Chapter Text
Andy
Two days later, the rain is back, with the forecast predicting it will hang around all week. I used to love the rain. Back in Cincinnati, on my grandparent’s farm, whenever it rained I would be out playing in it, splashing in every single puddle. My grandma called me her ‘little duck’. In New York, rain is not the cleansing, fresh experience that it was out in the country. Rain in New York always feels just a little dirty. Like the water is pulling the pollution out of the air, dumping it on the unsuspecting people below. The run-off is always dark, the water spilling down into the drains full of grime and grit. For a few hours after the rain has cleared, the air is crisp and fresh, but it doesn’t last. These days, I don’t run out and dance in the rain.
I’ve managed to avoid any reference to you in the last few days. The hype of the Fashion Week Ball seems to have died down. I’m just hoping it stays that way. At least until I have built up some armour. I’m hoping I manage to do that before the inevitable engagement announcement hits the tabloids. I say inevitable, because that’s the water cooler gossip. I haven’t read or heard anything definitive myself, and I’m too scared to ask somebody who would actually know.
Which reminds me, I’m supposed to have drinks with Doug and Nigel tonight. When we finally went public with our relationship, I got to introduce my two best guy friends. As I suspected they would, they hit it off straight away, and the start of their relationship wasn’t too long after. I couldn’t be happier for them, but every time I see them it just reminds me of what I’ve lost. How I’ve lost you. Suffice it to say, I’ve been avoiding them as much as I can. But I promised Nigel a month ago that I would go out with them for their one year anniversary.
I remember our one year anniversary. It was one of the happiest days of my life. You, me, Nigel, Doug, and the twins. We went out to my favourite restaurant, you booked out an entire dining room so that we wouldn’t be gawked at by any other guests. You sent Roy off in your towncar to divert the paparazzi, and we ‘slummed it’ - your words, not mine - in a cab. It was perfect. The five people I loved most in the world were all in the same room, celebrating the most amazing thing that had ever happened in my life. Just over four months later I was standing on your doorstep being told by your housekeeper that I wasn’t allowed into your house.
I’m tempted to call Nigel and cancel. I can’t handle happy couple bullshit this week. I can’t handle happy couple celebrating their one year anniversary bullshit. I can’t sit across from two people who are madly in love with each other, and not think of you, and everything I’ve lost. Surely they can understand that it’s too much to ask of me?
Perhaps Nigel can read my mind, because at 7pm, when I’m standing in my kitchen see-sawing back and forth about whether I’m going to show up, there’s a knock on my door. I look through the peephole to see Nigel standing at my door, giving me one of his patented, knowing looks. I sigh and open the door.
“He-ey Nigel.”
“Don’t hey me, Six, you were thinking about bailing on me, weren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I hadn’t decided yet.”
“Well, Dougie and I are here now, to pick you up, and take you out with us.”
“Nige, I really don’t think I can do this. I really don’t think you want me there. I’m not a very happy person right now. I don’t want to bring the mood down on your special day.”
“Oh pish. We don’t care about any anniversary crap, we just want to spend time with you. We both miss you.”
I give a heavy sigh, “Okay, fine, you’ve twisted my arm. I’m already dressed and ready, let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.”
Nigel gives one of his approving looks, and I grab my purse and keys to follow him out the door.
Miranda
3 months earlier
I look at Andréa, my beautiful, perfect Andréa, and I know I have to let her go. She’s not made for this life. She hasn’t come up in a world where every single thing she does, every single thing she says, is constantly under scrutiny. I’ve had a long time to become inured to the trials and tribulations of being in the public eye. I’ve built walls and armour, protections and safeguards to prevent anything that is said about me, anything that is published about me to have any impact on my life. Andréa is not built that way. Andréa wears her heart on her sleeve, leaves herself open to every sling and arrow that is aimed her way. I’ve watched it slowly dragging her down. I’ve seen her give up her job because of her relationship with me. The paparazzi hounded her to the point where she was fired from her job. I know she’s still taking on freelance jobs, but once again she’s been forced to do something she didn’t want to - publish under a nomme de plume.
Our relationship is destroying everything that is important to her. And it’s all my fault. If I had never turned up at her apartment that day when I saw her in the street, if I had never kissed her, Andréa would be a successful reporter working at the Mirror. Instead of sitting around waiting for freelance jobs to come her way, and having to hide who she is when she writes, she could be out there making a name for herself. It’s completely unreasonable that she should be giving up everything she wants because of me.
