No Time
"She can lead you to love
She can take you or leave you
She can ask for the truth
But she'll never believe you
And she'll take what you give her, as long as it's free
Yeah, she steals like a thief
But she's always a woman to me
And she'll promise you more
Than the Garden of Eden
Then she'll carelessly cut you
And laugh while you're bleedin'"
March 2009
Winter has long ago been Andy's favourite season, she loves the snow. There is something about the purity of the white which mesmerises her, its blank expanse a canvas on which any possibility can be painted real. Except for this one. As she stares at what seems to be a mile of white, the possibilities don't multiply, they narrow; a tunnel as tapered as the column of the dress. Her breath hitches, she tries to talk but suddenly there isn't the air in her lungs to do so.
"Are you alright, Mademoiselle Sachs? Would you like a glass of water, champagne? I even have Scotch." The kindly brown eyes crinkle at the corners as a broad smile breaks. "I see this all the time: the nerves, the panic, the fear. I promise when you walk down that aisle, it will *poof*," she clicks her fingers, "all disappear."
"But this isn't my dress," Andy eventually manages to get out. "I mean –"
"No?" Amusement now warms the brown. "I have your dress right here," she indicates a closet off to the side. "This - this is a cadeaux, a –" she searches for the right word, "a present, a gift. It sounds better in French though, non?"
Andy smiles weakly. "Who –"
Madame Girard waggles her finger and laughs. "Non, non, I cannot say. It is a secret." Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispers, "The truth is even if I wanted to tell you, I do not know. This gown was delivered this morning with just a simple note."
"What did it say?"
"That they only want you to try it on. It is a stunning piece, Mademoiselle – an original, of that I am certain."
"Uhm, a one-off?" Andy feels the start of a dull buzzing noise in her ears.
"Mais oui, this is a Fausto Sarli." She suddenly eyes Andy with scepticism. "You do know who Fausto Sarli is, do you not?"
"Of course," I've worked at Runway, after all. The dull noise grows to a roar. Only one person could have arranged this. "Throw it away. I mean, give it away, destroy it, I don't care. Just get it out of my sight."
The look of horror on Madame Girard's face would be comical if Andy wasn't too busy struggling for breath. How could she - how –
The jingle of the boutique's door echoes across the back of the store and almost immediately a cloud of familiar signature perfume wafts to Andy, quickly followed by a melodious, "Andrea."
Pierre's mother.
No, damn it, no.
She gasps, "My dear, quelle magnifique. So beautiful. Why did you not tell me? Is this what you would like to wear tomorrow?"
Andy doesn't have the strength to turn around. How does Miranda do this? How does she always manage to orchestrate things so precisely? How how how? The question chaotically swirls inside her mind, the neon, foot high word tumbling to and fro behind her eyelids.
"N-no, really. I –"
"It was made specifically for Mademoiselle Sachs, Madame Charreaux," the owner now beams in the direction of the newcomer. "You agree she should try it on, non?"
"Andrea, you absolutely must!"
"B-but your dress, you –"
"Oh, Andrea, you are such a sweet girl." Andy is gently turned around though she refuses to meet Pierre's mother's eyes. "I have two daughters, do I not?" Her chin is tipped up till she meets the hazel gaze. "There will be a time that someone wears my wedding dress but meanwhile you simply cannot allow this wonderful creation go to waste. I will make you a deal – you try this dress on and if you still prefer to wear mine, then that is what will happen. Agreed?" Andy doesn't even nod. What's the point, they both know this is not a compromise – the dress will fit her like a glove. Antoinette may only guess at that, Andy is certain.
Miranda never makes mistakes.
Gathering the mile of lace, tulle and god knows what else, she steps into the dressing room. Sitting down heavily, her eyes avoid the mirrors; she sits and simply stares at the dress. Time passes, perhaps eternity, faint noises of whispered conversations go on beyond the closed door. Finally sighing she stands, closing her eyes and keeping them shut as long as she possibly can, but eventually she is down to the La Perla underwear and it is time to step into the dress. Something she cannot do blind no matter how she wishes that were possible, just as at times she longs to sleepwalk through tomorrow's wretched day. In the split second that she is about to open her eyes, there is a noise – the door is nudged ajar, there is a draft, it's shut. Andy is startled but not just because she isn't expecting company: her chest is heaving and she isn't sure what secrets will be revealed within the depths of her eyes. So instead she gives a sheepish shrug and murmurs an easy lie, "I want it to be a surprise."
