The Painter

Part 4: Better To Burn Than Drown

"I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours." ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Andy walked through the throng of people towards Miranda. The crowded space and dodging of people gave her a few moments to appraise Miranda's appearance before actually having to speak to the woman.

Miranda wore an icy pale blue wrap around sheath combined with a white jacket draped over her shoulders, with white suede Manolo's to complete the outfit. She wore blue topaz earbobs and a sharp looking silver omega watch on her left wrist.

Simplistic, up-to-the-moment chic and breathtakingly elegant. Of course.

Andy expected nothing less from the tyrant queen of fashion herself.

Andy had no clue when exactly, she had become so obsessed over Miranda's wardrobe. All she knew at the moment was that Miranda was giving her that up and down look again and she hoped Miranda liked her outfit. God, at this rate, she'd become even vainer than Emily if she wasn't careful.

Then she was standing in front of Miranda and conversation became mandatory once more.

She smiled a little too broadly and said, "Miranda, I'm glad you could make it. It was good of you to come." Andy could have bit her tongue off for level of 'boring conversationalist' that comment had just stamped her as, right off the bat. Great. This conversation was starting well.

Miranda looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She gave Andy the infamous 'you can do better than that, surely' look. Oh boy.

She glanced over Miranda's shoulder to see Emily sneering at her, enjoying her discomfort. 'Hmph. Bitch.' Andy thought categorizing her officially as one of the people she didn't like. The redhead had been rude to her one too many times.

"Andrea." Miranda leaned in for an air-kiss. Andy felt Miranda's cheeks brush her own, kissing the air beside her face and briefly wondered what Miranda's mouth felt like. Was it as soft as the rest of her face had been when Andy had posed her? She dismissed her idle musings for later. For now, she had to focus on the woman in front of her.

Andy should have known she would actually come. Henry had invited her at the Benefit after all. Miranda was the type to want to check out the kind of work Andy did before truly committing to buying a portrait from her.

Miranda made a show of looking around the gallery, taking in the design, the hidden art, the mirrors and the dim lights. But Andy noticed Miranda was watching the people even more intently than the art. Already she was analyzing the mob that had decided to come see the show, making note of who the enemies where and who to talk to later as well as who to ignore.

"Interesting choice of theme. Self-reflection." Miranda said seemingly out of nowhere. Andy nodded, even though she wasn't looking at her.

"I would have thought it a rather obvious theme, but the design of the gallery has a fresh take on it. All thanks to my design team. I'm just the painter after all."

"I disagree." Miranda said absently. She tugged at the curtains hiding the portrait of a young woman with her eyes down cast, staring at something the portrait didn't include. The woman's eyebrows were furrowed intently as she concentrated on the task at hand. "Few people can look themselves and the mirror and be happy with who they see." Miranda murmured.

Andy wondered what Miranda saw when she looked in the mirror. She knew Miranda must be wondering the same thing about her. Andy doubted either of them would like to hear the answers to the unasked questions floating between them.

"Andy! There you are, I've been looking for you!" Lily called to her from a few feet away, "Mr. and Mrs. Ross are here. They wanted to speak to you about a portrait they want to buy and how much you want for it."

"Ah. Business is calling." Miranda said. "I won't keep you."

"Will you stay for a bit?" Andy asked. 'Please let her say yes,' Andy thought. "I'd love to come back to discuss ideas for your portrait once you've got a clearer idea of what I can do."

"Mmm. Yes. I think I'll be here for a while yet." Miranda replied, glancing around again, "Go Andrea. Your buyers are waiting."

Andy nodded and let Lily lead her away.

Andy let Lily take her to Mr. and Mrs. Ross, who were standing near the painting they wanted to buy. Andy wondered which one had peeked their interest. It was always interesting to see which painting would be the first to be bought. Lily pulled back the curtains to expose the painting.

Andy stopped dead in her tracks.

What was that portrait doing here? It shouldn't be here. It couldn't be here. It was supposed to be in the warehouse, hidden away, never to be seen again.

But here it was. Who had done this? Did they not have any idea what that portrait meant to Andy?

"What is that portrait doing here Lily?" Andy asked. She ground her teeth together to keep herself from yelling at the top of her lungs.

"G-Gisele found it in the back of the warehouse under some of the other portraits we brought out to show." Lily said, "We—we thought it was fine, after you approved the final show book." She cringed visibly with every word.

Andy couldn't tear her eyes away from the infant's face on the canvas.

Those all too familiar eyes, the sweet pink mouth, the shape of the button nose. Oh God.

"So, how much are you asking for it Mrs. Sachs Goldman?" asked Mr. Ross. He smiled hesitantly.

Andy stared at him. She hadn't heard what he'd said. Her chest was tight. She felt like there were a hundred people shoved into the small room instead of only two dozen or so.

