Susie Sweetwater Society Divorce - FrenchTwistResistance (2024)

Chapter 1 Notes:

I’m a big fan of that au trope whoopsie daisies we had an anonymous fling and now we work together and the sexual tension is going to drive us insane, and that was the original intended plot to be rounded out with a lot of angst and smut.
But seeing as how I’m allergic to plot and I’m the most self-indulgent writer alive, it somehow turned into a bunch of essays about ‘70s Match Game and general weird stuff that appeals to only me.
Also, I don’t know how I feel about having Miranda be so, so chatty. It’s a little out of character, but if she had an anonymous friend she didn’t have to be herself with, perhaps she’d be more forthcoming. And because I was committed to sticking to third person limited, the plot necessitated the chattiness for Andy to know anything that was happening with her. But, of course, I did create the plot in the first place, so… whatever I rolled the hard six.
So if you're gritting your teeth and bracing yourself but you're still on board, the upside is there is quite a lot of sex in it.

Chapter Text

Andy Sachs is kind of in a holding pattern currently. Just coasting along, and it sort of sucks but it’s numb and ok enough although nothing like what she’d ever imagined for herself.

Hasn’t she been a bright kid? Hasn’t she been voted mostly likely to succeed as her senior superlative? Hadn’t she impressed all her professors at Northwestern and edited the student paper even as she was the president of the literary society and was taking 18 hours of coursework?

Hadn’t she had promise, once upon a time?

“A promising young woman.” “I know you’ll be outstanding in your field.” “A fine intellect.” Haunting accolades from what seems like ages ago that she doesn’t feel she’s lived up to.

Because now she’s in New York, sharing a sh*tty one-bedroom Queens apartment with her college boyfriend she doesn’t love anymore—but at least the feeling’s mutual even though they haven’t talked about it or acknowledged verbally that they somehow organically slid from lovers to strictly platonic besties and roomies in a slow but not unpleasant trajectory; she’s pretty sure he’s f*cking his sous chef and when she’d first had the suspicion her instinct had not been jealousy but to wonder what the woman was like in bed and to offer to find another place to be a few nights a week so they wouldn’t always have to go to her place; and this is certainly not the kind of relationship she’d ever thought she’d be in—having applied for, interviewed for, and been rejected or passed over by more publications than she can count on both hands.

Staff writer? Yeah right, f*ck you. Cub reporter? Yeah right, f*ck you. Copy editor? Well maybe… then again, f*ck you, actually.

They’d been more politic than that, of course, but the sentiment was the same. A nobody from podunk nowhere didn’t deserve their time. Her credentials, such as they were, were less than nothing to these New York assholes, it seems.

So her main income is from substitute teaching at both public and private schools. A warm body with sixty hours of any kind of post-secondary education and a criminal record that does not include sex crimes against minors who can be available on a moment’s notice is all it takes to qualify for this basically baby-sitting position.

It does usually pay better than standard babysitting rates, at least. And once in a while, the lesson plans the real teacher has left for her include something interesting rather than just supervising bland worksheets.

There was the time she got to explain McCarthyism to PS 122 tenth graders. There was the time she got to work through the slope-intercept formula with St. Paul’s seventh graders. There was the time she guided Dalton’s sixth graders through Reed-Kellogg sentence diagrams.

Her intermittent day job is actually pretty fun. She likes kids, and she likes teaching them, especially when she actually gets to teach rather than just be a technically responsible adult in a cursory supervisory position.

Andy makes enough money substitute teaching and occasionally selling freelance articles to various small-time papers and magazines that she and Nate’s apartment is pretty well equally paid for.

She could probably add all this to her resume and start over with applications and have a better chance at success for landing a real job or maybe even go back to school and get a teaching license and pursue that avenue instead, but her pride and confidence are still hurt and this holding pattern is so numb and ok—and busy enough to keep her mind occupied, besides.

The thing is, Andy has hitched her wagon to Nate’s and because of her current holding pattern there’s really no way of unhitching without the whole rig ending up in a ditch—she’d really like to make that metaphor walk on four legs somehow but the way to do so, just as the way to get out of her holding pattern, eludes her—so her night job, and when she’s not subbing, day job, too—is hostessing, waitressing, bussing tables, or doing dishes.

Tonight’s the big night, though.

Nate wants to start his own restaurant, without his current business partner who is a pretty established chef and entrepreneur who always makes the big decisions without him and kind of treats him like an afterthought and gives him way too little of the cut of profits although it’s Nate’s signature dishes that attract the most attention. Nate does not complain about this, seems happy with the opportunity, but it’s fishy to Andy.

The business partner, Bill, is away for two weeks in Miami, so Nate’s taken the opportunity to really court some investors with a dinner party in the private back room. He had discussed this with Bill, and Bill had acquiesced rather noncommittally, and Andy wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. In fact, she’d been pretty nonplussed by the whole situation from the word go. If she hadn’t been kind of in a fog of her own disappointment and stagnancy, she might’ve investigated further about Bill’s motivations—wealthy, successful, middle-aged Bill who didn’t need Nate as his co-owner and head chef but had recruited him nonetheless. But as it stands, she just lets it all wash over her and she executes her daily tasks and gets by day after day.

The men to be assembled tonight are mostly rich regulars—a plastic surgeon, a couple corporate lawyers, and a technology CEO, all of whom come in quite often with different younger women who are not their wives and still hit on Andy—who’d become regulars only after Nate had become a co-owner, but there’s one guy who seems like kind of an iffy choice to include, in Andy’s opinion. He’s some old-money CFO of some kind of investment firm or something, and he’s been pals with Bill since they were in Skull and Bones together—that’s the rumor, anyway. Andy had been highly suspicious that he would switch loyalty.

Nate had assured her, though: “Listen, babe, I hear you and I get what you’re saying, but Steve’s cool. He says he likes to help young people with ambition who want to help themselves, same as Bill. And he said his wife likes the way I do a porterhouse. Said she moaned more eating it than she did on their honeymoon.” Seemed like a tacky, tmi detail to add, but Nate had been amused by it, so Andy had just shrugged and helped him solidify the menu and wine selections for the evening.

Nate’s ensconced in the kitchen for a while yet, maneuvering finishing touches so everything’s perfect, and so it’s up to Andy to be charming on the front end. She’s good at that, typically, but entertaining sleazy old affluent men and their long-suffering, well-valiumed wives is going to be a test of her mettle.

She chastises herself for being judgy as much as she’s relieved when the first two couples arrive at basically the same time. It’s the tech CEO and his surprisingly gregarious and affable wife and one of the corporate lawyers and his almost painfully glamorous and polite wife who all apparently know each other and start up a lively conversation among themselves and only pause as the corporate lawyer’s wife fixes Andy with a kind gaze and requests her recommended wine selection that would pair well with their mystery menu.

She’s carefully pouring sample portions of a local Syrah that will complement the portobello hors d’oeuvres as the other corporate lawyer and his totally normal, probably originally mid-western wife and the plastic surgeon and his—she knew it! but she restrains her smugness at having anticipated correctly—well-valiumed, preternaturally smooth-skinned wife arrive and take their seats. She hustles to retrieve four more glasses and pours for them, as well.

The tech CEO’s wife swallows the last of her glass, and winks at Andy, says,

“This is very nice. I usually hate Syrah. One time, when I was not in a financial position to just dump bad wine down the drain, I had this awful Syrah that I cut with even more awful peach schnapps. Individually, they were undrinkable, but somehow together they canceled each other out. The ensuing hangover was almost worth it.”

The whole table laughs, and Andy laughs with them, then,

“We do have a few selections of peach schnapps available in case you change your mind.”

The whole table laughs again, and Andy inquisitively gestures with the bottle. Corporate Lawyer One’s wife makes eye contact, says,

“A full glass for each of us, please.”

She pours generously so that when she gets to the plastic surgeon’s wife, it’s barely a half a glass. When she fetches another bottle to top off everyone else upon request, she unobtrusively neglects doing so for that woman. She’s glassy-eyed and sedate enough already and she nods subtly to Andy, something like gratitude in her expression.

She and another server are placing silver platters of the portobello hors d’oeuvres and some crudités on the table as the last pair of guests take their seats. There’s Steve, she guesses, as per Nate’s description. She’s never encountered him personally, unlike the other potential investors who have whispered innuendoes and slapped her ass as she turned to fetch a double scotch for them. He seems respectable enough, despite her misgivings about whether he’s trustworthy.

Her native Ohio is not technically or traditionally included in Tornado Alley, but even so, she’s no stranger to weird barometric pressure and the frenetic friction of cold dry air colliding with warm moist air—the sudden gasp of stillness and ripe possibility that suddenly erupts into destruction when a mundane summer thunderstorm blooms into a tornado.

The woman by Steve’s side is a tornado of a woman, all cheekbones and haughty indifference and cold dry air or maybe warm moist air or a dangerous admixture of both. She’s not sure what is more appropriate at this juncture as their eyes meet and it’s like lightning—free-range, ungrounded electricity.

She forces herself to look away from the deep blue of the woman’s eyes, concentrate on this Steve person, says,

“Syrah, sir?” as she brandishes the bottle.

He looks her up and down.

She’s used to being leered at although she still doesn’t understand it entirely, in this case particularly. She considers herself a reasonably attractive woman, but she’s in her totally generic waitress ensemble of slim fit ankle length black trousers and a long sleeve white button down blouse, both items pressed to within an inch of their life, and highly polished black oxfords. Sure she’s at least fifteen years younger than his apparent wife, but what lunatic would want to look at ordinary Andy the way he was looking at her when he had maybe the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen right next to him in a stunning off-the-shoulder deep plum co*cktail dress exposing her sharp clavicle with a hemline that’s barely knee-length and the way she’s seated with her legs crossed there’s a not insignificant expanse of pale, toned thigh visible.

“Please and thank you,” he says, in a sort of suggestive tone, and his wife rolls her eyes as she unfolds her cloth napkin and places it over her lap.

The wife is visibly annoyed. The wife is visibly not impressed. Whether the annoyance is with her husband or with Andy, she’s not sure. To her chagrin, Andy cares too much about what the wife thinks of her. She wants to impress this beautiful tornado of a woman.

She pours Syrah into a wine glass for him, says to the wife,

“And for you, ma’am?”

Those blue eyes flash at her, like cloud to cloud lightning. She doesn’t like ma’am, apparently. Andy’s too midwestern polite for her own good sometimes. The eyes narrow derisively at the bottle. She doesn’t like Syrah, either, apparently. That Andy can work with. She wishes she knew Steve’s last name so she could call her Mrs. Somebody. Then again she seems like the kind of woman who doesn’t like to be a Mrs. Somebody any more than she likes being a ma’am. She wonders about her given name.

“Could I interest you in a beaujolais instead? It’s my recommendation for the next course, and while it doesn’t necessarily enhance the appetizers, it shouldn’t detract from them, either,” Andy says.

They make eye contact, and the barometric pressure lowers. Oof, Andy feels herself itching with a lot of very bad ideas.

“Acceptable,” the wife says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her hand is so delicate and elegant and the manicure is so subdued, her fingernails short and blunt, and Andy has to physically shake herself from imagining that hand on her body.

The evening proceeds interminably. Andy continues proffering dishes and wine, and at some point Nate appears and gives an impassioned speech about his obvious culinary skills and his dubious business acumen, during which the tornado woman looks particularly bored.

Throughout, Andy’s bustling to and fro with platters and bottles, looking whenever she can at Steve’s f*cking hot wife. Perhaps the more accurate term would be ogling. She’s been ogling Steve’s f*cking hot wife since she walked in the door. And after they’d made fraught eye contact about the beaujolais, she’s been trying to flirt with her. Which is so, so stupid.

Like, number one, she’s bad at flirting. Number two, this woman is married. Number three, she’s technically still with Nate. Number four, this woman is so far out of her league they’re playing different sports entirely.

“I like your dress,” she’d said into the woman’s ear as she’d slid a bowl of vegetable soup in front of her. The woman had given her an icy glare.

“I like the color on you, but I like the fit of it even more. Very becoming,” she’d said into the woman’s ear as she’d poured a second glass of beaujolais for her. The woman had given her a raised eyebrow.

The main course had been a porterhouse, and the woman had not moaned, although she’d closed her eyes and sighed seemingly contentedly upon her first bite. Andy had rushed over to fill her wine glass with the best Cabernet Sauvignon on hand and had husked,

“I heard a rumor that you moan about a good steak. I’m disappointed that’s not true.” The woman had blinked at her.

Andy was probably actually insane at the point when she’d brought out the asparagus and whispered,

“I know you’re not wearing panties for the sake of the line of this dress, but I can’t help but imagining the secondary benefits to that decision.” The woman had blushed at that.

The evening is coming to an end, and Andy is a little melancholy that soon she’ll no longer be exchanging heated glances with this woman she hasn’t even properly met and will probably never see again. This is the most she’s felt like a real person in charge of her life instead of just a loser drifting along in a long time.

Andy doles out portions of the orange chiffon cake with a dark chocolate and raspberry drizzle frosting and pours them all a Malbec. Everyone but Steven’s f*cking hot wife and plastic surgeon’s well-valiumed wife have finished each glass of wine she’s poured for them. The tornado woman has been mostly just tasting, although she’d drunk a glass and a half of the Beaujolais an hour ago.

So she knows it’s not the alcohol coloring her décolletage when Steve’s f*cking hot wife makes eye contact with Andy, flutters her eyelashes, says to Steve,

“Excuse me. I need the ladies’ room.”

Tornado woman sashays away down the hall, and Andy can do nothing but follow.

They’re both in the single-stall gender-neutral family restroom, and Andy has locked the door on impulse. She’s nearly vibrating out of her skin. Is she really going to be allowed to f*ck this woman? That’s what’s implied, right?

The woman tosses her clutch next to the sink and props her hip on it, levels her with a glare.

“What do you want from me?” Steve’s f*cking hot wife says. Her tone is suspicious—suspecting her of something. Her gaze is penetrating—perusing her and inspecting her.

Andy had surmised that Steve’s tornado wife was someone important, but she hadn’t really thought about it that hard, had been more focused on entertaining Nate’s guests and trying to seduce this woman and saying innocuous stuff into all the other wives’ ears so it wouldn’t be so obvious she was trying to seduce this woman.

“Let me guess. You’re a photographer,” the woman says, clipped and angry but still so measured and soft. “And you think you can tell me some pretty lies and put your hand up my skirt and I’ll be thoroughly besotted and give you a six-page spread?”

“What?” Andy says. Yes, she wants to put her hand up this woman’s skirt and perhaps have her be thoroughly besotted. But the rest is a mystery.

They look at each other, and the woman, that tornado of a woman with her shock of white hair and the sharp collar bones she wants to lick, seems to see her finally, says,

“Oh. You have absolutely no idea who I am.”

Her tone had been incredulous and relieved, and Andy’s more convinced now that this woman is Somebody. Her initial thought had been a senator or district court judge or something, but the six-page spread thing doesn’t jive with that. Regardless, she doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t care and voices that sentiment rather stupidly:

“All I know is that you’re Steve’s f*cking hot wife.”

The woman’s lips twitch. It’s almost a smile.

“I am, indeed, Stephen’s wife. Although I haven’t been considered hot for many years now. As for the f*cking, that’s been a while, too.”

That soft, low voice saying f*cking sends a bolt straight to her cl*t, and Andy finds herself stalking toward the other woman.

Tornado woman is backed up against the sink, and Andy is centimeters away from her, right in front of her. She presses her hands down on the counter on either side of the woman and comes in even closer.

“It’s criminal, really,” Andy breathes almost into the woman’s mouth. “You’re so hot, and you should be f*cking.”

The woman turns her face away, says,

“Thank you for the sentiment, but we can’t.”

Andy, sure now that she has gone insane, takes a notion and goes for it: she slides her hands from the counter and grips the backs of the woman’s firm thighs, lifts her and sets her on the sink ledge. They’re looking at each other again as Andy pushes the hemline of the woman’s skirt up and up. She can see just a glimpse of damp auburn curls and says,

“We can, though. Maybe we shouldn’t. But we can. And we will, if you’ll let me.”

Her hands are resting on the woman’s quadriceps, her thumbs making slow circles over silky skin of inner thigh. She wants this woman so badly, and the woman is trembling at her touch. They lock eyes suddenly, and the woman co*cks her head in obvious thought, a decision made:

“Oh, to hell with it. Stephen’s having it off with his secretary and spending inordinate sums at sundry gentlemen’s clubs in every borough and writing it off as business expenses. Why shouldn’t I have my fun, too?”

Andy kisses her then, and it’s so headily mutual.
They kiss and kiss and kiss, tongues caressing each other, lips pushing and pulling and sucking, teeth skimming and claiming, and Andy’s fingertips are gliding up the woman’s thighs as those hands she’d been fantasizing about creep into her hair and pull her even closer.

And then Andy’s fingertips are palpating wet heat. The woman’s hands are gripping her shoulders now, digging in, probably bruising. She circles the woman’s dripping entrance and then drags her fingers up, savoring each ridge and fold, until she finds her cl*t and circles it and then presses against it.

The woman moans, and it’s the most beautiful sound Andy’s ever heard, probably.

“I want to f*ck you so bad,” Andy says. “Please let me inside you.”

“It’s 'badly,' but yes,” the tornado woman says, breathless. Andy licks up the woman’s long, pale neck, says into her ear,

“The colloquial use of the adjective instead of the proper adverb was intentional to convey how desperate I am to f*ck you.”

“I see,” the woman says, quickly and efficiently unbuttoning Andy’s blouse. “Your explanation of your word choice is more arousing to me than the choice itself.” She slips a hand into Andy’s bra cup and caresses.

Andy moans, and then they’re kissing again, Andy pressing her palm against the woman’s center, and the woman’s grinding her hips into her hand and now rolling her nipple between those delicate fingers. Andy dips down to lavish her tongue over the collar bones she’s been ogling all night and bites down a little harder than she’d intended when the woman surprises her by pinching her nipple sharply. Apparently her teeth are doing it for this tornado woman because her hips jut more firmly into her hand and she whimpers. Andy kisses up her jaw with just a little sting of teeth all the way, circles the shell of her ear with her tongue, says,

“I know that I can—because I am extremely ready, willing, and able to—but may I f*ck you now?”

There’s some kind of very sexy whine type noise from the back of the woman’s throat, then, a very soft,

“Yes, you may.”

Andy pulls back a little so she can watch her face as she glides two fingers in slowly, almost reverently. The woman’s eyes are closed, and her beautiful face is serene and blissful as she gasps, and Andy penetrates her as deeply as she’s able.

The woman rolls her hips and groans, says,

“Don’t concern yourself with being gentle. I like it a little rough.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Like Tina Turner Proud Mary?”

The woman’s eyes are open again and so blue and enticing, and she laughs, too, says,

“You’re too young to know about that, but yes.”

Andy extracts her fingers and grips the woman’s hips, turns her over, repositions her so she’s bent over the sink.

They look at each other in the mirror, and Andy says,

“Don’t tell me what I do or do not know.”

And she plunges three fingers into tornado woman’s c*nt. She pumps athletically as she kisses her exposed shoulders and grinds against her glutes—all the while they’re watching themselves in the mirror. Andy palms the woman’s left breast, kneading it and teasing the nipple and slides her hand down her torso, caressing ribs and navel and then settling to rub viciously at her cl*t.

She can feel the woman pulsating against her fingers that are inside her, hot wet velvet squeezing and drawing her farther in. She can see the look on the woman’s face in the mirror—pure lust and pleasure—as she continues f*cking her. The seam of her slacks provides delicious friction against her own cl*t and she moves her hips rhythmically against the woman’s firm backside.

They climax at basically the same time, and Andy collapses onto the woman.

A long moment passes in which Andy is just holding this woman and they’re both panting in the afterglow. And then they look at each other in the mirror.

“Thank you for such a satisfying evening,” the woman says as she slithers out of Andy’s embrace and stands and smooths out the wrinkles on her dress, removes any smudges of lipstick from a variety of locations with a damp paper towel and somehow elegantly swipes it between her legs, as well. She throws it in the garbage and they look at each other again in the mirror as Andy washes her hands and rebuttons her shirt as the woman touches up her makeup. “But we have been absent a rather suspicious amount of time, and I promised my daughters I’d be home at a reasonable hour tonight, so I’d rather get my nightly fight with Stephen over with sooner rather than later.”

She’s said all this blandly, almost bored, but there’s a look in her eye that Andy thinks she catches—a sadness, a loneliness.

“My pleasure. And I understand.” Andy pauses, worries her bottom lip, then, “Would you maybe want to do this again sometime?”

“Would I again want to let a waitress half my age f*ck me in a public bathroom while my drunk husband carouses with his insipid cronies a mere corridor away?” The woman says with an imperious eyebrow raised, although there is a little mirth in her eyes now.

Andy laughs, says,

“No, don’t be silly. Much less sordid: I’ve got a buddy with an old F-150 with a topper. We could park someplace remote and fool around in the bed.”

The woman hums, says flatly,

“I’ll have one of my assistants confirm that my tetanus vaccination is up to date. And do make sure there’s some sort of acceptably clean padding available. My knees are not as forgiving as they used to be.”

“And why would you be on your knees, Steve’s f*cking hot wife?” Andy says with a grin.

“I like to be prepared for a wide range of possible scenarios.”

She smirks and exits.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

The next morning, Andy and Nate debrief the previous evening over French toast Andy has made. Sure, he’s a good chef, but nothing beats Andy’s mother’s French toast recipe, especially when she’s feeling all out of sorts and guilty.

Nate’s ebullient about his investors, passionate, excited about the future. There’s suddenly both a game plan and a spreadsheet to back it up. She gets swept up in his enthusiasm, and for a while it’s like when they first met, when they were twenty and everything was possible.

They discuss hypothetical details of his potential new restaurant at great length, and then rather suddenly he pauses and looks at her quizzically.

He takes a drink of his coffee, wipes his hands on his basketball shorts, says,

“So uh. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while now.”

A wave of relief washes over her. There’s some panic, too, but it’s mostly relief. They’re finally having this conversation.

“Talk about what?” Andy says.

“You’re my best friend, Andy. I love you. I trust you. But. We’re not really… together… anymore, are we?”

Andy can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. It’s half nervous, half relief. Her guilt had been more about being technically Nate’s girlfriend than it had been about Steve’s f*cking hot wife’s marital status. Because she knew—she just knew from their limited interactions and from the looks of him—that Steve did not treat his wife right and she deserved better.

She says,

“The last time we had sex was six months ago when we watched Basic Instinct and we were both so hot for Sharon Stone we couldn’t help ourselves. So, yeah, no, we are not working as a romantic relationship and have not been for some time and I do not begrudge you any paramours you’ve acquired during this nebulous period in our relationship. You’re my best friend, too. And I love and trust you.”

He laughs, pantomiming sweeping a hand over his brow dramatically, saying,

“Phew. So does that mean we’re gossipy girlfriends now and you’re going to tell me all about how you f*cked Steve’s hot wife last night?”

Andy’s cheeks go hot. Steve’s f*cking hot wife was Somebody, and their dalliance should be a secret, private thing.

He reaches over the kitchen island, places a hand on her forearm.

“Relax. I’m the only one who knows you and she scampered off together. All my investors and their wives were drunk, and the rest of the wait staff was too busy to care.” He smiles devilishly as he takes a drink of his coffee. “She’s so hot. I considered trying to seduce her myself, but she didn’t seem to like my presentation. But she seemed way receptive to you whispering in her ear and pouring her wine and staring down her top all night.” He laughs and squeezes her arm. “Just humor me because we’re best friends who love and trust each other. You and that hot woman f*cked, yes or no?”

