by Clare Naylor
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.
“Hi,” she charmed.
“Hi yourself,” he smarmed.
“Looks good,” she said, picking up the book as a conversation prop. She could tell just by the slightly-vacant-behind-the-eyes look that she would need it.
“Yeah.” He looked at her shimmering cleavage.
“Maybe I’ll read it, I don’t usually come to these kind of parties, but everyone seems very interesting, I wouldn’t have thought you’d come to many of these yourself, what with all the excitements of the music industry, in fact I’m surprised it’s your scene at all.” She was jabbering.
“Nah, I quite like books.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You want a drink?”
“Could kill for one.” He whistled to a passing waiter and deposited the remains of his cigarette on the champagne tray, picking up two glasses with one hand.
“Cheers,” he muttered.
“Cheers,” she echoed.
“What do you do then?” he managed between glugs of champagne.
“I work in fashion,” she said, disappointed that he didn’t recognize her.
“Also been known to take her top off occasionally.” The waistcoat arrived by Amy’s side. The pop star’s eyes reverted to her cleavage.
“Would you mind telling me who you are?” she said bravely to the waistcoat. A bit of cockiness always went down well with pop stars, she imagined.
“Joshua Bennett, Times diary.” He chewed his make-believe toffee.
“Shaun Madden, Lucifer. Fuck off.” That’s who he was. Amy couldn’t remember the name of the band. Lucifer: it sounded like a parody of a seventies heavy-metal band but those guys were seriously cool, not really her thing but big time. The Bennett Waistcoat person made for Martin Amis, and Amy and the pop star sniggered conspiratorially.
“So what’s all this topless vibe then, a babe like you’s a bit clever to be taking her clothes off for a living,” he flattered.
“Not for a living, more an accident, but I don’t regret it. It was quite liberating actually; there’s not much else they can do or say to touch you when you’ve done that.”
“Don’t you believe it.” His casual delivery belied the astute intelligence of the remark (intelligent for Shaun, that is), so Amy just pouted instead of listening.
“So why are you here?” she asked.
“Oh, y’know, just thought it might be a laugh, and I read lots of poetry and stuff, great inspiration for lyrics.” Amy thought this might be a good sign.
“Oh, who do you like?”
“Well, I reckon Sid Vicious was a bit of a poet, and Bowie, man, he’s an all-time great.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize Sid Vicious wrote his own stuff.”
“Yeah, course he did. Anyway, I’ve gotta go, I’ve got a gig at ten but let’s go out, somewhere flash. What’s your number?” Amy jotted it down on a cigarette packet for him and he pushed it into his pocket, then he kissed her and felt her bottom. Not a proper kiss but definitely a proper grope, and with a crackle of nylon static he was gone. Amy was a
bout to bemoan the unoriginality of pop stars and think how vulgar and all of the same mold when Cath came running over.
“Oh my God, that was Shaun Madden. He’s so gorgeous! Did you get his autograph?”
“Cath, I’m twenty-four, I’m not getting anyone’s autograph.” She was about to add, “Especially not some hairy, ignorant git who should have the decency to realize he looked like a football fan from some lesser-known European city,” but shut up. Be your own best self-publicist, she chanted. “We’re going out to dinner.” Cath flapped around like a trout on a sandbank for a while and whispered to the waistcoat and then proudly escorted Amy to a taxi. Oh well, at least someone thought the pop star was worth writing home about. Amy certainly didn’t.
Maybe he won’t ring, she thought as she sat waiting for the Marquesa in a neat brasserie in Fulham. Of course he will, they always do when you don’t want them to. And she didn’t really want him to. I mean, of course she did, but she didn’t, too. Do you know what I mean? No? Well, that’s probably because Amy doesn’t know what she means. The Lucifer bloke was not her dream bloke, Orlando was. And anyway, imagine taking someone from Lucifer home. Her mother thought Orlando Rock was a horrid name; she’d invite the local exorcist round and have Shaun Madden doused in holy water before he set foot on the welcome mat. But Orlando just seemed so clean and lovely in comparison, he was clever and funny and good in bed and … oh, shut up, you can’t have him, he’s not part of the master plan and he’s not speaking to you anyway, she told herself firmly. And where was Lucinda when you needed her? Off sunning herself on some exotic Caribbean holiday, that’s where. She probably went there to get away from me, thought Amy, knowing full well what a boring cow she’d been for the past few weeks. She was starting to tire of the incessant flat monsters. God, she couldn’t even open her cereal packet without finding one lurking somewhere, outside the bathroom door, by the phone as she planned her celebrity, Hoovering under her feet as she watched late-night TV (just keeping an eye out for Lucifer). Amy even contemplated calling Anita for a woman-to-woman chat but didn’t know the number. Was it too much to ask for someone intelligent to talk to? The answer, it seemed, was yes. If you burn your friends like boats as you set sail onto the choppy and murky waters of fame, what can you expect? Media-tarting is OK if you want to shag a pop star but not so great for good conversation and loyal companions.
But later Amy concluded her conversation with the Marquesa most satisfactorily and secured a four-page spread about her pain and hurt and extensive wardrobe. She felt good as a wheeler-dealer. This is the life, she thought, quashing her need for intellectual stimulation beneath a check weighty enough to buy her a Prada outfit. Now I know why I suffer, she reassured herself.
CHAPTER 31
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 goo
d-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.