On top of that, I know that the age difference between us is going to cause long term problems. I have 20 years on her. I have two children who are closer in age to her than I am. It would be less offensive to people if Andréa dated one of my daughters in 7 years than for us to be a couple now. I have an investment portfolio; she has a college loan she’s still paying off. I have multiple properties in different countries; she is renting a pokey studio apartment in a less-than-desirable suburb. I am the Editor-in-Chief of a premiere magazine that is sold around the world; she is, currently, a freelance writer with no job security. How can she possibly feel equal in this relationship under those conditions? I have enough money that I can provide for both of us, and I would never deny her anything, but I can understand why she wants to carry her weight.
I can see she is proud of her achievements. I can see she wants to be independent and stand on her own two feet. I just wish that she would let me help her out with the simplest things. I wish she’d let me pay off her college loan. I wish she would give up her apartment and move in with me and the girls. I wish she would let me help her get a job working for a magazine or newspaper that would value her skill as a writer. And she has skill. I’ve seen her writing, and I know she could go far. If she would only let me help her take that first step.
Every time I look at her, all I can see is what I’ve taken away from her. The opportunity to be a young person in New York, finding her way in life. The opportunity to realise her career goals and dreams without our relationship getting in the way. The opportunity to discover herself and be with someone her own age. All the things that she won’t get to experience if she stays with me.
For all these reasons, and so many more, I know that I have to let her go. What’s that old saying? If you love something, set it free. Because I love her so much, because she means the world to me, because I can’t remember what my life was like before she came along, I have to let her go. I have to let her go out there into the world and find her place in it.
I just know that I can’t do this in person. If she looks at me, with those gorgeous, deep, fathomless brown eyes, I know that I will crumble. If she touches me, with those long, talented fingers that have touched every part of my body, I know that I will take her in my arms and never let go. If she kisses me, I will fall into her and keep falling forever. If she tells me she won’t go, I will let her stay. So I have to do this in a way that will hurt her, that will hurt me, in a way that will ensure there is no coming back. I have to make sure that there’s no avenue for us to come back from this. I have to make sure that I set her completely and utterly free of me.
It takes me weeks to think of the best way I can handle this situation, and convince myself that it is the best thing for Andréa. Once my mind is made up, it’s surprising how easy it is to follow through.
I make the phone call to the locksmith myself. I don’t ask Emily or my new assistant, Sara, to make the call. I can’t put that on either of them, and I don’t want to see the look on Emily’s face when she realises what I’m doing. I don’t want to give her a chance to warn Andréa either. I pay penalty rates to have the locksmith come out after hours on a Friday so that I can be home. I organise it for a weekend when the girls are with their father so I don’t have to explain it to them. I sit down with Cara before I dismiss her for the night, and outline that, until further notice, no visitors will be allowed in the house without my prior permission. I list off that this includes Emily, Sara, Nigel,…and Andréa. I don’t explain to her why, and I pointedly ignore the confused look on her face when I include Andréa’s name in the list.
Just like that, it’s done. I have taken the first step in removing Andréa from my life. I’m surprised at how painless it was.
I didn’t take into account Andréa’s first attempt to visit. I didn’t take into account that I may be home when it happened. Or that I would be within hearing range when Cara answered the door. I heard her whispered “I’m so sorry, Andy”, right before she closed the door. I was totally unprepared for the look of anger on Cara’s face as she turned and saw me standing in the doorway of my office. I have put that woman through a lot over the years, not the least being dealing with me and the girls, and I have never seen her look at me with such vehemence.
“Speak your mind, Cara, you’ve never held back before.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say, Ms Priestly.”
“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Miranda?” I expect to hear her customary ‘Always one more time, Ms Priestly’.
“Fine. Miranda.” I can hear seething anger in her voice, “You have just had me do the most despicable, hateful, hurtful thing you have ever asked me to do. You just had me break that poor young woman’s heart. You didn’t even have the chutzpah to do it yourself. You are cruel, you are a coward, and I have lost all respect for you today. She loves you wholeheartedly and unconditionally. She would have followed you to the end’s of the earth if you had just asked her. You didn’t see the look on her face when I told her she wasn’t welcome here. You didn’t just break her heart. You destroyed her entire world. Even worse, you had me do it for you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Cara is entirely correct, I was a coward. I shouldn’t have put this on her, I shouldn’t have made her responsible for confronting Andréa.
