One Time

"Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!

It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I am defying gravity
And you wont bring me down!"

July 2006

It takes around 30 minutes for the exhilaration of the elaborate 'fuck you, Miranda Priestly' to wear off which is roughly the length of time it takes for the sky to turn from the mugginess of summer heat to the overcast of autumn rain. That's when Andy realises that she does have a care in the world: she has no money, she has no ride and the instant that the raindrops start to pelt her, she realises that she most definitely cannot afford the one thing she has left her job - Miranda for – her pride.

I see a great deal of myself in you, floats through her mind.

Andy shuts her eyes and clenches her teeth, I am nothing like you.

In Andy's mind Miranda laughs softly. Don't be ridiculous, Andrea, everyone wants this.

No, I want something more. Even now, as then, her thoughts are a kaleidoscope – jumbled, unclear. The more is elusive, a mere glimpse, and she knows it's more than just her principles, her morals, Miranda's lifestyle, a stupid writing job.

"Ca va, mademoiselle? Avez-vous besoin d'aide?"

As she gazes into concerned blue eyes, Andy's first thought is that all the romantic movies where a pretty girl is rescued by a dashing Frenchman are completely true. Her second thought is that she is alone in the middle of the park and a rapist or a serial killer is just as likely to wear a suit. "Uh, my friend is picking me up in 2 minutes."

His boyish grin is slightly off centre, "Somehow I doubt that's true. An American and a beautiful one at that! Do you need assistance, are you lost?" His smile melts into a frown, "Do you need me to phone the police?"

"Oh, erm, no. I –" remembering granny Megan's advice about confiding in someone impartial, she mutters sheepishly, "I've sort of just walked out on a job."

"Ah," his smile returns. He eyes her up and down, "If you dress like that for work on a daily basis, I have to ask, is your company hiring at all?"

Despite her worries, Andy laughs. There's something appealing about this guy's charm and it's been a long time since someone has looked at her like that. Not since Nate, well not since Nate before … Miranda. "Paris Fashion Week," she answers simply.

It's enough. "Ah, my mother would know all about that. I am afraid I am not much for fashion myself though if I thought I would come across more girls like you, I would be very willing to learn. Pierre," he extends his hand, "Pierre Charreaux." Fumbling in his pocket, he draws out his wallet, produces a crisp white business card. 'Conseiller Financier, Financial Consultant,' is embossed in raised gold letters; a phone number, an address in Paris. "Just in case you thought I was a little, how is it you Americans say," he snaps his fingers after a second, "shady."

"You think shady people don't have business cards?" Andy teases him, shocking herself with her own banter, how at ease she feels with this man she's barely just met.

"That is an excellent point, mademoiselle …?"

In the face of such naked hope, Andy is powerless to resist. "Andrea, um, I mean Andy Sachs."

"If you do not mind, I much prefer Andrea. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl," he bends with a flourish and kisses the back of her hand, "Enchanté." But Andy doesn't hear him, her name on his lips having sent shivers down her spine. He pronounces it exactly like Miranda, so strange hearing it from someone else's lips. It's slightly wrong: a little louder, a hell of a lot lower but if she shuts her eyes she can almost fool herself into thinking it's the same.

"Now this matter of me being shady, I must rectify this at once. It's not so warm, you are shivering, so there's only one way to settle this – Andrea, you must allow me to buy you a drink."

"Um, well," Andy stutters. Its barely afternoon, she doesn't know him, and she is well aware where most men think a drink should lead.

Pierre holds up a hand to stop her, "A café au lait, a cappuccino, an espresso? But I must confess that I will draw the line at Starbucks."

Relief courses through her veins, "Well, okay. On one condition, you must allow me to pay you back."

"Of course," Pierre's face wreathes into the biggest smile yet, "you must buy me a coffee another day. Absolumént!" His eyes crinkle at the corners, a hint of crow's feet appearing, "How could I possibly resist?"

Andy knows that she won't be in Paris long enough to return the favour but having gotten his card she makes herself a promise to mail the money to him; after all she is never going to see him again.

