Chapter Text
6th June, 1994
"You're walking down the streets and everyone is wearing jeans and t-shirts," the reporter stated and Miranda smiled under her nose being amused by the question to some extent. "So, what's fashion?"
She leaned back in her chair slightly and tilted her head up, and smiled, knowing that the camera would be on her in this part, and with a quick movement of her head she got rid of one lock of hair that was stubbornly falling back into the same place, right above her eye.
This wasn't her first interview, of course. As the editor-in-chief of Runway for several years, she had graced countless covers and penned numerous stories, yet her first cover still attracted the most attention, a nostalgic topic for many journalists. Miranda didn't mind and welcomed the interest, recalling fond memories of those early years.
"Jeans and t-shirts can be equally fashionable as a Óscar De La Renta ball gown. It's all about styling, truly," she explained and raised her right hand to stop the surprised reporter from interrupting her. "You don't need to buy all the designer, diamond-studded clothes to qualify as someone who knows what is what. The truth is, anything can be elevated into something fashionable — an outfit or accessory that turns heads and sets trends."
"Do you think women are still interested in fashion? It seems that simplest clothing is now at the top. People stopped going after the extravagant."
"Oh, I think women love fashion," she assured with a chuckle. "Fashion is for everyone, whether you're interested in modern pieces from the designers, who are only starting to blossom, or if you love to look at yourself in the classic Chanel from 1926 It's not just about what you put on your back, but mainly about how."
"Don't you think that women would want to see something that they can relate to? Runway is the favourite fashion magazine of the most of us," she asked, although Miranda sensed a bit of an acrimonious remark in the journalists voice. Her eyes lit up at the little challenge placed in front of her, and a sly smile formed.
Lately, she had been encountering more questions that, while wrapped in praise, carried an underlying sting. Perhaps it was a reflection of society's discomfort with powerful women who dared to own their success, who weren't ashamed of it. Television and newspapers thrived on this narrative, as if it were an outdated relic, despite the fact that most women now had the freedom to pursue their ambitions — it wasn't 1962 anymore, for God's sake. The reality was, unfortunately, that many still preferred not to discuss these shifts on national platforms.
But Miranda Priestly wasn't made to not be seen. She has built her own empire step by step. Through hard work and determination. She went a long way to become who she was, and she'd be damned if she'd ever feel threatened by men. Miranda was proud, because she knew, that what she had, was something to be proud of. Men in power didn't like women capable of challenging them — it was a well known fact.
While she expected the negative approach from men, the response from some women surprised, and cut her deeper than she expected. Before becoming editor-in-chief of Runway, she admired those who were in that seat before her. She yearned to be one of them, to change the fashion industry to what she believed was right. They were Miranda's inspiration since she was old enough to have one. That's why it stung her so hard, right in the chest, when she received so much backlash for simlpy being good.
She was shocked by how many lies, how many hasty, false things Page Six loved to write about her, simply because she was a woman, who wouldn't just shut up about being successful, but was embracing it instead. The media's relentless focus on her personal life was a bitter pill to swallow.
Not everyone was like that, of course, but there were people, like the one who was interviewing her, who judged her according to their own small-town beliefs. Miranda Priestly was not a woman born to spend her life at home raising children, and bending her knees for a husband. If in this day and age, it was still considered a flaw, then, well, she could only feel sorry for all of them.
"Runway is all about the illusion," Miranda asserted, forcing herself to respond calmly despite the reporter's sneer. "There is no point in denying, that what we're showing to you is not a day-to-day life of every woman. People don't read our magazine to see a reflection of the reality that surrounds them every day. They want something beyond their previous experiences, and that's what we provide. Runway is meant to inspire. It's meant to let the people in, to a completely different world in which the clothes are the only thing that can tell you a story without using any words."
