Love (24 page)

“Lucinda, I need my friends for support, how can you joke about it?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Look, here's a lovely coat to hide your face and some glasses,
et voilà
, nobody will look twice at you.” But of course they did: in her fashion-conscious, Ray-Banned-Eskimo-in-April attire she presented a strange sight even for those accustomed to beholding the curios coming and going from Vogue House. But if they stared, they merely saw a prettily dressed fashion editor, her glossy locks skimming her shoulders in an immaculate bob, escorting someone who was clearly off their trolley, but who was certainly not to be recognized as this morning's Stunna from Surrey. So, almost sadly, Amy had her anonymous way.

Once back at Lucinda's they endured the six, nine, and ten o'clock news, just in case in the “and finally …” section an item on the latest love of Orlando Rock had been slipped in by some duty manager with a sharp eye for detail and penchant for firm 34B breasts.
Mais non
, of course. Lucinda was not too miserable about the news-watching part of her care in the community duties as she had a bit of a crush on Peter Sissons. Ever since she'd seen him in a moment of national crisis and he'd furrowed his brow and asked scarily intelligent questions to government ministers, she'd found him disturbingly sexy. But that was another story, and one which
she'd rather keep to herself. What she did mind, though, were Amy's worrying sojourns into the world of media prostitution.

“Do you think maybe I should get an agent, Luce?”

“Why do you need an agent?” Lucinda's
darlings
were noticeably absent.

“Well, to ensure my privacy, and also, well … if people want to talk to me, well, it seems more professional for them to go through an agent, really. You know, money is quite vulgar.”

“I've always thought money far from vulgar,” chipped in Benjy, who darted into the room to extricate some cigarettes from down the side of the sofa.

“Oh God, darling, can I have one?” begged Lucinda.

“You're supposed to have given up.”

“Needs must and all that,” said Lucinda, gesturing discreetly toward Amy who was engrossed in last week's
Hello!
It's enough to make a grown girl cry, she thought.

“How much do you think they pay Fergie for appearing in here?”

“Bloody fortune,” said Benjy, heading back to the safety of the kitchen.

“Really?” Amy's eyes shone. “If they pay someone like her so much, someone passé and outmoded who never really did anything but get married and have Titian hair, well then, I'm sure the sky's the limit for someone, y'know, a bit cooler, younger, fresher.”

“Anyone in mind?” asked Lucinda tetchily, taking a lungful of heavenly tar.

“No, just thinking out loud really.” Lucinda could barely stand any more. People deal with shock in different ways, she told herself, they do all sorts of funny things, you
don't just faint and turn white, you say all kinds of weird things. Perhaps I should be more understanding.

“But I suppose if I were to be asked, I mean I would be stupid to turn it down. Just a bit of posing in other people's clothes. I've heard they don't even use your own house, just some plush hotel and fill it with your own stuff, at least then I wouldn't have to have the flat monsters sitting at the kitchen table looking homely.”

Heaven forfend. Bollocks to understanding, she needs a big kick up the backside.

“Amy, don't you think you should call your parents? I mean they're bound to have seen all that stuff and they'll be desperate to get in touch with you, to make sure you're not too upset.” Upset? I don't think so, after all, tears don't photograph well, do they, thought Lucinda.

“Maybe I'll call them tomorrow, they'll be in bed by now.”

“Yeah, well, I think it's past my bedtime, too. Do you think you'll be OK if you're alone, not too upset or anything?” sniped Lucinda.

“Oh, I think I'll be all right. Besides I need my beauty sleep, too, and I'm still utterly miserable about Orlando.” Like hell she was. She'd barely given a thought to Orlando since the prospect of fame in her own right writ large appeared in her sights. Her eyes should be like those cartoon characters but instead of pound signs she just had popping flashbulbs and
Hello!
covers. Without another word Lucinda tripped off to bed feeling like a bad troll lurking under the bridge, but she couldn't help it. It's not much fun watching a friend transform into the picture of Dorian Gray before your eyes.

.  .

The next morning saw the bathroom door slammed in the face of Lucinda and Benjy from six-thirty until they could wait no longer.

“Amy, I've got to pee!” Lucinda knocked.

“Won't be a mo, I've just got to chip this face pack off, five minutes, OK?”

Lucinda crossed her legs in the bedroom and cursed Amy.

“I just can't believe it. If she'd show some bloody remorse about Orlando, it'd be more tolerable but she's totally forgotten about him. I can't believe what a self-obsessed cow she's being.”

