Lizzy Harrison Loses Control

by Pippa Wright

  PIPPA WRIGHT

  Lizzy Harrison Loses Control

  PAN BOOKS

  To Julia and Jo,

  for everything

  ‘If you ask me, Mary,’ continued Flora, ‘I think I have much in common with Miss Austen. She liked everything to be tidy and pleasant and comfortable about her and so do I. You see, Mary,’ – and here Flora began to grow earnest and wave one finger about – ‘unless everything is tidy and pleasant and comfortable all about one, people cannot even begin to enjoy life. I cannot endure messes.’

  Cold Comfort Farm,

  Stella Gibbons

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  1

  The train seems to have been stuck just outside Victoria station for ages, which gives me a chance to read my just-purchased copy of Hot Slebs in the half-inch of space that’s opened up under the armpit of a lanky tweed-suited commuter. (Tweed. In June. I ask you.)

  Before you judge me for reading Hot Slebs at the relatively advanced age of thirty-three, may I point out that when you work in the world of celebrity PR, Wednesday morning is crunch time – Hot Slebs goes on sale and your clients had better be in it. And, crucially, in the right place – not with a big yellow arrow pointing to cellulite, wayward body hair or a mysterious bald patch; not on the ‘What Sort of Outfit Do You Call This?’ or ‘Who Wore It Worst?’ page. You want them to have been ‘accidentally’ caught at a children’s hospice on a secret visit, or spotted sneaking out of a rock star’s hotel room in the early hours, or carefully primped and flashing their veneered smiles on the red carpet. When I open my Hot Slebs, I’m just checking for any nasty surprises. It’s work, okay? (But have you seen the state of Jodie Marsh lately?)

  Suddenly I realize that Mr Tweed seems to think I’m using Hot Slebs as an excuse to squeeze a little closer to him. He smiles encouragingly and winks at me from under a greasy hank of red hair that’s falling into his face. Trying to convey outraged indignation while not actually making eye contact with him, I wriggle into the space to my right, earning a venomous look from the large woman wedged up against the window. No chance to open the magazine now, but if I close one eye and squint, I can just about make out my horoscope in her paper. Libra: you will become close to a tall stranger. Translation: Libra: you will find your body pressed against that of a lascivious tweed-suited commuter with a ginger comb-over. The woman flicks the paper aggressively in my direction with a sharp tut, spotting that I have broken rule number forty-two of the commuter code: Thou shalt not be caught openly reading another’s literature.

  Clearly I need to be more subtle as I crane my neck in the direction of the fat paperback novel being read by a blonde woman who is somehow managing to read avidly while listening to death metal at full volume. Judging by the swarthy model on the front, the book is a romance, which seems a little incongruous given the soundtrack. I don’t even try to read it over her shoulder. After all, romance is not exactly my strong suit these days, not even the fictional kind.

  I mean, have you ever noticed that the modern romantic heroine can be, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit useless? Every book seems to open with an incident designed to show us just how adorably scatty she is. And how desperately appealing that is to all the men she encounters. Whoops, I dropped my overstuffed handbag on the pavement, and who should help me pick up the four hundred lipsticks and shoes that fell out but a gorgeous man who fell in love with me, the end. Oh no, I had to strip to my underwear in front of the dishy doctor and it turned out that I was wearing knickers that said ‘Tuesday’, but it was Friday! So mortifying! Then we got married. Uh-oh, the dreamy boss that I was hoping to impress with my business brain seems far more keen on my cleavage – if only I could stop my shirt buttons from popping open all the time, perhaps he wouldn’t fall so desperately in love with me.

  Does this happen to you? Because when I drop my handbag, the only men who rush to pick it up are after the contents of my wallet rather than my hand in marriage. Granted, I do live in Peckham. I wear matching underwear every day, and not once has it made my doctor declare his undying love for me. But then, my doctor is a fifty-something Asian gentleman approximately four and a half feet high, so perhaps that is a good thing. And let’s establish right now that both of my bosses are women and that, if I was going to go there, I hope my standards would be considerably higher. Especially when it comes to Jemima.

