Wrong Time

"You look so fine
I want to break your heart
And give you mine
You're taking me over

It's so insane
You've got me tethered and chained
I hear your name
And I'm falling over

I'm not like all the other girls
I can't take it like the other girls
I won't share it like the other girls
That you used to know"

September 2008

"She doesn't love you, you know." The words are practically spat out, conveying deep-seated anger. "She is never going to love you – you are just like the rest of us, a toy that's conveniently at hand whenever you're needed. But when your use runs out, and trust me that'll happen any time now, it'll be like you don't even exist."

Andy faces off against the teenager with the punk rocker clothes, short cropped hair, a line of silver studs and earrings adorning her left ear. Cassidy – it's so much easier to tell them apart now that they are going through the painful teenage phase where it has long been not so cool to dress the same. Tonight it has never been more obvious that Caroline is the shy dreamy artist, Cassidy the bitter angry rebel.

"Cassidy, I am not really sure what you mean. Your mother and I are friends and –"

"Oh my God," Cassidy's eye roll is vintage Miranda, "why can't you adults cut the crap? I am not a child. In case you haven't noticed I haven't been one for a while now. I know."

"Know what?" Andy continues to play the innocent. After all, the affair has lasted longer than two years and she isn't falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

"That you are fucking her." The bark of laughter is ugly, "No, let's get real." Andy is measured by a familiar blue gaze, as usual found wanting, "That she is fucking you."

"Cassidy –" Andy's mouth is suddenly as arid as the creek behind her parents' house in Ohio. They might be in a hidden nook off to the side of Miranda's kitchen but this party is huge and it is highly likely that someone might come upon them and overhear this conversation.

Her panic must transmit itself to Cassidy because she laughs again and takes a drag of her furtive cigarette, "Oh, don't worry, your dirty little secret is safe with me. It's always been safe: Samantha, Claire, Jennifer – that's all the ones that I know of. See, it was a while before I caught on."

Andy schools her face not to show any emotion, Cassidy could very well be lying. But deep inside her inner voice whispers bitingly, oh, Andy, you knew you weren't the first.

Cassidy continues, "She always follows the same old pattern – seduce, enthral, conceal, then dump. And meanwhile her front is always perfect: our father, James, Stephen, now John. All safe, all first class pricks – that's how she picks them: an alcoholic, a liar, a cheat. That way she doesn't fall in love and when the time comes they can leave her or she'll discard them, either way, it never has to hurt."

"You are wrong," Andy takes a risk continuing this conversation but there are truths it is important that Miranda's kids appreciate. "I was there in Paris, the night Stephen told her that he was filing for divorce. She'd been crying, Cassidy, I know that they were real tears because she was alone. That night I saw the true Miranda and I can tell you she isn't a woman who doesn't care." Andy longs to say more but she can't, her own secrets are not ones she can share.

"Well of course she cares," Cassidy's snort carries derision. "Let me guess, you really think she didn't know that you'd be there that night. Knowing her modus operandi, hmm let me think," Cassidy taps the cigarette against the counter and Andy watches the ash fleck off, fall to the metal surface, smoulder. She wants to say something but she doesn't: it isn't her place, not even her house and definitely not her kid. "It was less than a week before she slept you with you for the very first time, although Caroline seems to like you so you are probably even more of a sap than the other girls." She pauses to take another deep drag, "If you are truly as pathetic as you seem then you would have slept with her that night."

Involuntarily, a line of pink dusts the top of Andy's cheekbones and Cassidy appraises her speculatively, "No, not that night, but I am pretty close. The next day, that was when you walked out, she bitched about it for at least a week. But not like she normally does, different." Apparently Andy cannot conceal anything from any of the Priestly women because Cassidy smirks, "Oh my god, I am right, the next day, yep. Fast work even for her, how long were you her assistant – a year? It usually takes longer for her to break them in."

Andy feels anger rise inside her but as always it's fruitless, destined not to find any release. For while she listens to the venomous words falling from Cassidy's lips, she is attuned to so much more – her defensive posture, the underlying hurt in the teenager's tone, most of all – the pain in her eyes. Cassidy is lashing out, Andy the target and it's not so long ago that Andy remembers doing - being the same, so even as a scathing diatribe builds, persistent doubt flaring within her, she suppresses it; pushes away her own hurt. "You shouldn't doubt that she loves you, you were the reason for her tears that night. You are right, she probably pretended that she didn't care for herself but that wasn't the case when it came to Caroline and you. All she could talk about was how this would affect you both, how the rags would have a field day. You should never doubt the depth of your mother's love." Andy's words are passionate, self assured, certain and for a moment it is as though her doubts transmit themselves to Cassidy: the pain wavering, doubt flickering in her eyes.

