Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (5 page)

On closer inspection, that last line is in Lulu’s handwriting.

It’s followed by my scrawled signature, slightly blotched by . . . champagne? Tears? And is accompanied by scratchier writing in a different hand at the bottom:

Laurent Who?

The Frenchman from the bar? The
Le Monde
-reader whose lap Lulu fell into? How did he end up in Kettner’s with us? Try as I might, I can’t remember the very end of the evening. But hangover or no hangover, my morning routine is too firmly ingrained for me to deviate far from it, and I force myself out of bed. The early waking means I can get ahead of myself. Admittedly, my morning run is more a gentle stagger around Peckham Rye. With frequent stops. My usual egg-white omelette ends up being a bit closer to a fried egg sandwich. But I’m at my usual spot at the station on time, even if it’s taken a bottle of ginger beer to ensure I can get on the train without feeling sick.

And I’m still at my desk at eight-thirty. But this morning Camilla’s to-do list comes second to emailing Lulu with one word.

As her salon doesn’t open until eleven and she spends most of her time on her feet instead of longing for distraction at a desk, Lulu is a rubbish email correspondent, so I’m not expecting an answer from her until much later in the morning. But her BlackBerry must be on as I get a reply straightaway.

At nine-thirty Camilla sweeps in, mobile clamped between ear and shoulder, on the phone to the nursery once again. ‘His violin? I’m so sorry, Mrs Paton – I realized as soon as I got to the office. I’ll get it to you straightaway. Thank you so much for letting me know.’

She casts me an agonized look as she deposits a violin case on my desk, and,
plus ça change
, I’m straight on the phone to the courier company.

‘Morning, Lizzy – what’s young Master Ali mislaid this time?’

‘It’s a violin, Dave.’ I’m hung-over, tired and impatient.

‘Ooooh, I hope he won’t be threatening the other children with violins, Lizzy! Geddit, violins?’

‘Brilliant, Dave, quite brilliant,’ I snap rudely. ‘You should be on the stage. But seeing as you’re not, could you just get on with sending a bike, please.’

There is a hurt silence at the end of the phone. God, why do I have to be such a bitch?

‘Actually, Lizzy, I
am
going to be on the stage. Bet you didn’t expect that, did you? No, you think I’m just some figure of fun on the end of the phone, counting out my days in a dead-end job. Well, thanks very much.’

That was unexpected.

‘God, Dave, sorry,’ I mumble shamefacedly. ‘Bit hung-over this morning and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Are you really going to be on stage? Wow, that sounds great!’ Guilt makes me sound about three hundred times more excited than I feel.

More silence. I think he’s torn between letting me know he’s upset and a longing to reveal all. Showbiz wins.

‘If you really think that, Lizzy, then why don’t you come along? Next Wednesday, comedy night at the Queen’s Arms in Balham. I’m the first on at seven.’

I take a deep breath and prepare to decline politely, but there’s a note of plaintive hope in the voice of this man I’ve never met. My resistance is low. And I hear myself saying, ‘I’d love to, Dave, I really would. Thanks for the invitation and good for you. I’ll see you there.’

I hang up, safe in the knowledge that Dave has no idea what I look like, no way of contacting me except on my work number, and can easily be fobbed off with an excuse. (‘I was there! At the back! Waving, didn’t you see me? Honestly, you were brilliant!’). There is no way on earth I actually mean it.

And anyway, I always see Lulu on Wednesdays, and once she’s sobered up I know she’ll stop going on about this losing control rubbish and get back to downing the rosé as normal.

I’ve been giving Lulu’s rant some thought over the last week and, in my weaker moments, I have to admit that she isn’t completely insane. While my friends are moving on, getting married, having children, getting brilliant new jobs, I am still exactly where I was two years ago, and not making any effort to change. Don’t get me wrong – I like my life; but will I still like it in another two years? Maybe I do need to shake things up a little – perhaps join an online dating agency? Attend a few singles nights? Hang out at gallery openings or other smart places to meet cultured, attractive single men? Imagining myself, champagne glass in hand, holding a group of gorgeous men spellbound with a witty anecdote, I am beginning to see that there might be something to be said for making a few changes to my well-ordered routine.

