by Pippa Wright
Babe, I’m sorry to have been such bad company lately. Will you let me make it up to you tonight? Pick you up at six? Randy xxx
I can’t help thinking this card should read, ‘Camilla’s forced me into this, and not only ordered these flowers but probably paid for them out of her own money,’ but as I’m doing this all for her benefit anyway, I think, fine, I’ll go along with it for a while longer. At least I won’t have to watch sodding EastEnders again tonight.
Randy’s as good as his word and in reception at exactly six, flirting outrageously with Jemima, who has clearly whizzed out of her office at top speed on his arrival, desperate for his attention – how else can she lure him away from Camilla? I keep him waiting for a few minutes, thinking that time spent with Jemima and her aggressively coquettish hair-flicking is a suitable penance for last night. He looks up gratefully as I approach.
‘Lizzy!’ he booms so the whole office can hear, and curious heads pop up from the partitions like meerkats, for, even in our celebrity-saturated office, Randy Jones is still quite the big deal. I steel myself for a grand gesture of apology designed for maximum audience satisfaction, and am surprised, therefore, when he grabs my hand, looks at me properly and says, in a quiet voice, just to me, ‘I’ve been a bit of a cock, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have,’ I say, just as quietly, but I can’t help a smile as he looks so utterly contrite. He may not be sobbing at my feet as in my imaginings, but he’s doing a very good job of looking genuinely sorry.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
He takes me in a taxi – and he doesn’t even speak to the driver – to St James’s Park, where he guides me past the duck ponds and into the centre of the park. The pace here is somehow more sedate than in other London parks, and the slowly strolling tourists seem perfectly appropriate instead of maddening, as they do when you’re racing to get to work. Evening sunshine glints through the trees, dappling a pair of toddlers who are begging their mother for more bread to throw at the ducks. Randy laughs as one of the children retreats rapidly from an over-keen swan, and when he reaches for my hand (Randy, that is, not the swan), I let him take it. He pulls me towards a wooden building, surrounded by a balcony on which tables are set with wine glasses and crisp white napkins. A waitress smiles welcomingly from the door.
‘Wait here,’ says Randy and runs up the steps of the restaurant.
I wonder why we don’t just go in together, but then Randy emerges with two waiters who are carrying between them a huge wicker basket.
‘This way, this way,’ he urges them, pressing on into the middle of the park. The three of us process behind Randy to a secluded spot underneath a large plane tree, where the waiters open the basket and take out a thick tartan blanket, which they spread on the grass. Randy gestures to me to sit down, and then joins me on the rug and lies back as the waiters set up. From deeper inside the basket they take out a bottle of chilled prosecco and two delicate champagne flutes; underneath those I can see covered plates and bowls. One waiter opens the bottle with a restrained pop and pours two glasses, while the other sets up a line of winking tea lights in jam jars around the blanket, ready for when dusk fell.
‘Madam. Sir,’ says the first waiter, handing us a glass each. ‘We’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your picnic. Please just press this buzzer if you need anything else at all. Enjoy your evening.’ And they bow courteously and fade away.
‘We will,’ says Randy, turning to touch his glass to mine. ‘Won’t we, my fake girlfriend?’
‘Yes, we will, my fake boyfriend,’ I say, laughing despite myself.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been a crap fake boyfriend,’ says Randy suddenly.
‘Oh, you haven’t,’ I protest politely, thinking, You have.
‘I have,’ says Randy, ‘and I’m sorry. I’ve been so preoccupied with sorting myself out that I haven’t given any thought to how this whole thing might be for you. I know you disapprove of everything about me, so thanks for putting up with me over the last few weeks. I owe you.’
‘What? Disapprove of everything about you? What gave you that idea?’ I say, thinking this isn’t at all how I was imagining Randy’s apology. Where is my glamorous Amazonian self? Why is he still upright and not prostrate upon the floor? Why am I suddenly feeling like I should apologize?
‘Well, you’ve never exactly been my greatest fan,’ says Randy, petulantly picking at a piece of fluff on the rug.
