Love Read online

  Cath and Katie sought each other’s glance and eye-rolled knowingly at each other as Amy bent down to close the door of the washing machine.

  Amy left the detergent and the gruesome twosome and trailed upstairs. As soon as they heard her radio go on in the room above they launched their Waterloo. Cath hugged her knees into her chest.

  “Her ego’s just gone mad, that’s the problem, a few guys show a bit of interest and she’s so flattered she jumps into bed with them.”

  “Yeah, I read that that’s what happens to ugly teenagers who lose weight or something, they just become intolerable and so lose all their friends.” Katie omitted the rest of the article, which dwelled on the fact that “Friends often find it difficult to adjust to the new status ascribed to BTB (beastly turns beauty) as they feel it threatens their domain. There’s only so much jealousy a friendship can take before it starts to turn sour.”

  “ ‘Meant to meet!’ God, she was bad enough with her fantasies when men wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole, but now … heaven help us. Think of all those years at school when she’d hide behind all those baggy clothes because she was so overweight.”

  Katie’s subconscious unfairly presented her with a snapshot of Amy in school uniform. She wasn’t vastly overweight, in fact she’d been more of a beanpole, but fat was a more heinous sin, so she decided to let it pass uncontested.

  Amy pottered around her room for the rest of the evening, listening to old cassettes and sorting out her underwear drawers, one of which was given over to sample pairs of support tights and beige camisoles. Oh, the joys of being a fashion assistant. Friends thought your life was awash with complimentary Prada bags and Conran evening gowns, but it was usually all you could manage to beg a zipless pair of canary yellow nylon hot pants (in December). And far from the stylishly groomed environs one might expect of the employee of such a salubrious publication, Amy’s room was positively dishabille. Not a Louis XVII clock or bleached oak floor in sight. Merely a well-Hoovered but nonetheless thinning beige carpet; a childhood duvet begging to be replaced with Egyptian cotton sheets and chenille throws; an array of Moroccan plant pots from Cambridge market spewing beads and sunflower hair clips; an abandoned set of mini dumbbells from an aeons-old bid to get fit; and the wardrobe of a hopeful twenty-four-year-old. That is, things picked up in sales, which will come in handy for that cocktail party on the lawn, that week on a yacht in Saint-Tropez, that picnic at Glyndebourne. Needless to say, most of the outfits hadn’t had an airing yet, but we live in glorious anticipation.

  Underwear was particularly close to Amy’s heart at the moment. It seemed somehow … representative. The for-her Jockey briefs and athletically cut sports bras were an ailing breed. Over the last year or so, as she’d begun to get more confident, less gawky, they had been usurped by mesh and lace and gauzy, flouncy things, mostly white but occasionally black. It heralded a new start for her. She was Madame Bovary and her shoes, thought Amy. When Emma Bovary had wanted to escape her dreary life she wore a pair of garnet-colored slippers; they elevated her into the lavish realms of her imagination, from the mundane into a world of swirling ballrooms and gentlemen with silver cigarette cases. Her shoes are my underwear. She giggled at the notion, but it was true. Had she not wooed Luke Harding with her “push ’em up” bra? She certainly knew that if she wore something divine and silky close to her skin, she behaved more sexily and was more inclined to wiggle her bottom for the benefit of random strangers. For some women, shoes do the trick: in their usual penny loafers they’re capable of feeding the cat and rearing seven children but present them with a pair of slut red Manolo Blahnik dagger heels and they metamorphose into a lusty harlot who wouldn’t know one end of a potato peeler from the other.

  But Amy had never needed more props, or much encouragement, to charge off into wonderland, to follow a fantasy. The artistically gathered dust on her bookshelves bore testament, not to the fact that she didn’t read, but rather to the way she felt books should be: worn, old, and telling. Outmoded and sentimental, some would say. A blade of grass in The Winter’s Tale reminded her of a summer spent revising at university, flopping on the grass in the quads, trying to memorize soliloquies; a bus ticket in Crime and Punishment recalled a grueling spell of work experience at a publishing house in South Kensington. And now? Now she pulled out a copy of the supremely erotic Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin and smiled at the curled pages. During a particularly rampant affair with a photographer last summer she had read this copy in the bath, over breakfast, on the loo, cover to cover.

