The End is the Beginning
"If you could only see the way she loves me
Then maybe you would understand
Why I feel this way about our love
And what I must do
If you could only see how blue
Her eyes can be when she says
When she says she loves me"
August 2011
When we are small our biggest worries can be soothed by a loving kiss, a helping of our favourite ice cream, a ratty teddy bear whose threadbare body has been worn out by countless hugs and soaked by innumerable tears. It's not till we are much older, our worries immeasurably bigger, that we understand that for some things there simply aren't any kisses, cuddles or ice cream big enough.
Contemplating this, Andy burrows deeper into the oversize woolly sweater that she has stretched over her knees, which are so close to her chest they have practically melded with her torso. She is pretty sure she is a pitiful sight: the rough wool chafes her cheek, her neck cricks from the awkward angle of her head, her limbs went stiff a while ago, and the cold air has long wormed its way through the pores of the chunky cloth. The cushion on the porch's bench provides some padding but it isn't designed for hours of continuous sitting. She is damp, shivering, in clear discomfort, and she can't bring herself to care. Well, that's not strictly true, she cares. But she is aware that she has no right to.
No pain of Andy's deserves to be the focus of today.
Inhaling deeply, she gets a whiff of the familiar cologne. At the beginning she used to tease him mercilessly about his penchant for pre-perfuming his clothes, call him a girl. She still remembers the slashing line of crimson that used to stain his cheeks, one of the many things that she adored; one of the many things that made Pierre – fallible. The blush has faded with time, so has Andy's adoration. Or maybe it's just that it never existed in the first place. Maybe it was only a spillover; misattribution of emotion she longed to - has always felt for someone else.
Andy swallows, halts her treacherous thoughts. Her fingers itch to check the phone and she curls them into a fist to stop herself from reaching for it. It's physically painful: her heart thuds a little duller, some part of her, maybe her lungs, feel as if they are being denied air - breath. But that phone is the past. It has to be.
She is the past.
The comfort Andy has instinctively sought is proof of that. She has Miranda's shirt, an item she has pilfered furtively – a perfect metaphor for many things. Yet when push comes to shove, she doesn't reach for it; perhaps she fears, like its owner, it could never provide the kind of solace that Andy seeks. The rain continues to fall, the overhanging eaves of their vineyard cottage collecting and depositing water with a steady pitter patter onto the wooden steps below. Thunk thunk thunk. Andy is hypnotised by each drop; nature's hourglass, ticking her - their minutes away.
Almost on cue, she hears the door creak; mentally makes a note to oil the hinge now that it seems she'll be spending a lot more time up here. The wooden plank groans a little, the one they laughed about needing to fix when Pierre carried her over the threshold the first time they came up here to see his family's crazy extravagant wedding present to them. They've never fixed it, didn't get around to it. They've never gotten around to far too many things. Bitterness sweeps through her, anger, buried deep down beneath – utter desperation. "Don't go." She doesn't pretend that she truly wishes he would stay but acknowledges that, in this moment, the thought of loneliness is far worse than continuing to live a lie.
Her self loathing jumps another notch.
"Andrea."
It strikes her only now, when everything is about to end, how very much she has always loved the way he says her name. How very much, in her own twisted fucked up way, she's always loved him. More accurately – the her parts of him. Because she's never looked too closely at the other parts –the real Pierre; it's never been something that she's allowed herself to see. She'd weep if she thought there was a point, if she thought there were tears still left to shed. Because, above all, this proud man that they - she has maimed, destroyed and broken deserves to feel a measure of satisfaction that he does not leave here the only one with nothing left.
"Look at me, ma cherie."
The soft endearment settles over her with the comforting familiarity of a well-used blanket. It is a reminder she owes him the decency of meeting his gaze. The blue is an ocean of sadness and regret but in amongst its turbulent depths she can still discern the single drop of something else – pity. At last, she understands why Miranda has always hated to see it in Andy's eyes. The pity burns, scorches away the self-delusion, until all that remains is the truth of what, who, you truly are. She responds, "You really think she can compare to me?" Scorn drips from her every syllable. Miranda would be proud.
The blue wavers a little, shimmers. All of a sudden Andy realises that just because she has none of her own, does not mean that there are no tears left. Pierre has never hidden his emotions, would they have lasted longer if he had?
"She is not you."
The quiet words are supposed to make her feel better, ease her own pain. They don't. There's only a growing comprehension that instead of one, her actions will likely tear all three of them apart.
"Je suis desolais."
Good word when meant, Andy's writer remarks inside her own head. Desolation is extremely apt; so strong a feeling, that without noticing it, Pierre has lapsed into his native tongue.
"For what?" She is fluent in French, of course, but in this moment Andy clings to the tiny comfort of anything that she deems as being… hers.