‘That’s not true,’ I protest. ‘I’ve always been perfectly professional towards you, Randy. When have you ever thought I wasn’t a fan of yours?’
‘Oh yes, you’ve always been professional,’ says Randy, looking up, ‘but it doesn’t mean you’ve liked me. And Jemima told Bryan that you had to be forced into this . . . this . . . well . . . this.’ He gestures around at the rug, the candles, the wicker hamper, us. ‘I thought you were so disapproving of me and everything about me that I . . . well, I kind of couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you.’
‘Fucking Jemima!’ I say before I can stop myself, and Randy raises his eyebrows in interest. ‘God! I mean to say she has totally misrepresented this. It wasn’t disapproval of you, Randy, that made me not want to do this. It was that I didn’t especially want to have some stupid fake relationship and have to lie to my friends and see myself in a photograph in Hot Slebs after army training with mud all over my face and have to snog a man in public who won’t speak to me in private and . . . and – ’
I have to stop to take a breath. Randy is looking at me kindly. He refills both of our glasses.
‘It looks like we’ve both started out on the wrong foot, don’t you think?’ he says. ‘Let’s see if we can be a bit better at this from now on. I promise not to ignore you any more.’
‘I promise not to disapprove of you any more. Not that I did . . .’ I start, but Randy shushes me with a finger on my lips.
‘So, my fake girlfriend, let’s start again,’ he says. ‘Like we’re properly dating. Tell me something about yourself.’
‘Umm, like what?’ I ask, suspecting a trick question. Everyone knows celebrities only really want to talk about themselves; surely this is just the lead up to an ‘enough about me, what do you think about me?’ conversation.
‘Like, if you’re not a star-fucker – and I do believe you, you’re not the type – why would a smart girl like you agree to enter into a fake relationship with me?’ He settles himself on the blanket and looks at me with interest. See, I told you it would be all about him.
‘Well, it’s what Camilla said you needed, and I didn’t want to let her down,’ I say, trying not to drop my boss in it. It’s not going to help her cause for her top client to know she’s losing the plot.
‘You said that before,’ says Randy thoughtfully, ‘but I don’t quite buy it. Oh, I can see you’re loyal to Camilla, that’s obvious. But there has to be something in this for you – something else.’
‘I’m not getting paid, if that’s what you mean,’ I say tartly.
‘I know that much, babe,’ says Randy. ‘Bryan’s as tight as a gnat’s chuff when it comes to finances. That’s why I can’t help thinking there must be something else going on. What’s your story?’
‘Look, I don’t come with a press pack, Randy,’ I say, exasperated. I have almost convinced myself I’m acting out of entirely selfless motives – Lizzy Harrison to the rescue! – and it’s making me uncomfortable to have that challenged. ‘I don’t have a neat little story like yours to be summarized in one press-friendly paragraph.’
Randy looks at me sceptically.
‘I just . . .’ I pause. ‘Well, there’s nothing going on in my love life right now, so it’s no big deal for me to pretend to be your girlfriend for a few weeks.’
‘Aha,’ he says, leaning back on his elbows with a triumphant smile. ‘So that’s the story then.’
‘What is?’ I ask, sipping at my fizzy wine.
‘I’ve been getting a bit too much action, and clearly you’re not gettin
g enough. Camilla obviously reckons that between the two of us we might balance each other out – am I right?’
I laugh. ‘You reckon? Aren’t you worried my lack of a love life might be catching? Think of the damage to your reputation, Randy.’
‘Babe,’ says Randy, sliding closer to me on the rug and taking off his sunglasses to look at me intently. I’m sitting bolt upright like a Victorian chaperone on a gabardine square, not giving an inch. ‘I have absolutely no worries on that score. If anything, you’re the one that should be scared.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say, beginning to flush under his intense stare. ‘Am I suddenly going to turn into a raging nympho just from spending time with you?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first, Lizzy Harrison,’ says Randy, lying back on the rug with a heavy sigh. ‘My powerfully contagious sexuality is a cross to bear, believe me. I only hope it won’t be too much for you.’
