Not sure how many chapters it will end up to be exactly, but if I am to guess, I would imagine somewhere around twenty? Just don't quote me on that. :-)
_
The first two hours, I was happily going over the new assignment that Miranda and Runway's feature editor had offered me. I did a quick readthrough, and immediately realized that the author of the article was emotionally attached to Maria Toro, the deceased designer, and not a little. The text was so extremely personal in nature, it would be something of a nightmare to edit unless I managed to truly distance myself from the pain between the lines.
Googling Calista Meyer, the author, I understood why the text flew at me with heartache attached to every word. Calista had been Maria Toro's life partner of more than twenty-five years. How the hell had she managed to write a piece about the woman she loved a mere month after she passed? I looked at the date stamp of the original text and realized my mistake. This wasn't something Calista had thrown together in the last few weeks. The dates showed that the short biography was written and sent to Runway more than three months ago. The clear implication of Calista wrote it knowing she was losing her partner, sent tears to my eyes. I let them fall while I began to check the part of the biography that were all about facts. Once I had confirmed it was all correct, my tears had dried, and I felt reasonably ready to dive into the text again.
Maria Toro never reached the same fame as Vivian Westwood, Stella McCartney, or their peers, but what struck me as a lot more significant, was how adored the woman was by the ones lucky enough to meet her and wear her clothes. She had been a recurring featured designer in Runway and one of Miranda's personal favorites, judging from images that I found from back in the day and until two years ago when Maria became ill.
I sat back and reached for a glass of Pellegrino, sipping it slowly. This could well be why Miranda wanted me to work on the story. It was personal to her. She had no doubt befriended Maria, and perhaps even Calista, as she was close to a handful female designers to this day. And if it was as personal as I figured it might be, I shouldn't try to just focus on perfecting Calista's emotional piece, on the contrary. I should make sure it was highlighted in the best, most respectful of ways. If that turned out to not be what Miranda was after, then I could rework some of it. It would be a shame though, as the personal text by Calista was what set it apart.
I worked through the two thousand words, ignoring a note from the feature editor to reduce them to fifteen hundred. Screw that. I wasn't going to minimize what Calista wanted, perhaps even needed, to share about her partner. It simply felt wrong.
When I felt I was about to go on an emotional overload toward the one-thousand-word mark, I pulled up the photos Miranda had sent me in a special folder. For some reason, I had expected to see catwalk photos, pictures from official Runway photoshoots, and such, but as so often, Miranda threw me a curved ball.
The photos were almost all behind-the-scenes shots, albeit by Demarchelier, Leibovitz, Testino, and Knight. They showed a diminutive, black-haired woman, birdlike and frail looking even in her younger years, but with an ethereal beauty that jumped off the screen. Maria had every bit as much charisma as the famous models that showed her haute couture. In the background, I identified a hovering Calista. Tall, blond, and with sharp, pale eyes, she rarely looked at anyone else but her partner. In one photo taken by Leibovitz, Maria and Calista stood inside a doorframe, completely focused on each other. Maria's long hair draped around Calista and the photo was so beautiful, so loving, I knew I would do anything to get Miranda to choose that for a full page in Runway.
Another two hours went by, and I was starting to get hungry, and admittedly, emotionally drained, to edit Calista's searingly emotional words. I got up from the couch and placed my laptop on the coffee table, before stretching my popping spine. I rubbed my cheeks and tried to direct my thoughts to the love that was so obvious in the biography, rather than the pain, but it was hard.
A muted beep from the door made me jump, and I didn't have time to adjust my expression before Miranda barreled through the door. She tossed her bag onto the dresser and stopped a few feet from me. "Andrea."
"Hi," I said, and to my dismay, my voice was thick from emotions, and from not having talked to anyone for more than four hours. I cleared my voice and forcibly ignited my go-to smile. This didn't fool Miranda for a moment.
"What's wrong?" She didn't step closer right away and her tone was not very warm, but her concern was obvious.
