Lizzy Harrison Loses Control Read online

  So I anticipate everything. I make sure the Con-naught knows they have to have fresh flowers every day – but no lilies as Nolan is allergic to them – and inform the staff that they share a weakness for Terry’s Chocolate Oranges (which they can’t get in New York), so please could the suite’s usual fresh fruit be replaced with several of the foil-wrapped chocolates in a bowl. Two Diptyque candles in Baies should be lit twenty minutes before their arrival. Nolan will have had to leave his beloved miniature schnauzer, Whitman, behind in New York, so (after enduring Dave the Comedy Courier’s latest routine, ‘Feeling Con-naughty today, are we, Lizzy?’) I bike over a box of Fortnum & Mason dog biscuits wrapped in a MacDonald tartan ribbon for him to take back with him. I agree with the concierge at the hotel that, although I would never for one moment suggest that the coffee at the Connaught is anything less than first class, they will send someone out for Starbucks whenever required as Barry will drink nothing else. The minibar must be cleared of alcohol as Nolan is in recovery, and restocked with Lipton Ice Tea and Diet Coke. I book the River Café for six people on Friday night, and ask them to ensure there is no repeat of the Christopher Biggins incident during Barry and Nolan’s April visit (which, as it is still in the hands of lawyers, I regret I cannot share). I make a reservation at the Wolseley for Saturday brunch. I ensure that Randy’s most recent DVD is prominently placed in their suite. I am sure I have forgotten something.

  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.

  22

  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?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to be on his own, Dan,’ I say, the beer mat now shredded beyond recognition by my nervous fingers. ‘He’s got me.’

  I’m not just trying to convince Dan. I’m trying to convince myself.

  ‘Right,’ says Dan, looking angrily across the room to where the pub dog is noisily rearranging the furniture in search of abandoned crisps. ‘Right. Well, good luck, Lizzy. Good luck with that.’

  ‘Thanks for looking out for me, Dan,’ I say, trying to get him to meet my eyes, but he’s fixated on the stupid dog. ‘I know you’re only trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, pulling his coat off the back of his chair and looking at his watch. ‘I guess I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. You’ll be wanting to get back to your boyfriend, won’t you? Probably best not to let him out of your sight. You’ve no idea what he’ll be up to when you’re not there.’

  I raise my eyes to his.

 
; ‘That’s unworthy of you, Dan,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Is it?’ he says, standing up. ‘I guess I’m unworthy of you too, now that you’re involved with your famous boyfriend.’ He stands over me accusingly. I’m about to answer when the barmaid appears between us, slapping down a wet grey cloth on the table.

  ‘Finished?’ she says, holding my beer two inches from my face as if she’s about to hit me round the head with it. Dirty water from the cloth drips from her hands on to the table.

  ‘Finished,’ I say, finally releasing my bag from between my knees to stand up. The barmaid takes both bottles in one hand and pushes the shredded beer mat to the floor with the cloth. I squeeze past her as the pub dog comes over to investigate.

  Dan stands by the door.

  ‘Bye then,’ he says stiffly.

  ‘Dan, don’t be like this,’ I say, tugging at his sleeve, but he pulls away from me and pushes out of the door.

  When I pass him in a taxi five minutes later, he’s storming down the pavement, hands deep in his pockets, his dark head bent so low I can’t see his face at all.

  I don’t understand why I can’t have a conversation with Dan these days without arguing with him. My reliable rugby-shirted friend, the quiet backstage presence to Lulu’s dramatics, has somehow pushed himself forward to front of stage, and I’m not sure I like it. This angry person, so disapproving, so critical, is not the person I thought I knew. If it wasn’t Dan and me we’re talking about, I’d think there might be something behind this sudden change of personality. I mean, if this were a movie, this would be the point at which I’d realize in a lightbulb moment – fountains springing into life behind me, fireworks above my head – that Dan’s dislike of Randy stems from his passionate love for me. I’d be all, ‘Woe is me, for I am torn between two lovers. On whom shall I bestow my hand?’ But this is me: sensible Lizzy Harrison, who, far from being torn between two lovers, has only a possibly fake boyfriend to her name. And this is Dan: Lulu’s brother, who has known me for more than half my life. Aside from that long-ago kiss in the kitchen, Dan has never so much as held my hand. If he’s secretly in love with me, he’s managed to keep a lid on it for over twenty years, which hardly suggests he’s overcome with unstoppable passion, does it?