We arrive at the airport, and to my surprise, she doesn't take us to the usual check-in desks, but to a desk for private flight bookings. From there we are taken by airport personnel to an extension of the terminal, where a private lounge welcomes us. A quick scan through security and we are allowed to enter.
Andrea guides me to a seat, and I sit, too numb to question what is going on around me.
"They're just fuelling up, and then we can board," Andrea informs me quietly, squeezing my hand lightly, before getting her cell out. She sits there firing off messages, but I have no interest in who she is messaging. All I care about is getting aware from here. Getting somewhere safe, away from the prying, judgemental eyes of the media.
I was not sure how she managed to book us into a private lounge, but I am sagging with the relief of not needing to maintain my Runway mask for the masses. She sits quietly beside me and I take comfort from the steady sounds of her breaths as they enter and then leave her body again.
A member of staff comes to collect us, taking our suitcases from us and putting them on to a trolley, which they push for us. We are taken down a long narrow corridor, to a tunnel, that takes us on to what I immediately recognise to be a private jet. I look at her in confusion, but she shushes me.
"I'll explain everything later," she assures me, and I let her quiet my questions.
I slept much better than I thought I would on the plane, falling asleep straight after take-off.
Emotions always did exhaust me so, and I find that travelling on a red-eye flight might be the most ironic thing to happen to me for a while. I want nothing more than to give in and let myself cry until my eyes are red-rimmed and sore.
I can't though. Not yet.
No one will see my devastation, that much I have promised myself. The only exception to that is Andrea. She knows even without witnessing the falling of my tears, just how devastated I am. Her ever expressive eyes are so full of sympathy when she glances in my direction, I know that I am unable to hide anything from her. I'm not sure I want to, anymore.
Andrea has woken me, and I sit up to take the coffee she has in her hand. It's not the finest blend I have ever had the pleasure of tasting, but it is scalding hot and enough to wake me up fully.
"We'll be landing in about an hour. I thought you might appreciate a coffee and the chance to freshen up before we have to leave the plane," she tells me, always so considerate of my needs. I know I must look ashen and shell shocked, despite my continued success in not giving in to my emotional distress.
"Thank you, Andrea."
A slight look of shock chases across her face, as she acknowledges my spoken gratitude, but I truly am grateful. She has organised all of this without any assistance from me. A horrible thought occurs to me, as I realise that she has paid for all the travel so far. A private car and driver to the airport, what can only be a private jet, and she told me at the hotel that there is a car waiting for us when we land. This must have cost her an exorbitant amount of money.
Normally all travel is booked using my Runway credit card, but that is no longer an option. I have given Andrea a card on my personal account, in case she ever needs to buy anything for the girls, but I know she doesn't like to carry it around. She will only carry it with her if she is with the girls and will need it. So I know without asking that she won't have brought it with us to Paris, where it was expected that all expenses would be covered by Runway.
"I should have given you my credit card. I will pay you back as soon as we land," I hurry to reassure her, reaching out with my hand and placing it over the top of hers, to gain her attention. She blushes slightly, and I withdraw, not wanting to make my former assistant uncomfortable.
"It's fine. I've taken care of it," she smiles, shrugging her shoulders dismissively, "you can buy us dinner." Her hair is loose and falls into her face as she shrugs, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and tucking it back behind her ear.
"I know how much you get paid, Andrea. You can't possibly afford a private jet on your salary, or the cost of having our things shipped to your apartment," I tell her, frowning, "and not to mention the car and driver."
I am horrified that I have only just realised how much she must have paid out, whilst I was busy staring into the bathroom mirror in the hotel suite, not functioning.
I see her shaking her head, and stop her, "it was a horrible oversight on my behalf, and I apologise. I will rectify the situation when we land."
"The jet didn't cost anything, it belongs to a friend of mine who lives in Paris. She owed me a favour, and was happy to lend it to us. The rest of it is no trouble, I promise," she tries to explain.
