21. Out Loud

In college, two months felt like forever. I was a different person between the first day of classes and midterms. 

Now, two months is nothing. 

“No, the second row will not be acceptable,” I snap on the phone. “Do I need to remind you that this is Miranda Priestly we’re talking about? She does not sit second row at New York Fashion Week. Or any Fashion Week.”

A pause on the other end. 

“I don’t care who you’ve reserved those seats for. You’ll unreserve them. Better yet, you’ll embroider Miranda Priestly and Co on the seats in gold thread. This is not a negotiation.” 

I roll my eyes. Honestly, where do they find these people? “Yeah, I’m not scared of your boss. Mine’s scarier than yours. Put him on the phone.”

As the idiot transfers me to someone hopefully more helpful, I glance across the room to Emily’s desk. 

She has the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder, her fingers typing a mile a minute. 

We meet eyes, and exchange weary shakes of our heads. Whoever thinks December is a time for slowing down and enjoying the season clearly doesn’t work in the fashion industry. 

“We either get the best seats for the show,” I continue, barely restraining an eye-roll. “Or Dior’s collection is mysteriously excluded from Runway’s March issue … mmhm. That’s what I thought,” I say to myself, dropping the phone into its cradle as Nigel waltzes in, a garment bag draped over his shoulder. 

“Does she have a minute?” Nigel asks, turning to me. I catch the flare of Emily’s nostrils out of the corner of my eye. Sure, she’s First Assistant, and supposedly in charge of Miranda’s schedule, but that’s been out the window for weeks now, and though no one’s said a word, everyone knows it.

I don’t need to glance at the computer monitor. 

“She has seven minutes until she has to leave for a meeting.” 

I don’t mention that it’s a meeting with her lawyers. I slide a glare toward my monitor, the schedule mocking me. Apparently preparations for New York Fashion Week are a formidable opponent when it comes to delicately balancing Miranda’s life. Her time leaving the office has slipped to 7PM, and no matter what I do, I can’t find a way to fix it. 

Still, Miranda arrives in the mornings with the slight glow that means she got to spend some quality time with her girls. That’s got to count for something. 

Nigel’s soft chuckle catches my attention, and I realize he’s still standing by my desk, watching me. 

“I think I’ll take my leave before that computer becomes shrapnel,” he says, striding toward Miranda’s office. “I have the Tom Ford piece,” I hear him call into the office. 

“Mm,” the low hum runs from the office and down my spine. I shiver. Someone needs to stop keeping the AC so low. “Let’s hope this isn’t a repeat of the James Holt disaster.” 

I turn my attention back to the hideous mess that is New York Fashion Week. 

At least I don’t have to arrange flights and hotels this time. Small miracles.

Five minutes later, I’m up and grabbing Miranda’s bag and coat just before she saunters out of her office. Her mouth opens, then curves into the slightest smile when she sees me. 

She doesn’t say anything, just walks over to me and turns, letting me slip her coat on. This close, I’m surrounded by her perfume, surprisingly woodsy and a bit spicy. I shake my head a little to snap myself out of it, and I’m careful to avoid her touch as I hand her the bag. 

Somehow, our fingers brush anyway. 

Miranda takes a step toward the door, and I’m ready to bolt for the safety of my desk, when she calls back, 

“Andrea.” 

I pause. My heart thumps once, loud in my ears. 

“Come.” 

I go. 

It’s that time in New York when the sky is gray, the rain might as well be ice, and the pedestrians are more irritable than normal. 

It’s even darker in the car with the privacy screen up. 

I have my tablet at the ready for the usual barrage of orders, but so far, the drive is silent. We’re halfway to her lawyer’s office, and I’m really not sure why I’m here, enjoying the quiet warmth of the town car instead of scrambling to finalize preparations for fashion week. 

I should be on the phone with three different PR reps right now, or fielding a Dior meltdown. Instead, I’m in this insulated cocoon, pretending it’s normal.

The silence makes me feel like a rabbit—poised to bolt, even though there’s nowhere to go. I’m not sure why until she breaks it. 

“If you were hoping for a pay raise, you’ve gone about it all wrong.” 

I whip my head in her direction, my forehead tight with confusion. Miranda is staring out the window, her profile hidden in shadow. 

I should come up with something more eloquent, I’m an aspiring writer for god’s sake, but all I manage to squeak out is, 

“What?” 

Miranda glances over to me before turning back to the window. 

“You’ve taken on First Assistant duties—and done them better. But staying silent won’t get you a promotion. You have to advocate for yourself, Andrea.” 

She says all this as if she’s discussing the weather, or a croissant that failed to meet expectations. 

“You know?” I try to keep the incredulity out of my voice, but her humph that’s almost like laughter tells me I didn’t quite succeed. 

“That you’ve been sacrificing virgins to get me home at a decent hour? Yes, Andrea, I’m not blind. I know.” 

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t have to say anything because she continues. 

“I also know that you know.” She looks back at me, and this time she holds my gaze. “About Richard suing for custody.”

I feel my eyes go wide. She actually said it. Out loud. 

To me. 

I bite my lip and let my head bob the tiniest amount. A deniable nod. 

Miranda holds me captured for another moment that feels like forever before rolling her eyes. 

“There’s no need to scramble about like a mouse,” she says to the window. 

A pause. I think my gulp might be audible in the silence. 

“If you know, you might as well make yourself useful and take notes, or whatever it is you do.”

“Of course,” is all I have time to say as the car pulls to a stop. 

I have barely a second to breathe a sigh of relief as Roy comes around to open Miranda’s door. I scramble to follow after her. 

I know that she knows that I know. 

It’s out in the open. At least between us. That’s good. 

I guess I’ll take notes. Or something.