Fic: Dance Me To No End (3/7)
A/N: Hello! I know, I know, it took me ages to post this one, I'm sorry: I had another project hanging over my head, and luckily managed to finish it off the day before yesterday. So, here's part three -- the plot thickens... Enjoy!
PS. I was thinking along the lines of Mya's Do You Only Wanna Dance when I pictured the dance scene in my head. Might be a useful reference :)
Part 1 | Part 2
Andy made it through the following week in a half-drunken haze. She smiled at everyone at work, sometimes even at Miranda, because being at work gave her an opportunity to be with Carrie. She also got repeatedly angry at anybody (especially Miranda) who attempted to take Carrie away from her with something as insignificant as, well, running errands for work.
For, yes, errands had suddenly become stupid. Meetings, too, if Andy had to sit in on them, and previews-oh, God, previews were probably the worst part of her day. (And somehow, there were more of them than usually this week.) Something inside Andy’s head kept nagging her about that sudden change of attitude, pointing out the fact that the reason for her to be at Runway offices was, first and foremost, to do her job-but she wouldn’t listen to it. Right now, work seemed highly overrated. Why couldn’t she simply sit behind her desk all day and do nothing, like so many assistants did around the city, maybe even around the world? Maybe she’d pick up an occasional phone, but the rest of her time would hopefully be devoted to Carrie. She grew quite fond of being around her-was that really so bad?
They weren’t doing anything wrong. They hardly ever touched, definitely not in a way more serious than the half-embrace Carrie had given her on Saturday. Definitely not holding hands, or exchanging air-kisses.
But they looked at each other. At least Andy did, for her part. She shamelessly took her time to devour Carrie with her eyes every time the new assistant walked through the office doors in the morning. She told herself it was all for the purpose of studying fashion trends: she was simply trying to incorporate some of Carrie’s style, which was quite different from everything she’d even seen at Runway. Carrie dressed quite formally, yes, but there was always something in her outfit, one little detail-an artificial flower pinned to her jacket lapel, oh-so-obviously last season skirt that went perfectly with the newest Blahniks-that broke the integrity of it in the most captivating way. It even made people of Runway stop every now and then and focus on Carrie, whether they actually wanted it or not.
Andy would have preferred them not to.
She and Carrie talked a lot, too, whenever they were alone at the office, and not particularly busy. Some time around Thursday, Andy realized she’d told Carrie close to everything about her childhood, parents and siblings, and then high school, college and her work in Runway. Carrie was a grateful listener; she hardly ever interrupted Andy, and paid careful attention to detail. She asked Andy lots of questions about her co-operation with Miranda or ways of avoiding her bad moods, and added a shard of information that peeked her curiosity to unimaginable levels: “We’ve never really known each other on business ground, you know.” Andy, forcing herself not to burst out with questions of her own, happily provided Carrie with all the answers she could give her, hoping for a vast improvement as long as work had been concerned.
There was but one topic Andy left untouched-the incident that almost resulted in her quitting her job in Paris. Somehow it didn’t feel right to let Carrie in on it, though Andy failed to rationally explain the feeling.
Carrie, on her part, provided Andy with some personal information, too. She told her that her parents got divorced when she was five; her mother remarried shortly afterwards and became a wholly satisfied housewife to a rich, powerful banker, giving Carrie three siblings, all boys. Carrie’s father, on the other hand, ‘worked in fashion’ and kept up his relations with his only child as best as he could. Most of Carrie’s childhood revolved around dancing-those were the times when she felt much closer to her mother-but later, after she ceased to practice and decided to follow her dad’s carrier path, the father came back to view. Right now, she said with a small, mysterious smile, she got on very well with both her parents.