Gentle hands guide her into the dress, do up the myriad of hooks, spin her to where she will face the mirror, then a hot breath scorches her neck, sending a prickle of goosebumps across her skin. She knows the hands, the breath, the delicate scent that has enveloped her – but as long as her eyes remain closed, this is just another fantasy and she has spent a lifetime learning to pretend. She follows every trick in order to keep them closed but eventually her eyes are burning, the silence heavy yet somehow buoyant, so that her eyelids flicker of their own accord, attempt to rise.
"Get out," her voice is reedy thin.
"Open your eyes, Andrea."
"No."
"Look."
Her chin is gripped by a sure hand, her lashes flutter, but after so long in the dark her eyes cannot immediately focus, so the image of them remains a muted blur. Mostly a splash of white, so Andy continues pretending, imagines that facing her are the possibilities of snow. Of course reality – the truth – crystallises slowly until their reflection is all that she can see. They are a study of contrast: Andrea in the expanse of white, her long dark hair; Miranda in a crisp black Valentino suit, her hair a shock of near white. She avoids Miranda's eyes as long as she is able to, doesn't dare look into her own. Eventually, she gives in, often wonders if Miranda holds a special Andy magnet – that has to be the reason that she's always drawn to her, especially to her gaze. The blue is stormy, the sapphire of deep emotion: possession, desire, craving; lust. Miranda's longing has always held shades, conveying her mood, but not today – today it's not the blue of only one, a myriad of them all.
"Please," Andy whispers, not sure what it is that she is asking for. In the very next second, her lips are captured in a searing kiss.
Andy's instant blinding desire renders her bones liquid, pliant, but she has just enough sense to whisper, "Miranda, not here, no." It's half hearted at best, however, it is more than she is normally able to offer; Miranda in her many guises is something Andy has never been able to resist.
"Tell me that you don't love him," Miranda's onslaught is merciless: her mouth assaults, devours, captures Andy's own.
"S-stop."
"Tell me," Miranda's grip tightens on her chin, takes on a hue of cruel.
"I-I can't." I won't, her mind corrects her.
The kiss - the bond between them is temporarily broken and as Andy is involuntarily drawn to Miranda's blood-red plump bruised lips. For a crazy second she almost imagines that those lips are forming a word that Miranda so very rarely utters – 'please'. She blinks in surprise and the moment is gone: the lips now thin, the sudden rigidness of Miranda's body is as utterly vicious as her tone. "Then I will make you."
The onslaught resumes.
Andy fights it for as long as she is able to, probably about 30 seconds, but Miranda is so much stronger than Andy has ever been. First and foremost – physically; her deceptively slender body incredibly agile, honed by regular exercise in the gym. Secondly – mentally; her will imprinting itself on Andy's time and time again until Andy isn't sure that she has any of her own left. Lastly – emotionally; Andy's strength on most occasions but her downfall in this arena where it is Miranda's cool control that always triumphs.
She eventually gives in, closes her eyes – her last and lonely bastion; one even Miranda normally struggles - hesitates to breach. But today her mouth, her hands, her body is unrelenting, it's as though her entire being is hell-bent on making Andy watch. So Andy watches and watches and watches until there is a customary brilliant flash, the usual weightlessness; until there's nothing left to see. Apart from Miranda's arm still buried within the folds of her dress – her wedding dress – a vulgar image; the joy of victory so evident in her cold hard gaze.
"I hate you," the words are torn from Andy, coming out as a cross between a sigh and a quiet sob.
"Your body doesn't lie, Andrea, regardless of what you choose to say. It tells me everything I need to know, that you don't love him. At least, not the way that you," Miranda's breath appears to hitch, an unusual catch. "Love me." The pause breaks up the sentence, changes the meaning of the words to something more uncertain – perhaps a statement – a fact, but in another light, another life…a plea.
"I don't love you."
