Love (11 page)

On Saturday afternoon she went to the video shop and bought two cans of Pringles and three videos:
Carry On at Your Convenience
(the one about the toilet factory),
Cyrano de Bergerac
, and
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. She cried at all of them—she even cried at the
Carry On
, because she thought Sid James was lovely and he was dead. She ate her coleslaw out of the tub and munched her way through the Pringles. At six o'clock she was filled with
self-loathing and fortified herself for an evening of Cilia Black and
Inspector Morse
repeats. Not a terrible prospect ordinarily, but with seven hours of viewing under her belt and enough sloth and greed to make the devil himself recoil in horror she thought maybe she should go for a run or something. As she contemplated going to her room to find her trainers the phone rang. In her apathy she let it ring until, answerphone … 
beeeep
:

“Amy, pick up the phone, I know you're there.” The strident tones of Lucinda. “Amy, I mean it …” Amy tripped over the mess and lurched toward the phone.

“Lucinda, what on earth do you want?”

“I'm coming round in half an hour to pick you up. Pack your case, I'm taking you to my mother's.”

“Luce …” Whine, whine.

“Just shut up and get ready.”

Half an hour to get ready may be a spur when a famous actor's coming for a curry, but when it's your best friend the motivation isn't quite there, especially when she's taking you to her mother's. Amy wondered what on earth Lucinda's mother could be like. Lucinda's received pronunciation and sergeant-major qualities should denote an army background, but rumors abounded that life was nothing of the sort chez Luce. Oh well. Amy packed her little suitcase, the one she'd last used for her (in her pining eyes) ill-fated weekend in Dorset. I wish I'd never met bloody Orlando Rock.

Amy had avoided mirrors for a few days now, but collecting her toothbrush from the bathroom, she was confronted with the horror that was her face. It was the same face she'd always had, she supposed, only today
her eyes looked smaller, those lashes a bit more stubby. And her eyebrows didn't arch in a come-hither fashion as she'd come to imagine. And the lips—nothing rosebud about them, fast-fading geranium, maybe. But she knew what the problem was: she'd spent so long in magazines over the past few days—studying the face of the inhumanly nubile Tiffany Swann, and scouring the visage of Orlando's ex-wife for something as deeply unattractive as laughter lines (to no avail, I'm afraid)—that she felt that she should be on a par with these divinities, that somehow her own facial misfortunes would vanish under the Midas gaze of Orlando Rock. Not so, babe. She took a step back and was about to examine her body but the Spirit of Self-Preservation spoke up. “You're not even gonna go there, honey,” she warned. Instead Amy stabbed her toothbrush into her soap bag crossly and balked at the packing of shampoo, but for decency's sake she thought it better that she did. All Lucinda's fault, she thought petulantly. Bloody bossy cow.

The bloody bossy cow rang the doorbell. Trog trog down the stairs.

“Amy, you look a fright. My mother will wonder who the troll is I've brought home.”

“Fine, then I'll stay here.”

Lucinda pulled Amy's arm.

“Don't you dare, come back here.”

The ill-matched pair squashed into the car, Lucinda looking like a packet of opal fruits in the latest spring colors, all glossy hair and fruity lips. Amy looked like something she'd salvaged from a skip. They sat in silence most of the way … heaven knows where.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my mother's.”

“Where does she live?”

“Norfolk.”

“Oh.”

Scintillating. Eventually, and not a moment too soon for either party, they pulled up along a very muddy lane. Amy stepped out into a puddle—at least, she presumed it was as it was so dark and she couldn't see. It could very well have been the swimming pool for all she knew. Lucinda carried the bags to the house and they were greeted by two bounding Labradors. Unsurprising so far, thought Amy.

Some daughters do 'ave 'em, as the saying goes. But Lucinda's mother surpassed expectations. Tart with a Heart sprang to Amy's mind.

