Chapter Text
The sun was still an hour from rising when Andy shoved her feet into dusty tennis shoes and pulled her hair into a tight ponytail. She was still untangling the wires of her earbuds as she jogged down the steps of her apartment building, trying to remember the last time she’d gone on a run. She hated running, really, but she’d hardly been able to sleep after getting home from Miranda’s, and every other method she’d used to expel her nervous energy had either failed or run out of batteries.
She made her way to River Park, savoring the way that the crisp fall air burned her lungs as she picked up the pace, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears with every heavy footstep. The Hudson glittered as the sun finally broke through the clouds, and Andy’s mind drifted back to Miranda.
The sheen of the diamonds and gemstones that always adorned her neck and fingers. The way one of her diamond rings had caught on Andy’s hair as they kissed, the countless carats snagging on the loose strands around her ears. Those blue-grey eyes, not unlike the water before her, unexpectedly dark when Miranda had looked at Andy one last time before they’d bid each other goodnight. She’d never met someone who stared with such intent and unwavering focus. It had disarmed Andy at first, but she felt almost addicted to it now. Somehow this powerful woman had managed to make her feel like Andy was the most fascinating thing in the room, and they’d only known each other for a few weeks.
She stopped by Duane Reade for batteries on her way home. Sunday would just have to be a wash.
—
Thank you :) Maybe next time we can split a cotton candy one?
“What are you so cheerful about?”
Miranda nearly dropped her phone on her desk as she looked up to see Nigel rolling a clothing rack into her office. It was only when she ran her finger across her lower lip that she realized she’d been smiling, and promptly reset her mouth into a tight line as she watched the rest of Nigel’s team file in for the walkthrough.
He’d said it quietly enough that no one else seemed to notice, but his eyes were twinkling as Miranda left her desk and began to sift through the mediocre dresses that they’d somehow decided were worth her time to look at.
“Would someone like to remind me when we became the American Girl Doll magazine instead of a renowned fashion publication?” she asked dryly, holding up a pinafore-style garment by her thumb and pointer finger. “Or are we only circulating the next issue on the Oregon trail?”
“We were t-thinking of playing that off of the…” The stuttering assistant reached down and pulled out a pair of shoes, but Miranda shook her head before she could finish her sentence.
“Gladiator sandals?” she said to Nigel.
He shrugged as he cleaned his glasses. “They insisted.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her back to the shaking group of women clustered around the clothing. “Come back when you have something that isn’t Laura Ingalls by Spartacus, or don’t come back at all. I likely won’t notice either way.”
Nigel watched them drag the racks out of the office with a smirk before turning back to Miranda. “And here I thought you’d spare them with whatever good mood you’ve been in.”
“Brave of you to assume after all these years,” Miranda said dryly as she returned to her chair. “And I’m not” — she shot him a pointed glare — “in a ‘good mood,’ whatever that means.”
“Right. And the lack of said mood wouldn’t have anything to do with the girl you were making eyes at during the MoMA event, or why you’ve made poor Erin reschedule your dinner with James three times in the last six weeks.”
“James will, and can, survive,” Miranda huffed, annoyed that he must have mentioned her shifting availability to Nigel. She hadn’t given her assistant a reason, but she didn’t appreciate the speculation, even if it were true.
“I didn’t say that,” Nigel pressed, placing one hand on Miranda’s desk. “And I won’t say anything else, other than… if you need someone to share any good news with…”
“No need to remind me where your office is, Nigel,” Miranda muttered, sliding her glasses on in what she hoped was an obvious dismissal.
She waited until his footsteps had faded before picking up her phone and looking at Andrea’s message again. She was doing press junkets in L.A. for the better part of the week, and they hadn’t seen each other since their dinner at Canto. When Andrea had mentioned that she would be staying at Four Seasons, it only took a few calls to secure a delivery of macarons to greet her in her room on Tuesday morning.
Miranda had done it on a whim, unable to shake the feeling of Andrea’s touch since Saturday night. Her presence lingered in the back of Miranda’s mind like the tug of a fading dream that she didn’t want to let go of. It was unsettling and unfamiliar, and had clearly driven Miranda to the point of madness that she was sending tea-flavored cookies to a woman on the other side of the country.
A woman nearly half her age, at that, who was also dipping her toes into whatever newfound… sexuality that they had both seemed to discover. The thought that this could be a fleeting exploration for Andrea, one more new life event to check off before settling down, crossed Miranda’s mind more times than she’d have liked.
Feeling herself spiraling, Miranda groaned before calling Erin into her office. “Put a meeting on Nigel’s calendar for tomorrow at noon. Move around whatever you have to.”
—
Nigel had hardly taken his seat before he began talking. “Givenchy wanted to pull the totes and replace them with that new line of clutches, but they couldn’t clash more with the…” He trailed off at Miranda’s visible disinterest as she perused the menu. “So we’re not here to talk about the spread on page fifteen?”
“No,” Miranda said flatly, setting down her menu and looking at Nigel over her glasses. She slipped them off and dropped her hand on the table, dropping her voice lower. “This conversation cannot leave this table. You know that I can —”
“Ruin my career, my reputation, have my car repossessed, yadda yadda,” Nigel said with a wave, his eyes sparkling as he leaned in. He had always been bad at hiding his penchant for gossip. “Now get on with it.”
Miranda picked up her menu again, focusing on the salad list. “I seem to have… begun dating,” she said quietly.
Nigel pressed his lips together in a clear attempt to hold back a smile. “That’s great, Miranda,” he said evenly.
She shot him a glare before continuing, mostly to hide her own nervous excitement. “She’s more interesting than I expected. We’ve seen each other twice since the MoMA event. And… we’re getting dinner again on Friday.”
Nigel had picked up his own menu and was watching Miranda over the top of it, nodding slowly. “You’re talking about it like you did that Vuitton shoot with the Kardashians.” Seeing Miranda’s confusion, he continued, “Like you can’t decide if you should be allowed to like it because it’s so bizarre and unconventional.” He cleared his throat before reaching for his water glass. “I trust you’ll remember that you did end up publishing that feature. And furthermore, it —”
“I haven’t lost my memory,” she snapped. The ad had, indeed, been odd and ridiculous and far outside of Miranda’s typical stylistic approach to Louis Vuitton. She’d nearly pulled the whole thing, but a gut feeling told her to run it, and it had secured them their biggest sponsorship with the brand yet, along with an unprecedented amount of publicity thanks to the women featured in it. She had even been invited to the middle sister’s wedding, though had politely declined.
“She’s younger,” Miranda said after the server had taken their order, finally looking at Nigel directly. “Not much older than —”
“She’s an adult, not a college student,” Nigel said, clearly anticipating Miranda’s next words. “She’s had a steady career and is clearly good at what she does. She pays taxes and owns a condo and hasn’t humiliated herself publicly since becoming newsworthy. That combination of features can’t be said for any of your ex-husbands, if I’m recalling correctly.”