“Yes.” Andy says reluctantly with a clenched jaw.

She unclenches her jaw when she sees Nate’s amused expression. He’s not mad at her and he’s not making fun of her. He’s seemingly impressed and intrigued. He says,

“And it was good.”

“Yes,” Andy says.

“Thank goodness. As you probably already know, my sous chef, Jessica, and I—”

Holding pattern, guilt, flailing, faltering. What was she doing? What was her life? Hadn’t she had promise once? And now here she is trading sexscapade stories with her technically very freshly ex boyfriend, sexscapades that include her f*cking rich married ladies in public bathrooms.

“Yep,” Andy says. “But I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore. It’s all a little much for me right now, ok?”

“Ok,” he says.

Chapter 3 Chapter Text

Monday morning Dalton contacts Andy at a truly awful hour. Apparently, she’d impressed them with her Reed-Kellogg knowledge, and so she is being offered a long-term subbing position that will last the rest of the semester because the sixth-grade language arts teacher is going to be out on maternity leave starting the next week.

At around ten am two weeks-ish since the big night, a call comes in on her cell phone during her planning period. It’s an unfamiliar number but New York area code. She picks up. There’s silence for a beat after she says hello, and then the voice on the line says,

“Hello, waitress with an affinity for washrooms. It’s Stephen’s wife.”

No way. The voice is the same, but how? Why? Then again, who cares. If the woman’s gone to the trouble to track her down and contact her, she’d better be ready to engage with her. She checks that her door’s closed, says quietly,

“Steve’s f*cking hot wife. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Another beat of silence.

“Yes. Well. When are you free? Today preferably.”

Seriously? Her heart’s pounding. How does she want to play this? Who’s she kidding? There’s no way she’s missing an opportunity like this. And besides, the woman’s caught her on a good day. Yesterday she coached the soccer team and tomorrow she’s helping cater some rich guy’s sugar baby’s birthday party. Tonight she’s free.

“Any time after four.”

“Six sharp. My tetanus shot is current. You will meet me in the alley behind Marc Jacobs.”

“With bells on.”

“I’m pleased that you’re looking forward to it, as am I. But bells are not preferred. I think it goes without saying that it would be unfortunate if we were discovered meeting with each other in this capacity.”

“Ok no bells. Just an F-150 with a topper and some padding.”

“Exactly.”

And then the line’s dead.

Ok. So she has eight hours to organize f*cking Steve’s f*cking hot wife in the back of a pick-up truck.

And who is Marc Jacobs?

Chapter 4 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Andy arrives at 5:35 so she can make sure she’s in the right alley, and that may have been a mistake because this is not a place where pick-up trucks typically are. She is not only conspicuous in vehicle type but she has also now circled the block a suspicious number of times.

She had sort of anticipated this predicament so is dressed vaguely as if she could be a delivery driver of some kind, in a generic chambray and jeans and a black baseball cap. Now it’s a waiting game and pretending she has a reason for being here that isn’t what it looks like—terrorism, robbery, arson, perhaps—or what it actually is—meeting an important woman who probably shouldn’t be seen with her in public for any reason but especially not for illicit sex.

She’s brought some grading with her so that she looks busy and also to take her mind off this whole thing being a little nuts and also these vocabulary tests aren’t going to grade themselves.

That’s when there is a tap on the window. It’s the arm of Steve’s f*cking hot wife’s sunglasses doing the tapping. She shuts her binder and tosses it in the backseat, rolls down the window.

“I believe you’re illegally parked,” Steve’s f*cking hot wife says.

“I’d better rectify that immediately. You need a ride someplace, beautiful?”

The woman scoffs,

“What are the odds this offer will end in my dismemberment in a musty basem*nt?”

“Very low. I don’t have any buddies in the tri-state area with basem*nts, and I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you for an entire cross-country road trip.”

“Very well, then. You may give me a ‘ride someplace.’”

Andy hops out and hustles to reach the passenger door before the woman can get there so she can open it for her. The woman looks her up and down for a long moment but does allow her bracing hand for helping her in the tall vehicle.

Once they’re both inside, engine on, before they’re in gear, tornado woman turns to her, says,

“What is this ensemble? Are you trying to look like a serial killer?”

“I was going for like… handyman, plumber, delivery person. To go with the truck. I figured farmer was kind of out. Guess I could’ve gone for rhinestone cowboy but I’d need a fancier truck for that. Or a giant old Buick with longhorn hood ornaments.”

The woman laughs, and it’s almost better than her moan, and she takes it as her cue that they’re really doing this.

“You look great, by the way,” Andy says, as she starts to pull out of the alley. She’s got on a gorgeous red wrap dress and she does, indeed, look great.

“I confess I did wear this with the hope of seeing you today.”

As she turns on the blinker to maneuver them closer to the remote location she’s scouted out for this encounter, she takes a second to look again.

“Because you look f*cking hot in it, it doesn’t wrinkle, it’s easy to take off, and it’s easy to launder?”

“Perceptive,” tornado woman says, a finger at her bottom lip. She appears to be thinking about something.

“So are we doing names today? I assume you know mine since you have my phone number…?”

“No. I told my assistant I was not interested in your name.”

Andy laughs,

“I really am just some rough trade for you, huh?”

The woman’s doing the finger tapping on her lip thinking thing again.

“There is an element of that. But I’m finding that it’s…nice…just being an anonymous woman.”

There’s a pause, and Andy realizes the whole day she’s been setting this up she hasn’t once thought about how disappointing her life is. Maybe there’s something to being an anonymous woman without any expectations other than securing a sex location and being good at the ensuing sex.

The woman picks up again,

“I was prepared this morning for you to say you were joking or that you couldn’t acquire this monstrosity on such short notice or that you weren’t available or that you weren’t interested. And that would be the end of it. That may have been preferable.”

Andy had thought several times this afternoon as she was planning that maybe this was some sort of a test, and instead of being annoyed that the woman just out of the clear blue sky on a Thursday morning requested something kind of ludicrous to put together on this short a notice, she had liked the challenge of it and had wanted to impress her, wanted her to think of her as capable. As she looks over at the tornado woman and rehashes what she’s just said, it sets in that the woman probably has a bunch of her own stuff going on, too, which is why she wants to be an anonymous woman for a while. So she bites down the sincere reply she wants to make, some kind of half-formed sentiment about being able to unburden each other and goes for a joke:

“You’ve got time to back out if you want.” That part, of course, is not a joke, and she pauses to make that clear, then, “There’s a bus stop a couple blocks from here where I can drop you off.”

“Really. Do I look like a woman who would ride a bus?”

“No, but you also look a little out of place in this rig with a serial killer chauffeuring you.”

“It’s at least reasonably clean in here. And you seem to have bathed in the past week, which cannot always be said for a majority of bus people.” The woman unexpectedly takes Andy’s hand and inspects it, says, “You even managed to remove your last victim’s blood from under your fingernails.”

“Wouldn’t want any cross contamination. Makes it that much easier for the cops to connect the dots.”

They’re just holding hands now across the ancient vinyl bench seat, and it’s odd that it’s not more odd to be joking about murder with a woman she does not know and whom she will hopefully be seeing naked in about five more minutes.

“I see you thinking. I did have my assistant run a background check on you. I told her to alert me only if there were red flags and left it to her discretion what a red flag would be. So if you do murder me it will be her fault. Although now that I’m thinking about it, that may have been a task I should’ve given my first assistant rather than my second.”

“A first assistant and a second assistant. Do you also have a court jester and a lady in waiting?”

The woman purses her lips, then,

“I believe that’s what you’re bringing to the table. Although I will not be paying you monetarily.”

“Not even gas money? The fuel economy on this contraption is totally bogus.”

“Hmm no doubt. But if you’d rather I retract my offer of sexual favors…?”

“I never said that. Just a little negotiation.”

“Well you’re very bad at it. I’d rather never hear the phrase ‘totally bogus’ ever again.”

Andy parks the truck in an alley between two warehouses on the East River, everything looking extremely derelict and abandoned and disgusting, and tornado woman looks at her surroundings with a little bit of a scowl:

“I see why a basem*nt won’t be necessary. Just directly to cement shoes.”

“Surely even a lowly second assistant would think mafia enforcer was a red flag?”

“Surely. Now. Show me the accommodations before I lose my nerve.”

“Your wish is my command, Steve’s f*cking hot wife.”

Andy slides out and again goes to the passenger door to open it and help the woman out and guides her with a chivalrous hand to the small of her back to the tailgate.

The bed is pretty rusty, but she’s laid down a quilt, and there are a couple of those foam pads old ladies kneel on to weed their gardens, a few throw pillows, a small cooler with a couple bottles of water, another folded blanket, a packet of sanitary wipes, and a couple plastic bags for any garbage accumulated, all tetrised inside a cardboard box near the cab.

She climbs in and pulls the box over to the tailgate so the woman can peruse the provisions and sits there with her legs swinging as the woman does so with a raised eyebrow.

“Is this a standard truck bed sex with a middle aged woman kit?”

“No, those include lube and a bottle of gin. But I know from experience I don’t need to get you drunk and you have no problem getting wet.”

Tornado woman’s cheeks go a delightful pink.

“Right. Well.” She pushes the box farther into the bed, then, “Help me into this sardine can.”

“Sorry, babe, but there’s really no dignified way to do this. You just gotta hop and then crawl in. I can give you a boost if you want.”

The woman rolls her eyes and then in her four inch pumps hops and crawls in and almost does it in a dignified way. Almost.

Andy closes the tailgate and then rolls the handle to open a window on the topper and takes off her baseball cap. And then they’re lying on their sides face to face on the quilt, staring at each other, and it’s weirdly very intimate, as if they’re real equals and lovers instead of some rich lady and her rough trade being anonymous together. And that thought is calming to Andy, for some reason. There are a lot of things in life she planned for and didn’t achieve and then there’s this particularly weird thing she would never have thought she’d be doing in a million years that she was achieving. So she cups the woman’s cheek and kisses her deeply and warmly, caressing her with her tongue.

The kiss goes on for a long time, languid and leisurely, and she doesn’t know when or how, exactly, she’d come to be lying supine with Steven’s f*cking hot wife on top of her, but their hands are wandering, hers to the woman’s neck and then sides and then backside and then between them to figure out the closure to this wrap dress and the woman’s to her shoulders and biceps and hips and then between them to help with the closure of this wrap dress.

The dress is off, and the woman’s working on Andy’s belt and fly as Andy’s undoing the buttons of her chambray, and soon all of their clothing is discarded and pushed to the sides of the truck bed and Andy is on top of tornado woman, pressing their entire naked bodies together and kissing her so hard she thinks her tongue might be sore tomorrow. She’s got most of her weight on her elbows and is grinding their pelvises together as she kisses her, and one of the woman’s hands is in her hair and the other is at her hip, encouraging the sensual rocking movement that she is also participating in.

The woman pulls at her hair gently, creating enough space between their faces to say,

“The cost of gasoline these days is so obscene. What sexual favor might mitigate that for you? Because I’m going to need to be doing something other than heavy petting very soon or I might expire.”

Andy laughs:

“Quelle mélodramatique. Couldn’t just ask me to f*ck you, could you?”

The woman purses her glistening, kiss-swollen lips,

“I could have. But I’m asking if I may do anything for you, as well.”

That had not previously been an option in Andy’s mind. She’d started this and had expected to continue the pattern of giving rather than receiving to continue, which did not bother her in the slightest. The woman is probably straight or straight-adjacent and this is some miraculous fluke, and anyway she could get off just fine without a lot of outside input, and just being allowed to touch this woman in the first place is almost over-stimulating to her. So this statement surprises her, and she says,

“Oh. What did you have in mind?”

“Fetch me those garish foam objects from your sex kit, and I’ll show you.”

From the first swipe of the woman’s tongue against her vulva, Andy knows she’ll be answering any call she receives from this woman and catering to whatever demands she issues on a moment’s notice. There hadn’t been any real question before, but now it’s pretty written in stone.

As glorious as her mouth had been to kiss, it’s even more glorious to be devoured by, and the passing thought occurs to her as the woman pumps her tongue into her and flicks her cl*t with an elegant finger that she should’ve packed a strap-on in her sex kit so she could watch that mouth bobbing up and down the length of it, getting it all nice and warm and wet and ready for Andy to pound into her with it. They lock eyes just then, as if the woman had been reading her mind, and the woman drags her tongue up to circle her cl*t and then takes it delicately between her teeth and sucks, pushing Andy over the edge.

It’s a little after eight when they’re both dressed again, six org*sms distributed between them, and Andy is starting the engine while the woman touches up her makeup and then pulls out her phone to text someone.

“Want me to drive you home?” Andy says, only half joking.

Tornado woman fixes her with a glare, but her eyes are sparkling with humor, says,

“Be serious,” with a dismissive flutter of her fingers.

“Being seen in this might expedite your nightly fight with Steve.”

The woman glares again, a more real glare this time and then seems to soften a tad,

“Wasted effort. He’s in Tokyo. And my daughters have developed a fascination with unsightly vehicles. The minute they see this thing they’ll immediately want a ride in it. And I don’t think that would be prudent.”

“The sex kit is pretty innocuous if you don’t know it’s a sex kit. Although it may be difficult to explain how we know each other and why we’re hanging out together.”

“Quite.”

“What other ugly cars do they like? My mom has a Yugo still.”

The woman stares at her with her head co*cked, a certain searching look in her eyes. A version of her thinking face, it seems.

“Unreal. That’s what got them onto this kick. We saw a Yugo in a parking garage a month ago, and they have been obsessed with researching eyesores ever since. Caroline is begging me to buy her an AMC Gremlin, and Cassidy absolutely needs a Datsun pickup, specifically in burnt orange. They’re 10, so a driver’s license is but a twinkle in their eyes but they persist nevertheless.” She finishes on an eye roll.

“That is too funny. I bet my mom would make you a good deal on her Yugo if you were to make an offer. It’s mostly just a conversation piece, especially since she’s gotten a taste of the convertible life. My dad bought her a completely restored Bonneville for her sixtieth and she will not deign to be seen in any other car now. I can give you her number.”

The woman is smiling just a little, says,

“No, thank you. I’m sure she wouldn’t actually want to part with something so precious, and I wouldn’t want to pressure her.”

“You’re a very compassionate lady.”

There’s an unreadable look for a second and then,

“As an anonymous woman I can be. You are on your way back to Marc Jacobs, yes?”

“Of course. In the alley?”

“Yes.”

They fall into a companionable silence for awhile until the woman says,

“There is a distinct possibility I will call you next week.”

“Okey dokey. I look forward to it. Oh, just definitely not on Wednesday. I coach a junior high soccer team,” Andy says.

Tornado woman’s lips twitch in another little smile, and she says,

“Noted. And you may text me at the number from which I called you this morning if it’s not explicitly about our… arrangement.”

“And what exactly is our arrangement? I’m not trying to get a ring out of you or anything. I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

She pulls into the alley behind Marc Jacobs, and the woman takes her chin in her hand and kisses her and it’s almost a sweet kiss. She says,

“I’d just like to spend a little time with you, anonymously.”

“And with my sex kit.”

“Yes. About that. Would you mind bringing San Pellegrino next time?”

“You’re lucky you’re really good at sexual favors. These expenses are piling up, sweetheart.”

Andy looks around to make sure nobody’s around and goes over to the passenger side to help the woman out, says,

“So San Pellegrino. The sparkling grapefruit kind?”

The woman co*cks her head with the same look she’d given her about the Yugo.

“Unreal. How did you know?”

“Easy. I’m a Fresca girl and that’s the upscale version of Fresca.”

The woman laughs and briskly walks to the end of the alley where a silver Mercedes pulls up to whisk her away.

Notes:

Please ignore the NYC geography. I have been there exactly once in 2004 and spent the whole time mad that we were seeing Rent instead of Bernadette Peters Gypsy.

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

Andy doesn’t know what to save this woman as in her contacts. She can’t have Steve’s f*cking Hot Wife pop up on her screen in front of some unsuspecting sixth grader who’s come to her desk to ask a question. And she certainly can’t have that pop up around Nate, who has fully embraced his new role as her gossipy girlfriend, whom she hadn’t even been aware had known she’d borrowed his uncle’s truck—because he had gotten home way later than she had that evening—until they’d been a little drunk after the sugar baby’s birthday party and had questioned her about exactly why she needed Uncle Jim’s F-150 on a random Thursday.

“Whose couch were you moving? There was that storm a while back… Were you on limb removal? Did you have to tow somebody’s boat? And why all of a sudden in the middle of the week?”

She’d been barely able to tamp down her natural instinct to blush long enough that he never did come around to some kind of booty-call-hookup line of thought, which she counted as a miracle.

“I just needed to help out a friend and your uncle never uses it so it was convenient.”

It was vague and stupid and mostly true, and Nate had side-eyed her about it but ultimately dropped the subject.

But one thing had been very true: it was convenient.

Uncle Jim had said, “Sure kid, keep it as long as you need.” So it had been parked ever since in her and Nate’s assigned parking space at their apartment complex they’d never used because neither of them owned a car. Ready like a gallant mighty steed for its knight’s next errand. Maybe Nate had seen it walking by. Maybe Uncle Jim had called him about it. Whatever the case, it isn’t currently an issue, thankfully.

The current issue is still what to save this woman as so she can will her into calling her again.

Tornado Woman, while less crass and inflammatory, would still engender many, many questions.

Would Mrs. Robinson be too obvious? Would it also be kind of offensive?

So for five days the number, already memorized, has remained nameless. Until it hits her:

She’s a teacher, and it wouldn’t be weird to have a student’s parent’s contact information. She’s sure the woman had not meant to reveal her children’s names, but she would take the opportunity.

Caroline and Cassidy’s Mom. Perfect. Considering that’s really the only personal information she knows about her and it kind of seems the only personal information that important to the woman herself. She’d identified herself as Stephen’s wife rather disdainfully and really only in response to Andy’s assertion that she was Steve’s f*cking hot wife. But she obviously valued her daughters and couldn’t help herself mentioning them.

And on that note, she remembers the picture she’d taken that morning. Walking through the teachers’ parking lot to the back entrance, she’d noticed a hideous burnt orange ‘70s Pinto and snapped a photo but had been running a little late so couldn’t send it then.

But now it’s her planning period, so she sends it and the caption:

I know it’s not a Datsun. But the color’s right, right?

Not even a minute later, her phone buzzes:

Atrocious. Cassidy would LOVE it.

And then another buzz.

Actually, do you have the contact information on this one?

Grinning, she types back:

I don’t, but I’ll ask around. And if I can’t find it, maybe your third or fourth assistant can.

Another buzz.

And little assistant Z was too small to see.

Andy laughs out loud. And then another buzz:

I’m assuming since you have time to text you have a moment to chat?

She glances at the clock then types:

Yes, but just a moment. Have to be back to work in 20.

The buzz is the ringing buzz now.

“Hello,” Andy says.

“Does Thursday evening work for you again?”

“It sure does. I’ve even still got the truck.”

“Hmm. Still anytime after four?”

“Yes.”

“I need to be to dinner at eight. So could we do four thirty?”

“Tight squeeze. Especially since I was considering another modification to the sex kit.”

There’s a pause.

“Do keep me waiting for your explanation of this modification,” the woman says, sounding equal parts aroused and annoyed.

Andy’s eyes dart to her closed door but she whispers anyway,

“I’d like to f*ck you with a strap-on.”

Another pause, and there’s shallow breathing on the other end of the line.

“Yes, well, I think that might be better suited to a location with a higher ceiling. I’ll want to be on top and I have no wish to explain that inevitable concussion to my GP.”

The idea of this woman naked on top of her, riding her co*ck, with her head thrown back, her pale neck straining and sweating, has her thighs clenching and her heart pounding.

“Oh. Yeah. Duh.”

A huff—probably with an eye roll—and then,

“But while you have the truck, I’d hate to waste it. Perhaps your…modification…can wait until next week? I assume you can manage to find somewhere suitable and discreet? For let’s say…”

There are some shuffling sounds and then muffled speaking noises, and Andy is flipping to next week on her schedule as she’s sure tornado woman is asking after her own from little assistant z.

The woman abruptly continues,

“Tuesday evening?”

“Anytime after four.”

“Great. I’m free after five. We can discuss details when we meet on Thursday. The alley behind Donna Karan, five sharp.”

“Okey dokey,” Andy says, and the line goes dead.

Andy’d agreed to this, is participating in this, is enjoying this, and is quite excited by this, but the thought does creep in:

Am I effectively little assistant z?

Chapter 6 Chapter Text

Increasingly, Andy finds herself thinking about what tornado woman might be doing when they’re not together. She has her important lady stuff to do with her two assistants, of course, and her nightly fight with Steve, and she chats with her daughters about ugly cars and presumably other topics, as well. Maybe she’s a socialite with a lot of charity work. Or maybe she runs an oil company. Wait, wasn’t there some comment about Andy’s possibly being a photographer? Maybe she owns a lot of art galleries. Andy likes to fantasize and has decided to try to get clues via text.

Sure, she’d had a passing thought that she could ask Nate for Steve’s surname and figure out who she was, but she’s uncharacteristically incurious about the woman’s true identity—that is, knowing her actual name and occupation other than this ongoing fantasizing and tentative light detective work through the woman’s own words. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair. This woman had had a whole background check run on her and avoided knowing anything about her other than she wasn’t likely to be a dangerous element.

That’s the first thing she asks about Monday evening while half-watching a Lifetime movie, grading a few essays, and nursing a beer.

Hiya. Hope your day’s going ok. Mine is sooooo boring. I have a question: Why was it that you had the second assistant run the background check, rather than the first assistant?

She crosses her fingers that this is not too close to explicitly texting about their arrangement. But surely an important lady with two assistants runs background checks all the time. This is about how the woman’s brain works rather than any details about meetups, after all, and surely even through text that sentiment conveys.

A few minutes later a text buzz comes in.

My first assistant is a little too loyal and protective. She’d have found out if you once shoplifted a tube of chapstick from a 7-Eleven on a dare in junior high school and brought that to me with the same concern as if you’d built a time machine and used it to go back and personally organize Watergate, including but not limited to drugging and falsely imprisoning Martha Mitchell.

Andy splashes a mouthful of beer down her Northwestern sweatshirt as she laughs, texts back:

I’m going to have to change my shirt because I got beer all over myself when I laughed out loud about those two weirdly specific examples of red flags. And for the record, I have never shoplifted, Watergate was just so unnecessary, and I have a great deal of respect for Martha Mitchell.

As Andy’s changing into a different sweatshirt, she can hear her phone buzzing where she’s left it on the coffee table. She rushes back to read:

I’m relieved and gratified that landed. I realized after I hit send that it was highly unlikely you would know who Martha Mitchell was.

Andy is smiling broadly as she responds:

Another one of those unreal coincidences like my mom’s Yugo and our mutual affinity for sugarless grapefruit beverages. I went through a very intense Fannie Flagg phase a couple years ago and so I had to research Martha Mitchell to understand the jokes on her comedy album about her.

A minute later another buzz:

I didn’t spew any of my San Pellegrino but I did laugh out loud. Unreal, indeed. Speaking of our mutual affinity for certain beverages, I’d never have guessed you drink beer. Is it at least a beer worthy of your palate? A rich, full-bodied oatmeal stout, perhaps? If I must drink beer, that’s what I choose.

