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It had been a long time since Miranda had woken up in a strange bed, hotel rooms not included. She drifted into wakefulness slowly, wrapped in warmth and the heady smell of sex. Andrea’s arm is still slung over her hips, the younger woman’s breasts pressed tightly against her back. Still not yet fully awake, Miranda’s hand finds its way to hers where it rests against her stomach, her fingers lightly entwining with Andrea’s, bringing Andrea gently out of her own deep slumber. Miranda feels Andrea take a deep breath behind her, feels her knees and groin snuggle in closer against Miranda’s thighs and backside, her fingers moving gently against her own.
Miranda’s eyes open reluctantly, still scratchy and aching from last night's tears. She feels a pang of embarrassment when she recalls how she had sobbed in her assistant’s bed, in her arms, uncomfortable yet not foreign anxiety weighing down in her belly. She wonders how she can gracefully exit the bed and locate her clothes while maintaining at least a scrap of dignity. Andrea shifts behind her, her nose cold where it traces along the back of Miranda’s shoulder and neck and she feels a soft kiss being placed there. She wants to stay here in the quiet warmth, wants to forget about Runway and her impending divorce and her angry and absent children. But Miranda Priestly is not one for stillness, always spirited into action and reaction, her own messy take on involvement that masks an underlying avoidance.
She lets her eyes roam around the room for a moment, taking in the cracked walls and mismatched furniture, a quiet but growing voice in her mind telling her that she doesn’t belong here. She disengages her hand from Andrea’s, shifting forward slightly, turning onto her back, closing her eyes once more on a sigh. Her head pounds. She feels shifting in the bed beside her, knows somehow even with her eyes closed that Andrea is propped up on an elbow peering down at her. She chances opening her eyes, glances in her direction, and is surprised to see a soft smile on Andrea’s face as she watches her.
“Good morning,” Andrea whispers, and before Miranda can say anything, leans down to plant a soft kiss on her mouth. Miranda’s eyes drift shut once more, returns the closed mouth kiss hesitantly. Andrea shifts again, her body coming to rest half on top of Miranda’s as her mouth lowers to her neck, a hand on the side of her face and her thumb stroking her cheek. She can’t recall the last time someone did this – kissed her and breathed her in upon waking, not caring that she must look like shit and probably doesn’t smell much better.
She puts a hand in Andrea’s hair to halt her descending kisses, turns her head to the side.
“Andrea…”
“Hmmn?” She continues to kiss and lick at her neck, a hand soothing down her ribs.
“Andrea…” she tries again, turns more of her body to the side. “I need a shower.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.” Firmer this time.
“Fine,” Andrea responds with a faux dramatic hint to her tone. She rolls off her, swings her legs off the side of the bed and engages in a catlike stretch with her back to Miranda, her arms stretching up in the air for a moment. Miranda watches the muscles ripple in her back, watches her stand from the bed and pad over to the chair in the corner, apparently unconcerned about her nudity. Miranda brings the bedcovers up to cover her chest, tucks them under her arms tightly. Andrea slips on her shorts from last night, picks up her tee shirt and shakes it out before pulling it on over her head.
“I’ll make coffee,” she says, walking around to Miranda’s side of the bed and leaning down once more to kiss her on the corner of her mouth. She turns to leave the room.
“The bathroom should have everything you need,” she throws over her shoulder with a smile as she leaves. Miranda lies still for a moment, listening to the domestic sounds of the coffee machine being switched on, of a cupboard door opening and closing and the clink of mugs being deposited on the countertop. She quickly gets out of bed and steals into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. She showers, helps herself to Andrea’s shampoo, trying not to let her mind panic at the realisation that she is in her much younger employee’s bathroom on a Saturday morning and that she will soon have to suffer the walk of shame back to the townhouse. She finds an unused wrapped toothbrush in the small mirrored cabinet, and scrubs her mouth furiously, not able to pinpoint what she should or shouldn’t be feeling. She hates uncertainty.
She wraps herself in the bathrobe on the back of the door, absolutely not walking out there in nothing but a towel. She tries to reason with herself that Andrea saw her naked and up close last night and certainly seemed to like what she saw, but without heat and arousal, she doesn’t feel brazen anymore. She feels apprehensive and every bit of her 51 years of age.
Taking a deep breath she exits the bathroom to find Andrea sitting up on the bed, her legs tucked in under the covers as she sips from a steaming mug.
“Of course you’re a coffee in bed type of person,” Miranda chides. For her, coffee in the morning is always a fully dressed in the kitchen activity, not having or allowing herself the time and luxury to lounge about in rumpled sheets. Andrea grins up at her, inclines her head in the direction of the other cup on the nightstand.
“You can be a coffee in bed type of person too, you know? Just this once.”
Miranda wants to shake her head but is desperately drawn to the smell of coffee so makes her way over to the bed and sits back against the headboard next to Andrea, reaches for the hot cup and cradles it close to her nose. Andrea lifts the bedcovers, drapes them over Miranda’s legs that are crossed at the ankles, causing Miranda to give her a pointed look.
“You may as well enjoy the full experience,” she says, her eyes amused.
