Chapter Text
Miranda had absolutely lost her damn mind. That was the only reasonable conclusion, really, given the evidence.
Exhibit A: She couldn’t stop staring at her second assistant. Andrea had finally started taking her job seriously, and Nigel had given her the makeover to prove it. Her glorious figure was, at long last, no longer hidden under poly-blend sweaters, ill-fitting coats, and hideous skirts. Her beautiful chestnut hair was no longer languishing under the weight of drugstore conditioner. More importantly, Miranda could no longer tell herself that she was staring because she hated Andrea’s clothes so much, or because she was furious Andrea was still making no effort to understand the fashion industry. She was staring because a remarkable woman with beautiful breasts and an even more beautiful smile was sitting directly in her line of sight every day, and she couldn’t look away.
Exhibit B: She couldn’t stop seeing her second assistant everywhere, even outside of work. She’d be working on The Book and a brunette model would suddenly have Andrea’s face for a brief moment. She’d be in the car and a woman would stride confidently down the sidewalk in a Burberry coat and Miranda would turn her head, certain it was Andrea. She’d see an advertisement on television while sitting in the entertainment room with Caroline and Cassidy, and she’d swear it was Andrea laughing and dancing on a rooftop with friends.
Exhibit C: She couldn’t stop thinking about her second assistant. Wondering what she was thinking about when she bit her lip while taking notes. Wondering if she enjoyed Miranda’s daily slow perusal of her outfit as much as it looked like she did. Wondering what she did on her lunch break, whether she shared Miranda’s fondness for fine food and expensive wine. Wondering whether she would have enjoyed the tasting menu that Miranda had had at Le Bernardin last night, which had far outshone both the company (Stephen at his most truculent) and the perfunctory sex she’d endured afterward. Wondering what she did in her free time, whether she thought about Miranda when she wasn’t at work, whether she thought about Miranda while she...
Hmm. Yes, that was the coup de grace, wasn’t it? The final nail in the coffin of Miranda’s sanity.
Exhibit D: She couldn’t stop fantasizing about her second assistant. It would have been regrettable, but ultimately forgivable, if she had merely indulged in a few idle thoughts here and there. While getting ready in the morning, for example, or while waiting for Stephen to get to whatever tiresome point he was making. Instead, the fantasies caught her unawares at the most awkward times. While she was in the middle of a run-through, say, and had a vision of Andrea in a filmy gold blouse that was slashed open almost to the waist, her full breasts ready to spill out into Miranda’s hands at any moment. Or while she was in bed with Stephen and had a sudden flash of Andrea’s face hovering above her instead, dark eyes and a wide grin urging her to let go. That one had hurtled her into the first real orgasm she’d had in months. It was hard to say who had been more surprised—her or Stephen.
Yes, Miranda was forced to conclude that she had completely taken leave of her senses. It was certainly a much more palatable conclusion than the other possibility. The one that she didn’t think about, didn’t even consider, because it was too far-fetched. Too impossible. Entirely out of the question.
People had called Miranda a lot of things—a powerful woman, a dragon lady, a fashion icon, an ice queen, a trendsetter, a devil in heels—and some of them were even true. She’d learned to take the good with the bad. But no one had called her a…a lesbian. She’d made sure that Miranda Priestly’s heterosexuality was above reproach. Miriam had learned that lesson early and painfully.
Miriam had suffered the slurs, the loneliness, the heartbreak, so that Miranda could rise above it. Miriam had been foolish, headstrong, full of romantic notions that were soon dashed by a harsh world and a harsher father. Miranda was cautious, image-conscious, and above all, unimpeachably straight. Surely three different marriages to men were more than enough to satisfy even the most exacting standards of heteronormativity.
Miranda hadn’t allowed herself to think about Sarah in years, but for some reason she’d found herself thinking of her more and more, lately. Or, not thinking of Sarah, exactly, but of how Miriam had been, when she and Sarah were...together.
