Chapter Text
BEFORE
God knows she would blame the alcohol for this.
The thing is - Emily tries to reason with the rest of her sober neurons - it wouldn't be weird, would it?
She had a motive, a perfectly good motive right on the tip of her tongue: she, being a devoted fashion lover, couldn't stand to see that black distressed leather Chanel jacket gathering dust because it didn't fit her right and instead of passing it on to someone who wouldn't appreciate it, she wanted to know if the previous owner, who had gotten it in Paris, would like to have it back. A perfectly reasonable call to make.
She presses her phone’s contacts, and as soon as it opens, it only takes four taps and the name appears on her screen, not even giving her time to prepare.
Maybe it has to be like a band-aid, fast and without overthinking. ‘It's just Andrea’, she reasons. A simple, casual call. A fair return. She clicks the name and hesitantly brings the phone to her ear.
At the sound of the first ring, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head a little, trying to disperse the slight alcoholic haze from her vision, the world almost trembling. It’s on the tip of her tongue; she can already imagine herself saying calmly: “Besides, if you've gone back to your old dressing habits, believe me, you need this jacket.”
At the sound of the second ring, Emily tells herself to lay the accent on thick. Even though Andrea had never mocked her accent the times it slipped out more intensely, she thinks it would be a good icebreaker. If there was any ice to break.
On the third, she taps her fingers against the bowl of her glass, still filled to the brim with red wine, so inelegant, yet highly necessary. She needed… Well, she wanted to talk about this with someone. About how, over the last few months, it was as if Runway had gone through a drastic change, like there was a Runway Before Andrea and a Runway After Andrea. Maybe not the magazine itself, but the people. Andrea had changed those people when she arrived, and changed them again when she left.
At the sound of the fourth ring, she thinks of Miranda. About how exhausting Miranda has been, how Runway seems to be growing and expanding more and more, and yet Miranda still doesn't seem satisfied with her. It was as if she were demanding an impossible standard from Emily, one she didn't know how to reach. It wasn't that Andrea was more competent than her; it was, she suspected, that Andrea had been viewed as a pupil. Someone Miranda enjoys teaching, and a good teacher rarely comes across a good student. So, she was absolutely testing all of Emily's endurance (which was vast). She wanted to talk about this with someone who understood what it meant to work for Miranda Priestly.
She also reflects on how she had no friends, not really, not before Andrea; and they weren't even actually friends, but even so, the woman had shown more... consideration for Emily than anyone else. It might be nice - she thinks at the sound of the fifth ring - to have a friend.
At the sound of the sixth and final ring, she thinks of Andrea's last words to her. She thinks of: “Thanks, Em. I appreciate it. Good luck.” She doesn't know why that replays in her mind every now and then like a scratched record. It had been the way she said it, so genuine, almost affectionate, so soft in her ear across the distance.
It had also sounded like a goodbye, and apparently, it truly had been one.
As the call ends, Emily still feels the echo of it. ‘Maybe I should try again tomorrow.’ But she won't. Not when there is uncertainty, not when she thinks Andrea simply doesn't want to talk to her. To any of them.
She still feels the exact same thing that motivated her at the start of the night, this feeling gnawing at the edges, trying to get to her, leaving behind a hole that only seemed to widen. Something sickeningly like loneliness.
NOW
Andy still thinks she might be hallucinating. If, eight months ago, someone had told her that she would return to work at Runway twenty years later... she would have laughed. Genuinely laughed.
Not that... - God, after so much time it’s kind of impossible to only remember the bad moments - Not that she wasn't grateful for everything she had learned, and how Runway and those people had changed her. But she had never thought of going back. She had never regretted throwing that phone.
She had made a name for herself, built a career she was proud of. Going back didn't feel, in any way, like a step backward. Things were different. Better, in a way.
“I feel like,” she says, trying to gather her thoughts, “there are so many new possibilities. It's as if the next thing I learn is going to change me completely.”
Lily lets out a thoughtful sigh as she keeps pace with Andy's footsteps. The two spend their free morning strolling through Central Park.
