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That damned dog.
She'd complained to the building management, to the Owners committee - if the Governor had actually been able to exercise any form of authority over the Gracie Mews by virtue of the name, she would have complained to him, too.
It was inhuman. To put a small, yappy dog in an apartment and let it make that racket; to let it disturb the neighbors constantly as it did, and then to just croon at it in that idiotic sing-song voice that Mrs Coffin believed was adequately described as 'speaking'... it was enough to drive the most balanced, the most tolerant person insane.
And it hadn't been a year particularly inclined to keep Miranda Priestly sane, in any case. Between the internal politics at "Runway", the backstabbing antics of two fellow feature editors, and the not always enthusiastic support of her supposed best friend and husband... her apartment in the Mews was meant to be a refuge from all that - a quiet, peaceful oasis that allowed her the sort of luxury that calmed Miranda's nerves through its subtle perfection. The tastefulness of the decoration. The quality of the fittings and furnishings. The knowledge that she could come home at the end of any day to a sparklingly clean, calm, organised apartment and a dinner available on call out and delivered by a security-cleared doorman.
She had all that. But she also had that damned dog. And because of the dog, a monster of a headache that had been building throughout the manic schedule of parties and get-togethers of Christmas week, and left her in her limousine on the way home from the office on Christmas Eve nursing a bottle of mineral water and holding one hand to her forehead.
Why her driver had decided to go through the upper reaches of Alphabet City she had no idea. But she was too tired to ask him, and she didn't really care what the answer was in any event. Through half-shut eyes she gazed out the window at this part of New York that she hardly ever saw, and listened to the muted street sounds that made their way through the steel and glass of her car.
There was a drummer. A good one. Rhythmical and intense and, she even thought, playful, as she listed to his beat. And then she saw her. Using plastic tubs and overturned trash cans, a young girl was busking on the corner with the makeshift drum kit, and was making music. But the sort of music that might drive a lesser being to tears after too much of it: or to other actions.
It was the sort of impulsive thing Miranda prided herself on not doing. She tapped on the glass and told her driver to pull over. She glared at him when he looked back at her in disbelief, and her glare won. When the car pulled to a stop beside the drummer, Miranda lowered the window.
'I could hear you playing,' she said. She looked closer at the drummer, their features beneath the wig less girlish than Miranda had first thought. 'I believe you could help me with a problem I have - my neighbour's dog. I'd like to hire you and your drum kit for an hour or two.'
As thought she was watching herself speak, Miranda suddenly realised how ludicrous the entire scene was, and almost laughed. But the drummer was regarding her thoughtfully. She beat out a quiet rhythm beneath her words. 'You want me to drive a dog mad?'
'The dog is already quite mad, thank you,' Miranda responded. 'To be perfectly honest I'm hoping you can make the dog bark itself to death. And even if you can't; your drumming will be heard by my neighbors - then they'll see what it's like to have incessant noise next door at all hours. I'm quite willing to pay you for your time and trouble, of course.'
'How much do you think my time, trouble, and drum kit are worth?' She stopped drumming and stood up, moving closer to the car so that they could have the conversation at a more normal tone of voice.
'A thousand dollars, no matter what the outcome,' said Miranda. It was worth at least that much to her. 'And a bonus for successful completion of the project - a silent dog.'
'It will have to be cash,' said the drummer, suspiciously. 'It's Christmas Eve – couple of hours, everywhere will be shut. There'll be nowhere for me to cash a check for two days. Plus who around here would cash that amount of money, anyway?'
Miranda nodded. 'I can do that. Are we agreed, then?'
'I think we are,' said the drummer, who turned around to pack up the items of her drum kit.
'My driver can help you with that,' said Miranda, sending another glare in the man's direction. He got out of the car to help.
'Oh, aren't you sweet,' the drummer purred at him, and Miranda almost laughed aloud.
'Just doing my job, miss.'
The drummer flicked her hand. 'I don't go for 'miss' or 'sir' all that much,' she said. 'Just call me Angel.'