Gearing up for a big girls’ night in, Amy sat with her Filofax open on her lap, phoning her way through those who told the dirtiest jokes, those who would dance naked on bars given enough vodka, those upon whose shoulders she’d shed many a tear throughout her life. In short, her best girlfriends.
“Charlie, hi, it’s Amy. Do you fancy coming round to supper on Thursday?… No, nothing special, just haven’t seen you for ages. OK, see you then.”
“Sal, I haven’t seen you for ages. Come round on Thursday, Charlie’ll be here and we can catch up.”
And so on and so forth. Amy went to the supermarket and bought two kinds of cardamom pods, a bottle of red wine, some fresh lemongrass, and coconut milk. She rushed home and, with her Van Morrison on at full blast, skipped round the kitchen concocting the wickedest Thai curry this side of Bangkok. Now, while it doesn’t always pay to put on a brave face, Amy felt that masking her misery was the healthiest option. And you know what? It was paying off. She only thought about Orlando every three minutes now and not all the time. He was there, of course, just under the surface of her thoughts, waiting to jump out at unsuspecting moments, like when she cleaned her teeth or thought about roast potatoes. Boo! But she’d dried her tears and was preparing a massive banquet for eight of her closest friends on Thursday. She chopped and diced and peeled and sliced, she licked wooden spoons and burned her tongue, she choked on chili powder and scraped her knuckle grating ginger. The smell was magnificent, creamy, spicy, and tropical all at once. Yum, thank you, Mr. Floyd, she said, closing the recipe book and putting her pungent concoction in the fridge to work its magic overnight.
The next day Amy played the part of fashion editor with aplomb. She borrowed a pair of red satin Manolo Blahnik stilettos from Lucinda and swirled her way through the swing doors of Vogue House with the panache of a catwalk model. Today was her first assignment on her own shoot. Council Estate Glamour had finally made it to the studio. She’d booked her models and chosen the clothes and was about to launch her career in fashion into orbit. Is power a substitute for love or vice versa? Amy wasn’t sure and didn’t really care; she threw herself headlong into her downbeat darlings. Her models were real women, which meant that they had breasts, and her clothes hung on rails, a violent mixture of psychedelic and Bet Lynch. Brash, brazen, and loud.
Amy took the whole shooting match in a minibus to a particularly grotty student hovel where she’d lived with three college friends one summer. She felt authenticity was imperative for her first assignment, and since the council had condemned the property, the whole team were able to clamber through the boarded-up bathroom window. Though the makeup artist claimed that if his union ever found out, they’d sue Amy for all she was worth. Not very much, ha ha, let them try. It all came flooding back to her. Her summer of contentment. Not a man in sight. They were all meant to be encased in the library like hothouse flowers, pounding out their dissertation on the modern novel—mais non! The sun streaked into the library windows and Nabokov lay abandoned on the desk where he would sit all day until five o’clock when the library was about to close and they’d charge in and pack everything away until tomorrow. Inspired by Lolita, they spent their days wearing mules and barely there shorts, trotting up and down the high street. They’d lie in the long grass in the churchyard, reading magazines and laughing lazily. They went through their local Oxfam with a fine-tooth comb, unearthing fabulous caftans and a series of books enticingly called Silhouette Desire, obviously the raunchy seventies cousin of Mills and Boon, their favorite of which was Renaissance Man, which they took it in turns to read out to one another and which involved many a brush with “pulsating manhood” on cream shag-pile carpets. They searched for David, the open-shirted medallion-bearing hero of Renaissance Man, on the streets of the town but he’d obviously fled to Saint-Tropez for the summer. They lived on Eccles cakes from the bakers round the corner and, as a concession to dreaming spires, polished off a bottle of Pimms daily. One day they abandoned even the pretense of the library and took their caftans to the beach, buying whiskey and sausages on the way, and building a bonfire to cook on and keep them warm, spent the night beneath the stars. Hair was dyed in the kitchen sink, a range of shades from magpie black to reddest henna. Thinking about that summer, Amy felt restored beyond measure, secure in the knowledge that life had been heady and perfect once and surely would be again.
She directed the models into moldering corners of what was once her sitting room, the peeling sixties wallpaper clashing fantastically with the model’s lilac negligee. The overgrown roses in the garden they’d never even ventured into as students were the perfect back-drop for the models to have a neighborly chat over the garden fence, fags dangling, rollers resting neatly atop of heads. In fact, all went remarkably well. On their drive back to London everyone was declaring what an outré idea it was and how fabulously the shoot had gone. “The girls looked so slutty, it was heavenly,” mused the makeup artist.
