Chapter Text
The boat bounces across the turquoise sea. The sun, bright and high above, catches each edge of each wave in a dazzling glare. Miranda grips the rail tight, closes her eyes and inhales deeply.
“I didn’t know you got sea sick,” Nigel nudges up beside her.
“I don’t,” she responds through gritted teeth, “I’m not.”
He doesn’t believe her, but not even he will dare to disagree with La Priestly.
This was all Nigel’s idea. And on paper it sounded just what was needed. It had been a long hard winter and people were desperate to see colour and vitality, to recapture a sense of freedom and warmth. Light loose fabrics, bright colours, flowing, against the back drop of the Aegean sea. Hence the boat. Hence the island in the distance, growing ever nearer, as Miranda is grateful to note.
The film crew and models should already be in situ and ready to go. But this fresh new optimistic spread is too important to Runway and the brave new world to leave matters to chance, or even to Nigel, trusted steed as he is, or so Nigel has persuaded Miranda. Not that she took too much persuading. Which is why Miranda is here, firmly holding on, to make sure that everything runs perfectly. Nothing less than perfect will ever do.
********
Nigel has another motive for her being here. Well maybe more than one, but we’ll get to that later. Miranda has been out of sorts. Has been for months now. And when Miranda is out of sorts, life just gets that bit more challenging for everyone around her. As if it weren’t challenging enough. But this is more than Miranda being Miranda. He is, he supposes, in a way, one of her closest friends. He can see the sadness that pools beneath each softly spoken barb. She has never said anything to him. But he’s no fool. He has eyes. And a heart. That’s been broken, too often to count. And whilst many doubt the existence of one where Miranda is concerned, Nigel has known Miranda long enough to know that one is buried there deep inside her, even if no one has seen sight of it for years now.
*********
The accommodation is, well, basic. Standing outside the guest house, “hotel” would be too grand a title, Miranda gives an audible sigh of despair, disappointment and defeat. She is grateful that the ground beneath her is still and no longer swaying, but the white and blue paint of the façade is peeling and cracked and she dreads what they will find inside. Just let the water from the shower be clear and hot, she silently prays.
“It’s rustic, Miranda”, Nigel brokers.
She replies with a “Humph,” and stands motionless whilst he returns to the dusty cab to retrieve their luggage.
Her room is full of …. character. Yes, that is no doubt how Caroline would describe it. The blue and white theme that spills from the walls onto the furnishings, the bleached wood of the furniture. Art work that looks like it was scavenged from the beach. Yes Caroline would probably even go so far as to like it. So would…. She stops herself. A gust of warm breeze momentarily lifts the flimsy curtain from the open shuttered window. Just her sort of thing, her brain finishes for her, despite her instruction to it.
But there is a bathroom. It is clean and brightly tiled. She allows herself a moment of pleasure standing naked beneath the surprisingly generous shower head, the water hot and powerful cascading over her, plastering her shock of white hair against her upturned head, rendering it momentarily dark beneath its force. The dust of the day washed away. She is tired. She could blame the journey. She could blame the jet lag. Or she could blame the effort of maintaining the dragon. La Priestly. She has to maintain it, can’t let it slip for a moment. It’s expected. It is her power. And she has sacrificed too much, everything, to let it slide now.
Wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, she perches on the edge of the bed, and reaches for her laptop. There is wi-fi. Even Nigel knows to ensure that. There will be messages to check - Emily, the one assistant she is permitted these days, left behind to manage the office, more valuable there than at Miranda’s side for six no doubt hot and sticky frustrating days.
There is a knock at the door.
“Will you be coming down for supper ?”
Food. She had forgotten food. It will require getting dressed. Putting on a layer of armour.
“Not tonight Nigel,” she calls back through the door, “I’ll see you in the morning. 8.00 am. Sharp.”
7.45 am it is then, he thinks, as he nods unobserved and answers, “Night Miranda,” his departing steps echoing down the corridor.
Miranda flexes her neck and flips open the screen. The harsh white light glaring at her, she clicks on her emails. It is midday in New York. There is work to be done.
*************
The first five days of the shoot pass by. Not without their moments. The light here is perfect, especially in the early hours after sunrise, and the late afternoon, when the shadows stretch long and the tired sun softens its wash over the sand encrusted hillside where they are shooting. But getting the models up and into hair and make-up in good time proves frustrating. There is an undercurrent of abandon filtering through both them and the crew. Even Nigel. But not Miranda. The tension she carries is palpable. At dinner most avoid her table, preferring to leave Nigel to the slaughter alone. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it.
“Remind me when we are scheduled to leave tomorrow ?” she asks as she slices through an admittedly delicious plate of lightly coated calamari.
“We’re not,” he replies, without offering further explanation.
She raises her eyes from the mobile phone she has been scrawling through and peers at him across glasses perched on the slight bump on her nose, “Explain.”
He takes a breath and almost nervously sweeps his hand back across his balding scalp.
“The crew are leaving on the afternoon boat. But you and I,” he exhales and cricks his neck awkwardly to one side, “you and I are staying on for a few days.”
She glares at him and he watches as her left eyebrow rises in pointed cold question.
“Miranda,” he takes another breath and loosens the non-existent tie around his neck, “we, you,” he tails off, then braver, “I thought maybe we could both do with a few days holiday.” He is on a roll now. “I mean when did you last take an actual break ? It’s been such a hard year. Relentless. I checked your schedule. The girls are with Cara. We have the shoot in the bag. And, well there is a reason why I suggested we come here, to this place, now. Something I thought might amuse you.”
Miranda has still not spoken. But her lips have now pursed. Nigel knows this is not a good sign. He fishes into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of embossed card. An invitation. And slides it across the checkered table cloth.
“Be my plus one ?” he offers lightly.
Miranda does not like surprises. Miranda does not like not being in control. Nevertheless her curiosity is piqued. She turns the card over.
And the blood drains from her face.