Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (18 page)

‘I mean, Harrison, we’ve got to think about this much more carefully now, don’t you realize? Like that black dress I tried on in Liberty’s this morning – out of the running entirely.’ She shakes her head ruefully. (The copper curls are gone as of last week, replaced by a ruler-straight sheet of ash blonde.)

‘Why? You looked gorgeous in that one, Lu – don’t rule it out.’

‘But I’d have to go bra-less, Harrison, and with those super-strong flashbulbs from all the cameras, you’d totally be able to see my boobs through the fabric.’

‘Look, I’m sure Randy and I can manage to throw off the paps on our way to the party. You don’t need to worry about this, honestly. I don’t want it to spoil your night.’

‘Are you kidding? Don’t you bloody
dare
throw off the paps! I’m not about to spend five hundred quid on a dress for it to be seen only by my
friends
,’ says Lulu, appalled. ‘I won’t be happy unless I’m totally blinded by flashbulbs when I arrive, okay?’

‘Okay, okay – we’ll be sure to bring along the full contingent if that’s what you want. What does Dan think about it all?’ I ask. While Lulu has kept me up to date on every single development of the party over the last two weeks, from canapé selections to wine choices and whether or not her dad would pay for a fleet of semi-naked butlers (he would not), I haven’t heard anything from Dan at all.

‘Oh, it’s easy for boys, isn’t it?’ says Lulu. ‘He’s just going to wear bog-standard black tie and I’ve told him that under no circumstances is he to join any of those rugby boys in wearing cummerbunds or waistcoats with wacky cartoon characters on, and especially not –’ she shudders – ‘braces. But he’s far more interested in sorting out the DJ, so I’ve left that entirely to him. Prepare yourself for an evening dominated by the sounds of Eighties soft rock.’

‘And is he . . . bringing anyone?’ It feels weird having to ask Lulu about Dan; normally I see him often enough to know exactly what’s going on his life. But lately the only person I’ve seen often is Randy.

‘Well, funny you should mention it, but I think he is, yes,’ says Lulu. ‘God knows who – he’s gone all mysterious and secretive about it, but we were sorting the table plans last night and he put in a place next to him for a guest.’

‘Well I never. He’s a dark horse, isn’t he?’

‘You know, he
is
a bit of a dark horse lately,’ Lulu says. ‘I mean, I usually find Danny so easy to read it’s like he’s transparent, and I don’t mean any of that nonsense about twins being all telepathic and stuff. You know what I mean – Dan’s just so straightforward he’s practically binary. But lately he’s changed.’

‘Changed how?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. But there’s something going on. Maybe it’s this new girl? I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’ She drains her champagne glass. ‘One more for the road?’

Of course one more turns into two more and then, fired up by champagne, Lulu decides we should head off to a posh sex shop in Covent Garden to buy underwear on an account Randy has set up for me. I thought five hundred pounds was a quite ridiculous sum to spend on underwear, but he insisted that it was the least he could do after the granny-pants debacle, and anyway, wouldn’t he get the benefit of it? Once Lulu and I have stopped giggling at the leather spanking paddles and the crotchless knickers, we realize that five hundred pounds won’t actually go very far in here. The sales assistant hovers at my shoulder in a too-tight shirtdress, her bra clearly visible under the straining buttons, snapping prices at me with barely concealed hostility as if she’s unsure that I can afford them. And if I was spending my own money, she’d be right. The matching toile-de-jouy bra and French knickers set is one hundred and twenty-five pounds, madam. The black broderie anglaise set with foamy lace trim is one hundred and ten pounds, madam. If madam’s friend has stopped laughing at it, the rose quartz dildo with fox-brush attachment is one hundred and eighty-five pounds, but if this is to go on Mr Jones’s account, I should advise you that Mr Jones has already purchased this item.

‘
Has
he now?’ says Lulu, waving the fox-brush attachment at me.

‘I have never, never seen one,’ I insist, flushing scarlet – and I’m telling the truth. If Randy keeps a suitcase of sex toys under his bed, then I have yet to see them, thank God. Who knows where they’ve been?

‘Oh, he
definitely
has one, madam,’ says the sales assistant, her painted eyebrows raised challengingly at me. My blush deepens. Is she implying . . . ? She holds my gaze, smirking, and twirls a strand of long black hair slowly between her fingers. She is definitely implying . . .

