Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (24 page)

Sometimes I wonder how it would feel to be like Barry and Nolan, or, indeed, Randy. Your every wish anticipated, your every whim accommodated. It must be a bit like being the Queen, travelling in a bubble in which the world always smells slightly of fresh paint, nothing ugly or difficult is allowed to intrude, everyone genuflects in your direction and laughs at your jokes whether they’re funny or not. At least no one calls Randy ma’am. All of a sudden it doesn’t seem so weird that he has chosen to check out of this world every now and again. He probably thinks hanging out with his dubious druggie mates is somehow keeping it real. The grubbier the bedsit, the more authentic the experience, the further from the air-conditioned sterility of your average celebrity encounter. I’m almost beginning to feel a bit sorry for him when the phone rings again.

‘Camilla Carter’s office,’ I say briskly.

‘Is that Camilla Carter’s wonderfully efficient not to mention gorgeous PA?’ says a familiar voice.

‘Why, yes, it is,’ I reply in my best nineteen-fifties telephonist’s voice. ‘How may I be of assistance, caller?’

‘Well, you could assist me by forgiving me for Saturday night,’ says Randy. ‘And for not speaking to you on Sunday. I think I let the stress of the gig get to me.’

‘And the alcohol,’ I say.

‘And the alcohol,’ he replies obediently. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk anything. I don’t know what got into me.’

‘About a bottle of red wine, I should say.’

‘I’m sorry, babe. I’m sorry for getting pissed.’

‘So you bloody should be, Randy – not just for my sake, but for yours. It’s less than a week till your gig. Do you really want to risk everything?’

‘I know, Lizzy, I know. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about Emily, too.’

‘Emma,’ I say, stupidly pleased he can’t remember her name.

‘Emma, yeah. Look, I should have realized that threesomes weren’t your thing.’

‘Well,’ I say, suddenly brisk and efficient as I see Mel passing down the corridor within earshot. ‘That’s not something I feel like discussing at work. But thanks for apologizing. It means a lot.’

‘So am I forgiven?’ asks Randy hopefully. He really does think it’s this easy. He says sorry and that’s it.

And yet being cross with Randy for being Randy feels like being angry with the sky for being blue. At least, I tell myself, Randy wasn’t going behind my back here. He might have made an error of judgement, a drunken one, in trying to recruit Dan’s date for bedroom antics, but it was just to make things fun for us. He’s got different expectations of a relationship from me, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work it out. It’s not like he was trying to play away, more that he wanted to add someone else to the game. Lulu’s right. If I’m going to have a relationship with him, then I’m going to have to accept him just the way he is.

‘Of course you’re forgiven, Randy,’ I say, and really try to mean it. I want this to work. I don’t want to go back to my old life. To being single, sensible Lizzy Harrison.

‘I’ll make it up to you when you get home,’ says Randy. ‘I promise.’

‘Okay, Randy,’ I say. ‘See you later.’

I’m pretty sure I know what his idea of making it up to me involves, and for once the idea doesn’t give me a thrill of anticipation. It just makes me feel a bit tired. In Randy’s world, it seems, sex is both the problem and the solution. It’s the apology and the cause of the apology. It’s the alpha and omega of Randy’s existence. But this is what being with Randy means, and aren’t relationships all about compromise? I have to remember this. I’ve been single for too long. I’ve become inflexible. My expectations are unrealistic; for all that I’ve scorned the cliché of the happy ending, I was beginning to believe that I might get one. I need to remember that this isn’t some candyfloss fairytale confection of a relationship; it’s real. At least I think it is. And I’m going to make it work.

Camilla interrupts my thoughts by appearing at my desk looking anxious. ‘Lizzy, darling, has someone been in my office today?’

‘Er, yes – Jemima was at your desk when I came in this morning, but she seemed to suggest . . . well, the way she spoke to me, I – I thought you knew all about it,’ I say, wrong-footed. I should have told Camilla about Jemima as soon as she came in.

