Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (21 page)

‘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.’

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.

If you’ve never seen someone famous have their photograph taken, it’s quite the education. There is an extraordinary amount of footwork involved in posing for a casual paparazzi snap: one foot always has to be in front, but with very little weight put on it so that it can be slightly bent. Then the same shoulder as the front leg should be turned towards the press pack for the most flattering angle. Naturally one knows from experience and media training whether to offer one’s right or left profile (just you try to see if you can find a single photograph of Mariah Carey’s left side). Head tilted, chin slightly dipped, mouth open just a touch, but not enough to look gormless. Minimize a double chin by pressing your tongue firmly on to the roof of your mouth. Keep smiling while you remember all of this, unless you are intentionally going for a moody smoulder, aka sexy face. But be careful if attempting a combination of sexy face and open mouth – the possibility of looking witless increases exponentially. If the photographers can be placed at a slightly higher level than you, then all the better – never, never let them take a photograph from below unless you fancy being foreshortened to Hobbit-like proportions. Tonight they’re all massed on the pavement and we’ll just have to take our chances.

Lulu has taken to posing as if she’s been practising her whole life. As a girl who, aged fifteen, rehearsed smoking while looking in the mirror to ensure she looked cool, I wouldn’t put it past her.

‘Lulu Miller!’ I hear her shout in answer to a call from the crowd. ‘M-I-L-L-E-R. It’s my birthday party! Well, how old do you
think
I am? It’s my brother’s birthday, too.’ She suddenly appears to realize that Dan and I aren’t actually next to her.

‘Dan! Lizzy! Get yourselves over here!’ She waves at us, beaming.

‘Come on then,’ says Dan. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘Urgh. I do hate having my photograph taken,’ I grumble as Dan guides me towards the mob.

He turns to me in surprise. ‘Lizzy, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You look beautiful. You really do.’

He takes up position next to Lulu and squares himself to the cameras, with nary a bended knee nor a flattering angle to be seen. Randy, seeing my approach, grabs my hand, pulling me in tight towards him.

‘Where did you get to, babe?’ He manoeuvres me into a tight groin-to-groin hold, and I try not to blink as the flashbulbs start up all over again.

By the time we get through the doors of the Old Brewery, every possible combination of Randy plus the three of us has been photographically exhausted: Randy and Lizzy! Randy and Lulu! Randy and Lizzy and Lulu! Randy and Dan and Lulu! Randy and Dan! Randy and Dan and Lulu and Lizzy! The photographers disperse happily, wishing us a good evening. At last we can get on with just enjoying the party.

As we enter the vast brick hall, Randy stops in the doorway and the chattering voices of Lulu and Dan’s guests fall silent. He’s perfectly still, both hands on the top of his cane, gazing off into the middle distance like a catalogue model; I half expect him to point at a nonexistent object, or bring a hand broodingly to his chin. It’s the first time since the comedy night in Balham that I’ve seen him in full superstar mode in front of a crowd, and I can’t deny he’s brilliant at it. He hasn’t said a word, he hasn’t made a noise; he’s just standing there. But every eye in the room is drawn to him. And a whisper begins to spread around the room. Oh my God. Is it . . .? Did you . . . ? Isn’t that . . . ? What the
hell
is he wearing?

I nudge Randy hard in the ribs.

‘Come
on
, you’re fading into the background tonight, remember?’ I hiss through my teeth.

‘I’m not doing anything, babe, just taking in the room,’ says Randy, offering his left profile to the guests for a moment. When he’s sure he’s been fully appreciated from both sides, he reaches for my arm. ‘Right, my gorgeous girlfriend, let’s show them how it’s done.’

We process through the tables, Randy waving beneficently like some sort of potentate accepting the good wishes of his subjects.

Lulu, just ahead of us, waves us over to a table at which her parents are already seated, her mother gently fussing over the table decorations, her father engaging Laurent in stilted conversation. It must have been years since Lulu last introduced them to one of her shortlived amours, and I can see the glint in her father’s eye that betrays a hope this might actually be the relationship that brings Lulu one step closer to matrimony.

‘Oh, Lizzy!’ exclaims Sue Miller, seeing us arrive. ‘You look just gorgeous, my love, and this young man must be . . .’

‘Randy Jones,’ says Randy, grabbing Sue’s hand to kiss it with practised charm. ‘I thought Lizzy said we’d be sitting with Lulu and David’s mother but – you can’t be. I mean, surely you’re their sister?’

‘Oh, goodness, you flatterer!’ shrieks Sue delightedly, fanning herself with a name card from the table. ‘Their sister! Oooh, I can’t tell if I’m burning up from your silliness or from a hot flush.’

‘Hot flush,’ says Dennis Miller, standing up to introduce himself. ‘It’s like sleeping next to a furnace. Lizzy, my dear, you look wonderful. And this must be the famous Randy Jones.’ He looks Randy up and down with a completely unreadable expression on his face.