"Nothing. Nothing at all." I treaded emotional water, but knew it was futile. "Been working. On Maria's b-bio." I was exasperated at my stuttering that often show up when I'm emotional, or about to be, and damn, how often hasn't that happened around Miranda.
"And?" Miranda took one step closer, but, oddly enough, she was approaching me as if I needed to be defused before she touched me.
"And nothing. It's a strong piece." I was finding my stride, and I made and effort to square my shoulders. That wasn't entirely smart, as that made the muscles between my shoulder blades spasm after four hours on the couch.
"You flinched." Miranda's eyes narrowed and she followed up with a thinning of her lips. Great. "What are you keeping from me?" It wasn't as if she was interrogating me, but she sure as hell didn't come off as soft and cuddly either. I belatedly realized she was already agitated when she entered our suite. The business-meeting had no doubt frustrated her. But why act like that toward me, if that was the case.
"Just sore from working since you left." I forfeited a casual shrug as that was bound to make my muscles create more spasms. "How was your meeting?"
Miranda flicked her hand dismissively. "Abhorrent. A waist of time, ninety percent of it." She inched closer. "You've been crying." Her eyes widened in alarm. "Did the doctor's office—"
"No. Nobody called me. I promised I would let you know right away, remember." I wanted to kick myself hard for not realizing how Miranda would immediately jump to this conclusion—not a very long leap, to be honest.
"But you still cried." Miranda took the step that brought her close to me. She curled her index finger and used it to tip my head up as she was taller than me in her four-inch heels. "It's obvious."
"All right. Yes." Was she going to think I was too inexperienced, too emotional, and not able to edit Calista's piece? Either way, I couldn't very well lie. "It's a heartbreaking and beautiful text, Miranda. It got to me a few times. But I can still do it!" I heard the panic behind my words and tried to dial it down.
"That's it? You became emotional reading Calista Meyer's text?" Miranda slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. "You promise me that's all it is?" It was her turn to sound husky.
"Yes. I absolutely do. I have no other reason to be sad. The opposite. And now you're here." I wrapped my arms around her and hid my face against her neck.
"I am." Miranda allowed for us to remain where we stood, locked into a much-needed embrace. "Have you eaten?" She cleared her voice much like I did earlier.
"No, I was just about to go down to the restaurant. I need to stretch my legs and clear my head before I get back to it." I pulled back a few inches and met Miranda's gaze. Her eyes had lost some of the tension and her lips were now back to their usual, beautiful shape. I took the chance and rose on my toes and kissed her lightly.
Immediately, her hands slipped under my shirt, spreading her fingers against my back as she held me even closer. She murmured barely audible words against my lips. "You scared me. I don't like that."
"Of course not." I ran my tongue along her lower lip. "And it was not my intention. I'm not cruel like that."
Inhaling deeply, Miranda then exhaled as she tipped my head back. "I know. Of course I know this. I think the cruelty in this case is my own mind ghosts that keep conjuring up different ways I might fail you at some point."
I had gathered that Miranda saw her failed marriages and former relationships as mostly her fault, or at least, because of her job. And the woman hated failing to a degree that she would sacrifice anything, and nearly anybody, to keep it from happening. Nigel had been close to the chopping block in Paris a couple of years ago, which was proof enough. Did this mean Miranda feared, or anticipated, that she might have to do the same to me if her success in life depended on it. I didn't want to think so, but perhaps.
"We all fail other people at some point, whether we intend to or not," I said, and carefully caressed her shoulders. "Just look at me. My mom's not too happy with me, no matter how I try to explain. She sees me as a failure, personally and professionally. Apparently, it's so bad, I'm making my dad sick. Literally. See?" I tried to speak tongue-in-cheek, but even I heard the catch in my voice.
"That's ridiculous, darling." Miranda's words were from her usual list of favorite expressions, but her tone was soft, and so were her hands that still caressed the skin on my back. "You explain once, perhaps twice, when it comes to family, and then you have done what you can. You let them figure things out and if you need to later, you negotiate the parameters for the family dynamic."
"You make it sound easy." I sighed and adjusted her bangs.
