Mrs. and Mrs. Priestly
Chapter 6
-Less than 2 or 3 years ago-
Sunday night they had the house to themselves. They arrived home from dinner at nine. By 9:10 they were already naked and fizzing with lust. Miranda´s thumb is still dangerously traveling the sensitive area around Andy's swollen clit. What could she say? It was all Andrea's fault. The sweet fox always brought out the sadist in her. Her indigo eyes are hypnotized by her wife´s face as the brunette rides the slick waves of her orgasm. And right there, that delicious, precious spot in which her fingers are pounding into, this spot is where her young wife unknowably possessed her. Right now she's unable to verbalize her belief that without Andrea's presence the sun won't rise. Perhaps the moon would cease to rule the tides. Andrea owned her. Miranda bit her lip, how plebian of her.
Engulfed in the silky lava between Andrea's thighs, Miranda watches in fascination as the brunette straddling her lap attempts to slide her eyes open. Amaretto eyes flicker open. Long lashes flutter. Her sweet woman was silently begging to see the vision in front of her.
"No." Miranda softly commands and flicks her fingers like a well-oiled whip. Andrea's silken groan crashes through the townhouse. And a second later the brunette's eyelids melt close again.
Miranda knew that one of the best things she could offer people was her mind. For that reason alone she's stunned that her editorial intellect is unable to describe the flash of feelings burning through her at this moment.
There's a soft, everlasting whimper emitting from Andrea's feathery-soft lips now. Miranda soaks herself in sympathy. She decides that she would willingly drown in the flood of wetness tonight if she could feast on this girl for the rest of her life. Surely without Andrea's presence she would slowly, excruciatingly starve.
Miranda continues to study Andrea's angelical face like a map, not allowing her a moment's escape. Dark eyes remain close as the brunette softly pants, "God" breasts heaving, "yes." Then she proceeds to reach down to draw Miranda's fingers from her core in one liquid slide. Miranda finds herself in an active state of arousal as Andrea lures her glistening fingers into her mouth. Andrea's eyes slowly crack open to mahogany slits and in the next instant she is devouring each finger with hungry loops of her tongue.
Mad, Miranda logically concludes. She would most certainly go mad before this night was over. The tip of Andy's wet tongue and then the full, sweet length of it glides sensually between the Editor's elegant fingers, seizing every drop of her own essence. The pressure of the licks echoes in Miranda's center unmercifully.
A single, undignified word whispers into Miranda's mind, "Fuck."
Andy's tongue acrobatics were about to make Miranda explode into orgasm, her astute mind completely forgetting her body had an orgasm not even a half hour ago. And when her young wife tightens her lean legs around her waist, a passionate growl escapes Miranda's mouth. Apparently, Miranda notes through her sensual haze, I'm as much a masochist as I am a sadist. A second, sharp gush of arousal shoots between the Editor's thighs when Andrea fully looks at her. Miranda felt her heart swiftly rupture and mend itself together again as her eyes soak up the girl's sultry beauty.
Andrea swallows the quiet scream rushing up Miranda's throat with a kiss, bites her earlobe, and then whispers, "Happy one month anniversary, my love."
Miranda leans back, balancing Andrea in her naked lap between four steps on the second floor staircase. Her eyes take a trip over Andy's creamy, teeth-imprinted shoulder. In their haste to get at each other there was now a chaotic trail of expensive fabric and the occasional stiletto. The passionate breadcrumbs originated on the first floor moves to the second and impatiently fans to all points in between. A tornado of lingerie and couture dangle across a random banister or step, dotting their heated ascent.
And it was all Andrea's fault. Andrea and that damn La Perla garter belt playing peek-a-boo with her through the slit of her wife's Versace mini. The sexy piece of nothing had Miranda salivating like a dog the moment she glimpsed it halfway through their dessert course. By the time they had made it back to the townhouse the privacy divider in the Mercedes had steamed up like a sauna. It was well on its way to cracking after the bottom of Andrea's heel repeatedly stabbed the glass when Miranda held her down to lick and suck the orchid tattoo adorning her neck. She had lazily stroked the lace garter as she devoured Andy during the entire ride. He didn't know it yet, but Roy was in for a spectacular upgrade to his vacation package. Of course he would only get to exercise that privilege when she deemed it appropriate for him to do so.
"Perhaps next time we'll actually make it to our bed," Miranda moves in to purr against her wife's collarbone. She then nips the skin there as she set about lovingly spanking Andy's lush ass. First laying sweet fury on the left cheek. "Fitting punishment don't you think..?" Then blissfully punishing the right. "For manipulating me into offering up fashion as a sacrificial lamb tonight."
Andrea hangs her forehead on the Editor's shoulder and quietly groans as she gets spanked within an inch of orgasm before Miranda finally relents to let the burn cool. Andrea's ass felt tender and owned.
Andy eventually stirs out of her pleasurable fog, licks her swollen lips, and stares at her wife in awe. The young woman's eyes hold passion and the secrets of the universe within their dark depths. "In case you ever wonder, my love is added up. Never subtracted..." Andy kisses Miranda's aristocratic nose. "...and being with you divided."
"You are remarkably exquisite, Andrea."
