Lizzy Harrison Loses Control

by Pippa Wright

  He drops a kiss on the top of my head and reaches over to the desk behind me to pick up a small package wrapped in tissue paper.

  ‘Little something for you, babe,’ he says.

  I half expect to find it’s yet more underwear as Randy’s gifts to me over the last few weeks have been exclusively lingerie-based, but the parcel is too small and too heavy.

  I open the layers of tissue to discover a small, green book that has definitely seen better days. The corners are battered, the pages yellow. The title reads: The Observer’s Book of British Grasses, Sedges and Rushes.

  I flick through the pages, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asks Randy, looking at me as if he’s worried I might burst into tears. And for a moment I think I might. ‘I just thought – because of your dad . . . Babe, say something.’

  ‘It’s really, really lovely of you, Randy,’ I say, unable to stop staring at the book in my hands in case I cry. ‘I think it’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in years.’

  ‘We could . . . we could go and, er, check out some grasses on the Heath this weekend if you like,’ says Randy hesitantly.

  This offer touches me almost more than the present itself. The idea of Randy Jones, international mega-star, spending an afternoon painstakingly identifying assorted British grasses is as adorable as it is ridiculous.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Randy,’ I say, looking up at him at last.

  ‘Oh, thank God for that, babe,’ he says, rubbing his unshaven chin with his palm. ‘I mean, not that it wasn’t a genuine offer, but really – grass is grass, isn’t it?’

  He pulls me back into his arms, where I’m happy to stay until, it has to be admitted, the pathos of the moment is overcome, as am I, by a whiff of armpit.

  ‘Urgh, Randy. I say this with a lot of love, but when did you last have a shower?’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t love my natural manly scent, my grass-loving girlfriend?’ he asks, elaborately sniffing one armpit.

  ‘No, I don’t – your natural manly scent is revolting. I hope you’re going to scrub up better than this for Lulu and Dan’s party tomorrow night,’ I tease, poking him in the stomach.

  ‘Now, I was just going to talk to you about that,’ says Randy.

  I frown. ‘You’d better not be saying you’re not going to come, Randy – you promised.’

  ‘Of course I’m going to come, babe. Have I ever let you down?’ Randy drops a kiss on the top of my head and then sits me down on his chair while he paces about the room. ‘But I was just thinking that maybe Lulu and David would like me to say a few words at their party – you know, try out some of my new material, kind of a birthday present for them? What do you think?’

  ‘It’s Lulu and Dan, Randy, not David. And, blimey, er . . . I don’t know about your saying anything at the party.’ In fact I can’t think of anything worse than Randy upstaging not only the birthday twins but their aged father, whose speech will have been lovingly crafted for weeks.

  ‘Don’t you think they’d like an exclusive gig from Randy Jones? Totally free? And it would be great for me to get some audience feedback before the big gig next week.’ Randy is all puppy-dog enthusiasm at his brilliance.

  ‘I think it’s an amazingly generous offer, Randy, I really do. But I think they’re just thrilled to have you there as a guest. I’m not sure they’d want to make you actually work the party; they’d just like you to enjoy it. Maybe you should save yourself for the Royal Festival Hall.’

  Doesn’t he see how inappropriate this is?

  ‘I don’t mind, though!’ says Randy. ‘Really, I’d be happy to do it. For them, I mean.’ And I do think that, even though Randy has never met Lulu and Dan, he has genuinely persuaded himself that performing at their birthday would be an act of selfless generosity instead of one of naked self-interest.

  ‘I know you would, my lovely one; you’re so thoughtful,’ I soothe. ‘But imagine if one of their guests filmed you on their phone? There are going to be a hundred and fifty people there. It’d be all over YouTube before you know it, and wouldn’t that spoil the surprise of the gig next week?’ I reach out my hand to Randy reassuringly to let him see that I’m on his side even as I crush his plans.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, taking my hand and sitting down on the edge of the desk, shoulders slumped. ‘Yeah, I suppose. I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘Just think how much fresher it will be next Saturday if it’s the first time you’ve performed it in front of an audience,’ I say. ‘That extra adrenaline will really fire you up, won’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.’ Randy looks resigned. ‘I hope Lulu and David won’t mind, though.’

