Not two. One.
Miranda rested her head back against the bathroom wall and exhaled in relief before triple-checking the box. Yes: one line definitely meant she was not pregnant. She might get another test and check again tomorrow, of course, but she was willing to bet that there was no cause for concern.
She discarded the test in the wastebasket before washing her hands. Good heavens, that had been a close call. She'd quite enjoyed her time with what's-his-name, of course, especially once he'd been able to present her with a clean bill of health verifying that he was disease-free (why did they always make such a fuss about that?), but there were limits. Discovering the broken condom at the end of their final encounter had been the last straw. Besides, he'd begun to get clingy. After only one month, he expected her to remember his name. Absurd. As if she didn't have enough to think about.
She hadn't been too worried until yesterday, when she'd looked at her Pill pack and suddenly realized that she was one day behind. Miranda never panicked, and she wasn't even sure if it would make a huge difference, but it had been an unpleasant moment to say the least. There was no time in her life for children. After six heady years at the top of Runway, she'd ensured that the magazine was no longer a disaster, its aesthetic hopelessly out of date. She had gently persuaded everyone to see things her way, over and over again. And although it was an excruciating wrangle, each issue was a work of art, something unique and precious--like a child, as a matter of fact.
Besides, simply because she was thirty-eight and the conventional 'wisdom' was some nonsense about 'running out of time'--well, people had different priorities. She wasn't interested in being a mother. She never had been. It wasn't as if it were a requirement for a woman to have a fulfilling life. The very idea was pure sexism.
Much relieved, Miranda dressed, accessorized, glared into her mirror to make sure she had it just right, and left to begin her day.
On the way, she forwent her usual practice of reviewing the Book one final time in order to look idly out the window. Manhattan was hardly short of sights. A line of schoolchildren meandered towards the Met, just barely held together between a teacher at either end. They couldn't have been more than six years old, their cheeks still plump.
And the harried teachers were obviously having difficulty controlling them. Miranda rolled her eyes. What was so hard about it? They were tiny people, for heaven's sake, and as people, they were designed to take orders from those in charge. She could do a much better job. Just give her ten minutes, and they'd be marching like very petite soldiers in those adorable puffy jackets and galoshes.
Shaking her head, Miranda opened the Book.
"The spread isn't horrible," Miranda said the next day. Paul glowed. "Now we need to plan for May."
"Right." Paul's trembling hand offered her a portfolio. "I'm thinking Claudia. She's got that wholesome-sex-kitten look, you know? All fresh, but kind of naughty too. Perfect for a spring issue."
"She'll do," Miranda agreed, taking a sip of water and leaning forward to look at the glossy. "What does Michaela have to say about accessories?"
"Gold," Paul said enthusiastically.
"Gold what?"
"Uh…I think that's as far as she's gotten right now, but I can--"
"Fire her." Miranda reached for the second glossy. "And make Claudia lose two and a half pounds."
"Er," Paul said, and shook his head rapidly, his glow fading into something a bit more ashen. "Sure thing."
"So much for accessories. As for the clothes…" Miranda tapped her lips. "Spring." The season of fertility and new life. It called for vigor. "No pastels--something deep and vibrant. Alive."
"Right, right," Paul said, his pen scratching rapidly across the paper.
"And boots."
"Oka--boots?" Paul blinked at her. "I mean…for spring?"
"Oh, yes," Miranda said, only half-listening as she reached for the third glossy. "Little, tiny boots."
"The contrast is pretty bad," Nigel acknowledged as Miranda scowled at the mock-up on the following week. "But it's an easy fix. This new image editing software, it's amazing--the latest Photoshop is just about to come out, and apparently it does this thing called macros."
"Macros? Macro-what?"
"I don't know exactly," Nigel said. "But it sounds interesting, doesn't it?"
"I'm sure," Miranda said, bored. "Put it in the budget if it's the latest thing and show me what it can do."
"Gotcha," Nigel said. "Anyway, it'll be able to fix this contrast. At least, Derek and Grace say so."