I open my mouth to interrupt, but she shushes me for the second time today and again, I let her, though not understanding why I have done so. I am burning with questions though. How is it that my assistant has a friend that will just loan her a private aircraft without charge? I realise how little I actually know about her or her life outside of the office.
"No, Miranda." She is firm, as she looks at me, "it's all taken care of, ok? Please, just trust me. I don't need your money, and I don't want it. Please will you let me do this for you?"
How can I resist her when she looks at me with those beautiful eyes and begs me so sweetly? Her expression is kind, but her chin is set determinedly, and I can see a touch of defiance shining through. There will be no changing her mind on this. I hear myself agreeing, and she smiles brightly at me. At that moment I know that I have done the right thing because how could making her smile ever be wrong?
I am dazed when I realise that we have landed, gone through the airport, and now I am in a car, driving on my way to… where? Andrea is at the wheel, and appears to know where she is going without the need for the inbuilt sat-nav. The flight took all night, and now we are driving in the morning sun as it peeks over the horizon. What started as main roads, are now narrow and winding, with high hedges, and lined by trees. When we pass the entrance to fields, I can see frost on the ground in the places that the sun hasn't touched yet.
Andrea glances across at me, only briefly taking her eyes off of the road.
"The girls are waiting for your call. I sent them a message last night and explained we were leaving Paris early," she tells me.
"What do they know?" I ask, dreading my upcoming conversation with them.
"They are inquisitive girls, but I asked them to trust me and that you would explain everything to them today. All I told them was that we were leaving and that you were ok."
Of course, my girls would have trusted her when she asked them to.
They adore each other, and Andrea has been there for them when I could not, over the last few years. She is the only assistant that they have grown close to, but their relationship has blossomed under her sweet attention. Her connection to them is truly unbreakable, and I wouldn't want to do so. I would normally be wary about allowing anyone, especially an assistant, to become close with my girls. Andrea, once again, is different. She is an exception to every rule I have ever lived by.
She has become an indispensable part of not only my life, but theirs too before I even realised it had happened. It's far too late to change it now, and I know I wouldn't want to, even if this means that one day my heart will ache from the loss of her. If this is all that I can have, then I will take every single moment that I can of her in my life.
Will they be happy that I have left Runway? Will I be able to hide my grief from them? They are 11 years old now, so maybe they are deserving of the truth.
I pick up my cell and press the dial icon, smiling when their voices greet me. Some of the tension inside of me settles somewhat when I hear their voices.
"Mom!"
"Hello, my little loves. Are you both ok?"
They reassure me that they are fine and having a nice time with their father, though they are less than complimentary about his new girlfriend. I have to agree with them. She is an aspiring actress, vapid and vain, and I am positive that she is only with my ex-husband because of his wealth and status. However, since I am sure he is only with her because of her looks and body, then I guess they are perfect for each other.
There is a brief silence, and then Cassidy speaks up.
"What happened, Mom? Page Six says that you were fired, but the style section in The Times reported that you had stepped down and were retiring?"
I take a deep breath and close my eyes briefly before I answer.
"I wish I could tell you that I retired, but that wouldn't be true. One of the Elias-Clarke board members forced me to step down," I explain as briefly as possible. I had promised my girls that I would always be truthful with them, and I am not about to start compromising my values now. They are old enough to know how the world works.
"Was it Irv?" Caroline asks me bluntly.
How would she know that? They have always been incredibly observant girls, Caroline especially, but I have no idea how she could have gained this knowledge.
"We hear things, Mom, when we come to Runway. The clackers are always gossiping in the break room," Caroline continues, answering my internal questions.
I cringe at the nickname for my employees that they have picked up from Andrea. I turn in my seat to glare at her, but my expression drops the moment I see the cheeky smile she is trying to hide at my daughter's words.
"Yes, it was Irving. It's not the first time he has tried to remove me, but this time he was successful," I tell her, cringing when I hear my voice breaking.
Andrea's hand reaches out and is placed lightly on my thigh. She squeezes once, letting me know that she can feel my pain, and then she removes it, placing it back on the wheel. She is a diligent driver, and nothing will distract her from the road for long, but I appreciate the small gesture of support.