When Andrea's satisfied smile turns feral, Miranda instantly decides they would have another go. Andrea pounces on her, answering that unspoken request. Miranda soon found herself gasping into another satiny kiss as she loses herself in Andrea's scent and the slick heaven that was her tongue. Sprawled across the hard steps, and too far gone on each other to care, their sweaty limbs entwine.
The sun won't rise. The moon would cease to rule the tides. Mad.
Miranda cradles her wife in her lap as they dive into passion again. Their hearts beat together, swift as the beat of tribal drums. As anniversaries went it would be hard to rival, but the fun lied in the effort expended to surpass the goal.
XXXXXXX
-Present day-
Miranda slips into her chosen foot candy for the evening: an ebony pair of snake skin, Christian Louboutin with a deep heel. The five inch beauties fiercely compliment her custom-made, black Lagerfeld dress. The dress flatters her figure. The shoes simply provoke. It was the perfect combination for tonight's annual Runway Benefit. Harry Winston diamonds drip at her ears and wrists. She was dressed to kill, literally, possibly, but more than anything she looked every much the part of a fashion martyr and prolific Editor-in-Chief. Tonight she would strengthen her important industry connections and by proxy maintain an iron grip on her iconic flagship. And she would do it all before the stroke of nine.
Roy would be arriving with the car soon and Andy was still lost within the infinite rows of clothes in their walk-in closet. Andy had been carefully debating what dress to wear for a half hour. She shifts, tapping her fingertips on a lace-clad hip and flicks a little, red Ralph Lauren number to the side. Andy had no problem admitting that she was now a slave to fashion. Since she became Mrs. Priestly clothes and accessories were thrown her way on a consistent basis.
Versace. Dior. Christian Siriano. Both famous and promising designers showered her affectionately with their labels. And what she didn't keep, which was plenty, she auctioned off anonymously through her favorite charity organizations, funneling the prestige of fashion into needy local and national outreach programs. Andy had become a firm believer that fashion could be pretty and socially functional. One need only look. So Andy and Miranda's private team of Ivy League lawyers had looked and emerged triumphantly with a contract of legal discreetness that was air tight and efficient. As long as the price tag on a Louis Vuitton bag equated two month's rent for the majority of lower class, and now middle class, families Andy would have nothing less than the best procedure in place for the benefactors of her quiet philanthropy.
Andy frowns. Even then, she didn't think she would ever get used to the occasional delivery of every new item, each piece more delicious than the last. From coast to coast and often from the distant shores of international fashion houses, designers practically tripped over themselves to see their creations draped on her striking body. Each believing an in with the young Mrs. Priestly was an in with her affluent spouse. And one caress from Miranda's Midas touch could effortlessly propel any career into the stratosphere.
"Andrea, Roy will be here in less than thirty minutes," Miranda reminds her, before clicking softly out of their bedroom.
"I know Miranda. I'm almost done, just have to choose the dress," Andy said, padding into the bedroom dressed only in black Victoria´s Secret lingerie. She had hoped to grab a look at Miranda's attire for the evening as inspiration, but she found herself stepping into their empty master suite instead.
She walks back into the closet unable to stop the unpleasant thoughts from rising to the surface of her awareness. Miranda was always the one to choose the right dress for her on important occasions before. Andy had been adamantly against this flourish of attention previously, but she had soon become weak to her wife's insistence on using her professional skills to her benefit. Besides, it really hadn't taken Miranda long to become a pro at wearing her down.
"Darling, it would simply be illogical for me not to spoil you with the full extent of my talent and expertise," Miranda had announced, after pinning Andrea passionately on their bed one evening before a Runway function. Her brow arched. "And the sooner you give into this indisputable fact the sooner I'll let you come."
Of course holding a mirror up to the past wasn't the only way for her to pinpoint when the thoughtful gesture had disappeared. She could simply go directly to the source. Andy snorts with amusement. If only that option weren't ten times harder than choosing a dress.
Andy finally decides on the turquoise Alexandre Herchcovitch´s that Miranda had surprised her with one day. Months ago the Editor had left the dress in a garment bag on their bed for Andy to discover when she stepped out of the shower. There were no bows or cheerful wrapping paper. The only adornment was the distinctive handwriting dappled across a square of cream linen from Miranda's personal stationary:
Lucky dress.
With love,
M.
She glances at the digital clock on the huge plasma TV. She only had ten more minutes before Roy arrives and she didn't wish to strike up an unnecessary debate with Miranda, especially tonight of all nights. After three years of marriage Andy knew when to push her luck and when to let sleeping dragons lie.
Andy chooses the Gucci stilettos for tonight, since they hadn't blessed her feet in awhile, and starts down the stairs. When she reaches the second floor her senses immediately lock onto two distinct facts. One: Her wife's voice could still make her body do the happy. Two: Her wife was speaking to someone in fluent Spanish. And not just any Spanish. Andy expertly zeroes in on the lilting inflection. Castilian Spanish. Andy's muscles tense in confusion. Stay or go? The decision came quickly. Fleeing had never looked good on her. She quietly creeps down a few more steps as if her heels didn't exist at all. From this position she could see the occasional flash of silver hair and a glimpse of Miranda's impressive form as she glides in and out of view and speaks on her cell phone.
"Todo está listo en Madrid para la próxima semana?" Miranda asks as she gracefully paces the sitting room.