  I can’t help but wonder how being adorably scatty pays the mortgage. My bosses just want to know that I’ve booked the car with the blacked-out windows for Alice Mannering’s photo shoot at eleven; they don’t care how cute and winsome I was while arranging it. Tell me – how do these romantic heroines function in a world where bills must be paid, bosses must be placated, appointments must be kept? Does their laundry magic itself into the machine while they’re simpering elsewhere? Does their cat (they always have a cat, because they’re single, you see) feed itself? Pay its own vet’s bills? Sometimes just keeping on top of everyday life feels like a full-time job. How do these ridiculous child-women actually cope outside the pages of a book?

  The train starts moving at last and inches along to stop at the platform, where we all spill out of the carriage on to the concourse. Because I carefully chose my spot on the platform and my place by the carriage doors, I’m at the ticket barrier before the mass of commuters catches up and clogs the machines. Would a dippy romantic heroine have planned ahead so wisely? No, she would not. As I glide efficiently through, I glance behind me at Blonde Romance-Reader. She is, of course, squashed in the middle of the crowd. The large newspaper-wielding woman pushes past her, Blondie drops her handbag, and the contents spill out over the platform. Four hundred lipsticks and a pair of shoes? Check. Mr Tweed races to her aid and she beams at him prettily. A conversation begins. Clearly the two of them are tragic lunatics. They deserve each other.

  2

  I’m always in the office by eight-thirty. Carter Morgan PR doesn’t officially open until nine, but I like to have time to get myself organized before the day begins. Computer on, phone messages checked, post opened, invitations responded to, list of tasks for the day drawn up ready for Camilla Carter’s arrival. The other PAs tend to swan in well after nine, clutching their temples, grimacing cheerfully about late nights and hangovers, and sneaking off to Pret in pairs to load up on stomach-settling tuna sandwiches, crisps and cokes. But this quiet time in the morning settles me for the chaos ahead. The stillness of the office is soothing – no phones ringing, no shouting across the partitions. I need this time to function like other people need a double espresso or three cups of PG Tips. To be honest, I could probably come in much later and still have half an hour before Camilla turns up, time-keeping not being one of her strengths these days, so I’m not expecting to see that there’s already someone in her office, head bent low, rummaging through the desk drawers.

  I peer in thr
ough the door. With a skirt that short and legs that long, there’s no way it’s my boss, but I say, as loudly and sharply as I can, ‘Camilla?’

  There’s a loud bang as someone hits their head hard against the underside of the desk. Good. It serves you right, Jemima Morgan.

  ‘Lizzy!’ she exclaims as if it’s a tremendous, nay delightful, surprise to see me. As if this is not the second time this week that I’ve caught Camilla’s business partner and so-called friend snooping in her office for no apparent reason.

  She straightens herself up and smooths down her blow-dried helmet of glossy black hair. It’s so precisely blunt-cut it always reminds me of the snap-on hair of a Lego figurine, though I’m fairly sure that’s not the look she’s going for. I suppose you would have to say that she is technically attractive, in a tight, sinewy sort of way. One of our clients once referred to her as ‘stunning – like a kick in the bollocks’, and that is probably the best description I have ever heard of her somewhat aggressive looks.

  ‘Was there something I could help you with, Jemima?’ I ask. ‘Camilla won’t be here until nine-thirty. She’s got a breakfast meeting at the Wolseley.’

  Between you and me, I’m fibbing here. The only breakfast meetings Camilla attends these days are with her three children and the nanny, but it’s best to set up an excuse now in advance of her inevitably late arrival. ‘I know where all her files are if you’re after something important.’

  Jemima smiles with all the toothy warmth of a crocodile. ‘Really, it’s nothing. I was just after a nail file, and I’m sure Cam always keeps one about, doesn’t she?’

