Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (11 page)

‘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 like 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.

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.