"It's not. But it can be done." Miranda hesitated. "It's what I had to do with my parents, back in the day. And it's what I've had to do with my first husband, to keep custody of my girls."
I winced as I felt the familiar resentment against the man who had the chance to love this woman forever and fumbled it as his infidelity was well documented. And still Miranda had had to negotiate? Fuck that.
"It's in the past, Andrea. Stand down." Miranda's faint smile broke the sinister feelings welling up inside me. "Oh, my." She tilted her head and then kissed me gently. "You better not take up poker."
It was my turn to take a cleansing breath. "So, I'm told." I knew I wasn't hard to read by those who knew me well. Miranda wasn't always able to judge the reason behind my expression, but she knew when something was up, no matter what it was.
"Food?" Miranda moved one hand from my back and adjusted my bangs.
"Yes, please, or I'll add a sugar low fainting spell to my list of ways to scare you today." I crinkled my nose. "Joking. I'm joking. Really hungry though."
"Then let's go." Miranda let go of me and grabbed her discarded bag and the keycard. "Ready?"
"Shoes." I darted into the smaller bedroom where I unpacked and picked the ankle boots that went well with my trousers. Returning, I must have surprised Miranda with my speed, as she didn't have time to adjust the look of vulnerability on her face. If Miranda was quite good at reading me, I was an expert at reading her, at least I was before we began navigating a relationship, and now it was obvious that I truly had scared her. She slammed down her opaque-if-it-kills-me expression that fooled most people. Just not me, but I wasn't about to call her out on it. Miranda did what she had to do. That was how it always had been, and it wasn't my place to chip away at her defense strategies. She already showed me more of herself than I ever could have dreamed possible.
"All set," I said and kissed her cheek. "Let's go." I reached for my bag, making sure I had my own keycard, in case she didn't have time to come back up to our suite to open the door.
Miranda opened the door and held it up for me. I couldn't help but run my hand along her hip as I passed her and for some reason that made her give a broad, genuine smile.
###
The call came at 5 PM and I clung to my cell phone as I tried to force my trembling fingers to swipe the screen on my cell phone. I squeezed it so hard after seeing the dermatology clinic's name on it, I nearly sent it flying across the room. I pressed it hard against my ear and slipped off the couch and onto the floor. "Andrea Sachs."
"Ms. Sach's," the doctor's voice said, and I tried to judge if he sounded cheery, or even too cheery.
"Doctor Berenger." I nearly drew a blank when it came to his name even if I just read it on the screen. "Do…do you have my results?"
"I do, Ms. Sachs."
"Andy, please." I couldn't bare for him to sound so formal, for some reason.
"I have your results and the news are both good and less than perfect." Doctor Berenger spoke far too slowly."
"I see?" I truly didn't. I stared at my reflection in the computer screen. What did he mean?
"You don't have malignant melanoma, Andy. What you had was basal cell carcinoma, and since we removed tissue to ensure healthy borders, I'm confident we got it all. This type of tumors is not at all like melanoma, but as you had yours in a very unusual spot—they usually show up where the sun reaches us—I want to have you come in next week for a more thorough ocular inspection. Is that doable for you?" He spoke much faster now, and I could envision him tapping his foot as I tried to find my voice.
"It's not cancer?" I was at a loss. I simply couldn't understand and his way of addressing me didn't help. He still had an overbearing tone that made me feel even smaller than when I was in his office. How I wished for Miranda to get back from her afternoon meeting, but she was going to be gone for at least another hour.
"It's cancer, but it rarely spreads, and I am confident, as I said, that we got it all. Still, make an appointment with my nurse for next week. Any day in the week will do."
I opened a new document on my computer and had him repeat the medical terms, and instructions. I was shaking so badly, I had to retype some things more than twice, and it was obvious that Doctor Berenger was running out of patience.
"This is what I can tell you so far, Andy. Just take it easy and drop in next week. You'll be fine." He uttered a few automatic niceties, and we disconnected the call.
I stared at the words on the screen. My gut reaction was to Google and double, no, triple check it all, but I had to text Miranda first. I had promised.
