by Wendy Holden
"You're married," Orlando, still tangled in the sheets, reminded her desperately.
He heard her gravelly chuckle. "Yes, but Hugh and I have a very open marriage."
He watched transfixed, as she peeled her bra off. Her breasts, larger than Orlando had expected, sprang out. They looked hard and pointy, with jabby little nipples on the end. Rather like a pair of missiles, he thought, nonetheless feeling a jolt of desire that horrified him. He wrenched his gaze away.
She was unzipping her black skirt now. Frozen to the spot, he watched her step out of it. Bells clanged chaotically in his head. Laura wore no knickers, and her pubic hair was neatly trimmed and demure, black against her milk-white flesh, as the straps of the garters were black. Orlando had never seen the full rigout in real life before, had never believed anyone besides Jordan and possibly Russell Brand actually wore it.
"What's the matter?" she asked huskily, kneeling up so her breasts pushed into his face. "Don't you like girls?"
Orlando swallowed heavily, the newly arrived equipment in his throat ratcheting noisily as he did so. He had no idea whether he liked girls. They had changed from rejecting him to wanting him virtually overnight, and he was completely confused about them. And, in any case, no way could Laura Faugh be described as a girl. She was forty-five at least. The friend of his parents, just feet away down the corridor. The wife of her husband, also feet away. The mother of her children, who were there as well. All this Orlando knew, and yet the insistence in his trousers was swelling, pressing, throbbing. He felt as if he might explode if he did not give way to it.
"Come on, Orlando. You know you want to." Laura was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked apart from her garter belt. Her smile was sly, mocking.
As she opened her long white legs in their black garters, Orlando saw the hoods over her eyes flick upwards to reveal a glittering, predatory expression, that of a snake hypnotising a rabbit. He knew he should resist and yet felt pulled helplessly towards her by the magnet in his crotch.
He stared about him in panic.
On the bed, Laura cupped her missile breasts in her hands and caressed the nipples with her thumb. "I've just had them done. They cost the equivalent of a year's school fees."
The mention of school fees, the bane of his life, brought Orlando to his senses. His more practical senses, that was. He realised that, contrary to what his examiners always said about him, he could think ahead. He did have an idea of consequences after all. He leapt to his feet. He opened the bedroom door and fled out into the dark corridor.
Should he tell his parents? Laura and Hugh's long-standing friends? He had concluded that probably he should, but he couldn't. He was physically incapable of telling it, and Georgie, in particular, highly strung as she was, was probably incapable of being told it. Even now, side by side with his father in the intimate atmosphere of the car, Orlando's jaw still remained clamped shut on the subject.
In Florence's famous Piazza della Signoria, Emma felt awed at the great, brown mediaeval Signoria palace rearing up before her, the row of painted shields along its front shining in the sun and its long, thin, central tower pointing into the bright blue sky.
And just over there, looking rather smaller than she had imagined,
but nonetheless instantly recognisable, was Michelangelo's statue of David. Emma crossed the wide, paved square towards him, weaving between knots of tourists.
A couple of children reached the statue before she did.
"It's Daddy!" announced the smaller of the children, an adorable pink-cheeked moppet with dark curls who Emma guessed, with a pang, to be Hero's age. The parents, harassed and obviously English, came panting up and swooped on their brood.
"Look, Daddy, it's you," repeated the smaller child, pointing at the naked statue.
Daddy, who Emma guessed walked around the house unclothed a lot, flushed a deep red.
"There you are, Dad." Orlando stood before the silver, purple, and red logo'd door of the first Internet café his father had ever visited.
"Er, Orlando…" Richard cleared his throat and searched for an excuse. "Thanks for your help. But I, um, I'll be fine now. I can manage. In there." He stabbed a finger through the hot air at the shop doorway.
Orlando pushed back his locks in surprise. "Manage? You? In an Internet café?"
"I'll be fine. Really." Richard grinned a rictus grin. There was no question of Orlando coming with him and seeing what he had come to see. It would be embarrassing beyond belief. "You go and do some sightseeing," He rummaged in his pocket for his wallet. "Here. Buy yourself a drink."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks."
"I'll give you a ring on your mobile when I've, um, finished." And with that, Richard disappeared into the Internet café.
Chapter Forty-four
The shoot was taking part in a smart Florence shoe store. Cubbyholes in the red velvet walls held variations on the stilettoheeled, sparkling, skinny-strapped look that had made this particular designer a household name.
His latest creation was what Darcy was to be photographed in: shoes of brilliant black patent with a peep toe, silver spike heel, and two-inch-thick black platform. The look fell, Darcy thought, somewhere between the porn star and the vaguely orthopaedic and horribly similar to what Belle had been wearing last night when she pushed her up the hill. She was also to wear a short, black leather trench coat and what seemed to Darcy some very strange make-up.
"Something so appalling happened to me last week," the make-up artist painting Darcy's lips metallic blue told her in tones of horror.