Carrie lived alone, probably in some fancy place on Upper East-Andy wouldn’t know, as they weren’t yet on home-visiting terms. Actually, Friday evening would be the first time they’d ever meet outside the office-and that made Andy shiver in anticipation. After they both left the office on their last working day this week, however, she suddenly realized that she didn’t ask Carrie all those little, yet essential questions about their night out: what kind of a club were they’re going to, if there was any dress-code, blah-blah-blah. Well, Andy told herself as she rummaged through her wardrobe later in the evening, with cold water dripping from her hair down her back, it couldn’t have been one of those crazy-avangarde places, if Nigel was joining them. Biting her lip and furrowing her brow, Andy decided to walk on the safe side: she chose a simple, universal set of black skinny jeans, a loose black-and-plum sleeveless tunic she got from Nigel mere month before, and ankle-length purple shoes with reasonably high heels. After all, she was supposed to be taught how do dance, so she’d better wear comfortable shoes, she reasoned.
She went to the bathroom, more or less satisfied with her choice, and proceeded with make-up and hair: a plain pony-tail, some eye-liner, nothing too fancy, in correspondence with her outfit. A small Prada clutch she got from Nigel for her birthday (after she’d ogled it at the Closet for hours) was the final touch to her appearance, which she completed in…
Two hours. Not bad, Sachs. Not bad at all. It usually took her about three hours to get ready for a date-
Except that wasn’t a date. That was a simple social occasion: going out with people she enjoyed spending time with. Trying to have fun for a change. Making new friends. There was nothing date-like about it.
Mad at herself for thinking rubbish, Andy grabbed the first coat she found in the hall (which thankfully turned out to be black and of fairly simple design) and stormed out, hoping that the cool evening air would like her cool down.
Well, even if it did, the effect didn’t last long.
Nigel and Carrie were already waiting when she arrived, chatting lively about some inner-stuff Andy probably wouldn’t understand anyway. She half-ran to them, panting, and used all of her mental strength not to gape at them with open mouth. They both looked… different. Nigel, in black slacks and shirt opened at his throat, was quite-dashing, was the best word. A silver belt buckle and a pair of boots made him look like an experienced clubber, which was probably the feeling he was aiming for. Andy beamed at him happily.
“Are you planning to break some hearts tonight?” she asked innocently and giggled at his imminent eye-roll.
“Only a couple of ribs, if necessary,” he retorted, and looked her judgingly up and down. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” Andy grinned at him, before taking a deep breath and focusing on Carrie.
Oh, God in Heavens.
Carrie wore a simple, red dress with a flared skirt ending just above her knee, thin straps crossing on the nape of her neck and an artificial rose pinned above her red breast. She let her hair down and curled it, letting it fall down her shoulders and back like a soft curtain. Her shoes were simple, dancing ones, black with thin stripes, and Andy instantly loved the way they encased the wearer’s feet.
She gulped, and offered Carrie a nervous smile, feeling awfully ugly in her tunic and jeans. Carrie beamed back, brushing the hair off her face with a gesture Andy came to know all too well during last week. “You like?” she asked in a low, soft voice, and turned around with an unmistakable grace of a dancer.
“You-you look very nice,” Andy managed to squeeze out of her dry throat before blushing furiously. Carrie didn’t seem to notice her anxiousness; she smiled innocently and linked her arm through Nigel’s. “Shall we go?” she asked kind of impatiently, tugging him towards the club entrance. Nigel faked a bow, taking Andy by the elbow, and they hauled themselves into a small, dim corridor completed with a cloakroom and a grim bouncer who gave them a hard, unfriendly look before recognizing Nigel and opening the inner doors for them.
The music enveloped Andy in seconds. It was rhythmical, melodic, surprisingly not too loud, Latin-American-something as far as Andy could say. She looked around, perplexed, taking in the atmosphere of an unfamiliar place: dark wood covering the walls and floor, red velvet sofas and armchairs already occupied by young (or not so young), colorful people sipping on colorful drinks, reddish light coming from the reflectors and immersing the whole interior in strange, dangerous shadows… It was quite different from clubs Andy used to visit with Nate, Lily and Doug: those were simply-decorated, joyful places where popular music played too loud to allow any conversation and people gulped down draft beer. Here, between the red light and pulsating, sensual sound of music coming from discreetly placed speakers, was a mystery hanging in the air.
“It’s a special place,” Andy heard Nigel say next to her ear, “with limited membership, of course. You don’t have to worry about anyone’s eyes watching you, or people judging you. That’s the first rule-never to judge. The second is, well, to have fun and relax.”