Andy's mind rapidly picks out and translates the vital words. 'Is everything ready in Madrid? Next week?' She was suddenly appreciative of the multilingual requirement that was like second nature in her clandestine profession. That little gem of a skill had saved her ass both in and out of international enemy lines on numerous occasions. Andy's mind races through the past two weeks, unable to recall Miranda ever mentioning plans to visit Spain next week. Furthermore, she wasn't aware that the Editor even knew any Spanish. She didn't know whether to be impressed or skeptical. For now she settled on intrigued.
"Muí bien," Miranda pauses and taps her chin with her finger as the dialect trickles from her coral lips. "Ella no será un problema, le aseguro," Miranda finishes, snapping the cell shut with one hand without waiting for the answer on the other end of the line.
Curious, Andy thought. She feels a twinge of guilt as she wonders about whom the woman Miranda had just said would 'not be a problem', could be. She finishes moving down the stairs and purposely allows her heels to make noise this time. Miranda gives her a half smile en route to the kitchen with Andy hot on her Christian Lous.
Miranda pours a glass of Pellegrino water, being assessed by Andy the entire time. They exchange stares but neither of them offer a word to shatter the excruciating silence. Andy opens her mouth and promptly snaps it shut. She swings open the fridge door and compulsively pours a half-glass of chilled chardonnay. She never liked to consume much before or during one of Miranda's social engagements. She preferred to be on her toes in the public eye as much as possible. But the sinking feeling in her stomach demands an anchor to keep her nerves from flying out of control.
Andy taps her wine glass as she floats in her private sea of doubt. She didn't want to indulge the insecurity because that would mean having to confront one singularly unsettling thought. She finishes the wine in one sharp swallow. For a brief and haunting moment Andrea Priestly was worried she didn't know her wife anymore at all.
If the skies outside of the Runway Benefit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art were any indication, the forecast would say it was pure luxury with a chance of blatant, self-serving rhetoric. A parade of limos as sleek as mercury, glide to the front entrance in an infinite loop. The ocean of designer labels on display were only eclipsed by the famous bodies they were draped on. Elite faces from the fashion, political and media industry arrive under a night sky lit up by paparazzi camera flashes and roaming spotlights. If you had an invite you were in for a night of power-plays and free publicity. If your name didn't make the heavily-guarded guest list you were missing out on one of the season's most premiere gatherings of power and prestige assembled under one roof.
Miranda and Andy emerge from the lush cocoon of the limo precisely at eight. As soon as their heels kiss the red carpet gasps pepper the night and in the next breath they were drowned by a swirl of reporters, voices and hundreds of camera shutters clicking like a field of crickets. Miranda's smile was luminous and exact. As the crowd bends and parts around them she places a hand to the small of Andy's back and together they step onto the stage of the world's largest theater.
They smile, wave, nod, and when Miranda 'accidentally' brushes Andy's cheek with her lips the red carpet goes into a frenzy. By now they were well versed on feeding the crowd an image that didn't exist anymore. Miranda was in the business of selling images and the return gain was never ruled out of any of her professional actions. As a reporter from E! closed in on them, Andrea smiles diligently into the swarm of lights spotting her vision. 'Ready or not,' Andy thought as the lights superimpose Miranda's noble profile against the glittering night.
-Ten minutes ago-
In the back of the company limo, Andy and Mirada find themselves seated on opposite sides of an immense wall of silence. They hadn't exchange anything beyond a polite word since leaving home. So far this wasn't the evening Andy envisioned. Her wife from over a year ago would never double book an event on the night that marked the date of their one month anniversary. Especially in favor of mingling with New York's most 'tedious' social elite. At some point Andy had eventually succumbed to the fate of having an important fashionable event on her calendar on a monthly basis. Granted, she had never thrived on attending one glitzy society soiree after another when she was Miranda's assistant, but she had quickly learned to get comfortable with the idea when she became Miranda's spouse. Like any brand new mission, Andy had learned to adapt to her surroundings and calculate her objectives. The posh world Miranda glided in was not so different. The players had just changed.
Andy steals a glance at the silent figure of beauty poised less than a breath away. Miranda's soft lips were pursed as she gazes out of the window. The shimmer of New York City scrolls across her pristine reflection as the limo rolls towards the heart of Manhattan. Not a hair on her head or a thread on her body dared to be out of place. Andy tore her gaze away. No, what was really out of place here was the unknown entity dangling like a guillotine above their heads. What was really out of place was the silence that intensified by enormous measures every day. And what was absolutely, fucking out of place was how Miranda used to treat her like she mattered. Like they mattered.
Andy feels the tide of doubt wash over her again, filling her lungs, robbing her of decipherable speech. She tries to recall when that insolent mouth across from her was the first thing she woke to and the last thing she tasted each night. But this only led her to recall how that mouth had stopped smiling, really smiling a smile, that was strictly reserved for her.
Andy feels her hearing start to dim.
"Andrea."
And then refocus in a flash.
"We're here." Miranda's public smile had already slammed into place. Roy opens the limo door. "Ready?"
The ferocious sound of snapping cameras and the roar of a celebrity-hungry mob floods the backseat, drowning Andy in the riptide. Ready or not.
Inside of the Met's palatial halls Miranda and Andy play the power couple to award-winning precision. They sweep into the elegant sea of black and white tuxes and lavish gowns and leave admirers and dissenters embarrassingly intrigued in their wake. And like anyone that was at the top of their game, the illusion was swallowed eagerly. No one knew. How would they? Miranda Priestly knew the difference between exposing herself and being exposed. She was a master of appearances and a proprietor of intuitive strategy. To that end she would always wipe the floor with anyone's pawn before the unlucky soul could even think of checking her king.