‘Mr Miller, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Randy bows low with a sweep of his arm. I get the feeling he’s channelling the courtly dandy a bit too strongly. What next? Will he drag me on to the dance floor for a series of gavottes?

‘Well, I’m delighted you’ve made it at last.’ Dennis looks pointedly at his watch. ‘Take your seats. I’m going to say a few words, and then we can get on with the party.’

Dennis points us towards the other side of the round table, where Dan is sitting with a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s a petite brunette whose ample bosom is spilling out of the top of her dull-gold strapless dress. Her dark curls are loose around her heart-shaped face and her big doe eyes are staring up at Dan in simple adoration, even though all he’s doing is offering her some water.

‘Sparkling, please,’ she says in a breathy whisper, and then reverently watches him pour it as if he’s enacting a deeply meaningful religious rite.

‘Ah, here you are,’ says Dan, looking up. ‘Can I introduce you to Emma? Emma, this is Lulu’s best friend, Lizzy Harrison.’ Her eyes flick over me dismissively. I hate her on sight.

‘And this,’ Dan continues, ‘is—’

‘Randy Jones!’ she says, so breathlessly that I wonder if she’s expelled all the air in her diaphragm with that far-too-tight bodice. She stands up to offer Randy her hand and I see his eyes irresistibly drawn towards her cleavage. To be honest, I can’t stop staring myself, just trying to work out how that dress is staying up when so much of her bosom is effectively on top of it instead of underneath it.

‘Ravishing, ravishing,’ says Randy, kissing her hand. Ravishing? Who does he think he is? The Prince Regent?

‘Oh, look,’ says Emma, looking up at Randy from under her long eyelashes. False, I bet. ‘We match!’ And it’s true – her dress is a far better match for Randy’s golden flamboyance than my understated accessories would ever be. Rochelle would be delighted with the picture they make.

‘So we do,’ says Randy, slowly looking her up and down. ‘So we do.’

‘Perhaps you could sit down?’ says Dan, pulling out a chair for me next to Laurent. Randy places himself on my other side, next to the supposedly ravishing Emma, who looks thrilled at her placement. Dan stands alongside his seat in between Lulu and Emma and, with a nod at his father, taps a knife on an empty wine glass to silence the room.

‘Hi, everyone,’ says Dan, and a cheer goes up. ‘You go, Windy!’ The rugby boys are here in force tonight.

‘Before my father says a few words, Lulu and I just wanted to thank you all for coming tonight. We’ve both been fortunate enough to be guests at many of your weddings,’ (another cheer) ‘your children’s christenings,’ (a collective aww) ‘and other family celebrations. So we thought, in the absence of anything like a wedding from Lulu or me, we should repay the debt and entertain you all for a change.’ Everyone applauds politely, and Randy takes advantage of the break in the speech to quickly pour out some wine for us.

‘Should you?’ I mouth silently. Randy places a finger on my lips and, with my disapproval held safely at arm’s length, empties half his glass in one swallow.

‘And in addition,’ says Dan, ‘my father has been working on his father-of-the-bride speech for nearly fifteen years and has asked to be allowed to deliver a version of it before it’s too late. So may I ask you to raise your glasses to my father, Dennis Miller.’

‘Dennis Miller,’ the crowd murmurs, and after a brief shuffling and shifting of seats, all is silent as Lulu and Dan’s father stands up to speak.

Dennis’s speech is charming and witty and full of ridiculous stories about Lulu and Dan’s youth (even I hadn’t heard about the time when, aged eight, the twins set fire to the living room while attempting to cremate their dead hamster on a homemade funeral pyre), but having Randy twitching and fussing next to me throughout makes me realize it’s of limited interest to those who don’t know the birthday twins. Or, at least, it’s of limited interest to Randy. I can feel his agitation as Dennis fails to build adequate suspense for a punchline, or allows a burst of laughter to drown out an aside. Randy, full of nerves and preparation for his gig next week, can’t help himself silently judging my friends’ father by the rigorous standards of the comedy circuit, and, naturally, finds him wanting. But Dennis has an appreciative audience in the rest of us, and Randy joins in the applause as he finishes, mostly, I think, from relief that it is over.

‘Great speech, Mr Miller,’ he says, leaning over the table. ‘I can see I’ve got some competition.’

Dennis smiles back politely; I can tell that, although he might be aware of Randy’s fame as an abstract concept, he has no real idea who he is or what sort of competition he is referring to. But I’m grateful to Randy for making the effort.

‘That’s sweet of you,’ I say, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. He places a hand on my knee and, in one swift movement, pushes my dress up towards the top of my thigh, knuckles grazing my knicker elastic.

‘Randy!’ I hiss, pushing it back down as I see Sue’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. She reddens and looks away.