Love by Clare Naylor Page A

cardigans, and her strange imagination. Yes, we can safely say he was very taken.
    On Friday afternoon the phone rang in the fashion room. It rang and Amy was buried beneath a pile of crumpled Armani shirts. She yelled to anyone to pick it up.
    â€œAmy, it’s for you,” called Amelia.
    â€œWho is it?” the crawling pile of Armani yelled.
    â€œWho’s speaking? OK, I’ll just get her. Amy, it’s
Orlando Rock!
” pointedly. Subtext being “you sly old fox, what’s he doing phoning you?”
    The heap of shirts gave birth to a tall girl in jogging pants who, shaking them off, clambered toward the phone. Amelia held the receiver to her chest, refusingto hand it over until Amy had acknowledged her quizzical raised eyebrows. Amy tugged it from her, smiling conspiratorially.
    â€œOrlando, hi.” Very nonchalant, well done, he’d never guess at the seven hours Lucinda and Amy had spent deconstructing him, the very peculiar dreams Amy had had about him, and the twitter of excitement he was causing in the fashion room.
    â€œYes, that sounds great, where shall we meet? OK, under the lion, two on Saturday. Take care. Bye.”
    Aaargh! The fashion cupboard erupted with little shrieks and volcanoes of excitement. Romeo Gigli skirts came to life and danced a samba, Prada shoes tap-danced across the floor, and Amy was accosted by a huddle of Voguettes dying to know “everything, darling.”
    By lunchtime she was a minor celebrity throughout Vogue House. The lady from the library offered to let her have a look at all Orlando Rock’s press cuttings, and the security guards winked as she left the building. A fully fledged date with Le Rock. Yeee ha! She swaggered home on the tube, ensuring that her bottom swung in a jungle manner. She went to M&S for supper instead of Tesco and bought a Chinese meal for one and a French beer, girls’ beers she called them. Heaven. She used all the hot water without worrying about the wrath of her flatmates and ate a whole box of champagne truffles she’d been saving since Christmas. Sheer irresponsibility. Divine.

C HAPTER 15
    S aturday lunchtime found her beneath a lion in Trafalgar Square. She was sure she was under the right one but had a glance at the others just in case. Then she saw the silhouette of Orlando approaching, backlit by the glaring March sunshine, his thick brown hair and in-character beard barely concealing his heartbreakingly beautiful bones, his terrifyingly intense eyes. She was filled with fear. My God, what am I doing here, he’s beautiful and meeting me. Maybe I’ve overslept, maybe I’m still dreaming. Amy had dreamed of moments like this since she was thirteen and hoped that George Michael was her long-lost brother and all manner of television detectives were her boyfriends. But here she was meeting famous actor person on a dream date. I’m OK as long as I don’t look at him, she told herself. So, kiss kiss hello, she avoided eye contact and addressed his gray fisherman sweater.
    â€œHi, how’s it going?” casually, deeply, and deeply sexily, Orlando asked.
    â€œHi, good, fine.” She overegged it.
    â€œIt’s one of my all-time favorite places and I never get to come, so I thought it’d be perfect. Is that very selfish?” he asked, leading her up the steps of the National Portrait Gallery.
    â€œNo, I absolutely love it here,” Amy gushed.
    They were on nodding acquaintance with most of the monarchs, speculating on Elizabeth I’s sexuality, prevaricating over which of Henry VIII’s wives was the most beautiful. Amy hummed “Greensleeves” and proclaimed that any man who could write tunes like that couldn’t be all bad, even if he did decapitate several wives. Through dark Tudor chambers they emerged into the airy portals of the pre-Raphaelites.
    â€œEllen Terry was a radical feminist, you know,” she informed Orlando.
    â€œI hate