The lies come easier with practice but there is a reason they say you can't bullshit a bullshitter; Miranda simply smiles. It's strange: tranquil, oddly soft, almost tender; incongruous with everything that has just passed. "I wish I could believe you. I wish that it –"
She stops but not before Andy hears it – an inflection - regret? Out of everything, it is that which affects her most, which brings the sting of tears to her eyes. "Go, I said get out." Andy is louder than she means to be, control unravelling, but it already takes every gathered fragile thread in order not to break down, to scream and shout. Miranda recognises that and an unholy gleam enters her eyes. Andy has seen it before many times in her employ, she doesn't know what's coming, but she has the presence of mind to quickly choke out, "Don't."
Ever so slowly the hand creeps out inch by inch, each delicate brush a torture Andy painfully endures until it rests against her stomach. Miranda waits till Andy glances at her in question, then even slower brushes the hand against Andy's tender mouth. Inhaling, Andy smells herself, sees the moisture – proof of her weak resistance; sighs. The next action catches her off guard, filled as it is with utter malice – Miranda slowly drags the hand up and down Andy's dress. She doesn't stop until her hand is dry, Andy too stunned to move. Miranda's swallow is audible, she brings her lips to touch the shell of Andy's ear, breathing softly, "Well, Andrea, do enjoy your wedding day."
Miranda pushes her away, Andy stumbles, rights herself, turns round to confront her but all she is sees is the door closing with a resounding click. It is then she hears it, crams the knuckles of her fist into her mouth, lest she betray herself and make a sound. It's Pierre, his voice high pitched, effervescent with excitement in his greeting, "Miranda, bonjour." She pictures the scene, the European two kisses, before Pierre no longer seems to be able to resist the question, "Well, how does Andrea look?"
"Spectacular," Miranda's response is far louder than it normally is, than it needs to be, though no-one realises that it is just for show – Andy the lone spectator that it's for. Twisting the knife a little deeper, she chuckles, knowing again Andy will be the only one to hear the underlying irony, "I could almost fall in love with her myself."
The others' laughter is joyfully unrestrained; upon the declaration black spots momentarily dance in front of Andy's eyes – the words that she has always longed to hear, twisted for Miranda's own ruthless means. Andy's torso slams backwards into the mirror, unrestrained shudders wracking her body, pins and needles in her legs and arms. She shivers both hot and cold, her shallow breath whistles in and out painfully, so she concentrates on simply drawing a deep and even breath.
Just as Andy nears calm, resolves to burn the dress, her torment multiplies tenfold; the final piece of Miranda's revenge revealed. "Merci, Miranda, I could not have pulled this off without you. I will not forget what you have done for me and for Andrea. I think only you could have obtained that dress, non? My mother tells me the design is maginifique." There is a smacking sound and Andy knows that Pierre has gestured a kiss, something he does only when he is highly excited, and now without any coordination she slides down the mirror into a crumpled heap. The design, the dress, may have been Miranda's doing but the dress was Pierre's intent – his gift. But as usual, Miranda is far too clever to be thwarted, so she has found a way to ruin even this.
"It was worth every cent, I assure you, Pierre. Undoubtedly, Andrea will savour it for many a year to come. I am certain it will be her favourite memory – a beautiful moment...an exquisite dress to match." Miranda's every word is sardonic, each meaning as twofold as it is clear, every syllable a scalpel's slice to Andy's heart. The roaring in her ears returns; grows louder, stronger, builds to a crescendo until Andy is certain she hears an actual snap. For an instant, a curtain of darkness falls - shields her vision, then only blessed numbness, the voices receding to a distance comfortably far away. She rocks back and forth, lost - locked in her own world of anguish; too far gone to do what she so longs for – simply sob.
Not because Miranda's act, her cruel gambit, breaks her.
But because the cold hard truth is – it does not.
Sprawled awkwardly on the patterned tile floor, her ruined dress - day - marriage around her, Andy has come to a realisation – regardless of today, the cost to her and everyone around her, regardless even of Miranda herself – time after time Andy will keep on coming back.
Perhaps Miranda will recognise this, perhaps she will acknowledge it - Andy, perhaps she'll grow to lo…
Even within the confines of her mind, Andy cannot complete that thought.