Chapter Text
“No, I said the climate piece runs second, not buried behind another think-piece about billionaire doomsday bunkers. Yes, I read it, John. Yes, all six thousand words. Trim the self-indulgent asides and give me something that moves, for God’s sake.” I paused at his garbled tone. Rolled my eyes. “Good. Ten a.m. tomorrow, and if the fact-checking team isn’t looped by then, I’ll know.”
I ended the call with a clean flick of my thumb. Glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawl of Midtown, glass concealing any noise. Then, turned back to my office, discarding the phone with a clatter.
Hollie hovered by the door, clutching a tablet. Nineteen years old, with round glasses, dark hair slicked back into a bun, dressed in a blazer and jeans. Always smelling of Caroline Herrera’s Good Girl, always perky, sometimes to a fault. Spent her lunch breaks watching TikToks on ‘journalism core’, whatever that meant. She was blinking at me expectantly.
“Okay, what’s next? Tell Francesca to push my lunch to two, get the cover proofs from Design, and find me the least terrible headshot of me from the archives.” I couldn’t fight a glare as I caught the reflection of her tablet in the glass and a familiar image flashed up. “No, not that one with the bangs, I’m still in therapy over that haircut.” I grimaced at the image. The one time I had gone to a salon because Miranda was at Milan fashion week, and I had come home with a bird’s nest on my head.
“Oh, and call the mayor’s office back. If they want my quote for the feature, they can spell my name right this time. It’s Andy, not Andrea, not matter what my wife calls me.”
Hollie stuck out her tongue as she scribbled with the digital pen. I glared at it. I hated those things. I didn’t particularly care for Hollie either, because she insisted on showing me pictures of her Dachshund every morning at seven am, but she was one of the only interns to apply without (obviously) using AI.
“Of course, Andy,” she said. Her words still came out breathless, as if she was one step away from dropping to her knees in worship. Her eyes darted to the accolades framed on the walls; journalism prizes, cover spreads I had engineered in my days as a reporter.
And two frames. One was a framed copy of the cover of The Nation’s Press the day my expose on the House of Lugazzo was published. Next to it, a matching frame. Another article from fifteen years ago, this week. The faded front cover of a UK newspaper detailing Miranda’s now-infamous hacking scandal, with the catchy headline ‘Smooth Criminal: Miranda Priestly and the Crisis to Coronation’.
“No,” I replied. “That’s all-” I paused, eyes widening. “Um, it. That’s it.”
“Okay. Do you still want me to take my scheduled break?”
“Yes.” I tried to fight the irritation lacing my voice. I had been up at four am FaceTiming Sid from her shoot in Japan and had slept maybe four, five hours total. “You deserve the breaks, Hollie, they’re not a punishment.”
“Right.” She nodded, head bobbing up and down. “Got it.”
Jesus Christ. My phone began to buzz on the table and I picked it up without looking.
“Yes?” I barked.
“Gosh,” came a voice. Smooth, silky. Laced with delight at my tone. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Then took a moment to bask in the way her voice still made me feel like it did, ten years ago.
“Miranda,” I said, resisting the urge to giggle and kick my feet, maybe twirl a curl around my finger. “Hi.” I ran a hand through my hair and sat down.
Then glanced in the mirror, adjusting my pantsuit like she could see me. Tailored Armani shirt. Some slacks I had found at Walmart, which Miranda had tried to ‘accidentally’ put through a shredder, until I pointed out how good they made my butt look. And a three hundred dollar blazer that Miranda called cheap, but which I still treated with the utmost care, as I did with all the things she gifted me.
“Long day already,” I explained. “Hollie is working too hard.”
“That’s her job.”
“So you’ve said. I still feel bad.”
“Fire her then.”
I laughed. Miranda huffed down the phone, but I couldn’t help myself. “She’s unpaid anyway.”
“Clearly,” she said. I laughed again. Miranda let out a strangled noise of indignation. “Do I amuse you, Andrea? I am not a one-woman comedy show, might I remind you.”
“Well, if you were, I would be sat front row, darling. Though I am rather busy right now. All okay?”
“Yes.” A beat of silence.
“You’re bored, aren’t you?”
