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Page Six reported, once, that Miranda Priestly’s latest husband—her third—looks exactly like Kenneth Branagh. He is objectively good looking, and genuinely nice to boot.
Women titter and hover around him, enchanted by his warm smile and boyish charm. Men eye him with a mixture of admiration and envy. Even Miranda, notoriously cold and distant with her partners, seems to genuinely enjoy his company. Ten years since they first stepped onto the scene as a couple, and they still seem as close as they were in the early days.
Miranda has been Editor-in-Chief of Runway for almost 40 years. There are whispers that the upcoming 40th anniversary edition of Runway will be her last. It’s well-known that these days she delegates much of the work to Nigel Kipling, for whom she long ago manufactured the position of Editor-at-Large for Elias-Clarke. With his keen eye, he’s been an effective fixer for many of the company’s publications. For instance, he is single-handedly responsible for Auto Universe’s continued survival, and he doesn’t even know how to drive.
Kenneth, meanwhile—and yes, that is his real first name; his last name is irrelevant, but in gossip columns is always Priestly—owns a prominent football team and was himself a star player until he received his seventh concussion in his early 30s. He’s ten years younger than Miranda and dotes on her with all the masculine chivalry of a medieval knight. Currently, his hand is at the small of her back, his white teeth flashing as he grins at something no doubt witty and devastating she’s just said.
“Stop glaring,” Darryl says.
Andy’s glare turns from the clueless couple to her escort, who responds by raising an eyebrow and sipping his martini, the light of the ballroom glinting on the simple gold wedding band on his ring finger. Darryl is handsome and intelligent, built like a linebacker—because he is one. Andy loves his smile and how safe she feels with him; they’d met, in fact, when she’d been mugged on her way home from the Upper East Side eleven years ago and he’d come to her rescue.
(Though, to be fair, both of her attackers had been on the ground, one clutching his crotch and the other nursing a broken nose, by the time Darryl reached her.)
“I’m not glaring,” she says, glaring. She softens it with a twitch of her lips, fully aware of how ridiculous she sounds.
“I know you hate these things. Let’s give it another thirty minutes, yeah? You haven’t even talked to Grace or Hassan yet. You know they’ve been dying to grill you about your article.”
She wrinkles her nose. “They’re both trying to woo me for the next one, as if lightning will strike twice.”
Darryl nudges her with his elbow. “Hon, that metaphor doesn’t work when lightning strikes every time you write something.”
“Charmer,” she accuses affectionately.
He isn’t wrong, though. Over the two decades since Andy left her entry-level position at Runway, she’s developed a reputation as a hard-hitting, no-nonsense journalist. At one time or another, she’s earned nearly all of the prominent awards in her field—some of them more than once. She teaches a class at Columbia that has a waiting list in the mid double digits every semester. Her book of essays is set to be published in a few months and there’s already talk of being shortlisted for the Nobel Prize.
“What the devil are you two doing, hiding back here?”
Emily Charlton’s so-familiar, ever-strident voice makes them grin and share an eye roll. “You know what we’re doing, Em,” Andy points out, grabbing her old friend by the arm and yanking her behind the same potted plant she and Darryl have been using as a shield.
Emily plants her hands on her hips. “It amazes me, Andrea, it really does, that you’re still such a bloody coward after all this time. When are you going to get over your fear of Miranda?”
Andy narrows her eyes. “That’s easy for you to say, Ms. Vogue Executive Editor.”
It’s been six years since Emily made the jump from Runway to Vogue, a betrayal Miranda would not soon forget. The only saving grace about the decision was the fact that the change was by no means a lateral one—Emily had skipped multiple steps to secure her position as the editor in charge of Vogue’s online content.
Miranda, in her shoes, wouldn’t have hesitated to do the same thing. Which doesn’t mean, of course, that Miranda’s forgiven her.
Emily smirks. “I will admit, I get a little thrill at the way her nostrils flare every time she sees me.”
Darryl presses a light kiss to Andy’s hair. “I’m going to find the restroom and leave you two to your shenanigans. Need anything?”
She squeezes his hand and gives him a smile. “I’m good. 20 minutes?”
“You got it. I’ll have the Uber waiting. See you for brunch next week, Emily.”
Andy and Emily watch him go, heads tilting in sync as they admire the fine figure he makes in his sleek tux. “That’s some arse,” Emily observes. “Delicious, really.”
“Emily!”
“No, really. How’d a frumpy cow like you land such a perfect husband?”
Emily’s insults have long ceased to bother Andy. In fact, she’s pretty sure insults are Emily’s love language. And they both know that “frumpy cow” is in no way an accurate descriptor for Andy, who is tall, svelte, and—according to Nigel—spectacular in her custom-made Vera Wang gown.