She’d scrubbed Sarah Adler from her memory and from her life, just as she’d scrubbed every other part of Miriam Princhek’s sorry existence from her life. But something about Andrea—beautiful, ambitious Andrea who wore her heart on her sleeve and smiled at Miranda like she meant it—made Miranda feel like Miriam again, sometimes. Made her want to be foolish and impetuous again, like she had been with Sarah for those few glorious months before they were discovered, before everything fell apart.
Yes, Miranda had officially lost her mind. After all, Miranda Priestly was not—could not afford to be—a lesbian.
The latest evidence for Miranda’s descent into madness was the decision to bring Andrea to Paris, even though Emily had been with her for over a year and had more than earned the opportunity. Oh, Miranda had justified it with some excellent rationalizations about testing Andrea’s ambition and Emily’s loyalty and resolve. Emily’s injury had provided another good pretext, if somewhat after the fact. But it was not a rational decision. It was based purely on her feeling of absolute dread at the thought of not seeing Andrea Sachs, her second assistant, for nine days.
Even the weekends were difficult now. And the workdays when they were not in the office at the same time much due to errands or off-site meetings. But nine days in a row without even a glimpse of that luminous smile, those kind brown eyes? Nine frantically busy days during which she would be forced to viciously defend her job from Irv Ravitz once again, and possibly crush the hopes of a dear friend in the process, if she could not come up with an alternative?
No, it didn’t bear thinking on. Andrea’s presence was necessary for her mood, for her concentration, for her very survival. No one could anticipate her wants and needs like Andrea, pacify her inner critic like Andrea, make her feel not alone like Andrea.
Being near her was distracting, true. Being trapped in the car with Andrea and the smell of her hair, her lotion, her perfume was a feat of endurance greater than the longest workday of Miranda’s life. Two weeks ago, they’d traveled all the way to Brooklyn on a Friday afternoon to visit a promising new designer. Andrea had worn a tight shirt with a deep scoop neck, a short skirt, and a devastating pair of thigh-high boots. She’d been wearing a new scent, too, a bit darker and more mature than what she normally wore. It was the most delicious torture Miranda had ever experienced. She’d spent the entire time achingly aware of how wet she was. Poor Rashad had barely gotten two sentences out of her. And the trip home was even worse. She’d scarcely been able to look at Andrea, but she could hear the rustle of her skirt, the creak of her boots, the faster than normal breathing. Even worse, she could feel the girl’s eyes on her almost the entire time. From any other assistant, it would have been infuriating. From Andrea, it was astonishing. Wicked. Incendiary.
But being away from Andrea was far worse than being close. Debilitating, almost. Even Cassidy and Caroline had noticed it—how easily she lost track of the goings on in whatever ridiculous television show they were forcing her to watch these days. How she burned breakfast last Sunday morning—she’d been mentally replacing the models in the latest Versace spread with Andrea and watching her fill out the dresses properly. How sad she apparently looked when she sat with them in the evenings. How she mentioned Andrea over dinner more than she’d ever mentioned another assistant, as Cassidy had recently informed her with a smile far too sly for Miranda’s peace of mind.
The girls didn’t see the worst parts, though. The bouts of what Miranda would have called depression, if it were happening to anyone else. The infrequent, guilty indulgence of masturbation to thoughts of Andrea, always followed by sex with Stephen as soon after as she could arrange. The near-crippling shame. The late-night desolation, that sleepless time after 2:00 a.m. when she could not quite wrap the protective shell of Miranda Priestly around poor Miriam’s bruised, delicate heart. When she admitted that Miriam, at least, was… that. That thing that she could barely stand to think, let alone say. The thing that had ruined her relationship with her family, that had almost ruined her career before it even started. Could still ruin her career, if she wasn’t careful. If she wasn’t vigilant. If she wasn’t straight.
The arrival of divorce papers the afternoon before she would have to rip Nigel’s new job away from him was really the last straw. Miranda sat in her luxurious hotel room, papers in hand, staring blankly at her own doom.
She had already been clinging to sanity with her fingernails. Even aside from the nightmare of dealing with the press and watching the girls suffer through another divorce splashed across Page Six. Even aside from losing another father figure for the girls, changing the routines of their home. Even aside from all that...god, she could hardly believe she was so focused on it, with everything else going on. When all she should be thinking about was how her girls would suffer. Still, Miranda couldn’t help but wonder how she could possibly be expected to cope without a husband right now.