I am momentarily distracted from my conversation with my girls though, relishing in that small moment of having her soft warm palm on my leg. I could feel her heat through the thin material of the pants I am wearing, and I yearn to feel her hand against my bare skin.
"What are you going to do now, Mom?" Cassidy asks, bringing my attention back. I can hear the hope in her tone. My children miss me and I hope it's not too late to build a better relationship with them. I know I don't have long to try before they are too old to care how much time I spend with them. Too soon, they will only want to spend time with their friends, and not their Mom.
I am unsure if she means immediately, or now that I am no longer Editor-in-Chief, but I decide to answer both questions. They deserve my openness and honesty, no matter how difficult it is to answer their questions.
"I'm not sure. We are going to spend some time away from New York, while you are at your father's, and hopefully whilst we're there, I will be able to figure it out," I tell them as truthfully as possible.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm not sure, one moment, Cassidy. We flew into Portland, Maine, but I am unsure where we are headed."
I turn to Andrea, "the girls would like to know where we're going?"
"Bristol. Well, just outside," she smiles at me, before turning back to the road again.
"We're going to Bristol," I tell my girls, feeling bemused. Why has Andrea chosen this place? Is it as completely random as it seems?
A small mischievous smile is dancing at the corners of her mouth, and I suddenly have the overwhelming sense that there is nothing random about this at all. My curiosity is peaked, and I suspect that this place holds some relevance for Andrea that I am, as yet, unaware of.
"Will you call us tomorrow, Mom?" Caroline asks me, "you can take us on a video tour."
"I will call you, my little loves, I promise," I reassure her.
"I'm sorry you're sad, Mom, and you don't have to hide it from us. We're not children anymore and we know how much Runway meant to you," Cassidy tells me, and I almost break at the unexpected compassion from my daughter. She has always been the most vocal in her displeasure, when I have been late or not turned up to an important event.
"Thank you, girls. I will be ok, I'm sure. Andrea will take care of me," I tell them, knowing how much they are worried about me. They trust Andrea though, and that will settle them, I am confident.
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, feeling empty, but at the same time slightly better for hearing their voices. They have always been a light in my darkest of days, and my love for them has pulled me out of many moments of depression in the past.
I must have fallen asleep again, because Andrea is shaking my shoulder, and informing me that we need to pick up supplies.
I glean from that nugget of information that we are not staying in a hotel and get out of the car to join her. We have pulled up outside of a small convenience store, in the middle of nowhere, and I wonder if she knew it was here or if it was a lucky guess. I could ask her, but I am enjoying the sensation of warmth, that her caring gives me inside. That feeling of being the subject of her attentiveness, as she takes care of every little detail of our trip so far.
We walk around the store and pick out some ingredients to make basic meals for a few days. She surprises me by picking up a bottle of my favourite whisky.
People always assume that I only drink the most exclusive whisky, one that has been ageing in a barrel for at least 30 years. I receive gifts from designers and people who want to work with Runway, though personally, I perceive them to be not very well disguised bribes. The gifts are always extortionate in price, based on an assumption that the Ice Queen only enjoys the best.
I have humble roots though, and the monetary value of an item is not something that will ever sway me personally. My favourite whisky is a brand that originated in the UK. It was relatively inexpensive and the staple for me on many a night out when I was younger, working my way through college in London. I should not be surprised that Andrea knows this about me, but it still astonishes me that she has figured this out.
"Tonight we drink whisky," she tells me grinning, "but we'll get some wine for the rest of the week."
"It does seem like an occasion for whisky, doesn't it," I agree, putting it back and replacing it with the bigger bottle. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right, Andrea," I feel myself grinning back at her, as she laughs.
We go to the checkout, and I pull out my card and pay. She doesn't argue with me and just offers me a small smile of appreciation.
"It's not far now," she says excitedly, opening the door and getting into the car.
"Have you been here before?" I ask curiously.
