Chapter Text
Proud—Part 1/?
“Andy.” Miranda whispered holding the tabloid in a vice grip over her desk. She coughed once and shook her head in dismissal of calling out for him. She was not going to call out after anyone. Miranda sucked in a hearty lungful of air and exhaled forcefully through her nose almost growling. If a heart breaks and no one is in the room to see it, does it still hurt? Miranda Priestly would tell you that most certainly it does hurt, and she would most certainly prefer that no was around to see the pain. Andrew had been on a ‘business trip’ for a week now, and their marriage had been struggling for nearly a year. However, it was never expected or easy to accept when your husband ended up in the tabloids with another woman in the French Riviera instead of Japan on a business trip.
“Emily.” Miranda summoned. She was so thankful that after the hailstorm of assistants in the last few years she had at last let Emily hire Replica-Emily. Miranda knew the universe was going back to how it should be when the girl was also named Emily. On the rare occasion that the Real-Emily was called to the office from elsewhere in Runway—Miranda just called her Charlton. “Call Leslie.” She swept all of the tabloids up in her hands and threw them across her desk to flutter to the floor and bring Emily back from her shock-induced state to pick them up.
Emily scooped up the offensive publications and rushed from the room before any other commands could be added on or she could suffer from anyone else’s mistakes this morning.
Miranda never even called the 2nd assistants by a name anymore. “New Girl.” After a few moments the girl appeared in her door ready for orders. “Locksmith. Starbucks. Now.” The girl scurried from the office and moments later she was connecting Miranda to the unsuspecting locksmith. Then like a superhero the scared girl turned herself into a blur leaving the building for Starbucks.
***
Greg, Stephen, and now Andrew—three failures, right in a row. 11 years, 3 years, and 4 years but the end was the same. The definition of insanity was repeating the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. Only the same thing in this case was Miranda herself and that was unacceptable. Miranda was not the failure in this, there was no way that this was all her doing. Yet, there must be something in common. Miranda was afraid to put her finger on what exactly it could be. Greg had given her two wonderful girls who had grown up to become beautiful young ladies. Sixteen and halfway through high school they were the apple of Miranda’s eye. Her relationship with them had its ups and downs as any mother/daughter teenager relationship did, but she made the effort when at all possible to be at their events, check in with them at home, to know their school friends. Greg was a good partner for raising them even though they had not lived together well. They both wanted the best for the girls and that outshone their issues with each other, until they didn’t have to pretend to get along anymore—it was natural. Stephen, well, he was never interested in her as a person, nor was he ever interested in having a family. He never made more than half the effort and Miranda didn’t suffer time wasters at work—and she refused to tolerate them at home. It was no wonder that Andrew did not last long at all.
Stephen had no courage whatsoever and told her about the divorce while she was in Paris: that frankly was unforgivable. It was really a shame that he was not in a position that she could easily effect. In the courtroom however and in the press, she was sure to vivisect him and dissect him. She was sad that the girls did not have a father figure in the house, but Stephen had never been much of one in the first place. To be honest he could not live up to their real father whom they saw regularly anyway.
Leaving in Paris. Absolutely totally, unequivocally, irreparably unforgivable.
Miranda shuddered as she continued to throw Andrew’s clothes on the bed and her thoughts began to wander to dark but not forgotten corners of her mind. “Hope. I live on it.” She shook her head again. “Well, not any more. Not any more indeed. Hope has left the building.” Miranda ruthlessly and tirelessly shoved his clothes onto the bed and then into his luggage. What did not fit got put in the trash bags that she brought up from the kitchen. She thanked the heavens that the girls were staying at a friend’s house tonight. She had come home in a miserably furious mood. She parked his car on the street so that he could get to it later. She had already changed the locks. Her lawyers were drawing up the paperwork while her publicist tried to make sure that the focus stayed on Andrew’s infidelities rather than herself or her children. They were older than they were when Stephen left, but she was still fiercely protective of them.