Without Stephen as her bulwark, her penance, her altar of self-sacrifice...how could she possibly survive another six months or more of having Andrea close, but not close enough?
Miranda’s hands began to shake as she truly considered what her next few months would hold. She had done her best to ignore the signs that her...unfortunate fixation was reciprocated. That Andrea stared at Miranda just as much as Miranda stared at her—more, in fact. But Andrea had been emboldened by that trip to Brooklyn. She had started engineering moments when she could touch Miranda without anyone noticing. First it was fingers brushing on a coffee cup, then a hand stroking her forearm, shoulders grazing as they walked in opposite directions. Soon, it would escalate further, no doubt. And every touch made Miranda hungrier for the next one, which only made Andrea bolder.
Andrea was not a subtle woman. It was one of her many charms, but it was also one of the many reasons she was so dangerous to Miranda. Even a whiff of sexual harassment scandal, especially with a much younger woman, would be enough to sink her. She’d be sharpening the knife for Irv to stick in her own back.
With Stephen gone, she had no shield, no easy defense against that. Her only saving grace now was that Andrea still seemed to be clinging to her relationship with that cook who refused to respect her job or her ambitions . Given that Miranda expected them to break up any day now, based on the brief and frustrated phone calls she could hardly help overhearing—well, they had practically no defense at all, anymore.
No amount of swallowing seemed to get rid of the unfamiliar lump in Miranda’s throat. Her chest squeezed as she finally admitted the awful truth: there was no other choice. She would have to put an end to the madness.
She would have to let Andrea go.
A sob tore out of Miranda unexpectedly. A keening sound she couldn’t remember ever making before, though Miriam had. Once.
She clawed at the blouse constricting her chest, the necklaces that seemed to be weighing her down. Another sob came out, then another and another. A flood of tears followed soon after. She could barely see, could barely breathe for the gaping, wrenching loss of this temporary madness, this delightful torture.
Her chest heaved and throbbed and ached under the weight of this awful feeling. She felt constricted—by too much clothing, by too much grief, by too much Being Miranda.
Miranda Priestly did not have the tools for this situation, these sorts of genuine feelings. But Miriam Princhek did.
Slowly, painfully, she unwrapped her blouse, unwound her tangle of necklaces, unlatched her tight shell of Miranda. Her armor fell around her piece by piece, in whispers of silk and lace and gold and merino, inaudible under the torrent of her grief.
Miranda would have tried to perform her nightly cleansing routine, would have stalled in the harsh lights of the bathroom, staring at the tear-streaked, devastated face of Miriam Princhek.
But Miriam knew better. Miriam knew how to climb into a hot shower, as hot as she could stand. Miriam knew how to curl into a tight ball on the floor of the shower and weep for the love that could never be. Miriam knew how to cry, and then how to stop crying, at least for a while. How to get up, and scrub herself clean, and put on a plain gray robe over her naked pink skin, deliberately ignoring Miranda’s instinct to moisturize.
Miriam knew how to ask room service for black tea and a plate of cookies. Miriam knew how to slump into the corner of the couch with decadently poor posture and a box of tissues close at hand. Miriam knew how to leave her designer clothes where they lay, close her eyes, and just breathe.
An hour later, it was Miriam who woke from a disorienting nap to find Andrea—her beautiful, dear Andrea—shocked into awkward stillness by the presence of someone she had never met.
Miriam knew Andrea was expecting Miranda. She should really put her back on. Don the mental armor, at least, if not the clothing. But it was so hard, when Miriam could instead look at Andrea’s beautiful face and bask in her presence.
Tomorrow, Miranda would tell Andrea she had to go. But tonight, Miriam could look her fill. Just this once.
“There you are,” said Miriam softly, in a voice that was husky with tears and sleep.
Andrea looked...spooked. Uncertain.
“Please remove Stephen from my table and move somebody else there,” Miriam said. “Stephen is not coming.”
With obvious effort, Andrea tore her eyes away from Miriam’s sagging, middle-aged face, no doubt blotchy from her tears. Andrea dug in her bag for a long moment. Miriam could see her fingers trembling.