“I wish you wouldn’t recall, actually,” Miranda said, not unkindly. “And how did you know about this condo?” She couldn’t remember Andrea mentioning it, and hated the smug smile curling onto Nigel’s face.
“Public record. She made a pretty penny off of that book and the movie deal, you know.”
“She could still be… experimenting,” Miranda said. “Fooling around, I don’t know.”
“Did you fool around in your thirties?”
“Of course not,” Miranda tutted, then narrowed her eyes at Nigel. “You haven’t made a point, in case you’re about to congratulate yourself again.”
“I’m not saying that age doesn’t matter,” Nigel said. “But clearly she’s got it together enough to earn your free time and then some. Much to the detriment of James Holt’s ego.”
“I don’t want to be made a fool of,” Miranda admitted softly.
They were interrupted by the server delivering their meals, and Nigel mercifully let them take their first few bites in silence before responding.
“The Miranda Priestly I know is no fool,” he said. “Andy clearly likes you —"
“Andy?”
Nigel squinted. “Sorry, are you dating, like, Ellen now? I thought we were talking about the same person.”
“Andrea Sachs.”
“Yeah, she goes by Andy. Like, on the book covers and everything. Are you… did you not know that?”
Miranda vaguely recalled Andrea’s email signature. “She was introduced as Andrea in that insipid video you showed me. She’s never corrected me.”
Nigel’s lips curled into a grin. “You must be special, then.”
—
Andy landed at LaGuardia with sore feet, a splitting headache, and a substantial lack of checked bags, which she was kindly informed by the airport staff were currently abandoned somewhere in Atlanta. To top it off, as she settled into a cab home, she discovered a voicemail from the Indian restaurant she’d booked that night telling her that they had to cancel her reservation due to a last-minute private party.
Her trip to L.A. had been thrilling but stressful, throwing her into a world of fame and energy that she was in no way prepared for. She’d done late-night tapings until past midnight and then turned right back around for appearances on the morning local news. Her publicist swore that this was one of the final sprints before the movie’s release, and Andy was counting down the days until her career only involved sitting alone at a laptop with a mug of coffee.
Her thumb hovered over Miranda’s name on her phone screen. They’d texted a little bit while Andy was away, mostly observations related to past conversations and, once, a spirited debate about gladiator sandals for some reason. Andy played devil’s advocate until Miranda had called her and made her promise to swear that she was joking, and the chuckle it had elicited on the other end of the phone had kept Andy in good spirits for the rest of the day.
She dialed Miranda’s number as the cab pulled onto the BQE, not entirely sure of what she wanted to say, but certain that she still wanted to figure out how to see Miranda that night.
“Andrea. Welcome home.”
The warmth in Miranda’s voice pulled a nervous laugh out of Andy. “Thanks. I just landed, but I wanted to call because the restaurant tonight cancelled our reservation.”
Miranda’s tone turned businesslike, the warmth icing over immediately. “That’s absurd. What is it called? I’ll —”
“No, no, I get takeout from them all the time — you can’t make them hate me! You’ll take away my lifeline.”
She heard Miranda chuckle. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Andy said, settling back onto the leather seat with a smile.
“I won’t be leaving the office for a few more hours. I can have my assistant call around.”
Andy pressed her lips together in anticipation of what she was about to ask. “Is it too soon to admit that all I can think about is sitting on my couch?”
“Oh,” Miranda said. “Well, if another day —”
“With you, I mean. If you’d want to come by.” Andy bit her lip as she waited for a response; for as impatient as Miranda was with others, she certainly took her sweet time in conversation.
“I’ll arrange a dinner delivery from Wollensky’s. If that’s… okay with you.”
“Of course,” Andrea said quickly. “I’ll send you my address.”
“Good. I’ll see you at seven.”
—
Miranda twisted the emerald ring on her finger as her driver sped down 11th Ave., trying to focus on the colored lights of the storefronts to keep her heart rate intact.
Talking to Nigel, as horrifying as the experience had initially seemed, had ultimately helped alleviate some of Miranda’s anxiety about whatever she was doing with Andrea. She was Miranda Priestly, for chrissake. She’d survived character assassinations, attempted coups, divorces and affairs, Page Six, and too many legal and financial crises to count. She could survive casually dating someone, and being an anxious mess about it was more childish than whatever nervous feeling she got in her abdomen as they got closer to Andrea’s home.
Miranda smoothed down the collar of her jacket as she walked up to Andrea’s building, a handsome brick pre-war co-op. She’d only just pressed the buzzer for Andrea’s unit when the building’s door swung open.
“Hi,” Andrea said, sounding slightly breathless. Her hair was shiny and stick-straight, framing her bare face. Miranda had never seen her without makeup, but grew a new appreciation for freckles as Andrea grinned at her in the bright lights of the building’s lobby.
“Thanks for coming over,” she said as she pressed the elevator button. “This trip was way more intense than I anticipated, and then Atlanta lost my baggage, including the really cute dress that I was planning on wearing tonight.”
“It’s lost?” Miranda repeated, following Andrea into the elevator car and trying not to stare at the very tight pair of jeans she was wearing. “Did you —”
Andrea held up a hand. “It’s on its way here,” she said with a smile. “I think it might be really unpopular if you put the airport out of business as punishment, though.”
Miranda threw her a glare that elicited a warm laugh from Andrea, far from the usual spark of fear that it brought out in others. She couldn’t help but smile as she followed Andrea off of the elevator and through the door of her apartment.
It was a cozy but impressive space on the building’s fourth floor. Wood floors and exposed brick complemented the more modern furnishings, from a bold blue couch to colorfully-crowded built-in bookshelves. Fleetwood Mac was playing quietly from a corner speaker, and the oval table at the end of the living room was already stacked with Smith & Wollensky takeout bags.
“They got here about five minutes before you did, which is why I came down to meet you in the lobby,” Andrea said as she hung Miranda’s coat onto a rack near the door. “I figured you had to be close by.”
In past relationships, Miranda’s insistence on punctuality and scheduling often frustrated her partners, who carried some idea that structure made dating less exciting and could never understand why Miranda couldn’t just “go with the flow.” Andrea’s easy recognition of Miranda’s precise planning for their evening made the back of her neck grow warm.
“What made you decide to live in Chelsea?” Miranda asked.
“I lived in Hell’s Kitchen when I first moved here” — Andrea laughed at the grimace on Miranda’s face — “and had dreams of living in the West Village, or being a writer in Greenwich Village, you know? Turns out it’s really expensive to live there, but I got lucky and found an efficiency down the block from here a few years ago. When this place came up, it felt like the perfect fit. Wine?”
