Chapter Text
The early morning light filtered into the therapist’s office gauzy and soft, casting Miranda Priestly half in shadow. She sat, lost in thought, across from her therapist’s desk. All preparations were made; the plan was meticulous as far as Miranda could tell, every conceivable circumstance assessed and accounted for. She had crafted herself a puzzle, a test, unlike any other before. Even Runway. Well, she was rich and bored, so why not? The fact that the flawless execution of her plot would devastate Irv Ravitz was just a small bonus.
Everything would happen as it should today. Miranda was nothing if not thorough.
“I want you to talk about women,” her therapist said.
Increasingly, it occurred to Miranda that such thoroughness might be ... inhibitive. No one seemed to be able to live with her demanding need for perfection, her compulsive dedication to beauty. After all, she did have two divorces behind her and no real friends of which to speak; hence, the therapy sessions. She’d chosen a man of acceptable renown, Nigel Kipling, and so far, she supposed, he’d been all that one would hope for in a good therapist: an attentive listener who asked insightful questions—
“Miranda?”
Miranda realized she wasn’t paying attention. “Yes?”
“Women,” Nigel said. “You’ve yet to talk about women.”
“Oh, I appreciate women. I enjoy women. I do run a fashion magazine.” Miranda wondered where this was going.
“Yet, you have no female friends.” Nigel stared at her for a long moment, but Miranda gave nothing away. “What about female lovers?”
“What?”
“Well,” Nigel said, “enjoyment isn’t intimacy.”
“And intimacy isn’t necessarily enjoyment.” Miranda’s tone was final.
Nigel was unmoved. “How would you know?”
Miranda gave him a tight smile and looked away.
“Has it occurred to you,” Nigel continued, “that you have a problem with trust?”
“I trust myself implicitly.”
“Yes, but, can other people trust you?”
Miranda glared at him. “My daughters, of course. Or, do you mean society at large?”
“We’ve talked about your daughters and your divorces. I mean women, Miranda.”
“Yes,” Miranda huffed, “a woman could trust me. Is there a point to this?”
“Good,” Nigel said. “Under what extraordinary circumstances would you allow that to happen?”
Though annoyed, Miranda thought about it. “A woman could trust me as long as her interests didn’t run too contrary to my own.”
Amused, Nigel had to ask, “And society, at large, if its interests were to run counter to your own?”
Miranda hummed and quirked her lips. What if, indeed.
Traffic was stopped at Fifth Avenue and East 82nd, a typical occurrence which on any other day would annoy Miranda. But today, in the cool interior of the Mercedes, she calmly checked her watch.
Roy watched her in the rearview mirror, shifting in his seat; any second now it was coming, the usual half-rhetorical question—what’s taking so long. After years in her service, he still wasn’t certain whether she wanted an answer or not. Instead, Miranda said the last thing he ever expected to hear. “I think I’ll walk for a while.”
“Oh.” Roy turned in his seat. “Are you sure, Miranda? It’s quite warm out.”
“Yes.” Miranda opened the door.
“Would you like me to take your bag, at least?”
“No, I’ll carry it. I’ll call if I need you,” Miranda said, and then shut the door, leaving Roy with incontrovertible proof that there was a first time for everything.
Miranda looked toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art and started for the sidewalk. It was true the day was warm, but she had dressed according to plan, and as close to sensible as she’d ever get in a black Chanel pantsuit and two-inch heels. The bag she’d chosen that morning matched perfectly: black, thin and sleek and heavier than normal, but Miranda didn’t mind—
The deep blaring horn of a large delivery truck jarred her, causing her to stop and look up just as she was about to cross the last traffic lane.
The driver braked hard, and the truck jerked to a stop. “Whoa! Jesus Christ!” He glared down at Miranda, who stepped back and lifted an arm, motioning for the driver to go ahead. “Look at this broad,” he spat, then put the truck in gear.
Miranda read the side of the truck as it passed, “Spiro Wallach Co. Inc.” Sometimes it was hard not to believe she had a gift for perfect timing.
