A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘I think it’s more the sort of thing Noël Coward wrote light-hearted songs about, actually …’

  But she’s not listening.

  ‘I’m quite sure they tried to tell her that I was living through both of you. Which is obviously a pile of steaming horse-manure, because if I’d been wanting to fulfil my ambitions through you, Libby, I’d have been much better off steering you away from a career in the theatre altogether! I mean, you were hopeless at it!’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘You couldn’t sing, you couldn’t dance—’

  ‘No need to hammer it home.’

  ‘And really, if it was either of you who was going to succumb to depression and addiction, I’d have put my money on it being you, not your sister. After all, she was the one with the looks and the talent, and you were always in her shadow—’

  ‘Mum. Can you stop slating me for a second and listen? Cass is fine, OK? She hasn’t … succumbed to anything.’

  ‘Well, of course she hasn’t, darling.’ There’s a dramatic wobble to Mum’s voice, and she clasps a hand to her chest. ‘She’s a fighter, your baby sister; always has been, always will be.’

  ‘Sure. But she’s not fighting depression. Or addiction.’ We’re pulling up outside Cass’s block now, so I stop talking for a moment as I haul Mum’s bags out of the taxi and – oh, so this is how it’s going to be, is it? – have to root around in my purse for a tenner to pay the driver because Mum claims her own purse is packed deep down at the very bottom of her huge suitcase. ‘Look, I’ll let her explain it to you all herself,’ I add, as I push the buzzer to Cass’s ground-floor flat and almost immediately hear the clack-clack of heels on the other side of the door. ‘I think that would probably be best.’

  The door opens and Cass is standing on the other side of it.

  She looks absolutely sensational.

  She’s wearing the cherry-red micro-shorts I packed in her suitcase to take to the clinic, a sexy off-the-shoulder sloppy sweatshirt, and strappy tan-coloured sandals with a five-inch heel.

  There’s a split second in which she looks, first, incredibly smug about her own appearance, and then, just for a flash, incredibly annoyed about my own appearance, and then she flings her arms around Mum’s neck, bursts into the noisiest sobs I’ve ever heard, and cries, ‘Oh! My Mummy, my Mummy!’ exactly like she’s auditioning for The Railway Children at the Swan Theatre in High Wycombe – like she did, unsuccessfully I might add, when she was eleven years old.

  It’s only then that I notice the man with the film camera in the hallway behind her.

  Actually, the man with the film camera looming out of the hallway, over Cass’s shoulder, to perfectly capture mine and Mum’s stunned reactions.

  At least, I’m looking stunned; I can tell, because my mouth has dropped open like a goldfish and I seem to have forgotten how to close it.

  Mum, on the other hand, has adapted to this astounding turn of events like the seasoned professional actress she always wanted to be.

  ‘There, there, my darling,’ she says, in a rich, warm, motherly tone of voice that I’ve never heard her use before in my life, ever. (I’ve never heard her use the phrase ‘there, there’, either, so it’s a double-whammy of weirdness.) ‘I’m here now. Let it all out. Everything is going to be all right.’

  To which Cass lets out a fresh round of sobbing for the cameraman to linger on for another few moments, until she decides that this has been quite long enough for the camera not to have a view of her face. She pulls away from Mum’s embrace and starts to lead the way inside.

  And I’m still standing here, staring like a goldfish.

  An expression that’s captured perfectly by the cameraman, who turns his lens on me for a moment, obviously assuming that I’ll do or say something interesting.

  ‘Er,’ I say, which isn’t very interesting. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just keep going, keep being normal!’ a man’s voice calls from just inside the hallway, just before he emerges, himself, to chivvy the cameraman through to follow Mum and Cass. He’s got pale ginger hair, and designer stubble, and an air of high importance. ‘Hiiiii,’ he says, to me, in a meaningful tone, sticking out a hand and walking towards me. ‘I’m Ned, from RealTime Media. I … assume you’re the older sister?’

  ‘Yes …?’