"I hope the novelty of the new Andy comes with higher standards,“ Lily jokes, and under Andy's curious glare, adds: "We don't need another Peter in the mix."
“Will you let that go? He was a nice guy." Andy pokes at the vanilla ice cream in her hand with a spoon.
“He… wasn’t terrible, just…” Lily admits, because, in truth, Andy’s romantic history ranged from complete jerks to… “average.” She pouts when Andy rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying.”
"You might have a point, but it becomes completely pointless because I am not looking for a new relationship." Andy gestures with the hand holding the spoon. "I have a job I love, amazing friends, a new apartment bought with an ex-discount," Andy lists off, raising her eyebrows and making Lily laugh. "And frozen eggs for whenever I decide to be a mom." She ignores the elderly couple walking past who exchange startled glances.
"Friends? Plural? Damn," Lily teases. "Don't you literally just hang out with your dad sometimes?"
"Careful. I'll tell him you said hi next time." Andy shoves her lightly on the shoulder. "I have friends! I have... you." Lily dips her head in a mock 'yes, ma'am' gesture. "And, oh, I have..."
Her smartphone, hanging from a lanyard around her neck, vibrates. Andy sticks her spoon into the ice cream cup and grabs the phone. She can't stop herself from smiling before tapping the green button to accept the call.
"And this is where I lose you to-" Lily doesn't get to finish before she's cut off by a loud, animated voice.
“Emily, hi! You won’t believe it, but I was just thinking about you at this very moment.” Lily pushes up her sunglasses. “Yeah, but we’re not watching Gone Girl; it’s not a comedy, no matter how hilarious you think it is.” A shrill laugh follows. “Yeah, at my place at seven. See you later.” Andy hangs up, feeling that same sensation she always gets whenever she randomly talks to Emily during the day - something she’s been doing a lot lately - a feeling of euphoria mixed with something akin to anxiety. Even though she just finished talking to her.
The truth was, Andy wasn’t very good at making friends. Even though she was, in her best friend's (her dad') words, ‘a walking golden retriever’. People liked her, of course. But transitioning from cordial affection to actual friendship had been hard twenty years ago; when her friends were Nate's friends and that whole group, Lily was the one who stuck by her when they broke up.
She thought it was very normal to be anxious about having a new friend. Especially when that friend is Emily Charlton.
"Did you say something?" She looks at her second-best friend again, the smile still lingering on her lips.
"Oh, no, no, just marveling at how you prefer the red head from Coach over me." Lily places a hand over her chest dramatically and closes her eyes.
"Oh stop, I love you," Andy hooks her arm through Lily's as they resume their walk. "And I already invited you to hang out with us. You know that every other Saturday is-"
"Wine drinking, movie watching, and carb eating day," they recite together. Andy says it with the reverence of a mantra; Lily with mockery, her mouth twitching as she tries to fight back a smile. "I know, honey, and it's not that I dislike the red-" she pauses at Andy's squeeze on her arm "your Emily," she quickly corrects, "but... I don't want to intrude on your moment."
Andy observes the park one last time. The trees are so beautiful this time of year; it makes her want to take a picture and send it. She would probably get a reply like, "Are you a landscaper now?" but she knows Emily would save it to her camera roll just because.
"I want you to like her," Andy answers honestly.
"Ah, I already do." Lily’s long look at Andy's bright eyes and persistent smile flies right over Andy's head. "Anyone who makes you happy, really."
BEFORE
Emily breathes Runway.
She loves fashion, absolutely. It's the only thing she is deeply passionate about, addicted to, enamored with. And Runway is everything she ever dreamed of, everything she aspires to. And she is competent at her job, even if it lacks glamour sometimes.
Being an assistant was much more behind-the-scenes than she would have liked, a lot of work and, considering her boss, very little recognition. But she was breathing fashion every single second, seeing and evaluating trends and brand launches firsthand. Learning more every day, craving more.
That day arrives. It is nothing like she imagined.