In her early days as editor, Miranda had faced thousands of similar interviews, often encountering the same repetitive questions. She had given the audience what they wanted, thinking it was the best way to build her career in the U.S. Yet, after years of experience, she realized that while people claimed to want something new, they often clung to the familiar. Embracing change meant relinquishing control, which most found daunting.
They were anchored in the past, because it was full of things that they already knew. Reaching for something more meant that they'd be able to give up control, and they weren't.
Fashion was all about creating something new. It was a constant process, a perpetual cycle of creativity, and Miranda was the voice at the forefront. The papers didn't like the idea of that kind of woman having this much impact in their world. They considered her 'too cold' to be seen as a respectable woman, because she didn't fit their mold or what in their minds feminity really meant. Miranda couldn't care less. The truth was, that no matter what she'd do, Page Six created the narrative for her, and they were going to stick with it, whether she liked it or not.
Two years ago she did her duty as a woman and gave birth to two beautiful girls. The chaos that ensued when the news broke of her pregnancy and subsequent childbirth was overwhelming. Paparazzi had swarmed her and trapped in their relentless pursuit. Miranda still felt that terror and fear for the safety of her own children, when she remembered driving back home from the hospital after giving birth. How the vultures were waiting for them outside the house. The screaming photographers, flashing cameras, and the cries of her newborns. The next day, Page Six published a photo of her shielding one of her daughters from the blinding lights, branding her one of the worst mothers without giving her a chance.
Less than two years had passed since then and Miranda still felt that bitter taste in her mouth and anger at herself for believing them in the first place. Now, after the experience, that she managed to gather with her children, she finally understood that every day was actually her first. It was her first time being pregnant, her first time raising children — two at once. She was learning how to be a mother every day.
Miranda was not one of those people who could not fulfil someone's expectations — she always aimed above them. Therefore, the weight of failure and the feeling of it settled on her shoulders so much, that she spent many nights crying on her husband's shoulder, afraid that she would not be able to cope as a mother. There was so many doubts...
So now, sitting in front of one of those, who definitely considered her a degenerate mother and a degenerate woman, she had difficulty keeping a pleasant smile on her face for the people watching. A few times she even found herself wanting to sit on both of her hands to stop them from shaking, but she didn't, of course. Even if the cameras didn't catch it, that damn reporter would, and Miranda couldn't afford that.
"You said once; 'fashion is in constant development, there is nothing permanent about it'. It was at the beginning of your career here, in New York. How do those words resonate with you now? Has your opinion changed? I mean, your hair for example — it remains the same, so doesn't that contradict your statement?"
"Oh, I know, it's rather boring, and I should probably try something new," she joked, her fingers absently playing with her hair. "But to answer your question: I still believe fashion is always evolving. Trends do resurface, but that doesn't mean we should change everything. If something works, why fix it? In terms of the artistry presented on the runways, there's nothing repetitive about that."
"I guess it is the Miranda Priestly look," the reporter replied with a smile on her face and glanced at the notes on her lap.
Miranda was grateful for this moment to herself and exhaled quietly under her nose. Years of experience had taught her that interviews often felt more like interrogations than conversations, with journalists fixated on their prepared questions rather than engaging with her responses. Perhaps her expectations were too high — she had been accused of that more than once — but it was still nice to have at least some hope towards change and then a genuine exchange between her and the press.
Still, Miranda was grateful for these short breaks. Interviews were incredibly stressful for her and seemed to expose her too much to the public eye. She liked her space, liked being separated from others by a thick wall, and with the camera pointed straight at her face, it didn't escape her notice how much she was, in fact, exposed.
"You are described as being needy, competitive, a perfectionist and, forgive me, a bitch in heels. How would you respond to that? They say there's a grain of truth in every story, so how did you come to be attributed to such traits?"
Miranda smirked under her nose and looked down briefly to fix the hem of her skirt before raising her gaze back to the journalist. It was evidently time for the press's favourite question: 'What does Miranda Priestly think about being a bitch?'