They while away the afternoon chatting and before long Andy becomes aware that several hours have passed. Automatically looking for her phone, it takes a second to register that it's no longer in her possession, guilt sweeping through her quickly on the back of that.

"Let me call you a taxi to the hotel."

"How did you know?"

"I understand we've only just met, Andrea, but," she is captivated by the slight touch of a blush, "I feel like I know you already and everything that you've just told me led me to believe that you were going to return. So you can face Miranda, apologise, likely offer to pay for that stupid phone." His words, her own, make Andy giggle and Pierre looks hopeful - pleased.

They stand together as the taxi nears and just as it pulls up Pierre tugs her back. "Andrea, will you call me? I know we live thousands of miles apart but please? I will be in New York on business, maybe you will come to Paris again, life can be funny at times - who knows?"

Andy opens her mouth to let him down gently instead surprising herself by saying, "Yes."

Pierre looks startled, then shocked before he whispers, "Mérde." He fiddles with his tie, suddenly looking on the verge of tears before he pronounces, "I didn't think that you'd agree." His words tumble out so fast they almost flow together, "The card – that's not me, I am not a consultant, that's my father." He hangs his head and mumbles, "I am sorry, I just finished my Master's degree. I saw you and I saw the dress and I thought that you would never give Pierre Charreaux, unemployed Civil Engineer, a second glance. But Pierre Charreaux, Financial Consultant, gold card," he grimaces, "I figured that Pierre would get the girl. Anyway, I am truly sorry, again."

He turns, shoulders slumped, and warmth slowly courses through Andy – the likelihood of them meeting again was slim but Pierre chose not to continue with the lie. "Well, Mr Charreaux," she calls out jokingly, "how is it you are planning to support me in the lavish style I am accustomed to if neither of us has a job?"

His smile is brilliant, "You mean it?"

The taxi honks; she laughs, "Sure. Next Thursday." Whipping out the spare pencil she always keeps in her purse, she scrawls her New York number on the back of Pierre's - Pierre's father's card, and hands it to him, "It's a phone date."

"You have five seconds, Andrea," Miranda is as pale as the night before, the only difference is a layer of make-up which doesn't appear to be doing its job terribly well. "Five seconds to explain yourself before I throw you out. And, rest assured, Elias Clarke will be sending you a bill for the cell phone that you destroyed."

"I understand, I would have offered to pay for it." Andy's newfound confidence wilts under Miranda's steely gaze.

"Four seconds, Andrea."

"I – I," Andy swallows, tries to get the apology out, but the rehearsed words refuse to come.

"Well, as eloquent as always." Miranda gaze is now ripe with derision. "I am sure the National Enquirer will appreciate your services given most of their headlines appear to amount to around one word."

"You don't have to be so cutting," Andy bites out sharply. She is already fired after all, what can a little spunk - a dose of truth really hurt? "Your life doesn't have to consist of only one setting – bitch. And you know what, I am not sorry at all, not in the slightest. Well, except for the phone, I mean," she tacks on hastily at the end.

Miranda appears taken back but only for a second, "Well well, the little kitten shows her claws. Two seconds, Andrea." She taps her foot impatiently, her unexpected tolerance once again making Andy lose her words. "One second."

"You looked beautiful today, up there on the podium, as you squashed your most loyal employee's hopes and dreams as if he was nothing but a bug. The Calvin Klein suits you; it sets off your creamy skin and white hair perfectly." Andy doesn't know where the words are coming from but she is aware that now she's started, she really can't stop. "Every man in the room wanted to do you, every woman wanted to be you. And the black - perfectly compliments your soul."

Spinning on her heels, she quakes like a leaf inside but ensures her back is ramrod straight as she walks away from Miranda slowly, aware she's just made every blacklist that ever existed, quite possibly some that did not. Because Miranda won't forgive such a theatrical exit from a lowly employee: quite likely not the one of earlier, but beyond the shadow of a doubt, not the one that Andy has just made.

