This is the second of two chapters I have posted today, so make sure you haven't missed chapter 6!

After the movie finishes, we decide to cook dinner, and when she stands, she takes my hand and doesn't let go. We walk in companionable silence to the kitchen holding hands, and I feel like a teenager again.

Andrea suggests that we make a lasagne, and I watch as she deftly pulls out all of the ingredients; a variety of onions, bell peppers and garlic, as well as fresh herbs. She places them on the counter next to the large chopping board and knife she has placed there. She looks around her, searching for something and looking adorably confused as she slaps a hand against her forehead.

I look at her, waiting for an explanation.

"We left our wine in the other room," she grins, "I was too distracted to bring it with us."

I find myself smiling back, undeniably pleased that I had such an effect on her.

"I'll get it," I volunteer, walking back to the theatre room. It's dark without the screen on, or the small lamp that was on the table when I had joined Andrea in here earlier, so I flick on the switch by the door, and light floods the room. I am stunned to find myself looking at yet another Tremayne on the wall, and I am so curious how there are so many of this original artist's paintings hanging so casually around the house.

I tuck the bottle under my arm and pick up our wine glasses, heading back into the kitchen. I put my bounty on top of the table, and I can't help but ask about the paintings.

"How is it, I have now seen three original Tremayne paintings on the wall? Was Lily a fan of their artwork?"

"Yeah, Lily was her biggest fan," Andrea confirms, with a roll of her eyes, adding "I don't see what the fuss is about, personally," as she starts peeling one of the onions in front of her.

"You don't see what the fuss is about?" I am incredulous, "they are touted as the defining artist of the 21st century, and you don't see what the fuss is about?"

She turns to face me then, "I just don't think she's very good," she shrugs dismissively and then turns back to the onions peeling another one. I stand there mystified with her attitude, as she chops the onions expertly, into uniformed pieces.

"You keep saying 'her' or 'she', Andrea, but that's what is so mysterious. No one knows the artist's identity. No one knows for sure if they are male or female. They are an enigma."

"I just get the sense that she is female," she turns away from me then, scooping up the onions and putting them into the already heating pan. They sizzle deliciously, and I wonder where she learned to cook so well. Was it her ex-boyfriend who imparted his skills? Or did she grow up with a mother that taught her the skills she would need to survive in life? Why have I never asked her questions about herself before?

She turns back to face me, and I know at least one question that I have to ask straight away.

"Would you consider selling the painting in the master suite? I have its twin and was told that this was not available for sale, but I so desperately wanted them both."

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to sell any of them," she apologises. Her words are contrite but her expression is unrepentant and for some reason that annoys me.

"But you don't even like them! I would pay you double what I would have paid the gallery, if it means I have the pair. That amount of money would set you up for life," I try to bargain with her, hoping she will accept my offer.

"I may not like them but I'm still not selling them. They are part of the house and I want them to stay here." She continues to cook, as if the conversation is closed, and I can't stand her obvious dismissal. I'm not sure why, but I know that she is frustrated.

So am I though, because why is she so insistent on hanging on to something that she neither likes nor appreciates? It's such a waste of art, and I have never been good at being refused, the stubborn creature that I am.

"Andrea, don't be ridiculous," I snap, "think of the money. You don't have a job now, so you would be remiss to not accept. You don't even appreciate what you have hanging on your walls. You obviously have no clue about art, whatsoever. This money would be life-changing for someone like you."

She spins around furiously, and I have never seen so much fire in her eyes before. I realise at that moment that I have completely overstepped, and I gulp at the mass of fury in front of me.

"Someone like me? What do you even know about me? Or my financial situation? Who are you to tell me that I know nothing about art, just because we don't like the same things?" Her fists are clenched and her eyes are blazing, "I cannot believe this. I allowed myself to hope for a moment."

"Hope? What do you mean?" I'm genuinely confused at the change in direction this conversation has taken.

"I hoped that maybe things were different now. I hoped that maybe you didn't just see me as another silly girl who was your assistant. I hoped, but you'll never see me as good enough," she practically spits at me, and I am devastated to see tears starting to fall down her cheeks. She throws the spoon back into the pan, turns off the heat and moves it to the back of the stove.

"Andrea…" I start to walk towards her.