“I think I can cope with that,” Andy joked, still nervous, but gradually overcoming the feeling of misplacement. “Do you know anyone here?”
“Oh, too many people,” Carrie interrupted, walking over to Andy’s side, and repeated her gesture from last Saturday, pulling her colleague into a half-embrace. “Come on, let’s mingle.”
‘Mingling’ meant introducing Andy to far too many people: models, dancers, assistants of fashion designers, all young, vibrant, and having a slightly androgynous feel about them. Some of the girls kissed Carrie’s cheeks, lingering, their eyes glittering which emotions Andy couldn’t quite place-or maybe she could, unconsciously, and blissfully chose to ignore them.
Whichever the case was, Andy followed Carrie down the stairs and into the club, feeling the light, teasing press of her fingers across her hipbone, smiling at people whose names she knew she wouldn’t remember the next day. That was the key to everything. Smile. Shake hands, exchange formalities or simple questions about work. Go forward. Accept a drink. Listen to Carrie laugh at some inside-joke, see her place a hand on some girl’s arm, or shoulder, close to her neck.
Repeat.
When Andy shook off her strange stupor about an hour later, she realized that she’d already had a couple of drinks, and that a fresh cosmopolitan had been recently placed in her hand. Her body hummed with the alcohol-induced buzz, tuning itself to the music. At some point Carrie left her alone on some sofa, squeezed between a skinny model wearing a dress Andy vaguely recognized as having been featured in the very last issue of Runway, and a male photographer in skin-tight jeans and bright orange shirt. The model drank tequila shots and gave away a general feeling of bitchiness. The photographer kept casting dreamy looks at Nigel, sprawled over the sofa opposite them. Neither of them as much as looked at Andy.
Not that anyone did. Every single person in the club seemed to know at least a half of the assembled company. They gave a new meaning to the word ‘mingle’, walking lazily from one table to another, kissing lots of air and sipping on their colorful drinks that never seemed to run dry. Andy wasn’t sure if she could stand it for longer than fifteen minutes: she was getting bored just by looking at those people. Nigel, on the other hand, was obviously enjoying himself, talking to a group of young fashionistas who eyed him in awe and almost religiously absorbed the words falling from his mouth. Andy noted, with a small pang of jealousy, that one of the guys, a thirty-something who wasn’t wearing anything too tight or vulgarly bright, seemed to have caught Nigel’s attention, and the two of them hit it off pretty well. Good for Nigel, Andy decided, and looked around for the other familiar face.
Carrie left them a while ago and went straight for the dance floor, obviously, and was presently dancing with some guy who looked as gay and cute as the day was long. They moved in perfect sync, showing off comlicated turns and dips, Carrie floating on the waves of music with her hair dancing around her flushed face, lips half-opened in a satisfied smile. She was apparently having a great time, Andy thought angrily and gulped down the remnants of her cosmo, wondering whether she could slip away unnoticed, go home and sleep through the regret, the feeling of being misplaced and useless. It would be hard, she decided, given the number of drinks she’d already had, but still it seemed worth trying.
Andy stood up shakily and reached for her clutch, determined to see her plan through.
She failed completely.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Carrie purred into her ear, taking hold of Andy’s extended hand. “You haven’t even danced with me yet.”
Andy swayed on her heels and gave Carrie an apologetic smile. “Guess I’m a bit out of balance. Maybe we should-“
“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Carrie cut her off, and threw Andy’s clutch back on the sofa. “Come on, I’ll hold you. You won’t fall, not with me around.”
Andy wanted to blurt out something stupid, like ‘I might as well fall for you, here or anywhere else,’ but fortunately enough she was too busy keeping her balance when Carrie half-dragged her to the dance floor to make any kinds of remarks, especially the sarcastic ones. She suddenly felt really stupid, standing in the middle of an empty space and following Carrie’s instructions to close her eyes and “feel the music”. Andy had no idea what was that particular type of music called: was it salsa, meringue, cha-cha-cha or something else? All she knew was that the rhythm was steady, not too quick, and a background trumpet gave the song a swing that moved something in Andy’s not-quite-capable-of-dancing body.
