And so it was in her new Prada ensemble that she stepped out with Shaun Madden. Stepped out because stepping out was what one did with pop stars and Amy had to get it right. There’d been some sniping in the press the other day about her being a callous opportunist who should stick to hemlines, but the thumb-size photo of the journalist revealed her to be quite bovine looking so Amy neatly put it down to jealousy. Still, though, she had to be careful not to seem like any old trollop but a discerning woman with a life of her own. Easier said than done. They went to the Saatchi Gallery and mingled in a space made for posing, vast open white floors and warehouse expanses. Mick and Jerry were holding court further along in the room, and Amy pretended not to stare but couldn’t help but check out Jerry’s hair and leopard print. Mick was sexy and wore a frock coat; even with his used look he was indisputably gorgeous.
“Scrotum face,” the pop star declared. At least he hasn’t got bollocks for a brain, Amy was tempted to retort but instead smiled in pretend amusement.
“Let’s go and look in the room over there.” Amy nodded in the direction of a darkened room and the pair wandered off, yet more champagne clutched in their hands. But Amy should have known better; among the strange distorted faces and spooky sounds of the exhibit she felt something on her bottom. Part of the overall effect of the artistic installation designed to inspire surprise and delight? No, just a hormonally overactive Shaun.
“How about it?” he smirked, pointing to the darkest corner of the room behind a fine piece of conceptual sculpture. Amy’s sense of propriety gasped in horror.
“It might be just a bit risky, we could get mistaken for a work of art,” said Amy casually, as though she always had sex in public but just didn’t feel like it today. The only merit she could see in the plan was that Mick Jagger might take his clothes off, too, and join them.
“Aw, come on, it’ll be a laugh.” Amy could think of funnier things than bonking a hairy singer with a limited vocabulary in a public place.
“Maybe later, eh?” she said, making for the light and safety of the main hall.
At dinner he was equally tedious. He tried to remove her knickers before they’d sat down at their table, and she had to keep up a constant wriggling motion to prevent him from catching hold of her.
“You’re not frigid, are you?” he laughed.
“No, of course not. I just think maybe we should wait until later.”
“You’re not Christian, are you?” He looked worried.
“No, and just as well since I’m practically having a date with Lucifer.” She laughed at her feeble joke to try to persuade the blood swirling round his groin to depart for his brain.
“Yeah,” he laughed blankly. “Later then, eh?” And so it continued. Amy writhed like an eel and he didn’t quite get it together to have a conversation. Toward dessert she started to yawn huge enormous yawns.
“Oh deary me, I must be tired.” She sounded like her mother as she put down her knitting before bed but had stopped caring how she appeared.
“Will a line of charlie sort you out?”
“A line of?… Oh, no, really, thanks, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer though.” Always refuse drugs politely—it was uncool not to seem grateful for the fantastic offer you’d just passed up—was one of Amy’s die-hard rules. But then she became transfixed by his nostrils, noticing the red raw insides. Should have known, she thought. Well, I’m definitely not going home with some sex-crazed drug fiend. Steady, Amy, he’s just a bloke who likes the odd snort, but Amy had found her excuse and it fit like a glove. Yeeha! I don’t have to sleep with him, he’s a drug addict. Whatever you say, Amy, we’re just innocent bystanders.
So the dessert was munched. She thought back to Orlando and the tiny thimblefuls of Chantilly cream and raspberry meringue they’d shared over their last dinner, the dusting of icing sugar and kisses. She compared Orlando’s crisply rolled-back shirtsleeves revealing tanned and strong wrists, to the medallion rings and hairy knuckles of thingummy colliding noisily with everything in sight. Well, they’re not colliding with me, she thought firmly. She’d been off the champagne since they left the gallery and had stoically adhered to lime and soda. No slipups with monkey man, she thought. Oh, Orlando, I think I loved you. Then just as the said hand disappeared under the table, in pursuit of underwear probably, Amy drew on all her reserves of acting skills. Not since fourth-form drama classes had she shown such outstanding skills at histrionics.
“Oh my God!”
“What’s wrong, babe?” said Shaun, his hand still lurching around under the table.
“Killer headache.” She started to cry. Well, if she’d just have whined a bit, he might have thought she wanted sympathy and just groped her. As it was he reacted just as predicted by Amy.
“Come on, it’s only a bleedin’ headache!”
“No, it’s a migraine,” she sobbed.
“You’ll be all right.” He didn’t know where to look. How embarrassing, he thought, out to dinner with some bird and she starts to cry. Finally he brought his hand up for air.
“I think it’s best if I go.” Amy stood up and picked up her handbag. “Thanks, I’ve had a lovely night.” Neither did he stand up, offer to pay for a cab home, or kiss her good-bye. Mission accomplished, she thought as she bounded into the street and waved a cab. It was only then that she saw the lurking paparazzi. Oh well, too late she turned round and flashed them a smile but even with her new improved ego knew that she wouldn’t make it into the papers, without Shaun Madden on her arm. Some you win …
As she lay in bed that night she felt relieved but sad. In fact, she cried. Properly cried. Not headachy crying, not I’m-so-offended-Orlando-Rock-how-dare-you-suggest-such-a-thing crying. But real crying. Real sad, I miss him and wish he were here now and I could tell him all about my disastrous date and we could laugh about it together crying. She also cried with relief. She hadn’t had to snog the pop star. That would have been so horrible she couldn’t bear to think about it. Sometimes when you get what you want, you don’t want what you wanted at all, she thought sagely. And again, You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need. It was amazing how these old proverbs comforted her in hard times. Even though she knew the last one was a Rolling Stones song and not a proverb, it still seemed to have a certain rustic purity. Bloody hell, compared with Shaun Madden, Mick Jagger seemed like a gentle shepherdess. She wished she could share her hideous evening with Orlando, but she couldn’t as he was thousands of miles away and hated her, so she cried again.