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Andy and Miranda were spending the night together at the townhouse. The Editor-in-Chief was sipping a glass of wine as her younger lover flipped through channels on the TV to find something to watch. Miranda was amused to note Andy landed on a cooking show. A cooking show that featured a certain beautiful British cook. The sudden pink on Andy’s cheeks did not go unnoticed.
Very little does.
“She was named after her father, you know?” Miranda hummed, amused.
“His name was Nigella?” Andy smiled, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Oh, honestly.”
“So he was a big deal then?”
“A Baron. Chancellor of the Exchequer. Journalist. I suppose, yes, a big deal.”
Andy blinked at her. “I understood ‘Baron’. I mean, and ‘journalist,’ of course. But those other words don’t mean much to me.”
Miranda chuckled, “they don’t mean much to anyone, darling. He was just a senior minister of the Crown.”
“Ah,” Andy nodded. “But a Baron?”
“Indeed. Quite the title.”
“Wait, does that mean Nigella Lawson’s a…a…Baroness?”
“I know you were guessing, but well done,” Miranda smirked. She couldn’t help but smile at the proud little expression her Andrea wore.
“But, no. If I recall correctly Baron Lawson held a life peerage. Once he died it wasn’t passed on. It’s not a heritable title in this case, not like the Prince of Wales, for instance,” Miranda explained.
“Huh.”
Andy had always been amazed at the things Miranda knows. Whether it’s colour theory or the velocity of an unladen sparrow or the whole British system of titles and whatnot, Andy’s attention was always deeply held by the editor. She wanted to know everything Miranda knows. Andy could listen to her lover speak about anything forever.
“There’s a better word to describe your beloved TV cook than a title, though, my love,” Miranda purred and leaned in to kiss Andy’s warm cheek.
“T-there is?”
“Mmhmm,” Miranda took a sip of her wine as she watched the not-even-vaguely unattractive cook on the screen. Light skin, dark hair, striking facial features, gorgeous figure. Miranda was amused that she’d never made the comparison before.
“What’s that?”
“Zaftig,” Miranda pronounced smoothly.
“Yiddish?”
“Indeed. It means ‘juicy’ or ‘succulent’. It refers to a woman of a particular body shape. Entirely complimentary.”
“I think I like that,” Andy replied, her eyes roving over the TV cook’s body.
“I thought you might. She rather is, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yeah,” Andy hummed, “she’s just…something else.”
The young woman settled back against Miranda to watch the TV. The cook was beginning another segment, something for dessert, Miranda gathered.
Andy took a deep drink of her water to cool the warmth she felt under her skin at being held by the woman she loved and watching a favourite celebrity crush.
When Nigella Lawson announced her recipe for “slut red raspberries and champagne jelly” Andy clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the surprised spray.
She’d have been mortified were it not for the open cackling coming from beside her. Miranda was laughing harder than she’d ever heard and Andy couldn’t bring herself to be the least bit ashamed.
No one else got to hear Miranda laugh uproariously. She might’ve made a fool of herself but Andy counted it as a win.
And she got to hear Nigella Lawson say “slut”.