by Pippa Wright
The instructor divides us into two groups and the man next to me pointedly moves himself into the group in which I am not. Well, screw you, number 84. Number 28 smiles at me sweetly. ‘First session?’ she asks.
‘That obvious?’ I reply, with my best attempt at a smile in return.
‘I threw up my first time, so you’re doing really well,’ she grins, pushing her fringe out of her face with her hand and leaving a streak of mud and grass on her forehead. ‘It gets better, honestly – everyone hates the first one.’
‘And they come back?’ I wheeze as we start running again.
‘Oh yes, it’s quite addictive – you’ll see!’ She sprints ahead with a wave, leaving me at the back with a surprisingly fit-looking man who appears to be struggling as badly as me.
‘First session?’ I wheeze, inspired by kindly number 28 – pay it forward, people.
‘First session back after a car accident,’ he says, breathing heavily. ‘I thought I’d be okay, but the cracked ribs are giving me a bit of trouble. I’m just hoping the press-ups won’t be too much for my wrist – the plaster only came off last week.’
‘Oh my God, poor you! Are you sure you should be doing this?’ I ask in horror.
‘Oh yes,’ he grins cheerily. ‘I can’t be doing with sitting on my arse all day, despite what the doctors say.’ And with that he overtakes me easily.
After that it seems churlish to complain in the slightest, so I keep running and leaping and trying not to cry at the back of the group, cursing Lulu all the while.
When the session finally finishes – how was that only an hour? It felt like a lifetime – I throw myself gratefully on to the grass, gulping huge breaths of air. My heart thuds not just in my chest but through my whole body; blood rushes in my eardrums. After a few minutes I feel able to sit up straight without seeing stars and, to my immense relief, I see a bottle of water being held out in my direction. I grab it with a muffled ‘Thanks’, and have gulped down half the bottle before I realize whoever gave it to me is still standing there expectantly. I squint into the drizzle.
‘Hi, Lizzy,’ says Dan. ‘I was hoping I’d bump into you.’
‘Dan?’ I stumble to my feet, tearing off my nylon 72 vest as if that’s suddenly going to make me look more presentable. ‘Dan, I’m so glad to see you. I meant to call you to apologize for the other night,’ I start. And then realization dawns. ‘Hang on. How did you know I was going to be here? You are bloody spying on me for your sister this time, aren’t you?’
‘Ha! Spying! As if!’ Dan laughs and good-naturedly pushes my arm in mock defence. I’m still feeling so ridiculously feeble that I’m forced into an ungainly stagger to keep my balance, like a cow with BSE. Oh yes, looking good. He catches hold of my arm to steady me and turns me to face him.
‘You can’t deny it, Dan. The only person who knows I’m here is your sister – she’s the one who got me into this in the first place.’ Despite my attempt at righteous anger, I could sob with relief to see a friendly face after running the gauntlet of the shouty instructor.
‘Okay, this time I knew you were going to be here, but Lulu only thought of making you do this because she’d heard about it from me. I come every week – can’t you tell?’ He flexes his biceps like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Mr Universe final.
‘I don’t know, Dan – you still appear to have a clearly defined neck,’ I say, looking over at the pumped-up instructor for comparison, ‘and you can actually put your arms down alongside your body instead of having them stick out to the side like Action Man’s. I’d say you’ve got a long way to go.’
‘How dare you?’ Dan grins, looking down at me. ‘My neck measurement’s been growing weekly – the instructor says it’s only a matter of months until it’s just one seamless line from ear to shoulder. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to call you to find out how you got on the other night, but Lulu said you were fine and I shouldn’t make a fuss about it. Did you get that wanker home okay?’
‘Er, didn’t Lulu say anything?’ I ask, feeling a flutter of nerves. I had kind of assumed that once I’d told her about Randy I wouldn’t have to tell anyone else. I thought the Mouth of the South would broadcast my ‘new boyfriend’ to everyone we knew and save me fluffing my lines or crumbling under questioning. And that the paparazzi pictures would take care of the rest. But I should have guessed that Dan wasn’t a Hot Slebs reader.
‘Well, yeah,’ says Dan. ‘She said everything was okay, but she didn’t say anything else. It was okay, wasn’t it? He didn’t try anything on with you, did he? Not that he looked in any fit state to.’
