A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  Tash looks marginally peeved, but she hides it well. ‘One regular black coffee, coming up,’ she says, before adding, meaningfully, ‘It’ll probably take me a few minutes.’

  ‘I think she’s giving us a bit of privacy,’ I say, as Tash sets off, long legs striding as purposefully along Colliers Wood High Street as if she were setting off from base camp on K2.

  ‘Yes. Because she knows how pissed off I am with you.’

  ‘How pissed off you are with me?’

  ‘Dillon, Libby. Dillon. And you didn’t even say anything.’

  So Olly’s obviously told her, by now, about the video footage.

  I can feel my hackles rising, defensively.

  ‘OK, well, if we’re talking about people not saying anything about really important stuff …’

  ‘Can we leave the baby out of it?’ she asks, putting a hand on her stomach. ‘I’ve already explained why I didn’t tell you over the phone.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the baby.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m talking about your brother.’

  Just for a moment, Nora’s eyes widen.

  Then she says, too casually, ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes, Nora. Jack’s the brother I’m talking about. The forty-three-year-old with the wife and three children in Andover, who I haven’t seen hide nor hair of since your parents’ ruby wedding anniversary party eight years ago.’

  ‘So, Olly, then?’

  ‘Yes. Olly, then.’

  We stand in silence for a moment, a Mexican standoff on Colliers Wood High Street.

  Because Nora knows what I’m talking about; the expression on her face tells me that she’s worked out the reason for the expression on my face. You can’t be best friends for seventeen years without developing that kind of emotional shorthand somewhere along the way.

  ‘All this time,’ I say, being the first to back down from our standoff, ‘and you never found the right moment to say anything?’

  ‘Libby …’

  ‘All those nights out, and hungover Sundays in, and the holidays in Greece, and Ibiza, and St Tropez, and backpacking in Vietnam, and that week you took off work to look after me when I had shingles …’ I make myself stop just randomly listing all the occasions, big and small, that we’ve spent time together over the past two decades, because we’ll be here long after Tash comes back with those coffees otherwise. ‘And then I ended up learning that Olly’s in love with me from Dillon O’Hara, of all people?’

  ‘Dillon told you?’ Nora looks astonished. ‘When you were with him last night?’

  ‘Yes, look, just for the record, I wasn’t with Dillon last night. And I only left with him because—’

  ‘He shouldn’t have even been there,’ Nora says, abruptly. ‘Not on Olly’s big night.’

  ‘Yes. I know that. You can thank Bogdan for that.’

  ‘OK, but Bogdan didn’t leave with him, did he? And Bogdan didn’t break my brother’s heart by getting back together with Dillon and leaving him to find out from your sister, of all people.’

  ‘How the hell was I supposed to know I was breaking his heart?’ I demand, raising my voice for the first time in this conversation, ‘when even my best friend didn’t think to mention that her brother felt that way about me?’

  ‘All right. Maybe I should have said something. But you should have noticed, Libby. It was staring you in the bloody face! You just weren’t paying attention.’

  OK, now I want this to stop. It’s in danger of getting out of hand, things being said that can’t be unsaid.

  But Nora clearly doesn’t feel this way. Maybe it’s hormones; maybe it’s just the result of years of frustration building up in her. Whatever the reason, she’s not stopping.

  ‘I mean, you’ve always ignored the fact that he worshipped the ground you walked on. You’re always looking for something shiny, and new, and better. It’s like you don’t think Olly is good enough for you, or something …’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I stare at her. ‘I’ve never thought Olly wasn’t good enough for me! If anything, the reason I’ve not noticed is because I’ve always assumed he was far too good for me!’

  ‘He’s not far too good for you: you’re fucking perfect for each other. And just when he’d finally decided he couldn’t carry on like this, you choose the moment to stamp all over his heart by parading Dillon O’Hara around the place!’

  ‘Will you listen to yourself for a moment? It’s not like I cheated on Olly, or anything! And as for him finally deciding he was going to say something, well, if it really was that big a moment for him, why the hell did he back away so easily at the last moment? Take my name off the restaurant? Start making doe-eyes at Tash?’

