almost yodelled his name. 'What a fantastic lover you are. Is it being Italian, do you think?'
'Sorry, Lolly, but that's bullshit,' he replied. 'Reckon I'm almost as Scottish as you are. My ma's pure Scot. My da's a Scot on his mother's side. It's just my grandad. He came over to sell ice cream after the war. So just a wee bit of me is Italian.'
'Well, I think that must be the bit that was so fantastic,' said Lolly, giving him a languorous hug. 'And I wouldna call it wee. Let's do it again. Not exactly the same thing of course. I want to learn something new from you. Some wild, wicked Italian thing. Cover me with double virgin olive oil. Think of me as a Caesar salad.'
'This is a Police Station, Lolly, not a delicatessen. But do you really think I'm a fantastic lover?' As he was saying this, Orlando had raised himself to kneel beside her on the rather precarious sofa-bed they were sharing, looking down into her eyes, those eyes that always seemed amused, as if she was nursing some cosmic joke he would never be able to share. Yet, in spite of this, there was something completely open about her. She always seemed to say exactly what she was thinking and say it at once without any calculation or hesitation. Her openness inspired him to be equally unguarded.
'I could fall for you, Lolly. Really fall for you, and that's a fact.'
He didn't know what he expected her reaction to be. But, in the event, it really surprised him. She seemed quite taken aback.
'Oh no! No, no, no!' she was saying. 'Please don't say that, my lovely Orlando. Don't you see, I just like doing it ? Particularly with someone who does it as well as you do. I never, ever fall in lerve.' She pronounced it rather self-consciously, as if it was not really part of her vocabulary. 'And Orlando, not that anything so silly would ever occur to you I hope, I am never, ever anybody's exclusive woman. Nor do I expect exclusivity in any man. Is that OK with you?'
Orlando managed to laugh, but his mind reeled at what she had just said. She loved doing it with him, but she didn't want to be his girlfriend. What kind of an arrangement was that?
'OK with me? Since you put it like that, Lolly, I guess it'll have to be.'
'Thank heavens, another free spirit!' she cried. 'If I can use your shower, perhaps you'll join me and we'll think of something really wonderful for Act Two.'
He wanted to believe she had really found him a wonderful lover. But he knew she had steered him away from what, before, had always been slightly mechanical. She had created a sort of theatre of the erotic in his bed. Into his ears, she had whispered urgent cues; conjured up wild allusions; invented roles for him and assumed others for herself.
'Let's imagine,' she had urged at one point, 'that you are the last man left on earth, and that I, among all the millions of women that remain, have won you in a lottery for this one night only. After this, I shall have to remember how you made love to me for the rest of my life… there can never be an encore.'
Meanwhile, joined together in the shower, another highly imaginative act was starting and this time he, remembering the boastful talk he had shared with his team mates in the communal bath at their Glasgow clubhouse, couldn't resist reminding her that: 'This is number three, Lolly.'
'So it is,' said Lolly, thoughtfully. 'You know a compatriot of yours, one Caesar Borgia, bet his father the Pope that he could do it five times with a poor little virgin princess on their wedding night. He had five horsemen waiting under the window of their bridal chamber and each time he came he shouted out to another horseman to ride and tell his father. If he could do that with some poor whimpering little lassie, straight out of a convent, just think what you could with me!'
A lot later Anthea McWhirter, a stable hand who worked for Lolly, was walking back from the Grove after an evening rehearsing May Day songs when she heard some sharp cries of pleasure coming
'Sorry, Lolly, but that's bullshit,' he replied. 'Reckon I'm almost as Scottish as you are. My ma's pure Scot. My da's a Scot on his mother's side. It's just my grandad. He came over to sell ice cream after the war. So just a wee bit of me is Italian.'
'Well, I think that must be the bit that was so fantastic,' said Lolly, giving him a languorous hug. 'And I wouldna call it wee. Let's do it again. Not exactly the same thing of course. I want to learn something new from you. Some wild, wicked Italian thing. Cover me with double virgin olive oil. Think of me as a Caesar salad.'
'This is a Police Station, Lolly, not a delicatessen. But do you really think I'm a fantastic lover?' As he was saying this, Orlando had raised himself to kneel beside her on the rather precarious sofa-bed they were sharing, looking down into her eyes, those eyes that always seemed amused, as if she was nursing some cosmic joke he would never be able to share. Yet, in spite of this, there was something completely open about her. She always seemed to say exactly what she was thinking and say it at once without any calculation or hesitation. Her openness inspired him to be equally unguarded.
'I could fall for you, Lolly. Really fall for you, and that's a fact.'
He didn't know what he expected her reaction to be. But, in the event, it really surprised him. She seemed quite taken aback.
'Oh no! No, no, no!' she was saying. 'Please don't say that, my lovely Orlando. Don't you see, I just like doing it ? Particularly with someone who does it as well as you do. I never, ever fall in lerve.' She pronounced it rather self-consciously, as if it was not really part of her vocabulary. 'And Orlando, not that anything so silly would ever occur to you I hope, I am never, ever anybody's exclusive woman. Nor do I expect exclusivity in any man. Is that OK with you?'
Orlando managed to laugh, but his mind reeled at what she had just said. She loved doing it with him, but she didn't want to be his girlfriend. What kind of an arrangement was that?
'OK with me? Since you put it like that, Lolly, I guess it'll have to be.'
'Thank heavens, another free spirit!' she cried. 'If I can use your shower, perhaps you'll join me and we'll think of something really wonderful for Act Two.'
He wanted to believe she had really found him a wonderful lover. But he knew she had steered him away from what, before, had always been slightly mechanical. She had created a sort of theatre of the erotic in his bed. Into his ears, she had whispered urgent cues; conjured up wild allusions; invented roles for him and assumed others for herself.
'Let's imagine,' she had urged at one point, 'that you are the last man left on earth, and that I, among all the millions of women that remain, have won you in a lottery for this one night only. After this, I shall have to remember how you made love to me for the rest of my life… there can never be an encore.'
Meanwhile, joined together in the shower, another highly imaginative act was starting and this time he, remembering the boastful talk he had shared with his team mates in the communal bath at their Glasgow clubhouse, couldn't resist reminding her that: 'This is number three, Lolly.'
'So it is,' said Lolly, thoughtfully. 'You know a compatriot of yours, one Caesar Borgia, bet his father the Pope that he could do it five times with a poor little virgin princess on their wedding night. He had five horsemen waiting under the window of their bridal chamber and each time he came he shouted out to another horseman to ride and tell his father. If he could do that with some poor whimpering little lassie, straight out of a convent, just think what you could with me!'
A lot later Anthea McWhirter, a stable hand who worked for Lolly, was walking back from the Grove after an evening rehearsing May Day songs when she heard some sharp cries of pleasure coming
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