“So I don’t need to fetch Stephen from the airport,” Andrea said, half to herself, as she pulled out the seating chart.
“Not unless he decides to rethink the divorce,” Miriam said.
Andrea froze, then looked around with new eyes—journalist's eyes—taking in the pile of clothes and jewelry, the manilla envelope with legal papers, the box of tissues, the remains of a plate of cookies. “Miranda, I’m so sorry,” she said. “If you want, I can cancel your evening.”
“Yes,” Miriam said. Miranda would have said no. Miranda would have said something scathing, would have loathed the sympathy that was so clear in Andrea’s eyes. But Miriam didn’t have the energy to be Miranda right then. And Miriam was pathetically grateful that Andrea cared.
She watched silently as Andrea made the necessary calls, arranged for Nigel to make her excuses. When Andrea ended the call to Nigel, she turned to face Miriam again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Miranda would have been scathing again, would have sent Andrea packing to avoid the destruction of the last remaining boundaries between them. But Miranda wasn’t there. And Miriam was so hungry for the last precious scraps of this foolish, impossible love.
“Order dinner for me. Something light. And whatever you want, if you’d like to stay.”
Andrea’s eyes widened. She looked very much like she’d just barely stopped herself from gasping. “Okay,” she said, fingers trembling again. She made another call, canceling her own dinner plans. Then she fetched the room service menu, made her choices with admirable decisiveness, and called down to order everything.
Miriam was unspeakably moved that Andrea chose to have dinner with her over whatever else she’d planned.
“You didn’t have to cancel your plans,” Miriam said, watching Andrea very closely.
“I wanted to,” Andrea said. “I was only going to dinner with Christian because I owe him a favor. And honestly, he’s kind of a sleazeball, so no great loss.” Then she seemed to realize she’d just volunteered a great deal of unnecessarily honest information and clamped her mouth shut with an embarrassed click.
“Dinner in Paris with Christian Thompson,” Miriam said. “Surely your cook back in New York wouldn’t have been too happy about that?”
“My cook? Oh, you mean Nate.” Andrea frowned, mouth twisting into an unfamiliar expression of bitterness. “Nate is probably moving out of our shared apartment as we speak. His opinions about my job and my dinner companions are no longer something I care about.”
“I see,” Miriam managed to choke out, taking a swig of her bitter, long-cold tea to moisten her suddenly parched throat. “Well, it seems we are both rather at loose ends. Aren’t we?”
Andrea stared at her in mute astonishment, no doubt realizing that they were, very suddenly, both unattached.
There were no more defenses left. Miranda’s carefully maintained veneer of heterosexuality was no more than a tiny blip on Miriam’s radar. All that was left to separate them was common sense and professionalism, both of which had frankly been in shorter and shorter supply, where Andrea was concerned.
She recalled that Friday afternoon in the car, the way their rapid breaths had echoed each other in the cavernous, electric silence. The way Miranda’s name had slipped off Andrea’s tongue in a desperate, pleading whisper. The way Andrea’s eyes had burned trails of fire across her face, her neck, her chest, her thighs. The way Miranda’s—Miriam’s—chest had heaved under her gaze, her nipples tightening until she was sure they were clearly visible, even through her clothes. The way Andrea had staggered when she climbed out of the car, face flushed and vaguely damp as she waved off Roy’s concerned hand.
Judging by the hungry look on Andrea’s face and the rapid rise and fall of her chest, Andrea’s thoughts were running along similar lines.
What a cruel world it was, to give them this ridiculous chemistry and yet put every possible barrier in the way of a relationship.
Andrea clenched and unclenched her hands, stepping forward in a lovely and characteristic show of bravado. “Miranda, I—”
Miriam listened to Miranda’s panic and reluctantly forestalled her with a raised hand. “I shouldn't have said that. Let’s have a peaceful dinner and talk afterward. All right?”
Andrea deflated, nodding quietly.
Long, anxious minutes later, a knock on the door announced the arrival of dinner.
Miriam retreated to the bathroom—even Miriam did not relish being seen by hotel employees without any of her typical armor—allowing Andrea to direct the hotel staff into the suite and tip them.