"Let's see..." She started and crossed her legs, leaning more comfortably in the chair, and with her left hand she grabbed one of the beads around her neck, fingering it. She liked to have some fun with answering to that. "I am very driven and competitive, that's true. Am I needy? Perhaps, after all I demand perfection every single time from all the people I work with, so you can already check me being a perfectionist. What else?"
"A bitch," the reporter said bluntly.
Miranda hummed and smiled wider now, only to cover a silent sting she felt at that term. It was rather bold, to just call her that in her face, even if it was under the disguise of the innocent question. Miranda wasn't stupid, she knew when she was sitting across someone who did not like her one bit, and she could certainly admit, that she felt the same way. The difference between them was that she was able to behave professionally, to give satisfactory answers. The woman who called herself a journalist, sitting across from her, had no self-control or tact, let alone respect.
"Ah, of course." She laughed but there was no humour in it, not really. She decided to savour every single word, dropping her voice by a half-tone, being sure, that this pitiful reporter could feel the temperature of the room drop a little. "Miranda Priestly, the famous devil in heels. You know, I like to think of myself as a woman from whom readers demand a perfect issue of my magazine every month, and I deliver on that promise. Do you really blame me for demanding perfection from my employees as well? In all seriousness, I have to be tough in this industry. I'm looking for people who are able to handle the pressure, and if they can't, well, it was nice knowing them."
The reporter swallowed a little louder than before, most likely sensing the steely note in Miranda's voice.
"So," she cleared her throat, "Being an editor is kind of like being a dictator in the eyes of many, do you agree with that?"
Miranda stopped moving her fingers and placed the beads back around her neck. She glanced down at the notes in the lap of the woman sitting across from her, and then returned her gaze to her eyes. It was a good decision to invite them to her office — she was at home, so she overwhelmed them not only with her presence, but also with her surroundings.
The question was rather stupid.
"It's a collaboration of talented individuals presenting ideas. I'm simply the one who decides what fits best for each issue."
"But there are so many possibilities! I'm sure that people that are working with you, are all very talented and a lot of stuff, that doesn't go into the print, could be..."
"No, no," she interjected, raising a finger. "What you see in print is the best. There's no other option."
With that, the atmosphere in the room shifted, a testament to the power of her presence and the determination that had defined her career.
21th September, 1997
"What about that coldness of yours? The public sees you as this unreachable person, who looks at them from up above."
Miranda chuckled at that statement and could honestly admit that there was some genuine amusement in it. Less than a decade ago, she took over the helm of Runway in New York, which meant that her own reputation sometimes preceded her. Common sense would tell her to disagree, but ego told her that in the span of nearly a decade, she had modernized not only the magazine, but the world of fashion itself and the way it was perceived.
If people saw her as cold and unapproachable — so be it. She keeps her true self for her five-year-old daughters and husband. Miranda saw no need to let the rest of the world into her private life any more than they already allowed themselves to.
"My coldness, as you put it, is a reflection of my focus at work. People I work with — some for many years — have not yet run away screaming," the reporter laughed and sloppily adjusted his glasses. "There's on duty time, and off duty time; what you see is me doing my job and that's all that there is to it."
"Don't you want people to like you?" he asked and Miranda couldn't stop the look of shock on her face. "Well, don't get me wrong, I think you're doing an incredible job, but don't you think that there's a way to be... both?"
Reporters rarely surprised her with questions, but it seemed the cheeky ones would always throw her off her pace. She hid it with a wide, fake smile by tilting her head slightly and didn't miss how the reporter's gaze briefly dropped to her bust line.
To beat a man all you needed was to be a woman, truly.
"I want people to like what I do, and until now, I would say I'm excelling at it. How I do it stays between me and people working with me."
"There's a lot of people who were employed by you, and they have a lot to say, do you have a response for them?"