"Don't." She picks up her cell, and walks to the door, putting on her shoes.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm staying with a friend tonight, I can't be here right now. I will be back in the morning."

"Running, Andrea. Again?" I sneer, and we both know I am talking about her nearly leaving me in Paris two years ago.

"Nice. I thought we had moved past that. Just something else I was wrong about, I guess," she opens the door, ready to walk out, "I'll leave you the car, ok? I can get there on foot."

"Andrea, where are you going? Please don't leave, I'm sorry." I'm panicking now and the anxiety crackling in my voice is clear, even to me.

"I can't be here right now, Miranda. Please just let me go."

"Who are you going to stay with?" I plead. I need to at least know she is safe and I'm getting frustrated that she keeps avoiding answering me.

She looks me right in the eye, and at that moment I know I am going to hate her answer.

"Gayle."

I turn my back on her, and a sob escapes me that I automatically try to hide from her. I take a few deep breaths and turn around to beg her to stay, but she is already gone.

She has left me.

I am lost. Without her here to ground me, I am drowning in my sorrow. As if I am on auto-pilot, I mindlessly continue chopping the ingredients that she took out for our dinner. I drink my wine, make the sauces, and put the lasagne together. I turn on the oven to heat and sit at the table staring blankly at the light until it goes out.

I stand to put the lasagne in the oven, and glance at the clock. Somehow, Andrea has now been gone for over an hour. It has flown by so quickly and yet has been one of the longest moments of my life, being here without her.

I sit at the table while the lasagne is cooking, keeping a close eye on the time, but I get lost in my thoughts. What is she doing now? Is she being comforted by her ex? Is Gayle the kind of woman who will take advantage of her emotional state? Will she take her to bed and comfort her as only lovers can? Will Andrea let her?

I don't understand what happened. I didn't mean to upset her or imply that she was stupid for not knowing about art. She was right. Just because we like different things, doesn't mean that either of us is in the wrong. Neither of our opinions is invalid. I just cannot see how someone can look at a Tremayne and see anything but the sheer brilliance that it is.

The fact that she has them here, but doesn't appreciate, understand or even want them, irks me, though I am not sure why I reacted so strongly. It's almost as though I feel her outright rejection of something that I hold so dear, is a rejection of me personally. I know how ridiculous that sounds, even to myself.

I had no right to judge her financial situation, I know, but I do know what her salary is. Well, what it was. Neither of us is employed anymore. She walked away from her job, her life, everything. For me.

What will she do now? What will I do now?

I have upset her, that much is clear, and despite my mantra of 'never apologise, never explain' I find myself with my cell in my hand. I bring up my messaging app and find her contact. I sit, on pause, as I try to work out what I want to say and the best way of saying it. The next time I look at my screen I realise that I have typed the most truthful statement I could have come up with.

'I miss you.'

Before I can second guess myself, I hit send, and stare morosely at the screen. Will she reply? Will she even bother to read it?

My cell buzzes.

Andrea: 'I miss you too.'

I hit reply immediately.

Miranda: 'Please come home?'

Andrea: 'Can't. Drunk.'

Miranda: 'Tell me where you are and I will come and get you?'

Andrea: …

Miranda: 'Andrea? Please let me come and get you?'

Andrea: …

Radio silence.

I pour myself another glass of wine, mindful of how much I drink in case she replies and tells me I can come and bring her home. My mind torments me with images of all the reasons why she may not be replying. Visions of her naked, wrapped around Gayle, writhing in ecstasy, taunt me.

The timer on the oven goes off and apparently I have been sitting here for 40 minutes, and Andrea has now been gone for nearly two hours. How she got drunk quite so quickly is a mystery to me, but I don't think she has reason to lie about it. I remove the lasagne from the oven and set it on the side to cool. I am no longer hungry at all.

I message her once more. It is somehow easier to type, than to speak the words out loud when she is here.

Miranda: 'I'm so sorry, Andrea. I didn't mean to upset you, and I miss you more than I can tell you.'

10 minutes later and I'm still staring at my cell, willing it to do something. Outside I hear the noise of tires against the loose gravel of the driveway, and I stand up to go and look out of the window. A woman I immediately recognise as Gayle steps out of the car. I have to admit that even from here she has a kind of ethereal beauty, standing there in the moonlight. She notices me looking and beckons to me to come outside.