“Thanks a lot,” a model groaned, busily removing a roller that had got stuck in her hair.
“Yeah, thanks, guys, what a buzz, eh? Who needs men when you’ve got a career and friends?” Amy bolstered herself.
“Oooh, I do. I always feel like a man,” the makeup artist pouted.
“That’s because you are one, you idiot,” said Amy, and the bus collapsed into laughter and school-trip renditions of Boney M songs. Amy felt a once-familiar glow return, the warmth of being pleased with yourself and feeling the sky very high above. Yes, she could get by without Orlando Rock, or anyone else for that matter.
That evening she returned home and, in imitation of many an executive woman on television commercials, kicked off her shoes and rested exhausted but fulfilled on the sofa. Her stomach still let her down by fluttering wildly every time the phone rang but logic fought equally hard. It’s only one of the girls phoning to say they’ll be late or Mom phoning to say hello, she told herself firmly refusing to even entertain the thought that it might be Orlando. After her token gesture to the exhausted career woman in her, she padded into the kitchen and boiled up a paddy field of basmati rice, not wanting her guests to go hungry. She gently simmered her coconut curry as instructed and, ignoring the stirring-frequently part, decided that it was better she look the part than cook the part. So she showered and dressed, taking care to keep that at-home feel to her attire. Looking for a cardigan, she came across one of her infamous caftans. Amy, you can’t, yes, I can, they’re my friends and they’ll think it’s great. So she abandoned her at-home look and popped the electric blue Oxfam number over her head and was transported to her past life. Airy, summery, and carefree.
The doorbell rang to life at eight o’clock and a stream of familiar faces trailed in, all ecstatic to see one another again and wildly admiring of Amy’s caftan and the lovely smell. Eight old girlfriends in your kitchen is a recipe for instant joy, Keith Floyd or no Keith Floyd. Their laughter rattled the neighbor’s chandeliers and their elephant patter shook the floorboards (just as surely as did her antics with Orlando, Amy allowed herself fleetingly). The conversation was manifold. Like a perfume there was a base note of “Well, I never, did you hear about …” and a middle note of workaday exchanges, “Yes, I’m in publishing, you know” and then the top note of hilarity and hysteria, “Oh, we’re not really going out, it’s just a sex thing.” Amy decided that her news about Orlando was not fragrant enough to be included in this general hubbub, it’d have to wait until a few bottles of red down the line.
The curry was declared a success and faxes of the recipe promised to at least three friends’ offices the next morning and the gathering of the clan transported itself to the living room.
“Amy, I can’t believe you’ve got this great career now, you were always the flakiest of us all and look at you—high flying and living the glamorous life.”
“Don’t be silly, Alex, it’s so unglamorous that you wouldn’t believe it. Anyway I only earn about five pence a year.”
“Which is more than I get in publishing,” moaned Charlie.
“Yes, but at least you get to meet people with functioning brains,” said Zoe, who’d just started work in the City.
“I wish. Just lots of lecherous poets.” Charlie tossed her hair back and longed for an office full of stockbrokers to take her mind off books. “Who would be in your fantasy workmate league?” she asked Zoe.
“Definitely Ken Livingstone,” piped in Sally, “for sheer loveliness value.”
“Oooh yes, I’d be very happy to share my printer with Red Ken.” Charlie smiled.
“Oh, come on, girls, what about someone younger?” Zoe said, topping up each glass as though it were a party trick to fill each to the brim.
“Sting,” Alex thought. “Something about the English teacher in him, d’you know what I mean?” They did and nodded agreement.
“Chris Evans. You always need someone anarchic in the office.” Charlie had made her choice.
“Yeah, but wouldn’t it piss you off after a while?” Amy said, piling the plates up in the middle of the table.
“I think we need someone more decorative, too,” Sally decided, reaching over to take the last chicken breast before Amy whisked it away to the kitchen.
“Tom Cruise.”
“God, such a hackneyed choice, Alex, what about someone British?” said Zoe. “What about Rufus Sewell. Or whatshisname, the intense-looking one?”
“Which intense-looking one?” Amy was about to run to the kitchen as she knew what was coming next, but something glued her to her chair. She changed the CD as a compromise.
“Orlando Rock?” asked Alex. At which point the music stopped. Amy hiccuped in the corner.
“Don’t go any further with that one,” she said. They were all looking at her now. What to say? She couldn’t bear to hear anything said about Orlando in her own living room, it would be weird beyond belief. And part of her still had a longing to talk about it. To cast it to her friends like a Frisbee and see what they made of it all. She tried to play down the anticipation, which was just hanging there. “Oh, it’s nothing really, just that, well, I was kind of seeing Orlando. I mean, I’m not anymore, so it doesn’t really matter what you say about him. But, I just thought you should know.” She reached for her glass.