They sip their coffees in silence for a while and Miranda listens to the morning New York traffic blare from the streets below. The townhouse is in a much quieter part of the borough and she is more used to the sounds of silence and the odd cheep of birds at this hour. The difference is somewhat disconcerting, messing with Miranda’s internal sense of time and space. It could be four in the afternoon for all the noise of this place.
“What are your plans today?” Andrea asks.
Miranda sighs. “Well, I was supposed to take the girls to the museum, but I guess that’s off the cards now.”
In her peripheral vision she can see Andrea looking over at her for a long moment. “They’ll come around, Miranda. They’re just kids.”
Miranda gives a noncommittal hum. The very thought of not having her girls with her over the coming weeks makes her heart ache.
“Tell you what,” Andrea says, trying valiantly to lift Miranda’s mood. “Why don’t you hang out here today?”
Miranda’s brain skids as she looks over at her with mild incredulity. “Hang out?”
Andrea laughs. Miranda sounds as though Andrea just asked her if she wanted to help dissect cadavers. “Yeah, hang out. You can eat more of my terrible food and we can watch awful movies. You can even pass critique on all the inevitably poor costume choices?”
This earns her a delicate snort. Miranda lifts her coffee to her lips, murmurs cheekily just before it touches her lips, “but I don’t have any clothes here”.
Andy grins. “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem, do you?”
_____
As it turned out, Miranda dressed in last night's clothes and left within the hour. Something about the easy comfort of Andrea’s unassuming company was making everything feel off kilter. The very thing that draws Miranda to this younger woman – acceptance, patience, simplicity and genuine care – also makes her feel vulnerable. Too seen and too known. She has spent years building walls around herself and she is flummoxed as to how Andrea has scaled them so quickly. It is a discombobulating combination of a strong pull tainted with cold fear, and Miranda needs space to assimilate and rebuild before deciding on what comes next.
She returns to the quiet and empty townhouse, showers a second time – this time using her own high-end products that don’t smell of Andrea – and tries to quiet her mind and resist spiralling into regret. She feels suddenly like glass, brittle and transparent, like she is skidding on ice, unable to gain a foothold. She tries to get some work done on The Book but her hands shake too much to make her writing legible on the small post-its so she closes it and throws it down on the sofa beside her in frustration.
By the end of the day, she has traded in the paper prescription for a bottle of pills, unable to shake off the defeat that rests in her very bones.
_____
Andrea manages to resist the temptation to contact Miranda over the remainder of the weekend, knowing instinctively that the older woman needs space to sift through her feelings. As much as she wants to offer some sort of reassurance, she knows her well enough to understand how carefully she has to tread. She busies herself with cleaning her apartment from top to bottom, washes the pile of clothes that have been accumulating in her laundry basket. She tries, and fails, to put the white-haired editor out of her mind, tries to trust that everything will work out with a little patience.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, Andrea has settled into a state of hopeful acceptance. She arrives at the office early clutching a scorching hot Starbucks and is only mildly surprised to find Miranda already seated at her desk. She enters the glass inner office, offers the beverage with a smile. She tries not to feel disappointed when Miranda lets her place it on her desk without so much as looking up from her work.
Miranda, for her part, has spent the weekend slowly rebuilding, a poor patch-up job, but reasonably intact nevertheless. The day passes as countless others have before it; meeting after meeting, order after order. By the time 6pm comes and Miranda shows no signs of clocking off anytime soon, Andrea decides to take the bull by the horns and carefully approaches her desk.
Miranda looks up at her with a cool gaze, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the girl’s face.
“Yes?”
“I um….” Andrea hesitates, suddenly floundering.
Miranda looks back down, picks up her pen and scores through a paragraph in red ink with a decisive slash that somehow makes Andrea wary.
“The Book shouldn’t be too much longer,” Andrea says. “I can wait for it and deliver it later?”
Miranda meets her hesitant look, shakes her head once. “No need. I don’t require The Book this evening. Go home, Andrea.”
Andrea’s feet stay rooted to the spot, trepidation seeping through her.
“Miranda…”
“Look.” Miranda puts down the pen and clasps her hands together on top of the desk. “This isn’t the time nor the place. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that there is a lot happening right now and I can’t have…this…interfering with our work.”
Andrea nods. At least Miranda acknowledges there is a ‘this’.
“Of course. I just…” she clears her throat. “I’m still here, Miranda.”
“That you are,” she says. She straightens her shoulders. “And I’m…grateful, Andrea. Things are just…”
“I know.”
“Well.” Miranda’s eyes slide to the right. “I will see you in the morning then.”
Andrea leaves Miranda’s office, takes her time with her coat and bag in the hope that Miranda will call her back in.
She goes home.
_____
The days pass and Miranda throws herself back into her work with fervour. As much as she can, that is. The pills make her dreadfully tired and do something despicable to her digestive system which her doctor reassures her will die down in time. Andrea keeps an ever watchful eye on her boss, noting the dark smudges under her eyes that can’t be hidden by expensive concealer. She tries to make sure Miranda eats lunch daily but inevitably something always comes up to derail this and Andrea finds herself worrying incessantly. In a desperate moment she even contemplates ordering a pepperoni pizza to the townhouse but quickly decides that would be a bit too fucking conspicuous for the dance of denial that Miranda seems to be engaged in. She tries not to feel angry, not to feel hurt, and tells herself that Miranda needs to process and will come to her in time.
