Chapter Text
“Is your full name Andrea Marie Sachs?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born in Cincinnati, Ohio?”
“Yes.”
“Are you ready to take the Vanity Fair lie detector test?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Her laugh was bubbly and warm, big brown eyes wide as she glanced at the polygraph machine beside her. She tipped her head, her grin turning tight-lipped as the disembodied voice began to ask its first question, and Miranda paused the video before going any further.
Nigel had emailed her the link that morning with a cryptic message about how she might be interested in watching. By now, she was no stranger to unconventional celebrity interviews: Runway had been pushing out house tours, makeup tutorials, and something called “unboxing” videos for years. Given how long she’d avoided watching any of it, she wasn’t sure why Nigel would think she’d want to watch something from a rival publication that subjected its guests to an interview via polygraph.
Despite the immediate disdain she had for the format, Miranda pressed play again, finding herself intrigued by this woman who was so surprisingly emotive for the setting. Andrea’s smile was wide and open, her nerves and excitement on full display, as quick to laugh as she was to pause and contemplate the increasingly odd questions. She was loquacious, though never long-winded, and had the habit of trying to ask the disembodied voice questions before being reminded that this was her interview.
The interviewer — if that’s what one would call someone running this gimmick — went through simple questions before turning to more details about this woman’s life. Miranda gathered that she was a journalist, and as the conversation continued, it triggered her memory. A movie adaption of her writing was coming out soon, something about workers’ rights and unionization in middle America. She vaguely remembered an invitation to the premiere landing in her inbox weeks beforehand.
The questions verged on boring, even milquetoast, until a photograph was slid across the desk. It was a snapshot of Andrea and President Obama shaking hands at what appeared to be a White House event.
“Were you nervous to meet him?” the voice asked.
Andrea nodded quickly. “Oh my god, yes. Of course.”
“Is it true that you were more nervous to meet… her?”
Another photo was placed onto the table. Miranda paused the video and squinted, her heart beating more quickly once she noticed the subject. It was her, wearing an off-white Valentino suit that she recognized from the reception at the Front Page Awards, where she’d been a speaker. When she pressed play, she was surprised to see Andrea’s face flush immediately as she let out a breathy laugh.
“Well, no… I mean, compared to the President…” Grimacing slightly, Andrea glanced to her right towards the polygraph. The camera followed, zooming in on the woman running the machine.
“The machine is detecting some deception,” the technician said serenely.
Andrea’s eyes grew wide, and she held her hands up. “There’s different types of nervousness!”
“What are the types?” the voice asked.
Blushing madly, Andrea fiddled with her bangs before looking from the polygraph machine and into the camera, finally resting her chin on her hand. “Next question?”
Miranda slammed her finger onto her trackpad immediately, freezing on a frame of Andrea biting her lip as she returned her eyes to the interviewer. She wracked her brain, trying to recall any instance of meeting this woman, but all she could remember from the awards ceremony was the disastrous lighting and her assistants’ useless attempts at batting away desperate journalism students looking to beg for internships. It had felt like an endless evening, and Miranda had left the moment that the reception’s welcome speech was over.
Alone in her home office, she felt oddly discomfited by these strangers’ discussion of her in a video that had already garnered half a million views. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, tracing the pearl choker that she was wearing and staring distantly as she tried to clear her head.
Fucking Nigel. There were benefits to their closeness, of course, but he also knew how to push her buttons almost as well as her daughters and ex-husbands. The communications department usually briefed Miranda’s assistants on content like this, so this personal delivery to her inbox felt especially pointed.
When she returned to her computer, Miranda found herself unable to watch the rest of the video. She googled Andrea instead, scanning her Rolling Stone profile, skimming a Times review of her book, and spending far too much time lingering on the photos accompanying each article. In contrast to her presence in the video, the photos of Andrea evoked something far more regal and mature, full of confident poses not unlike directions Miranda had given Runway cover models: lips slightly parted, a single eyebrow raised, head tilted just-so. The ghost of a dimple appeared on one of her cheeks in candid snapshots from events, where she seemed quicker to smile.
Miranda came across a long-form article in The New Yorker that she was surprised to see was written by Andrea herself. She recognized it as one that she’d read when the issue came out the year prior: a personal essay reflecting on Andrea’s time as an embedded reporter and what she’d learned. There was a striking balance of self-awareness and humor that both complemented and contrasted with the environments that Andrea had been working in: hazardous waste removal, day laboring, call centers, Amazon warehouses. She was clearly proud of her work, but there was a layer of humility as she focused on the people who lived the lives that she had only dipped her toes into.
Miranda caught herself just as she was clicking on the fourth article about Andrea and closed out of the page immediately, telling herself that she’d learned all that she needed to know. There was research and then there was ogling, and she didn’t need to be doing either for someone she didn’t even remember meeting.
She woke up the next day after a fitful sleep, frustrated to find that Andrea was still occupying her thoughts. Before her 8 a.m. coffee could change her mind, she was clicking through the Penguin Random House website and locating the email address for an A. Sachs.
From: [email protected]
Subject: No Subject
What are the different types of nervousness?
Miranda learned about one of her own that day: when someone emails a person they don’t remember meeting, and that person takes nearly 48 hours to respond.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
Dear Ms. Priestly,
I apologize for my delayed response. Here’s my list so far:
Intimidation, whether because of status, expertise, or reputation.