“Not Orlando Rock, Orlando Rock,” Sally squealed, just checking. Amy nodded.
“But didn’t I see him in the paper the other day, with what’s her name Swann?”
“Tiffany Swann,” Amy tried for the casual approach.
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah, I’m not really sure what to think. Maybe it was innocent, but still …” She trailed off, not wanting to share her humiliation with so many people just yet, and most of all not wanting any sympathy. If they started to cluck and fuss, she’d probably cry.
“Wow, lucky you,” said Sally admiringly. Yes, lucky me, thought Amy dryly.
“So?”
“So what?” asked Amy.
“So tell all,” pestered Alex.
“Well, we met in Dorset, and I saw him in a play, and then bumped into him on a shoot and then the Conran Shop …”
“Spare us the boring details, Ames, just tell us the scandal.”
“Nothing, except he took me on holiday to Australia and I thought it was going well but …” Amy’s eyes began to well up. Stop it, Amy, you’re stronger than that. The girls sensed her discomfort and rallied to her rescue. Old chestnuts fell thick and fast but she began to feel better.
“There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”
“What a rotten bastard, men just can’t help themselves, can they?”
“Anyway, he’s not such a great actor. He got a terrible review for something in Time Out the other day.”
The vitriol flowed along with the wine and soon turned to mirth as anecdotes about the general inferiority of the male population were volleyed back and forth. They were momentarily interrupted by the doorbell, but Amy slipped away to answer it and the battle raged on.
“Hang on a minute,” she yelled down the stairs. But she couldn’t remember anyone ordering a cab so maybe it was someone’s boyfriend come to infiltrate the ranks on the pretext of being a lift home. She opened the door and nearly shut it again. Orlando. Her heart soared. This was not something that had ever happened to her before. She’d imagined it was just a thing that happened in bad fiction. But here it was going on inside her rib cage. He looked so tired and beautiful she almost couldn’t help herself. But what was he doing here? She couldn’t remember him ever having left his record collection so he couldn’t be coming to collect it. Kiss him? No! Smile? No! Give him hell? The only way to teach them, I’m afraid.
“Amy.”
“What the hell?…”
“I’ve come to explain.”
“You’re supposed to be in New Zealand.”
“I came to see you, I tried for days to get through but …”
“I was away … staying with friends.”
“Look, do I have to stand here all night or will you invite me in?”
“It’s a bit awkward, I’m having a dinner party …” So much for giving him hell, darling. Amy could scarcely believe that here he was, large as life on her doorstep, Orlando Rock. The last time they’d seen one another there’d been tears in their eyes and the weeks couldn’t pass quickly enough until they were together again. But now—now Amy was in heightened single mode, he’d abused her loyalty, and (let’s ignore for the minute her own minor aberration in the nightclub) just what was he doing here?
A face appeared round the wall behind her.
“Come on, Amy, you’re missing all the juicy bits about Sally’s lingerie party.”
Alex fell stone silent as she saw Orlando Rock standing in the doorway, barely recognizable behind his tatty beard and oldest overcoat. She sloped off back into the living room and within seconds the laughter upstairs stopped, replaced by expectant silence. Amy and Orlando looked at one another, and she realized that he was in fact fantastically handsome and his eyelashes were all spiky and little-boyish, so she let him in, just to hear what he had to say, mind you.
“Guys, I’m just going to go upstairs with Orlando for a bit of a chat. You know where the wine is, help yourselves. I’m sure I won’t be long,” said Amy to an expectant room of surprised faces. Well, imagine how you’d feel if you went for supper at your friend’s house and Brad Pitt turned up on the doorstep only to be whisked to the hostess’s bedroom moments later, without so much as a how’s-your-father. They didn’t blame her though, really, they knew it was important and that ordinarily Amy wouldn’t blow out her mates for a man, even Mel Gibson. So with a few of the psychic thought waves that girls, like dolphins, are so adept at they wished her well and she thanked them.
“It’s this one, isn’t it?” Orlando hesitantly pushed open Amy’s bedroom door.
“Oh, I really wouldn’t expect you to remember, the amount of bedrooms you have to visit, I’m sure they all start to look the same after a while.” Amy was on fighting form, bolstered by the telepathic moral-support waves coming from the living room. Orlando pretended not to hear the bitterness in her voice and launched into the monologue he’d been planning since yesterday morning when Bill decided he wasn’t any good to them on set because he was behaving like a big girl’s blouse, so put him on a plane to England for a few days’ sabbatical.
