NOT FIGHTING

Andrea was giving her that look again. The one, Miranda noted glumly, that generally preceded lots of clipped words and pointed glares and no sex, and frankly it was all vastly perplexing. Because they were absolutely not fighting – for reasons she had already carefully and most reasonably explained to her assistant. Not that that had done much good.

They were sitting, fully clothed, on the edge of Miranda's bed, doing nothing whatsoever about the fact the fashion editor would rather they were doing a lot more than glaring, while wearing a lot less. Especially since Andrea was resplendent in those thigh-high Chanel boots that had made her fevered brain mutter "Mercy" the first time she'd clapped eyes on her assistant strutting about in them and nothing else.

And all she wanted to do was get back to their important, not-glaring, business at hand. And they were wasting a perfectly good bed, thank you very much.

"We're not fighting," Miranda stated in exasperation. Andrea's head snapped up.

"We're not figh…," Andrea repeated dully before fading out. "Ri-ight. Because you, Miranda Priestly, have ordained it so."

Miranda frowned. Well, this discussion was already going rapidly off script. She side-eyed her assistant, wondering whether professional pride would work where all her other perfectly logical arguments had failed. Clearly women were the most annoyingly illogical dating partners to have, she humphed to herself. If they were dating, which – they still weren't. She folded her arms in irritation.

However Andrea had been defying all her perfectly good logic for about half an hour so far.

"Miranda," she'd said, when their not-fight had begun. "I know you're not seeing it, but we have been in a relationship for, like, two months. Everyone from Irv to the cleaners have been making comments about it. My parents are threatening to bring in cult-busting experts for my apparently desperately needed reprogramming. Doug thinks I'm in his Friends of Dorothy club, whatever the hell that means, and he tried to give me a toaster oven. I already have one! I have no clue what that's about. And one of the security guards told me, and I quote: 'Don't sell yourself short, Andy. Isn't it about time she put a ring on it?'."

"That's just their misinformed opinions, Andrea, it doesn't make it so," Miranda had begun in her most reasonable tone, even as she wondered how to track down that deluded meddler in Security for a little chat about workplace propriety.

"Miranda," Andrea huffed, "Don't you get it? This ... relationship, our dating ... is not a secret to anyone but you!" She then looked at her with wide pleading eyes. "I spend my weekends and three nights a week here. I go to soccer games with the girls, who by the way, I adore. I cook for you. I make love to you. I don't do any of this because I'm your assistant, because, Sweetie, if that was in the job description, I'd have the job a billion girls would kill for."

Miranda had gaped at her in confusion. How did her girls and soccer and cooking get into this conversation about their sexual plans for the evening? And when did they get to the point of calling each other inane nicknames?

"You will not call me 'sweetie'," she warned and removed the soft hand from hers. "It's infantalizing nonsense. I told my husbands the same thing."

"THAT'S what you took from my last sentence? THAT?"

"Andrea - maybe I have been confusing you. You are not required to cook for me or drive the girls to soccer. Or even train them. I have employees who can do these tasks. I don't expect you to do this. If it's all too much..."

"Missing the point much? God, you're impossible. I think your brain's GPS co-ordinates are fixed in the middle of a river in Egypt."

Miranda's lips had snapped instantly into pursed mode. And that's when the glaring match had begun.

It had been half an hour, and Miranda really didn't want to waste the bed or the girls being away at their father's. This had gone on long enough.

"I said we're not fighting because of the fact you are an exceptional assistant," Miranda declared winningly. Yes, professional pride was the route to Andrea's heart, she just knew it. She gave her most charming smile as she continued. "It's not possible for us to be fighting – because that would make you an insubordinate assistant, which, as we have already established, you are clearly not."

"Insub… you … we… assistant?!" Andrea sputtered at her. Miranda lifted her eyebrows.

Really, she failed to see what the problem was here. And, truly, Andrea was the best assistant she'd ever had. A little flattery never went astray, either. Problem surely solved, she smiled widely.

"Now that's settled," Miranda purred, "How about we kiss it all better?"

Andrea leaped to her feet and strode over to the small chest of drawers beside Miranda's bed. The editor watched in alarm as items began to rain out and land all over the floor.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded. A limited-edition Agent Provocateur negligee (champagne, Spring/Summer 11) landed on her head. She snatched it off and growled. "Andrea, what…?"

"Ah," the younger woman said as her arm stilled and retracted from the drawer. She waved a rather embarrassing piece of phallic-shaped silicon at Miranda. "I figured as much. You were between husbands for a fair while, after all. And, let's be honest, it's where every single girl keeps her stash."

Miranda turned scarlet and her lips crushed into the thinnest of lines. "How DARE you!"

"How dare I?" Andrea enquired coldly and cocked her head. "You told me one second ago that I was just your exceptionally good assistant. So I am now assisting you with your pressing problem to the best of my professional, assistantly abilities – and no more. Now here." She tossed the dildo at Miranda, who reflexively caught it, and the brunette stalked towards the door. "If you ever decide to stop using me as a blow-up doll, give me a call. Until then, you can give yourself your own happy ending. Oh, and for the record, Sweetie?"

Miranda's eyes were wide, and she was dimly aware she was clutching the ridiculous purple dildo in a white-knuckled grip.

"We are definitely fighting."