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The only reason Miranda had agreed to that unsatisfying morning sex is that she knew she had a facial scheduled that would recalibrate her mood. Of course, counting on something like that usually invites disaster. As she crosses the Elias Clarke lobby, she idly wonders if she could’ve changed the trajectory of the morning if she’d denied Stephen as she usually does. Some kind of butterfly effect. However, it is highly doubtful that her sex life has any bearing on poor Hattie’s spinal health. If only she’d been the one to rupture a disc instead. Surely that would’ve gotten her out of intercourse for the foreseeable future without all the guilt trips and begging.
And why is that the default setting? If Stephen wants to fuck, why doesn’t he do something nice for her? Make her dinner? Get her in the mood with a massage? No. Straight to whining. Because that’s certainly arousing to a woman.
She has some vague recollections that their relationship has not always been this way, but she can’t pinpoint when they’d stopped liking each other as people and interacting in positive ways. She even recalls that they actually talked to each other and had good sex in some nebulous moments early on. But that’s long ago and far away and nearly inaccessible in her mind and does not reflect their current reality in any way.
What are the optics of giving up on this one already? She’ll talk to her publicist and lawyer about it. And obliquely her children. She’ll have to be more careful with that conversation. Gauge just how valuable to them Stephen is as a father figure.
She’s been so in her own head that she hadn’t realized someone had entered the elevator with her. It’s been years since someone’s even attempted that, and not only has this person breached the unspoken protocol, Miranda also feels this person staring at her.
She turns her face to find a young woman scrutinizing her with a furrowed brow. When they make eye contact, the woman looks startled to have been caught, and Miranda raises an eyebrow in question.
“Sorry! I know it’s rude to stare, but you just look so familiar to me.”
“I’ve heard more convincing lines,” Miranda says.
The woman laughs seemingly a little nervously, says,
“I mean, yeah, you’re totally hot, but I really am just trying to put my finger on where I know you from rather than trying to come onto you. Not that I’m not interested in coming onto you. But that’s secondary to my curiosity regarding how familiar you seem to me.”
Miranda looks the woman up and down. The blazer is both boxy and shapeless, the color of every single piece is horrible, the shoes are tragic, and of course it’s all very bargain bin. So yes, she can believe this woman really doesn’t know who she is and has perhaps just seen her picture somewhere and marginally recognizes her. She’s not sure why she feels the need to engage with this person further except that if she stayed silent now it might look as though she’d been rattled by the “totally hot” part, which she hadn’t although it’s always nice to hear.
“This is probably a fruitless endeavor,” Miranda says.
The woman cocks her head, studies her again.
“No. I’m gonna figure it out. I just need to look at you for a good long while,” the woman says with a grin that is disarmingly gorgeous. “Unfortunately, I’m getting off on eight. Maybe we could grab a drink later so I could look at you some more?”
Now that one does rattle her just a tad.
“And how might that transpire? You finish whatever your business is at Auto Universe, Fun on the Farm Interactive Adventures for Children Magazine, or ECB&T Loan Department and then continuously ride this elevator until I once again board it?”
The woman laughs,
“Of course not. Either you give me your number or I just show up on—” she looks up at the lit numbers on the panel “—oh! How fortuitous! My other job interview is on seventeen anyway. So I’ll just get that out of the way and ask around for where you might be afterward.”
Well. That’s a cold shower. This unfortunately dressed but rather intriguingly forward girl is very likely interviewing later to be her second assistant. That won’t do. To borrow a phrase from this stranger, Miranda can’t put her finger on exactly why this disconcerts her.
It’s not like she’s actually considering going out for drinks with some impudent woman half her age she’s spoken two dozen words to who has been gazing at her with undisguised lust in an elevator. It’s just that her outfit is offensive and she’s probably the type to find the entire idea of fashion beneath her and so would not be a good fit for the position. Has nothing to do with how inappropriate it would be to have a subordinate she definitely has not had a brief flash of getting her drunk in a dive bar and clunkily seducing her into an extremely ill-thought out illicit encounter in the bathroom.
“Don’t bother with the interview on seventeen,” Miranda surprises herself by saying.
“What? Why?” The woman is quite cute confused.
“I typically do not socialize with employees. So if you’re serious about that drink…”
The woman’s eyes widen with surprised delight and then she looks at Miranda exaggeratedly appraisingly,
“Funny, you don’t look like a pilot.”
“Tell that to my antique biplane,” Miranda says.
She’d always wanted to use that line, but it’s been a long time since anyone had the gall to make a runway joke to her face—since before she’d acquired both the license and the plane, in fact.
The elevator stops, and the woman does not move to exit. Instead, she presses the rest of the buttons between eight and seventeen.
