Love (20 page)

They stopped off at an old-fashioned sweetshop on the way to the park and bought lemon bonbons, sherbet pips by the quarter, and some pear drops. As they were about to pay, Amy dropped in a walnut whip for good measure.

“Whatever happened to Spangles?” they wondered as the door creaked shut behind them.

They paid their entrance to the gardens and, as it was almost twelve o'clock, felt that they must have lunch, if only to relieve them of the burden of several carrier bags full of food.

“Let's go over by these bushes.” Amy led the way to a spot she'd singled out but on closer inspection the ground was wet. Instead they found a bench and, sitting at either corner, like a pair of bookends, spread the garishly colored feast out between them.

“It's so beautiful with all the spring flowers around and the birds—like a morning out of Chaucer.”

“And pray tell what is a Chaucer morning like?” Orlando asked, taking a teeth-marked bite out of a slice of orange cheese.

“Well, just lots of flowers in bloom, ready for the May queen to make her entrance, and always lots of bird noises. Can you imagine what England was like in Chaucer's time? So many trees, my God, wolves still roamed the land.”

“I could never get to grips with
The Pardoner's Tale
for A level. I just cheated and read the crib notes,” Orlando confessed.

“God, no, Chaucer's great, the bawdiest stories imaginable. That's the whole joke, if teenage boys had known that they were all about farting and sex, you'd all have got grade As at A level.”

“But I couldn't understand it.”

“Just a matter of time. Persevere, he's worth it.” So Orlando made a mental note to pick up a copy of the
Canterbury Tales
when he was next in a bookshop. In the way that we've all at some time or another, in those early days of love, decided that there was after all some merit in the cinematography of
Apocalypse Now
or that Hemingway could be enjoyed by women, too. All utter lies, of course, but love is a powerful broadener of horizons for all of five minutes.

They grazed their way through the assembled rainbow of nibbles, a pear drop here and nectarine there. Orlando picked up a strawberry and squirted the foamy cream onto the top of it.

“For you,” he proffered. Amy opened her mouth and he popped it in. Tess of the D'Urbervilles at long last, she thought.

She made up a sandwich of banana and Nutella, promising it was the most heavenly thing Orlando would ever eat.

“No, it sounds revolting,” he protested.

“Trust me, you'll love it.”

He screwed up his face and opened his mouth, as if preparing for a spoonful of castor oil.

“See, it's gorgeous,” she said. He remained unconvinced and washed it down with a huge gulp of cherry soda.

Finally, they packed their wrappers away into a plastic bag and rested bloated and groaning against one another.

“Do you think we're bulimic?” asked Amy.

“No, just greedy.”

“I feel so sick,” she moaned. Orlando prodded her tummy.

“Bleugh! Get off!”

They sat there emitting wailing noises and vowing they'd never eat another sweet as long as they lived, until Amy finally decided that enough was enough and there was a hothouse to visit. She pulled Orlando up from the bench and they strolled into the steamy glasshouse.

“Come on, fatty,” she teased him, patting his stomach.

“People in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones,” he said, relishing the opportunity.

“You are so unoriginal. What am I doing with you?” She shook her head in mock despair.

“We should go to Brazil sometime, see the real rain forest, canoe down the Amazon, and live on sugarcane.”

“I've had enough sugar for a lifetime. Rio would be great though, they all wear G-strings all the time, that's the only problem.” Man rose to the bait.

“Let's go tomorrow, darling,” he said, squeezing her bottom.

They wandered through green dewy leaves and strange flowering flytraps, breaking off for the odd damp kiss.

“This is so lovely, I usually spend Saturdays doing mundane rubbish, shopping, ironing; it's so nice not to do anything. But still I have this guilty feeling that I should be doing something.” Amy was delirious and rambling.

“You are, you're busy falling in love,” said Orlando, taking the back of her head in his hand and easing her fringe behind her ear. Love? Amy was silent inside. A huge word that seemed to fill the greenhouse, fill her head. Was that a casual “love” or the enormous rare variety? If in doubt, play dumb, a clever female adage.

“Am I?”