Unpreparedness for the situation.
Nervous excitement, or what they call butterflies in your stomach. (But it doesn’t quite feel like that, does it? At least, not for me.)
Finding them really hard to look at because they’re so attractive.
Let me know if you have any questions. Thanks for your email!
Andy
Miranda took two days to reply, drafting and deleting and second-guessing every sentence. She settled for a single question that she hoped would obscure the growing curiosity she felt about this woman.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
Which one of these applies to me?
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when a reply landed in her inbox thirty seconds later.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
All of them. Was that not clear?
Her mind jumped to #4 on Andrea’s list, and she clicked out of the email quickly. She contorted the smile forming on her face into a purse of her lips as her assistant ran into her office, a stack of orange boxes wobbling in her arms. Miranda rolled her eyes and gestured towards the corner table. “There.”
Miranda wasn’t a stranger to being hit on — it had happened in boardrooms and banquets for her entire career — but lately it had been happening less. In rooms surrounded by models one-third her age, she was hardly the sole focus of male attention. While she felt relieved to drop the charade of pretending to be interested in insipid conversations with shameless men, it also had the unfortunate effect of making her feel like a walking coffin.
She’d never been hit on by a woman — at least, that she knew of — and by whatever combination of male disinterest, age, and simple curiosity, she found herself surprisingly intrigued by being the object of this woman’s attention. She let the email simmer for the rest of the work day, attempting to distract herself with run-throughs and budget reports and back-to-back meetings. But that final line — Was that not clear? — was impossible to shake, and it was all she thought of on her ride home that night.
No sooner had she hung up her coat and bag was she strolling into her office, pouring herself a finger of whisky, and opening up her laptop.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
Though I don’t have a polygraph machine, I’ll take your word for it.
I regret that I didn’t have a chance to speak to you further at the Front Page Awards. I did, however, enjoy your article in The New Yorker last year.
The Book arrived as Miranda was hovering her mouse over the Send button, and she clicked it blindly before retrieving it from the entryway just as her assistant closed the front door. It was a helpful way to keep her mind off of her inbox; the scratching of her red pen and the sticky backing of post-its felt familiar and comforting. It wasn’t enough, however, to keep her from nearly jumping out of her seat when the familiar ping of a new email came from her laptop.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
No apology necessary. I hope that the interview with Vanity Fair didn’t make you too uncomfortable. They didn’t brief me on any of the questions, and I’m a little bit embarrassed that they didn’t edit that part out.
Thanks for reading my article :)
Miranda arrived at the office the next morning with a one-track mind.
“Erin,” she called, tapping her nail on her mousepad as she waited for her assistants — Erin One and Erin Two, as far as she was concerned — to scuttle into her office. “I need a list of attendees from the Front Page event. I also want an invitation for MoMA’s fall event sent to Andrea Sachs.”
“Andrea… who?” Erin said, both girls scribbling in their notebooks.
Miranda ignored her. “Get me Demarchelier, and reschedule my lunch with Michael and Donna for next week.” She listed off the rest of the day’s tasks, the Erins’ eyebrows lifting higher with each one until Nigel interrupted with a knock.
“Go,” Miranda huffed, and the girls ran out, teetering on their stilettos. She sighed as Nigel entered her office, his hands in his pockets.
“So,” he said slowly, looking down his nose at Miranda.
“What?” Miranda snapped, turning her focus to her computer.
“Don’t tell me that you haven’t watched the video. It’s up to almost two million views, you know.”
Miranda pressed her lips together, refusing to give Nigel the reaction he wanted. “How wonderful. If only your creative team could reach such heights.”
Nigel pressed a hand to his heart. “Ouch,” he said, but he was smiling as he turned to leave Miranda’s office. “Just trying to flatter you,” he called over his shoulder.
“Miranda?” Erin said from the door. “I had MoMA send that invitation you wanted.”
“Fine.”
A new email arrived just before lunch.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
I just received an invite to the event at MoMA. Will you be there?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
Yes.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
What a coincidence. I guess I’ll see you there!
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: No Subject
Don’t be too nervous.
Miranda brushed her hair out of her face as she picked up her office phone and hit the speed dial blindly.
“Yes?” Nigel drawled.
“I need that Akris gown that they just showed.”
“I’ll have Erin retrieve it. Trying to impress someone?”
She hung up before Nigel could get any more ideas. “Erin, do you have the guest list from Front Page yet?”
She rolled her eyes at the banging and shuffling that preceded her assistant, who tottered in holding three sheets of paper. Miranda ripped them from her hands and scanned it quickly, looking for a particular name.
Andrea Sachs and Guest (None)
She tossed the papers in the recycling, ignored the newfound warmth in her chest, and got back to work.
—
“Are you sure none of your Pratt friends have an in or something? I just need a dress that’s not something that Zara sold, like, nine months ago.”
“You know that none of us has an ‘in’ anywhere but Starbucks, Andy,” Lily said. “And don’t you have movie money now? Go to a real store.”
Andy groaned and adjusted the phone from where it was shoved in the crook of her neck as she flipped through her tiny closet. “Come with me?”
Lily scoffed. “Ask Doug. My fashion knowledge begins and ends at Goodwill.”