Miranda nodded, and Andrea disappeared into the miniscule kitchen. She made her way towards the table, stopping briefly at the wall of bookshelves to peruse Andrea’s collection. They seemed to be arranged intentionally, but as Miranda ran her fingers over the creased spines, she couldn’t figure out the system. She had just gotten to a collection of Mary Oliver poetry when Andrea joined her at her side, holding out a glass of red wine.
“Do you like poetry?” she asked Miranda.
“Some. And some I find… tiring.” She swirled the wine in her glass and regarded the bookshelf again. “You have quite a broad collection.”
Andrea nodded, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. It exposed her neck and upper chest, visible thanks to the loose, low-cut t-shirt that she was wearing. Miranda took a sip of wine as she tried to avert her eyes.
“These built-ins were one of the things that attracted me to this place. I’d been storing some of these in a unit out in Red Hook for, like, five years because my parents downsized and didn’t have anywhere to put them. Packing and unpacking all of my books is reason enough to never move again unless I absolutely have to.”
“How many boxes?” Miranda asked, turning towards the table.
“Thirty-five,” Andrea whispered conspiratorially, her cheek dimpling as she smiled at Miranda. “And that was just the fiction section.”
It was easy to laugh in Andrea’s presence, to indulge her self-effacing humor and gentle teasing. The traces of her nervousness still appeared here and there — a quick glance to catch Miranda’s reaction, a blush or a brief pause mid-conversation — but Miranda was surprised by how comfortable it all felt, even in those more weighted moments.
So she shouldn’t have felt surprised an hour later when she found herself half-straddling Andrea on that (frankly hideous) cerulean couch, hands tangled in long brown hair and Andrea’s mouth on her neck. They’d sat down on the pretense of looking at a Judy Chicago collection that Andrea had told her a story about, but she’d hardly cracked the spine before she was telling Miranda how glad she was to see her and looking at her so closely that Miranda had no choice but to lean in and kiss her.
And Andrea, damn her, had smiled into it like she knew it was coming, sliding one hand to the back of Miranda’s neck easily as she pulled her closer, the other landing gently on her thigh. They skipped past the chaste and careful kisses of their first encounter; Andrea licked into Miranda’s mouth with startling confidence that pulled a soft moan from deep inside Miranda’s chest. Seemingly buoyed by this positive response, it had escalated quickly from there, and suddenly Andrea was sucking a soon-to-be bruise into Miranda’s collarbone. Thinking of a particularly low-cut dress that she was slated to wear to an event on Monday night, Miranda pulled away gently, trying for an intimidating glare that only made Andrea smile more widely.
“You’re certainly going to give my makeup artist a run for his money,” she said dryly, dragging her finger over the place Andrea’s mouth had just grazed.
Andrea bit her lip. “Oops?”
Miranda tried not to laugh as she put more distance between her and Andrea, distinctly aware of the throbbing between her legs. “I’m…”
“New to this, I know. Me too.”
Miranda tried not to chafe at the interruption. “We hardly know each other,” she said primly, twisting the diamond stud in her ear.
“What do you want to know?” Andrea’s mouth twitched slightly, but she leaned back into the couch cushion, respecting the distance that Miranda had created. “I’ll take another polygraph if you want.”
Miranda rolled her eyes, trying to buy herself time. Andrea reached out and tapped her hand.
“Really, though, I… like this,” Andrea said. She was playing with Miranda’s outstretched fingers now, tracing the lines that led to the deep creases in her palms and the blue veins beyond. “I don’t want to rush it, but I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Someone in my position can’t take things like this lightly,” Miranda said, trying to keep her voice steady under Andrea’s touch.
Dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this light to you?”
Miranda pressed her lips together, feeling the sudden urge to lie, run away, and never turn back. But a quiet no was escaping her lips before she could help it.
“I’m not looking for a spread in US Weekly,” Andrea said, still looking confused. “Just, you know, a dinner here and there. Maybe a movie at my place if we’re feeling crazy. I’ll only call the paparazzi if it’s a really dull night.”
Miranda had to laugh at that. “I suppose I can agree to those… terms.”
She left an hour later, already messaging Nigel with a request to pull a more high-cut outfit for the Kors benefit.
For as much of an open book as she seemed, Andrea was more of a mystery than Miranda had anticipated. Learning about her was a slow and entertaining process, done at dimly-lit tables in the backs of restaurants or over a glass of wine on a couch. Though her bookshelves were filled with classics and literary icons, Andrea also harbored a love of cheesy rom-coms and hopeful beach reads. Her favorites of any genre were practically committed to memory; more often than not, she was reading two books at once, one new and one for the tenth time. She was both methodical and chaotic in her approach to life, quick to make decisions but patient when she needed to solve problems. Miranda experienced most of this secondhand; Andrea seemed to hold a high level of respect for how much structure Miranda expected, though she was admittedly holding her breath for the moment she was wrapped up in one of Andrea’s impulses.
The conversation shifted to the upcoming conclusion of the movie premiere one night as they slowly sipped the last of their drinks at Portale. With early morning meetings for both of them, a nightcap somewhere private was out of the question, but Miranda pretended not to notice how most of the ice in her glass had already melted.
“I’m excited to move on, I think,” Andrea admitted, looking slightly guilty. Though she’d been careful to never outright complain, Miranda had sensed Andrea’s growing fatigue with the chaos of a press tour and the publicity she’d received.
“Is the premiere the final stop?”
Andrea nodded. “At least it’s here and not in L.A. Hopefully everyone is there to see Julianne and Bradley, not me.” She rolled her eyes, tugging her bottom lip with her teeth as she pulled her phone out of her purse. “Speaking of, my publisher sent the movie cover for the book earlier today.” She held the screen towards Miranda to show off the photo. It was surprisingly tasteful for a movie cover, with only Julianne Moore’s faraway profile contrasted against a dilapidated warehouse.
“I’ve seen worse,” Miranda said, enjoying Andrea’s good-natured eyeroll as she set her phone back down.
“I get, like, no say in it, but at least it doesn’t look like a DVD.”
Miranda finally let herself capitulate to a nagging question that had been in the back of her mind for weeks, pulled forth by the huge text on the bottom of the book cover.
“You go by Andy.”
Andrea’s lips parted in surprise, and she stared at Miranda briefly before answering. “Oh… well, yeah. Pretty much.”
Miranda pressed her lips together. “Why didn’t you…”
“Right. I guess I thought about it at first, but…”
Miranda raised her eyebrows expectantly.
Andrea was blushing now, and her voice dropped slightly. “I like how it sounds when you say it. No one else calls me that.”
“Oh,” Miranda said, her chest feeling tighter than it had moments ago.
“So…” Andrea said, her eyes shifting to the table, where her hands had begun twisting the fabric napkin, “You can keep doing it. If you want.”