“Listen to it,” she heard Carrie’s voice next to her right ear, and in the very next moment two slender hands rested on Andy’s hips. “It’s all here. Find your rhythm.”
Andy became sharply aware of the fact that Carrie’s body was presently pressed to her back, arms lined with her own and taking hold of her hands, entwining their fingers and pressing gently on Andy’s hips. Carrie circled her hips in one long, smooth motion, and Andy followed, reluctantly, testing out her own flexibility. Carrie guided her with nothing more than touch, a pressure applied to Andy’s hips and wrists, sometimes a stroke against her forearm or thigh, and though it had probably very little in common with how Andy had imagined their ‘dancing lessons’, she soon found herself responding to the rhythm, losing herself in it, and moving in a bolder, more pronounced way. She laughed, happy for no apparent reason, and threw her head back to rest it on Carrie’s shoulder. She heard the redhead chuckle, and could have sworn that her lips brushed against her throat for a fracture of a second.
“You like that?” Carrie purred into Andy’s ear, and spun Andy around to face her. Andy gasped at the expression on Carrie’s face: wild, ferocious, with lips half-curled in a dangerous grin. She swallowed hard, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” Carrie stated, and pushed one of her knees between both of Andy’s, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Relax, Andy. Feel the music, open up to it.”
Close-up, Carrie’s face was flushed, with pearls of sweat forming on her temples and a little bit on perspiration over her upper lip. She looked pretty as always, but-combined with the grin-her face looked more primeval this way. Andy didn’t get a chance to decide whether she liked her better this way or not, for Carrie pushed her legs apart just a little, and, with carefully applied pressure, dipped Andy backwards, bending her body in a way Andy didn’t think was possible.
It was kind of… nice, actually, the change of perspective, the buzz in Andy’s head as she closed her eyes and grasped Carrie’s arms for support and gave in to the feeling. It didn’t last long: soon she felt herself being pulled up, and instinctively wrapped her arms around Carrie’s neck, desperately clinging to her and inhaling her perfume, their scent intensified by warmth and aggravation. Carrie laughed a little and pushed Andy away, holding her at arm length with a quizzical smile lingering on her lips.
“I’d say your first lesson went remarkably well,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Shall we meet again next week?”
“Y-yes,” Andy managed to speak with clutched throat, and blinked in surprise when she realized Carrie had “magically” brought them back to the sofa, and right now she was handing Andy her jacket and purse. Was Andy being dismissed, like a young dancer after her first lesson with a private teacher? Well, regardless of the fact Andy had had absolutely no idea what to think about this night in the first place, this wasn’t what she expected. She looked around for Nigel, and found his place on the sofa empty. The guy who accompanied him disappeared, too.
And the other guy, the one who’d been dancing with Carrie before she blatantly took hold of Andy, was standing right next to them, waiting.
“Oh,” Andy said, feeling stupid, cold, and surprisingly empty inside. “I-I’d better go.”
Carrie nodded, still smiling the same quizzical smile, and pecked her cheek casually. “Be careful on your way back. See you on Monday, right?”
“Yeah,” Andy said impassively and shrugged her jacket on, before nodding casually to the impatient dancer behind Carrie and walking away, up the stairs, and out on the street.
No cab in sight. Well, whatever, Andy could use a walk. She fished her cell from her bag to check the time, and winced: Miranda called her five times, and left a message. Sighing, Andy called her voicemail.
“Why is it that I cannot reach any of my assistants at this time of night?” Miranda’s cool, sarcastic voice vibrated in Andy’s ear, in tune with the music coming from the club behind her back. “I need you to be at the office tomorrow morning, Andrea, nine o’clock sharp.”
Click. Delete. Sigh. A lonely cab crawled Andy’s way, so she hailed it and got in, giving the driver her address in a tired voice.
So much for a nice evening.
Andy closed her eyes and rested her head against the plastic-covered taxi couch and inhaled deeply to calm her nerves. Her eyes snapped opened, and she sniffed on her tunic, feeling her heart beat faster.
She was literally covered with Carrie’s perfume.
The driver looked in the rearview mirror and smiled knowingly. “Tough date?”