She replies:

Sorry to burst your bubble but Miller High Life, the champagne of beers. It’s the perfect combination of both cheap and mostly drinkable, although a little too sweet, honestly.

An immediate answering buzz:

I’ll take your word on that.

Andy assumes they’re done for the night, seeing as how she doesn’t have a good follow-up and soon an hour has passed and she’s finished a beer and a half and graded all but three of the essays and the Lifetime movie has ended and she’s switched over to the local news. But as she’s marking her penultimate essay and the weather girl is talking about possible rain, a buzz comes in:

I’m curious about something. I’ve enjoyed Fannie Flagg’s books although she can tend toward verbose, meandering, and overly sentimental. Her writing is overall solid and compelling but she’s not an especially noteworthy author in the grand scheme. You described your Fannie Flagg phase as intense. Why was it so intense?

She finishes marking the essay and then sets it aside and types:

I was laid up with both strep throat and a twisted ankle because I’d been so feverish and dizzy from the strep that I’d fallen down the stairs going to the kitchen to get a glass of water and some ibuprofen and my midday amoxicillin. And I was flipping through the channels for something to watch and happened upon a Match Game ‘78 episode on Game Show Network. And boy howdy. Fannie Flagg was in the last chair of the panelists in this gauzy blouse with no bra, and she was so funny and so pretty, and I just immediately fell totally in love with her and had to know everything about her. Like… it probably started off some strep-fever-induced insanity, but the urge to know more about her didn’t dissipate when I was well again, and I spent an inordinate amount of time reading all her books and watching all her game show and Candid Camera appearances I could find and listening to her comedy albums that I finally successfully downloaded from Napster after sorting through legions of mislabeled recordings of Clinton saying, “I did not have sex with that woman.”

Chapter 7 Notes:

Warning: Match Game nonsense ahead.

Chapter Text

Tuesday morning between classes, Andy checks her phone to see if Nate’s decided he wants her help tonight or not. To her surprise, Steve’s f*cking hot wife has texted her. She’s never initiated this before.

Caroline’s home sick with some very rare bizarre rash that the doctor says only affects children and isn’t even that contagious to other children, so before you worry about my whole household contracting it, don’t. Her comfort program of choice that she is forcing me to watch with her as I stroke her hair and slather her in hydrocortisone is, of course, because of unreal coincidence, Match Game ‘78. I’m very worried that she’s developing a fixation on Betty White. Please advise.

She laughs and glances at the clock and has just enough time to fire off a reply:

I’ll need more information to assess the severity of the situation. I won’t be able to text again for another hour, but give me the low down on why you’re suspicious a fixation is imminent.

During her planning period, she immediately finishes the essay she was working on grading last night so that she can devote the rest of the forty minutes to texting Caroline and Cassidy’s mom. She opens her phone to find:

She’s been asking me if “the pretty older lady with the cute dimples” is in other tv shows. Classic first sign of an incipient obsession. She’s also matching answers with her, which is a little concerning because as I’ve come to understand the gameplay, the woman in the sixth seat gives oddball answers. Of course, my girls are very advanced and intelligent and creative, so perhaps concerned was the wrong word. But she feels a kinship with her because of it. She keeps elbowing me in the ribs and giggling and asking me if I “got it” whenever this woman makes a pun. I know she’s going to pull Cassidy into this insanity with her as soon as she gets home, and my home life will be all ‘70s all the time. First those f*cking ugly cars and now this. Give me a worst case scenario on this. Which sixth seat woman is going to capture Cassidy’s heart? Are they going to beg me to serve this putrid-looking Champale from the consolation prize plugs at all my dinner parties?

Andy laughs again, for a full fifteen seconds at least. She pulls up google on her desktop computer and types in “champale for sale near me” and to her surprise it’s not blocked by the school’s filters. Then she replies:

Oh, honey, this is not going to be pretty. If you’re lucky, Cassidy will fixate on Richard, Brett, or Charles, that way they won’t fight over which sixth seater’s episodes they’re going to be hunting for on the Internet. Although if it’s Richard, Cassidy will be very disappointed after 1978. Also, if it’s Richard, there’s a very real possibility Caroline will be pissed that he gets picked for the head to head all the time. Another possibility is that Cassidy could fall for someone who’s not on as often. I don’t know too many of your daughters’ proclivities, but if they’re anything like me, which…another very real possibility because all of what you’re describing is very my brand of obsession… I’d watch out for Lee Meriwether. Although she always sat in the fourth chair, she is just as weird as any sixth seater. Oh and beware Marcia Wallace.

She starts scrolling through her Champale search results when another buzz comes in almost immediately.

Oh Lord. I know Lee Meriwether. Maybe I should preemptively tell them that? And what do you mean “picked” for the head to head? There’s an infinitely tasteless bedazzled wheel contestants spin for that portion.

She knows Miss Americas… or Catwomen? Does she know Eartha Kitt?! Shelf that, your lady’s in a crisis, she chastises herself. She ponders the questions she’s been asked for a second and then:

Re: head to head: The star wheel was implemented in 1978. Before that, contestants could pick whoever they wanted and usually chose Richard Dawson even though his stats for matching were around 30-40 percent, which are about the same as Brett’s. Fannie Flagg, Betty White, and Charles Nelson Reilly’s stats were around 50 percent, btw. There was a gal in like ‘75 or ‘76 who was champ for several episodes running and chose Joyce Bullifant of all people—back when she was in the fourth seat, even!—for head to head and won the big money with her like 3 out of 4 times. Anyway, the producers brought in the star wheel to even the playing field and then Richard left soon after. He was already hosting Family Feud and it surpassed Match Game in ratings.

Re: Lee Meriwether: I don’t know. Maybe if she’s in an episode that you’re roped into watching. If you let it slip before they know she’s on the show at all, it may pique their interest even more and they might want you to pester her about it or it might make them think you know more about the show than you were previously letting on.

Another immediate response:

Thank you for the background information. And good thinking re: Lee Meriwether.

The rest of the planning period goes on without any further texts, and Andy spends it finding a place to buy Champale for the sex kit and starting to read the book she’s supposed to teach next week.

She keeps checking her phone between periods, and at lunch she’s finally summoned by Nate to be a waitress tonight and there’s one update from tornado woman:

We’ve survived a Patti Deutsch week. At first Caroline was annoyed simply because she wasn’t Betty White, but she’s warmed up to her as the episodes have rolled by and now finds her hilarious, although she’s not enraptured, just highly amused. I’m proud of her for innately understanding the role the woman in the sixth seat must play, coming up with clever answers and clever repartee after everyone else has already made the obvious jokes. It would be easy to dismiss these women as just being frivolous or stupid or trying to sabotage the game, especially Patti Deutsch who has really come up with some outrageous things in these past five episodes. I’m sure many viewers are not as discerning as Caroline and would hate these women placed in such a demanding and probably not very rewarding position.

She’s also badgering me to make clams marinara for dinner.

Andy responds:

Re: Patti Deutsch and the role of the sixth seat: So true! My thoughts exactly!

Re: Clams marinara: If you don’t feel like scrounging up ingredients and slaving over your stove after a grueling day of playing nurse and enduring Gene Rayburn’s attempts at accents, I know this quite acceptable little up-and-coming restaurant that both delivers and happens to do a great clams marinara.

An immediate reply:

I’ll take that under advisem*nt.

At the end of the school day, Andy changes into her restaurant clothes in the faculty bathroom and then checks her phone. Caroline and Cassidy’s mom has texted pretty recently:

I cannot believe I have wasted so many hours of my life on this insipid program. I’m beginning to doubt my sanity. Why does this station insist on playing this trash all day long? Aren’t there other game shows? Do they not have the rights to… say… Jeopardy or something halfway edifying?

Andy laughs, replies:

Could be worse. Could be Celebrity Bowling. Which I have unfortunately watched for my beloved Fannie Flagg and my secondary beloved Charles Nelson Reilly. And even several of my tertiary beloveds. Including but not limited to Lee Meriwether. If you set up a meeting for me with her, I’m reasonably certain I’d be able to keep it in my pants.

Another immediate response:

You are such a devoted creature. It would boggle my mind if I didn’t also recognize that quality in myself and my daughters. But I have a hard time believing that program even exists. I can’t imagine it to be anything but a total abomination.

The thought of being so compatible with all of them in their degree of devotion does something funny to Andy’s insides. That could be dangerous. That could mean this is something other than just sex and silly text bantering. She puts that in her proverbial pocket to think about at a later date. She carries on for now with a joke:

Where were you in the ‘70s? You just turned off the television after Martha Mitchell died?

And another immediate reply:

I’ve never been a great fan of the medium. Even less so after the day I’ve had. Caroline is full-blown on this Betty White spiral. The Match Game that is currently airing is a Fannie Flagg week, and Caroline is only half-watching for any particularly interesting Charles Nelson Reilly and Brett Somers banter as she has the laptop out researching The Mary Tyler Moore show. This, however, unfortunately, has not kept her from noticing that I am very obviously ogling a very braless Fannie Flagg and I keep trying to convince her I’m merely interested in her unusual and often outright offensive taste in blouses. This show is a plague, I swear. T-minus thirty minutes until Cassidy arrives. I’ll keep you posted on what the next fresh hell is.

She’s wiping tears away as she replies:

I’m sorry, but I’m crying laughing about this.

A buzz a few seconds later:

And the funniest part to you is that you’ve managed to drag me into your Fannie Flagg’s Smitten Sapphics Society, I suppose?

She wipes away another tear, types:

No, that was probably inevitable. She’s got great tit*.

A buzz:

You incorrigible little pervert.

She answers with a simple:

;)

On the subway as she’s reading and now annotating that book she’ll be teaching next week, her phone buzzes.

I have allowed Cassidy to watch an episode or two before she explains Caroline’s missed assignments from today because they’d both be insufferable if I didn’t let them immediately collude in person. Apparently they’ve been emailing about this intermittently today, which I should have guessed they’d be doing since Cassidy has access to a computer at least twice in her schedule.

It seems Cassidy has seen an episode here or there and had liked it well enough but didn’t find it anything to write home about and had preferred Password, but she’s been swept up in Caroline’s enthusiasm. And, as Cassidy informed us—you probably already know this—the best celebrity teammate to have on Password is Marcia Wallace because she’s incredibly kind and funny and adept at the game, so Cassidy has a built-in favorite sixth seater.

The girls are now involved in a discussion about whether to find the first episode in 1973 and start from there or just proceed on whatever path Game Show Network takes them. I’ve told them I have an acquaintance who’s an expert. So, what’s your take?

She’s aware that people are staring at her as she guffaws, but she doesn’t care. She’s grinning wildly as she replies:

This is too funny. Didn’t I tell you to watch out for Marcia Wallace? Lol! Anyway, for my money, the show doesn’t really find its feet until 1974. But since they’re not totally enmeshed in it yet and don’t know everybody’s personalities and the whole dynamic of the show, especially since they’ve come upon it after the star wheel’s introduction, they may not mind the unevenness and sometimes downright wonkiness of 1973. I’d say give that a try. Then they’re not beholden to the whims of Game Show Network and can go at their own pace and can skip around if they want.

A few seconds later, a buzz:

Sound advice. I will relay that to them.

It is by unreal coincidence that her section is tended to sufficiently for her to relieve the hostess for a few minutes to have a smoke break and she answers the phone at reception during this time to hear Steve’s f*cking hot wife’s dulcet tones:

“I’d like to place an order for delivery.”

“Clams marinara for three?” Andy says brightly.

There’s a sharp intake of breath—maybe a gasp?—and then,

“No. Clams marinara for four. I’ve yet to have my nightly fight with Stephen and he’s due home for dinner.”

“Clams marinara for three and clams marinara add arsenic for one?”

Tornado woman’s voice is very soft and low as she says,

“Stephen and I don’t fit together anymore, but he’s really not all that bad.” There’s a pause, a silence, and then a thoughtful hum as she continues, “Or maybe he is that bad, but his offenses against me are not capital offenses.”

“I’ll take your word on that. For now,” Andy almost growls. “I’m glad I got to hear your voice today.” She switches to her customer-service voice: “I’m transferring you now to our delivery specialist.”

She can’t stand to hear tornado woman, Steve’s f*cking hot wife, Caroline and Cassidy’s mom, her lady, defending her husband who clearly doesn’t deserve her and doesn’t appreciate her properly. Even if she’s defending him tepidly and perfunctorily.

Two hours later at Andy’s dinner break, she’s scarfing down some poached salmon and roasted asparagus and checking her messages on her phone when there’s a buzz:

My girls get along with Stephen. He’s generally a good father figure. His ability to work a grill to produce hot dogs or hamburgers they like and teach them how to throw a curveball and his willingness to listen to their incessant blatherings were all deciding factors when he was courting me. But now that we’re married, he’s drunk more often than not, but he’s still pretty benevolent to my daughters, thankfully.

The dinner conversation tonight was pleasant until it wasn’t. We were all chatting about Caroline’s illness and convalescence. And her new infatuation. He revealed that he had been a fan of Match Game upon its original airing and that his favorite sixth seat woman had been Fannie Flagg. When he made a rather crass remark about her—no more crass than anything you’ve said and in much the same vein but children were present—I made the grave mistake of telling him he wasn’t her type.

After the girls left the room, he questioned me on this, and I said, “She’d be more receptive if I propositioned her.” And he said, “Oh yes, because you’re so powerful and can get any publisher in the known universe to do your bidding. f*ck you, you conniving heartless bitch. I have my share of influence, too, you know. And before I was mostly written off as just being your latest husband, I was pretty well known for being handsome and charming.” And I said, “Sure, I have the ability to get any publisher in the known universe to do my bidding, but Fannie Flagg is a lesbian, and despite what you say about me, I’m still a woman, so regardless of your dubious handsomeness and charm, she’s liable to prefer me to you just on principle.”

And then he threw a vase of lillies over the balcony and stormed out. I am having marital discord over game show panelists from thirty years ago. Madness.

Oof deluxe. That’s a lot. Powerful over all publishers in the known universe? Conniving heartless bitch? Andy texts back:

Wow. Steve sucks and I’m glad he’s gone. You and your daughters deserve better. I hope he stays gone. Text or call if you don’t feel safe. I’ve got a .357 magnum and a mean right hook.

There’s no answering text, and Andy sleeps fitfully.

Chapter 8 Chapter Text

Wednesday morning Andy wakes to her alarm, and there’s a also a recent message from Caroline and Cassidy’s mom:

Stephen stayed gone but returned this morning hungover and apologetic with a new vase full of lillies. Caroline’s fever has broken, but I’m not allowing her to go to school today. I’m going back to work and leaving her in the care of the housekeeper. Six to one half dozen to the other she will break her promise to Cassidy and pursue her Match Game Betty White desires without her.

Andy chuckles and turns on the tap of her shower and waits for it to heat as she replies:

Maybe she’ll be noble and pursue other non Match Game Betty White desires independent of her sister. You said she was researching Mary Tyler Moore? Sue Ann Nivens is super hot, and Caroline will almost certainly dig her. But if I’m right about that, I suspect Cassidy will eventually watch it with her and really like Rhoda Morgenstern. So I don’t know what to tell you except to warn you that your daughters might soon want to start doing elaborate scarf headbands.

She’s just about to step in the shower as there’s a buzz:

I can deal with elaborate scarf headbands but I’d really rather not.

The entire day progresses with zero further texts from tornado woman.

Soccer practice has just ended, and Andy doesn’t bother changing clothes again. She’s sweaty and disheveled and very tired as she boards the subway when her phone buzzes with a text from Steve’s f*cking hot wife:

Did you really mean it about the .357 magnum and the mean right hook?

Her hackles rise, and her chest heats. Does her lady need her to defend her against an imminent threat?

Absolutely 100%. Are you and your daughters ok? I can be anywhere you need me in an hour or less.

She taps her foot and fidgets with her phone until it buzzes a second later.

Everyone’s fine. I didn’t mean to disturb you.

Ok…?

Her phone buzzes again:

I’m just not accustomed to someone being so selflessly protective. It’s a little unnerving being so suddenly so thoroughly cared for.

That’s what little assistant z is for, Andy thinks to herself.

Chapter 9 Chapter Text

Thursday morning’s texts from Caroline and Cassidy’s mom start out with a bang:

Match Game is going to be the death knell of my marriage.

Caroline’s back to school today, so we all had breakfast together. I made everybody’s individual favorite omelet. Stephen and the girls got into a good-natured argument about which sixth seat woman is the best. They were trying to have some kind of objectivity in this discussion, but no one has watched the show with any degree of regularity yet to comment on statistics for their matching abilities, so it turned subjective very quickly.

When Caroline accused Stephen of only liking Fannie Flagg because he thought she was pretty, he accused her right back of the same bias toward Betty White, and I have never seen her blush so hard. It was utterly adorable.

I was brought in to settle this dispute and I said there were probably more than a dozen women who filled that spot over the decade the show was on and they all have their strengths and weaknesses and I would not willingly be watching anymore of the drivel to find out just what those strengths and weaknesses are, but they were all free to enjoy it without me.

This was the wrong thing to say because it hurt Caroline’s feelings enough for her to betray me to Stephen. She of course brought up the gazing at Fannie Flagg’s décolletage, to which I defended myself that she’s a very attractive woman with an unfortunate sense of fashion and I would love to dress her in something more flattering.

But Stephen latched onto this and said, “So that hypothetical proposition you were talking about the other night isn’t so hypothetical? What? You’re a dyke now?” And that prompted Cassidy to ask what a dyke is, to which I responded, “It’s a very nasty word that Stephen shouldn’t have used, especially at the family breakfast nook, for a woman who likes other women. And though my attraction to women is neither a secret nor anything to be ashamed about, I have no plans at this time to fly myself out to Alabama, of all the godforsaken places, to attempt to cheat on my husband with a 60 year old woman I’ve never met.”

Then the pieces fell together for Caroline, and she was very upset and she said to Stephen, “So you were teasing me about thinking Betty White’s pretty but you actually think it’s bad that I like her?” And he said, “Of course I don’t think it’s bad that you like her. You’re a kid. It’s different for grownups.” And I said, “It is not different for grownups.” And he said, “Ok, it’s not different for grownups but it’s different for my wife.”

Cassidy wanted to know his reasoning and Caroline was still obviously hurt. He said some convoluted nonsense about how it wasn’t my attraction to women that was bad but that he didn’t appreciate my looking at anyone but him that way and I felt the same, which is not exactly true but worked well enough to dispel most of the hard feelings.

Caroline asked why he’d used that nasty word, then. Cassidy said, “Just to hurt mom’s feelings, duh.”

Stephen said something utterly asinine about how he hadn’t meant anything by it and thought it would be funny and then left for work.

I have the feeling this will come up again. Should I name Fannie Flagg in the divorce proceedings? Or the entirety of Goodson-Todman Productions?

She barely has time to even read all of them let alone respond before the bell rings for first period. But she does manage:

My word. Fannie Flagg got you into this mess. Maybe she can get you out? Hit him in the head with a frying pan and turn him into barbecue?

She’s surprised when she gets a response right away:

I still don’t quite think he’s committed a capital offense.

The rest of the day passes with no further word from her lady, but she sends a text at lunch:

Wanted to do something to cheer you up, so I did some digging and have Pinto Guy’s contact information if you’re interested.

She does not receive a reply.

Chapter 10 Chapter Text

The alley behind Donna Karan is way more narrow but somehow has more foot traffic than the one behind Marc Jacobs. It’s very warm today, and Andy’s in jeans and a white ribbed tank top and her baseball cap, still trying for handyman or delivery guy and still failing. She’s a little nervous that her lady will stand her up after this morning’s drama. Her window is already down as she’s grading some quizzes, and a soft voice says,

“Would you mind if we just drove around for a while? I’ll provide you with gas money.”

Steve’s f*cking hot wife he does not deserve is standing near the driver’s side door wearing a sleeveless navy sheath dress with a conservative neckline but a suggestive keyhole cutout with the barest hint of cleavage, and she is criminally pretty. But very tired looking.

“Sure thing,” Andy says as she slips out the door and guides the woman over to the passenger side and helps her in.

The woman takes a one hundred dollar bill from her clutch and places it in the glove compartment and then sits looking out the passenger side window, her posture not as perfect as usual.

They’ve been driving in silence for at least ten minutes when the woman sighs, turns, places a hand on her thigh. She says,

“There’s no palatable way to say this, but we can’t do this anymore.”

“I figured as much. What’s Fannie Flagg done to you now?”

The woman’s jaw is working. She looks more than just tired now. She has this look of quiet fury that would be terrifying if it were directed at Andy.

“If I have one more asinine fight with Stephen over some old woman who writes feel-good novels and sounds like a circus performer, I am really going to lose my mind. He called me after he’d had a long, boozy lunch to sling all sorts of insults at me about our sex life. That portion of the harangue began the same way it always does: that during the first two years of our marriage when we were actually having sex, I was frigid and withholding and always had to be in charge of whatever activities occurred.

“But then it took an unfamiliar turn. I didn’t know so many pejoratives for lesbians existed. I suspect he may have made some of them up on the spot. He was suggesting, of course, that my alleged sudden leap from a three to a six on the Kinsey scale was the reason I’d stopped sleeping with him six months ago. It is, by unreal coincidence, Fannie Flagg’s fault once again because around the time I kicked him out of our marital bed, I was reading Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven, which had not been published officially yet.

“And so the diatribe continued that I had lied to his and my daughters’ faces this morning when I’d said I hadn’t met her and that we were, indeed, having an affair and have been for at least half a year. Because, of course, I didn’t receive an advanced copy the way I habitually receive advanced copies of books by authors I enjoy but she had given it to me personally after performing several graphically described, degrading sex acts on me. One of which included one of my assistants, so I must assume this all occurred in my office.

“He will most likely begin investigating, trying to find evidence of this fictitious prolonged extramarital affair. I cannot afford to be caught with you. All hell would break loose. The press would be in ecstasy if they knew the things I let you do to me in the back of this death trap.”

“Not to mention you’d be cheating on Steve and Fannie Flagg both. And to be fair you were in ecstasy letting me do all that stuff to you in the back of this truck.”

The woman rolls her eyes.

“Why didn’t you just hang up on him?” Andy says.

“Useless. When he’s in that mood he has to talk himself out or I lose more crystal vases later.”

The way she says it so coolly, like it doesn’t bother her or scare her that this man is throwing things in her home that make shards that could hurt people unsettles her a little.

“He’s not coming home tonight, is he?”

“Absolutely not. He has a room at the Ritz he sulks off to after one of these episodes.”

Andy is not that satisfied with that answer, but the woman seems pretty certain he’s not a danger to her except for her vases, which seems like not a firm enough line to draw.

“Well, you can’t be caught having sex with me, obviously. But could you be caught talking to me? We could still be friends. There’s this cigar bar where you can bring in your own liquor, and I just happen to have a six pack of Champale in the sex kit. We could sit on the patio where it’s not as smoky. It’s kind of a sh*thole, so surely there are no paparazzi.”

“Drive us there before I change my mind.”

The drive is silent, each of them sitting with their own thoughts. Andy’s thinking about how this has been such a tornado of a thing. Will they cut all ties after today? Do they have to? Would that actually probably be for the best?

When they’re seated at a scuffed but clean table on the patio, with the six pack on the table between them and a pink Champale open in front of each of them, the woman glares at her, says,

“I am going to regret drinking this.”

“We both are,” Andy says.

They both tip one back. It is drinkable but not pleasant.

“I wanna know more about this affair with Fannie Flagg. Why would that dickbag remember what book you were reading six months ago?”

