1

Andy

The way Miranda sweeps right past me, throwing her coat on my desk, but misses, tells me I ought to duck in under my desk. Instead, I round my desk lightning-fast, hang her coat after brushing off imaginary dust, and grab my notepad and three freshly sharpened pencils. I used to use a pen, but when I ran out of ink in mid-tirade from my boss—well, it didn't please her.

Hovering at the threshold to Miranda's inner office doesn't look advisable, judging from her demeanor. She's not at her desk, instead pacing by the three large windows, drumming the fingertips of her right hand against her hip. Her left hand is tugging so hard at her long Chanel necklace, I fear it might break and send the minuscule beads and chain links to the floor. Guess who will be picking every single one of them up before the cleaning crew shows up after hours. Correction: after hours. Miranda goes home at 6 pm. I wait around for the Book, the daily mockup of the next Runway issue until it deigns to arrive.

I cross the threshold and take a seat in one of the visitor's chairs. Patiently, or rather, anxiously, I wait for Miranda's next order, wish, or demand. It could be anything. An unpublished manuscript, a searing hot latte, a medium rare stake in ten minutes, or—why not?—the moon.

"Why didn't you close the door after you?" Miranda hisses, but there is more exasperation than anything else. Miranda rarely shows anger, mainly annoyance and scorn. She's an expert in irony and sarcasm, not to mention how scathing she can be when people aren't living up to her expectations. To be fair, I've never seen her give herself any leeway.

"I'm sorry, Miranda." I tuck my pencils into my ponytail, bounce off the chair and close the glass door, which makes Emily, Miranda's soon-to-be ex-first assistant, as she's going to be second in command to Nigel, the creative director of Runway. A step up for her, and, if I don't screw up, for me, as I'll be taking on Emily's duties.

I sit down again, ready with one of my pencils. The other two are still in my hair. For some reason, Miranda's gaze has locked onto those pencils. Damn, I should have just tucked them under my leg. But what if the tip broke? Ugh. I try to maintain my composure.

"That looks ridiculous." Miranda rounds the glass desk and pulls the pencils from my hair. She places them on the desk and remains where she is. Halv sitting and half sitting on the edge of the desk looks precarious. I know it's made of tempered glass, but still. What if it shatters, despite that?

"There's going to be changes," Miranda says, her voice flat.

I blink to clear the image of Miranda among shards of glass on the luscious rug. "Wha—I mean. Oh. Okay." I hold my pencil a fraction of an inch above the fresh page of my pad. She sure made her words sound ominous. I feel my skin under the ponytail goes damp.

"I need you to arrange a meeting with Leslie, Nigel, Emily, Paul, and Serena." Miranda begins plucking at her necklace again. "And you will attend too, obviously."

"Obviously," I echo as I write as fast as I can and keep it legible.

Miranda raises a very deliberate eyebrow at me, and I press my lips firmly together. Comments not wanted or warranted. Got it.

"We'll have it in my dining room at the townhouse. Tomorrow evening, no later than 7 pm. Get catering from Pastis. You know what everyone likes. We might at least eat well." Clutching at the pendant consisting of Chanel's famous opposing C's, Miranda appeared half amused, half scornful. She is quiet and snaps her head up to meet my gaze. "Got it?"

"Yes. Of course. Should I order for the girls too? For Caroline and Cassidy?" It's an innocent question, but I also know what Miranda thinks of those who interrupt her train of thought. She loathes it, and only puts up with it, if it is Nigel, and, well, holy cow—me.

"No. Even if they weren't on a school trip to Canada, my housekeeper always makes sure there are meals to heat up for the girls. They often take their meals in their rooms these days." Miranda sighs. "They'll be home on Sunday evening."