Andy shook her head, still too astonished to formulate an adequate answer. “No,” she managed in the end, “I wouldn’t say so.”
TBC…
PS. I was thinking along the lines of Mya's Do You Only Wanna Dance when I pictured the dance scene in my head. Might be a useful reference :)
Part 1 | Part 2
Andy made it through the following week in a half-drunken haze. She smiled at everyone at work, sometimes even at Miranda, because being at work gave her an opportunity to be with Carrie. She also got repeatedly angry at anybody (especially Miranda) who attempted to take Carrie away from her with something as insignificant as, well, running errands for work.
For, yes, errands had suddenly become stupid. Meetings, too, if Andy had to sit in on them, and previews-oh, God, previews were probably the worst part of her day. (And somehow, there were more of them than usually this week.) Something inside Andy’s head kept nagging her about that sudden change of attitude, pointing out the fact that the reason for her to be at Runway offices was, first and foremost, to do her job-but she wouldn’t listen to it. Right now, work seemed highly overrated. Why couldn’t she simply sit behind her desk all day and do nothing, like so many assistants did around the city, maybe even around the world? Maybe she’d pick up an occasional phone, but the rest of her time would hopefully be devoted to Carrie. She grew quite fond of being around her-was that really so bad?
They weren’t doing anything wrong. They hardly ever touched, definitely not in a way more serious than the half-embrace Carrie had given her on Saturday. Definitely not holding hands, or exchanging air-kisses.
But they looked at each other. At least Andy did, for her part. She shamelessly took her time to devour Carrie with her eyes every time the new assistant walked through the office doors in the morning. She told herself it was all for the purpose of studying fashion trends: she was simply trying to incorporate some of Carrie’s style, which was quite different from everything she’d even seen at Runway. Carrie dressed quite formally, yes, but there was always something in her outfit, one little detail-an artificial flower pinned to her jacket lapel, oh-so-obviously last season skirt that went perfectly with the newest Blahniks-that broke the integrity of it in the most captivating way. It even made people of Runway stop every now and then and focus on Carrie, whether they actually wanted it or not.
Andy would have preferred them not to.
She and Carrie talked a lot, too, whenever they were alone at the office, and not particularly busy. Some time around Thursday, Andy realized she’d told Carrie close to everything about her childhood, parents and siblings, and then high school, college and her work in Runway. Carrie was a grateful listener; she hardly ever interrupted Andy, and paid careful attention to detail. She asked Andy lots of questions about her co-operation with Miranda or ways of avoiding her bad moods, and added a shard of information that peeked her curiosity to unimaginable levels: “We’ve never really known each other on business ground, you know.” Andy, forcing herself not to burst out with questions of her own, happily provided Carrie with all the answers she could give her, hoping for a vast improvement as long as work had been concerned.
There was but one topic Andy left untouched-the incident that almost resulted in her quitting her job in Paris. Somehow it didn’t feel right to let Carrie in on it, though Andy failed to rationally explain the feeling.
Carrie, on her part, provided Andy with some personal information, too. She told her that her parents got divorced when she was five; her mother remarried shortly afterwards and became a wholly satisfied housewife to a rich, powerful banker, giving Carrie three siblings, all boys. Carrie’s father, on the other hand, ‘worked in fashion’ and kept up his relations with his only child as best as he could. Most of Carrie’s childhood revolved around dancing-those were the times when she felt much closer to her mother-but later, after she ceased to practice and decided to follow her dad’s carrier path, the father came back to view. Right now, she said with a small, mysterious smile, she got on very well with both her parents.
Carrie lived alone, probably in some fancy place on Upper East-Andy wouldn’t know, as they weren’t yet on home-visiting terms. Actually, Friday evening would be the first time they’d ever meet outside the office-and that made Andy shiver in anticipation. After they both left the office on their last working day this week, however, she suddenly realized that she didn’t ask Carrie all those little, yet essential questions about their night out: what kind of a club were they’re going to, if there was any dress-code, blah-blah-blah. Well, Andy told herself as she rummaged through her wardrobe later in the evening, with cold water dripping from her hair down her back, it couldn’t have been one of those crazy-avangarde places, if Nigel was joining them. Biting her lip and furrowing her brow, Andy decided to walk on the safe side: she chose a simple, universal set of black skinny jeans, a loose black-and-plum sleeveless tunic she got from Nigel mere month before, and ankle-length purple shoes with reasonably high heels. After all, she was supposed to be taught how do dance, so she’d better wear comfortable shoes, she reasoned.