Hating the tears that made it damn near impossible to see the keyboard on the screen, let alone hit the right one, I managed a text with the most important information.
Doc called. Not malignant melanoma. Basal Cell Carcinoma. Confident he got it all. Rarely spreads. New appointment next week. Doc said I'm fine. See you after your meeting.
I had to edit my damn text twice to get rid of typos that made it unreadable, but then I finally sent it.
Meaning to haul myself off the floor and back onto the couch, I gave up when my arms had lost all strength. I decided to just stay on the floor and try to catch my breath. It was surprisingly hard, which was odd, since it was reassuring news, for the most part. Then again, the doctor had called the results both good and less than perfect. So, if they weren't perfect, was there still a risk? My brain refused to calm down enough for me to engage the logic I took some pride into possessing, normally.
It had only been less than a few minutes since I sent the text to Miranda when she called.
"I'm on my way," she said, and I could hear her steps against a hard surface.
"Thank you," I said, not even going to feign bravery and tell her to remain back until the meeting was finished. I knew I couldn't have stayed away if the roles had been reversed.
"Don't be ridiculous. You don't have to thank me." Her words were classic Miranda, but her tone was new. Stark, but not because of annoyance on her part. I got the impression she was in damage control mode. "I'm only minutes away. We ended up using a conference room on the third floor at our hotel."
I whimpered from sheer relief as I thought she was back at one of the massive conference centers that Chicago offers.
"Andrea? I'm in the elevator. I'll be there soon."
I heard a ping that I recognized as the sound the elevator made when you swiped the keycard. I felt my tears begin to run and I couldn't remember ever having it happen so much in one day, albeit for different reasons. "I really need to hug you," I said, my voice breaking.
"Don't even think about it, sir." Miranda said harshly.
"What?" I trembled.
"Someone tried to join me." Miranda snarled.
I had to laugh through the tears. What else could I do, picturing some unsuspecting hotel guest just trying to get on the elevator. Then I heard her steps in the corridor, despite the carpet. I envisioned her thin heels piercing through to the hard surface underneath, and then she opened the door and slammed it shut behind her. The bag went flying, and so did her shoes before she shoved the coffee table aside and then threw herself onto the floor next to me.
I was in her arms, and she held me so tight, it should have prevented me from breathing for that reason alone, but strangely enough, it made it easier. My tears ran for a few second longer, but then they dried up and I melted into her as she pulled me across her lap, and I nestled my head against her shoulder.
"We are not going back to that idiot. We're getting a second opinion and making sure he knew what he was talking about." Miranda pushed my hair from my damp cheeks. "I am certain the labs are correct, but I want to make sure so you can put this behind you, darling."
Only now did I see the mascara smudges under Miranda's eyes, and traces of tears. I wiped them away with my thumbs. "Okay. Yes, please. I'd like that." I shuddered and she held me closer again. "I really dislike him. He is even worse on the phone than in real life."
"I wish I'd been here." Miranda pressed her lips to my temple.
"Me too, but nobody could have gotten here faster than you did. I'm impressed." Calmer now, and able to be rational again, I managed a genuine smile. "And right now, you're the only one I want, and need, to be here to hold me."
Miranda blinked. "Good thing I am, then." She seemed to need the closeness as much as I did. "I did mean to ask if you shouldn't inform your parents after all?" She valiantly managed to keep the disdain from her voice, but not from her eyes.
"I will, but not yet. Once I have all the correct information so I can answer their questions." And all their critique, and all their 'why-didn't-you', 'you-should've', and 'it's-just-like-you-to'. The latter made it impossible for me to reach out with something like this, that had preyed on my mind ever since I woke up with blood on my sheets and made the appointment.
"Very well." Miranda didn't seem to mind sitting on the floor as long as I didn't try to put any distance between us. I nuzzled her neck and inhaled her signature scent, especially the part that was completely her.
"I love how you hold me," I murmured.
"And how do I hold you?" Miranda kissed my forehead.
I was probably still reeling from all the stress since my filter was not engaged even on the lowest setting when it came to my words. "Like you never want to let me go."
###
Continued in part 15.