The door of her suite is curiously open but she doesn't give it any thought, not until she attempts to close it, and is pushed aside as Miranda storms into the room. "You really know how to pick them, Andrea." The sweep of Miranda's hand slams the door shut. "It's as though you have a sixth sense for these things. Miami, the night I argued with Stephen, today – you always manage to pick the absolutely worst time: for your incompetence, your mere presence, and most of all – for the sheer ignorance of your youth. You think that you know everything about me, don't you - the cold widow spider spinning her perfidious web? Are you aware that I've called the police and the American Embassy to report you missing? Who exactly do you think deigned to open this door so that you could drag your sorry, not to mention $1500 clad, self into this room?" Her chest heaving, Miranda's eyes shoot sparks of cold fury and in this, the most unlikeliest of moments, Andy realises what the elusive more is, what it is she wants.

"You didn't do any of these things," she argues half-heartedly, afraid Miranda will confirm the truth that Andy doesn't want to hear.

"Well, no. I didn't do it personally," Miranda looks utterly outraged, "but I bloody well saw that someone had it done."

Andy collapses to the couch, holding her sides as she lets out a full-bodied laugh of utter relief. Miranda's lips almost disappear with her scowl; her eyebrows rising so high that for an instant Andy is afraid that they might actually merge and forever be lost in Miranda's hair. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you make that face one day it might freeze and stay that way?"

Miranda opens her mouth and Andy knows she is about to be flayed alive, before Miranda inhales, breathes out in a whoosh; whispers stiffly, "Not all of us had mothers who were around to tell us… such things."

Compassion washes over Andy instantly, "I am sorry, Miranda."

Miranda turns away. "Yes, well, perhaps if I had had a mother I might have turned out differently. God forbid, I might have been a… you."

"Would that really have been so horrible?"

Miranda's answer is instant, "Yes." She grimaces again, rubs the back of her neck, "No. I don't know, Andrea. I am not a magic crystal ball."

Sensing an imminent return of irritation, Andy moves to calm her. "Do I still have any of that second left?"

Miranda rolls her eyes, "I suppose it would be asking for the moon to expect any brevity from you." Andy sees the temporarily lowered shield go up, Miranda brace herself again.

"I left because I don't want to be you, Miranda." Forestalling any caustic remark, Andy frantically gestures, "No, wait, please let me finish. I don't want to be you, Miranda," Andy blinks, gathers her courage for the biggest, most important, most dangerous risk of her entire life and states her newly discovered truth, "But I want to be with you."

Shocking Miranda Priestly into silence should not rank in your top three achievements but Andy mentally high fives herself as Miranda's mouth drops open, her jaw going almost entirely slack.

Taking the opportunity while she can, she hurries on, "As a friend, if that's all that you want. I mean, that's probably what you want, right? Although of course, I'd like to be a lover. Is that too presumptuous of me?" At Miranda's continued stupefied unblinking stare, Andy feels the dregs of her confidence ebb and resorts to what she does so well when she is nervous – babble. "It is, isn't it? I don't really know what I was thinking, you are obviously straight. And I think that I am straight, or I was. Now I am not so sure, I've never done this. Maybe I'm just gay for you? I guess –"

Miranda moves much quicker than any woman of her age has a right to. "Andrea, you really must learn when to shut up."

"Well," before Andy even thinks of righteous indignation, Miranda is up close and personal and Andy wonders why she's never noticed the little flecks of aquamarine in Miranda's eyes. Or how soft and smooth her skin looks, not really fair for a woman of her age. Or how her mouth - or how her mouth - or how her mouth, Andy's thoughts falter at its proximity before her lips are captured in a sweetly tender kiss.

"Mmphh," she tries to speak, Miranda's smoky laugh curling through her faster, stronger, headier than any wine. "Andrea, afterwards, I am certain that you'll find plenty cause for talk."

"Mmphh," Andy agrees and gives in to the surge of feeling and it's a long long time before she utters anything other than "Yes, oh yes. Oh yes, right there, Miranda. Harder, please harder. Oh god, Miranda, yes."