In the next instant, she stubs out the cigarette, flicks the butt into the sink, then drawls, "Whatever, I don't really care. You can choose to believe what the fuck you want. Just a word of warning – when she is through with you, don't bother with the impromptu visits and midnight calls. She hates that, though not as much as we do, I swear with Jennifer it was at least a month before we got a decent night's sleep." Shouldering Andy out of the way, Cassidy moves past her, turns around, ineffectually waves her hand in the air to clear the smoke. Tapping her finger on the door frame, she seems lost in thought then ruefully shakes her head and swears, "Shit, I promised Caroline." She sighs and looking into her eyes, Andy sees someone much older than the nearly 15 year old girl she knows Cassidy to be. A battle-scarred weary soul gazes back at her, radiating a hint of shrewdness beyond her years. "Tonight, when the time comes, just look at her. Really look at her and see what's in her eyes."

"What time, Cassidy, what –"

"You'll know. I can't say any more. Just look, okay?" Almost reluctantly she finishes, "You - you are not so bad; like I said, Caroline likes you. You don't deserve this," Walking backwards into the kitchen, she hesitates as the sounds of someone's conversation drifts closer, lifts her hand in front of her face, breathes out, grimaces. Producing a mint out of seemingly nowhere, she pops it into her mouth; crunching, "You don't deserve what she is doing to you, Andy. What she will do to you."

Miranda is stunning as she descends the staircase but then, of course, she always is. Andy doesn't want to spout such clichés as Miranda looking gorgeous wearing a garbage bag but to her that's just a simple truth. Their eyes catch and it's as though a spark travels back and forth through the invisible line that connects them. Andy offers a crooked grin and a wave, Miranda neither. Nor her expression nor the pace of her descent change but her eyes flick up and down Andy's red Valentino and suddenly the spark becomes a smouldering inferno: carefully banked, nigh invisible, but never to Andy. She smiles – a month's salary down the drain, worth every single cent.

"She is still only the second most beautiful woman in the room." The comment tickles her ear as much as the guilt her heart.

"You are biased," she murmurs back.

"Never. You're a vision tonight, one that I hope to enjoy in private later." Pierre gently bites her earlobe.

Andy resents his possessiveness, his presumptuousness but then again it's her that's led him up the garden path, her that has gifted him with both of these flaws.

"Mmm," her response is carefully inconclusive.

"Andrea, Pierre." Without Andy noticing it, Miranda has floated down to stand beside them.

"Miranda," Pierre takes her hand, bestows a kiss on the knuckles with a flourish. "You are a vision."

Resentment boils up in Andy – she doesn't care that Pierre has issued an identical compliment to Miranda; it's only that she longs to be the one to have the right to say such words – to be the only one that utters them. "Yes, you look wonderful," she follows up, mouthing the bland expected words, her eyes conveying so much more. The velvet blue Armani hugs every one of Miranda's curves, accentuates the colour of her eyes. They appear almost navy as they quickly flick to Pierre's arm around Andy's waist, almost instantaneously glance away.

"Congratulations," Miranda moves forward, embracing Andy. Her fingers linger a little longer than they should as they encounter the bare expanse of Andy's back; caress a trail of fire. Andy feels the pull of longing in her stomach: an ache, a need to possess Miranda, to be able to return the caress out here, in public. As if reading her thoughts, Miranda pulls away. "The New York Times, I always knew what you were capable of, of course, what lay underneath that little Midwestern veneer."

On Miranda's lips Andy's origins have never sounded more dirty, something to be ashamed of. Andy refuses to take the bait. "We all have hidden depths, Miranda. Don't you agree?"

Touché, Miranda's eyes gleam, even as she murmurs, "Quite."

"Well, this is a wonderful party." Pierre raises his glass of champagne in a toast, "Thank you for your generosity." Andy follows suit and takes a sip herself.

"Anything for Andrea," a different gleam enters Miranda's eyes, "and her pleasure."

Andy chokes mid swallow; her eyes water as she coughs. "Sorry… champagne… wrong way." Pierre pats her on the back with concern; Miranda's lips purse with the effort of holding back a laugh. Andy's eyes promise revenge. Miranda's brow rises in a silent question - challenge.

"I have just acquired a new painting – Vermeer. A fabulous copy, one almost can't discern the difference between it and the original. I thought perhaps you'd care to see it? "The Love Letter" – one of my favourites, I'd love to know what you think."

Andy hides a smirk: she doesn't need to glance up to know that in the five seconds Miranda took to utter this invitation, Pierre's eyes have glazed over in a panic. Art – he's definitely not a fan. "Ah well," he frantically hunts for an excuse.

Andy does the girlfriend duty, "Is that Armand over there, Pierre? I think I heard him mention he is only staying for an hour. Did you not say that you had business to discuss?"