“No,” she said, huffing again.
“You knew you’d have to retire at some point.” I paused. “You did know that, right?”
“Yes, Andrea, though it feels rather early.”
“I’m the breadwinner now, baby.”
“Eugh,” she said. “Awful.”
“I expect a nice home cooked dinner when I get back to the townhouse. With you in a frilly apron, frying pan on the go, please. And I shall shout ‘honey, I’m home’ too.”
“Oh, there will certainly be a frying pan waiting for you my darling. One to knock you over the head with.”
I couldn’t help it. A laugh of delight bubbled from my mouth again. At the door, one of my journalists knocked. He was holding up one of the proofs. I gestured for him to enter with a hand, still laughing as he took a seat opposite me.
“I’ve gotta go. We still on for the opera tonight?”
“Yes,” she sniffed. Apparently irritated with me for having to do my job. I grinned, wishing I had a phone cord to twirl my finger around.
“I’ll bring my headphones.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Bye bye, wifey.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Love you, wifey.”
“Andrea,” she said, her tone becoming low, seeping into dangerous territory.
“Alright, alright. Love you. Bye.”
“Indeed,” she said, and hung up.
><
Two days later I was in the office again; on my phone, as I always seemed to be, when Pat rang me.
“Alright?” Pat said. Voice muffled by the distant sound of a train.
“Hey Pat, I’m just a bit busy right now,” I said, leaning over my desk to examine the stack of articles on my desk. Hollie darted in, dropping another stack. Her eyes even wider than usual. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ that hopefully conveyed how grateful I was and she disappeared, off to flirt with the weird IT guy she seemed to like. “If you’re calling to tell me about Billy chasing the Amazon guy again, you can tell me after work.”
“First of all, that’s really fucking funny, and you should appreciate it more. Billy loves that guy. He’s started bringing Billy cool shaped boxes, he’s collecting them in Jack’s old room.” Pat paused, and I knew she was fighting back a wave of missing her kids, even if her eldest was nearing thirty now. “It’s something else.”
“Yeah?” I said. There was a distant shout that sounded like Billy, then a bunch of shushing. I frowned. Spun in my chair, and stared out at the skyline, eyes catching the Empire State Building. “What is it? Has Jack spent all his money in the pub again?”
“No,” Pat said. There was a rush of noise as she seemed to emerge onto a busy street. I could hear the distant beep of horns, a shout of someone selling hotdogs. Funny, I never remembered many hotdog vendors in London. “His new flat is a shithole though, he’s in the depths of Brixton.”
“It’s a learning curve.”
“I’m sure. Anyway,” she let out a sigh. I waited, tapping my foot. One eye on the clock. “I’m outside.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry, I cleared it with your assistant. She’s a keen bean, isn’t she?”
“What are you talking about?” I gasped, standing up so quickly my chair rolled back. Hands growing clammy, cheeks becoming flushed with excitement. “Pat, are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Your posh Priestly flew us out Business class, baby.” I could hear Pat’s smirk through the phone. My wool trench coat was already halfway up my arm. I scrabbled to grab my handbag, knocking the proofs off my desk in the process. Hollie burst in, looking around with her mouth open. “Even Ned.”
Ned, the new boyfriend. Tall, gangly, kinda looked like our old boss Greg if you squinted, which I tried to avoid doing. Chewed a lot of gum. Wore too much aftershave but the kids liked him, especially Billy, so I did.
“Andy, what can I do?” Hollie shrieked. I was really going to have to work with her on this. She panicked a lot.
“Door, door,” I said, pointing at it, still struggling with my coat.
“We’ve done Times Square with you guys, and Central Park we’ve done a lot.” Pat hummed down the phone. I stepped into the elevator, sandwiched between two junior journalists who had been working here for a week or two. Blonde James and brunette James, both looking at me with starry eyes. I grimaced, nodding at them. “So I was thinking something different this time.”
“Sure,” I said, half listening. Already starting to smile as I darted out of the elevator, nodding at one of the cleaners, Glenn. Stopping, I pressed the phone to my chest, offering him a brief word of congratulations. His wife had just given birth to their first daughter.
