A Night In With Audrey Hepburn

by Lucy Holliday

  It’s my turn to look a bit confused. Because I’d have thought he’d have worked this out by now, given that he knows I went out to a party with Dillon last night, and that he’s already come close to throwing one overprotective wobbly, Le Creuset-style, about the black eye he assumed Dillon gave me.

  But evidently – awkwardly – I have to spell it out for him.

  ‘Er … I spent the night at Dillon’s,’ I mumble.

  Olly stares at me. ‘Oh,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Right.’

  Over in the toaster, the walnut bread pops up. Olly gets to his feet, goes over to the toaster, and pops it back down again to get a bit browner.

  ‘I don’t really know what I was thinking,’ I say, talking much faster than I’d have thought I was capable of, with this hangover. ‘I mean, you know me, Olly. I don’t do things like this. Sleep with men on first dates, that is. Not that this was even a proper date at all, really.’

  But Olly is very busy with the toaster, and doesn’t say anything.

  ‘And obviously it’s backfired on me,’ I go on, miserably, ‘because he wasn’t there when I woke up this morning. Which anyone with half a brain could have seen coming a mile off.’

  No reply from Olly, who is still faffing with the toaster; I know he’s a perfectionist when it comes to his food, but you’d think he was creating a Michelin-starred three-course meal, for all the effort with a bit of walnut bread.

  ‘I just feel really stupid,’ I say in a very small voice, to match the very small way I’m feeling right now, ‘Ol. I wish I’d never done it. I wish I could turn back time and never even have gone to that party in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, but you did.’ The toast is evidently done now, to Olly’s exacting standards, because he’s coming back over to the table with it. He puts a piece on each of our plates. ‘Look, don’t feel too bad about it, Libby,’ he says, rather briskly. ‘What’s done is done. As long as you were careful …’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘Yeah, with, you know …’ He’s turning puce. ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Oh, God, Olly!’ I don’t want to talk about safe sex with him! I don’t want to talk about any sex with him! It just feels too weird. Just like the gritty, pebbly, uncomfortable feeling I had, down on the street just now, when I thought he had a girl in his flat. ‘Yes,’ I croak, when I can formulate words again, ‘but can you do me a huge favour, Ol, and never, ever bring the subject up again?’

  ‘The subject of your one-night stand with Dillon O’Hara?’ he says, even more briskly than before. Downright abruptly, in fact. ‘Yes, Libby, not talking about it ever again would suit me just fine.’

  I watch him for a moment as he starts to unwrap the cheese from its waxed paper. Then I take a deep breath.

  ‘Olly, look, if I’ve let you down in some way …’

  ‘You haven’t, Lib.’ He stops unwrapping the cheese and looks at me. ‘Sorry. You’ve just caught me in a bad mood this morning. The hangover and all that. And I’m livid with old Goldenballs O’Hara for treating you that way.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s like being angry with the Pope, surely, for being Catholic.’

  ‘Libby, don’t even get me started with all the things I could be angry with the Pope about, given half a chance.’

  It’s good that he’s made a joke – even a not-terribly good one – because it feels as if we’re back to normal again.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ I say, ‘by the way. About lying to you yesterday. And ditching you at such short notice. Not that it would’ve been OK to ditch you with longer notice, but … well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s OK, Lib. Honestly. Let’s just forget about the whole thing and try out this cheese, yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I say. ‘Cut me a little piece and I’ll try it on its own first.’

  ‘Here goes,’ Olly says, cutting two slices out of the cheese, handing one to me and keeping one for himself.

  We both bite into the cheese.

  And chew, solemnly, for a couple of moments.

  ‘It’s not it,’ we both say, simultaneously.

  ‘The one we had in Paris was sort of … creamier …’

  ‘Fluffier, almost …’

  ‘Oh, yeah, fluffy’s a good description, actually. Whereas this one …’

  ‘I mean, it’s really good, Olly, don’t get me wrong …’

  ‘But it’s not the same one.’

  ‘It’s not. No.’

  ‘So the search continues.’

  ‘The search,’ I agree, ‘continues.’