  ‘Because when he heard about you and Dillon getting back together, he finally realized.’

  ‘Finally realized what?’

  ‘That there’s always going to be a Dillon. That you’re addicted to the romance. Hooked on the fairy-tale ending.’

  The words fairy tale make me think, quite suddenly, of Marilyn.

  But I’m not as lost as her, am I? Not quite so obsessed with escaping reality?

  ‘That what he has to offer you,’ Nora goes on, ‘is never going to be able to outweigh that.’

  ‘But that’s … ridiculous. How could he even know, if he never tried?’

  Nora doesn’t answer this. She’s looking upset as she says, ‘You didn’t see him right before the party, Libby. When he told me you’d started seeing Dillon again. He was broken. And it takes quite a lot to break Olly.’

  This hurts so much that I say, harshly, ‘He didn’t look all that broken when he was cosying up to Tash a couple of hours later.’

  ‘Oh, Libby. Come on. A drowning man will reach out to grab anything he thinks is going to keep him afloat. Besides, Tash is a breath of fresh air. She’d be good for him, after all this time. He needs to stop putting his life on hold for you, and move on. He needs a girlfriend … actually, no, not my brother: he needs a wife. And children, and a life … A life that doesn’t just revolve around waiting for you to stop messing around with whatever dream hunk you’ve set your sights on, and notice the man who’s always – always – been there for you.’

  I can see Tash coming back along the street towards us with two cups of coffee.

  Which is both bad timing (because I don’t want her walking in on a very private quarrel) and great timing (because I want an end to this very private quarrel).

  ‘I’ll go and get the veil,’ I mumble, turning on my heel and heading for the door, ‘if you even still want it, that is.’

  ‘Well, of course I want it,’ Nora says, in a hopeless sort of voice, with a hint of tears behind it. ‘You’re still family, for God’s sake, Libby.’

  I ignore this, because it’s giving me a lump in my own throat, and set off up the stairs to my flat while they wait with their coffee on the street below.

  When I open my door, I can see immediately that there isn’t any sign of Marilyn: mink-clad, pink-clad, or otherwise.

  There is only the very, very faintest lingering whiff of Chanel No. 5.

  Just when I could have really done with having Marilyn around. Just when I would have appreciated her take, however left-field, or pre-feminist, or just plain kooky, on the brand-new situation with Olly. Just when I really needed a friend.

  But there’s no time to stand around here feeling sorry for myself, because I need to take Grandmother’s veil down to Nora, so that she and Tash can ride off on that motorbike together and get her to her flight on time.

  I go to the drawers beneath my wardrobe, where I put the veil after I brought it back from Dad’s wedding, and lift it out. It’s still packed in its flat box, carefully folded in its layers of tissue, so – for ease of transport in Nora’s large rucksack – I take it out of the box, still in the tissue, and then head off down the stairs again to hand it over.

  Nora, when I open the door on to the street, is looking a bit tearful. She and Tash have already got back on the b
ike, and they’re both sipping their coffee in silence.

  ‘Here.’ I walk up to them and hold out the tissue-wrapped veil. ‘Have a look, if you like.’

  Nora peels back a section of the tissue to reveal the ivory lace loveliness within.

  ‘Oh, Libby,’ she says, in a wobbly voice.

  ‘It’s even nicer than that when you fold it all out.’

  She hands her coffee to Tash – who places it, and her own, ready for travel in the rather nifty cup-holder either side of the handlebars – and then turns round so her rucksack is facing me.

  ‘I think it’s best if you put it in. I don’t want to damage it in any way. I mean, it might get a bit crumpled in there …’

  ‘Crumpled isn’t a problem. You can get the crumples out with a delicate steam when you get home.’

  Then I busy myself opening up her backpack, folding the veil down inside, and then zipping the backpack up as far as it will go: there’s a final inch of zip that won’t close, because it’s full to bursting, but the veil is safely packed down in there nevertheless.

