Lizzy Harrison Loses Control Read online

  Lulu dumps a dented silver coffee pot on the table and unsteadily pours out four coffees in between repeatedly pushing Laurent’s hand off her knee. ‘Really, Laurent! Down, boy – we haven’t even got on to round two.’

  ‘We have to play this again?’ asks Laurent, looking mournfully into Lulu’s eyes and manoeuvring his hand a little further up her leg.

  ‘Of course we do, darling,’ says Lulu briskly. ‘This was just the warm-up.’

  As the opener to the second round, Dan gets labelled Person Most Likely to die alone, and blames Laurent for writing it – that loopy French writing is such a giveaway to anyone who’s ever been on a French exchange trip. If you ask me, it’s the person who gave it to him who deserves the blame, but that was me, so I’m not going to volunteer that one. I could hardly give it to either one of the happy couple, could I? And it’s a little too close to the bone for me to give it to myself.

  ‘Die alone? Right – so you all think I’m destined to end up in a dodgy bedsit eating baked beans that I’ve heated up on my one-bar electric heater. Thanks very much.’ Dan looks properly upset, which is ironic because, of the three of us, he’s the only one who’s moved almost seamlessly from long-term relationship to long-term relationship. First there was elegant Eleanor from the year above Dan, who hung out on the side of the rugby pitch with Lulu and me when we were at school but was far too disdainful to actually speak to us. Then Pearl, his university girlfriend, beautiful and bossy, who treated him like a lapdog until her fate was sealed during this very game. We all adored Bella, who he broke up with just a year ago, but after two years without any sign of a commitment from him, she gave him an ultimatum and he chose singledom over matrimony. Lulu and I can’t understand why he’s still on his own. He certainly gets plenty of offers, but apart from a few short flings he seems determined to stay a bachelor.

  ‘Oh, don’t take it all to heart, Danny,’ says Lulu. ‘You know how these lovely Frenchmen get all existential when they’ve been drinking.’

  Laurent nods solemnly at Dan from across the table. ‘We all die alone. In the end, each of us dies alone. There is no together at the end.’

  ‘Yeah, great – cheery stuff, Laurent,’ says Dan, somewhat mollified.

  ‘Now, time for Lizzy to read her next one out,’ says Lulu, swiftly changing the subject before the evening turns horribly maudlin.

  I obediently pick up the piece of paper in front of me to read, ‘Person Most Likely to need to lose control. Oh, very funny, Laurent – thanks for that.’ His swirly continental letters have given him away again. Although that doesn’t mean he’s the one who gave it to me.

  ‘Ha! Well, we’ve established that you’ve already done that, thanks to a certain celebrity shagger,’ laughs Lulu triumphantly, chucking Laurent under the chin. ‘You’re quite hopelessly out of date, my gorgeous darling – Lizzy is quite the reformed character.’

  ‘Who says you need to lose control?’ asks Dan, looking confused. ‘Is this about Randy Jones?’

  ‘Of course it is, Danny,’ says Lulu, launching into a wildly exaggerated description of the night on which she met Laurent, who happily chips in with his thoughts.

  ‘And then Lizzy agrees with Lulu that she needs to lose control a bit more, to allow life to happen to her, you know? To take some risks. To not live by the rules all the time, to experience what is, rather than what should be,’ Laurent finishes. I see what Lulu means about the drunken existentialism.

  ‘Riiiight,’ says Dan, looking dubious. ‘And you agreed with this, Lizzy?’

  ‘Mais oui, she signed a promise and I witnessed it,’ says Laurent with a shrug.

  ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ says Dan, pouring out another round of shots. ‘I might have known that Lizzy wouldn’t even think of going out with Randy Jones unless my sister put her up to it.’ He grins at me across the table as if we’re sharing a tremendous joke.

  ‘Er, what exactly do you mean?’ I demand. ‘My relationship with Randy has nothing to do with Lulu’s ridiculous challenge. It’s a complete coincidence, despite what Lulu might say.’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ says Lulu, blowing me a kiss across the table. ‘I was just excited for you. I didn’t mean to take the credit for your lovely new man.’

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ says Dan, laughing. ‘He’s not exactly your type, is he? I mean, Lizzy Harrison and the Shagger of the Millennium? There’s no way you’d get involved with him if it weren’t to prove a point.’