‘Oh, well, of course not. It’s more that – well – I just mean that Randy isn’t really a wanker. It’s just that he’s, umm . . . he’s a bit messed up. But you know, he’s a good guy really.’ I can’t quite look Dan in the eye.
‘Really?’ he says, his forehead creasing into a quizzical frown. ‘He seems like a total arse to me. I was worried about you. Lulu said you were coming along tonight, so I hoped we’d bump into each other. Why don’t we grab a quick drink? I know a good pub just round the corner.’
Perhaps it’s the effect of all the unaccustomed exercise, or maybe it’s Dan’s look of gentle concern making me come over all funny, or perhaps I am finally losing it and descending into complete and utter paranoia, but suddenly it seems as if everyone around us is picking up on our conversation. Am I imagining it or are we surrounded by people whispering RandyJonesRandyJonesRandyJones?
I’m not imagining it.
Cuban heels sinking into the turf, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a shiny gold leather jacket atop his usual tight denim strides, Randy Jones is prancing across the grass. And prancing with a definite purpose. Towards me.
‘What the—’ Dan swears under his breath.
‘Lizzy!’ shrieks Randy, breaking into a lolloping, girly run that would get him fifty press-ups from Half-Man Half-Bulldog, no questions asked.
‘Lizzy?’ says Dan, turning to look from Randy to me and back again.
‘Lizzy!’ shouts the photographer who leaps out from behind a tree. How the hell does he know my name?
‘Lizzy, as in the girl from Hot Slebs?’ says the girl behind me. Oh, Jesus.
‘Lizzy!’ shouts Randy again, as he swoops a leather-clad arm round my waist and swings me into a passionate embrace as if he is Rhett Butler and I am Scarlett O’Hara after she has rolled about in the mud for a bit with a nylon vest on. I feel my knees buckle obligingly into the semblance of a swoon to complete the picture – who knew I was such a ham? As he pulls me back upright, Randy whispers in my ear, ‘Camilla told me you’d be here. Play along.’
Dan takes a stride towards us. ‘Lizzy, what’s going on here?’
‘What’s going on here, my good man,’ says Randy, draping his arm possessively over my shoulders, ‘is that I am going to take my girlfriend off somewhere a bit more romantic. Aren’t I, babe?’ He grasps my rear firmly in a manner that is definitely not part of our agreement.
‘Girlfriend?’ says Dan, turning to me, his face flushed with surprise.
‘Er?’ I want to tell Dan everything, but all I can do is look at him and desperately try to convey through facial gestures alone that this is not all it seems. But now it’s his turn not to look me in the eye.
‘Yes, girlfriend,’ says Randy loudly, for the benefit of everyone listening. ‘Ready to go, babe?’ He squeezes my buttocks harder. I am really going to have to speak to him about that the second we are alone. But right now I have to play my part.
‘Of course, darling, let’s go,’ I say, smiling up at him like the adoring girlfriend I’ve promised to be. Randy leans down to kiss me again, and this time I feel his tongue push insistently between my lips, the cheeky bastard – this isn’t part of the deal at all. As we break apart, he stares so long and so deep into my eyes (waiting for the photographer to get his shot, I expect) that I feel my traitorous heart drop down to my stomach for a moment. It’s been a long time since someo
ne looked at me like that, even if he’s just pretending. Then he flashes me a wink that no one else can see and spins us round to make our exit.
But of course our way is blocked by fifty nylon-vested fans mobbing him for an autograph, a photograph, a snatch of mobile phone footage, and who is Randy to disappoint his public? Half-Man Half-Bulldog turns out to be especially persistent, and is only persuaded to let us go when Randy has expressed great admiration for his rather unexpected tattoos of Eric Morecambe (left bicep) and Ernie Wise (right bicep) and has advised him on the best location for a Randy Jones tattoo, should Bulldog Man choose to add to his collection. (Don’t ask.)
It takes us fifteen minutes to leave, and in all that time Dan doesn’t come near us once.
