
"Excuse me a moment," Andrea says, giving in to the need to go to the restroom. She picks up her clutch as she rises.
"Leave that," Miranda says. "Or do you really think I'm going to snoop through it while you're gone?" Her glare dares Andrea to answer in the affirmative.
Andrea blinks and lets go.
The moment she is out of sight, Miranda slips around the table, grabs the clutch (cringing at the feel of the fake leather), and dumps its contents on the table. Nothing particularly interesting there, save the journalist notepad covered in Andrea's neat scrawl. She reaches into her own purse and extracts an identical clutch, this one made of real leather—the model for the knockoff. She quickly scrapes Andrea's belongings into the clutch, arranges it back on Andrea's seat, and returns to her own side of the booth.
She waves over their waitress, a young woman with a pleasant demeanor.
"How may I help you?" the waitress asks.
"Do you have a female friend of whom you are not especially fond?"
The girl frowns. "Um…"
"A friend of your boyfriend's, perhaps? Yes, I can see that you do. Give this to her for her next birthday." She hands over the fake clutch.
"I'm not sure that's—"
Andrea rounds the corner, on her way back. "Go," Miranda hisses.
The waitress goes.
Andrea slides into her seat, her eyes narrowing. "What was that about?"
Miranda plucks at her napkin. "I don't know what you mean."
Twenty minutes later, when they leave the restaurant (after Andrea makes a valiant, if futile, effort to force her own credit card into the check despite her wince when she sees the bill), Andrea picks up the clutch and frowns at it, but follows Miranda without question.
"This was really fun," she says outside, touching Miranda lightly on the arm.
"I enjoyed it as well. Same time next week?"
Andrea blinks, a million questions pinwheeling inside her keen eyes. But all she says is: "Yes."
Miranda misses her daughters' recital due to a freak weekend hurricane in Florida. She supposes it was too much to hope that her twit of a second assistant could pull off a miracle.
She considers asking Andrea to attend the recital and videotape it for her—she would do it happily, she thinks, out of some notion that they are friends—but remembers just before she finishes dialing that Andrea's father is visiting this weekend. She puts her phone away and rages at the raging winds.
Their next lunch requires a certain amount of extra planning to accomplish. Miranda is well familiar with Andrea's one and only purse. However, the younger woman cycles through three or four atrocious pairs of shoes and there does not appear to be any method to her madness.
Consequently, the day of the lunch Miranda orders Emily to stake out the lobby and photograph Andrea's feet as she comes in. This leads to a phone call from Andrea directly to Miranda's cell phone just after 9 a.m.
"Miranda, why did Emily take a picture of my shoes this morning?" Andrea says suspiciously.
Miranda sighs. "Andrea, not everything is about you. I am considering doing a spread on the variety of footwear worn by the average professional in New York. Emily is photographing everyone's shoes today."
There's a pause before Andrea laughs. "Sounds like being your assistant would never be boring, at least."
"Hmm." Miranda takes a moment to imagine Andrea in that second assistant role she'd interviewed for over half a year ago. She doubts bold, fearless Andrea would have lasted long, too self-righteous and uninterested in fashion to put up with Miranda's mercurial whims.
"We're still on for lunch, right?" Andrea says.
"Of course."
After hanging up, Miranda summons Emily into her office. Unprompted, if clearly confused, Emily hands over a photograph of Andrea's knockoff Chanel pumps, perhaps the least objectionable of her shoes.
"Find me the closest match we have in the Closet—size 8 ½," Miranda instructs. "Then go down to the lobby and spend the rest of the day photographing the shoes of every woman who enters the building. That's all."
Emily goggles a little, but clearly remembers Rule Number 2—never ask Miranda anything—and bites her tongue.
This week, they take Miranda's car uptown to eat at a high class Japanese restaurant that requires its customers to remove their shoes and kneel on mats to eat. Truthfully, this is not Miranda's preferred form of dining, but it serves her purposes well.
Andrea turns out to be a master chopstick user. Miranda suspects the young woman is incapable of doing anything without excelling.
"I mean, it doesn't sound like it was your assistant's fault she couldn't get you a flight during a hurricane," Andrea says, expertly plucking a sushi roll from her plate and slathering it with wasabi.
Miranda glares at her. "Andrea, in case I have not been clear about this, you are never to take the side of my idiot assistants against me."
Andrea snorts. "We both know this friendship is predicated on the understanding that I'm not afraid of you, Miranda. I'll take whatever side I think is right."