"Yes!" It's almost pathetic how eager Pierre sounds to get away. Of course stones and glass houses – it's only more pathetic how desperate Andy is to be alone with Miranda. "Would you excuse me, ladies? Miranda, I am sure Andy is in capable hands." Knowing he's been spared Pierre is all charm again, kissing Andy on the cheek before he walks away.

"Well, Andrea," Miranda's voice lowers to a whisper, "I'd hate to disappoint. Perhaps I should prove just how… capable …?"

Andy's knees instantly feel weak; the melodious voice strokes deeper than any caress. "I don't think your capability is in question." Her reply is hoarse and she knows she can't quite suppress the evidence of arousal on her face.

As if in confirmation she is reminded with a smiling, "Remember where we are, Andrea." The warning serves as a dousing of cold water, smothering Andy's libido as quickly.

She smiles bitterly, "Don't worry, Miranda. I've long learned to hide how I really feel."

For just an instant a shadow flits across Miranda's face but the lighting is cosy, dim so Andy chalks it up to her imagination. After all, Miranda has exactly what she wants; she has no reason to feel sadness.

"Let me show you the painting." Miranda walks away, Andy dutifully trotting behind her. She wonders what others see when they look at the two of them, ponders if she will ever cast away the shackles of assistant. It's an unpleasant thought: back then at least Miranda needed her in a professional capacity, now - well, now Miranda's need is very different, one Andy can't rely on; at the mercy of a whim.

Unbidden, Cassidy's words float through her mind and Andy questions softly as they ascend the marble steps, "Who is Jennifer?" The only sign of Miranda having heard her is the stiffening of her shoulders, the sudden rigidity of her back, "Miranda?"

"I don't know a Jennifer, Andrea. For all I know she is one of those insufferably incompetent girls that used to be in my employ. Or there might even be one at Runway now, I don't keep track of them – quite honestly, who knows?"

If not her body, her words betray her, for Miranda that's a hell of a long drawn-out speech. So it's true: the sting of the confirmation registers, her heartbeat drumming out a painful staccato of how long. How long ago? How long did it last? And then, of course, the most important one – how long is it I have? She doesn't ask, she's never voiced that question – she knows were she to ask, the answer would be then long.

The Vermeer is in the bedroom, where else – it's an absolutely breathtaking piece. They stand admiring it for a while and Andy hopes Miranda doesn't ask her what she thinks. Words are her tools but in this moment she isn't certain that there are any that are adequate enough. But it seems the silence is the desired response for Miranda seems just as spellbound beside her, at least until Andy glances at the woman at her side. That's when she sees it – the longing, the hunger, not aimed at the painting but at her. Her own longing surges instantly, washing the doubts - the bitterness away.

They embrace and it's the softness of Paris: unhurried, leisurely, unusually … warm. Miranda's lips are ravenous yet infinitely gentle, perhaps the painting's effect. Is Andy the lover that she's been waiting for or is she the lover of Andy's dreams – quicksilver, elusive, and ethereal but never out of her thoughts? Miranda's lips continue their journey of adoration: cheek, ear, the line of Andy's jaw. "Miranda," she moans helplessly, on fire with lust - love, "please."

Miranda chuckles, bites her earlobe but even that act is filled with uncharacteristic sweetness, a promise to fulfil all of Andy's desires - needs. Her hands - her capable talented hands creep lower and soon there is no room for any thought. Still lost in the euphoric haze Andy returns the favour with her mouth – worshipping Miranda, as the painting, on the bed. All too quickly the moment is over and as always Andy yearns to capture it, store it away – more so than usual today, she isn't accustomed to such tenderness , it's normally more quick, rough, desperate – the factor of time and circumstance holding much more sway. Ironic, because here in Miranda's house, in the middle of the party that she's thrown for Andy, they've probably never been more short of time. Make-up, hair, dresses once again in place, Miranda hesitates; seeing the question in Andy's eyes she says with uncustomary uncertainty, "I have something for you. A –"

The knocking on the door prevents her finishing, an insistent voice calling out, "Miranda, are you in here?" Reality – so frequently in a different guise – intervenes, as it always does, this time in the form of Miranda's latest paramour – John.

A veil of disappointment, frustration and anger sweeps over Miranda in a flash. She sighs, and something akin to grief ghosts through her eyes before she points Andy towards the second bedroom door that she would like for her to use. So Andy exits, anxiously trying to not think: of what this present might mean, of the lovemaking – and for once she is so certain it is love, but most of all she tries to bury the cascade of images – of what might be happening right now behind the bedroom door.