I slip my feet into my shoes, and walk outside, wondering what this woman could want with me. I get there and she points to the passenger seat, where I see Andrea sleeping with her head leaning against the window.

"Is she alright?" I have to know, as I spot the telltale streaks of dried tears on her cheeks.

"She's drunk," the woman rolls her eyes, "I left her alone for 15 minutes while I prepared food for us, and in that time half my liquor cabinet disappeared."

Andrea has been drinking heavily and I can't help but feel guilty for making her feel like this was the best option for her.

"She insisted on getting back here to see you, but she passed out about halfway over," the woman informs me, smiling, "can you help me get her inside? I don't know if she will be able to walk."

"Yes. of course," I hear myself say, stepping closer as she walks around to the passenger door and carefully opens it. The car is sporty and rather flash, the kind of thing that a man buys when he is having a midlife crisis, but it suits this mysterious woman. She is wearing black leather heeled boots that sit just below the knee, under a Vera Wang skirt, and what I recognise to be a shirt and suit jacket from Armani. Judging by the car and the clothes that Gayle is wearing, she is extremely wealthy.

It is painfully obvious to me how much she cares about Andrea, in the way she tries to wake her up. She speaks softly and manoeuvres an arm around her back to help her up. It is a difficult position, because the car is so low to the ground, but Gayle is apparently stronger than she looks; she lifts her to her feet with ease. When Andrea stumbles, she merely giggles at her antics and takes a better grip.

I position myself on the other side of Andrea and put my arm around her waist to support her as we help her into the house. Gayle guides us directly into Andrea's room and I wonder how she knows which one she is staying in.

Andrea falls on the bed, face down, but Gayle patiently turns her over, making quick work of removing her shoes. I prickle with jealousy when I see her casually pull her pants off, leaving her in a t-shirt and lacy briefs. I want to slap her hands away from the woman I love, and demand that she stops touching her. She doesn't bat an eyelid, but of course, she has seen it all before. I am seething inwardly, even as I am grateful to her for bringing Andrea home.

I watch uncomfortably as Gayle bends down and pulls the covers out from underneath her body, before pulling them up and tucking her in. She kisses her forehead, whispers something that I can't hear and then walks towards me.

We leave the room, and she follows me into the kitchen.

"I think we should talk," she turns to me, and I can see her evaluating me, "we both care about Andrea, and right now she is hurting."

My anger deflates because I know that she's right. Andrea is hurting and there is nothing I want more than to be able to soothe that hurt.

"Take a seat, Gayle," I gesture to the table, "would you like a drink?"

"Just water, thanks,"

Now that Andrea is home, I indulge in another glass of wine. I have a feeling I will need it for this conversation.

I put the water and the wine on the table and wait for her to speak.

"You know my name. I take it, you know who I am?" she questions me. Her voice is soft and mellifluous, but has an edge of authority to it that surprises me.

As much as I want to deny it, I know that won't get us anywhere.

"Yes. Lily's mother, Gayle. Andrea's ex-partner," I reply, "I'm assuming you must also know who I am too?"

She nods, smiling, "Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief of Runway, and the woman I could never compete with."

"What's that supposed to mean? Why would you compete with me?"

"Miranda, surely you know how she feels about you?"

What?

She sees my confusion and starts to explain.

"When we were dating, she was upfront about her feelings for someone else. Someone with whom she thought it would be impossible to have a relationship. I thought that with time we would grow closer, and for me that was true. I started to fall for her very quickly."

"You were in love with her?" I can't help but clarify.

"Yes," Gayle admits with a wry grin, "I told her that, and she was so apologetic, but she couldn't tell me she felt the same way. She would never mislead someone like that. There was attraction, and we are great friends, but her heart was still with someone else. I could never compete with that. I offered to give her time because I thought she was worth it."

"What happened then? Andrea told me you weren't together anymore?"

"We stayed together for a while, and we drew comfort from each other after Lily's death, but her feelings for this other person only grew. I could feel she was distancing herself further and further away from me. One night she got drunk and it all came out. She confessed everything to me; who the other person was and just how strongly she felt about her."

My stomach does a little flip as I try to process what she is saying. Is it true? Am I reaching for the stars? Is the person she has feelings for, actually me?

Gayle watches me as I process this, and then starts to laugh quietly, "you still don't know, do you?"

