Love (18 page)

“I think not. Get dressed and let's go out to breakfast,” he instructed.

Glamour, thought Amy, wondering if people still wore twinsets to Claridges for breakfast.

“Where to?” she asked hopefully.

“There's this amazing greasy spoon in Balham. Let's splash out and take a taxi.”

“God, you really know how to woo a girl, Orlando Rock. You'd better be careful or I'll sell my ‘Mean Love Rat Only Bought Me Breakfast in Joe's Caff' story to the
Sun
,” Amy laughed.

So they hopped in a cab and the taxi driver insisted on opening the glass flap.

“You're that Rock bloke from the papers, aren't you?”

“Something like that,” obliged Orlando.

“ 'Ere, that bird you was with in the paper the other morning … very tasty,” he said approvingly, seeming not to notice that Amy was a living, breathing, thinking individual. Or maybe he thinks I'm Orlando's sister, we do look quite alike. Like those narcissistic lovers who go out with their spitting image. No, we don't look remotely alike. Miserable sod, she cursed the driver. Orlando squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek reassuringly, then he slammed closed the cabdriver's window, not really caring about the inevitable tales that would be bandied around every passenger from here to kingdom come about the “bit of a miserable git really, that Oliver Rock.” Amy trembled at his moodiness and was glad to be on the receiving end of his devotion. Mr. Darcy strikes again, only this time Amy witnessed him in all his splendor. God, he's sexy, she thought, placing her hand firmly on his thigh.

They arrived at the Bridge Diner in Balham and Amy feigned delight at the authenticity of the ketchup stains on the table. She was tempted to order just black tea, as she was dubious about the entire contents of the kitchen, with milk top of that list, but Orlando was so proud of his discovery, pleased as Punch at the grottiness, that she really had to oblige and order full breakfast. Funny the things you'll put up with early into a relationship that six months down the line the man gets screamed at for just suggesting—“If you expect me to go and sit in that greasy hole and come out reeking of chips …” etc.—including a multitude of horrors, such as standing on the sidelines of a football match or eating pizzas and watching golf on TV. “It was romantic,” the men
warble; “I must have been out of my mind,” the women realize.

Amy tried to get into the spirit of grot. She's a girl who can appreciate the seedier side of life, as witnessed by her sortie into downbeat fashion, but she felt much more at home with it when she could be sure of the pedigree of the sleaze. If it came with a hand-sewn silk label declaring that it was a Hamnett or Galliano or was a café carefully distressed by the cleverest stylists in the business, she felt a little more at ease, positively at one with the grime. Orlando was just a bit wide of the mark in terms of the right thing to do, she thought fleetingly, never mind, she'd bring him round.

“So where shall we go for dinner tonight, my love?” she asked, a wealth of possibilities and grand entrances into glittering restaurants doing alluring arabesques through her imagination.

“Somewhere lovely and intimate, somewhere quiet,” he said dreamily. Blakes, she thought, she'd heard that it was lovely, a haven for lovers not wanting to be seen by cuckolded husbands and jealous wives, and if they felt like it they could book into a room, each one was decorated differently, pricey, but what the hell. Lucinda and Benjy could take a cab after dinner and leave love's young dream to enjoy passionate sex in a Moroccan interior, and a breakfast of …

“There's this place in Chiswick I've heard about, it's meant to be the best Thai around. It's getting fantastic reviews.” Hmmm, good reviews, bound to be a chic crowd. Amy was in the mood for a little glamour, in case you hadn't guessed. She'd narrowly escaped the smelly jaws of grunge and had emerged with most of
her friends and boyfriend, so was determined to rouge herself up to the cheekbones and replace that bloody Tiffany Duck or whatever she was called as the stunning companion on Orlando Rock's arm … Thai sounded perfect, a demonstration of her prowess with chopsticks and the delicate flavors of oriental cuisine, her silk mandarin dress … great.

“Sounds lovely, what's it called?”