Andrea’s fear peaks one morning when Miranda’s bag lands on her desk and a pill bottle rolls out onto the floor, Andrea darting to catch it before it’s snatched from her hand and tucked back inside the bag. She can’t help herself from asking the stupid question that leaves her lips.
“What’s that?”
“That is none of your business,” she asserts, colour rising in her cheeks.
In the days that follow, Miranda’s bag goes with her office to sit under her desk.
It’s exactly two weeks after Miranda arrived at Andrea’s door when the younger woman’s Friday evening is interrupted by the ringing of her cellphone. She stares at the caller ID for a moment, debating whether or not to answer before quickly pressing the answer button.
“Yes, Miranda?”
There is a pause on the line and Andrea waits holding her breath.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Do you…” she swallows. “Do you want to come over?”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
The line discontents and Andrea sits staring at the door for the full seventeen minutes it takes before three sharp raps sound out. She holds the door open and Miranda enters, neither woman saying a word until Miranda is seated on the sofa once again.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” she says.
“I think you do,” Andrea says gently and Miranda turns her head to look at her. She pauses before continuing.
“The girls are going to Italy with their father on Sunday. Two weeks.”
Andrea nods, not knowing what to say in response.
“He’s sending Patricia back, at least.”
The silence is unbearable. “Will you say something, please?”
Andrea opens her mouth, then closes it again. She reminds herself that Miranda is in her home, that she chose to come here.
“Have you had dinner?”
Miranda looks at her again and furrows her brow at the change in topic. “No…”
“Then let’s eat dinner. Then you can decide why you’re here.”
“I’m not hungry,” she insists.
“Well, I am and I don’t want to eat while you sit there watching me. So…pizza?”
A hint of a smile lifts Miranda’s lips.
“Pizza,” she agrees.
_____
Miranda moans as she writhes on the bed underneath Andrea, the younger woman’s mouth on her left breast as her fingers slide in and out of her. She grasps long dark hair in her fists, loves the ways it tickles along her torso with every movement. She drags in breath after deep breath, her lungs feeling full for the first time in two weeks. Andrea’s teeth closing down on her nipple brings her upper body off the mattress as she lets out a shout and she can feel the mouth around her flesh curve into a smile. She has never been too vocal during sex, too reticent and too preoccupied with appearances and too used to utterly mediocre sex at best.
Being with Andrea sets something alight inside of her, unlocks something she has kept hidden for decades. She supposes she had always known it was there, just well-hidden and waiting for the right person to unlock its potential. It’s easy to forget the power imbalance between the two women when they are together like this. Miranda isn’t an editor in these moments. She is a woman, sensual and sexual and passionate. And Andrea is her equal, her lifeline, her fucking salvation.
The moans trip from her lips over and over, unable to keep them in. Andrea’s mouth leaves her breast, mouths her stomach, nibbles at her hips, down and down and down.
When Andrea places her mouth between Miranda’s thighs, Miranda sighs, melts, feels everything liquify and come into sharp focus all at once, lets her forget everything but the pleasure she feels throbbing at her core. Andrea is a fucking artist with her tongue, bold and confident in her languid strokes, somehow knowing exactly where and how Miranda needs her. Her fingers withdraw from Miranda’s body, circle over and around her opening, the pads of four fingers rubbing there deliciously, and Miranda never knew it could feel like that. A whole new erogenous zone discovered, making her wetter than she has surely ever been. She can hear her wetness loud in her ears as Andrea circles her, an obscenely erotic sound making her feel desired and alive.
Miranda isn’t the only one to find it incredibly arousing. Andrea lifts her head to watch her hand, watch the arousal pouring from Miranda, moves her hand sloppily on purpose to make wet slapping noises on her flesh.
“You’re so fucking hot,” she whispers, dipping down to drag her tongue through the wetness, slipping her tongue inside to taste it. Miranda’s hips lift up as her hands in Andrea’s hair pull her down closer, and she circles her hips over and over to chase her release. One hand lifts to grasp at her own breast, fingernails digging in, her head tilted back.
“Please don’t stop,” she hears herself beg.
Andrea’s tongue moves up, the flat of it circling and caressing Miranda’s clit, her fingers driving back inside and curling upwards in short sharp jabs.
“Oh fuck!”
She can’t help the expletive from leaving her lips as her orgasm rips through her, her lower abdomen clenching tightly. Andrea groans at the flood of wetness that surges out around her fingers, Miranda’s insides pushing and pulling all at once. Miranda feels the gush between her thighs, tries astonished to back away, even as the brunette curls her free hand up and under Miranda’s backside to keep her as close as possible to her mouth. Her tongue replaces her fingers, desperate to taste the core of her lover. Her mouth is wide, accepting, taking it all, as another climax tears through Miranda’s body.
Miranda feels dizzy on the come down, can feel her heart thudding in her head and chest and deep between her legs. She shifts her hips back, pushes delicately at Andrea’s shoulders.
