52. Croissants and Cure-Alls

I blink groggily awake, a very weird, uncomfortable sensation filling my body. 

I feel like a balloon. 

It’s insane! I’ve barely eaten anything all day, only picking at the airplane meals a few bites at a time and giving up when the flight attendants came around for the trash. So why do my pants feel at least a size too tight? 

I groan, clutching my stomach, and the ding of an incoming cabin announcement barely breaks through my misery. 

“Good morning everyone, we’ll be landing in Munich in about thirty minutes. It’s a bright, sunny morning, currently twenty-three degrees Celsius. Please put your tray tables away and your seats in an upright position as we prepare for landing.”

The announcement repeats in German, and before I know it, I’ve gotten through customs and am following the crowd  to baggage claim. I’m scanning the luggage carousels when I have to do a double take. 

Practically in the middle of the chaos, a smiling man in a suit is holding a sign. “Miss Sachs,” it reads. 

I have to smile, despite the gaseous, nauseous feeling that I’ll explode any moment. After all she’s done already, I guess I can’t be surprised that Miranda would send someone to escort me from the airport to the hotel. People say she’s an ice queen, selfish and aloof, but what’s wrong with having a small circle? After all, it’s more reasonable to take care of a few close people than a bunch of strangers or acquaintances. 

On bloated, aching feet, I make my way over to him. Before I can introduce myself, he lights up. 

“Ah, Miss Sachs! You are even more beautiful than the photo!” he exclaims, holding his sign underneath his armpit and reaching out with both hands to take one of mine. In an instant, his cheerful demeanor is replaced with something grave. 

“I was told of your troubles, Miss Sachs,” he says, shaking his head solemnly. “Most unfortunate. It is good that Miss Priestly arranged this. After such ordeals, you must be exhausted! You are in need of rest. And food! Come, come, Friederich will take care of everything.” 

Friederich takes my arm in his, like he’s escorting me to a dance, and I have to hold in my chuckle. 

Where does Miranda find these people?

Well, I guess I don’t have room to talk. I’m the one who found Lark, after all. 

It’s endearing and a bit comical, watching Friederich race around the luggage carousels, searching for my bags. He insists that I sit and let him take care of everything, and at this point I don’t have the energy to fight him on it. Though why he’s racing around, as if he’ll miss the bags if he’s not somehow looking everywhere at once, I really can’t figure out. Maybe it’s company policy, or something. 

Sitting here, watching the luggage go around and around, my eyes start to droop. I fight to keep them open, but it’s no use. It’s almost a hypnotic effect. Paired on top of the chaos I went through trying to get here, and an over eight hour flight with recycled oxygen that not even first class can make better, my body’s hit its limit. 

I give up, letting my eyes fall shut and my mind drift. Images of men in suits and luggage cases on pointe shoes doing ballet together start to fill my–

“Miss Sachs! I’ve got them, Miss Sachs!”

I jerk awake, my chest actually aching from the sudden spike in my heart rate. I see Friederich racing toward me with two bags, and I want to cry in both relief and crushing disappointment. Truly, all I want to do is curl up and sleep. I don’t care if I have to sleep on these brick hard chairs, or even on the floor. Actually, a cold floor sounds heavenly right now. 

I shake the dream away. I’m being ridiculous. Here I am, being gently coddled through the last of the airport mess, and all I can think about is sleeping on a dirty floor? No. The best thing to do is just move along. The sooner I can get to the hotel, to Miranda and the girls, the sooner I can put this entire journey behind me. 

“That’s great,” I smile at Friederich while stumbling to my feet. I have to catch myself on the chair to keep from tripping. 

“Oh, Miss Sachs!” Friederich rushes over, abandoning the luggage. He grips my shoulders and pulls me so I’m standing straight up, then proceeds to dust off my clothes as if I had actually fallen to the floor. 

I brush his hands aside, trying to keep a smile on my tired face. 

“Really, Friederich, I’m fine.” 

He takes a step back and studies me with a frown. 

“Honestly,” I insist. “I just need some rest, that’s all. I’m good to go, if you are.”

Friederich shakes his head, slow and serious. “No, Miss Sachs. Fatigue is not your only ailment. You are famished! We must get you some food. Come! To der Bäckerei!” 

My stomach groans in protest, but it’s no use. I’m being decisively guided toward a bustling bakery, the aroma of fresh croissants wafting through the air. 

It smells amazing, and yet it makes my stomach churn. 

Friederich jumps in line after ushering me to sit at a small table, my luggage nearby, and I make a final, desperate attempt to stop him. 

“We really don’t need to stop, Friederich. I’m sure Miranda has something at the hotel I can eat.” Not that I think I can stomach anything any time soon. “And we don’t want to keep Miranda waiting, do we?”

I expect the image of an impatient Miss Priestly to intimidate Friederich out of this detour. Apparently he’s more fearless than most. 

“Nonsense, Miss Sachs,” he grins at me from the line. “Miss Priestly was very clear that I should meet your every need. And you need a warm croissant! Very famous, and cure every ill.” 