"I see." I jot down the gist of her comment and can't help wondering what's going on at the Priestly household. The divorce went through a month ago, and I would have thought the girls would be pleased to have their mother to themselves. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it. "Anything else?" I have to stick my neck out again as Miranda is busy rapping her nails against the glass desk. If I only dared, I would beg her to go back to her chair. She's far too close, smelling far too wonderful, and balancing against potentially dangerous materials.

"Yes. You need to bring an overnight bag. There will be a lot of planning going on after the meeting and we should hit the ground running the following day. We'll be working from the townhouse the rest of the week.

Damn it. Today is Monday. That is four days in Miranda's home. "All three nights leading up to Friday?" I ask, clutching at the pencil.

"Yes. That's what I just said." She shoots me a withering look but without the usual embers behind it. "You'll be in the second-floor guestroom."

I take more notes, but I just write down what she says, without paying enough attention to the content. All my buzzing, wobbling mind can think is, Holy cow! I'm going to be alone with Miranda at the townhouse!

2

Miranda

I turn away from the open fireplace in the den. Shuddering, I realize I have never been as nervous as I am right now. Leaving Runway is one thing but doing it in a way that keeps I, if not thriving, then afloat, is going to be hard. The circumstances around it all make it even more difficult.

I think I have thought of all the angles, but I can't be certain. That is why I need Leslie my best team from Runway to brainstorm at the townhouse. We can't risk Irving Ravitz showing up or have one of his spies listening in and reporting back to him.

When I learned of the school trip, I knew I would never get a better chance to put my plan in motion without risking them getting caught in the crossfire. I never meant for my Bobbseys to be part of the cult around my persona. I'm rarely naïve but I honestly thought there was enough honor among journalists to keep family members out of their rags. But those tabloid vultures aren't journalists, the lot of them. They're vermin that feed off my bones, any celebrity's bones, and I swear there are times when I can feel them gnaw at my soul. Especially when my girls come home with questions put to them by their classmates. Questions that I often can't answer because they're utterly ridiculous.

The doorbell chimes and as I have told Carol to go home for the day, I square my shoulders and strode through the room and into the hallway to open. Of course, it's Andrea. Standing in the falling snow, her chestnut hair glittering from the melting snowflakes. She's carrying a large rucksack and a carry-on bag on wheels. I can see the tracks on the sidewalk leading up to my stairs.

"Come in." I step back and she slips past me. Her coat is damp from melting snow as well, and now I can tell she's shivering. "You're cold." It's a question, and it's not.

"The snow went from lovely to a bit sloshy." Andrea unbuttons her Tommy Hilfiger coat.

"From the sidewalk to my door?" I hold out my hand and then snap my fingers impatiently when she doesn't seem to realize I want her coat to hang it in the closet that is designed to dry wet clothes.

"From the T station to your door." Andrea toes off her ankle boots and places them in the heated closet. She shoots me a broad smile as she stands up.

"You went on the Metro?" Why am I not surprised? Andrea wouldn't take a cab, or even the company town car unless I commanded it. And why didn't I? Now that's an easy question. There's been too much going on behind the scenes, and as the results of my effort are finally crystalizing, I'm even worse at remembering such details than normally.

"Next time, no matter what, you call for a Runway car, or you grab a cab and hand in the receipt. It's not a request." I feel like a fraud as I won't be there to make sure she heeds my belated order.

"Sure. Absolutely. I'll try to remember that." Another beaming smile. Is she trying to kill me?

"Bring the bags to your room and I'll pour us a glass of wine." I regard her for a moment, but only when she soundlessly opens and closes her mouth for the third time, do I relent. "May I pour you a glass of wine? White? Red?" I grimace. "Rosé?"

Andrea glances at the large wall-mounted clock on the wall. "Shouldn't I be ready to assist the Pastis staff? They'll be here in half an hour."

"No. You're not to leave my side tonight. I will need you to take notes, but also be my memory like you have so many times before. Both regarding what I say, and what is being said to me. And right now, I want a glass of cabernet sauvignon." I'm starting to feel utterly ridiculous. "And I would like you to join me."

