M.O.B.R., Part III
The problem with the art historians, Andy mused while donning her thigh-highs, was that they were so used to seeing hidden layers of meaning they went looking for them even if there were none.
There could have been several plausible explanations as to why Lily was handed that copy, one perfectly reasonable being that the original was filed with HR department.
But no, Lily was already flying high with her damned theories and references and fucking examples, citing Lichtenstein and Warhol and God only knew who else.
As if she needed one more shot of false hope. Andy angrily plunged her feet in her old, faithful pair of Jimmy Choos. As if she weren't already disseminating every possible meaning behind Miranda's deeds. The last thing she required was the theory to support her pitiful fantasies.
She didn't really expect Miranda to attend the closing party, but she dredged out her best dress just in case.
Andy kept as far away from her damned panel as she physically could. She had snatched a nice little corner for herself in the back of the room, half hidden behind a gigantic plant. A perfect place to observe without being seen.
A respectful crowd was milling around the gallery, spilling out to the street in front. To Lily's obvious delight, there were quite a few faces from the art circles. Even Andy recognized a critic or two.
Of course, mostly it was the socialites herded in by the Runway shoot. If she ever needed a reminder of Miranda's long hand of influence, this was it.
She noticed some fellow contributors as well. It wasn't that difficult to pick them out; they were hovering close to their own exhibits, enjoying their fifteen minutes in the dubious spotlight.
Well, as long as nobody was pointing fingers at her, she didn't give a shit what other people were doing. And thank God, Lily did not put Miranda's contribution on display. Something about it being against the rules.
At least, the whole catharsis thingy seemed to work for Doug. The last time she'd seen him, a handsome blonde was fixing his tie in the other corner of the room.
Andy tried to take another sip of the champagne and found the glass empty. Shit. She put the flute on the shelf, next to the epoxied pile of shredded letters. No alcohol and no Miranda. She might as well leave.
Was she really expecting her to show up? And what would she have done even if Miranda did show?
"Andrea." The familiar voice froze her in place. Her heart stopped, then started beating again. In her throat, at double speed.
She whipped around with an undignified squeak. "Miranda!"
Miranda raised her eyebrow in response.
"You came. Obviously. I mean, I'm glad. Um." Well, that answered that question. She would act like a blabbering idiot, just as she always had.
Miranda regarded her coolly, apparently satisfied to let Andy cringe herself to death. "I did sponsor this, in a way."
"Yes. Of course." Andy bit her lip, harshly, to shut herself up. She wished, fervently, she still had that glass in her hands. At least she wouldn't be wringing them. Shit.
"Not to mention, I simply had to meet the author," Miranda tipped her glass in a general direction of Andy's unfortunate display, "of the piece I so prominently featured."
Andy winced. She knew that tone, the overly sweet pitch that induced a mortal strain of diabetes, reserved for the worst transgressors only, like Jacqueline Follet or Mirada's second husband.
And Andrea Sachs.
They scrutinized each other. Well. No. Miranda did the scrutinizing, her upper lip curled, making Andy feel like a particularly disgraceful bug.
Andy did her best not to twitch. She opened her mouth and promptly shut it. All those things she was planning to say…how could the words just disappear? A look from those half hooded eyes, a purse of those too thin lips and she was gone. Replaced by a gaping simpleton.
While still at Runway, Andy used to rationalize it - and at that time she refused to even speculate what "it" exactly was - as some sort of Stockholm syndrome. A natural survival technique she'd adopted until out of Miranda's clutches.
Then, immediately after she'd left, she consoled herself. It was some kind of post-traumatic disorder; a craving for the stress and the adrenaline Miranda had provided on a daily basis.
Even later, when she knew better, while she was writing her heart out on that panel, she thought It would pass. Lily, after all, had promised the catharsis.
Now, her stomach clenching, her palms sweating, she gave up the hope of ever being cured.
And that was really, really shitty.
She had this silly notion - and seeing Miranda's stone cold expression she realized just how silly it was - that her words would be enough to bury the hatchet, at least. To wipe the slate clean. To forget about the unfortunate misjudgment called Paris.
Miranda's awareness of Andy's…attachment was downright embarrassing, but at least some good should come out of it. Andy's obvious suffering should appeal to Miranda's sense of revenge.
Shouldn't it?
Except, Miranda didn't look pleased. She, in fact, looked thoroughly pissed off.
"Um, about that display-"
"You should stick to writing," Miranda interrupted, giving her a syrupy smile, "obituaries."
"Uh, yeah, haha." Andy attempted a laugh and failed utterly. Did nothing escape that woman? Why the fuck did she have to know about Andy's macabre little niche? "You see-"
"Ironic, isn't it?" Miranda said blithely. "I swore to myself I'd rather cut my hand off than give you a chance to ever publish a single line in Runway."
