Lizzy Harrison Loses Control

by Pippa Wright

  And what a great job we’re doing rehabilitating, in a smaller way, mine. Friends I haven’t seen for years have suddenly got in touch ‘just to catch up’, and my stock has risen higher than ever in the office, much to the annoyance of Jemima’s mini-me assistant, Mel. Everyone’s astonished at my new relationship, and I’m astonished myself at how many people, now that I’m seemingly part of a couple, have chosen to tell me that they are so pleased it’s finally happened for me. That they’d been so worried about me, that they’d all been keeping their fingers crossed for me, that it was good to see me getting out at last. It’s as if I have recovered from some dreadful illness, not emerged from a period of singledom. I smile and blush and murmur thanks and just try to swallow all these well-intentioned congratulations without admitting anything that will get me into trouble when this relationship ends in just a few weeks, as it must.

  ‘Don’t you think, babe?’ says Randy, waving a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Course I am, Randy,’ I lie, having tuned out of his future plans at the point at which he was winning his second Oscar; this, crucially, being awarded for a non-comedic role and therefore opening him up to a new market which – didn’t I agree? – was essential for the longevity of his career.

  ‘Really? So what was I saying?’ Randy demands like a petulant child.

  ‘You were, er . . .’ I try to mentally rewind the monologue. ‘You were . . . Sorry, Randy, you’re right, I was actually thinking that it’s getting a bit late and perhaps we should be thinking about getting home.’

  ‘Ah, well, I think I can forgive your mind wandering if you’re just planning how quickly you can get me home.’ Randy’s leg snakes around mine in a practised manoeuvre that pulls my chair closer towards him.

  The waiter glides over to clear away our plates and Randy grins up at him conspiratorially. ‘The bill, please, mate, and can you order us a taxi? I have a young lady here who is very anxious to get home, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ says the waiter with an infinitesimal flicker of his eyelid that might or might not have been a wink.

  As I get into the cab, a lone photographer appears, no doubt tipped off by Camilla, and I’m half blinded by the flash as he captures Randy leaping into the back. Randy wastes no time in grappling me into an embrace which is faithfully recorded from several angles before we drive off into the night.

  But as soon as we’re out of sight, Randy lets go of me and turns to the taxi driver to begin a conversation about football. Although his arm is draped proprietorially over my leg, and although he absent-mindedly strokes the inside of my thigh with his thumb, it’s as if I’m no longer there. Randy pays the driver with an extravagant tip and leads me up the steps to his house, where he takes my face between his hands and lifts it up towards him. I can hear the taxi engine idling as the driver waits to see us into the house. Randy leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips, then wraps his arm around me as he opens the door. The taxi driver revs his engine and is gone. Randy drops his arm from my shoulders and he and I step into the dark hall of his house, illuminated only by an orange glow from the street lamps outside. We both stand very still for a moment. Then Randy abruptly flicks on a light and, as I stand blinking in the glare, he stomps up the stairs without a backward glance.

  I hear a door slam upstairs and wonder what on earth I’ve let myself in for.

  9

  The next few Wednesdays pass without any dramatic incident at all, as I’ve persuaded Lulu that signing up to a life-drawing class is well within my remit of trying new things, and anyway, don’t I have a boyfriend now? Lulu agreed with alacrity. I think she imagines I’ll be sketching a hot young stud muffin with whom I can exchange fruity glances over an easel, and then perhaps he and I will (forgetting Randy) retire for a passionate fumble in the art supplies cupboard, so she’d be disappointed to see the rotund pensioner who props himself up in a chair for our artistic inspiration.

  Our model may not have washboard abs or pumped-up pectorals, but it turns out to be oddly satisfying attempting to capture the soft lines of his lived-in body for an hour. He stares calmly out of the window as if it is perfectly normal for him to be seated, naked, in front of fifteen strangers, and seems to be lost in thought. The only sounds are the swish of charcoal on paper and a quiet murmur of voices as the teacher moves from student to student. I spend a long time drawing his hands, the veins standing up on the backs of them, the broken nail on his thumb, the way his fingers splay out at the ends. The teacher compliments my careful focus, and I don’t admit to her that it’s because I’m avoiding paying close attention to the drooping geriatric genitals that I have captured instead in a vague impressionistic scribble.