"I recommended you, Emily." And she knew she should feel honored. Because Miranda didn't make an effort to learn anyone's name, besides hers. She didn't help anyone, besides herself. And now she had gotten Emily her dream job, no longer just an assistant watching the gears turn, but a fundamental piece making them work.
A job she had yearned for.
"At Dior," Emily repeats. She hated looking stupid in front of Miranda.
Miranda - obstinate, solid, perceptive, and intelligent; the woman she held in a higher level of adoration than her own mother; the woman she admired, the woman she modeled herself after, for God's sake - didn't even raise her eyes.
"I expect second Emily to be thoroughly trained to take your position, of course, but Galliano is anxious to... have you on his team," Miranda continues.
Galliano, who owed Miranda a favor for saving the disaster he called a collection last year. Galliano, who secretly idolized Runw- no, Miranda. A request, then, Emily concludes. A job offer coming from the devil herself.
A punishment for Emily.
She hopes her silence indicates shock and not something else. Her hands are curled tightly into fists, as if she were about to fight.
"Miranda-"
"That’s all." And she turns away, the coward.
Emily stares at the top of her white hair. She wouldn't beg to stay. Not when Miranda was making it seem like this dismissal was a gift. When Miranda knows - she has to know - how much she loves Runway. How much she would sacrifice to…
She turns around then, denying Miranda the satisfaction of seeing her lose her mind. She doesn't even know what Miranda expects from her.
"What did she want?" Emily doesn't look up. She doesn't even know how she made it back to her desk, sat down, and resumed typing normally.
The new second assistant - the third one this past year - asks. Emily doesn't remember her name; she hadn't bothered to memorize it.
She doesn't answer. How could she?
What did she want? The worst part is that Emily didn't even think she represented any kind of threat to Miranda. She could never - not even if Irv Ravitz offered it to her - pull the rug out from under Miranda. Her level of loyalty ran as deep as Nigel's and- she takes a deep breath, feeling like she's about to cry at the sheer injustice of it.
What did she want, then? And it’s impossible not to think of her, the unanswered call from a month ago. Miranda doesn't see in her what she saw in Andy. Doesn't see her as an equal; doesn't think she is, how would Miranda phrase it? A killer.
The realization sinks into her.
She can't even feel angry at Andy for this. She herself would have used this against Andy; she would have said that, for someone with zero fashion sense, she was a perfect new Miranda.
But even so, she couldn't let go of the anger toward her. Not toward the girl who didn't answer her single, shameful phone call, who didn't call back, who perhaps also thought Emily had nothing to offer. Just like Miranda.
She would take the job at Dior. She would make John Galliano swallow any reservations he had, and she would make him realize he should hire her for her, not for Miranda.
She would, somehow, get her revenge. After all, not even dinosaurs lasted forever, did they? How much longer would it take for the ice empire to crumble?
She feels slightly renewed by holding onto the anger. The resentment. And not her broken heart.
NOW
Saturdays were Andy's favorite days. And there were many reasons for that.
The first was that they were her days off, and although Andy had a habit of pushing herself too hard and working countless hours off the clock, on Saturdays, time was entirely her own. Absolutely no work; no emergency that could make her break that promise.
The second was that her rest schedule was very well structured. She would take a morning walk with Lily, have lunch with her dad, take an afternoon nap, and, at night, watch a movie with her new favorite person. Not that she would ever admit that out loud.
"Welcome to girls' night," she says, arms extended, the moment she opens the door, a wide smile escaping her.
Emily rolls her eyes, her near-perfect poker face faltering. "Ew. You insist on calling it that."
"And you never tire of secretly loving it." She flexes her hands, arms still open.
Still feigning disgust, Emily steps forward.
In the beginning, it had been weird for her, how tactile Andy usually is. Hugs that were unexpected, yet frequent enough that the element of surprise had worn off. Now it was something she easily grew accustomed to, even expected.
Andy loves it. She loves welcoming people with smiles, and waves, and hugs. Though the latter she reserves only for a specific group. Her handshakes are firmer and linger longer than most people's. She likes connection, looking into someone's eyes. Maybe that was one of the reasons she was such a sharp journalist; she knew how to read people easily, and it was why she felt comfortable adding hugs to her greetings with Emily. Not just because they were friends - that too - but because she felt it was something Emily needed.
