Lizzy Harrison Loses Control

by Pippa Wright

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about that, Lizzy Harrison. I’m happy to sort you out with some underwear if that’s what it takes to get you back here tonight.’ Randy said, kissing me again, and I allowed myself a small frisson of shamefully mercenary excitement. He’s not the kind of man to do things by halves. What exciting scanties from Agent Provocateur will await my return?

  Camilla types away furiously in her office all afternoon and barely stops for breath, except to race past barefoot at one point, muttering ‘loo’. Being taken off Randy’s PR has left me feeling strangely separated from my boss. Normally I know exactly where she’s meant to be and when, but lately she’s so absorbed in setting up a charity gig for Randy – I hear more about it from him than from her – that I hardly know where she is from one minute to the next. She disappears to lunches that aren’t in my diary. She has meetings for which I don’t need to write up her scrawled notes. She has taken off the automatic cc which sends all her emails directly to my inbox. Not to mention that she is suddenly free of her usual array of sick and baby food stains; my emergency wet wipes haven’t been needed for weeks. Her hair is not only freshly highlighted but blow-dried in a manner that suggests the regular hand of a professional. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was having an affair.

  Late that afternoon I look up to see Bryan Ross, Randy’s manager, striding purposefully down the corridor before stopping at my desk. He has the kind of craggy face and stern demeanour that suggests many years spent as a penitent priest before deciding to move into celebrity management.

  ‘Lizzy,’ he says, which is the Bryan Ross version of ‘Hello, Lizzy, and how are you today?’ He is a man of few words.

  ‘Hi, Bryan. What a nice surprise. I didn’t know you were coming in today.’ Which is the Lizzy Harrison version of ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I flick open the electronic diary on my desktop in case I’ve missed something – surely Camilla isn’t expecting him?

  ‘Just passing,’ says Bryan.

  Camilla leans out of her office. ‘Bryan, gosh – lovely to see you. Thanks for stopping by at such short notice. Come on in.’ So there was a meeting arranged; honestly, it’s impossible to keep track of her at the moment.

  Bryan turns to follow Camilla, and then suddenly looks down at a small Marks & Spencer bag that he seems to have only just realized he is holding. He turns back and places it on my desk, not looking me in the eye.

  ‘From Randy, pet.’ He clears his throat uncomfortably, a dark purple flush creeping up his neck, and heads into Camilla’s office, closing the door behind him. I hear the murmur of their voices through the door as they settle down to business.

  So what’s Randy sent me, I wonder? I reach inside the bag. And pull out a three-pack of white cotton tummy-hugging granny-pants. Two sizes too big.

  If this is Randy’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing. I’m surprised how upset I am at the sight of these innocently pristine white knickers. Whatever it was that happened between Randy and me over the weekend, clearly this afternoon I’m back to being the kind of girl whose underthings come from Marks & Spencer rather than La Perla. Spending several hours in Randy’s bedroom has not, after all, turned me into an irresistible temptress to be spoiled and adored. I guess I should be grateful he didn’t buy me a girdle.

  I realize that, despite insisting to myself that our sleeping together doesn’t change anything, a tiny, hopeful part of me, long dormant, has flickered into life over the last two days, fanned into flame by Randy’s flirtatious attentions. Get a grip, Lizzy, I tell myself. You know exactly what Randy is like. Flirtation comes as naturally to him as breathing. What happened at the weekend was a mistake, an aberration. Obviously Randy thinks so too. That must be the message he’s attempting to convey with the granny-pants in a kind of knicker semaphore.

  But another part of me, also waking from a long sleep, sticks two fingers up at my sensible self. The shag drought is over, and in some style; so what? I know it doesn’t mean anything to him; nor does it to me. I’m just having a bit of fun, and about time too. My sensible self sighs, shaking her head. This is real life, Lizzy, remember? Sleeping with the Shagger of the Millennium cannot possibly end well. Pull yourself together.

  So I do.

  Shoving the pants into my desk drawer, I decide that I will go home tonight after all.