“I’m gonna need to see pictures of that to believe it. Fingers crossed that you’re in some Amelia Earhart get up with a scarf and goggles and everything. But I bet you don’t bring those out until at least a third date. What if we did lunch instead? Give me more time to look at you and talk you into going out with me again.”
She’s grinning that stupidly pretty grin again, and as much fun as Miranda’s having, she finally says,
“I’m willing to indulge you once. To satisfy your curiosity about my identity. But I must disclose that I’m married, so there will be no dates.”
The woman’s face falls, and she says simply,
“Bummer.” But then she brightens, “But lunch is still on the table?”
Miranda shrugs, somehow finds herself saying,
“A girl’s gotta eat.”
xxx
Miranda watches in both amusement and horror as Andrea, as the girl had finally introduced herself, jogs toward her juggling two take out containers, styrofoam cups precariously between her left arm and her torso, a plastic bag looped around her right forearm and swinging dangerously. The thought strikes her that this must be akin to the feeling Caroline has when she watches Miranda play one of her video games and not make the correct jumps or collect the optimal number of rings or what have you. If she were closer, maybe she would be backseat driving, telling Andrea to avoid that crack in the sidewalk or that she’s definitely going to run into that fire hydrant and have a nasty bruise on her thigh. Or at the very least take the cups from her.
When Andrea had suggested a little picnic at a nearby set of benches and a few tables crammed into an alleyway with a half-hearted mural on one wall and perhaps two bushes that bills itself rather delusionally as a park, Miranda had acquiesced mostly out of curiosity. And so far she is not disappointed.
And there’s the predicted stumble on the crack followed by the predicted fire hydrant collision, an “owie, damn it,” and the bag undulates against her other thigh, and an “oh for Pete’s sake.” Just a few more strides, and Andrea’s standing in front of the table Miranda has claimed. She frowns slightly, apparently in thought, and then with great care bends down and deposits the cups first, then the take out containers, and then finally extricates herself from the bag.
“Took me longer at Auto Universe than I thought it would. I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Andrea says as she starts rummaging around in the bag. “For some reason, they decided I needed a tour of the entire building. Except for seventeen. It’s like you’ve got fashion cooties and you’ve been quarantined.”
“A sentiment I cultivate to keep out the riff raff,” Miranda says.
Andrea laughs and sits beside her, peeks into the take out containers, and then slides one toward Miranda and hands her a plastic fork wrapped in a paper napkin from the bag.
Inside the container Miranda finds three small carnitas tacos, a generous mound of what looks like fairly decent fresh pico de gallo, and a few lime slices. Andrea’s contains a giant pile of very messy looking nachos.
“There’s salsa and hot sauce and extra napkins in the bag,” Andrea says, meticulously arranging her first chip so that it appears to have a perfect ratio of toppings.
That’s a move Miranda can respect. On the rare occasion that she eats nachos, she does it much the same way.
“Oh. And I got you a Diet Coke. Didn’t figure you for a Pepsi weirdo.”
Miranda hums and watches Andrea navigate her nachos for a moment. She’s much more careful with them than her journey here had suggested she would be capable of, and Miranda briefly wonders if she shouldn’t have shut this lunch down and hired her as an assistant instead. She seems competent, if a touch strange and clumsy. Then again, there is the matter of this outfit. And the fact that having an assistant who is not in the least intimidated by her might be a liability.
She did have one of those a few years ago, though, and it had honestly been refreshing to just be able to talk to someone in the office on a regular basis, someone who would give her her real opinion and engage with her.
Oh well. Que sera sera.
At least the tacos are adequate. Ok. Delicious, actually.
“I don’t know how you plan on looking at me enough to identify who I am to you specifically when you’ve chosen a meal that is so… involved,” Miranda says.
Andrea grins,
“To tell the truth, it was strategic. I figured if I didn’t have quite enough time to look at you, you might agree that we’d need to have lunch again for further perusal.”
“A risky bet.”
“Not really. If you don’t agree, I can just google you. But if you do, boom! I’ve got a new friend.”
“Is this a common way you make friends, then? By accosting women in elevators and badgering them into spending time with you using some manufactured tale about having met them before?”
“Yep. Sometimes I do the Ted Bundy thing, too. You know, faking I have a broken arm and asking for roadside assistance.”
“I see. That’s a classic for a reason, I suppose.”
Andrea smiles at her and then redistributes some sour cream onto her next chip, says,
“So. I’m kinda getting by osmosis that you’re a super big shot and have been for… like… ever. But have you, by chance, spent any significant time in Columbus, Ohio?”
“No. I have not, in fact, ever once been to Columbus. I was supposed to have gone to Bob Taft’s second inauguration, but my daughters were ill.”
