Free Love by Clare Naylor

already-much-scrutinized piece of paper. She’d done some amateur graphology on the loops on his g’s and was quite pleased with what his capital letters told her about his temperament. Yup, right address. A little run-down, she thought, glancing at the peeling windowsills, but perhaps in that clever south London way its scruffy exterior denoted smart home contents. Probably. She wiped her glowing palms on the jacket she’d borrowed from Lucinda in a fit of panic last night and, after a few yoga breaths, pressed firmly on the doorbell. Clatter clatter down the staircase, fiddle with keys. Help, what am I doing here? Door flung open.
    â€œAmy, hi.” Kiss kiss. Nice Sunday smell drifted down the stairs.
    â€œSomething smells good,” she remarked, with all the originality of a seasoned (if dull) houseguest.
    â€œSo it should, I’ve been up since dawn scrubbingfloors and basting dead animals, look—dishpan hands.” He held his beautiful, long fingers out for scrutiny.
    â€œYou’re obviously using the wrong brand of washing-up liquid. Men always do.” She sniggered, he huffed with a camp toss of his head and led her through to the kitchen. Amy noted the bachelor feel to the flat, a tidy but drab kitchen, lots of scrubbed pine but not a vase of flowers or cleverly arranged rug in sight. Behind the house was a tiny veranda leading onto an even tinier lawn. It wasn’t really Mayfair, she thought, feeling sure that actors must get paid enough to live north of the river in somewhere a bit more palatial. Maybe, though, he just hadn’t got round to it since the divorce, maybe his ex-wife had the penthouse.
    â€œVery sweet,” said Amy. “Did you decorate?”
    â€œNah, I’ve only lived here for about six months. I try not to invite anyone round because they think I should have some hell pad with shiny floorboards and revolving statues of nudes.”
    â€œAnd black satin sheets and a water bed.” Amy perched on the edge of the worktop, getting into the swing.
    â€œOh, I’ve got those. My only indulgence though, I find money’s never wasted where good taste is concerned.” He handed her a glass of red wine. Amy looked up from his hand to his eyes. Shit. Reality check. Looking straight at her was Orlando Rock. God of stage and screen with all the sex appeal but minus the poniard. Her mind flickered to Orlando in the woods, the superstar surrounded by admirers. Then her stomach flickered. Her hand almost didn’t grasp the stem of the glass, and for a second it wavered between their two hands.
    â€œDo you think we’re destined to talk about interior decoration forever?” said Amy, finally managing to secure her red wine.
    â€œYes, ’fraid so. I made a pact with the devil: I can be famous and successful but in my private life am condemned to talk about home furnishings for all eternity.”
    â€œShit. Well, I think I’d better be off, perhaps you can have the chicken in sandwiches for lunch tomorrow, I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway.” Amy made to leave the room, picking up her coat on the way out. Half of her longing to really leave so she would have time to adjust to this peculiar twist in her life.
    â€œStop, you’re my only hope, I need the blood of a beautiful virgin and some eye of newt for a potion I was planning. Only then can I break Satan’s hold over me.”
    â€œNo can do. I’m sure you can get eye of newt in Sainsbury’s but you’re about six years too late for the virgin’s blood.”
    â€œBugger. And you look so innocent, too. Mind you, so does Lily.”
    Amy was plucked back to reality. I can’t go on letting him think that Lily and I are an item, it’s not fair to him, she told herself, when what she really meant was: if he wants to kiss me later, which he won’t, he has to know that I’m straight, or bi, or