  And then we sit in companionable silence for a minute, nibbling at some more of the cheese from the waxed paper, and trying it with the walnut toast, too.

  At least, I hope it’s a companionable silence. I think everything’s OK between us now – certainly I know Olly’s not remotely the sort to bear grudges – and I’m still glad I managed to apologize to him face-to-face.

  I just have a suspicion that the mystery cheese-tasting would have been a bit more fun if we hadn’t decided to do it on a day when we’re both hungover and when I’m still smarting with the humiliation of having been so blatantly dismissed from Dillon’s orbit.

  Air-brushed out of his mind, too, most likely.

  For all my Olympian efforts.

  Or perhaps because of my Olympian efforts. Perhaps – oh, God – all those gung-ho positions I was trying out, and all that flinging myself about the bed, perhaps it … emphasized my wobbly bits in an off-putting manner. Perhaps if I’d just lain there, doing my level best to suck my stomach in and making sure Dillon wasn’t in danger of getting the slightest glimpse of my derrière …

  ‘Lib? You OK there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Olly, I just …’

  The kitchen door opens and in shuffles Charlie. Or Adam. I’ve only ever met them both when they’re together so – especially when I’m trying not to stare too hard at all the hairy leg on display – I can’t be sure exactly which of them it is.

  ‘Oh, hey, Libby,’ Charlie/Adam says, doing an impressive job of recognizing me, given that we’ve probably only met four or five times over the course of fifteen-odd years, and usually when one or both of us were drunk. ‘Jesus, that’s some black eye you’ve got there. You didn’t get that on your date last night, did you?’

  ‘I cancelled my plans with Adam when I thought I was going to be seeing you, and then I called and told him you had a date so we could have some beers after all,’ Olly starts saying, clearly feeling the need to explain how Adam (not Charlie) even knew I had a date last night. ‘Hey, why don’t you jump in the shower, mate, and then throw some clothes on, so that Libby doesn’t have to sit here assaulted by an eyeful of knobbly knees and hairy feet …’

  ‘It’s all right. I mean, not that I’m saying you have knobbly knees and hairy feet!’ I assure Adam, as I get up. ‘I should be getting home anyway.’

  ‘But Lib, you haven’t even had your cup of tea yet. And come on, don’t go home to an empty flat when you can stay here for a bit. I’ll cook us all some breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, it won’t be an empty flat.’ Hmm – possibly an error to admit this, given that I can’t actually say why my flat won’t be empty. ‘What I mean is, it won’t feel empty, what with that great big Chesterfield hogging all the space! And I should catch up on some sleep anyway, I’m absolutely knackered …’ Again, possibly an error, given that it sails us perilously close to the whole sex-with-Dillon thing we agreed never to discuss again. ‘Bye, Adam. Bye, Ol. Thanks for the cheese. And everything. I’ll call you later.’

  I shove the borrowed Ray-Bans back on and, with a wince, the mistaken shoes, give them both a somewhat falsely cheery wave, and head out of the flat, tottering back towards Kennington tube station even more painfully than I tottered out of it.

  Back in Colliers Wood, I barely make it past Bogdan’s Pizza Piz … oh, no, hang on, since I went out last night a new sign has gone up. It’s Bogdan’s Fish ’n’ Chipz
now, with one of the threatening-looking Moldovans hacking heads off glassy-eyed plaice just the other side of the shop window. Anyway, I barely make it past Bogdan’s before giving up with the shoes again and whipping them off just before I get to my own front doorstep.

  I don’t know what it is – the eerie quiet; the scent (imagined?) of l’Interdit that trails all the way up the stairs with me – but I’m not remotely surprised, the moment I step through my front door, to see that Audrey Hepburn is reclining on the Chesterfield sofa.

  Of course. Of course.

  I couldn’t hallucinate her for love nor money last night, when I could have really done with a hasty chat. But now that all I want to do is curl up in a ball, right where I stand, and sleep and sleep and sleep for all eternity, Imaginary Audrey has made a reappearance.

  She’s lying on her back, wearing – exactly as she does in Breakfast at Tiffany’s – nothing but a man’s white shirt and duck-egg-blue satin sleep-mask.

