“I never thought I’d say this, Andrea, but I see a great deal of myself in you.”
Andy fixed her tearful gaze on the sprawling antiquities of Paris that whizzed by the window. As their sleek black Mercedes slinked down the Place de la Concorde, she did her best not to meet the eye of Miranda Priestly, who was explaining coolly how she’d betrayed dear Nigel in order to protect her own career.
“You can see beyond what people want and what they need,” Miranda cooed, “and you can choose for yourself.”
Andy shook her head weakly. “I don’t think I’m like that,” she choked. “I couldn’t do what you did to Nigel, Miranda. I couldn’t do something like that.”
“Mm. You already did,” she mused in return. “To Emily.”
Andy’s stomach dropped. She wanted to protest, to explain to Miranda that she hadn’t had a choice. But as hot tears welled up and threatened to burst all over her flushing cheeks, she realized that Miranda was right. She had accepted the opportunity to come to Paris of her own volition, knowing how it would devastate Emily to be replaced. So Andy said nothing.
“If you want to live this life, you have to make choices to get ahead,” Miranda continued. “And the fact is, everybody wants this life. Everybody wants to be us.” And with that, she slipped on her Dolce & Gabbana prescription sunglasses, painted on a warm grin, and stepped out to face the clamoring photographers and journalists.
Andy lingered in the town car for a moment. Was it true? Did everybody want this exhausting, superficial, cutthroat life? Of course not. Andy herself yearned for a respite from the incessant hustle of Miranda’s proximity. But Miranda had shown her that she trusted her, respected her even. Although she found herself disgusted with the moral bankruptcy of her mentor, she realized the incredible potential of staying close to Miranda Priestly, especially now. So, with a deep breath, she followed Miranda into the cacophonous throng of paparazzi.
The rest of Paris was a blur. Andy had become comfortable enough in her role as Miranda’s assistant to handle the duties with relative ease, even as she ruminated on that pivotal conversation she and Miranda had after the James Holt luncheon.
Nigel had shriveled following the news that he’d lost the Creative Director role he’d so tirelessly worked for. He and Andy exchanged melancholy glances from across runways and hors d’oeuvre platters. She wished she could undo the hurt that Miranda had caused him, but resolved instead to make it right on her own terms.
Andy had the kernel of an idea to start her own fashion periodical. Or maybe she would continue to climb the ranks at Runway until someone recognized her potential and place her in a writing position. She’d begun to recognize the merits of the fashion industry; while she didn’t agree with the way it operated at the time, she could see the potential in the art of self-expression through style if only it could become more approachable, accessible, and body-positive. With Miranda’s blessing and Nigel by her side, she could help create that change. She just needed to be patient.
“I have to be back at work in 20 minutes,” Andy breathed as she settled into the wicker cafe chair across from a worn-down Nate. “What’s up?”
She hadn’t wanted to waste her time seeing him after their painful breakup six months prior. He’d failed so spectacularly at being a supportive partner in her professional endeavors that she’d resolved to never allot him an ounce more of emotional labor. She resented how he’d projected his own insecurities onto her, himself being chronically unsuccessful and without much personality outside of their relationship. But she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Since their breakup he’d been bouncing from restaurant to restaurant, never making it past a prep cook position before his superiors caught wise to how entitled and mopey he was.
Nate hesitated, then, finally swallowing his pride, admitted, “I wanted to say that you were right about everything. That right now is a time in our lives when we need to prioritize ourselves and our own futures. I made you feel like you were turning your back on your family and friends, but the truth is, we were turning our backs on you. I just couldn’t handle seeing your success while I felt like such a failure, and I realize now how unfair that was of me. I’m sorry.”
Andy was surprised. This level of emotional maturity was rare for Nate. Normally he was such an insufferable crybaby. It may have been too little, too late, but Andy spent so little energy thinking about the whole thing that she figured she may as well quell his ennui and be done with it. “I forgive you,” she said.
The two sat there for a moment, each gazing into their tepid cappuccinos. Neither had anything left to say, and they realized at the same time how little in common they actually had.