He moves forward in the line, leaving me to try not to fall asleep at the table. When my head starts drooping, I jerk back upright. I try propping my elbow on the table and resting my temple on my fist, but it’s too comfortable. Each blink is longer than the last, and soon the loud bustling of the airport around me is fading away, replaced with images in my mind of Friederich sprinting through an obstacle course, balancing croissants and coffee on a platter. Miranda is in a referee uniform, shaking her head as she reads the time on a stopwatch. Friederich’s head drops in disappointment, and he makes his way back to the start of the obstacle–

Something drops onto the table in front of me and I startle awake. 

“Fresh croissant! Now be cured!”

I look from the warm croissant to Friederich’s hopeful, expectant smile. I try to smile back, but my stomach’s revolt turns it into a grimace. 

“Friederich, I …” But I can’t do it. His puppy dog eyes make it impossible to say no. I sigh and steel myself, tearing off a piece of the croissant and putting it in my mouth before I can listen to my body’s common sense. 

The warm, flaky pastry melts in my mouth, and I want to gag. It’s delicious, but even ambrosia wouldn’t make it past my stomach’s “You Shall Not Pass” decree. 

I force myself to swallow, my eyes watering. 

“Thanks,” I croak out. “It really is good, but … I just can’t eat right now.”

Friederich’s face falls at my less than euphoric reaction to his offering, and it turns to panic as my words sink in. 

“Oh no, Miss Sachs! You are so sick, even the croissant that cures all ailments fails to heal you! Come, we must get you to the pharmacy! Or a hospital!” 

He ushers me up from my seat, scooping up the croissant in the process and throwing it in the trash with unexpected fury, as if the croissant is the reason I’m feeling poorly. 

I pull back against his insistent grip. 

“No, Friederich, please. I don’t need a doctor, I just need to sleep. Please, let’s just go to the hotel.”

He searches my face, and finally nods. 

“As you wish, Miss Sachs. And Miss Priestly will be pleased for your arrival.”

I sag in relief. Finally, we make our way out of the main airport and to Friederich’s vehicle. He almost scoops me into the back seat, complete with a blanket and a bottle of sparkling water. 

As he bustles around the driver's seat, getting ready to head out, something he said comes back to me. 

“Friederich,” I say. 

He turns immediately, giving me his full attention. 

“Yes, Miss Sachs?”

“You mentioned seeing a photo of me. Do you happen to have it?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Sachs!” He pulls something out of his breast pocket and hands it to me. 

I take the small photograph from his hand, careful to only touch the edges, not wanting it to smudge. When I finally see the photo, I gasp. 

It’s us. Miranda and I, from just a couple months ago, dressed up in our gala attire, holding champagne classes. I’m smiling down into mine, and the moment comes back to me. The photo doesn’t show the man, the founder of a new, fledgling fashion house, who’d been across from us, trying so hard to amuse and impress Miranda, I nearly couldn’t hide my giggles. 

Miranda, instead of paying attention to the man so desperate for her approval, is looking at me. Her expression is one I rarely see in public, soft, even indulgent. 

The breath leaves my lungs and my eyes start to sting as that insistent, improbable hope swells to full force in my chest. 

“It is a beautiful portrait,” Friederich comments from the front seat, finally putting the car into drive. 

“It really is,” I whisper. I study the picture, unable to tear my eyes away for the entire drive. 

***

The only reason I’m not shocked by the accommodations is that I set them up. 

I may not be shocked, but I’m still in awe. 

Of course, Miranda Priestly would not stay in any regular hotel suite. No, she has an entire 2700 square foot, three bedroom house, offered up by Rosewood Hotel Munich, only available to the most prestigious guests, as the name of the house, Prinzregent Luitpold, would suggest. 

There’s no time to examine the outside, as Friederich bustles me inside, leaving me standing, gawking, in the entrance while he hurries to put the luggage away. 

“Andrea?” 

Miranda rounds the corner as Friederich slips out the door, silent and efficient now that his job is done. 

She’s in her version of casual clothes. Soft linen pants, and a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up and the collar popped, and a long, dark cardigan belted over it. 

Standing there, in my sweatstained travel clothes, something about Miranda’s presence breaks me. All the weight and exhaustion of the last however many hours or days comes crashing down on me, and for as well as I’ve held it together until now, I’m powerless to hold it back. 

I slap a hand over my mouth as that first sob chokes its way out of me, and I stare wide eyed, horrified, into Miranda’s clear blue eyes. I want to run, to hide, to break down in private where no one, especially Miranda, can see or hear me. I frantically look around, sobs coming faster and faster even I try to swallow them down, but I can’t get my bearings through the tears. 

“Andrea, dear.” 

There are hands on my upper arms, holding them and slowly stroking up and down. I focused enough to realize it’s Miranda, standing right in front of me, her brows scrunched in concern. 

“Come.”

She’s pulling me somewhere, and soon I’m being tucked under heavenly covers, sweat stained clothes and all, my head resting on the softest pillow I’ve ever felt. 

None of it stops the cascade of sobs forcing themselves from my body. I’m shaking with the force of them, but Miranda’s hands sweep my hair aside and stroke slowly up and down my back. 

Eventually, the sobs start to slow down, somehow leaving me even more exhausted than before. 

“Sleep, Andrea,” Miranda whispers, still stroking my back. 

Like it’s the cure-all I’ve been waiting for, my mind fades to black. No wild, nonsensical images wait for me, just blessed silence and darkness. 

Finally, I sleep.