Losing Miranda (12/20), Miranda/Andy, PG13
Title: Losing Miranda
Chapter: 12 of 20
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Beta:ladyvivien (thank you, lover)
Spoilers: AU, but borrowing heavily from the movie!verse. Plot owes a lot to the Helen Mirren movie 'Losing Chase'.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters belong to their respective owners and no profit is being made. Miranda's holiday home is based, predictably, on Anna Wintour's.
Summary: Miranda has retreated to her home in the Hamptons following a serious accident. The young and idealistic Andrea Sachs accepts a position as a nanny/assistant combo. Since Miranda is resistant to outside help and new faces, this doesn't go over well.
A/N: This fic belongs, truly, to the wonderful abina2810 . Although this is late, the fic is a reward for her generous charitable donations. Comments and feedback are gratefully received.
When the alarm goes off, it’s possible that Andy hits snooze just a little too hard. Possible in the sense that the shiny chrome alarm clock (so retro, so in this season) goes flying across the bedroom that has become Andy’s home and sanctuary in the past few weeks.
Discovering the trick to locking the door with two extra twists of the doorknob has protected her possessions from marauding twins, and prevented any more Paul Auster novels from taking an unsanctioned swim. Andy doesn’t know what she’ll do if the twins ever work out how to unlock the door, but she suspects her days are already numbered. Perhaps there’ll be time to go to a hardware store and buy some kind of lock and fit it herself.
Of course, Andy is only obsessing over potentially broken alarm clocks and cat burglar children because she is very, very determined not to think about that thing that she is not thinking about. She doesn’t even need to use the relevant nouns to describe it, because only someone thinking about it would do such a silly thing. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, and besides, Andy is a really strong swimmer.
By sheer force of will, she makes it into the shower and halfway through rinsing her first lather of shampoo when reality comes hurtling back towards her. It’s the sneeze that does it, the harbinger of an imminent summer cold. A cold caught while chasing a traumatized woman through the lashing rain of a fierce storm, no less.
Andy leans against the wet tiles of the shower and bangs her head softly a few times for good measure. Perhaps that way she can undo the unseen brain damage that guided her actions last night. Bad enough that she engaged in a screaming (well, screaming versus whispering) match with her employer, but offering herself up as some kind of confidant had been a decidedly risky move. Andy isn’t sure she even wants to know half of the things that Miranda had told her, not least because it appears that Miranda doesn’t tell anyone much of anything.
Then, soaked to the bone and right in the firing line for Miranda’s wrath, Andy had found herself on the receiving end of a passionate, almost desperate kiss. From Miranda, who looks awkward receiving affection from her own children, and who seems to glide through life in an icy protective bubble of her own creation. And what had Andy Sachs, resident genius and all-round possessor of good ideas done in response to this new and utterly weird development?
Kissed her back.
Andy finds her thoughts drifting to the Darwin Awards, the subject of many an email forward from well-meaning relatives and college friends who still think the internet was for chain letters and pictures of cats. Those awards were ‘given’ for acts of life-altering (or often life-ending) stupidity. Andy doesn’t really want to think about how many ways she might now qualify.
It really isn’t a good idea to dwell on the fact that kissing Miranda had been pretty damn nice. Oh, there had been that awkward thing about a first kiss, with noses clashing just slightly and an accidental hint of teeth at one point, but it had taken no time at all to find some kind of mutually acceptable way to kiss. Which is really, really not the point, Andy scolds herself as she reaches for the conditioner. Not the point at all.
Determined to look great for the summary execution that will no doubt await her downstairs, Andy takes her time over getting dressed. With the wealth of her work closet at her disposal, Andy opts instead for the best she can cobble together from her own clothes. No telling how quickly Miranda will kick her out, and so before drying her hair, Andy quickly shoves her belongings into the case and backpack she’d brought with her. Not the neatest job, but she needs to be able to grab and go if things get too mortifying.
Figuring she looks presentable in her capri pants and white shirt, Andy pulls her hair into neat braid and puts on a basic mask of make-up. She just has to hope she won’t cry and get mascara all down her face, since she has no time to invest in a long overdue tube of waterproof.
When she can stall no longer, Andy listens carefully at her door before opening it. Creeping out and down the stairs, she can hear the distant chatter of the twins, still in one of their bedrooms. Both doors are ajar, but Andy opts for the relative safety of a direct run down to the first floor. Her sandals are mercifully quiet as she makes her way cautiously towards the kitchen.
Finding only Millie there makes Andy almost keel over from sheer relief. Though the respite is no doubt temporary, the prospect of facing Miranda after coffee and some kind of food takes some of the sting out. Maybe in the next few minutes Andy can even conjure up a decent excuse for running off like a startled deer the second the kiss had ended. Maybe she’ll also grow wings and be able to fly home to Cincinnati when she gets her ass handed to her; the likelihood is about the same.