Mr. and Mrs. Ross looked at Andy expectantly.

His previous question registered with her at last. "It—it's not for s-sale." Andy said.

It took all her strength not to start crying right then and there in the middle of the gallery.

She was shaking. Her chest felt tight, like there wasn't enough air in the room. She clenched her hands into fists.

"Take it down Lily. Take it down right this second." Andy managed to growl.

Her eyes flashed with an emotion that was far beyond furious. She was seeing red.

How dare they? How dare they put her through this again?

Andy very nearly punched the wall behind her. She wanted to. But there were people watching her. She wanted to feel her knuckles crack with impact, feel the searing pain and hear the satisfying crunch of flesh hitting brick.

Instead, she denied herself the satisfaction of inflicting pain and fled the room, headed towards the back alley.

She needed some air. She couldn't breathe. She needed air. She needed to get away. Far away from the probing eyes of her husband and the false careening voices filled with 'concern' that just would not shut up.

She breathed in the sharp autumn air as she stepped outside into the night.

She slammed the door leading to the back alley behind her with all her might. She enjoyed the smashing, screeching, protest of the old metal door as it crashed brutally into its much abused frame.

She felt a bit dizzy. Her legs gave out and she sat on the step and focused on her breathing, deep and slow, trying to prevent the on-coming panic attack. She felt like a freight train had just crashed into her and she was trying breathe after the impact.

The single buzzing street light attempted to create some form of illumination without much success.

'Pathetic.' Andy thought, although whether she was thinking of the street light or of herself, she really couldn't say.

She hoped no one would follow her. She couldn't breathe with all those people looking at her, pitying her. She needed to breathe. Preferably alone.

There wasn't enough air for two idiots in this tiny alley way. Andy was surely an idiot. It had been so long, so much time had gone by and still— that painting affected her deeply.

"Goddamnit." She muttered, feeling the unwelcome tears prick her eyes. "Goddamnit." She said again louder.

"Fuck!" She swore furiously at no one.

She stood up. With no one to watch or hold her back, Andy slammed her fist into the brick wall of the alley, relishing the pain is caused her. Someone had to hurt, someone had to pay for what happened, so why not her? Why not make herself suffer?

Yes, that's right, anger was good. She knew anger. She could use anger.

It was better than the darkness which threatened to drag her under at every opportunity. She let her hand drop to her side, savoring the ache in her finger, the sting reverberating through her fingertips. Yes. Pain. Anger. Good.

'Better to burn than drown.' Andy thought chewing her bottom lip, trying to stop the damned tears from falling.

She heard the door to the alley open.

"Andrea." A soft, cool voice called from the doorway behind her.

"Go away." Andy dared to snarl at the other woman without looking at her. If she looked at her, Andy knew she would crumble.

"Alright. I'll see you on the 25th then." Miranda began to walk back inside.

"N-no, wait! Please…I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." Andy said feeling even worse for having been short with someone who didn't deserve it. Andy still couldn't look at her. The alley really was horribly lit. If Andy hadn't been standing in the light off the doorway, Miranda wouldn't have been able to see her.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Andy asked. She dared to look up at Miranda, finally.

Miranda paused one hand on the door frame. She looked at Andy, with something that was suspiciously close to pity in her grey-blue eyes.

'Not that. Please not that. Not from you.' Andy thought, hoping against hope that she was wrong.

Miranda didn't pity her. Miranda didn't pity anyone. Right?

"That assistant of yours wanted to let you know that painting has been taken down." Miranda said. "Your husband has claimed you have a migraine and that you will be heading home soon." The unspoken words hung clearly in the air between them, 'You should go with him, before people start talking too much.'

Why on in God's name was Miranda being kind to her? Andy was truly at a loss.

It just didn't make sense.

She barely knew the woman and yet—. "I, uh—thank you. Yes. I, I think I'll do just that." Andy said. She took deep steadying breaths, trying not to start crying again. She needed to hold it in, to not let anyone see her weakness.

She turned away from Miranda, expecting her to leave. If her father had taught her anything, it was that people in their world would always use that weakness to wound further. Like sharks smelling blood in the water they would swarm and devour a helpless creature at the first sign of pain. She took another deep steadying breath.

She rubbed her hands on her arms, trying to chase away the cold. Her metallic minidress was not meant for the cold autumn night.

She felt a cool hand touch her arm. Andy yelped softly, "Oh!"

She'd though Miranda had left already. Apparently she hadn't. Andy shut her eyes and wished she would leave. She wanted to be alone.

But...Despite her longing to be left alone, the hand on her arm had a comforting quality to it, no matter how awkward or half-hearted the gesture itself was.

Why was Miranda doing this? She had no motivation to do so. Maybe she should ask her— "Andy? Are you out here?" She heard her husbands' voice call out from the doorway.

