Amy was chatting to the security guards in the reception of Vogue House, an injustice of models sitting on chairs around her, as thin as knicker elastic, their portfolios perched on their Prada-encased knees, and their flawless complexions and minimalist nails leaving every woman in the vicinity feeling as made-up and froufrou as Zsa Zsa Gabor. Amy was used to this particular drawback of working in the fashion industry, but she wasn’t used to feeling as though every woman she saw would be more likely to go out with the actor of her dreams than she was, including the fifty-year-old lady who worked in the accounts department (could be fantastic in bed—all maturity and experience). On her way up in the lift she scrutinized herself in the cruel mirrors. Yeuch, she thought, even if I see him again, he won’t want to know; he’s so glamorous and talented, I just pin hems and ply bulimics with sandwiches for a living. The lift doors opened and Amy was greeted by an infantry of Vuitton luggage and a rail of clothes, plus several scuffling fashion editors.
“Amy, thank Christ, we had no idea where you were. Help me with these, we’re off to Dorset,” Nathalia yelled. Nathalia was pure Eurotrash. Blond, perma-tan, father owned Germany or something, and Amy was terrified of her.
“What are we going to Dorset for, I’m supposed to be working on my Council Estate Glamour shoot,” Amy protested, dreading spending the day with this monster who wouldn’t know a council estate if it got stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
“I’m styling Orlando Rock and I need you to iron his gear,” she said in her mid-Atlantic drawl. Amy bristled proprietorially, like a tomcat marking out his territory.
“Oh, Olly,” she improvised. “Yeah, he said he’d be down there, Return of the Native.”
“You mean you know him?” Incredulous.
“Mmm, we had tea on Sunday, lovely, he’s a darling.”
Amy, what are you doing, you’ll be caught out, embarrassed. Shut up. But it did the trick. Nathalia was deferential until they reached the motorway and she realized she’d forgotten her lipstick and fell into a sulk.
In the chasm of Nathalia’s silence Amy was suddenly struck with fear at the enormity of the situation. She was wearing a cardigan she’d had since sixth form, she was in love with the man she was going to see, he had her down as not-the-marrying kind, to put it mildly, she’d just lied to Nathalia, who would be sure to show her up, and … and Amy glanced at the brief for the session.
“… Orlando Rock … blah … Versace … blah … stylist Nathalia … photographer …” No! It can’t be him! She looked again. No! It can’t get any worse. A nervous rash crept up her chest and onto her neck … it was worse. Toby Ex, Chelsea’s answer to Hugh Hefner, was the photographer and Amy had broken out in spots. Oh my God, what if he says something, what if he mentions the video, tries to blackmail me. Never mind Christmases, all her nightmares came at once.
By the time they pulled up outside Hardy’s cottage Amy’s rash had made her look like a giant raspberry. She saw the photographer outside the front door, engrossed in light meters and Polaroids, and braced herself for the inevitable.
“Amy, hello, dearest.” He kissed her fruity cheeks and smiled kindly. Anyone that can come within a mile of me and my rash, let alone kiss me, can’t be that bad, she sighed.
“The ubiquitous Toby,” she managed with a grin. They exchanged sympathetic, vows-of-secrecy glances and buried their dubious sexploits beneath a duvet of professionalism. Phew! number one, thought Amy gratefully. Which was of course tempting fate. Nathalia came tearing out of Hardy’s garden like Jude the Obscure on acid, all maniacal depression and misery.
“Where’s the makeup artist! I can’t face Orlando without lipstick. Amy, you haven’t even begun to unpack those clothes, you’re bloody useless.” She spun off again. Amy’s tear ducts pricked and she looked heavenward with her eyes wide open in a bid to prevent the tears rolling down her cheeks and spoiling her blusher. I hate her, she chanted, kicking about two thousand pounds’ worth of suitcase until it bore the imprint of her shoe. And I hate bloody Orlando Rock, he’s just some rich git who’d fall for the fake charms of Nathalia and her crass jet-set friends. Inwardly she gave up, that moment when for self-preservation you know it’s better to believe that it will never be. Optimism is not only misplaced but idiotic and masochistic; why hurl yourself off the cliff of rejection headfirst? We’re from different worlds, thought Amy with a hollow pit of misery inside her. Even at the party I knew there was never a chance, I should never even have entertained the thought. She sat on a little bench at the bottom of Hardy’s garden, early spring birdsong drifting from woods nearby. She was calmed as she leaned down to stroke a cat curling himself around her feet, and she made a private bid to be more sensible. Life’s not like books, she told herself, I’m not Anna Karenina or even Holly Golightly. From here on I’ll set my targets in the real world. Maybe Cath and Kate are right. But one small thought peeked through her gloom. Maybe Orlando will come up behind me now, sit down, and in the still garden, we’d laugh and chat. Stop! She pushed the last of the romantic thoughts to the back of her mind and faced grim reality.
Grim reality was ironing shirts for most of the afternoon. Amy presented a curious sight beside her ironing board among the trees. She solemnly eased out the creases and derived a little therapy from her task. Within earshot the photographer coaxed steely glances and heroic stances from Orlando Rock. Amy had thus far avoided him as though it were he and not she who had a rash. She watched the scene through a break in the trees, Orlando sitting on a log, a shaft of sunlight highlighting his beauty, singling him out like some Olympian god of long ago that had just wandered into this modern-day forest by accident. He was like a sad and lonely sculpture, a breed apart from the men surrounding him, and untouchably beautiful. She caught a flicker of muscle in his thigh as he changed position and a broad boyish smile at the pretty makeup artist who puffed powder onto his cheekbones. She could just stand and watch all day, hear his distant chuckles and easy banter. So ordinary and affable, but, my God, so special. She felt safe just watching and dreaming of the night she would be the one to meet him with a kiss after a performance or accompany him to a dazzling premiere. But she had to stop daydreaming, the time had come for her to dole out tea from her flasks and supply the troops with ham sandwiches. She wandered around gazing at her feet, avoiding everyone’s glance.
“I wanted vegetarian, Amy, not pig,” snapped Nathalia. Amy winced at the mention of her name and delved back into her lunch box for an alternative.
“Amy, hello, Lily’s friend. It is, isn’t it?” asked the god. A smile superglued itself to Amy’s lips and her heart sprinted.
“Orlando, I’ve, er … been ironing,” she floundered, trying not to seem impolite for not saying hello earlier.
“I had supper with Lily on Wednesday, she’s very well.” He winked. Amy’s mortification was concealed behind her grin.
“Good, that’s nice.” Jesus, I’m so boring, why on earth is he wasting his breath? Get a grip, Amy.
“How’s the filming going?” Amy attempted, trying to resuscitate her brain, but she was felled by a shriek from Nathalia as she bit into roast beef and horseradish.
“Are you totally stupid?” she shrieked, spitting her sandwich all over the floor. Amy turned away from Orlando and glanced at Toby, looking for some sign of solidarity, but he pretended not to have noticed her and carried on with his lens-fiddling. Amy fled, tears and her rash competing to make her face as red and blotchy as possible. If she’d stuck around a bit longer, she’d have witnessed Orlando’s newly chilly handling of Nathalia. As she stroked his hair into place over the collar of his coat he brushed her hand away; as she fawned he glowered. Nathalia, of course, didn’t seem to notice.