  13

  It feels like I haven’t been home for weeks, not just days. Post is piled up in the hallway, and a spindly-legged spider has built its web across the bath. The peace lily in my bedroom is looking particularly forlorn, its usually glossy leaves dull and collapsed on to the window sill, and the air in the flat smells stale. I open the windows and begin to sort things out. I find it immensely restful and pleasing to put things in their proper place – I put a load of laundry on, change the sheets on my bed, water the plants, draw up a shopping list to fill my echoingly empty fridge. Put the granny-pants aside for donation to a charity that might pass them on to an actual granny.

  There is a message on my home phone from my mother, who still believes mobile phones will fry your brain and refuses to call me on mine.

  ‘Darling? Darling! Oh, it’s your blasted machine again. It’s me, darling, just wanting to let you know I’ve been chanting for you. Sorry to miss you, my gorgeous one, but you know I only get one phone call a week – it’s like prison! But I love it really, you know I do. And I love you. Miss you, darling. Big kiss. Love from Mum.’

  I have no idea why she always has to sign off an answerphone message as if it were a letter, but there you go. For the first time since I started seeing Randy, I wish that Mum wasn’t so far away. I wish she was the sort of cosy, stay-at-home mother that I could run home to and confess everything to over a slice of home-made cake, a fat Labrador curled at my feet, my childhood bedroom untouched upstairs. But our family home was sold years ago, and the only cakes that Mum makes these days are incredibly heavy vegetable-based creations with a reliance on hemp flour. Even if we still had a dog, I don’t think it would eat them.

  After Dad died in a car crash when I was sixteen, a well-meaning friend gave Mum a copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. From there it was a short journey via trips to WOMAD, a penchant for colourful tunics woven by small Tibetan cooperatives and a house full of stinky joss sticks (excellent for disguising teenage smoking, I found) to silent retreats, a renunciation of all caffeine and alcohol, and a mysterious refusal to eat mushrooms ‘because they grow in the dark’. Since she retired from teaching five years ago, she’s got more and more out there, but Ben and I reassure ourselves that if it makes her happy, who are we to judge? For all her nuttiness, she is my mother and I miss her. Tears prick my eyes as I realize I’ve missed speaking to her for another week, and I listen to her message three times.

  By the time I’ve finished the hoovering and dusting and taken a long shower, I’m feeling much better. I take my dressing-gowned self, clean and content, to the sofa with the pile of post and a cup of some herbal tea that Mum left here last time she visited. It feels like a little connection with her, even if it does taste like boiled lawn clippings.

  The post is the usual not-very-exciting assortment of letters from estate agents assuring me that they are inundated with buyers wishing to buy a flat just like mine, flyers for the local curry house, my credit-card bill, and a free magazine, Peckham Life, which is comically aspirational – I wonder what the Eritrean family of six that lives in the downstairs flat will make of the suggestion that simply everyone in SE15 is decorating their homes with Cole and Son wallpaper at £50 per square metre. At the bottom of all of this is an envelope which seems to contain what Camilla and her posh friends would call ‘a stiffy’. It’s a proper engraved invitation with swirly writing, and initially I’m confused – surely I would know if any of my friends was getting married? And the rush of christenings seems to have abated lately; who can it be from?

  Mr Daniel Miller and Miss Lulu Miller invite

  Miss Lizzy Harrison
and guest

  to celebrate their thirty-five years on this planet at a dinner and dance to be held at

  The Old Brewery, Spitalfields, London at 8 p.m. on Saturday, August 22nd.

  Dress: Black Tie

  R.S.V.P.

  ‘And guest’ is underlined in gold pen and enhanced by three exclamation marks. I’m assuming this wasn’t done by Dan, who I still haven’t heard from since our argument at supper.

  Oh good Lord, however did I forget that Dan and Lulu were having a proper, huge sit-down dinner and dance for their shared birthday? Their adoring parents had insisted on paying for a party with the proviso that Mr Miller could make a speech in honour of his children ‘before I die of old age waiting for either of you two to get married’. Lulu, who has long declared her lack of interest in any kind of wedding, couldn’t resist the idea of being the centre of attention without having to commit herself to a relationship. And Dan – well, Dan had decided it wasn’t worth his while opposing the force of nature that is Lulu on a mission.

