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One.
Naturally, Miranda didn’t arrive until the party was in full swing. Nigel had described it to her as a small gathering, just his closest friends at his apartment celebrating the holiday season, but that seemed to result in a much larger guest list than she’d anticipated. Still, she was glad to be there—she’d been more than a little surprised to find herself counted amongst his ‘closest friends’, no matter how much effort she’d put into repairing their relationship since Paris, and she wasn’t going to risk taking a backwards step by declining the invitation.
A quick glance around told her that she knew most of his guests, though not well, and there were surprisingly few Runway staff present. She did see Emily and Serena in one corner, standing closer together than strictly necessary—Emily saw her enter and immediately tried to increase the distance between them but the Brazilian woman was quick enough to pull her back and loop an arm around her waist. Miranda hid a slight smile and wondered how long that had been going on: she hadn’t noticed any change at the office, but then again, Emily no longer spent her days at the first assistant’s desk so that didn’t necessarily mean much.
Nigel excused himself from his conversation and threaded his way across the busy room towards her with a beaming smile and flushed cheeks which suggested the half-empty glass in his hand was far from his first drink.
“Miranda, you’re here!” he cried, throwing his arms wide and coming perilously close to spilling the remainder of whatever it was in his glass. “I wasn’t sure you'd come”
“Well, you did invite me—though I admit, this is more people than I expected.”
He waved his free hand dismissively. “The more the merrier, you know. Roy isn’t parked outside waiting for you, is he?”
“No,” she said, eyebrow raised. “I sent him home, though I don’t want to keep Cara too late with the girls.”
“Fine, fine, but I have a surprise for you—someone I want you to meet, not a new someone but—”
She was distracted by a noise from the far side of the room—carefree laughter, a familiar sound but one it took her a moment to place. Andrea had just stepped out of what she assumed to be the kitchen and run into a man about her age in the doorway. They exchanged a few words and then he stepped close and swept her into a theatrical kiss, dipping the brunette low even as she laughed, and it was only then that Miranda noticed the mistletoe hanging from the door frame. She ignored the spark of irritation the sight caused and turned her focus back to Nigel, hoping he either hadn’t noticed her momentary distraction or would have the good sense not to comment on it.
“Surprise?”
“That’s who you want me to meet?” She wasn’t at all surprised to find that the pair were still close, but she couldn’t understand why Nigel of all people would encourage her to attempt to socialise with Andrea.
“I did say it wasn’t a new someone, didn’t I? You should talk to her.”
“Please, I’m sure that’s the last thing she wants.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said archly. “Besides, what you want matters as well—wouldn’t you like to clear the air with her? I know how much you—”
“Don’t,” she said softly, cutting him off before he could voice his assumptions. “Better for everyone if I keep my distance, I think.”
Andrea and the man were still chatting, though they’d moved clear of the hanging greenery, and she couldn’t prevent a slight frown. They seemed very friendly, and though he was reasonably well-dressed she was quite sure he wasn’t in the fashion industry—Andrea’s guest, perhaps?
“Far be it from me to try and change your mind,” he said with a sigh. “Oh, but don’t leave without letting me introduce you to Doug—I promised I would, and I’d like you to finally meet him.”
“Of course—I told you, I’m not leaving imminently. Just find me when you’re ready.”
Two.
Nigel departed to greet someone else and Miranda felt a little at a loss—it had been longer, much longer, than she’d like to think since she’d last attended a small, intimate gathering like this, as opposed to the larger, more formal parties she was obliged to attend and always left as quickly as she could.
She poured herself a drink and then found her way into a conversation with a few people she’d definitely met before—a couple of art directors for GQ and a senior editor for Harper’s Bazaar, if she recalled correctly—which turned out to be far more enjoyable than she might have expected. Her time was more often spent with important advertisers and the more prominent industry names, soothing egos and managing the complicated interpersonal politics caused by the smallest of disagreements between colourful characters, so it was surprisingly pleasant to be able to actually carry on a deeper discussion with people who were, at least in some respects, her peers.