It was an easy dance: Emily would reluctantly wrap her arms around her neck, and Andy would wrap hers around Emily's waist, giving an extra squeeze to reassure her, feeling Emily's shoulders lose their tension. And then, as unexpectedly as it started, they would pull away. She would make room for Emily, saying, "Mi casa, Su casa," and watch from the still-open door as Emily followed the protocol, looking more and more at ease every time.
"Did you change the curtains?" Emily observes from the living room, her eyes landing on the new red tone replacing what used to be gray. "It matches the couch."
"I'm thinking of redecorating a bit, too," Andy replies as she locks the door.
"Taking advice from me? I’m absolutely gobsmacked." Emily looks around the space, which feels much less exposed now. The corner windows have their curtains drawn open, letting the moonlight spill in. Beautiful, although nothing in the loft felt particularly Andy - an observation she had made the first time she was here.
The best addition was that Andy had replaced a wall of shelves and bookcases with a massive television. And there was a white, two-seater reclining sofa that was absolutely marvelous. She could buy a similar one for her own house, but there was something different about knowing she could come to Andy's for a night of pure comfort.
"Well, I always follow your recommendations," Andy shrugs. "Speaking of which, I ordered the sushi rolls from that overpriced restaurant you recommended."
Emily turns around, her face lighting up. Andy points to the kitchen counter, where the black-and-ribbon-tied takeout boxes are waiting.
She steps closer and peeks at the perfectly appetizing hot rolls calling her name. She loves Japanese food; would eat it every day if each piece didn't cost 40 dollars and wasn't so highly caloric.
"Proper preparation first." Andy's hand touches her back.
Emily pulls herself away from the boxes with a wistful look. She leans into the firm warmth of Andy's hand at the base of her spine. “Preparation?” Emily glances over her shoulder. “I’m comfortable, just like you said.”
“Emily,” Andy says in that tone of hers, something akin to playful reprimand. “Are you seriously wearing Loro Piana right now?”
“It’s casual chic.” Emily suppresses the urge to glance down at her very comfortable black sweater.
“Haven’t we already talked about this?”
Emily steps away from the warmth of Andy standing so close as she circles the carefully designed kitchen island, eyeing the small wine collection arranged on the shelf. “No, you gave your opinion on dressing without standards, which you obviously,” she throws a look toward the probably-university-era sweatshirt Andy is wearing, trying not to sound disgusted - God knows she burned her own, with University of Western Ontario printed across it - “follow.” She continues. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she debates whether Japanese food paired better with white wine or rosé. “And I follow mine.”
She picks the white.
“I mean, it’s not that I want to comment on how you dress,” Andy begins, and for the sake of their friendship Emily avoids looking at her, not trusting herself not to give her a mocking look. “But I’ve seen you… well, in a robe and without makeup-”
Back then, Emily had emerged from the bathroom minutes later looking far more composed (and put together) and spent the rest of the night working with Andy. Neither of them had brought up the moment again. Until now.
“You saw a mirage,” Emily says calmly. Something in her tone, something about remembering that night and everything that came after it, makes Andy feel her own smile falter slightly. “And, in any case, I thought it was room service. After all, what lunatic shows up at someone’s hotel room late at night?”
If they were completely fine, Andy would’ve added jokingly: the same one who walked up the stairs. But that would drift far too close to the almost forbidden topic.
So she goes with something else. “I may not offer hot towels, but I’m much better than room service.”
“Not better than Cheval Blanc’s.” Emily says it just to provoke her.
She answers Andy’s almost offended look with a shrug, expertly balancing the wine bottle and glasses in her hands. She jerks her head toward the magnificently wrapped takeout box for Andy to carry and walks toward the magazine-cover-worthy living room, placing everything down on the coffee table.
Her own familiarity with Andy’s loft is somewhat shocking, considering how few times she’s actually been there.
She opens the wine and pours two generous glasses while leaving Andy in charge of picking the movie and unpacking the food.