Andy glanced at her Gucci watch. “I wish I could stay, but I have a creative meeting with Nigel.” She beamed. It was true, her sidekick had been exploding with business opportunities since she’d made such a splash in Paris. But she was sticking close to Nigel, the two of them meeting whenever they found a precious free moment to discuss their shared project ideas. Recently they’d been orchestrating an ambitious but very risky move: a secret photo shoot to pitch to Miranda for the forthcoming issue of Runway.
Nate rolled his eyes. “That’s so typical, Andy, always running off to some business meeting.” But she was already halfway out the door.
“Yes, this could work,” Nigel said, gazing at the mockup on the table below. “I think she might actually go for it.”
Andy smiled back at him. “I think you’re right. She’ll probably think it’s edgy. And she needs to prove she can think fresh after Irv tried to get her ousted. You know she can’t dangle that list forever.”
The two of them admired their handiwork: a stunning raven-haired model elegantly perched on the edge of her wheelchair, her triumphant gaze leaping off the page. Her lush emerald caftan appeared almost fluid, and atop her perfect coif was a delicate crown, fashioned from a single golden wire.
Andy’s sidekick beeped. She had to jet down to the patisserie to grab the mille-feuilles Miranda wanted for her meeting with Versace. How Donatella loved her sweets. Then she had to swing by the Sharper Image to pick up the new Hitachi Wand Miranda had her preorder a few months back. Finally, it was young Caroline and Cassidy’s 8th birthday, so she had to write up a MySpace bulletin on their behalf thanking the community for their well wishes.
“Oops, better run,” Andy said.
“Yes, dear,” Nigel said. “RUN, don’t walk, your thighs will thank you.”
Andy knit her brow. “You know, Nigel, it’s incredibly inappropriate for you to comment on my body that way.”
“Wh—“ Nigel stammered. “Well I was only saying, I noticed you’re back to a size 6.”
“Yes, Nigel, I am,” Andy stepped toward her colleague with a measured exasperation. “And I feel healthier than ever. I’ll feel even better once you stop scrutinizing my appearance. If we’re going to usher Runway into body positivity it’s important we practice what we preach.”
“You’re right,” he sighed. “Fatphobia and body shaming are so insidious in this industry that sometimes I forget how ignorant I’m being. Thank you for holding me accountable for doing better. I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable.”
“It’s alright,” Andy said, shaking it off. “We’re all learning. Anyway, see you tonight?"
“Definitely,” Nigel beamed. “This could be it, Andy!”
That night, Andy was installing Windows Vista on Miranda’s palm pilot when Donatella Versace glided out of Miranda’s office with a waxen grimace of a woman coming down off a sugar high.
“Lovely as always, Donatella,” cooed Miranda. “I so look forward to this ‘gender neutral’ line of yours. Curious, indeed.” As Donatella sauntered to the elevators, Miranda glanced at Andy. “Who’s my next meeting?”
“Well—uhh, actually, Miranda, I penciled in fifteen minutes for uhh—myself?”
Miranda’s lips pursed. “What on Earth?”
Andy stood from her desk. “And Nigel. We uhh…had something to run by you.”
Miranda scowled incredulously at her once shrimpy, now radiant assistant. “And where is Nigel?”
Just then, Nigel bustled around the corner, mockup in hand. “Here, Miranda. Please,” he implored, “will you see us in your office?”
Miranda rolled her eyes, shocked at the audacity of her subordinates but feeling energized by a productive meeting with one of her favorite collaborators. “Alright, alright. But only if you bring me an—“
“—espresso!” Andy said, producing a dainty china cup from her desk. “To wash down the mille-feuille. It will only take us a shot’s worth.” The three of them trounced into Miranda’s expansive office.
Miranda reclined into her desk chair and lazily tossed a hand up. “Dazzle me.”
Andy and Nigel locked eyes, exhaled sharply in unison, and presented Miranda with the mockup. Her fierce eyes narrowed as she studied the image as Andy and Nigel watched nervously. Finally she looked back up at them and tossed the board on her desk. “What is this?”
Nigel spoke first. “Runway needs a fresh look. Not full-on rhinoplasty, just a little collagen around the crow’s feet.”
Andy chimed in, “Body positivity and visibility for marginalized communities are going to be HUGE, like, twelve years from now. Just ask Cassidy and Caroline; the president of their student council is trans! If we get ahead of the curve and normalize diverse imagery, we can unlock a whole new market of high fashion consumers.”