It's so easy for the younger woman to toss around words like "friendship". Even in her own mind, Miranda has barely progressed to describing this unusual relationship as a "not entirely objectionable acquaintanceship with a poorly-dressed young woman who does not work for me".
"Anyway, enough about your crazy expectations for your assistants," Andrea says. "Tell me more about this coup you think Irv Ravitz is trying to pull."
She'll make a good journalist someday. She's easy to talk to, even for Miranda, who's so used to keeping her cards close to her chest. So Miranda tells her a little—not too much, because it still seems impossible that Andrea doesn't have some sort of angle—about Irv's machinations, and her suspicions regarding Jacqueline Follet.
"What are you going to do about them?" Andrea asks, a little furrow in her brow that might, just maybe, be concern for Miranda.
Miranda smiles a smile with teeth. "Whatever I must. Someday, Andrea, you'll know this feeling—the need to defend what's yours at all costs. You're a woman, which means the world will try to take and take and take from you. Don't let it."
Andrea bites her lip. "I don't know if I have that in me."
Miranda reaches into her purse and pulls out Andrea's latest article, the one about work/life balance for women. Miranda had asked Andrea to write something optimistic. What she'd received had been something honest, personal, and incisive. She'd sent it back to Andrea, marked up, two days ago, and received the finished draft yesterday.
"Let's find out," Miranda says. "Submit this for publication. Use your full name, not 'Andy'. You are not a man, Andrea. There is no reason to lead your readers to believe you are."
"Publication?" Andrea's eyes widen. "What—no. That was just practice. I'm nowhere near ready..."
"Do you truly believe I would encourage you to submit something that wasn't more than adequate? You are an excellent writer, Andrea. It's time to step outside of your copy editing office—"
"Cubicle."
"—and take a risk."
Andrea sits back on her heels, stunned, perhaps because this is the most praise Miranda has ever offered her. Perhaps because she truly has such a poor grasp of her own abilities.
Miranda waits for the request. It won't be said greedily; it will be shy, endearingly nervous. Not, Miranda, I can put your name as a reference, right? but Would you mind—I mean, would it be okay—It's just, I think it would have a much better chance if I could maybe put your name in there somewhere. If you don't mind.
"Miranda," Andrea breathes. "Thank you. For everything."
Miranda huffs, strangely uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Whatever are you talking about?"
She ducks her head, embarrassed. "Until I met you, I was sleepwalking my way through New York. Sometimes it feels like I'm only awake when I'm with you, or writing something you've given me."
Miranda feels a rush of affection, a surge she hasn't felt for anyone other than her daughters in a very, very long time. "I won't accept your thanks, Andrea." She holds up a hand to forestall whatever the younger woman is about to say. "Rest assured that whatever you get out of this arrangement, I receive something of equal or greater value. I'm a businesswoman, after all."
Leaving Andrea to parse those cryptic words, she holds up her hand for the check and this time slips her credit card in without allowing Andrea to get her poorly-manicured hands anywhere near it.
The waitress returns with their shoes. Miranda slips her feet into her stilettos with nary a wince, watching as Andrea looks from the waitress to the shoes that are being offered to her and back again. Then Andrea slants a suspicious glance at her clutch. Miranda holds her breath, heart beating fast with anticipation. Instead of saying a word, though, Andrea just sighs and goes with it.
The day Idiot Soon-to-Be-Former Second Assistant climbs the stairs and catches Miranda and Stephen mid-argument is a disaster from start to finish.
First, a disastrous shoot forces Miranda to cancel her next lunch date with Andrea, which has somehow become the highlight of her week. Then the semi-annual Elias-Clarke budgetary meeting, also known as the April/October Irv Ravitz Shit Show, stretches almost two hours past its scheduled conclusion. For once, this is not Irv's fault. Miranda blames the fools at Auto Universe, whose ridiculous misuse of their budget has led to massive suggested layoffs. Miranda, ever the philanthropist, takes it upon herself to educate Henry Styles, Editor-in-Chief of Auto Universe, as well as the captive heads of Elias-Clarke's other publications, in the appropriate allocation of funds. By the end of the meeting, none of Auto Universe's editorial staff are at risk, a famous, buxom A-level actress will no longer be appearing on next month's cover, and all of Elias-Clarke's top employees have been reminded that Miranda's wrath is a frightening thing.
The overlong meeting forces a reshuffling of Miranda's entire schedule for the day, a day that winds up being interminable, and both the first and last thing on her mind is the dinner she is supposed to attend with Stephen, which he goes to alone.