  The written word, the photographic image, both were infinitely more satisfying to Amy than reality. There was a detached beauty about them, a sublime loveliness that made her gasp with almost more pleasure than the most expertly delivered orgasm. She would dearly have loved to mold her life into the cornfield-kiss scene from A Room with a View, to experience the passion of Elizabeth Bennett as she beheld Mr. Darcy, or to want to die for lost love like Anna Karenina.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lucinda led Amy around Knightsbridge with the awe-inspiring confidence of one of a hallowed breed who are met not with disdain but deference when patrolling the upper echelons of Sloane Street’s boutiques. There was a type of woman in this part of town whom one imagined wouldn’t be able to breathe outside this postal address; place her in an SW11 or an N6 and she’d be reaching for her inhaler, rasping in a bid for her self-respect. Swathed in camel color, with dashes of Hermes black leather, like some piebald horse, she walks with balletic steps the length of Walton Street before hailing a cab. Never known to speak or to eat.

  They were on a scarf-finding mission. They strolled purposefully from the bitterly cold, early morning, sundrenched pavements into the silk-walled casements of luxury. Chanel, Farhi, Hamnett. It was curious being in with the right set in these terrifying shops. When Amy was at the publishing house she and another work-experience girl would escape most lunchtimes to meander around South Kensington. They developed a formula for being treated seriously in the shops. Turn waxen with glumness before entering and don’t smile. Appear uninterested at all times and express delight, loathing, and any greeting merely with your eyelashes. Thus a flicker denotes excitement, a plummeting of lashes disgust, and imploring eyelashes “I’m trying this on” (no pleases here, I’m afraid). They’d stoically wander between the rails in this fashion, suppressing all rapture. Once outside they’d curl over with laughter and I must have thats. There invariably followed the adage I’ve got to be rich, chanted so sincerely and with such desperation that Amy almost believed that if she closed her eyes tightly enough, the darkness would yield it. Rich boyfriends or checkbook fraud seemed more likely options, though.

  And the scarves: the soft velvet and lace, rich chocolate chiffon, amethyst silk and dense satin. Amy fingered each in turn, draping some over her shoulder, veiling her mouth and nose with one so she looked like a Turkish Delight temptress or just inhaling the trace of perfume and opulence of the fabrics. Amy pondered but Lucinda knew.

  “Fifteen of these and seven of those,” she instructed a willowy blonde in a pinstripe trouser suit who had previously just drifted like flotsam against the shop’s various objets d’art. The girl encased the spoils in tissue paper and a serious paper bag for them to carry away.

  To reward a successful scarf purchase Lucinda took her to lunch in Daphne’s, following her doctrine of Never look an expense account in the mouth. The pair sat in the conservatory, the icy sunshine pouring through the windows, the occasional waft of basil or warm bread whetting their appetites. Lucinda was pale and ethereal and beautiful; she’d risen effortlessly in the fashion world partly because she was universally adored and partly because she could couple a Philip Treacy hat with a Saint Laurent suit in a way which women would lie down and die for. Amy thought she was the last word in glamour and was fast becoming her best friend. Lucinda loved Amy because she was witty and charming and ever so slightly gauche, and what a pleasure it was to have someone so fresh around i
n the airless, sometimes stale world of fashion. Lucinda was also stable and clever and the perfect mentor for a would-be heroine. Mutual appreciation was the name of the game. Amy was about the youngest person there and, if we’re being truthful, the most beautiful. She was naturally superseded in grooming by each and every woman in there (her nails harbored rare cultures, and possibly whole undiscovered tribes, beneath them), and her hair was more crap than coif, but still, thanks to a beauty routine which was one part witchcraft and two parts tap water, she managed to look fresher than the arugula salad and considerably more appetizing. That is, if the appreciative leers of the film moguls and all the fat-walleted (and, all too often, fat-bottomed) men lunching there were concerned. Some, probably the English, gave that coolly arrogant stare which said, “You may think I wouldn’t mind a bit of rumpy with you, young filly, but you’re sadly mistaken, I’m far too important to fancy you.” Then there were the obviously Latinate appraisals of unadulterated pleasure, and the terrified Americans, all PC paranoia: should they smile or would it clash with their Calvin Kleins, and what will his wife think and what would his therapist say? Amy smiled inwardly at her cornflake-packet guide to national character delineation and decided that it was not crass to generalize, in this instance. Serve them right, pervy bastards.