  I look down at her immaculate manicure.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that – sorry,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I could pop to Boots and get you one?’

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do that – I can get Mel to do that when she gets in. Whenever that is. You know what she’s like.’ Jemima rolls her eyes and places a confiding hand on my arm. ‘If only she would take a leaf out of your book, Lizzy – you’re so wonderfully organized. I mean, poor old Cam simply wouldn’t be able to cope without you at the moment, would she?’

  ‘I’m sure she’d cope just fine,’ I mumble non-committally, as I suspect this is less a compliment to me than a dangling of bait to see if I’ll join in with a bit of Camilla-Carter’s-lost-the-plot-lately chat, Jemima’s specialist subject.

  ‘Well, we could all do with a loyal PA like you onside, Lizzy; I just hope she lets you know you’re appreciated. You’re behind her through thick and thin, aren’t you? Even when things are . . . well, even when things are . . . like they are.’ She casts a glance over the office as if the very sight of it is painful to her, but I know I’ve got nothing to worry about. Camilla’s in-tray is carefully sorted in clear plastic folders. Her diary is open at this week, and matches up to her electronic diary (she at least knows where she’s meant to be). The flowers on her desk are fresh. The magazines on her side table feature her clients prominently on the front covers. It’s calm, clean and serene. On the surface.

  ‘Everything’s just fine, Jemima – why wouldn’t it be?’ I ask, picking up papers from my desk and pretending to sort them in the hope that she’ll stop angling for me to lay into my boss.

  ‘Well, if you ever need a chat about . . . well, how you’re coping with poor Cam, you know where I am. Girl to girl. Just to get things off your chest. Confidential, of course. Camilla need never know.’

  She gives my arm a final squeeze and totters out of the door on her five-inch heels. As if I’d confide in her about anything. I’d feel safer sticking my head in a lion’s mouth.

  Jemima leans back into the office momentarily. ‘Do tell Camilla the planning meeting’s going to be in my office today.’

  ‘Okay, will do.’

  ‘By the way,’ she says casually as she leaves. ‘Ghastly about Randy Jones, isn’t it? Saw it in Hot Slebs, poor lamb.’

  Oh God, oh God, oh GOD – how have they found out? I knew I should have checked through the whole magazine on the train. I grab the Hot Slebs out of my bag and start flicking through the pages as I turn my computer on. And there it is on page twelve. They don’t need a big yellow arrow for this one. No jokey headline. The truth is there’s no circle of shame big enough to contain the grainy mobile-phone image of Camilla’s hottest client slumped on the floor of a Holloway bedsit with an empty syringe hanging from his left arm and an unconscious teenage model draped across his lap.

  It’s not like we didn’t know about this. Randy had come to in the early hours of Sunday morning and, panicking, had instantly called his manager. Some might say he should have called an ambulance first, but some do not know the depths of self-absorption of your average celebrity. Anyway, it turns out Randy was right to call Bryan Ross. Within four hours the model was in hospital, two paramedics were celebrating an unexpected cash windfall in exchange for their silence, and Randy was in a Croydon rehab centre with high, high walls and fabulously discreet staff. Most people don’t even know the place exists. First thing on Monday morning Camilla had issued a press release announcing that Randy had been hospitalized for ‘exhaustion’. It was the third time this year, and the press was bound to be suspicious, but Randy has a major US tour lined up for September; we can’t afford for his relapse to be made public.

  Camilla took Randy on when he was a struggling comedian living in a Hackney squat, but a brief stint on a reality show (and an even briefer ‘relationship’ with a co-star) turned him into a tabloid darling famed for his outrageous behaviour. His story of triumph over a serious substance-abuse problem was part of the legend of Randy Jones. I say substance when really I mean substances. Back in the day, Randy would no more limit himself to abusing just one substance than he would limit himself to just one woman – alcohol, pills, powders: he’d take pretty much anything that was offered. But as his star rose, he became a clean, mean comedy machine whose crazy stunts were fuelled by nothing more than being high on life. So his public thought. But really, anyone who actually says they’re ‘high on life’ is deeply suspect, don’t you think? The truth is, Randy is on so much prescription medication he practically rattles like a maraca. And every now and then, when the legal stuff doesn’t quite take the edge off his manic moods, he finds himself back in the welcoming embrace of the ‘friends’ he claims to have left behind. One of whom has just shopped him to the press.