Andy had been on edge all day waiting for an email from Miranda, and the last thing she’d expected was for it to come in the form of an invitation to MoMA's fall exhibit opener. She’d nearly fallen out of her chair when it popped up in her inbox, and the included line that she was a guest of Miranda Priestly only heightened her anxiety.
Two days later, Doug was dragging her through the doors of Bergdorf Goodman with a look of unrestrained glee on his face as he navigated towards the women’s department.
“This is insane,” Andy said as she nearly tripped over a mannequin wearing a t-shirt more expensive than her rent.
“What is?” Doug said. “That you’re about to spend more money on a dress than ever to meet Miranda —”
Andy smacked his arm. “Don’t say her name in here.”
“As if a million people didn’t already see you basically say you were horny for her on the Internet.”
“I’m leaving you here and never speaking to you again,” Andy grumbled, watching Doug sift through a rack of blazers.
“Fine,” he said breezily, not taking his focus off of the display. “But good luck finding someone to help you. God knows Lily would have you in overalls and a tank top.”
“Ugh, fine. But nothing pink.”
No matter how much Andy complained, Doug was an excellent shopping partner, and he befriended an elegant saleswoman who was more than happy to shove Andy into the most expensive outfits that she could find, deftly ignoring the grimace on Andy’s face anytime she saw the price tag. The winner ended up being a sleeveless midi Stella McCartney with a high, angular neckline. Doug appraised Andy from afar, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed. “Not too shabby.”
One hour and a very tired credit card later, Andy walked out with the dress, matching heels, and a small clutch that Doug had insisted she bring instead of her usual leather shoulder bag.
“This is Miranda Priestly,” he told her through clenched teeth. “You do not wear a Michael Kors knockoff from TJMaxx in front of a woman running a fashion dynasty.”
She and Miranda only exchanged a few more emails in the two weeks before the event, all brief messages that still managed to leave Andy’s fingertips buzzing as she typed each reply.
Admittedly, she knew very little about Miranda beyond her public accomplishments. She’d transformed Runway from a fashion magazine to a publication that covered world events, politics, and culture, and had pioneered a teen edition whose online publication had soared in popularity in recent years. Andy had always admired astute businesswomen, and Miranda carried herself with such grace that she couldn’t help but feel completely unmoored when she ended up in the greenroom with her at the Front Page Awards for women in journalism.
Miranda had stood at the edge of the room, her expression inscrutable as the event producer explained marks and cues to the group of presenters. She was in a perfectly-fitted suit with a plunging neckline and a layer of long pendants that had the unfortunate effect of drawing Andy’s gaze far too low. As the producer droned on, Miranda fiddled with the rings on her right hand, twisting them and tracing their settings with her fingers. It was oddly mesmerizing, and when Andy looked up, she was surprised to see that Miranda was staring at her, too. She looked her up and down with such focus that Andy felt her entire body flush.
But there was no time to speak. The producer wrapped up moments later, and Miranda was whisked away by a chattering assistant, not sparing Andy a second glance.
They saw each other again backstage before Miranda was slated to speak while Andy waited for her own cue. Andy saw her waiting at the edge of the curtain, scanning a card with reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose. As the stage music swelled, she passed both items off to the same assistant and took a deep breath, smoothing out her blazer. She looked around, eyes catching Andy for the briefest moment before she walked out onstage with her head held high.
Andy’s heart raced in anticipation when she walked into the reception, and she immediately scanned the room for the telltale white hair. She wished that she’d invited Lily or Doug to this event, simply for a buffer as she made her way towards Miranda, practicing lines under her breath as she waited for an opening.
In the end, they didn’t exchange words beyond a brief greeting, interrupted by Christiane Amanpour’s welcome speech, during which Miranda seemed to disappear into the crowd. But somehow that greeting was captured by an AP photographer, which was how Vanity Fair got a snapshot of Andy’s embarrassingly wide-eyed expression in the first place. Coupled with her confession of her nerves to that idiot GQ reporter, Andy shouldn’t have been surprised that a mangled version of it had made its way to Vanity Fair.
The last thing that she’d expected was for Miranda to see that YouTube video, much less ask her about it. She hadn’t meant to insinuate any sort of ulterior motive, or even outright attraction, but apparently being more nervous to meet a magazine editor than the President carried more weight than Andy had realized.
And yes, Miranda was infinitely more beautiful in person than any candid photo Andy had seen in the tabloids, and it had caught her off-guard in a way that she’d never experienced with anyone else. No camera lens could accurately capture the blue of her eyes or the soft texture of her hair or her voice — so unexpectedly low and silky. Their proximity had only left Andy wanting more, and the bordering-on-flirtatious emails weren’t helping.
So when she walked into the Museum of Modern Art three weeks after Miranda’s first message, Andy could now confidently say that she had never felt so nervous. The list she’d sent to Miranda had mostly been a joke, of course, but all four types and then some had her entire body twisting into knots, her limbs as loose as jello as she weaved through the crowd and looked for anyone she might recognize.
Mercifully, an old colleague from her first job out of undergrad was there with his wife, and they made idle chatter while Andy periodically scanned the room for silver hair. She was in the middle of a story about dogsitting their mutual friend’s Shiba Inu when the slightest hush fell over the room. She turned around to see Miranda practically parting the crowd, flanked by a skinny girl and a bald, bespectacled man.