  ‘I’m sure Lulu and David, I mean Dan, won’t mind in the slightest.’

  I feel I’ve dodged a bullet for all of us.

  19

  Having spent the whole week locked away in his study, Randy is ridiculously fired up this morning about attending tonight’s party for two people he’s never met. He has insisted on buying inappropriately expensive presents for the twins (a diamond tennis bracelet for Lulu and an Omega watch for Dan) and has signed their birthday card with his full autograph, just in case anyone at the party might be in doubt about his identity. I sealed the envelope myself to ensure he didn’t have a chance to slip in the glossy 6x4 loitering suspiciously on his desk.

  And he’s brought in his stylist to spend the afternoon with us, to coordinate our outfits in a way that I’m strongly resisting. Rochelle is convinced that nothing says ‘happy couple’ like fully matching ensembles, while I’m still haunted by the spectre of Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake dressed in his-and-hers denim at the MTV Awards some years ago. But then Rochelle is a terrifying six-foot diva in a leopardskin minidress with wet-look leggings and towering platform shoe-boots. Her afro hair is teased into a huge quiff that casts an intimidating shadow over me; it is clear we may not share a fashion sensibility. We strike a compromise. I will be allowed to wear my favourite black dress if I submit to wearing jewellery and shoes of Rochelle’s choosing; these will colour-coordinate with Randy’s ensemble. I veto anything in red (red and black being a bit too Ann Summers for my liking), and Rochelle busies herself in the three suitcases of accessories she’s brought with her.

  At six, Randy’s hairdresser arrives. I would have thought it would take no time at all to tie Randy’s thick blond hair back into a ponytail, but Guido insists he must attend to my hair first so that he can devote the rest of his time to Randy’s. He sits me in a chair in the makeshift salon he’s established in the kitchen, and holds a strand of my hair between finger and thumb. His spotty teenage assistant leans against the sink, watching us sulkily from beneath a directional fringe of an unseen-in-nature aubergine colour with hot pink tips.

  ‘When did you last have your hair cut?’ snaps Guido, pursing his lips.

  ‘Er, gosh, not since I’ve been seeing Randy, probably. So that’s at least six weeks, maybe a bit more?’ I wriggle uncomfortably in my chair. My hair hasn’t exactly been a priority during this chaotic time, but I thought I was getting away with it with my low-maintenance look.

  ‘And your highlights?’ He smoothes my parting to show a horribly dark half-inch of roots.

  ‘Umm, probably the same, I’m afraid.’ I shrink a little lower in my seat at his patent disapproval. He picks up his scissors and twists my head from right to left, assessing my profile.

  ‘Well, you expect me to work a miracle,’ he huffs, hands on his skinny hips.

  ‘No, no, of course you can’t work a miracle, Guido, I quite understand,’ I say, with an attempt at an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Humpf – you think so, Randy’s girlfriend? You think I, Guido, cannot work a miracle?’

  Oh dear. I’ve obviously said very much the wrong thing.

  ‘I meant . . . I meant that, if anyone could work a miracle, Guido, it would be you. You’re . . . well, clearly you’re a complete legend. But m
y hair is a disaster and you don’t have all day and, umm . . .’ I run out of steam under Guido’s withering stare.

  ‘Stop talking, Randy’s girlfriend. I need to concentrate if I am to make something of . . . this.’ He fluffs my hair up with both hands so that it’s completely covering my face. There is no mirror in the kitchen, so I stare fixedly into the ends of my fringe while he stands two feet away, sighing in exasperation. For five long minutes I sit and he stands. Then suddenly he launches himself at me with the scissors. I manage not to flinch as they whirr and snap near my ears, the sounds punctuated only by Guido’s exasperated sighs.

  Once he’s finished snipping at my dry hair, he pronounces himself satisfied but refuses to let me get up to have a look. ‘It is not finished,’ he pronounces, and his assistant slouches moodily across the floor to take over.

  After a heavenly head massage and a blow-dry, Guido reappears and begins backcombing my hair. I begin to recall, with horrible clarity, the huge crimped bird’s-nest coiffures that are Guido’s high-fashion trademark and have to slide my hands underneath my legs to stop myself from snatching the comb out of his hand. I’m anticipating a vast Marge Simpson-style bouffant, but when he finally allows me to look in a mirror I gasp in delight.