This is far from the first time they've argued. She and Stephen fight constantly, over her availability and his temper and her temper and his distance from the children and her distance from him. This time, though, after they send Idiot Soon-to-Be-Former Second Assistant hurtling out of the house in terrified tears, Stephen levels a new accusation, one that takes Miranda completely by surprise:
"Who the hell is Andy Sachs?"
The unexpected blow sends Miranda reeling. She stumbles back against the railing on the staircase, so surprised to hear Andrea's name spoken here, in this house, in this context. (Do you even want to be married to me? Why the hell are we in a relationship if you can't find five minutes for me every other day? God, Miranda, do you know how embarrassing it is for a man to spend his life waiting for Miranda Priestly?)
"W-why do you ask?"
Stephen rolls his eyes contemptuously. "I've seen your calendar, Miranda. Your assistant blocks out two hour lunches for you with this guy when I can't even get you on the phone, and don't try to tell me he's in the industry. I did my research. He's not."
It's laughable, it should be laughable, that Stephen has so completely misconstrued the situation as to think she is having an affair with Andrea. It would be laughable if not for the fact that Miranda does not cheat, has never cheated, and would never cheat. Unlike her husband.
"So who is he?" Stephen demands, using his words like bludgeons, so certain he is in the right.
She should correct his misunderstanding. She should. She knows that. One mention of Andrea's full name and he will be caught flat-footed, stumbling, perhaps even apologetic.
Instead she gives him her coldest look, a look that belongs at work, not at home, and says, "Just a friend." Book in hand, she brushes past him, to her office, and firmly shuts the door.
Despite Emily's best efforts, the twins do not obtain early copies of the next Harry Potter book. At least she succeeds in locating yet another warm body to fill the empty Second Assistant desk.
Miranda reschedules lunch for Friday, cancelling on James Holt with little warning and no explanation. He wants to discuss a new venture with her, get her thoughts on a new opportunity, and truly, she thinks his genius was used up over a year ago. This new possibility of his is merely the last gasp of a man who doesn't realize he's already bled out. There are better uses for her limited time.
She is riding the elevator down when its doors open on an intermediary floor and there is Andrea, waiting with a pensive frown that transforms instantly into a shining grin the moment she catches sight of Miranda. There is no hesitation regarding whether to join her in the elevator; Andrea leaps inside and says an excited, "Hey!"
"Hello, Andrea," Miranda says mildly, adjusting her grip on her purse.
"Thanks for taking the time to reschedule," Andrea goes on cheerfully, not appearing to notice as the door opens and Miranda glares at the waiting men in suits, who blanch and step away from the elevator bank as if it's on fire. "It's really good to see you."
Miranda smiles faintly. "I found myself with some extra time on my hands and thought of you."
They walk together to Smith and Wollensky, Andrea blathering on about the various publications to which she has submitted her article and her excitement about the latest topic Miranda has assigned her, which has to do with Nelson Mandela. Miranda nods and hums in all the right places, yet the moment they are seated Andrea pins her with a surprisingly intent look and says, "Okay, what's going on?"
Miranda raises an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"Something's different about you today. Are you okay?"
For the barest of moments, the question takes her breath away. She can't remember the last time someone asked her such a thing, inquired about her well-being without the question being accompanied by a honeyed smile or an insincere air kiss.
The moment passes and Miranda glares at her. "What a question," she says with irritation she does not feel. "Of course I am."
Andrea licks her lips, anxious. "You don't have to say that, if you aren't. You can talk to me, Miranda. If you need to talk."
"I'm sure your offer is well-intentioned, but that is what I pay my therapist obscene amounts of money for," Miranda says. She looks down at the menu, as if she does not always order the same thing here. The words slip out of their own accord: "A disagreement with my husband, that's all."
Andrea makes a soft, sympathetic noise at the back of her throat. "He must be a pretty special guy for you to have fallen in love with him."
"Don't be ridiculous," Miranda says, a knee-jerk reaction.
Andrea looks startled, as she probably has a right to be. Which idea is Miranda disagreeing with, after all? That Stephen is special, or that she loves him?
"Stephen is...fine," Miranda says, grimacing a little at herself, at him. "I married him because I expected him to be a good father figure for my children."
For the first time in their acquaintance, Andrea flinches.
Miranda rubs her forehead, feeling tired. "When you reach a certain stage in your life, Andrea, you'll find that love is less important than other factors, such as dependability."