After an appropriate amount of mingling, Andy was able to take a break before Miranda began to converse with the key players in attendance. Andy immediately snaps up a champagne flute from a passing waiter, intent on cashing in on a rare moment alone. Runway had reserved the entire wing of the Met's Asian Art Gallery which was an impressive feat for this time of year. For a moment Andy pauses by a mood-lit stage to listen to Norah Jones and a live band croon out dreamy vocals about budding romance and the vulnerability of humbleness. As Norah's smoky voice weaves through the sophisticated crowd and enchants the moment it would go without saying that Runway was doing a fine job of staying ahead of the publishing market on domestic and foreign fashion shores. Rubbing fashion against art and tossing in live music was a notable idea to be envied. Naturally, tonight had been Miranda's brainchild.
Andy's eyes climb up the print that she was now facing. There were countless and priceless pieces to admire and sip five-hundred dollar champagne in front of. But there was something about Katsushika Hokusai's 'The Great Wave at Kanagawa' that compliments and demands the viewer's unwavering attention.
Andy kept her senses locked on the elegant crowd sweeping in and out of her range of view. But her eyes belonged to Hokusai's compelling wave dominating the scene on the canvas in stark fury. She tilts her glass and champagne sparkles down her throat. Each one of her visits to the Met drew her to this same spot to consider the composition through fresh eyes. The towering wave. The people in the three boats under the mercy of the wave's power. The majesty of Mt. Fuji set on a distant horizon. It didn't take much to interpret the embedded message. The artist's stunning use of ink and color captured a visual snapshot of an infinite force of nature versus the mortality of mere men. What the print didn't show was the inevitable end. Andy's mind plays out the rest in graphic intensity: The poised wave swells across the paper and slashes through the vulnerable boats, washing the slate clean. Zero percent survival rate.
And the saddest part about it all? Andy had just cast her and Miranda as two of the people on one of those pitiful boats on the verge of being swallowed whole by a merciless ocean. What would happen when "sink" or "swim" were the only options they had left? Were they even capable of preventing it from reaching that point? Andy downs the glass. Were they already there yet? She feels the hairs on her neck stir. The champagne did little to prevent her from picking up the presence approaching her from across the gallery. Her eyes continue to flow with the wave. For now she left it to her tactical senses to identify her visitor leaving her free to quietly enjoy the print for a few more precious moments.
When the person coming up behind her steps within five feet she had already acquired all the sensory data she needed. Armani leather wing-tips clapping on the marble floor. A spritz of Bvlgari cologne. The clink of onyx cufflinks against a martini glass. All telltale indicators of the person now occupying her personal space.
Andy sighs, "Stand with me for a moment, Nigel," and continues to soak in the expanse of well-lit art.
A slender flute of champagne sways in front of her nose, obscuring the summit of Mt. Fuji on the canvas. For a moment Andy feels like batting it away. "Not a good idea. I've had wine before I got here and I have already added to that order since we've arrived."
Nigel rolls his eyes and presses the champagne into her hand. "Live it up, Six."
"Shut up, Gandalf."
"I did bring you a drink. You might want to rethink your rudeness. Besides you look live you've had enough to drink and that seems like an excellent reason to have another. Now let's not waste this beautiful opportunity and try our best to get secretly buzzed on Runway's dime."
"Keep it secret, keep it safe."
"Wait a flipping minute. I thought I was the flaming wizard in this shire?"
They share a mutual grin and clink glasses. But more than anything they watch the wave in comfortable silence. Andy with her champagne. Nigel with his date for the night, a pretty Cosmopolitan with a cherry hat and a vodka kiss. Eventually they weave through the stylish crowd to view other historical relics and treasures from various Chinese and Indian dynasties. They are interrupted by the random designer, model, or socialite who couldn't resist getting in an eyeful of the charming young woman that snared a dragon that refused to be slayed.
In the clacking halls of Runway and in places far beyond, Andy was a mythical legend come to life. Nigel was convinced it was all of that natural sweetness combined with an enigmatic smile. That powerful combo seemed to melt the hearts of everyone in Andy's vicinity. That smile also incited a train of business cards, promises for free meals and champagne from each person she wove her magic around. It wasn't until Nigel steers her away from her latest pack of admirers did Andy notice the world around her had dulled considerably.
Nigel points to an ancient sculpture carved out of beautiful beige stone as they take a seat on a bench together. "That has next Spring's patterns written all over it."
"Then I feel it's my duty to inform you that it's the Goddess Durga severing the head of a demon buffalo."
Nigel blanches. "Bitter, party of one." He finishes his drink and nudges her shoulder, hoping to jump onto a more interesting topic of conversation. "So Six, do you think a little one is inked into your and Miranda's agenda? Stab me brutally and cut off a limb if I'm stepping over some invisible line here, but whatever you do just don't throw me to your wife as a snack..."
"It's alright Nigel."
"…because Miranda certainly wouldn't like the fact that I'm all gristle and fat. And let's face it, she'd be nuts not to want to put a baby in that gorgeous body of yours."