"Good." Miranda tried not to squint at the spread. She had a nasty suspicion that her vision was getting worse. "You stopped by Marketing earlier, didn't you?"
"Ye--" Nigel stopped. Miranda glanced up at him and saw he looked a little spooked. "Yes, I did. Uh, how did you know?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Nothing. It's just that you somehow always seem to…" he trailed off, and finished, "Never mind. What about Marketing?"
"I'm not thrilled with the numbers. We can squeeze out at least another thousand from Versace, don't you think? Gianni's making money hand over fist, and he wants us to give advertising away." She shook her head in disgust. "And his ads are hardly inspired, wouldn't you say?"
"Sure, yes, of course I'd say that, yes," Nigel replied.
"He needs more drama." Miranda waved her hand. "Not that bland palette of--whatever it is."
"Right. Bland."
"There's nothing there. Nothing of joie de vivre, or passion, or art, or babies."
"Or--" Nigel stopped. "Uh. Babies?"
"Babies?" Miranda immediately looked up from the spread. "What did you say? What about babies?"
"Nothing? You…well, it's just that you said 'babies,' and I wond--"
"I'm sure I didn't," Miranda said.
"I mean, you didn't," Nigel replied. "At all."
"Well, then." Miranda handed him the spread photos. "I'll count on you to report back to Marketing. That's all."
"Testino, Demarchelier, Liebovitz, good grief," Miranda snapped, throwing the list down on her desk. "Can't we get some new talent in here for once?"
Her editorial staff stared at her like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Deer whose legs were all chained together.
"Am I not speaking in English?" Miranda asked softly. They all twitched. "Is it too much to ask for a little variety? I mean, honestly--Irving Penn?"
Paul's jaw dropped. Grace squeaked, "But…but Irving's brill--Ow!" She bent down to rub her ankle. Nigel looked innocent.
Derek cleared his throat. "We'll find somebody else," he said.
"See that you do," Miranda replied, glaring down at the lackluster copy that currently served for an article on travel.
"Is there a, um, particular aesthetic you're looking for? Softer, edgier--"
"Softer, I think," Miranda said, looking up from the copy and staring off into space as she tried to describe her vision. "And lots of bright colors. Round shapes. Gentle lighting."
"All right," Nigel said briskly, "how about--"
"Anne Geddes has some good ideas," Miranda said.
"--how about Anne Geddes?" Nigel finished. Then he blanched. "Wait. What?"
"She does remarkable work with sunflowers," Miranda said dreamily. "And bumblebees."
Perfect, Miranda thought as she paged through Anne's portfolio in Allegretti three days later. Just a bit too sentimental, of course, a bit too cutesy--but, well, it was possible for one to be too hard on that kind of thing. More important was the use of lighting, and color, and shape. Round shapes. Like those little baby twins sitting in a pumpkin. Just what she'd hoped for. It shouldn't be too hard to suggest to Anne how her vision could conform to Miranda's own. And sticking Naomi in an outsized summer squash would be a rare delight indeed. Maybe they'd use her instead of Claudia. Miranda would ask Nigel.
She put down the portfolio and stared out the window, sighing impatiently. Irv was late, and she was hungry. Anne's portfolio was the only interesting thing she'd brought with her, and she refused to go over columns of numbers by herself yet again. She glared at her own reflection in the window, where she could see (yet again) the white hair at her temples that was threatening to take over her entire head.
On the other side of the window, a young woman--perhaps a nanny--pushed a stroller with a sleeping, occasionally squirming bundle inside. By chance, she paused in front of Miranda, and took the baby out of the stroller. It was tiny, as tiny a human being as Miranda had ever seen. It couldn't have been more than a couple of months old. She held her breath as the young woman picked it up and bounced it a little, speaking to it in a voice Miranda couldn't hear from her side of the glass.
The baby promptly spat up on the young woman's coat. The woman winced, rolled her eyes, and sighed visibly. Then she picked up a corner of the baby's blanket and patiently dabbed at its mouth and cheek while it began to cry.
