Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (23 page)

‘You know,’ she says conspiratorially, and all the boys, even Dan, lean in closer to hear her, ‘he’d absolutely run a mile if he thought Emma was serious. It’s all show, isn’t it, Lizzy?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, far more confidently than I feel. ‘He’ll be quite relieved when I go over there to rescue him – just you watch.’ I exchange glances with Lulu and she flicks her eyes over to the table quickly. Under her breath she whispers, ‘Go!’

I approach the table on wobbly legs. For all my bravado, I have no idea how Randy is going to react when I spoil his little flirtation. In nearly all the time we’ve spent together it has been just the two of us; I’ve never had to compete with anyone else for his attention. As I get nearer, I see Emma look up. Her eyes widen and she nudges Randy, who lifts his face from where it has been hovering over her cleavage for the last five minutes.

‘Hello, Randy,’ I say calmly.

‘Babe!’ he exclaims, leaping up from his seat and standing unsteadily next to me. ‘Have you met the ravishing Emma?’

‘Yes, of course – Dan’s girlfriend,’ I say pointedly.

‘Oh, I’m not Dan’s girlfriend,’ she says, giggling. ‘We’ve just been on a few dates, that’s all. I’m not tied to anyone at all. Not unless they want me to be.’ She giggles at Randy again, and he grins back.

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he says to me, nudging my side as if I’m going to join him in appreciating her finer points. And I think I know which of her finer points he’s most interested in: the ones that are about to pop out of the top of her dress.

‘Ravishing,’ I say, smiling grimly. I can see I’m going to have to raise my game a bit here. I drape my arms around his neck so he’s forced to look directly at me.

‘Randy. I think it’s time we went home, don’t you? You’ve been good for long enough,’ I say, sufficiently loudly that I might be overheard.

‘But I’m really enjoying myself,’ protests Randy unrepentantly, his wine-soaked breath on my face, ‘and the dancing hasn’t even started yet.’

‘I’m just really, really ready for bed, Randy,’ I say, staring pointedly into his eyes – or I would be if they weren’t a little unfocused. Frankly, I would like to take my hands from behind his neck and use them to throttle him instead, but I know I have to get him out of here with the minimum of fuss, and this is the best way to do it.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ says Randy with a gentle hiccup. ‘Come to think of it, I’m ready for bed myself now. And . . . Emma?’

‘What about her?’ I say.

‘Well, babe . . .’ Randy looks like a small child begging for sweets. ‘You did say if I behaved properly then I could misbehave as much as I liked later.’

I keep my arms round his neck in a semblance of devotion – I can feel the eyes of the rugby boys’ chorus upon us – but every part of me has tensed into stone. ‘Let me get this straight, Randy Jones. Are you . . . are you actually asking for my permission to take another woman home with you tonight?’

‘Not with
me
, babe,’ says Randy, pawing at my side in what I assume is supposed to be a persuasive manner. ‘With
us
. Don’t you think it would be fun? You said she was ravishing.’

‘Jesus, Randy!’ I say, far too loudly, and then drop my voice to a whisper. ‘What the
fuck
? No, I do not think it would be fun to take Emma home with us. I can’t believe you even suggested it.’

‘But you said . . .’ says Randy sulkily. It’s clear he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. In fact, he seems to believe that I am the one who’s spoiling everything.

‘Randy,’ I say warningly.

‘I’m just so bored of being good,’ he says, eyes downcast. ‘Can’t we liven things up a little?’

‘Randy.’ There’s nothing else for it. I reach into my arsenal for the one weapon that I know will silence him. ‘What do you think Camilla would have to say about this?’

Five minutes later we’ve said our goodbyes and are in a taxi home.

That night we sleep in separate bedrooms.

Randy and I still haven’t spoken by the time I leave for work on Monday morning.

His house is so vast, it’s easy to avoid someone if you really want to, and he spent all of Sunday either downstairs in the gym or locked in his study. At one point I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. When Lulu called for a Sunday afternoon post-mortem, I had to conduct the entire conversation in a hissed whisper, so sure was I that my voice would carry in the mausoleum-like silence. But actually Lulu did most of the talking. Apparently she’d spent the rest of the evening dancing on a table, but this is hardly gossip, just standard behaviour. It seems Laurent, while Lulu was otherwise occupied, had danced so energetically with her mother that Sue’s ankles had swollen so much that, even by Sunday afternoon, she still couldn’t get her shoes on. Dennis had accepted a whisky-downing challenge from Bodders and Dusty at one a.m., and was the only one able to walk out of the Old Brewery without assistance afterwards. And finally, Dan and Emma had had an argument and she’d tried to storm out, but he, ever the gentleman, had insisted on seeing her home. He hadn’t come back to the flat in Brixton until eight that morning.