  ‘Right! Well, this is good. This is great, actually.’ He’s staring at me. ‘Cassidy had led us to believe that you were a lot less … telegenic.’

  ‘Than who?’

  ‘Than her. Than you actually are …’ He laughs, nervously. ‘So …’

  And then he stops talking.

  ‘So?’ I ask.

  ‘I just … sorry, I forgot what I was saying there for a moment! You’re very … ah … distracting.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘No, you’re … ah … so, are you an actress too?’

  ‘No. Look, Ned, can you just tell me what’s going on? I mean, obviously you guys have had a miraculous change of heart about giving my sister her own show … but are you really already filming it?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He seems to pull himself together. ‘We wanted to get the whole thing from the very moment of her leaving rehab this morning … God, she’s really suffered,’ he adds, rather falsely, ‘hasn’t she?’

  ‘During her two-night stint in celebrity rehab? Yes,’ I say. ‘The sort of suffering that is known to only an unfortunate few.’

  ‘And it must have been really, really hard for you, too,’ Ned goes on, sliding one hand under one of my elbows and starting to manoeuvre me through Cass’s front door. ‘I expect you’ll need to off-load about it.’

  ‘To your camera crew?’

  ‘Well, that’s the obvious place to start,’ he says, smoothly, as we reach the living room.

  Here, Cass is slumped on the sofa, prettily dabbing her tears, while Mum sits beside her, mopping her brow with a portion of her huge black pashmina. Mum is murmuring to the looming camera about the terrible guilt she feels, As A Mother, that she was away working with her successful stage-school franchise, Gonna Make U A Star, while her only daughter was ‘trapped in a loony bin’.

  ‘We’ll need to edit some of this footage, obviously,’ Ned murmurs to me, although he’s just given an excited thumbs-up to a woman with a clipboard and an in-charge air on the other side of the living room. She must be Tanya, the incredibly jealous one that Cass was moaning about before her ‘breakdown’. ‘But obviously we want to keep it all as real as possible.’

  ‘Do you, now?’

  ‘For sure. So whether it’s comedy gold from your mum, or … I don’t know, maybe a few on-camera tears from you … we really just want to get your family on to the screen as raw and as authentic as we possibly can.’

  ‘Right.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Sorry, has Cass told you we’d all participate in this?’

  ‘Well, it’s understood. I mean, it’s a show about Cassidy’s life … sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’

  ‘Libby.’

  ‘Libby. Beautiful name.’ He’s gazing at me again. ‘Is that short for Elizabeth, or … er—’

  ‘Liberty.’

  ‘Like the statue. Well, that fits. You’re very statuesque, obviously …’

  ‘Look, could I just have a moment to speak to my sister, do you think, without the camera on?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know about that, actually, Liberty.’ He places slightly too much emphasis on the full use of my name, and looks seriously pleased with himself for doing so. ‘We really want absolutely unrestricted access to your sister.’

  ‘And, just at this moment, I want absolutely unrestricted access to my sister.’

  ‘OK …’ he says. It’s the OK of a person who’s about to refuse to do whatever it is you’ve just asked. ‘But I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing you could say to her that she wouldn’t want the viewers to hear.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

  �
�We-e-e-ll …’ Ned mouths something over to Clipboard Woman, and she pulls a face and shakes her head. ‘Yeah … um … no, I don’t think we’re going to be able to turn off the cameras until the end of today’s session, actually, Liberty.’

  ‘I see. Well, I suppose we wouldn’t want to anger the gods of reality TV.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he agrees, earnestly. ‘So, where did we land on the whole off-loading thing? I don’t know if you’d prefer to do a piece straight to camera, talking all about what it’s like to hear your sister has gone into rehab, or if you’d prefer just to sit down and have a chat with Cassidy about it face to face, and we’ll use the footage from that?’

  ‘You know, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll take option C,’ I say, turning for the door.

  ‘Libby! Wait!’

  I glance back to see Cass getting to her feet and pushing past Mum (who’s still dabbing her with the pashmina and wittering on about Regrets) to come over to me.