But it’s a surprise to find myself standing on my own in a queue outside a suburban pub near the lower reaches of the Northern Line. For a Peckham girl like me, this neighbourhood holds no fears, but the situation itself fills me with dread. How have I let Lulu talk me into this? The evening that stretches out in front of me holds, of all things, the debut appearance of Dave the Comedy Courier.

‘But this is perfect!’ Lulu exclaimed when I called her for a Frenchman post-mortem (big nose, big hands, big everything, apparently) and made the tactical error of mentioning Dave’s comedy gig as a brief aside.

‘Have you ever met this man?’

‘Of course not, Lulu – he’s just some courier I talk to on the phone,’ I sighed, wishing I’d never raised it in the first place.

‘Then for all you know, the man of your dreams is at the end of that telephone line. You’re going. I was going to tell you that I can’t make Wednesday anyway, and this is the perfect way to get you out of your rut. You will go to a comedy evening and you will meet new people without me.’ She was all righteous decisiveness and bossiness. It was infuriating.

‘Without you? No way. If I’m going, you’re going too,’ I insisted, attempting to boss her back. ‘How else will you know if I’ve obeyed your command? And you can’t really make me go on my own, Lulu – come on.’

‘I will be working on improving European relations that evening, Harrison, specifically between the French and the English, but I can assure you I have spies everywhere, so don’t even
think
of piking out. You promised you’d make an effort: here’s your chance to prove it. My next appointment’s here – got to go.’ And the line went as dead as my hopes of a good night out.

In an effort to look (a) unapproachable and (b) as if I have a legitimate reason for being at the comedy show alone and am not just a saddo with no friends, I have come in costume. Not like a giant bear or anything – be realistic, I’m looking for anonymity here. My long hair is twisted up into a chignon, and my only-on-a-contact-lens-free-Sunday glasses are perched on the end of my nose to give me a studious look. I’m carrying a small notebook and am attempting to give off an air of weary indifference as if I’m a jaded habituée of the comedy circuit, here to cast judgement on fresh blood. A pencil skirt, modest heels and a blouse complete the picture. I’m thinking efficient, businesslike and definitely in journalist/critic mode. My fellow queuers are evidently thinking ‘weirdo librarian’ and I’ve noticed a few odd looks. Like I care. I’m doing this to show Lulu that I can be as spontaneous as the next person, but she’s insane if she thinks I have any intention of actually speaking to anyone.

We shuffle into the pub and, quite unexpectedly, it turns from unassuming boozer to cavernous theatre once inside. There’s a balcony running around the top of the room, and large tables are set up in front of a proper stage with floodlights and a microphone. I suddenly feel a pang of pride for Dave-the-courier; this is a real comedy showcase, not the two-bit suburban pub I’d imagined. Pride is swiftly followed by a rush of nerves on his behalf as I see the size of the audience: there have to be at least two hundred people here. And more are streaming in – big after-work gangs of suited men pushing to get to the tables at the front, while others head straight for the bar at the back where a harassed barmaid is pouring pint after pint into plastic glasses. A few girls seem to have come with boyfriends or husbands, but there aren’t many women here at all, and those that are have dressed up to the extent of putting on their best fleece and jeans, so I feel more conspicuous than ever. I’m just trying to work out where to hide when a voice in my ear slurs, ‘Exshelllent dishguise, Misshhh Moneypenny.’

I roll my eyes as I turn round, looking as forbidding as possible.

‘I
beg
your pard – oh! Dan!’