"Oh." Andrea grips her bags. "I would love some cabernet sauvignon as well, thank you. I'll be right back."

She bounds up the stairs with her innate youthful energy, something that only can retain a semblance of thanks to godawful cardio and calisthenics.

When Andrea joined me in the den five minutes later, she had changed into a lovely maroon dress of unknown design. It reminds me of one of the new up-and-coming designers, which is curious.

"Who's the designer?" I hand her a glass of Pondokrug Cabernet Franc and it is as if the blood-red wine mesmerizes her. She stares into her glass before sipping it. The way her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, makes me think I can call the entire meeting off. Scrap the plan. The risk of eventually never laying eyes on Andrea Sachs again is the only variable that suggests my plans are not worth it.

As I'm dangerously close to placing a hand around her cheek, in an attempt to ascertain if I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life, the doorbell chimes again.

"Ah," Andrea says and sets her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. "The Pastis folks are even a little early. No wonder. I'm sure they know how your punctuality means fifteen minutes early is just on time." She moves past me, and unlike in the foyer earlier, when she was snow-covered and damp, she now smells of bergamot, vanilla, and citrus. Her hair fans out as she turns to look at me and gives me an unintended caress along my collarbones.

I gasp. Andrea gasps. For a few seconds, all we can do is stare. Then the doorbell chimes again and I'm left alone, clutching a glass of expensive cabernet sauvignon—second-guessing myself.

3

Andy

I still assist the Pastis catering personnel, for the first half hour. Miranda is hovering in the background but never meets my gaze. That is unusual. The woman has been known to stare. To look my outfit over, and on occasion, which is unfathomable, allowing us to get stuck in each other's eyes. Like when the doorbell rang.

When I know the catering folks have everything they need, I return to the den area where the roaring fire makes my toes curl. I cleaned up my act after I arrived, but I'm the type who just keeps shivering forever after getting cold.

I walk over to the fireplace after reclaiming my glass of wine. It's a wonderful cabernet and though I'm far from knowledgeable when it comes to fine wines, I have learned a few things from observing Miranda. She, of course, is a connoisseur.

She too studies her glass of wine closely. "When the guests arrive, I expect you to sit on my right side at the table. Nigel will be on my left. Understood?" Miranda snaps her head up and locks her gaze on me. Again.

I can't help but tremble as the blue in them is not icy at all. Those who coined the monikers 'Snow- or Ice Queen' have never been on the receiving end of when her blue eyes darken like this and take on an entirely different hue. Unable to look away, I run my finger around the rim of my glass and flinch when I involuntarily create a mournful tone.

"For heaven's sake, Andrea. Have a seat. We're not at the office now." Miranda shakes her head and sits down in one of the light blue armchairs. Whoever chose the shade for the couch and armchairs, managed to avoid the baby blue hue, which Miranda would have hated.

"You never told me," Miranda says, making me snap out of the color-coding reverie I'm in.

"Excuse me?" I blink, trying to figure out what I've forgotten.

"The designer of your dress. It is simple but very flattering." She studies it, and thus, me.

"Oh. Right. It's this little boutique a few blocks from where I live. Her name's Jenny and she runs her little company from her apartment. She's very busy and that's just from word of mouth."

"She can make a living from it?" Miranda taps her lips and then moves to sit next to me on the couch. She reaches out and gently touches the fabric on my left sleeve. "A wool-polyester blend, but not horrible. The color is flattering on you."

I try to keep tabs on Miranda's questions. "Yes. Rent control and doing everything herself make it possible for her to keep doing what she loves. I've bought two dresses and a shirt."

"I want to meet her. Set up a time for me to visit her studio. Preferable next week." Miranda leans back and sips her wine. She's half turned toward me and sitting like that makes her pencil skirt ride up a little too much, but I'm not going to point it out. Leaving Runway soon, I feel I have to soak up all the lovely images of Miranda I can and store them for the long cold nights when my forbidden thoughts of her prevent me from sleeping.