Andrew had been caught on a French Riviera holiday with his mistress. Miranda snorted at that thought. He didn’t have much to offer a mistress and from what she had read, he certainly had not traded up in any sense of the word. She had considered letting him come home to have the battle on familiar turf, but when she imagined his pleading brown eyes and probable tears her resolve against him solidified. There would be no homecoming for Andrew. Not now, not ever, not to plead his case, not to beg forgiveness, and most importantly not to look at her with his big brown eyes full of hurt and anguish. He would be hurt by her coldness, and his own guilt, but she would have no part of watching him impale himself on his own wrong-doing.
Instead she called the airline and had his ticket changed to the following week and back to coach. It was not a regular request but Miranda had a full arsenal of persuasive tools at her disposal starting with charm and increasing to promises of vengeance. She was able to stay with charm as she worked her way through the proper people in command of the airline until she got what she wanted.
The girl. Woman. Whatever. Miranda shook her head. She apparently was a journalist like Andrew so she was easily enough dispatched on assignment to follow an environmental group around Alaska for six months. New Emily could not help a smirk when she walked into the office at the end of that conversation.
Miranda surprised herself that she simply banished them instead of permanently disfiguring their careers. A small part of her wondered at the change from her reputation and normal course of action, but the larger part of her shook that off. She did not want to know the source of the change, or rather she did not want to think about the source of the change even though she knew full well who it was and what was in those dark corners of her mind. No, that would not do any good at all, to contemplate such a fetching young woman. So, Miranda continued packing and trashing.
When the bedroom and bathroom were done Miranda moved on to Andrew’s office. It took a surprising amount of will power for her to not smash his various diploma frames and awards. She did not want to think of his success or her role in it. At the moment she wanted to crush him, his hopes, and all of his dreams. If he loved that woman, then she was already on the right track by sending her away. Part of her hoped that he loved her so this was worth the press and emotions. She also hoped he truly loved her so that sending her away did hurt him in his heart parts. Various papers and knick-knacks were swept off the desk and into boxes quickly. Shelves of books took a little longer as they were too heavy if piled too high in the box. Miranda was not used to such physical exertions beyond her workouts, but tonight the extra motion helped to distract her thoughts, which were a surprising mixture that was not wholly focused on Andrew. She shook her head again at the notion that she wasn’t upset with Andrew, but rather that she was upset with herself and a certain former assistant who left in a blur that Miranda actively blocked from her mind. Of course, she was upset with Andrew—he had betrayed her and he had landed himself in the tabloids which was inexcusable.
Letting out a great puff of air Miranda stood in the middle of the room to assess her progress. Desk empty and cleared off—check. Shelves empty—check. Walls cleared—check. Anything else? Miranda wanted to hang other things immediately, but fought this urge telling herself that she would want to paint and maybe ask the girls for their input. The rational part of herself telling her that was a more permanent way to get rid of him and his doe-like brown eyes. She shook her head again. Would she ever escape doe-like brown eyes? Andrew, her assistants, her assistant… No. That was unacceptable. Cupboards under the shelves, yes, that was what was next.
Miranda pulled an empty box with her to the first cupboard and found a surprising stash of various videos and DVDs that should have been under lock and key, if they were to be allowed in her house at all. Rolling her eyes in disdain of her younger soon to be ex-husband’s apparently youthful taste for poor quality adult videos. She stuffed the rubbish into the box. This box she took all the way down to the garage and loaded into her trunk. It would not do to have her girls come home and find the boxes—find this box—before she could get his stuff dropped off somewhere. As she huffed back up the stairs Miranda contemplated having Roy put it all in storage so that she would not have to see Andrew again. Satisfied with that she returned to the study and the rest of the cupboards.