At Nigel's words, Andy eyes automatically scan the perimeter like a zoom lens, filtering out low-level threats and cocktail conversations. Her eyes coast to a stop and linger on Miranda less than seven feet away. Shit. She had absolutely no problem profiling Nigel from over five feet away. So how had her wife managed to slip past her defenses? She could usually sense the woman no matter what, her scent and energy were as unique as a fingerprint. Andy blinks and analyzes the contents of her glass. Perhaps for once at these soirees, the quality of the champagne had far exceeded its price tag.
She absently plays with the rim of her glass as she watches her wife out of the corner of her eye. Miranda was currently engrossed in a conversation with Irv Ravitz and the Ambassador of the UK. The Editor-in-Chief was poised in her usual domineering stance as she commands the room. Her striking azure eyes remain entirely intent on her subject. But her smile. The smile didn't reverberate within those cherished eyes. The smile seemed to say, "I'm here in body, but never in spirit." She was a free-standing object of wonder, a force of intrigue. It was typical Runway Miranda in all of her formal brilliance.
"That will never happen Nigel. At least not now," Andy smiles tightly through the swift burst of sadness that burns her chest. 'Damn the champagne.' "and maybe not ever," she finishes, tossing the remainder of the amber liquid down her throat.
"Do you guys ever talk about extending the family?"
They had discussed it at length in the beginning. Of course that was when everything was still so fresh and new. Now there was a very short list of boy and girl names collecting dust somewhere in Andy's office. "Not really, she already has kids and I love the twins."
"I know you do, but you're still young yet, my dear. Don't wait until your internal clock demands a battery replacement," Nigel teases.
"I wish it were that simple my friend." Andy's eyes move to her wife again like a magnet. A bright spark of jealousy she hadn't felt since she was thirteen instantly blazes through her as she watches the ambassador lightly caress Miranda's arm in conversation. Andy's gaze helplessly roams over an entity that everyone basked in the glow of, but she could not touch. She feels a sudden urgency to escape that all-consuming glow. "Hey Gandalf, I'm heading to the ladies room and when I come back you better have a plate of h'orderves and another glass of that amazing bubbly in hand," Andy insists in a serious tone and giggles a second later.
"Andy, I'm officially cutting you off," Nigel says, holding her up by the waist.
"Thank you Nigel, but I already have a father," Andy responds seriously, snapping out of his grip with surprising strength. "And if memory serves me correctly, you bear no resemblance to him."
Nigel shakes his head and starts searching for the nearest exit. "Miranda is just going to love dealing with a tipsy Andy," he mutters under his breath as he watches the brunette sway towards the restrooms as if she were balancing on a pair of chopsticks.
He spots his future Mr. Forever near a collection of ancient pottery and flits away from the scene to introduce himself. Making a fool out of himself in front of a cute rich bastard that was ten times out of his league was far more preferable to Miranda's fire any day.
With Miranda it seemed clear. The idea was to avoid controversy as much as possible, to keep all of her vital conversations on comfortable ground tonight. She controlled the dialogue within the elite group surrounding her and left little room for questions about awkward issues—Like how married life was treating her. As soon as Andrea walked away, Miranda turns her attention to the empty bench. She gives the space just enough scrutiny to rewind and play back every single word she had just overheard Andrea and Nigel saying in that exact spot.
"Mrs. Priestly, that relief across the hall. Are you familiar with its particular dynasty?"
Miranda's mind and considerable skills were working overtime to stay attune to her wife even while making deals and cultivating alliances. Miranda discreetly tracks Andrea's path with her eyes, slowing her down to a quarter of her speed. Andrea's pale cheeks were flushed. Eyes dim. All the signs were there. Andrea was riding a bullet train toward inebriation. She watches Andrea pluck another glass of champagne from a waiter before disappearing into the bathroom.
Miranda cast her eyes briefly to the sculpture on a pedestal over ten feet away and responds in soft, chilled tones,"Eastern Ganga dynasty. 13th century. India." She flashes a fake smile at the Ambassador of the UK. "It's most popularly known as…Loving Couple."
Inside the bathroom Andy's sixth glass of champagne of the evening dangles from her fingertips. She slouches against the door and tries to take in her surroundings. It wasn't until the champagne buzz seductively whispers into her ear that the coast was clear did she move over to the row of sinks. She sighs at the young woman staring back at her from the other side of the mirror.
Andy never liked seeking clarity from inebriation, but tonight….
"What the fuck are you doing with your life?" She demands of the reflection in the mirror.
.…liquid therapy seemed to be flowing from the tap.
Andy wipes the angry frown from her reflection with a saucy grin. She flicks herself off. She toasts to her mirror image. Twice. Only then did the champagne vanish from the glass in one strong swallow. She didn't even taste a drop of it.
As the champagne washes away more of her alertness the sharp flush of a toilet echoes through the spacious bathroom. A disturbing twist of awareness creeps into Andy's skull just as a stall door swings open and a woman emerges. Bingo.
There's a cynical lift to the corners of the poisonous mouth smiling behind Andy and directly into her reflection. And when their eyes meet in the mirror Andy's hand clenches. If the world were her proverbial oyster Andy would want nothing more than to pin the other woman down in her Donna Karan dress and carve the smile slowly from that pretty face, slice by cruel slice.
"Well, well, if it's not the lovely, young Mrs. Priestly."