  ‘Are you saying you think I’m too boring for someone like Randy?’ I say crossly. ‘Well, cheers, Dan – that’s really good to know.’

  I’m not about to defend my fake boyfriend, but it seems my relationship with him is bringing to the surface the way people really see me. And I’m not sure I like it. First my brother thinks I’m too sensible to date Randy Jones, and now rugby-shirted style-vacuum Dan is getting on board the Lizzy-Harrison-Is-A-Bore bandwagon.

  ‘I mean it as a compliment!’ protests Dan. ‘You’re just . . . I mean, you’re just really together, aren’t you? Like, everything about you is all calm and ordered and . . . clean, and – well, that’s not Randy at all, is it?’

  ‘Clean?! You think it’s a compliment to say I’m clean and ordered? You make me sound like a nurse or something,’ I storm, feeling unaccountably furious. ‘Let me tell you that Randy is just the man for me, and do you know why? Because despite what you all seem to think, I am perfectly capable of being a bit wild and crazy. Because despite what you think, I am not boring or sensible or . . . or . . . clean.’

  My voice has risen far too high and loud, and when I stop speaking there is a long silence during which Dan won’t look at me and Laurent looks imploringly at Lulu.

  ‘Well, let’s not take this too far. After all, you are clean, darling,’ says Lulu, sounding practical. ‘Don’t go denying good hygiene for the sake of making a point. And you know Danny doesn’t mean you’re boring. As if he could possibly think that. Do you, Dan?’

  Dan shifts his chair back to look me full in the face, and I stare back, challengingly. Laurent and Lulu shift uncomfortably in their seats, and I see Laurent reach for her hand under the table.

  ‘I don’t think you’re boring, Lizzy,’ says Dan at last, speaking slowly as if he is carefully choosing each word. ‘I think . . . I think you’re great. I think you’re too good to be the latest notch on Randy Jones’s bedpost, and I think he’s going to end up treating you badly. That’s what I think.’

  I know there’s a kernel of truth in what Dan is saying, and I know that, like my brother, he is only saying it because he cares. But I am filled with an amaretto-fuelled fury.

  ‘Well I think you should mind your own business, Dan Miller, because I am old enough, and smart enough and – and – sensible enough to make up my own mind about my relationships without your advice.’

  I cross my arms across my chest. I know it’s childish, but I don’t care.

  ‘That’s not what I—’ Dan starts. And then suddenly, as if I had willed it from above, the doorbell rings.

  Dan turns towards it, frowning. ‘Who the fuck is ringing our doorbell at half past midnight?’

  ‘That will be my taxi,’ I say, stumbling to my feet and grappling for my handbag under the table. ‘I booked it earlier.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ says Dan with a harsh laugh. ‘Wow, booking a taxi in advance is a pretty out-of-control thing to do. I can see I have totally misjudged your crazy, freewheeling ways. Yeah, I definitely owe you an apology for suggesting you were organized in any way.’

  ‘Jesus, what is your problem, Dan?’ I snap, grabbing my handbag to my chest like a shield. Ignoring him, although I can feel his eyes boring into my skull, I turn to the others with exaggerated politeness. ‘Thanks, Lulu, for a great night. Laurent, it was good to meet you properly at last. I hope I’ll see you again soon.’

  ‘At Lulu’s birthday, if not sooner,’ says Laurent, making a half-hearted attempt at standing up to kiss my cheek. Lulu pushes h
im back down in his chair with a hand on his chest and restrains Dan, who is about to stand up, with no more than a glare in his direction. She comes out into the corridor with me as we hear the minicab driver sound his horn.

  ‘Lizzy, I’m sorry – I don’t know what’s got into Dan. He’ll feel dreadful about all of this in the morning.’ She reaches over to hug me and then pulls back to hold me by the tops of my arms. ‘Just ignore him and have a laugh with Randy. It’s about time you had a bit of fun, and who knows where it might end up? It’s all about the journey, Harrison.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Mystic Miller. Your Frenchman’s ways must be catching,’ I say, kissing her cheek as I open the front door. ‘Quite frankly, the only journey I’m interested in right now is the one that’s going to deposit me in my bed.’