Another box and another cupboard—this one yielded Andrew’s liquor collection which was in keeping with her own tastes so she boxed it up and took it down to her own study to simply be absorbed into the liquor cabinet there. Miranda smugly thought that she was depriving him of some small pleasures by keeping his liquor, and she savored the thought that he would never, ever dare to ask her for his liquor. He would notice, maybe feel the prick of loss, and some anger—but he would never be able to challenge Miranda. He never could in the end, which was why he had taken the coward’s route intentionally or unintentionally by having this affair and being careless enough to be found out. He didn’t have the guts to tell Miranda what he wanted or needed, so he had gone outside the marriage. He didn’t have the guts to leave, so he had carried on in such a way that he would be left. And yet she knew that he had not wanted to hurt her. She knew that those eyes would look at her full of sorrow and a genuine regret that he had wronged her—which was precisely why he would not return to the town home.
Miranda opened the next cupboard to find magazines. An assortment of magazines, but they were all the same—women’s naked bodies on display in such a vulgar way that made Miranda want the models of Runway to wear turtlenecks and long pants in order to distance themselves from such filth. Each handful of magazines upset Miranda more than the one before it. It was trashy, lewd, but most importantly it lacked artistry. In Runway the artistry was the point. The clothes, the models, the photography, the layout, the text—was all very thought out art. This? This was nothing more than catering to the bottom line of the lowest common denominator for men’s preparation rooms in sperm donor banks. As Miranda pulled handful after handful out of the cupboard she slowly made herself upset and then nauseous. Almost to the final handful of magazines Miranda’s grip slipped and the magazines in her hand fell to the floor.
Miranda cursed under her breath as she kneeled to scoop them up. Her hand stilled over one slightly to her left with two post-it tabs sticking out of the side. In her shock she released the other magazines, which fell to the floor. Swallowing hard Miranda reached with trembling fingers to the magazine with the tabs that had caught her attention. Doe-like eyes stared at her from the cover of the magazine daring her to look at them, to be mesmerized by them, and to be honest with them. Miranda trailed a disbelieving fingertip along the girl’s face and then her palm covered the girl’s body as she let out a breath she had not known she was holding.
***
Nigel would never admit to reading the Harry Potter books or watching the movies. He was not afraid to admit it since he knew that Miranda let the girls watch them. He just liked to keep certain things to himself. Harry Potter was one of those things. Today though, he could have sworn that there were Dementors prowling the halls of Elias-Clark. It was colder than it should have been, the hairs on the back of his neck were doing creepy little dances as if they could feel the changes in the air, and he was certain that he had woken up full of joy—only now he felt certain that he would never be happy again.
He had wandered over to check with Emily to see what the run-down was this morning. Surely a tragedy had occurred that he was just unaware of, or perhaps a newsflash had gone up about Miranda, or Roy had called explaining some kind of Miranda-related catastrophe. Emily looked on edge as usual—no more, no less. She answered his questioning gaze with a shrug. They both turned to scowl at the ‘new girl’ as Miranda had taken to calling them.
The elevator pinged open signaling the arrival of La Priestly. She looked straight ahead in a way that made you feel as if you were burning up into thin air like a malfunctioning transporter beam from Star Trek that simply vanished you instead of taking you somewhere nice. Today that look was not directed at any failing employees, nor was it fiery with a mission. There was something different, unreadable behind her eyes. She did not acknowledge Celine, Emily, or Nigel as she walked by throwing her coat and bag before entering her office. “Coffee.” She said to the air and Celine practically Matrixed her way over the desk to hang the coat and bag while she simultaneously retrieved her own and caught the same elevator that Miranda had only just vacated.
Emily sucked in a cold lungful of air and looked mournfully at Nigel.
“I think she’s part Dementor.” Nigel said under his breath.
It was not meant for Emily to hear, and yet he was pleasantly surprised when she responded with, “We’ll find out when she gives the Dementor’s kiss to someone. Today might just be the day.”