She licked her lips. "Miranda,-"
She could have guessed pretty accurately how Miranda felt about her leaving in Paris. For months, she had been waiting for the axe to drop. Why do her words hurt so much, then?
"And there I go spreading that sob story of yours all over my spread."
Andy felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She closed her eyes. Not the axe; the execution by mortification. If she ever wondered how Miranda really felt, here was her clue.
"Tell me, Andrea," Miranda said icily, dropping any pretense at a polite conversation. "What was the point of that little exercise?"
"Huh?" Andy blinked. Wasn't that obvious?
"You see, there are only two possible explanations for this…art piece." Miranda spat the last two words. Andy flinched at her disdain. A tiny flare of anger ignited in her belly. Miranda couldn't care less about Andy's feelings, fine. But did she have to be so cruel about it?
The next words almost toppled her over.
"One, and most likely, this was purposely published in Runway." Miranda tilted her head in fake wonder. "I do not believe in coincidences. Are you threatening me, silly girl? Do remind your accomplice of the non-disclosure agreement you had both signed."
"Accompl-" Andy's eyes almost bulged out. She could feel the blood pounding in her temples.
"Or two, I was never meant to see it. Yet another theatrical flinging of the phone in the fountain, Andrea? These dramatic exits get old quickly."
What the fuck? Miranda was slapping her with absurdities so fast, her brain was swaying like a battered boxer. Miranda was pissed off because of suspected foul play? Or was she mad because she was not meant to see it? Why would it bother her? Andy needed a gong. A minute to regroup. Why would it bother her? She needed Lily to wipe the blood off. Anything to stop this barrage.
Miranda, like a true champ, went for the kill. "In any case, both possibilities are equally contemptible. I simply wonder, which is it?"
Andy lashed out desperately. "Or three, maybe it isn't about you at all!"
"Isn't it, Andrea?" Suddenly, Miranda seemed much closer than she was a second ago. Her eyes were glinting only inches from Andy's. "My twenty-four carat gold pen…"
"Twenty-four carat?" Andy croaked, the shock diluting her bewilderment for a second.
Miranda continued, leaning even closer. "My Hermès scarf…or did you think I would not notice that potato on four sticks you have drawn in place of a logo?"
Andy's nostrils twitched. Miranda's perfume, and straight from the source. It was not helping to clear her mind. Why would it bother her?
"And my room number in Plaza Athenee Hotel on that card key."
Andy asked, hating the anxiety in her own voice, "What do you want from me?"
"The truth, for once. Was Nigel in on it?" Miranda waved her hand dismissively. "No, no. In fact, you don't need to answer that. Of course he was. How else-"
Her anger flared back to life. She clung to it, desperately. At least, this horrifyingly unfair accusation was something she could fight against.
"Just wait a-" she said loudly then instinctively dropped her voice to a fierce whisper. "-fucking minute now!"
"You have humiliated me once, Andrea." Miranda's eyes flashed. "Foolishly, I let it slide. No more."
"Nigel had nothing to do with it!" Andy sputtered. She could feel the tears rising. "This was my story to tell! Mine! And god damn it, I will not allow you to belittle it!"
"Why not? You belittled it yourself, when you put it on that display. What's next? A bestseller tell-it-all, by Andy S.?"
"Did you even read the words? Or were you just looking for the fingerprints on that panel?"
"That eulogy? Oh yes, I've read it." Miranda snorted.
"It is so easy to write about dead things, isn't it?" she continued, her voice full of scorn. "To scribble those polite, fuzzy little exposes, secure in the knowledge there wouldn't be a follow up story."
Miranda gave her a slow, measuring once over, and Andy had a distinctive feeling she was found lacking. She was misunderstanding something crucial. And some huge, life changing opportunity was passing her by.
"You'll never amount to much, Andrea." Miranda stated with finality. "You might possess the intelligence, the wit, the education. But you don't have the guts."
It was like a punch to the stomach. Miranda's scorn had always hurt worse than her fury.
"Miranda,-" Andy whispered, almost begging.
Miranda raised her hand, silencing her.
"Grow up, Andrea. Or grow a spine. Whichever comes first."
And then, she turned on her heel and walked away.
"Miranda!" Andy cried desperately.
To her shock, Miranda halted.
"The copy of my notice." Andy blurted to Miranda's back the first thing that came to mind. "Why?"
Miranda spoke over her shoulder. "It seemed fitting."
June
Andy got drunk as a skunk that night. Consequently, she spent Saturday with her head in the bowl.
Sunday, she was downing aspirins and staring at the wall. Thinking.
It took her a while. So long, in fact, that she became intimately familiar with the crack along the door jamb and an antique spaghetti stain.
