Epilogue

November 2014

"Good to know your taste in music is just as mediocre as your taste in men."

A long buried memory of a conversation re-surfaces – a bittersweet, if rare, thought. Andy likes jazz, she always has and she likes middle of the road – so she has always settled for the charm of Nate, the kindness of Pierre. There are a million Nates and Pierres in this world, but there is only one Miranda; the sad truth is though uniqueness is a flaw, a drawback, a curse. For humankind is simply rats trapped in a larger maze: all of us carefully trained – to run and run and run – but only to the cheese. And should you put a piece of broccoli or a carrot, the fact is – it will likely be ignored. She sighs; too maudlin a thought for such a beautiful day, such a wonderful occasion: another wedding, another marriage, another broken life. Well, two lives, maybe three or more, but who is counting, when quite so many have fallen by the wayside?

She pastes on a smile as the hustle and bustle continues around her; remembers her own wedding, mentally offers thanks that for this one she hasn't had to do anything at all. Pierre looked cover model perfect on their wedding day, much like this handsome dashing groom. She watches him laugh, spin the bride around, make silly poses with his friends. She knows, of course, she's always known but she has never said it – the last three years have taught her that it's not her place. So she'll be there when it finishes, when this bride will shatter, when someone is needed to pick up the pieces of her life. Then she will do her duty, offer comfort; weighing it up in her mind, she takes an educated guess at how long they're going to last.

One year, maybe two.

That's exactly how long you promised you would wait for her, back then, at the beginning of it all. She chides herself for the errant turn of her thought. So much has passed, so much has changed, yet nothing has – she's still here waiting, waiting for something that will never come to pass. Tell me, has she put her life on hold? Her own voice mutters sarcastically. It doesn't matter, she replies. She did what she needed to, after everything that I've done it had to end – what's done is… lost.

Would she change it if she could? Would she do things differently? Of course she would but would it really change a thing? Another life, maybe another person; she acknowledges Miranda Priestly's actions will - would have always caused the same. Taking responsibility has never made her feel any better though, in fact, considerably worse. Undoubtedly, Miranda Priestly would have blamed Andrea, cut her losses, so easily moved on. She can't, she's tried time after time and failed; her pain the only constant through it all. A throbbing crippling crushing ache right in the centre of her chest, she's even seen a doctor, almost surprised to hear him pronounce that she still has a heart. Or at least the organ is intact – she isn't sure about the rest of it – the crucial invisible link from the organ to the soul. Did it ever exist? Sometimes she wonders. And if it did, it died a very long time ago.

"Hey Mum," the voice is uncharacteristically soft, uncertain; cuts across Miranda's melancholy thoughts.

She looks up, instinctively sizing up her daughter with a practiced eye. She is a vision in white, another cover model person, only Miranda truly knows what lies beneath – another Miranda in the making: capricious, cruel, calculating, and with it all – whip-smart. It's why she knows the marriage won't last; it's why she manages to feel some pity even as she watches what may as well be a home movie of her own first wedding day. Which predictably ended in divorce, just as this will; poor Zack, she sees him laughing – he has utterly no clue what's going to happen, what lies in store for him.

She smiles and she knows it's cruel with pleasure but it is rather hard to cast off shackles of the past. "Hi, bobbsey," She pats the chair beside her but Cassidy prefers to stand.

"I have something for you." She proffers the package to Miranda who is shocked to see the tremble in Cassidy's hand, the sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Cassidy, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I did something," her daughter's breath hitches momentarily, "I did something a long time ago. Something bad."

Which thing? Miranda thinks sarcastically, there's rather many from which to choose. But she bites her tongue, restrains herself from making the caustic comment; one of the things that she has learned. "I am sure it doesn't matter now," she smiles.

"Well, that's the thing," Cassidy whispers nervously, "it does."

"Why?" Miranda frowns, puzzled.

"Because of this," she indicates the package, "because of –"

Miranda interrupts, some habits die harder than others, "Is this from you?"

Unfurling the bow, she catches Cassidy negatively shake her head.

"From your sister?"

Another firm shake, another hesitation, "It's from - it's from someone that you used to know."

"Used to?" Miranda arches her brow.

"Some time ago."

"Strange that an old acquaintance would send me something on your wedding day but well –" She drops the lid in shock as she gazes at the contents of the box. 'Miriam Princhek' is embossed across the front cover of the journal; only one person would have taken care to find out, only one person would ever want to know. "C-cassidy," her voice shakes so hard that she is afraid she won't be able to get out the words, "W-who …" Her heart pounds in her chest so rapidly that she is truly scared – she's 60, a prime age for a heart attack. She swipes a hand over her suddenly sweating brow and barely chokes out, "W-who gave you this?"

There is no answer for a very long time.

When Miranda is a little more composed, she glances up, catches something she hasn't seen for a good number of years in the sky blue eyes: pity, regret, genuine emotion. Cassidy whispers, "I think you know. I am going to go now so you can look at it in private but what we - what I did back then, what I told Andrea, I honestly thought it was for the best. I –"

"Don't," Miranda is her old self –quiet, deadly; her fingers clench into a fist. "Just go, Cassidy." The blue meets blue, relaxes, reassures. "I really don't need to hear what you said, I can guess." The final hurdle is hard to climb but Miranda clenches her jaw, attempts it; succeeds. "The truth is you were most likely right."