Miranda was in a midnight blue off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved gown, likely silk by its soft sheen. Silver jewelry and diamonds complemented her hair and pale skin, every jewel sparkling under the museum’s lights. Her eyes caught Andy’s briefly before a hand was on her shoulder, drawing Miranda’s attention towards a tall man. He leaned down and said something in Miranda’s ear, and Andy turned around, feeling like she was witnessing something private. She cleared her throat, trying to recall where she’d left the Shiba Inu story, but only a few minutes passed before her colleague's eyes went wide, his head tilting to look past Andy. It was all she needed to know who was suddenly behind her.
She turned around, inhaling slowly as she came face-to-face with Miranda Priestly once again. “Hi,” Andy said, not yet trusting herself with multiple syllables.
“Andrea,” Miranda said. Her voice was smooth and soft, so opposite of the cacophonous room they were in. The pronunciation of her name, with its emphasis on the second syllable instead of the first, felt as elegant as it did intimate. It made Andy feel like they were the only ones there.
"It’s nice to meet you.”
“Again,” Miranda added.
Andy laughed before she could think better of it. “Does the first time count if we never really spoke?”
To her surprise, Miranda rolled her eyes, but there was clear amusement behind it. A server walked past them, and Miranda held up one finger to stop him. “Champagne?” she asked Andy.
“Yeah — yes. Thanks.”
Glasses in hand, Miranda looked past Andy and at her colleague and his wife, who seemed frozen in place. “And are these…”
“Oh! This is my old coworker from The Mirror, James, and his wife Molly.”
“It’s great to meet you, Ms. Priestly,” James said, bowing slightly. Molly shot him an annoyed glare before smiling at Miranda.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, then took her husband’s arm. “We should go make the rounds. But Andy, hey, congrats on the movie. We’re really excited to see it.”
Miranda turned to Andy as they walked away. “This movie must be quite exciting for you.”
“It’s a little overwhelming,” Andy said, rotating the champagne glass in her fingers. “I definitely didn’t get into journalism thinking that this would be my trajectory.”
“So what did you think it would be?” Miranda asked. Her tone was inscrutable, but she seemed like she expected a genuine answer.
“Less glamour, more grit,” Andy said, biting her lip. “Which is kind of how it started out, I guess. I just never pictured a red carpet being a part of the equation.”
“One often doesn’t.”
Andy tilted her head, unsure if she was sensing some irony in Miranda’s response. “What about you?”
Miranda blinked. “What about me?”
Pleased to see a hint of pink on Miranda’s cheekbones, Andy smiled. “Why do you do what you do, I mean?”
Miranda’s lips pursed slowly, the corners of her eyes creasing as she looked at Andy closely.
—
The moment that she saw Andrea at the MoMA, Miranda remembered. Their first encounter had been fleeting, and Miranda would never admit that what she remembered best about the woman was her body: tall and lithe, somehow stunning in what had likely been some ill-advised Nordstrom Rack purchase. Miranda had found herself impressed that this stranger was pulling off a bargain bin poly-blend amidst a room of luxury evening wear. Typically surrounded by models, Miranda wrote off her reaction to her outfit as simply an admiration of fashion.
Tonight, though, was completely different: Andrea was a vision in a black dress that Miranda recognized as a ready-to-wear piece from Stella McCartney. Accessorized with a low bun and simple black pumps, Miranda had to make a concerted effort not to stare at Andrea’s legs as she approached her after escaping one of the MoMA’s dull trustees.
Andrea was just as intriguing in person as Miranda had found her online, curious and open even while visibly nervous. She’d either avoided or disregarded any public chatter about Miranda over the years; unlike most, she didn’t cower in Miranda’s presence or interrogate her about her job. She was chatty and slightly flustered, and Miranda found herself horribly, utterly charmed.
Their conversation was interrupted by a welcome speech from the trustees, and the crowd turned their attention towards the people at the front of the room. Miranda ignored her champagne, fiddling with her earrings and the silver pendant around her neck, feeling extremely aware of the presence at her side. After a moment, she looked to her left to see Andrea staring at her, looking amused. As the speeches wrapped up, they both offered polite golf claps, and Miranda narrowed her eyes at Andrea.
“What?” she said quietly.
Andrea’s lips curled into a small smile. “You’re impatient.”
Miranda hummed. “And you have a poor attention span.”
“Touche.”
They stared at each other for a moment, the chaos of the event around them seeming to grow quiet with how closely they had drifted towards each other.
“I…” Andrea began, a soft smile still on her face, but she was interrupted by Erin suddenly appearing at Miranda’s shoulder. Miranda had brushed her off when they arrived, not interested in her assistant observing whatever was happening between her and Andrea, but the girl was persistent and clearly incapable of reading a room. She began chattering in Miranda’s ear, something about a board member and The Atlantic wanting a quote about the event.
“Tell Nigel, and then go home,” Miranda said under her breath, not interested in anything that would take her away from the woman now watching them with poorly-masked amusement.
Erin’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Wait — really?”
Miranda only had to purse her lips to send her assistant running.
“What did you do to terrify that girl?” Andrea said with a laugh.
“Asked her to perform her job,” Miranda huffed.
She was rewarded with a broad grin. “The nerve,” Andrea said. She cleared her throat and looked around, gesturing with her champagne flute. “Should we go look at the exhibits?”