"What?" Darcy asked as best she could without moving the lips that were being painted. Like dentists, make-up people always chatted as if one could respond quite normally.
The make-up artist, whose name was Skye, did not inspire confidence. She had frizzy yellow hair and layers of smocks; a billowing, white-cheesecloth, lace-trimmed one rode on top of a nylon clinging one patterned in swirling yellow-and-purple Pucci print. She also wore black leggings and clumpy Mary Jane shoes in bright red patent.
"I drank a can of Diet Coke," Skye gasped. "But guess what? It was fat Coke, and I never realised. Can you imagine?"
The assistant, who huddled on the floor rubbing baby oil into Darcy's bare legs to produce a suitably gleaming look for the camera, exclaimed at the make-up artist in horror. "Omigod! What did you do?"
"Rang my personal trainer in hysterics, of course." Skye shuddered at the memory. "He told me to calm down and get on the treadmill for two hours…"
"Two hours!"
"Yeah, which wasn't bad, considering."
Darcy's thoughts drifted away, pulled like iron filings to the great magnet that was Christian. Since his no-show at the restaurant, he had texted occasionally, but only at the rate of one short answer to five or so long messages from her end.
Still, principal photography on the film started the next day. She would be on set with him then; she would see him then. Darcy cheered up.
"O-kaaaayyyy!" Carlos called now, tossing his mane of uncombed black hair.
Carlos was the photographer. He was a piratical, wild-haired Spaniard, black-leather-jacketed and full of attitude. Darcy hadn't terribly liked the way he looked at her with more than a touch of droit du seigneur.
"You look red 'ot, baby," he told Darcy.
Probably because I am, Darcy thought. Carlos's Japanese assistant was positioning her, wobbling in her perilous heels, before five brilliant spotlights. She was sweating in her leather coat.
The in-store stereo started to boom out Sister Sledge. Darcy tried hard to give Carlos what he wanted. "Chin down!" he yelled, throwing his hair about behind the camera. "Bottom out! Smile!"
Darcy had heard that saying "sex" produced a great camera smile, but she didn't want to encourage Carlos, who obviously felt entitled enough as it was.
"Okayyyyyy!" Carlos roared. "Eyes, go." Darcy widened her eyes obediently. "Teeth, go." She forced her aching lips yet further apart. "Hair, go." She tossed it wildly. "Aa
aaah."
Afterwards, they broke for lunch. Darcy lined up in her leather coat and agonising heels at the crew buffet, which had been set up on a white-draped trestle table in front of the ribbon-wrapped mirrors.
Eagerly, Darcy dived in. Her haul comprised of one large slice of juicy quiche and a great square of pizza sprawling with mozzarella, tomato, and herbs. She was biting into the pizza just as a short woman with thick beige hair, heavily eyelined eyes, tight ginger trousers, and a lot of jewellery burst into the room. "Stop!" shrieked Sam.
Orlando wandered through Florence. He had been following for some time the line of a winding and obviously ancient street that now opened into a huge and sunlit square.
The square was full of colour and movement. People in T-shirts and trainers sat everywhere: on walls, on the bases of the statues that seemed to be everywhere, at the bars with their colourful sunshades and scurrying waiters. This square was obviously a major hangingout place of the sort you didn't get in London.
Florence was pretty impressive, Orlando decided. He stuck his hands in his pockets and strode off. Might as well see what else there was to look at. Spotting a sign saying "Duomo" and remembering that his father had said something about it, Orlando followed the direction the arrow was pointing.
Emma was looking at the Duomo. Morning had, most thoughtfully, dozed off under his sun hat, and she was able to concentrate fully on the magnificent structure. She gazed, quite lost in admiration, at the massive and complex white marble mountain, alive with arches and pointy bits and round windows and all sorts of other architectural devices she wished she knew the name of.
"Um, Emma?"
At the voice, she froze. Slowly she turned and found herself looking up into a pair of smiling grey-green eyes with a ring of yellow at the centre. A large hand went up to uncertainly push back tumbling light-brown hair in which gleamed strands of pure gold. A violent flash of electric excitement passed through her knees and stomach. "Orlando!"
"Hi," he muttered, in a voice husky with awkwardness. His entire inside had leapt with excitement to see her, but now he felt shy.
"Hi," Emma muttered back, aware of his broad shoulders and brown arms beneath his T-shirt sleeves. She tried to rein in her excitement. No doubt he would say in a moment that he had come to meet somebody else. Some beautiful, lissome Italian girl, any number of which were sashaying past all the time.
"I had to come and get a travel cot for Morning," she said in a nervous rush. "The villa we're staying in doesn't have one…"
"Oh, right. Erm, I'm here with my dad. He's gone to an Internet café."
"Trendy dad."
Orlando snorted. Emma smiled.
"It's his first visit," Orlando confessed, more easily now. "Some thing to do with his work, I think. He didn't want me around, anyway."
She nodded.
"I was such an idiot not to get your address in the airport." Orlando rushed the words out. "I've been kicking myself ever since."