  I fan myself with the invitation as I ponder ‘and guest’. Would Randy come with me? So far our fake relationship has been entirely on his terms and on his territory. I don’t think he even knows where I live. But maybe he’d actually like to spend time doing something as normal and non-starry as attending a totally civilian party? Maybe he’d like to go to a party full-stop; our social life, such as it is, has been spent mostly in his home or, on the rare occasions we have ventured out, by ourselves. I’ve barely met a friend of Randy’s who isn’t in some way paid to be in his presence. Maybe he’d like to meet my friends. And I know it would be the best birthday present ever for devoted celebrity-magazine-reader Lulu if I could bring along my so-called A-list boyfriend. If I could somehow get her photograph into Hot Slebs, she might just spontaneously combust with happiness. I’m contemplating my strategy when my mobile rings on the sofa beside me.

  ‘Babe? Where are you? It’s gone nine – I’ve been waiting ages.’ Randy sounds perplexed. I can’t imagine he gets stood up often.

  ‘I’m at home, Randy. Like I said, I had some things to do,’ I say coolly, back in professional mode.

  ‘But I thought you said you’d come back here if you had some clean underwear. Bryan said he’d delivered some to you this afternoon. What’s going on? Are you playing games with me, babe?’ I wasn’t expecting him to be so annoyed.

  ‘Did Bryan tell you what kind of underwear he delivered to me this afternoon, Randy?’ I ask, still cool, but slightly reassured that it wasn’t Randy who’d purchased the granny-pants.

  ‘Jesus, I don’t know – knickers are knickers, aren’t they? I don’t care what kind you’re wearing, babe. Frankly I just want to get them off you as fast as possible.’

  The little flame in my heart flares for a moment, but I put it out before it can get any bigger.

  ‘Well, next time you want to seduce me with underwear, perhaps you’d better not send your manager to buy it, Randy. Giant cotton pants two sizes too big did not do it for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘He bought what?’ says Randy. ‘Oh, fucking hell, babe. Is that what this is about? Look, I’ll buy you the entire contents of Agent Provocateur if you will just get your gorgeous body over here right now. Please.’

  ‘No,’ I say, feeling oddly powerful and in control of this weird relationship for once. ‘I want a night at home and it’s too far and too late to come over to yours now. But I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?’

  ‘Jesus, Lizzy – seriously? You won’t come over at all?’

  ‘I will tomorrow. Night, Randy.’

  I hang up and take a sip of tea before tidying away the post.

  Two hours later I get a text.

  ‘I want you, I miss you, I need you. What do I need to do to get you back here, babe?’

  Well, I think I’ve made my point. I’ve shown Randy I’m not at his beck and call. That he’s not the only one who calls the shots in this so-called relationship. I can handle this. Lizzy Harrison is back in control, oh yes.

  So I let him call me a taxi.

  14

  In the end, it doesn’t take much to persuade Randy to be my ‘plus one’. I don’t even have to resort to mentioning the dodgy pants. He’s surprisingly excited at the opportunity to actually go out to a proper event; over the few weeks of our fake relationship, Randy’s been far too focused on therapy and workouts and writing and his newly clean life to want to throw himself in the path of temptation. Invitations have piled up on the kitchen table, but Randy has instructed Bryan’s assistant to turn them all down. Even though I’m not one for the limelight, it has pained my heart to see that he has declined all manner of film premieres, gallery openings and, in one devastating instance, an intimate dinner for six that included Johnny Depp. Johnny Depp! I wailed into my pillow over that one. But Camilla’s strategy has been to keep everything low-key: dinners for two, daytime outings, trips to the local cinema, cosy nights in. She wants to save up the fireworks for Randy’s comeback charity gig. I’d thought Randy was happy with it all, but the alacrity with which he accepted the invitation to Lulu and Dan’s suggests he’s straining to get off Camilla’s tight leash.