“Amy, I know how it must look and I can’t begin to imagine how you felt when you picked up the newspaper and saw that picture …”
“Plural, Orlando, I picked up four newspapers and saw that picture.”
“Amy, please, can I just explain. If it had been me, I’d probably never have spoken to you again, but you have to believe me, nothing happened between me and Tiffany Swann. Absolutely nothing. She’s been quite persistent but I’m not remotely interested.”
“Have you any idea how humiliated I’ve felt? How one minute I’m supposed to be going out with the great Orlando Rock and the next he’s carousing round the world with some … some slut of an actress for my friends, colleagues, even my mother to see!”
“Amy, stop just one minute. Do you believe me?”
“Do I believe what?” Her voice was so loaded with venom that he instinctively recoiled, reminded of his constant battles with Joanna. But this is different, he told himself, she has every right to be angry.
“Do you believe that nothing happened, that it was just an unfortunate moment, but perfectly innocent nonetheless, and just happened to be captured on film?”
“Then why didn’t you phone me when you saw it, let me know all this instead of leaving me to think that if you gave a damn, you’d phone and tell me there was nothing to worry about?”
“Amy, I did phone, I left two messages on your answer-phone telling you to call me back. When you didn’t I presumed you didn’t want to speak to me.”
“Which is why you flew all the way here, because you thought I didn’t want to speak to you. That makes sense,” she said sarcastically. Lowest form of wit, Amy.
“No, I flew here because I like you a hell of a lot and wanted you to hear my apology. I couldn’t just sit around thinking of you being unhappy.”
“Anyway, you can’t have left any messages, you liar. No one told me.”
“Hand on my heart, Amy, I left two.” He sensed that her anger was abating a bit and tried to catch hold of her hand, but she snatched it away.
“Don’t come here with your acting and try to get round me. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“I know you’re not stupid, darling, but I need to know if you believe me or not.”
Darling, thought Amy, he called me darling. It had the same effect as a wink does on some people. Ooh, I rather like that, she thought, suddenly seeing his passion in all its wuthering glory. Hmmm, Rochester, very sexy. So it was not because of Orlando Rock’s powers of reasoning or persuasion that he managed on this occasion to win Amy around, although he thought so. Rather it was because, for an instant, in the dim light of her bedroom he looked so like her arch-hero Mr. Rochester that … well, she was putty in his hands.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Orlando’s stomach did cartwheels, and although he sensed that he hadn’t quite heard the last of it, that there would be the odd revisiting of his alleged misbehavior, he was too relieved to care right now. Amy sat there looking as appealing as she could muster in her caftan, and Orlando leaned over and took her hands. She kissed him and thought, wow, this is much nicer than the sweaty Australian kiss, and he thought, thank God I’m here with her and not tormenting myself in deepest New Zealand. And they both forgot about the guests sitting downstairs running out of red wine.
Until … there was an outbreak of frenetic coughing at the foot of the stairs and only after it had been going on for about five minutes did Orlando and Amy notice. He could tell she’d noticed because her kiss turned into a smile and she slid away shyly.
“Oh, heavens, I forgot about my party.”
“They’ll be fine, sweetheart, I’m sure they can let themselves out.” Ever noticed how men will blatantly lie, cheat, or kill to keep the object of their desire in bed once they’re there? No? Try interrupting at half time and your normally honest lesser spotted male will turn into a cross between a member of M15 and Captain Caveman, all scurrilous deception and macho insistence. Just an observation.
“I can’t just leave them there,” said Amy, scurrying round on the floor trying to find her caftan. “They might need me for something.”
“And so might I,” said Orlando to himself as she drifted out of the bedroom.
Her friends stood in a cluster at the bottom of the stairs and were both relieved and impressed to witness her crumpled state.
“Glad to see someone’s been enjoying themselves,” said Alex with a wink.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, really. Have you had a horrible time?” Amy’s hostess-guilt reared its head, and knowing that if they stayed, they’d be in for a ceaseless barrage of apologies and I’m so terribles, they decided to leave forthwith.
“No, Amy, it’s been fun. You must all come to me next time.”
“Yes, none of you have seen my new place—maybe I’ll have a soirée.”
“Byee, Amy, thanks a lot.”
“Yeah, the curry was lovely, don’t forget to fax me with the recipe.”
And they were gone. Scarpered. Every last one. Silence reigned and Amy went back to her room and the dulcet tones of Orlando’s snores.
“Poor baby, he must be exhausted,” whispered Amy. I think we can also take it from that he was forgiven.