Andrea focuses on dressing up a section of chips with precise drizzles of green chile sauce as she appears to think, says,
“I’m sorry to hear that. You missed a good party. Bob always throws a good party, though. If he doesn’t go to prison and you ever get an invite again, I’d advise you to take the opportunity.”
Something about this girl’s being on a first name basis with the governor of Ohio pings as off. If she’s been hired at Auto Universe and given the grand tour, she’s a writer and probably a good one Edward would like to hold onto. For the first time, Miranda’s suspicious that their meeting in the elevator had not been so accidental. Maybe Andrea’s not actually just an odd woman with an innocent infatuation but a journalist sniffing for a tell all.
Andrea looks at her quizzically, says,
“You’ve got a weird look on your face. I’m not a Republican, I promise.”
“That’s not my concern. Why are we really here, Andréa? What do you want from me?”
Andrea cocks her head, seemingly searching Miranda’s face, then,
“As for the latter, you’re married, and we’re in public, so I probably ought not say what I really want from you. But the former? I am genuinely trying to get to the bottom of why you seem so familiar to me. I know I’ve seen those cheekbones somewhere before. And before you say it, not in tabloids or fashion magazines. I don’t read those.”
Miranda studies Andrea. She wears an earnest expression, and her body language is open, relaxed. If she’s lying, she’s damned good at it, Miranda thinks.
They resume eating and after a few minutes, Miranda remembers,
“I did do a cameo on Law and Order Trial by Jury.”
Andrea laughs,
“I was very excited for a whole show about Bebe Neuwirth, esq. tap dancing her way through the New York legal system. Unfortunately I was never able to catch it. So that can’t be it, either.”
“You didn’t miss much. It wasn’t a bad show, per se, but it certainly could’ve been improved with a few musical numbers.”
“I mean especially if you’ve already got Bebe Neuwirth and Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace. And Bernadette Peters and Donna Murphy are always popping up in Law and Orders. Why shouldn’t it just be a thing that they all have a cabaret act together to blow off steam outside the courtroom?”
“It’s probably more about not wanting to deal with acquiring rights to songs than any unwillingness to include that kind of storyline.”
“And maybe a demographics issue, I guess…?” Andrea says.
“Yes, that’s also a possibility.”
Miranda has finished her tacos, and Andrea’s down to the dregs of nachos, the disgusting looking wet ones at the very bottom, and Andrea gives her hands and mouth a final swipe of a napkin and deposits it into the container and closes it. They then just stare at each other for a few seconds.
“Welp. I’m no closer to figuring out how I know you. Lunch next Wednesday?”
“No,” Miranda says, and Andrea frowns. Miranda continues, “I already have a lunch meeting scheduled for Wednesday. Thursday. Same time and place. I will provide the food.”
xxx
“What about Chicago, then?” Andrea says as she opens the lid of the Pyrex Miranda’s placed in front of her to reveal the meatloaf and roasted Brussels sprouts she’d made the night before. “That’s where I went to college, and surely plenty of fashion stuff happens there. Maybe we ran into each other at Navy Pier or something.”
“I think we’d both remember it if we’d necked on the Ferris wheel.”
Andrea raises her head and looks at Miranda, raises an eyebrow, says,
“Oh? You think necking with me would be memorable?”
Miranda rolls her eyes, but she admits to herself it is a performative defense mechanism.
During the week since their first encounter, her mind has wandered inordinately to revisiting their interactions and what they might mean, especially as layered onto and/or against and/or among her divorce inquiries.
In no particular order, she’d spoken to Leslie, who’d said basically “who cares” about how it might look to the public at large if she divorced her current husband after a mere two years of marriage because Miranda’s always going to be Miranda whereas whatever plus-one of the week is just going to be Mr. Priestly regardless of marital status; Maryann had also said basically “who cares” because of the iron-clad pre-nup and the evidence Maryann’s investigators have of Stephen’s infidelity; and most damningly her children, who’d literally said “who cares” when she’d asked if they’d miss him if he moved out.
So she’d already been in this transitional state of getting rid of a dead weight husband, and now there’s this other transitional state of being aware that some woman who wants to fuck her allegedly knows her ambiguously.
The divorce is inevitable at this point, but the situation with Andrea could easily be avoided if she wanted to avoid it. However. Miranda does not want to avoid it. She likes the attention, and she’s almost as curious as Andrea seems about the mystery of it. Did they sit next to each other on an airplane once? Does Miranda uncannily resemble Andrea’s tenth grade geometry teacher?
“On second thought, I would probably have to be inebriated to neck on a Ferris wheel, so no, it’s likely I wouldn’t have remembered.”
Now Andrea rolls her eyes. But her expression changes to one of bliss as she places a bite of meatloaf into her mouth. After she swallows, she says,
“Where is this from?”
