Love (14 page)

“Orlando Rock, you sly sausage,” treacled Tiffany, slinking up beside him, slipping her wrist through his arm. “I thought you said you were staying at the hotel. I knew you couldn't really resist.”

Orlando felt as though he'd eaten one too many Mars bars.

“Yeah, well,” he blustered, wishing she'd take her hand away. The eyes of the room were on them, and Tiffany was very well aware of this fact. She popped an
olive between her cherubic lips and whispered in his ear, “We could be the next Bogart and Bacall.”

A camera flashed at the other side of the room, and Orlando saw boxes of light dancing before his eyes. Extricating himself from her, he said, “Tiffany, I've really got to go, no offense but I don't feel too great.”

“Poor baby,” she lisped, kissing him on the cheek as he put his sweater on and left.

A
my, like most of us, had never before woken up to find her boyfriend's infidelity on the front cover of the newspapers, and we can't pretend she found out this particularly nasty piece of information in a gentle, cushioned manner, because she didn't.

The Siamese pawed their way around her bedroom door at eight o'clock on Sunday morning and perched on the end of her bed. Cath carried a cup of coffee and Kate the newspapers.

“We brought you these,” said Cath, placing the coffee on Amy's dressing table.

“And this …,” said Kate, passing a bleary-eyed Amy a copy of the
News of the World
and the
Mail on Sunday
. Amy rubbed her eyes, thinking maybe it was her birthday and to wake her at an ungodly hour was their idea of a treat. No such luck, Amy.

“I think you'd better read this,” said Kate gravely, pushing the rolled-up paper under Amy's nose.

“Thanks,” Amy croaked, trying to sound grateful for this unprecedented “treat.”

They sat in deafening silence, watching as Amy pulled her pillows up behind her and, yawning, looked at the
front page. There, clear as day and twice as vicious, was Orlando Rock, and a woman was kissing his cheek. Not quite comprehending, Amy looked again, half catching the caption: “Top Actor … Rock … Tiffany Swann … On the Town.” The flat monsters sat there ogling her, waiting for a response. Amy turned white and her coffee cup shook in her hand, but she didn't say anything. She read and reread the short caption but it made no sense. Eventually the flat monsters went away purring with satisfaction at their triumph.

Amy lay in the bath and let the water lap over her head. She heard the swirling sounds of the pipes beneath the water and felt minute tingles as the bubbles of air rose from her hair to the top of the water. She couldn't really focus on what was happening. Orlando was in New Zealand and kissing Tiffany Swann. She looked at her pink-striped body where her swimsuit had been as they'd snorkeled on the reef, and felt chilled. Back in her room she tossed the newspaper off her bed and straightened the sheets. Bastard! she growled, and kicked the desk.

The phone rang and she was nearly sick. She crept toward the door and stood on the other side, dreading it being Orlando and preparing insults and accusations, but even more dreading it not being him. She held her breath.

“I just want to talk to Amy,” Lucinda yelled down the phone.

“There's really no need to shout, and I don't think she wants to speak to anyone right now,” said Cath, her philanthropic tone serving only to piss Lucinda off even more.

“If you don't get her at once, I'll break both your legs.”

Cath tramped up the stairs and knocked on Amy's door.

“Someone on the phone for you.”

“Who?” asked Amy, desperate for it to be Orlando so she could at least scream at him, or he could explain the terrible misunderstanding.

“That woman you work with,” spat Cath. Amy opened the door and greeted Cath red eyed and pale.

“OK, I'll take it. Lucinda. Hi.”

“You've seen it?”

“Sure have,” she said bravely.

“I'll come and pick you up.”

“No, look, it's better if I stay here.”

“Amy, if he calls, the bitches can give him my number.” Lucinda anticipated Amy's worry.

“OK.”

Sitting at Lucinda's kitchen table, Amy allowed Benjy to read out the salient horrors of Orlando's indiscretion.

“They were at a party for the launch of one of New Zealand's major artists … Tiffany Swann, Rock's costar in the forthcoming film of Hardy's
Return of the Native
, wore a stunning blue dress and the couple were spotted chatting intimately. A fellow party-goer said, ‘They couldn't keep their hands off one another. The relationship seemed more than just professional.' ”

“Enough!” shouted Amy. “I should have known better than to trust an actor, especially one with a reputation for womanizing. What a bloody idiot I am.” Lucinda put her arm around Amy, and Benjy made some more tea.