  In fact, he’s so overexcited by the idea of a proper party that he decides we’ll go out to dinner in Primrose Hill to discuss it properly, instead of staying in to eat the cordon bleu speciality that Nina the Cleaner has left for us in the fridge. Randy takes half an hour to get ready while I flick through a copy of Hot Slebs downstairs, having spent ten minutes touching up my mascara and lipgloss. I don’t think I’ve ever been out with a man who wears more make-up than me. I don’t think I’ve ever been out with a man who wears make-up full stop, and there’s something slightly disconcerting about the fact that, when he comes downstairs, Randy has managed to achieve a smoky-eyed look that I couldn’t pull off if my life depended on it.

  ‘Ready to go, babe?’ he asks, holding out his arm.

  Despite the smoky eyes, he’s pretty dressed down tonight – just his usual tight jeans, a pair of battered boots and a ripped white T-shirt that has ‘Helmut Lang’ written across it in what appears to be magic marker. His blond hair is messily pulled back, unbrushed. Standing next to him in my sleeveless gingham shirt, cropped jeans and ballet flats, I feel like Doris Day heading out for an evening with a member of Motley Crue. I reassure myself that this is precisely the point of our pairing and that my pristine appearance is nothing to be ashamed of. But I can’t help surreptitiously mussing my hair up as we walk down the street towards the gastropub on the corner.

  For once, Randy requests a quiet table in the corner and, in any case, the locals in this pub are so used to celebrities they hardly bat an eyelid. The only person who has ever melted the notoriously cool bar staff is Madonna, who famously called in for a pint of ale during her flat cap Ye Olde English phase. Although everyone studiously ignored her for the hour that she perched her yoga-honed self on a bar stool, once she left it was total carnage – the girl behind the bar even fainted, said Mel, who claimed to have been there. But there are no megastars here tonight – just a few faintly recognizable faces, with whom Randy exchanges a little mutual celebrity nod: ‘You’re famous, I’m famous, we’re just acknowledging that.’ Randy adds a slight uplift to the chin, a subtle refinement which translates as, ‘Even so, I think we both know I’m more famous than you, and my acknowledgement of you is therefore all the more gracious.’

  ‘So, a party – cool!’ he says once we’ve ordered the kind of hand-reared, organically grown, heartily rustic peasant food that no peasant could possibly afford.

  ‘You’re really good to come with me, Randy,’ I say, picking at a chunk of herby focaccia. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘S’not good,’ he says, refusing the bread. ‘You’re my girlfriend aren’t you? Course I’d come to a party with you.’

  ‘Well, it is good of you, because I’m only your fake girlfriend,’ I whisper, with a quick glance around the room to make sure no one’s listening.r />
  ‘Are you saying you’ve been faking it?’ teases Randy, pushing a denim clad knee firmly between mine.

  ‘Ha! I think you know I haven’t been faking anything, Mr Shagger of the Millennium,’ I say, flustered. I busy myself with more bread to hide it.

  ‘Thought not,’ he says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin, one leather boot rubbing against my leg. ‘There’s nothing fake about you, Lizzy. That’s why I like you.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask, looking up shyly.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, a small smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re different from the girls I usually go out with.’

  ‘Randy,’ I say, quietly, ‘we aren’t actually going out, remember?’

  He frowns.

  ‘Babe, you spend just about every night at my house. We’re shagging like Duracell bunnies. I want to see you all the time. What’s fake about that?’

  There is a part of me that wants to believe him, to let myself swoon into his arms, to fall for him instead of holding myself back. But the hard shell around my heart won’t let me do it. Not yet. I can’t deny, though, that Randy’s constant attention has caused a few cracks to appear. I’m not saying I’ve suddenly become some Sandra Bullock character, weakening as I realize I need to let love into my life, or anything that cheesy and ridiculous. In any case, unlike Miss Congeniality, I am perfectly capable of walking in high heels without comic pratfalls. But I will admit that there is a hint of something real in this formerly fake relationship, and I’m not going to entirely refuse to allow its existence.

  ‘Seriously, babe,’ Randy continues, smiling at me across the table. ‘Why would I have to fake it? You’re smart. And funny. You’re all good and pretty and, I don’t know, you’re all . . . clean.’