“Miranda. You’ve crossed the line. I would give you my two weeks’ notice, but I don’t think I can look at you for one minute longer. I quit. Effective immediately. Good luck finding another housekeeper.”
I stand there in shocked silence as Cara turns to the hall cupboard, removes her bag and coat, and walks out the front door, slamming it behind her.
I’m broken out of my stupor by the sound of my cell phone ringing on my desk. I return to my office, grabbing the phone and looking at the caller ID. Andréa. Of course. I consider answering it, then remember that Andréa has a way of convincing me to do things I wouldn’t normally do. I reject her call, sending her to voicemail. I’ll deal with that later.
Two days later, I still haven’t listened to her message, or to the four other messages she’s left for me. I hadn’t realised how much I would miss speaking to her, sharing the events of my day with her, spending evenings together, being with her every moment that we have spare. Andréa is stubborn, she isn’t going to let this go unless I take further action. I send her a text that leaves no doubt as to where I stand.
We can’t do this anymore. It isn’t working. Don’t contact me again.
My handle trembles as I press the send button. It’s the only outward sign to the world that this is tearing me apart. Other than the fact that I have been shorter, less patient, more of the dragon than I have been since we started being a couple. I can’t let anybody know how this is killing me inside.
Another two weeks go by before reality storms its way into my office in the form of my Art Director and friend, Nigel. We’ve gotten closer since the incident in Paris, and I have Andréa to thank for that. I’ve come to understand that I have so much to thank her for.
“We need to talk, Miranda,” his tone is firm, and I know what he’s there to talk about. It’s not the magazine or a photoshoot. He wants to talk about Andréa.
“Not now, Nigel. I don’t want to talk.”
He pulls my office door closed. I’m sure he’d slam it if he could.
“No, Miranda. We are going to talk. Now.”
“There’s nothing to say, Nigel.”
“What the hell have you done? Have you lost your mind?” I can tell he’s trying not to yell at me. He doesn’t want the whole office to know what we’re talking about in here, he has enough respect for me to not embarrass me in front of my staff.
“It was for the best. It was the best for her.”
“Do you really think so? Did you even discuss it with her?”
“There was nothing to discuss,” I manage to keep my voice calm, only by sheer force of will. I keep my focus on the photoshoot spread in front of me. I know that if I look at Nigel then I will fall apart.
“Miriam Princhek!” My eyes fly up to look at him - he only uses my birth name when he wants my undivided attention. We had an agreement early on in our friendship that he was only allowed to use that name under dire circumstances. He obviously believes this is a dire circumstance.
“Say your piece, I’m listening.”
“Have you spoken to her in the last few days?”
“No.”
“She is spiralling, I don’t think she’s going to be able to come back from this.”
“She’ll be fine. She’s stronger than any of us ever give her credit for.”
“She’ll be fine, of course she will. I just don’t think she’ll be the same Andy we’ve all come to know and love. Why did you do it? Do you not love her anymore? Is that it? The shine wore off and you’re moving on?”
“How dare you say that to me,” my voice drops low with anger, and I can feel tears welling in my eyes. “Of course I love her. I love her more than anything else in this life, other than my girls. I love her with every atom of my body. I love her with every beat of my heart. I love her so much that it hurts every time I look at her, every time I am apart from her, every time I even think of her.”
“Then why, why did you push her away? If you love her so much, why have you done this?”
“I did it because I love her. She has given up too much to be with me. She has given up her life. She has given up her future. She has given up her privacy. She has given up so much. And for what? For a curmudgeonly, stubborn, old woman. What future does she have with me? I’m 20 years older than her. People will always judge us. People will always question why we are together. People will always question her integrity and my motives. She will never be able to work as a journalist without people questioning if I had a hand in her success,” I take a shuddery breath, tears rolling freely down my face as I look up at him.
“What happens if she wants children? What happens in 10 years? 20 years? When she’s 45 and I’m pushing into my 70’s? What happens when she realises she’s wasted her life on someone who is going to leave her when she’s still middle aged? I can’t let her do that, I couldn’t let her waste her time on me. She will find someone else, someone her own age, someone who will make her happy, have children with her, grow old and die with her.”