It wasn’t a date, Miranda told herself, but as they weaved through the main exhibition hall, she couldn’t help but watch how the couples around them had hands placed on lower backs or limbs intertwined, and briefly wondered what it would feel like to touch Andrea like that. They fell into easy conversation about the art before them — it turned out that Andrea’s friend was a creative type, and she had a surprising amount of knowledge about some of the pieces. Occasionally a familiar face would interrupt them to come say hello. Andrea was unfailingly kind while Miranda was terse, eager to throw off the interlopers and continue their private conversation. By the amused smile that Andrea began to throw her way once the guests had begged off, Miranda wasn’t hiding it very well.
Though she was generally adverse to anything that could be considered bragging, Miranda found herself pointing out artists that she knew, or ones that had risen to popularity after being featured in Runway. Andrea was suitably impressed but didn’t gush, instead asking questions and looking at Miranda so intently that Miranda began to wonder if the entire room could hear her embarrassingly rapid heartbeat.
It wasn’t a date, but Miranda had never lingered at the end of an event for so long with anyone else.
Andrea looked around once they approached the exit, biting her lip as the crowd around them began to thin. Her voice dropped slightly as she leaned in towards Miranda, who was suddenly enveloped in her soft perfume — lightly floral with an undertone of citrus.
“Would you ever… would you like to get dinner sometime?”
From the way Andrea was looking at her, Miranda knew that this was not a friendly invitation. She’d never so much as considered going on a date with another woman, but she was agreeing before she could even think it through. Maybe it was something about Andrea’s eyes, or that unabashed nervous energy, or her clear, unfettered interest in the world around them — a fascination with everyday life, from the paintings they’d observed to the stories she’d told Miranda as they roamed the exhibit halls. It was refreshing in a city of jaded people married to their careers.
Miranda allowed herself a small smile in the darkness of her towncar on the ride home.
Her nerves returned one week later as she crossed the threshold into the restaurant that Andrea had chosen, something vaguely Greek in the West Village, of all places, but it was surprisingly cozy and elegant. Andrea was waiting by the host stand when Miranda walked in, and grinned warmly before being led to her table.
Andrea’s outfit was more practical than the one at the gala: a loose silk button up tucked into high-waisted slacks, sensible heels, and small silver hoop earrings and a matching silver chain as jewelry. She wore her hair down, its sheen closer to chestnut in the warm lighting of the restaurant.
“It’s good to see you,” she said once they sat down.
Miranda nodded slowly, intent on avoiding anything that could be interpreted as flirtatious just yet, and looked around the restaurant. “Have you been here before?”
“Just once, earlier this year. Good food without the pretentiousness, you know?”
“And are you often visiting pretentious establishments?” Miranda asked as she pulled her glasses out of her purse. She didn’t miss the way Andrea watched as she perched them on the edge of her nose to scan the wine list.
“My ex boyfriend was a line cook at Le Cirque for a while. The egos were, like, out of control, and he was just doing the prep.”
Miranda hummed, trying not to seem too interested in this personal fact, and tapped on the drink menu. “Do you like Malbecs?”
Andrea looked at where Miranda was pointing, though her gaze drifted to the rings and bracelets adorning her hand and arm before she brought her eyes back to Miranda. “I’ll try anything once.”
By the smile that played at the corner of Andrea’s mouth, Miranda knew that the dim lighting was doing nothing to obscure the warmth on her cheeks. She pursed her lips and busied herself by putting her glasses away, relieved when the server returned to their table.
“I was in Greece a few years ago,” Andrea said once their menus had been cleared and wine delivered. “And we stayed at the strangest hotel…”
She was a captivating storyteller, full of broad gestures and quick asides, and far less reserved than she’d been at the MoMA event. Miranda found herself sharing anecdotes of her own, though carefully avoided any mention of her daughters or ex husbands.
There was a brief pause in their conversation when their food arrived, and Miranda decided to broach the topic of the aforementioned ex-boyfriend.
“It was years ago,” Andrea said, eyes focused on her plate. “We moved here together after graduation. But since we’d been together since college, it started to feel like we were stuck in time — same friends, same routines… and we just grew apart.”
Miranda hummed as she sliced a small portion of lamb. She knew the feeling all too well, but that was a story for another time. If there was another time, she reminded herself.
“So what about you?” Andrea asked, her eyes twinkling slightly.
Miranda pressed her lips together. “No college boyfriends to speak of.” She only continued after a dramatic eyeroll from Andrea, which she was surprised to find amusing instead of annoying. “After a certain… age,” she continued slowly — there was no point in ignoring the years between them at this point — “It’s much easier to go unnoticed.”
Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Well, whoever’s not noticing is missing out.”
“Are they now?” Miranda said softly, holding Andrea’s gaze. She tried not to gloat when she saw a blush blooming across her face, and turned her focus to her salad. “When did you move here?”
“Ten years ago,” Andrea said. Miranda narrowed her eyes as she cut a tomato, but Andrea’s chuckle made her look up.
“If you’re doing the math, I’m thirty-two.” She laughed again, tilting her head to hold Miranda’s gaze. “Stop looking at me like I’m jailbait.”
“It’s not a mystery that I’m older than you,” Miranda said tightly.
“And?”