Before long, they were disturbed by more of that infectious laughter from the kitchen: Andrea, this time standing with Serena. The tall blonde waved a finger at the decoration and then placed an exuberant kiss on Andrea’s cheek, the journalist’s resultant grin lighting up her face as she returned the gesture.
Emily didn’t miss the interaction either and scowled, but Miranda could tell it was largely for show—in any case when Andrea and Serena joined her, she merely made some comment which caused both to burst into laughter once more then wrapped an arm smugly around her girlfriend. All three had clearly remained friendly despite the rift she’d caused by taking Andrea to Paris instead of Emily, and she tried to ignore the pang of something she felt at the sight.
At least seeing Andrea with Serena was easier to stomach than the previous display, though perhaps the reason why the first kiss had bothered her so much was best left unexplained. It was none of her business how and with whom Andrea spent her evening, after all, and she forced her attention back to the conversation at hand.
Three.
Nigel tracked her down again not much later, and she was more relieved than she should have been to realise that the young man on his arm—the Douglas she’d heard so much about lately—was none other than the young man Andrea had seemed so intimate with earlier.
It didn’t take long to find out why they were so close—after the initial introductions were made, it was only polite to ask how they’d met, and it turned out Andrea had been the one to introduce them. They had been friends since college, she learned, and suddenly it was easy to see their interaction in a different light and let that lingering irritation—certainly not jealousy—fade away.
Not that Andrea’s romantic involvements, or lack thereof, were anything to her, she reminded herself sharply.
Telling herself that didn’t prevent her from keeping a (hopefully) discreet eye on the brunette’s location, though, and so she was watching when she had yet another encounter below that innocent-looking sprig of vibrant leaves and pale berries. Emily rolled her eyes and seemed entirely unenthusiastic about the whole thing, of course, but Serena was with her and prodded teasingly until she caved and placed a brief peck on Andrea’s cheek. Andrea beamed, wrapping the redhead up in a firm hug before being beckoned away by Douglas.
If it were anyone else being caught so often under the mistletoe, she might have assumed they were lurking there intentionally, but Andrea merely seemed to be making repeated trips to the kitchen—the only thing Miranda wasn’t sure of was whether she herself was being avoided, or whether the journalist was simply so invested in helping Nigel throw a great party that she was taking it upon herself to keep drinks topped up.
She knew if she let herself think about that for too long it would be sure to bring her mood down, so she went in search of another drink—Nigel had been kind enough to point her towards a rather fine bottle of scotch, though most people seemed to be drinking a drink which was a garish red and, no doubt, far stronger than strictly necessary.
Four.
She ended up talking to Emily and Serena—the former assistant was stiff and nervous to begin with but Serena did seem remarkably adept at getting her to relax, and she was surprised to find she actually enjoyed talking to the redhead when she wasn’t too tightly wound to carry a conversation. It had been gratifying to see Emily flourish in her new position in the art department, and whether it was the promotion or the new relationship, she did seem to be gaining a long-overdue sense of self-assurance.
Both seemed unsure of whether or not to mention Andrea, and when the journalist came out of the kitchen with a fresh jug of that sickly-looking concoction and almost poured it straight over Nigel, who had been heading in the opposite direction and giving every indication of not really paying attention to where he was going, she decided to put them out of their misery.
“You’d think she would have learnt by now to check the coast is clear before re-entering,” she commented with a faint smile.
Emily and Serena glanced over their shoulders, not needing anything else to know who she meant. All three watched for a moment as Nigel passed the jug on to waiting hands then spun Andrea in a decidedly unsteady circle before giving her a noisy kiss, then turning and doing the same with Douglas for good measure.
“Oh, you know her—probably too focused on not dropping anything to even think about it,” Emily said, her sardonic tone doing little to hide the warmth in her voice.