  “So, has Luke called yet?” Lucinda ravished a roulé of goat cheese without injury to her lipstick.

  “No, but I really wasn’t expecting him to, and I’m really not too bothered, y’know. It was just a kind of finishing off. Smoothing over. He’s not really my type.”

  Lucinda smiled sympathetically, wholly believing Amy to be putting a brave face on her misery.

  “Lucinda! I don’t care, honestly.”

  “OK, sweetheart. Why don’t you come to a party with me tonight, get out your glad rags, and find yourself a bigger fish than Luke to fry? There’ll be tons of people there.”

  Amy nodded weakly. She wanted a night to catch up with herself after a manic week at work but knew better than to offend Lucinda when she had her charity hat on. “Luce?” She looked up from a vinaigrette-laden frond of curly endive. Lettuce, let’s face it, endive, arugula, radicchio, bloody lettuce. Amy winced at the stupidity of her fellow diners, paying through the nose for vegetation. Still, as they rationalized it, at least they stayed slim.

  “Luce, you do see, don’t you, why I’d rather just, y’know, sleep with these guys than go out with them. There’s so much more romance in the moment, in some bubble of perfection than ending up wearing jogging pants and stopping shaving my legs.”

  Lucinda smiled with as much mother-earth compassion as a woman who dictates other women wear hipsters can muster.

  “Darling, if you love someone, eventually it doesn’t matter that you’ve eaten garlic or have furry armpits, really, it becomes more than that.”

  Amy squirmed with disgust. Q.E.D., she would stick to glossy unreality, faint hearts and all.

  “That’s your trouble, darling, you want too much—you want a Ralph Lauren ad for a life, but those boys are all gay and babies vomit all the time. It’s not so pretty in reality.”

  CHAPTER 5

  When was the last time you went to a party which lived up to your expectations? Parties, let’s face it, are a metaphor for dashed hopes. By far the best bit is the getting ready. Keats got it right, thought Amy, pushing her toe into the tap to stop it dripping. “Sweet fancy melteth like bubbles when the rain pelteth.” The anticipation is all, the reality just never seems to come up to scratch.

  The steamy lilac vapors rose around her, and she sank beneath the waters as oh-so-handsome men swirled in her head and her evening built up before her into the glorious Technicolor of late-1950s films. Her head became a rainy Saturday afternoon in front of the television. All ladies in pistachio gowns removing themselves from the whirl of the ballroom to a balcony of orange blossom and cool air; moments later a devilishly good-looking man would emerge onto said balcony and there’d be a brush of skin or proclamation of love. Or perhaps some film noir of rainy nights and cruel, red mouths and dark encounters. Whatever, it had to be better than real life, she thought, rising from the bubbles and simultaneously drenching the floor.

  The party was a champagne-and-oysters affair in Holland Park, at a magazine editor’s house. This particular editor loved the world to know she had exquisite sofas and perfect cornicing so was altogether happy to have a relative nobody such as Amy there, as an apostle for her interior decorating. This editor was also known as the worst bitch in London, and a total nutter to boot.

  “We call her Dagenham, because she’s one stop up from Barking,” a journalist who labored under the dictatorship of the hostess proudly informed Amy. He sniggered as though he’d just stuck his tongue out to his schoolteacher. He gave her a whistle-stop rundown of the assembled luminaries. Most of them seemed to inhabit the strange cloisters of daytime television. Take a vow of nonentity and you, too, can retreat there to atone for some long-ago sin on prime-time TV. Amy remained a paragon of unimpressedness as these besweatered men and fluffy women were introduced to her. She bore with fortitude the slings and arrows of insult as they addressed her just beyond her left ear, one eye trawling the room for someone more interesting, or at least more wealthy.