‘Was she now?’ says Camilla. Her eyes sweep over the office from corner to corner as if it might be bugged. ‘Good to know.’ She shuts her door and picks up the phone again. Quite honestly I wish that her office
was
bugged – by me. At least then I’d have a chance of knowing what’s going on with her right now.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch her swivelling on her chair between laptop, office phone and BlackBerry. Her forehead is furrowed with concentration as she reaches into her bag and grabs a silver strip of pills. She pops out a couple, knocking them back with a swig of water and a shake of her head. She looks like the before picture in one of those adverts for indigestion or headaches or unspecified female ‘bloating’, whatever that is. I wish I could tell her what’s been going on with Randy – she’d know exactly how to handle it. But what would be the point? She’s busy enough already, and everything else is going so well. Why risk her firing Randy just days before everything’s sorted for good? I can take care of it. There’s no need to worry her.

Lizzy Harrison has it all under control.

As I descend the office steps that evening, scanning the road for the glowing yellow light of an available taxi, I hear someone calling my name from across the street. Standing outside the darkened windows of Pret a Manger with his hands in the pockets of his tan-coloured trench coat is Dan. He moves shiftily from foot to foot, looking anxiously up and down the street as if he were a secret agent instead of a desk-bound lawyer. What can he be up to? Why didn’t he just call my phone like a normal person?

‘Greetings, Agent Dan, the swans fly low over the Volga tonight,’ I say as I approach him.

‘What?’ says Dan, hesitating halfway towards kissing my cheek.

‘Well, what do you look like, hanging out on a street corner like someone from a dodgy spy thriller? Aren’t we meant to be talking in code?’ I tease, but he’s not smiling. In fact he looks distinctly grim.

‘Look, Lizzy, I need to talk to you,’ he says. ‘I thought if I met you from work I might actually be able to speak to you on our own for once. No interruptions.’ He pushes his fingers through his tangled curls, looking down at me with a serious expression.

‘Okay, Dan. Goodness, it must be something important,’ I laugh, not used to this unsmiling, intense version of Dan Miller.

‘It is,’ he says. He takes my elbow and leads me towards the ropy pub on the corner of the street. Even though it’s merely steps from our office, I’ve set foot in here precisely once before. No self-respecting Carter Morgan staffer would pass through the doors of the Dog and Daffodil unless an emergency dictated the need for a medicinal drink. It’s not the sort of place you’d choose to spend time in unless you had no alternative. The menus are laminated, the tables are sticky and the bar staff greet each new customer as a trying interruption to their demanding schedule of taking it in turns to smoke outside and play on the quiz machine in the corner. The pub dog, a Staffordshire bull terrier with the short, squat dimensions of a footstool, is notoriously aggressive in its pursuit of crisps, pinning unsuspecting customers into corners to get its jaws on their cheese and onion Walkers. After my one visit two years ago, a desperate lunchtime drink with Lucy while Camilla was on maternity leave, I returned to the office to discover my purse had been stolen from my bag.

‘Yeah?’ says the girl behind the bar, without looking up from her copy of the
Evening Standard
.

‘I’d like a bottle of San Miguel, please,’ says Dan. ‘Lizzy?’

I ask for the same, less out of a desire for beer than the feeling that I’m less likely to get a second-hand smear of lipstick on a bottle than on a wine glass. Dan leads us over to a table by the window, where a blue-jellied air conditioner on the window sill engages in an unsuccessful battle with the odour of ancient cigarettes that clings to the brocade curtains. I put my bag on my lap, clamped between my knees in case anyone comes near me with devious intentions. I’ll admit I’ve felt more relaxed.

‘Dan, I just need to tell you that I can’t stay long – it really will have to be just the one,’ I say.

‘I know all about you and Lulu and Just The One,’ says Dan, cracking a smile at last. ‘Just The One usually ends with Lulu scrabbling at the door at two in the morning having lost her keys.’

‘Ha, I know, but I really do have to get back to Randy’s. He’s expecting me,’ I say.

It’s like shutters have come down on Dan’s face. All trace of his smile disappears.

‘Randy. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he says.

‘Is this about Saturday night?’ I ask, fidgeting in my seat. Do we really need to go over this again? ‘He’s really sorry about it all. So am I. But there’s no harm done, is there?’