The woman rolls her eyes.

“Apparently, he remembers it on the nightstand one evening he staggered in drunk because he read the title and said, ‘I can take you to heaven right now.’ And I said, ‘If the press is to be believed, if you were to murder me that is not where I would go.’ And then he said, ‘I wasn’t talking about murdering you. I was talking about f*cking you.’ To which I responded, ‘I’d rather you murdered me.’ And that was the last night I let him stay in the master bedroom with me, allegedly.”

Andy laughs, but the woman continues,

“This is all drunken hearsay from this afternoon’s phone call. I have no recollection of this event. Hell, I don’t even remember what happened in that book.”

“I haven’t read it yet so I can’t help you out,” Andy says.

“I’ll lend you my copy the next time we see each other. If you don’t mind having cursed objects that wreck marriages in your home, that is.”

“Is that its only magical capability? If so, I’m safe.”

“You never know just how Fannie Flagg will ruin your life.”

“Ain’t that the truth. My junior year of high school was rough. That strep and twisted ankle had me out of commission for weeks, and then I was bullied mercilessly when one of the cool girls found my sketch book. It started off regular because she didn’t know who this random lady I was always drawing was, so I was just a dyke at first. And then we were in trig together and I’d finished my homework and got out my sketchbook and the theatre kid who sat next to me recognized her and announced it to everyone. Her f*cking stupid name was enough to start an even worse round of bullying—I won’t detail it. I’m sure you can imagine the adolescent wordplay.—but then when they figured out the rest—the game shows, the Candid Camera. Now I’m loser nerd dyke with obscure interests. If I hadn’t had such a good support system, I may have ended up a school shooter over it.”

The woman’s hand is on hers, and she’s gazing at her with sympathy. She says,

“That is horrendous.”

“It’s fine. It was years ago. That set of cool girls graduated and by some vagary of high school sociology and politics, my friend group was promoted to the cool girls for my senior year, and there were freshmen girls following me around pretending to like all the weird stuff I did, trying to find vintage rayon blouses with the built-in tie at thrift shops to please me. No matter how many times I told everybody it’s really not that lame to like *NSYNC and whatever’s popular just because I’m indifferent and prefer my weird stuff—just like what you like enthusiastically. Never sank in, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to make fun of anybody about it.”

“You’re a very kind, thoughtful person,” the woman says, squeezing her hand. “I’m really not sure I deserve your friendship.”

“Why not?”

“I’m often not a kind or thoughtful person.”

“I disagree. You encourage your children’s weird interests even though they clearly don’t interest you. You allowed Steve to berate you today for as long as he needed to to get it out of his system even though it upset you and you probably had plenty of other things you could’ve been doing. You kept our appointment this afternoon and explained in person why we have to have a different type of relationship when you could’ve just texted me or not shown up at all and blocked my number. You’re drinking this truly awful malt beverage because I bought it for you as a joke. And you’re holding my hand in public because you thought I might be sad.”

The woman is blushing, and her face is turned away slightly. She says,

“I knew we were in trouble when you sent me that picture of the Pinto.”

“What do you mean trouble?”

Andy suspects she knows what she means but wants her to spell it out in her own way. It’s that nebulous, excited way she’d felt when the woman had called her a devoted creature and she’d felt so compatible with her.

“When I showed Cassidy that photo, she was so excited that I laughed at her joy, and she said she’d missed my laugh. I realized I laughed a lot with you, that because we were anonymous, I could just…be…around you instead of being any of numerous personas I have to be in my professional life or with my husband. As we continued to talk to each other, I knew I liked it too much and that people were beginning to notice my mood was elevated and not just the day after having been thoroughly taken care of sexually, but anytime I would chat with you, after you would send me some humorous thing you’d overheard someone say or a picture of a sign with a glaring grammatical error. So it was always going to have to come to this. We were always going to have to break it off. If only so that I could obtain a clean divorce and tell you who I really am so that you could decide whether it’s worth all the rigmarole to be with me legitimately.”

Her heart leaps. Be with her legitimately. She hadn’t dared entertain that possibility, but now that it’s on the table, however hypothetically, it excites her and entices her. She doesn’t want to show her hand just yet, says,

“Yeah, I got that feeling, too, but I was a little afraid to voice it. I didn’t want to overstep in case I’d misread and sex really was the only thing you wanted out of me and you were just humoring me with the texting.”

“Just humoring you. Honestly. You offered to shoot a man for me.”

“Believe me, I’ve offered to shoot men for a lot of people. You’re not that special.”

The woman opens them both a second Champale and then drags her fingertips down Andy’s forearm. Goosebumps spring up. The woman says,

“I disagree. I am special to you as you are special to me. But you care about a lot of people and have a protective nature.”

She swallows a mouthful of frothy disgusting pink malt liquor, and Andy watches her perfect pale neck undulate and yearns to lick it.

“Are you going to obtain a clean divorce from Steve, then?” Andy asks, pivoting the conversation.

The woman purses her lips, brings a finger up to tap the bottom one. Her thinking face.

“I doubt it will be as clean as I would prefer, but divorce has been lurking on the horizon for quite a while. And this Fannie Flagg situation is untenable. I can’t have baseless claims and wild accusations like that about me floating around. Even though they should be easy rumors to disprove considering they are not in any way true, Stephen’s being so adamant in his genuine belief in them would be compelling in the gossip rags, and the whole thing would be so tacky, just muckraking filth perfectly designed to besmirch, shame, and humiliate two successful women. They’d probably drag out some obscure picture of us obliviously standing next to each other at Elizabeth Taylor’s New Year’s Eve party in 1989 and extrapolate it into all kinds of debauchery. And that’s just the public side.

“Privately, he’s become very hard to live with the past few months now that I’m not ‘tending to his needs’ as he calls it. He’s started being more vulgar and insulting in front of my children and interacting with them less in positive ways. We have a family game night every two weeks where we play a sport in the backyard or a card or board or video game in the living room. It was his idea. He stopped attending regularly months ago. Not to mention his heavy drinking and the fact that he’s been f*cking his secretary. Or maybe not his secretary but someone who wears the same cheap, cloying, freesia-heavy perfume as his secretary. It’s time to admit the horse is dead and stop beating it.”

It’s Andy’s turn to put her hand over the woman’s.

“I wish there were something I could do to help.”

“You have. I needed someone to talk to like this. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you also want the Pinto guy’s contact information? Buy yourself a divorce present?”

The woman laughs,

“I’ll bide my time and wait for the perfect Pacer to cross my path.”

Andy laughs imagining her in a Pacer, one that’s that particularly Pacer slightly dehydrated-piss yellow.

They both finish their second Champales and sit quietly looking at each other. Andy wonders what tornado woman’s thinking about, and she’s at a loss for how to ask if they can continue being friends, if it will jeopardize the woman’s divorce in any way, if it could be misconstrued. She starts to voice it:

“Do you…” but then peters out when the words she could’ve sworn had been ready don’t materialize.

The woman opens a third Champale for herself and takes a drink. She then stares at her, scrutinizes her, seems to decide something.

“I’ll very much want to speak with you face to face again. Our story is that we met at that restaurant, had an interesting conversation in the ladies’ room, and have since embarked on a casual friendship, mostly through text. I don’t think we should risk any more meetings involving that hideous machine, however. It would be too much of a temptation.”

Relief washes over her, and she grins as she says,

“Okey dokey. We had a tentative appointment Tuesday for graphic, degrading sex acts. Could we turn that into a coffee date instead?”

The woman blushes and takes a somehow elegant gulp of Champale. She hums,

“Yes, I believe that will work. I’ll let you know.”

She’s fingering the collar of her dress as she stares at Andy, still blushing. She lowers her voice,

“Just out of curiosity…These graphic, degrading sex acts you had planned for me on Tuesday with your modification to the sex kit…What kind of ridiculous apparatus would you have been wearing? Hopefully not some gigantic flesh-toned abomination with bulging fake veins that I could not abide?”

Andy’s cheeks heat, too.

“If you’re that curious, it’s in the sex kit as we speak. For the record, my co*ck is sleek and basic black and big in a good way rather than in an abomination way. I added it to the sex kit just in case you changed your mind. I like to be prepared for a wide range of possible scenarios, as well.”

“To be honest, I’ve had enough Champale to consider changing my mind, but we don’t have the time,” the woman says, so low that it’s almost a whisper.

“Well, maybe not for that, but the bathroom here is surprisingly clean,” Andy says suggestively.

The woman gives her a smoldering look as she finishes her bottle, and they leave the last unopened Champale on the table for someone else to dispense with.

As soon as the bathroom door closes, the woman is on her, hands in her hair, kissing her and pressing her against the door and grinding her hips into her. Andy rests her hands on the woman’s hips and lets her set the pace.

The woman kisses down her neck, tongues at the top of her tank top, drags her mouth back up to her ear, says,

“The next time we see each other, you’re going to have to take me somewhere with a dirty bathroom.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Absolutely not. I don’t think that would be a strong enough deterrent for either of us. So I’d rather we get together and pretend we’re not going to end up like this and then inevitably go at it somewhere halfway sanitary. And if we don’t end up like this, better safe than sorry.”

“A logical argument,” the woman says as she captures Andy’s lips again.

Their bodies are molded together against the door, undulating rather languidly, one of the woman’s hands splayed out under her tank top over her stomach, her thumb skimming the underside of a breast and the other clutching at the back of her neck. They’re kissing slow and deep, and the woman is now palming her breasts over her bra, and Andy is caressing her outer thighs, pushing the hem of her dress up to her hips for better access to creamy skin.

Andy’s let her set the pace long enough. The pace they’re at currently is for when they’ve got hours in private, not for when they’re in a public bathroom and she’s got to get this woman back to the alley behind Donna Karan pretty soon to make it to her dinner on time. And besides, she’s not accustomed to the woman setting the pace.

Steve’s accusations about his f*cking hot wife’s being frigid and withholding and having to be in charge reverberate in her brain. She’s taken everything the woman’s said to her at face value, believed her, assumed her to be telling the truth because they’re anonymous so why wouldn’t she. And also because she’s stupid and trusting that way by both nature and nurture.

So what is the truth, here? Three roads diverged in a wood: Steve’s lying about his f*cking hot wife’s sexual behaviors; her lady’s lying about what Steve said about her sexual behaviors; her lady’s sexual behaviors are fundamentally different when she and Andy are together.

She reverses their positions abruptly, and now the woman is against the door, and Andy is pulling one of her legs around her waist and supporting most of her weight. She plunges a hand between the woman’s thighs and brushes the inside of one with the backs of her fingers. The woman is trembling with want, and Andy can’t blame her. Even though all this nonsense with Steve had been kind of a boner killer when they’d been apart, the electricity between them when they’re together is always palpable and undeniable.

“Don’t tease me,” the woman pants into her mouth as she squeezes the shoulder connected to the hand between her legs.

Andy kisses her at the same tempo and pressure that she drags her fingers over her panties and subsequently shoves aside that silk to stroke through her slickness. She circles her cl*t briefly and then drags down to enter her, slow and gentle, with two fingers. She groans at reacquainting herself to the delicious feeling of being inside her, of just how hot and wet and soft she is inside, to the sharp smell of her arousal and the sound of her gasp as she’d first entered her, to the look of absolute rapture on her face as she palpates her now.

She suddenly has just a little bit of sympathy for Steve. If she were married to this woman and didn’t get to do this to her for six months, she’d be drinking too much and coming up with crazy conspiracy theories about infidelity with all manner of nutty people, too. Enough of that, though. There’d surely been a reason he no longer has the honor and privilege of pleasuring her anymore. If pleasuring had ever been what he’d done. She’s not sure she’s willing to extend him the benefit of the doubt on that one.

“I can feel you thinking,” the woman says, kissing her neck. “If you’re not in the mood—”

Andy kisses her on the mouth again, this time with a little bite to it to prove her lust. She speeds up her fingers’ movements. The woman is grinding her hips. Andy knows from prior experience this is her wordless request for more, and she provides it—slips another finger inside and positions her thumb at her cl*t and really begins to pound into her.

The woman’s moaning now, and Andy’s licking her neck and then her earlobe and then her neck again, and the leg wrapped around her waist is tightening, bringing them impossibly closer together. One of the woman’s hands is in a death grip in her hair and the other is snaking between them to cup Andy over her jeans, pressing the heel of her hand against the seam and her cl*t beneath.

She lurches inelegantly into the woman’s hand and her thrusting falters for a moment at the rush of pleasure that engenders. But the woman is pushing against her firmly and rhythmically, and she regains her equilibrium.

They’re kissing again, wantonly, sloppily. Which is pretty much how it’s going down south now, too, both of them bucking their hips wildly, the sound of Andy’s fingers’ rapid and powerful advancing and retreating obscenely echoing against the tile and chrome.

Andy had not perceived a lot of the build-up to it because she’d been so focused on relishing f*cking her lady right and climaxes rather suddenly and stills her movements to shudder through her org*sm with her face buried in the woman’s neck. The woman cards her fingers through her hair gently, says very softly but firmly,

“Don’t you dare be embarrassed as if my intention were not to make you come while you were inside me. I’d hoped for a simultaneous release, of course, but I should’ve known you’re too responsive for that.”

Andy laughs. She licks up the woman’s neck again and husks into her ear,

“Nope, I’m the regular amount of responsive. It’s your fault for being too hot for that.”

She slides her fingers out of the woman reluctantly, and the woman glares at her. The glare is replaced by widened eyes and a little surprised grunting noise when Andy grabs the hamstring of the leg not wrapped around her, does a shallow squat, and stands fully, maneuvering the hamstring in her clutches so that both legs are wrapped around her.

She carries her to the sink and deposits her on the ledge. The woman’s hands are again in her hair as they kiss, tongues sliding against each other, and even though they still taste vaguely of Champale, they drink each other in with a thirst that probably could never be completely slaked.

Andy pries the woman’s legs open and drops to her knees to watch her fingers dip into the waistband of the woman’s fancy, probably very expensive, silk underwear and pull the garment down the woman’s pale, shapely, smooth legs. She gazes at the woman’s sex for a moment: the neatly trimmed auburn curls, glistening with her desire. cunniling*s in a public bathroom is probably a bridge too far, but she’s mightily tempted. She wants to devour her, to take her in her mouth, to make her lady scream, to make her lady hers. But now is not the time or place for that.

She stands up and dangles the panties off one finger.

“Surely you won’t begrudge me a souvenir,” Andy says as places the underwear in a back pocket of her jeans.

She doesn’t allow any cutting retort. She’s immediately kissing the woman deeply and penetrating her deeply, stroking her where she particularly likes, exactly how she obviously needs it.

“Oh f*ck,” the woman groans breathlessly.

“Yeah. Let me take care of that,” Andy says into her ear, and she f*cks her harder right how and where the woman wants her most, her thumb alternately circling and just providing firm pressure against her cl*t.

The hot wet velvet around her fingers tightens and tightens, almost uncomfortably as the woman kisses her desperately, and then the woman throws her head back violently, her thighs squeezing Andy’s torso so strongly it takes her breath away. The woman is silent but deadly sexy as she comes very, very hard, spasming around Andy’s fingers and then going totally rigid for several seconds and then slumping bonelessly onto the sink, panting and sweating.

Andy is mesmerized by the sight of her lady so thoroughly f*cked. She has not yet removed her fingers and doesn’t want to. In fact, she wants to start up again, f*ck her again, make her come even harder. She wants to sink her teeth into her neck and mark her. She wants to taste her as she comes around her fingers. She wants to come inside her as she comes riding her co*ck. She wants and wants and wants.

The woman’s breathing evens out, and she blinks a few times and opens her eyes, sits up.

The woman grips Andy’s wrist and pulls her fingers out of her. They lock eyes, and tornado woman guides her hand to her mouth. Steve’s f*cking hot wife sucks her fingers. Her lady licks every millimeter of skin that had so recently been inside her. Caroline and Cassidy’s mom kisses the tip of her index finger.

Andy says,

“That’s really not fair for two reasons: One, I was going to do that to offset the still lingering taste of that Champale. And two, now I’m all worked up again.”

The woman gives her a teasing, sultry look with a raised brow as if to say, why do you think I beat you to it? But what she actually says is,

“Oh please. You’re young. You’re always worked up.”

She slips off the sink, and Andy can tell she’s being careful in her descent not to break an ankle in her four-inch pumps. She turns to the mirror, visibly assessing the damage. Andy dampens a paper towel for her and passes it over, and the woman completes the same ritual she had their first time together—removing lipstick from sundry locations, swiping between her legs, etc.

Andy takes her time washing her hands and gazing at the woman in the mirror giving herself what Andy’s grandmother had called a whor*’s bath. She hadn’t understood the term as a child because the context had never been sexual in any kind of way: when her grandmother would wipe herself down with a damp paper towel during a hot flash at K-Mart or clean up with a wash—warsh, of course, in her midwestern old lady dialect—rag in the half bath under the stairs after an afternoon of gardening or when she’d push Andy into the church bathroom after a pickup basketball game with the other church ladies’ children and grandchildren and insist she get a whor*’s bath in so she didn’t stink up her Chrysler. Not that she thinks of her lady as a whor*, but the phrase does make a lot more sense in her brain now that she’s seen it in its original connotation of hasty ablution after equally hasty intercourse.

They suddenly and unexpectedly lock eyes in the mirror as the woman smoothes out the last wrinkle in her dress. Also suddenly and unexpectedly, Andy feels she should address the woman’s last statement and make it clear that she’s worked up again solely for her:

“In point of fact, I’m not always worked up. I’ll have you know, in another unreal coincidence, that I also hadn’t had sex in six months before we started this, and I was perfectly content to be celibate indefinitely until I caught sight of you.”

The woman stares at her in the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick. The look on her face is dispassionate and disbelieving. She hums, says,

“Next thing you’ll tell me is that Fannie Flagg also wrecked your last relationship.”

“No,” Andy says with a laugh, opening the door for her and ushering her out with a hand to the small of her back. “But Sharon Stone made a valiant effort to keep us together.”

The woman narrows her eyes at her, and Andy says,

“I was not in a relationship with Sharon Stone. She was just the reason my ex-boyfriend and I had sex the last time.”

The woman’s eyebrow is up a little again. It’s an inquisitive eyebrow this time. She says,

“Interesting. The way you conduct yourself, I just assumed you were exclusively attracted to women.”

They’re exiting the bar to walk the block back to the parking garage, and Andy finally removes her hand from the woman’s back, figuring the odds are low to be seen with her but they ought not look too chummy just in case.

“The way I conduct myself? Is this about the way I dress? I told you I was trying to blend in and match the truck.”

“Partially, I suppose. But more so the way you conduct yourself…intimately.”

Andy laughs, says,

“I f*ck like a lesbian?”

“You don’t have to be so vulgar in broad daylight on a public sidewalk. But yes.”

“Should I take this as a compliment, or…?”

“It was a value neutral statement and obviously a subjective observation and supposition that proved false. I’m just having trouble picturing you with a man. Sharon Stone or Fannie Flagg, I can see crystal clearly.”

“Well, the point is moot anyway. Quit picturing me with anybody but you. You’ve ruined me for anybody else.”

“We have had admittedly very good sex on three separate occasions, but that’s hardly enough data points to make that assertion.”

“Right,” Andy draws out the diphthong sarcastically. “Tell me something, Steve’s f*cking hot wife, is there anybody else in the world you would allow to f*ck you in either a sh*thole bar bathroom or a truck bed?”

The woman seems to think about this for a moment and then,

“Perhaps. I know I appear a certain way and often come off as rather… finicky, and I’m certainly exacting and selective, but you know from experience I’m not as squeamish as I might look. So yes, I’m amenable to sex in less than ideal conditions, if the right circ*mstances were to present themselves.”

Andy laughs, says,

“But you’re kidding yourself if you think those circ*mstances would ever present themselves in your everyday life. If I’m correct in assuming from remarks you’ve made about your public persona, I’m the only one who would ever be bold enough to suggest anything like that because I don’t know who you are in real life, so I’m not afraid of repercussions or recriminations or even a reproving glare from you. And you like that.”

They’ve reached the pick-up, and Andy leans in close to whisper in her ear,

“Therefore, I think I’ve ruined you a little bit for anyone else, too.”

The woman shivers at that. Andy grins and opens the door for her.

The ride back to the alley behind Donna Karan is silent, but they’re holding hands across the bench seat, which the woman had initiated. When they pull in the alley, the woman squeezes her hand, says,

“Five thirty pm Tuesday? There’s a bagel shop on the Upper East Side that serves a decent cup of coffee.”

“Oh I think I know the place you’re talking about.” It could very well be the bagel shop a few blocks from Dalton where she’s gone a few times for lunch. “If so, that definitely works for me, and if not, I’ll make it work. Text me the details.”

The alley is now free of foot traffic, and no other cars are around. The woman scans the alley and seems to be satisfied they’re sufficiently alone. And then she leans in and cups Andy’s chin and kisses her in a way Andy’s not sure she’s ever been kissed before. It’s a farewell kiss, definitely, but it’s also a hello kiss and a promise that there’s more to this kiss and a we’re probably going to be f*cking in a bagel shop bathroom on Tuesday kiss. And it’s achingly soft and slow and sweet.

Chapter 11 Chapter Text

Friday and Saturday pass with very little texting, just an update that Steve’s f*cking hot wife has spoken to her lawyer about starting divorce proceedings and that Cassidy has changed her mind and Brett Somers is now her favorite and is lording it over Caroline that she’s in nearly every episode.

Andy also sends her a picture of a sign for a very dodgy-looking fish and chips cart that advertises $5 buck meals with the caption,

I thought they sold fish, not venison.

To which the woman’s response is:

I don’t know how you walk past that every day without resorting to arson.

The semi-detente gives Andy a little too much time for introspection. She’d been thinking recently that she’d escaped her holding pattern. She’s up for a performance review with the principal next week that might lead to an offer of a permanent position, and this thing with tornado woman—until Fannie Flagg had thrown a wrench in the gears—had made her feel powerful and capable and sexy in a way she never had before. Nate had secured his investors and would be opening his new restaurant next month, assuming health code inspections were passed, and they’d discussed finding a bigger place together and staying on as roommates because with their steady income they could afford not to be on top of each other but couldn’t really afford anything independently quite yet and they still liked each other’s company. She’d even found the time and inspiration to write a piece about ugly cars that had been picked up by Auto Universe. Her life had a semblance of realness to it for the first time in a while.

But with all this upheaval and uncertainty regarding her relationship with tornado woman, she felt herself slipping back into the ennui a little bit, looking at her life in bullet points and feeling pretty disgusted by the list of actions and non-accomplishments she saw. Was she, top of her class at Northwestern, accepted to Stanford Law, really making her living teaching entitled brats and waiting tables and hinging her happiness on anonymously f*cking some married rich lady twice her age?

She’s glad for a very busy shift at the restaurant Saturday that keeps her mind off things for a while.

Sunday Nate has the day off, and they spend it together. They go to brunch and to a movie and for a walk in Central Park. They chat like gossipy girlfriends about the brunch and the movie and their respective work, and Nate says,

“I forgot to tell you. I saw Steve’s hot wife the other day.”

“Oh?” Andy’s stomach is instantly in knots. She doesn’t know why her reaction to this is dread except that she typically has a bad poker face and might reveal something inadvertently. But she leans into the gossipy girlfriends aspect of the afternoon and adds, “Tell me everything.”