“What restaurant do you think gives away glass Pyrex containers as doggy bags?”
It’s plain on Andrea’s face that she is about to say something and then changes her mind. She says instead,
“Well. It’s delicious. Thank you.”
Miranda merely nods and takes up a forkful of Brussels sprouts. They watch each other for a few seconds and Andrea says,
“Your Wikipedia page says you changed your name. But it doesn’t say what you changed it from. Maybe that could be a clue…”
“How old are you?”
Andrea grins, says,
“297 months.”
Miranda sighs,
“You’re insufferable.”
“Thought you’d like that one. I’ve been anticipating that question for a while now and figured that, like me, you also think it’s stupid when people do that with their kids.”
“Correct,” Miranda admits. “But I doubt my birth name is going to be of much use in this investigation, considering you were approximately negative 45 months old when I changed it.”
“You did that math a lot quicker than I did. Ooh! Have you ever been on any quiz shows? Like Celebrity Jeopardy or something?”
“No. Outside of a week of Match Game Syndicated that has never been re-run because of a legal issue with Jimmie Walker, Law and Order Trial by Jury is my only consensual television appearance, during which I was disappointed not to have been included in a cabaret act with Bebe Neuwirth, Bernadette Peters, Donna Murphy, and the ghost of Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace.”
Andrea guffaws, then,
“No way! You were on Match Game?! Who was your Weird Girl? Was it pre-McLean Stevenson? Did the Star Wheel ever land on you?! Tell me everything!”
Of course this nutty woman would be familiar with Match Game. Miranda opens her mouth to explain that although she vaguely recalls that Debralee Scott—may she rest in peace—and Jack Jones and the other panelists had been kind to her and Gene Rayburn had been less creepy than she’d expected and the experience had been fun overall, it’s all kind of a period typical mind-altering substances blur, but Andrea has narrowed her eyes and is looking at Miranda as if she has just given something away.
“Hold the phone,” Andrea says, sounding as if she’s actively putting pieces together. “There must be some hidden talent you possess that would reasonably lead you to expect to be included in a cabaret act with Broadway stars…”
“I wouldn’t call it hidden. It may not be on my Wikipedia page, but plenty of people know that I’m musically inclined.”
Andrea stares at her thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on the table.
“Hmm. How musically inclined?”
Miranda is still unsure of Andrea’s full intentions. But she seems sincere and guileless, and it’s not like it’s a state secret, so she says,
“I’m not going to be selling out Carnegie Hall, but I do play a number of instruments and sing adequately. I could probably even remember most of my old fire baton routine if given the right incentive.”
Andrea continues drumming her fingers but now she grins,
“And what would the right incentive be? That someone said you couldn’t?”
“Precisely.”
“How many negative months old was I when you last did your fire baton routine?” Andy says teasingly.
“I brought it out for a Fourth of July party on a dare in maybe 1986, so you would’ve been, what? Sixty-ish months old by then? I will concede that that would’ve been a memorable event for a 60 month old, but there were no children on the guest list.”
Andrea snaps her fingers in an aw shucks gesture, says,
“Just when I thought we were getting somewhere. Guess we’ll have to have lunch again next week. I’ll bring Thai.”
xxx
Andrea has not spoken yet. It’s been at least five whole minutes of eating some of the best spring rolls of Miranda’s life with Andrea just gazing at her dreamily. Finally Miranda says,
“The reason I’ve agreed to these lunches is that you’re generally amusing to me. If whatever revelation you’ve apparently had about me since our last meeting has rendered you mute, we can work with that but only if you stop staring at me like a silly schoolgirl with a crush and find some way to communicate with me.”
Andrea flutters her eyelashes and looks down at her Penang curry briefly, looks back up, appearing determined, says,
“If I keep amusing you, can we keep having lunches?”
“Yes.”
Andrea beams, and the dam breaks, and she’s gesticulating wildly as it all pours out:
“Super! Ok. So. The Match Game thing got me to thinking: surely you weren’t already editor in chief of Runway circa 1981, so what could you have been famous enough for to be a panelist back then? Your Wikipedia page mentions some modeling, and I don’t know how consciously I was sabotaging myself not immediately searching for pictures of you from that time. Because I definitely wanted the excuse to see you in person. Anyway, it clicked when I finally did look at shots from your modeling career.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her pink Razr, opens it and clicks around, and then shoves it into Miranda’s face. Miranda squints and bobs and weaves until she can get at an angle where she doesn’t need her reading glasses to process what’s in front of her. It is a picture of a framed poster on a wall. She can’t make out the text, but she knows exactly what it says. She had designed it in 1975, after all.
“Where on earth did you find this relic?”