When she returned, Andrea was about to sit down at a table set for two. The whole scene was delightfully domestic, really. Miriam luxuriated in it.
“That’s yours,” Andrea said quietly, indicating chicken in some sort of white wine sauce.
Miriam sat and helped herself to bread. It was still hot, even. God bless the French, honestly.
Miranda hardly ever ate bread, especially white bread, but Miriam was starving. This hunger, she could satisfy without compunction.
Andrea stared in poorly hidden amazement as Miriam ate three pieces of bread in a row, with plenty of butter.
Miriam was suddenly eager to be seen, to be understood, on this one night they had together.
“I’m so hungry, Andrea. So hungry, all the time, for so many things. Many of them, I cannot have. Some of them I can, but I still deny myself far more often than I indulge. Do you understand?”
Andrea took a deep drink of her wine. Swallowed. “I think so,” she said.
Miriam began to eat the chicken, quietly pleased that Andrea had been able to choose something she liked. Andrea knew her so well, in some ways. Many ways. More ways than Stephen, certainly. But in other ways, not at all.
“Miranda Priestly is not my real name,” she announced.
Andrea jumped. A chunk of potato fell off her fork. “It isn’t?”
“I was born Miriam Princhek.”
“Miriam,” Andrea said slowly, as if testing the name for accuracy. “Miriam. I like it!”
Miriam smiled.
Andrea stared, then smiled back at her—the truest, happiest smile Miriam had ever seen on her face.
“What made you change it? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“As you might have cause to know, Jewish names are not always met with open doors and welcoming arms in this country. Or any country.”
Andrea nodded sadly.
“But more importantly, I wanted a clean break with my past. A new name for a new self.”
Andrea put down her knife and fork.
“That’s...that sounds so sad. Brave, but sad.” Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears. “Something awful happened, didn't it? It must have been really bad, if you decided to leave everyone behind like that. I don’t think I could do it—even if things haven't been great for me, lately, I'm still mostly okay. I still have plenty of stuff going for me, plenty of people who care about me. I can only imagine how you must have felt, for you to make that decision.”
“I certainly hope that you will never have cause to make such a decision for yourself. I hope that my daughters will not even be able to imagine doing such a thing.”
They finished their meals in silence. Miriam put down her knife and fork, allowing herself to slump back in the chair. Her robe gapped a bit at the chest, and she let it.
The dinner—somewhat peaceful, she supposed, despite her impromptu revelations—was over.
“Her name was Sarah,” Miriam said, her voice only slightly shaky. “Sarah was the reason I changed my name, the reason I needed a clean break.”
Andrea was a smart girl. It didn’t take her long. “Oh god,” she said. “Oh Miranda—I'm so sorry. It must have been awful.”
“Miranda Priestly has been married three times,” Miriam continued, “and will soon have been divorced three times. She dates age-appropriate men and is never without a suitable escort for long.”
Andrea’s eyes widened. Her hands clenched tightly around her knife and fork.
“Miriam Princhek,” she said, pausing to gather herself for the last, biggest truth, “Miriam Princhek was—is—a...a lesbian.”
Andrea’s silverware clattered to her plate. The knife fell off and toppled to the floor. There were tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh my god. Mirand—Miriam—oh god. You—all this time. Oh, you must have been so miserable.” She sniffled, lurching up from her chair. She was halfway around the table now, close enough to—close enough to hug Miriam tighter than she’d been hugged by an adult in decades.
Miriam reveled in it, gloried in it. She was weeping again, crying in front of her employee, and she didn’t care.
Miriam lifted her trembling arms and hugged Andrea back.
Miriam lingered in Andrea’s arms for as long as they could both maintain the awkward posture.
Andrea stroked her hair, rubbed her back. She was so brave, her Andrea. She didn’t even hesitate to offer physical comfort to a woman the world shrank from in fear.
Finally, when both their tears had stopped, Miriam rose stiffly from her chair. It was time to say what needed to be said.