Despite the early hour, the Met was already beginning to fill up. With purpose, Miranda strode through a group of tourists congregating at the entryway. What was true for the lobby of Elias-Clarke was also true for the Met’s main hall as people milling about seemed to sense Miranda’s presence and made way. She continued past an exhibit of Japanese woodblock prints, the Roman art and artifacts, and the Egyptian collection, for there was only one piece Miranda was there to see. A piece she had been coming to see on a clockwork basis for weeks.
Thankfully, the Impressionist gallery was still free of other people when Miranda arrived. There, among works by Renoir, Monet, Pissarro, Cézanne, Manet, hung the one painting Miranda most wanted to study, Noon: Rest from Work (After Millet) by Vincent van Gogh.
She sat down on the edge of the bench nearest the painting and set her bag down. She would savor these few moments before the gallery was overrun by tourists and patrons, imagining what it would be like to rest in the bright sun against haystacks in a fragrant field in Saint-Rémy, the hardest work of the day done, not to be remembered until next day’s dawn.
“Morning, Ms. Priestly,” said a baritone voice behind her.
Miranda turned, giving the gallery’s proctor, Bob, a terse nod. “Robert.”
“Back for your haystacks, hm?”
Miranda turned back to the painting. “Don’t ever let it go on tour.”
“Oh, I’ll lay down the law,” Bob laughed. “You know, you’re an odd one.” He nodded to the painting hanging to their right. “Everybody else goes right for the Monet.”
Miranda glanced at the Monet, San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk, with its shiny brass plaque indicating it was “courteously on loan from Mr. and Mrs. Irving Ravitz,” then dismissed it. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s nice.”
“Nice?” Bob scoffed. “Do you know what it’s worth?”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. Yes, in fact, she did, and she knew who owned it. But Bob didn’t need to know that. “I simply prefer my haystacks, Robert.”
On the south side of the museum, the driver of the Spiro Wallach Co. delivery truck honked at another idiot pedestrian who walked out in front of him. What was it with pedestrians today? If it wasn’t for the insurance and police hassle, he swore he’d take one of them out, just to teach them a lesson: in a contest between stupid human and large truck, stupid human always loses. Didn’t everybody know that? Christ.
He made quick work of backing up to the receiving dock then handed the transfer documents to the receiving clerk. He raised the cargo door of the truck, revealing a huge wooden crate.
“Ah, something’s screwed up,” the clerk said. “My list says some kind of sarcophagus.”
“Well, what do you want me to do, it’s a horse. You want I should take it back and dump it?” The driver’s look said that was the last thing he was going to do.
“Nah. Nah, just unload the damn thing.” The clerk unbuttoned his blazer, pulled at his tie. “Boy, it’s gonna be hot today.”
Miranda arrived at the Elias-Clarke building later than she preferred but didn’t feel rushed. As she passed the guards at the front desk, they stared at her unabashed; it wasn’t everyday Miranda Priestly arrived at work in a cab. She was forced to wait for an elevator along with two men who were discussing some throwaway magazine. From the bit of conversation she overheard, it seemed one of the men was recently hired.
The elevator’s customary ding announced its arrival, and the new hire started for the elevator just as Miranda did. She pursed her lips.
The new hire’s colleague watched this in horror and grabbed the man’s arm, yanking him out of the elevator. “Uh, excuse us,” he said.
Miranda stepped into the elevator and, as the doors slid closed, she heard the new hire say, “What, she own the building or something?” Miranda smirked.
She stepped into the controlled chaos of the Runway offices, shocking Emily, who hadn’t received her usual warning of Miranda’s imminent arrival.
“Good morning, Miranda,” Emily said, and followed Miranda toward her office. Only, something wasn’t right. “Where’s your bag? And your shoes...” slipped out of Emily’s mouth before she realized she was speaking aloud.
Mercifully, Miranda ignored Emily’s impertinence. “I must have left it at home this morning.” She surveyed a layout waiting on her desk.
Emily’s eyes went wide. Miranda forget her bag? “But, but—”
“Emily,” Miranda said, her voice quiet and whip-like, “there is a cab downstairs waiting to be paid, and I am waiting for my latte.”