  The class finishes and we all sit around drinking tea for a while with the model, George, now attired in a natty little quilted dressing gown like a portly Hugh Hefner.

  When the tea is finished and we’ve all admired each other’s sketches (I note I’m not the only one to have avoided precision in the region of George’s groin), I gather my things, say my goodbyes, and head off to spend the night with Randy Jones as I have done for the last three Wednesdays.

  Sometimes he picks me up from work and we go back to Belsize Park together on the 68 bus; not quite the mode of transport you’d expect of a sleb, but ‘there’s no audience in a taxi, babe,’ says Randy, basking in the adulation of our fellow commuters. Once we walked all the way home through Regent’s Park holding hands the whole way, and that got us into the ‘Spotted’ section of New Stars magazine. But what they don’t spot is how quickly Randy drops my hand as soon as we’re in his vast white stuccoed house. In public I am adored and caressed and kissed and pampered, but once the door is closed and we’re at home (which we usually are), then it’s down to business, and I don’t mean dirty business.

  To Randy, I’m the boring babysitter he has to tolerate to get his career back on track, but he’s not about to pay me any attention unless someone else is looking. The truth is, on my nights with Randy I’m more often to be found watching television alone while Randy writes in his study than out on the razzle.

  Tonight I let myself in and wander into the kitchen, where Nina, Randy’s formidable Bulgarian housekeeper, is just putting her heavy woollen coat on to leave, even though it’s about thirty degrees outside. She often stays late so she can complain to me about Randy, and today is no exception. Before I’ve put my bag down she’s launched into a furious description of his latest outrage: a puritanical banning of all wheat and sugar from the house as part of his detox.

  ‘Like it is the sugar, Lizzy, what makes him inject himself, is it?’ She gestures me over to the larder and opens it a crack.

  ‘Don’t tell him, okay? Is for you and me only. He never come in here anyway.’

  I peer in to see that an entire shelf is packed with biscuits of every variety, from posh Marks & Spencer’s tubs of chocolate-covered shortbreads and flapjacks to only-in-an-emergency Rich Teas. It would take us a year to get through them.

  ‘Wow, great, Nina. Thanks – what a treat,’ I say, allowing her to press a chocolate HobNob into my palm with the elaborate subterfuge of a spy passing on secret papers in Cold War Moscow.

  ‘Eat up, eat up. Serve him right for calling me Nina the Cleaner,’ says Nina, puffing herself up like an outraged hen. ‘I gots Cordon Bleu, Lizzy, Cordon Bleu. Not just cleaner.’

  ‘You are absolutely not just a cleaner, Nina. You know how Randy loves to tease you! He doesn’t mean a word of it – he’d be lost without you, and he knows it,’ I say, attempting to smooth her ruffled feathers.

  ‘You are good girl, Lizzy, very good girl. Randy is changed man since you arrive.’ Nina gives me a lascivious wink and I instantly feel paranoid. She must know that I don’t sleep in the same room as Randy when I stay over. After all, she’s the one who changes the sheets. What on earth does she think our relationship’s about if it’s not about sex?

  ‘You not li
ke the other bad girls who stay here before.’ Nope, I am the boring babysitter who Randy would love to be shot of, I think, feeling irrationally jealous of the wild, beautiful girls who’ve trooped through the house before me. I doubt any of them spent more time with the housekeeper than with Randy. Not that I particularly want to spend time with Randy, the moody bastard, but somehow being beneath his notice is worse than if I was fending off his lecherous advances every five minutes.

  ‘Gosh, well, I wouldn’t know about that, Nina,’ I bluster. ‘Where is Randy, anyway? In the gym?’

  Randy has embraced his newly clean life with all the desperate fervour of a former addict, and these days spends hour after hour in his basement gym, either with his trainer or pounding relentlessly on the treadmill while watching DVDs of Richard Pryor and Bill Hicks on a loop.

  ‘Of course in gym, where else?’ says Nina with a shrug. ‘He gots muscles, now, Lizzy, isn’t it!’ She nudges me with her elbow, and I blush, which she takes as encouragement. ‘Go down to gym, Lizzy, feel the muscles! See that bad boy.’ She gives me a little push towards the stairs.

