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Andy Sachs swam hazily into consciousness. Her first thought was a recognition that she was presently suffering from the mother of all hangovers. This was, she figured, relatively normal, given that she was in Vegas after all.
What was slightly less normal was the registration that she was half-naked.
The sound of liquid hitting ceramic altered her to the fact she was not alone. She gingerly swung her legs out of bed - the very red and pink colored bed - and traipsed across the sickly sweet decorated suite, which even to her bleary eyes struck her as well out of her price range, regardless of its garishness.
Which then led her to take in a sight which was the very antithesis of normal.
Miranda Priestly - in a similar state of dishabille - sprawled over the toilet bowl, gagging.
By all rights, she should have said something to the effect of "Miranda, are you okay? Do you need help?”
What came out was, “Miranda? Why are you wearing a cock ring as a bracelet?”
Miranda groaned into the toilet bowl, then turned to glare balefully at her. A glare which quickly metamorphosed into horror as her gaze alighted not on Andy’s face, but her left hand.
“A better question,” she coughed, “is why are you wearing a wedding ring?”
***
Traipsing into the breakfast-area long after breakfast had finished being served, their first sight was that of a positively exuberant Nigel springing up to greet them.
“Well, well, well! I would say you two are glowing with the radiance of newlyweds, but I’m afraid that would be a lie. Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Who knows,” Andy replied. “Last thing I remember is…actually, I’m not sure.”
Nigel clapped his hands across his mouth in horror, then dramatically wiped his brow.
“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t consummate your union! That’s grounds for annulment, you know!”
“If only,” Miranda muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Andy flushed crimson from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.
“Uh, Nige. That’s sort of the problem.”
He leaned forward eagerly.
“We don’t actually know for sure if we did or didn’t.”
He groaned.
“Why on earth are you here then? Don’t you have somewhere to be, something to do? Or someone?”
“Where,” Miranda growled, “is the paperwork confirming this little farce?”
***
They stared down at the not farcical at all but very real marriage license, which for some reason was embellished with pink rhinestones, sparkling innocently in the mid-morning light.
Miranda looked positively faint.
“What?”
“I took your name?” she whispered. “I sound like a hillbilly with six children.”
Andy - against all her better judgement, in spite of her total confusion at what exactly was happening to her - cackled.
Miranda deftly rolled up the license (really, the technique warranted interrogation as to the specifics of her past at a later date, Andy thought) and unceremoniously whacked her over the head with it.
“Domestic violence already?” Nigel piped up from the corner. “Really, Mrs Sachs. Do try to wait until the ink has dried on the paper - ow! Not me too, you madwoman!”
***
Having retreated to the mercifully deserted lobby, Miranda produced a pen and paper, then began to frantically scribble.
“What are you writing?”
“A pros and cons list. As contingency, in case it is revealed that an annulment is…not a legally viable option.”
“I’m honored.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I am merely contemplating the potential tax ramifications of this arrangement.”
“Miranda, you barely pay tax anyway.”
“Precisely. I have no desire for a drunkenly acquired spouse to attempt to exercise any influence designed to turn me into a do-gooder.”
A sharp trill sounded from her pocket. The editor huffed and retrieved her phone, scowling in anticipation at someone seeing fit to disturb her. Upon laying eyes on the display screen, the scowl melted into alarm.
“Oh God,” Miranda whispered, all remaining color draining from her face. “It’s the girls.”
Andy swallowed hard.
“Hello, Bobbseys!” Miranda’s faux cheeriness was not convincing in the slightest.
“Congratulations, Mom!” came the simultaneous shriek down the line.
“How does it feel to have a wife instead of a husband?” Caroline chirped.
Miranda blinked.
“I’m sorry? How on earth do you - “
“ - It’s all over TMZ,” Cassidy giggled. “You look great, by the way. Andy too. Having an absolute riot, huh?”
“TMZ?” Miranda echoed faintly.
“Yeah! Nigel’s even quoted and everything!”
Miranda’s pupils had expanded to saucers. Andy rapidly typed in the URL.
“EXCLUSIVE: La Priestly no more? The Devil and her darling go shotgun in Las Vegas nuptials!"
TMZ can exclusively reveal that longtime Runway Editor-In-Chief Miranda Priestly has wedded for the fourth time - to a woman! Our intrepid Entertainment Reporter thought he was on vacation, but turns out there's no rest for the wicked. The Dragon herself was spotted entering the Graceland wedding chapel with former assistant and New York Times Deputy Investigations Editor Andrea Sachs, where they were proclaimed wife and wife by an Elvis impersonator. What happened afterwards, do you ask? Well, our lucky reporter caught the following video…”
Miranda’s lips were so tightly pursed they appeared as a single white line. Andy reached out cautiously and pressed ‘play’ on the embedded video with her index finger.