The croissants Millie sets out are so mind-blowing in their flaky, buttery goodness that Andy can almost forget her fear for a few minutes. The coffee isn’t quite as scalding as Miranda will take it yet, and it’s worth indulging in a splash of cream and some sugar-even the condemned get a decent final meal. It’s only when Andy is returning her plate for cleaning that she hears the telltale thump of Miranda’s cane on the stairs. Of course, her footsteps are too delicate to be heard all the way in the kitchen.
Millie doesn’t flinch, simply reaching over to turn up the temperature on the coffee maker by that vital few degrees. Andy finds her knees beginning to tremble, and the sweat on her palms is cold from fear. Unsure of herself, Andy forces herself back into her seat at the table, reaching for the Sports section of the paper and letting the words about the Yankees and the Mets blur into a kind of print soup in front of her eyes.
Time slows down as Miranda approaches, and by the time she appears in the kitchen doorway, Andy is ready to scream from the tension. She wants to look up, but fear keeps her eyes locked on the words she’s too frightened to actually read. Andy sucks in a deep breath as she waits for Miranda to dismiss her, wondering just how cruel the woman will be. She’s stunned when no words come, and Miranda sits down opposite Andy at the kitchen table as though it were any other morning.
Which is when Andy sees the invisible lifeline she’s being offered. A way to stay safe in her denial, where Miranda’s lips are incredibly soft but nobody ever mentions it. Summoning up every last grain of courage (and Andy is really, really running low this morning) she forces herself to speak and test the theory. Better to know now that be lulled into a false sense of security.
“I’ll be taking the girls into town after their piano lesson. If you want to make a list I’ll be happy to pick up anything you need.”
Miranda’s eyes flick away from the Business section for a moment, but Andy sees it. There’s a tiny nod, almost imperceptible, but it seems to mean that Andy’s approach has been the right one.
“I’ll email the list to you,” Miranda replies, apparently absorbed by the fluctuations of yesterday’s stock market.
“Great. I’ll uh, go call Caroline and Cassidy down for breakfast.”
Andy almost knocks over her glass of juice when she stands, but she manages to avert any citrus-based disaster. As she walks towards the door, she’s sure she can feel Miranda’s eyes on her. Risking a glance back as she enters the hall, Andy catches the appraising expression on Miranda’s face. It seems that, for once, Andy has surprised her in the good way.
The girls come thundering down the stairs, and Andy breathes normally for the first time since waking. Losing herself in the chatter, she barely has cause to look at Miranda again. It’s all going to be fine.
*
And fine just about covers it, for the next few weeks. Andy doesn’t know whether to credit Stephen’s absence, or the fact that she sees less of Miranda, but the girls are back to behaving and she’s feeling capable once more.
Honey, the physiotherapist who’s been working with Miranda is a pleasant addition on the days that she’s around, and she seems to deflect all of Miranda’s worst moods effortlessly. Andy notices that Miranda’s cane is rarely in her hand now, and the heels on her shoes have crept up by an inch or two. In fact, there’s a lot less convalescence about the editor now, and more the sharp and fashionable all-business aura that she’s feared for.
Which, she tells herself, Andy does not find brain-meltingly hot at all. Nope, not even a little bit.
(She’s a pretty terrible liar.)
Before long, the girls are scheduled for their two weeks’ vacation with their father. Rod appears to be keeping the destination a secret, at least from the girls, because Andy can’t imagine Miranda letting him take them anywhere without having all the details first. They’re swimming in the pool on the last afternoon before Rod and his limo arrive to pick them up, and as she swims lengths and ducks the inflatables being thrown at her, Andy takes time to speculate with Caroline.
Gone is the sulky and reticent girl that Andy met at the beginning of the summer, replaced with a content, if quiet, girl who lets her enthusiasm and intelligence show. Cassidy doesn’t seem interested in guessing, but she splashes around to stay part of the conversation, but none of her usual nervousness about an argument breaking out is evident.
“Disneyworld?” Andy throws out as she adjusts the straps of her black swimming costume, which is a little looser on her than she remembers. Her new closet, which she feels comfortable raiding again, only has bikinis that she doesn’t feel comfortable enough to wear, at least not around the twins.
“Bo-ring,” Cassidy sing-songs. “We’ve been there twice already, and we’re too old for that now.”
Andy doesn’t think that she’s too old for it, at almost twenty-five, but she keeps her mouth shut.