Good Lord, Miranda thought. How horrible. What was the point of taking a little creature like that outside if it was so delicate? It couldn't help itself, could it? It had to be looked after, sheltered, protected--
The woman bounced the baby again, and gave it a resigned, affectionate smile before dropping a kiss on the downy head.
Miranda's biological clock went off like an atomic bomb.
But how to go about it?
Well, finding the donor was the obvious thing. She'd probably end up marrying him, though, so he'd better be good. She'd briefly considered going it alone--who said you needed a man?--but ultimately discarded the idea. Not for ideological reasons, but practical ones; although she fully intended to engage a competent nanny, it would be useful to have a third pair of hands around the place if necessary. And she wasn't getting any younger, so it was time to get cracking.
That left only the question of suitable candidates. They said it was impossible to get a date in New York. Miranda'd never had any problems with that, but she was beginning to think that getting married in New York would be an altogether different proposition. So to speak.
Like now, for instance. She was sitting at the bar at Giorgio's party, allowing herself to be chatted up by a man her own age. She couldn't go much higher than that, of course--she'd read that they stopped being useful around the time they hit fifty.
Miranda scrutinized her current possibility carefully. His name was Howard. Strong build and features. Good teeth. She knew his parents (which made it much easier to remember his name) and neither had dropped dead yet of cancer or heart disease. And from what she had heard about him, he didn't have any glaring personality defects, criminal history, sexual peccadilloes, or financial troubles.
He did, however, enjoy going on and on about himself. Well, they always did, of course. But he wasn't telling Miranda anything she really wanted to know. And for once, she found herself at a loss; she knew how to nod and smile while tuning out intermittently, she knew how to dismiss, she knew how to seduce. But this was new. This wasn't getting a date, this was getting married. How did one begin such a dialogue, especially when there was no time to lose?
Probably best to be direct. She was good at that. Miranda reached out and laid a light hand on top of Howard's. He stopped mid-sentence, and she leaned forward with her most coquettish smile.
"Tell me, darling," she said, "what's your sperm count like?"
So much for Howard. Miranda had no time for men like that--men who couldn't handle it when a woman was assertive.
No. You needed somebody reliable and good at taking direction. And so, even though she knew it was wrong to fraternize in the workplace, Miranda asked Nigel, "What do you think about marriage?"
"Marriage?" Nigel blinked. "You mean, in general?"
"All right," Miranda sighed, wondering how much she was going to have to lead him by the nose. He was probably gay, but that had never been a problem before. Gay men were often the first to slobber over her, in fact. "Start there."
"Well, it's okay, I guess," Nigel said. "Obviously." He chuckled nervously. "Or maybe I should go consult my wife. Ha, ha."
Miranda raised her eyebrows. "You're married?"
Nigel blinked again, and then closed his eyes. "Yes, Miranda. I am married."
"Oh," Miranda said, not really disappointed. C'est la vie, and no doubt there were better opportunities available. Really, it would have been a terrible idea--if she had a boy, she didn't want him growing up so short. "Well, congratulations."
"I've been married for eight years. Since before I started working for you."
"That's nice," Miranda said, already losing interest as she peered down at Anne's latest proofs. Naomi's smile looked a bit strained. It was fabulous.
"You've met her. Um. A lot."
"Who, Naomi?" Miranda asked absently. "Of course I've met her."
"Right," Nigel said, and rubbed his hands over his face.
Howard, Nigel, Lucas, Robert, and Rick were all disasters. Respectively, they were too insecure, too short, too ugly, too smarmy, and too named Rick. All of which was unacceptable. (Miranda had suggested, on their second date, that Rick go by Richard, but to no avail.)
The situation was looking hopeless. It had been two whole months, which meant she'd lost two more eggs, and there was, as she'd learned, a finite supply. Not to mention that menopause itself was looming. If things kept going this way, she'd have to get a few put on ice, but that seemed even messier and more inconvenient than getting married.
Perhaps in vitro was the best way, Miranda thought morosely as she sipped her Perrier. Or the only way. She'd started having dreams about bibs.
"What Kind of Patient Are You? Your first step in figuring out the kind of practitioner who is right for you is to give some thought to the kind of patient you are."