‘Well,’ says Lulu briskly, dropping the underwear on to the counter and staring the sales assistant in the eye. ‘I guess some girls need all the help they can get their hands on. Thank goodness you’re not one of them, Harrison. Shall we just get these and get out of here?’

‘Certainly, madam,’ says the sales assistant. She rings up the total in utter silence (four hundred and twenty eight pounds!), painstakingly wrapping each item in tissue paper before dropping them into a paper bag decorated in a jaunty paisley that, on closer inspection, is entirely composed of risqué anatomical illustrations. I feel like I’ve been standing there, face flaming, for hours.

‘I’ll add this to Mr Jones’s account, madam,’ she says finally, holding the bag out towards me by the tips of her fingers. As I reach for it, she lets go of the handles so I’m forced to crouch down and pick it up from the floor. She leans over the counter, teetering on her patent leather stilettos, giving me an eyeful of her bountiful cleavage.

‘Do tell him to drop in and settle up with me any time.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he settled his account with you a long time ago,’ says Lulu fiercely, shepherding me out of the shop before I can hurl a multicoloured vibrator at the shop girl’s retreating back.

‘Can you believe that woman?’ I gibber as we stand in the cobblestoned street. ‘Can you
believe
her?’

‘I can believe her, darling, and so should you,’ says Lulu, steering me towards a small metal table outside the hotel across the road. ‘Sit down. We need a drink.’

‘Can’t we go somewhere else, Lu?’ I protest as she places us firmly in the eyeline of the evil sales assistant, who is now gossiping with her colleague at the back of the shop.

‘No, darling, don’t let her intimidate you. We’re going to sit here and let her see us have a lovely drink and a chat in the sunshine while she folds underwear for a living, okay?’ Lulu gestures over to a waiter. ‘Now. Harrison. Clearly that woman is a spiteful little witch, but if you’re going to date the Shagger of the Millennium, I think you’ve got to accept that you’re not exactly part of an exclusive club.’

‘Well, I know that, Lu, of course I do. I mean, even Jazmeen Marie has been in touch to say she’s had carnal dealings with him – Jazmeen Marie!’

‘Yeah, well – her and lots of others, I expect. You’re sharing a shag tree with a lot of other women, and you’re not going to like all of them. Or any of them, for that matter.’

‘Ouch, Lulu – don’t try to protect my feelings or anything, will you?’

‘Two ginger Martinis, please,’ Lulu says, smiling up at the waiter. ‘We need the hard stuff, Harrison. It’s not up to me to protect your feelings, it’s up to you, okay? I know this is all exciting and fun, but you’ve got to keep your eyes open.’

‘Look, I know Randy’s got a bit of a reputation,’ I say. Lulu snorts into her Martini. ‘My eyes are wide open, honestly, Lu. But really – he’s different when it’s just the two of us.’

‘I do understand, darling, I do – after all, I saw his potential while you were still complaining about his hygiene issues. And God knows you needed to get back in the saddle. But something’s changed since I last saw you.’ She leans across the table to look me hard in the face. ‘I can see it. I don’t know what it is, but I just want you to be a bit careful. Don’t fall too hard.’

‘I am being careful, Lu. I don’t know where this is going, but, like you said, I’m just trying to enjoy the journey. And I really am enjoying it.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’re right, darling. Just remember that Randy might be good for you in the short term, but don’t go getting too caught up with a guy who’s . . . well, who’s more of a transitional shag than a long-term prospect.’

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to own up to it all. To the fake relationship, to the staged encounters, the photographer-friendly embraces, the spontaneous moments that have been carefully choreographed by Camilla. To the subtle shift in our relationship recently, to my confusion about everything. But I can’t. Randy and I have only a few weeks left of our fake relationship to run. His US promoters are flying over especially to see his charity gig, and if they think he’s back on form (and if his drug tests come back clean), his thirty-city US tour will start in September. And then I’ll see whether Randy really is a transitional shag or something more. Until then we’re both still play-acting; and I’m not sure if we’re still reading from the original script.

‘I promise I know how to take care of myself, Lu,’ I say. ‘Trust me.’