She went to the bathroom, more or less satisfied with her choice, and proceeded with make-up and hair: a plain pony-tail, some eye-liner, nothing too fancy, in correspondence with her outfit. A small Prada clutch she got from Nigel for her birthday (after she’d ogled it at the Closet for hours) was the final touch to her appearance, which she completed in…
Two hours. Not bad, Sachs. Not bad at all. It usually took her about three hours to get ready for a date-
Except that wasn’t a date. That was a simple social occasion: going out with people she enjoyed spending time with. Trying to have fun for a change. Making new friends. There was nothing date-like about it.
Mad at herself for thinking rubbish, Andy grabbed the first coat she found in the hall (which thankfully turned out to be black and of fairly simple design) and stormed out, hoping that the cool evening air would like her cool down.
Well, even if it did, the effect didn’t last long.
Nigel and Carrie were already waiting when she arrived, chatting lively about some inner-stuff Andy probably wouldn’t understand anyway. She half-ran to them, panting, and used all of her mental strength not to gape at them with open mouth. They both looked… different. Nigel, in black slacks and shirt opened at his throat, was quite-dashing, was the best word. A silver belt buckle and a pair of boots made him look like an experienced clubber, which was probably the feeling he was aiming for. Andy beamed at him happily.
“Are you planning to break some hearts tonight?” she asked innocently and giggled at his imminent eye-roll.
“Only a couple of ribs, if necessary,” he retorted, and looked her judgingly up and down. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” Andy grinned at him, before taking a deep breath and focusing on Carrie.
Oh, God in Heavens.
Carrie wore a simple, red dress with a flared skirt ending just above her knee, thin straps crossing on the nape of her neck and an artificial rose pinned above her red breast. She let her hair down and curled it, letting it fall down her shoulders and back like a soft curtain. Her shoes were simple, dancing ones, black with thin stripes, and Andy instantly loved the way they encased the wearer’s feet.
She gulped, and offered Carrie a nervous smile, feeling awfully ugly in her tunic and jeans. Carrie beamed back, brushing the hair off her face with a gesture Andy came to know all too well during last week. “You like?” she asked in a low, soft voice, and turned around with an unmistakable grace of a dancer.
“You-you look very nice,” Andy managed to squeeze out of her dry throat before blushing furiously. Carrie didn’t seem to notice her anxiousness; she smiled innocently and linked her arm through Nigel’s. “Shall we go?” she asked kind of impatiently, tugging him towards the club entrance. Nigel faked a bow, taking Andy by the elbow, and they hauled themselves into a small, dim corridor completed with a cloakroom and a grim bouncer who gave them a hard, unfriendly look before recognizing Nigel and opening the inner doors for them.
The music enveloped Andy in seconds. It was rhythmical, melodic, surprisingly not too loud, Latin-American-something as far as Andy could say. She looked around, perplexed, taking in the atmosphere of an unfamiliar place: dark wood covering the walls and floor, red velvet sofas and armchairs already occupied by young (or not so young), colorful people sipping on colorful drinks, reddish light coming from the reflectors and immersing the whole interior in strange, dangerous shadows… It was quite different from clubs Andy used to visit with Nate, Lily and Doug: those were simply-decorated, joyful places where popular music played too loud to allow any conversation and people gulped down draft beer. Here, between the red light and pulsating, sensual sound of music coming from discreetly placed speakers, was a mystery hanging in the air.
“It’s a special place,” Andy heard Nigel say next to her ear, “with limited membership, of course. You don’t have to worry about anyone’s eyes watching you, or people judging you. That’s the first rule-never to judge. The second is, well, to have fun and relax.”
“I think I can cope with that,” Andy joked, still nervous, but gradually overcoming the feeling of misplacement. “Do you know anyone here?”