Andrea snaps her phone closed and replaces it in her pocket and then slaps her hand down on Miranda’s thigh excitedly and squeezes, resumes her story,
“My mom’s in a Dixieland band now, but she’s been in all kinds of bands intermittently since the ‘60s. She had mild semi-professional success with a country band in the mid ‘70s that toured mostly in the Midwest. She was so impressed with one of the other bands that played a show with them in Oklahoma that she bought their EP and poster, which 192 month old Andy found in the attic while looking for something else and immediately became obsessed with. Never thought I’d get to meet the honky tonk angel I’ve been in love with for years, yet here we are.”
Miranda stares at Andrea’s delighted face for a moment in wonder at the sheer absurdity that this girl has The Badlands Bad Girls album and poster. Does she even have a copy of either of those items anymore? If so, they’re surely tucked away with her fire baton somewhere. She suddenly laughs.
“Some coinky dink, huh?” Andrea says.
“Indeed.”
“You should get the band back together and do a reunion tour. Bet you’d sell a lot of Runways that way.”
“That may come down to a question of demographics, as well,” Miranda says as she takes up her oliang.
“Keep me posted, though. I’m gonna be first in line when there’s official merch available,” Andrea says, finally beginning to eat her curry.
“I’m a little long in the tooth to have my face plastered on t-shirts, I’m afraid.”
“Tell that to the iron-on paper I’m gonna use tonight to make a Return of the Badlands Bad Girls promo shirt.”
“Please don’t. I’ll look like Dracula’s Granny after two washes.”
“Needs must. I don’t have a screen printer,” Andrea says with a slurp of her own oliang.
“Your birthday is coming up. Maybe if you ask Dracula’s Granny very nicely she’ll take care of that for you.”
Andrea looks at her with a shy seeming smile, says,
“I didn’t know we were at the gift stage yet.”
Miranda internally panics. Andrea is a little too cute for comfort, and she had not been thinking at all when she’d suggested that. She chalks her impulsivity up to this very odd blast from the past discombobulating her. She flutters her fingers dismissively, says,
“We will be by your birthday. And I really can’t abide that iron-on paper. Sensory nightmare.”
“Oh? Am I making one for you, too, then?”
“No. But I suspect you will wear it in my presence. Just the look of it makes my teeth itch.”
“Fine. Gives me more time to perfect a design.”
“Do I get veto power on said design?”
“Ooh tips from the baddest badlands bad girl herself. I’ll email my draft to you.”
“You already have a draft?”
“Of course I do. A third draft, in fact. I’ve been working on it since I figured out your identity a week ago.”
Miranda laughs,
“I’m surprised you could sit on the information that long.”
“So am I, honestly. I’ve been vibrating out of my skin wanting to tell everyone about it. But practically, I know no one but me cares about this. Not even my mom was that excited. I can usually count on her for indulging me, but she just said, ‘Oh yeah. I remember talking to that girl after the show and her telling me she was going to New York to get into fashion and then picking up a Runway fifteen or so years later in an airport and thinking, ‘Good for her.’”
“Page Six would probably express mild interest,” Miranda says a little leadingly.
Andrea rolls her eyes, scoffs,
“Like I’d trust those bozos for coverage of the love of 192 through 222 month old Andy’s life.”
Andrea starts gathering up their refuse, and Miranda says,
“Who replaced Miriam in month 222, if I may ask?”
Andrea grins,
“A real life music major at Northwestern who kinda resembled Miriam.”
xxx
Miranda had had every intention of cooking Stephen one of his favorite breakfasts—perhaps his mother’s amazing corned beef hash recipe—and sitting him down and having a civil conversation about whether they were invested in making the marriage work or if it was time to amicably part ways. But before the Saturday morning she’d planned to do this rolled around, the Thursday evening after the Tuesday lunch with Andrea, she gets home late to find Stephen waiting for her in her dark study, one lamp lit, the decanter of bourbon noticeably less full than the last time she’d poured herself a drink the night before.
“How long?” Stephen says.
He’s not slurring yet, and she can’t see if he’s flushed or if his eyes are bloodshot, but nebulous, ominous questions growled at a partner in a dimly lit den are hardly ever a good sign for reconciliation, regardless of either party’s state of sobriety.
“How long what?” Miranda says, sinking into the armchair across from him.
He tosses Page Six at her, which she hardly ever bothers looking at. Usually, if the story is salacious enough, someone will tell her about it. And if it’s really inflammatory, Leslie or Maryann or both will contact her. She hadn’t heard anything about it and now looks at it curiously: of course, it’s a picture of Andrea gazing at her with her hand on Miranda’s thigh.