“She chose you. She knew all that, and she chose you. Do you not understand, Miranda? That girl knows her own mind and her own heart better than most people, better than people twice her age, better than you, obviously. Are you prepared to throw away the love of a woman who was prepared to walk through fire for you?”
I look away, back to the photos in front of me, not seeing them as the colours blur together with the tears in my eyes, “Yes. To guarantee that she lives a full life, yes.”
“Miranda, you know I love you, you know what I’m about to say comes from a place of love. You’re an idiot. You’re a certifiable idiot, and you will come to regret this decision.”
“I already do, Nigel. Trust me, I already do. But I know it is the best thing for her.”
“I think you should talk to her and see what she has to say about that. Talk to her, before it’s too late.”
“No. I have made my decision.”
“I can’t talk sense into you?”
“I’ve made up my mind Nigel. It’s done.”
I hear him sigh heavily, “I hope you won’t stop me being her friend.”
“Of course not. She will need you.”
I hear the hushed whisper of my door opening and closing again. I’m glad Nigel didn’t leave the door open. It gives me an opportunity to collect myself, to use my executive bathroom to wash my face and reapply my makeup. I’ve become an expert at putting my makeup on without looking into my own eyes in the mirror. I’m worried about what I might see there.
Andy
As much as I dithered about leaving the house, it’s good to be out with Doug and Nigel. They manage to keep their saccharine ‘we’re a happy couple’ antics to a minimum, and for the most part it feels like I’m just hanging out with my old friends again. I try my best not to think about the fact that usually you would be here with us, that this would usually have been a double date with the four of us spending time together. Nigel would be taunting you mercilessly, while you made snide, biting comments back at him. Doug and I would be watching you both, trying not to laugh our heads off at the back and forth. As soon as you noticed us holding in our laughter, you’d frown and flare your nostrils, pretending to be offended. At which point Doug would start regalling you with stories of my childhood and the stupid situations I managed to get myself into on a regular basis. That’s how it used to be, back when we were still an us.
Each time Doug or Nigel see me getting quiet, they distract me by picking on each other. Doug likes to tease Nigel for the amount of time he spends in the bathroom for a man with no hair. Nigel likes to pretend that Doug’s comments offend him. I love them both dearly for what they are trying to do.
Dinner passes quickly, and I don’t even notice the time go by. At one point, Doug takes off to go order us some fancy cocktails that the waiter had never heard of. Sometimes I forget that Doug moonlighted as a bartender in college, and he likes to show off his knowledge. I notice that Nigel is giving me a piercing look.
“How are you doing, Six?”
“Yeah, I’m good Nige. Doing fine.”
“How are you coping with…,” he flaps his hands to fill in the gap.
I take a deep breath. I know what he’s talking about. I don’t want to talk about it, “Everything is fine, Nigel. I’m fine.”
“Yes, you’ve used that word a lot, ‘fine’. Are you really?”
“What do you want me to say Nigel? I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. There’s nothing I could want for in life. Everything is roses and sunshine and butterflies,” I’m angry that he’s bringing this up when I’m finally having a good night.
“I need you to be honest with me, Andy. I don’t think you’re being honest with anyone, but I’m the one person who could help you out. If you just opened up to me.”
“I miss her Nigel. I miss her like I would miss breathing. I miss her like a piece has been cut out of me. I miss her like all the light and colour has been sucked out of my existence. I sleep on the couch and only with the help of medication. I’m seeing a counsellor every week and I can’t even mention her. I force myself to eat, clean, get dressed, go to work because it’s what you're supposed to do, because it’s what people expect me to do. I…I saw the photo of her…at the Fashion Week Ball. I saw who she was with.”
“Andy…”
“Do you know what that did to me? I had a panic attack so bad that I passed out in my living room. I wanted to die. I hoped to die. I felt like my heart and soul had been ripped out of me.”
“There’s something you need to know…”
“I don’t want to know Nigel. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I don’t want to feel like I handed my heart to her and she squeezed it into dust in her fist. I just want to stop feeling anything at all.”
“Andy…trust me…you’ll want to know this. There’s more to that photo than anybody knows.”