Miranda makes it worse, or better, depending on how you look at it, by bending forward to place her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. That angle provides me with the curves and shadows of her breasts when her blouse billows away from her.

I know I should find something interesting to watch on the ceiling, but I can't tear my eyes away even if I feel I'm bordering on being creepy. When Miranda rights herself again, she adjusts her neckless and lapels and then looks up to meet my gaze.

"Andrea?" She raises her eyebrows.

"Um. Yes?"

"Shouldn't you make a note about your friend Jenny for next week?" She doesn't look annoyed if I didn't know any better, I'd swear to that she seems a tad amused.

"Oh. Yes. Doing that now." I open my calendar app on my phone and write 'Miranda to Jenny', and the dates for the upcoming week.

"Why the hurry?" I dare to ask, not sure how I'm so bold all of a sudden.

"Just ticking boxes, really," Miranda says lightly, but there is something else in her eyes, in the tension of the thin skin around them.

I don't understand what she means, but that's secondary because my mind is fully preoccupied with how she moves her fingers along the texture of the cushion fabric. Her hand gets closer to me with each line, and I go tenser. My stocking-clad thigh is three inches from her hand when she stops. She doesn't pull her hand back, but she doesn't—of course—let it make contact either.

I carefully set my glass down on another coaster next to Miranda's. There is no way I can be held responsible for maneuvering something destined to ruin a cushion or a rug. The blood-red hue of the wine would soak into the expensive textile in a matter of seconds and there would be little you could do no matter how many hacks there are for such accidents.

"You're still trembling," Miranda says calmly. "Are you still cold?"

"A little. It usually takes me a while to warm up."

To my utter shock, Miranda raises her hands and cups my upper arms. She holds them in place for a few moments and begins sliding them up and down, adding just enough pressure, over and over. She probes my gaze with her darkened eyes and then tilts her head as she keeps rubbing my arms. "How is that? Better?"

4

Miranda

Andrea's skin is like silk. A cliché, absolutely, but true, nonetheless. My palms tingle at the way she feels, and I can tell after a while that goosebumps erupt under my palms. She shivers, but I surmise that it's for a completely different reason than being cold. I know this, because she feels scorching hot.

"How is that? Better?" I ask, and I think she's going to answer, but she opens and closes her mouth without making a single sound. "Andrea?"

"Uh…better. Yes. Thank you." Andrea looks shell-shocked.

I can hear voices and clatter from the kitchen where the catering service are taking care of the food. Mouthwatering scents spread through the house, and as hungry as I am, all I can focus on is Andrea's barely separated, full lips, and the way her eyes are locked with mine.

As on cue, which is beyond infuriating, the doorbell chimes again. I flinch, I can't help it, and Andrea pulls back as if she was just zapped by something. "Must be your guests."

Before I have time to react, she gets up and leaves the room, of course, ready to do her job. She thinks that entrails answering the door in my home.

Nigel Kipling, my art director, and Serena, a former model and these days the senior in-house makeup artist, are brushing off snowflakes from their shoulders when I enter the foyer.

"Miranda. You might just have to put up with us for the entire weekend," Nigel says and kisses the air next to my cheek. He smells of Hugo Boss and cold snow. "It's really coming down."

"If so, I will just have to grin and bear it," I say and turn to greet Serena. Something in her expression makes me stop in mid-motion. Serena is glancing back and forth between Andrea, who is hanging Nigel's trench coat, and me.

"Serena?" I deliberately raise my right eyebrow and slightly purse my lips. Normally, nothing phases Serena, but not even my steadfast Brazilian-born makeup artist can weather my infamous expression of displeasure completely.

"Sorry, Miranda. Lost in thought." She removes her coat and Andrea grabs it and manages to actually give me an admonishing look. Now that's a new experience.