Miranda blinked, searching for a counter-argument. “And…”
Andrea leaned forward, brushing her finger across the top of Miranda’s hand. “I like talking to you. I think we have a lot of things to say to each other. Do you agree?”
Miranda tilted her head, flexing her jaw slowly to fight off a smile. Andrea seemed to read this as confirmation, and shot her an easy grin. “Okay, good. Next question?”
Still unprepared to share anything too personal, Miranda changed the topic to the upcoming premiere of Andrea’s movie. Though the question of their age difference didn’t feel resolved, she let herself relax slightly, enjoying Andrea’s quips about Hollywood and a recent ill-fated cooking class. The server’s pointed third refill of their water glasses long after the check had been paid was the first time that either of them checked the time.
“Do you live far?” Miranda asked, nodding her thanks as Andrea held the door open for her.
“Not too. I’ll take a cab. Is this your car?”
Miranda nodded again as Andrea watched Roy pull up.
“Okay,” Andrea said, sounding a little breathless. “Can we do this again soon?”
The word left Miranda’s mouth before she could help it. “Yes.”
Andrea grinned — beamed, really — and glanced at the car before wrapping her hand around Miranda’s elbow lightly. Even through her coat, Andrea’s touch made her skin feel hot, and the warmth quickly flooded her cheeks when Andrea’s lips grazed the skin there lightly.
“Goodnight,” she whispered, her breath warm against Miranda’s ear.
Miranda didn’t bother holding back a smile this time.
—
“I can’t believe you’re dating Miranda Priestly.”
“It was one dinner. One.”
Doug raised an eyebrow as he dished himself another helping of Kung Pao chicken. “And promises of another.”
“I don't know if she’s even into women!” Andy huffed, slouching into her sofa cushions.
“She doesn’t spend time with just anyone,” Doug said around a mouthful of lo mein.
Andy felt herself blushing at that, but didn’t back down. “Is it really that big of a deal?”
“She’s, like, the biggest name in fashion. In publishing. She went to Helen Mirren’s knighting. If that’s not famous, I don’t know what is.”
“She doesn’t act famous. At least, she’s not bragging about going to coronations or whatever.”
“Knighting,” Doug repeated. “So then what do you talk about?”
Andy shrugged, trying not to smile too much as she recalled their dinner. “Books, restaurants. Travel. She asked a little bit about the movie, but she didn’t talk about her work at all.”
Doug shifted forward on the couch, trying to catch Andy’s eye. “And did you…”
Andy shifted her focus to fishing a gyoza out of the container, and Doug gasped. A chopstick fell to the floor.
“Oh my god. You had sex with —”
“Doug! No. Oh my god.”
“Well, don’t act all coy if you don’t want me to guess,” he said, wiping the dust off of his chopstick. “You’re blushing enough to tell me that something happened.”
“We… I kissed her on the cheek,” Andy admitted. Doug watched her growing blush and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Okay, okay, I’m dropping it. When are you going to see her again?”
Andy moved some fried rice around her plate. “I’m not sure. We were kind of vague about plans.”
“So you’re thinking that the ball’s in her court.”
“I guess? But that feels kind of… I don’t know, childish.” Andy recalled their brief conversation about age, her stomach flipping over with that same dread she’d felt at dinner. “I don’t want to seem all young and flighty.”
“But you want to see her again?”
Andy bit her lip and nodded.
Doug waved his chopsticks in the air. “Screw courts, then.”
She waited two days before she realized that she didn’t have Miranda’s phone number. Too embarrassed to call the Runway office and not dumb enough to ask for it from her publisher, she fired off an email after half a glass of wine after work.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dinner
I realized that I don’t have your phone number, but if you’d like to see each other again, let me know.
212-689-1090
Andy
Her phone rang five minutes later from an unknown number. She sat up straight on her couch, running her hand through her bangs before realizing that there was no one there to see her.
“Hello?”
“Andrea? This is Miranda.”
Did Miranda sound slightly nervous, or was it just the reception? Andy took a shallow breath and tried to calm her own buzzing nerves before responding.
“Thanks for calling. I just… wanted to say that I had a really nice time the other night. And I know that we said we’d like to do something again, so —”
“Andrea.” There was warmth behind Miranda’s interruption, and Andy pressed her lips together when she realized that she had been rambling.
“Right.” She swallowed before losing her courage. “Would you like to get dinner again sometime soon?”
“I’m away this week for work,” Miranda said quietly.
Andy’s stomach flipped, embarrassed at the quick rejection. “Oh, that’s fine, I don’t —”
“But next week should be more flexible. I’ll have my assistant check my schedule.”
“Oh,” Andy breathed. “That sounds great. I’m…” She cleared her throat and pressed her fingers to her cheek, which was hot to the touch. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
The pause on the other end was long enough that Andy had started considering what it would take to change her name and move across the country. Miranda’s voice was soft and low when she finally responded.
“I am too,” she said. “Goodnight.”
Miranda hung up before Andy could respond, but she found herself smiling as she tossed her phone onto the couch.
—
Typically, Miranda would have her assistant contact dinner guests for scheduling, or simply forward an event invitation over email. She’d done it for her last two ex-husbands without a second thought.
But Andrea was different — or she felt different, at least, her unabashed interest in pursuing Miranda more thrilling than any man’s past advances. She was oddly charming, prone to nervous talking, but still carried a quiet confidence that had managed to surprise Miranda each time they had met. The thrill had her dialing Andrea’s cell personally the moment that Roy picked her up from LaGuardia on Thursday evening.