“I am,” said Orlando, his blue eyes looking so carefully into hers that she lowered her lashes and held her breath. Six feet of darkly beautiful Orlando Rock was standing before her, telling her he was in love with her (at least, she thought that's what he meant, she was too dithery to think). She felt the full force of his actorly passion, his stage-managed intensity and romantic-hero status. Except this wasn't film, it wasn't the cornfield kiss in
A Room with a View
, it wasn't the safe page-turning
romance of Jane Austen, it was flesh and blood and less than a foot away, no ecstatic embellishments needed.

“Me, too.” But she asked it rather than telling it. She was face-to-face with the most romantic encounter of her life (sex doesn't really count, that was much easier) and its proximity left her terrified. But just wait until I tell Lucinda, she thought, suddenly happier.

The rest of the afternoon was a haze of April drizzle and easy kisses; they held hands and pored over snowdrops and daffodils, hiding under willow trees when the rain poured. Amy was happy to be outside, the hothouse encounter had left her flushed and in need of time to herself, but this was much more relaxed, more fun now he wasn't quite so intense. Back home later on, when Orlando had gone to sort out a leaky washing machine in his flat, Amy alternated between hopping around her landing and feeling terrified of being
in love
. Was she? She'd always thought it would take much longer, and Orlando was divine, it was immensely flattering but?
But
. There had to be one but, things like that didn't just happen, and, well, he could have been acting, he must be so used to telling women he loved them, practically did it for a living. This thought made Amy a bit happier; he was obviously very fond of her but maybe just a bit dramatic to call it love, yes, that's it, the words just come easier to him. I'm sure once I've spent a bit longer with him I'll be in love, too.

Orlando was on the phone to Bill.

“See the thing is, Bill, she's just lovely, so normal, so funny and everything, we can just go to the park, the supermarket, McDonald's and no one even bothers us.”

“Och, it sounds great but doesn't the wee lass want to go anywhere more exciting?”

“No, Bill, it's really exciting just being with her, doing everyday things. After all those years of
Hello!
interviews it's like heaven.”

“Take my word for it, she'll get bored pretty soon if you keep on harping on about being such unexciting things. You're bloody obsessed with being Mr. Average, Olly.” But Orlando was too in love to heed Bill's words. And he was in love. He loved the romance of Amy, her spark and imagination; for him it made even the bus journey seem like an Odyssean adventure, her vision was inspiring and refreshing. And he loved the way she bit her lip when she was thinking. Yup, he did love her, he thought, as he scattered tea towels all over the wet kitchen floor.

A
my had been coaxed over to Orlando's on Saturday night where they'd got a video out and howled with laughter at
Roseanne
. Sunday morning lay in front of them like an unopened present, and Amy filled it with excitement in her imagination, a meander through Camden market and coffee in a café brimming with beautiful young people, all buzzing with gossip and the entrance of a famous actor. Or perhaps lunch at Daphne's. It was fun when she did it with Lucinda; to share lettuce with the man you were in love with would be even better. And then they could mosey through the cool marble floorspace of Joseph looking for his and hers outfits, a tweedy jacket and soft chenille scarf for him and some ice blue hipsters and a tiny T-shirt for her. Sheer glamour. And she'd even managed to think through her anxieties about the L word. She'd just never said it to anyone before; she could jump willy-nilly (if you'll pardon the expression) into bed with men she fancied, she could suck throat lozenges out of the belly buttons of any number of adoring beaus, but she'd never really been in love. Read about it? Yes. Fallen in love with love in films? Yes. Longed for Lenny Kravitz to write “My Love Is Gentle as a Rose” for her? Of course. But been there, done
that? Not yet. But she was overcoming her fear, trusting Orlando beyond the actor front, and was confidently awaiting the paralyzing blow of Cupid's arrow.

“You've got the most adorable lips,” she told him, confirming her opinion with a kiss. He smiled and seized the opportunity to kiss her and trail his hand across her stomach. Hmmm, they both sighed, and Amy, planting soft lips over his chest, moved down to his stomach, feeling its muscles tighten beneath her, his legs instinctively parted and he reached down and held the back of her head, gently easing her toward him, and then the phone rang … the phone rang, yes, 'fraid so. Orlando struggled to ignore it but they were both distracted and Amy flopped back onto the bed in resignation.

