Prologue
"In a very unusual way, I owe what I am to you.
Though at times it appears I won't stay, I never go.
Special to me in my life,
Since the first day that I met you.
How could I ever forget you,
Once you had touched my soul?
In a very unusual way,
You've made me whole."
May 2011
Sitting on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, drink in hand, used to be Andy's dream.
Tired after a day of sightseeing, they'd laughingly collapse into the chairs, much to the disgust of the undoubtedly snooty waiter, order the cheapest wine on the menu and under the bright summer sunshine watch the beautiful people saunter by.
"I don't see the onions," Nate would complain, "or the berets."
Confused, Andy would look at him questioningly.
"High School French. Mrs Schuster. I swear every picture of a French guy had onions, a stripy shirt, and one of those jaunty berets – the whole deal, you know. Have you seen any onions today? You know I've half a mind to sue the state of Ohio for emotional trauma on the back of their false advertising."
"Well, half a mind is right," Andy would tease. "Aaaahhhh," she'd laugh a minute later, as a woman would stroll by holding a mesh sack full of them.
"Oh, that's a chick. And they're in a bag. Come on, that doesn't count."
"Does too."
They'd continue to argue good-naturedly as the afternoon sunshine dwindled as surely as their pitiful funds. Once they'd get tired of the waiter's pointed looks over nursing the tiny carafe of wine, they'd amble off, holding hands and exchanging kisses; buoyed by their love, the drinks and the exciting plans for their future.
Sitting on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, drink in hand, used to be Andy's dream.
Then she met her.
And then Nate and Andy no longer had Paris, nor a future; actually, not much of anything at all.
How very appropriate that this afternoon, as she sits on the very same street she's always dreamed of frequenting, that there's no sunshine, just driving rain. There's neither wine nor much call for laughter. She is alone, the very opposite of that younger Andy's dream. Much as is her entire life now.
"Mademoiselle, perhaps I freshen your drink, oui?"
She watches the last of the ice as it slowly dissolves, mournfully melting its way to the bottom of her Scotch. Yes, she drinks Scotch now; no wine in the world is strong enough to dull the edge. Tears prickle as it finally disappears; she is the ice – an object whose sole existence is simply to augment another. Just as the ice is plunged into the whisky, so she has immersed herself entirely in Miranda, but too much longer soaking in Miranda's heady fumes and she fears there won't be any of Andy left.
"Mademoiselle?"
What the hell was the question? The persistent drumming of the rain keeps breaking her concentration. It takes a moment to realise that in this case the noise is the restless flicker of her hand flipping the Blackberry over and over on the metal table. Screen up – she comes. Screen down – she doesn't. She wonders how long she's been sitting there doing that. Ponders more why, even conscious of it, she can't seem to be able to stop the restless action.
"Non, merci."
She doesn't need to look up to see the pity in his eyes. While they may call Paris a city for lovers, those who form its ranks are well aware of the flip side of romance. Shivering slightly from the damp coolness of the air, she swirls the Scotch within the glass. Truth be told, the sight of it is enough to make her sick. Then again, maybe it's just her own reflection in the liquid – distorted, blurred – a facsimile of everything that she once aimed to be.
Another thirty minutes pass; more endless cycles of the phone, the tension ratcheting with every spin. She's late. When isn't she? As usual Andy ignores her inner voice. Over the years she's become extremely accomplished at denying its insistent tone, swatting its presence away like an annoying bee; just as she's chased away her principles, her morals, her family, and her closest friends. And for what? Today the voice is more persistent. Maybe the rain, perhaps too much Scotch; either way her barriers have washed away. What are you to her, Andrea? Even her own chastisement takes Miranda's voice. You're barely a friend, hardly a lover. Someone to scratch an itch - I would say that's bang on the money. Except we both know, Andrea, that for you – she's never been anything even remotely close to that. Doesn't go both ways though, does it?
Another sound crashing through her thoughts, she lifts the cell in stupor and sees the spider web of cracks that all of a sudden splinter the phone's plastic screen. The truth is right there staring her in the face: one more hard spin and she herself might shatter. But she keeps on coming back – every month, like clockwork, no matter how often she tells herself this time is definitely the last. Miranda is an addiction, a compulsion, a craving Andy cannot beat. She'd crawl through broken glass to obliterate every trace of Miranda from her life and yet she knows she'd prostrate herself on the very same jagged edges to maintain their destructive connection, in reality – perhaps obsession. She doesn't know how to end this, how to change it, so she remains forever stuck. She hates her life, she hates Miranda, but most of all, she knows she loathes herself.
Four hours.
More than anything it frightens her how long she is prepared to stay; how many hours have already been wasted just… waiting. For something she knows will never come; for the woman - the dream that simply won't let go. The prickle behind her eyelids intensifies – she isn't strong enough to break this, Miranda is far too selfish to do so. There are only two ways out of this nightmare and in her moments of clarity Andy realises five years is cold hard proof of the feasibility of the first.
The phone rings.
Her hand trembles as she checks the number. Putting it to her ear, she rubs her eyes with her forefinger and thumb as though if she just tries hard enough, she can somehow physically push back the tears. The conversation's short, there are very few pretences left between them – too many years, too many words that can't be taken back. "Of course. Thirty minutes. I understand."
Time's up.
One, wrong, no, last… time – that's the soundtrack to the Miranda and Andy story.
Her short conversation ended, she lingers only for a second. It's long enough to hear a raindrop plop quietly into the scotch, sending ripples across the surface of the amber. Not until a nervous swipe of her tongue along her bottom lip carries with it a hint of salt, does she understand it's not the rain, just a lone tear. With heavy heart and ease of practice, she deftly extracts the familiar object out of her pocket. As all too frequently of late, her fingers fumble with the final act and it skitters across the table before her hand slams down, trapping it as surely as she's entrapped by it. The hint of gold is but a fleeting glimmer but the waiter's hawk-like eyes catch it, now switching to pity of a different kind, one that's entirely not aimed at her. Defiantly, she slides the ring onto her finger, catching a last glimpse of herself in the café's window as she exits into the heavy downpour.
Gone is the distortion that waiting for Miranda has always created. No longer seen, not for a very long time, is Andy Sachs. All that remains is the woman who's a stranger in her own skin – one Madame Pierre Charreaux.