“Fine. You have two minutes, and then either I’m getting ridiculously drunk on whatever concoction Doug is making or I’m going home and drinking the bottle of scotch on top of my fridge.”
I listen to what Nigel has to say, and I feel an almost imperceptible spark of life flutter in my chest.
Miranda
1 month earlier
It’s been a month since I changed the townhouse locks. A month since I’ve seen or spoken to Andréa. A month since I cut out my heart, put it in a box, and sealed myself off from feeling anything. I’ve noticed my staff are tiptoeing around me more than usual. More than they ever have before. My daughters have taken to only approaching me together, never separately, as if they need each other’s emotional support to even be in the same room as me. Nigel has taken to checking in with me at least twice a day, just to see how I am. Even Irv has taken to avoiding me, perhaps realising that I am likely to rip his head off if he says the wrong thing to me.
I’m hoping that my feeling of being loose and untethered in the universe goes away soon. I need to feel in control again.
The media has finally noticed that Andréa is no longer by my side at every opportunity. They’ve noticed that there are no more family outings with the girls, no more happy couple photo opportunities. There is blood in the water, and the sharks have started circling. They’re already starting to flock around my front door, following me to luncheons, trying to see if they can spot Andréa. They leave disappointed every time.
I wonder if I should warn Andréa that the media frenzy is likely to ramp up again. I choose not to, figuring they’ll focus their attention on me, as they always have done in the past. The Snow Queen ices another partner. No need to drag her into it when they will most likely ignore her.
I realise how wrong I was when Nigel drops Page Six onto my desk. Splashed across the page are photos of Andréa. She is as beautiful as ever, and I feel my stomach lurch at the sight of her. Then I look closer, and I see the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her skin, and the limp strands of her hair framing her face. I know what that means - she’s not eating properly, and she’s not sleeping, she’s not taking care of herself. The photos show her leaving her apartment complex, and it seems like they followed her while she did her grocery shopping. I’m furious on her behalf, but I know there’s nothing I can do.
“Is there a point to this, Nigel?”
“Look at her, Miranda, you can’t tell me she’s doing okay. You need to step this back. You need to go speak to her. It’s not too late to fix what you’ve done. Go talk to her Miranda, please. Apologise to her, get down on your knees, beg her for her forgiveness, just please don’t let this keep going.”
“She’ll be fine, Nigel. She’ll get over this. She’ll forget all about this as soon as she finds someone new. I’ll be just a blip in her past.”
“You’re wrong, Miranda. You are so very, very wrong.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than delivering gossip rags to me.”
I look at him over the rim of my glasses, indicating that he should seriously consider being somewhere else. He holds his hands up in submission and leaves my office.
I notice that he’s left the magazine on my desk. I run my fingers over the pages, wishing that I could touch the real Andréa. Despite my words to Nigel, I am worried about her well-being. A quiet call to the larger publications will see to it that none of them send photographers or reporters to her house. Without the push from the larger circulations, the smaller ones will quickly lose interest. It’s the best I can do for her at the moment.
I didn’t think I would miss her this much. When I went through the divorces from my husbands, I was usually relieved that it was over. I had thought it would be the same with Andréa, that there would be that initial feeling of loneliness and the accompanying exhaustion of dealing with the tabloid stalkers, but that it would all pass quickly and my life would get back to normal. I was not expecting to feel like there is something fundamental missing from my life. It has taken all of my considerable willpower not to pick up the phone and call her, or to turn up to her apartment prepared to throw myself on her mercy. I have never felt this bereft and lost. It’s not a feeling that I enjoy. I’m hoping that it passes soon. I’m hoping that I stop missing the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the smell of her perfume. It has to happen soon, right?
Andy
“Nigel, you’re going to have to go over that for me again, slowly.”
Doug slides back into his seat, carrying three toxic, bright blue cocktails, “Have you told her?” He asks.
“I did, but I don’t think she’s absorbed it.”
“Try again, she can be a bit slow sometimes.”
I slap him on the arm, “Be nice, Dougie, or I’ll tell Nige about that time you decided you were going to be a punk rocker.”