"What would you like me to say to that? I think everyone has many opinions on many topics and many people. There is a lot of new talent coming through Runway, but a lot of it doesn't stay for long if they're not able to cope with the fast pace of that particular life. It's the pressure of doing it all in time, before the issue goes to print that exhausts them, not me. I wouldn't be able to comment on every person who has worked with me, of course, but the ones who stand by my side for many years, they know me and my demands, which are justified."
"What about crushing people's dreams? There're thousands of them who'd kill to work for you, but not everyone gets a chance."
Indeed, the questions were becoming increasingly desperate, as if he were trying to corner her into a confession that would paint her in a negative light.
"Runway, and indeed the world of fashion, is built on dreams. I would be a hypocrite if I didn't acknowledge this; my own came true the moment I stepped through the doors of the Elias-Clarke building. Every new employee arrives with hope for a successful career, but some are more tangible than others. Dreams alone are not enough; this industry demands immense dedication and hard work, contrary to popular belief."
"It all seems like a fairytale in a way. Do you think that one of your responsibilities is to appear perfect? After all, you're a living example of that. You're the embodiment of fashion, of what people want to look like. I'm sure it's a heavy burden to be aware of... to carry."
Miranda knew that she was the personification of Runway, the face of a magazine that is full of often unattainable ideals. Who would she be if she didn't identify with it at least a little? She could be many things, but she was not the first to belittle her achievements. When people looked at her, they didn't see her as just a human being, who happens to work at Runway, but as a trendsetting icon, representing the perfection that everyone strives for.
Was it a heavy burden? Yes. Did she enjoy it? Absolutely.
"With my persona, I represent not only myself, as the biggest advocate for this industry, but also the people I works with. Runway is a translation for all of its readers, of the shows that not everyone can see the way we do. I have to look my part, of course, but that doesn't make me not love it just as much."
The reporter paused, seemingly calculating his thoughts, and from where she was seated, she could sense the shift in his approach. She had enough experience to know how far she could push the boundaries of this conversation. People were free to form their own opinions about her, but she had no intention of giving them additional fodder for mockery or disdain.
Miranda had been carefully modeling her persona for as long as she could remember, adopting habits and specific phrases that, after so many years, were associated with her signature gestures — synonymous with her. The man sitting opposite her was right in terms of her perfectionism. She showed what she wanted people to see and so far she's been doing great.
"'The Dragon Lady', what's up with that?" He asked suddenly, bringing her attention back to him.
She couldn't stop the sly smile that appeared on her lips, and after a while she decided that she didn't want to. It's better to let people see that the new nickname does not weaken her, in fact on the contrary — it strengthens her.
A week ago, an article about her appeared after one of her former assistants decided to give an anonymous interview. The press picked up on the new title and Miranda had a feeling that it would be one of those that would stick around for a long time. Ever since she first read the article, she had been considering sending a thank-you note to Stephanie, for doing her a free PR; she would probably have a heart attack, this poor girl.
"If being a successful woman makes me a 'dragon', then I'm happy to breathe fire,"
she replied, her tone playful yet resolute.
The reporter appeared momentarily taken aback, but she could see the glimmer of respect forming in his eyes. Miranda knew she had once again deflected the arrows aimed at her, and in doing so, had solidified her standing in the ever-evolving world of fashion.
3rd March, 2000
"Miranda, I'm so glad you agreed to this interview." The reporter began and Miranda nodded, returning the welcoming phrase.
It was the first interview this year that she agreed to. She had been avoiding them until now, after the fiery divorce. When the paparazzi managed to catch her in front of the Runway building or simply leaving the restaurant, questions were asked from all sides only about the former Mr. Priestly. The press was attacking her during family outings. The screams of these pseudo-journalists, the questions so brazen that Miranda was shocked that they were saying such words in front of children were haunting her at night.
Whatever they wrote about her and how they addressed her, she had deep ignorance for. Asking her daughters who they would prefer to live with after a divorce and 'why's' of others, who thought the girls would be better off with their dad was so outrageous, that Miranda was happy to pull some strings and get a few people fired from their positions.