“I can't, please…”
A final languid lick and Andrea rests her cheek against Miranda’s damp thigh, panting. She has never seen anything as beautiful as Miranda post-orgasm, her body twitching with aftershocks, her hands trembling and slightly raised into the air for a moment before dropping down to the mattress with a thud. It is as though every single ounce of tension leaves her body all at once, leaving her spent and utterly undone.
They lie in the quiet for minutes, Miranda’s fingers drifting lazily through Andrea’s dark locks. She idly wonders yet again why peace only comes in moments like this. She is weightless and boneless, momentarily free of the nagging self-doubt and heaviness that seems to follow her every waking moment. Andrea’s cheek on her thigh pins her leg to the bed but rather than feel trapped she feels inexplicably free. The fingers of her free hand lightly trail down her own torso in a straight line, come to rest on Andrea face and trace over her lips. She feels a kiss being placed on their tips as Andrea’s palm slides up her stomach to rest between her breasts, her thumb soothing circles against the underside of her left peak.
She knows Andrea is waiting for a sign of whether or not this is to continue. She can hear the younger woman’s mind turning over the very real possibility that Miranda will soon leave once more. She wants to quiet that young mind, wants to bestow on Andrea the gift of sated peace that she has so freely given her over and over again. She grasps the hand that lays on her chest, brings it up to her mouth to place an open-mouthed kiss to her palm, can taste her own arousal smeared there as her tongue darts out. The hand in Andrea’s hair tugs once, lifting her from her resting place against her thigh. Andrea’s eyes find hers, that unfiltered smile still on her generous mouth.
Miranda’s hand cups the woman’s face as she leans down and Andrea moves up and she connects their mouths in a soft kiss as they meet in the middle. She pulls on Andrea’s arms lightly, bringing her up over her body, lays back and deepens their kiss as she enjoys her weight on top of her. She had always hated being pressed down into the bed by her husbands’ sweaty bodies, feeling trapped and possessed and suffocated. Another thing Andrea gives her – she feels safe and protected underneath her.
The taste of herself on Andrea’s mouth is alluring, and she suddenly thinks back to how intoxicating Andrea had tasted on her own lips. She turns them, inadvertently positioning Andrea squarely in the wet spot that she caused, Andrea’s little moan of surprise muffled by Miranda’s mouth. Miranda lifts her head and glances down, something close to mortification washing over her.
“I’m sorry, that’s never…”
“Shhh,” Andrea soothes, her hand on Miranda’s cheek and bringing her eyes up to her own again. Miranda feels the burning in her cheeks, Andrea’s lips pecking there with a smile.
“You have no idea how hot that was,” she whispers. “You have no idea how hot you are.”
Miranda lets herself relax incrementally, unable to do anything but trust in Andrea’s words. She shuffles her knees where they straddle Andrea’s hips to the right, puts a hand on Andrea’s hip and drags her over with her, absolutely not making this beautiful woman lie in the cold wetness. Andrea’s eyes glint as her lips turn up into a knowing smile, her fingers coming to brush away the unruly forelock that comes to dangle over Miranda’s right eye as a result of the movement. She tucks it behind Miranda’s ear, both of them knowing it won’t stay there for long.
Miranda lays down, holding the brunt of her weight on her elbows as she runs her nose alongside Andrea’s, her eyes drifting shut. She dips her head to press her face into the crook of Andrea’s neck and breathes her in, kisses her throat.
“I want you,” she whispers.
Andrea chuckles a response, “You already have me.”
Miranda lifts her head and smiles down at her.
“Not yet, but I will.” With that, she makes her way down Andrea’s lithe body, kissing as she goes, takes firm breasts into her mouth and sucks at the taught peaks. Andrea’s fingers on her shoulders scratch slightly as they dig in, the girl panting out her excitement. Andrea has thought about this so many times since Paris – has remembered how perfect Miranda’s mouth felt between her thighs. She had shamelessly touched herself, thinking about it so many times over the last weeks, those lips and that tongue making her feel thoroughly delectable. She had wanted this again for so long, to feel this intimate kiss, to feel Miranda suckle and please her this way. Her legs are restless, her feet rubbing against one another where they wrap around Miranda’s frame.
Miranda’s hands take hold of the backs of her knees as her mouth descends to her abdomen, hooks both over her shoulders as she settles between them. Andrea’s arousal is deliciously potent, making Miranda’s mouth water and her lips twitch. She runs a delicate finger down the centre of her folds, already swollen and parted and wanting. She collects the moisture there, runs the finger back up to swirl loosely over Andrea’s clitoris, delighting in the instinctive jerk of Andrea’s hips. A hand weaves through her hair, not pulling or pushing, just settling and soothing. Miranda turns her head, kisses Andrea’s wrist, opens her mouth to bite it gently, then soothe it with her tongue.
“Oh, Miranda…”. High pitched and breathless.
She traces the tip of her nose along Andrea’s pubic bone, deliberately sighs out a breath over her heated flesh. She places her hands firmly on Andrea’s hip bones and lets her tongue take a deep long stroke through her slit, moaning at the flavour that fills her nose and mouth. She repeats the motion, Andrea’s hips trembling where they lay pinned beneath her hands. She can tell the young woman is trying to show some restraint, perhaps waiting for permission to move, and that thought alone causes a surge of fresh arousal to dampen Miranda’s own inner thighs. The things they could do together.