8
We must make quite a picture striding through the park towards Notting Hill Gate – Randy the urban dandy with his blond hair tied back in a velvet ribbon that matches his gold leather jacket, and ruddy-faced me in tatty trainers, T-shirt and leggings. I try to tell myself that my unglamorous appearance can only help Camilla’s mission to make Randy seem more wholesome, but I’m shallow enough to wish I wasn’t wearing the T-shirt that proclaims ‘Seize the Day’, which I stopped wearing for anything other than exercise when Lulu helpfully pointed out that as ‘the day’ appeared in small lettering, the T-shirt appeared to invite passers-by to seize my breasts.
I beg Randy to let me get changed before we go out for dinner. Even though the work clothes in my bag are no match for his rock-star ensemble, anything’s got to be better than what I’m wearing right now. But he says it will be fine for me to sort myself out in the toilets of the restaurant when we get there. Which isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard – in fact it’s downright ungallant – but he strides ahead, deaf to my continued protests that I’m far too dishevelled to be seen in public.
‘Look, babe,’ he says, finally halting his stomp towards the busy road ahead. ‘Number one, you’ve already been photographed like this, so just deal with it, those pictures will be on their way to an agency already. Number two, no one’s going to be looking at you when you’re with me. I’m sorry but it’s true.’ I must be looking crushed because he softens his voice a little. ‘Number three, you do actually look quite cute all flushed and messed-up like this, so let’s have no more complaining, okay?’
Well that told me.
‘Now hold my hand,’ says Randy, ‘and look like you’re having a good time.’
I feel like half of London has stopped to point and stare at our ungainly procession through the park and down Kensington Church Street, so it’s a blessed relief when Randy stops at last in front of a small town house that’s been converted into a restaurant. He strides in confidently while I lurk behind him, trying to cover the ‘Seize’ written on my chest and pull the too-short T-shirt down over my bottom. The dining room is full of the kind of immaculately fragrant women who have probably had all their sweat glands Botoxed and last perspired in 1997, and I’m immensely self-conscious. Surely they won’t let me in dressed like this? But the mâitre d’ is all smiles, promising that of course it’s no problem to find a table at such short notice, and indeed they would be happy to accommodate sir in the discreet corner that he’s enjoyed before. Randy declines and indicates instead one of two small tables next to the window.
‘Is sir absolutely certain?’ asks the mâitre d’ in confusion. ‘That table is somewhat . . . exposed. Sir might find more privacy within the upstairs dining room.’
‘Oh, we don’t mind being exposed, do we, babe?’ says Randy with a leer, slipping an arm round my waist and pulling me towards him. Now, at last, the mâitre d’ actually sees me instead of being blinded by the glowing light of Randy’s celebrity, and I hear a tiny, stifled gasp as he clocks my clothes.
‘Would you mind very much showing me where I can get changed into something more suitable for dinner?’ I ask in my poshest voice, trying to sound super-confident, as if absolutely everyone who is anyone these days effects a Wonder Woman-style transformation in the lavatories of expensive restaurants.
‘Certainly, madam,’ he says, regaining his composure with aplomb (and with relief, I expect, that I’m not going to sit in the window of his establishment splattered in mud).
There is only so much of a transformation one can affect in a cramped cubicle, even if it is lavishly appointed with Molton Brown toiletries. I struggle back into my cropped jeans and replace my trainers with strappy sandals, but no amount of rubbing will get rid of the sock marks round my ankles. The Seize the Day T-shirt is consigned to the bottom of my bag (where I will forget about it until I see the ‘Seize THESE, Randy!’ headline on the Hot Slebs website the next day). I replace it with a fitted checked shirt and reattach my gold hoop earrings. There’s no rescuing my hair after the mud and drizzle, so I smooth it all back into a ponytail and convince myself, after a quick application of blusher, mascara and lip gloss, that I look just fine.
Now, I don’t want you to think that this is some sort of Pretty Woman moment, and that I’ve never been taken out to a posh restaurant before. Though I admit that I book more fancy meals for Camilla than I go for myself, I’ve done my fair share of wining and dining with clients. So don’t worry, I’m not going to be picking up the wrong knife or drinking the water from the fingerbowl or flinging an oyster across the room in an adorably klutzy move. I speak fluent menu in all European languages: I can avoid tripe in Spanish restaurants, order cavolo nero with confidence and am not thrown into confusion by a quenelle. And if I’d known I was coming here I’d have made the effort to dress accordingly. Still, I reassure myself as I leave the loo, I might be the only woman in here wearing jeans, but Randy is surely the only man in London wearing gold leather on this warm June evening. Like he said, no one’s going to be looking at me.