“I bet we’re going to Bermuda. Dad’s friends with Michael and Catherine, you know? He’s always saying we should go hang out some time.”
The casual name-dropping distracts Andy for a second, and so she doesn’t see the inflatable dolphin that Cassidy has just lobbed at her head. The ensuing splash war is probably why she doesn’t hear the slapping of footsteps along the tiled border of the pool, but when a shadow falls over her the sight is enough to take her breath away.
“Girls,” Miranda says, and she’s talking as casually as someone who doesn’t look like a million dollars. Whether it’s the loosely-knotted sarong that hints at slender legs beneath, or the red halter-neck swimsuit that Andy’s fingers clench at the sight of, suddenly obsessed with untying that one simple knot.
The frantic splashing of Caroline and Cassidy as they exit the pool is a welcome distraction though, and Andy follows suit with no small amount of self-consciousness. Miranda bends to hug each girl in turn, before allowing her eyes to rake over Andy from head to toe.
“Your father will be here soon. Please go and dress, and let Andrea have a break. Your bags are already on the porch.”
Cassidy takes off at a run, but Caroline hesitates, matching her mother’s steady gaze with a mirrored one of her own.
“We should still come say goodbye though, right?”
“Of course Bobbsey,” Miranda replies, but she looks momentarily hurt by the suggestion that she’d send them off so uncaringly. It’s enough for Caroline though, and she runs off after her sister and into the house.
Which leaves Miranda, Andy, and a seriously awkward silence. Struck by how ridiculous she must look, Andy takes the few steps towards the lounger that holds her towel. She’s about to wrap it round her for some attempt at modesty when Miranda clears her throat.
“Honey,” Miranda says, the disdain for the name dripping from each syllable. “Has suggested that swimming will do wonders for my…regime. I was hoping not to be alone in the pool. Muscle cramps-“
“Oh sure,” Andy interrupts, both relieved and disappointed that Miranda only wants her around for practical reasons. A return to the cool water will also be helpful for the blush that seems to be painting her cheeks every time she lets her eyes linger on Miranda’s exposed shoulders (or anywhere else for that matter).
Not that Miranda appears in any particular hurry to get in the pool. She sits on the lounger next to Andy’s, but her expression is inscrutable behind sunglasses that Andy can now recognize as Tom Ford. She slips on her own Chanel pair, as protection from the sun and from potential appraisal by Miranda.
Before the quiet can get too uncomfortable, both girls are hurtling back across the garden, dressed in shorts and t-shirts that look deceptively plain. The pastel colors are lovely on them though, and Andy finds herself wondering if Miranda picks out each item in their closets as she does with her own.
Both Caroline and Cassidy still have wet hair, of course, and although there’s the telltale crunch of tires on gravel just audible, she motions for them to sit on the lounger in front of her. Cassidy drops down eagerly, but Caroline hovers between Andy’s and Miranda’s loungers, apparently undecided. When Miranda leans forward and begins deftly braiding Cassidy’s hair, Caroline opts to sit in front of Andy. It’s obvious from the glare over her shoulder that she expects the same hairdressing service, and so Andy complies with slightly trembling fingers.
All too soon, the girls are ready to go. Hair ties have been pulled from Andy’s omnipresent ‘Mary Poppins’ bag, though the state of the lining suggests that Marc Jacobs didn’t intend such heavy use for such an elegant purse. Both girls accept kisses on the cheek and brief hugs from their mother, and Andy is both touched and terrified when they seek the same from her. Affection is fine, of course, but she hasn’t really received it in front of Miranda before.
Then the girls are racing off to greet their dad, and Andy can see from Miranda’s rigid posture that she has no intention of following. Only when the engine revs and the gravel crunches once more does Miranda stand. There’s hardly any stiffness in the movement, which Andy thinks might be Honey’s greatest achievement so far.
Following Miranda’s example, Andy strides around to the side and lowers herself into the pool. She shouldn’t be surprised when Miranda continues on towards the deep end, carelessly dropping her sarong before striding confidently onto the diving board. There’s a moment’s hesitation, which Andy can only assume is rooted in pain from Miranda’s leg, before a graceful dive that barely makes a splash.
Andy sinks below the cool blue water, and as she turns a lazy somersault, she opens her eyes to see the dart of red flash past her. Miranda clearly isn’t slowed down in the water by her injuries as she has been on dry land, and it makes Andy feel oddly light to witness it.
She breaks for air, before pulling herself in strong strokes towards the deep end and back. When she and Miranda meet in the same direction, the concept of a race is unspoken, but pulling harder with her arms, Andy just pips her to victory at the shallow end. She’s a little out of breath from the extra exertion, and there’s probably no danger of being scouted by the US Olympic team any time soon, but she can’t help a smug little grin at beating Miranda.