“Again, how long what?” Miranda says, not caring to put on her reading glasses to discern what the undoubtedly asinine headline and copy suggests about them.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess we could start with how long have you been a dyke? And move on to how long have you been fucking this girl?”
“Strictly speaking, I’m not a dyke, but I understand there’s no punchy slur for bisexuals. Switch-hitter, perhaps? But it’s just not mean-spirited enough for your purposes. But that’s neither here nor there because I am not fucking this girl or anyone else. Not even you most of the time.”
“Oh, horseshit! You don’t even let me paw you like that in public.”
Miranda sighs. She probably should’ve been more vigilant about paparazzi as well as informing Andrea that people were typically not tactile with her. She stands and crosses to put some ice in a glass for herself, says,
“I’m trying to remember a time you attempted to paw me in public and I denied you, and I’m coming up blank.”
“Quit deflecting.”
“What am I deflecting? I’m answering all your questions.”
“Yeah, in that haughty smarty pants way you know I hate.”
Miranda sighs again and pours a generous two fingers, plops back down.
“What would you like me to say, Stephen? I’m not going to apologize for having lunch with a friend or for whatever horseshit Page Six spun about it that’s upset you.”
He laughs a mean laugh, says,
“A friend. Must be a pretty good friend to let her put her hand up your skirt.”
Hmm. Her skirt had been a little shorter than her usual that day and there may have been some skin to skin contact that could conceivably seem untoward.
“Look. I’ll admit the optics are not great, but when have I ever looked you in the eyes and lied to you?”
They stare at each other in the soft yellow glow of the lamp, and Stephen’s face drains of anger, and he says quietly,
“Miranda. Are you having an affair?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
She raises an eyebrow, and he says further,
“I can be a smarty pants, too, you know. You don’t think you’re lying because you’re not fucking your girl, and I don’t think I’m lying because I’m just fucking mine.”
It’s uncomfortably silent, and they both just sit in it for a moment, and Stephen says,
“I think it’s time for me to move out.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
xxx
It’s Miranda’s turn to bring the meal, but Andrea is already there when she arrives handing out paper cups to a few paparazzi congealed just outside the park entrance and filling the cups with what appears to be cherry Kool-Aid from a large thermos. Presumably, she has already demonstrated that it’s not poisoned by having drunk a cup herself if the red mustache is any indication. Miranda stifles a laugh and sets the Pyrex of steak and shrimp and various vegetable kebabs at their usual places at their table. They are not alone in the alley this time. There is a gaggle of teenagers who should probably be in school at one of the other tables, and they are not being discreet about watching her every move.
She gives them the full Miranda Priestly experience with a dramatic removal of sunglasses and the best glare she can muster through her amusement.
Andrea actually waves congenially at them on her way over. Miranda hands her a napkin and gestures to her own upper lip, and Andrea laughs and swipes at her mouth, says overly loud,
“I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.”
Miranda shakes her head fondly and pours herself a paper cup of Kool-Aid.
“As have I,” Miranda says with a cheers to the paparazzi before downing it like a shot.
When she’d spoken to Leslie and Maryann Friday morning, the consensus was that if she stopped having lunches with Andrea or moved locations it would be seen as an admission of guilt, a conclusion that Andrea had come to independently and had texted her Friday afternoon after finally having been alerted to their appearance in the press by her mother. They’d agreed in a phone call later to continue as they had been, and Andrea had already sounded as if she was planning to be a pill, so Miranda had expected some little stunt, but the Kool-Aid had been a nice touch.
“I bet those theater kids drooling over you would be all over a Badlands Bad Girls ‘Last Call Blues and Other Honky Tonk Hits’ re-release,” Andrea says quietly as she slides a bell pepper chunk off her kebab.
“‘Hits,’” Miranda scoffs. “The hubris of youth. Remind me of the track listing.”
Andrea looks off into the distance above Miranda’s right shoulder, then,
“I just listened to it the other day. Lemme try and get them in order. There’s Last Call Blues, of course. Then a Fist City cover. Mama Taught Me to Kill, which is my personal favorite. And then the B-side is Red Dust Waltz, Stand Up to Your Man, and—”
“Horny Looks Good on You. My main contribution to the project. If I hadn’t lost at arm wrestling to the steel guitarist, it would’ve been in the album name.”
Andrea laughs and then looks at her thoughtfully, says,
“Do you still write music?”
“Occasionally. When the mood strikes. And what about you, Andréa? Are you merely an aficionado, or do you participate, as well?”
Miranda had not meant for that to come out suggestively, but it had, and Andrea seems pleased by it, so Miranda doesn’t back pedal. Andrea looks her up and down twice as suggestively and says,
“I participate very enthusiastically with a good jam partner. When the mood strikes.”