Nigel whistled just barely and walked away. There was really nothing that he could say at that point so he decided to retreat and fight another day. Or at the very least later, when he was summoned.
***
Later was all of 45 minutes it turned out. As Miranda stalked into his office he thought, ‘at least I’ll be murdered in private.’ His office was a little way off the beaten path, so at least he would not be publicly embarrassed while she sucked the life out of him and made plans to get rid of his body. He did not look up when she made her entrance. It was a silly instinct that went something like, ‘If I can’t see you, then you can’t see me.’ Under that logic as long as Nigel did not look up or acknowledge Miranda in anyway, then he was safe. Of course, on the other end of that Catch-22 was the fact that if he did not acknowledge Miranda in any way—he was just as sure to be dead. It was no fun holding the tail of an angry tiger.
He was saved the decision when a magazine was forcefully slammed onto his desk over the layouts he was trying to comprehend. His eyes went wide as he took in the fact that Miranda Priestly had just thrown down a Playboy magazine on his desk. To top it off she obviously blamed him for its existence. In the world of Miranda Priestly that was how the planets orbited. Nigel struggled for air as his blood literally ran cold through his body. At this point asking Miranda for quick death sounded like a god plan—at least in his head.
Nigel knew the truth of this magazine.
He also knew that as much as Miranda wanted to blame him—she couldn’t. He knew without a doubt that this magazine, this model, this particular ‘spread’ was all her doing. On the pain of death, which seemed unavoidable at this point, Nigel would rather not tell Miranda this, but it did not change the unmistakable truth to it. Six years ago, Andrea Sachs had left Miranda, or left Runway, in Paris. Six years ago, Miranda had decreed a six-month blacklist on the girl to punish her. Six years ago, Andrea Sachs returned home from Paris to be left by La Boyfriend, Les Friends, and she had tried to keep her apartment and her mind and find a job. She could not.
“What is THIS?” Miranda asked in a whisper that was really a growl.
Nigel blinked at her thinking ‘bullet to the head or bullet to the stomach?’ He remained silently assessing her.
“Nigel.” The arrow had been loaded and the crossbow cocked back and ready.
He pursed his lips and then he opened the magazine to one of the tabs to reveal a two-page photograph of Andrea Sachs. Miranda gasped as the page flopped open before her on Nigel Kipling’s desk. “That is…” He looked up to Miranda and then pointed at the page forcing her to look before he continued. “Blacklisting, scary weight loss, abandonment, heartbreak and rock bottom all rolled into one.”
“What?” Miranda whispered desperately.
“You blacklisted her.”
“Temporarily.”
“How could she know that, Miranda?” Nigel asked her gently. “She knew the legend, not the heart. A million times she had escaped being fired, but she knew that there was no way to escape the wrath of the Dragonlady after Paris. Not after she left the way she did and when she did.”
“Six months.” Miranda croaked out.
“Six months that were like six years for her.” He looked at her, but then his eyes softened at her obvious pain. “She worked at a hair salon, but it wasn’t enough. She lost her apartment.” Miranda turned moist pleading eyes on Nigel and briefly he wondered if he didn’t like Dementor-Miranda better. He figured he would have a quicker death that way. “Her boyfriend left her because she chose you. Her friends sided with him because she wasn’t the person they thought she should be. I ran into her one night at a bar and she lived on my couch for a few months.”
Miranda closed the open layout and covered Andrea’s exposed body with her hand. “How did this happen?”
“One night after going out she went to a party and at the party she met a contact from Playboy. She was desperate slowly starving herself, working a pitiful job, and trying to pretend she didn’t live on my sofa.” Nigel rested his hand over Miranda’s in a reluctant but uncontrollable urge to comfort her. He took a deep breath and let it out. Miranda mirrored his actions breathing again for herself. “Her parents disowned her. They were ashamed, but she was able to get the tiniest apartment ever, and make ends meet for a while. She was proud to have accomplished that much and other modeling gigs followed. She lived the underground glamour of parties, modeling, and no small amount of fame in that circle.”