When Lulu asked me how things were with Randy, I just said everything was fine. I didn’t feel like going into the whole story, and Randy’s pointed ignoring of me had made me start to doubt myself.
Am
I too uptight? I would never have gone along with his threesome idea, especially not with Dan’s date as our third party, but what does it say about our relationship that Randy wants to liven it up so soon? I thought we’d moved beyond my being the sensible babysitter and him being the dangerous reprobate, but now I’m not so sure. Is he bored of me already? Either way, Lulu is the veteran of at least two threesomes in her past, though she swore off them after the last one (‘Just a bit too much like hard work, Harrison – two lots of everything’), and I know she wouldn’t share my instinctive horror at the very idea.

Wade calls for Randy at seven, and I’m out of the house by seven-thirty. There’s no time for a morning run or a proper breakfast when everything’s so hectic in the office. I pick up two coffees on the way, anticipating that Camilla will be at the office before me as she was all last week. But when I get into the office, the person sitting at Camilla’s desk is Jemima.

‘Lizzy,’ she says flatly, looking up from the papers spread on the desk in front of her. There’s not even a hint of embarrassment that she has been found sitting in her colleague’s office at eight in the morning. In fact it’s as if she’s expecting me.

‘Camilla had to go to a last-minute breakfast meeting – she called me earlier. So I’m sure she won’t mind if I take her coffee.’ She reaches out a hand, her painted nails grasping towards me.

‘Okay,’ I say slowly, putting the paper cup on the desk and pushing it towards her as I might to a homicidal maniac who is holding my entire family hostage. No sudden moves, no letting them see you’re scared, just play along.

‘Sit down,’ says Jemima, snatching up the coffee and taking a sip. She makes a face. ‘Full-fat cappuccino?’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say sweetly.

She smiles a tight little smile. ‘I just thought you and I hadn’t had a chat for a while – you’ve been so busy, what with one thing and another.’

‘Yes, well, one thing and another seems to be going just fine,’ I say, holding my own coffee in both hands in case I need to use it. Maybe I’ll have to throw it as a distraction if she lunges at me in a crazed rage. What does she want?

‘And how does Camilla seem to you?’ Jemima leans forward on the desk, her eyes glinting. Don’t let the homicidal maniac see you’re afraid, I think. Keep calm.

‘Just amazing, Jemima,’ I say. ‘She’s really on everything at the moment. This gig for Randy is going to be a triumph.’

‘And has she . . . has she said anything about what happens afterwards?’ asks Jemima, twisting the paper cup round and round in her hands as if it’s the neck of a small bird she’s trying to strangle. I half expect her to let out a hysterical cackle.

‘Afterwards? When Randy goes on his US tour?’ I don’t understand. ‘Well, I guess we hand him over to the US promoters and let them handle him for a change.’

I haven’t really been thinking about afterwards. Everything to do with Randy and Camilla has been so of-the-moment that I haven’t given any thought to what happens beyond the gig at the Royal Festival Hall. But Jemima has a point. What
will
happen afterwards? Will Randy want me to go with him to America? Or will he want me to wait for him in England? Suddenly I feel a bit sick. Maybe he’ll just be glad to be rid of his fake girlfriend. Maybe he’ll forget all about me the moment his plane leaves Heathrow. Maybe he’ll be picking up golden, ravishing Emmas in every single city in America. Having threesomes with non-uptight girls each night. I’ll have to go back to my flat in Peckham. To my meals for one. To Sunday nights alone on the sofa instead of wrapped in my boyfriend’s arms. Suddenly my life before Randy seems hopelessly flat and lonely and dull.

‘I meant with Camilla,’ says Jemima, interrupting my thoughts.

‘With Camilla?’ I echo, my thoughts still with Randy. I still have no idea what she’s on about. Remember, I tell myself: she is maniac, I am hostage negotiator. Must keep control of this conversation.

Jemima is clearly thinking exactly the same thing and enunciates every word of her sentence as if it is me who is the nutter: ‘Has. Camilla. Said. Anything. To. You. About. Afterwards?’