Oh God, please don't let Henry come to find her, he was the last person she wanted to see.

Suddenly the hand was gone, Miranda's footsteps could be heard going up the steps, and the light from the doorframe dimmed as the door was shut partially behind Miranda.

"No, she's not here Henry. I thought the same, but it seems we were both wrong." Andy heard Miranda reply from the other side of the door.

"Oh, alright. God, I hope nothing's happened. Andy's always been sensitive about that painting…I understand of course but it has been three years since our son passed away…That portrait was painted a week before he—" Henry choked up, unable to continue speaking.

Andy on the other hand wanted to choke him herself with her bare hands. He had no right to tell Miranda about their private affairs. No right at all to expose Andy like he had just done and make her so vulnerable to Miranda with that information.

"Henry," Miranda said clearly placating, "Why don't you go find that assistant of hers to see if she's seen your wife?"

"Yes," Henry sighed, "you're right of course." Andy heard his footsteps as he turned to leave. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yes in a moment." Miranda said. She offered no further explanation.

"Alright. I'll be sure to let you know when we find her." Henry replied.

Andy heard Henry leave and she sighed quietly.

"He's gone." Miranda murmured to Andy who was still in the ally.

"Thank you." Andy replied just as softly, not wanting to draw him back with the sound of voices.

There was a moment of silence between the two and Miranda came back to the other side of the door to look at Andy. The sounds of cars rushing by could be heard, their horns honking and the sounds of the city were the only noise that filled the air for a moment, as Miranda observed Andy standing there in the dark alley.

"Why did you do it?" Andy dared to ask, breaking the silence first.

"I owed you." Miranda said, "I always repay those I owe."

Andy stood staring at her for a moment longer before leaning back against the brick wall, expensive dress be damned. She covered her face with her hand and heaved a heavy, shuddering breath.

"Andrea," Miranda murmured, frowning, "What did you do to your hand?"

"What?" Andy asked, then she looked at her knuckles and saw they were bruised and bloodied, "Oh. I— it's nothing, really."

Miranda quirked an eyebrow questioningly, demanding further explanation.

"I, I kind of punched the wall. I was angry. It was stupid. My hand it fine. Just a bit sore, is all."

"Really, Andrea." Miranda said dryly. "You should be more careful with your hands. You are an artist after all."

"Yes, I know. I just—I painted that portrait, right before my son d—" Andy stopped midsentence.

She shouldn't be explaining this or anything to a woman like Miranda. It was a shark eat shark world after all. Who's to say Miranda wouldn't use this information to hurt her? They barely knew each other. Andy had no reason to trust her with more than she already knew thanks to her idiot husband.

"It was nothing." Andy continued. "I need to get back inside before Henry decides to call the police."

"Mmm, yes, that would be a good idea." Miranda replied. She was still watching Andy like a hawk might watch its prey. Andy went up the stairs and past Miranda without another word.

"I'll see you on Tuesday, Andrea." She heard Miranda call after her.

Andy didn't look back.

Henry met Andy just as she was coming back into the gallery's show room.

"Andy! My God, are you alright?" Henry asked, all concerned frowns and caring hugs. Lily saw Henry embrace her and Andy noticed her face seemed to fall a little. Maybe Andy should apologize for her earlier antics. Then she saw the look Lily gave Andy. She was surprised to see how much venom was in the look.

No. Andy would not apologize.

Henry released her and took her hand instead. "Let's go home, shall we?" He asked.

"Yes." Andy managed. "I'm exhausted. It feels like my head in splitting in two." She said a bit more loudly.

She watched as people around them glanced at her surreptitiously. Good. The mob had heard her say she had a headache and now they would likely spread that as the reason she was leaving so early.

She saw a flash of white from the corner of her eye. She turned and saw Miranda walking around the gallery, taking in the paintings, the people, the design, observing everything around her.

Andy sighed and smiled at her weakly. Miranda tilted her head slightly, a question in her expression. It was as if she were saying, 'I have no idea why you're smiling at me.' Although of course, she knew it was Andy's way of saying thank you.

Henry led her outside to the car waiting at the curb. Once settled in the car, Andy leaned on his shoulder and closed her eyes, trusting him to take them home.

She really was exhausted, emotionally.

"Take us home." Henry said to the driver. The driver nodded once, and lifted the privacy screen.

For a long while, she couldn't really say how long, she drifted, watching the lights of other cars flash by. She was exhausted, and drained, and sort of numb.

Andy fell asleep before they arrived at the apartment. In the morning she would be glad of it. She didn't want to talk about anything that had happened last night. Certainly not to him.

Henry left for work before she woke up.

Andy rolled over alone in bed and cried the tears she'd held in the night before.

- To be continued -