Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or original storyline of The Devil Wears Prada. I only use the basics to play. A lot.
Rating: G—NC-17, depending on chapter. Not going to specify each one.
Pairing: Andy/Miranda (MirAndy)
Summary: Paris. Fashion week. Miranda's life is falling to pieces around her. On top of everything else, Andrea turns out to be secretly involved in extracurricular activities that has nothing to do with Runway, and everything to do with Miranda.
A/N: No need to email me with copies of the original film manuscript as I know I've taken liberties with the 'Miranda in a grey robe opening up to Andy' scene. Some of the conversation is canon, but most of it is not, and it is a blend. A mix, if you will. Some might say, a royal mess.
On A Couch in Paris
A MirAndy fan fiction
By Gun Brooke
Miranda knew her husband was a drunken, disgruntled coward. She knew that even before he sent the divorce documents with overnight delivery to her hotel room. In Paris. During fashion week. Stephen new after having been married to her for several years that this was her most important week every year. So, not only a coward, but devious and manipulative to the very last. She had read through the document and the fact that he wanted some of her money, a rather large part as a matter of fact, was not surprising. He was a successful lawyer, or he was, before his drinking became a problem with his partners at the firm. She pulled up her upper lip in a snarls. Stephen was in for a cold awakening when she got home. He would not get a cent.
Miranda sighed and pulled her legs up, covering them with her grey, silk robe. She had taken a shower, let her hair air dry and was about to take a nap when the FedEx messenger knocked on her door. Now she cursed and blessed the fact that she'd listened to Donatella Versace and hired a private investigator months ago. Stephen had not been as discreet as he thought. He had not only one, but two, affairs during the last two months, both of them clients of his. What an idiot. Especially since one of them were the wife of a very influential politician in New York. This also meant that the prenuptial agreement they'd signed were in effect. No money for Stephen.
Sighing, Miranda covered her eyes with her hand. The worst thing was her girls. The media posse would start as soon as they got wind of the divorce, and even if Miranda was unbreakable when it came to gossip about her, the girls, her eleven year old twins, were her Achilles heel. One word of them in the papers, or if any of the paparazzi took as much as one picture of them, there'd be hell to pay. She would go after them with everything she had—and that was a lot. So far, the press seemed to realize this, even the worst tabloids steered clear of Cassidy and Caroline.
This wouldn't take away the heartache of witnessing the divorce, to see Stephen moving out, and she knew the girls worried about her. They were extremely protective.
Suddenly Miranda saw movement out of the corner of her eyes and flinched. Andrea.
"Ah, there you are." Miranda pushed self-consciously at her hair. "We need to go over the…seating arrangement…chart." She could see Andrea's eyes widening at her stuttering. Trying to pull herself together, Miranda extended her hand as Andrea rummaged through her bag. It took the girl forever to find the chart. "Oh, do move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me."
Andrea handed her the folder and Miranda opened it, putting on her reading glasses. "We need to move Snoop Dog to my table."
"But, you're table is full." Andrea frowned, looking down at her note pad.
"Stephen's not coming."
"Oh, he's not? So I don't need to fetch him at the airport?"
"Not unless you talk to him and he has decided to rethink the divorce." Miranda knew her voice was as acerbic as it was humanly possible. "You're very fetching, so in that case, go fetch."
"Miranda?" Andrea looked at her with sorrowful eyes. She had such large, expressive eyes. Miranda wondered if Andrea knew how close to the surface her feelings and thoughts were if you took the time to look into her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Miranda," Andrea continued.
"We have to contact Leslie. Minimize the press at least until I get back to the States." Miranda rubbed her temple. "I don't really care what they write about me, but…the girls. It's so unfair to the girls. It's not the first time they go through this, but they are older now and know more, can read newspapers."
"I understand that you worry for them, but they are strong kids. You've clearly set a good example for them that way. They're always nice to me, these days." Andrea stopped talking, looking like she regretted her words.