Miranda slides her hand underneath Andrea’s backside, lifts her into her waiting mouth as though taking a sip from a sacred cup. Her tongue is everywhere, her mouth wide and unrestrained. Her tongue slips inside to taste what is deeper and muskier, flicks it and twirls it inside the quivering walls. Andrea’s hips are finally moving, chasing the sensations, pushing hot and wet into Miranda’s mouth and nose and chin.
Miranda feels strangely powerful crouched down here between these slim white thighs, even as her neck aches and her back twinges at the awkward position. She couldn’t care less about that, far too determined to enjoy this delectable gift, far too determined to make Andrea feel an ounce of what she makes Miranda feel in moments like this. Her tongue moves up to circle and swipe at the hard and swollen bud, the tips of two fingers gently massaging Andrea’s entrance, figuring that Andrea may like this herself if she did it to Miranda’s own body countless minutes ago. She is rewarded with a guttural moan from above, calves moving restlessly against her back and Andrea’s thighs begin to quake.
She looks up at her, her pouty lips parted, her eyes closed in concentration, her chest heaving. She is the most erotically beautiful thing Miranda has ever seen. Miranda quickens the movements of her fingers, dipping inside just a fraction while keeping her touch focussed on that tight hole. She swirls and rubs there while her lips wrap around Andrea’s clitoris, the flat of her tongue worrying its underside.
Andrea’s hands tighten in Miranda’s hair, her thighs pulling up and open as her hips rise again and again. She feels her shoulders lift from the bed as one hand falls from the older woman’s hair to slap on the bed beside her hips, giving her leverage to pump her hips furiously. She hears her own panting moans, Miranda’s muffled groans vibrating against her sensitive flesh. She looks down to where she still clutches Miranda’s hair in one hand, slides it to the back of her neck to grip her there tightly. Miranda’s eyes slide up to meet her astonished gaze and Andrea feels her orgasm rapidly approaching, watches Miranda fuck her with her mouth while she fucks Miranda’s mouth with her jerking hips. She can’t look away from those ice-blue eyes boring into her as that damned forelock of hair comes loose to fall over Miranda’s brow.
This is what makes her come, those eyes and that forelock and the inescapable realisation that she is utterly in love with this woman. She holds her gaze as she climaxes, an exhilarated shout tearing from her throat as her whole body convulses in wave after wave of pleasure.
Miranda holds steady, her mouth and fingers staying the course until Andrea’s hips retreat on a gasp and her upper body falls back down on the bed. Miranda places her whole palm on Andrea’s mound, feels somewhat possessive while cherishing this part of her. She holds her gently, feeling the quivering aftershocks against her hand as she kisses Andrea’s left hip. The room is quiet apart from the sound of their breathing, punctuated by the traffic noise filtering up from the streets below.
Miranda muses that perhaps she does belong here after all.
_______
“Did you always want to be an editor?” Andrea asks softly. Miranda’s head rests on her breast, her hand stroking lightly up and down her side from hip to ribs and back again, the sheets pooling low on both their hips.
“I always wanted to be successful,” she answers just as quietly, “And I knew it would be somewhere in the fashion world.”
Knew. Not hoped, but knew. Andrea wonders if Miranda was always so self-assured, even as a young starter-upper, as green and naïve as Andrea herself still feels.
“What were you like when you were my age?” she asks, brushing fingers through the hair above Miranda’s temple. She lays a kiss on the top of her head, perhaps in apology for bringing up their age difference.
“I was…not unlike you,” Miranda responds, somewhat cryptically. She never enjoyed a foray back in time to her youth, the simple question already making her feel a slightly unpleasant tinge of anxiety.
“You wore lumpy blue sweaters and hideous skirts?”
“I certainly did nothing of the kind.”
Andrea smiles.
“You worked for a super hot, yet impossible-to-please older woman?” She couldn’t help but tease.
“Oh Andrea, believe me, you have most definitely pleased me quite well.”
Andrea’s arms tighten around her. “I’m glad to hear it.”
They are quiet for a moment.
“Did you always want to be a writer?” Miranda asks, eager to leave tales of her younger days behind.
“Well,” Andrea sighs, her intake of breath lifting Miranda’s head where it rests against her. “I actually applied to law school. I turned down the offer to move to New York.”
Miranda knows this, having scoured the younger woman’s resume. “What made you turn it down?” she asks, stifling a yawn against Andrea’s skin.
“I wanted to do something bigger. I wanted to tell the story, not be forced onto a moralistic side dependent upon a client’s financial status.”
Miranda lifts her head at this and peers down at her lover with a small smile. “How very noble of you.”
Andrea’s eyes drift to the side, embarrassed. “You think I’m naïve and idealistic.”
Miranda turns more fully onto her stomach, her leg moving to settle between Andrea’s, and rests her chin on her hand. “No,” she says carefully. “I think you’re an optimist. And that you have a steadfast sense of what is right and wrong. That’s admirable, Andrea. Don’t lose it.”