"Bullshit." Andrea spits the word out forcefully, almost angrily. "What stage in life would that be, Miranda? The one where you're a legend? The one where you've proven yourself to be one of the smartest, strongest people in the country, if not the world?" She shakes her head, long hair streaming behind her like the tail of a kite. "Didn't you read my article? Maybe we can't have it all, the job and the respect and the perfect home life—but that doesn't mean we don't deserve it. It doesn't mean we don't keep striving for it."
Andrea speaks with such passion, such conviction, and yes, this is what Miranda has wanted from her ever since that first meeting on the Fourth of July. She was right, even back then: hearing Andrea Sachs' words on a topic she cares about is captivating, indeed.
Miranda is also reminded, in this moment, of how very young Andrea is. She can't be more than 25, and still fresh with the naive bloom of youth. Will she be so sure, so determined to believe in the fairness of the universe, when she is Miranda's age?
Miranda hopes so. In fact, she thinks, she would give rather a lot to make that happen.
"You love him, then," Miranda says, voice cool in sharp contrast to Andrea's heat. "Your chef, I mean."
"Yes, of course," Andrea says, automatically. She tilts her head. "I mean, I do. Love him. Yes. Of course I do."
"You don't sound too sure about that."
Andrea's eyebrows draw together. "I was sure about it, before we moved to New York. Now…" She hesitates, looking for the correct words, and Miranda watches, wondering if she wears this same expression when she writes. "Nate and I still love each other," she says at last. "I just don't know if we're still in love with each other. I don't even know whether we still like each other."
Miranda bites back the comment that leaps to her tongue, which is that anyone who doesn't like Andrea is an imbecile.
They set aside the topic to order, and afterwards neither seems inclined to return to their original subject. Instead, they talk about Andrea's Nelson Mandela article and the disastrous photo shoot that caused Miranda grief a few days ago.
They fight over the check—"Miranda, it just doesn't feel right letting you pay every time. I'm a working adult; I can carry my own weight."—and Andrea loses, of course. She settles back into her chair, an ungracious loser, glaring like a toddler denied a toy, and that is when Miranda reaches for her full wineglass and knocks it directly on top of the other woman.
They both freeze as the crimson liquids seeps into Andrea's sweater, button down shirt, and slacks, and settles there, staining the cheap polyester blends forever. Andrea's mouth works in silent shock, words deserting her for once. She is too stunned to even mop up the excess with her napkin, instead allowing it to spread like puddles in a rainstorm.
Finally, she gasps, "You did that on purpose!"
"What an absurd allegation," Miranda replies, eyes gleaming.
Then they are mobbed by waiters and busboys, cleaning up the mess and kowtowing as if any of this is their fault, and by the time everything has been cleared and Miranda's credit card has been run Andrea looks rather a lot like a murder victim.
For once, Andrea leads the way out the door, her steps rough and jerky. At first, Miranda thinks she is merely in shock from what has just happened. She expects Andrea to laugh it off once they reach the street, perhaps level a playful accusation. She does not expect Andrea to hunch her shoulders and begin speed walking in the opposite direction from Elias-Clarke.
"Where are you going?" she calls after her.
Andrea stops walking but doesn't turn. "I need to go home and change. I can't go back to work like this."
"Nonsense," Miranda says briskly, approaching, already thinking ahead to the outfit Nigel will pick out for Andrea. "I'm sure we can find you something suitable at Runway—"
"No, Miranda," she says, her voice thick with something unpleasant, and now she does turn.
Miranda has never seen this expression on Andrea's face, not even the day of that awful job interview. Humiliation and rage appear to be vying for dominance. Miranda begins to think she may have miscalculated, terribly.
"I think it's best we stop spending time together," Andrea says, her voice stiff, formal. "Thank you again for all you've done."
"Unacceptable," Miranda snaps. She sounds angry but isn't. Her breath is coming too fast and there's a roaring in her ears like the tide of a great ocean waiting to sweep her away.
Her tone just makes Andrea's face harden further. "I know you read my article, Miranda, but I guess you didn't really pay attention. I made myself very clear. I strongly feel women should look for the people who inspire them, who make them want to be the best possible version of themselves. I also strongly feel that we should steer clear of the people who think we need to change ourselves into someone we're not."
Miranda has a thousand rebuttals prepared before Andrea finishes speaking; a thousand reasonable explanations for this one-sided little game she's been playing. Somehow, in this moment, she can't enunciate a single one of them.
Andrea nods, once. "Goodbye, Miranda Priestly. I wish you all the best."
Then she turns and goes away.