“That’s a story I need to hear later. In the meantime, I’ll repeat what I’ve already covered. In short sentences, using small words,” Nigel ignores it when I glare at him. “Irv is still swinging for Miranda. She’s trying to head him off. The Board is getting tired of his machinations. Members of the board have approached Miranda. They want to vote Irv off the board. They have enough votes. They just need an appropriate replacement candidate. This is where Michael Fraser comes in. He’s rich. He’s charming. He wants to diversify out of agriculture. He doesn’t care about tampering with the imprints, he wants to focus on the overall business plan.”
“Oookay, I’m with you so far.”
“The man you saw Miranda with, was Michael Fraser.”
“Got that.”
“He wasn’t there as her date.”
“Ahuh, how can you be sure?”
Doug giggles, “Have you seriously not told her the best bit yet?”
“Six, Michael Fraser is as camp as a row of pink tents. He is a friend of Dorothy. I should be worried about him being around Doug more than you should be about him being around Miranda. He is very, very gay.”
“Well, okay then. Doesn’t really change anything in my life right now, but thank you for letting me in on the big secret,” I can hear how stiff my tone is, but I can’t help it.
For a brief moment I had hope that maybe I had a chance to win Miranda back, that her spending time with this man meant nothing. For a brief moment I had hope. Then I remembered the changed locks, the dismissive text message, the complete lack of communication for the last two months. Nothing has changed, Miranda is still out of my reach. I take a massive gulp of the cocktail Doug has cooked up, and nearly spray it across the room as the high proof alcohol hits the back of my throat and burns its way through my sinuses.
“Holy shit, Doug, what is in this?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“I’m pretty sure this cocktail is going to kill me.”
I lift the glass for another, more delicate sip, a plan which is subverted by Nigel tipping the bottom of the glass, forcing me to quickly drink it all in one go.
The rest of the night with Nigel and Doug passes in a blur of strangely-coloured cocktails. The one thing I remember clearly is Nigel whispering in my ear ‘She still loves you, and she misses you terribly’.
Miranda
We’ve caught up to Andy’s timeline now
It’s late at night, but not so late that I haven’t gone to bed yet. Instead, I am sitting in the upstairs office going over the latest edition of the Book. The girls are at their father’s until the weekend, and the house is quiet without them around. A few months ago, Andréa would be keeping me company while I read over the latest changes, either sitting on a cushion by my feet with her head resting on my knee as she read a book and I carelessly carded my fingers through her hair; or on the lounge behind me sitting cross-legged with her laptop working on a story, her fingers tapping lightly on the keys in a staccato accompaniment to an unnamed song she would be humming quietly to herself. She was never far away, and I found her presence comforting. Now I find her absence chilling.
The feeling isn’t helped by the seemingly-never-ending rain. I feel like the cold and damp is seeping into everything - the pages of the Book feel damp, my bed sheets feel damp, every item of clothing I put on feels damp. It is as if the moisture from outside is leaching into every nook and cranny of the world, through my skin, into my bones. Into my very soul. Two days straight now it has rained, and I’m starting to feel like New York is turning into London with its perpetually dreary weather. I’m reminded that Andréa used to tease me with a ‘from your pursed lips to God’s ear’ every time I complained about rainy weather. I wish she was here now to tease me about it.
I sigh and stretch back away from the desk, rubbing the back of my neck as I pull my glasses off and toss them onto the desk on top of the Book. I’m tired, physically and emotionally. I had thought that, by now, I would have found some equilibrium. It’s been two months since I last saw or spoke to Andréa, and there is still an aching emptiness where my heart should be. Nobody has ever filled my life so completely with their presence, and made it so insensate with their absence.
I stand up and stretch, trying to work the kinks out of my back and neck. Andréa would usually have massaged them out, but she hasn’t been here for months, and I now have knots upon knots. It hasn’t even occurred to me to have one of my assistants book in a massage session with my old therapist. The tension in my neck is turning into a migraine, and I head downstairs to find some painkillers.
I’m halfway down the stairs to the entry level when I hear the doorbell buzz. The sound jolts me out of my introspection. I freeze on the steps and look at my watch - 11:21pm. There’s nobody who would have any need to be ringing my doorbell at this time of night. The Book has already been delivered, my ex-husband would call me if there were a problem with the girls, and I haven’t ordered any food to be delivered. A cold chill runs through my body as my fight-or-flight response kicks in - there’s only one person who would have the nerve to disturb me at this time of night. Andréa.