"My friend and her mother had a house in this area," she replies, but I can tell that this is not everything. There is something more that connects her to this place. Her excitement is palpable and her eyes have considerably brightened.
We pull out of the parking lot and just as she said, within a few minutes we are turning into a small lane, barely wide enough for two cars to pass by each other. The lane leads up to a gorgeous modern, glass-fronted chalet, overlooking a lake. The lake is still, lapping quietly at the shore, and out at the end of a short jetty is a small boathouse.
The chalet is angular in design, and imposing in structure, but is softened by the off-white it has been painted. It is surrounded by plants in all manner of pots and troughs, and despite its ultra-modern design, it manages to look like a home instead of just a house. On one side there is a patio and I can see a grill near a seating area.
It's beautiful, all set on one level, and I know immediately why she has brought me here. This is a refuge. A hiding place from the world. It's exactly what I need while I lick my wounds and recover.
She lifts our suitcases effortlessly from the trunk, and I find myself lost in yet another fantasy about being held in those arms. She would hold me securely and I would know that no matter what else was going on, I was safe from the world.
I have to stop myself from thinking about her in this way. We will be staying close to each other, without the distraction of it being fashion week, and I cannot allow her to discover my feelings. I cannot lose her now. Not when I know I need her so much.
Shaking myself from my thoughts I realise she is waiting for me. We pull our cases up the short path to the door, and she stops to pick up a plant pot. There is nothing underneath it, so she goes on to the next one and looks again.
"There is meant to be a key left for us under a plant pot by the door," she explains unnecessarily, as she starts rapidly lifting each pot along the front of the house.
Spotting what looks like a small rock placed unnaturally in the top of one of the pots, I ask her, "are you sure it was 'under' and not 'in' a plant pot?" I point to the rock I had spotted and she lifts it.
"Ah-ha! You're not just a pretty face, are you, Miranda?!" She winks at me then, picking up the hidden key and opening the front door.
She has no idea she has left me frozen to the spot, blushing like a teenager with her first crush.
Did Andrea just call me pretty? I am plagued with a pale complexion, so it is a blessing that no one normally can make me blush. Andrea has always broken through my defences though, and I can feel the heat searing my cheeks, down my neck and chest.
She must see my blush because she looks at me concerned, "I'm so sorry, I've obviously made you uncomfortable and that was inappropriate of me."
I don't have the opportunity to correct her before she darts into the house with her suitcase, her head hanging in defeat, and I wonder why she is affected this way. Does she not mean it? Or does she think I don't want to hear it? Andrea is professional to the point of obsession about being the best assistant she can be, so she may be purely berating herself for what she sees as overstepping her role. She is not my assistant anymore though, and I am not sure where that leaves us.
Inside the front door, I know my mouth is hanging open, and I snap it close. It's stunningly decorated. It is such an incredible blend of modern with cabin chic that I immediately start planning a photoshoot in my head for the new Valentino collection. Another wave of exhaustion hits me as I remember that I am no longer Editor-in-Chief of Runway, and therefore it is very unlikely that I will be involved in a fashion shoot any time soon.
Andrea turns into the hallway to the left, and beckons for me to follow. She opens the first door, and steps inside.
"I'll take this one. The master suite is at the end," she tells me and I wonder when she had the chance to look at floor plans for this place.
"I need to shower and change. I'm sure you wish to freshen up too? Shall we reconvene afterwards, for a late lunch?" I ask her.
I am sure she must be as hungry as I am. We missed dinner last night, leaving the event before the meal was served. This mornings offering of a pastry on the plane was not something that my stomach could handle, as I had found myself unable to eat. It took a while to get through the airport, and then we collected the car and started driving. It's past lunchtime now, and I am finally ready to eat, after nearly 24 hours without anything.
"That sounds perfect," she tells me, so I leave her there and continue down the hallway to the door at the end.
I'm astonished when I open the door. The room is enormous and on the wall is a painting I have searched high and low for since I was first introduced to the artist's work.