Miranda frowned. So far, Arlene Eisenberg et al. were not proving very helpful. Of course, she was only on page 23, and she'd skipped most of the tedious introductory material. Still, this section was on selecting the proper kind of medical care, and it wouldn't do not to plan ahead. She could already rule out a nurse-midwife, but it shouldn't be too hard to find a decent obstetrician. Doctors knew best, although she certainly wouldn't be taking every bit of advice at face value. An OB/GYN, then. That was settled. She flipped back to the Table of Contents to see what she ought to look at next.
"Miranda?"
Miranda glanced up to see the other members of the Elias-Clarke editorial board staring down the long conference table at her. At the head of the table, Irv Ravitz was frowning. "Do you have something to contribute?"
"The dispensation of funds to Runway's operating costs is completely inadequate," Miranda said, without missing a beat. "Just give me what Auto Universe isn't using. Based on the latest issue, there's plenty of it."
"That's a thought," Irv said, turning on Auto's hapless editor-in-chief with a mean little smile. The editor began to splutter. Satisfied, Miranda returned to What to Expect When You're Expecting, safely hidden behind her enormous leather-bound planner.
"Miranda," Evelyn Tandy said, "I'd like you to meet Gregory."
"Greg, please," said the man to her right. He was about six feet tall, had graying (but not thinning) black hair, a slightly anxious smile, and a slightly damp handshake.
"It's a pleasure, Ms. Priestly," he said. "I've heard so much about you."
"Ah," Miranda said.
"I'll just leave you two to talk!" Evelyn chirped, and fluttered away. Over the past five years, Miranda had found Evelyn's attempts at matchmaking tiresome in the extreme. Perhaps they might finally pay off.
Having learned from her previous encounters, Miranda let 'Greg' sit down next to her and began more delicately. "You've heard about me?"
"Only good things," he said quickly, obviously lying through his passable teeth.
"Mm," Miranda replied, bracing herself for disappointment yet again. "Well, Greg, dear, why don't you tell me about yourself?"
"Oh…well…"
And it all came spilling out, the usual stumbling explanation of his profession (marketing), his specific position (senior analyst), his place within the company (he didn't seem quite sure). Obviously he needed someone to take him firmly in hand. Miranda was fairly certain she wasn't interested, but all the same, she gamely inquired, "Well, that's the present. What about the future?" Wondering if he'd even have one.
"Oh, well," Greg said again. "I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to say I want to be CEO in five years or something." He gave her an abashed smile. Miranda, aware that she was supposed to find this charming, graciously inclined her head and cursed Evelyn in her heart. "But really," Greg continued, "I mean, I like my job. But it's not my life, you know?" Miranda stared at him blankly. What a strange idea. "I guess I'm just a family man at heart."
Miranda blinked. "What?"
"Oh, you know. That's what I want. Picket fence, marriage, kids…the works." Miranda's breath caught, and Greg's eyes widened. He blushed. "Oh, hell. Right out of the gate--that came off really weird, didn't it? I mean--I didn't, I wasn't trying to--"
"Greg," Miranda said, leaning forward, "let me buy you a drink."
Four months later, Miranda gazed at Greg while the priest waited expectantly.
"I, um," Greg said, looking around the church and appearing completely bewildered. In the front pew, his mother sobbed. "I do?"
Miranda beamed.
"So," he said, mopping his palms on his tuxedo trousers and blinking at her in what appeared to be a healthy mix of anticipation and terror. "The wedding night, huh?"
"Evidently," Miranda said, taking off her shoes and reaching for the buttons of her honeymoon jacket. She'd been more than relieved to change out of that heavy gown. "Thank goodness, yes?"
"It was, um, interesting," Greg said. "You know…waiting."
"Well, it was the right thing to do," Miranda said, shrugging off the jacket. It was, of course, when you were actually going to marry someone. The others didn't count. They hadn't been serious. This was an urgent matter--this was her baby--and she had been determined to approach it with the proper attitude. It had been tricky to find out for sure that Greg was fertile, but she'd gotten him to agree to tests by saying it was part of her religion. He had already learned not to question her too closely, other than an "Um, what religion is that, honey?" A severe look, followed by a quick kiss, had taken care of that. She was sure that this would work out nicely.
