That Ridiculous Dress, Part 1
see first page for disclaimers
Part 1
~~~Four and a half years earlier~~~
Andy shook her head in disbelief that she was actually attending such a pretentious event and resisted, for at least the fifth time, the temptation to mess with her hair. It was currently piled on top of her head in an artfully messy arrangement that Billie had assured her would look perfect with the weird shiny dress that Andy was trying not to breathe too hard in and the sleek, uncomfortable heels that she was already starting to despise.
Even a casual glance at the other attendees was enough to make it painfully obvious that she was out of her depth, and she silently vowed that Mike and Billie would pay for every second of toe-pinching agony she endured tonight. She felt like a total impostor in her borrowed finery, and she just knew that the other guests were quietly mocking her behind their exquisitely moisturized, callus-free hands. It didn’t help that her dress was much shorter than she was used to and very different from the dresses of most of the other women present, but it was the only one Billie had that Andy had been able to get into, so it would have to do.
Andy spent most of the cocktail hour sipping a gin and tonic and clutching convulsively at her oddly shaped designer bag. Her first attempt at striking up a conversation went rather poorly, and the next was even worse, even though she was careful to be polite and her cheeks felt sore from smiling. Everyone seemed to remember someone else they just had to speak to about thirty seconds after Andy introduced herself. It has to be the dress, she decided glumly, as she propped up the most deserted stretch of wall available. Billie is SO dead.
How on earth did all five hundred of these fashion-Nazis know each other, anyway? Supposedly they were all in journalism or publishing, but Andy found it hard to believe. There certainly weren’t any people rich enough to dress like this working at her newspaper. Billie must have jumped through some impressive hoops to get the ticket, she suddenly realized. Normal Mirror reporters, like Andy, wouldn’t have a prayer of getting in, but apparently Billie still had friends over at Harper’s Bazaar who had been willing to pull some strings for her. And she hadn’t even gotten to use the ticket. Serves her right for getting pregnant like this Andy thought, rather uncharitably, as she checked her watch for the fourth time.
Andy couldn’t decide whether she was more furious with Billie for being so inconsiderate as to get pregnant and force Andy to attend in her place, or with her editor for backing Billie up and pointing out all the useful networking (and information-gathering) she could do. They should have known I’d never make it in this crowd, Andy thought. It’s like a different world. God I hate these shoes.
She felt slightly more at ease when they were ushered into the dining room. She found the little place card with Billie’s name on it at a table tucked into the corner of the cavernous meeting room furthest from the podium. At least I can keep my back to the wall, she caught herself thinking, as if she were a spy, or a kidnapping victim. She forced the uncomfortably accurate image from her mind and turned in her chair to return the exuberant greeting of the most flamingly gay man she had ever met in her life.
They exchanged employer information-Andy was unsurprised to recognize the name of one of the more sensationalist gossip rags-while Andy tried very hard not to stare at his bright purple dress-shirt and asymmetrical hair. He expressed what Andy considered to be excessive (and obviously insincere) admiration for her uncomfortable silvery-gray dress and inquired regarding its provenance, whereupon Andy was forced to admit that she couldn’t recall the name of the designer. He regarded her with the sort of disgust typically reserved for a victim in the final stages of leprosy and turned away to bestow his attention on the more deserving beauty advice columnist on his other side. He did not so much as glance at Andy the rest of the evening.
Andy held in a sigh (barely), and resolved to sneak into the bathroom at the earliest possible opportunity and memorize the name on the label of her dress. She turned, with a certain amount of trepidation, to look at the corpulent and distinctly grumpy man on her other side, who was avoiding eye contact with the entire table while he dispassionately shredded an impressive stack of cocktail napkins.
Andy resigned herself to a long, boring evening.
She spent the rest of the meal silently inventing increasingly creative curses for unexpectedly pregnant coworkers while the incomprehensible fashion-related conversation flowed between her table-mates. She had used all the Britishisms she knew by the end of the main course and all the college French she could remember by the beginning of dessert-which she and Grumpy seemed to be the only ones eating, even though it was delicious. These people are crazy.
After dinner came the awards and speeches, of course, before she could even make it to the bathroom, which she needed for more than just label-checking after the rather imprudent amount of wine she’d consumed with dinner (plus the gin and tonic from earlier). A handful of awards were given out to some suspiciously well-dressed young people, and then came the speeches. She did make an honest effort to pay attention to the speeches-really, she did-but the combination of a full bladder and a total lack of recognition of the names dropped faux-casually by almost every speaker soon had her struggling not to squirm in her chair. She clapped half-heartedly when everyone else did; that seemed to be all that was required of her, since there were constant side-conversations going on the whole time.
How an event to give awards to budding journalistic endeavors (i.e. starving young journalists and writers) could turn into this three-ring circus of snobbery, Andy would never understand.
Just as Andy was getting ready to make a break for the bathroom, decorum be damned, something extraordinary happened. The current speaker, a nice-looking old man with an impenetrable accent, gave way to the next one, and every head swiveled instantly toward the podium. Applause-some of it fairly hearty-sounding-filled the room. Even some of the women clapped. Andy could only gape.
The woman who rose to speak was, even to Andy’s inexperienced eyes, easily the most elegant present. Her hair gleamed a shocking, unapologetic white in a room filled with women who clung, with more tenacity than believability, to the illusion of youth. She also had an exquisitely trained voice. The entire room, including Andy, leaned forward to catch every word of her short, quiet speech. Even as Andy stared at the spellbound faces of her dining companions, she had to admire the woman’s style. She really didn’t say much that hadn’t already been said-but she was so poised, her delivery so perfect, that Andy found herself surprisingly disappointed when the woman stopped talking.
This stunning performance had obviously been anticipated, as the last speaker came to the podium directly afterwards and, forced to speak over the increasingly loud conversations among the guests, wrapped up with almost unseemly haste.
Free at last! Andy jumped up and made her way to the bathroom. Unfortunately, about two thirds of the other guests had the same idea, and Andy was severely handicapped by the distance of her table from the main door. By the time she made it past all the stylishly garbed roadblocks in her path, the line for the only women’s restroom Andy could see stretched out the door and several dozen feet down the hall.
Andy reluctantly joined the slow-moving queue and tried very hard not to squeeze her legs together too obviously. Because god apparently hated her today, the woman in front of her chose that moment to strike up a conversation with an acquaintance about some avant-garde art exhibit consisting solely of a rain machine, a tin roof, and a bathtub. Her imitation of the resulting dripping noise was absolutely the last straw. Andy shot the woman a disbelieving look and hurried off, thighs firmly clamped together, to look for a bathroom a bit further off the beaten track.
Five torturous minutes later, she finally came across a small ladies’ room tucked into an unlikely corner on the other side of a huge (and stylishly hideous) potted plant. Andy sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving and made a mad dash for the closer of the two stalls.