“Miranda! Miranda! What made you go for a Mrs Priestly this time?”
The video-Miranda swung round, otherwise maintaining her intertwinement with Andy, and fixed him with a look which probably was intended to appear imperious but instead was positively goofy.
“Nothing. My wife’s found a Mrs Sachs instead.”
The gasp of the reporter could be heard over the recording. Alas, he quickly recovered and shot another question out into the ether:
“Is that a cock ring, Miranda? Interesting choice of wedding band!”
“Yes,” Miranda nodded. “Many insults have been levied at me by your sort, but boring has never been among them. I wholeheartedly endorse originality. This is the largest size the store carried, of course. Do I look like an amateur to you?”
“Where are you off to now? What are you going to do?”
The reply was her turning to said wife and planting a sloppy kiss on her lips - one which video-Andy eagerly reciprocated.
Back in the present, Miranda swayed and murmured, “turn it off, Andrea. For the love of God, turn it off.”
Andy complied, and they continued to read.
“Runway Art Director and Priestly’s long-time right hand man, Nigel Kipling, said the following:
I’m so happy for Miranda and Andy. They’ve been in love for so long, and I’m delighted they’ve finally decided to go official - and how much more official can you get than marriage?”
Miranda’s eyes were narrower than Andy had ever seen them.
“Miranda?” she cautiously ventured.
“It may be fortuitous that you are the fool who was persuaded to marry me while obscenely intoxicated,” she gritted out.
Andy smiled nervously.
“Uh, how come?”
“Because whatever I may do when I get my hands on Nigel Kipling cannot now be portrayed by those vultures as a homophobic hate crime.”
***
Nigel, to no one’s surprise, had made himself scarce. In the absence of opportunity for Miranda to action what was undoubtedly the meticulous homicide she had planned, they decided to retrace their steps in the hope of piecing together recent events.
***
It was odd how a sight could trigger memories thought to have long drowned in drink. Standing at the threshold of the casino, the start of the previous night came back to Andy in a flash.
***
Fifteen hours earlier:
Of all the people Andy had expected to see in a flashy Vegas casino while investigating for a piece on the strip's dubious financials, La Priestly was not among them. But there her former boss was, and leaning on Nigel, no less. Nigel, who promptly spotted her, helped Miranda into a nearby chair, placed a tall glass of water into her hand and made a beeline for the younger woman.
“Six!”
“Hey, Nige. What on earth are you doing here? Seems, y'know, the very opposite of Runway's aesthetic.”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is. But irony can work splendidly, and what a shoot we've had today!”
She squinted at him, realising that he, too, was sporting a noticeable flush across his cheeks that was not typically present.
“Is that why you and -” she jerked a thumb over his shoulder - “are, ah, a little merry tonight?”
“She strikes! She scores!”
That would be a yes, she thought.
“You know who else wants to score, Six?”
“Surprise me.”
“None other than our ladyship.”
“Consider me surprised.”
“Who - “ he dramatically lowered his voice - “has refused to join me at any of the tables or on any of the machines! Devastating.”
“Let me get this straight,” Andy said slowly. “You’re complaining about Miranda being financially responsible?”
“I’m complaining about her not letting loose in Vegas! Vegas, darling! It is an absolute travesty. And don’t give me this straight nonsense. We all know you’re about as straight as I am.”
“Nigel!” she spluttered. “I told you that in confidence, and now you’re yelling it out loud for the entire world to hear!”
“The entire world,” a low yet distinctly hazy voice murmured, “is either so geriatric deafness is a given, or else sufficiently intoxicated to forget whatever it was you are objecting so strongly to Nigel saying.”
Miranda cocked an eyebrow. Andy sucked in a breath. Nigel zipped his lips.
“Sorry, boss. Six’s secrets remain with me.”
“Miranda,” Andy smiled nervously. “How have you been?”
“Surviving,” the other woman replied drily. “Better than most days at this precise moment.”
“That’s the scotch talking,” Nigel stage-whispered.
“What on earth are you doing here, Andrea?”
Andy hadn’t realised how much she missed hearing Miranda’s pronunciation of her name until the older woman said it. Actually, that was a lie. She knew damn well just how much she missed it, and in exactly what contexts she fantasised about Miranda speaking it in her mind.
Focus, she sternly told herself.
“I’m writing an investigative piece for the Times,” she said. “An exposé, if you will.”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “And you just so happened to bump into Nigel and myself when we are both clearly of diminished mental capacity.”
“That’s about the long and short of it, yes.”
“Unacceptable.”
“What?”