  ‘Great thinking, Nina, will do. Bye – thanks for the biscuits!’ I sing in my best attempt at the breezy style of one who has a totally uncomplicated relationship with a totally normal person who will be delighted to see their honest-to-goodness real girlfriend appear in their private gym at any moment.

  I hear the front door close as I descend the steps and, sure enough, Bill Hicks is launching into his JFK routine while Randy sweats on the treadmill in just his shorts and trainers. Nina’s not wrong, I think – gone is the pasty, skinny boy of last month. The new Randy is toned, lean and wiry, and while he’d still look like a toothpick standing next to the Bulldog Man from army training, or even next to rugby-boy Dan, there’s no denying he looks pretty fit. His dirty blond hair is pulled back from his face, and for once he’s not wearing any make-up. Free of jewellery and leather and the ubiquitous denim, I see, for the first time, a hint of the attractiveness that has lured endless glamour models into his boudoir. I’m pretty sure he still stinks, though.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, hovering in the doorway. Randy turns from the treadmill for a second and grunts, ‘Hi,’ then turns his head back towards the screen.

  ‘Were you thinking that we’d go out for something to eat tonight?’ I ask, raising my voice above the din of the treadmill and the television.

  ‘Already eaten,’ says Randy, gesturing to a carton of protein shake that lies on the floor.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So, er, I’ll see you upstairs later?’

  Rolling his eyes, Randy slows the treadmill down to a walk and puts the DVD on pause. ‘Look, I’ve got Bryan coming round in half an hour to talk about saving the US tour, and I want to be in bed by ten so I can see my trainer at seven. So I really don’t need babysitting tonight, okay? Just entertain yourself, would you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I will. Again.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ says Randy, stopping the treadmill completely and wiping his forehead with a towel. ‘Do I have to maintain our fake relationship in the privacy of my own fucking home?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to play boyfriend and girlfriend, Randy, I’m just saying that this isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs for me, you know, and maybe you could just try treating me with a bit of sodding courtesy.’

  He raises his eyebrows superciliously, ‘Oh, right, so it’s discourteous of me to allow you free rein to treat my home as your own, is it? Discourteous to let you eat my food, sleep in my house, use anything you like without asking?’

  ‘I suppose you think it’s fun for me to sit in your house night after night while you act like I don’t exist? If you could just stop thinking about yourself for one second, you might realize that I’m only here to help you save your stupid reputation, and all I’m getting from you is grief.’

  ‘Oh really?’ snarls Randy, stepping off the treadmill and striding powerfully towards me. ‘You get nothing out of this? So you don’t get to tell your friends about how you’re hanging out with the famous Randy Jones all the time? So you don’t love being in the papers every day as the girl who’s saved Randy Jones from being such a total loser? So you’re not loving all the attention that’s coming your way, oh sensible saviour of tortured comedian? Give me a break – you’re getting plenty out of this.’

  ‘Fuck you, Randy Jones, if you think I care about any of that stuff,’ I say, trembling with anger. ‘I’m here to save your sorry arse because I care about my boss’s sorry arse, and she’s in the shit because of you, but right now I’m sorry I ever set eyes on either of you.’

  I spin on my heel and stomp out of the gym, attempting to slam the door behind me, but it turns out to be one of those concertinaed folding ones that shuts with a soft sigh. So I give it a vicious kick instead and go up to my room.

  Well, I think, I have followed Lulu’s instructions to loosen up a bit and change my life. And where has it got me? Watching EastEnders alone in the spare bedroom of a famous comedian who barely speaks to me.

  I don’t expect Randy to come up and apologize.

  He doesn’t.