She had just flushed the toilet when she heard the bathroom door swing open. There was a slight pause, as if the other woman had expected to find the room empty, and then the slow, measured click of heels heading for the sink. Andy caught the quiet snick of a clasp, and then the familiar sounds of makeup being touched up.
Andy decided she might as well check the dress-label, but it turned out to be a trickier operation than she had anticipated, especially after almost a whole bottle of wine. She found that she could not reach the zipper without contorting herself in ways that might be hazardous to the integrity of the dress. It had been fitted to Billie, after all, who-when she was not three months pregnant and retaining fluid like crazy-was a bit slimmer than Andy, especially in the chest and shoulders. Andy banged her head (very gently, so as not to destroy her hair and makeup) on the stall door. She knew that she needed to chat up at least a few important people before she left. It was an invaluable opportunity, and she was a journalist. Plus, they were probably a little friendlier now, after all that wine. Inability to name the designer of her dress could easily be the kiss of death in this crowd, though. What to do? She couldn’t call Billie at this hour-she’d been going to bed early these days, and her phone would definitely be turned off.
A quiet rustle from the sink area gave her an idea. “Excuse me,” she started.
Silence. She could almost feel disapproval radiating through the door.
“Um, I can’t remember who designed my dress, and I’m trying to read the label, but someone else got me into it earlier, and I can’t reach the zipper. I was wondering if you could read the label for me?” She pushed the door open and stumbled out-damn these stupid heels-only to come face to face with the gorgeous white-haired woman who had spoken so rivetingly during the benefit. She was currently wearing the most terrifying expression Andy had ever seen on a human face. Andy swallowed, and took an involuntary half-step backward.
“You are wearing,” the woman said, in her preternaturally quiet voice, “a rather lackluster piece from Burberry’s Spring collection, which was obviously fitted to someone smaller than you.” She pursed her lips. “It is also completely inappropriate for this event,” I knew it! ”…and very ill-suited to your figure and complexion. Might one safely presume that the same benighted individual who loaned you the dress is also responsible for your hair and those tedious silver accessories? The Dolce bag is slightly less garish than the rest of your ensemble, I suppose. Those shoes, though-Moschino, aren’t they?-are worse than useless if you cannot walk in them properly.”
This astonishing speech was obviously intended to render Andy incapable of brain activity long enough for the mystery woman to make her getaway-she was in the act of closing her improbably blue bag as she spoke. It almost succeeded, but Andy’s curiosity (and maybe the wine) got the better of her, and she spoke up before really considering the consequences.
“Who are you? How do you know all that just from looking at my outfit? And where do you get off calling my friend’s dress lackluster, anyway?” It occurred to Andy, as the woman’s eyes widened dramatically, that it would have been a good idea to ask someone at her table who the woman was before accosting her in a hotel bathroom. She was bound to be someone important in publishing, after all, or she wouldn’t have been the next-to-last speaker.
Fortunately, she had a sense of humor, or so Andy assumed from the slight but perceptible relaxation of the Death Glare. Her lips had unpursed, at least, and her startling blue eyes had a bit more warmth in them than they had a second earlier. Andy thought she might even have seen one corner of her mouth twitch upward, as if she wanted to laugh.
“I work in Fashion.” Andy could hear the capital letter, and the unspoken ‘obviously’ just from the way she said it. “That is how I know. As for who I am, if you really don’t know, you may call me…M,” she said regally, rather as if she expected Andy to curtsy or kiss her hand.
Andy stared at her for a moment, but her curiosity got the better of her once again. “Okay, er, M. How did you know all that about the dress and the shoes and everything? I mean, surely everyone who ‘works in fashion’ can’t identify clothes just by looking at them.”
She was almost sure that M’s mouth quirked upward a little that time, but her voice was perfectly serious. “Not everyone, no.”
Andy had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that she was being toyed with, but hey, at least there were no witnesses, right?
“So, if not everyone can do it, how did you do it? How would someone learn?”
There was definitely a twitch that time…Andy would swear to it. “Read Runway.”
“Why Runway?” Andy wanted to know. “Why not Elle or Harper’s Bazaar or…” The thunderous expression was back, and the Death Glare couldn’t be far behind. Andy mentally slapped her forehead and hastened to correct her mistake. “Of course! You work for Runway, right? That’s why you were a speaker at the benefit tonight. That’s how you know about fashion.”
“Correct,” she said, with a disdainful sniff. “If you truly wish to know about Fashion, Runway should be your Bible. Read every issue cover to cover for twenty years, and perhaps you, too will be able to identify clothing with a glance.” Her tone of voice indicated that she found this eventuality vanishingly unlikely.
“Runway would tell you, for example, never to wear a sports bra with a designer dress, even such a mediocre one as your friend was…kind enough to lend you.”
Andy simultaneously bristled and blushed under M’s renewed scrutiny.
“Turn,” Miranda said, making a little circular motion with one index finger.
“What?”
“Turn around, foolish girl. I have to see the back as well.”
Andy turned, smarting under the woman’s scornful tone, but too dazed to respond.
“Surely any friend of yours sensible enough to own a Dolce bag could have advised you against panty lines.”
Andy felt her entire head and torso turn a fiery shade of red and wished fervently for a convenient trapdoor. Or maybe an act of god.
“Ah. I take it she did. Hmm. That dress really does not suit you at all. Turn and face the door.”
Andy turned again, still fighting down her blush, and faced the door, feeling rather like a life-sized Midwest Barbie.
M made a sort of tsking noise and tilted her head to one side. “Off,” she said.
Andy shook her head a little. She was sure M could not have just ordered her to-
“I don’t have all night, silly girl. For the last time, take off that ridiculous dress. I need to see what I’m working with.”
Andy turned to look at her, sure that she must be joking. She wasn’t. She was, in fact, looking increasingly impatient. As if in a dream, Andy heard herself say, “But the zipper…” and before she knew what was happening, there was the faintest brush of baby-soft skin against her back, and the sound of a zipper, and suddenly she could fill her lungs completely for the first time in over four hours.
“Strip,” M said.
“But what if someone comes in?” Andy managed, rather weakly, praying that she would wake up any second now.
M glared impatiently, took two steps toward the door, and flipped the lock.
What kind of hotel has locking bathrooms with more than one stall? Andy wondered, as she slipped out of the dress and draped it gently over the divider. Now that M had remarked on it, it did look a little boring. And what was with that little gold belt-thingy, anyway? Weird.
M made that tsking noise again. “Hanes. I might have guessed.”
Andy was suddenly acutely aware that she hadn’t bought new underwear in well over a year. And it had never been spectacular to begin with. I can’t even remember the last time I blushed this much she thought, even as she turned automatically to give M the full view…such as it was. She glanced up just in time to see the mysterious fashion guru beckoning impatiently.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, remove that revolting bra. It ruins your bust line.”