“Right.” Emily snapped shut her gaping mouth, stood straight. “Yes, of course.”
Miranda watched Emily nearly run from the office. She left the layout on the desk, moved to a window, and looked out upon the city, so clear and bright today. She toyed with an earring, not minding the sudden urge to smile.
The clerk handed the transfer papers to his supervisor, and they watched as a forklift transported the crate to the entrance of the museum’s vault. The supervisor compared the paperwork. His list read: ETRUSCAN SARCOPHAGUS/3RD CENT. BRONZE STATUE; the driver’s: FIRST CENTURY GRECO ASIAN HORSE.
“We have a disparity here,” the supervisor said.
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“Well, we can’t leave it here.” The supervisor opened a black box on the wall, inserted a key and turned a large knob; the vault’s door slowly lifted. “Let’s find out what the problem is.”
The forklift carried the crate to the vault’s east wing, where it was pried open. Both supervisor and clerk stared into the crate, which housed a dusty, grayish-white, ancient-looking horse reared back on its hind legs, part of its mane spilled down its back, away from a head that once was impressive but now was missing. It was imposing, every muscle of its body delineated, poised and lifelike.
“That,” the supervisor said, “is not a sarcophagus.” He shook his head. “It’s Friday.”
As he watched his boss walk away, the clerk understood Monday would be a clusterfuck.
Irv Ravitz loved this. For him, there was nothing quite as sweet as Miranda Priestly asking for money. Not for the first time, he considered scheduling Runway’s budget meetings for twice a month rather than just the once. No. No, he decided. At once a month he could keep them as a special treat, a reward of sorts. He smiled at Miranda across the conference table, congratulating himself for superior reasoning.
Miranda read through the budget, considering each page. Irv reached for a cigar, preparing to light it the moment she signed off. She reached for her pen; he reached for a match. She lifted her pen; he lifted his match. She signed the last page; he struck the match and lit the cigar.
“Never thought I’d see that,” Irv said, chuckling. “Miranda Priestly agreeing to a budget on its first draft.” He pulled on the cigar, a cloud of noxious smoke lingered near his thin-lipped mouth. “So, what do you think, Miranda? No regrets on not asking for more money?”
“Regret is a waste of time,” Miranda said. “As is gloating.” She stood to leave, then leaned over the table toward Irv. “Your signature is on that budget, too. Has it occurred to you, or your accountants, that I’ve just signed for thirty percent more than I need? What will it look like to the board when, yet again, I bring Elias-Clarke’s most successful publication in under budget?” She grinned. “Good morning, Irv.”
All was still in the east wing of the Met’s vault, except for a steady, muffled, scraping. From inside the accidental Greco-Asian horse a thin saw methodically worked its way along the belly, carving precise lines. The saw stopped, retracted. A thud and a crack and the belly gave, swinging open in two halves, revealing itself as not made of stone or marble, but of plaster; a sophisticated papier-mâché sculpture. Then, one by one, four men, equipped with headlamps and scuba gear, dropped out the horse’s belly, onto the pile of plaster dust accumulated beneath it. The men, sweaty and dressed in black, removed the scuba gear, taking deep breaths and stretching out their backs and limbs.
The leader, a tall man with a permanent scowl and a day’s worth of stubble, checked his watch, which read 11:30. He picked up a large duffel bag and spoke with a thickly accented voice, “All right. English from now on.”
They moved to a nearby wall where one of the men lit a welder’s torch and began burning a hole into the metal wall of the vault. Well-trained, he took only moments to complete the work, kicking once, twice, to push out the metal and clear the way to the other side: the museum’s compressor room.
Once inside, the men stuck close to the wall, hidden in shadow, watching the security camera scan the room. As the camera rotated away from them, the leader silently signaled, and two men crossed to the other side of the room, extracting a rope and a retractable pole from their packs.
With a small mirror, the leader checked the camera. Again it was out of range, so he signaled to the third man, who stepped to the middle of the room, aimed and fired a harpoon-like metal stake into the ceiling. The other men rushed out, threading the rope attached to the stake through the pole, creating a makeshift pulley.