Who, incidentally, should not look quite so goddamn good with her now wet hair slicked back like that. It’s clear now that she isn’t wearing much makeup, and when Andy dares to look closely, she can see the silvery remnants of healing scars. No doubt the stitching was done by some top plastic surgeon, because they’re barely noticeable. Miranda, pouting over her minor defeat, seems to be on edge immediately when she catches Andy staring.
“Sorry,” Andy blurts out, suddenly aware of her bad manners.
Miranda rolls her eyes and then kicks off elegantly for a few more lengths. Andy takes off in pursuit, but keeps her own pace this time. They overlap frequently enough, and there’s something kind of exciting about being allowed to be in this setting with Miranda, even if Andy’s stupid damn brain is more distracted by how good Miranda will look when she gets out of the pool.
Andy is the first to surrender, clambering up the stone steps of the pool’s ladder and collapsing gratefully on her lounger. There’s a pile of towels already, thankfully, so Andy doesn’t have to go scurrying over to the poolhouse like some willing servant. She slips her sunglasses back on, and yes, all the better to watch Miranda’s exit from the pool.
It’s harmless, Andy tells herself -- just a little visual distraction to get her through the long summer. It’s not like Miranda would ever be interested in her, random frantic kiss or not. So she pretends to flick through the pages of a novel while Miranda finishes her exercise, and tries not to hold her breath when she sees Miranda swim towards the ladder.
Remembering to breathe is a smart move, it turns out, because Andy is not in any way disappointed by the sight before her. Miranda isn’t especially tall, out of her scary spiked heels anyway, but her legs have the firm definition of a dancer’s. The fading scars on her right leg do nothing to mar the sight, and before long Andy lets her Chanel-shielded glance drift a little higher.
It’s not like she hasn’t had a girl crush before, and Andy accepts that a little bisexuality is really very common, but at the sight of Miranda’s breasts in a wet swimsuit, she’s beginning to think that this might be more of a lifestyle change than she had anticipated.
Andy’s jaw actually feels a little slack at the sight, as Miranda stretches a little and strolls back to her own lounger. There’s almost no stiffness in her walk now, but that probably doesn’t explain the throbbing between Andy’s thighs. Not to mention her now-hard nipples, and there’s not exactly a cool breeze for Andy to blame those on. Damn summer. Damn Miranda and her annoyingly hot body. Damn it all to hell, and then some, Andy thinks in her frustration.
Just as she convinces herself that she’s just another piece of furniture to Miranda, albeit one that sometimes talks, Andy is subjected to a full-body raking of Miranda’s unshielded eyes. It’s hard not to blush in the face of attention like that, because Miranda has a look that makes her feel like the only person on the planet, even if the comments to follow aren’t always complimentary.
“Didn’t you find the swimwear Nigel picked out?” Miranda asks, and it sounds somehow like a very loaded question.
Andy looks at her perfectly serviceable black swimsuit in disbelief and wonders what in the hell is wrong with it. It’s a lot more appropriate for swimming with kids than some of the ‘just a few strings’ collection resting in one of her dresser drawers.
“I figured this would do fine.”
Miranda tilts her head, that silent question of have you learned nothing? and Andy feels like the stupid new girl all over again.
“I plan on swimming daily from now on, while I can. Since you’ll be joining me, please defer to Nigel’s selection from now on. I don’t enjoy frumpy, and I won’t have it spoiling my swim.”
“Fine,” Andy answers, just about keeping the pout from her face. But her mind is racing at Miranda’s calm instructions, can anyone be so obsessed with fashion that they care about which piece of fabric someone swims in? Or, and Andy barely dares to hope, does it mean that Miranda wants to see her in less?
“We’ll be going into the city on Friday,” Miranda adds as she runs a towel over her arms. “Get Roy. Emily will email you.”
Of course, Miranda doesn’t say what they’ll be doing in Manhattan, but Andy will have to hope Emily knows. Roy is the driver who ferries Miranda around on her increasingly frequent trips out, so at least that isn’t too much of a mystery.
“Sure thing,” Andy nods, every bit the capable assistant even as she smells like chlorine and wears a frumpy swimsuit. Miranda tucks a fresh towel around her waist, and without another word stalks off towards the house.
Oh well, Andy thinks to herself -- another heart-warming exchange for her memories. Though really, compared to her first days in the job, it’s pretty damn pleasant. As she gathers her things and the wet towels, it occurs to her that it might be an opportunity to discuss the writing she sent to Christian Thompson. He’s already emailed and called to suggest as much for her next trip to the city.
And he’s not exactly hard on the eyes, after all. This could be just the distraction she needs.
