Nathalia, of course, didnât seem to notice.
C HAPTER 12
T aking the view that you have to pick yourself up, brush yourself down, etc., Amy faced Saturday morning with a schizophrenic blend of utter misery and eternal optimism. She flicked off the shipping forecast because she wisely knew it would depress her, all those lonely little boats in gales and wives sitting sadly at home. Instead she put on that anthem for female empowerment, âI Will Survive,â and had it blaring from stereo and tonsils. Nine in the morning and she was dusting her room in her pajamas. She flung her arms and duster tunelessly around, feeling better now. Thanks, Gloria, youâve done a lot of women, and many a gay man, a great service over the years.
She decided that retail therapy was just what the doctor ordered for this particular brand of nagging pain. The pain of humiliation and professional catastrophe. She burned lavender oil to lift her spirits and slipped her emergency-only credit card into her purse. On the bus to Kingâs Road she read glossy magazines, mentally noting her purchases: new nail polish, a must; shampoo for thicker, fuller hair, could transform my life; fennel tea to kick the demon coffee. She hummed her anthem the length of Sloane Street and felt content in the morningsunshine. In Harvey Nichols food hall she picked up some black olives in basil, she sniffed a scoop of Chinese green tea, and ran her fingers through a barrel of shiny black coffee beans. She bought a bag of watermelon-flavored jelly beans and meandered her way back downstairs via bed linens and Le Creuset saucepans. This is the life, she smiled to herself.
Pottering down Fulham Road, she popped into the Conran Shop, past the array of flowers and lobsters, stroking rosewood tables and, catching a glimpse of herself in a knotted wood Mexican mirror, looking good for a girl low on love, Amy reassured herself. Self-love is the first step to loving others, she had once read. As she picked up a giant starfish which would look exquisite in her bathroom she saw the familiar profile of Orlando Rock browsing among the potpourri. Oh, no, it canât be. I spend my life not seeing a single famous person and then in the space of two weeks they begin to reproduce asexually all over the place, like those spores I learned about in biology. Except that this was one famous person cloning himself all over her life. She decided to ignore him; heâd hardly be offended that a person whom heâd met for a grand total of an hour in his entire life decided to snub him. She slunk behind the bathrobes and disappeared into candles, surreptitiously glancing in mirrors to make sure he wasnât behind her. Just as she was about to disappear up the stairs and make her exit she felt a hand on her elbow.
âHello, trouble.â Shit. She stopped dead, caught in the act. Turning slowly, she helloed with fake surprise.
âOrlando! We have to stop meeting like this!â Did I really say that?
âI never usually come to such smart places as this, but I have to get a present for someone.â
âYour girlfriend?â Amy spilled out without thinking.
âNo, just divorced. For my mother actually.â Expect the unexpected, Amy, isnât that your perfumeâs motto?
âThey have some fantastic things, for gifts.â Get a grip, Amy.
âI know, thereâs this amazing sofa, come and have a look.â He led her up the stairs by her fingertips and flopped down on a vast, fat leather sofa.
âVeeeryy nice. If you want to get laid,â offered Amy. He laughed.
âNo pulling the wool over your eyes, eh?â
âI prefer this one, jewel-colored crushed velvet. Jimi Hendrix would buy it.â
âThey should have a sticker saying that on it. In tests eight out of ten dead rock stars would buy this sofa.â
âWhat about actors?â Amy queried.
âNo sense of style at all, just take on board the life
C HAPTER 12
T aking the view that you have to pick yourself up, brush yourself down, etc., Amy faced Saturday morning with a schizophrenic blend of utter misery and eternal optimism. She flicked off the shipping forecast because she wisely knew it would depress her, all those lonely little boats in gales and wives sitting sadly at home. Instead she put on that anthem for female empowerment, âI Will Survive,â and had it blaring from stereo and tonsils. Nine in the morning and she was dusting her room in her pajamas. She flung her arms and duster tunelessly around, feeling better now. Thanks, Gloria, youâve done a lot of women, and many a gay man, a great service over the years.
She decided that retail therapy was just what the doctor ordered for this particular brand of nagging pain. The pain of humiliation and professional catastrophe. She burned lavender oil to lift her spirits and slipped her emergency-only credit card into her purse. On the bus to Kingâs Road she read glossy magazines, mentally noting her purchases: new nail polish, a must; shampoo for thicker, fuller hair, could transform my life; fennel tea to kick the demon coffee. She hummed her anthem the length of Sloane Street and felt content in the morningsunshine. In Harvey Nichols food hall she picked up some black olives in basil, she sniffed a scoop of Chinese green tea, and ran her fingers through a barrel of shiny black coffee beans. She bought a bag of watermelon-flavored jelly beans and meandered her way back downstairs via bed linens and Le Creuset saucepans. This is the life, she smiled to herself.
Pottering down Fulham Road, she popped into the Conran Shop, past the array of flowers and lobsters, stroking rosewood tables and, catching a glimpse of herself in a knotted wood Mexican mirror, looking good for a girl low on love, Amy reassured herself. Self-love is the first step to loving others, she had once read. As she picked up a giant starfish which would look exquisite in her bathroom she saw the familiar profile of Orlando Rock browsing among the potpourri. Oh, no, it canât be. I spend my life not seeing a single famous person and then in the space of two weeks they begin to reproduce asexually all over the place, like those spores I learned about in biology. Except that this was one famous person cloning himself all over her life. She decided to ignore him; heâd hardly be offended that a person whom heâd met for a grand total of an hour in his entire life decided to snub him. She slunk behind the bathrobes and disappeared into candles, surreptitiously glancing in mirrors to make sure he wasnât behind her. Just as she was about to disappear up the stairs and make her exit she felt a hand on her elbow.
âHello, trouble.â Shit. She stopped dead, caught in the act. Turning slowly, she helloed with fake surprise.
âOrlando! We have to stop meeting like this!â Did I really say that?
âI never usually come to such smart places as this, but I have to get a present for someone.â
âYour girlfriend?â Amy spilled out without thinking.
âNo, just divorced. For my mother actually.â Expect the unexpected, Amy, isnât that your perfumeâs motto?
âThey have some fantastic things, for gifts.â Get a grip, Amy.
âI know, thereâs this amazing sofa, come and have a look.â He led her up the stairs by her fingertips and flopped down on a vast, fat leather sofa.
âVeeeryy nice. If you want to get laid,â offered Amy. He laughed.
âNo pulling the wool over your eyes, eh?â
âI prefer this one, jewel-colored crushed velvet. Jimi Hendrix would buy it.â
âThey should have a sticker saying that on it. In tests eight out of ten dead rock stars would buy this sofa.â
âWhat about actors?â Amy queried.
âNo sense of style at all, just take on board the life
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