"I am sorry," Cassidy offers tentatively.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Miranda dredges up a passable smile. "Go, enjoy yourself, it's only once you get to have this kind of fun."

Her fingers caress the leather before Cassidy even departs: feel out the solidness of the binding, trace each letter's intricate gold groove. Eventually she is unable to put it off any longer, gingerly lifts out the heavy book. She opens it as if it's a first edition, and in every way that matters, it is. The only edition really, there isn't any other; her fingertips carefully trace the inky writing on the very first page. 25th October 2011 and underneath a carefully pasted article, 'America's foremost fashion queen retires! What next for Elias Clarke and Runway magazine?"

She softly laughs, recalling - reliving the terror of that day. She honestly wasn't certain back then that she was going to make it without her beloved Runway but three years later, and lo and behold, she has survived. She turns each page: another chapter in her life - her story – the various relief trips overseas, the forming of the Miranda Priestly charitable foundation; the birth of Caroline's twin girls. Only 19 years old, unwed, a mother; a grandmother – Miranda still shudders at that thought.

The last page is blank, there's just a simple heading – What's Next? It's then she hears the first chords of her secret guilty pleasure – their story really – Miranda's favourite song.

"There were nights when the wind was so cold
That my body froze in bed
If I just listened to it
Right outside the window"

She glances up, unerringly locates the face she's looking for across the room.

"There were days when the sun was so cruel
That all the tears turned to dust
And I just knew my eyes were
Drying up forever"

Andrea has changed, perhaps almost as much as Miranda has: she's visibly older - tougher, her hair a little shorter, there is a tiny crescent shaped scar at the corner of her lip. Miranda can't wait to hear about it, about the past 3 years, explore the fresh groove, preferably with her mouth.

"I finished crying in the instant that you left
And I can't remember where or when or how
And I banished every memory you and I had ever made"

Andrea arches an eyebrow in question, Miranda simply holds up her left hand. On it glints the sapphire – a tiny practically non-existent stone, its worth more dear than all her other jewellery combined. The process is reversed, Miranda finding herself short of breath until she sees it – the shrug, the encompassing gesture of a hand to indicate Andrea's location, the playful smirk on her mouth as if to say, "Well, there's a reason I am here!"

"There were moments of gold
And there were flashes of light
There were things I'd never do again
But then they'd always seemed right"

This time Miranda nods before Andrea even has the chance to gesture - ask. In reply Andrea holds up her own left hand, wherever she's been she's managed to pick up the tiniest hint of a tan, but tellingly her ring finger is blessedly free of any revealing white mark. She stands, they both do, move towards each other slowly; meet at the edge of the dance floor, on middle ground, like they should have from the start.

"There were those empty threats and hollow lies
And whenever you tried to hurt me
I just hurt you even worse
And so much deeper
There were hours that just went on for days
When alone at last we'd count up all the chances
That were lost to us forever"

Andrea glances to the left, waves at Cassidy, immediately swings her gaze back to Miranda who can still discern the lingering trace of pain in the brown eyes. What's done is done, the past is history, but those scars will never completely fade away. Miranda's eyes convey an unreserved apology, even though she knows her touch - her love, can never erase or soothe them all.

"If you forgive me all this
If I forgive you all that
We forgive and forget
And it's all coming back to me
When you see me like this
And when I see you like that
We see just what we want to see
All coming back to me"

They communicate silently: renew their connection, listen, but through it all they abstain from the one thing they've never excelled at – speech. Eventually they smile and Miranda asks the only thing that matters at this moment, "Tell me," she nods towards the DJ, "how did you know?"

"Because I know you so well," Andrea grins, then laughs, "No, I'm just kidding. I've got about 8 of her songs queued up."

"Cassidy's going to hate you."

Andrea snorts, "Well, not my fault, you know…I've always told her mother that her music tastes leave much to be desired."

"Her mother?" Miranda questions softly; then takes the boldest hardest step of her entire life, "I wasn't aware that you two had met."

The flare of surprise momentarily illuminates then understanding darkens the brown. "Now that I think on it you may be right."

Miranda extends her hand and utters something that she hasn't said for over 30 years, "Miriam. Miriam Princhek. Something tells me that we're going to get along."

The spark accelerates the minute they touch, involuntarily they both smile; Andrea completing the introduction, "Andy. Andy Sachs. I know that it's presumptuous of me, Miriam, but seeing as how we're right here, I have to ask you – would you care to dance?"

"With pleasure," Miranda replies. As Andy guides her to the dance floor, confidently sweeping her into her arms, Miranda softly murmurs just once for old time's sake, "Well, Andrea, what exactly took you so long? You've taken glacial pace to a whole new level and I know you're well aware of how that thrills me." At Andy's playful mock frown, she clarifies the one thing she has always yearned for but could never have said, "I've waited eight years for you to lead."