Only Amy knew that as she pondered the joys of celebrity, the lunches in nice restaurants, the mantelpiece bowing under the weight of party invitations, the column inches devoted to her latest hairstyle, there was one thing missing: Orlando Rock. She may have had trouble saying she loved him but she couldn't eliminate the warmth she felt as she saw his head on the pillow beside her, the pride she'd felt walking into the hotel with him, the fun they'd had on their normal dates. Even the greasy spoon had taken on a romantic glow. Still, Orlando had questioned her integrity and she'd been humiliated, but also, as we know only too well, guilty. He'd trusted her and she'd spilled all their beans at the drop of a hat to people she didn't really give a damn about. So what could she do? Her rationale, apart from vengeance toward his snide agent, was that if he saw her looking glorious in the papers with some handsome man on her arm, he'd be so overcome with jealousy that he'd have to have her back, sacrifice his pride and ride in on
the proverbial white charger and kidnap her, Sir Lancelot fashion. Prove his love once and for all. For where was romance if not in jeopardy? But, Amy darling, how could you get it so wrong? Think about it. Can you really see Orlando running open-armed back to you just because you prove yourself incapable of behaving like a grown-up? Does being on the front page of a newspaper addle the brain?

A
my was reconciled with the flat monsters. She was quite cross at Lucinda's recent frostiness and they proved good listeners. Even if they stored it up to mull over and pull apart later, she couldn't really give a stuff right now. She had her career to think of. Oh, girls, how we moan when we see bright, happy, highlighted-haired wonders transformed from just-another-weather-girl into the flavor of the month with a Chanel suit. How we hate to see the wife of a rugby player elevated to cover-girl status because of her saintly ability to smile through her husband's infidelity. How we despise the cult of the model who becomes super because she suppresses her appetite behind a wider smile than most women can endure. Oh la la, how bitter we are. Which of us wouldn't throw in the towel of self-respect if presented with stardom on a silver platter? Well, Amy would, for one. The flat monsters sat at the table with her, limpetlike and sycophantically providing her with chamomile tea. I wonder if I could get sponsorship? she thought. Is there a chamomile marketing board who'd be happy to have a vivacious spokeswoman? Maybe not, chamomile wasn't really a product she wanted to endorse, not terribly glamorous, enjoyable with hot water but a bit too organic.
Her free-love reputation was already nudging at the boundaries of hippiedom, one had to watch one's public image.

“Amy, here's one that doesn't sound too bad.” Cath passed her an envelope with a News International logo on the back; she was quite
au fait
with that one now.

“Life story to the
News of the World
, no, that's just a bit too flat, too one-dimensional, I'm looking more for magazine features, something topical.”

“Here, be on that debate program with the tanned dishy bloke, they want you to talk about being in a dysfunctional relationship.”

“God, no, too parochial, they'll set wronged housewives from Berkshire onto me and call me a slut, way too embarrassing.”

“Oooh, a private view at the Saatchi Gallery.”

“That'll do, would you mind RSVP'ing a yes to that, Cath. You can come along, too. It's really good gallery space, perfect for seeing and being seen.” The phone disturbed Amy's master plan to be that most coveted of phenomena, famous for being famous.

“Ames, it's that Marquesa woman again, the one from
Hello!
”

“Oh, good,” said Amy, running to the phone. “Marquesa, hi, yes, let's do that. OK. Friday two o'clock. Bye.” Amy had just secured a preliminary interview with the woman who wielded the
Hello!
purse strings.

“God, it's harder than getting into Cambridge, she'll probably ask me what I think of Tolstoy's narrative style,” she bewailed, wondering which of her now depleted (she hadn't seen Lucinda for a week) cache of outfits to choose from for the interview. But there was
tonight to get through, a book launch. Amy had decided that if she were ever to sound like a legitimate celebrity, she had to have at least one substantial string to her bow—literary glamour girl was her chosen specialist style. At least it would set her apart from the fashion crowd, and she'd once practically worked in publishing, and who knows, Martin Amis might be there, very sexy voice, she'd once heard him on Radio Four while she was at the dentist. So she chose carefully, subtle and sober but with a flash of originality, she thought, some learned spark. She pulled out her trusty black suit and decided on a gold theme, some large bracelets, a gold bodysuit a model once left behind on a shoot, and a shimmery bronzed look for her face. Standing back, she couldn't imagine that book people could be so dull so went for the final effect, some silk flowers sprayed gold—very messy and she had to soak her hands in nail-polish remover to get it off—but good. Yes, the effect was Dionysian, she thought, lavish and opulent and excessive, bit like me, she winked to herself. Ohhh, how that tiny, frail ego we first encountered has started to flex its muscles, toughen up and take over the world. Pride comes before a fall, Amy, but Amy's effectively had a fall and come up if not smelling of roses, at least adorned by them.