  How is Camilla going to get him out of this one?

  It’s nine-twenty when she lurches in, blonde hair flying. She appears to be carrying two handbags, one Bob the Builder rucksack, a bulging Marks & Spencer’s carrier bag and a paper bag from Starbucks containing (from the look of the stains on the outside) a spilled coffee and some sort of greasy pastry. It may sound like a lot, but, believe me, she’s travelling pretty light today.

  ‘Hello, Lizzy!’ she exclaims, trying, and failing, to swing the rucksack back on to her shoulder. ‘Here already? Course you are – I could set my watch by you! If I was ever here before you, that is, ha-ha! Bit late this morning getting Cassius off to nursery. Oh, bugger.’

  She glances down at the Bob the Builder rucksack, which has now slid down her arm all the way to the floor.

  ‘Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger – I’ve got his bloody buggering rucksack. No wonder he cried so much when I said goodbye – I thought he was stretching out his arms for a hug, but of course it was his packed lunch he was after. I’ve got to call the nursery straightaway. Sorry, Lizzy, how are you?’

  ‘Morning, Camilla. I’m fine, thanks,’ I say to her retreating back. As she throws the bags on to the floor of her office, I spot something white on the back of her pink wool dress – baby formula? Yoghurt? Please God let it not be something revolting relating to her ridiculously fertile husband, Jeremy, whom we all call the Sperminator since Camilla popped out three children in just two years. But no, it looks like it’s probably baby sick from one of the twins, and I must remind her of it before she races off to her nine-thirty meeting. If she
even knows she has a nine-thirty meeting.

  She’s on the phone before she’s even sat down and, without being asked, I punch in the number for the courier company – the trip to Cassius’s nursery with bag or toys or lunch is one that they already know well.

  ‘Morning – bike from Carter Morgan PR to Onslow Gardens, please.’

  ‘Morning. That’s got to be Lizzy, right? Bumblebee Nursery, is it, Lizzy? Delivery for young Muhammad Ali?’

  ‘Hello, Dave – ha-ha! Yes, it’s for Cassius,’ I say, laughing politely. This is a conversation we’ve had a thousand times before. My role is merely to feed him his lines.

  ‘Highly appropriate destination, ha-ha. Does he sting like a bumblebee?’

  ‘Oh, very good, Dave. I don’t think bumblebees sting, do they? At least, not when they’re hungry, which he will be if we don’t get this bag delivered.’

  ‘Ah, lunch, is it? Well, we can’t have the young fella starving, can we? What’s he got today then? I Ham the Greatest sandwiches? Ha-ha! Geddit? HAM the greatest!’

  ‘Ha-ha! Oh, that’s a good one, Dave,’ I say (and indeed perhaps it was when I first heard it – about six weeks ago). ‘Will you send a bike straightaway?’

  ‘Course we will, Lizzy, don’t you worry. Don’t want any kind of tummy rumble in the jungle, do we, eh? Eh?’

  ‘Ha-ha, absolutely not. Thanks, Dave, have a good day.’

  He is exhausting.

  As I put down the phone, Camilla swings out of her office, Bob the Builder rucksack in hand. ‘Lizzy, could you . . .’

  ‘Bike’s on its way, Camilla.’

  ‘God bless you, Lizzy.’

  ‘And here’s a baby wipe. I think there might be something on the back of your dress.’

  She spins round to inspect her rear and dabs at the mysterious stain. ‘Oh, good Lord, what next? Thank God you noticed, Lizzy – you really are an absolute lifesaver. Now, what’s first on your wondrous list for the day?’