"You talk to my girls? You know them? And what do you mean, these days?"
"Uhm. Yeah, they kind of sneak out sometimes when I deliver the book and we exchange a few words. I'm not supposed to tell you this." Andrea made a wry face. "Please don't let them know I told you."
"What do you talk about?" Miranda couldn't believe what she was hearing. What on earth could her highly intelligent daughters have to discuss with her assistant?
"You, mainly. They ask pretty specific questions, and they ask advice. I would never interfere with your parenting, or go against anything you teach your daughters. I promise. But I also know how much I relied on having other adults in my life when I was that age. I thought if they turn to me, there is less of a risk they might turn to the wrong person." Fidgeting with her pen, Andrea looked cautiously at Miranda.
"Come here," Miranda said, without thinking. "Sit here and tell me exactly what you've talked with my children about." She could tell Andrea swallowed nervously, but she put her pad down and joined Miranda on the couch.
"They worry about you." Andrea unknowingly echoed Miranda's thoughts from only moments ago. "They ask if you ate lunch, and if you did, what you ate. They want to know if Stephen is calling to, and I quote 'yell at you again', at work. Cassidy especially wants to know which mood you are in when you come to work. I try to answer as truthfully I can and keep it age appropriate."
"What do you mean?" Miranda sat up, feeling her hands tremble. She hid them in the folds of her robe.
"There are times when you have told me to hold all your calls and when Stephen calls at such times, he gets very…uhm…loud. With offensive language." Turning pink, Andrea lowered her eyes. "I choose not to relay it verbatim since I believe you get the point that he's ticked off anyway."
"God." Miranda hid her face in her hands. "So, you talk to my children, you act as a buffer between my soon-to-be ex-husband, and…pray tell, what else do you do that I don't know?"
Andrea looked like she wished she for a hatch to open where she sat so she could escape instantly. Miranda didn't take her eyes off her assistant, and again, she drank in her lovely features, her perfect size four figure, and inhaled the fruity-vanilla scent that was so refreshing after all the heavy perfumes she'd been subjected to in Paris.
"Well?" Miranda raised her eyebrow.
"I—I…I can't say, Miranda. Please, don't make me." Andrea pleaded and—to Miranda's utter shock—took her hand and squeezed it lightly. "It's so personal."
"What. Do. You. Do?" Straightening, Miranda tried to disregard the fact that she was dressed only in her robe, and wearing no makeup. No mask. Surely she could channel La Priestly anyway?
"I don't know how to tell you without you misunderstanding. It sounds totally nuts."
"I won't repeat myself. Tell me or—"
"Okay, okay." Looking defeated and miserable, Andrea sighed. "I do a vlog where I talk to you. I post it to my YouTube account, but I keep all the links private to make sure neither of our privacy is violated."
Whatever Miranda had thought Andrea would say, this was not it. A vlog? "Do tell me more. You talk to a DV-camera and pretend it's me?" That did sound very odd.
"Yes. I find I reach the answers I need so much faster when I pretend to talk to you."
"Show me one of these vlogs." Miranda pointed at her laptop sitting on the coffee table. "Pull it up. Now."
Andrea swallowed hard. "Oh, God."
"Why not start from the beginning? Pull up the first one you made and then we will watch them in chronological order. Together." Miranda spoke sternly and drummed her fingertips against the armrest of the couch. Andrea had reached for the laptop with slow movements, as if she wanted to delay showing Miranda the vlogs for as long as possible. Eventually she had booted the laptop and was logging in to YouTube. Miranda was familiar with the site since her daughters often wanted to show her 'cute clips' of animals, babies, and artists. She never would've guessed that Andrea had her own channel, even if it was for her own eyes only.
"Nothing I can say to change your mind?" Andrea asked, her voice trembling.
"Not a thing. Show me the first clip."
"All right. Here it is." Andrea scrolled among what looked like thumb nails to several other clips. "It's called 'How to survive the elevator experience."
To be continued in part 2