“I don't think it has a name, it's just this place which is a lorry drivers' caff during the day and serves Thai food at night, Formica tables and all, foodie heaven,” Orlando said, proud that he was so
au fait
with the gourmet cuisine and could discover such rare gems in unlooked-for places. Formica. Amy's heart sank and her Japanese dress went back into her wardrobe. Foodies. Fat bloaters with red veiny noses and napkins tucked into their shirts, not a Georgina von Etzdorf scarf in sight, not a cameraman within a mile of Chiswick. Oh.

“Maybe Chiswick's a bit far for Lucinda and Benjy, they live in Notting Hill, you know.”

“Oh, I'm sure they won't mind traveling for this unique gastronomic experience,” he said confidently. Amy was a little quiet as she gingerly prodded her sausage, remembering documentaries about sheep's eyeballs and stuff that went into your average sausage. She couldn't quite bring herself to tackle her fried egg either so generously donated the contents of her plate to Orlando.

“Aren't you hungry?” he asked.

“It must be all the excitement of you coming back,” she said, smiling. White lies.

“You know, that's the problem with New Zealand. It's all so healthy, so clean, and the only time I got near a
sausage was when Bill was flaunting his breakfast in front of me.”

“Who's Bill?” asked Amy, glad to change the subject from grease-caked meat.

“My director and best friend, he's dying to meet you. He's a really good bloke, Scottish, you'd like him.”

Amy's mind was thrust back to the film set and New Zealand. “So, what were you doing at this party? I always imagined you'd be filming way into the night and were too exhausted to socialize. That's what you told me, anyway.” Amy was feeling piqued. Not enough sleep and no food made her even more irritable.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you, honestly. I was made to go by Bill, part of the actorly duty.”

“As long as I'm not around, I suppose,” she sulked.

“Amy, I wouldn't want you within a mile of the press, you're too nice and too precious right now. I've already lost one wife because of that sort of thing, I'm not about to lose you, too.” Amy carried on sipping her milky tea as she took in the remark. One wife. To lose one wife is unfortunate, to lose two is careless. Could that mean? Wow. Me. Wife. Same sentence. Part of her was thrilled, the other wanted to put his sausage up his nose for being so insensitive as to mention
her
in the same breath as Amy. Amy tested the water.

“I saw your ex-wife in a magazine the other day.”

“That's not surprising since she spends her life courting them.”

“She's very beautiful.”

“Yes.” Orlando, you're supposed to say, “Nowhere near as lovely as you though, darling,” but you're a guy
and you're honest so it doesn't occur to you, you've got a lot to learn.

“Oh, I see.” Churlish.

“Amy, come on, she's much older and nowhere near as pretty as you.”

“I don't want to be pretty, pretty's boring.”

“Amy,” he pleaded in exasperation, but it was too late, he'd missed his cue to flatter her and lift her from her bad mood and now the coaxing and reassuring was going to take at least fifteen times as long. When will they ever learn?

“Oh, darling, don't, you know that you're wonderful and that you're worth more than ten Joannas.” Nice work, Olly, keep going. But then a Meatloaf song came on the jukebox and served to remind Amy that she wasn't in Claridges but the Bridge Diner, best just remove her from the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible, Orlando, and start again. Take it from the top, the ten-times-prettier bit.

Amy and Orlando went their separate ways after breakfast, Orlando to wash and shave and Amy to fill up on muesli bars and wash up after last night's curry, but before she went home she had to pay a visit to the family-planning clinic. She'd been putting it off for weeks and as usual was down to her last pill. She wandered down King's Road and through the doors of the clinic. Curiously this was one of her favorite places, all brown carpets and filing cabinets. The women were gray-haired matrons, pioneering women's rights since women had rights. They were matter-of-fact and lovely. As Amy
took a seat a girl ran through the doors pink in the face and desperate.

“Can I have an appointment?” she panted.

“Run out, have we, dear?” The matron looked up from her desk.

“Yeah.”

“Take a seat then.”

This always happened. It made Amy feel practically organized to have thought of coming here two minutes before the eleventh hour rather than after it. She picked up a magazine, but it was
Country Life
so not very interesting. Rather than walk across the room to get another she waltzed off into the never-never instead. I wonder what they'd think if they all knew I was sleeping with Orlando Rock, she thought of the assembled family plan-nees. Probably give their right arms, if not their birth-control pills for the joy. The joy of sex. He was good in bed, Orlando. Very expert, I wonder where he learned all those things, she worried for a second.