She is much clumsier returning the favour but what she lacks in skill, she makes up with her effort and hard work. It takes a while, another long long while, and then as Miranda finally cries out Andy realises the rush of power from reducing Miranda to a pile of shaking quivering limbs is utterly addictive, so again nothing is said for a very long long time. And then of course Miranda must return the favour, because its 2 to 1, not that Andy is technically keeping score. Miranda makes her come twice, delicately blots her lips the last time, before caressing Andy's ear with her breath, "3:2." Never one to be deterred, Andy goes down like a trooper and somewhat faster this time, she ends up grinning, "I believe 3:3."

"Well, how surprising," it is Miranda's turn to chuckle weakly in between the gasps and pants.

"What?"

"There is a decent use for your mouth, after all."

Biting her shoulder playfully, Andy soothes the bite with a tender lick, which turns into another lick, another, before Miranda finally concedes defeat. "Enough. I am 52 years old, Andrea. I don't need the scandal of a sordid hotel room death."

"But what a way to go," Andy collapses beside her; brushes the bangs out of her eyes. "I don't think that I'd mind it myself."

"Of course you wouldn't," Miranda complains dryly, "Fucked to death by the famous La Priestly herself, now there's a headline to beat them all."

Suddenly serious, Andy gazes at Miranda, sees the myriad of colours, so much more vivid than they've ever been. Only with her, never with anyone else no matter how she's tried. That fact alone should have been the tipping point but now - now there's the factor of the mind-blowing sex. "You are not just a story to me, Miranda. I'd never sell you out, you are not a fling."

Miranda rises, puts on a bathrobe, her face equally as sombre as Andy's. She turns away to face the window, "Andrea, in my life there are some ground rules. I think that you should hear them before you start thinking hearts and flowers, commitment rings and happily ever afters."

"That was uncalled for," Andy whispers angrily.

Miranda turns round, her gaze stripping Andy bare to the soul. "No, Andrea, I really don't think it was. I know what you are thinking, I can see it in your eyes already – a little house, a picket fence, a puppy, 2.6 kids."

"2.4," Andy corrects her woodenly.

"Oh well, pardon me," Miranda's sarcasm is overwhelming, especially as Andy is still lying in the bed in which they've tenderly made love mere moments ago. "2.4 kids, thank you for correcting me, I guess the 0.2 makes all the difference to you."

"Why are you doing this, Miranda?"

"Because, Andrea, sooner or later you are going to have to open your eyes. You can leave the fashion world, my world, but there are always Emilys; even being a journalist - a writer, there will be someone that you have to cross. We all make choices - hard choices in our life, it is inevitable. Andrea, I chose a very long time ago. I've made my sacrifices, paid my dues; I am what I am and I'm not about to change. So now you have a choice – leave here tonight and don't come back or stay, remain in my world, but on my terms."

"You mean continue to work for you?"

"No, we both know that bridge is burnt, Andrea. I am afraid your employment with Runway has been terminated. But there are other jobs out there in New York. Didn't you always say it was your dream to write?"

"Then how –"

"Discretely, occasionally; never in the same place twice."

"Until the divorce?"

Miranda's bark of laughter is high enough to shatter crystal, certainly high pitched enough to shatter Andy's heart. "Divorce, the next relationship, however long that one lasts; Lord knows I hope not another divorce, I honestly don't know what one more would do to the girls."

Horrified Andy whispers, "Miranda, but what about us?"

Bewildered, Miranda shakes her head, "What about us? Was there really something that I didn't make clear? We'll meet maybe twice a month, in a hotel room of my choice. Then we go our separate ways. Now that you are no longer in my employ, it won't be impossible to believe that we might have a casual lunch, might even become friends. I really don't comprehend what's difficult to understand here, Andrea."

Andy swipes a tongue over her lips, "W-what –" Her voice is squeaky so she clears her throat, states in her normal pitch though it is anything but how she feels, "what about love?"

"What about love?" Miranda frowns.

"Nothing," Andy's voice is forlorn but this time she doesn't hide exactly how she feels.

Pulling on the clothes mechanically, she asks, "The ticket back to New York, can I use it? I promise that I'll pay you back."