Andy knew, by this point, that M was not joking. Crazy, perhaps, or maybe a hypnotist of some sort-she really did have a beautiful voice, if you could ignore the actual words-but she did not joke.
Andy had a growing suspicion that there were probably other women-perhaps a great many other women-who would kill for the opportunity to undress in front of M and be critiqued. Who was she, fresh-out-of-college Andy Sachs, to turn up her nose? Maybe she could pacify the woman by submitting to her judgment. Still, a lifetime of modesty was hard to overcome. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and pulled the faded sports bra off in one (almost) smooth motion. It was incredibly hard not to immediately hunch over and cover herself.
It was even harder when she heard a slightly throaty sound of approval from M’s general direction. It will all be over soon, she told herself. Just let her finish shredding your ego and you can go home.
“Much better,” M said. “Perhaps not quite as fat as I initially thought.” And then, even though it was quite a small bathroom anyway, she took two steps forward, so that they were less than an arm’s length apart.
Andy, who had been attempting to distract herself with the inevitable insipid painting next to the sink, risked a quick look in M’s direction and promptly froze. The woman was finally smiling. But it was not a kind, reassuring smile. Nor was she making eye contact. Instead, she was smiling-rather hungrily, Andy couldn’t help thinking-directly at Andy’s chest. Andy had just opened her mouth to protest this rather obvious ogling when she was shocked into silence again by a hand covering her right breast. A very warm hand, with very smooth skin, which had no business being anywhere near her naked breast.
She stumbled backwards a step, but instead of backing off, M grabbed Andy’s left hip with her other hand and pushed her firmly against the now-closed stall door. Andy’s jaw dropped.
“M, what…? I mean, I don’t think…I’m not…”
“Call me Miranda,” she said, with another predatory smile, and kissed her. Since Andy’s mouth was still open, it ended up being a French kiss. A very long, very wet French kiss, which left Andy too stunned and breathless to say much of anything to Miranda. Another kiss followed, and another and another, until Andy totally forgot that she was in a public bathroom in a hotel with a frightening and beautiful female stranger at least twenty years her senior.
She did not, however, forget that she was almost completely naked and Miranda still fully clothed. The steel door was cold on her exposed back, and the contrast with the warm silk of Miranda’s dress and the hot mouth against her neck was sending delicious shivers up and down her spine.
Miranda was, apparently, a very single-minded individual. Her entire being was focused on Andy’s body. Andy tried, and failed, to remember a time when she’d gotten this wet just from kissing someone. She thought dimly that she should probably be alarmed, or at least angry, but Miranda was doing something really wonderful to Andy’s nipples, and her tongue and teeth were tracing abstract designs on Andy’s left ear and down her neck.
Andy felt faintly ridiculous standing there with her hands by her sides, one of them still clutching her bra, but she wasn’t quite sure what else to do with them. Miranda was obviously firmly in charge of the situation. Perhaps she preferred to just give orders. I’ll bet she does, Andy thought. What a control freak. Well, fuck that. If I’m going to cheat on my boyfriend, I might as well be thorough about it. And with that decided, she wrapped both arms around Miranda and reached for her zipper.
Miranda responded with a noise that might have been a purr, except that her mouth was currently wrapped around Andy’s nipple, so it actually came out as more of a tingly hum. Andy moaned, eyes closed, and tugged impatiently at Miranda’s dress. She had never been this wet, this achy, she was sure of it. And then Miranda’s mouth retreated from her nipple and she was suddenly bereft of warmth.
She made a rather strangled sound of protest and opened her eyes, but Miranda had removed her dress and was already stepping closer again. Miranda shoved her unceremoniously back against the door, forcing Andy’s legs apart and wedging her own thigh firmly between them. Her naked thigh.
Andy could not stop staring at the woman’s cleavage. “Wow!” she said, with a great deal of sincerity. And then, because it bore repeating, “Wow!” again. No one with white hair had any business looking that good in lacy black underwear. It was just unfair. “Your skin is amazing,” she said.
Miranda just smiled. “It feels even better,” she said.
“Fuck.” Andy gasped, as Miranda began a gentle grinding motion with her hips that rubbed Andy’s underwear against her swollen clit.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Miranda said, and she stepped back just long enough to rip Andy’s underpants down past her knees. Andy whimpered a little at the rush of cold air, but the combination of two fingers suddenly thrust all the way into her cunt and another full-contact body-slam against the door drove all the breath from her lungs. I am so going to have bruises tomorrow, she thought, as she raked all ten newly-manicured fingernails down Miranda’s back in payment. The resulting hiss was music to her ears.
Not to be outdone, Miranda added a third finger to the two already moving forcefully in and out of Andy’s cunt and pinched Andy’s left nipple so hard she shrieked. Miranda just smirked and pinched even harder.
I should not be enjoying this, Andy thought, as she tugged Miranda’s bra down and twisted both of Miranda’s nipples right back.
Miranda was obviously enjoying herself too-her breathing was heavier, and her chest was flushing a lovely shade of pink. “Harder,” she demanded, and shoved a fourth finger inside Andy’s dripping cunt.
Andy bit Miranda’s earlobe and obeyed, trying desperately to remain upright on her increasingly shaky legs. She had never been stretched so thoroughly before, and it felt amazing-almost too amazing. Andy was astonished to feel herself starting to clamp down on Miranda’s fingers. She was not going to come three minutes in like a teenage boy, dammit. Or if she was, she was going to take Miranda with her. It was time for a change in tactics.
“You want it harder?” she asked, a bit breathlessly, forcing her legs to hold her up a little more firmly. “Are you sure about that, Miranda?”
“I am always sure,” Miranda said smugly, and pinched Andy’s other nipple.
“Good,” Andy said, and shoved at Miranda’s shoulders-hard. She seized Miranda’s moment of shock to pull away and switch their positions. And she didn’t feel a bit guilty at the whoosh of air forced out of Miranda’s lungs when her back hit the door. “Fair’s fair,” she reminded her as she yanked the other woman’s underwear down and ground the heel of her hand firmly against Miranda’s throbbing clit.
“Indeed,” Miranda said, as she raked her nails down Andy’s back with a nasty little grin.
Andy grinned right back-and shoved three fingers in as far as they would go. “I may be fat,” she whispered into Miranda’s ear, with a nip for emphasis, “and I may be clueless about fashion.” Miranda snorted and gave Andy’s hair a vicious tug. Andy bit down a little harder and added another finger. “But you’re still soaking wet,” she latched onto a nipple with her other hand and started twisting, “and I’m still fucking your brains out in a hotel bathroom.” She gave a particularly hard thrust and pressed her thumb against Miranda’s clit.