She walked to the sofa and sat in the corner again, wrapping her robe around herself more tightly as she prepared to reveal all the reasons why tonight was their first and last night together. She had hoped to wait until tomorrow, but with all her unplanned revelations—yes, it had to be tonight.
After a brief hesitation, Andrea bravely sat beside her, only a foot away.
“I will have to do something tomorrow that I do not want to do. Something cruel, to a man who doesn’t deserve it. The man who I suppose is the closest thing I have to a best friend.”
Andrea’s mouth opened in surprise. “Nigel? What? Why do you have to—”
“Irv Ravitz and Jacqueline Follet and your friend Christian Thompson have been plotting to take Runway from me.”
“They what?!”
Andrea’s outrage was truly very touching.
“Yes, it’s been in the works for quite some time. Unfortunately, the only opportunity with a high enough salary to tempt Jacqueline away is the James Holt job.”
“But Nigel just told me about that job this afternoon. I don’t understand.”
Miriam just waited. Unlike Miranda, Miriam knew how to be patient.
Andrea gasped. “He doesn’t know? You haven’t told him?”
“I hoped that another opportunity would present itself. An alternative. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do it today. This afternoon.”
“He’s going to be so hurt, Miranda. You have to tell him first, privately.”
Miriam sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’ve been so focused on myself, I didn’t think of it that way, but you’re right. I’m having breakfast with Irv tomorrow—I suppose I’ll have to do it tonight. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be Miranda again until tomorrow, but there’s no other choice.”
Andrea’s head cocked to one side. She examined Miriam curiously—no doubt taking note of her slumped posture, her bare face, her sad, tired expression. “You’re Miriam tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yes, you’re the first Runway employee to ever meet her. Congratulations.”
Andrea looked awestruck. Miriam even thought she might cry again. “Why? Why are you Miriam right now? Why did you let me see her—you?”
Miriam swallowed harshly. Well, they were really cutting to the heart of things, weren’t they?
“Miranda Priestly has no experience dealing with heartbreak. Miriam does.”
Andrea’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Heartbreak? But surely—Stephen—I thought you were a lesbian?”
“Do you remember when we went to Rashad Green together, in Brooklyn?”
Judging by the delightful blush that washed over Andrea’s face and chest, she remembered very well.
Miriam sighed deeply, clutching a pillow to her lap as she raised her eyes to meet Andrea’s. “Andrea, we cannot work together any longer. I cannot risk it.”
Andrea was trembling now. “Is this...are you firing me?”
“I am not. I am asking you to find a new second assistant and put in your notice. You will have the highest recommendation Runway can offer.”
Miriam watched Andrea’s face journey from fear through confusion, anger, and wistfulness, ending on resignation. “How long do I have?”
“Two weeks. I believe The New York Mirror is hiring.”
“Of course you remember—” Andrea stopped, then shook her head, squaring her shoulders and clenching her fists. “So that’s it? We’re just going to never see each other again? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that we haven’t been inching closer and closer to something real, something wonderful together? Miranda Priestly will continue to date age-appropriate men and let Miriam be miserable for the rest of her life?”
Miriam bit her lip, tilting her head back until she was sure no tears would spill. She could hardly even look at Andrea for fear the tears would come before she was finished. This conversation would have been so much easier as Miranda.
“Andrea, I spent that entire car ride two seconds away from ruining my career. Irv is still gunning for me. I’m going through what will no doubt be a messy and public divorce, splashed across Page Six. My girls are going to suffer through so much bullying from the little hellions at Dalton. I cannot afford a scandal on top of that.”
Eventually, Miriam couldn’t bear the silence any longer. She turned her head to see tears slipping down Andrea’s cheeks again.
“The heartbreak is me, isn’t it?”
Miriam smiled sadly, reaching up to cup Andrea’s cheek and brush her tears away. “Of course it is, my darling. Who else could it be?”
Miriam didn’t know how long they sat like that, looking into one another’s eyes as they mourned the loss of a shared future. She didn’t think she’d ever cried so much in a single day.
But for all that her heart was breaking, it was still the most profound sense of wordless communion she’d ever felt in her life. Even in this, Andrea understood her like no one else.
“I need to put Miranda back on. Will you call Nigel for me, ask him to come by?”