No one, absolutely no one, had the right to drag Caroline and Cassidy into the papers; expose them to the public. They will only be eight years old this year, for God's sake. Miranda was aware of the fact that when she took over the position of editor-in-chief, she would expose herself to the public's sharp eyes for years. She was fine with that, because if that was the price for having to live her own dream — so be it. Her daughters, however, had never consented to anything, and neither did she intend to do it on their behalf.
The divorce was finalized late last year. Miranda had a rather poetic approach to it, being convinced that with the new millennium, her life would get better. The world was changing, people were changing and their views on successful women were also changing. But none of it would come that quickly and Miranda was aware of that. Despite everything, she had a glimmer of hope.
Good God, she lived on it.
"Let us start with a question that I'm sure is on the lips of many fans of the magazine, but also of the world of fashion itself. Do you have any big plans for this year's Met Gala? This will be your fifth year as the host of this fashion festival."
She smiled gently out of politeness, exhaling quietly through her nose. With shock, she realized how tense she was, and most likely would be, throughout this interview. As long as the questions were about her work, she would be happy to answer them all, but she didn't know how she would react if the reporter, with unnaturally, ugly, red hair, decided to ask about her private life.
"Well, I think I can tell you this year's theme, or at least give you a little of a secret," she leaned in gently, as if it were a secret being told to her closest friend. She was pleased to see that the reporter repeated the gesture. "This year's Met Gala will be all about subjectivity."
The reporter leaned back again, resting fully on the back of her chair. She thought about it for a moment. The truth was that there would be no theme; invited guests will come wearing what they wanted. She took into account how many of them would come in the simplest evening dresses, the men most likely in black, classic suits. In all honesty she didn't have high hopes.
"It sounds interesting and fresh, I can't wait to see what we will see on the red carpet this time. Now, I would like to ask about something that has been happening for some time. I am sure that with the first Monday of May there will be many opportunities to talk about surprising outfits and the event itself."
Miranda tensed, but didn't show it. Instead, she adjusted her skirt, and crossed her legs, knowing it wouldn't be visible on camera, and looked right into the eyes of the journalist.
"Of course."
"Can I ask you how you've been doing lately, Miranda? It's no secret that the divorce made a lot of headlines, and many of our audiences are wondering how it's affecting your daughters and you, our favourite Mother of Fashion."
Miranda felt her teeth clench tightly. She knew that sooner or later she would be asked about it, not only among the crowds on the street, but also in such an interview. She didn't expect them to move on to personal questions so quickly, but the reporters apparently thought it best to get straight to the point.
Miranda thought for a moment about getting up and leaving, because she had often expressed what she thought about questions of what was happening within the four walls of her home and also in the lives of her beloved children. For some reason, they all assumed that they were the special ones, to whom she would reveal her darkest secrets. She abandoned the idea of interrupting the interview, knowing fully well how such behaviour would ultimately be seen, and instead settled on sending an icy smile towards the woman, along with raising one eyebrow.
She must have understood what Miranda was trying to tell her with that one gesture, because she unconsciously straightened up and clutched her notes in both hands.
"More people know about my divorce than I would like, it seems. I spent wonderful years with my, now, ex-husband and I wouldn't change them for anything. We made a joint decision that was the best for us and our daughters. That's all I have to say on this topic. I'm sure there are many other things you want to ask me."
Miranda moved her chin towards the notebook on which she could see at least two pages of written questions from a distance. She really hoped she wouldn't have to go through every single one of them.
"What do they think about their parents not being together any more?"
"I don't see how is that relevant to why we're here today."
Really, one would think that she would know when the topic was closed, and would know when not to pursue it further. Just a few years ago, Miranda would have tried to find the most polite way to avoid her question, maybe even share something. Now, after so many years of experience and putting up with the press, there were moments where she had to draw a new, thick line, especially for journalists who decided to ignore the already existing one.