“What is she doing now?”
“She modeled for a few of the James Holt parties then and met some people. I lost track of her, but I think she’s still modeling. The last I knew she was going to leave New York.”
“You don’t know where?” Nigel hated that Miranda sounded defeated.
“Somewhere she could still model, but not here.” He stopped there and Miranda left his answer alone. “I told her to try Los Angeles, and offered to call some people for her, but then I never heard back from her.”
Miranda sucked in a painful breath of air and removed her hand from underneath Nigel’s. He was looking at the magazine cover intently. She did not want his comfort or his words, but she knew he was far from done. He knew what was in that magazine and apparently thought that she should know. Miranda closed her eyes to brace herself and gripped the edge of his desk till it hurt her. “And?” She managed to utter out.
“Did you see her name?”
Through clenched teeth Miranda says, “Marina Keating.”
Unseen by Miranda, Nigel nodded and opened the magazine to the second tab. He ran his finger over the name. “Marina—for—Miranda. Keating—for—Kipling.”
“What?” Miranda snapped her eyes open filleting Nigel with her glare.
“Did you see her secret confession? Or did you not read it all?”
“Nigel. Don’t play with me.”
“Hmmm. Look here— ‘I fell in love with my boss.’ Poor girl.” Nigel read so quietly, that Miranda was unsure that she heard him correctly. Nigel put his finger on the line daring Miranda to read it for herself. She leaned forward hurriedly bringing her glasses up but did not dare to touch the magazine.
As she read Nigel remembered out loud. “Secret Confession: What’s the best and the worst thing that you have ever done? That’s easy because it’s the same thing: I fell in love with my boss.”
Miranda stood reading and looking at the brown does eyes of her former assistant for many minutes. Nigel unsure of the status of the wild zoo animal loose in his office waited with baited breath for the next question, accusation or outburst. Finally, Miranda let out a small wailing sound and uttered Andrea’s name as she caressed the face on the layout before she closed the magazine again.
Nigel let out a sigh after a few more moments of silence. True concern and compassion flooded his voice when he found it. “Miranda. I thought you had moved on.”
“What?” The sharpness of her voice was like the edge of an axe. “What did you say?” He knew that it was a defensive attack, but he chose his words carefully. Defensive wounds were still wounds.
“For two years every assistant looked like Andy Sachs.” Nigel pointed out and Miranda visibly shuddered in her skin. “When they weren’t as smart as Andy, or as efficient as Andy, or as Andy as Andy—you fired them. For two years you punished every girl that looked like Andy.”
“Oh you have lost it.” Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Have I? Play a slideshow in your mind of those assistants? Then tell me who you have right now instead. Replica-Emily a follow up to Charlton. And New Girl? She is Serena’s virtual twin--Celine. The antithesis of Andy.”
“There is a line, Nigel Kipling.”
“And you crossed it, my dear, Miranda. That younger husband of yours whom you so dearly loved—what was his name? Oh yes. Andrew. Andrew with the dark hair and charming smile. He was a little dull, but he was a journalist with a heart of gold. He had eyes of pure brown innocence that sparkled in the moonlight. You, Miranda, you called him Andy although he told everyone to call him Andrew.”
Miranda’s mouth hung open for a minute before she snapped it shut tight enough to actually hear teeth gnash together. Nigel put a pen to his lips in thought.
“Oh. I see. Miranda. You didn’t move on. You punished and replaced. Or transferred, I think they call it. Yes. It has been a long process for you. And now this.” Nigel reached for the magazine but his hand was painfully slapped into the desktop and Miranda snatched up the magazine and left in a poof of volcanic ash and a flow of red-hot molten lava. Nigel cringed as he heard the crash of some lesser individual being struck down and then getting melted out of her way as Miranda bolted from the truth laid out so plainly in front of her face.
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