Miranda moaned and turned her head just as Andy was leaning in to kiss the sensitive area behind Miranda’s ear, and she ended up kissing the corner of Miranda’s mouth instead. Miranda tangled her hands more securely in Andy’s hair and pulled her around until they were kissing in earnest, with Miranda moaning into Andy’s mouth and Andy grinding urgently against Miranda’s thigh in time with her rapidly thrusting hand. One of Miranda’s hands suddenly dropped from Andy’s hair to her hip, and Andy groaned her approval as Miranda’s leg pressed firmly upwards.
“Fuck,” Andy said, reaching down with her free hand to rub franticly at her aching clit. “Fuck, Miranda. I’m so close.”
“No self-control,” Miranda whispered, even as she pulled Andy closer and rolled her hips. “Just as I suspected.” She licked Andy’s earlobe. “You’re going to come, aren’t you? You’re going to come all over my leg.”
“Yes,” Andy hissed. “I’m going to come all over your leg, Miranda. And you’re coming with me.” Andy curled her fingers up and pressed, hard, on Miranda’s G-spot.
Miranda’s eyes widened. “Fuck!” she said, to Andy’s lasting delight, and came all over Andy’s hand.
Andy’s entire body stiffened at the first pulse of Miranda’s cunt around her fingers, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood as she exploded all over Miranda’s thigh.
They clung to one another, more for stability than out of any sort of tenderness, until the aftershocks had subsided. Miranda moved away first, naturally.
It was awkward, Andy discovered, getting dressed again in complete silence after twenty minutes of passionately antagonistic sex with a complete stranger. She felt sticky and unkempt as she struggled back into her dress, and very shy. She also felt, despite the incredible orgasm not five minutes earlier, like she kind of wanted to do it all over again. Miranda had an amazing body for a woman her age-for a woman of any age, really. And that voice…
“Zip me,” Miranda said, presenting her back to Andy.
Andy jumped, but she zipped as requested. She bit her lip, wincing as it began bleeding again, and took her courage in both hands. “Me too?” she requested, in a small voice, and turned halfway, looking hopefully in Miranda’s direction. Miranda executed a graceful turn and closed the zipper in one smooth movement.
Miranda was already reapplying her makeup with an expert hand when Andy joined her at the sink, fumbling with the unfamiliar purse. Miranda was done with both hair and makeup before Andy had gone much further than a rather ham-handed application of concealer to the sizable hickey on her neck and was watching Andy’s progress with growing annoyance.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said finally, and snatched the whole bag out of Andy’s hand. “You’ll never be done at that rate.” She then proceeded to do a better job on Andy’s makeup in four minutes than Billie had achieved in forty-five. Andy could only stand there, stunned, and watch the transformation in the mirror out of the corner of one eye.
Andy leaned away reflexively as Miranda’s empty hands reached for her head, but it was only to undo the pins holding her hair in place. Andy watched Miranda’s intensely focused face in the mirror as she ran her hands through Andy’s hair with surprising gentleness. She would have protested when Miranda began to deliberately muss it…if she hadn’t glanced at herself in the mirror first. She didn’t usually wear her hair down-too much work-but it looked good. Really good.
Miranda gave her a quick head-to-toe inspection. “Passable,” she said, quite as if she had not just worked several miracles with Andy’s appearance in less than ten minutes, and turned to get something out of her purse. The something turned out to be a cell phone. She punched a few numbers, told whoever answered to be out front in five minutes, and hung up. She turned to Andy. “I suppose you have a card?”
Andy stared at her for a moment, and then it hit her: I never introduced myself. She doesn’t even know my name. She opened the stupid gold bag with shaky fingers and handed over one of her business cards.
Miranda took it, glanced at her name, and snorted. “I sincerely hope, Miss Sachs, that Andy is not the entirety of your given name.”
“It’s Andrea,” Andy said, somewhat confused, “but everybody calls me Andy.”
“Always order business cards under your full name, Andrea. You are a professional, are you not?” For some reason best known to Miranda, she chose to place the emphasis on the second syllable of Andy’s name, rather than the first. It sounded Italian and mysterious when Miranda said it.
Miranda obviously didn’t expect a response, since she was already unlocking the door. “I trust you have the sense not to leave until I am outside, Andrea.”
Andy nodded. She looked away guiltily as she caught the glint of gold on Miranda’s ring finger. So we were both cheating. Wonderful.
“Don’t forget, Andrea, to read Runway,” Miranda said, as she opened the door. “You never know who might be paying attention.” And then she was gone.
Was that a threat? Andy wondered. It could have been, but from the way she said it, it sounded more like advice. Not entirely friendly advice, of course. Andy had a hard time believing that Miranda was accustomed to giving friendly advice that was not also a threat or a veiled offer of reward for good behavior.
She waited a few more minutes, just to be safe, but her brain was finally recovering from Miranda’s presence and starting to function at normal speed again. It was almost eleven, she realized, and Nate might be home before she got back. She knew she probably smelled like sex. I’ll have to get in the shower right away, she decided. What on earth am I going to do about Nate?
Andy splurged on a cab. There was no way she was taking the subway at this time of night, especially in a short skirt and smelling like sex.
Nate was still not home, thank god, so she was able to get in the shower right away, but she felt guiltier and guiltier as she imagined not telling him about her brief…encounter with Miranda, just pretending that nothing unusual had happened. I’m too honest for my own good. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell him, but how could I live in a one-bedroom apartment with him if I do tell him?
She winced at the thought of sharing a bed with her sweet, affectionate boyfriend after cheating with Miranda. Actually, after Miranda, Nate seemed sort of boring by comparison, now that she thought about it. Anybody would. Miranda was just so…perfect. Not very nice, of course. She could be downright terrifying when she wanted to be, and Andy had a feeling that she wanted to be terrifying on a disturbingly regular basis. But she was perfect, just the same. Andy blushed as she dried her hair and pictured Miranda’s cleavage again. Guess that college fling with Stacy wasn’t a fluke, then. Honestly, the lesbian thing bothered her far less than the fact that she’d cheated on her boyfriend with a complete stranger, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
I’ll just have to move out, she decided. Maybe Doug needs a roommate. Doug would probably be sympathetic-he had said Nate was too safe for her from the beginning, but Lily would be furious. Andy was mad at herself too, but mostly because things had been going steadily downhill with Nate ever since they’d moved to New York together, and she hadn’t had the courage to say anything.
Nate hated the unpredictability of her hours at the Mirror-she frequently had to get up at a ridiculous hour of the morning to cover whatever fluff story Jake put her on, or spend Nate’s night off at a neighborhood watch or school board meeting. Sometimes they barely saw each other for days at a time, and when they did Andy was often too tired to do more than give him a sleepy kiss and collapse into bed. She tried, without success, to recall the last time they’d had sex. Or a real conversation. God. That’s pathetic.