“Keep your eyes to yourself,” Andy says sternly. “Or do I need to tell Serena?”
Emily scoffs. “If you think she doesn’t appreciate Darryl’s backside every time the four of us play pickleball, you must be living in la la land.”
Andy snorts. She pokes her head around the pot to see that Miranda and Ken have drifted a bit closer. In fact, by some cruel stroke of fate they’re currently in conversation with the two editors Andy is supposed to shmooze with before the event is over. Of course.
“Have you faced the dragon yet tonight?” Andy asks.
“Why do you think I came over here? I need you to draw her fire while I go in for the kill.”
It’s common knowledge that Miranda and Emily have a vicious professional rivalry these days. Emily, who used to become lightheaded with fear, hunger, and admiration in Miranda’s presence, has become quite skilled at luring advertisers to her website just when Miranda thinks she has them in her grasp. Miranda, in turn, has poached designers and models from Emily’s clutches on no fewer than twenty-three occasions.
Andy winces. “I’m really not in the mood for a Miranda fight tonight, Em.”
“This isn’t about you,” Emily scoffs. “It’s obviously about me. You owe me, Sachs.”
“For what, exactly?”
“That time, with the thing.”
Andy crosses her arms over her chest, unimpressed. “Oh, please. I more than made up for that with the turtle episode.”
Emily opens her mouth to fire back, but just then there’s a tinkling sound from halfway across the room Andy knows all too well despite its rarity. She leans out from behind the plant to stare at Miranda, whose head is thrown back at something Ken has just whispered into her ear. Her laughter, light and sincere, rings like a bell.
Andy scowls. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
She and Emily make their way toward the couple, careful to stop and exchange pleasantries here and there and not look like they’re making a beeline towards their target. Nigel, enjoying the champagne with his husband Alphonse, gives Andy a knowing smile and says, “Once more into the breach, eh, Six?”
She flips him the bird, making him gasp and clutch his chest in feigned dismay.
Her skin itches as they get close, which means Miranda has seen them coming and is now watching their approach the way a hawk watches a snake inch its way across a barren desert. Andy pastes on her most pleasant smile, the public face she’s mastered and hates to wear, and when she gets close enough, says, “Miranda. Ken. Grace. Hassan. So nice to see you all.”
There are overlapping murmurs of welcome.
Ken gives her a broad smile. “Hey, neighbor! Long time, no see.”
“Neighbor?” Hassan repeats in surprise.
“Andy lives next door,” Ken explains. “She’s always good for a cup of sugar.”
Andy laughs awkwardly. She never quite knows how to handle his easy charm, which is always juxtaposed against Miranda's raptor stare. He’s such a nice guy. It’s a miracle, really, that Miranda hasn’t chewed him up and spat him out.
Speaking of… “Emily,” Miranda says icily. “I see you’ve traded Serena in for a less refined model.”
“Hey!” Andy says.
Miranda’s blue eyes glint with satisfaction at having scored a point.
“Serena is in Brazil on a photo shoot for you right now, as you well know,” Emily replies. There’s no indication in her proud bearing that her sun used to rise and set at Miranda’s whim.
“Clearly the Chinese wall between the two of you is as porous as it’s ever been,” Miranda shoots back.
“Oh, was Runway’s massive presence in Brazil supposed to be some kind of secret? Here, I’ll give you one of my own—my team is in Portugal right now, and the spread they’re making is going to bring tears to your eyes.”
Miranda sneers. “Really? It’s been a while since one of your spreads was so repulsive I cried, but never say never.”
Emily unsubtly steps on Andy’s toe. Andy bites back a curse and remembers she’s supposed to be acting as Emily’s human shield.
“Grace,” she says loudly, “I heard you were looking for me.”
Grace Hsieh, an editor with The New York Times, is a beautiful woman, about Andy’s age. She smiles slyly, inching closer to lay an overly familiar hand on Andy’s arm. “Yes, darling. I simply must know what you’re working on next. Perhaps I can steal you away to discuss it—or should we plan a dinner?”
“Have the Times’ standards really fallen so low?” Miranda demands, looking down her nose at Andy as if she’s some sort of unidentifiable stain on an otherwise priceless rug.
Hassan chuckles awkwardly. “Now, Miranda, surely you can agree that Andy’s work is nothing short of noteworthy. We’ve been trying to get her to write something for Variety for ages now.”
“About that,” Andy says. “I’ve been thinking, and—”
“Say, Miranda,” Emily interrupts, evidently ready for Round Two. “Have you heard anything from Victoria’s Secret lately?”