—
Andy often found herself feeling glad that she didn’t work for Miranda. Or at Runway, or in fashion at all. The industry as a whole felt more stressful, cutthroat, and self-aggrandizing than she figured she could handle, though Miranda had assured her of the opposite more than once.
She felt especially thankful one Friday night in Miranda’s kitchen as she deglazed the vegetables she’d made to accompany the roast chicken. Miranda had briefly stolen away to her office for a work call, and Andy could almost taste the tension in her voice, even on the opposite side of the hall. She had sensed for a while that Miranda tried to limit how much of her work persona that Andy saw, hanging up with assistants and cutting calls short when she could, but with the holiday issue approaching, that commitment had been more difficult for her to uphold.
Despite Miranda’s careful curation of her outward personality, Andy had managed to peel back some of her many layers over the weeks they had spent together. A few things were clear from the beginning: her impatience, her intensity, her unwavering focus. But it was the smaller things that Andy found increasingly endearing, like how Miranda was rarely still, whether she was fiddling with jewelry or flitting around the house. Her graceful demeanor disguised her nervous energy well, but even as she and Andy had gotten more comfortable around each other, Miranda’s little tells — touching her earring, picking a piece of fuzz off of Andy’s shirt — still ignited a thrill in Andy that kept it all feeling brand new.
They had agreed to take things slowly, only ending every other date in some precipitous position on a couch or chair. It was miles away from Andy’s previous dating experiences, where things escalated quickly between the first date and a committed relationship. Those had been exciting, too, but something about the almost of her time with Miranda had held her attention for far longer than so many of those men had.
Lily thought she was being insane for “waiting around” — and Doug was quick to agree — but Andy hadn’t been lying when she told Miranda that she wasn’t in a rush to do anything public. She liked their time together, these moments that felt stolen away from their hectic lives.
Miranda returned from her office just as Andy had finished plating their dinner. The creases of her furrowed brows disappeared slowly as she surveyed the meal before her.
“Thank you,” she sighed, and Andy pressed a kiss to her cheek as they made their way to the dining room table.
—
The movie premiere was on Wednesday night, and there was a laundry list of preparations to be done: TV interviews, hair and makeup consultations, event timelines, and about ten other things that her agent was listing off rapidly on their Monday morning conference call. As she reviewed the guest list, Andy tuned Julia out when she realized that Miranda was one of the invitees who had yet to respond.
“Andy?” Julia said. “You still there?”
“Sorry, sorry. Just got distracted. What were you saying?”
“You and the cast will be getting ready at The Bowery, and then cars will take you to the theatre. We’ll have a driver pick you up at two, okay?”
After hanging up, Andy stared at the guest list again, absentmindedly fiddling with her phone in her hand as she weighed the decision she was about to make. She picked it up, but dialed a different number on a whim.
“What?”
“Good morning to you too, Lil.”
“Sorry, I was just in the middle of developing some photos. What’s up?”
“Is it weird if I invite Miranda to the premiere this week?”
“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Lily said bluntly. “She does famous-person stuff all the time, right?”
“She’s actually already on the guest list, but just hasn’t responded yet.”
Lily hummed knowingly. “So she’s waiting for a more personal invite,” she teased. “Maybe if you asked really nicely —”
“You’re worse than Doug.”
“We just tell the truth, that’s all.”
Andy managed to wait until the end of the day to make the call, sufficiently distracting herself with an appearance on ABC7 and a long meeting with the cast. She tried to keep her nerves at bay as she settled onto the couch and finally dialed Miranda’s number.
“Andrea?”
“Miranda, hi. Sorry to call you out of the blue.”
“That’s fine.”
“Are you… what are you up to?”
Miranda’s voice held the usual restraint that had become familiar to Andy, but there was a slight warmth behind it. “I’m at the office finishing some things up.”
“But it’s” — Andrea glanced at her kitchen clock — “almost nine!”
“I’m well aware.”
“Okay, well, I didn’t mean to bug you —”
“You’re not. I’m assuming there’s a reason that you called?” She could hear Miranda’s patience ebbing quickly, and found herself smiling at the clipped tone.
“I was wondering if you’d come with me to the movie premiere on Wednesday.”
There was a pause, and Andy nearly rescinded her offer in a cascade of panic, but then Miranda’s voice came through softly on the other end. “Come with you.”
Andy threw a hand over her face as she rushed to clarify. “Not with-with, just… I’m getting ready at the hotel down the street, and I could use someone that’s familiar with that type of thing. Like, paparazzi and the red carpet and all of… that,” she finished lamely. It was the closest that she could let herself get to just asking for Miranda’s company, and she was feeling more foolish by the second.
She heard the sound of papers rustling and the click of a pen. “What time should I be there?” Miranda asked softly.
Andy arrived at The Bowery on Wednesday afternoon feeling suitably nauseous, and her publicist’s endless chatter about that evening’s plan wasn’t helping. She’d hardly said five sentences before she was being tossed into a makeup chair that had appeared in the hotel room and surrounded by people wielding tools of every shape and size. Accepting a smoothie from her manager, Andy tried not to look in the mirror as hands tugged at her hair and skin.
The flurry of various stylists had begun to ebb when Miranda finally arrived two hours later. As had happened at the MoMA, a brief hush fell over the room, unsurprising this time given that every person knew exactly who had just walked in. The onlookers smartly departed into the suite’s sitting room, leaving Andy and Miranda alone in the bedroom-turned-salon.
Miranda’s outfit was startlingly casual — matchstick trousers and a matching blazer paired with the lowest heels Andy had ever seen her in — but then a bellhop followed her through the door, wheeling a rack of hangers inside and silently sliding it against the wall with a tip of his hat.
“Hi,” Andy said, sounding a little more breathless than she would have liked. She motioned to the clothing rack behind Miranda, unsure of what to make of the display. “Did you bring… options?”
Miranda regarded the slowly-swinging garment bags, a mischievous smile pulling at one side of her mouth. “I may have brought some pieces for your consideration.”
Andy’s dress — a brand whose name she didn’t remember, purchased directly off the sales rack at Neiman Marcus — was hidden in the closet, and she hadn’t given it a second thought until now. She blushed under Miranda’s appraising look, not having guessed that the outfits would be for her, but threw a nonchalant shrug her way. “I guess I’ll take a look, if you’d like.”
Miranda sifted through the garment bags and held one out expectantly. Andy reached for it, moving to pull the bag’s zipper down, but Miranda pressed it against her. “Try it on,” she said, her stern tone betrayed by the creases around her lips. Her voice dropped slightly as Andy opened the bathroom door. “And do not wrinkle it, please.”
The dress was emerald green and strapless with a gathered waist. It fit Andy like a glove, and she squinted at Miranda as she walked out the bathroom slowly.
“How did you know my measurements?” she asked.