  ‘It’ll look great on you, Nora,’ I say, sounding awkwardly polite. ‘But obviously, you know, let me know if you’d like me to make anything special for you to wear with it … a simple little tiara, or some special jewelled grips, or something …’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Libby.’ She turns, briefly, and squeezes my hand, which is still on top of her backpack. ‘I’ll … well, I’ll call you when I get home, shall I?’

  ‘Only when you get the chance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And then Tash turns on the engine, and she and Nora both put on their helmets, and a moment later the bike pulls off, slowly, into the traffic.

  It’s about two seconds later that I realize: I still seem to be holding Grandmother’s veil, which is unravelling from inside the backpack at an alarming speed.

  Except that I’m not holding it – I mean, it’s not in my hands – so I don’t understand …

  Oh, God. Marilyn’s bracelet.

  The lace is caught on Marilyn’s bracelet.

  Just as I have time to think that all Marilyn Monroe-related jewellery should come with some sort of health warning, I realize that there’s a second problem: the other end of the veil is still inside Nora’s bag.

  I don’t know if the intricate, fine-threaded lace is caught on something else at that end – the zip, perhaps, or a brush or comb inside the bag itself – but there’s no time to discover this one way or the other, because if I don’t want Grandmother’s precious, priceless veil to end up in two tattered pieces, I need to start jogging.

  ‘Nora!’ I yell, as I start to jog and then, pretty quickly, to run, at a fair old pace, along the pavement behind them. ‘Tash!’

  But with their helmets on, and with the rumble of traffic on the High Street, they obviously can’t hear me.

  Thank God, the bike is only doing about six or seven miles an hour right now, because Tash is trundling at a relatively slow pace – slow for a bike, that is; it’s bloody fast for me – in the clogged-up traffic of the High Street. If I can’t get to her before the traffic eases, and she speeds up, I’m either going to have to turn into a human version of the Roadrunner (legs cycling wildly and reaching a land-speed record that would astound my old gym teachers and anyone who’s ever known me) just to keep a crucial degree of slack in the veil, or I’m going to risk horrible injury as the bike speeds off, taking half of Grandmother’s veil and – possibly – my arm with it.

  Oddly enough, the thing that’s concerning me more than hideous arm-wrenched-from-socket injury is the half of Grandmother’s veil aspect.

  I can’t let it rip into two, complete with my arm on one end or not. Not only because it’s a family heirloom. Not only because it’s so very beautiful. Not only because I’m slightly scared of Grandmother’s reaction when she finds out. But for another reason that I’m in too much of a blind panic to explain right now … It’s something to do with me and Olly, and what he said Grandmother told him about me wearing it to marry him one day … Something to do with that expression on his face, when he came across me trying the veil on in my hotel room, and pulled it back, and looked down at me.

  It is, I think, the feeling that if this lace is irreparably damaged, we will be, too.

  It’s a very, very unhelpful moment for this realization: that I’m just as hopelessly in love with Olly as he is – was – with me.

  Because I’m already seriously out of puff, and – oh, shit – the traffic is easing, slightly, and Tash is starting to speed up …

  ‘Nora!’ I yowl, again. ‘Tash! Stop!’

  Now I can see passers-by, making their way to the tube or waiting for buses, staring at me, looking like some sort of demented bridesmaid to a biker. But some of them are cottoning on surprisingly fast because they’re starting to yell out to the motorbike, too: ‘Hey, slow down!’ I hear one smart-looking woman shriek in Tash’s direction. ‘You’ve got some sort of runaway bride behind you!’ A couple of car drivers, alert to their surroundings, even seem to have noticed there’s something going on, and are hooting their horns.

  It’s no good. The bike is still moving, and I’m still running behind it, as fast as my legs can possibly carry me, stumbling in my strappy sandals and halter-neck sundress …

  … and then one of those very heels catches in a small pothole, and I’m not running any more. I’m falling, falling forwards, and the bike ahead is keeping up its same speed … I feel, mercifully, Marilyn’s bracelet pinging off rather than my arm coming off at the shoulder (I hope, even in all the confusion, I’d still be able to tell the difference), and I just have time to see Grandmother’s veil, still intact, swooshing off on the back of the bike as my head thuds on to the pavement, just outside the tube station.