Mimic their speech patterns to show empathy, make them think you’re on their side: ‘No. She. Hasn’t.’ I say carefully. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite understanding the question, Jemima.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ says Jemima, smiling her thin-lipped smile and standing up. ‘Camilla has a lot to thank you for. I used to wonder how she’d cope without you. But now I find myself wondering how you’d cope without her.’

She stalks to the door of the office leaving me sitting there, frowning in confusion.

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she says and click-clacks off down the corridor on her pointy heels. Really, she gets madder and madder every day.

Camilla’s in the office at ten. No deliveries to the nursery today; she glides in serenely with a huge smile on her face.

‘Good breakfast meeting?’ I ask.

‘Oh, golly, I wasn’t at breakfast, I was at Randy’s final drugs test before the gig,’ she beams, plonking herself down on the edge of my desk. ‘Didn’t he tell you? He insisted I should come to the clinic for the results to see for myself that he’s clean as a whistle.’

‘Oh yeah, yeah, he mentioned something about that,’ I lie. ‘Everything was okay?’

‘Of course it was, my lovely Lizzy – everything is working out just beautifully.’

Camilla strides confidently into her office and closes the door. Immediately she picks up the phone. I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t something in what Jemima says. Camilla is up to something.

When I check my mobile at lunchtime, there’s another message from Jazmeen Marie. I really don’t know why she persists in calling me – there’s absolutely no way I’m interested in a girly heart-to-heart with her. She’s the kind of famous-for-being-famous starlet whose every holiday (inevitably in some resort in Dubai that has given her a room in exchange for publicity) ends up with her being snapped, totally unawares of course, adopting a series of calendar-girl poses while frolicking in the surf. Or with her bikini top falling off. She’s been engaged four times. She’s twenty-two. You know the sort of thing. I’m in no doubt that she’s telling the truth when she says she’s had a fling with Randy – she’s absolutely his type. Or was before rehab. I’m only surprised that I haven’t yet seen her side of the story all over a Sunday tabloid. Perhaps she thinks that speaking to me would give her a different angle for her exposé? Whatever her reasons, I’m not interested in speaking to her, and I delete the message from my voicemail.

The American tour promoters are flying in on Friday night, so I confirm their reservations at the Connaught and speak to the driver at the car service that will be driving them around over the weekend. I can practically hear him rubbing his hands with glee at landing this job; everyone knows that Barry Spiller and his business partner (and life partner) Nolan MacDonald are fabulously generous tippers. If you can just stop staring at the fact that, courtesy of multiple facelifts, Barry’s eyebrows have migrated so far north of his eyes that he’s had to have new ones tattooed on, and that his face never moves a millimetre, then you, too, could be in line for one of the bank notes he spreads liberally in his wake. Barry once dropped fifty pounds in my handbag when he thought I wasn’t looking, and all I’d done was pick up two doubleshot decaf soy lattes from Starbucks. I want them to have the best of everything for their own sakes because they’re both delightful, but I also want to be sure they have no excuse not to give Randy their full attention on Saturday night.

So I anticipate everything. I make sure the Con-naught knows they have to have fresh flowers every day – but no lilies as Nolan is allergic to them – and inform the staff that they share a weakness for Terry’s Chocolate Oranges (which they can’t get in New York), so please could the suite’s usual fresh fruit be replaced with several of the foil-wrapped chocolates in a bowl. Two Diptyque candles in Baies should be lit twenty minutes before their arrival. Nolan will have had to leave his beloved miniature schnauzer, Whitman, behind in New York, so (after enduring Dave the Comedy Courier’s latest routine, ‘Feeling Con-naughty today, are we, Lizzy?’) I bike over a box of Fortnum & Mason dog biscuits wrapped in a MacDonald tartan ribbon for him to take back with him. I agree with the concierge at the hotel that, although I would never for one moment suggest that the coffee at the Connaught is anything less than first class, they will send someone out for Starbucks whenever required as Barry will drink nothing else. The minibar must be cleared of alcohol as Nolan is in recovery, and restocked with Lipton Ice Tea and Diet Coke. I book the River Café for six people on Friday night, and ask them to ensure there is no repeat of the Christopher Biggins incident during Barry and Nolan’s April visit (which, as it is still in the hands of lawyers, I regret I cannot share). I make a reservation at the Wolseley for Saturday brunch. I ensure that Randy’s most recent DVD is prominently placed in their suite. I am sure I have forgotten something.