  I don’t know why I’m reassured to notice that she’s had a change of clothes since I last saw her, except for the fact that otherwise it might suggest that she’d been here all night … which, given that she only exists in my head, is way too complex a concept for my addled brain to compute, quite frankly.

  ‘No, no, just tea and toast for me, please …’ she murmurs, stirring from an elegant slumber as I shut – OK, bang – the door behind me. ‘I drank far too much coffee last night, I’m afraid. I’m not sure I ever want to see a cappuccino again, darling.’

  I get up all the way, walk over to the sofa and lift up the edge of her eye-mask.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, flatly.

  She sits bolt upright.

  ‘Darling!’ She pulls off her eye-mask completely and gazes at me, eyes wide in horror. ‘Your eye!’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I take the Ray-Bans off again and put my hand up to touch the throbbing skin around my eye; Dillon’s mother’s advice may have prevented it from being any worse than this, but it still feels sore and battered. ‘Does it look really awful?’

  ‘Dreadful, but that’s not the point!’ Audrey is on her feet, her hands on my shoulders. ‘What made him do this to you?’

  ‘No, no …’ She’ll be threatening violence with a piece of kitchenware next. ‘It wasn’t Dillon.’

  ‘Was there something he wanted you to do in bed, darling, and you didn’t?’

  ‘God, no, there was nothing he wanted to do in bed that I didn’t … I mean, the black eye is nothing to do with him. This was my sister. She threw a drink filled with ice-cubes in my face.’

  ‘Why on earth did she do that?’

  ‘Why on earth does my sister do any of the things she does?’ I ask, wearily, sinking onto the Chesterfield in a cloud of dog-scented dust. ‘Anyway, I’m fine. I put ice on it last night. I’m not sure there’s anything else I can do about it right now.’

  ‘All right, then let me make you a nice cappuccino …’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t face a cappuccino ever again.’

  ‘Drinking one, darling. I’m perfectly happy to make one for you! Actually, I got rather good at it last night. Would you like me to make you one with the chocolate on top in the shape of a little heart? Or your initial? Or a lovely—’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

  ‘Oh, dear, Libby, you do look all in.’ She sits down and pulls her feet up onto the sofa cushion, clasping her hands around her bare, slightly scrawny knees. ‘But it must have been a wonderful night, darling, if you’re only getting back at this time of the morning.’

  In my old fantasy, the one where Audrey Hepburn was my best friend, and we tripped around Fifth Avenue and the Tuileries together, knocking back champagne and looking fabulous, this is the point at which I’d girlishly confide in her about just how wonderful the night was. In fact, I’m getting a little shiver all along the length of my spine again, remembering all the sheer heavenliness of it: all that snogging up against the vintage fridge-freezer, and then even more delicious snogging on top of the pool table onto which – thanks to his impressive upper body strength – Dillon somehow managed to hoist me up without the use of a small crane, and then this unbelievably sexy retreat up the spiral staircase, shedding various items of our clothing on the way, Dillon’s smooth, soft lips nuzzling my neck, and his back muscles actually rippling as he picked me up again and carried me up the last few stairs to his bed …

  But at no point in my Fifth Avenue fantasy did I ever envisage having to tell Audrey Hepburn the distinctly less marvellous aspects of my love life. The depressing, shameful parts where you wake up in an empty bed at six thirty in the morning, without even so much as a one-line note to say goodbye.

  I mean, I’m not asking for much. I wasn’t exactly expecting to find an epic poem – For Thee, Fire Girl – propped against the toaster, or even to find a cheeky text on my phone explaining that he’d had to pop out for milk/bread/pool-table reinforcing equipment, but that he’d be back shortly for another round of filthy sex and I should make myself ready.

  And, let’s face it, Audrey Hepburn is never going to understand how it feels to end up mortifyingly ditched after an ill-advised one-night stand. In the extremely unlikely event that she ever had a one-night-stand in the first place, she’d doubtless have woken up to a little tray of breakfast, a bouquet of fresh flowers, and quite likely a Tiffany’s diamond or three, all showered upon her by the lucky recipient of her affections.