"Well, well if it's the not so lovely and definitely not so young Ms. Follet."
Jacqueline leaves a trail of bitter perfume in the air as she slithers to the sink to wash her hands. "I keep wondering why Miranda is still wasting her time playing in the gutter." she sighs, flicking her fingers in the space between them as if Andy was the world's largest bug on the windshield of life.
"Consider it your lucky night because I happen to have the answer to that." Andy leans over the sink and whispers as if she were revealing a well-kept secret.
"Jealousy. Because she is in love and happily married. Am I right? Nevermind. I know I am." Andy grins, looks around slyly and lets her voice dip low. "And I'm not even going to get into the completely sexually satisfied part." She winks insolently. "One word, Jacky: epic."
Jacqueline examines Andy like a sovereign territory prime for her conquest. The empty glass in the sink was irrefutable evidence of the younger Mrs. Priestly's intoxication. She would be loathed to let this chance slip away. The sweet femme's tongue was loose, her perception dull, all defenses down. It was either her or a leaked tip to the media that would reap the rewards of this night. Jacqueline Follet's mental hands rubbed together gleefully. She only had one motto in life: Divide and conquer, then conquer some more.
"You think you are smart, don't you?" Jacqueline asks her over her shoulder as she dries her hands. "But you are not," she glares at her, "you are young. Stupid."
"Since we're swapping adjectives here—you are old and bitter. I feel sorry for you," Andy seethes without looking up. Andy knew that she was beyond buzzed. She was also regrettably aware enough to know that her empty champagne flute was a physical example of herself—drained empty and left behind. And it pissed off the more rational side of herself like crazy. To this end she keeps her gaze casually on the glass and lets the most sadistic part of herself fall out of her mouth instead.
"You tried to get her job and failed. You tried to have her ex husband and failed, even when I thought you would be doing her a favor. Now you are using that same sense of adolescent-worthy rhetoric to fuck with my nerves. But since it's such a beautiful night I will give you free and non-redeemable advice," Andy's stare clawed into her openly now. "Don't try to test my patience tonight. You. Will. Fail."
As Andy's words fly in one ear and catapults rapidly out of the other Jacqueline smirks like a hyena scenting fresh meat. 'My, my, my. Such fire.' She had to give it to her nemesis; Miranda had impeccable taste in fashion and women. This fiery young thing was welcome to come warm her bed on her choice of nights. No invitation needed.
"She will do with you what she did with everybody that served her purposes already." Jacqueline closes the distance between them with each click of her stilettos on the marble floor.
"Miranda always does three things."
Click.
"Un: She makes you fall in love with her."
Click.
"Deux: She pretends to love you back..."
Click.
"Trois… and then she leaves you." Jacqueline was close enough for her breath to caress Andy's cheek as it absorbs each of those painful words. When the girl's breath hitches she licks her lips and went in for the kill. "I wonder in which stage she is with you right now."
'Miranda would never...' Andy chuckles, shaking her head. "You have serious issues woman."
"Do I?" Jacqueline coos. She subtly brushes the back of her hand delicately up the butter soft fabric of Andy's dress as she shrugs."Tell me the last time you made love with her." Jacqueline's eyes gleam fanatically. "The last time she made you come." The accented words snake softly into Andy's ear. "Tell me how many times you have to masturbate because your sex life with her now is nothing more than a vague memory."
Jacqueline's hand delicately ascends Andy´s bare arm as if it were the most delightful plaything in existence. Her voice works just enough sorcery to push Andy deeper into her golden inebriation. "You deserve a woman that can satisfy your young appétit." Her plum painted nails slink up Andy's shoulder and sinks into the supple skin there. "That can treat you the way you deserve, ma chérie."
Jacqueline stares wildly into Andy's doe eyes. She fully understands how Miranda failed to resist this fine feminine specimen and she had every intention of ignoring her own resistance as well. Her fingers crawl in closer for a taste of Andy's flesh. The girl's body heat and innocent sex appeal make her feel hungry and malevolent. Couple that with the fact that she was about to have a piece of what Miranda Priestly took for granted every day made the Frenchwoman's skin tingle and her breathing seep rapidly from her nostrils.
Forget tomorrow and the day after. Right now. Right this moment, the young Priestly bride was hers for the taking. Such power was delicious. So delicious it should be illeg-"Fuck! Dieu!"
Jacqueline lets out a string of colorful obscenities in French as the bones in her hand protest loudly against the treatment Andy was now giving it. Jacqueline looks stunned over the little display of strength.
Alcohol certainly dulled the senses and made clowns out of the most respectful of people, but Andy still had enough dexterity at her beck and call to snatch Jacqueline's hand so fast that the older woman was stumbling backwards against the sinks, wobbling in her Jimmy Choos, before she could even register Andy's movement.
As Jacqueline's hips hit the rim of the sink she grins. 'No, not a fire. A full blown blaze.' She tested the waters, moving cautiously and eventually feels Andy's hand relax against her own. They pause, staying that way as Jacqueline bites her lip in victory, watching Andy's walls crumble one by one.
Andy didn't notice the bathroom filling up loudly with their heated breaths or Jacqueline's hand still lurking near her dress. But through her drunken haze Andy was well aware of whom her body belonged to and the only person that could touch and worship her body until she screams her pleasure and her praise. Jacqueline Follet would always pale in comparison and measure to her wife, but that reality didn't stop Andy from feeling weakened by the doubts that had occupied a troubled space inside of her heart all evening.