“Not much to tell. She came into the restaurant for lunch Friday. And if you thought she was hot that night a month ago…” He pauses to wolf whistle. “She was in this skin tight skirt suit and this f*cking hot silk blouse. She may as well have not been wearing it. I swear, Jason dropped a whole stack of plates when he got a glimpse of her cleavage, and poor Rosie, who was waiting the table she was sitting at with some other woman in a much more conservative and severe power suit, didn’t even realize she was so affected by the sight of her that she was speaking to them in Portuguese until your girl answered her in Portuguese. Apparently what she said was, ‘My dining companion is multilingual, but this is not one of her languages. Would you mind switching to English, French, German, or Farsi so she doesn’t feel left out? Preferably English or French because those are the two I’m also fluent in.’ Like really, Sachs. I never thought you had much game. No offense, of course. Your charms worked on me, after all. But to bag a woman like that for a bathroom quickie?”

His face is full of a certain kind of macho awe and he gives another, congratulatory wolf whistle. She does feel a modicum of pride about it and her heart had turned a little gooey when he’d called tornado woman her girl. But above all there’s a frisson of fear and anxiety and protectiveness, and she says,

“You haven’t told anybody else, have you?”

“No! That’s you and Steve’s hot wife’s dirty little secret. I mean, I did mention it to Jessica, but she doesn’t count.”

Her heart’s pounding in her throat now. She doesn’t know Jessica—the sous chef he’s been f*cking for probably at least six months—all that well, but she does know Jessica is a celebrity gossip fiend. If her lady is important in any kind of celebrity gossip way, Jessica surely knows who she is. She’s struggling to find the right words to ask what Jessica’s reaction was to this information without sounding too interested and arousing speculation about possible further encounters. Maybe even his connecting the dots with her requiring the use of Uncle Jim’s F-150. She’s also struggling to keep her breathing normal, to keep a blush from rising, to not look like a woman with more than just the one secret.

She’s not sure if Nate has sensed her unease and is just trying to placate her or if he’s oblivious and genuine when he says,

“And anyway, she didn’t believe it. I told her the night of that I’d seen you go to the bathroom with her and disappear for a long time and I relayed my suspicions of what occurred in said bathroom because of your marked preference for femme fatales. She just laughed and said you were probably just finagling to get one of your little stories published. I never updated her that you’d later confirmed what I’d assumed. I’d honestly forgotten all about it until she showed up again in that—let me reiterate—f*cking hot blouse.”

“Oh. Ok. Good,” Andy says. She’s not totally relieved, but it’s better than nothing. And she wills herself to ignore the condescension about her writing. She also wills herself to half-lie: “Probably best that that one-off remains me and Steve’s f*cking hot wife’s dirty little secret. ”

Nate eyes her a little suspiciously but drops the subject. They talk about what movie they might want to catch next Sunday, perhaps with Jessica, as they walk home.

An hour later, Nate’s out bowling with the boys, and Andy’s finishing reading and annotating the book she’ll be teaching next week as she soaks in the tub when her phone rings.

It’s Caroline and Cassidy’s mom. She usually texts to ask permission to call her. Her stomach clenches. Is something awry? Did Jessica put the pieces together and go to the papers? Is Steve back hurling vases? Is there some kind of Match Game emergency?

She answers with a tremulous hello, and the woman says,

“What I have to say cannot wait until Tuesday, and even if it could, Tuesday might not be feasible. Can you talk right now?”

“Yes. I’m alone.”

“Oh thank heavens,” the woman says with a sigh.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Andy says as sets the book on the counter and pulls the plug on the tub and begins toweling herself off.

She has the phone on speaker as she starts to moisturize, and the line is silent for a moment before the woman says,

“I underestimated how upset and petty and vindictive Stephen could be.”

She’s furiously jumping into clothes, ready for a fight, adrenaline pumping. She says rather frantically,

“Is he there at your home? Has he threatened you? Has he hurt you? Are Caroline and Cassidy ok? My gun is already loaded, and I can—”

“No, calm down. Stephen is presumably still at the Ritz, and I’ve changed the security code. Physically I’m safe. My daughters are at their father’s. I don’t need a white knight right now. I need someone to talk to.”

Her voice had been very even and cool, dismissive even. So Andy sits heavily on her bed, breathes a few times, says,

“Anything you need from me, you’ll get from me.”

“A rather lofty sentiment,” the woman says. Andy can’t tell if it’s sarcasm. The woman adds in a very quiet voice, “But somehow I believe you.”

“So what happened that you need to talk about?” Andy says.

“Fannie f*cking Flagg strikes again,” the woman hisses.

Andy laughs, says,

“I couldn’t have reasonably expected anything else. Spill it, baby.”

Another short silence and then her lady’s saying,

“Every day but Sunday I peruse the relevant papers over my morning coffee. But Sunday’s my day of rest. I sleep until seven instead of my usual five and spend the day doing whatever my daughters want to do. If it’s the beginning of my week, I wait until they’re in bed to catch up with the news. If it’s the beginning of their father’s week, which today has been, I wait until he’s picked them up to catch up with the news.

“Lo and behold, I do, in fact, possess psychic abilities. Page Six has dredged up a photo of me and Fannie Flagg from some obscure 1989 party—it ended up being a Debbie Reynolds party, rather than Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Impressive. You knew it was one of Eddie Fisher’s wives. Most psychics just give you an initial or a hair color or something.”

“Yes, well,” the woman says. “The photo would appear to the untrained eye that we are familiar and friendly with each other. We’re standing next to each other, and she’s turned toward me smiling and I have my hand on her forearm. For as tame as the photo is, the accompanying text is salacious and suggestive. There’s a lengthy quote from Stephen, with details about how our marriage has disintegrated under the weight of both my prioritization of my work above spending time with him and my lesbian affair.

“I’ve had my phone off all day and now that I’ve turned it on again, I have missed calls and messages from absolutely everyone I know. Even my girls called me a few minutes ago, incensed that I hadn’t told them I have an inside track for their Match Game needs.” Here she pauses to chuckle. “It did amuse me that that was their only complaint about this supposed ongoing illicit tryst. And Cassidy’s revelation about Stephen absolutely floored me.”

“And what was that revelation?” Andy says, heart beating faster in anticipation. The woman’s said it too amiably and lightly for it to be anything untoward, but Andy’s a little worried all the same.

“Remove your holster and your spurs that jingle jangle jingle and your ten-gallon hat. You just cannot help yourself from trying to save all the damsels in distress, can you?”

It had been said teasingly but fondly, and Andy says,

“No, and you wouldn’t want me any other way.”

“I suppose not,” the woman says in a thoughtful voice, as if she’s debating saying something further, but she ultimately doesn’t.

Andy prompts,

“This revelation?”

“Ah, yes. Cassidy said she never ‘bought’ him as my genuine love interest. She said we all—she and Caroline and I—liked him in the same way, as a fun man friend who let us cheat at Uno and fried fresh catfish for us that he’d taught them how to catch. She said we all had a good time together—or at least we used to—but I never looked at him the way Caroline looks at Betty White. The look in question was described further as ‘like she could spend all day just staring at her and then be happy when she closed her eyes to go to bed and still saw her under her eyelids like when you’ve been playing a video game too long.’ Caroline went bright red and punched her for that observation, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to reprimand her too severely.” She pauses to chuckle again, continues, “It was at that point that Cassidy asserted that her interest in Brett Somers is platonic admiration that’s perhaps aspirational and that although she doesn’t begrudge my or Caroline’s romantic inclinations toward women, she is firmly heterosexual.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Your girls are just too smart. Were you able to convince them that this nonsense in the press is all lies and coincidences?”

Andy doesn’t know what sixth page Caroline and Cassidy’s mom is splashed across in an inconsequential candid photo nobody remembers from fifteen years ago. She’s trying to be a journalist, sure, but gossip is not her thing. The woman says,

“They believed me when I told them I’ve never properly met Fannie Flagg and explained that the photo was from a party I scarcely remembered because it was a long time ago and that picture had been taken upon what was probably our only interaction. I did not disclose that I was also very likely very inebriated at the time. I don’t usually touch people casually that way unless we’re intimately involved or I’m intoxicated or both, which is pretty common knowledge and so makes the photo especially damning,” the woman says.

“Is this the kind of thing where she could sue you for libel?”

“She could definitely sue someone for libel but it won’t be me. My lawyer and my publicist were the first two calls I returned.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“I was going to put in for a no-fault divorce, but I do have evidence for Stephen’s actual, real, non-fantasy infidelity and since he’s pulled this little stunt I will be using it. Depending on how angry I wake up tomorrow, I may even request alimony and his summer place on Cape Cod that he loves, just for pure spite.”

Andy clears her throat, says,

“Um. Ok. And the plan for… us?”

“As much as I’d like to see you again, I don’t know if it’s in our best interest. At least until this latest Fannie Flagg fiasco has been laid to rest.”

“So no Tuesday bagels?”

“I’ll assess the paparazzi situation and get back with you.”

“Okey dokey.”

There’s a pause and then a sigh and then the woman’s voice is very soft:

“As absurd as the whole thing is, the truth is somehow even more absurd that I’m having a real lesbian fling with some corn-fed Nebraskan farmer’s daughter half my age who has the temerity to call me ‘baby,’ says asinine phrases like ‘okey dokey,’ and doesn’t even have to try that hard to convince me to have sex in locations that could easily get us arrested. We have that going for us, at least, that the Fannie Flagg story, however untrue, sounds more plausible.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Excuse me, baby, but I’m from Ohio and my parents are lawyers.”

“Nevertheless,” the woman says dismissively.

“So are you going to make a counter statement or anything?”

“Not at this time. We’ve decided to let Fannie Flagg’s people handle a public denial.” There’s a pause, and Andy can almost hear her thinking. “Although I might use that line I fed everyone at breakfast the other day and subsequently texted you. About her being a very attractive woman I’d love to dress in couture. Perhaps I’ll contact her directly and ask her if she’d be interested in being the subject of a photo shoot…maybe even as the cover girl. I’ll have to talk to my publicist about it, of course. What do you think? Once I’m not subject to intense media scrutiny over this, I think I’ll find it all quite amusing. Do you think she might have the same reaction and we could parlay it into increased sales revenue? Give her some publicity? Something with a caption like, ‘An Affair to Remember (If It Had Occurred).’ No, that’s trite…”

“What?”

Chapter 12 Chapter Text

Andy wakes at 4:49am lying on her side, spooning a very warm, very soft, very naked woman, one arm pressed against the woman’s back and the other resting over the woman’s stomach. One of the woman’s arms is on top of hers on her stomach.

How had she finagled a sleepover on a Sunday evening during a PR crisis? She smiles and kisses the shoulder in front of her and trails more open-mouthed, wet kisses up the long neck.

The woman groans, only half in pleasure, says,

“Do not start this up again. My knees ache, every muscle in my body is sore, and if you penetrate me again, there’s a good chance I will have to be wheeled out of here.”

“What if I just go down on you?”

“No. The last time you did that it took the better part of an hour and then you immediately had me on my hands and knees again.”

“I don’t have to take that long; I just wanted to. I know we’re both under time constraints here.”

“Yes, but I don’t trust you not to talk me into taking that co*ck of yours again in my post-org*smic haze.”

“I am a sweet talker, aren’t I?”

“Honestly, no. Your flirtation is lacking in a lot of ways, but you are bold and incredibly physically attractive to me and I find myself unusually susceptible to your prurient ideas.”

Andy takes that ringing endorsem*nt as a maybe and kisses her neck again, and her hand on the woman’s stomach starts to wander, and the woman squeezes it, says,

“No. Go shower in the guest bath.”

She removes Andy’s arm from around her body but turns and kisses her once, chastely and dryly, on the mouth before she stands and exits to the ensuite.

By the time she’s showered and dressed in the work clothes she’d packed just in case the woman didn’t kick her out in the middle of the night, the woman is also dressed in another sleeveless dress with a conservative neckline, this one red with a slit up the side, standing at the kitchen island slicing a grapefruit in half. When she turns to reach for something in the drawer, Andy gasps at the sight of her almost entirely exposed back. She’s still standing there with her mouth hanging open when the woman turns, says,

“Would you like the other half of this?”

She is mute. The woman raises an eyebrow and slides half of the grapefruit on a little plate with a grapefruit spoon over to her and smirks as if she knows exactly what Andy’s problem is.

The coffee pot dings, and the woman pours both of them a cup and slides that over wordlessly, as well.

“May I ask a favor?” Andy says finally, as she’s finishing her breakfast.

“You may ask. I might not grant it, however.”

“I don’t work in an environment where it would be appropriate to have a…” giant dick with which I spent most of the night f*cking the hottest woman alive and hope to do so again at the first available opportunity “…phallus in my bag and I don’t have time to take it home. Could I leave it here?”

“I can hardly imagine many work environments where that would be appropriate. But yes. Put it in my nightstand drawer. I’ll deal with finding a better hiding spot later.” She pauses, purses her lips. “As long as you don’t think you’ll be needing it until you can retrieve it from me.”

“Have you been listening during our conversations? Devoted creature, ruined for anyone else? Anything ringing a bell?”

The woman rolls her eyes, says,

“Fine. You have sanitized the thing, haven’t you?”

Now Andy rolls her eyes and just grins as she goes back upstairs. She does allow herself a little cursory investigation in the nightstand to see if there are any other sex toys in there, but it’s all a variety of very expensive looking pens, embossed stationery, several stacks of post-it notes, and, incongruously, a pair of opal cufflinks.

The woman’s paging through a newspaper when she returns. Andy discards the grapefruit rinds and loads the dishwasher with the plates and spoons and empty coffee cups. The woman doesn’t look up, but says,

“It seems we’re in luck. Between some natural disaster in Oregon, some unfortunate bombing in Afghanistan, and some starlet’s possibly taking a golf club to her ex-lover’s car, the alleged dalliance of a couple of relatively boring, middle-aged lesbians is apparently not gaining a lot of traction in the press, and so there are only a handful of bedraggled paparazzi at my front door.”

She looks up then with a version of her thinking face.

“The respite could be short lived depending on how angry Stephen is and how committed to dragging this out he is. But for now.” She strides to Andy and kisses her with that same chaste, dry kiss from in bed this morning. “You’re clear to sneak out the back without any fancy maneuvering.”

“That reminds me. How angry did you wake up this morning? What have you decided to take him for in the divorce?”

“I woke up very happy this morning, so I’ll be forgoing the alimony. But considering how you’ve given me more org*sms in the past few weeks than he did in the two years we were intimate, I’m still taking the Cape Cod house.”

“Sounds reasonable to me, baby.”

The woman stares at her and fingers the collar of her dress, says,

“I have mixed feelings about this pet name you’ve decided to bestow upon me. I don’t detest it; I just find it odd. You don’t expect any reciprocation in this, do you? I won’t be calling you ‘baby.’ I might be able to manage a ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘dear,’ if it’s that important to you.”

They’re still standing close together in front of the dishwasher, and Andy skims her hand under the hem of the woman’s dress and palms her thigh possessively. The woman’s breath hitches. Andy says into her ear,

“You could always call me ‘daddy’ instead.’”

Andy says this mostly as a joke that she has no actual hope of landing, but the woman’s fingers are loosely at her tricep that’s connected to the hand on her thigh, and she says into Andy’s ear,

“Maybe when we’re f*cking.”

Andy exhales shakily. This woman might actually kill her with how sexy she is. Her hand takes more ground up her thigh, and she brushes the tips of her fingers over the silk covering her center. The woman licks the shell of her ear, says,

“But not now.”

She dances the pads of her fingers down the length of Andy’s arm and encircles her wrist and pulls her hand out of her skirt. She kisses the tip of her index finger and then wafts away to collect her things on the kitchen island. She calls over her shoulder,

“The back door will lock automatically on your way out.”

Chapter 13 Notes:

And the award for most rewritten sex scene goes to....

Chapter Text

It’s going so smoothly for a while.

After legitimate news sources had tried and failed to find evidence—any evidence, however spurious—of the Fannie Flagg scandal, not even Page Six would post more of Stephen’s rants about it although they did post a few more of Stephen’s unrelated rants with pictures of the woman out at an event or two escorted by a dear friend and longtime co-worker/employee instead of her husband.

Fannie Flagg’s people hadn’t even bothered to issue any kind of statement on the matter, but the woman had received a bouquet of yellow roses and a personal note from Fannie Flagg that said,

What a surprise it was to me to find out I’ve been having an affair with one of the most beautiful, powerful women in the world and didn’t even know it! I don’t know how this rumor started, but it’s an honor just to be nominated! Sorry I broke up your marriage!

To which the woman had responded with a bouquet of zinnias and,

Perhaps I could feature you in a shoot soon and I could fill you in on how exactly you ruined my marriage. It’s a story you might find amusing, and Armani’s working on a line right now that I think would suit you very well.

Andy had received all this information from her lady through sundry texts, phone calls, and one clandestine meeting in a discreet location because she’s not following the gossip pages and still does not know who her lady is.

It’s at an in-person meeting in a booth at the back of a sh*thole bar about a month from their night at the townhouse that the woman has revealed this last epistle, and Andy says,

“At the risk of sounding like Steve, I don’t know how I feel about this 1850s romantic friendship thing you’re starting up with Fannie Flagg.”

The woman glares at her, says,

“Unreal. When the Fannie Flagg story first broke, my ex-husband called and left an angry voicemail insinuating I’d been cheating with her during our marriage, as well, because one of my pregnancy cravings with the twins had been fried green tomatoes. So it seems all my most significant sexual partners are almost obsessively jealous over an affair that never occurred with a woman I’ve never actually met. It’s all totally ludicrous, and I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better from you, but I did. I indulged myself thinking ‘this girl knows it’s all fake and stupid and absolute nonsense and will laugh about it with me.’ But of course not. Of course, even anonymously, I must be the villain.”

“I’m a most significant sexual partner?” Andy says.

“More org*sms delivered than Stephen, whom I am currently, unfortunately, still married to? Anything ringing a bell?”

Andy puts a hand over one of the woman’s, says,

“I’m not all that jealous. I just thought I was your anonymous woman you had fun with. And now you’re flirting with Fannie Flagg and sending her flowers and offering to dress her in Armani. I mean, I get it. It’s a courtesy for all the media bullsh*t and maybe just to poke the bear with Steve if she agrees to the photo shoot and it’s probably nice to have the attention. But would it be too presumptuous for me to ask you to make sure it doesn’t go any further than that?”

The woman raises an eyebrow, says scoffingly,

“You think this is going to be our meet-cute? That all this has been lead-up to an actual affair with Fannie Flagg and I’m going to cast you aside to pursue her? Or what? I’m going to continue meeting with you in these rat-infested dives for illicit sex and date her publicly? How many relationships do you think I can sustain while also going through a messy divorce? Should I call up some other game show woman, too? Vanna White has always impressed me as painfully straight, not to mention vapid and humorless, but maybe Holly Hallstrom would be up for dinner and dancing a few nights a month?”

Andy laughs as she rolls her eyes, says,

“You should stick to Champale. That put you in a way nicer mood than this gin and tonic.”

The woman purses her lips and slides her hand away. Before she can retreat too far into herself, Andy says,

“Look, it’s just that you were trying to get me to break this off a while back. So I thought maybe you’d be tempted to take the opportunity to explore something with somebody who’s a little more in your league, society and money and fame-wise.”

The woman co*cks her head and looks at her for a moment, says,

“How do I know you’re not? You’re from Kansas. You could be a Koch heiress here trying to make it on her own, who enjoys whatever they do in Kansas—flying crop dusters or what have you—instead of reading fashion magazines.”

“Once again, I am from Ohio and I am definitely not a Koch heiress.”

“Regardless,” she says with the dismissive finger wag, but she’s got the ghost of a smile on her face, as if she’s now just riling her up for fun.

“You seemed put off by the idea of my using my co*ck on anybody else, and I don’t want you to get too carried away with your penpal deal with Fannie Flagg while we’re still doing this. I don’t need or expect any commitment other than you would tell me when you want to be done with me or you want to start something with someone else.”

The woman stares at her and takes a sip of her drink, seemingly in deep thought, and then,

“You may be the only adult in my life who consistently simply talks to me instead of whining or yelling or simpering or passive aggressively hissing at me. It does probably help that we’re anonymous, but my husbands have both been rich, powerful men. You’d think they’d be both not intimidated by me and know how to have a civil conversation about what they wanted out of me.”

“Why would you think a rich, powerful man would know how to be civil? Especially to a woman he thinks should know what he wants already simply because he’s married to her?”

“Maybe I’ve been naïve in that regard.”

“You said it, not me, baby.”

The woman shakes her head in a must you tease me sort of gesture, and Andy grins, continues,

“Now onto what else I want out of you. My roommate’s out of town, my sheets are clean, and my place is two blocks from here. You think we can risk it?”

“I can see Page Six now, ‘Miranda Priestly does walk of shame in what can only be borrowed Cincinnati Reds hoodie and basketball shorts from five-story walk-up in Astoria. Cheating on Mr. Priestly and Fannie Flagg both with frat boy?’”

Andy laughs, then,

“Hey, wait. We’re doing names now?”

Miranda taps her lip with a finger, then,

“It was a slip. But we might as well. We’ve already had the exclusivity talk, after all.”

Andy beams. She’s wanted to do names the whole time. In fact, part of the reason she’d leaned in on baby was to annoy the woman into telling her her name. She sticks out her hand to be shaken in introduction, says,

“Andy Sachs. Pleasure to meet you, Miranda.”

Miranda glances at her outstretched hand and then meets her eyes with her brow raised.

“Andy. That’s not on your birth certificate. What is your full name that engenders that abhorrent diminutive?”

“Shake my hand and I’ll tell you, Mir.”

Miranda takes her hand and as she shakes it, she squeezes it, hard. Harder than pissing contests with old men at church during pass-the-peace. Her voice is very low and dangerous:

“That is a no. ‘Baby’ I can stand when you’re concerned about me or want to get a rise out of me or when we’re f*cking. But there will be none of that. Understood?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy says, and Miranda’s grip eases up and manipulates their hands into a gentle hold resting on the table top. She smiles, says almost cheerily,

“Now that that’s cleared up. Your name?”

“Andrea.”

Miranda rubs her thumb over Andy’s knuckles, says slowly and caressingly,

“Andréa.” She pauses, as if savoring it in her mouth. “Beautiful.”

Andy experiences a full-body shiver at both her name and the adjective attached to it.

They do not end up at Andy’s place that night. But only because Miranda had received a phone call from her ex a few minutes later informing her that Cassidy now had that same bizarre rash Caroline had had what seems like a million years ago and she had refused to be ministered to by anyone but her mother. But because they were coming back to the city from Miranda’s ex’s sister’s place in Westport, Connecticut, there’d been enough time for a hot, intense quickie in the ladies’ room of this sh*thole bar, during which Andy had coaxed two org*sms out of Miranda as she’d held her up against the cool and slightly sticky stainless steel door of the handicap stall, and Miranda, still panting a little, said,

“I wonder if I’ll have time to burn this dress and take a Silkwood shower before the girls get home?”

To which Andy had, also still panting a little, responded,

“Could’ve avoided that if you’d’ve just come home with me.”

Miranda had unwrapped her legs from around Andy’s waist one by one and lowered herself back to the also slightly sticky linoleum and stared at her and caressed her cheek with the backs of her fingers. She’d said,

“For some unknown and probably very foolish reason, I trust you. But I don’t trust either of us enough not to lose track of all time and space naked and alone in a real bed together. And I can’t bear to disappoint my children.”