  ‘In Randy’s bed, you mean,’ Lulu shouts, laughing as I race down the path.

  If only she knew.

  The cab journey home is one of those where, instead of sobering up, you realize you’re drunker than you thought. So I’m feeling a bit worse for wear as I let myself into Randy’s house at half past one and creep upstairs with the elaborate care of the inebriate, trying to make as little noise as possible. I tiptoe past Randy’s room and am about to go into mine when I hear his voice calling my name.

  ‘Lizzy? Is that you? Hey, come in here.’

  There’s a blueish sort of light in Randy’s room as I push the door open; he’s watching television in the dark, alone. He’s unshaven and bare-chested, leaning back against the pillows, and he pats the bed, inviting me to sit down.

  ‘Hi, Randy – did you have a good night?’ I say, perching on the edge of the bed a little unsteadily.

  ‘Yeah, just hung out here, really. On my best behaviour, of course. Fairly dull. How were your friends?’

  ‘They were fine,’ I say flatly. ‘it was all just fine.’ I think of Dan’s angry face as I left the house and, to my horror, my eyes suddenly fill with tears. Luckily the room is dark enough for Randy not to notice, and I quickly wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

  ‘Fine?’ says Randy, raising his eyebrows. ‘That doesn’t sound like a night I should be sorry I missed, my fake girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I say, keeping my head low so he can’t see my watery eyes. ‘I was just catching up with old friends – nothing special.’

  ‘Old friends, eh? Well, why don’t you come and lie here next to your new friend for a little bit?’ says Randy, patting a space on the quilt next to him.

  ‘’Kay,’ I say, muffling a hiccup. The quilt is satin; cool and slippery. It takes me a few attempts to settle myself alongside him.

  ‘Are you a little bit pissed there, my fake girlfriend?’ asks Randy, turning to me with gentle amusement.

  ‘Maybe a bit. Sorry. Just mostly really, really tired,’ I sigh, leaning back. And I am tired. I’m exhausted.

  ‘Wait,’ says Randy, reaching over to place a pillow behind my head. I’m surprised to notice that his usual odour of fags and unwashed denim has been replaced with the sharp citrus scent of soap and shampoo.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, chuckling. ‘I thought you were meant to be keeping me on the straight and narrow, not being a dirty stop-out drunken influence, Lizzy Harrison.’

  ‘Shurrup,’ I murmur from my cocoon within the pillows. My hair has fallen into my face, but it feels like too much effort to move it. I can feel the ends of my fringe tickling my nose as I breathe in and out. ‘Not a bad influence. Sensible influence, apparently. Sensible, straight Lizzy Harrison, that’s me.’

  ‘You’re not looking especially sensible right now,’ laughs Randy, lying down next to me and picking up the remote control. He nudges my leg with his own, teasing. ‘See, I knew I’d get you into my bed in the end.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I yawn, feeling my eyelids begin to droop. ‘I can’t keep my hands off you, Randy. You’re irresistible.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, and even though I can’t find the energy to turn my head in his direction, I can hear the smile in his voice.

  I listen to the steady rise and fall of his breath as we lie there, still, together. I’d forgotten how quietly comforting it is to feel another body so close by. To feel somehow watched over. Protected. Even if Randy, flicking between channels, is far more interested in the television than he is in me.

  Randy turns the volume up a notch. I can hear gunfire and shouting.

  ‘What’re you watching?’ I ask sleepily.

  ‘Magnificent Seven,’ says Randy. ‘You know, Yul Brynner, cowboys and all that.’

  ‘Yeah, Yul Brynner,’ I say. ‘M’nificent Seven. Nice.’

  I close my eyes. Just for a moment. I think, I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment and then I’ll go to my own room.

  I wake to feel a slow, gentle, lovely stroking of my hair that makes me stretch myself out like a cat, eyes still closed. How long have I been asleep? I feel the hand move from my hair down to my face and begin to delicately trace the line of my eyebrows, the plane of my cheekbones, the curve of my jawline. Am I dreaming this? A finger draws itself along my nose and then down to my lips, where it stops. I open my eyes. Randy’s face is very close to mine. The television is off. It is still dark outside and very quiet. He slowly takes his finger away from my lips and then he kisses me softly.