‘Maybe not to Randy,’ says Dan.

‘Is this about Emma?’ I feel a disturbing pang of jealousy at the memory of Randy’s head bowing low over her golden cleavage. And of Dan’s angry defence of her.

‘Look, Emma and I . . . ’ Dan looks uncomfortable. ‘The thing is, there isn’t any Emma and me – we had a long talk on Saturday night, and we agreed to be just friends.’

‘Dan, I’m sorry if Randy messed things up between you. He’d be mortified if he knew,’ I say.

‘It’s not that, Lizzy,’ says Dan crossly, slamming his beer bottle down on the table. ‘Look, it’s just that Emma said some things about Randy—’

‘I’ll bet she did,’ I snap, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms, ready to hear the worst.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ says Dan, his eyes narrowing.

‘I’m just saying that he’s only human. He was pissed and she was throwing herself at him.’

‘Are you blind?’ asks Dan in disbelief. ‘He was all over her.’

‘She certainly didn’t seem to object.’

Dan’s eyebrows are drawn together in a deep frown and his eyes have gone dark with anger. I can see that he’s struggling to keep his temper.

‘What I’m trying to say, Lizzy, is that Randy said some things to Emma that I thought you should know about.’

‘Is this about the threesome?’ I ask, and Dan looks horrified.

‘Threesome? Is that what he . . .? Jesus, that wanker.’ He glares out of the window as if Randy might be standing there on the pavement to be scorched by his furious stare. ‘No, it’s not about a threesome. Look, I know this isn’t what you want to hear about Wonder Boy. In fact Lulu says I shouldn’t be having this conversation with you at all.’

My stomach clenches with dread.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’ I say.

‘Lizzy,’ says Dan sternly. ‘I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t tell you what Randy is saying behind your back.’

Oh God, Randy thinks I’m boring. He hates me. He thinks I’m hideously unattractive. He can’t stand spending time with me. He thinks I’m rubbish in bed. Whatever it is, now Dan knows it too. I can’t bear it.

‘Lizzy.’ Dan’s voice has become much more gentle and I flinch – if he’s trying to be kind then he must be about to tell me something truly awful.

‘Yes?’ I whisper, hardly able to look at him.

‘Lizzy, I don’t want to upset you, but he told Emma that his relationship with you was fake. That you weren’t his real girlfriend.’

‘He said what?’ I almost want to laugh with relief.

‘He said,’ says Dan very carefully, as if each word might wound me, ‘that your relationship was set up by your boss to help rehabilitate him in the eyes of the public, and that you didn’t mean anything to him.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ I say with all honesty. I truly can’t believe that Randy has been idiotic enough to reveal the truth, especially to a stranger, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to lie to Dan’s face. And yet the idea that Randy is telling people I mean nothing to him has hit me with unexpected force. There’s nothing pretend about how upset I am.

I look down at the table so that Dan can’t see my confusion.

‘Thing is, I know it’s total bollocks,’ says Dan.

‘You do?’ I ask wonderingly. Is Dan about to unwittingly defend me against the truth?

‘Of course it is. I know you’d never get involved in something like that,’ he says firmly, and I feel a wave of guilt wash over me. ‘I’m just worried that this is what Randy’s telling other people. Girls, I mean. It’s obvious he’s saying this to go behind your back with other girls.’

‘Dan,’ I say, peeling a beer mat off the table and tapping it nervously on the edge, still not looking at him. ‘I know it’s hard for you to believe – it’s probably hard for lots of people to believe – but I do trust Randy.’

Dan snorts in disbelief and takes a violent swig from his bottle of beer.

‘I do,’ I persist, intently folding the beer mat into squares. ‘You don’t know what he’s like when it’s just us. I don’t think he’d do anything to hurt me. I think he was just leading Emma on, saying what he thought she wanted to hear. You know, letting her have her “the time Randy Jones put the moves on me” moment.’

‘You really think that?’ says Dan, pushing his chair away from the table in exasperation. ‘You really think that if you hadn’t been there to stop him he’d have just gone home by himself for a cup of Horlicks and a night on his own?’