It would be nice right now to be able to lift the top off Amy's head like a teapot and take a quick look around inside, stir up the tea leaves and see what was churned up—would she be sorry beneath all the gold and ridiculous notions? Wish that she was watching TV quietly with Orlando, falling in love with the way he looked at her and chucked her under the chin and nibbled his toenails
when she wasn't looking? This is, after all, what she should do, fall in love with his showbiz image and come around eventually to the less-than-idyllic lifestyle, but love it warts and all because, after all, it's reality and she's in love with the real Orlando. But when opportunity knocks and you're standing at the door in your best frock with newly waxed legs it would seem foolish to shut the door and say sorry, I'm washing my hair. However, we don't have the divine Mr. R waiting in the wings, perhaps then we'd tell opportunity to take a hike. Who knows? And does even Amy know? No, we should stick with her for just a bit longer, be the loyal friend she needs, tell her when she's getting wide of the mark but enjoy the good times, too. As the Americans are so fond of saying, life's a learning curve; she'll get there in the end, it just might not be tonight.

Amy handed over her invitation at the door and bent down to avoid the low ceiling of breezeblocks as she entered what had once been a war bunker. That was the thing about literary types, they loved a theme. She supposed that the novel being launched was someone very old's memoirs, or maybe it was a romance with a war theme. She couldn't quite remember what the PR girl had said now, just that it would be attended by some of the biggest names in the literary world. Amy knew that when fashion people said that kind of thing they were usually lying, but this was literature, they had too much integrity to lie in a nice old gentlemen's business. She entered the room with Cath. Cath wasn't quite so ideal a companion as Lucinda, she wasn't as pretty, as engaging, as beautifully dressed, or as witty, but who's the
heroine here? In the absence of the lovely Lucinda she'll have to do. The bunker belied its façade and from behind a concrete pillar emerged a man brandishing champagne. “This is more like it,” said Amy, taking one without orange juice. She looked around the room for familiar faces, but couldn't see anyone really, and they were mostly dressed in gray and all looked quite alike, even the women. There were a few with large heaving bosoms and red hair but that was about it. Besides, the only faces Amy could ever really recognize were those of long-departed souls. She'd know Jane Austen by her dress if she walked in, she'd know Byron by his breeches and pheromones, and Wordsworth because he was so boring everyone would leave the room (may God and my nineteenth-century poetry tutor strike me down), but with the moderns she was less familiar—Salman Rushdie was as easy as a walk in the park, but the rest tended to blend into one clever-looking mass. As she perused the bunker and took a large gulp of champagne she thought she saw Martin Amis, but he was with someone terribly chic and sexy so she thought she'd wait until she was out of the way before she tried to make an entrée there. A young man in a tapestry waistcoat came and stood beside her.

“I think I know you. Terribly brave to show yourself in public after last week's little news item. Oh ho, pardon the pun, I suppose you're rather used to showing yourself in public.” Ho bloody ho, thought Amy, what a wit. His voice was like thick toffee sticking to his teeth, he had to prize it open at every word in order to set his plummy vowels free. Where's Lucinda when I need her? She'd say something clever like, perhaps you need another
half hour to prepare your next joke, shall I hold my breath? But Amy felt dull and her public image was at stake, and now she was in the middle of the room she realized how horrendously overdressed she was. What on earth had possessed her to dress in gold? The brightest color here was black, the rest was gray. Even the chic Amis beauty was dressed in funereal splendor. Maybe book people just don't dress up. You'd think that after days sitting round in sweatpants writing they'd relish the opportunity to make like a peacock. Obviously not. And oh no, Amis was holding hands with the beauty. One of Amy's literary aspirations crashed down around her head and she put her empty champagne glass back on a roaming tray. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Cath was entertaining (if that's the word) the waistcoat and so Amy took a turn around the room. She wandered over to a table of books piled up in the corner and determined that even if she wasn't going to pull or get her picture in the papers, she could at least find out what the launch was for. As she cast her eye over the blurb she felt a hand on her waist. Martin? She hoped. No, she turned round and saw a familiar shaggy bowl cut. Well, first of all she saw a bit of chest hair sprouting from under his shiny nylon football shirt, but swiftly turned her attention to the face that had launched a million album covers. The face of internationally successful indie music, very nice, she thought, not about the face but about the meaning of the face. For it meant street cred, it meant fans, idolatry, greatness by association. Amy lifted her golden eyelids and grinned widely.