"Please. Why don't you two go into the den and—" I stop talking when Andrea shakes her head emphatically. I can't fathom what she can possibly mean by this but keep ushering Nigel and Serena into the den. I think I hear a muted 'Oh, God,' from Andrea.

As soon as we step over the threshold to the den, I realize my mistake. Our wine glasses stand very close together on the coffee table, and the fabric plus two decorative pillows in the center of the couch are rumpled. It is painfully obvious that Andrea and I have sat right next to each other on the couch, drinking wine.

I never explain myself. Not counting Andrea, that is, when she delivers the Book late some evenings, and I find I want to share my train of thought when it comes to my decisions for each article and photo shoot. Andrea seems to enjoy learning, and the way her eyes glitter when we sit at the kitchen counter, or the desk in my study, and I point out the more minute things that matter so much, makes it enjoyable for me as well.

Andrea snatches up the half-empty wine glasses and leaves the room.

"What's with Six?" Nigel murmurs as he approaches the cart I have sitting by the far wall, holding hard liquor. "You did once way I could always make myself at home in your house. Does that include making myself a scotch?"

"Of course. Help yourself. Pleases give Serena whatever she wants." I want to go find Andrea and make sure she's not panicking, or worse, decides to bolt. As it turns out, this will have to wait, as the doorbell goes off again.

I excuse myself and return to the foyer, where, quite magically, Andrea is already turning the deadbolt and opening the door. Outside, Emily, Paul, and Lesley are huddling together. It looks ridiculous as it would suggest that New York was heading into a permafrost climate.

"Thank God," Emily gushes and literally falls into the foyer. Granted, the girl is far too thin—something I used to think was impossible for a young woman, but I know a lot better these days—and she must be feeling the cold the most.

"Hi, Em," Andrea says. "Let me get that damp coat and you can head into the den and get something to drink that warms you up. That, and the fact that Serena is already there." She winks at Emily, who looks flustered, but not displeased.

"I will," Emily says and then spots me. "Good evening, Miranda."

"Good evening," I say and study my former first assistant, nowadays Nigel's next in command at the art department. "Andrea's suggestion is valid. Go ahead into the den."

"Thank you." Emily hurries further into the house.

I turn to the other two who have now hung their coats and, in Leslie's case, changed her boots into pumps. "Good of you to join us on such a short notice. Do join the others in the den as well. Nige's making drinks. Andrea and I will be right there."

Leslie pats my arm in passing and Paul appears to look forward to a drink, and hurries past me, after a quick, "Thank you, for having me."

Andrea remains in the center of the foyer. I turn to the dimmer and lower the light about fifty percent. This makes her look as if she's glowing in the indirect light from the kitchen. "I should have paid better attention." I'm not sure how to phrase what I want to say. "I wish you didn't feel so embarrassed."

Andrea blinks. "Embarrassed?" She steps closer to me, and I can once again sense the beautiful mix of vanilla and citrus fruits that emanates from her. "Is that what you think I'm feeling?"

I'm confused now. What else would it be? Andrea didn't want anyone to see the traces of us sitting very close on the couch.

Andrea stops just in front of me, close enough for me to inhale more of her scent, and her fresh minty breath. "I didn't want you to feel awkward, Miranda." She smooths down her hair. "I didn't want anyone to ask about it."

Why? Neither did I, this was true, but why did she feel this way? Perhaps my question is written across my face, because Andrea ran her right index finger down my bare lower arm, making me shudder. I open my mouth to ask aloud, but she shook her head and once she reached my hand, she took it gently in hers. "I guess I just didn't want to share ."

5

Andy

Ever since we sat down to eat the eclectic set of dishes from Pastis, Miranda has acted as if neither of the rest of us are there. She cuts small pieces of her medium-rare steak and chews them carefully. Now and then she looks right past me at the window, and when I stealthily turn my head, I can tell the snow is still coming down.