"What are you doing, Andrea?"

"What does it look like? I am getting dressed."

"Where do you plan to go? It's late. The ticket isn't for another 2 days."

"Then I'll figure something out, I h-have a wallet, I have a family. I'll f-find somewhere to stay." The words are shaky, her vision blurry, so she doesn't catch Miranda's bitter resigned gaze. "I'm sorry," she turns and pauses at the door, "I'm really sorry, Miranda. It's just… I can't." She tries to justify the decision that's already shredding her insides with precision, "my conscience, my principles, won't let me." Skewered by that judging boring gaze, she offers finally - defensively," It's just that… I am a good person, Miranda."

"Yes, Andrea, I usually find that's what all the cowards say."

"I am not a coward."

"Yes, you are, Andrea." Miranda walks up to stand behind her. "What's even worse – you are predictable as well."

"You didn't expect what happened tonight."

"Maybe, maybe not. You'll never know for sure now, will you?" Her fingers flick out to contemptuously point to the A4 sheet of paper on Andrea's desk. "Your boarding pass, the taxi will be downstairs in about," she glances at her watch, "30 minutes. I suggest you not be late or you are going to miss your flight."

"How –?"

Miranda opens the door, throws Andy one last lingering look, "It's as I've said, Andrea, if you are one thing it's…predictable. I ordered Emily to change your reservation last night."

The meeting across the street is totally accidental: Andy reassures herself that it is fate, divine intervention, and providence; pretends she hasn't walked past the building every other day. Since Paris, that night, since anything Miranda; since everything has utterly completely changed. A gamble, a toss of the coin, a risk – and she has earned a recommendation, a meagre tossing out of a little goodwill. But this one gesture isn't just about employment; it's so much - volumes more. Miranda will never call, won't beg Andy to reconsider, she'll simply find a way to let her know. And now she has and who is Andy to deny her - to deny the craving whose hooks are buried in so deep? One night - one lousy fabulous mind blowing night and she is a goner; her smile widens in acknowledgment of the truth within that thought.

She waves: a short sharp childish clumsy wave and she is instantly embarrassed, this isn't quite how she envisaged it would go. Miranda doesn't acknowledge her, simply dons her oversized Dolce & Gabbana glasses and settles into the familiar limousine. Andy blushes but remembers that yet again she owes gainful employment to this woman and quickly glancing down, once more reads Pierre's latest text.

Bonne chance, Andrea.

You shouldn't be scared.

They are lucky to have you.

I'm so excited about my interview in New York!

Keep your chin up, it'll work out.

Carpe Diem or as you Yanks say – seize the day! ;-)

Andy taps the phone against her hand and smiles. She spins it round in her hand, fingers twitching over the plastic buttons; breathes in and out and mutters, "You are not a coward, Andy, carpe diem." She adds the other version silently – as a measure of precaution and for good luck.

Dialling the number before she chickens out, she hears the familiar smooth voice, "Andrea, the utter gall –"

"Iloveyou," she blurts it out instantly. The words are so much easier to say than she had ever thought. More smoothly she repeats, "I love you." Now at a loss, not having planned on ever having enough courage to make this call, she flounders; adding quickly, "I just thought I should let you know."

Her courage - her love only extends so far, so green and fragile she offers it protection, and biting her lip she hits the button that ends the call. Almost immediately her phone rings, she lets it. Miranda calls her two more times. On the third call, Andy plucks up the strength to answer it to hear an acid, "Andrea, you will never let a call go to voicemail again. Your new phone will arrive tomorrow. The Morgan Hotel, Madison Avenue, six o'clock. A 3 star hotel, Andrea," Miranda's scandalised tone can't possibly dim Andy's thousand watt grin, "I dread to think of the thread count of the sheets." She sniffs but underneath the condescension and the ire, Andy is sure she can sense a growing smile.

"See you then," Andy offers softly, with anticipation.

"Their bathrooms have a black and white checked pattern." Spat out with indignation, through gritted teeth, somehow Miranda's sentiment's the same.