“Careful,” Miranda leans in and says just loud enough for Andrea to hear. “Horny looks good on you.”
xxx
Saturday morning Miranda wakes up at 4 AM and cannot go back to sleep. Stephen had moved out last weekend, and she’d had the divorce conversation with her children Sunday evening when they’d returned from their father’s, which had mostly been a slightly longer version of the “who cares” conversation a few weeks ago.
It’s all catching up to her now, it seems. She supposes that’s what 4 AMs are for—analyzing life decisions and lamenting the inevitable passage of time. Instead of swimming around in bed in a futile attempt at more rest, she puts in a rowing machine workout, drinks a cup of coffee, eats half a grapefruit, and heads to the storage room to see if she can find her Badlands Bad Girls accoutrements.
She’s reminiscing about her and Hunter’s shared model train phase that never really went anywhere because while they both enjoyed the idea of it, neither of them was patient enough to paint the tiny figurines. She’d kept everything in case the twins went through a model train phase, and she’s looking through the box and imagining cleaning out this storage room and turning it into a model train room. It strikes her suddenly that Andrea would probably enjoy model trains.
And then she remembers that last fight with Stephen. She and Andrea hardly know each other. They have lunch once a week and text sometimes about silly things. If they’re having an affair, it has to be the lamest affair in recorded history.
Except. She’s never had an affair, so she doesn’t know exactly what that might feel like. But if she’s being honest with herself, it probably feels exactly like spending the entire week apart looking forward to seeing Andrea’s smile, eagerly anticipating what bonkers questions she’s going to ask her, wondering if Andrea will touch her again.
Sounds like a harmless flirtation that could snowball out of control if she let it, and she had made no attempts not to let it so far, so… the evidence is not looking good.
She wonders why she hasn’t felt guilty about it until just now, when Stephen’s already gone.
“Mom?” Caroline says.
Miranda looks up. Caroline’s in the doorway in her pajamas with a supremely confused look on her face.
“Are you… playing with toys?”
Miranda laughs,
“No, my darling. Just going through some old things and got distracted. It’s early. Is something wrong?”
“It’s 9:30.”
“Oh. I must’ve gotten very distracted. What do you want for breakfast?”
“It’s Cassidy’s turn to pick,” Caroline says with a furrowed brow. “Maybe I should be asking if something’s wrong.”
“I’m just having a weird time. Nothing that won’t sort itself. Go get dressed in case Cassidy wants to go to that bagel place.”
Perhaps if Miranda hadn’t spoken that thought into existence, the butterfly effect would not have brought them to this jarring moment.
Andrea is milling around at the take out counter with two young men and a young woman, and she and one of the young men are both wearing Badlands Bad Girls iron-on t-shirts with Miranda’s face on them. Different pictures, though. Andrea’s is a close up, mid-ripping sunglasses off, and the man’s is a full body from the 2003 Met Gala.
The twins seem to register this at the same time Miranda does, and all reactions are quite different. She herself is fondly exasperated. She suspected Andrea would not have restrained herself from using the iron-on paper she already owned and just not burdened Miranda by wearing the end product around her. Caroline has that same face on from when she thought her mother had gone around the bend and was self-soothing playing with 1:87 scale cabooses and dining cars. But Cassidy looks incensed.
“What does that mean?” Cassidy hisses, eyes clearly focused on Andrea’s shirt, which Miranda is relieved does not also say Horny Looks Good on You.
Andrea turns at that moment and her face lights up, and she waves and starts walking over, oblivious to the ire radiating off Cassidy.
“Miranda! Hey, fancy meeting you here. Ooh! That’s definitely one for the Badland Bad Girls to put into rotation for their reunion tour,” she says with a shoulder shimmy and ba-da-da-da-dummed horn riffs from the original Bobbie Gentry version of Fancy.
Miranda must inadvertently be making a disapproving face because Andrea lowers her voice and says,
“Don’t worry, I already checked for paparazzi. They followed me out of Elias-Clarke the other day, and it’s been kinda fun losing them. I’m sure it gets old after a while, though.”
She directs that Colgate smile at both children in turn and says,
“Hi. I’m Andy. Neither of you is wearing a watch and this is not a knife and fork establishment, so you’ll have to forgive me if I get your names wrong at first.”
“What?” Caroline says.
“Your mom mentioned that Cassidy’s a lefty, but I don’t really have a way to observe that currently,” Andrea says.
Cassidy sends a glare back to Miranda, who says,
“Andréa is that friend I told you about whom I text and have lunch with.”
Caroline still appears nonplussed, and Cassidy looks even more skeptical. Andrea seems to see this, as well, and says to them,
“And I’m not going to be all up in your business or try to force you to sit at a table with me. My friends and I are getting our bagels to go.” She looks up at Miranda, says, “See you Wednesday.” Then back down at the twins, “Nice meeting you. Hope you have a good weekend.”