Lulu’s twin brother grins at me as he runs a hand through his black hair. You’d hardly believe the two of them were related, let alone twins. To Lulu’s intense annoyance, Dan got all the tall genes and towers over her (and me) at six foot two. Lulu believes, with irrational indignation, that if Dan hadn’t hogged all the available height in the womb, she might have been granted a crucial few extra inches. And while she changes her hair constantly, he’s had the same tousled curly mop since he was at school – not so much a style as a complete lack of one. Ever since she bought her first pair of haircutting scissors, Lulu has itched to give Dan a new look, but he has firmly resisted her every attempt. During our teenage years it was a source of great shame to Lulu and me to be seen in Dan’s uncoiffed company, but right now I’m so relieved to see someone I know that I’m beaming at him as if he’s George Clooney.

Suddenly I remember Lulu’s email. ‘Ah, I
seeeee
. Lulu has spies everywhere and you’re it tonight, right?’

Dan looks a little confused and starts looking around the pub. ‘Lulu? Is she here? I didn’t know she was coming tonight – I thought she was out with her new French bloke. I’m just here with the boys.’ He gestures over to a table of beery rugby-shirted men, exactly the people I’d have guessed he was with.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Dan in anything other than a rugby shirt or sober work suit. Ever since Lulu and I first met, Dan has been in the background of our friendship, never-changing, rugby-shirted and style-free. When he left university, Lulu took it as a personal affront that he chose to pursue a career in corporate law. ‘Like he’s not square enough with the rugby and the hair don’t, he has to go for the most boring career he can find. I mean, doesn’t he stop to think how badly this reflects on me, him constantly hanging out with such losers?’ Not that that stopped Lulu from shagging half Dan’s colleagues over the years. (‘Better to shag them than have to listen to them, Harrison – you can’t imagine how dull they are.’)

‘Well, it’s great to see you, Dan,’ I say. ‘Especially if Lulu didn’t send you here to spy on me.’

‘Spy on you? Why would she do that? She didn’t even know I was coming here tonight. Are you up to something interesting, then?
Should
I be spying?’ He tilts his head towards mine, and though his face is perfectly serious, his dark blue eyes are definitely laughing at me.

‘Oh, no, it’s nothing interesting at all,’ I stammer, sounding highly suspect. ‘Lulu just thought it was important for me to come to support, er, a friend of mine who’s doing a set here tonight. Moral support, that sort of thing.’

Dan raises his eyebrows. ‘Moral support while dressed like a Fifties secretary, Miss Harrison? Who is he? Rock Hudson?’

‘Ha! No! Er, that’s to say, I don’t really
know
him, he’s more of a work acquaintance,’ I explain. I don’t want to come out and say that I’m here to see a man I’ve never met and know precious little about. So I go on the defensive. ‘I mean, it’s for my
job
, you know. So I’m dressed for
work
.’

‘Well, whoever he is, you can’t stand here on your own looking like you’re about to take a letter. Why don’t you come and sit with us? There’s plenty of room and I promise not to let the boys be too much trouble.’ Dan smiles and places his hand in the small of my back, propelling me gently towards his friends, who are rowdily refilling their glasses from the pitchers on the long table and grabbing greasy handfuls of chips from large white platters of lager-absorbing snacks that the management have provided more as insurance against drunkenness than out of any kind of culinary ambition. The men briefly look up as we approach.

‘Lizzy Harrison, I’d like you to meet Bangers, Bodders, Johnno, Dusty, Paddy.’ Dan gestures around the table to each man in turn, but I’m finding it hard to keep track. Quite why these grown men insist on using pets’ names is beyond me, but they seem friendly enough as they shuffle up good-naturedly to make room for me to sit down next to Dan.

‘Nice to meet you, Milo,’ says one of them – Bangers? Paddy?

‘Milo? Do you mean me?’ I ask, baffled.

‘Milo – as in Miles Harrison? Rugby commentator? You’ve really never heard of him?’ asks the one with the Irish accent. I’m thinking he’s got to be Paddy, these being fairly literal boys. He shakes his head and sighs, as if under great mental strain. ‘Thing is, you’ve got to have a nickname to fit in with the boys tonight, Lizzy, and Harrison’s just not giving me a lot to work with.’