The question's redundancy hangs awkwardly between them; they both know that out of everyone involved, Pierre carries the lightest load of sin. Never in a million years would the youthful naïve Andy Sachs have deemed love to be a grave transgression but time has proven, enjoyed hammering home, how oh so very wrong that girl had been.
Throwing his head back, Pierre swipes his hands over his face from his hairline to his neck; a ragged sigh escapes his lips. When he looks at Andy again, he is more composed, calm. "I am sorry that she isn't you." His hand reaches into his pocket, extracts the key. Silent, he places it onto the table; there's really no need for words. He's signed the vineyard over to Andy in the divorce because he says the memories are more than he can bear. This is his last trip: to collect his things, to cast his eyes one last time over his shattered dream. Turning away, his shoulders visibly sag; there is an unbearable heaviness to his tread. Andy desperately wants to call him back, longs to beg that they give it one more try.
As his foot hovers over the bottom step, the rain darkening his immaculate shirt, soaking his wavy hair, he hesitates; throws her one last look. Instantly, Andy's mind flashes back to the photo Madame Charreaux has on the mantelpiece – of Pierre as a child, his ice cream on the ground, the same sullen heartbroken look. His smile is stiff with barely contained sorrow and Andy has never been more aware that she must learn to let him go. That little boy - this man, deserve a different Andy Sachs – an Andy Sachs that loves him; that is helplessly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him. Maybe it could've been this one if only she'd met him first, but there is no use wishing for what will never come to pass. "Most of –" he pauses to swallow, tries once more. "Most of all –" temporarily giving up, he hangs his head for several seconds, blows out a long drawn out sigh. Andy hears the almost inaudible 'merde' he mutters under his breath. When he raises his head again, she's certain the moisture on his face is not just rain. "Most of all, Andrea, I am sorry I am not her."
Despite the parting, it takes till that night for understanding to truly sink in. It's not that she's never slept alone – Pierre was often away on business, so was she. It's just somehow - suddenly, as she gazes at the empty side in the king-size bed, it is all so irrevocably… final.
She follows her nightly ritual: brushes her teeth, applies the products – 'the Miranda effect', one of the many; checks the locks. Then she proceeds to painstakingly lay out three things on the other side of the bed. Firstly, the peacock blue Bill Blass blouse – its splash of colour as vivid as its former owner was against the colour of these sheets. Secondly, the cell phone – carefully placed in the centre of the pillow. She has checked it just once, unable to help herself; has seen the three missed calls. No voicemails of course; five years have still not elevated Andy to the status where Miranda might deign to leave a message telling her exactly how she feels. The indifference is what hurts the most. After all this time is three attempts really the sum of what Andy deserves? The screen is dark now, so much better that she turned it off – for now she's had quite enough of reality and truth. Involuntarily, her fingers flutter to the 'on' switch before she remembers that Pierre, like her, is holed up somewhere remote, far away. And even if she called him, even if he answered, what exactly would she say, "Why can't she love me like I love her?" The irony of that thought makes her laugh – a harsh choked sound.
She picks up the last item, clasps it to her chest. This one has been in her possession for less than 24 hours yet its significance is more important than both the other things combined. Just several square inches of slightly stiff white paper represent the hardest decision she's ever made – the one to walk away. Seat 15A, CDG to NY. She smiles at today's first pleasant thought – at least the person in 15B would have enjoyed the extra space. Giving it one last lingering look, she tucks one end under the pillow, over the blouse.
The quiet has never bothered her before but tonight it feels oppressive. Just as with the phone, her hand reaches for the remote control, pauses; the TV stays off. One last look around the room, at her brand new life, and Andy climbs in to settle under the covers. Her body protests the abuse of continuing to be clad in the woolly sweater, heat and ever present itchiness almost simultaneously registering in Andy's mind. A morbid thought flits through her head – she is doing a modern day equivalent of penance – her very own 'hair shirt'. Well, if anyone deserves it.
Hand trembling as she reaches for the light switch, she tells herself for the hundredth time today that what she is doing is the best thing for everyone – the right choice – even though it's never felt less as such. The room is plunged into darkness and almost instantly the silence amplifies. Her voice has never sounded louder as she whispers, "Goodnight, Miranda." Her fingertips trailing over all three things in one last delicate brush, Andy doesn't say what she knows she really means – goodbye.
Morning arrives both too quickly and not quite soon enough. Her night is dream filled – Pierre, Miranda, her family, all her friends, even the twins; all of them standing over her, accusing her of things she has and hasn't done. The alarm blares loudly, through habit she's forgotten to turn it off. For a second she contemplates rolling onto the other side and pulling the covers over her head but common sense propels her to the shower – there's far too much to do, the rest of her life to plan - to live.