“Oh, too many people,” Carrie interrupted, walking over to Andy’s side, and repeated her gesture from last Saturday, pulling her colleague into a half-embrace. “Come on, let’s mingle.”
‘Mingling’ meant introducing Andy to far too many people: models, dancers, assistants of fashion designers, all young, vibrant, and having a slightly androgynous feel about them. Some of the girls kissed Carrie’s cheeks, lingering, their eyes glittering which emotions Andy couldn’t quite place-or maybe she could, unconsciously, and blissfully chose to ignore them.
Whichever the case was, Andy followed Carrie down the stairs and into the club, feeling the light, teasing press of her fingers across her hipbone, smiling at people whose names she knew she wouldn’t remember the next day. That was the key to everything. Smile. Shake hands, exchange formalities or simple questions about work. Go forward. Accept a drink. Listen to Carrie laugh at some inside-joke, see her place a hand on some girl’s arm, or shoulder, close to her neck.
Repeat.
When Andy shook off her strange stupor about an hour later, she realized that she’d already had a couple of drinks, and that a fresh cosmopolitan had been recently placed in her hand. Her body hummed with the alcohol-induced buzz, tuning itself to the music. At some point Carrie left her alone on some sofa, squeezed between a skinny model wearing a dress Andy vaguely recognized as having been featured in the very last issue of Runway, and a male photographer in skin-tight jeans and bright orange shirt. The model drank tequila shots and gave away a general feeling of bitchiness. The photographer kept casting dreamy looks at Nigel, sprawled over the sofa opposite them. Neither of them as much as looked at Andy.
Not that anyone did. Every single person in the club seemed to know at least a half of the assembled company. They gave a new meaning to the word ‘mingle’, walking lazily from one table to another, kissing lots of air and sipping on their colorful drinks that never seemed to run dry. Andy wasn’t sure if she could stand it for longer than fifteen minutes: she was getting bored just by looking at those people. Nigel, on the other hand, was obviously enjoying himself, talking to a group of young fashionistas who eyed him in awe and almost religiously absorbed the words falling from his mouth. Andy noted, with a small pang of jealousy, that one of the guys, a thirty-something who wasn’t wearing anything too tight or vulgarly bright, seemed to have caught Nigel’s attention, and the two of them hit it off pretty well. Good for Nigel, Andy decided, and looked around for the other familiar face.
Carrie left them a while ago and went straight for the dance floor, obviously, and was presently dancing with some guy who looked as gay and cute as the day was long. They moved in perfect sync, showing off comlicated turns and dips, Carrie floating on the waves of music with her hair dancing around her flushed face, lips half-opened in a satisfied smile. She was apparently having a great time, Andy thought angrily and gulped down the remnants of her cosmo, wondering whether she could slip away unnoticed, go home and sleep through the regret, the feeling of being misplaced and useless. It would be hard, she decided, given the number of drinks she’d already had, but still it seemed worth trying.
Andy stood up shakily and reached for her clutch, determined to see her plan through.
She failed completely.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Carrie purred into her ear, taking hold of Andy’s extended hand. “You haven’t even danced with me yet.”
Andy swayed on her heels and gave Carrie an apologetic smile. “Guess I’m a bit out of balance. Maybe we should-“
“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Carrie cut her off, and threw Andy’s clutch back on the sofa. “Come on, I’ll hold you. You won’t fall, not with me around.”
Andy wanted to blurt out something stupid, like ‘I might as well fall for you, here or anywhere else,’ but fortunately enough she was too busy keeping her balance when Carrie half-dragged her to the dance floor to make any kinds of remarks, especially the sarcastic ones. She suddenly felt really stupid, standing in the middle of an empty space and following Carrie’s instructions to close her eyes and “feel the music”. Andy had no idea what was that particular type of music called: was it salsa, meringue, cha-cha-cha or something else? All she knew was that the rhythm was steady, not too quick, and a background trumpet gave the song a swing that moved something in Andy’s not-quite-capable-of-dancing body.
“Listen to it,” she heard Carrie’s voice next to her right ear, and in the very next moment two slender hands rested on Andy’s hips. “It’s all here. Find your rhythm.”