Andy had encircled her wrist gently and kissed her palm, said,

“It’s hot to me that you’re such a good mom.”

Miranda had scoffed and exited the stall to complete her whor*’s bath, said to Andy’s reflection in the mirror,

“I swear, Andréa. You have a complex or perhaps a condition or syndrome of some kind that causes you to find everything about me ‘hot.’ I would suggest you be evaluated by a psychiatric professional, but it benefits me, and I’m very self-serving.”

“Which is also hot,” Andy had said, and Miranda had thrown her head back in a laugh.

So it’s been going smoothly for the roughly two months they’ve been seeing each other.

But then just as Andy’s leaving after soccer practice, she receives a phone call from Miranda’s landline number.

“Yes, Miranda?” she says in greeting.

There’s a pattern to Miranda’s phone habits. If she has something sex-arrangement related to discuss or if she just wants to talk, she texts first. If it’s an emergency rant session about something ridiculous Steve’s done or her ex has done or there’s some drama with the girls at school, she does not, and she often calls from her home phone late at night as she’s working from home—sometimes with a preceding text and sometimes not because her cell phone’s often dead by that time. Andy herself rarely initiates phone calls because she knows her lady’s schedule is erratic, and when she feels the urge to hear her voice, she doesn’t trust herself not to immediately turn the call into either a proposition for a meet-up or phone sex.

Instead of Miranda’s soft, sexy voice, it is a man’s voice. Not loud but very angry, saying,

“Who the f*ck is this?”

“Whom are you trying to reach?” Andy says, channeling Miranda’s coolness although her heart rate is instantly elevated.

“The bastard who’s been texting and calling my wife incessantly for months. The bastard I will be suing for alienation of affection.”

How on earth is Steve in Miranda’s house, using her phone? Is she ok?

She’s glad she’d taken the truck to work today. She was planning on returning it and taking the subway back, but now she’s heading over to the townhouse before she’s made the conscious decision to do so.

“Oh. I see. And you think I’m this guy?”

She doesn’t know how she’s keeping calm and just having relatively pleasant conversation with this dickbag, and she doesn’t know if it will work, but he doesn’t sound as angry as he says,

“I don’t know. I’m calling all the numbers I don’t recognize.”

“And your opening line is always ‘who the f*ck is this?’ You get more flies with honey, you know.”

Steve chuckles,

“Sorry about that. You’re the first call I’ve made so far, but your number appears most frequently. And at late hours. Thought I could startle you into an immediate confession.”

She doesn’t allow herself to pause and overthink, just barrels along:

“I see. I’m a teacher at Dalton. Caroline’s been having some issues with some of her peers. I’m kind of an insomniac and I know Miranda works crazy hours so I told her to call me anytime about the situation.”

This unreal coincidence that she teaches at the same school the twins attend came out on their last phone call, when Miranda had told her about a little bit of bullying over the increasingly intense Betty White infatuation. So not exactly a lie, but certainly a misdirection. With courage out of nowhere, she says,

“If I can be frank…”

“Sure, why not?” he says, and he just sounds tired now.

“I could’ve sworn she mentioned you moved out recently and tabloid bullsh*t about the divorce was a contributing factor to some of the altercations Caroline found herself in…?”

“Oh sh*t. That’s probably right. They’re good kids. They don’t deserve any of this.”

“I agree, but… why are you in her house right now?”

“I just remembered this morning, my grandfather’s cufflinks are in her nightstand drawer.”

Her face heats. She sure hopes Miranda really did find a better hiding place for her co*ck. She holds her breath as she waits for some hom*ophobic slur. But instead:

“She graciously gave me the security code and told me I could take as long as I need to find my cufflinks. I think she’s trying to bait me into doing something she can add onto her list of grievances and bill me for. But I’d much rather take the opportunity to track down her secret lover than break all her China and piss in her Louboutins.”

“And what makes you think she has a secret lover? It’s been my impression she’s too busy for that sort of thing.”

Also not a total lie. She’d certainly like to see her more than once every two weeks for a couple of drinks, a conversation, and a quickie in a sh*thole bar bathroom.

“The last week or so I lived here, she was texting someone and smiling. She loathes texting.”

“And that’s all the evidence you need for… alienation of affection?”

“Well, no. But I’m in the process of having full phone records subpoenaed, not just the list of incomings and outgoings from the landline. They’ll give me all the texts she’s sent and received, and I’m sure there’s something naughty in there, what with all the smiling at her phone. And once I find my cufflinks, I’m going to do a bit of snooping. Maybe I’ll hit pay dirt and find a pair of boxer shorts that aren’t my size. Or, given her recent inclinations, a bra that’s much too big for her.”

She stifles a laugh at the Brett Somers-style Fannie Flagg reference. Why do she and Steve have the same taste in women? The sudden thought of the cufflinks again sobers her, though. He hasn’t yet seen the drawer that may or may not have a fake co*ck in it. She’s only a few blocks away now and frantically trying to come up with some kind of plan to get him out of the house before he has the chance to look in that drawer.

“And you’re sure that won’t backfire on you?” Andy says. “Surely that’ll open you up for your own phone records to be subpoenaed?”

“Well, yeah, but she and her f*cking shark lawyers already know about my indiscretions. I just need to prove Miss High and Mighty isn’t without her own faults so I can keep my house on Cape Cod.”

“Is that your only hang up, then? You’d agree to whatever other terms if you get to keep your Cape Cod property?”

“Yeah. I love that house. It was my grandfather’s. The same grandfather as my opal cufflinks. My dad was a useless drunk and my grandfather raised me, and he was my favorite person. Opal was my grandmother’s name and birthstone and he loved her so much. She died a few months after I was born, but he told me so many stories about her I felt like I knew her.”

She realizes now that he’s become increasingly inebriated during this conversation. She has an uncle who always gets sentimental like this when he drinks. So she deals with Steve the same way she deals with Uncle Jim—her Uncle Jim, not Nate’s Uncle Jim who owns the pick-up she’s currently driving, because absolutely everyone has an Uncle Jim, many of whom are drunks or own pick-ups or both.

“Have you told your wife this?”

“No. The bitch knows exactly what she’s doing. She always knows exactly what she’s doing,” he hisses.

“But maybe she just knows you love the Cape Cod house but not why you love it and wants to take it from you because you’ve been trying to defame her in the tabloids?”

There’s a pause and a sigh, and Steve says,

“Holy f*ck. You could have a point.”

There’s a choked sob on the other end of the line. In her mind’s eye, Andy sees her Uncle Jim downing Ancient Age out of a coffee mug, imagines Steve doing the same except with a way more expensive bourbon out of a crystal double old-fashioned glass.

“Good thing you called my number first,” Andy says. She gentles her tone a little more, continues, “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep and talk to her about it in the morning?”

“My cufflinks,” Steve says pathetically.

“You could have Miranda express mail them to you.”

Of course, Miranda would’ve never let this man into her home if Andy’s co*ck were anywhere he could find but better safe than sorry.

He says,

“Ok, yeah. Thanks. Good talking to you. Goodnight.”

Their phones disconnect, and she’s parked at the end of the block. A moment later, she watches a male figure stagger out of Miranda’s townhouse front door into the backseat of a town car that pulls away and drives off.

Ok. So. Maybe Steve is not the worst person in existence. Maybe he’s a halfway decent guy who’s just confused and sad and angry. She still doesn’t like the idea of his skulking around in Miranda’s house, though.

She dials Miranda’s cell number. One and a half rings later:

“Yes, Andréa?”

“Steve called me. From your house.”

“He what?” It’s her lowest, most dangerous voice.

“Don’t worry. I handled it.”

There’s a pause, and then Miranda says,

“He was drunk and you told him some half lies and very midwestern politely chit chatted him out of tracking you down and strangling you to death for touching his woman.”

“On the nosey.” She waits for Miranda to roll her eyes at the phrase and then, “I’m a little disconcerted that you allowed him into your home unsupervised.”

“He’s not a monster. Besides, his reason for gaining entry was legitimate. Those cufflinks are very special to him. They were his grandfather’s.”

“Which is exactly why he probably left them on purpose so he could come in and go through your phone records.”

“How foolish of me. I knew I should’ve sent Roy to chaperone him, but I have been running on caffeine and irritation since four am and he called while I was juggling three different crises.”

“Who’s Roy?”

She does want to be sympathetic, but a little possessiveness must’ve sneaked into her voice because the reply is a dangerously bland,

“Another of my lovers, of course. That takes the count up to what? Four now? If we’re perfunctorily including Stephen.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m glad you have a man you can trust to handle men you don’t.”

Miranda hums as if she doesn’t exactly believe this but says,

“He’s my driver. He’s very loyal and discreet.” Miranda hums again, then says, “Did Stephen say anything interesting? Or did he just spew his usual venom?”

“Well, because I’m reasonably certain you’re not having an affair with any of the other people in your call logs and I’ve convinced him, for now, I’m just a teacher at Dalton, he might drop the affair thing. Although he’s got it in his head you’re texting dirty pictures to somebody because you smile at your phone too much. We hardly even flirt over texts, so I don’t think anything damning will come from the full subpoena of phone records he’s requesting. He also expressed regret that his actions have negatively impacted your children, and he said he’d stop contesting the divorce if you gave him the Cape Cod house.”

“Sounds like an unnerving but fruitful conversation. How long were you on the phone with him?”

“Long enough to drive to your house from Dalton to make sure he wasn’t holding you hostage or committing arson.”

“Are you still at my house?”

“I’m down the block still monitoring the situation. I don’t think he’ll be back, but I wanted to feel a little more sure.”

“No paparazzi tonight?”

“None that I’ve seen.”

“If you’re not busy and you’re interested, I could give you the garage and security codes and you could wait for me. I should be home in an hour.”

She’s halfway to making a joke about sending Roy to chaperone her, but then she remembers the caffeine and irritation comment and says instead,

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“I’ll pick us up something so I don’t have to be alone in your empty house long enough to get too curious about where you hid my co*ck.”

“Oh, it’s still in the nightstand.”

“With the cufflinks?!”

“Don’t be absurd. I set the cufflinks right next to the crystal decanter of bourbon in the study.”

“He definitely found the bourbon, but I don’t think he found the cufflinks.”

“As you pointed out, he had another goal in mind, apparently.”

“I told him you’d express mail them.”

There’s a pause, and Miranda says,

“Andréa. Is this going to turn into something incomprehensibly messy? My lesbian lover is now relaying messages between my husband and me and negotiating terms of our divorce. What’s next? Mediating family dinners? Or perhaps Cliff Stewart the investment banker has quit Stephen’s Sunday morning golf foursome and you’re filling in?”

“I don’t know how to play golf. If Cliff Stewart dropped out from doubles tennis, I could step in there.”

Miranda huffs a laugh, says,

“I’m telling Fannie Flagg all about this so that I have at least one of my sundry paramours firmly on my side.”

“You always have Roy.”

“True. But one can never have too many allies. Now, for dinner, the Korean place two blocks south. Just mention my name, and they’ll take care of the order. They’ll assume you’re a new assistant and won’t think anything of it.”

“Little assistant z reporting for duty,” Andy says.

Andy just catches a laugh as the line clicks off.

She sits in the Korean restaurant writing fill-in-the-blank vocab sentences for next week’s list of words for just over half an hour and then returns to Miranda’s back alley and lets herself into the garage and then the house. She pauses for a moment at the pantry to recall the last time she was here, taking her lady on the floor. She gets a hot chill about it but ventures farther inside to set the bag of food and her weekender on the kitchen island so she can give herself a little tour of all the places she might have the good fortune to be allowed to perform similar graphic, degrading sex acts.

She roams around, cataloging the various rooms on all four floors but not doing any kind of thorough examination that would be too intrusive. She’d been relieved when she’d found the night stand drawer locked, though.

She cleans up Steve’s mess in the study. She doesn’t know which bottle of bourbon in the well-stocked wet bar belongs in the decanter, so she doesn’t bother refilling it, but she finds a rag in one of the drawers to wipe down the coffee table where presumably his drink had spilled and he hadn’t been using a coaster. She washes his tumbler and sets it next to its mate in the China hutch. She takes the cufflinks back to the kitchen island with her and sets them in the shallow crystal bowl next to the sink, where she imagines the housekeeper and probably Miranda herself on occasion deposit their rings as they wash dishes.

She’s just finished setting the table at the breakfast nook when the front door opens.

“Andréa?” Miranda’s voice calls out from the entryway. It’s not loud but it echoes.

“In the kitchen, baby,” Andy says.

Miranda enters a moment later in a semi-sheer blouse and tight pencil skirt, barefoot. She looks tired but still incredibly sexy. Her eyes drag up and down Andy’s body. Andy’s suddenly aware of what she’s wearing. She’s in a cut-off Dalton Junior High Soccer hoodie and bike shorts—which she prefers over soccer shorts because she likes the compression—and worn, scuffed Nikes that almost match the color of the hoodie. Miranda says,

“And what have we here? Small-town teenager who hangs around at the car wash and offers non-penetrative sexual favors to unscrupulous middle-aged men in exchange for their buying her and her pals wine coolers and menthol cigarettes?”

“Gross! No! This ensemble is way more third base with the captain of the cheerleading squad in the backseat of your dad’s Firebird on Friday night after a little too much Mad Dog 20/20 at a football game afterparty even though in the cold gray light of dawn on a school day she calls you that weird, nerdy dyke with frizzy hair and high-waters.”

Miranda regards her with a different iteration of her thinking face for a moment, says,

“Ah. My mistake. You’ll forgive me because they’re such similar looks. I’d’ve been right if your athletic shoes had been Pumas.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Reeboks would’ve said fight club and Adidas would’ve said soccer coach, but my Adidas really don’t match this hoodie.”

“Neither do those Nikes, in point of fact,” Miranda says as she slides into the breakfast nook and takes up a forkful of kimchi.

Andy can feel Miranda’s eyes on her as she plates her food and slides in as well. Miranda’s hand is on her forearm the moment she’s settled. She makes significant eye contact, says,

“Thank you for this. For dinner. For being here. For talking Stephen down.”

“This situation is mostly my fault, so I kind of owe it to you.”

Miranda co*cks her head questioningly at her as she chews.

“Yeah, maybe you and Steve were on a runaway train to divorce already, but it certainly didn’t help matters that I seduced you at Bill and Nate’s restaurant,” Andy says.

Miranda squeezes her forearm, gives her a ghost of a smile, says,

“Seduce is a strong word for your approximately four rather inept and definitely inane compliments, a few clunky attempts at innuendo, and the obvious angling you were doing to see down the front of my dress every time you poured a glass of wine for me.”

Andy laughs, says,

“It was enough to get you into the bathroom with me.”

“It really wasn’t. What got me into the bathroom with you was the way you were looking at me. You were so… earnest.”

Andy laughs again, says,

“Yes, I very earnestly wanted to put my hand up your skirt.”

Miranda rolls her eyes, says,

“I think you know what I mean and you’re being a deliberately obtuse, incorrigible little pervert.”

“It’s all part of my charm.”

Miranda just hums and returns to her beef bibimbap, and they eat in silence for a while until Andy says,

“I’ve been wondering… if those cufflinks are so special to Steve, why were they in your nightstand? He’d been sleeping in the guest room for ages before you kicked him out.”

“Oh, that reminds me.”

Miranda stands and walks to the back door and presses a series of buttons on the security panel. She returns and slides back in, a little closer than before, says,

“Changed the security code again. Anyway… as I recall, he escorted me to some function a while back and we were both a little drunk when we got home and so engrossed in our nightly fight that we somehow forgot that we didn’t share a room anymore. They were still on the nightstand when he left in the morning, so I put them inside for safekeeping and kept forgetting to give them back to him. I should’ve had one of my assistants do it, but it just never was a high enough priority.”

“Well, I put them in the bowl next to the sink when I cleaned up his bourbon mess.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was snooping so I figured I’d make myself useful. And the nightstand drawer was locked.”

Miranda laughs, says,

“I will concede I should’ve found a less obvious hiding spot for the apparatus as I said I would but it gave me kind of a thrill having it close at hand.”

“Oh?” Andy waggles her eyebrows, says suggestively, “You having solo sessions, baby?”

Miranda waves a dismissive forkful of kimchi.

“Penetration is not all that exciting to me in and of itself.”

“Oh,” Andy says, placing a concerned hand over Miranda’s forearm. “I haven’t pressured you to do more of that than you like, have I? We can do other stuff.”

“I’m well aware that we can and do do plenty of other ‘stuff,’” she says a little icily, but then her tone warms: “I like it with you because you’re exciting to me and you are very enthusiastic and competent, and you always… prepare me for it adequately and thoughtfully.”

Andy has a little flash of anger at Steve for probably just diving right in without much foreplay, but she covers with a joke:

“Don’t forget my being earnest and committed to a favorable outcome for all parties.”

“This is starting to feel like a performance review.”

“It sort of is one, I guess,” Andy says with a chuckle.

Miranda hums and takes a drink of her San Pellegrino.

“Am I also being reviewed at this time?”

Andy knows Miranda’s trying to make it a joke, but there’s a little tremor in her voice that leads her to believe Miranda’s still a little trepidatious, that maybe Andy will confirm that she’s frigid and withholding. So Andy’s very careful as she says,

“Sure,” and then takes a drink of San Pellegrino to gather her thoughts. “You are the single hottest person I’ve ever had sex with. You pay attention to detail and communicate very effectively. You’re both extremely generous and aware of your own needs, abilities, and accommodations required. Highly exceeds expectations.”

Miranda throws her head back in a laugh. Andy has seen this beautiful sight only a few times, but it enraptures her every time.

“That’s the best sexual performance review I’ve ever received and somehow it makes it better that it was all couched in bureaucratic HR bullsh*t jargon.”

Andy does not respond verbally, just reaches over and grabs the back of her neck and kisses her sweetly.

Andy goes back to eating, but she’s aware that Miranda has finished and is staring at her. After a few moments, Miranda clears her throat, says,

“Are you able to stay tonight?”

“For a while. I don’t have a change of clothes for tomorrow, though, and sixth graders can be surprisingly vicious about clothes. I wore a polka dot skirt once, and one of the little tiny mean girls has called me Minnie Mouse behind my back ever since.”

“Poor thing,” Minda says with a teasing smile and a pat on her hand. “I may have something in your size. Six, correct?” Andy nods, and Miranda continues, “Finish eating. I’ll be right back.”

At the prospect of another slumber party, Andy is no longer interested in food and starts putting away the leftovers and loading the dishwasher. She’s just wiping the table when Miranda returns with two pairs of slacks and two silk blouses.

Miranda stands there in the doorway with the outfits slung over her arm, staring at her incredulously.

“Andréa. You didn’t need to do all this.”

“I know. Midwestern manners, remember? It will come as no surprise to you that I was also a Girl Scout, so I always leave a place cleaner than I found it.”

“That is a misdirection. You like taking care of me.”

“More than one thing can be true,” Andy shrugs with a grin.

Miranda drops the clothes and stalks over to her and fists a hand into the front of the hoodie and pulls her in for a searing kiss that turns into several more, with much mutual groping, lips and hands and teeth and tongues and limbs wandering everywhere, quite a bit of grabbing and pulling of clothing.

Before Andy has even processed what’s occurred, she is naked, and Miranda’s in just her bra with her skirt bunched up to her waist. Andy is laid out on the breakfast nook table, and Miranda is straddling her, and they’ve both got two fingers inside of each other.

Miranda’s got her head thrown back as she rides her, eyes closed, and she looks wanton and wild with smudges of lipstick all over her neck and chest, and Andy clenches at the sight. Miranda must’ve felt that because her eyes shoot open and she bends down and deepens her thrusting inside her, says pantingly,

“What is third base between two women? Is that what we’re doing right now?”

“Uh… yeah,” Andy groans out. “You’re much more skilled at it than Crystal Kaplan circa 1998.”

“I should hope so. I also—” she moans as Andy shifts into a slightly different angle. “—don’t plan on bullying you in the cold gray light of dawn.”

“Amenable to doing this in the backseat of a Firebird sometime?”

Andy presses her thumb to Miranda’s cl*t, and she bucks into her harder, says,

“Oh! Oh, yes. Providing it is a model with t-tops.”

The heel of Miranda’s hand grinds into Andy’s cl*t and that has her just on the edge. Miranda whispers in her ear,

“For the record, that’s my ugly car of choice. That horrible ‘70s gold color, preferably with some very tacky, intrusively macho painting of a firebird on the hood in an obscene shade of red. And the t-tops are absolutely non-negotiable.”

She bites Andy’s earlobe and presses in again purposefully with the heel of her hand, and Andy’s gone, lost to waves of pulsating pleasure and the image of Miranda Priestly, High Femme Fashion Queen, f*cking in the backseat of the world’s worst aggressively masculine Firebird.

When she’s lucid again, she’s alone on the breakfast nook table, and Miranda is still in just her bra and hiked-up skirt and has gathered their discarded garments and stacked Andy’s in a tidy pile in the booth seat and has her own in her arms, as well as the slacks and blouses she’d brought down earlier.

“Come along and try on these outfits so we can ascertain whether you’ll be going home tonight,” Miranda says.

“But you didn’t—”

“No. That wasn’t my goal. I’m perfectly content with the outcome of that encounter. I trust you’ll satiate my arousal soon. I detest repeating myself: come along.”

Miranda turns and disappears up the stairs.

Andy, still reeling a little from her org*sm and the commands issued, stumbles off the breakfast nook table and wipes it down again and then stuffs her clothes into the weekender and ascends the stairs.

Miranda is naked now except for her reading glasses, propped up against the headboard, typing away at her phone. She doesn’t look up as she says,

“Just responding to a few emails. Try on the clothes. The nightstand drawer is unlocked in case that’s your preference for tending to me tonight. I, myself, don’t have a preference.”

Andy slips into her panties and her real bra from her work clothes from before soccer practice and tries on the clothes. The blouse that’s the better color for her skin tone gaps a little too much in the bust to be decent, and both pairs of trousers are too short. She steps into her pumps and decides the length of the black slacks looks like a deliberate style choice rather than an unfortunate fit, and the cream blouse isn’t that unflattering to her coloring. These may be lies that she tells herself because she’d really like to stay the night, and she can deal with her students’ derision of her fashion for a chance to wake up with her lady in her arms.

Miranda’s plugging in her phone and taking off her glasses when Andy climbs on top of her, co*ck secured over her hips.

“Hello, darlin’,” Andy says, her voice lowered a third or so in an ambiguous country accent.

Miranda rolls her eyes.

“Really, Andréa. Tina Turner, Martha Mitchell, Match Game, Cabaret, and now Conway Twitty. Are you sure you’re 25?”

Andy laughs, says,

“You know, baby, that’s the same thing Brett Somers always said about Fannie Flagg when she made outdated references on Match Game.”

“I couldn’t have reasonably expected anything else,” Miranda says.

And then they’re kissing, with half a laugh at first, and then deeply, tongues caressing and exploring, teeth nipping.

Andy takes her time savoring Miranda’s skin, licking at her neck, feeling her strong, swift pulse at her carotid, kissing back down and fluttering her tongue and skimming her teeth against clavicle, roving down to suck a nipple into her mouth. Miranda arches into that, and she rolls the other nipple between her index finger and thumb and then switches.

“I really don’t need this much foreplay. I’ve been ready for you since we were rounding third in the kitchen,” Miranda says breathlessly.

“Oh, I know. I was there,” Andy says. “I’ll get right to it if you want me to, but I’m enjoying working you into a lather.”