It was definitely time to move out.
Part 2
Part 1
~~~Four and a half years earlier~~~
Andy shook her head in disbelief that she was actually attending such a pretentious event and resisted, for at least the fifth time, the temptation to mess with her hair. It was currently piled on top of her head in an artfully messy arrangement that Billie had assured her would look perfect with the weird shiny dress that Andy was trying not to breathe too hard in and the sleek, uncomfortable heels that she was already starting to despise.
Even a casual glance at the other attendees was enough to make it painfully obvious that she was out of her depth, and she silently vowed that Mike and Billie would pay for every second of toe-pinching agony she endured tonight. She felt like a total impostor in her borrowed finery, and she just knew that the other guests were quietly mocking her behind their exquisitely moisturized, callus-free hands. It didn’t help that her dress was much shorter than she was used to and very different from the dresses of most of the other women present, but it was the only one Billie had that Andy had been able to get into, so it would have to do.
Andy spent most of the cocktail hour sipping a gin and tonic and clutching convulsively at her oddly shaped designer bag. Her first attempt at striking up a conversation went rather poorly, and the next was even worse, even though she was careful to be polite and her cheeks felt sore from smiling. Everyone seemed to remember someone else they just had to speak to about thirty seconds after Andy introduced herself. It has to be the dress, she decided glumly, as she propped up the most deserted stretch of wall available. Billie is SO dead.
How on earth did all five hundred of these fashion-Nazis know each other, anyway? Supposedly they were all in journalism or publishing, but Andy found it hard to believe. There certainly weren’t any people rich enough to dress like this working at her newspaper. Billie must have jumped through some impressive hoops to get the ticket, she suddenly realized. Normal Mirror reporters, like Andy, wouldn’t have a prayer of getting in, but apparently Billie still had friends over at Harper’s Bazaar who had been willing to pull some strings for her. And she hadn’t even gotten to use the ticket. Serves her right for getting pregnant like this Andy thought, rather uncharitably, as she checked her watch for the fourth time.
Andy couldn’t decide whether she was more furious with Billie for being so inconsiderate as to get pregnant and force Andy to attend in her place, or with her editor for backing Billie up and pointing out all the useful networking (and information-gathering) she could do. They should have known I’d never make it in this crowd, Andy thought. It’s like a different world. God I hate these shoes.
She felt slightly more at ease when they were ushered into the dining room. She found the little place card with Billie’s name on it at a table tucked into the corner of the cavernous meeting room furthest from the podium. At least I can keep my back to the wall, she caught herself thinking, as if she were a spy, or a kidnapping victim. She forced the uncomfortably accurate image from her mind and turned in her chair to return the exuberant greeting of the most flamingly gay man she had ever met in her life.
They exchanged employer information-Andy was unsurprised to recognize the name of one of the more sensationalist gossip rags-while Andy tried very hard not to stare at his bright purple dress-shirt and asymmetrical hair. He expressed what Andy considered to be excessive (and obviously insincere) admiration for her uncomfortable silvery-gray dress and inquired regarding its provenance, whereupon Andy was forced to admit that she couldn’t recall the name of the designer. He regarded her with the sort of disgust typically reserved for a victim in the final stages of leprosy and turned away to bestow his attention on the more deserving beauty advice columnist on his other side. He did not so much as glance at Andy the rest of the evening.
Andy held in a sigh (barely), and resolved to sneak into the bathroom at the earliest possible opportunity and memorize the name on the label of her dress. She turned, with a certain amount of trepidation, to look at the corpulent and distinctly grumpy man on her other side, who was avoiding eye contact with the entire table while he dispassionately shredded an impressive stack of cocktail napkins.
Andy resigned herself to a long, boring evening.
She spent the rest of the meal silently inventing increasingly creative curses for unexpectedly pregnant coworkers while the incomprehensible fashion-related conversation flowed between her table-mates. She had used all the Britishisms she knew by the end of the main course and all the college French she could remember by the beginning of dessert-which she and Grumpy seemed to be the only ones eating, even though it was delicious. These people are crazy.
After dinner came the awards and speeches, of course, before she could even make it to the bathroom, which she needed for more than just label-checking after the rather imprudent amount of wine she’d consumed with dinner (plus the gin and tonic from earlier). A handful of awards were given out to some suspiciously well-dressed young people, and then came the speeches. She did make an honest effort to pay attention to the speeches-really, she did-but the combination of a full bladder and a total lack of recognition of the names dropped faux-casually by almost every speaker soon had her struggling not to squirm in her chair. She clapped half-heartedly when everyone else did; that seemed to be all that was required of her, since there were constant side-conversations going on the whole time.
How an event to give awards to budding journalistic endeavors (i.e. starving young journalists and writers) could turn into this three-ring circus of snobbery, Andy would never understand.
Just as Andy was getting ready to make a break for the bathroom, decorum be damned, something extraordinary happened. The current speaker, a nice-looking old man with an impenetrable accent, gave way to the next one, and every head swiveled instantly toward the podium. Applause-some of it fairly hearty-sounding-filled the room. Even some of the women clapped. Andy could only gape.
The woman who rose to speak was, even to Andy’s inexperienced eyes, easily the most elegant present. Her hair gleamed a shocking, unapologetic white in a room filled with women who clung, with more tenacity than believability, to the illusion of youth. She also had an exquisitely trained voice. The entire room, including Andy, leaned forward to catch every word of her short, quiet speech. Even as Andy stared at the spellbound faces of her dining companions, she had to admire the woman’s style. She really didn’t say much that hadn’t already been said-but she was so poised, her delivery so perfect, that Andy found herself surprisingly disappointed when the woman stopped talking.
This stunning performance had obviously been anticipated, as the last speaker came to the podium directly afterwards and, forced to speak over the increasingly loud conversations among the guests, wrapped up with almost unseemly haste.
Free at last! Andy jumped up and made her way to the bathroom. Unfortunately, about two thirds of the other guests had the same idea, and Andy was severely handicapped by the distance of her table from the main door. By the time she made it past all the stylishly garbed roadblocks in her path, the line for the only women’s restroom Andy could see stretched out the door and several dozen feet down the hall.
Andy reluctantly joined the slow-moving queue and tried very hard not to squeeze her legs together too obviously. Because god apparently hated her today, the woman in front of her chose that moment to strike up a conversation with an acquaintance about some avant-garde art exhibit consisting solely of a rain machine, a tin roof, and a bathtub. Her imitation of the resulting dripping noise was absolutely the last straw. Andy shot the woman a disbelieving look and hurried off, thighs firmly clamped together, to look for a bathroom a bit further off the beaten track.
Five torturous minutes later, she finally came across a small ladies’ room tucked into an unlikely corner on the other side of a huge (and stylishly hideous) potted plant. Andy sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving and made a mad dash for the closer of the two stalls.
