Nathalia and her crass jet-set friends. Inwardly she gave up, that moment when for self-preservation you know itâs better to believe that it will never be. Optimism is not only misplaced but idiotic and masochistic; why hurl yourselfoff the cliff of rejection headfirst? Weâre 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 Hardyâs 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. Lifeâs not like books, she told herself, Iâm not Anna Karenina or even Holly Golightly. From here on Iâll 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, weâd 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 powderonto 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 everyoneâs glance.
âI wanted vegetarian, Amy, not pig,â snapped Nathalia. Amy winced at the mention of her name and delved back into her lunch box for an alternative.
âAmy, hello, Lilyâs friend. It is, isnât it?â asked the god. A smile superglued itself to Amyâs lips and her heart sprinted.
âOrlando, Iâve, er â¦Â been ironing,â she floundered, trying not to seem impolite for not saying hello earlier.
âI had supper with Lily on Wednesday, sheâs very well.â He winked. Amyâs mortification was concealed behind her grin.
âGood, thatâs nice.â Jesus, Iâm so boring, why on earth is he wasting his breath? Get a grip, Amy.
âHowâs the filming going?â Amy attempted, trying to resuscitate her brain, but she was felled by a shriek from Nathalia as she bit into roast beef and horseradish.
âAre you totally stupid?â 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 herrash competing to make her face as red and blotchy as possible. If sheâd stuck around a bit longer, sheâd have witnessed Orlandoâs 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.
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 powderonto 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 everyoneâs glance.
âI wanted vegetarian, Amy, not pig,â snapped Nathalia. Amy winced at the mention of her name and delved back into her lunch box for an alternative.
âAmy, hello, Lilyâs friend. It is, isnât it?â asked the god. A smile superglued itself to Amyâs lips and her heart sprinted.
âOrlando, Iâve, er â¦Â been ironing,â she floundered, trying not to seem impolite for not saying hello earlier.
âI had supper with Lily on Wednesday, sheâs very well.â He winked. Amyâs mortification was concealed behind her grin.
âGood, thatâs nice.â Jesus, Iâm so boring, why on earth is he wasting his breath? Get a grip, Amy.
âHowâs the filming going?â Amy attempted, trying to resuscitate her brain, but she was felled by a shriek from Nathalia as she bit into roast beef and horseradish.
âAre you totally stupid?â 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 herrash competing to make her face as red and blotchy as possible. If sheâd stuck around a bit longer, sheâd have witnessed Orlandoâs 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.
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