In the middle of brewing the coffee in the kitchen, a long drawn out ritual, she hears a sound she doesn't expect – the engine of a car. The vineyard is isolated, the weather's awful, and Andy isn't expecting company today. For a moment painful hope flares, maybe Pierre has come back after all. Instantly quashing that thought, she waits, too tired to deal with the world. Maybe whoever it is will think that she isn't here, leave her to her misery.
It's quite some time before she hears a car door slam, the clack of the owner's shoes on the wooden floorboards announcing their ascent up the front steps of the porch. Startled, Andy realises it is a woman…in heels? Her days at Runway and her clandestine meetings with Miranda have made her attuned to that unmistakeable tread. The step is self assured, firm but almost rushed, as if its owner is in a terrible hurry. Why then such a long time to get out of the car? The loudly insistent pounding interrupts Andy's contemplation and she instantly realises whoever this is isn't going away, won't be ignored. Resigned, Andy trudges to the door; swings it open.
The sight that greets her kills Andy's polite, trite greeting stone cold. It's one she's never seen before, despite having seen this woman on hundreds of occasions – Miranda isn't just dishevelled, she's clearly passed that point some time ago. The carefully coiffed hair is in disarray, as though nervous hands have run through it a dozen times. Her clothes are carelessly wrinkled; the blouse – Andy has to double check, yes, missing a button. But it is her face that is the most arresting sight: even in the comfort of a bedroom Andy has never seen Miranda without make up. Every line, every wrinkle, every spot is laid bare, for the world - for Andy to see. There are bags under Miranda's eyes, her skin is sallow and her eyes… they are the most telling – grey, lifeless, dull.
Horror slices clean through Andy. Five years isn't long enough to forget Miranda in Paris; the divorce. Even then, she has never looked this bad and Andy instantly knows – the girls. She doesn't know what Miranda wants from her but whatever it takes she is prepared to give it: a place to stay, the comfort of her body, if necessary – her blood. "M-miranda …"
Almost as if all it takes is for Andy to speak, the grey sparks; morphs into a cold and furious blue. The anger sizzles across Andy's skin long before she is grabbed and flung against the nearest surface – the kitchen counter, her lips captured in a relentless bruising kiss. No love, no care, Miranda's lips mete out only hate. Andy feels a stabbing pain and in the next instant she is flung away, her tongue tasting the metallic tang of blood on her freshly torn lip.
Miranda bends over the counter: head forward, leaning her weight on her arms, fingers digging into the granite counter, chest heaving, breathing ragged. Licking her own lip, it is as if the taste of Andy's pain calms her, control being regained in waves. One breath – the hands unclench, second breath – the chest rises and falls more evenly, third breath – the cold mask dons. "Where is it?"
This stare is impassive, hard; burns in a different way.
"W-where's what? Miranda, what's wrong, is it –?"
"Never mind."
Clearly unsatisfied with Andy's answer, Miranda pushes past her and into the living room, her laser stare surveying - searing all in its path.
"Perha –"
"Shut up."
Sighting the objective she's been looking for, she reaches the coffee table in three sharp strides. On it lies the cell phone, an item Andy hasn't disposed of as of yet. Reaching for it, Miranda's hand hesitates; trembles. Somewhere in the back of Andy's mind the part that notices the tiniest thing tells her this is important, that the way Miranda is acting has to be for a reason, but her cognitive self struggles to piece it all together.
Trying again, she grasps, Miranda's arm, "Miranda …" She is forcefully shoved away; fortunate that the couch is right behind her so instead of falling, she simply sprawls across its softness in an ungainly fashion. "Okay, look –"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."
The vitriol behind those words stings Andy's eyes. She's never heard Miranda swear, this woman has never resorted to crudeness to shred even the toughest person and they are both aware Andy is far from that. The phone is flung into her lap, the start up tone pinging melodiously. Andy's eyebrows draw together in incomprehension, "I know you called. I know …"
"Don't." Miranda's tone is low, almost a growl. "You've never known anything, you stupid girl."
At last, Andy almost wants to fall to her knees in gratitude. Her anger rises to the surface, the anger she has never voiced. But finally Miranda has given her enough of a reason, has triggered the one thing usually buried so deep below. Opening her mouth, she is interrupted by the blare of CNN, Miranda having turned on the TV. Andy is confused again, her rage derailed. The remote lands next to the phone and suddenly Miranda is looming over her – a dark malevolent presence. Planting her arms either side of Andy's head, she brings their faces together until there is almost nothing between them – except time, distance, pain and lies.
"God damn you, Andrea."