“I refuse to have a journalist writing about this very casino being privy to our persons in a state that would, if reported on, undoubtedly go for a substantial sum - substantial to you, anyway - to the harpies at Page Six.”
Andy blinked. She had anticipated caustic remarks about her appearance, not slander directed at her professional integrity. Drawing herself up to her full height, she summoned up all the courage she had and fixed Miranda with a steely glare.
“No offence, Miranda, but I write about complex high-level financial crime. Serious stuff. Not that I soberly saw Runway’s Editor-In-Chief and Art Director three sheets to the wind.”
Miranda’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. Andy steeled herself for the inevitable devastating repartee. It did not manifest. Instead:
“If that is truly the case, then you will have no objections to joining us for a few rounds - oh, be quiet, Nigel. I’ve just finished that positive pitcher of water you thrust into my hands.”
Andy bit her lip, and then decided that if nothing else, agreeing would make for a good story - not for the media, but her future grandchildren.
“Sure. Why not?”
***
Even five rounds of tequila shots down - the consumption of which the editor had managed to make seem like water - Miranda still retained the ability to engage in an argument.
“I am no gambler, Andrea,” she sniffed.
“Is it really gambling if you’re using my money?” Andy replied, proffering a stack of notes.
“You know, the only thing more offensive than consenting to subsidise some of the only people less ethical than myself is accepting your money, of all people. Fine.”
“Your pick, then. What’ll it be?”
“What delusions do you labor under when considering the game you are most skilled at?”
Andy smirked. “Poker.”
“Poker it is, then.”
***
Unsurprisingly, Miranda was an absolute beast at poker, her face as blank as a fresh sheet of printing-paper. Even more unsurprisingly, this did not gain her any popularity with either the other patrons - save Andy, who found it all hilarious - or, as the night drew on, the casino staff.
At eleven twenty-six, the duo (Nigel had long since dispersed, claiming he had no intention of waking up in bed alone the following morning) found themselves stumbling out onto the strip.
“Miranda,” Andy giggled, “you just got us kicked out of a casino!”
“Those who envy my success ought to play better.” Miranda’s tone was likely intended to seem haughty. But the wholly uncharacteristic (and really rather fetching, Andy thought) smile she wore like a trophy betrayed her smugness.
“I don’t think it was the players, Miranda. I think it was the owners not being best pleased that you’ve rinsed them out to the tune of over a million dollars in under four hours.”
“They ought to operate a more profitable business model, then. I see no issue here.”
“I do,” Andy replied. “Our last shots were over an hour ago.”
“Disgraceful,” Miranda agreed. “We must immediately rectify the situation.”
***
Andy crossed her arms as she finished narrating her recently regained memories - bar one particular nugget of information - to MIranda.
“Pretty ironic you initially got me drunk to stop me writing a non-existent story about you, and my getting drunk caused a very much existent one about both of us, you know.”
“Be as that may,” Miranda replied faintly, “it still does not explain how we ended up legally bound to one another.”
***
Such an explanation proved forthcoming upon walking down the street. Miranda stopped suddenly. Andy followed her gaze and laid eyes upon five receipts the older woman had pulled from her handbag.
Two were from a clothing store whose name she did not recognise.
One was from a jewellers.
One was from an adult store.
And the last - by far the longest - was from a strip club.
Andy’s eyes slammed close. The memories descended.
***
Unremarkably for the location, the drinks kept flowing - martinis and scotch and negronis and some truly sickening sweet bright green shots that tasted like industrially processed apple juice mixed with a hefty dose of corn syrup.
Miranda had insisted on a diversion beforehand, proclaiming that she always dressed for the occasion and her Bill Blass suit simply would not suffice. As a result, Andy had found herself kitted out in a rather daring crimson leather flared jumpsuit, and Miranda a black sequinned affair with an even more daringly low v-neck, strip of material knotted around her neck, the dress giving off iridescent sparks of golden, teal and emerald under the club lights.
Honestly. They were in a strip club, and yet Andy’s attention was exclusively reserved for the woman sitting next to her.
This did not deter the workers, however, who had mounted countless fruitless attempts to entice the duo - both in separate capacities, and twice, simultaneously. That had prompted images which still refused to leave Andy’s head.
In an attempt to finally dispel them, she spun on her stool. Miranda raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Or at least, she attempted to. Such was her state of intoxication that both flew up in tandem.
Andy rested one elbow on the bar and leaned forward.
“If you had to go for anyone in this room, who would it be?”
Miranda’s hand snaked around her waist. And then lower. And lower. Then squeezed.
“There’s your answer.”
Oh dear. It appeared one’s brain could, in fact, short-circuit.
“Seriously?”