The leader kept his eye on the camera, watching as it started to swing back toward them. “Go! Go!” he said.
Quickly, the third man wrapped his leg in the rope and began hoisting himself toward the pipes running the length of the ceiling; the other two men moved back into the shadows as they reeled in the rope’s slack. When he reached the pipes, the third man cut into the largest one, then pulled out a crib sheet indicating which wire was for electric locks and which was for air conditioning. Using small alligator clips, he made a patch along each wire, and then pulled out a wire cutter.
Floors above, a group of schoolchildren lingered by Monet’s San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk. They fidgeted as their teacher recited boring facts.
“This painting is considered to be the first Impressionist work in history. It started the Impressionist movement.”
One kid yawned.
“It influenced dozens of major artists who went to found the first major school, or style, of the twenty-first century.”
The children were not impressed; some frowned at the painting.
The teacher took a deep breath. “Okay. Try this: it’s worth a hundred million bucks.” The children gasped.
Across the room, one girl drifted close to a large Monet, The Walk, Woman with a Parasol, reaching out to touch its paint, which looked thick and wet. A gentle but firm hand grabbed her arm and she spun around, startled.
“Young lady, do not touch,” Bob said, then released her arm. “I’ll let you go this time. On your way.”
She ran to the gallery’s entrance but stopped when she heard a strange clicking noise. Just like in freeze tag, she stayed in place, following the clicking noise with her eyes as it moved down the length of the wall. She looked around the gallery, but nobody else seemed to hear it, not even the old man who’d just talked to her. She shrugged and ran to catch up with her class.
In museum security’s main control room, a guard looked up from his book at a blinking alarm on his computer screen. “Hey, Jimmy. Would you take a look in the compressor room? There’s something wrong with the A/C.”
Already heading out to do rounds, Jimmy and his partner stopped. “Can’t we just pass it on to engineering?”
Another guard looked up from a checklist, shook his head. “The book says we check it first.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Fine.”
Once in the elevator, Jimmy’s partner hit the button for the subbasement and grimaced. “It would be one of the hottest days of the year. Can you believe it’s nearly October?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Anyway,” his partner continued, sounding bored, “why don’t you bring the kid?”
Jimmy snorted. “Are you kidding? You know how she is. She’d probably tell the court I was endangering him or something.”
“No kidding?”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that woman deals out,” Jimmy said.
They stepped into the compressor room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Splitting up, they walked either side of the room before meeting up in front of the air conditioning compressors, which were off.
“The whole air conditioning plant’s crapped out,” the partner said.
“Why didn’t they call maintenance?”
Jimmy’s partner looked at him, the question clearly redundant. Jimmy shook his head. They got back on the elevator, noticing neither the men hidden in the shadows nor the man clinging to the pipes near the ceiling.
When the elevator doors closed, three of the men gathered their gear and climbed into the main ventilation shaft. With a detailed schematic, the leader guided them to the museum personnel locker room, which was empty. They dropped down into the room and quickly changed into the white shirt, black tie, maroon jacket uniform of the museum’s proctors. Moments later, they stepped out onto the museum floor.
By late afternoon, Miranda was ready to leave the office. She gathered only what was necessary and tried to make her way past Emily quickly.
As she passed, Emily looked up in disbelief; apparently Miranda had found her ... ”I see you, uh, found a bag.” She pointed at—of all things—the briefcase in Miranda’s hand.
Miranda stopped, glanced back. “Yes.”
Emily was scandalized, but she gulped it down. “W-W-Would you like me to call Roy?”
“No.”
By the time she recovered, Emily murmured, “Goodnight, then,” to an empty office.
There had been bizarre days during her time as Miranda’s assistant, but between today’s two-inch heels and that briefcase, this day beat them all.
For the second time that day, Miranda found herself in a taxi. Traffic was again stopped at Fifth and East 82nd, so she paid the driver and walked the rest of the way down 82nd toward the Met. Impatience crept up on her, and she began to move quickly, weaving through pedestrians. She was close now.