I start to laugh, but he throws me a look that suggests he’s not entirely joking. He stretches one arm across the rug and clasps my hand.
‘Thanks, babe,’ he says. ‘I should have said it before – thanks for agreeing to all of this. Thanks for putting up with me. We’re still cool?’
‘We’re still cool, Randy,’ I say, smiling. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’
‘In that case,’ he says, suddenly pushing himself up on to one knee in front of me, ‘we must formalize our agreement.’
I’m wondering if he’s going to whip out some official non-disclosure agreement for me to sign, despite Camilla’s firm insistence that nothing about our arrangement should be written down at any time, her dictum being ‘no paper trail, no problems’, but instead he takes my right hand in both of his.
‘Lizzy Harrison,’ he says, ‘will you do me the honour of continuing to act as my fake girlfriend for as long as, er – ’ he pauses to think – ‘for as long as this story shall live in the world of Hot Slebs and other quality publications in print and in any such electronic forms as may exist now or in the future?’
I rise up on to my knees and look him in the eye. ‘Randy Jones, I, Lizzy Harrison, promise to do you that honour for as long as this fake story shall live.’
‘Then let’s drink to that!’
And we do. It’s only much later that I remember Randy’s not meant to be drinking at all.
10
Should it ever happen to you, it might be worth noting that when you start dating a celebrity there are a few things you should be aware of.
If you eat a large lunch and subsequently forget to maintain perfect posture, you’re ‘showing off a baby bump’. If you try to conceal your sticky-out tummy because you’re feeling a bit porky, you’re naturally ‘hiding a baby bump’.
If the two of you walk down the street together with anything less than delirious smiles on your faces, your relationship is in trouble. And woe betide you if, while constantly grinning, you dare to look anywhere other than directly at your partner, never mind pavement hazards such as lamp posts, other pedestrians and dogs. Failure to gaze at each other incessantly equals growing apart, according to Hot Slebs.
If you cross your arms because you are cold in your thin summer dress and worried that your nipples might be visible to the photographer who’s been following you around for half an hour, and you then glare at said photographer, the resulting photographs will be used to suggest that you are defensive and angry and also possibly unstable.
And if you are seen drinking fizzy wine in a park with your celebrity boyfriend, who positions himself on one knee in front of you, then of course you are getting married.
I should have seen it coming, but I thought we were safe in St James’s Park. It’s not like Primrose Hill, where you can hardly move for tripping over some boho actress and her photogenic brood, or Hampstead Heath, where everyone pretends to be too cool to notice anyone famous but frantically texts their friends the moment someone starry walks past. My private theory is that it’s the too-cool-for-school brigade you have to watch out for. The straightforward fans will approach you and get their brief moment of glory, pop it on their Facebook page and everyone’s happy. But the ones who seem not to notice, who carry on sipping their coffees and chatting to their friends, are often the ones who are surreptitiously texting the Hot Slebs website or trying to take a picture up your skirt with their camera phone. And I guess one of them couldn’t believe his luck the other night, because somehow the Sun has got hold of an ‘exclusive’.
Everyone at Carter Morgan thinks it’s hilarious as the WILD MAN RANDY TAMED AT LAST headlines are emailed round the office. They may not officially know our relationship is totally fake, but they’re savvy enough to take anything like this with a giant pinch of salt. I find a large pile of bridal magazines on my desk first thing, liberally annotated with Post-its pointing to the most hideous ensembles possible (who gets married in a lacy crop-top and hot pants combo?), and Lucy calls round at my desk demanding to see my nonexistent ring. In short, no one believes it except for Winston, the aged security guard, who gravely kisses my hand and wishes me every happiness.
Camilla beams as she bounds into the office at nine-fifteen. (Nine-fifteen! Practically on time!)
‘The apology worked, then, Mrs Jones? Ha-ha! Good work, Lizzy. This one should keep everyone talking for a week or so.’
So I’m not taking any of this very seriously, and am bracing myself for yet another call from Dave the Comedy Courier (who has miraculously regained his comic confidence ringing me three times already this morning trying out variations along the lines of ‘Is that Lizzy Harrison, cos we’ve got a wild man here who needs taming – fwwoooaooaar,’ when I get a phone call from my brother, Ben.