He beamed at me but I was already moving again, through the glass gates. Across the foyer, heeled boots clicking. Bodies parting for me. Several men in overcoats blocked my view. I darted around them, pushing through a door. Emerging onto the streets of New York to a roar of sound, and a crisp, early autumn breeze.
Across from me, beyond an expanse of paving slabs, I could see not three figures, but four.
“Miranda,” I said, her name coming out in a bubble of laughter. My gorgeous wife was good at just about everything except being retired, it seemed, so once again she had flown out my second family and brought them right here, to my doorstep.
Pat, Billy, and Ned. All dressed in some form of washed jeans and a coat. Pat and Ned with scarves on, Billy with an arsenal hat clamped on his head. Then, beside them, my darling wife.
Miranda stood in Prada heels, black slacks, a fitted shirt and a pinstripe waistcoat. Draped over it all, adorned on her, was a black trench coat. I called this look ‘business baddie’, a term I had first overheard on one of Hollie’s TikTok breaks. Miranda absolutely despised me calling her that, and by the cock of her eyebrow as I approached, she knew what I was thinking.
God, I could never take my eyes off of her. Even with my best friend, who I hadn’t seen in five months, stood beside her.
Miranda’s lips were pursed, because she was going to smile, but didn’t want to, so now she was pouting. Hair perfectly coiffed. Wrinkles set deeply into the corners of her eyes; one of our weekly arguments was me fighting her on getting plastic surgery, though she had secretly gotten Botox in her forehead last year, thinking I couldn’t tell.
Beautiful, beautiful beautiful, she was. I still got that same rush of excitement every time I saw her face, even after a decade of marriage.
“Pat!” I said, because she was already glowering at me.
“Stop staring at your wife, you see her everyday, you perv,” Pat barked, pulling me into a hug.
Then I was crying with joy, which confused Billy, made Ned suddenly grow interested in a nearby Subway entrance, and Miranda scoff. Pat just laughed, and we slipped into that easy rhythm we always did.
Behind them was one of those sleek nine seaters, engine running. Tinted windows, smooth doors. Apparently hired for us, because when the window rolled down, a familiar face appeared. I waved at Roy, his skin tanned with a recent holiday to Tanzania. He nodded in response. Trying to act professional as if he wasn’t married to one of my closest friends.
“No limousine?” I said to Miranda, smirking.
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re awfully old fashioned.”
“Come on.” I turned to Billy. “Let’s go get cheeseburgers!”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I love cheeseburgers.”
“Me too.” Pat pumped her first in the air and strode to the car. Miranda’s lip curled in displeasure. I knew that I would have to get the largest burger on the menu, because Miranda would scowl until the food arrived, then use her knife and fork to cut tiny, bite-sized pieces from the patty and eat them whilst tending to a miserable-looking salad of her own.
“I heard there’s a Wendy’s near here,” I added. Miranda stilled, a step in front of me.
“Absolutely not, Andrea. I draw the line there.”
I giggled, brushing past her, my hand trailing across her waist as I moved.
“Thank you,” I added, my voice low.
“You’re welcome,” Miranda preened, pressing a light kiss to the spot behind my ear. I shivered. There was a ghost of a smile across her lips, then she followed me into the car.
><
The living room was lit with the dying embers of our evening fire, crackling in the grate. Around me, as I stood with one hand on my hip, the other with my phone pressed to my ear, was the soft croon of Tears for Fears.
Miranda insisted, even now, on playing them every Monday night, because Monday night was our work night. First working day of the week, I would be home around seven. We would eat dinner, then retire upstairs, where we would work into the night. Now Miranda was retired, she would flick through a copy of the book from the Runway editor and send him any input she had, whether he asked for it or not.
The tradition stemmed from those nights in my poky London flat, however many years ago. She never played Tears for Fears back then, but apparently, she would sing it in her head. Sometimes even hum it aloud, though I never noticed. To this day, she never told me what songs she would think of. Only that every day when I went to work back then, it was their CD she played.
“Steve is ignoring me again,” I muttered, squinting at my phone. Two years wearing glasses and I still forgot to put them on.