The men stalked into the Impressionist gallery and fanned out. The leader walked up to the proctor on duty. “Hey, they want to talk to you upstairs.”
“Me? Or the regular proctor,” he said, checking his watch, “because McKinley’ll be back in just a couple of seconds—”
“I think you should talk to them.”
The proctor stared back at the leader, uncertain he was really hearing that menacing tone.
The leader gestured to a phone near the gallery’s main entrance. “Call them, if you like.”
Keeping his eye on the men, the proctor picked up the phone, which connected him with the fourth man, who was still in place. “Yes, this is Jeff in Wing Eight. I was just told you wanted to speak with me.” Jeff listened. “Okay, I’ll be right up.” He hung up the phone, shrugged, and smiled at the men. “I’ll, uh, just go up.”
Jeff left the gallery, disappearing among the crowd of people, and the leader snapped his fingers at one of the men, who moved to a set of stanchions and began blocking off the gallery’s rear entrance. The leader and the other man began herding people out of the gallery.
“Sorry, this exhibit is closed. I have to ask you leave.” “This exhibit is now closed. Please use the nearest exit.” Slowly, people began shuffling out. “This exhibit is now closed. We are closed for the evening.” “We’re closing. Thank you.”
The fourth man busted out onto the roof of the museum, running directly to the skylight above the Impressionist gallery. Working fast, he fixed plastic explosives along the panes of glass then looked toward Central Park. With a flashlight, he signaled an approaching helicopter.
As the last of the stragglers cleared the gallery’s main entrance, the leader turned to put up the last set of stanchions and came face to face with Miranda. “I’m sorry, ma’am, this exhibit is closed.”
“Hm?” Miranda set down her briefcase and checked her watch. “It’s only quarter of five.”
“We’re closed,” the man said again, trying for a polite smile that twisted into a smirk. “For cleaning.”
Miranda studied him a moment before waving him off and walking away. She found Bob in the hallway. “Robert, seems I’ve been evicted.”
Bob frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Impressionist gallery is apparently closed for cleaning.”
Bob’s frown deepened. “Cleaning?”
“Yes, they’re doing it right now.” Miranda didn’t have to reach far to sound put out.
“Ed,” Bob said to a nearby proctor, “you wanna lend me a hand for a minute?”
Miranda sat down on one of the benches lining the hall and waited.
With the last stanchions in place, the leader pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat pocket. He spoke fast in a foreign language while moving to the center of the room, under the main skylight.
“Excuse me,” Bob said to the third man, who was standing just inside the entrance. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man stared back at Bob, wide-eyed. “Yes,” he croaked; his English wasn’t so good.
“What?”
The leader walked up. “Upstairs sent us down to clear this exhibit. They’ve got some VIPs coming through.”
“I didn’t hear about it,” Bob said. “I oversee this section.”
“Call upstairs, if you like.”
Bob studied the strange men, shook his head. “No, you’re right. They’ve been having people down all week.” As he turned to leave, time seemed to slow: he saw another unfamiliar man running from the gallery’s rear entrance; he saw strange shadows moving across the floor in a uniform pattern, and when he looked up at the skylight, there hovered a white helicopter. He turned away from the men, extracting a thin, retractable, electrified weapon from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist it extended. He rounded on the men.
Miranda was still on the bench when the commotion broke out. Two of the men ran past her down the hall. She heard Bob shouting for them to stop, so when the leader ran by, she casually stuck out a heel and tripped him. He tumbled, but quickly recovered and lunged for her. Reflexively, she stood and backed away.
“Look out, Ms. Priestly!” Bob called as he caught up. With gritted teeth, he shocked the leader, who wailed and collapsed. Bob backed up, out of breath, and hit the museum’s emergency alarm.
The piercing siren blared, and people began swarming toward the disruption. Discreetly, Miranda backed her way through the gathering crowd and moved to the Impressionist gallery. She glanced around, but no one was paying her attention. She slid under the security gate as it was closing.