"Yes, of course," Greg said. He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and took her in his arms. She was flattered by the real desire in his eyes, and, in a moment, heartily relieved by his erection.
It went off as satisfactorily as could be expected, and so did he. Miranda was quite pleased.
Greg certainly had no reason to complain during the next five months. Miranda made a point of putting him through his paces nearly every night, even when her basal temperature and ovulation weren't ideal. You never knew, after all. It was never completely impossible. Anything could happen.
"Wow," Greg gasped in the middle of one such encounter. "You're incredi…I have to say this. No woman's ever wanted me so much before."
"I suppose it's just meant to be," Miranda said as she considered their position. The books said that positions as related to conception were mostly a myth, but it might be worth a shot. She was getting a little worried. Five months! "What if I turn over on my side?"
"So," Nigel asked heartily. "How's married life suiting you?" Miranda furrowed her brow. "Er. Why don't I forget I said that?"
"No, no," Miranda said, waving her hand. "It's fine. Better than fine. I expect results any day now."
"You expect what?"
"You have to stay focused, Nigel," Miranda said firmly. "Otherwise, what's the point of anything?"
"I'm not focused? How?" Now Nigel looked a little pale. "What am I doing wrong?"
"You? Who says this is about you?" Miranda asked, irritated. Men. Even Greg was starting to make noises about 'his own needs,' whatever those were. She was steadily kicking him up the corporate ladder--what else could he possibly want from her? "Honestly. Now, has Cindy finally committed to the Florida shoot?"
Nigel muttered something about somebody being committed, but then quickly responded in the affirmative, which was all that mattered.
"Not tonight," Greg said.
"What?" Miranda gasped.
"I'm tired," he whined. "And I leave for D.C. tomorrow."
"Yes. Exactly!" Miranda said. He'd be gone for six whole nights, and this was the ideal part of the month. She only had tonight!
"It's just…" Greg passed a hand over his brow and looked at her plaintively. "Don't get me wrong. You're hot as hell, but…couldn't we just talk for a night? I mean--sex isn't the only kind of intimacy, you know?" Miranda tried to keep the horrified look off her face. It might turn him off a little. "My mom was saying…"
Oh dear God, not Irma, not now. "Darling," Miranda said, "I'm not sure bed is the best place to bring up your mother, who hates me." Not that it mattered, unless it meant Greg stopped putting out.
"She doesn't hate you," Greg said too quickly. "I was just talking to her. Not about sex, for God's sake. I wouldn't talk to my mom about…it was just about marriage in general, you know? About what it's like, what it ought to mean."
'Ought to mean.' Miranda nearly snorted. When she ran into the ideal person, someone who 'completed' her, whom she utterly adored or that sort of nonsense--that'd be the day. Her marriage to Greg was quite satisfactory. Just what she required.
In that vein, instead of snorting, she tilted her head to the side. "Do you no longer desire me?"
"What? Oh God, no!" Greg sat up, his eyes going wide. "That's not it at all--honey, are you worried about that?"
It was the work of half a moment for Miranda to decide she should say, "Well, darling, I know I don't look like one of my models." Vulnerability could go a long way with men.
"So what?" Greg took her in his arms immediately. "C'mere."
Miranda rested her head on his shoulder and drew a finger down his chest. He shivered.
Whew.
Greg was gone. She had the house all to herself. It had been thirty-six hours since they'd had sex.
And she had two pink lines.
Not one. Two.
Miranda leaned her head back in the wall and exhaled in relief before triple-checking the box. And quadruple-checking. Quintuple-checking. And making a mental note to schedule an appointment with her G.P. tomorrow morning. But she was certain. Absolutely certain. Somehow, she could tell. She just knew it.
Miranda, for the first time in years, felt a genuine grin stretching her face. A triumphant grin.
There. She'd done it. She'd won.
The hard part was over.
FIN.