Love by Clare Naylor Page A

country had been detailed in the tabloids, Tiffany Swann not far away in the background. Bollocks, she thought. If only, she thought. But he was now firmly ensconced in the land that invented bungee jumping, had lots of sheep, and who knows what else? Who cares, frankly. He was there and she was here. And she could just see it in that tart’s eyes, she was hankering after him, would probably get him in a month, too. No man can wait that long till he has sex again. Amy knew about such things. Or so she thought.
    She dragged her feet around the house and refused to wash her hair.
    â€œIt’s good for it, after six weeks it’ll start to wash itself anyway, and I’ll never have to waste money on shampoo again,” she justified it to Lucinda.
    â€œYou’ll stink.”
    â€œNatural oils, they’re very pleasant, I could probably market them, they’re full of pheromones.”
    â€œYou’ll smell like a sheep,” Lucinda protested. Amytook herself into hibernation mode. The girls at work tried to prize her from her moribund state, come out with us to this new bar, they chorused.
    â€œI’m making coleslaw tonight, I can’t.”
    She stayed at home and wrote letters to long-forgotten aunts, except she never really started one, let alone finished and posted one. Instead she drew flowers in the corner of the paper and, chewing her pen, gazed over at her bed. He’s been here, in this room. He’s kissed me. He’s on the cover of
Esquire
. We’ve had sex. But the facts didn’t stick. Maybe he’s an impostor, some bloke who looks like Orlando Rock and hangs around bars picking up women. But I didn’t meet him in a bar, did I? And Lily knows who he is. So he’s real. She felt sick at the thought of how amazingly handsome, in fact, just how amazing, Orlando was.
Was
, because she knew that she would never see him again. She was just one of those bints who these guys could have all the time, anytime they wanted. She still wasn’t convinced as to why her number had come up in the lottery rather than one of those ravishing creatures you see on Friday nights on Fulham Road. Maybe I remind him of his mother? Amy nearly chipped a tooth, she was chewing her pen so hard. Shit. I guess it happens all the time, famous person sleeps with normal person and they never set eyes on them again, except on the cover of a magazine or on the rare occasion that the fortunate bint gets pregnant during her encounter and she can establish a link, albeit via the tabloids, with the man she’ll never forget. Never forget even after she’s married an investment banker and now lives in a very nice house thank you very much inVirginia Water. God, I’m pathetic, thought Amy, finally giving up the fight with the pen and paper and wandering downstairs to watch telly instead.
    In her exile she even tried to mend fences with the flat monsters, who grilled her incessantly about Orlando and provided her with an excuse to talk about him.
    â€œWhat did you talk about?” queried Cath.
    â€œOooh, all sorts,” said Amy, reeling off the little jokes they’d shared and not shutting up when she should have known better. But at least they were interested; everyone else she knew tried to make her forget it, take her out of herself, and enjoy herself.
    â€œI don’t want to bloody well enjoy myself, Lucinda, I’m miserable. I’ve been deserted by sodding Orlando who quite obviously just wants to get into that tart’s knickers and I think my heart’s broken.”
    â€œYou’re not, you’re just being a drama queen and you’ve got to get a grip. You look like something the cat dragged in.”
    â€œThanks for the support,” Amy snapped, and put down the phone. Right now she didn’t deserve friends, particularly not ones as nice as Lucinda.
    On Saturday afternoon she went to the video shop and bought two cans of Pringles and three