Andrea looks into Miranda’s face for signs of mere appeasement but finds only truth. She smiles up at her, brings a finger up to touch her lips. Staring at her mouth, she wonders if they’ll have this again, wonders when Miranda will inevitably be brought back to reality and leave this apartment, when she’ll become the editor once more. The woman in question dips her head, forcing Andrea to raise her eyes to her own.
“Where did you just go?” she asks with a slight tilt of her head.
Andrea opens her mouth to speak, knows she is ruining this moment even before the words come tumbling out. “I love being with you like this, Miranda.”
She watches as Miranda’s brow furrows slightly before realisation dawns. She watches as Miranda averts her eyes and almost hears the walls slamming back into place. She watches her with a sigh as Miranda manoeuvres away from her to sit on the edge of the bed, grabs her bra from the floor and puts it on.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea whispers. “I just…you don’t have to go.”
“I think I do,” Miranda says absently.
“Miranda, please…” she sits up and places a hand on Miranda’s shoulder, scoots closer and presses her mouth against her back.
Miranda tries to relax her suddenly tense muscles, tries not to ruin this more than she already has. Love. The cold wash of realisation hits her and she can’t help but fast forward in her mind’s eye to the inevitable. The press, the circus, the overwhelming tide of doubt that Andrea could ever be satisfied with what she has to offer. The predetermined end of whatever this is leaving her broken and wrecked. She is 51 fucking years old, for Christ’s sake. What the hell is she doing?
She leans forward to grab her underwear, shimmies them up her hips, and thanks god that her blouse is within reach. She successfully shifts Andrea from her skin by pulling the blouse on, buttoning it up quickly. She stands to find her trousers, the dizzying spectacle of searching for clothing making heat spread to her cheeks again.
“Can I see you tomorrow? Can we have dinner?” Andrea almost cringes at how desperate she must sound. Miranda side-eyes her while fastening up her trousers.
“That’s not what this is, Andrea. I thought you knew that.”
Anger boils in Andrea’s blood, quick and hot.
“No, actually, I didn’t. You’re notoriously hard to read.”
Miranda glances over to her, indignation in her chest. Does this girl not see the reality of this? Is she really that stupid?
“Well, this is certainly not that,” she scoffs, even as she wishes with her entire bring that it could be. She has to draw a line somewhere, has to be the realist to Andrea’s optimist. She will be the downfall of this girl. The anger in her veins burns. Mere moments ago she was happy. She almost fooled herself into thinking that she really could have it all. She realises the only stupid one in this room is her. Sex is one thing. Tender declarations in the aftermath is something else entirely.
“You’re 25 fucking years old, Andrea,” she says, trying to make her understand the impossibility of this situation. Love. She cannot possibly let this girl love her. The notion is absurd.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she murmurs, moving to leave the room in search of her shoes.
Andrea blocks her exit, clutching the bedsheets around her body. “But you did, Miranda,” she almost shouts. “You came here. Twice.” Miranda looks away, wanting the ground to open up and swallow her and her hollow guilt. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Wait around until you decide you want another roll in the hay?”
Miranda brings herself to her full height, stares Andrea down with all the certainty she can muster. “Nobody forced you into this,” she tells her, steely. “If you can’t handle what it is then perhaps I was wrong about you.”
Andrea huffs out a breath, incensed that their intimacy has been reduced to this.
“And maybe I was wrong about you,” she shoots back. “Maybe I thought you cared.”
Miranda blinks, feels the knife through her heart even as her lips fall into a frown.
“You were most certainly wrong about me, Andrea,” she forces out, storming past the younger woman and out of the room.
Andrea stands rooted to the spot, hearing the front door slam shut.
_____
Love. Such a foolish thing. Miranda is sure there is a song about that somewhere. Miranda Priestly did not fall in love, learning early that such a thing only brought with it a hurt and an emptiness that she had absolutely no hope of recovering from. Her husbands had been a transaction of sorts, a mutual agreement of seemingly like-minded people who wanted something from the other. By the time she met her first husband, she was already pushing 40, completely bored with the tedious romantic dalliances she had endured before him. They had all come and gone, men and the odd woman here and there, none of them particularly making her hair stand on end with anything more than irritation and the feeling of suffocation.
They had dated for a short time, and he was pleasant enough; kind and generous and smart enough to at least hold an intellectual conversation. When he proposed, her first instinct was to tell him absolutely fucking not, but she so wanted to be a mother and knew that time was rapidly running out. The click of her biological clock rang loud in her ears and she was certain that he would make a good father at least. Even the conception of her beautiful girls was perfunctory. An anxious appointment after a year of trying and no pregnancy let Miranda know that she may be a brilliant editor, but her body couldn’t do this simple thing that other women apparently found so easy. The first round of IVF failed in a messy concoction of blood and tears and private mourning and no more than two days off work before she picked herself up and dusted herself off.