Andy became sharply aware of the fact that Carrie’s body was presently pressed to her back, arms lined with her own and taking hold of her hands, entwining their fingers and pressing gently on Andy’s hips. Carrie circled her hips in one long, smooth motion, and Andy followed, reluctantly, testing out her own flexibility. Carrie guided her with nothing more than touch, a pressure applied to Andy’s hips and wrists, sometimes a stroke against her forearm or thigh, and though it had probably very little in common with how Andy had imagined their ‘dancing lessons’, she soon found herself responding to the rhythm, losing herself in it, and moving in a bolder, more pronounced way. She laughed, happy for no apparent reason, and threw her head back to rest it on Carrie’s shoulder. She heard the redhead chuckle, and could have sworn that her lips brushed against her throat for a fracture of a second.
“You like that?” Carrie purred into Andy’s ear, and spun Andy around to face her. Andy gasped at the expression on Carrie’s face: wild, ferocious, with lips half-curled in a dangerous grin. She swallowed hard, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” Carrie stated, and pushed one of her knees between both of Andy’s, wrapping her arms around her waist. “Relax, Andy. Feel the music, open up to it.”
Close-up, Carrie’s face was flushed, with pearls of sweat forming on her temples and a little bit on perspiration over her upper lip. She looked pretty as always, but-combined with the grin-her face looked more primeval this way. Andy didn’t get a chance to decide whether she liked her better this way or not, for Carrie pushed her legs apart just a little, and, with carefully applied pressure, dipped Andy backwards, bending her body in a way Andy didn’t think was possible.
It was kind of… nice, actually, the change of perspective, the buzz in Andy’s head as she closed her eyes and grasped Carrie’s arms for support and gave in to the feeling. It didn’t last long: soon she felt herself being pulled up, and instinctively wrapped her arms around Carrie’s neck, desperately clinging to her and inhaling her perfume, their scent intensified by warmth and aggravation. Carrie laughed a little and pushed Andy away, holding her at arm length with a quizzical smile lingering on her lips.
“I’d say your first lesson went remarkably well,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Shall we meet again next week?”
“Y-yes,” Andy managed to speak with clutched throat, and blinked in surprise when she realized Carrie had “magically” brought them back to the sofa, and right now she was handing Andy her jacket and purse. Was Andy being dismissed, like a young dancer after her first lesson with a private teacher? Well, regardless of the fact Andy had had absolutely no idea what to think about this night in the first place, this wasn’t what she expected. She looked around for Nigel, and found his place on the sofa empty. The guy who accompanied him disappeared, too.
And the other guy, the one who’d been dancing with Carrie before she blatantly took hold of Andy, was standing right next to them, waiting.
“Oh,” Andy said, feeling stupid, cold, and surprisingly empty inside. “I-I’d better go.”
Carrie nodded, still smiling the same quizzical smile, and pecked her cheek casually. “Be careful on your way back. See you on Monday, right?”
“Yeah,” Andy said impassively and shrugged her jacket on, before nodding casually to the impatient dancer behind Carrie and walking away, up the stairs, and out on the street.
No cab in sight. Well, whatever, Andy could use a walk. She fished her cell from her bag to check the time, and winced: Miranda called her five times, and left a message. Sighing, Andy called her voicemail.
“Why is it that I cannot reach any of my assistants at this time of night?” Miranda’s cool, sarcastic voice vibrated in Andy’s ear, in tune with the music coming from the club behind her back. “I need you to be at the office tomorrow morning, Andrea, nine o’clock sharp.”
Click. Delete. Sigh. A lonely cab crawled Andy’s way, so she hailed it and got in, giving the driver her address in a tired voice.
So much for a nice evening.
Andy closed her eyes and rested her head against the plastic-covered taxi couch and inhaled deeply to calm her nerves. Her eyes snapped opened, and she sniffed on her tunic, feeling her heart beat faster.
She was literally covered with Carrie’s perfume.
The driver looked in the rearview mirror and smiled knowingly. “Tough date?”
Andy shook her head, still too astonished to formulate an adequate answer. “No,” she managed in the end, “I wouldn’t say so.”
TBC…