“She’s a good sport, anyway. You know, I’m sure she’d like to say hello,” Serena suggested a little gingerly.
“Well, she knows where I am—perhaps if she weren’t spending so much time in the kitchen, we would have run into each other already,” Miranda said, trying not to sound too affected by that fact. Regardless, she couldn't pass up a chance to learn more about the assistant who got away. “I hear she’s doing well, though?”
“Oh, yes, she loves her new—that is—” Serena cut herself off.
“She did always want to be a journalist,” Miranda agreed, understanding perfectly what the Brazilian had been about to say. “I’ve no doubt the Mirror is a better fit for her.”
“Not quite so steep a learning curve, I'm sure,” Emily said, sniffing righteously. “She does seem to enjoy it though, I know she's very excited about her latest article.”
Miranda wouldn't admit it, of course, but she had read all of Andrea's writing for the Mirror and had been pleased by the steady increase in the length and prominence of the cub reporter's assignments. She looked forward to seeing whatever was next, especially if it was something Andrea was particularly proud of.
“Yes, I'm sure she's glad to be writing again.”
She talked for a while longer with the couple but could see that there were other, no doubt more affable, people they were keen to speak to, and before long she bid them goodnight and moved on
Five.
She spoke to a few more acquaintances here and there, but eventually, she found herself standing in a quiet spot by the window. Mindful of Cara’s ongoing presence at the townhouse, she was considering making her excuses to Nigel and calling it a night—people were beginning to drift away already so she would be far from the first to depart, and as it was she’d likely stayed longer than anyone expected. She’d only stayed as long as she had because she’d hoped Nigel and Serena might have been correct and the younger woman might want to speak to her, but she’d been disappointed thus far.
She was pretending to stare out into the night (not that there was any great view to be had, though she supposed she looked absorbed enough that she was being left alone) but in reality, she was once again focused on Andrea, a vague but animated reflection somewhere to her left. She had noticed Andrea’s attention on her more than once, stolen glances and lingering looks by those expressive brown eyes, but the journalist had kept her distance and always seemed to conveniently leave a conversation whenever Miranda got close enough that she might conceivably have joined it.
It was frustrating—subtle enough that it was difficult to take offence, but consistent enough that it must have been deliberate, and she wasn't going to humiliate herself by chasing after someone who didn't wish to talk to her.
She couldn't keep from watching her, however—she had struggled more than she’d ever admit not to let herself be distracted by the younger woman, especially later in her tenure as her confidence blossomed and her sense of style developed, and this evening was no exception. Andrea's rich dark hair fell in loose, inviting waves and her dress was short and sleek, dark blue shot through with silvered thread and accompanied by a set of delicate silver bangles. She was undeniably beautiful, and as much as she might have thought herself above fashion when she’d first been hired, her time at Runway did seem to have shown her how to embrace and enhance that beauty when she wished to.
She realised with a sudden sense of shock that the reflection she’d been covertly watching was in turn watching her. Andrea was motionless, standing in a secluded area with her head tilted slightly to one side. There was a long moment where they simply stared at each other through the slight distortion of the dark glass, and then Andrea seemed to realise the observation wasn’t one-sided and stiffened. Miranda half-turned, just about making up her mind to finally talk to the brunette, but she wasn’t quite fast enough—Andrea had already turned away, exchanging a few words with people here and there as she wove her way back through the room.
She seemed to be retreating into the kitchen again, but she didn’t make it—a well-dressed, smarmy-looking gentleman stepped quickly into the doorway to block her path. He cast a meaningful look towards the mistletoe with a toothy smile, one hand coming to rest on Andrea’s elbow and keeping her from sliding past him. Andrea was clearly reluctant, but he ignored her discomfort and leaned closer with a cajoling smile. Miranda stiffened, any pretence of staring out the window forgotten.
