Free Love by Clare Naylor Page A

whatever.
    â€œOrlando?”
    â€œAmy, there’s no need to be embarrassed, it’s cool about you and Lily, really.”
    â€œNo, you see, well, that was my first time, with a woman. I’ve never really felt attracted to them before and, really I think I prefer men, but it was nice, and …”
    â€œThere’s a first time for everything,” he interrupted sympathetically, ready to counsel his pretty young guest that “if it feels good—do it.”
    â€œNo, really, I fancy men. Lily was lovely, but it was more of an erotic thing, a backlash against crap men.”
    He nodded and refilled her glass.
    â€œWell, if you say so. I’m sure the male population will launch a collective cheer at that news.”
    Phew! number two, thought Amy. Better late than never.
    They chatted late into the afternoon. He told her about his recent divorce and a bit about “the pressures of acting.” Amy was surprised to find he didn’t sound like an actor at all, even though he told her he missed his wife but they’d both changed a lot and, really, actresses weren’t his cup of tea. Amy was almost convinced that he didn’t fancy the raven-locked temptress in
Return of the Native
, but when she slipped off to the loo and pondered this thought in a moment of relative sobriety she decided he was just deceiving himself. Who wouldn’t be in love with her, especially as she got to wear a jet-black velvet cape. As she pondered the Hogarths on the wall of his downstairs bathroom she was suddenly beset by panic. She’d been too nervous to have breakfast and the wine had gone straight to her head and she thought she must be making a total fool of herself. There is just no way in a month of Sundays that he’d invite me here because he fancies me, or even likes me vaguely. Maybe he thinks I’m the editor of
Vogue
and can get him a good review for his next play? No, that’s it, he needs a new cleaner, the place is looking a bit grubby, someoneprobably told him I need the money. At this thought Amy almost stayed in the loo. She didn’t want to go out there and be ritually humiliated. Then she realized that she’d probably been gone for much too long, so after scrubbing the red-winey flaky purple bits off her lips she ventured out.
    Orlando was stretched out on the sofa cradling his glass in the palm of his hand, watching the liquid swirl around. When Amy appeared at the door he looked up but didn’t speak.
    â€œNice Hogarths,” she said, taking care to perch herself on the chair furthest away from Orlando where he couldn’t possibly imagine that she’d misconstrued his motives. Still he didn’t speak but just looked at her.
    â€œCould do with a bit of a dust though.” She smiled cheerfully. This broke his concentration and brooding look. He frowned.
    â€œI don’t doubt it,” he said, breaking into a smile. Amy kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs out in front of her. The wine lulled them into a haze, and they made a bet as to who could eat the most roast potatoes.
    â€œLoser does the washing-up, how’s that?” he bargained.
    â€œAnd the drying,” added Amy, confident of her ability to demolish an inordinate number of spuds.
    â€œI don’t have Irish blood for nothing,” she warned. “All those years of famine are in the genes, you know. I see a potato and eat it.”
    And she did. She ate nine, he managed seven.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have let me do the washing-up anyway, you’re too much of a gentleman.”
    â€œDon’t you believe it, you’ve yet to see the dark side of my soul.”
    â€œOh, I read about that in the
Tatler
: the demonic actor. It convinced me of your serious, scary nature. I’m truly stunned you even eat roast dinners, you sounded as though you just ate Derrida for breakfast and Sartre for dessert. Can this be true?”
    â€œDon’t wind