She’d spent far too much of her trip to L.A. trying to think of where to take Andrea next. Eleven Madison Park was far too “pretentious,” to use Andrea’s words; Gramercy Tavern and Noi Due Carne felt dated and stuffy. She settled on Canto and made a note to figure out what other restaurants Andrea frequented.
On Saturday night, she arrived before Andrea, busying herself with emails at the table to distract from her infuriatingly noticeable heartbeat. It only quickened at the sight of Andrea, clad in a dark blue cowl-neck top and skintight wool pants as she crossed the dining room to Miranda’s table. A small gold choker highlighted the curve of her throat, and Miranda resisted the urge to reach out and touch it as she stood up to greet her. She was slightly taller than Andrea this time, whose flats were no match for Miranda’s four-inch stilettos, and she placed her hand on Andrea’s shoulder as she leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. She didn’t miss Andrea’s sharp inhale as they broke away, barely audible against the din of the restaurant.
Andrea seemed to recover by the time they sat down, looking around the dining room with clear admiration. “I’ve heard about this place, but I’ve never been. I live in Chelsea, so I’ve walked by their West Village location a few times.”
It felt like a pointed remark, and Miranda nodded slowly. “I’m just on the other side of the Park.”
“Do you ever go to Ladurée?” Andrea said as she pulled a menu closer, her eyes lighting up.
“Of course,” Miranda said with a chuckle, pulling her glasses out of her bag. “My daughters were obsessed with their cotton candy macarons for years. An awful flavor, but I do like some of their other offerings.”
She only realized what she said when she saw Andrea smiling at her softly, and fought the urge to change the topic.
“How old are they?” Andrea asked, her tone light but careful.
“Twenty,” Miranda said. “Twins. They’ll graduate from Yale this spring.” She didn’t bother to hold back the pride in her voice; as always, Andrea was clearly impressed, but didn’t gush.
“The Marie-Antoinette tea ones are my favorite, personally,” Andrea said, shifting the drink menu sideways so that they could both read it.
Miranda made a mental note and returned Andrea’s gentle smile. The topic changed to Miranda’s recent work travel as the server took their drink orders, and it was only when he returned with their cocktails that she realized she’d been going on, nearly uninterrupted, for several minutes.
“I don’t usually… discuss work,” she said, hoping that her tone was sufficiently apologetic.
“I like hearing you talk about Runway,” Andrea said, her eyebrows creasing slightly. “You’re almost like a different person.” Seeing Miranda’s clear confusion, she smiled and hurried to clarify. “In a good way! Just… intense. Decisive. I like that.”
Miranda fiddled with her necklace before picking up her martini. “Most people don’t.”
“Because you know what you want?”
“I suppose,” Miranda said slowly, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks under Andrea’s intense stare.
“I admire that,” Andrea said with a shrug. “It doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“What do you mean? You seem perfectly… adept.”
“Thank you,” Andrea said dryly, smirking at Miranda before taking a sip of her drink. “I just think I can be too agreeable sometimes. Too ready to do what’s comfortable instead of what’s scary, you know?”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “And going undercover as a journalist was comfortable?”
“No, it wasn’t, but it took a lot for me to get there. I spent half of my twenties covering the local beat and AP wire stuff at The Mirror, just because it felt comfortable. It was only by accident that I fell into workers’ rights and union stuff…”
The meal passed by far too quickly for Miranda’s liking. Her martini took the edge off slightly, and she surprised herself by laughing at Andrea’s stories of the various people she’d met through her investigative reporting. As in her New Yorker piece, Andrea was humble about her work, but clearly energized by what she’d accomplished. Once again, Miranda found herself taken with her quiet confidence.
She swiped the check the second that the server dropped it, and found herself interrupting Andrea’s protests with an invitation to return to the townhouse for a nightcap. Almost as quickly as she’d offered, Andrea was saying yes, and Miranda bit her lip to hide her smile as she messaged Roy.
If Andrea’s perky conversation with her driver was any indication, she was just as nervous as Miranda was as they crossed through Central Park and drove up to her home. She learned more about Roy in his conversation with Andrea than she had in the fifteen years they’d worked together, and caught the smile he shot her in his rearview mirror before getting out to open the rear doors.
The townhouse seemed especially quiet as Miranda closed the door behind them, holding her hand out to take Andrea’s wool peacoat. She was clearly trying not to look too impressed, her face carefully neutral as she waited for Miranda to finish hanging up their jackets.
“Have you lived here long?” Andrea asked as she followed Miranda into her office.
“My ex-husband and I purchased it when the girls were young, so… yes, I suppose,” Miranda said absentmindedly, sifting through her liquor cabinet until she found the port that she had in mind.
“I like it. It feels very… you.”
Typically, Miranda would have bristled at someone’s assumption that they knew anything about her. She prided herself on her privacy, her guarded affect, and the walls that she’d erected between her professional and personal selves since the beginning of her career. Once again, she found herself allowing Andrea the exception as easily as she’d fallen into laughter at dinner.
She hummed in agreement — Andrea wasn’t wrong, after all; Miranda had been the sole decorator since the beginning — and handed Andrea a small glass of port as she settled onto an armchair.