  The first thing I say when I come round is, ‘Olly.’

  I know this, because a paramedic who doesn’t look a bit like Olly (being small, and blonde, and – crucially – female) peers carefully into my face and says, ‘Hello, there. No, I’m not Olly. Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Libby …’

  ‘Hi, Libby. So, you’ve had a bit of an accident … nasty combination of motorbike and wedding veil, from what a few people who witnessed it have been telling me … do you know the day of the week?’

  ‘Monday,’ I say, because this is the first day of the week that comes into my head, and because the other days of the week are eluding me just now.

  ‘Um, OK …’ She doesn’t sound quite as convinced. ‘Well, don’t worry, Libby, we’re getting you straight to St George’s. Now, this Olly … Is he your husband? Boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I hear myself say. ‘He’s neither. Though he probably should have been, by now. And if he isn’t, it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Right …’ She shines a light into my eyes before asking, ‘So is this Olly the person you’d like us to contact? Is there anyone else?’

  I shake my head. Or rather, I try to: I seem to have been attached to a stretcher, with some sort of brace either side of my head, to keep it snugly in an immobile position.

  ‘There’s no one else,’ I say. ‘And now, there never will be. If I can’t have Olly, I don’t want anyone.’

  ‘OK!’ she says, brightly, in the tone of voice of an emergency medicine professional whose concern for my physical wellbeing is quite a lot higher than her interest in my love life. ‘So nobody else you’d like us to get in touch with? Someone you might want to come and meet us at the hospital?’

  ‘No.’ I can feel a big, hot tear spilling out of the side of one eye. ‘There’s only Olly. He’s the only person I’d ever want with me in a situation like this. But he’s gone. Gone forever. Along with Marilyn.’

  ‘So Olly and Marilyn were the ones on the bike?’

  ‘No, that was Tash and Nora. Olly will be at the restaurant. And Marilyn Monroe … well, up until last night she was in my flat, but she’s not there any more …’

  The paramedic�
�s eyes widen, just for a second. Then she says, in an even brighter and breezier tone, ‘Well! Let’s get you to the hospital nice and fast, shall we? You can tell the doctors all about … er … Marilyn Monroe being in your flat when we get there.’

  ‘They won’t believe me,’ I mumble. ‘About Marilyn Monroe, or Audrey Hepburn …’

  And then I think I must pass out again, because things are going all cartoon-wobbly, and the noise of the traffic on the High Street is reverberating through my head like a powerful bass-line.

  *

  The first thing I say when I come round for the second time is, ‘Olly.’

  This time, though, it’s quite a lot more accurate. Because Olly is, indeed, right here in front of me.

  He’s gazing deep into my eyes, and when he sees mine open and look at him he smiles.

  ‘Hi,’ he says.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, as I smile back at him.

  So here we are. Just the two of us. Alone together, finally, in this brave new world we’re now inhabiting, where he loves me, and I love him, and there are no secrets between us any more. It’s a wonderful world, to appropriate the classic song. All right, there may not actually be any trees of green, or red roses … we are, in fact, sitting in the middle of what looks a lot like a hospital cubicle, with synthetic curtains the colour of Dettol and a scary-looking machine attached to my arm that emits a bleep every few seconds … but I don’t think Louis Armstrong would have had quite as much of a hit if he’d sung about that …

  ‘Welcome back,’ Olly adds.

  He looks, I can’t help but notice, absolutely exhausted.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But you know, Olly, I haven’t really been anywhere. I mean, I’m sure it’s felt like that at times, what with me being so unreliable, and never there when you …’

  ‘Libby.’ He leans forward, so that his arms are resting on his knees, and his face is even closer to mine. So close, in fact, that if I didn’t have this terrible headache when I so much as move my head a single millimetre, I could lean a little way forward myself, and put my lips close to his, and … ‘Don’t you remember the accident this morning?’