Each word is enunciated clearly, bitten out with more venom than Andy believes Miranda's slender body can possibly hold. Tears spring to her eyes – even in this she is wrong; it seems where Miranda is concerned there is always enough of those left. Gazing into the blue, thinking of the one from yesterday, Andy is struck by the fundamental difference between the two. Pierre's blue is warm –that of a nurturer, longing to protect. This blue is a predator – one in its prime, designed only to devour and hurt. Before Andy can even open her mouth or formulate a response, Miranda is gone, the only sign of her presence – the subtle swirl of her delicate perfume.
The cell phone whirrs and pings, Andy automatically looking down to check its screen. Seeing its display, she pauses; closes her eyes, re-opens them. The line of text, the message, doesn't change. You have 49 missed calls. Listed beside each one is exactly the same stupor, she presses the phone to her ear, listens to every voicemail, or more precisely – to none. The anger returns. Forty nine might be somewhat more than three but they are all still meaningless without words. Standing up, she turns, and it is only then that the sound of the TV – what's actually being said – penetrates her subconscious.
At the top of the hour, FAA investigators confirm that they have not yet recovered the black box from the doomed Air France flight 778 which crashed into the Atlantic Ocean yesterday afternoon. The Boeing 777 plane, en route to the La Guardia airport in New York, is believed to have been carrying 234 passengers. Whilst the search and rescue operation is under way, fears continue to grow that no survivors will be found. A statement…
The strangled sound is Andy's own, a hand flying to cover her mouth. AF778 is - was her flight. The one she was meant to be on, the one she checked in for. The one – her hand is now there to hold back bile – the one Miranda knew about, having made the reservation herself.
No survivors.
Andy sways, suddenly dizzy; she hasn't eaten for at least a day.
No voicemails.
She sits back down, her legs now rubber.
Oh God.
Miranda.
Head between her legs, several deep breaths later, and Andy feels like she will not run and throw herself in Miranda's arms; will not beg, plead, and apologise; will not vomit the meagre contents of her stomach on sight.
She must be strong.
This changes nothing.
Eventually, she stands up, walks outside on uncooperative legs, her whole body already dreading this confrontation. It is a terrible cliché to say that someone looks like they just aged ten years, the writer in Andy rails even at the thought of such a term, but the truth is – the description is only trite because so frequently, like now, it is so apt. Miranda has slid down the side of the tiny Peugeot 306 unmindful of the muddy dirt, the discomfort, the pelting merciless rain. Much like Andy, her knees are drawn up, and over the driving staccato of the rain, the gut wrenching sobs are louder still. Every line, furrow and wrinkle has been further thrown into stark relief – each one a reflection of Miranda's burden, the price she's had to pay for her morals and beliefs.
The rain soaks Andy's t-shirt instantly but she owes Miranda at least this much. Crouching down some distance away, she waits till their gazes connect. They stare at each other: seconds, minutes, lifetimes pass. Their eyes, their bodies, perhaps even their souls talk while verbally they say nothing at all. Finally, Andy asks: one question, one truth remaining to be voiced; that stands between them, that's drawn them together as much as it's driven them apart. "Tell me. Say it."
"Andrea."
"SAY IT."
She sees Miranda hesitate.
"Here and now. Tell me. Or I will walk away."
Knowing Miranda needs the extra push she stands up slowly, turns.
"I love you."
The words are strong, unflinching; firm.
Their gazes reconnect. The blue is mournful and sad and yet both proud and defiant. Even here, the words wrenched from her lips, Miranda issues a challenge; meets Andy on her own terms. A dozen emotion flicker through Andy's mind but she chooses to focus on only one – envy. Because in this moment, the one that she's convinced she's waited for almost her entire life, jealousy is exactly what she feels. Even here at her lowest ebb, having never been more broken, Miranda doesn't bend. There's no apology, no hesitation, only the strength of a long held personal conviction. It is this strength that Andy covets, this very element that she has realised she must destroy.
A house can't be built on rotten foundations.
Her father's words echo through her head even as the knowledge of what must happen next immeasurably weighs down her heart. This woman – her lover, her teacher, her tormentor – the one that's split open Andy's shell, gazed inside, exposed what's truly underneath, is only blind to one thing – herself. There's just one lesson to teach her in return, only one honour a protégée can ever bestow.
The words are effortless, "I love you. I am in love with you."
The pale irises soften, the grey bleeds out, the blue becomes the summer sky. Andy waits. She sees it, probably before Miranda recognises it herself – a faint spark of hope. Spreading ever so slowly, it surrounds - engulfs the entire blue. Andy takes a long hard look, captures the memory in her mind; stores it away for later. Later – when there are just the rare few memories to keep her going, her sole company on the long and lonely nights.
There are no second thoughts, no hesitation as she maintains the connection between them, smiles and delivers the punch line to the unvarnished punishing truth, "But I despise Miranda Priestly."