Andrea just smiles, wisely ignoring my harsh tone, "I wasn't sure what you wanted first, so there is coffee too." She takes the bottle back from me and places it on the counter.

She turns and reaches absentmindedly into a cupboard behind her. The kitchen has been decorated in a style I recognise to be shabby-chic, and the cream of the walls and units is warm and inviting. The floor is a light wood, and I can see that it is well worn, but it feels very homey and perfectly matches the overall look of the kitchen. She pulls out two whisky glasses with a flared base and a wide rim. The tulip-shaped copita glass is perfect for enjoying not just the flavour, but also the aroma of the amber liquid.

It's a casual action, one born of familiarity and I can't help but wonder just how long it took me to shower. Her hair is wet, so I know she has showered too, and that must have taken some time. The faint scent of the coconut shampoo I know she favours, reaches me from across the kitchen. Yet as I watch, she is moving around the kitchen pulling out dishes and pans as though she has been doing it her whole life and not just the half an hour we were apart.

She is wasted as an assistant, and I have known this since the moment I interviewed her. The fire inside of her, when she stood her ground and said her piece, always impressed me, not that I could have allowed her to see that. I hated the fact that I had to tear her down so often, but I couldn't be seen to show any kind of affection towards my much younger assistant. I couldn't risk anyone becoming aware of my inappropriate feelings for her.

She is bright, capable, resourceful and more than efficient. I should have encouraged her to leave Runway a long time ago so that she could pursue her dreams, but I was selfish and kept her close. I had to. The thought of life without her in it, even if only as my employee, doesn't bear thinking about.

I wonder why she came so willingly with me. I meant to offer her a position as my assistant but she agreed to come before I even had the chance to proposition her.

In what capacity is she here? Did she guess that I was going to offer her a position working for me? Or is she here as my friend? It's doubtful, but anything is possible. Or worse, and I don't think I want to know if this one is true; is she here only because she feels pity for me?

I hear her say my name and realise I have yet again become lost in my thoughts. I look across at her and she is waiting patiently, with a glass in her hand, holding it out to me. I am relieved to note that she has poured a decent measure, but even as I think that, I know it will not be enough to bury the pain I am feeling.

I take the glass and down the contents in one, banging it down on the counter more heavily than I would have liked. "Another," I demand tersely.

She pours me another, but I note she has made it slightly smaller as if to counter my irresponsible approach to drinking. I know I shouldn't do this, but I once again swallow the contents in their entirety.

"I'm making us food, Miranda. Please will you eat something before you drink more?"

I'm surprised by her question, "you're not telling me not to drink? You're just telling me to eat first?" I ask her.

"If you want to drink, after everything that has happened, then I don't blame you," she shrugs, "but I don't want you to feel worse than you probably will tomorrow if I can help it."

She cares, I can see that. So I find myself agreeing, against my natural aversion to being told what to do.

"You have a deal, Andrea. What are you making?"

"Grilled cheese, with salad onions and bell peppers inside," she grins, "I know you don't eat many carbs but they will be better in your stomach if you're drinking heavily."

"Carbs, Andrea? Really?" I can't help but roll my eyes, but my stomach rumbles again and I realise I like the sound of what she is preparing. I look at her and she is smirking like she knows that I am looking forward to breaking my strict no-carbs policy.

"Everything is prepared. I'm just going to the shed at the back, to get us some logs for the fire," she tells me, as she walks out the door.

I know I have promised to eat, but the whisky is calling to me and I pour myself another shot. This time I go to the freezer, in search of an ice cube, telling myself I will drink it slowly.

She arrives back with an armful of logs and asks me to assist her.

"There is a cupboard in the living room, to the left of the fire, where logs are stored. Can you open the door for me please?"

I walk through to the other room and pull on the handle of the cupboard. It doesn't open so I try to twist the handle, grunting with frustration in a most unbecoming way, when it doesn't turn.

"I think it turns the other way," she tells me lightly, and I turn to glare at her. I have been turning handles on doors my entire life, all by myself, so I surely know which direction to turn it by now.

"Just try it," she asks sweetly, and because I can't resist her quiet pleading, I do as she requests. The damn thing opens at once.

She has the nerve to giggle, and I glare harder, as she puts the logs in the cupboard and stacks them neatly.

"It will be nice in here later," she informs me, as she points to the ceiling to floor glass wall, "the windows are west facing and so we will see the sun setting. The view will be amazing."