Miranda’s eyes raked down her body. “The McCartney dress fit you well. I just… looked it up,” she muttered, making a spinning motion with her finger.
From her distracted tone and razor-sharp gaze, Andy realized that Miranda was assessing rather than admiring. She was seeing the Runway side of her, and it was unbelievably sexy. She followed Miranda’s directions, rotating slowly under her watchful eye.
“Hmm.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Is that a good hmm or a bad hmm?”
Miranda thrust another garment bag at her. “Try this one.”
“Bad hmm, got it.”
She looked over her shoulder before closing the bathroom door, pleased to see Miranda smiling slightly.
Even before she’d zipped it up, Andy knew that this dress — a one-shouldered gown made from a shimmery blue-black jacquard with gentle ruffles down one side — was the one. By the look on Miranda’s face when Andy stepped out of the bathroom, the feeling was mutual. She gestured for Andy to step before her, and this time her fingers danced lightly over Andy’s hips as she had her turn in a circle. Andy shivered at her touch, and didn’t miss Miranda’s haughty smile when their eyes met again.
“Are there any tailoring supplies here?” Miranda asked softly.
“I have some!” called Brad, the lead stylist, clearly uninterested in hiding his eavesdropping. Miranda pursed her lips but accepted his help, directing him quietly as he took in a strip of fabric near Andy’s arm and adjusted the hem for the height of her heels. It was clear that Miranda had a deep knowledge of every detail and the utmost confidence in her decisions. Andy only realized that she’d been staring when she caught Miranda’s eye and watched her purse her lips in clear amusement.
“Any other adjustments I can make for you, Ms. Priestly?” Brad asked.
“Her hair, it should…” Miranda made a curving motion with her hand, just below her chin. Brad seemed to understand, spinning around to face Andy and inspecting her hair, which currently lay in loose curls over her shoulders.
“Right, got it,” he said, leading Andy back over to the mirror. “Don’t sit down! We’ll do it from here.”
When Andy looked behind her, Miranda had already turned around and was pulling a different garment bag off of the rack before disappearing into the bathroom. Brad gripped Andy's chin and pulled her focus back to the mirror as two other stylists began combing through her hair with the laser-focus of surgeons.
Miranda appeared at her side a few moments later, and Andy stared at their reflections in the mirror. She had changed into a simple black gown with a fan-shaped bodice and short, loosely-draped sleeves that flowed from the boat-neck collar. A collection of simple sapphire earrings and matching rings adorned her ears and fingers. She met Andy’s eye in the mirror, tipping her chin up slightly in silent question.
Aware of how many people surrounded them and that they still hardly knew each other, much less spoken about any sort of public situation, Andy pressed her lips together and nodded indiscreetly.
She’d have plenty more to say about it privately — especially when Miranda turned away a moment later, revealing the gown’s open back.
—
Miranda’s reputation served her well at times, including events like these when most of the staff were too intimidated to speak to her, much less offer suggestions on where she should stand or where she should go. Predictably, Andrea’s quivering manager and publicist only offered wide-eyed stares for the two hours that Miranda spent in the hotel room, and she held back a smile when it became clear that Andrea had hardly noticed.
Their sole interruption came when it was time to go to the theatre, and Andrea’s manager noted that she would be the only person accompanying her in the car to the premiere.
Andrea glanced Miranda’s way before returning to her manager. “It’s a limo,” she said slowly, showing a rare impatience that Miranda found highly amusing. “I’d like for Miranda to come, too.”
The manager’s eyes went wide as she made a concerted effort not to stare at Miranda. “So… there’s a specific lineup of when everyone gets out and who walks the carpet when, and —”
Sensing another protest from Andrea, Miranda touched her arm gently. “We can circle the block after you get out.”
Andrea seemed relieved when her manager, though visibly perturbed, agreed. She offered Miranda another silent nod as they made their way towards the elevators. This quiet side of Andrea was new to Miranda, and she was having trouble deciphering what she was thinking about. The lack of privacy certainly didn’t help, and Miranda felt surprisingly nervous as they slid into the back seat of the limo, feeling particularly aware that Andrea so openly wanted her there.
“Thank you for coming today,” Andrea said quietly, fiddling with the clutch in her lap. “You didn’t happen to look at the dress I was going to wear, did you?”
“I did,” Miranda said, keeping her voice low as she watched the manager crane her neck from the front seat. “Unfortunately.”
Andrea let out a breathy laugh. “Guess I’ll just have to have you dress me from now on,” she said, her tone lighter than it had been all day.
Miranda’s stomach flipped at this casual suggestion of longevity, and she masked the unexpected pleasure with a huff. “You assume I have that much free time, do you?”
Andrea opened her mouth to respond, a smile playing on her lips, but the limo’s decreasing speed and the din of shouting voices and camera shutters interrupted her. Her eyes went wide as she peered past Miranda at the wall of bodies that lined the sidewalk.
Before she could think better of it, Miranda placed her hand on top of Andrea’s. Never one for empty platitudes, she rattled off as much advice as she could summon as the car came to a slow stop: “Only speak to the interviewers and paparazzi that your publicist has approved. Don’t stand with your hands behind your back or cross your arms. Don’t look at your feet — your handlers will show you where to go. Remember that we are here for you tonight. Everyone is on your side. That’s a rarity for this town.”
So maybe a few words of comfort snuck in at the end. She couldn’t help it, especially when they made Andrea look at her like that.
“Thank you,” she whispered, stroking the top of Miranda’s hand with one finger as the car door opened. Miranda gave her a single nod and watched her climb out gracefully.
By the time the car had circled the block again, Miranda had managed to catch her breath and remind herself that she was there as a representation of a publication, not as someone three seconds away from kissing the person whose name was plastered all around them. Erin greeted her as the car pulled up, balancing her phones, notepad, and Miranda’s bag that she’d picked up from the townhouse earlier.
“Julianne Moore wants to say hi when you get inside,” Erin said quickly before trailing four feet behind as instructed. “And GQ is interested in a quote about costuming. They’re past the third balustrade.”
Miranda had been to plenty of these events in her career, though she’d attended fewer in recent years. There were only so many superhero films whose existence she was willing to acknowledge, after all. She navigated the red carpet with ease, nodding to the many photographers who screamed her name and knew her good side from the many years they’d spent ogling her. Erin had somehow shown up with half a brain and managed to excuse Miranda from the trashier news outlets hoping to get a soundbite from her, and it wasn’t long before she was following the throng of guests into the theatre lobby.
It had already been established that she would not be sitting with Andrea, who was in one of the rows closest to the screen with the rest of the cast, and she was pleased to find her seat on the balcony instead, surrounded in the company of familiar faces from the publishing industry.