Thankfully, the second attempt was successful and when she saw not one but two tiny heartbeats on the grainy screen, she was sure that she had never felt her heart swell so much. These babies, her babies, were the most precious things in her entire world and she knew on that day that she would do everything in her power to protect them. The day they entered the world, pink and screaming, Cassidy first followed 6 minutes later by a much tamer Caroline, Miranda’s world changed. As exhausted and out of it on gas and air and pure endorphins as she was, she fell in love with her daughters so instantaneously that she could do nothing but weep as she held their tiny bodies in her arms, staring into their eyes so much like her own.
She wasn’t callous, but she knew soon after their arrival into the world that she had gained all that she wanted from her husband, and it was no surprise to either of them that divorce papers were signed before their twins turned two years of age. Miranda spent the next five years happily balancing toddlers, then older but still small children, on her knee while at home and basking in her success at Runway. She felt invincible. Exhausted, but invincible.
Then, in the blink of an eye, her babies were seven years old and running amok, much to the consternation of the nanny that Miranda grudgingly employed. The world of Runway was changing, catching up to the new digital age, and Miranda had no choice but to work harder to keep up with the change. It seemed…prudent to accept the proposal that haphazardly occurred in a dark corner of an upscale restaurant, Stephen two bottles of merlot down and loud and brash but willing. She had half expected him to backtrack the next day, but he stuck to his word and they had soon picked out an engagement ring and a venue and the date was set. The wedding seemed to come together around her thanks to an extortionate wedding planner and before she really knew what she was doing she was waking up on the morning of her wedding day feeling more like she was going into a board meeting than her own new marriage.
The early days were fine, she supposes. He was witty at times and obnoxious at others, was patient if a bit aloof with her daughters, and he appeared to enjoy the higher social circles that her celebrity invited him into, at first positively preening that he had her on his arm. Stephen was as entrepreneurial as he was ostentatious and part of Miranda enjoyed and admired his talent for taking run down broken things and turning them into gold. Before long, however, he began trying to apply that same tactic to Miranda, tried to make her fit his ideals, to make her better and more. The allure and pride of being her husband wore off quickly, replaced with anger and bitterness at being referred to as “Mr Priestly”, his self-proclaimed emasculation the quickest and surest turn off Miranda had ever felt. His sulking irritated her, his whining and neediness infuriated her.
The relief of the end of their time together was only partially overshadowed by the almost overwhelming sense of failure on her part. She had promised to give her girls everything. And she had let them down and disappointed them yet again. Two divorces within the timespan of their short lives. So much disruption.
The day Andrea Sachs walked into her life, full of youthful hope and burgeoning talent, Miranda had felt something in her orbit shift. It was subtle at first, hardly recognisable. She found herself increasingly impressed with this 20-something from Cincinnati, a feeling she had not had in quite some time. She couldn’t resist but to test her, to throw challenge after impossible challenge her way, a thrill shooting through her every single time she delivered.
The evening Andrea interrupted yet another argument with Stephen, Miranda had been frozen to the spot with incredulity. She couldn’t even formulate a single word of chastisement to the girl, had just stood there and stared at her in disbelief and…something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She had been kept awake in her bed that night not by the fight that had sent her husband off sulking in his own room, but by her young assistant and the look of terror on her face as she stood uselessly on the stairs. Miranda had noticed the young woman’s beauty before that moment, but then, in that very small space and time, with Miranda standing high over her, Andrea in that outfit with those heels and those legs…she was utterly devastating. For the first time, Miranda had been unable to get the girl’s face out of her mind, had fought off the very strong urge to touch herself while replaying the scene in her head, somewhat disgusted at herself that such a scene of her own obvious power over her young assistant had gotten her so dreadfully aroused.
She did not expect Andrea to actually acquire the unpublished Harry Potter manuscript, for goodness sake. It was a fool's errand, one orchestrated to force a snap back to disappointment and an abatement of desire. Yet that smug little smile, the air of superiority and victory in Andrea’s voice and painted over every inch of her body, had rocked Miranda. She was again reduced to a mute wreck, staring up this time at the girl in a dizzying pivot of power.
She knew right then she had met her match.
Sitting now in the den, hours after returning to the townhouse from Andrea’s apartment, she thinks about how cruel the universe is to make her match a 25-year-old employee. Surely to God, this was some kind of cosmic joke. And since when did she contemplate fate and the universe and how every decision in her life seems to have brought her closer to this young woman? Taking a large gulp of Scotch, she focuses on the burn in her chest for a brief reprieve, even as her fingertips press against her lips in the memory of a kiss. She had thought she could keep her close but distant, hers but not. She always wanted more than what she could have, never satisfied with choosing this or that. Her mother always told she was a greedy child.
Miranda shakes the intrusive faraway thought from her head, although realising that now her greed has finally gotten the better of her. Miranda had pursued this, pursued her. She had been the one to touch her neck and kiss her mouth and drop to her knees, literally and figuratively, in Paris. She had been the one to turn up unannounced and uninvited to her apartment, had demanded her way into her bedroom and taken refuge in her arms. She had been the one to return there, had let her feed her and touch her and make her come harder than anyone else had in her entire life.
Was it any wonder that the poor girl developed this…crush? Was it really a surprise that Andrea would fall in love with her older and powerful boss? And, let’s be honest now, isn’t that exactly what Miranda had really wanted all along?