The man wouldn’t take no for an answer, however, and kept invading Andrea’s personal space. She turned her head at the last instant, the unwanted kiss landing awkwardly on her cheek, then backed swiftly away with a smile that, even from this distance, Miranda could clearly see was forced. She was so busy sending an icy glare at the unconcerned lothario that she almost missed the thoughtful look Andrea was giving her.
Without thinking too hard about it, Miranda inclined her head slightly in invitation. Andrea hesitated, then started towards her with a determined expression.
Plus One.
“Tell me you don’t have any mistletoe over here,” Andrea said by way of a greeting.
“I think you know I don’t. I take it you’re not a fan?”
“God no, I hate the whole mistletoe thing. Kissing friends is one thing, just a bit of harmless fun, but I’ve never met that Jason guy before in my life. Besides, you never end up meeting the person you really want to under the mistletoe anyway.”
“You have your eye on someone in particular, do you?”
“… not someone who’d go in for that particular tradition, I don’t think,” Andrea said with a slight smile.
“Mmm.” An intriguing non-answer. “I have to say, I think that last would-be Romeo was lying in wait for you.”
“I guess he’s getting desperate, then—I saw him chatting a few people up earlier, or trying to, but he didn’t seem to get very far.”
“Well, I doubt he had anything particularly charming to say.”
Andrea hummed in agreement then fell silent for a few long moments. She seemed to be considering her next words with great care and Miranda expected some reference to the time which had passed since they’d last spoken, perhaps even a direct comment on Paris, but instead what Andrea said was:
“You know, if I thought you’d say yes, I’d ask you to dance.”
That made Miranda’s pulse jump slightly, a thrum of something like anticipation running through her veins.
“Do you only ever ask questions you already know the answer to, Andrea? Hardly appropriate behaviour for a journalist of your calibre.”
“Usually I don’t, no,” Andrea smiled, perhaps at the thinly-veiled compliment behind the jibe. “But I suppose, if there’s one answer I particularly want to hear, and one I’d really rather not? Call it self-preservation, maybe.”
“Mmm.” Miranda hadn’t ever stopped to consider the fact that Andrea might in some way return her affections but she was certainly considering it now, and she took her time in answering. “I don’t think I pose any real danger to you in that respect, but I dare say you’d be disappointed if I did say yes.”
Andrea took a small step forward, despite already standing closer than anyone else would dare to the infamous ice queen. “I doubt it,” she said confidently.
“I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer, Andrea.”
“I don’t believe that for one second.”
“It’s true. I’ve been accused of being cold, you know, of not properly considering my partner’s needs.”
Andrea rolled her eyes, though her smile only grew as she answered, “I have heard that, but not from anyone or anything I’d consider to be a credible source—I think I’d rather form my own opinions if you don’t mind.”
Miranda didn’t bother trying to hide a small smile at the quick response. She’d never socialised with Andrea before, of course, but she’d seen hints of this confident back-and-forth in their interactions prior to Paris and she was enjoying seeing this more assured, outspoken side of the younger woman.
“Just like that? There’s so much we don’t even know about each other—what sort of dance we each prefer, what sort of music…”
“… whether or not we even dance on the same team?” Andrea quipped, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure dancing is a team sport,” she fired back, raising one of her own.
“I suppose not. You do need the right partner, though, and I think you know what I mean.”
“Perhaps I do,” she allowed, impressed by Andrea’s refusal to let her dodge the vaguely-worded question entirely. “Perhaps chemistry is the most important factor, then.”
“Do you see that being a problem here?” Andrea asked boldly, swaying ever so slightly closer. Miranda could feel, or imagined she could, the gentle heat of her breath against the sensitive skin of her neck and suppressed a shiver.
“... no, I don’t suppose I do. There are certainly other problems, however, problems I’m sure you’re not blind to.”
Andrea grinned, a victorious flash of white teeth between bright red lipstick slightly the worse for wear after an evening of drinking and kissing.