“Now come in, darling.” That's where Lucinda gets it from. “I've made up a bed in the scullery.” Do people have sculleries anymore? What is a scullery? And why put a bed in there? Amy puzzled. But she was more agog at the rest of the scenario. Lucinda's mother was blond, but not maternal blond, mind you. Slut blond. Teased and lipsticked to the nines. She was beautiful in a survivor kind of way, been there, done that. But warm and lovely, caring and barmaidish. Not a mother though, and not Lucinda's mother, surely. Meeting parents usually means that the jigsaw begins to fit. This one didn't, but Amy was so wide-eyed for the next hour that she clean forgot about Mr. Rock and his strumpet in New Zealand.

The house was a glorious mix of Colonial horrors, things like zebra rugs and ivory ashtrays and Aga paraphernalia, racks of drying clothes and packets of organic cornflakes. And Labradors, called Zeus and Iggy. Wooooh, thought Amy Am I really here, this is too much of a trip to be true. The girls were fed couscous salad and garlic sausage and packed off to bed.

Amy woke and nearly screamed at the bison head above her campbed. She was brought to her senses and remembered firstly that she was at Lucinda's mother's, secondly that she was there in her capacity as a disaster victim and presumably was in for some hefty TLC and counseling. But right now all she wanted was to see Orlando. She seesawed between
knowing
that she would never see him again and feeling sick with longing. She wanted to relive the afternoon in the gallery, the walk through Covent Garden, the Sunday lunch at his house, all of it. She wanted to go back and appreciate, to be more stunningly beautiful, wittier and lovelier, and now she'd never get the chance. And something smelled strange. She twitched her nostrils and realized to her horror that it was her hair. Amy stood up and cursed cold stone floors. Probably a common feature in sculleries, she told herself. She half remembered the previous night's directions to the bathroom and after a minor detour into a room that looked like an Edwardian bordello but was probably Lucinda's mother's bedroom found herself tackling her dreadlocks.

“Good lord, darling, I thought you were a Rastafarian last night,” chortled Mrs. Lucinda; Amy couldn't remember
her name, but Lucinda came to her rescue just in time.

“Anita's just been telling me that there's a foal in the paddock. We should go and have a look after breakfast,” said Lucinda. Who's Anita? thought Amy, some long-lost sister/aunt/neighbor?

“Yes, I told Lulu that weather permitting we should have a ride, too.” It all became clear as day. Anita was Mrs. Lucinda. How sixties, thought Amy, in awe of the coolness of calling your mother by her first name.

“Amy, how about some breakfast?” Amy nodded to toast and vegetarian sausages.

“Anita loves animals, rescues cats and stuff,” confided Lucinda when Anita had wafted outside in her Gucci caftan. Amy thought it better not to point out the virtual zoo of dead things adorning the house and devoured her very tasty soya inventions instead.

The three of them donned wellies and hats and slopped around all morning cooing over the foal and picking bluebells. Amy was introduced to an assortment of chickens and rabbits and the village stray cats. She wondered if there was a patriarch lurking somewhere in the family, in an undiscovered study or suitably patriarchal place, but the female spark was just a bit too bright to convince her that there was. Then she remembered the bordello and was sure there was no man about this house.

They shook the crumbling mud off their wellies and sat down to a lunch of taramasalata and white wine.

“I remember when I was little I used to long for real
teatime,” reminisced Lucinda. “I wanted to come home to baked beans and fish fingers at six o'clock.”

“Oh, darling, don't be so hard-bitten, there was always food in the fridge. It was my ploy to make you the wonderful, self-sufficient human being you are today,” laughed Anita, not remotely fazed by the accusations of dysfunctional family life.

“I hated teatime, it meant I couldn't move until I'd eaten carrots and peas. Think yourself lucky.”

“Thank you, Amy. This one wouldn't know the good life if she won the lottery,” Anita quipped, stroking her daughter's cheek fondly.

“Anyway, I was working to keep you in ra-ra skirts.”

“What did you do, Anita?” asked Amy.

“Oh, very predictable, I'm afraid. I was a model.” Amy could see it, the bones behind the tizz of hair, the startling blue eyes.

“She was also an actress,” Lucinda said proudly.

“No, I was just in one film, a very sixties thing where I wandered round looking half-stoned. Very dull.”

“Actually, Anita went out with a few celebrities in her day. Didn't you?”

Anita looked crossly at Lucinda.

“You have absolutely no tact, Lulu darling.” Amy began to smell a rat.