She ran to the heart of the gallery, slipping on latex gloves she pulled from her pocket. Then, as if it were something she did on a daily basis, Miranda yanked the hundred million dollar Monet off the wall, ripping it free of its frame, which she tossed aside. Stowed out of sight under the bench, she grabbed the black bag she’d planted earlier that morning. She unzipped it down the sides, and it fell open like a case, the inside hinged and more structured than it first appeared. Placing the painting inside, she re-zipped the bag, and briskly walked back to the security gate, which wasn’t yet all the way down. Miranda lay on her back and slid underneath the gate, right by the briefcase she had set down earlier.
In the chaos of people moving down the hall toward the museum’s exit, Miranda stood, unnoticed, and brushed herself off. She blended into the crowd, strolling along as if nothing at all was amiss.
At the bottom of the Met’s steps, Miranda hailed yet another taxi. She gave the driver her address, glanced back at the museum, and shut the car door.
When Miranda arrived that evening, the townhouse was quiet. She closed the door on the world outside and stood for a moment in the stillness, stunned by what she had just accomplished. She collected herself as Cara, the Priestly family’s housekeeper and nanny, emerged from the kitchen to greet her.
“Good evening, Miranda.”
“Good evening, Cara.” Miranda held out the black bag-case, “Would you put this in the study?”
Cara took the bag and headed for the stairs. “The girls are upstairs doing homework, and I’ve opened a bottle of wine.”
Miranda murmured a distracted “thank you” as she perused the mail sitting on the table in the foyer.
Upstairs, she knocked once on the door to the girls’ study room then entered, smiling. “Hello, girls.”
They looked up from their work with identical grins. It was always a good sign when their Mom greeted them smiling; it meant she was in a good mood and they could relax.
“You’re home early,” Cassidy said.
“I am,” Miranda said, as she walked a precarious path toward their desks, carefully trying to avoid the papers scattered on the floor, “but not in time for dinner, unfortunately. Was it good?”
They nodded in unison.
“Cara’s poached salmon is always good. You know that,” Caroline said. “We saved some for you.”
“Yeah,” Cassidy said, “but not any of the chocolate bread pudding. It was horrible. We had to eat it all to spare you.”
Miranda laughed, inwardly cringing at the thought of the caloric content of said chocolate bread pudding, and finally reached them, leaning to give them quick kisses on their cheeks. “Thank you for thinking of me. I trust that before you both go to bed tonight, this room will be cleaned.”
“Yes, Mom,” they groaned.
Miranda nodded. At least the television was off; she was grateful for that small favor. She gestured to their homework. “I can tell you’re looking forward to visiting your father this weekend.”
Cassidy squirmed in her chair. “He said to have our homework done by the time he meets us in the morning. He said he had a surprise, so we wouldn’t have time for homework over the weekend.”
“Yeah!” Caroline said. “I wonder what it is.”
Wondering herself, Miranda quirked an eyebrow. Well, they were Greg’s children also, she supposed, and if it were anything too out of the ordinary, he would have asked her first. Still, she would worry over the weekend. “You’ll have to tell me all about it on Monday night, then, and not leave one detail out.”
“Of course, Mom,” Cassidy said, a little put out. There was no way she and Caroline could not tell their mother.
“Good.” Miranda kissed their foreheads. “I’ll be in the study.” She headed for the door as if walking through a minefield. Over her shoulder, she said, “Bed by ten o’clock.”
She entered the study at the end of hall and saw the open bottle of wine, with requisite glass, and the black bag, sitting on her desk. Her eyes never leaving the case, she poured a glass of wine, and took a liberal sip. For a second, she thought she’d open the case to find the painting gone, vanished as if it and the day’s events were mere figments of her imagination. She drained the glass, set it aside, and unzipped the bag.
The Monet was still there.
She stared.
Exquisite.
Miranda slid her right hand along the edge of her desk and pressed a hidden button, which caused the print of Magritte’s The Son of Man above her fireplace to slide up, out of sight, revealing a shallow, empty alcove, the size of which seemed suited to the Monet. Careful not to touch the paint, Miranda gently placed the painting in the alcove. It fit perfectly.
Miranda sat down behind her desk, poured another glass of wine, and toasted the Monet. “Oh, yes,” she said, and smiled.