Chapter 13 --->
Chapter: 12 of 20
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13 (for now)
Beta:ladyvivien (thank you, lover)
Spoilers: AU, but borrowing heavily from the movie!verse. Plot owes a lot to the Helen Mirren movie 'Losing Chase'.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters belong to their respective owners and no profit is being made. Miranda's holiday home is based, predictably, on Anna Wintour's.
Summary: Miranda has retreated to her home in the Hamptons following a serious accident. The young and idealistic Andrea Sachs accepts a position as a nanny/assistant combo. Since Miranda is resistant to outside help and new faces, this doesn't go over well.
A/N: This fic belongs, truly, to the wonderful abina2810 . Although this is late, the fic is a reward for her generous charitable donations. Comments and feedback are gratefully received.
When the alarm goes off, it’s possible that Andy hits snooze just a little too hard. Possible in the sense that the shiny chrome alarm clock (so retro, so in this season) goes flying across the bedroom that has become Andy’s home and sanctuary in the past few weeks.
Discovering the trick to locking the door with two extra twists of the doorknob has protected her possessions from marauding twins, and prevented any more Paul Auster novels from taking an unsanctioned swim. Andy doesn’t know what she’ll do if the twins ever work out how to unlock the door, but she suspects her days are already numbered. Perhaps there’ll be time to go to a hardware store and buy some kind of lock and fit it herself.
Of course, Andy is only obsessing over potentially broken alarm clocks and cat burglar children because she is very, very determined not to think about that thing that she is not thinking about. She doesn’t even need to use the relevant nouns to describe it, because only someone thinking about it would do such a silly thing. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, and besides, Andy is a really strong swimmer.
By sheer force of will, she makes it into the shower and halfway through rinsing her first lather of shampoo when reality comes hurtling back towards her. It’s the sneeze that does it, the harbinger of an imminent summer cold. A cold caught while chasing a traumatized woman through the lashing rain of a fierce storm, no less.
Andy leans against the wet tiles of the shower and bangs her head softly a few times for good measure. Perhaps that way she can undo the unseen brain damage that guided her actions last night. Bad enough that she engaged in a screaming (well, screaming versus whispering) match with her employer, but offering herself up as some kind of confidant had been a decidedly risky move. Andy isn’t sure she even wants to know half of the things that Miranda had told her, not least because it appears that Miranda doesn’t tell anyone much of anything.
Then, soaked to the bone and right in the firing line for Miranda’s wrath, Andy had found herself on the receiving end of a passionate, almost desperate kiss. From Miranda, who looks awkward receiving affection from her own children, and who seems to glide through life in an icy protective bubble of her own creation. And what had Andy Sachs, resident genius and all-round possessor of good ideas done in response to this new and utterly weird development?
Kissed her back.
Andy finds her thoughts drifting to the Darwin Awards, the subject of many an email forward from well-meaning relatives and college friends who still think the internet was for chain letters and pictures of cats. Those awards were ‘given’ for acts of life-altering (or often life-ending) stupidity. Andy doesn’t really want to think about how many ways she might now qualify.
It really isn’t a good idea to dwell on the fact that kissing Miranda had been pretty damn nice. Oh, there had been that awkward thing about a first kiss, with noses clashing just slightly and an accidental hint of teeth at one point, but it had taken no time at all to find some kind of mutually acceptable way to kiss. Which is really, really not the point, Andy scolds herself as she reaches for the conditioner. Not the point at all.
Determined to look great for the summary execution that will no doubt await her downstairs, Andy takes her time over getting dressed. With the wealth of her work closet at her disposal, Andy opts instead for the best she can cobble together from her own clothes. No telling how quickly Miranda will kick her out, and so before drying her hair, Andy quickly shoves her belongings into the case and backpack she’d brought with her. Not the neatest job, but she needs to be able to grab and go if things get too mortifying.
Figuring she looks presentable in her capri pants and white shirt, Andy pulls her hair into neat braid and puts on a basic mask of make-up. She just has to hope she won’t cry and get mascara all down her face, since she has no time to invest in a long overdue tube of waterproof.
When she can stall no longer, Andy listens carefully at her door before opening it. Creeping out and down the stairs, she can hear the distant chatter of the twins, still in one of their bedrooms. Both doors are ajar, but Andy opts for the relative safety of a direct run down to the first floor. Her sandals are mercifully quiet as she makes her way cautiously towards the kitchen.
Finding only Millie there makes Andy almost keel over from sheer relief. Though the respite is no doubt temporary, the prospect of facing Miranda after coffee and some kind of food takes some of the sting out. Maybe in the next few minutes Andy can even conjure up a decent excuse for running off like a startled deer the second the kiss had ended. Maybe she’ll also grow wings and be able to fly home to Cincinnati when she gets her ass handed to her; the likelihood is about the same.