The movie was no Erin Brockovich, but it seemed to capture the message of Andrea’s work well enough. Miranda found herself spending more time looking down at Andrea herself, wishing that she could see her face as the meandering plot finally crescendoed, or ask her what she thought of Julianne Moore’s impression of her laugh. (She failed to capture the particular warmth of it, Miranda thought.)
The reception took place next door, and as Miranda followed Erin into the loud, open space, it occurred to her that she and Andrea had failed to speak about this part of the evening. She’d spent every last moment picking out both of their outfits and arranging for Brad to replace the idiot stylist that Andrea’s management had hired, and hadn’t given the rest of the night a single thought. She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as she tried to locate Andrea, but then Erin was in her ear about Graydon Carter arriving. Before she knew it, Miranda had fallen into the familiar dynamic of any event she attended: a seemingly endless lineup of people wishing to speak to her and a nervous Erin reminding her of names and faces, even if one of them was Bradley Cooper. Over an hour had passed before a slick brown bun passed through her peripheral vision.
“One moment,” she said, offering a tight-lipped smile to Adrien Brody before turning in Andrea’s direction. She was surrounded by multiple people, but she looked past all of them to meet Miranda’s eyes.
Somehow, Andrea was more stunning from afar in the Badgley Mischka that Miranda had picked out. She bit her lip as Miranda stared at her, only breaking eye contact when that godforsaken manager of hers poked at her arm. Andrea shot her an apologetic frown before being led further into the crowd.
They found each other’s eyes many times that night, looking past conversation partners and over shoulders, trading curved eyebrows and careful smiles. Only twice did they end up in each other’s orbit, though never alone. There were always producers and agents and other hangers-on filing through and looking for their next big thing, and Andrea was certainly on many people’s lists that night.
The most surprising moment of the night was briefly meeting two people that Andrea had made reference to many times, and who were of the rare few who knew the true nature of their relationship. She had clearly trained Lily and Doug not to gawk, and they greeted Miranda with such restrained politeness that she nearly laughed out loud. But they were kind, capable of holding interesting conversation, and clearly cared deeply for Andrea, so Miranda lent them as much time as she could before her assistant was tapping on her shoulder and requesting her presence with Donald Graham and his associates.
Miranda sent Erin home soon after, and her internal alarm clock went off not muc later. Unable to locate Andrea in the crowd, she made her way to the exit to call Roy, intending on messaging her later.
As she was hanging up, a hand landed on her lower back.
“Are you leaving?” Andrea said behind her.
Miranda turned slowly. “I just called my driver, yes.”
Andrea’s eyes flicked between Miranda’s, and she looked around the room quickly before taking a step closer. “Do you…” She licked her lips and tilted her head. “I think I have to stay a little while longer, but…”
Brown eyes searched Miranda’s face, and she felt her phone buzz in her hand. A rapid set of calculations sprang to mind, accompanied by the usual litany of concerns.
Andrea’s career was only just beginning, with nothing tying her down. She could have anything and anyone. She was young.
But then again, Miranda wasn’t getting any younger. No one ever said it was too late to take risks.
“You have the address,” she said quietly, and spun around before she could witness Andrea’s reaction.
The next ninety minutes were torture, mostly spent pacing around the townhouse with a finger of whisky that she was only pretending to drink. Not even her overflowing Runway inbox could prevent her from looking at the clock, each passing minute making her question if she’d made her offer in vain.
Ten minutes to midnight, she heard a soft knock at her door. Miranda swallowed her whisky, smoothed down her hair, and opened it to a smiling Andrea.
“Hi,” Andrea said lightly, but Miranda didn’t miss how her cheeks were turning pink in the glow of the porch light.
“Did you enjoy the rest of the party?” Miranda asked, stepping back to let Andrea inside. She held out a hand to take the dark wrap draped over her shoulders, and hung it in the closet before turning around to face Andrea.
In the warm light of the hallway, her dress seemed to shimmer even more than it had all evening. Small wisps of hair were starting to come loose from the sleek updo that Brad had done, softening her red-carpet look to something far more human. Far more Andrea, Miranda found herself thinking.
“It was okay,” Andrea said, looking contemplative as she followed Miranda to the kitchen. “I’m trying not to let all the glitz get to my head. I don’t know how you do it.”
Miranda paused in her pursuit of pouring them each a glass of wine. “Do what?”
Andrea smiled. “Command a room like that. Like you did tonight, and at the MoMa, and at the press awards. You’re somehow always the center of attention in a room full of people who should think that they’re the most important one there.”
Miranda flushed at the realization that Andrea might have been paying her more attention than she’d realized. “It’s… it comes with the territory.” She frowned briefly at her Merlot before offering Andrea a small smile that she hoped wasn’t too bitter. “They all know that they benefit from my good graces. Everyone stands to… gain something from my respect.”
“But they don’t all earn it,” Andrea said, watching her closely.
Miranda shook her head. “But I benefit from them too, don’t I? Our society has not yet evolved enough to purchase magazines without a Chris or a Jennifer on it.”
Andrea let out a puff of laughter, and her expression turned soft. She joined Miranda on the other side of the kitchen island, sliding easily onto a barstool next to where Miranda stood. “Thanks for coming today,” she said. “I was freaking out a little bit about all of this.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Funny,” Andrea said dryly as she watched Miranda smile into her next sip of wine. “You’re just so calm. I needed someone who wasn’t as freaked out as everyone around me.”
“Ha. I’m almost positive that no one would ever use calm to describe me.”
“You know how to handle a situation, I mean.”
She wasn’t wrong, but Miranda wasn’t interested in discussing her personal strengths. “You held your own tonight,” she said. “It becomes more manageable over time. You worry less.”
“I know I’ll be able to handle it someday,” Andrea said. “It was just nice to know that I had… um.” She faltered slightly, eyes raking over Miranda as she took a step closer to the stool that Andrea was sitting on.
“Someone with experience?” Miranda suggested.
“Right,” Andrea said. It came out like a sigh. “Yeah.”
Miranda took another sip of wine, never dropping her eyes from Andrea’s as they drifted closer to each other. When Andrea broke eye contact, it was for an unsubtle glance at Miranda’s mouth. She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth as she stared, and Miranda used her distraction to take the wine glass out of Andrea’s hand. It was Baccarat, after all.
Andrea seemed to realize what was happening before the wine glass had even touched the quartz countertop, and Miranda heard her inhale softly as they intertwined their limbs in a dance that was becoming terrifyingly familiar.
—
“I have a…” Miranda swallowed as Andrea turned to face her fully. She was used to using passive language, announcing an event or something she was planning on doing to put the onus on the other person to pick up on it. She didn’t doubt that Andrea would, too, but as with many things, Miranda felt like she deserved better. She inhaled slowly before starting over.
“Would you like to accompany me to an event for the Council of Fashion Designers?”
Andrea’s mouth lifted slightly. “As your date?”