“Screw him!” Amy yelled, kicking the table. “Why can't I just find someone nice? Just a boyfriend, no bells, just a bloke.” They all knew that Amy wouldn't just settle for any old bloke, but humored her, and Benjy took his cue and left the room. Better not to be a moving target when there's a general down-on-men vibe darting around and one of the women present is virtually mainlining Bach Rescue Remedy.

A few nights later Amy's anger had hardened like lava on the side of a volcano. Molten Amy, she thought. Mount St. Amy. She was still grinding her teeth ferociously, but staying with Lucinda and Benjy was a comfort. They'd fed and watered her, and in between bouts of dying to see Orlando just so she could hit him she also felt as though she was getting over him. We'll let her live with this delusion, too, if it helps the healing process. Eventually the resident carers, Benjy and Lucinda, decided that what she needed was to dance. Shake it, strut it, and let go a bit. Lucinda came into her room wielding a secret weapon in the form of a laughably tiny corset and some PVC trousers.

“Oh my God, it's a glittery boob tube! You're never going to wear that, Luce, you'll fall out of it,” Amy shrieked, perking up at the sight of this wonderful garment.

“No, sweetheart, you're going to wear it,” said Lucinda, with no fuss and no room for maneuver. “We're going to a club, c'mon.” The sergeant-major diction worked a treat, and ten minutes later Amy was suffocating herself into the corset and zipping up the
trousers. She wiggled her bottom to herself in the mirror and felt a bit of a Gloria Gaynor coming on … ba na na na ba na na naaaa. Amazing what a new outfit can do for a girl.

The club was beneath a market stall in Camden Town, seedy and packed to the rafters with hip young things. Two transvestites stumbled around crashing into furniture and revelers.

“Off their tits,” muttered the guy on the cloakroom. This struck Amy as amusing since they didn't even have real tits. In another corner Boy George was holding court in a denim jacket, and it was rumored that Naomi Campbell was upstairs. Amy doubted it and hoped not. The last time she'd seen Naomi had been on a shoot and she'd bought her the wrong kind of muesli bar and as everyone knows, hell hath no fury like a supermodel given the wrong kind of muesli bar. Amy could only afford one beer so asked Benjy to baby-sit it in between spells on the dance floor. Lucinda and Amy were in their element: they gyrated and writhed, their hips swung giddily from side to side, and they looked fab.

“Are you feeling better now, darling?” Lucinda leaned over and yelled in Amy's ear, causing her eardrum to vibrate.

“Yup,” Amy mouthed. And she was. The best outfits on the floor, the coolest dancers, and a bevy of ardent admirers waiting on the sidelines for the girls to come up for air, but they didn't. Breathless and hot they carried on dancing. All that coaxing models into funky
positions had left them both with a variety of stunning poses to strike, and they struck. The music pulsed through Amy's blood and she felt strong and resilient. Even as they stood at the bar the aura of ferocity about them warded off all but the most die-hard suitors. Benjy made himself known as Lucinda's must-have accessory, but Amy was easy prey. She sipped at the warm dregs of her beer and watched the men watching her. The femme fatale in her came to the fore. And the crueller she looked, the more they hankered after her. If only it was always so simple, but the general nature of men is one of perversity, so unfortunately it's not. Benjy and Lucinda went back to the dance floor, and Amy was left seductively handling her beer bottle. It didn't take long, that's the great thing about nightclubs, it never does takes long. No intellectual pretexts are needed, just plain old, “You dancing?” a voice behind her drawled.

Amy was tempted to run the gamut. “You asking?”

“I'm asking.”

“I'm dancing.” But she put her Liverpudlian accent on the back burner and turned to face the face whence the invitation had come. Not a bad face, thought Amy. Male modelish. Yes, nice. And not Orlando Rock. Not remotely like Orlando Rock. Blond and Australian-looking, longish hair, brown eyes. Highlighted hair then? Probably. Don't think I like the idea of that. Oh, come on, Amy, beggars can't be choosers, and he looks nice, not like a pervert or anything. Not like he'd chop you up into little bits if you went home with him. That's a relief.

“OK,” said Amy.