The croissants Millie sets out are so mind-blowing in their flaky, buttery goodness that Andy can almost forget her fear for a few minutes. The coffee isn’t quite as scalding as Miranda will take it yet, and it’s worth indulging in a splash of cream and some sugar-even the condemned get a decent final meal. It’s only when Andy is returning her plate for cleaning that she hears the telltale thump of Miranda’s cane on the stairs. Of course, her footsteps are too delicate to be heard all the way in the kitchen.
Millie doesn’t flinch, simply reaching over to turn up the temperature on the coffee maker by that vital few degrees. Andy finds her knees beginning to tremble, and the sweat on her palms is cold from fear. Unsure of herself, Andy forces herself back into her seat at the table, reaching for the Sports section of the paper and letting the words about the Yankees and the Mets blur into a kind of print soup in front of her eyes.
Time slows down as Miranda approaches, and by the time she appears in the kitchen doorway, Andy is ready to scream from the tension. She wants to look up, but fear keeps her eyes locked on the words she’s too frightened to actually read. Andy sucks in a deep breath as she waits for Miranda to dismiss her, wondering just how cruel the woman will be. She’s stunned when no words come, and Miranda sits down opposite Andy at the kitchen table as though it were any other morning.
Which is when Andy sees the invisible lifeline she’s being offered. A way to stay safe in her denial, where Miranda’s lips are incredibly soft but nobody ever mentions it. Summoning up every last grain of courage (and Andy is really, really running low this morning) she forces herself to speak and test the theory. Better to know now that be lulled into a false sense of security.
“I’ll be taking the girls into town after their piano lesson. If you want to make a list I’ll be happy to pick up anything you need.”
Miranda’s eyes flick away from the Business section for a moment, but Andy sees it. There’s a tiny nod, almost imperceptible, but it seems to mean that Andy’s approach has been the right one.
“I’ll email the list to you,” Miranda replies, apparently absorbed by the fluctuations of yesterday’s stock market.
“Great. I’ll uh, go call Caroline and Cassidy down for breakfast.”
Andy almost knocks over her glass of juice when she stands, but she manages to avert any citrus-based disaster. As she walks towards the door, she’s sure she can feel Miranda’s eyes on her. Risking a glance back as she enters the hall, Andy catches the appraising expression on Miranda’s face. It seems that, for once, Andy has surprised her in the good way.
The girls come thundering down the stairs, and Andy breathes normally for the first time since waking. Losing herself in the chatter, she barely has cause to look at Miranda again. It’s all going to be fine.
*
And fine just about covers it, for the next few weeks. Andy doesn’t know whether to credit Stephen’s absence, or the fact that she sees less of Miranda, but the girls are back to behaving and she’s feeling capable once more.
Honey, the physiotherapist who’s been working with Miranda is a pleasant addition on the days that she’s around, and she seems to deflect all of Miranda’s worst moods effortlessly. Andy notices that Miranda’s cane is rarely in her hand now, and the heels on her shoes have crept up by an inch or two. In fact, there’s a lot less convalescence about the editor now, and more the sharp and fashionable all-business aura that she’s feared for.
Which, she tells herself, Andy does not find brain-meltingly hot at all. Nope, not even a little bit.
(She’s a pretty terrible liar.)
Before long, the girls are scheduled for their two weeks’ vacation with their father. Rod appears to be keeping the destination a secret, at least from the girls, because Andy can’t imagine Miranda letting him take them anywhere without having all the details first. They’re swimming in the pool on the last afternoon before Rod and his limo arrive to pick them up, and as she swims lengths and ducks the inflatables being thrown at her, Andy takes time to speculate with Caroline.
Gone is the sulky and reticent girl that Andy met at the beginning of the summer, replaced with a content, if quiet, girl who lets her enthusiasm and intelligence show. Cassidy doesn’t seem interested in guessing, but she splashes around to stay part of the conversation, but none of her usual nervousness about an argument breaking out is evident.
“Disneyworld?” Andy throws out as she adjusts the straps of her black swimming costume, which is a little looser on her than she remembers. Her new closet, which she feels comfortable raiding again, only has bikinis that she doesn’t feel comfortable enough to wear, at least not around the twins.
“Bo-ring,” Cassidy sing-songs. “We’ve been there twice already, and we’re too old for that now.”
Andy doesn’t think that she’s too old for it, at almost twenty-five, but she keeps her mouth shut.
“I bet we’re going to Bermuda. Dad’s friends with Michael and Catherine, you know? He’s always saying we should go hang out some time.”