“I told you that you were very fetching once. I meant it.”
“La Priestly, a romantic?” Andy giggled. “Who would’a thunk it?”
“I have had three husbands,” the editor replied. “You’d be surprised.”
With boldness that was entirely the product of more alcohol over the course of a single night than she had consumed in the previous month combined, Andy leaned her head to rest on Miranda’s shoulder.
“Maybe the problem is the husband part.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe you’d do better with a wife?”
“Is that a proposal, Andrea?”
“Do you want it to be one? There’s an Elvis drive-thru a ten minute walk away, and a jewellery store even closer, you know.”
***
“So it was your fault!” Miranda exclaimed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction.
“Excuse you,” Andy replied, “I wasn’t the one who started the demonstration of interest by groping your ass in a strip club when there were dozens of other oiled-up twenty somethings to choose from. I also wasn’t the one who actually said yes to the proposal. Or the one who turned down a perfectly good selection of diamond bands for a goddamned cock ring!”
Miranda’s nostrils flared, but for once in her life seemed lost for words. Andy mentally punched the air in victory.
***
Said victory extended to not becoming the target of Miranda’s ire upon their arrival back to the hotel. Unfortunately for him, Nigel happened to be in the foyer at the same time, and was unceremoniously hauled up to Miranda’s suite for questioning. Andy obligingly sat on the floor of the adjoining bathroom.
The privacy provided by the wall proved utterly meagre, however. Or perhaps Miranda and Nigel underestimated the volume of their voices. She could hear every word.
“What were you thinking? TMZ? Really, Nigel?”
“What do you mean, what was I thinking? I was thinking I’d give my public support to a friend doing what she ought to have done ages ago!”
“Ages ago? This? Are you quite mad? Have all those poppers finally migrated to your brain?”
“Miranda, the last time you were as drunk as you got last night, you were crying on my shoulder after I suggested setting you up with someone, sobbing about how you didn’t want another husband, how you wanted a wife, and specifically how you wanted Six. Well, now you’ve got her. What’s the problem?”
Andy gasped. Loudly. It was a gasp of both shock and total, utter exhilaration.
The voices next door fell silent.
Shit.
Turned out the paper-thin wall situation went both ways.
***
Nigel having fled (a move to which neither woman raised an objection) Miranda remained in the same position as she had presumably been when Andy had made her eavesdropping obvious.
Deer in the headlights didn’t cover the look in her eyes. The journalist didn’t think she had ever seen Miranda look quite so lost.
“Was Nigel telling the truth?” she asked softly.
Miranda pursed her lips, and as if against her own will, nodded. Just once. Only slightly. But a nod nonetheless.
“Okay.”
Miranda inhaled heavily, then drew her frame up as if steeling herself for the inevitable.
“Andrea. I understand you are likely - almost certainly - feeling horrified right now. I do not blame you. Let me - let me just assure you that I shall not breathe a word of this to anyone, I will not fault you for whatever therapy you choose to pursue in light of this…revelation, I - I -”
She cut off as Andy held up a single hand.
“Woah, woah, woah, Miranda. Slow down. Why would I be horrified?”
Miranda looked aghast.
“What woman - a young woman - like yourself wouldn't be horrified to hear her middle aged, thrice-divorced ex-employer drooling over her like a badly trained lapdog?”
Andy was momentarily deprived of the ability to speak, so great was her shock at hearing Miranda's denigration of herself. But she swiftly recovered, so keen as she was to dispel any possibility of her silence being taken as an affirmation of the veracity of the editor's words.
“Anyone in their right mind would be insanely lucky for you to look at them twice. And I refuse to believe you could ever be compared to a lapdog. A meticulously groomed siamese, maybe.”
It was Miranda’s turn to be rendered temporarily mute. Then:
“I'm sorry?”
“Miranda, if a genie was to grant me three wishes, and the whole principle of free will didn't apply, my first one would have us in the exact same situation as first thing this morning. Minus the hangovers and vomiting.”
“What?” Miranda croaked.
“How I feel about you is - somehow, by some miracle - how you feel about me.”
First stunned amazement, then cautious hope, then a slow cresting joy illuminated the face opposite her.
“You mean - you have no regrets? About last night? None at all?”
“Only that I would've liked to propose in somewhere that wasn't a strip club. And that I'd really like to remember taking that incredible sequinned outfit off you.”
“...that can be arranged.”
***
Three hours later:
“Well,” Miranda murmured faintly, catching her breath. “I suppose that rules out an annulment.”
“Mmm,” Andy smiled, lazily stroking sweat-slicked silver splayed across the pillow next to her.
“I want a new ring, though. And we’re hyphenating.”
FIN