  ‘I Suppose You Thought I Wouldn’t Notice,’ she says.

  It’s her Acting Voice. Saints preserve us: it’s her Acting Voice.

  I would ask ‘notice what?’ But whatever it is, I know full well it’s only Cass’s way of trying to drag me into her narrative. Lord only knows who she wants to cast me as – Boring But Likable Older Sis, perhaps, or maybe Bitter And Jealous Sibling From Hell … Whatever her plans for me, I’m in no mood to just accept them.

  ‘I have to go, Cass,’ I say, quietly, and hoping the camera won’t hear even this. After all, I’m not miked up or anything. But as soon as I think this, an extremely tattooed man appears as if from nowhere and hovers a bloody great boom over our heads, anticipating High Drama, no doubt, and Great Television. ‘Glad you’re home,’ I mutter, out of the side of my mouth.

  ‘Off To See Dillon?’ Cass asks.

  Oh, for crying out loud.

  Mum, still sitting on the sofa, emits a dramatic gasp.

  You know, I actually have to take my hat off to her; she’s taking this ball and running with it.

  ‘I Saw The Photo Of You Two In The Paper,’ Cass goes on. ‘Don’t You Think It Was A Bit Inappropriate To Use Your Visit To See Your Sister In Rehab To Kick-Start Your Relationship With That Man Again?’

  ‘Inappropriate?’ I arch an eyebrow. ‘Really, Cass?’

  To give her credit, she doesn’t so much as flinch.

  ‘I Just Don’t Need The Headache Of Worrying About You And Your Disastrous Love Life, Libby, On Top Of The Long, Hard Road To Recovery.’

  Behind her, I can see Ned, and Clipboard Woman, and a couple of other randoms standing around holding cans of Coke Zero, all starting to mouth things to each other in a great frenzy: Dillon who? I expect they’re asking, with visions of their reality TV show turning out even more thrilling than they thought it would be, and possibly even rivalling Marilyn’s beloved Kardashians for A-list intrigue. Dillon O’Hara? The sister’s got a disastrous love life going on with Dillon O’Hara?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, keeping it as brief as possible, because I’m damned if I’m going to fan this ridiculous flame with the slightest puff of oxygen. ‘No need to worry. We’ll talk soon, Cass, OK?’

  ‘Libby, No! Don’t Walk Out That Door …’

  But I do. And I close it firmly behind me.

  I mean, for fuck’s sake.

  I’ll be having serious words with Cass about this ludicrous three-ring circus, when – if – I can be sure she’s not got a camera crew at the ready to burst in and film the whole ‘authentic’ thing.

  But, ghastly as the whole spectacle is, I can’t totally deny the smallest, sneakiest hint of pride in Cass’s sheer, unbridled chutzpah. I mean, here’s a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to lower her (already shaky) moral standards to get it.

  Which – if nothing else – makes me feel marginally less of a sell-out for agreeing to dinner with Dillon this evening.

  There was no time to get home to change before meeting Dillon, so after I left Cass’s flat in Maida Vale, I just nipped to the MAC counter at Selfridges, where a very talented transvestite with extremely delicate hands has given me a fresh face of makeup for the price of a new kohl eyeliner. He was very complimentary about my new hair colour, and suggested all kinds of makeup tweaks to help make the most of it, and even though I might feel a little bit like I’m wearing enough on my face to sink a medium-sized battleship, I don’t actually look like it.

  Then I made my way to the Chanel concession and spritzed on my first-ever puff of Chanel No. 5.

  Then I undid one more button on my shirt.

  And now, on the dot of seven thirty, here I am arriving at the restaurant.

  It isn’t exactly the simple little calamari-serving Italian trattoria Dillon made it out to be.

  I mean, I listen to enough of Olly’s talk about the restaurant business to know that this place, Sapori, on Chiltern Street, is the very latest venture from some super-successful restaurant group, and therefore The Place to eat, drink and – most of all – be seen.