“Amy, I just thought Mom could offer you some advice on coping with a famous beau,” said Lucinda timidly.

“Luce, my problem isn't that Orlando's famous, it's that he's on the other side of the world.” And probably sleeping with Tiffany Swann, she didn't add. Amy sniffled, her emotion suddenly getting the better of her.

“Oh, sweetheart, don't cry. Now, Lulu, you can go and
check on the donkey. Amy and I will have a cup of tea in my room.”

So Amy was whisked off by the lissome Anita, who doled out tea and sympathy on her colossal four-poster. They snuggled into the huge feathery duvet, and while Amy sobbed, Anita told her about the time she'd followed Mick Jagger to Morocco.

“Marianne and I packed bags no bigger than that little Prada creation of Lulu's and hopped on the plane to Morocco. I was so in love with Mick and Marianne was in love with at least three of the boys so we figured you should go after what you want. Had the most fantastic time, days in the souk, evenings by the pool. Sheer bliss.”

Amy giggled through her tears at Anita's stories. She decided that Lucinda was probably Bill Wyman's daughter, and Anita's spirit began to infuse her.

“You're right. It's only been a few days, and it does take twenty-four hours to get there. If he doesn't call while I'm away, I'll phone myself. After a whiskey.”

“Darling, you should get your bottom on the next plane and go and show him what he's missing.”

“What happened after Morocco?” Amy asked.

“Oooh, more of the same really, in New York, London, all over the place, and we're still terrific friends. Mick sometimes comes with Jerry and the little ones, they love the horses.” God, how lovely, thought Amy, crying all over again.

“Lucinda's really lucky to have you,” she sniffled.

Cheered by Anita's pep talk, Amy pranced around like a young foal herself for the rest of the weekend. She
taught Anita how to make coleslaw, and the three of them played gin rummy after lunch.

“I nearly forgot,” said Anita, jumping up from her seat. “Wine.”

“I'm fine, thanks, Anita, and I've got to drive back later.”

“Not any old wine, Lulu, my wine. Homemade wine.” Lethal.

They sipped their way through elderberry and dandelion, apricot, victoria plum and then progressed to sloe gin.

“I think there's a hint of asparagus here,” said Amy, in her best wine-snob voice.

“No, no, it's most definitely carrot,” Lucinda said with a flourish.

“I think you'll find it's horseshit,” Anita squealed, and they all exploded into laughter, pink-cheeked and sozzled.

I
nspired by Anita, Amy arrived back in London a new woman. She had clean hair and was determined not to be so wet and bourgeois about everything in future. She became a walking proverb: make hay while the sun shines, a watched kettle never boils, and a stitch in time saves nine. She wasn't sure what the latter contributed to her current predicament or even what it meant, but it followed the general the-future-belongs-to-the-risk-takers trend of her new resolve, so she adopted it as part of her life philosophy.

As testament to the power of positive thinking, and because you've got to give a girl a break sometimes, Amy arrived back at her flat in time to catch the phone ringing. She skedaddled up the stairs just as the machine took it.

“Amy, it's Orlando, I called earlier but you weren't there …”

“Hi.”

“So, how are you?”

“Great, thanks, where are you?”

“New Zealand. It's six o'clock on Sunday morning and I thought I'd just say hello.”

“That's nice. Thanks.” Not terribly inspired, Amy. Think Anita.

“And,” he said cautiously, “and that … I've been thinking about you.”

“Thinking what?” she asked, dying to be flattered. What? That you can't live without me? That I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever met and that we should get married in Bali this weekend? Women can't be content with “thinking.” We need details; a one-thousand-word essay would be nice but failing that a few salient details will suffice. Orlando didn't fare so badly.

“Just that we had a nice time and … New Zealand's quite lonely. I miss you, Amy.” Well, stone me! Steady, Amy … fools rush in and all that …

“Gosh, thanks.”

“I know it's not very likely but …” He was very reticent, or was it the time delay? “Why not come out here for a week or so? I could arrange the flight. It's quite beautiful.”

Shit, thought Amy, he can't mean it. He doesn't mean it, Amy, don't get too up yourself. He's Orlando Rock, you're Amy. Plain Amy. Don't give anything away.