Her name was called and she was whisked away and weighed. Her blood pressure was pronounced, “Nice and normal, dear,” and she was propelled back into the waiting room and the front desk. Here an array of pinks and blues and whites, all carnation colors, sat like packets of sweets, with butterflies etched on the side and licensed to thrill. The girl in front of Amy asked for extra condoms and they were doled out like lemon bonbons in a sweetshop. Amy's pill was in a comparatively dull yellow foil wrapper but before she had time to complain she was packed off with six months' worth in a white paper bag. She was Scheherazade with her thousand and one nights tucked away in her handbag. Oh, the possibilities …

.  .

It was the most beautiful spring morning. The kind that put a smile on the face of most mortals. The kind that sent Amy into raptures. The trees were just budding in the early sunshine. Winter was behind them and something new was round the corner; the spring in Amy's step was unmistakable. She had that indefinable yet irresistible new-love-thing walk. Men on newspaper stalls smiled at her bottom in the same way that she had smiled at the sparrows splashing in a puddle. All was well with the morning. Strolling past the backward-spinning clock outside Vivienne Westwood's shop in World's End, she wondered if her relationship with Orlando would outlast her contraceptive supplies. One can but hope, she thought. But let's not take things too quickly. Twelve hours is a long time in love and Amy could barely believe the transformation in her life. But she hadn't had time to digest it yet, let it sink in that her love god was back, all the way across the world to see her, to put his reassuring arm around her shoulder and apologize.

Amy walked back over the bridge to Battersea past the houseboats. It seemed a long time since she'd been there with Toby, holding his hand and wishing she'd been with the actor from the party. God, fate is a funny thing. She smiled goofily. A bus sailed past and she contemplated running to catch it. But if she'd sat on a bus, she would have been in danger of being arrested, all lunatic smiles and little endearments practiced under her breath. You know, you've been there. At least if she walked, innocent citizens could choose to cross to the other side of the road. Arriving home pink-cheeked and
glowing, yes glowing, she decided to make a start on some spring cleaning. After washing up she plumped pillows and straightened duvets in her bedroom. She buried her head in the pillow and smelled Orlando on it. A lovely musky smell of hair and leather, warm and comforting. She felt quite guilty about being so ungracious over breakfast. Now she could sit back and distill essence of Orlando, now she could uncork the little bottled-away events in her head and breathe in their heady aroma, she felt practically in love. She picked up the offending newspaper photograph from her bedroom floor and, blotting out the Duck woman, looked wistfully at the picture of Orlando, handsome and yet so reserved, and he was hers. Yippee. Then she remembered she had to be at work three hours ago so put on her trainers and ran.

Orlando went home to his, if the truth be known, lonely flat. He unpacked a few things and had a shower, splashing on lots of the leathery smell and wondering why Amy seemed a bit out of sorts today. Imagine reaching the age of thirty and not realizing that a woman in love is little more than a series of moods in flux. He presumed she was still a bit sore from the Tiffany fiasco and chided himself for not being firmer with Bill on the night of the party. Still, he thought, I've got a few days in London to make it up to her. And he couldn't think of a better way to do it than with a few intimate dinners and quiet days alone. Benjy and Lucinda were OK, they were friends, but he wasn't about to share her with anyone else. No sirree, this was one relationship he intended to keep to himself. So perhaps we can forgive him for being a little insensitive to Amy's needs, for not noticing that quite
naturally what a girl wants to do when she's just landed herself a plum heartthrob is to take him on the town, show him to the world and his dog, and bask in her kill. Perhaps we'll let him off his slight obsession with all things anonymous and all places quiet. But the question is, folks, will Amy let him off?

Amy wasn't really mulling over that point right now, she was racing along on the tube toward work. When she arrived she was yelled at in full view of everyone by the bitch Nathalia and sentenced to two hours of sewing on buttons. Lucinda crept in after lunch and gave her a sympathetic hug.