The casual name-dropping distracts Andy for a second, and so she doesn’t see the inflatable dolphin that Cassidy has just lobbed at her head. The ensuing splash war is probably why she doesn’t hear the slapping of footsteps along the tiled border of the pool, but when a shadow falls over her the sight is enough to take her breath away.
“Girls,” Miranda says, and she’s talking as casually as someone who doesn’t look like a million dollars. Whether it’s the loosely-knotted sarong that hints at slender legs beneath, or the red halter-neck swimsuit that Andy’s fingers clench at the sight of, suddenly obsessed with untying that one simple knot.
The frantic splashing of Caroline and Cassidy as they exit the pool is a welcome distraction though, and Andy follows suit with no small amount of self-consciousness. Miranda bends to hug each girl in turn, before allowing her eyes to rake over Andy from head to toe.
“Your father will be here soon. Please go and dress, and let Andrea have a break. Your bags are already on the porch.”
Cassidy takes off at a run, but Caroline hesitates, matching her mother’s steady gaze with a mirrored one of her own.
“We should still come say goodbye though, right?”
“Of course Bobbsey,” Miranda replies, but she looks momentarily hurt by the suggestion that she’d send them off so uncaringly. It’s enough for Caroline though, and she runs off after her sister and into the house.
Which leaves Miranda, Andy, and a seriously awkward silence. Struck by how ridiculous she must look, Andy takes the few steps towards the lounger that holds her towel. She’s about to wrap it round her for some attempt at modesty when Miranda clears her throat.
“Honey,” Miranda says, the disdain for the name dripping from each syllable. “Has suggested that swimming will do wonders for my…regime. I was hoping not to be alone in the pool. Muscle cramps-“
“Oh sure,” Andy interrupts, both relieved and disappointed that Miranda only wants her around for practical reasons. A return to the cool water will also be helpful for the blush that seems to be painting her cheeks every time she lets her eyes linger on Miranda’s exposed shoulders (or anywhere else for that matter).
Not that Miranda appears in any particular hurry to get in the pool. She sits on the lounger next to Andy’s, but her expression is inscrutable behind sunglasses that Andy can now recognize as Tom Ford. She slips on her own Chanel pair, as protection from the sun and from potential appraisal by Miranda.
Before the quiet can get too uncomfortable, both girls are hurtling back across the garden, dressed in shorts and t-shirts that look deceptively plain. The pastel colors are lovely on them though, and Andy finds herself wondering if Miranda picks out each item in their closets as she does with her own.
Both Caroline and Cassidy still have wet hair, of course, and although there’s the telltale crunch of tires on gravel just audible, she motions for them to sit on the lounger in front of her. Cassidy drops down eagerly, but Caroline hovers between Andy’s and Miranda’s loungers, apparently undecided. When Miranda leans forward and begins deftly braiding Cassidy’s hair, Caroline opts to sit in front of Andy. It’s obvious from the glare over her shoulder that she expects the same hairdressing service, and so Andy complies with slightly trembling fingers.
All too soon, the girls are ready to go. Hair ties have been pulled from Andy’s omnipresent ‘Mary Poppins’ bag, though the state of the lining suggests that Marc Jacobs didn’t intend such heavy use for such an elegant purse. Both girls accept kisses on the cheek and brief hugs from their mother, and Andy is both touched and terrified when they seek the same from her. Affection is fine, of course, but she hasn’t really received it in front of Miranda before.
Then the girls are racing off to greet their dad, and Andy can see from Miranda’s rigid posture that she has no intention of following. Only when the engine revs and the gravel crunches once more does Miranda stand. There’s hardly any stiffness in the movement, which Andy thinks might be Honey’s greatest achievement so far.
Following Miranda’s example, Andy strides around to the side and lowers herself into the pool. She shouldn’t be surprised when Miranda continues on towards the deep end, carelessly dropping her sarong before striding confidently onto the diving board. There’s a moment’s hesitation, which Andy can only assume is rooted in pain from Miranda’s leg, before a graceful dive that barely makes a splash.
Andy sinks below the cool blue water, and as she turns a lazy somersault, she opens her eyes to see the dart of red flash past her. Miranda clearly isn’t slowed down in the water by her injuries as she has been on dry land, and it makes Andy feel oddly light to witness it.
She breaks for air, before pulling herself in strong strokes towards the deep end and back. When she and Miranda meet in the same direction, the concept of a race is unspoken, but pulling harder with her arms, Andy just pips her to victory at the shallow end. She’s a little out of breath from the extra exertion, and there’s probably no danger of being scouted by the US Olympic team any time soon, but she can’t help a smug little grin at beating Miranda.