It is some time before Miranda rejoins the party, all the while a seething jealousy burning a hole in Andy's chest. She acts - pretends like nothing is wrong, flits from group to group accepting congratulations, never more aware of the hollowness her lies create. She examines every millimetre of Miranda's skin when she returns, as if she could actually spot it - him, his every trace.

"You told me that was over," the cold voice behind Andy jolts her unexpectedly, she so painfully aware how she has revealed herself. "Don't panic, I doubt anyone else has noticed but I am your mother after all."

"Mum –"

"Don't, Andy. It's utterly disgusting – what you are doing to that boy, what you are doing to yourself."

"You don't know what you are talking about," Andy bites out, teeth clenched, a smile on her face for show.

"Oh, Andy, of course I know. You trail after her like a lovesick puppy, hang on her every word! And all the while, she's using you; she's never going to leave him, whichever him she is on, that is."

Her mother's sarcasm bites deeply, reinforcing as it does Cassidy's words, those of her friends so long ago. "You're wr-rong," her voice trembles a little. "She'll leave him when it's the right time."

"The right time," Elizabeth snorts, "and when is that, Andy? When they're getting married, during the next divorce?" At Andy's anguished look, she mutters acidly, "So you haven't heard the latest talk. I've had the pleasure of circulating this party and I can tell you, that's all that anyone is saying tonight."

"Speculation - Miranda would have told me."

"Because she tells you everything she does? How often do you see her, Andy – once, twice a month? She has an image, two children, a multimillion dollar magazine to run – that life comes with a price, Andrea." Her Sunday school name, her mother is truly mad. "It doesn't include such luxuries as you."

"I am not a thing," she hisses heatedly.

"That is exactly what you are, you just don't see it. Your slavish devotion blinds you to the truth. How long," again that treacherous phrase rears its head, "are you prepared to wait for her? How many years are you going to waste?"

Forever, flits through Andy's mind but she's not stupid enough to voice that thought.

"Andrea," her mother sighs, "I just want what's best for you. It isn't her, your future is in front of you, but you refuse to see exactly what you have."

"I love Pierre," Andy shrugs defensively.

"You don't love him nearly enough. He deserves much better," the sting is deep, "for that matter, so do you. Don't throw your life away on someone who doesn't want you, not when you have someone that loves you as he does."

"I –"

"There's nothing more to say, Andrea. Please, for both your sakes, just think on what I've said. And don't say anything hasty; be mindful that some opportunities come around only once." Her cryptic words still lingering in the air, her mother strides away.

The mystery reveals itself much later, once Miranda makes a toast, a sizeable crowd gathered in the enormous front room.

"My turn," Pierre fiddles with his tie and Andy frowns, that's a sure-fire sign that he is nervous. "We all know why we are here …"

"To Andy!" Everyone cheers and takes another swig.

Andy blushes, mouths 'thank you', her gaze drawn to Pierre as he continues his speech.

"Yes, to Andy. Two years ago, I bumped into the most beautiful girl in Paris, undoubtedly the only one wearing quite such a dress when sitting in a park."

Laughter breaks out and Andy blushes again: everyone else because all of them have heard the story of hers and Pierre's meeting, Andy because she vividly remembers what happened that night. She doesn't need to look at Miranda to know their shared secret knowledge would be reflected in their eyes.

"Of course, as we all know, I lied and talked her into having a drink with me, pretending to be something I am not. But that was the one and only time, I promise you," more raucous laughter breaks out, "or maybe it's just that Andrea has made an honest man out of me. So I think it's only fair that I return the favour …"

Somewhere outside of their universe some omnipotent creature presses 'slow'. Pierre's words become an incomprehensible jumble and all Andy can do is watch the motion of his lips – they open and close like a fish out of water but all she can hear is the dull roar in her head. She can feel sweat breaking out as his hand reaches into his pocket, pulls out a box; he sinks down on one knee. His fingers pull open the velvet box and she spies the sapphire, knows exactly to whom the much cheaper smaller version has been gifted six months ago; connects the dots. Her vision greys – as if instantly each colour has bled out, the oxygen around her, her heart.

Turning through air as thick as molasses, she painstakingly twists her head.

Their gazes connect: the brown with the blue, the question with the answer, the fragile hope with the steely truth. Miranda's whole demeanour is implacable - impenetrable, except for a tiny imperceptible nod.

No, Andy begs.

Yes, Miranda's answer.

I can't, she pleads.

The blue flashes with certainty, you must.

They speak with their eyes, it takes less than a second, but it's just long enough to comprehend that this - this is exactly what they meant – the twins, her mother, all her former friends.

And just like that, Andy's fate is sealed. "Yes."

Pierre's whoop of joy is nearly drowned out by applause. Andy's eyes flit to Miranda's once again in acquiescence – yes, Miranda, I'll be exactly what you want.