‘I do, darling,’ says Lulu. ‘Now, quick – laugh hysterically, because that silly bitch is looking this way and she needs to see you couldn’t care less about her.’

And, actually, with a ginger Martini in my hand, several hundred pounds’ worth of posh underwear under the table, my best friend by my side and my hot boyfriend awaiting my return at home, I really couldn’t. Everything is so utterly bizarre and ridiculous that it’s easy to laugh my head off.

When Randy gets home from seeing his personal trainer that evening, I’m ready for him in the kitchen. The toile-de-jouy bra and knickers are not quite covered by a transparent matching chiffon robe, and I am wearing the most ridiculous marabou mules, which are crippling but leg-lengthening in a gratifying way, and just about bearable when I’m sitting down. With my hair artfully pinned up in a manner that looks effortless but took nearly an hour, I’m quite pleased with the overall effect – a sort of sophisticated and pampered housewife who’s saucily entertaining a gentleman on the side. With sufficiently dim lighting I convince myself I can pass, if not for Catherine Deneuve in her
Belle de jour
heyday, then perhaps a distant relation. Nina the not-cleaner-but-cordon-bleu-chef has helped me to make a chicken casserole, which is warming in the oven. I plan to thank Randy properly for my shopping spree.

I hear his key in the door and swiftly turn off the kitchen light, leaving just a few candles burning on the kitchen table. I arrange myself as seductively as possible in the agonizing mules on one of Randy’s cold plastic chairs. But his tread in the hall is accompanied by another, and I can hear two male voices instead of Randy’s usual shout of greeting. Oh, surely not? He’s brought someone back? Suddenly my seductive housewife look seems hugely trashy and embarrassing. I glance around the room in a panic – where can I go? As the voices come closer, I have to rule out a desperate rush up the stairs; there’s no way I could make it unseen. I lurch towards the larder door and quickly shut myself in, realizing as I do that there doesn’t appear to be a handle on the inside. And that, despite the evening sunshine, it’s like being shut inside a dark, cold fridge. Great.

‘Lizzy?’ calls Randy. ‘Liz? God knows why it’s so dark in here.’ The glimmer of light I can see under the larder door becomes brighter as he flicks on the kitchen light. ‘Guess she’s not home yet.’ As if I’d leave candles burning if I’d gone out – is he blind?

‘Something smells good, mate,’ says Randy’s companion in a strong New Zealand accent, confirming his identity as Wade, the personal trainer.

I can hear the sound of the oven door being opened. ‘Yeah, it’s a stew or something. A Nina the Cleaner special, looks like. Fancy a bowl?’

What? He’s not even going to wait for me? He knew we were meant to be having dinner together this evening. I’ve been priming him with flirtatious texts since five.

‘Yeah, go on, why not?’ says Wade, and the legs of a chair scrape on the kitchen floor as he sits down. ‘Just a little bit – got dinner with the missus later.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ says Randy. ‘But she’ll never know if we make a little dent in it, will she?’

Thanks a bundle, Randy, you old romantic, you. I shiver in the larder and rub my arms to keep warm. I’m absolutely starving, and the smell of the casserole as they take it out of the oven is far too much for me. I fumble along the shelves in the dark in search of Nina’s secret biscuit supply, rip open a packet and shove two into my mouth, chewing viciously. They turn out to be Garibaldis, full of evil raisins and possibly my worst biscuit of all time. I eat them anyway.

‘Delicious, mate,’ says Wade, tucking into my supper. ‘Speaking of making a dent in things, got anything to help this stew slide down easier?’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ says Randy.

‘Well, it might not be part of your training regime, but it is Saturday night, isn’t it?’ says Wade with a matey chuckle.

‘You’re absolutely right, Wade, absolutely right. A beer on a Saturday night is not just a privilege, it’s a man’s fundamental bloody right. Just wait here a minute.’

Randy’s footsteps head at great speed downstairs towards the basement and make a sprinting return, then I hear the hiss of two cans of beer being opened. I am appalled – Randy’s house has been a booze-free zone ever since my first visit (well, okay, since my second visit – Randy was so inebriated on my first that he counted as a booze zone on his own). Many’s the time I’ve wished for a glass of wine after a long day at work only to have to make do with a cranberry juice to show solidarity with Randy’s sobriety. And all along he’s been hiding booze downstairs?