“I trust you. Have your way with me however you want. I just want to be sure you’re going slow and being especially thorough and attentive because you want to for our mutual pleasure rather than because you think I need the extra attention to fully satisfy me. I like everything you do to me, everything we do together. And however you decide to f*ck me, I know at least one very good org*sm is guaranteed. I am putty in your capable hands, Andréa.”

They look at each other for a moment, and Andy kisses down her to her stomach, circles her navel with her tongue, says,

“Given Brett’s fixation on Fannie Flagg’s tit*, I wonder if she ever said anything like that to her behind the scenes…”

Miranda’s laugh transforms into a moan as Andy’s tongue swipes through her folds and lands on her cl*t. Andy laps at her, tongue mercilessly poking at her opening and then gliding up her labia and flicking at her cl*t and traversing back down. Her lady tastes so good—so rich in a luscious, savory, almost chocolate way. There’s something coppery, too, and she makes love to her lady with her tongue, her lips, her teeth, her whole mouth. She works her up several times, eases her back down, abandons her vulva entirely to kiss all the way down her legs and back up. She presses her knee between her legs and they rock together as she caresses her breasts with first hands and then tongue and then goes back to licking her slowly and softly but very thoroughly until Miranda sinks her fingers into her scalp and begs. One strangled,

“Please.”

Andy sucks gently at her cl*t, and Miranda comes with a long shudder and low moan and her wetness shimmers on the bottom half of Andy’s face. She kisses her inner thighs and then her pubic bone and then slithers up to kiss her mouth.

It’s a briefer kiss than Andy had wanted. But then Miranda’s licking at her lips and jaw, cleaning her own mess.

And that ignites Andy.

“I want to be inside you,” Andy husks into Miranda’s ear.

Miranda grips Andy’s co*ck in her hand and pumps it against Andy’s cl*t a few times and then guides it to her c*nt to slide the length of it against her labia and coat it with her abundant lubrication and then position the tip at her entrance. Andy watches her raptly, feels like she’s burning out of her skin as Miranda takes charge. Miranda retracts her hand and loops her arms around Andy’s shoulders and makes heated eye contact, whispers,

“And I want you inside me. Please, daddy.”

Andy groans as she enters her, slowly, relishing the feeling of filling her, falling into the look in her eyes. It might even be described as earnest. She laughs at that thought, says,

“I didn’t hold onto a lot of hope you’d ever really call me that.”

Miranda tightens her legs around Andy’s waist, pulls her in deep, says,

“Perhaps it was premature. Considering we are not currently f*cking.”

“Oh really?”

Andy thrusts into her a little harder, with a raised eyebrow.

“You have been very obviously making love to me for the past hour.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with that when you came in my mouth.”

Miranda kisses her slowly with a lot of tongue, then,

“I don’t have a problem with it now, either.” She kisses her again, the same way, and Andy moans into it, speeding up her hips. “Did you think I was lying to you earlier when I told you you could have me any way you want?”

“Well, no, but—”

She’s cut off with another of those delirium-inducing kisses that turns from languid to desperate and she gyrates even faster, even harder, and they’re soon in a pretty insane rhythm, the base of the co*ck hitting Andy just right. She maneuvers one of Miranda’s legs to a different position so she can pump inside her at a better angle, and Miranda’s exhalations that signal this is pleasant enough but not doing the job instantly change to her whimpers of this is working for me. If she presses a little harder and just there. Yes! There’s a surprised moan of your co*ck is brushing my cl*t on each stroke.

One of Miranda’s hands is gripping her hip now, pulling her in harder and faster and deeper, and the other is in her hair, pulling her in for a kiss that’s mostly teeth because Andy is grinning at how good it feels to be so in sync with her, how they’re both pushing toward climax together so deliciously, furiously, but deliciously.

She pulls her face back a little to pant out,

“We f*ckin’ now, baby?”

“Yes, daddy, I—” she cuts herself off with another surprised moan of that’s the spot and finishes her thought “—I do believe we are definitely—” a groan this time, same meaning different noise “—f*cking now.”

Andy quickens her pace. She’s clutching at one of Miranda’s thighs and kissing her again, sloppy with how fast and hard she’s barreling into her, and Miranda turns her face away, cries out sharply. Andy hasn’t heard this one before.

“Too much?” Andy says, pauses briefly, ready to gentle her hips, but Miranda’s fingernails are digging into her hip, and she pants,

“Don’t you dare stop.”

So Andy doesn’t, and she’s glad Miranda’s org*sm lands a few seconds later, her c*nt tightening so that she can’t thrust properly anymore, Miranda’s hips’ erratic spasm against her triggering her own org*sm.

They lie there together, sweating and panting on each other for several minutes until Miranda tilts her chin up to peck her on the lips and say,

“Highly exceeds expectations.”

Chapter 14 Chapter Text

Monday morning, Andy’s offered a permanent teaching position, with higher pay, good benefits, potential for advancement, and several opportunities to pick up extra money with summer school classes and tutoring gigs.

She doesn’t want to count her chickens before they hatch, but the holding pattern feels gone for good. She feels as though she’s stumbled into not only a real career but also a real—well, semi-real—relationship. The feelings are definitely there even though it’s kind of messy optics and logistics-wise.

Plans for Nate’s restaurant are going great and he and Bill’s place is hopping since much-in-the-news Miranda Priestly had been spotted there, and Nate’s promised Andy as many shifts as she can take because they always need the help nowadays.

Andy’s even making friends at work and going out doing social things again.

She has a real, vibrant life.

But as per usual, someone comes along and jostles the nest with the eggs.

That Monday evening on a break at the restaurant, Andy receives a call from an unknown number with a New York area code. Before she can even say hello:

“Listen here you two-bit c*nt.”

Ah, Steve. She couldn’t reasonably have expected anything else.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Her heart drops. Had he come back to the house and seen them that night before Miranda changed the security code again? Had he put the pieces together with all the text messages?

“Going behind my back and blabbing to Miranda about things I said to you in confidence.”

Oh. That. She had merely reported what she heard and said. So she goes for the same casualness she had last time,

“I didn’t know I was on your legal team and that we had attorney-client privilege.”

“I told you private information, you back-stabbing bitch.”

“You told me private information after you threatened to sue me for alienation of affection. In point of fact, I’ve never said anything to Miranda encouraging her to leave you.”

Kill him? Sure. Leave him, no.

“But you did tell her about the Cape Cod house,” Steve hisses.

“I was trying to do you a solid, man. Did she not concede it?”

“Oh she did, but now she wants alimony. And my lawyers haven’t found anything incriminating in her texts because you are the motherf*cker she’s been smiling at her phone about when she’s texting because apparently it’s all silly, friendly bullsh*t about Match Game and pictures of weird sh*t. You could’ve f*cking disclosed that.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. Andy says,

“Again, not on your legal team. And how am I supposed to know how she reacts to my texts? I’m not there with her when she receives them. That’s the point of texts.”

He huffs, and she can hear the tinkling of ice and presumably a glass slam down on a hard surface. She says,

“Look, I’m sorry about your luck, but I didn’t tell her to pursue alimony. And why would she even listen if I had? I’m not on her legal team, either. We’re just sort of friends. I’m a nobody teacher from Ohio who makes her laugh occasionally.”

And come every time I see her in person. Usually more than once.

“Ok, yeah, you’re right. God, I’m a mess. Sorry I yelled at you. I just… I just need somebody to talk to, you know? My buddies are tired of listening to all of it and they all have my same perspective anyway so it’s always like, ‘Yeah, yeah, we know, Steve. We told you not to marry her.’ But when we talked last week you really listened to me and heard me and gave me some other ways of thinking about the whole situation, and I think that’s why I was so mad. I felt like you were a person who could be a friend to me and you betrayed me to her.”

Lord in Heaven! Why is Miranda psychic?

“But I didn’t betray you to her.”

Because we are not friends!

“I know. Sorry again. So… um… I feel stupid asking but what’s your name?”

She sighs, resigned to her fate. He already has her phone number. Presumably he can look it up somehow or his lawyers already have it and haven’t told him.

“Andy Sachs.”

“That’s a cute name. I bet you’re a cute girl.”

No!!! Andy wants to die.

“Thank you. I don’t like to toot my own horn. Listen, Steve, I know you’re going through a tough time. Maybe you ought to consider counseling? I’ve got two jobs and I’m really busy right now. I have to get back on shift.”

“Oh.” He sounds so sad she almost adds he can call her later, but quickly nips that in the bud. “Ok. It was good talking to you.”

“Oh, did you get your cufflinks back?”

“Yeah, by certified mail. Thank you for that, too.”

“You’re welcome . Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, Andy,” he says in the most pathetic voice she’s ever heard a grown man use.

She hits end call and immediately texts Miranda.

I can’t talk now, but you will never believe the conversation I just had. I need to debrief. May I call you later?

The immediate reply:

I can’t talk either and will not be available or probably in the right state to do so until tomorrow. I have a strong suspicion about the nature of your conversation, though. If tee time Sunday is early enough, he will likely not realize you can’t play golf because he will still be drunk from the night before.

Read Page Six, and you’ll know why I’m not fit to chat.

Oh Steve, you naughty boy. There’s something you didn’t tell me about why Miranda might suddenly want alimony, Andy thinks.

Andy is keyed up the rest of the night waiting for the opportunity to find out Steve’s latest tabloid crimes. It’s not until she’s on the subway that she can procure a Post and has the time to read it.

It’s more awful than she’s imagined.

The headline:

Dragon Lady Shoots Fire at Own Dragonlets?

There’s a picture of who she presumes are Cassidy and Caroline on the front steps of the townhouse, both dressed in very 1970s outfits. It appears they’re on their way to school. They have backpacks on, and the left strap of each of them has what looks like a big homemade button on it, one with Brett Somers’s face on it and the other Betty White’s. She smiles at this for a little while and wonders if there was a theme day or if that’s just Miranda’s life right now and commits to asking her later.

The text below wipes that smile off her face faster than a cat can lick its ass with its tail up and its tongue out (another phrase from her grandmother, of course).

Mr. Priestly has another inside scoop about La Priestly’s inner sanctum, and the conditions there are even more dire than previously reported. Try child abuse and neglect! In a direct quote from Stephen Tomlinson:

“The only time she really even sees the kids is on family game night, which I instigated when I realized just how little time she spent with the poor things.”

You’re thinking yikes! Tip of the iceberg!

“And she doesn’t have any supports in place for their autism. She won’t even get them diagnosed. I don’t think she believes in the condition. When I noticed how often they would get these intense fixations on obscure and unusual things and become obsessed for months and their schoolwork would suffer, I begged her to get them some help, and she said, ‘Not everyone who is eccentric is autistic.’”

Yikes again, right? Again, it gets worse!

“It’s not like she even engages with them about these interests. The last thing they’ve been into she’s called ‘drivel’ and ‘trash.’ I’d say they’d be better off with their father, but I’ve gotten the impression he can be hom*ophobic, which may have been one of the reasons he divorced [Miranda], and one of the twins has crushes on women on television all the time. They’re really in a bad situation either way.”

Now we can all collectively say yikes.

By the time she’s finished reading, Andy is in a full rage and can only imagine how mad Miranda is. Apparently struck-dumb mad considering she can’t talk to her about it until at least tomorrow.

Andy barely talks herself out of going over to the Ritz and confronting him in person, but she can’t talk herself out of texting him:

Steve. You claim I could be a friend to you and then you don’t disclose the vile, deliberately misleading, untrue things you said about the way Miranda treats her children. Her children! You very well know she loves her kids more than anything. No wonder she wants alimony. I think you should give it to her, shut your mouth, get this divorce over with as quickly as possible, and pray she doesn’t ruin your entire life. I really am very sorry you don’t have anyone to talk to. At least the tabloids are still listening to you. I’m blocking your number.

She then texts Miranda.

Read Page Six. Gonna have my roommate hide my gun from me and lock me in my bedroom so I won’t be able to commit murder at the Ritz Carlton tonight. But we have got to Towanda this guy sooner rather than later. If I’m this sick to death of him after two phone calls and one round of yellow journalism, I cannot even imagine how you feel right now.

She has to do a heavy bag workout at the gym in the basem*nt of her apartment building and drink a beer to calm down enough to fall asleep.

Chapter 15 Notes:

Warning: More Match Game nonsense ahead. And that discussion of ableism.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Andy starts reading Page Six every day after that. She’s definitely no longer in a holding pattern. Now she’s in hell but just as a bystander, watching as the Devil in Prada, instead of tormenting souls who wear ugly clothes, gets ripped apart every day.

Autism-gate, as the press is calling it, gains traction because Autism Speaks starts getting riled up about Miranda’s not donating to them. She’s forced to make a statement this time:

My husband misinterpreted, misrepresented, and truncated things I said in our home in confidence. I do believe that autism exists although it is severely under-researched. Unfortunately, I cannot fund every worthy charity in the world. I will not comment on my daughters as their privacy is very important to me, except to say both their father and I love them above all else and their well-being and happiness is the top priority for both of us.

It’s a torturous couple of days of very intermittent text updates from Miranda, whom she knows must be still seething. She’s seething, so her lady must be boiling.

Finally Friday evening, as she’s finishing cleaning up from dinner with a few friends at her apartment, she receives a text asking if Miranda may call her. She dials Miranda instead, who by way of greeting says,

“I’m still angry, but after several meetings with my lawyers and a Swedish massage, I’m able to string more than two sentences together.”

She doesn’t sound furious. She just sounds tired and even quieter than usual. Andy goes for trying to cheer her up rather than trying to get litigation details:

“Well, at least it was a cute picture of the girls. Love the buttons. My parents have a button-maker, too. Next time I go home, I’ll have to rummage in the attic for one of me in my high school soccer jersey so you can clip it on one of your power blazers.”

Miranda laughs, says,

“It may not be wise to wear it quite yet, but I’ll accept the gift and treasure it. While we were making buttons, I did make a Fannie Flagg for you. The girls thought it was for me and I didn’t disabuse them of the notion but I do intend to give it to you the next time I see you. Along with that book I keep forgetting.”

“That’s a very sweet gesture, but you should keep it. She’s your mistress, after all. And anyway, I want a Charles Nelson Reilly button. In his captain’s hat with his pipe.”

“I will make you whatever button you choose.”

“Thanks, baby. I’ve been wondering: was that picture taken on some special dress up day at school or are plaid pants and paisley blouses with giant lapels your reality now?”

“Oh, it’s been daily. Until it hit the press.”

She pauses and sighs.

“It’s been very difficult for them. Their peers are treating them differently, as if there’s something wrong with them and they should be handled gently and spoken down to. It’s been more fuel for that girl who’s been bullying Caroline, certainly. The audacity of this child! She said to my Bobbsey, ‘If the upside of being autistic is playing the piano really good without practicing but the downside is making you want to kiss old ladies, I’ll take being normal any day.’”

She pauses again. This time for a sharp inhale, continues:

“One of the most infuriating things is that I had them evaluated by one of the top autism specialists in the country three years ago, just before Stephen and I got married. He had suggested it. That’s where that ‘not everyone eccentric is autistic’ line came from. Just as I told Stephen he would, the doctor interviewed them and concluded firmly that they are not autistic. They are merely gifted and—as many gifted people are, myself and you included, I suspect—a touch strange.

“Of course I would love them the same if they were autistic and see to it they had all the accommodations they need to succeed but the fact is they’re just weird little girls who are passionate about their interests and that is ok!

“And I have no prejudice against people with disabilities. Wasn’t I just f*cking Fannie Flagg, who is dyslexic?!”

This is the closest Andy’s ever heard her come to raising her voice other than some moderate moaning in bed. She has not succeeded in not getting her riled up, but it was probably inevitable. Who else is she going to rant to? Donatella Versace? In some Michelin-star restaurant to be overheard by some anti-vaccination celebrity who’ll run to the papers with a bunch of out-of-context quotes to push their agenda?

Now what, though? Assure her Steve’s a f*ckstick and she never believed his claims that she’s an unsupportive mother? No, joke her down from the ledge:

“I’d love to see your dirty texts from her. I bet her misspelling of certain sex acts is absolutely fascinating.”

Miranda laughs, a little hysterically, but it turns into a sob and there is muffled heavy breathing over the line.

“Baby, are you at home?”

A pause, and then some shuffling and then, in a husky voice,

“Do not try to come over here and hold me while I cry and then f*ck the stress out of me or whatever idea you have hatching in that pretty little head of yours. There are more reporters on my front steps than there are locusts in a biblical plague. And my daughters are home. Caroline does not need to hear us and come barging in thinking I’m being assaulted only to be faced with a live-action tutorial on how to do a lot more than just kiss old ladies.”

It’s extremely hot to Andy that Miranda had not only understood exactly what she’d meant from the question she’d asked but also had implied she wants exactly that comfort from her but won’t allow herself because of her sundry responsibilities. Andy shifts on the couch to better ignore how wet she is at just the oblique suggestion of doing more than kissing her lady, says,

“Ok. What else can I do for you that will reduce your stress?”

“Talk to me about something else,” Miranda says.

Andy hums, says,

“Well, I had a little dinner party tonight.”

“At that restaurant with the exquisite clams marinara?”

“Exquisite, eh? I’ll have to pass that compliment along to the chef. But, no. I had a few people over to my place. The art teacher and the gym teacher and I have come to be pals. We ended up at the same table at a teacher development day when I first started teaching there full-time because nobody else wanted to sit with us.” She laughs. “I’m new, the art teacher, Margaret, is kind of weird, like the kind of person who makes eye contact for way too long and tells very personal and odd stories about people you’ve never met. And the gym teacher, Sam, is just a regular girl jock but got stuck with us because she was late, but we all hit it off and have been doing lunches together once in a while and some other socializing, too.”

“That does sound like a lovely evening, personal and odd stories notwithstanding, although you are the exact type to appreciate that about a person rather than find it off-putting. What did you have for dinner?”

“I made swiss steak, and Sam brought the macaroni and cheese, and Victoria brought the salad.”

“I haven’t had swiss steak in ages,” Miranda says a little wistfully.

She hears another voice in the background. It’s not loud enough to discern what is said, and Miranda says,

“Hold on a moment, please, Andréa.” She addresses the other person, “No, Bobbsey, it is not steak from Switzerland. The swiss refers to the technique by which it’s prepared. It’s a specific term for how it’s tenderized.” The voice says something again, and Miranda says, “I don’t know the etymology of French kissing, but I think it has something to do with the French people’s reputation for being… adventurous. And you’re too young to worry about French kissing, anyway.” The voice speaks again. Then Miranda says, “Yes, I know you’re just curious, but is there a reason you’re interrogating me about the origins of phrases while I am attempting to speak on the phone? My friend is very patient and indulgent, but she has her limits and I’d rather not tax them.” Another pause for the other speaker, then, “Ah. Thank you. I’ll be up in a few minutes.” Then she addresses Andy again, “I’m back.”

“Hello again. Was that Cassidy?”

“Unreal. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch. Any time you’ve texted about one of them asking a question like that it was her. What did she need?”

“Oh, just informing me that the Match Game episode airing next on Game Show Network is a Fannie Flagg and was inviting me to join them.”

Andy laughs, says,

“So you’ve reconsidered your position on not willingly watching anymore of it?”

Miranda sighs,

“After that f*cking libelous garbage came out, I had a long talk with them about which parts were semi-true and which parts were lies and which parts were out of context. They already knew most of it, but they were a little concerned that I thought they were silly and maybe even stupid for liking this show that they had heard me calling with their own ears ‘drivel.’ I apologized for the harsher than necessary criticism and tried to impress upon them that just because something doesn’t appeal to me, it doesn’t offend me that other people like it and I don’t think less of them for liking it. Would you like to know what convinced them, Andréa?”

“I very much would like to know, Miranda.”

“I related your high school bullying anecdote.”

“You’re kidding,” Andy says, flabbergasted.

She feels a flutter of want. Not the kind she usually does between her legs but in her chest. She wants to be with this woman, just sitting next to her watching television, just holding hands and sharing anecdotes.

“No. It was quite effective in conveying my sentiment. As was my addendum, which was the confession that although I don’t find Match Game particularly tasteful or intellectually stimulating, it’s often amusing, and I might, indeed, have a small crush on Fannie Flagg, and I would be amenable to watching it just to spend time with them.”

“Wow, Miranda.”

She’s about to say more, something about her being kind and thoughtful and sweet and impressive, but there’s another voice in the background again, and Miranda says,

“Excuse me again, Andréa.” The other voice says something else, and she says to the other person, “Thank you. I’ll just be another minute.” She says to Andy, “Yours again, but only briefly. Jo Anne Worley, who has recently become—to use your terminology—a secondary beloved for all of us, is in seat four, and they have rewinded the TiVo so I can watch the opening, but they aren’t willing to wait too long.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Oh, I bet I know exactly the episode. You want to say goodnight, or you want to switch to text?”

Miranda’s voice is very low and very sexy as she says,

“Both, please. Goodnight, Andréa.”

“Goodnight, Miranda.”

The line disconnects, and her phone buzzes a second later:

If this episode is as good as Caroline seems to think it will be, I’m sure I’ll have plenty to text you about.

She replies:

Can they wait another couple minutes? So I can find it online and watch it with you together but separately?

Andy has Game Show Network but doesn’t have TiVo, so she turns on the television to confirm her suspicion about what episode is on and then scrambles to her computer.

A moment later the response arrives:

I’ve bribed them. You have the time it takes to make popcorn on the stovetop.

Andy almost gets distracted with her intense yearning to be there, hip to hip, melting the butter in a saucepan on another burner as her lady jiffy pops. She manages a quick,

Thanks. You’re the best.

After a couple minutes of googling, she finds the grainy video she’s looking for and sends off,

Found it. Ready when you are.

Another minute, and Miranda texts:

Ready.

She hits the play button on the video.

They text for two and half hours about the contestant’s cute dimples, about how charming it is that the contestant loves Charles Nelson Reilly so much, about what they think of Fannie Flagg’s ensembles, about what their answers would’ve been to the questions and whom they would’ve matched.

And a more serious side conversation that starts out with Andy’s observation:

Wild to me that this is a fifty percent hom*osexual panel.

Her phone buzzes:

I’ve met Jo Anne Worley a few times and she is either deeply closeted and you have secret information or she’s genuinely aggressively heterosexual.

Andy texts:

Lol. Not her. Ron Palillo.

A few moments pass and then the buzz:

I see. I hate to sound like an old lady, but that’s just how it was in the ‘70s. There were, of course, people with very real prejudices and biases, a lot of systemic oppression that still hasn’t been fully addressed, but it was a progressive time in a lot of ways and a lot of people were very open to new ideas and everyone was just a little more laid back. Recreational drug use may have been a factor in many cases. But also there was a ubiquitous understanding that we were all fighting “the man” together so when we teased each other, it was all in good fun. I have been called a dyke many times, especially during the ‘70s when I almost exclusively dated women, but it’s only ever felt like an insult twice—when my father disowned me and when Stephen accused me of cheating on him with Fannie Flagg.

Of course, you’ve watched all these programs so you know that none of the kind of offensive things they say are mean-spirited—outdated and tacky, sure, but toothless and just to get an era-appropriate laugh. And they were all actively campaigning for the Equal Rights Amendment even while they were making sexist jokes.

Andy processes all this for a second and then replies:

Yeah, I know. It’s like this thing with your daughters. You can’t just come out and say “they’re not autistic so please stop saying that” because people are always assuming the worst intentions. Instead of just taking it as a value neutral statement, they would assume you were implying being autistic is bad when really it’s just another way of being that they just aren’t. Just like how they’re redheads rather than blondes. You probably could’ve probably gotten away with that statement in the ‘70s, but you can’t today. Not with the press already treating you like a criminal.