Her tone was light and teasing in a clear attempt to calm Miranda’s visible nerves, but there was affection there, too. She ran her finger along the collar of her sweater before responding.
“If you would… Yes. As my” — she rolled her eyes “— date.”
“You’re that embarrassed to bring me along?” Andrea teased, shifting on the couch to fold one leg underneath her.
“It feels a little juvenile to call it a date at this… stage of my life.”
“I don’t think that there’s an age limit on relationship terminology.” Seeing Miranda’s building frustration, Andrea touched the top of her hand lightly and dropped her teasing tone. “I’d love to be your not-date. What’s the event?”
CFDA’s Love Ball — part gala, part fundraiser, part drag show — was newer to the organization’s annual lineups, but Runway had been a presenting sponsor from the start. Miranda had typically only attended the opening act, showing her face as a representative of the primary benefactor, and leaving the fun to Nigel and associates. After a few months of spending time with Andrea, this was the first year that Miranda felt that had someone that she wanted to share it with.
“I’ll have to find an outfit,” Andrea said cheerfully.
Unbeknownst to Andrea, Miranda had already picked something out and scheduled a fitting. “Are you free on Thursday morning?”
The event had a certain amount of camp attached to it, and though Miranda didn’t plan on partaking, she had immediately thought of a boldly-patterned Vivienne Westwood dress for Andrea that had been shown that summer. It just so happened to complement the red gown that Miranda had secured for the event months beforehand.
With the busy schedule of the movie behind her, Andrea had returned to her usual writing and contract work, with occasional speaking engagements around the country. Miranda found herself saying no to some of the optional after-work events, sending Nigel or other senior members of her team instead, more interested in joining Andrea in the back rows of local art shows, storytelling contests, and other bizarre gatherings that she never would have stepped foot in had it not been for this odd, fascinating woman.
With every event, Andrea was careful to make sure they entered last, had a seat in a quiet corner, and avoided any curious onlookers. She’d been unerringly patient with Miranda, a characteristic that Miranda herself rarely extended to others. Nigel was quick to remind her of this during a working lunch, slipping it in at the end of their meal following Miranda’s accidental mention of the twins’ plans to visit during Christmas break.
“You have to tell people sometime,” he said, raising his eyebrows over his glasses. “Weren’t you nervous that she was going to run away? She’s stuck around so far, but she won’t for much longer if you keep her your little secret.”
Miranda called the twins that same evening. Her disposition was odd enough that Caroline interrupted halfway through Cassidy’s narration of a recent sociology exam.
“Later, Cass. What’s going on, Mom? You sound weird.”
Miranda twisted the scarf hanging loosely from her neck, worrying the silk between her fingers as she took a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing someone. I just wanted to let you know.”
“I told you!” Cassidy hissed.
Miranda sat up, releasing the scarf from her fingers. “Excuse me?”
“Three weeks ago, Cassidy called you to ask about those True Religion jeans that the Simpsons gave us forever ago, and you sounded super wacky on the phone. Cass said that she heard a woman’s voice in the background, but it’s not like you’d let your assistant Erica or whatever come hang out at our house. You practically bit Cassidy’s head off when she asked, so that kinda answered the question for us.”
It wasn’t uncommon for Miranda to be at a loss for words when speaking to her daughters — they led quite colorful lives, though had mercifully skirted the legal system thus far — but she froze at Caroline’s matter-of-fact narration of a conversation that she had written off. Yes, she’d taken the call at Andrea’s; it was unusual for her daughters to call late at night and she answered on instinct. Andrea, unaware of who was on the other line, had answered the door buzzer for that night’s takeout only a few feet away from where Miranda had been standing.
“Well,” Miranda huffed, torn between frustration and relief, “I suppose you have all the details, then, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Cassidy said sweetly. Miranda could practically hear her Cheshire-cat grin. “So we know it’s a girl —”
“Woman,” Miranda corrected.
“Very modern of you, Mom,” Caroline added.
“So who is she? When can we meet her? An evil stepmom sounds kinda cool.”
“No way Mom would go for that type. They’d kill each other in a heartbeat.”
“Caroline,” Miranda warned.
“I’m just being honest. But really, what’s she like?”
In her sitting room two days later, Miranda broached the topic with Andrea, who was standing at one of the bookshelves, leafing through a nature writing anthology that Miranda had been gifted by the editor of Scientific American.
“I spoke to my daughters the other night.”
“That’s nice,” Andrea said, glancing at Miranda with a smile before returning to the book.
“I… I told them that I was seeing someone.”
The book must have been heavier than Miranda had realized, given how loud of a sound it made when it hit the floor.
“If that’s alright with you,” she added dryly.
Andrea’s eyes were wide with something Miranda couldn’t decipher. “Well, yeah, of course. Is it alright with… you? With them, I guess?”
“Obviously,” Miranda drawled, pulling herself to her feet. “I don’t do things that I don’t want to, remember?”
“I do remember that,” Andrea said quietly, the corners of her eyes wrinkling slightly as her lips formed a wide grin.
True to her word, Andrea didn’t call US Weekly the next day, but the next time they saw each other, Miranda thought that she seemed a little taller, a little more confident. On a day-to-day level, not much had changed, but something had shifted between them, for the better.
So when Erin reminded her of her outstanding RSVP to the CFDA event, Miranda didn’t second-guess it when she sent her reply.
Nigel visited her office on Friday morning, looking far more haughty than she liked.
“If this is about that deplorable Chanel layout, I don’t see why you look so proud of yourself,” she muttered as he took a seat in front of her desk.
“A little birdie at Vivienne Westwood mentioned that someone was trying on quite the gown yesterday,” he said quietly.
Miranda sat up, glaring at him over her laptop. “And?”
Nigel’s grin softened into something more careful. “Does that mean you’ll grace us with more than fifteen minutes of your presence this year?”
“Perhaps.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes at her screen. “We’ll see about that.”
—
Miranda came over the night before the Love Ball, citing a need to deliver jewelry options for Andy to consider. Hearing the tension in her voice, it was easy to tell that there was more to the story, so Andy threw a Pellegrino in the fridge after work and waited for the telltale buzz of her intercom.
She felt oddly calm about the event, even with the knowledge that she was about to briefly become a public spectacle. Miranda was still featured in gossip columns when she attended any function, and there was no doubt that whatever presence she had at the Love Ball would be documented, too, possibly with Andy at her side.
Miranda arrived a little after eight carrying a red paper tote alongside her usual purse. She set it down carefully on Andy’s table before handing over her coat and purse.
“How is all of the planning going for tomorrow?” Andy said lightly.
She’d learned that Miranda was quick to build walls when asked too directly about her emotions; their conflicts, though they had been rare and brief so far, had all stemmed from Andy trying to get Miranda to talk about her feelings. It felt like prying to Miranda, not helping, and Andy was slowly learning that starting out a conversation focused on logistics and planning would typically lead to a better read on what Miranda was thinking.