She had just flushed the toilet when she heard the bathroom door swing open. There was a slight pause, as if the other woman had expected to find the room empty, and then the slow, measured click of heels heading for the sink. Andy caught the quiet snick of a clasp, and then the familiar sounds of makeup being touched up.
Andy decided she might as well check the dress-label, but it turned out to be a trickier operation than she had anticipated, especially after almost a whole bottle of wine. She found that she could not reach the zipper without contorting herself in ways that might be hazardous to the integrity of the dress. It had been fitted to Billie, after all, who-when she was not three months pregnant and retaining fluid like crazy-was a bit slimmer than Andy, especially in the chest and shoulders. Andy banged her head (very gently, so as not to destroy her hair and makeup) on the stall door. She knew that she needed to chat up at least a few important people before she left. It was an invaluable opportunity, and she was a journalist. Plus, they were probably a little friendlier now, after all that wine. Inability to name the designer of her dress could easily be the kiss of death in this crowd, though. What to do? She couldn’t call Billie at this hour-she’d been going to bed early these days, and her phone would definitely be turned off.
A quiet rustle from the sink area gave her an idea. “Excuse me,” she started.
Silence. She could almost feel disapproval radiating through the door.
“Um, I can’t remember who designed my dress, and I’m trying to read the label, but someone else got me into it earlier, and I can’t reach the zipper. I was wondering if you could read the label for me?” She pushed the door open and stumbled out-damn these stupid heels-only to come face to face with the gorgeous white-haired woman who had spoken so rivetingly during the benefit. She was currently wearing the most terrifying expression Andy had ever seen on a human face. Andy swallowed, and took an involuntary half-step backward.
“You are wearing,” the woman said, in her preternaturally quiet voice, “a rather lackluster piece from Burberry’s Spring collection, which was obviously fitted to someone smaller than you.” She pursed her lips. “It is also completely inappropriate for this event,” I knew it! ”…and very ill-suited to your figure and complexion. Might one safely presume that the same benighted individual who loaned you the dress is also responsible for your hair and those tedious silver accessories? The Dolce bag is slightly less garish than the rest of your ensemble, I suppose. Those shoes, though-Moschino, aren’t they?-are worse than useless if you cannot walk in them properly.”
This astonishing speech was obviously intended to render Andy incapable of brain activity long enough for the mystery woman to make her getaway-she was in the act of closing her improbably blue bag as she spoke. It almost succeeded, but Andy’s curiosity (and maybe the wine) got the better of her, and she spoke up before really considering the consequences.
“Who are you? How do you know all that just from looking at my outfit? And where do you get off calling my friend’s dress lackluster, anyway?” It occurred to Andy, as the woman’s eyes widened dramatically, that it would have been a good idea to ask someone at her table who the woman was before accosting her in a hotel bathroom. She was bound to be someone important in publishing, after all, or she wouldn’t have been the next-to-last speaker.
Fortunately, she had a sense of humor, or so Andy assumed from the slight but perceptible relaxation of the Death Glare. Her lips had unpursed, at least, and her startling blue eyes had a bit more warmth in them than they had a second earlier. Andy thought she might even have seen one corner of her mouth twitch upward, as if she wanted to laugh.
“I work in Fashion.” Andy could hear the capital letter, and the unspoken ‘obviously’ just from the way she said it. “That is how I know. As for who I am, if you really don’t know, you may call me…M,” she said regally, rather as if she expected Andy to curtsy or kiss her hand.
Andy stared at her for a moment, but her curiosity got the better of her once again. “Okay, er, M. How did you know all that about the dress and the shoes and everything? I mean, surely everyone who ‘works in fashion’ can’t identify clothes just by looking at them.”
She was almost sure that M’s mouth quirked upward a little that time, but her voice was perfectly serious. “Not everyone, no.”
Andy had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that she was being toyed with, but hey, at least there were no witnesses, right?
“So, if not everyone can do it, how did you do it? How would someone learn?”
There was definitely a twitch that time…Andy would swear to it. “Read Runway.”
“Why Runway?” Andy wanted to know. “Why not Elle or Harper’s Bazaar or…” The thunderous expression was back, and the Death Glare couldn’t be far behind. Andy mentally slapped her forehead and hastened to correct her mistake. “Of course! You work for Runway, right? That’s why you were a speaker at the benefit tonight. That’s how you know about fashion.”
“Correct,” she said, with a disdainful sniff. “If you truly wish to know about Fashion, Runway should be your Bible. Read every issue cover to cover for twenty years, and perhaps you, too will be able to identify clothing with a glance.” Her tone of voice indicated that she found this eventuality vanishingly unlikely.
“Runway would tell you, for example, never to wear a sports bra with a designer dress, even such a mediocre one as your friend was…kind enough to lend you.”
Andy simultaneously bristled and blushed under M’s renewed scrutiny.
“Turn,” Miranda said, making a little circular motion with one index finger.
“What?”
“Turn around, foolish girl. I have to see the back as well.”
Andy turned, smarting under the woman’s scornful tone, but too dazed to respond.
“Surely any friend of yours sensible enough to own a Dolce bag could have advised you against panty lines.”
Andy felt her entire head and torso turn a fiery shade of red and wished fervently for a convenient trapdoor. Or maybe an act of god.
“Ah. I take it she did. Hmm. That dress really does not suit you at all. Turn and face the door.”
Andy turned again, still fighting down her blush, and faced the door, feeling rather like a life-sized Midwest Barbie.
M made a sort of tsking noise and tilted her head to one side. “Off,” she said.
Andy shook her head a little. She was sure M could not have just ordered her to-
“I don’t have all night, silly girl. For the last time, take off that ridiculous dress. I need to see what I’m working with.”
Andy turned to look at her, sure that she must be joking. She wasn’t. She was, in fact, looking increasingly impatient. As if in a dream, Andy heard herself say, “But the zipper…” and before she knew what was happening, there was the faintest brush of baby-soft skin against her back, and the sound of a zipper, and suddenly she could fill her lungs completely for the first time in over four hours.
“Strip,” M said.
“But what if someone comes in?” Andy managed, rather weakly, praying that she would wake up any second now.
M glared impatiently, took two steps toward the door, and flipped the lock.
What kind of hotel has locking bathrooms with more than one stall? Andy wondered, as she slipped out of the dress and draped it gently over the divider. Now that M had remarked on it, it did look a little boring. And what was with that little gold belt-thingy, anyway? Weird.
M made that tsking noise again. “Hanes. I might have guessed.”
Andy was suddenly acutely aware that she hadn’t bought new underwear in well over a year. And it had never been spectacular to begin with. I can’t even remember the last time I blushed this much she thought, even as she turned automatically to give M the full view…such as it was. She glanced up just in time to see the mysterious fashion guru beckoning impatiently.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, remove that revolting bra. It ruins your bust line.”