  On my walk into work through Regent’s Park, I replay last night’s conversation over again, adding to it just a little here and there. By the time I march past the aviary at London Zoo, I have our conversation ending with Randy admitting the error of his ways, apologizing politely and suggesting dinner out, which I accept. As I approach the fountain in the middle of the park, I have him so distraught at his actions that he’s weeping on the floor of the gym in a foetal position. Hmm, maybe a bit too pathetic. When I finally push open the doors to the office, I’ve arrived at a satisfying scenario which ends with Randy falling off the treadmill and landing at my feet, begging for forgiveness. ‘I’ve used you appallingly, Lizzy. I’ve been rude and selfish and thoughtless, I see that now.’ In this scenario I am suddenly terrifyingly glamorous, and also about six feet tall, and I push him away with the pointy Louboutin stiletto at the end of my long, long leg. (Well, if you’re going to invent stuff, you might as well make it good stuff.)

  ‘Things are going to change around here, Randy,’ I say coolly as he pleads. ‘Now get up off the floor. You disgust me.’ Ha, yeah, Randy Jones, take that. I’m not your boring babysitter now, am I?

  At least at work there’s some respite from it all. Camilla’s taken me off working on anything to do with Randy so there’s no conflict of interest, and it’s good to immerse myself in the lives of other people to escape my own. I’m trying to work out a calendar clash in Damien Elliott’s diary – how can we have booked him for the Venice Film Festival when we know he’ll be filming in Vancouver in September? – when Camilla comes in. No Bob the Builder rucksack, no obvious stains on her Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress; she’s carrying two Starbucks cups and looks totally calm and together. If I were nit-picking I’d point out that it’s nine-thirty, but that’s not too bad for her these days.

  ‘Morning, Lizzy, darling, double-shot cappuccino for you – that’s right, isn’t it?’ she beams, placing one of the cups on my desk.

  ‘Yes, lovely. Thanks, Camilla. What’s this in aid of?’

  I’m instantly suspicious. It’s not that Camilla wouldn’t normally buy me a coffee, but she’s usually in such a frantic rush that it’s me who has to go out and get her one when I see she’s about to hit the wall halfway through the morning. After the Randy Jones relationship incident, I’m wary. Does this unexpected coffee have an agenda? I lift the lid and peer into the cup in case my latest challenge is written on the top in chocolate powder.

  ‘It’s not in aid of anything. Why would it be? I just thought you could do with one since you’ve got rather a lot on your plate at the moment.’ Camilla perches on the corner of my desk and sips at her own coffee, while I try to clear a space for her amongst the Post-its I’ve been using to sort out Damien’s calendar cock-up. ‘How are things going with Randy, then? Is he behaving himself?’

  I look at
her over the top of my Starbucks cup. Her roots are done. I haven’t even had to remind her. And come to think of it, I haven’t had to order a bike to the nursery for over a week (a good job, as Dave the Comedy Courier’s patter has been distinctly subdued since the Queen’s Arms debacle). Does this mean the boss is back? I can’t take the risk.

  ‘He’s absolutely fine, Camilla,’ I say in a steady voice, not quite meeting her eye.

  ‘Are you sure, darling?’ she says, tilting her head to get me to look at her. ‘I know he can be pretty demanding at the best of times, and, let’s face it, the only person who’s more self-obsessed than a celebrity is a celebrity who’s just emerged from intensive rehab.’

  ‘Ha, yes,’ I answer, non-committal. ‘He’s, erm . . . He’s clearly got a lot on his mind.’

  ‘And so have you, Lizzy. I don’t expect Randy is very good at understanding that, is he?’

  ‘Oh, Randy’s just Randy, Camilla. You know what he’s like,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I do.’ She rises from the corner of my desk and strides into her office with calm, competence and a luminous yellow Post-it stuck to her bottom. Her door closed, I hear her pick up the phone.

  Two hours later and Damien’s diary clash finally sorted, an enormous bunch of flowers arrives at the office. Because our office is mostly women, the arrival of flowers at reception always sends a frisson across the partitions – are they for Jemima from an appreciative client (brownie points to client, boring for the rest of us)? Are they from Mel’s boyfriend (also quite boring – she’s a demanding sort and if he doesn’t send flowers once a month she engineers a fight just to force him into it)? Are they for single but dating account exec Lucy (cue ‘ha-ha, check the bouquet for gold lamé thongs in case they’re from Peter Stringfellow’ gags)? The one thing I can be certain of, in my unglamorous role and with my absence of a love life, is that they are never for me. But this time, they are.