I manage to get my legs to move, and make my way to the front door. I check through the peephole. I was correct, Andréa is on my doorstep. What appears to be a very drunk Andréa. I’m tempted to ignore her there, but I’d rather that one of my neighbours doesn’t notice her and call the police. Or worse, the media.
“M’randa, I know you’re there, please jus’ open the door,” she’s leaning against the door, her voice barely loud enough to be heard on the other side of the solid wood barrier.
I sigh. I know she won’t go away until she’s spoken to me. She’s stubborn like that. With a heavy heart, and only slightly shaking hands, I unlock and open the door.
Then she is there before me, beautifully intoxicated and happy to see me. Her face lights up with one of her blinding smiles, and it’s like the last few months never happened. I wish it were true, but I have to remember my resolution to keep her at a distance. I’ve never wanted to touch her and hold her more in the entire time I’ve known her, and I can feel all the muscles stiffening in my body with the effort of holding back.
“There she is, there’s my love. I’ve missed you M’randa,” she’s slurring her words, and I wonder how much she’s had to drink that firstly, she thought it was a good idea to turn up here at this time of night; and secondly, that she can forget what has happened between us.
“It’s nearly midnight, Andréa, what do you want?” I keep my voice neutral, I don’t need her to know how hard it is for me to have her so close.
“I want you to come dance in the rain with me.”
I watch as she pulls her coat off, laying it over the railing. She steps out from under the portico, holding her arms out and throwing her head back. She closes her eyes and spins in the rain. She looks so happy, so carefree, so…
I reach out and grab hold of her as she clumsily loses her balance and nearly falls down the stairs. My Andréa was always uncoordinated, and the addition of alcohol has made her especially maladroit. Belatedly I realise that I was trying not to touch her, and now my arms are wrapped around her waist, and she is nuzzling into my neck. I sigh, and enjoy the feel of her body pressed against mine. I have missed this.
Her nose is cold as she pushes her face into my hair, and I can’t help a shiver that runs down my back and arms. I’d forgotten how the simplest touches from her could awaken my senses. I need to find a way to send her home without any further reminders of what I’ve lost.
“M’randa…it’s raining.”
“Yes, love, I know.”
“You don’t like the rain.”
“No, I don’t.”
“But you’re in the rain with me. We’re dancing in the rain together.” She sways back and forth in my arms, rocking us together.
“If you can call this dancing,” I say acerbically.
“Don’ be a spoilsport, M’randa. Just dance in the rain with me, it’ll make you feel good.”
I don’t have any response to that. She’s always had a thin streak of country-girl hippy in her, and I indulged it when it made an appearance because I thought it was endearing. But I always felt like I was on the outside of those moments, looking in through a window to spy on this strange and mysterious creature. Almost like peeking into a fey world, and seeing a magical being at play. One that likes to dance in the rain.
Instead of moving away from her, I pull her closer into my arms, more like two lovers would when dancing, and I let her sway us back and forth as the rain soaks through our clothes. At this moment, I don’t care if my neighbours have spotted us. Let them watch. Let them wonder what craziness Miranda Priestly is up to this time.
Andréa has always been something of a mystery to me. From that first day she stood in my office, her demeanour sheepish and nervous, then suddenly turned on me with fire and passion and told me all the reasons why I should hire her. I saw more of that dichotomy during the time she worked for me - the skittish colt, all long legs and wide eyes, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger; then her inner fire would blaze forth, and she would loudly drop a manuscript on my desk, flaunt her gorgeous figure as she strode through the office, or quirk her eyebrow at me to say ‘see, I can meet any challenge you set for me’.
Our relationship had been like that too. At times she would be so shy and coquettish, stammering and stuttering over her words, babbling nervously, or asking my permission to do things. The next minute she’d be throwing me against a wall, telling me what I could or could not do as she ravished my body and overwhelmed my senses. With her dark eyes and carelessly styled hair, she could be so composed and confident yet I always knew that there was a sensitive soul nestled under any bravado.
Despite her body pressed against mine, and her arms draped loosely around me, the cold of the rain soaking through my silk dressing gown is chilling my skin. I also think my neighbours have had enough of a show for one night. I know I can’t send Andréa home like this. It would just be irresponsible of me, no matter what vows I have made to myself about keeping her at a distance. Despite my reputation, I am certainly not heartless and oh how my heart is aching to have her in my arms again.