  Guido cracks a satisfied smile. ‘So I cannot work a miracle, Randy’s girlfriend? What do you call this?’

  ‘It is a miracle, Guido, a total miracle.’ He’s turned my fine blonde hair into a fabulous Bardot-inspired sweep high up on the back of my head, with soft, fat curls falling down to my shoulders. A long fringe half-covers one eye. My roots, instead of looking unkempt, suddenly look rock-chick intentional. I’ve never seen myself like this, and can’t stop turning my head from one side to another to admire Guido’s work. Somehow it doesn’t feel vain; it’s not like admiring myself, it’s like appreciating an artist’s creation that is nothing whatsoever to do with me.

  ‘Now shoo-shoo,’ says Guido, ushering me out of the kitchen. ‘Out of here now. I need to think about my creation for Randy.’ He places his hands on his temples, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  ‘All I ask is that you don’t reproduce this,’ I say, pointing to my amazing coiffure. ‘I’m not sure it’s a look that’s going to work for Randy.’

  ‘Out!’ he shouts, slamming the door behind me.

  I head off to my bedroom with the spring in my step that you only get from a ridiculously good hair day, and see that Rochelle has already laid out my black dress on the bed. Despite her attempts to wrestle me into something more fashion-forward, she had to admit that my much-loved softly draped jersey dress, cut low in the front and with a matching V in the back, was the most flattering of all the outfits we tried. She’s accompanied it with a pair of gold strappy high-heeled sandals which tie in a bow at the ankle. An armful of delicate gold bangles lies on top of the dress, and sparkling beside them sits a pair of long earrings, whose strands of tiny golden chains are studded with rose-coloured stones.

  Remember when I said this wasn’t like Pretty Woman? Well, I take it all back. I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. Someone rich, someone glamorous, someone wonderful. Someone spoiled and adored. I’ve lost control and gained . . . well, everything.

  When I tiptoe down the stairs at a quarter to eight, I am shyly confident that I’ve never looked better. It’s not just my borrowed accessories, or my fabulous hair, or the make-up that Rochelle spent half an hour on. It’s a sense that I’m desirable and wanted and cherished in a way I haven’t been for years. I’m going to a party with a gorgeous, famous man who can’t keep his hands off me. Sensible Lizzy Harrison, with her lists and her routines, and her tiny one-bedroomed Peckham flat, seems a million miles away.

  Downstairs is empty. The kitchen is spotless and there’s no sign of Guido or his assistant. One of Rochelle’s many bags is still in the hallway, so I assume she’s helping Randy with the finishing touches to his outfit. I pour myself a glass of cranberry juice and again curse Randy’s refusal to have any alcohol in the house. I could do with something to calm my fluttering nerves on my first official outing as Randy’s girlfriend. I know I could grab one of the secret tinnies hidden in the gym fridge, but it would mean confronting Randy about his stash, and this doesn’t seem to be the time or the place for that conversation. Maybe he’s right anyway; as long as he’s not touching anything illegal, how much harm can a beer or two do? Best not to rock the boat.

  I’m still alone by the time the taxi driver rings on the doorbell just after eight, so I ask him to wait for a few minutes.

  ‘Randy?’ I call up the stairs. ‘Randy, are you nearly ready?’

  I can hear laughter from his bedroom.

  ‘Coming!’ calls a voice.

  Ten minutes later Randy announces from the top of the stairs, ‘Here I am!’

  I come out into the hallway to see him posed resplendently on the landing, arms outstretched. ‘So? What do you think?’

  He looks spectacular and ridiculous at the same time. Like Louis Quatorze in his Sun King pomp, he dazzles in gold, but without the long, curly seventeenth-century wig, thank goodness – his hair looks surprisingly like normal after Guido’s efforts. I should have guessed about the golden theme from my own accessories, but I suppose I was lulled into a false sense of security by the delicate and subtle jewellery Rochelle laid out for me. Randy has forgone his usual double-denim in favour of a shiny shoulder-padded gold lamé jacket that is cut in waspishly at his waist and then flares out over his snake hips. Ropes of heavy gold chains loop and jangle around the waistband of his leather trousers; the trousers, thankfully, are not in gold but an unusually restrained black. Gold buckles sparkle on his patent-leather boots. The bauble on the top of his cane – yes, I did say his cane – shines in the hall light.