Every muscle in Andy's body suddenly felt lax. Her body was fully succumbing to the alcohol that was acting like morphine for her emotional pain. She was lost inside herself, not seeing Jacqueline, not seeing the artful decor of the restroom. Instead she looks out over a sad terrain littered with remnants of a failing marriage and the emotional fatigue that resulted in her inability to let go and give it all up. Because giving it all up would result in a worse type of failure. Failure was never an option. At least where Miranda was concerned.
Jacqueline softly smacks her lips together, leans in with all of the sleekness of a serpent, and tosses her final chip onto the table. "The night is young and I have a car waiting outside..."
Behind Andy the restroom door cracks open. The resonance of Norah Jones' rich voice, the din of cocktail conversations, and the joyous ring of champagne flutes clinking together pour into the restroom. Another pair of heels echoes into the room, then the door closes and silence reigns.
Flares of horrid awareness skitter down Jacqueline's spine and her entire body tenses.
By the terrified expression splashed across Jacqueline's face, Andy was one hundred percent certain to whom the third pair of heels belonged to without even turning around to confirm the fact.
Miranda instantly decides that she could handle this one of two ways: the obvious way is to break every single one of the 206 bones in Jacqueline's body slowly and excruciatingly. Rules and bones were, of course, made to be broken. Her hand suddenly itches for her katana sword. Scratch that. She didn't want to scare Andrea with the gruesomeness of such a scene.
And the second way…
"Take your hands off of her, now."
As soon as the icy words drop from Miranda's mouth the bathroom froze into a glacial landscape. The Editor was well aware of the fact that she was a natural predator that didn't have to move to get what she wanted. Plus, her words often held more power than her actions on most days.
"Miranda…" Jacqueline steps from around Andy immediately and swallows audibly. "…she is drunk. I-I was simply trying to assist her," she stutters, grasping at a faulty explanation—originality had never been her strong suit. The Frenchwoman quickly starts to consider which would be more effective: leaping out of the third floor bathroom window and risk breaking her neck or facing Miranda Priestly head on right now.
"Lovely." Miranda stalks further into the room, her snowy forelock dancing across her raised eyebrow. "And do you honestly think inducing vomiting by trying to shove your tongue down my wife's throat is an appropriate level of assistance?"
Andy looks behind her to meet Miranda eyes that have hardened to dark pinpricks beneath elegant eyebrows, in a face she hardly recognizes at all. Miranda's eyes glint with an unfamiliar shade of cold intensity. Andy tries not to gasp when she recognizes the emotion frozen within the blue depths: Pure rage.
It was then that Andy realizes that Miranda could never be any of the helpless people on the boats in Hokusai's "The Great Wave". No, Miranda was the wave itself. A potent force of nature poised to crash down, consuming all of them in its raw power.
"Hi baby." Andy hiccups, pivots and almost loses her balance in the process.
Miranda had previously calculated the amount of champagne Andrea had the entire evening. Add that to the knowledge that Andrea wasn't used to consuming so much in such little time. The reality that Jacqueline Follet was clearly taking advantage of that fact made her unleash a venomous look on the Frenchwoman that should have vaporized her on the spot. Raw hostility oozes out of every pore on the Editor like poison from a scorpion sting.
"Leave. Now."
The Editor articulates each word with the emphasis of a threat. She would deal with Jacqueline later. Page Six would triple in sells after receiving anonymous and lewd color photos of Mr. Follet greased into a pair of leather, assless chaps. And what would really stab her vengeance home is the clear presence of his underage, Taiwanese mistress in each shot as she brutally flogs his hideous ass with a vintage riding cop. She had paid a mint for the originals and the digital backups. Luckily in this scandal-hungry world, filth sells.
After she was done with her, Jacqueline wouldn't even be able to find a safe haven in outer space. And only then would she reconsider picking her off from a dark rooftop with her beloved Remington 700 rifle.
Jacqueline didn't need any more incentive to vacate the premises. She slips by Miranda with her back pressing close to the wall. She turns around rebelliously at the last moment to blow a flirtatious kiss toward Andy behind Miranda's back, lips flicking into a grin as she exits the bathroom.
No matter. Miranda had an appropriate trap to hide in Jacqueline's path like a ticking time bomb. There was more than one way to fatally wound her prey. Jacqueline Follet would bleed before the week was over. Meanwhile the Editor was already taking great satisfaction in killing the Frenchwoman off in her mind in her own sadistic, mental movie reel. She looked forward to sending Jacqueline directly to her own private hell: death by a thousand, humiliating cuts.
'Touch what's mine? Kiss your mortality goodbye. Fuck the repercussions.'
Miranda moves into Andy's vicinity by osmosis. One moment she is five feet away and the next she is standing quietly beside Andy, exuding an oasis of calm.
"What did she say to you?"
"Nothing that wasn't true." Andy replies, sighing heavily.
"Humor me and be more specific, Andrea."
"Why? You wouldn't do anything to change the reality of that truth anyway. Don't you dare stand there and pretend that you care." Andy's eyes meet hers defiantly before flashing away.
"You should be well aware of the fact that Jacqueline is willing to do or say anything to get what she wants, so I highly recommend that you forget everything she told you."