Very gently, I turn her in my arms, putting one hand on the small of her back to guide her through the open doorway. One night, just one night. I can hold myself together for one night, and Andréa can stay safely in one of the guest rooms, a whole floor of space between us. In the morning I will need to find the words to tell her that there is no future for us. I will have to push down every feeling I have, every yearning, every inkling of desire for her, for us, and make sure that she knows I won’t be changing my mind. It’s the best for her. Maybe by morning I can even convince myself of that.
I take her coat from the railing as we head inside, closing the door softly behind me, before hanging her coat off the doorknob - it’s too wet to hang up in the hall closet. The only light to see by is filtering down from my office upstairs, and the hallway is cast in a shadowplay of light and dark. She has turned to face me, her eyes deep, unfathomable wells. I used to be able to read them so well, used to be able to see desire, love, happiness, frustration, hope, a whole gamut of emotions in them. Now there just seems to be one, overwhelming and overriding anything else - sadness.
“Miranda…,”
I put one finger on her lips, not knowing if I’m strong enough to hear what she would say next, “Hush love, let’s get you to bed. You’re soaked through, and you’re going to have an impressive hangover in the morning.”
I drop my hand to lace my fingers through hers, feeling the iciness of her hand in mine - I wonder how long she’d been out in the rain before she rang my doorbell. With a gentle tug, I move past her and lead her up to the first floor, into one of the guest rooms. I ignore the pout on her face as she realises I’m not taking her up to our…my…bedroom. With trembling and uncertain fingers, I undo the buttons of her blouse. I try not to think of all the times I’d undressed her in the past, my hands trembling with passion rather than anxiety. I can’t resist the urge to run my fingers over the pale skin of her shoulders and down her arms as I take her soaked blouse off. I had forgotten how soft her skin was against the sensitive pads of my fingers, and I bite my lip hard to resist the urge to kiss the path my fingers have just traced. It won’t do for me to lose control now, and it wouldn’t be fair on Andréa to take advantage of her current inebriated state just to satisfy my desire for her one last time.
If I thought removing her blouse was hard, the difficulty level increases tenfold as I unbutton and unzip her jeans. Thankfully she takes over and is able to kick them off without my assistance. I take the opportunity to regain some semblance of calm by studiously looking anywhere but directly at her. When she puts her hands on my shoulders to toe off her shoes and kick away the puddle of denim at her feet, my eyes unconsciously drift down to look at her clad only in her underwear. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my heart drop to the bottom of my stomach - other than a La Perla bra, one that I bought her last year, she is completely naked. The dark black satin with green lace trimming invites my fingers to touch her, and I clench my fists at my sides, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hand.
I watch as she struggles to undo the front clasp on the bra. Andréa did always prefer to sleep naked, and I should have prepared myself mentally for this eventuality.
“Miranda…help me please?” She looks up at me with those big, brown eyes and I start listing off the names of different shades of brown in my head to distract me from the sudden urge to kiss her. Brown. Coffee. Mocha. Peanut. I reach out unsteadily and grasp the clip in my hands. Carob. Hickory. Wood. Pecan. The material falls away and she shrugs it off her shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Walnut. Caramel. Gingerbread. Syrup. I can see her nipples, standing pert on her breasts, begging for my hands and mouth to be on them. Chocolate. Tortilla. Umber. Tawny. She drapes her arms over my shoulders, pressing her naked body against me, her lips brushing my neck. Brunette. Cinnamon. Penny. Cedar. Oh God…
“Andréa…bed…,” my voice sounds strained, even to my ears.
“You always have the good ideas,” she grins playfully at me, placing a light kiss on my lips, before disentangling herself and flopping onto the bed.
I would like to say that I had enough self-control and wherewithal to help her under the sheets, to tuck her in and make sure she was comfortable and warm. Instead, the moment her arms leave my shoulders I’m already fleeing the room, tears welling up in my eyes and my heart splintering into sharp daggers of lancing pain that seem to travel throughout my entire body. I take flight up the stairs away from her. Holding in my sobs until I reach the safety of my bedroom, I close the door behind me, fall into my bed, my very empty bed, and bury my face into a pillow. In that secluded sanctuary, far from the woman I love more than I know how to put into words, my silent weeping wracks my heaving body.