Miranda tilted her head in thought as she pulled small packages out of the red bag, which Andy noticed was inscribed with a tiny gold Cartier logo. “Fine, I think. Billy Porter is the host, and Nigel feels confident in the programming — at least what he’s seen of it. He wants to meet you, by the way.”
Nigel had been mentioned in passing a few times. Though Miranda never said it outright, he was the closest thing to a confidante that she had, and the only person she’d heard Miranda give praise to when she spoke about work. Andy had been intrigued by him from the beginning, but tried to hide her excitement as she joined Miranda at the table.
“That sounds great.”
Miranda hummed and pushed a long, thin box towards Andy. She felt Miranda’s eyes on her as she opened it and ran her fingers across the gold necklace inside, a round pendant in the middle encrusted with diamonds.
“I’ll be expected to walk the red carpet, of course, but it’s short and untelevised,” Miranda continued, as if Andy weren’t sitting in front of thousands of dollars of jewelry. “You’ll go with Erin and Jocelyn to be seated once we arrive. I’m told that the gathering afterwards gets rather raucous after midnight, if that’s your…” She waved her hand, avoiding eye contact as she opened another box, this one with earrings that matched the necklace.
“I think I learned my lesson at Majorelle,” Andy said. Miranda closed her eyes as she chuckled, clearly recalling a dinner with much stronger drinks than they’d both anticipated, which had led to an embarrassingly intimate car ride home that made Andy newly thankful for privacy screens.
“Well,” Miranda said, her shoulders relaxing slightly, “It should be a nice night, then. Now try this on. I want to see how it looks against the fabric swatch.”
—
It was a nice night. Good, even. Possibly better, though Miranda wasn’t one for hyperbole.
They left before the debauchery began and while the paparazzi were still hovering outside of Gotham Hall. Feeling warm from the champagne and the company, flanked by Andrea and Nigel, she reached out and threaded her fingers through Andrea’s with a smile. She felt Andrea squeeze her hand as the photographers screamed their names.
The car ride was quiet but comfortable, hands still clasped between them. They hadn’t discussed what would happen after the event, but Andrea had asked Roy to take them to the townhouse without even glancing at Miranda.
There was still some effort at propriety as they climbed the townhouse stairs and shut the door, shedding their outerwear and heels in the foyer. But Miranda had hardly closed the coat closet door when Andrea had her pinned up against it, her lips brushing the shell of Miranda’s ear as her hands fell to her waist.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Miranda breathed.
“You’re gorgeous,” Andrea whispered. She dragged her lips across Miranda’s jaw, pausing at the edge of her mouth.
“You…” Miranda began, unsure of where her sentence was going, and even less confident when Andrea’s fingers were playing at the exposed skin of her lower back.
They hadn’t gone further than this — fingers on visible skin, lips on cheeks and necks. A not-insignificant part of Miranda feared that any more would remind Andrea of her actual age and send her running. She hadn’t slept with anyone in years, either more interested in DIY methods or too menopausal to even consider it.
But this — she’d considered this. Often. Unbearably often. During her work commute on the mornings after a date. At the office when a particularly alluring outfit reminded her of Andrea. Every time she saw a poster for that blasted movie, which somehow seemed to cover every piece of scaffolding in Midtown, even weeks after its release. Getting herself off was more complicated with age, but the memories of how Andrea’s hands felt on her had made it remarkably easier.
Andrea’s fingers paused when they reached the invisible zipper on Miranda’s dress — seemingly by accident, because she moved them to Miranda’s shoulder immediately, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. But there was a hunger in her eyes that Miranda had started to see more and more, and she smirked at Andrea’s wavering smile.
“What are you thinking about?”
“What?” Andrea shook her head quickly. “Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Miranda teased, “When I’m standing right in front of you.”
She had Andrea blushing madly now, and her waning confidence only made Miranda more daring. She ran her hands down Andrea’s sides, brushing the swell of her breasts and stopping where her thumbs met the slopes of her hipbones. Anchoring her there, Miranda pressed her body against Andrea’s and kissed her way across the soft skin of her chest and the curve of her throat, savoring each touch.
Then Andrea took her own turn at the impatience she’d teased Miranda for months earlier, bringing their mouths together in a kiss that was desperate and messy from the start. Miranda let herself moan into Andrea’s mouth as she slid her thigh between Andrea’s legs.
“Take me upstairs,” she whispered.
Andrea had been gentle and patient for so many months, tender in Miranda’s worst moments and seemingly unnerved by qualities that had driven her past partners away. There was so much that Miranda wanted to say to her after all this time. Thank you was the first thing that came to mind as Andrea pressed her onto the bed, those same careful fingers ridding Miranda of her dress and jewels and lingerie with a quiet reverence. The room was quiet but for their unsteady breathing and whispers of reassurance.
Then Andrea tripped over her gown, and her laugh was just as bright and bubbly as the first time Miranda had heard it. When her hands found Miranda’s skin again, they were strong and confident, and Miranda didn’t bother to bite back her small smile.
—
One year later
“Is your full name Miranda Priestly?”
“No.”
“Were you born on —”
“No.”
“Are you ready to take the Vanity Fair lie detector test?”
Miranda hummed noncommittally.
The interviewer furrowed her brows. “You have to answer with a yes or —”
“Fine. Yes, I’m ready.”
She shifted in her seat, the velcro bands of the device just tight enough to stiffen her posture more than she’d like, and it didn’t help that she was already on edge. The interview almost hadn’t happened when she learned that she wasn’t allowed to pre-screen the questions, though Vanity Fair — and Graydon himself — promised that there would be nothing “unexpected,” though she was still highly suspicious.
She suffered through questions about Runway’s most popular covers, a dull rehashing of a brief bikini-related scandal in 2004, and correcting various rumors about her over the years.
“Is it true that you only drink Pellegrino with ice out of a glass?”
Miranda squinted. “This is considered journalism now? You received a degree for this?”
“Yes or no.”
She sat back in her chair, shoulders straight. “Yes.”
A photo of Robert DeNiro was slid onto the desk in front of her. “Did you once go out on a date with him?”
Miranda had to laugh at that rumor — she’d nearly forgotten. “No.”
“What about… her?”
It was a photo from the Met Gala that spring, a shot of Andrea at the afterparty with Nigel just out of frame. She’d worn her hair down that night, the Cartier drop earrings tangling in it after she’d convinced Miranda to dance with her on the edge of the floor.
“Dating is —” Miranda began.
“It’s a yes or no question,” the interviewer said evenly.
“Yes.”
“She’s telling the truth,” the technician said.
Behind the camera, a grinning Andrea gave her a thumbs up. They kept Miranda’s eyeroll in the final cut.