Andy opens her mouth to say something but she starts to laugh instead.
"Roy will take you home and we will continue this discussion in the morning. You are obviously in no condition to have an adult conversation." Miranda opens her Hermes Birkin clutch to retrieve her cell phone.
"Why?" Andy had stopped laughing; her pale features were now as hard and impenetrable as a rock. "So you can stay and continue your chit-chat with the ambassador?" Andy raises an accusing finger in the air between them. "Who by the way was fucking flirting with you the entire fucking night!"
"Keep your voice down." There's steel interwoven within the threat in Miranda's voice. "You are speaking utter nonsense."
"Am I, Miranda? Because from what I was witnessing you were speaking a little too close with lots of touching."
"You are considerably drunk, Andrea. You have no idea what you are talking about." Miranda hisses, trying to capture the brunette's arm.
"I'm not drunk, I'm insightful," Andy replies through clenched teeth. She sweeps her arm out of Miranda's reach. "And why do you care if I'm drunk or not?" Andy asks, bringing her face within inches of Miranda´s.
'Because I love you.'
"Because you are still my wife," Miranda answers grimly.
"Still?" Andy absorbs the word like a bullet. She stares at the Editor, her eyes demanding the answer to the unspoken portion of her question.
Miranda's reputation in the fashion world and within covert circles had always been based on her uncanny ability to think on her feet at all times, but there was certainly one brown-eyed exception to this truth. Andrea had always wielded the power of distorting her mental processes. Tonight was no different.
The silence that followed Andy's outburst stretches like a tangible gulf between them and before Miranda could form a proper reply the door opens and the sounds of the party push into the restroom once more.
Both of their eyes shoot to the unfortunate soul who had invaded the private and emotionally-charged moment. As Melania Trump steps inside, Andy turns away while Miranda glares viciously at Donald's latest trophy wife. The flash of cool disgust in her blue eyes could only be interpreted in two ways: Wrong time. Wrong bathroom. Melania was glued to the floor in a trance due to the thick bed of emotion she had obviously stumbled into.
"Get. Out." were Miranda's only words.
"I…I'm sorry Miranda," Melania babbles, backing out of the door and completely forgetting her need to relieve her bladder.
As Melania's retreating footsteps fade into silence Miranda turns her attention to Andrea once again. Her wife's dark hair shimmers under the soft lighting in the room and a sweet burst of memory of that silken hair against her body sweeps through the Editor. She feels oddly ashamed and absolutely broken watching Andrea lost in the domain of her own dark thoughts. Is this what heartbreak felt like? One impossibly large, raw nerve? Miranda watches as Andrea blinks at her and tries to straighten under her gaze; she seemed to be pushing her shoulders up against the weight of depression.
"You look beautiful in that dress tonight," Miranda said out of the blue. "If that is even possible." Miranda gives her a genuine smile and Andy feels her heart dissolve into a puddle of sensation that only one woman could elicit.
"Thank you," Andy answers with a shy smile. "I'm glad you noticed."
"I always notice everything about you, Andrea." Miranda caresses her cheek with the back of her knuckles making Andy flutter her eyes close at the velvety touch.
"Then why do I feel as if you don't?" When Andy opens those honey-colored eyes again Miranda felt her gut seize. "Why do I feel like we are losing each other?" Her hoarse voice breaks with each word that tumbles from her full lips. "If it's my fault please tell me and I will try to fix it. I'd die to fix it, baby. Just..just...please...let me fix it. Dammit, you have to let met fix this, Miranda!"
Tears burn behind her eyes so fast, Andy had to blink hard to keep the stinging moisture at bay. No. Not in front of Miranda. It was a well known fact that Miranda Priestly didn't tolerate many things and weakness happened to be quite high on the list. Emotions were leaking rapidly around the alcohol and Andy did her best to swallow the emotions back as she tries to gain some measure of control.
They stand there facing each other and for a moment, for an inexplicable and wondrous moment, Andy watches the mask fall from the Editor's heartbreakingly, beautiful face.
Miranda feels her heart fall to its knees. She had learned in her experience that like any covert mission, promises and lies had their own degree of danger. She wishes she could tell Andrea that she is equally afraid of losing her. And if it's anyone's fault than it was her fault to own. Instead, she kisses Andrea´s forehead feeling the skin warm and alive beneath her lips. Perfect love may very well be rare indeed, but there was a certain madness in that truth.
"Let's go home, we will save this discussion for another time and a better ambience," Miranda intones softly, stepping back.
"Will you go home with me?" Andy asks hopefully.
"Yes." Miranda places her hand on the small of Andy´s back and guides her out of the bathroom.
Later that night after Miranda finally helps Andrea to their bed and lies down next to her; Andrea turns around, pulls Miranda´s body close to her and snuggles deep into her sweet warmth.
"I could kill the dwarf ambassador with two fingers if I wanted to," Andy slurs, still visibly drunk and starts to snore lightly two seconds later.
"I'm sure you could," Miranda smiles. She kisses the silky, dark head that was resting comfortably on her chest.
Unlike the huge abyss that had filled the space between them for quite some time in their marriage, tonight everything seems be forgotten and they were able to sleep wrapped in each other's arms like a genuine couple. All they could do is cling to each other in their bed. Their warm embrace held everything. The embrace was the lid. Until tomorrow of course.
TBC…