Who, incidentally, should not look quite so goddamn good with her now wet hair slicked back like that. It’s clear now that she isn’t wearing much makeup, and when Andy dares to look closely, she can see the silvery remnants of healing scars. No doubt the stitching was done by some top plastic surgeon, because they’re barely noticeable. Miranda, pouting over her minor defeat, seems to be on edge immediately when she catches Andy staring.
“Sorry,” Andy blurts out, suddenly aware of her bad manners.
Miranda rolls her eyes and then kicks off elegantly for a few more lengths. Andy takes off in pursuit, but keeps her own pace this time. They overlap frequently enough, and there’s something kind of exciting about being allowed to be in this setting with Miranda, even if Andy’s stupid damn brain is more distracted by how good Miranda will look when she gets out of the pool.
Andy is the first to surrender, clambering up the stone steps of the pool’s ladder and collapsing gratefully on her lounger. There’s a pile of towels already, thankfully, so Andy doesn’t have to go scurrying over to the poolhouse like some willing servant. She slips her sunglasses back on, and yes, all the better to watch Miranda’s exit from the pool.
It’s harmless, Andy tells herself -- just a little visual distraction to get her through the long summer. It’s not like Miranda would ever be interested in her, random frantic kiss or not. So she pretends to flick through the pages of a novel while Miranda finishes her exercise, and tries not to hold her breath when she sees Miranda swim towards the ladder.
Remembering to breathe is a smart move, it turns out, because Andy is not in any way disappointed by the sight before her. Miranda isn’t especially tall, out of her scary spiked heels anyway, but her legs have the firm definition of a dancer’s. The fading scars on her right leg do nothing to mar the sight, and before long Andy lets her Chanel-shielded glance drift a little higher.
It’s not like she hasn’t had a girl crush before, and Andy accepts that a little bisexuality is really very common, but at the sight of Miranda’s breasts in a wet swimsuit, she’s beginning to think that this might be more of a lifestyle change than she had anticipated.
Andy’s jaw actually feels a little slack at the sight, as Miranda stretches a little and strolls back to her own lounger. There’s almost no stiffness in her walk now, but that probably doesn’t explain the throbbing between Andy’s thighs. Not to mention her now-hard nipples, and there’s not exactly a cool breeze for Andy to blame those on. Damn summer. Damn Miranda and her annoyingly hot body. Damn it all to hell, and then some, Andy thinks in her frustration.
Just as she convinces herself that she’s just another piece of furniture to Miranda, albeit one that sometimes talks, Andy is subjected to a full-body raking of Miranda’s unshielded eyes. It’s hard not to blush in the face of attention like that, because Miranda has a look that makes her feel like the only person on the planet, even if the comments to follow aren’t always complimentary.
“Didn’t you find the swimwear Nigel picked out?” Miranda asks, and it sounds somehow like a very loaded question.
Andy looks at her perfectly serviceable black swimsuit in disbelief and wonders what in the hell is wrong with it. It’s a lot more appropriate for swimming with kids than some of the ‘just a few strings’ collection resting in one of her dresser drawers.
“I figured this would do fine.”
Miranda tilts her head, that silent question of have you learned nothing? and Andy feels like the stupid new girl all over again.
“I plan on swimming daily from now on, while I can. Since you’ll be joining me, please defer to Nigel’s selection from now on. I don’t enjoy frumpy, and I won’t have it spoiling my swim.”
“Fine,” Andy answers, just about keeping the pout from her face. But her mind is racing at Miranda’s calm instructions, can anyone be so obsessed with fashion that they care about which piece of fabric someone swims in? Or, and Andy barely dares to hope, does it mean that Miranda wants to see her in less?
“We’ll be going into the city on Friday,” Miranda adds as she runs a towel over her arms. “Get Roy. Emily will email you.”
Of course, Miranda doesn’t say what they’ll be doing in Manhattan, but Andy will have to hope Emily knows. Roy is the driver who ferries Miranda around on her increasingly frequent trips out, so at least that isn’t too much of a mystery.
“Sure thing,” Andy nods, every bit the capable assistant even as she smells like chlorine and wears a frumpy swimsuit. Miranda tucks a fresh towel around her waist, and without another word stalks off towards the house.
Oh well, Andy thinks to herself -- another heart-warming exchange for her memories. Though really, compared to her first days in the job, it’s pretty damn pleasant. As she gathers her things and the wet towels, it occurs to her that it might be an opportunity to discuss the writing she sent to Christian Thompson. He’s already emailed and called to suggest as much for her next trip to the city.
And he’s not exactly hard on the eyes, after all. This could be just the distraction she needs.
Chapter 13 --->