  ‘Libby?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, it was wonderful. But I don’t think anything further is going to come of it.’

  Audrey pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Though with a man like that, I’m not sure what more you could expect. I mean, Bella, Gina, Maggie, Courtney …’

  ‘Who are all these women?’

  ‘This Dillon fellow’s previous girlfriends, of course.’ She leans over the side of the Chesterfield and picks up my iPad. ‘I read about them on here. Models, most of them, but then what would you expect from a serial modelizer?’

  ‘A serial what?’

  ‘Modelizer. A man who only dates models. At least, that’s what it said when I looked up the word on Wikipedia.’

  ‘Why … how, more to the point, were you on Wikipedia?’

  ‘With your lovely padlet, darling. It’s terribly easy to use, once you get the hang of it. And Wikipedia is simply marvellous. I’d never have known the slightest thing about your Dillon without it. Or Kim Kardashian, for that matter.’

  My head is spinning. ‘Sorry: what made you want to know anything at all about Kim Kardashian?’

  ‘Well, I was absolutely intrigued, darling. I mean, I assumed she was terribly important, because you can hardly spend two minutes on this thing without reading something about her …’

  She has, I now notice, the slightly glazed look of a person who’s spent way too long jumping from link to link to link on Wikipedia.

  ‘Right, but you were just saying something about Dillon’s exes …?’

  ‘Only that there are rather a lot of them. And the most recent one – Rhea, is it? – well, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her. Did you know she was once given a police caution for throwing a raspberry at her hairdresser?’

  ‘Er – do you mean blowing a raspberry at her hairdresser?’

  ‘No, no, it was definitely throwing. And it must have been an awfully hard throw, for it to end up involving a police caution.’

  I think I’ve worked out the source of the confusion.

  ‘BlackBerry. Not a raspberry. You mean a BlackBerry.’

  ‘Well, it was definitely some kind of berry, anyway … Oh!’ Audrey suddenly jumps to her feet as the front-door buzzer sounds. ‘I wonder if that’s my order.’

  ‘Your order?’

  ‘Yes, darling, I’ve got an absolutely tremendous surprise for you!’ She actually claps her hands in gleeful anticipation. ‘I couldn’t help noticing how eager you seemed to freshen up your wardrobe …’

  The bu
zzer goes, again.

  ‘And I must say I think Net-a-Porter is the cleverest name. It’s a play, presumably, on prêt-à-porter? And some of their things are just exquisite! Their styling leaves a little to be desired, and obviously the less said about their selection of shoes, the better, but even so …’

  The buzzer goes a third time.

  With a growing sense of dread, I get up and pick up the entry phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Ravinder,’ a polite man’s voice comes through the receiver, as the Colliers Wood High Street traffic rumbles by below. ‘Your Net-a-Porter delivery driver. Can you come down to sign for your delivery, please?’

  ‘But I didn’t …’ I put the entry phone down and turn to glance back at Audrey, who’s practically leaping around with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. ‘Did you order stuff on Net-a-Porter?’ I hiss at her.

  ‘Yes! I ordered you your wish list! Well, I took off a few things that I’m fairly sure must have been placed on it by mistake – some dreadful jeans with legs like drainpipes, and one or two rather unattractive blouses – and put on a couple of beautiful evening gowns that I’m sure you’ll get years of wear out of—’

  ‘There was two grand’s worth of stuff on there!’

  ‘Oh, no, no, I didn’t have to pay any money for it at all! I just clicked on Order and it all seemed to just happen.’

  ‘Because they had my credit card details from the one and only time I ordered anything from them!’

  ‘Ah, well, I just assumed they must send you things for free, darling, because you’re an actress. That seems to be the way it works nowadays, no? I always made sure I paid dear Hubert for all the things he sent me, but according to your padlet, actresses are given most of their clothes without having to pay for them.’

  ‘Huge celebrities like Kim Kardashian, yes! Not redundant nobodies like me!’

  ‘Darling, I won’t have you calling yourself a nobody …’