“So,” she said slowly, rotating the glass in her hand. Her eyes were twinkling when she looked up at Miranda, who had taken a seat on the couch across from her. “Why did you email me?”
Miranda’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. She hadn’t considered this line of questioning, and took a small sip of port before responding. “One gets… more daring with age, I suppose.”
Andrea laughed. “Daring is one word for it. Did you mean to flirt?”
Miranda demurred, flexing her jaw as she flicked her eyes between Andrea and the wall of art behind her. The silence felt distinctly uncomfortable, but Andrea seemed positively amused as she stood up, following Miranda’s eyeline to peer more closely at the Merian prints hung behind the chairs before facing Miranda again.
“I like these,” Andrea said before taking a seat beside Miranda on the couch, holding her drink away from her carefully. She fidgeted with the seam of her top before continuing, her tone turning thoughtful. “Thank you for saying yes to dinner the first time around. I hope I didn't make you feel like you needed to say yes because of that video.”
Miranda pursed her lips. “I don’t say yes to things that I don’t want to do.”
“I’ve kind of sensed that,” Andrea said, a smirk playing on her lips.
Miranda hummed in agreement, her chest tightening as she took in just how closely they were sitting. Andrea shifted slightly to face Miranda.
“So if I asked to kiss you…” she said quietly.
Miranda set her glass down and tilted her head in a silent invitation. She tried to steady her breathing as she watched Andrea mirror her movements — a less graceful placement of her own glass, sure, but when she looked over at Miranda, the wide grin and expressive, open gaze that Miranda had come to associate with her was gone. There was an unfamiliar intensity in her eyes as she leaned towards Miranda, her mouth absent of a smile. She faltered slightly when their foreheads nearly touched; her breath was warm on Miranda’s lips.
Miranda closed the gap.
Andrea’s lips were soft and smooth, offering only gentle pressure as their mouths slanted together for the first time. It was nothing like any other kiss Miranda had experienced, the softness of it somehow more intense than the roughest encounters she’d experienced. Andrea’s hand found her waist as Miranda stroked her jaw, savoring the shaky breath that her light touch elicited. They moved slowly, experimentally, and then Andrea nipped at her lower lip in a way that had Miranda threading her fingers through long brown hair and deepening the kiss sooner than she’d planned.
A sharp inhale from Andrea followed, her grip on Miranda’s waist tightening as her other hand wrapped around the back of her neck, playing with the soft hairs there as she slid her tongue into Miranda’s mouth like she’d been put on earth for that express purpose. Miranda parted her lips further, returning the favor and appreciating the hum of pressure from Andrea against her lips.
Too soon, Andrea was pulling away, placing gentle kisses on her jaw until she reached Miranda’s ear. Miranda pressed her lips together, her eyes fluttering shut as she took a ragged breath and lifted her chin to expose more of her neck.
“You really are impatient,” Andrea said. Miranda’s eyes flew open, and she looked over to see Andrea smirking up at her.
“I prefer ‘efficient.’”
Andrea rolled her eyes. “Tomato, tomatoh.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes at that, but then Andrea was kissing her again, and whatever snarky response was muffled by Andrea’s tongue.
Miranda had no concept of how much time had passed when she and Andrea finally separated, only that she was more breathless than she’d been in years, and beyond sure that her hair was a disaster. She patted it slowly, trying to assess the situation without looking too frazzled. Andrea fiddled with her bangs, blushing madly.
“I’ll admit that I’m new to all of” — Miranda trailed off before gesturing between them — “this.”
Andrea nodded quickly. “Me too.”
She was full of surprises. Miranda raised an eyebrow. “You’re not…” She felt embarrassed by the question immediately, but Andrea only shrugged.
“I mean, this kinda qualifies me as something, I guess. But no, uh… I’ve never been with a woman before. You’re my first.”
Miranda pressed her lips together, trying to mask the odd sense of pride she suddenly felt. “Huh.”
Andrea pressed her knee up against Miranda’s. “Don’t get cocky.”
She finally let herself laugh, releasing the buildup of nerves that she’d felt all night, falling prey to this charming person at her side. Andrea looked quite pleased by her reaction as they both took a sip of their drinks. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, then back at Miranda.
“I should…”
Miranda looked at her watch. Nearly midnight, and she was due at the Givenchy shoot at seven the next morning. “Right. You’ll take my car.”
Andrea took her time pulling her coat on, fiddling with the buttons before gathering her hair from under the collar and wrapping it around her hand before letting it fall across her back. The act would be routine on anyone else, but something about the way Andrea shook out her hair and tilted her head at Miranda was unexpectedly sexy. She imagined Andrea doing that in the calf-length Dior jacket down in Runway’s Closet, and made the mental note to bring it home sometime and figure out how to have Andrea try it on.
“We should do this again sometime,” Andrea said, her grin soft and slightly hesitant.
“That could be arranged.”
“Okay. Good.” Andrea took a small breath before leaning in and kissing Miranda’s cheek lightly, only centimeters from her mouth. She turned around to reach for the doorknob, but Miranda brought them together again, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Andrea’s lips once more.
“Goodnight,” Miranda breathed against her mouth. She couldn’t help but smile when Andrea pulled away with a dazed look on her face, cheeks flushed as she finally opened the door with a final goodbye.