Miranda goes very still.
“I was just wondering, because I had a fabulous meeting with Joy Schneider last week. You know Joy, their head of advertising?”
Miranda’s nostrils flare. If she were a real dragon, smoke would be coming out. Then, her lips curve into a terrifying smile. “What a shame,” she says smoothly. “They’ll be devastated to miss out on the opportunity to advertise with Salma Hayek on next month’s cover.”
A strangled sound claws its way out of Emily’s throat. She takes a step forward, fists clenching. “No, Miranda,” she says tightly. “Tell me you didn’t poach Salma.”
Miranda’s eyes gleam.
Emily’s lip curls. “You are such a—”
Andy, quite certain that whatever will come out of Emily’s mouth next will be detrimental to her career and lifespan, grabs her by the arm and yanks her towards the exit. “Well, it’s been fun,” Andy tosses over her shoulder. “You all have a great night, now.”
“Bye, Andy,” Ken calls after them.
Outside, Darryl waits at the bottom of the museum steps. Andy waves at him, points to her watch, and holds up two fingers. He nods his understanding. They long ago developed a code for how many minutes Andy will need to cool Emily down.
“I love my job,” Emily says rapidly. “I love my job.”
“Breathe, Em.”
“Miranda is—she just—argh!”
Andy nods, rubbing the other woman’s back soothingly. “You’re right.”
“It’s like she’s trying to torture me!”
“Yep. Fair assessment.”
Tears glimmer in Emily’s eyes but don’t fall. “She has to win every time. No matter the cost. I don’t understand how someone could stay married to that—that—”
“You’re a worthy adversary,” Andy interrupts, not particularly interested in hearing the end of that sentence. “Take it as a compliment that she has to put so much effort into beating you. You know there’s no shame in losing, not when your opponent is Miranda Priestly.”
The wind goes out of Emily’s sails. “I suppose.” Drooping, she mutters, “She gets under my skin.”
“You don’t say.”
“I should let you go. Darryl looks ready to get out of here.”
“Yeah, but we’ll see you next week. Do me a favor and try not to stew too much about Miranda. It’s not good for you.”
Emily gives her a weak push towards the stairs. Darryl, ever the gentleman, extends his hand to help her down the last few steps. Their Uber is a somewhat beaten-up sedan, wedged at the curb between two waiting limousines.
“How’d it go?” he asks, linking their arms together.
Andy shrugs, a little morose. “The usual.”
He rests the side of his head against hers, his steady warmth offering easy comfort. “Not much longer, now.”
Roy is in the car behind them. He gives her a cheerful wave and a wink. As she slips into the Uber and closes her door, he leaps out to greet Miranda and Ken, who also seem to have decided it’s time to go.
The ride to the Upper East Side is quick at this time of night. Andy stares out the window, introspective. Darryl respects her silence, smiling faintly as he exchanges rapid texts with someone.
They pull up in front of the townhouse just as Roy pulls up behind them. Andy and Darryl thank the driver and give him a generous tip before climbing out, just in time to see Ken help Miranda onto the curb.
Andy, Miranda, Ken, and Darryl stand between their adjacent houses, looking at each other. Waiting. The Uber driver departs. Roy tilts his hat at the four of them and says, “Good evening, all.” Then he, too, is gone. They are as alone as they can be in public, though Edna Thorpe across the street is almost certainly spying through her blinds.
Miranda’s voice, not cool at all, breaks the silence. “Darling.”
Andy extracts her arm from Darryl’s and takes two steps forward to fall into Miranda’s embrace. Miranda’s signature perfume makes her head a little fuzzy, as it always does. “Hi.”
She’s distantly aware of Darryl and Ken smiling bashfully at each other like kids on their first date.
“You were stunning tonight,” Miranda breathes, running her hand up and down Andy’s bare back, nose nuzzling against that sensitive spot behind Andy's ear. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
Andy pulls back to grin at her wife. “You weren’t bad yourself. Seventy years old and still the belle of the ball.” She leans in for a kiss, pleased when Miranda doesn’t hesitate.
They don’t mind giving Edna a show. She’d long ago been bribed into agreeing to keep their affairs to herself. It had been worth paying off the old woman's Mahjong losses many times over to keep some measure of privacy.
“I really don’t know how you do it, Miranda,” Ken says, drawing their attention back to the two men, who make a handsome couple in matching tuxedos. “You make it look so effortless to say those harsh things to our Andy.”
“Oh, it is effortless,” Andy assures him. “She means at least half of the things she says.”