I look and realise that she is right. If I was here with anyone else, and they were telling me about the amazing view we will have of the sunset, whilst sitting by a log fire, drinking whisky together, then I would have thought they were trying to seduce me.

Not her though. I can't imagine anything else is further from her mind. She is looking at me and waiting for me to respond though.

"I'm sure it will be lovely, Andrea," but I can't meet her eyes. Instead, I take a look around the room we are in and hear myself audibly gasp.

Concerned, she steps closer, reaching out to touch my shoulder as I stare at the wall.

"Are you ok?" I hear her asking me.

"This is a Tremayne," I gesture to the picture, "I have one on my wall at the townhouse. They are my favourite artist of all time," I confide to her.

She looks awed, but I almost get the sense that it is more with my words than the picture.

"Look at this one, it's truly beautiful. There is so much emotion in her eyes. She seems sad, but we can only guess why."

"Why do you think she's sad?" she asks.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure. I spent a long time studying this piece at the gallery I bought my own from, and I always got the sense that she was looking at a lover, just outside of the frame. Maybe they had argued? Maybe they couldn't be together because of their circumstances," I put forward my theory.

"Maybe it was unrequited love," she replies simply, staring at the picture.

I look at her then, but she doesn't notice, seemingly absorbed in the painting. Her eyes are glassy like she is trying to contain her tears, and I want nothing more than to comfort her. Was she pining for someone? Someone who she couldn't have? Was she still mourning the loss of that cook she was dating a couple of years ago?

"How did you find this house? I have seen two paintings so far, and I know for a fact that both of them are worth several million individually. The owners are either incredibly trusting, or stupid, to rent this place out to strangers," I shake my head slightly, baffled.

I am aware of the new trend of AirBnB, but how could it even be profitable, with the amount that these paintings would have to be insured for?

"I wouldn't call them stupid, or overly trusting," Andrea tells me, "they are very particular about who they let stay here."

Ah, so she managed to use my name to get us this incredible place. I find that I am glad she was able to do so, because I am unsure for how much longer my name will still open doors for us.

"I need to finish our food," she reminds me, walking out of the door, and leaving me staring at the painting. Suddenly I can see that she might be right about the woman in the painting. Her eyes are so sad, but they still have the smallest glimmer of hope, like she hasn't yet accepted that it's a completely impossible situation.

I wonder if that is visible in my own eyes when I look at Andrea?

One day, she will meet someone, and I will have to watch her be happy with another. On that day the very last spark of hope will leave my eyes and I will have to accept that I am destined to be alone.

There will never be anyone else for me.

I join her in the kitchen, where she is plating up the sandwich's. There is a large table that she takes our plates over to, and in a typically chivalrous gesture I have come to expect from her, she pulls out my chair for me.

I murmur my thanks and she beams at me. She doesn't sit down straight away, but tops up our whisky glasses and brings them over. There is also water on the table, Pellegrino, of course, because she always knows what I prefer.

"Try and drink some water, if you can. It will help you to be hydrated," she requests gently.

I find myself unable to rebuke her for overstepping, and instead, the water glass is in my hand and being raised to my lips before I can question what I am doing. I realise I am quite thirsty, so I drink deeply and empty half the glass.

"Happy?" I drawl, raising my eyebrow.

"Ecstatic," she smirks, before picking up her sandwich with her hands, "and I'll be even happier once you have eaten your grilled cheese."

The sheer cheek of this girl leaves me speechless. I pick up my cutlery, refusing to use my fingers, and start to eat. I am surprised I have to swallow a moan at the taste. Damn, she can cook. I don't know why I expected anything else from someone who surpasses all of my expectations daily.

She is smiling to herself and I know that she must have caught my expression of enjoyment and is pleased. I want nothing more than to make her happy, so I tell her how wonderful her cooking skills are, and again, her smile is blinding.

I finish my entire grilled cheese, much to my confusion. I can't remember the last time I ate such a large portion of anything, especially carbs. She clears the dishes and stacks them in a dishwasher, hidden behind a cupboard front panel, which she obviously had known was there. The house must have come with a manual for guests, and I will ask her for it tomorrow when I've not drunk too much whisky to focus properly.

We spend a long time sitting quietly in silence. Andrea is scrolling through her phone, and from the odd peeks I get of her screen I can see that she is on Facebook. I can't help but wonder at the people she is talking to as I see her thumbs tap the screen. Whether she is typing out comments or messages, I am not sure, but I am burning with curiosity.