Andrea smiled weakly, reaching for a tissue. “Of course. I’m sure I need to fix my makeup too, before I head back to my room.”
Miriam gazed at her fondly. “You’re beautiful. But you’re a little streaky, yes.”
Andrea fetched her glass of water from the abandoned dinner table and drained it in a few gulps. Then she opened her phone and stared at it for long moments, as if gathering her strength.
Miriam was already in the bathroom putting Miranda back together when she heard Andrea’s voice from the living room. “Hey Nigel, Miranda asked if you could come by her suite as soon as you leave.” Her voice was a little husky from the tears, but impressively steady. Her brave Andrea.
Andrea joined her at the bathroom counter. Miriam indicated the makeup wipes with a wordless gesture.
They stared into the mirror and watched Miriam put Miranda back on, stroke by stroke.
“I don’t want this to be the only time I see you,” Andrea said suddenly into the silence, when she was done removing her makeup.
Miriam’s hand paused for a moment, then reluctantly grasped her lipstick.
Andrea squared her shoulders again. Her preparation to be brave. “I’ll stay away until the divorce is final, but I refuse to stay away forever.”
Miriam put on her lipstick, the last piece of armor. She was proud of how steady her hand was.
“You’re so young, Andrea. You shouldn’t wait around for me.”
Andrea made defiant eye contact with her reflection. “In two weeks, I won’t work for you anymore, Miranda. You can’t tell me what to do.”
The next two weeks were somehow both the longest and the shortest of Miranda’s life.
Miranda broke Nigel’s heart—and her own, a little. Miriam wept, afterwards, at the damage to their friendship. At the closeness she yearned for, that she might never have a chance to realize, now. He’d taken it bravely, as she had known he would, and it hurt all the worse to fake-laugh at his casual quip while she could see the sadness in his eyes, the resignation in his posture.
Miranda cowed Irv Ravitz with The List. She handed Nigel’s job to Jacqueline Follet, and saved her own. She called her lawyer, and her publicist, and her interior designer.
She did not ask Roy to raise the privacy screen while she was in the car with Andrea. She did not stare at Andrea’s cleavage, or her thighs, or her wistful smile. She did not take Andrea with her to Vera Wang, even though Emily was slow and grumpy on her crutches. She did not summon Andrea to her study when she delivered The Book. She did not write the glowing recommendation that Andrea deserved, but asked Nigel to write it instead.
Andrea seemed to understand it—the distancing. She expressed no surprise and little hurt, even with those big brown eyes that hid nothing from Miranda. She handed in her notice the morning they returned. The next day, she handed off much of her Paris haul to Emily with little fanfare. She only touched Miranda once—a sad squeeze of Miranda’s hand on her last day, accompanied by a brave but wobbly smile. Overall, she conducted herself with admirable professionalism.
Miriam hated it. Miranda thought letting her meet Andrea might have been a mistake. It was so much harder to keep her quiescent now, even during the day, even at work. But for all that Miranda spent every day struggling through a miasma of dread and guilt and lovesick sorrow, she couldn’t regret that night.
If nothing else, she had shown herself the folly of trying to lock Miriam away so completely. In one evening, Miriam had experienced more genuine emotion than Miranda had allowed herself in decades. Miriam had so many feelings, so many desires, and she wasn’t ashamed of them.
It had felt so good to cry in Andrea’s arms. To eat something for the pure enjoyment of it. To commune with someone, lay herself bare and let them see all the soft, tender places inside. To experience the highs and lows of joy and sorrow instead of the hollow, gray nothingness that had ruled her life for so long.
She didn’t think she could do her job without being Miranda. For better or for worse, she was Miranda Priestly now. But maybe Miranda could learn a thing or two from Miriam.
Miranda could learn how to enjoy little things, like food, or good weather, or casual touch.
Perhaps, if the little things went well, she could learn how to do bigger things, like share her whole self with her daughters.
She could learn how to have honest emotions. How to call her fixation what it was—love—and not some sort of temporary insanity.
Perhaps Miriam could even teach her how to let Andrea go.
And how to be ready, when the divorce was final, for Andrea to come back.