I couldn’t be more surprised if Ben’s golden retriever had picked up the phone and tapped out my number with his claws. My big brother simply doesn’t do the telephone. He does texts, and he does emails, too, but as they’re mostly terrible jokes forwarded from his work colleagues at the garden centre he manages, they don’t inspire long communications of a personal nature.
‘Ben, wow! Good to hear from you. How are you?’ I ask. ‘How’s Jenny? How’s Graham?’
Graham is my nephew. (I know – who calls a baby Graham these days? Even my spiritual-journeying mother has admitted it took some intense meditation to reach acceptance for the chosen name of her first grandchild, but Jenny insisted that Graham was a reliable name that would stand him in good stead in later life.)
‘Oh, Graham’s fine, we’re all fine. It’s you I’m calling about,’ says Ben, sounding a bit shifty. ‘Er . . . I know this sounds a bit ridiculous, and I hope you’re not going to think we’re prying into your life, but Jenny says she’s seen a picture of you in Woman’s Own this week. With Randy Jones.’
‘In Woman’s Own?’ I ask, my PR brain instantly computing the leap of demographics: so Randy and I have vaulted from Hot Slebs to Woman’s Own in just two weeks? Whatever next? I have visions of Randy and me cavorting alongside the knitting patterns in People’s Friend next week, and discussing household staff problems in The Lady the week after that – just how far will this story go?
‘Yeah, Woman’s Own. She saw it at the hairdresser’s,’ says Ben, sounding embarrassed. ‘I’ve told her it’s probably just something to do with your job, but she says that the article says you’re going out with him. With Randy Jones, I mean.’
‘Ah, right, Randy Jones,’ I say, playing for time. It never occurred to me that Ben and Jenny would have even heard of Randy Jones. The only television they ever watch is CBeebies or Gardeners’ World. When I babysit, it’s usually so they can go to dinner with someone from the garden centre to discuss horticultural fleeces and polytunnels. Randy seems so far removed from their world, and they from his, that hearing my brother speak his name is like hearing your granny tell you to chillax.
‘Yes, Randy Jones. I know, it’s ridiculous. So . . . obviously this is total rubbish, isn’t it?’ asks Ben.
‘Ha! Yeah, God, Ben, you know what th
e media’s like – you really shouldn’t believe everything you read, not even in trusty old Woman’s Own.’
‘I knew there was nothing going on,’ says Ben happily, and I hear him put his hand over the phone and hiss ‘I told you’, presumably to Jenny, who is probably poring through a copy of the Guildford Advertiser on the lookout for more scandalous revelations. ‘I said to Jenny, Lizzy’s far too sensible to get involved with someone like that.’
Instantly I bristle. My brother, married at twenty-three to the girl he’s been going out with since he was eighteen, father of one, wearer of Crocs, for God’s sake, thinks that I am the sensible one?
‘Well, that’s to say, it’s not quite nothing,’ I reply, stumbling over my words. ‘I mean, I’ve been out on a few dates with Randy, but there’s really nothing serious going on, despite what you might read. And, ha-ha, there’s some crazy rumour going round that we’re getting married, but I can promise you that one is total rubbish.’
‘Hang on a minute – what did you say?’ says Ben sharply. ‘You are going out with Randy Jones?’
‘It’s not a going-out going-out. That’s to say, we’re just seeing each other, taking things slowly, going on a few dates, that sort of thing,’ I bluster.
‘Was there any reason you didn’t tell us about this before?’ says Ben, sounding cross. I can hear Jenny’s voice in the background saying, ‘I told you, whisper-whisper . . . Woman’s Own.’
‘God, let’s not make a big deal of it,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I’ve only just started seeing him and I didn’t want to make some huge family announcement.’
I don’t know how I ever thought I was going to get away with this. I should have realized that Randy’s rampant love life is of far broader appeal than I’d imagined from within my metropolitan media bubble.