I attended a gallery in Manhattan last year and had fallen in love with a pair of paintings, but when I had attempted to buy them both I was denied. One of them was not for sale, but it had been part of the display to compliment the one I had purchased.
Now, I'm furious. If another buyer was on the scene then I should have been allowed to bid on it. I would have paid triple if I had to, to have this one too.
I decide right now that I will make the owner of this house an offer that they simply can't refuse. I am not used to being thwarted, and I won't start now. This painting will be mine, I will make sure of it.
The artist has always evoked such emotion in me, but this painting touched me the most. It is a portrait of two androgynous figures, facing each other, and still to this day I am unsure of their gender. It doesn't matter to me though. The overwhelming love that you can see in their expressions when they gaze at each other draws you in, and my heart always beats a little faster.
I quickly unpack my case into the waiting closet and drawer unit, pleased with the selection that Andrea has picked out for me. I reach the bottom of the suitcase and find my lingerie neatly placed under my nightwear, and I feel my skin heating up. Not only has Andrea seen my most intimate garments, and what I wear to bed, but she has touched them.
I stare out of the window, at the lake and the hills in the distance as I contemplate Andrea's actions. What did she think when she was packing my clothes? Was she thinking what I would prefer and be most comfortable in? Or did she choose the outfits she had a preference for me wearing?
I have to tell myself to stop. It is pointless to indulge in this fantasy. She is efficient, and would undoubtedly have just chosen what was most suitable for the climate and environment we now find ourselves in. Still, seeing my best La Perla lingerie in the selection she has made for me, torments my already overstimulated brain with visions of her peeling them off of me.
How I wish she had chosen them, just because she liked the way they looked on me, but I know that will never be true. Sadness washes over me like a tidal wave. It threatens to drown me and I struggle to breathe. I don't want to give in. I don't want them to win. Even though Irving is not here, I don't want to give him the satisfaction of reducing me to a weeping mess.
I strip off quickly and head into the bathroom. The shower comes up to temperature remarkably quickly, and within seconds I am under the scorching heat. It's almost uncomfortably hot, but I relish in the burn. My stomach rumbles and I realise that I am hungry, so I hurriedly wash my hair and body.
Less than 15 minutes later, I am wrapped in a soft towel, trying to decide what to wear. I am always dressed impeccably at Runway. Even at home, until there is no chance of running into an assistant, delivering the book, I am dressed in business casual at the very least.
I know what I want to wear. I found a pair of yoga pants tucked away in my case, and a soft cashmere sweater that is perfect for comfort, but what will Andrea think of me wearing such a thing? It occurs to me then that she has seen my yoga pants, and chose to pack them for me, so I decide to wear them and hope she won't be too disgusted seeing me as myself for a change. It is very much what anyone would wear, relaxing at home, but it just so happens to be designed by the likes of Versace and Chanel. It is an upscale version of what any of the regular masses might deign to wear. It is very different to my Runway persona though, I know. I can only trust that a glimpse behind the veil will not send her running from me.
I apply light makeup because I can see that I look drained. I have black bags under my eyes, highlighted by the paleness of my skin. I don't normally have a lot of colour, but now I have none, and it makes my obvious fatigue much more noticeable.
I pick up my laptop and cell and go in hunt of Andrea. As I open the door to the hallway, I can smell the aroma of coffee, and for the first time in my life, I don't crave it.
Andrea is waiting for me in the kitchen and has apparently gotten herself acquainted with it already. She is wearing a washed out pair of jeans with rips across the thigh, and a maroon hooded sweatshirt. Her feet are bare, as is her face, and her hair is pulled back into a messy bun. I have never seen her look so beautiful, as she stands there preparing food for us.
It is a stab to my chest just how domestic it is to walk in and see her preparing ingredients to cook for us. I can't cope with the knowledge that this will never be us. That this will never be mine.
That she will never be mine.
I pick up the bottle of whisky from the counter and turn to see her watching me carefully.
"I thought you said we were drinking," I ask her curtly, averting my own eyes from the compassion I know I will find in hers.