  I think, This isn’t part of the deal. I think, I don’t even fancy you. I think, When he speaks, I’ll tell him to stop.

  But there’s something hypnotic in his steady gaze, and he doesn’t say a word. His hand moves away from my face and I feel his fingers expertly open the top buttons of my blouse to expose the top of my bra. He bends his head to drop fluttery kisses along my collarbone and into the hollow at the base of my neck. His fingers run down my front and, one by one, the rest of the buttons are undone. He opens the shirt wide and drops a kiss first on my right breast, then on the left. Then he inches the shirt down my arms, looking up at me with eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘I’ll stop any time you say so.’ But I don’t. His fingers teasingly trace the twists and turns of the lace pattern on my bra, and I feel my back arch impatiently to push my breasts further into his hands. Now he moves a hand lower still and tugs on the waistband of my jeans to pull me closer towards him. He kisses me harder and more urgently, gently tugging at my lower lip with his teeth, and he pulls me on top of him, pushing my hips down on to him with his hands so I can feel him hard against me.

  I think, This is where I should stop him, but instead I find that I’m shamelessly wriggling my hips to help him slide my jeans all the way off. I kick them to the floor. He unhooks my bra and pushes me back on to the bed, straddling me so I can’t move. I’m lying on Randy Jones’s bed in just my knickers, and his right hand is drawing tiny circles on my stomach, tiny circles that are moving slowly, carefully downwards. His hand slips underneath my knickers and I arch towards him again with a little gasp. He grins as he begins to pull the lacy fabric down my thighs.

  I think, A hundred girls have been here before me. I think, Oh God, I’m such a cliché. I think, I don’t care.

  I’m tired of being sensible.

  It feels amazing.

  12

  Back at work on Monday, I have the oddest feeling that I’ve gone back to being sixteen and have lost my virginity all over again. Not that sleeping with Randy, great though it was, was some kind of divine revelation, as it always seems to be when someone loses their virginity in the movies, with a celestial choir in the background and simultaneous orgasms. (Nor were we in the back of a clapped-out Ford Fiesta in a pub car park, which is how it happened for me first time round.) It’s more that I spend the whole day thinking that everyone must be able to tell. When Camilla races into the office with her phone clamped between ear and shoulder, I think surely she will notice something is different, but she just dumps Cassius’s lunchbox on my desk with an apologetic grimace and mouths ‘sorry’. I have lunch with account executive Lucy and wait in vain for the moment that she mentions Randy, but in
stead we spend the whole hour looking at bathroom catalogues and debating the merits of different styles of bath taps for her new flat.

  I’ve always known that other people pay far less attention to one’s life than one thinks, but this shift in my relationship with Randy feels actually tangible to me, and I can’t understand how it isn’t visible to anyone else. Surely there’s a huge flashing sign above my head or something? I’m not so naive as to think that sleeping with Randy turns us from fake boyfriend and girlfriend into the real thing – we’re talking about the Shagger of the Millennium – but Saturday night has changed something between us, even if I’m not sure what. Of course we still made sure we were seen out in public on Sunday – looking in jewellers’ windows while holding hands, sharing coffees at pavement cafés, buying a copy of the Big Issue with a ten-pound note and refusing the change – but Randy’s constant and tactile attentiveness didn’t stop once we were on our own. Back at his house, he was all thoughtfulness and charm, and even as I left this morning he didn’t grab me for his usual ostentatious doorstep snog for the benefit of the photographers on the pavement. Instead he gave me a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose as we stood in the corridor.

  ‘You’ll come back here tonight?’ he asked, even though it’s not one of the nights I usually spend at his house.

  ‘Well, I was going to go home and do a few housey things this evening,’ I said in surprise. ‘Laundry and stuff – you know.’

  ‘You’d really rather do your laundry than come back here to see me?’ he said with a filthy smile on his face that suggested he was offering something a little more fun than sorting my smalls into darks and lights.

  ‘I’m just running a bit low on, er, you know, underwear and stuff,’ I said. After all, it’s one thing to drop your knickers on someone’s bedroom floor in gay abandon, but quite another when you have no knickers left to drop. And I’m not really the sort of girl who’s ever going to go commando, especially now my every move is photographed.