And then she and her entourage are out the door with white paper bags and steaming to-go cups.
Cassidy rounds on Miranda with her mouth open, but Miranda ushers them both to the ordering line with a hand on their respective shoulders and says,
“You know that picture of me in the sequined halter jumpsuit and cowboy hat that you always ask Grandma about, and she always tells you a different insane story about it to tease you?” She waits for their nods, then, “Well, how would you like to hear the real story?”
xxx
“I did buy this instead of stealing it off the table, but harbor no illusion that I wasn’t sorely tempted,” Andrea says as she produces a bottle of spicy olive oil to accompany the pescatore salad and campagnola pizza, which she is working on distributing evenly between both take out containers.
Once again they are alone in the alley/park—no other occupants are present, and the paparazzi have apparently given up attempting to get incriminating shots.
“If you would’ve told me this was the meal, I could’ve saved you the money. I always have a bottle at home,” Miranda says.
“No worries. I’ve been meaning to add it to my pantry for ages but keep talking myself out of it rationalizing that I don’t cook enough to justify the cost. But I can’t just not have spicy oil for pizza with Miriam Princhek, first Runner Up Miss Oklahoma 1976.”
“I know for a fact that’s not on my Wikipedia page,” Miranda says, stirring the tuna concoction into the romaine bed.
Andrea laughs, says,
“Well, you see, I was doing dishes the other day and had the TV on for noise, and what happened to be on the channel that had last been actively watched—Lifetime, because my straight dude roommate is bizarrely addicted to Strong Medicine—was that episode of Designing Women where Julia delivers the night the lights went out in Georgia terminator tirade, and I said to myself, ‘Self,’ I said, ‘Have I ever heard of anyone twirling fire batons in a context outside of circuses or beauty pageants?’ And the answer to that was a resounding no, and while I could not totally rule out the possibility that you’d at some point run away and joined the circus because you are a wildcard and I could believe almost any batshit thing about you, I figured it was statistically more likely you’d been a pageant queen, so I checked out the Miss Oklahoma website starting with when you stated that you changed your name approximately 342 months ago and worked backwards until I found Miriam Princhek.”
“Impressive. Which leads me to something you probably don’t want to hear.”
Andrea’s pizza slice pauses mid-air, and her brow scrunches. She says,
“Ok…?”
“I’ve done my research on you, as well. In my experience, most of California is consummately tacky and superficial, and I don’t fundamentally disagree with my mother’s derisive assessment that it’s the land of fruits and nuts, so I can’t in good conscience recommend Stanford, but law school may prove a good career option for you.”
Andrea blinks a few times and then guffaws. She shakes her head and dips her pizza slice into a pool of spicy oil, says,
“And here I was worried you were about to break up with me. But really you just want to maximize my potential.”
She brings the slice to her mouth, but she again pauses and locks eyes with Miranda, her eyes shining with mirth and naughtiness. She smirks and says cheekily,
“If we’re having sex as the tabloids have reported, I hope we’re using protection. I’d hate to get you pregnant and not be able to support you and our child with my paltry junior correspondent and copy editor’s salary. Because even if I do go to law school per your and my parents’ and nearly everybody and their dog’s suggestion, the dividends won’t pay off until our baby is in middle school at least.”
Well. That rant gobsmacks Miranda for many disparate reasons—there’s a lot there that she’s not equipped to unpack at this juncture. She says unthinkingly,
“I’ve been independently wealthy for at least the last decade. If I don’t abort, I won’t expect or demand any financial assistance, but I will be restricting both your access to my body and your interactions with our hypothetical illegitimate child according to your attitude.”
Andrea cackles, then says,
“Geez Louise, Miranda. Has anybody ever told you you’re the best improv partner?”
“No.”
“Bummer,” Andrea says.
xxx
A week later, Andrea slips into the elevator with Miranda at the eighth floor and wrenches the Tupperware out of Miranda’s hands, says,
“I’m hungry, for sure. But not strictly for food. Please tell me you want me as much as I want you.”
“Yes, Andréa,” Miranda says.
“Fuck,” Andrea breathes and they’re suddenly in an empty conference room with Miranda laid out on her back on an ugly blonde laminate table. “Gonna do you so right,” Andrea finishes.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Miranda says.
Andrea’s eyes flash dangerously and she manhandles Miranda onto the table and then climbs atop her and plunges her tongue into Miranda’s mouth and strokes Miranda’s vulva with the tips of her fingers, says,
“You are such a joker, and horny looks so good on you.”
Before Miranda can respond, Andrea penetrates her, and they moan together.