So she slunk about and the male-modelish-looking person put his hands on her hips; he closed his eyes and danced a bit like Jim Morrison. Not bad. After a while her hips obviously weren't doing the trick for him so he moved them up a bit. Amy sped up her dancing so that his hands couldn't keep up with her. She wasn't nearly drunk enough to be doing this, she told herself. But then the image of Orlando's cheek, the cheek she'd stroked and pinched, the one she'd watched as he slept, flashed into her mind, and that tart's lips all over it. She braced herself and let her nameless blond take hold of whatever bits he wanted. She pulled his shirt collar down and kissed him. They danced close, he pulling Amy against him, against the unabashed hard bit in his trousers. Amy kissed him lots more and was reminded of seventeen-year-old nightclub kisses that were all you could manage because you had to go home to your parents. Their faces slipped sweatily against one another and he tasted of beer and cigarettes. It was so like her first forays into sex that she was quite turned on at the thought. But not enough. I can't. I just can't. She pushed his shoulders away gently and, smiling, said, “I'm just off to the loo, back in a minute.” He nodded dumbly; Amy pegged it to the ladies.

“Shit shit shit.” She splashed cold water all over her face and looking up saw herself in her gold corset and smudged mascara.

“What
do
I look like?” she said under her breath. A six-foot transvestite lurched out of the cubicle behind her in a figure-hugging Vivienne Westwood dress and winked a false-lashed eye at her.

“You look gorgeous, honey, too nice for this place,” he rasped wisely.

“Thanks. You're probably right,” said Amy, blow-drying her hands.

“Men, eh?” he smirked, wiping some lipstick off his front teeth.

“Exactly,” she agreed.

She went outside in search of Lucinda, keeping her head down, trying to avoid the Australian. Spying Lucinda and Benjy at the other side of the room, she wound her way around the outside and grabbed their arms.

“Guys, I've got to go.”

“We thought you were enjoying yourself,” said Benjy.

“I'm much too old for this kind of thing,” she said, hanging her head for fear of being spotted. Oh God, there he is, he's looking right at me.

“Luce, help!”

“Borrow Benjy,” said Lucinda, quick as a flash. “Benjy, kiss Amy, now!” Benjy looked flabbergasted and far too nervous to move; time was running out and the Australian was on his way over, practically groping distance away. Lucinda grabbed Amy and kissed her smack bang on the lips; they wiggled their faces around a bit in their best imitation of a snog. Benjy looked on in admiration at Lucinda's ingenuity. The Australian lumbered around, looking quizzically at Benjy. Benjy just shrugged his shoulders. Realizing his luck was out, the Australian gave a some-you-win toss of his head and went to seek out the next sure thing. Amy and Lucinda kept up the charade all the way to the cloakrooms, looking lovingly into each other's eyes and holding hands. Then, when
they'd all had their jackets safely returned, they tore up the stairs of the club and collapsed laughing in the street outside. Benjy wandered around doing his best “women, what are they like?” impression, but they all knew that he was feeling proud, if a little bewildered.

“You missed your chance there, Benjy,” said Amy.

“I think that's just something he'll have to live with, sweet pea,” Lucinda said sagely.

In the taxi it began to sink in what Amy had done.

“Thank God you guys were there. I mean, he wasn't the sex-fiend type, but you'd have thought I'd have grown up enough not to snog the first guy who crossed my path after Orlando Rock.”

“You're never too old to do stupid things, Amy, just put it down to experience,” said Lucinda.

“Oh, harken unto the agony aunt here,” said Benjy. “If I'd just made an itsy-bitsy mistake like getting off with a complete stranger in a nightclub, it'd have been a castratable offense.”

“Naturally,” said the girls in unison. You're a lone male, Benjy, just leave it alone, for your own sake.

When Amy woke up the next morning she could smell cigarette smoke. Oh God, it's me. Her mouth tasted very parrot cagey and, oh no … regression. It was the regression to that feeling when you've had one too many ciders when you're sixteen, you've snogged someone—you know that because your lips are cut—and you've kissed for so long that you've got kind of chilblains around your mouth, you can feel a nagging ache in your tummy, will he be at school on Monday? Did I give him
my phone number? If you gave him your phone number, not only were you brain-dead, you also have to spend the rest of the weekend darting for the phone every time it rings because if your parents get it, there'll be interminable inquisitions, which will either take the form of: “I think you're still too young to be going to discotheques, you're only sixteen.”