“It’s hardly my fault Andrea insists on acting as Emily’s protector,” Miranda says airily. “If she wishes to draw my fire, who am I to decline?”
Darryl laughs. “On that note, I think we’re going to call it a night. Next month, right?”
“Next month,” Andy confirms.
“Good night, ladies,” Ken says. “Don’t have too much fun, now.”
“Tell that to your husband,” Miranda says, looking significantly at Darryl, whose hand has settled a bit too low on Ken’s back to be considered polite.
Darryl blushes. They head to their house as Andy and Miranda take the stairs to the townhouse.
“When are you going to tell Emily?” Andy asks as Miranda unlocks the door and enters the security code.
Miranda's smirk is wicked. “I was thinking I’d wait to do it at the retirement party.”
She kicks off her heels, then takes Andy’s coat and hangs it as Andy crouches to place their shoes on the rack.
Andy gives her a look. “Very funny. You’d think torturing her would get old eventually.”
“And yet.” Miranda kisses the frown off of her lips. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m going to send her the job offer this week.” She gives Andy a little glare with no real heat. “You know I wanted to see her full reaction to the Salma Hayek news. You needn’t have intervened.”
They head up the stairs together.
“She was pissed, of course,” Andy says, exasperated. “What more did you want to see? You told me two years ago she’d be your replacement when you retired. I don’t know why you think you have to keep testing her.”
“That’s because you’re an intrepid truth-seeker and not a corporate executive, Andrea,” Miranda responds, her tone sincere rather than patronizing. “Trust me—Emily would respect me far less in the morning if I suddenly started going easy on her.”
Upon reaching their bedroom, Miranda glides into the attached bathroom to remove her earrings and makeup, Andy following close behind.
Miranda sets down her makeup wipe to tug down the zipper at the side of Andy’s gown. Andy returns the favor, ghosting the tips of her fingers along the exposed skin and delighting in the way Miranda shivers in response.
Miranda goes back to what she was doing as Andy carefully hangs both gowns.
“And us?” Andy asks out of the blue, as if they haven’t been moving in coordinated, companionable silence for the past few minutes.
“I’m still committed,” Miranda says, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Her face is soft, open, the way it only gets when they're alone together. “The retirement party. We'll give Page Six something to talk about.”
Andy nods calmly, though joy burbles inside her like the water in a kettle just before the whistle goes. “Ken and Darryl will be glad to hear it. Ken'll be happy if he never gets called 'Mr. Priestly' again. They’ve been ready to come out for almost a year now.”
“And you’ve been ready much longer than that,” Miranda acknowledges, reaching a hand behind her. Andy moves in and takes it, holding their clasped hands to her chest as her free arm wraps around Miranda. Together, they study their reflection.
Miranda’s expression turns troubled. “You’ve been so patient, Andrea. Sometimes I fear I’ve asked too much of you. Not more than you can handle—you can handle anything—but more than you ever should have had to give.”
Andy brushes her lips across Miranda’s temple. “I love you,” she murmurs against silky skin that is no longer wrinkle-free. “I love the life we’ve had together. I love the life we’re going to have. You’re my wife, and I really don’t care whether anyone else knows it. Miranda, I don’t regret a thing.”
Miranda closes her eyes for a long moment. Andy knows she won’t return the sentiment, knows that Miranda has many regrets. But she also knows their relationship isn’t one of them.
Eventually, Miranda opens her eyes. She squeezes Andy’s hand and then turns and stands. “You never made me choose,” she says, pressing her forehead intimately against Andy’s. “Between you and Runway. Not once.”
Andy hesitates. Miranda has never brought this up before. There’s never been a need; Andy has always known and accepted Miranda’s priorities. “I know what you would have chosen,” she says simply. She tries to draw away—not because she’s upset. Just to get a little space.
Miranda doesn’t let her, holding Andy in place, their lips a mere breath apart, eyes locked.
“No, my love,” Miranda says, softly but firmly. The words aren't an endearment. They are a statement of fact. “You don’t.”
Andy blinks, once, twice, three times. Her world, the world as she understands it, shatters and just as quickly reforms around her. Suddenly desperate, she presses her lips to Miranda’s, kissing her deeply, passionately, as if to drink the truth from her mouth.
When they part again, panting, Miranda laughs breathlessly. “Honestly, Andrea. So dramatic.”
Andy huffs. “Pot, kettle.” She begins backing towards the bedroom, sliding the strap of her negligee down her left shoulder as she goes.
Miranda visibly swallows. “What are you doing?”
Andy smiles innocently and shrugs off the other strap. “Being dramatic. Care to join me?”
She’s barely finished speaking before Miranda is on her. And then there’s no talking, not for a long time.