Taking advantage of a moment of distraction, Emily skillfully grips her chopsticks and steals one of the perfectly prepared salmon rolls wrapped in seaweed and rice, set apart as a tasting piece.
“Hey.” She looks at Andy, who is struggling to position the chopsticks correctly in her hand. Eventually she manages it - was there anything Andy couldn’t do? - even if a bit messily. “I just want you to be yourself without needing a filter.”
Andy expects another disdainful look, or an ironic one, or that vaguely nauseated expression Emily occasionally gives her - which Andy always finds ridiculously funny - but not this time, not when she’s being too sentimental.
Emily surprises her instead, blinking several times, the same way she had months ago during that conversation when Andy once again failed to keep her thoughts to herself and made it very clear that Emily was iconic in every possible way. That there was no way she - the world, Miranda - couldn’t see it.
“I think this is the most myself I’ve been in a long time,” Emily admits.
Fragile Emily had always been Andy’s favorite version of her. Andy reaches out and touches her wrist. “It’s okay, Em.”
It would be turtle steps until Emily felt entirely comfortable around her, without needing to armor herself up. Andy could be patient.
"You know, most people ask their mates for jobs, or gifts, or some other bloody manageable demand rather than be yourself." Emily mimics Andy's voice.
Andy wears a small, hidden smile, the kind she gets when she's secretly pleased. She pats the spot next to her on the couch, which is covered by a thin, fluffy duvet.
"Tell me about your day." Andy says. And Emily would, settling comfortably into the cushions. Her hand receives a quick, fleeting caress during the handoff, making her press her lips together to keep from smiling.
Andy was very responsive. Making little comments at every new piece of information. Emily loved that deep down.
It was what motivated her to hoard information throughout the weeks. With every new event in her life, big or small, she stored them away in a mental file labeled: things to tell Andrea. She didn't want to run out of things to contribute to this friendship; she didn't want uncomfortable silences to make themselves known.
"God..." Andy struggles to breathe through her laughter after hearing the story about the celebrity who thought she could customize a luxury bag.
"Don't laugh, I seriously considered assassinating her," Emily says with feigned indignation as she finishes her second glass of wine. Satisfied that the story had the desired effect.
"Hey," Emily finally opens the larger box of hot rolls, chopsticks held perfectly between her fingers. "Did you order..."
"No scallion and extra cream cheese?" Andy smiles smugly. Genuinely. As she watches Emily's face do that charming thing it does when she's trying not to show too much emotion.
She and Emily haven't waded into the difficult conversation topics yet. Nothing about her children - although Emily drops trivial info about them from time to time - nothing about Miranda (obviously), nothing about Runway because Andy understands it’s still an open wound. Nothing about their love lives. And even though Emily knew Andy and Peter had broken up, she didn't share much herself. It doesn't stop Andy from worrying if Emily has someone who can do nice things for her, someone to take care of her.
As her friend, she had taken on that role, in a way. Sending texts asking what she had for lunch, seeing if she could help with a problem, checking in to see if she was working late, and letting her know what time she was going to sleep just to push her to do the same. She didn't worry if she was being too much; she had no filter for that, and she wasn't about to start now. Emily hadn't established a boundary yet. She hopes she never does.
That is why, after good (and very, very expensive food), she allows herself to gravitate toward Emily, both of them sharing while Rosamund Pike appears on the screen. Emily recites a few lines quietly, without thinking, and Andy lets herself observe her. The new blonde hair - another topic they didn’t deeply discuss - isn't a distraction from her clean, concentrated face.
At a certain point, Emily rests her head on her shoulder. Andy is very careful not to move, passing her wine glass to her other free hand. It has been nice, like this. Especially when Emily adjusts herself on the couch, wraps her arms together, keeps her head resting there, and lets out this sound of deep satisfaction that echoes from the back of her throat.
Andy feels warm. Hyper-aware of the presence by her side, her hand itches to reach out something. Such a strange feeling to carry.
Sometimes, Andy still thinks she might be hallucinating.