I am more honest than I ever intend to be, "I don't want to get my hopes up. This will break me if it's not true."

She reaches out and rests her hand on my arm then. Rather than recoil from her, the gesture is oddly comforting considering she is a stranger to me.

"She has been in love with you for years, Miranda. I know I am breaking her confidence by telling you this, but she is too much of a coward to take a chance. She is scared she will lose you altogether if she is wrong about your feelings, and takes the chance to tell you about her own."

"But I love her," I confess, the third glass of wine I have consumed, making me looser than usual with my words. "I have loved her for as long as I can remember. I thought it was impossible. She never said or did anything that would suggest she returned those feelings."

"She tried to be as professional as possible because she knew how much you valued Runway and your job. There are signs if you know where to look for them. Didn't she walk out of her job to whisk you away from your troubles? She brought you here, which in itself is an act of love. I have never once stayed in this house since she took it over, even though it first belonged to my mother and then to my daughter. Whether we were in New York, or here, she always insisted we stayed at mine," Gayle shakes her head then, an amused expression on her face, "I think she was saving this place for you, just in case."

"She loves me? Andrea loves me?" I have to ask yet again because I can't allow myself to believe it, even though I hope that it's true.

"You are her whole world, Miranda. Well, you and your girls. As such you are the luckiest woman in the universe because a woman like Andy is hard to find."

"You miss her," I realise, as she gives me a sad smile. It doesn't quite reach her eyes, and I can see that she is hurting.

"She was the one for me, but I wasn't the one for her. It works that way sometimes, and now I am just grateful to have her in my life as a friend," Gayle explains, and I find myself believing her.

"Why are you telling me all of this? I'm not sure I would be so magnanimous in your position," I admit, unable to meet her eyes as the truth of that statement sits there.

"It's simple. I love her."

"But you're helping me? Helping us?" I cannot comprehend that someone could be this selfless.

"I love her enough to want her to be happy, even if she is happy with someone else and not me. That's how much I love her," she confides softly, and I suddenly have overwhelming respect for this woman.

"Thank you," I tell her sincerely.

"So what are you going to do now?" she asks, curiosity lacing her tone, as she sits back and analyses me.

"Tomorrow I'm going to make it clear how I feel about her and then it's up to her. She is quite rightly angry with me, which is why she left earlier. She may not forgive me."

"She will, Miranda. She has such a big heart, she won't be angry for long. She's very sensitive about the Tremayne paintings she has here. I know she wants to tell you about them, but just be patient with her," Gayle advises me, "there is a good reason why she loves to hate those paintings. Not everything is as it seems."

I look at her then, and notice the small secretive grin on her face, and wonder what she knows. I am positive I could get the information out of her because she almost looks like she wants to tell me, but I won't do that to Andrea. Her secrets are hers alone to tell me, and I feel like I already know more than I should, thanks to Gayle. Not that I am complaining, of course, but it's more than she wanted me to know, I'm sure.

Gayle gets up and passes me a card with her details on it from her wallet.

"If you need anything, just give me a call. A friend of Andy's is a friend of mine. If you two manage to sort out your issues, then I'm sure we will see much more of each other in the future."

I want to deny that. I want to tell her that I don't want her anywhere near either of us, but I can't. This woman loves Andrea, and who am I to blame her for that? She loves her enough to want her to be happy, even if that is with me, and I realise that she is not a threat to us. She is an honourable woman who could have taken advantage of a drunk Andrea, but didn't. She has somehow, in a very short time, gained my respect.

"Thank you," I say, and I am not surprised to find that I mean it.

I walk her to the door and she pulls me in for the briefest of hugs.

"Take care of our girl, ok?" she pleads quietly, "just… take care of her."

I find myself agreeing as much for her sake as my own, and I watch her drive away.

I am at a crossroads and it is so important that I choose the right direction. Now I have had a small taste of what it is like to lay in her arms, I want nothing more than to go and crawl into bed with Andrea. However, I am aware she is drunk and can't object to my presence if she doesn't want me there.

I am unwilling to strip her of the choice to have me in her bed, or not, so I decide to check on her instead. She is sleeping soundly, so I leave her in peace, but not before I have left a bottle of water and some Tylenol on the bedside table for her.

I head to the master bedroom, and despite thinking I will be awake all night, I slip surprisingly quickly into my dreams.