Miranda Priestly was silent. She stared stoically at the two eager colleagues before her. Maybe it was the espresso, maybe it was the lingering fear that she was seen as an old dog with no new tricks, or maybe it was Donatella’s talk of gender as a spectrum, but Miranda could scarcely believe what came out of her mouth next: “Alright then.”
Andy was so elated she could have sworn she floated right out of the office that evening. Unbelievable! Not only had Miranda approved her proposal with Nigel but she managed to wrap up at 6:45. Never had she felt so sure she’d made the right decision by sticking with Runway.
She scurried down the block to Shrub + Sour, the hip new cocktail joint where she was meeting Doug. When she walked in, she saw he was already nestled into a cozy corner booth, a single tealight flickering across his cherubic face. They met eyes and grinned.
“I wasn’t expecting you for another hour!” He mused. “So tell me, are we having celebration drinks, or drown-our-sorrows drinks?”
“Well…” Andy paused to build the tension. “…SHE LIKED IT!” They both squealed. “I wasn’t sure she would go for it, I mean, you KNOW she is so set in her ways. But I really think this whole Jacqueline Follet situation was a wake up call for her and how rigid she’d been. She’s really listening now. She’s green lighting the whole ‘Invisible Queens’ spread and wants me to start checking out more of the indie scene to see what else is going to be hot.”
“Wow,” enthused Doug. “That’s incredible!”
“I’m going to need company at these events, you know,” Andy added. “I could really use your expertise.”
Doug’s jaw dropped. “Of course! Say when!”
Andy smiled placidly, “you know, Doug. I’m so grateful for our friendship. You’re the only one who stuck by me through it all.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugged. “My best friend was pursuing her dream and kicking ass at it. In FASHION, no less, I know how difficult that industry is. Supporting you was, and still is, a no-brainer to me.”
“OH!” Andy exclaimed. “That reminds me, you’ll never guess who asked me to lunch today.”
Doug rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me, Mister Crybaby McFragile Masculinity? Ew, why waste your time.”
Andy chuckled. “I just felt kinda bad for him. Seems like he can’t catch a break these days. Anyway, he says he’s sorry or whatever. I get it, it’s hard watching people close to you succeed when you’re insecure as shit. Oh well!”
The two gabbed over amaretto sours as the last bits of sunlight retreated over the horizon. Andy caught a glimpse of her watch. “God, has it been two hours already? I gotta catch a cab for dinner. Love you dear!”
“You too, angel,” Doug called, blowing Andy a kiss. “Evelyn’s making carbonara tonight, I’ll tell her you said hi.”
“You two are too cute! Have fun!” And back out into the night she went.
Andy arrived at the posh, subdued restaurant just as Christian was getting seated at their favorite table.
“There she is,” he enthused. “You look splendid.”
And she really did. Her robin’s-egg blue cocktail dress was perfectly au Courant with its sweetheart neckline and bubble skirt. After all, it was 2007. Christian drank her in as the server poured each of them a glass of 2002 Ruinard Blanc de Blancs. He presented his glass for a toast.
“I heard the good news,” he smiled as she clinked his glass. The delicate effervescence danced across their lips. “I’m glad Miranda is smart enough to see what an asset you are there. I must admit I was a little surprised, not because you’re not a treasure, but just…you know how she is.”
Andy grinned. Christian had been a great help in facilitating conversations with publishers about her freelance writing. In a small way, she was poised to become the next Carrie Bradshaw; her personal blog about navigating the fashion industry was gaining traction. Publishers, curious what the word “blog” meant, were showing interest in her perspective and quest to make fashion more inclusive. In fact, Christian’s own work was in a rare and comfortable lull, allowing Andy’s burgeoning career to take center stage in their relationship. It was all still new, but Andy appreciated having a partner who supported her and was so fervently committed to giving her orgasms.
“Let’s eat,” sighed Andy. As if on cue, their servers materialized from the kitchen with the first course of their Chef’s Tasting Menu: a single Harvest Moon oyster delicately perched atop a mound of pink rock salt, garnished with a violet and plump with champagne mignionette.
They toasted yet again with their oysters.
“Bon appetit,” Christian purred.
Andy lavished in the opulence of the oyster sliding down her throat. She had built the foundation for a formidable life, and she hoped every moment tasted as briny and sweet as this one.