  I don’t know if Dillon’s heart-warming tale about spurning the snooty three-Michelin-starred place for their inegalitarian bookings policy is quite so heroic now. I mean, I assume he must have pulled a string or two of his own to get a reservation here at such short notice.

  Unless, of course, he’s just had a table booked here every night for the next three weeks ever since he first went into rehab, just to cover all the Big Apologies he knew he was going to have to do.

  Anyway, now that I know it’s this place, I really wish I’d done the whole schlep home to get changed. It’s all a bit painfully hip here, and I’m not sure my super-tight skirt, womanly blouse and nude heels are going to cut the mustard.

  Still, it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  Really, really too late, because I’ve already told the hostess who I’m here to meet, and she’s already leading me across the restaurant towards a booth table where Dillon is waiting.

  Sitting there, by himself, not knowing that I can see him and so not putting on any of his usual easy swagger and charm, he looks softer, and younger, and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen before.

  It hurts my heart, just for a moment.

  And then he sees me, and his face breaks out into that familiar devilish grin, and my heart isn’t the part of my body that I can feel any more.

  Dillon gets to his feet.

  ‘Hey, blondie.’ He leans down to brush my cheek with his lips. ‘You look sensational.’

  ‘Good to see you,’ I say, primly. ‘Nice restaurant.’

  ‘Well, we won’t know that for sure until I get my hands on that calamari,’ Dillon says, ushering me into my seat. ‘So, I’ll get the waiter, will I, and you can order something to drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. I mean, that is, if you don’t mind me drinking … I don’t know how it works …’

  ‘Well, what you do is, you lift your glass, and you take a sip …’

  ‘No, really. I don’t want a drink if it makes you uncomfortable.’

  ‘The only way you ordering a drink could make me uncomfortable, Lib, is if your sister turns up with it in a massive cocktail shaker and chucks it over us.’

  He’s talking about this incident that happened – the first night we slept together, in fact – when Cass threw a cocktail in my face at a nightclub in Shoreditch.

  ‘So please,’ he goes on. ‘Order the biggest, booziest cocktail on the menu, and don’t waste a single moment of good drinking time worrying about me. I’m perfectly content over here with this delicious glass of sparkling mineral water. I mean, it’s got a lime wedge in it, would you believe?’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose anyone needs alcohol when they’ve got a lime wedge instead.’

  ‘You said it, sister.’ He gestures to the nearest waiter, who hurries over to our table. ‘My friend would like the biggest, booziest cocktail,’ he tells him, ‘on the menu.’

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ I say. �
�Could I just have a nice red wine, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ The waiter nods. But he doesn’t actually leave the side of the table to go and place the order. He just stands there a moment longer, and then he says, ‘Would you like Chardonnay?’

  I hesitate for a moment, because I have to admit my knowledge of wine isn’t exactly encyclopaedic, and I don’t want to make an idiot of myself. ‘Um … I think I’d said … red?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry … my mistake …’ The waiter clears his throat. ‘We have some very nice Chianti, if that’s the sort of thing that gets you in the mood?’

  I blink at him.

  ‘I mean,’ he falters, ‘if that’s the sort of thing you’re in the mood for …’

  ‘Yes, Chianti would be lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll bring a bottle.’

  ‘No! No, no, just a glass.’

  ‘Right. One glass of Cabernet coming up.’

  ‘But I thought you said …’

  The waiter has shot off, deaf to my confusion behind him.

  I glance over the table at Dillon, who’s looking slightly amused.

  ‘OK, well, the service isn’t all that promising,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, give the kid a break. It’s not his fault he’s just fallen hopelessly in lust with you.’

  ‘He kept getting his wines in a muddle. I don’t think it was anything to do with lust.’

  ‘Course it was! He couldn’t take his eyes off you, poor lad.’ Dillon has his own eyes fixed pretty firmly on me as well. ‘So,’ he goes on, ‘Libby à la blonde.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to spend the entire evening talking about my new hair colour …’

  ‘We won’t. I just wanted to say, again, that I really, really like it.’