“Of course I’m not, but maybe you’re overthinking the rest. It’s not as if anyone’s going to be rating our performance out of ten, you know, and we certainly don’t have to perform in public anytime soon—we can rehearse as much as we want and just see if we’re compatible.”
“ Perform, rehearse? I think the metaphor is getting away from you, Andrea,” she teased, aware they were treading a fine, unspoken line.
“Probably—this whole conversation has been one long metaphor, I’ve had more than a couple of drinks, and all I’ve really been able to think about since I saw you earlier is kissing you.”
The brunette’s sudden candidness threw her, and she found herself staring into warm, dark eyes which suddenly seemed much closer than they had just a moment ago. “Really?” she asked, having to clear her throat to get the word out.
“Longer than that, if we’re being honest,” Andrea said softly with a wry smile.
“Mmm. In vino veritas?”
“Forget wine, it’s the punch that’s the problem. I think Nigel got the recipe from James Holt, so I suppose at least one good thing came out of that debacle.”
The easy reference to Paris disconcerted her in an entirely different way—a flush of heat, followed swiftly by an icy shock—and she forced herself to try and think clearly.
“What do you really want, Andrea?”
Andrea swallowed, her expression as open and honest as ever. “I want everything, Miranda. I’ve missed you, and I don’t like how things ended, and I want—I want a second chance. At something. I think it would be worth it.”
There were still things being left unsaid, but it was clear to Miranda what she meant—clear, and so very close (in essence, at least) to what she herself might have said if their roles in this conversation had been reversed. For a moment she let herself imagine that something with Andrea and was a little surprised by the breadth of what she came up with—romantic dinners and passionate nights, yes, but also quiet evenings working side by side and warm afternoons of contentment with the girls and Patricia. Perhaps Andrea’s idea of everything wouldn’t quite match her own, but she found herself quite sure that it would.
Nonetheless, they couldn’t simply rush into anything—there were some very real, very potent reasons to be cautious, and Nigel’s christmas party was hardly the place to talk about them in full. She glanced around at the crowd, considerably thinned but still too large for such a conversation, and quickly came to a decision.
“I think…” she said slowly, “I think it’s time for me to go. Cara is with the girls, but I don’t want to keep her too long.”
“Oh.” Andrea looked as disappointed as she sounded, but she quickly forced a smile. “Yeah, no problem. It really was nice to see you again, and—well, I know they’re probably asleep by now, and I get it if you don’t want to anyway, but would you tell the girls I said hi?”
The fact that even now, even thinking she was being rebuffed, Andrea still thought of the twins told Miranda she’d been right—Andrea surely wanted more than a quick fling or a steamy affair.
“Of course I will, they’ll be thrilled.” She gave Andrea a warm, private smile and smoothly closed the narrow gap between them, one hand coming to rest gently above the woman’s exposed collarbone as she place a kiss just at the corner of her mouth. It was brief, chaste, and chances were anyone who happened to see it would take it to be the customary air kiss, but she hoped Andrea would see it for what it really was. The sparkling look of joy which had replaced the concealed disappointment on her face suggested she’d understood perfectly. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Andrea. We’ll talk about this properly.”
She forced herself not to linger—it really was later than she’d planned to stay, and she was wary of what might happen to her self-control if she stayed any longer—but she didn’t quite make a clean escape. Nigel intercepted her just as she reached the door, his glasses askew and his tie half-unknotted but his gaze remarkably shrewd for someone who’d had as many drinks as she assumed he had.
“What was that about?!” he demanded in something approaching a whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nigel,” she said with a slight smile. He’d find out soon enough, of course—she’d realised as she’d walked away that she didn’t have Andrea’s current number—but for now she found she quite enjoyed keeping this between the two of them. “Say good evening to Douglas for me, won’t you? The two of you seem very happy, I’m glad you’ve found that.”
“Perhaps it will be your turn next, yes?”
“Enjoy the rest of your night, Nigel—and thank you very much for inviting me. You were right—I did need this.”