“Better get it, darling.”

“Who the bloody hell's that?” he spat crossly, stubbing his toe on a chest of drawers as he ran downstairs. No room for cheeky sexy fun here, she lamented. If he had a phone by the bed, he could answer it gruffly and Amy could carry on regardless, licking him as though he were a raspberry cornetto, sucking gently at his tip, and cradling him carefully in her hand, and he could moan and shudder and not be able to think about the person on the phone who would feel piqued and suspicious. Maybe it would be a woman, his ex-wife checking on alimony or something, or just an admirer and all he'd want to do was abandon himself to Amy's womanly power over him. Oh well, she'd have to save that part of her sexual repertoire for another time when the phone's beside the bed.

Drifting out of her dream blow-job scenario, she heard Orlando shout. Not mildly irritated toe-stubbed crossness.

Terrifying angry shouting. She pulled on his toweling dressing gown and went out and sat on the top step listening to his conversation. He saw her and shook his head in despair, listening intently to the voice on the end of the phone.

“Bill, why the fuck don't you just sack her, what the bloody hell was she thinking of?” He listened, scowling for a while longer and then slammed the phone down.

“Come on, my love, we've got to go,” he said so firmly and sexily she wanted to jump back into bed with him.

“Go where?”

“It's in the papers, that little bitch Tiffany, I've no idea what it says but we have to leave the house.” He walked over toward the windows at the front of the house and looking out, screamed a string of abuse unpunctuated by sense.

“Darling, what's wrong?” Amy felt a surge of fear at this outburst and was panic-stricken as to what was in the papers.

“She's told some wretched bloody magazine all about me, what a misogynist, etc. etc. I am, how I've no idea how to treat women, and they've got my bloody ex-wife giving her thoughts and feelings on the matter … Shit!” He ran up the stairs past Amy and pulled a canvas bag out of a cupboard.

“You'd better come with me, you won't be safe on your own if they get wind of us.”

“Where will we go?”

“A hotel somewhere, a big one, they're better equipped at keeping the bastard press out. Look, they're crawling all over the street!” Amy took him at his word and wandered toward the window to have a look. So they were.
Lots of men in jeans and leather jackets hanging around sipping coffee from polystyrene cups.
Bastards
seems a bit harsh, she thought, trying to peer at them discreetly though a crack in the curtains. They saw the curtain twitch and, discarding coffee, reached for their obscenely long lenses. Amy looked at her toweling dressing gown and recoiled in horror at being splashed all over the papers in it, her hair unwashed and teeth unbrushed. She'd look like some aging fat actress in the Betty Ford Clinic, she thought. Can't have that. So she ran a bath and soothed Olly as much as possible. She made him tea and, holding his hands, said she couldn't imagine that anyone could say anything too nasty about him. And besides, he had her. They'd be fine, she'd tell them that he was a darling.

“You won't say anything to them, sweetheart, you can't trust any of them. Just stay well away. Look, you have a bath and I'll sort things out, a taxi and book the hotel. I'd better speak to my agent, too.”

Amy cradled her tea in her hands and disappeared into the bathroom. I'm sure I could convince them that he hadn't done any of the things they're saying he's done, she told herself. As she stepped into the bath she gave an interview to herself: “But what about the allegations of mistreatment of women that have been leveled at Orlando Rock?” asked a voice.

“Well, Orlando and I have been together for about two months now and I can categorically say that he has been nothing but wonderful to me, he's been supportive of my career and behaved like the perfect gentleman.”

“And what is your career?” said the voice, urging Amy to talk more about herself.

“Oh, I work for
Vogue
as a fashion editor.” Nobody would bother to query the minor details, editor, assistant, all the same, she thought.

“So you lead a very glamorous life and are obviously very beautiful and talented but do you think Orlando would still love you otherwise?” Amy cleverly anticipated this question and delivered what she thought was an eloquent and deft reply.