  ‘Wow, Randy,’ I say when I finally stop staring, open-mouthed. ‘You look . . . astonishing.’

  ‘Thank you, babe,’ says Randy, sauntering down the stairs with a careful tread – with heels nearly as high as my own, I’m not surprised he’s being cautious. As he gets closer I can see that his black eyeliner has been supplemented by a suggestion of golden glitter up to his eyebrows. I am partly impressed by his effort, and partly dreading what Dan and his rugby mates are going to make of this peacock. Lulu, of course, will love it.

  ‘We really should go,’ I say. ‘The taxi’s been outside for ages.’

  ‘All in good time, my gorgeous girlfriend,’ says Randy, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt while checking his reflection in the mirror. ‘All in good time.’ He dabs at his mouth (is that . . . lipgloss?) with a finger.

  Rochelle struggles with one of her suitcases on the landing. She looks flushed and harried; even her hair is a mess. I’m not surprised – Randy’s appearance bespeaks hours of effort. I take a step up the stairs to help her with the bags, but Randy grabs my arm.

  ‘Leave it, babe. Rochelle can manage. You’re all right letting yourself out, Chelle?’

  ‘Yeah, you two head off. Have a great night,’ she huffs, dragging another bag out of Randy’s room.

  ‘Oh, we will,’ says Randy, marching ahead of me towards the front door. ‘We most definitely will.’

  20

  Bryan has struck a classic celebrity compromise with the paparazzi tonight. The photographers have agreed not to crash Lulu and Dan’s party, or otherwise hassle the guests, in exchange for five minutes of posed snaps at the beginning of the evening. The fact that they wouldn’t have known the party was happening at all if it weren’t for Bryan’s intervention goes unmentioned. And Lulu, of course, is thrilled that the photographs will be posed ones instead of candid snaps, as that way she can make sure she’s present in every shot. I’ve primed her with a text from the taxi, not least because it looks like we’re going to be pretty late, but Randy doesn’t seem to be bothered.

  ‘It’s not being late, it’s making an entrance, babe; don’t they teach you anything at that PR office of yours?’ He crosses a leather-clad leg over mine.


  ‘I know, Randy, I know – but you will remember that tonight is Dan and Lulu’s night, won’t you?’ I twist the gold bangles on my arm nervously.

  ‘Course I will, babe. I’ll just fade into the background, don’t you worry,’ says Randy, shimmering resplendently next to me in a distinctly foregroundish manner.

  The reception we get as we step out of the taxi suggests there will be no fading tonight.

  ‘Randy! Randy!’

  ‘Over here!’

  ‘Randy! Lizzy!’

  Never again will I judge celebrities for wearing sunglasses at night. Randy strides confidently towards the pack of paparazzi, but the combined flashes from a crowd of jostling cameras is so overwhelming that I take a step back towards the open door of the Old Brewery, and my heel catches in a paving stone. As I begin to stumble my elbow is caught by an unseen hand.

  ‘Careful, Lizzy,’ says Dan, appearing from nowhere in a black tuxedo. I lean gratefully on his arm to regain my balance.

  ‘Dan! How did you know . . .’

  Dan smiles and gestures at the paps. ‘The noise was just a bit of a giveaway. Not to mention that Lulu’s had us standing by the door for five minutes waiting for you. She says we have to have some photographs taken with your boyfriend before we’re allowed do anything else – is that right?’

  ‘Sorry, Dan,’ I say. ‘I know this isn’t your thing at all. I didn’t mean for Randy to take over.’

  We look over to where Randy is now affecting a series of nonchalant poses with his cane, rearranging the chains around his waist as he moves from position to position.

  ‘It’s okay. But I’d have thought Randy would at least have made a bit of an effort with his outfit,’ he says, unable to suppress a smile.

  ‘Ha, you know Randy – never knowingly under-dressed. At least Lulu looks like she’s enjoying it,’ I say; she must have passed by in a blur of speed for I haven’t even seen her, and yet suddenly there she is, gorgeous in a shimmering green fitted dress, posing at Randy’s side.