I'm not sure I can handle the truth though, if she is talking to some strapping young man, with a successful career and good looks. It occurs to me then that she has taken off to escort me here, but who has she left behind in New York? Does she have a boyfriend? Is she in a relationship? She never volunteers information like this, and I have never asked.

I peer at the clock on the wall, focusing on the blurry hands pointing to numbers that indicate that it is late afternoon already, and the light is dropping in the room.

Andrea looks up, and catches me staring at her, "would you like to join me in the living room?" she asks.

We take our glasses, and the bottle, and go to the living room to settle in. I decide that this is as good a place as any to drink my troubles away. I sit on the couch facing the window, and Andrea surprises me by sitting next to me and not choosing one of the armchairs.

I finish off another whisky, and hold my glass out for more, without saying a word. She picks up the bottle and refills me, but I can see the slight concern in her eyes.

"Need I remind you that this was your idea?" I snap, unable to stop myself from feeling judged for my actions.

"I'm not your mother, Miranda, you can drink what you want. However, I am also not your employee now, so I would appreciate it if you would not use that tone with me," she replies and her tone is harsher than I am used to from her. However, her eyes are soft and full of empathy, and I know that she has already forgiven me for my outburst.

I can't help myself staring at her. She has become braver over the years, but I never expected her to scold me so firmly. I realise that she is right though. Everything is different now, and as such, I need to be different too.

"You're right," I quietly admit, "and I'm sorry. I will be better. I will try to be better."

"That's all I ask," she smiles, and reaches out to take my hand, and I hope she doesn't notice the way my breath catches as she does so.

"I'm here as your friend, not your assistant," she hesitates then, "at least, I hope that maybe you could see me as a friend?"

"You've been my friend for a long time," I confess to her, the whisky loosening my tongue. I am genuine with my words though, and it is time she knows it. She laces our fingers together and strokes her thumb over mine.

"Whatever you need, Miranda, you can have it. I'm here for you," her voice is soft and the comfort of her words make me feel a warmth bloom in my chest. A friendship, on equal footing with this woman, is worth everything to me, even if I can never have anything else.

"Thank you, Andrea," I slide closer to her on the sofa seeking out more of her comfort. "Thank you for everything. For everything you have done as my assistant. For everything you have done as my friend and confidante over the last three years, even if you didn't know just how much I relied upon you," I look up into her huge brown eyes and see nothing but understanding and compassion and it gives me the strength to continue.

"Most of all, thank you for standing by me yesterday. For leaving with me. For helping me to escape with my dignity intact. For helping to keep me together when my whole world had just fallen apart."

I am mortified to hear my voice breaking at the end of my impromptu speech, and the lump is back in my throat, larger than ever. I feel myself start to spin out of control and I'm unsure if it's the whisky or the events of yesterday catching up with me.

Something wet hits my chest and I look up, wondering what has fallen on me. She sees my confusion, and reaches out with her other hand, tenderly wiping the tears I haven't realised are running down my cheeks.

"Andrea…" I choke out, unsure of what I am trying to say. Unsure of what I am asking for.

She seems to understand what I need before I do though, and she wordlessly drops my hand and holds her arms open in invitation. I am frozen, unable to move, but I nod. It's all I can manage.

Andrea comes closer, and pulls me into her embrace, holding me tightly, and for the first time since I was removed from Runway, I let myself fall apart.

My body shakes as I cry, and she whispers comforting words in my ears. She tells me I am special, that this isn't the finish line for me. She tells me I am incredible and that this is not an end but another beginning, and damn her, but I find myself believing her words.

Andrea believes in me, and it makes me believe in myself.

"Lay down with me," she requests, already moving backwards on the sofa, pulling me down with her. She lays on her back, and she has deftly positioned me so that I am laying half next to her and half on her. Our legs are intertwined, and she pulls my arm across her waist.

My head is tucked under hers, and I can feel more than hear the soft thudding of her heart, so steadfast and pure, underneath my head. I am still crying, but underneath my overwhelming sadness, I have a spark of hope. I wish that I was here for almost any other reason, but I can't stop the underlying enjoyment of being in her arms. It is so much more than I ever imagined.

I feel her soft lips kiss the top of my head, and her arms tighten around me even more. She is an anchor that stops me from floating away on a raft of pain. My tears are subsiding, and I can feel my eyelids growing heavy.

"Sleep, Miranda," she whispers, "I've got you."

I feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge of awareness, and as I finally drift under I am aware of one final thought.

I will always be head over heels in love with this woman.