Over the years, it was impossible not to notice the difference with which she was treated. At first, a lost, young woman who, before she was even thirty, found herself at the head of a fashion magazine. After several years of working in Paris as a junior editor of Chic magazine, she was sent to the United States to take the place she had dreamed of since childhood. Only with time did she start to be looked at as someone worth paying attention to. She looked more serious now, after she dyed her hair completely, following her body's decision, and her friend's advice. Miranda was a woman who wasn't afraid of old age and how she had already changed compared to when she was only twenty. Why dye your hair, if you can greet it as if aging was your good friend? It was a perfect move for her, because the hair had became her trademark. With her appearance and chilling gaze, she initially gained the respect and recognition of others; now it comes naturally and without any difficulty.
So she had no problem with escaping reprehensible behaviour, even when it was an interview, and not just another meeting in her office. She quickly learned that raising her voice is a disastrous path and in order for people to actually listen to what she has to say, she must lead to a situation in which they will do everything to hear her. One sentence or look was enough to bring everyone to order.
Just like now;
"Oh, um, yes, of course! We absolutely do not have to talk about this. It's just that a lot of..."
"I'm sure that your audience is way more interested in the upcoming plans I have for Runway than two seven-year-olds."
"Yes, Miranda.
30th November, 2004
"Congratulations on your wedding! I wish you and Mr. Tomlinson much happiness!"
Miranda nodded her thanks and smiled in a practised way. She did everything to make sure there was as little press buzz as possible around her wedding. She didn't want it big; she had already done one, as had her new husband, and they both decided they didn't need anything spectacular. After all, she was already forty-two years old — the last thing she dreamed of, was a big party. If she could, she would get it done at the office within fifteen minutes and go back to work.
She probably should have been more grateful, appreciating the kind words from anyone who had something to say about her marriage, but the truth was... she didn't care.
At the end of the day, Miranda really felt that she deserved to find someone after all this time, because she was simply... lonely. Despite her reputation, she was, unfortunately, only a human, and needed the warmth she could only get from a man. Her daughters did what they could. Many evenings, that she managed to spend at home, they took care of her, told her stories, hugged her, kissed her, but something was still missing. Of course, she appreciated their efforts, how they had helped her right after her divorce from their father, even if they didn't fully realise it themselves.
But then Stephen showed up.
Stephen, who could make her laugh, always had his possessive arm around her, who made her feel attractive again, who bragged about her left and right, as if he himself couldn't believe that Miranda wanted to be with him — that she was interested.
However, just before the wedding, doubts arose.
She found a lipstick in the car. The most common one, blood-red, which she would never buy herself, because the colour did not suit her at all. She ignored it, telling herself that maybe she had such lipstick after all, that she simply didn't remember since she had so many of them. The truth was that she knew perfectly well what this meant, having already lived through that, but she decided to marry him anyway. The fear of loneliness was much greater than her hurt pride if her current husband slept with another, probably younger, woman from time to time.
"Thank you, for your kind words, Julie." She nodded, and took away the unruly curl with the movement of her head. It was one of those interviews where she didn't have to stress because she knew this journalist well, and knew that she could expect only professionalism from her. "What information do you want to get out of me this time?"
Julie laughed and smiled warmly, sitting a little more comfortably in her chair. She put her notes aside, Miranda smiled inwardly, and a series of questions flowed from her lips.
8th October, 2006
"So, Miranda, I want to know everything! Let's start with this; what do you think about Paris Fashion Week this year?"
Miranda swallowed hard.
The question itself wasn't out of place, in fact it was one that she knew would be asked often in upcoming interviews. Still, chocolate doe-eyes appeared in her mind for a split second, and a sharp twinge in her heart quickened her heart rate. The knowledge that she would never see them again weighed heavily on her, but she did her best to push those thoughts to the back of her mind. The last thing she needed now was another nervous breakdown and a wave of tears.
"It couldn't have gone any better."