Randy is already tucking into a bread roll as I reappear at the table. With his mouth full he gestures for me to sit down as a waiter shimmers over to pull out my chair.
Randy swallows his huge mouthful. ‘Okay, babe, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of some pretty crazy sparkling mineral water, and I’m just warning you that I might be moving on to a cranberry juice with the main course – do you reckon you can keep up with me tonight?’
‘Well, I’ll do my best, Randy, but that cranberry juice is pretty strong stuff,’ I say, allowing the waiter to drape a napkin across my lap. ‘Maybe you should dilute it first?’
‘Yup, yup, you’re probably right. Thank God you’ve been appointed to look after me, otherwise who knows what kind of fruit-based trouble I’d be getting myself into?’ Randy laughs. ‘But go on, don’t let me stop you from having a real drink if you want one.’
‘Right, well, if you really don’t mind, I might just do that.’ The waiter appears magically over my shoulder, offering a wine list before I even have a chance to ask for it.
Randy grabs it out of my hand and starts flicking through the pages with the same barely contained excitement and anticipation with which I used to power through Smash Hits circa 1986. ‘Glass of champagne to start? Hmm? Then follow up with a nice light white for your starter? Then how about a rich, full-bodied, spicy red for the main course?’
‘Er, I was thinking I’d probably just have a glass of rosé, to be honest,’ I say, and Randy looks crestfallen. Clearly he was planning an evening of drinking by proxy.
‘Not even one glass of champagne to toast our new relationship, babe?’ he asks, making puppy-dog eyes. ‘Are you saying you don’t feel like celebrating our beautiful love?’
The waiter hovers a few discreet steps from our table, staring stoically into the middle distance, but I can practically see his ears vibrating with interest. I guess I’d better make it worth his while.
‘Oh, darling, what was I thinking? Of course we must celebrate our love – I’ll drink for both of us. But just one glass; I’m not sure any more is safe in, well, in my condition.’ I rub my stomach meaningfully.
Randy nearly chokes on h
is mineral water, but then reaches across the table to kiss me full on the lips in front of everyone.
‘Champagne!’ he calls out. ‘Champagne for the lady! We’re celebrating!’ I turn to the waiter, half expecting that he will have a glass in his hand already, but his magical anticipatory powers have run out and he is on his way to the kitchen like a mere mortal.
‘Jesus, do you think anyone is actually buying this?’ I whisper as Randy blows me an extravagant kiss across the table.
‘Who doesn’t want to believe in love, babe?’ he says, rubbing his leg along mine.
Who indeed? The irony isn’t lost on me that, at the point when my love life is splashed all over the newspapers, I don’t actually have one. When Randy agreed to our fake relationship, he was surprisingly strict about how it would work, and Camilla told me to go along with it so that Randy felt like it was all his idea. We agreed that we would go out publicly twice a week only, as Randy wasn’t all that keen on a social life now that he was sober, and preferred instead to stay in plotting his comeback. So to keep up appearances I’d stay at Randy’s house at least three times a week where, he assured me, I’d have a private room of my own in exchange for passionate snogging on the doorstep each morning for the benefit of the neighbours.
So while Lulu is wildly congratulating herself on my new out-of-control life, I’m actually going to be more regulated than ever, albeit by someone else’s schedule. I have to confess I’ve been slightly dreading it all, especially handing over all decisions on how I spend my time to a complete fruitcake who’s just out of rehab, but so far Randy has been charm itself and tonight, our first official night out, is proving to be surprisingly good fun. So what if Randy spends as much time checking himself out in the mirror as he does looking in my direction? He’s got standards to maintain, and anyway I’m perfectly happy sipping my champagne and listening to his plans for world domination (primarily addressed to his own reflection). So what if our meal is occasionally interrupted by the flash of a mobile phone camera pressed up against the window? Isn’t that what we’re here for, after all? Rather than resenting any of it, I tell myself what a great job Randy and I are doing rehabilitating his image.