Andy knew, by this point, that M was not joking. Crazy, perhaps, or maybe a hypnotist of some sort-she really did have a beautiful voice, if you could ignore the actual words-but she did not joke.
Andy had a growing suspicion that there were probably other women-perhaps a great many other women-who would kill for the opportunity to undress in front of M and be critiqued. Who was she, fresh-out-of-college Andy Sachs, to turn up her nose? Maybe she could pacify the woman by submitting to her judgment. Still, a lifetime of modesty was hard to overcome. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and pulled the faded sports bra off in one (almost) smooth motion. It was incredibly hard not to immediately hunch over and cover herself.
It was even harder when she heard a slightly throaty sound of approval from M’s general direction. It will all be over soon, she told herself. Just let her finish shredding your ego and you can go home.
“Much better,” M said. “Perhaps not quite as fat as I initially thought.” And then, even though it was quite a small bathroom anyway, she took two steps forward, so that they were less than an arm’s length apart.
Andy, who had been attempting to distract herself with the inevitable insipid painting next to the sink, risked a quick look in M’s direction and promptly froze. The woman was finally smiling. But it was not a kind, reassuring smile. Nor was she making eye contact. Instead, she was smiling-rather hungrily, Andy couldn’t help thinking-directly at Andy’s chest. Andy had just opened her mouth to protest this rather obvious ogling when she was shocked into silence again by a hand covering her right breast. A very warm hand, with very smooth skin, which had no business being anywhere near her naked breast.
She stumbled backwards a step, but instead of backing off, M grabbed Andy’s left hip with her other hand and pushed her firmly against the now-closed stall door. Andy’s jaw dropped.
“M, what…? I mean, I don’t think…I’m not…”
“Call me Miranda,” she said, with another predatory smile, and kissed her. Since Andy’s mouth was still open, it ended up being a French kiss. A very long, very wet French kiss, which left Andy too stunned and breathless to say much of anything to Miranda. Another kiss followed, and another and another, until Andy totally forgot that she was in a public bathroom in a hotel with a frightening and beautiful female stranger at least twenty years her senior.
She did not, however, forget that she was almost completely naked and Miranda still fully clothed. The steel door was cold on her exposed back, and the contrast with the warm silk of Miranda’s dress and the hot mouth against her neck was sending delicious shivers up and down her spine.
Miranda was, apparently, a very single-minded individual. Her entire being was focused on Andy’s body. Andy tried, and failed, to remember a time when she’d gotten this wet just from kissing someone. She thought dimly that she should probably be alarmed, or at least angry, but Miranda was doing something really wonderful to Andy’s nipples, and her tongue and teeth were tracing abstract designs on Andy’s left ear and down her neck.
Andy felt faintly ridiculous standing there with her hands by her sides, one of them still clutching her bra, but she wasn’t quite sure what else to do with them. Miranda was obviously firmly in charge of the situation. Perhaps she preferred to just give orders. I’ll bet she does, Andy thought. What a control freak. Well, fuck that. If I’m going to cheat on my boyfriend, I might as well be thorough about it. And with that decided, she wrapped both arms around Miranda and reached for her zipper.
Miranda responded with a noise that might have been a purr, except that her mouth was currently wrapped around Andy’s nipple, so it actually came out as more of a tingly hum. Andy moaned, eyes closed, and tugged impatiently at Miranda’s dress. She had never been this wet, this achy, she was sure of it. And then Miranda’s mouth retreated from her nipple and she was suddenly bereft of warmth.
She made a rather strangled sound of protest and opened her eyes, but Miranda had removed her dress and was already stepping closer again. Miranda shoved her unceremoniously back against the door, forcing Andy’s legs apart and wedging her own thigh firmly between them. Her naked thigh.
Andy could not stop staring at the woman’s cleavage. “Wow!” she said, with a great deal of sincerity. And then, because it bore repeating, “Wow!” again. No one with white hair had any business looking that good in lacy black underwear. It was just unfair. “Your skin is amazing,” she said.
Miranda just smiled. “It feels even better,” she said.
“Fuck.” Andy gasped, as Miranda began a gentle grinding motion with her hips that rubbed Andy’s underwear against her swollen clit.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Miranda said, and she stepped back just long enough to rip Andy’s underpants down past her knees. Andy whimpered a little at the rush of cold air, but the combination of two fingers suddenly thrust all the way into her cunt and another full-contact body-slam against the door drove all the breath from her lungs. I am so going to have bruises tomorrow, she thought, as she raked all ten newly-manicured fingernails down Miranda’s back in payment. The resulting hiss was music to her ears.
Not to be outdone, Miranda added a third finger to the two already moving forcefully in and out of Andy’s cunt and pinched Andy’s left nipple so hard she shrieked. Miranda just smirked and pinched even harder.
I should not be enjoying this, Andy thought, as she tugged Miranda’s bra down and twisted both of Miranda’s nipples right back.
Miranda was obviously enjoying herself too-her breathing was heavier, and her chest was flushing a lovely shade of pink. “Harder,” she demanded, and shoved a fourth finger inside Andy’s dripping cunt.
Andy bit Miranda’s earlobe and obeyed, trying desperately to remain upright on her increasingly shaky legs. She had never been stretched so thoroughly before, and it felt amazing-almost too amazing. Andy was astonished to feel herself starting to clamp down on Miranda’s fingers. She was not going to come three minutes in like a teenage boy, dammit. Or if she was, she was going to take Miranda with her. It was time for a change in tactics.
“You want it harder?” she asked, a bit breathlessly, forcing her legs to hold her up a little more firmly. “Are you sure about that, Miranda?”
“I am always sure,” Miranda said smugly, and pinched Andy’s other nipple.
“Good,” Andy said, and shoved at Miranda’s shoulders-hard. She seized Miranda’s moment of shock to pull away and switch their positions. And she didn’t feel a bit guilty at the whoosh of air forced out of Miranda’s lungs when her back hit the door. “Fair’s fair,” she reminded her as she yanked the other woman’s underwear down and ground the heel of her hand firmly against Miranda’s throbbing clit.
“Indeed,” Miranda said, as she raked her nails down Andy’s back with a nasty little grin.
Andy grinned right back-and shoved three fingers in as far as they would go. “I may be fat,” she whispered into Miranda’s ear, with a nip for emphasis, “and I may be clueless about fashion.” Miranda snorted and gave Andy’s hair a vicious tug. Andy bit down a little harder and added another finger. “But you’re still soaking wet,” she latched onto a nipple with her other hand and started twisting, “and I’m still fucking your brains out in a hotel bathroom.” She gave a particularly hard thrust and pressed her thumb against Miranda’s clit.