But, finally, a year too late, everything made sense.
On Monday, she turned up at The Mirror wearing her 3-inch heels, told Bill Garson to go fuck himself and asked for an assignment in the same breath.
Her article on New York pet owners was good enough that Jake dropped another filler to run it whole.
Her next article, on the recent troubles with graffiti artists, actually drew five hate mails.
Jake was impressed.
When Lily asked her about her recent makeover, Andy told her it was the catharsis.
There was only one more thing left to do.
July
Andy had timed it perfectly. She simply had to wait for the inevitable Starbucks run. The moment a distraught second assistant ran out of the Elias Clarke, she slipped into the building. She waved enthusiastically to Carl, the security guard she used to chat with, and he cheered back, unsuspecting.
The next moment, she was in the elevator, hugging her package close.
At the glass entrance to the front office, she stopped to observe the remaining assistant. She waited for a phone to ring. One, two…ah. The moment the girl answered, Andy drew a huge breath, and then, ignoring a terrified squeak behind her back, sprinted all the way into Miranda's office.
"Hi!" she said cheerfully.
"What-" Miranda stared at Andy in disbelief.
"Miranda!" The assistant rushed in. "I'm so sorry, I didn't-"
"Go away." Miranda said, her eyes never leaving Andy's.
Was it really too late?
Then, Miranda turned her glare on the assistant. "Are you deaf?"
A mumbled apology later, the door closed leaving them alone.
They stared at each other, tense and unmoving.
Finally, Miranda swiped her glasses away and gave her a measured look. "Do take your time, Andrea."
"I've decided to move on," Andrea handed her a package. Her hand shook only slightly. "So I'm returning your things."
For a very brief, almost invisible moment, Miranda looked stricken. A twitch of the lips, a slant of her eyes. If Andy weren't looking for the signs, she'd never even noticed them. In a blink, a familiarly cold, collected expression reappeared.
"How lovely for you," Miranda said coolly. "Whatever makes you think I care?"
"It wasn't healthy, wallowing like that," Andy continued as if Miranda hadn't spoken. Miranda's unconscious clasp on the once pristine newspaper was far more telling than her words, anyway.
Miranda leaned back in her chair. "From obituaries to instant self-help. How quaint."
"Perhaps," Andy laughed. It was invigorating, doing the reckless thing. Taking the chance. Her world might never tilt back, but she wouldn't want the axis realigned anyway. She liked seeing Miranda from this new perspective. More important, she liked herself.
Miranda eyes widened. When was the last time someone let out a real laugh in this office?
Miranda's lips thinned.
Uh-oh.
"Have lunch with me?" Andy said quickly, over Miranda's imminent insult.
Miranda froze, mouth half opened. She narrowed her eyes. Andy resisted the ingrained instinct to cringe.
It was only fitting, Andy thought. A familiar tableau at the end of the road. They were facing each other just like that first day in the office.
Then, she was a blundering lamb, blissfully unaware of the danger, or of the proper ways of treating the lions in their dens.
Now, she taunted fully aware of consequences.
"Absolutely not."
"Dinner, then?" Andy asked, undaunted. She never dropped her gaze from Miranda's, bravely staring her down. One way or the other, this would be resolved today.
"Why should I?" Miranda raised her eyebrow.
"A follow up story, of course." Andy tilted her head, smirking. Who's afraid now? "Aren't you curious at all how it would turn out?"
Miranda shook her head in apparent amazement - at Andy's idiocy? - then looked down at the newspaper on her desk, seemingly losing interest in the conversation.
Just like the first day.
Ignored in lieu of the Sports page.
Well. It was a gamble from the beginning. But at least she tried. Never let it be said again that Andy Sachs lacked a spine.
She turned to leave.
"Meet me at seven at that new place," Miranda said. "And send Janice in on your way out."
August
It was a full month and six dates later, after Andy had finally managed to land a first real kiss, tongue and teeth and all, that she dared to ask the question again.
Miranda, her face flushed, her hair mussed up, still managed to look haughty when she answered.
"Even you should know by now, that in arts, the technique is as important as the subject."
With a sudden clarity, Andy realized Lily and Miranda would most probably become quite good friends.
If they didn't claw each other's eyes out first.
But then she forgot about Lily, because Miranda was touching her again, tracing her eyebrow with her fingertips.
She bit her lip and finally said, "Would you believe, there was nothing else of yours that I owned?"
Fin.
A/N I've stumbled upon The Museum of Broken Relationships by accident, but it is real, and currently on tour (the exhibition in San Francisco opened in February, 2009). Google it - it's an interesting, and, occasionally, strangely uplifting concept.
I've changed some of the facts for this story (for example, a total anonymity of participants) and even, somewhat, its general idea.
I apologize to the artists for that.