Miranda knew this was her doing. Just as she knew that it was all so impossible. Yes, she could give her money, status even, a foot up the career ladder with her contacts. These are the things she is always willing to give her partners. But she knows that Andrea wouldn’t want these things she has to offer. What Andrea wants is the very thing that she has never given freely, and as generous as she is with the materialistic, she is selfish and stingy with her heart, keeping it to herself where it can stay protected and unfulfilled. The thought of parting with it terrifies her.
No, she cannot win this game that she started, cannot have it all, cannot allow herself to destroy Andrea by being completely unable to give her what she so plainly wants. She won’t let Andrea turn into her, unable to love because of a heart crushed too soon.
But her face. Those eyes, shining with tears as Miranda told her that she didn’t care. She may have tried to turn her heart to stone, but the piercing spike of hurt running through it recalling that face proves otherwise. She may not be able to give her much, but she will not allow this to end with Andrea thinking she doesn’t care.
_____
Andrea sits on her sofa wrapped in a blanket. She is so mad at herself for showing her hand too soon. She knew, even as the words left her mouth, that this would hark the end of this…thing they were doing. She had tried halfway through her sentence to make it sound nonchalant but knew Miranda could see the truth written all over her face. She knew she could see plain as day that she had fallen in love with the older woman and very notion had made Miranda turn and run like the wind. She had never learned to just keep her mouth shut!
She had at least hoped that there was some reciprocity to her feelings. Not love maybe, but she had seen the look in Miranda’s eyes, had felt the tenderness in the woman’s touch. Miranda had turned to her time and time again, sharing her fears and her tears. Evidently something kept drawing her back. Yet, faced with the truth of Andrea’s feelings, she had bolted. She had thrown Andrea’s younger age in her face, making her feel immature and stupid, and swanned out of her apartment like this had all been nothing.
She is angry and worn by the time her phone rings, making her jump at the intrusion. She looks at the caller ID with a blank expression. What the fuck now?! She lifts the phone to her ear, answers with a tired “Yes?”
There is a long pause on the line, reminding her of an almost identical call that took place hours before. She rubs a hand over her tired eyes and waits.
“I care,” Miranda whispers urgently, fuming. “Of course, I care. Don’t ever think that I don’t.”
Andrea lifts her head up looking to the ceiling, trying desperately to prevent the tears in her eyes from falling. She is so tired.
“Right,” she says. An acknowledgment.
More silence, one that Andrea can’t or won’t fill with appeasements this time.
“You know what is at stake here, how impossible this is.”
“Ok.” She concedes.
She can hear Miranda’s confusion at her lack of response, but she knows she is beaten.
“Gregory is one press scandal away from taking me to court for custody of the girls…”
“I understand, Miranda.” Let's just get this over with.
“And the press…what the hell do you think they’d write about me? ‘Snow Queen has mid-life crisis and shacks up with a 25-year-old….an assistant!’ This cannot get out!”
“Oh, so I embarrass you,” she lets out tersely, finally unable to refrain from being part of this conversation. “You’re right. How awful it would be if anyone found out about me.”
“Don’t twist my words!” She seethes furiously.
Andrea gets up from the couch to pace the small patch of floor between dining table and kitchen. “Oh, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Miranda. I thought you didn’t care what anybody writes about you, anyway?”
“I care about how this impacts on my children! I care about how this impacts on you!” She is angry now, and Andrea is half pleased that she at least demonstrates something other than that cool aloofness. Andrea matches her anger with her own.
“And what about you, Miranda? Where do your feelings fit into all of this? What do you actually want?”
A beat. “This has got nothing to do with what I want!”
“It has everything to do with it!” Andrea storms. “You either want me or you don’t. Whichever it is, I’ll deal with it. But you can’t keep blowing hot and cold with me like this.”
Miranda is quiet for a moment, standing in the den, the anger fizzling out into something closer to shame. “That was never my intention,” she says quietly. “I just…”. She stops mid sentence, uncharacteristically stumbles over her words. What has this girl done to her? She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly and carefully. “I don’t want this to end, Andrea. But it absolutely has to.”
“Why? Because I work for you?”
Miranda breaths out a sigh, frustration rising again. “Do you want a career in journalism or not? How do you think it will look, hmm? You’ll either be ridiculed before you even start, or worse, people will think any job you get in the future would be from riding on my coattails.”
“Miranda,” Andrea interrupts. “Get over yourself.”
Miranda stops her pacing, speechless. “Excuse m…”
“Those are my decisions to make, Miranda. Not yours! Don’t martyr yourself on my account! If you don’t want this, fine. But at least be honest and make up your mind about the real reason why!”
Miranda’s hand lifts to her forehead and rubs there, trying to ease the steady pounding. Her hand drops heavily and she shakes her head, her lips lifting in a humourless smile on a slight scoff.
“Perhaps you’ll learn one day that the world isn’t so simple, Andrea.”
Andrea unknowingly mimics Miranda’s exasperated yet defeated expression. “And perhaps you’ll learn one day that you don’t have to make it so fucking difficult.” She pauses before bringing an end to this impossible conversation. “I have to go, Miranda. I’ll see you Monday.”
Miranda blinks as the dial tone rings in her ear.