Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (2 page)

Oh God, oh God, oh
GOD
– how have they found out? I knew I should have checked through the whole magazine on the train. I grab the
Hot Slebs
out of my bag and start flicking through the pages as I turn my computer on. And there it is on page twelve. They don’t need a big yellow arrow for this one. No jokey headline. The truth is there’s no circle of shame big enough to contain the grainy mobile-phone image of Camilla’s hottest client slumped on the floor of a Holloway bedsit with an empty syringe hanging from his left arm and an unconscious teenage model draped across his lap.

It’s not like we didn’t know about this. Randy had come to in the early hours of Sunday morning and, panicking, had instantly called his manager. Some might say he should have called an ambulance first, but some do not know the depths of self-absorption of your average celebrity. Anyway, it turns out Randy was right to call Bryan Ross. Within four hours the model was in hospital, two paramedics were celebrating an unexpected cash windfall in exchange for their silence, and Randy was in a Croydon rehab centre with high, high walls and fabulously discreet staff. Most people don’t even know the place exists. First thing on Monday morning Camilla had issued a press release announcing that Randy had been hospitalized for ‘exhaustion’. It was the third time this year, and the press was bound to be suspicious, but Randy has a major US tour lined up for September; we can’t afford for his relapse to be made public.

Camilla took Randy on when he was a struggling comedian living in a Hackney squat, but a brief stint on a reality show (and an even briefer ‘relationship’ with a co-star) turned him into a tabloid darling famed for his outrageous behaviour. His story of triumph over a serious substance-abuse problem was part of the legend of Randy Jones. I say substance when really I mean substan
ces
. Back in the day, Randy would no more limit himself to abusing just one substance than he would limit himself to just one woman – alcohol, pills, powders: he’d take pretty much anything that was offered. But as his star rose, he became a clean, mean comedy machine whose crazy stunts were fuelled by nothing more than being high on life. So his public thought. But really, anyone who actually says they’re ‘high on life’ is deeply suspect, don’t you think? The truth is, Randy is on so much prescription medication he practically rattles like a maraca. And every now and then, when the legal stuff doesn’t quite take the edge off his manic moods, he finds himself back in the welcoming embrace of the ‘friends’ he claims to have left behind. One of whom has just shopped him to the press.

How is Camilla going to get him out of this one?

It’s nine-twenty when she lurches in, blonde hair flying. She appears to be carrying two handbags, one Bob the Builder rucksack, a bulging Marks & Spencer’s carrier bag and a paper bag from Starbucks containing (from the look of the stains on the outside) a spilled coffee and some sort of greasy pastry. It may sound like a lot, but, believe me, she’s travelling pretty light today.

‘Hello, Lizzy!’ she exclaims, trying, and failing, to swing the rucksack back on to her shoulder. ‘Here already? Course you are – I could set my watch by you! If I was ever here before you, that is, ha-ha! Bit late this morning getting Cassius off to nursery. Oh, bugger.’

She glances down at the Bob the Builder rucksack, which has now slid down her arm all the way to the floor.

‘Oh, bugger, bugger,
bugger
– I’ve got his bloody buggering rucksack. No wonder he cried so much when I said goodbye – I thought he was stretching out his arms for a hug, but of course it was his packed lunch he was after. I’ve got to call the nursery straightaway. Sorry, Lizzy, how are you?’

‘Morning, Camilla. I’m fine, thanks,’ I say to her retreating back. As she throws the bags on to the floor of her office, I spot something white on the back of her pink wool dress – baby formula? Yoghurt? Please God let it not be something revolting relating to her ridiculously fertile husband, Jeremy, whom we all call the Sperminator since Camilla popped out three children in just two years. But no, it looks like it’s probably baby sick from one of the twins, and I must remind her of it before she races off to her nine-thirty meeting. If she even knows she has a nine-thirty meeting.

She’s on the phone before she’s even sat down and, without being asked, I punch in the number for the courier company – the trip to Cassius’s nursery with bag or toys or lunch is one that they already know well.

‘Morning – bike from Carter Morgan PR to Onslow Gardens, please.’