It was a big admission, and he instantly regretted making it.
Emma looked down, breathing quickly.
"Let's go and have a cup of coffee," she said.
"Er…Okay."
Emma looked challengingly at Orlando. "Sure you haven't got better things to do?"
He shook his head ardently. "Sounds like a really good idea."
"Guy? I'm ready."
As Richard, in the back row of terminals in the Internet café, keyed in the address, he looked furtively around him. No one was looking. No one had the least interest in what he was doing. Everyone was busy with their own worlds. On the screen immediately before him, one crazed-looking youth with a black beard, who Richard had on entry thought a dead ringer for some terrorist of the smokingshoes variety, was typing in a message that read: "Darling Mumsy, having a simply ripping time in Florence. It's a marvellous city, and I've met some awfully nice young people. I hope you're looking after my guinea pigs, lots of love, Bobsy."
"You've got there?" Guy asked a few minutes later.
"I think so," Richard whispered in horror, unable to tear his eyes away from the image on his screen.
"You've got a big, hairy bottom, right?" Guy asked, matter of factly. "Well, not you personally, of course, ha, ha, but…"
"Yes!" Richard hissed, shakily. He was in no mood for Guy's sallies.
"Well, click right in the middle of it, where the buttock cheeks…"
"Yes, yes," snapped Richard, louder than he had intended to.
He was aware of a movement in front of him, of someone very big suddenly rising up and looming over him. In vain and too late did Richard spread his skinny arms over the screen.
"Well, well, well," said the voice of Hugh Faugh.
Richard felt the colour drain from his face. He gulped dryly at his Parliamentary colleague, his head empty of all words, and in particular any that might explain and excuse him.
Hugh leaned heavily on Richard's desk and smiled. It was not a nice smile: sideways, cunning, and delivered with a cocked black eyebrow. It was, Richard recognised, a smile that said '"Aha! Got you!'"
"Rather spotty, isn't it?" the Shadow Education Secretary remarked, scrutinizing the bottom shown on the screen.
Richard had finally located his vocabulary and hauled it out from where it was hiding. "Hugh," he gasped. "I can explain. It's not what you think."
Hugh regarded him pityingly with his large, bright black eyes. "Don't worry," he said conspiratorially. "I can keep your little secret. I'm only in here myself because my BlackBerry is bust and I need to email Fanny."
"Fanny?" stammered Richard. "Who's Fanny?"
"Well, it's not so much who, as what." Hugh grinned. "I call them all Fanny. But I have to say that this one definitely puts the tit in constituency."
"Oh, I see," said Richard, feeling disgusted. A mistress. The latest of many, by the sound of it. He felt he disliked Hugh more than ever. He gestured at the bottom on the screen. "I'm looking at this on behalf of one of my constituents."
Hugh gave him a "They all say that" grin. "Don't worry. I won't tell Georgie. Not if you don't tell Laura."
"There's nothing not to tell," Richard insisted as Hugh, winking with one of his fleshy, sheeny, thickly lashed eyelids, went back to his seat.
Nonetheless, he felt implicated. Horribly compromised. Dirty even. Looking at hairy bottoms so some old toffs in Gloucestershire could keep their house prices up? Where was the nobility in that?
He stared at the hairy, white buttocks on the screen. They struck him as a succinct representation, not only of what was going on in Wellover, but of his political career in general.
Chapter Forty-five
Orlando, sitting in the café, was thinking that it must be wonderful to be a baby, so warm, cosy, looked after. All that was required of one was to sleep and smile, no responsibilities or expectations beyond that. And to be looked after by Emma, not least. To be cuddled up against her breast. He swallowed and felt a sudden glow sting his cheeks.
She was, he thought, as pretty as he remembered, if not more so. So many times since their airport encounter, he had recalled the soft shine of her brown hair, the sparkle in her eyes, the white of her teeth, and the red of her lips against her creamy skin.
"Got your exam results?" Emma asked eventually. She had been trying but could think of absolutely nothing else to say.
He shook his golden head unhappily. "I don't know which is worse," he groaned, addressing his huge feet. "Not having them and thinking they'll be bad or having them and knowing that they are."
A provocatively dressed woman was slinking past with swishing, dark hair and a long neck. Her lips, Emma noticed with awe, were even bigger than Belle's and possibly even more natural. Emma had been aware for some time that sidling girls with short skirts revealing long brown thighs were stepping closer to where she sat with Orlando than was strictly necessary.
The obvious centre of their attention was, Emma saw, clearly doing his level best to ignore it. His big
hands uncertainly raked his unbrushed golden hair, and his long brown legs stretched defensively out in front of him.
Emma felt she could not blame the women, even if some of them were giving her less than friendly looks. Orlando's brooding, discouraging stare—eyes narrowed under level brows, full mouth set in a line—made him look more intensely handsome than ever. His haphazard clothes—battered beige shorts, raggy red T-shirt, and huge, scruffy trainers with no socks—contributed even more to his air of casual, even reluctant beauty.