  Lucinda was one of life’s believers in social self-sufficiency; you picnic on conversation, mingle with ease, and charm and flatter effortlessly, or else why were you invited? Amy came from the school of thought which preferred a girlfriend to weld herself to as a permanent source of security, a safety valve for difficult conversations and the human equivalent of a T-shirt declaring, “Hey, it’s OK, I know someone here.” Thus Lucinda bellowed with laughter by the fireplace with a group of curtain designers and Amy stood alone. Lucinda’s boyfriend Benjy spotted her, much to her shame and relief.

  “I take it you’re Amy, I’ve heard lots about you. Benjy, I go out with Lucinda.” He proffered his hand.

  “Yeah, I’m Amy, nice to meet you.” He was very handsome, blue-black hair and china blue eyes, slim and slightly wasted looking. Very man-of-the-moment. But Lucinda had obviously been ahead of the game, spotted his fashionable potential three years ago before he was a glimmer in a style guru’s eye.

  “What do you do?” asked Amy, knowing full well he was a scriptwriter but opting for perfunctory rather than inspired conversation.

  “Oh, I write scripts, mostly documentaries right now, but I’m doing the odd project of my own, films of obscure Russian novels, par-for-the-course stuff.” He smiled self-consciously, aware of the pretentious edge. “How are you finding life as a Voguette?”

  “Oh, you know, ups and downs. I’ve had my fair share of tears in the loos but otherwise it’s fun. Lucinda’s fantastic.” Amy tried not to wince as she downed an oyster.

  “Yeah, she has her moments.” He drifted off into love thought, gazing at his beloved across the room. Amy looked on enviously. Why can’t a man look at me like that? she lamented. They were joined by a film producer who snapped Benjy up into industry conversation and Amy found herself on the periphery again. She just smiled on cue and surveyed the room.

  In the corner, in the midst of some particularly fine parquet flooring, the editor squealed her objection to various minor royals (they obviously hadn’t RSVP’d) and slunk up to the only gorgeous man in the room. Amy instantly recognized him as the rising young star and recently divorced (“It’s hard to keep a relationship going when I’m filming in LA and he’s onstage in London,” quoth actress wife predictably in some glossy magazine) actor … she couldn’t remember his name. Seth? Gus? Tudor? Something faintly ridiculous anyway. He was so beautiful, Amy had seen him as Mr. Rochester and he’d won her heart.

  “Forget bloody plain, dull Jane Eyre,” she’d wanted to say. “I’m here and won’t give a damn about the dodgy woman in your attic.” He was the epitome of the man Amy wanted, brooding yet sensitive. And he was talking to the editor, who evaporated in a combination of lust and a bustier hooked too tigh
t while he was cool but charming, courteous yet aloof. Amy felt cross and desperate. What was she doing here? There was no real fun in living a glamorous life vicariously. She wanted to belong, but knew she wasn’t even approaching gossip-column material, let alone Harpers-cover status (as the Actor, naturally, was). Her legs were too funnel-like, her bank manager had a vendetta against her, and she hadn’t yet made it to the inner sanctum of fashion where fey men air-kissed her and pleaded with her to wear their velvet jodphurs. God, she was depressed.

  Amy the wallflower was in full bloom, her tendrils climbing the russet rag-rolled walls, her leaves clinging to her bucks fizz with all her might. Amius Wallflowerus. All those old insecurities seeped from beneath her newly glam façade. She stood with her legs twenty inches apart in an age-old bid to look shorter and less conspicuous. In her mind her lacy G-string became a pair of maroon nylon gym knickers and her hair distinctly stringy. From her hideaway beneath a potted lime tree she attempted conversation with a bespectacled columnist (poor eyesight, a definite blessing as he couldn’t see her hideousness) but she just sounded like John Major, all Spitting Image gray and nothing more riveting to discuss than crudités. Vegetables, for heaven’s sake. After the third Samaritan (those charitable types who can’t bear to see a lone someone fiendishly stuffing twiglets in their mouth in a bid to look busy) had tried to salvage her social reputation and fled in defeat, she thought it kinder to everyone if she went home.

  “Don’t look so glum, sugarplum.” It was the photographer. Memories of her very nice, Anaïs Nin summer came churning back. Art gallery openings and lessons in aperture. Cool martinis in sweltering bars and not quite as many phone calls as she’d hoped for. In a panic Amy looked down to check that it was actually her red velvet trousers she was wearing and not the brown, holey leggings she’d mentally dressed herself in.