‘Morning. That’s got to be Lizzy, right? Bumblebee Nursery, is it, Lizzy? Delivery for young Muhammad Ali?’

‘Hello, Dave – ha-ha! Yes, it’s for Cassius,’ I say, laughing politely. This is a conversation we’ve had a thousand times before. My role is merely to feed him his lines.

‘Highly appropriate destination, ha-ha. Does he sting like a bumblebee?’

‘Oh, very good, Dave. I don’t think bumblebees sting, do they? At least, not when they’re hungry, which he will be if we don’t get this bag delivered.’

‘Ah, lunch, is it? Well, we can’t have the young fella starving, can we? What’s he got today then? I Ham the Greatest sandwiches? Ha-ha! Geddit? HAM the greatest!’

‘Ha-ha! Oh, that’s a good one, Dave,’ I say (and indeed perhaps it was when I first heard it – about six weeks ago). ‘Will you send a bike straightaway?’

‘Course we will, Lizzy, don’t you worry. Don’t want any kind of tummy rumble in the jungle, do we, eh? Eh?’

‘Ha-ha, absolutely not. Thanks, Dave, have a good day.’

He is exhausting.

As I put down the phone, Camilla swings out of her office, Bob the Builder rucksack in hand. ‘Lizzy, could you . . .’

‘Bike’s on its way, Camilla.’

‘God bless you, Lizzy.’

‘And here’s a baby wipe. I think there might be something on the back of your dress.’

She spins round to inspect her rear and dabs at the mysterious stain. ‘Oh, good Lord, what next? Thank God you noticed, Lizzy – you really are an absolute lifesaver. Now, what’s first on your wondrous list for the day?’

‘You’ve got the planning meeting in five minutes, just moved to Jemima’s office. Should be out by eleven. No lunch today because I’ve booked you in at the dentist for twelve-fifteen. Book signing for Eliza Evans at Selfridges at four – taxi will pick you up from here at three-thirty so you can see her before she goes on. Taxi will collect you at five to take you for drinks with Tom Porter—’

‘Tom . . . ?’ Camilla looks blank.

‘Porter. Isobel Valentine’s new agent? To discuss how to spin her pregnancy? You remember – it’s triplets, but she doesn’t want to admit it’s IVF and wants a “my miracle babies” story?’

‘Of course, of course – right. Tom Porter,’ says Camilla, still looking a bit confused. I’ve got to allow her this one as Isobel Valentine gets through agents like other people get through packets of chewing gum.

‘But before you get on to any of that, you’re probably going to want to see this.’ I hand her the copy of
Hot Slebs
, open at page twelve.

‘Brill-o-pads, Lizzy, what would I do without you?’ says Camilla, racing out of the door with the magazine in her hand. Almost immediately I see her stop in the corridor.

‘Bloody buggering bollocks.’

As Camilla stomps down the corridor, frowning at
Hot Slebs
, I notice Jemima’s PA nudging her friend to point out the stain that Camilla hasn’t quite managed to remove from her skirt. I distinctly see her mouth the word ‘Sperminator’.

You wouldn’t think it to look at her this morning, but there was a time when Camilla Carter was the most formidable PR woman in the business. Her stable of celebrity clients could be relied upon to be in the papers for all the right reasons – My Fabulous Wedding, My Baby Joy, My Oscar-Winning Role, My Selfless Charity Work. She seemed like a cheery Malory Towers captain of games, all heartiness and hockey sticks, but when crossed she was a one hundred per cent scary head girl. Features editors quaked at her call. If you pissed off one of Camilla’s clients, she’d withhold access to all the others until you promised her the sun, moon and stars. She’d insist on copy approval for interviews, make-up artists who charged a thousand pounds an hour, helicopter rides to and from photo shoots. It was easier to pull the offending story before it ran and save yourself the grief.

And it wasn’t just the press who obeyed her every order. Spoiled celebrities who strayed from the pre-approved Carter Morgan publicity path were read the riot act. They stubbed out their cigarettes, looked shamefacedly down at their shoes and called her ‘Miss’ as if they were back at school because they knew they owed Camilla Carter everything.