Serena, Paul, Leslie, and Nigel are keeping the conversation going. Emily is regarding the food as if it is a bomb waiting to go off and make every single represented calorie find their way to her midsection. She settles for a salad, not at all surprising, and a glass of white wine.

I look down at my Chicken Alfredo and can't imagine that I was so hungry earlier. I push the food around, spear a cherry tomato, and make myself chew on it. Of course, even the tomatoes from Pastis are great. Why does that suddenly annoy me?

Soon enough, it is as if the others have run out of current affairs to talk about. Nigel is contemplating his life choices by staring into his red wine. Serena is whispering something in Emily's ear and they both turn to look at me. Paul discreetly checks his teeth in the reflection of his knife. Leslie has her cell phone out and is tapping a quick message.

"I'm leaving Runway," Miranda says and puts her utensils down.

The risk of at least one of us, possibly more, developing whiplash from snapping our heads around in Miranda's direction, is great. She has laced her fingers together at the edge of the table and regards us with an even glance.

"Miranda?" Nigel wipes his mouth with the napkin. "What are you talking about?"

"Why?" Emily whispers. She is paler than usual.

Serena has covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes huge, and Paul has perfectly mimicked her. Leslie calmly taps a few more times on her cell and then nods, looking calm. She knew.

And I…I can barely breathe. I can't take my eyes off Miranda, and all I can think is, she's leaving, I'm leaving too, is she moving away, what will she do instead…and why? Why the hell is she leaving the magazine that owes her every-fucking-thing?

"It can't be true," Emily says, and I can tell she's gripping Serena's hand under the table.

"But it is," Nigel says, his voice sorrowful. He has already accepted it. There is something much calmer about him now, and I know he'll be supportive of her decision whether he agrees with it or not.

Miranda focuses her gaze on me. I return it, even if I'm trembling, and I try to not let my inner turmoil show. The way she raises her right eyebrow, just a fraction of an inch, tells me I'm not entirely successful. "Your tenure at Runway is coming to an end soon as well, Andrea."

Yes. I cough. "Yes," I managed to say aloud. This happens to me sometimes when I'm around Miranda. I think I've said something when I've not. Or I think aloud without realizing it. Right now, it's hard to talk at all, as I don't know how to feel, or what to think.

"Are you relocating as well?" Serena asks. I get a feeling that she is attempting to get me out of the headlights and ask what I am dying—and dreading—to know.

Miranda shifts her focus and tilts her head as she looks at Serena. "No. Why would I do that?"

"So, your next job, or business, is in New York?" Serena presses on.

"It is."

"Don't keep us hanging, Miranda," Nigel says, his smile warm, if a bit tense. Yes, he may have accepted Miranda's out-of-the-blue statement, but he's also deeply concerned.

"Very well. I am collaborating with a handful of people in the publishing industry. We are about to form a new company, a diverse publishing house, if you will. We have already contracted some of the best non-fiction authors. I will be senior editor and also chairman of the board. That will make for a nice change. Miranda chuckles, her gaze turning inward, and I know she's thinking of all the times she had to butt heads with Ravitz, the chairman of the board for Elias Clarke publishing company.

"It's not a step-down," Leslie said cooly. "Nor is it a very big step up, considering how small it is to begin with. Perhaps a lateral move?" She taps at the screen of her cell again.

"Have you given notice already, Miranda?" Emily asks, and her voice barely carries.

Miranda's eyes soften marginally. "I will do that on Monday. I—I wanted to tell you first, and also give all of you the chance to come work for this company if that were something you would consider. She sends me a glance. "Except Andrea, of course. Your future lies elsewhere."

Nothing has pierced me that badly in my entire life. Like razor wire, the words slice at my heart, and I clutch the linen napkin hard. What have I done to not receive the same offer as the rest of them? Or at least be considered.

I don't get it and I have to excuse myself before tears begin to run down my face in front of everyone.