Something dangled in my peripheral. My glasses, obviously, in Miranda’s outstretched hand. When I looked up at her I found her having just looked away from me. She sat upright on the couch, legs crossed, in a black sheath dress and heels, though she hadn’t left the house all day. On her lap was a magazine, and her lips were flat as she tapped the cover.
“Well, it is nine o’clock in the evening, darling,” she said. I huffed, but she ignored the noise, instead turning her focus back to the magazine. “Look. She’s styled Keira Knightley and her daughter on a George Goodwin Kilburne drawing.” I realised Miranda had a mock up of the next edition of British Runway. I paused, phone halfway back to my ear. Miranda smiled. “It’s quite stunning, isn’t it?”
“Emily’s always been good at what she does.”
“Hmm,” Miranda hummed. “Never that adept at keeping her voice below a shriek though, was she?”
I smirked and turned back to work, dialling Chris.
“Hi, Chris. Sorry to disturb you so late,” I said, as Miranda snorted softly behind me, because I couldn’t have sounded less sorry if I tried. His voice came back to me in a rush, high-pitched. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, I read the statement. f he wants to dispute the numbers, he can do it on the record. Otherwise, tell him to read it in print like everyone else.”
I stood up. Paced back and forth. We went on like that for a while. Back and forth, back and forth. His voice taking on a tone with me that Miranda tutted at. However, it didn’t bother me. I liked being challenged. I always had.
When we had debated for half an hour and Chris eventually agreed to let Marcus know we were running the story, I hung up. Then, pressed the phone to my forehead.
“Was I too harsh?” I squinted at Miranda out of one eye. “I feel like I was too harsh.”
“No more harsh than when you fired that sap in the digital sector. What was his name again?”
“What, Boyd?” I blinked. “He was, like, stupid. He kept trying to write the articles with AI, then blamed all the inevitable mistakes on his editor.”
Miranda hummed. I glared at her. She flicked one of the pages over, shaking her crossed leg so the heel that dangled from her foot bounced in the air. A sign that she was enjoying herself.
“You’re winding me up, aren’t you?”
“Sacrifices are necessary, Andrea, I’ve told you that for years though you never seem to listen. We’d all be better off if you just bit the bullet and became an awful person, instead of clinging to your moral superiority.”
“Well, I don’t want to,” I moaned, plopping down on the sofa beside her. She raised an eyebrow as the seat moved with my weight, making her copy slide to the left of her lap. “I hate upsetting people. Can’t you just come and fire people for me?”
“Ha,” she exhaled through her nose. “You know how much I would enjoy that, but you are the one who banned me from your office.”
Miranda patted her lap. I swung my legs away from her, dangling them over the edge of the sofa. Then I dropped my head onto her lap, lying with my back flat. Miranda began to run her fingers through my hair. I felt the weight of the day seep from my bones with each breath I let out.
“I had to ban you. You kept turning up and sitting at my desk, harassing my assistants until I arrived.”
“We had conflicting schedules, I was simply early to our engagements.”
“Every time?”
Miranda pulled on a strand of my hair, ignoring my yelp. “Yes, dear. Every time.”
Miranda liked to use terms of endearment a lot more than she used to, though I had still never heard her call me Andy.
She also kept trying to steal any clothes I owned that were less than a thousand dollars. And she was grumpy at the moment, because the doctor had told her to stop eating red meat and she was running out of things to occupy her retired days.
But she was Miranda, and God, I loved her. Even now, after all this time. Even after years of marriage, after fights that shattered vases and times where we hit rock bottom, when Sid had her motorbike crash or when Caroline tore her ACL.
Even as Miranda got older. Even as she began to forget things, because she still woke up every morning at half five so she could make me coffee before work. Still stood on the steps of the townhouse to glare at Roy in a blizzard, letting him know with just a look what would happen if he did not get me to work safely.
Miranda had always been right, though I wouldn’t admit it; that yes she could be cold, she could be careless. But only in defence of what she thought was fair, what she thought mattered. It had swiftly become one of the things I loved most dearly about her.
I lay there with her hands running through my hair. The scent of Hermès 24 Faubourg brushing gently against my skin, because she still wore that same scent, even now. Tears for Fears crooning in the background. Yes, I loved a lot of things about her. And she loved me too, most definitely.