Miranda moaned and turned her head just as Andy was leaning in to kiss the sensitive area behind Miranda’s ear, and she ended up kissing the corner of Miranda’s mouth instead. Miranda tangled her hands more securely in Andy’s hair and pulled her around until they were kissing in earnest, with Miranda moaning into Andy’s mouth and Andy grinding urgently against Miranda’s thigh in time with her rapidly thrusting hand. One of Miranda’s hands suddenly dropped from Andy’s hair to her hip, and Andy groaned her approval as Miranda’s leg pressed firmly upwards.
“Fuck,” Andy said, reaching down with her free hand to rub franticly at her aching clit. “Fuck, Miranda. I’m so close.”
“No self-control,” Miranda whispered, even as she pulled Andy closer and rolled her hips. “Just as I suspected.” She licked Andy’s earlobe. “You’re going to come, aren’t you? You’re going to come all over my leg.”
“Yes,” Andy hissed. “I’m going to come all over your leg, Miranda. And you’re coming with me.” Andy curled her fingers up and pressed, hard, on Miranda’s G-spot.
Miranda’s eyes widened. “Fuck!” she said, to Andy’s lasting delight, and came all over Andy’s hand.
Andy’s entire body stiffened at the first pulse of Miranda’s cunt around her fingers, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood as she exploded all over Miranda’s thigh.
They clung to one another, more for stability than out of any sort of tenderness, until the aftershocks had subsided. Miranda moved away first, naturally.
It was awkward, Andy discovered, getting dressed again in complete silence after twenty minutes of passionately antagonistic sex with a complete stranger. She felt sticky and unkempt as she struggled back into her dress, and very shy. She also felt, despite the incredible orgasm not five minutes earlier, like she kind of wanted to do it all over again. Miranda had an amazing body for a woman her age-for a woman of any age, really. And that voice…
“Zip me,” Miranda said, presenting her back to Andy.
Andy jumped, but she zipped as requested. She bit her lip, wincing as it began bleeding again, and took her courage in both hands. “Me too?” she requested, in a small voice, and turned halfway, looking hopefully in Miranda’s direction. Miranda executed a graceful turn and closed the zipper in one smooth movement.
Miranda was already reapplying her makeup with an expert hand when Andy joined her at the sink, fumbling with the unfamiliar purse. Miranda was done with both hair and makeup before Andy had gone much further than a rather ham-handed application of concealer to the sizable hickey on her neck and was watching Andy’s progress with growing annoyance.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said finally, and snatched the whole bag out of Andy’s hand. “You’ll never be done at that rate.” She then proceeded to do a better job on Andy’s makeup in four minutes than Billie had achieved in forty-five. Andy could only stand there, stunned, and watch the transformation in the mirror out of the corner of one eye.
Andy leaned away reflexively as Miranda’s empty hands reached for her head, but it was only to undo the pins holding her hair in place. Andy watched Miranda’s intensely focused face in the mirror as she ran her hands through Andy’s hair with surprising gentleness. She would have protested when Miranda began to deliberately muss it…if she hadn’t glanced at herself in the mirror first. She didn’t usually wear her hair down-too much work-but it looked good. Really good.
Miranda gave her a quick head-to-toe inspection. “Passable,” she said, quite as if she had not just worked several miracles with Andy’s appearance in less than ten minutes, and turned to get something out of her purse. The something turned out to be a cell phone. She punched a few numbers, told whoever answered to be out front in five minutes, and hung up. She turned to Andy. “I suppose you have a card?”
Andy stared at her for a moment, and then it hit her: I never introduced myself. She doesn’t even know my name. She opened the stupid gold bag with shaky fingers and handed over one of her business cards.
Miranda took it, glanced at her name, and snorted. “I sincerely hope, Miss Sachs, that Andy is not the entirety of your given name.”
“It’s Andrea,” Andy said, somewhat confused, “but everybody calls me Andy.”
“Always order business cards under your full name, Andrea. You are a professional, are you not?” For some reason best known to Miranda, she chose to place the emphasis on the second syllable of Andy’s name, rather than the first. It sounded Italian and mysterious when Miranda said it.
Miranda obviously didn’t expect a response, since she was already unlocking the door. “I trust you have the sense not to leave until I am outside, Andrea.”
Andy nodded. She looked away guiltily as she caught the glint of gold on Miranda’s ring finger. So we were both cheating. Wonderful.
“Don’t forget, Andrea, to read Runway,” Miranda said, as she opened the door. “You never know who might be paying attention.” And then she was gone.
Was that a threat? Andy wondered. It could have been, but from the way she said it, it sounded more like advice. Not entirely friendly advice, of course. Andy had a hard time believing that Miranda was accustomed to giving friendly advice that was not also a threat or a veiled offer of reward for good behavior.
She waited a few more minutes, just to be safe, but her brain was finally recovering from Miranda’s presence and starting to function at normal speed again. It was almost eleven, she realized, and Nate might be home before she got back. She knew she probably smelled like sex. I’ll have to get in the shower right away, she decided. What on earth am I going to do about Nate?
Andy splurged on a cab. There was no way she was taking the subway at this time of night, especially in a short skirt and smelling like sex.
Nate was still not home, thank god, so she was able to get in the shower right away, but she felt guiltier and guiltier as she imagined not telling him about her brief…encounter with Miranda, just pretending that nothing unusual had happened. I’m too honest for my own good. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell him, but how could I live in a one-bedroom apartment with him if I do tell him?
She winced at the thought of sharing a bed with her sweet, affectionate boyfriend after cheating with Miranda. Actually, after Miranda, Nate seemed sort of boring by comparison, now that she thought about it. Anybody would. Miranda was just so…perfect. Not very nice, of course. She could be downright terrifying when she wanted to be, and Andy had a feeling that she wanted to be terrifying on a disturbingly regular basis. But she was perfect, just the same. Andy blushed as she dried her hair and pictured Miranda’s cleavage again. Guess that college fling with Stacy wasn’t a fluke, then. Honestly, the lesbian thing bothered her far less than the fact that she’d cheated on her boyfriend with a complete stranger, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
I’ll just have to move out, she decided. Maybe Doug needs a roommate. Doug would probably be sympathetic-he had said Nate was too safe for her from the beginning, but Lily would be furious. Andy was mad at herself too, but mostly because things had been going steadily downhill with Nate ever since they’d moved to New York together, and she hadn’t had the courage to say anything.
Nate hated the unpredictability of her hours at the Mirror-she frequently had to get up at a ridiculous hour of the morning to cover whatever fluff story Jake put her on, or spend Nate’s night off at a neighborhood watch or school board meeting. Sometimes they barely saw each other for days at a time, and when they did Andy was often too tired to do more than give him a sleepy kiss and collapse into bed. She tried, without success, to recall the last time they’d had sex. Or a real conversation. God. That’s pathetic.
It was definitely time to move out.
Part 2