A buzz from Miranda:

Exactly.

There’s something else niggling at Andy’s brain and she doesn’t have a good segue, so she just goes ahead and says:

Um… what about what Steve said about their father? That’s not true, is it?

The response is not immediate, and Andy’s starting to get worried when finally her phone buzzes again:

Sorry for the delay (and the novel of a response to follow). I had to explain to the girls why I was laughing

Hunter has had sex with more men than I have. I am probably the ex he has the least drama with and he’s not shy about it, and Hunter, Stephen, the girls, and I have had a handful of family dinners together during which Hunter and Stephen imbibed a little too much and then retired to the study together to gossip. So yes, Stephen knows from the horse’s mouth that Hunter hates a lot of gay people individually.

And yes, that hatred did factor into the dissolution of our marriage. He’s a heart surgeon, and he has a bad habit of f*cking all of his most attractive nurses and interns. I had turned a blind eye to this because that was just his personality and I knew that going into the marriage and no matter his extracurriculars he made me laugh and he was and still is a good father.

Then the intern he wanted rejected him because she wanted me instead. I’d met her exactly twice and she’d made no impression whatsoever on me. I remember zero of her salient features. So I thought it was just a blip on the radar, but it really affected his self-esteem, especially because she had obtained her license and was very good at being a doctor and was receiving a lot of positive attention from the higher ups at the hospital. So Hunter was jealous both personally and professionally, and I got blamed and dumped. There were other issues, too, of course, but that was somehow the straw that broke the camel’s back.

But that’s the distant past. Currently, Hunter’s thrilled that Caroline has it bad for Betty White. The Golden Girls is his favorite show. So while I’m in Match Game purgatory, he’s in Golden Girls heaven. Lucky bastard.

Did you know that I wake up in cold sweats in the middle of the night with what your boyfriend Charles Nelson Reilly calls the least hummable song stuck in my head? At least if I could be the Golden Girls parent I’d have real music to haunt my dreams instead of this incomprehensible funky disco noise.

Andy reads these messages twice, trying to think of anything to say to such personal biographical information. It’s odd thinking of Steve and Miranda hosting Miranda’s ex and being friendly but then again Steve had wanted to be friends with her, as well. Maybe he was just a friendly guy until he wasn’t. She decides on a joke:

Real music like Miami you’re cuter than an intrauterine?

Miranda shoots back:

Unreal. Are you an expert on all the dated pop culture that my daughters are going to become obsessed with?

Andy laughs, texts,

You’re the psychic one, not me. But I do have a lot of credentials in the area, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Are they watching Golden Girls on Lifetime or does Hunter have tapes of it or are they finding it on the internet or what?

Miranda replies:

I just asked. They’re watching on Lifetime for now.

Andy grins, says,

I don’t know if this is the case anymore, but when I was in high school and would watch it after school, it was on in blocks either before or after blocks of Designing Women, which I preferred. So if that’s still happening, there’s a high probability they will catch an episode one of these days and slide right into a new obsession that I am very much an expert on.

Miranda texts back:

It seems you are an infinite resource for me in so many ways.

Andy says,

Is that your way of saying thank you for being a friend?

Miranda replies with a

;)

They continue texting, mostly about the episodes they’re watching until just past eleven, when Game Show Network switches to What’s My Line, and Miranda texts:

Putting the girls to bed and I’m soon to follow. Thank you for being together with me but separately. Exactly what I needed to decompress.

Andy texts back:

Well, if you threw a party, invited everyone you knew, you would see the biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say… that’s what little assistant z is for.

Notes:

Here’s the first episode they watch together:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=yNap70kkqMw&list=PLCnvmZ8KpyOrflbN7gBp_woxKrICu8Kbx&index=87&pp=iAQB

Chapter 16 Summary:

And the award for second most rewritten sex scene goes to...

Chapter Text

After their telecommuted family night, Andy is riding high.

She easily beats Sam the gym teacher and her girlfriend who’s a Broadway sound tech with Margaret the art teacher as her partner for doubles tennis Saturday morning and they all go out for brunch and listen to a bizarre story about Margaret’s having to go to court about her Siamese cat menacing her neighbors.

She puts on ‘60s lounge exotica 45s for the afternoon and cleans the apartment. Uncle Jim—Nate’s uncle with the pickup, not her drunk uncle—has agreed to let her buy the truck on an installment plan for a very discounted price, and she takes it to the car wash and gives it a thorough detailing. And then she has unexpected phone sex that evening with Miranda.

She really had just wanted to tell her the Siamese cat story—Margaret had brought a lawyer and an expert horticulturalist to contest this piddly $50 fine and had done a bunch of research on the types of bushes her neighbor had that emit an odor not dissimilar to feline urine, and Andy had wanted to know if this was typical rich lady behavior (Margaret has a lot of money from divorcing a prominent real estate developer and she mostly just teaches for fun and for something to get her out of the house) or because Margaret is, as Andy suspects, kind of nuts—but then her lady had admitted she was in the bathtub as she’d taken the call, and Andy’s mind fills with prurient thoughts that she subsequently voices,

“If I were there with you, would you let me join you? Would you let me slide in behind you and stroke my hands down your sides?”

“Yes, if you’d like. But I don’t want to get your hopes up, Andréa. I don’t enjoy aquatic sex of any kind.”

“What?”

“Are you also in the bath and have water in your ears? I enunciated my preference perfectly clearly.”

“I bet I could change your mind.”

“I very much doubt that,” Miranda says. “Surely you’ve noticed I need quite a bit more stimulation to reach org*sm than you do. In a bathtub or shower the water makes the sort of friction I require almost impossible. And if we were to ever find ourselves in a hot tub, pool, lake, river, gulf, sea, ocean, swamp, bog, fen, or estuary there would be the added indignities of pH balance, chemicals, algae, detritus, and/or bacteria.”

Andy laughs, and Miranda says seductively,

“However, if you enjoy aquatic sex, I would be more than willing to oblige you in certain controlled environments.”

“You’ll dutifully f*ck me in a clean bathtub or shower if I should ask for it but not in a hot tub, pool, lake, river, gulf, sea, ocean, swamp, bog, fen, or estuary?”

“I may even be talked into a saltwater swimming pool if it had just been filled and we were the first to use it.”

As much as she had liked the idea of Miranda service topping her kind of disdainfully in a situation she herself would not find erotic but would endure for the sake of her pleasure, Andy swiftly recalibrates the cogs in her brain so that their fantasies might align better. She says,

“But what if I just want to be in the tub with you? To feel you against me and massage your shoulders and indulge in the lavender oil? What if I just want you to shampoo my hair and drag your fingers along my scalp? What if I just want us to touch each other only to show care and concern and comfort, to clean each other and soothe each other? What if after we’ve rinsed off and the tub is drained and I’ve tenderly dried you with one of your absurdly f*cking luxurious towels and slathered expensive moisturizer all over your perfect body, I laid you out on that towel on the marble tile of your ensuite and pressed my naked body to yours and put my tongue in your mouth and slid three fingers in your wet, hot c*nt?”

“Why is it that you always want to do these things to me in uncomfortable locations? You took all that time to moisturize me but you couldn’t take me to bed? It’s ten feet away. I’m glad I don’t have a hammock or you’d surely immediately try to wrangle me into acrobatic sex in it.”

Andy laughs, says,

“Are you deflecting because that scenario was a little too close to romantic for you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll scale it back, for now. And anyway, the last time you initiated sex, we were on your breakfast nook table.”

“I’ve already admitted to being a hypocrite,” Miranda says, and Andy can almost hear the smirk.

“You know, nearly every time I’ve had to take care of myself in the past month, I’ve done it to memories of f*cking you on your kitchen floor on your hands and knees.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Miranda says, and Andy hears water sloshing and then glugging down a drain. “It’s consistently a good angle for both of us. I wish you didn’t have to work so hard to make missionary work for me. I like being able to kiss you.”

“Yeah, me, too. I don’t mind the hard work, believe me. What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t think about anything?”

This hadn’t been a foreign concept to Andy. Sometimes before she’d met Miranda she’d been horny for no reason and had touched herself just focusing on the sensations, mind blank, having no need for fantasies to help her along.

“That’s also typically true, but what I meant was I haven’t masturbat*d since we started having sex.”

“Oh,” Andy says, a little embarrassed that apparently she thinks about having sex with Miranda and has the need to tide herself over a lot more than Miranda does.

“And how am I to interpret that? Would you rather I masturbat* than call you up out of the clear blue sky and give you six hours’ notice to organize an improbable, nearly impossible sex rendezvous?”

“Well, no,” Andy says. She pauses and tries to word her hurt correctly, “I guess I just got the impression you were as into this as I am and would want me more than once every two weeks.”

She’s aware that her voice had come out a little pathetic and needy, but that’s how she feels and she’s always had a bad poker face. She just hopes Miranda won’t roll out some lame, self-deprecating frigid old lady stereotype that isn’t true just to ameliorate any emotional damage.

“Andréa, let me be clear: I don’t call you for a sex rendezvous every time I want you. If I did that, I wouldn’t get anything done. I call you when I want you unbearably and can no longer adequately distract myself from it. If you were to refuse me a sex rendezvous I would probably have to settle for masturbation. But I have a lot to distract myself with, and you’ve been very accommodating, so I haven’t felt the need for an inferior substitute for you.”

Andy grins at this very good news, and she’s sure her elation shines in her voice as she says,

“So, hypothetically, next Wednesday you want me unbearably and we have plans to meet up after soccer practice, but one of the girls on my team has a medical emergency, so we have to cancel. Are you still thinking about nothing when you resort to an inferior substitute for me?”

She hears some rustling in the background, the tinkling of ice in a glass, a swallow, and then Miranda hums, says,

“No. I’m thinking about when we had a sex rendezvous a few weeks after the first time you came to the townhouse.” She pauses, and Andy has the feeling this pause is for her benefit so that she knows and appreciates Miranda’s referencing her preferred masturbation fantasy. “It was a chilly, rainy day. You picked me up in the alley behind Michael Kors. I’d woken up thinking about you; I was wet for you all day and so frustrated about it that I was insufferable at work. My second assistant cried twice.

“We got stuck in traffic under an overpass on our way to the mafia-enforcer derelict warehouse where you planned to either murder me or f*ck my brains out. It was a dark day already and darker under the overpass, so nobody would be able to see what was occurring in the truck cab. And I slid over on the bench seat and licked your glorious neck and unbuttoned your $8 off-brand jeans and slipped my hand inside them, into your cheap cotton panties, and felt how you were as wet for me as I was for you, and I brought you to org*sm just as the light turned green and traffic started moving again. I never returned to the passenger seat and continued kissing your neck and caressing your torso, stroking your breasts, nothing to really arouse you enough that would cause you to wreck us, just to let you know I wanted you and enjoyed your body.

“And then when we arrived at our destination, we didn’t relocate to the truck bed. You hauled me into your lap before you’d fully cleared the steering wheel and got us positioned in the middle of the bench seat and f*cked me with this wild look in your eyes as if it were a matter of life and death and kissed me the same way. When I came, you didn’t even let me catch my breath before you placed me onto the dash and started up again with your mouth. You were ravenous. You didn’t even undress me, just kissed me breathlessly and f*cked me in every position you could finagle us into.

“I meant to ask you what had gotten you so worked up that day, but you were too focused and determined even for dirty talk, which you usually love, and by the time we had to get back to civilization, I was too exhausted to speak.

“So. In this hypothetical scenario, that’s the encounter I’m recalling, mostly that earnest but slightly unhinged look in your eyes as you took me over and over again in that truck cab in the pouring rain.”

Andy remembers the incident but not the reason for it exactly. It probably had something to do with her lady fondling her while she drove. It always came as just a little bit of a surprise to her when Miranda wanted to touch her.

“That’s a good choice. Maybe I’ll have to put that one in rotation, too. And before you ask, I have no idea what possessed me that afternoon. I just remember feeling like I would explode if I didn’t have my hands on you and in you. And you just… let me. And that made me feel even crazier. Like at any time some siren would go off and floodlights would come on and Fannie Flagg would appear and reveal I’d been on Candid Camera since the day we met and you’d laugh in my face and I’d never see you again.”

Miranda laughs,

“Leave it to Fannie Flagg to ruin your life.” There’s a pause, and then, “Do you feel that way often? That I’m just toying with you?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Right. But that was the implication. That what we’re doing together isn’t real and you fear I will cast you aside if you don’t f*ck me ‘good’ enough.”

“That’s also not what I said. It was just an irrational thing. Who knows what brought it on. I don’t really think you’re going to toss me to the curb anytime soon. You need an adult to talk to about Match Game until that obsession subsides, at the very least.”

There’s another pause, more ice tinkling, a sigh. Then Miranda says, softly,

“Well. Considering the context of your ardor that day, I will have to change my answer to your hypothetical.”

“Why?”

“Because in my fantasy, the meaning I had assigned to that look in your eye was that your desire for me had driven you to the brink of insanity, which is in itself an insane notion, but it was my fantasy so why not let an old woman dream. But now that you’ve explained that it was insecurity rather than blind passion that drove your actions, it doesn’t have the same appeal.”

“Now hold the phone, Miranda. My desire for you was driving me to the brink of insanity. That’s why I was thinking crazy stuff. I do want you like that, with blind passion. That’s not a fantasy. That is reality. You know I have a complex or perhaps a condition or syndrome of some kind that causes me to consider you the hottest woman alive. And, anyway, the result was that I f*cked you into temporary muteness. I don’t see why you need to pick a different scenario.”

“My dear, devoted, delusional creature,” Miranda says fondly but doesn’t elaborate on what part of the rejoinder has led her to call her delusional. She continues, “It’s still lost its shine for me. Maybe I’ll use the time you got me drunk on Champale so you could take advantage of me in the bathroom of that disgusting cigar hovel.”

It’s her teasing voice, and Andy laughs, says,

“You know what these two encounters you’ve chosen for possible future fantasy use have in common?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

“One, you got me off first; two, we were both fully clothed; three, they occurred in uncomfortable locations.”

“On point one, I like to make you come. On point two, there’s often an element of taboo in the few and far between fantasies I use for masturbation. And on point three, the only sex we’ve had in a bed has been cunniling*s or with your co*ck, and while I enjoy both, when I find myself unbearably wanting you, it’s kissing you with your fingers inside me that I crave most. And we’ve only ever done that in uncomfortable locations.

“The point is, most of this conversation has been to indulge you because I could tell you wanted to talk about our sexual history, but if I were to feel the need to masturbat*, I would most likely be aroused enough that no fantasy would be necessary or I would simply imagine you in general.”

Andy doesn’t want to express how sweet she finds that for fear of another romance shut down, so she says,

“You gonna indulge me all the way into phone sex, baby?”

“I’m no longer in the bath, that’s what you’ve wanted all night, and I’ve had one and a half bourbons. It’s pointless to resist.”

“Not the hottest way you’ve ever agreed to a sex act with me, but I’ll take it.”

“I’m not calling you daddy over the phone. It’s ridiculous enough to say it to your face, but that at least has the benefit of being able to see how it affects you.”

“How does it affect me?” Andy says, slipping out of her pajamas to settle on top of her comforter.

There’s a pause and then ice tinkling again, a thoughtful hum and then Miranda says,

“When we first started having sex, I assumed you took charge because you wanted to prove that you could handle me because I’m old and rich and powerful. But as I’ve come to know you better, it’s become clear that you genuinely enjoy pleasing me and taking care of me and tending to my needs.”

Miranda’s voice is so melodic, and what she’s saying is so true. Andy’s hands are wandering over herself, settling so that one is languidly massaging a breast and the other is cupping herself over her panties.

Miranda continues speaking,

“And that’s what this ‘daddy’ nonsense is for you—validation that you take care of me exactly right: you know a guy for anything odd I might want; you load the dishwasher; you answer your phone late at night when I need to unburden myself; your gun’s loaded just in case; you listen to what I say and see the meaning behind it and anticipate what I need to hear in response to the unspoken. And all you want from me is to acknowledge that you do these things for me and that you do them better than anyone else. That you, as my daddy, are a good provider.”

Andy hadn’t exactly put these puzzle pieces together in her own head, wouldn’t have been able to articulate why it was hot to her. But Miranda’s hit the nail on the head. She especially likes that good provider thing. Unbeknownst to her, she’s at some point begun rocking her hips into the hand at her vulva, and she presses in with the heel of her hand, connects with her throbbing cl*t and moans a little.

Miranda resumes,

“I maintain that I will not call you daddy over the phone because I feel too silly saying it, but I will assure you that you take care of me exactly right.”

Andy’s hand is inside her panties at that admission, circling her cl*t with two fingers. What she wouldn’t give to be able to be taking care of her lady exactly right right now. She dips to her opening and drags up slowly and gasps at the sensation, imagining Miranda’s fingers doing exactly that, as they had that rainy day under the overpass, imagining Miranda’s tongue doing exactly that, as it had that first time she’d gone down on her in the truck bed.

“And when it’s appropriate to be seen in public with you, if you haven’t tired of me and moved on to someone better suited to you, I’d like to take you up on your offer of real dates, to explore whether you’re still interested in taking care of me exactly right after you’ve seen me in my natural environment rather than as an anonymous woman moaning for you in a bar bathroom or as a mother asking for advice about her children’s oddities that you by unreal coincidence share and understand.”

Andy continues circling her cl*t, but gently and rather obliquely, just maintenance, not to further the org*sm that she could fall into pretty easily with a few firm strokes. Her voice sounds raspy and sex-laden to her own ears as she says,

“So, gin makes you mean, Champale makes you horny, and bourbon makes you insightful and sentimental? I’ll have to remember that for our real dates. And that wasn’t an offer because I wasn’t asking. I was informing you of what’s in store for you. I had no intention of taking no for an answer on continuing to see you when you’re out of divorce limbo. The minute that decree is finalized, I’m coming over with a twelve-pack of Champale, getting you drunk, f*cking you on the floor, and then taking you out clubbing somewhere we’re sure to be photographed.”

She’s circling her cl*t less obliquely now, and she’s nearly there, so she backs off a little, traces back down to her entrance, enters shallowly, and then drags back up to her cl*t, drags back down, drags back up again, relishing how wet she is and how good it feels to stroke against her sensitive inner lips.

“That’s a bald-faced lie,” Miranda says, and it’s at a register where Andy can’t tell if it’s teasing or dangerous. “You won’t have the self-control to wait until I’m drunk to f*ck me on the floor. You’ll probably forget the Champale in the truck in your haste to perform graphic, degrading sex acts.”

She can’t not push her fingers against her cl*t at that. She suppresses a groan, says a little raggedly,

“Speaking of… are we still doing phone sex?”

“Obviously. Don’t waste my time by trying to pretend you haven’t been touching yourself since at least I began my explanation of how my calling you daddy affects you. I’m old, but I’m neither senile nor deaf. I’ve been explicating a topic you find highly erotic, and you’ve been making all of your typical sex noises.”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy says, fingers still and at either side of her cl*t, providing firm pressure, maintenance again.

“How are you touching yourself currently?”

Andy describes it, and Miranda inhales sharply, says a little shakily,

“It won’t take much, will it?”

“No, baby,” Andy says, fingers twitching, cl*t throbbing.

“Do it, then. However you prefer. Come for me, Andréa.”

So Andy flicks a few times side to side, and she’s coming, moaning Miranda’s name. And when she’s lucid again, Miranda says in her teasing voice,

“I should make you come more often, daddy.”

And then the line is dead.

So Saturday is a big win.

Chapter 17 Chapter Text

Sunday she’s at Nate and Bill’s restaurant working the post-church/post-golf lunch crowd, tending to a table of four middle-aged men in polos.

She doesn’t recognize him at first. He’s just some guy, generic. But then he says,

“You look so familiar to me. Do we know each other?”

Oh no. f*cking Steve. She couldn’t reasonably have expected anything else. She scrambles for the best response here. Admission? Denial?

“I must just have one of those faces,” she says noncommittally.

He looks her up and down, and it’s an excruciating perusal. He says finally, leeringly,

“I don’t think you do, actually.”

The lunch goes on and on, and she fills the table with mimosas and Bloody Marys and a spread of breakfast food, speaks as little as she can to give Steve as little opportunity as possible to recognize her voice.

But throughout, she feels his eyes on her, and she knows she’s blushing. Hopefully he just perceives that she’s over warm from exertion rather than guilt.

Finally the party leaves, and she thinks she’s dodged a bullet.

But then as she’s heading toward the bathroom to splash cool water on her face, there’s a hand at her tricep, and she’s being guided onto the empty patio.

Steve turns her, hisses into her face,

“What is the truth here, Andy Sachs, if that is your real name? Are you a teacher at Dalton or are you a waitress at this establishment? A waitress who has waited on me and my wife before? A waitress who paid a little too much attention to my wife and very likely talked her into doing unspeakable things in the alley?”

Andy shrugs out of his hold, screws her courage to the sticking place, says,

“I told you I had two jobs, Steve. This is one of them. I waitress here as a favor to the chef, who is my friend. And yeah, I paid attention to your wife that night you came in with her. You didn’t, and she deserved attention. But rest assured we never did anything unspeakable or otherwise in the alley.”

This alley, anyway.

He runs a hand through his hair, huffs,

“I want to believe you, Andy. But I just don’t.”

He strides away.

Chapter 18 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The next morning, Page Six has the scoop from her soon-to-be-ex husband that Miranda Priestly is having an affair with a much younger school teacher who moonlights as a waitress. He claims to have phone and text-messaging records he has not yet made public for legal reasons.

There is a photo from the big night, but Miranda and Andy are not even standing next to each other. It’s a shot of the table of potential investors during Nate’s speech, and Andy is behind him with a gaggle of other servers. She and Miranda are not even looking at each other.

The press cannot find any real evidence of this supposed transgression, but they love it and run with it, nevertheless.

There are confirmations from confidential informants that Andy is bisexual and has a marked preference for femme fatales. There are unsubstantiated claims that Miranda has been rearranging her schedule erratically and sneaking out the back entrances of designers’ showrooms for clandestine meetings with an undisclosed individual. There are a few rumors that Miranda’s been witnessed conferencing with an undisclosed individual at sundry backwoods bars.

They are in hot water because, against all odds, it’s true.

But sometimes Fannie Flagg doesn’t ruin your life. Sometimes Fannie Flagg comes in with a Hail Mary.

Steve’s allegations had hit Monday, everything was a f*cking mess Tuesday, and Fannie Flagg issues her statement Wednesday:

All due respect, but what’s Mr. Tomlinson doing? Picking names of women who happen to entertain the company of other women whom his wife’s met in passing at a social function out of a hat? Are the women in the hat even all still alive? Who’s going to be next? Didn’t Marlene Dietrich appear in an issue of Runway a few years before she passed in 1992? Why are we still listening to this man’s lies? This nonsense could be a sketch on my old comedy album.

Notes:

The sketch on Fannie Flagg's old comedy album that the title of this monstrosity is kind of named after and which the fake Fannie Flagg I've written kind of references:
https://youtube.com/watch?v=8Ub6BAlQIyc
(My favorite parts are the ridiculous repetition in the intro, how the audience loses it about Mrs. Howard Johnson, and the delivery of “majored in State Department Secrets.”)

Susie Sweetwater Society Divorce - FrenchTwistResistance (2024)

Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 16

Summary:

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

References