It was thanks to her that coverage of Isobel Valentine’s Fabulous Wedding hadn’t included a single mention of the best man’s spectacularly drunken speech (culminating in a toast so obscene that the groom had punched him backwards into the wedding cake).

It was thanks to her that Damien Elliott’s Baby Joy was unmarred by the revelation that Damien had demanded a paternity test after his wife had admitted shagging not only her personal trainer but also the gardener, driver and pool boy. (Really, who even has a pool boy when they live in Cheshire?)

It was thanks to her that the press faithfully reported the racy ladies’-man exploits of cinematic action star David Mortensen, when most evenings found him happily at home in the company of his long-term male lover and their two toy poodles.

But these days it was thanks to me that anything got done at all.

Camilla has always been one of those women whose seemingly chaotic exterior belies astonishing organization and an ability to leap from one idea to the next in a way that leaves lesser mortals agape. But a ludicrously early return from maternity leave has meant that, lately, her chaotic front isn’t covering a cunning strategy or a trademark Carter master plan. It’s only covering more chaos. She’s slipping, and we all know it.

And no one more so than Jemima. In the three short months Camilla was away on maternity leave, Jemima hovered around her clients like an Armani-clad vulture. If Camilla is the talent of the operation, Jemima is the naked greed and ambition: Carter Morgan is merely a stepping stone to establishing the world-dominating conglomerate that will be Jemima Morgan PR. She’d think nothing of finding an excuse to force Camilla out and get her manicured talons on her glittering client list.

So far Jemima has persuaded three of Camilla’s clients to be looked after by her ‘temporarily’.

‘Just while poor Cam gets back on her feet – it would help her out so much if you’d agree, sweetie. You know she’d never say so to you, but all those children of hers are so
demanding
, and I know you wouldn’t want to add to her worries.’

And now she’s got her fangs into Camilla’s clients, there’s no way she’ll let go without a fight.

In the four years I’ve been Camilla’s PA, she’s worked me like a dog, but taught me everything she knows. To Jemima’s horror, Camilla chose to employ me – the disillusioned pushing-thirty journalist from the Croydon
Examiner
– over the hordes of ferociously confident twenty-two-year-old graduates who battered on the doors of Carter Morgan each summer. Camilla always claimed she was after maturity and experience over rapacious ambition, but I think she took pity on me when I admitted that my journalism-school dreams of a career on a glossy magazine had come to a shuddering halt in a cul-de-sac of regional flower shows and church fêtes. She parachuted me straight into glamorous parties, introducing me as a rising star; she passed on presents from grateful clients and insisted I took the credit for anything we’d worked on together. When my boyfriend Joe left me two years ago, she arrived at my flat with ice cream, a DVD of
Miss Congeniality
(in a box set with
Miss Congeniality 2
, but I wasn’t feeling
that
bad) and an insistence that I take the week off. In short, she inspired something Jemima wouldn’t ever understand: loyalty.

I’ll do whatever it takes to help Camilla because I know that, underneath that light crusting of baby sick, she’s still every bit the tough and brilliant PR of legend. But she isn’t exactly helping herself. At the moment she’s less
I Don’t Know How She Does It
than
What In The Name of Arse Is She Doing?
I don’t think she had a clue the Randy Jones rehab story was out until I waved it under her nose. I hope she realizes it isn’t just his career that’s in the balance here. It’s hers too.

By the time she returns from her meeting, it’s clear that it’s going to be a fairly hideous day. I’ve already fielded fourteen phone calls from irate journalists who had faithfully reported Camilla’s ‘exhaustion’ line, only to be proven spectacularly wrong by the
Hot Slebs
photographs.

‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea, Cam, to give you strength,’ I say. ‘You’re going to need it when you see how many messages I’ve got for you about Randy Jones. Just let me know when you want me to hit you with them.’

‘Urgh. Thanks, Lizzy,’ she says with a grimace. ‘I’ll take the tea, but hold the messages for now. I’m going to be working on a new press release for Randy, so I’m not taking any calls this morning. Just answer “no comment” for now, and I’ll get back to people with our official statement later.’

She seems calm, but when I take in the tea a short while later, I can’t help but notice that she’s slumped in her chair looking grey with tiredness.