Lizzy Harrison Loses Control Read online

  I’m not entirely discounting the fact that Dan might have developed a little crush on me lately – that would explain a few things – but if there was anything more to it, wouldn’t I have heard all about it from Lulu? She’s incapable of having a thought without broadcasting it to the entire world, and if she had the smallest suspicion that Dan had feelings for me, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Anyway, I tell myself, it’s not worth overthinking this. Even if it turned out that Dan was madly in love with me, I have a boyfriend already. Haven’t I?

  23

  Watching from the wings as the Royal Festival Hall fills up, I can’t believe we’ve actually made it to this point.

  There has been a minor scrap between the merchandise sellers in the foyer (but Mandy Manders’ mother was persuaded to sell her home-made T-shirts elsewhere), and I had to personally remove the kiwi fruits from the hospitality suite before allergic Irishman Declan could see them (even now I have six of them rolling about in the bottom of my handbag), but everything else is running better than we could ever have imagined.

  I wave to Barry and Nolan, sitting in a box to the left of the stage and impossible to miss, thanks to Barry’s towering candy-floss bouffant (the box has the best seats in the house, but is also the only location in which Barry’s hair won’t obscure the view for someone else, as it rises into a Mr Whippy-style point several inches above his forehead). They blow me kisses and indicate something small and orange in Nolan’s hand, which I can only guess is one of the Terry’s Chocolate Oranges I had placed in their suite. A light behind them causes them to turn round, and there, silhouetted in the doorway, is the unmistakable Lego snap-on hair of Jemima Morgan, no doubt there to bore them about Declan and Mandy’s chances of a US tour. Honestly, can’t she appreciate that tonight is meant to be about Randy?

  There’s a tap on my shoulder and one of the riggers suggests I should shift my arse out of there unless I fancy being brained by a large piece of set dressing. With one final glance at the box, where Barry and Nolan appear to be paying attentive court to Jemima, I head back towards the hospitality suite. All three comedians are already in their dressing rooms – Randy has banned any visitors until after his performance, and the others have followed suit, even though they aren’t exactly besieged by fans, being practically unknown. Camilla is firmly shooing our special guests away from the warm white wine and Twiglets and towards their seats. It is part of her strategy never to provide anything too enticing in the hospitality suite (artists’ dressing rooms are a different matter), as she says that tantalizing canapés only make people linger when they should be watching the show. To my surprise, as the room clears, I see Nina the Cleaner refilling her glass in a corner of the room. I almost didn’t recognize her, wrapped in a patchy grey fur stole, her cheeks rouged to match a floor-length red dress whose gigantic shoulder pads and satin-effect material suggest it first saw active service in the mid nineteen-eighties. Nina will be totally unaware of it, but her look accidentally catapults her into the realms of contemporary high fashion.

  ‘Wow, Nina – you look like a movie star,’ I say, and I mean it.

  ‘Huh, like movie star’s mother, maybe,’ she says, draining every last drop of wine from her glass with one tilt of her head. ‘Randy gives me a ticket for a present, isn’t it? He’s good boy, really. Except,’ she whispers, primly folding her hands under her substantial bosom, ‘he leaves the ticket at the box office in name of Nina the Cleaner, not Nina Naydenova.’

  ‘Oh, he is awful,’ I say, trying not to laugh. ‘I expect it’s because he can’t spell your last name – you know what he’s like. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled that you came. Shall I take you to your seat?’ I offer, not that she isn’t perfectly capable of making it there herself, but there is something rather queenly about her this evening which makes me think she might like to be escorted.

  She holds out an imperious arm. ‘Yes, Lizzy. Take me to my seat.’

  The house lights are already dimming as I lead her to the second row from the front. She bows her head graciously to everyone as they stand up to let her pass to her seat in the middle, and people crane their necks to see who she might be. I overhear someone suggesting she might be Randy’s mother, and think I must remember to tell him this afterwards, as he banned his own mother from coming because there would be ‘language’. I guess he assumes Nina is made of tougher stuff. I see her settle into her seat and pull out a large packet of biscuits, offering them generously to the rather surprised people next to her. I leave her to it.

  Camilla is lying on a sofa in the hospitality suite, eyes closed, her hair splayed out behind her and her shoes kicked off on to the floor.

  ‘Cam, are you okay?’ I ask as I come in.

  ‘Urgh. Put a bowl of Twiglets on the floor within range and I’ll be as right as rain,’ says Camilla without getting up.

  ‘And a glass of wine?’ I offer.

  ‘Hmm, I wasn’t going to drink until we get to Savoy Street later. But go on, just the one. You won’t want to drink more than one once you’ve tasted this bloody awful plonk.’

  I pour us each a glass and put Camilla’s on the floor next to the Twiglets. I lie on the other sofa and close my eyes. From the stage I can hear the faint sounds of Jamie from African Vision introducing Declan, the first act. It’s all going according to plan. I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘Cheers, Camilla,’ I say. ‘Here’s to you and to the rehabilitation of Randy Jones.’

  Camilla swings her legs down on to the floor and sits up. She grabs her glass and raises it towards me. ‘Here’s to us, Lizzy. This is your success every bit as much as it’s mine. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’

  ‘Oh, pssht,’ I say, embarrassed but happy. I have worked like a dog. Like a dog who has been having a passionate fling in the name of work. But Camilla doesn’t need to know that bit.

  ‘I mean it,’ she says. ‘You’ve been amazing. Especially when I . . . well, when things were a bit chaotic earlier this summer. I hope I never forgot to thank you for everything you did.’

  ‘Cam, you’re always thanking me – don’t be crazy. I’m your PA – I’m just doing what I’m meant to be doing.’

  ‘Well, when all of this is over, we should have a talk about what happens afterwards.’

  ‘Afterwards,’ I say.

  There it is again. Afterwards. Everything I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about is contained in that one word.

  ‘Afterwards?’ demands a shrill voice from the doorway, and Camilla leaps in her seat, spilling wine all over her wrap-dress. Thank God I chose the nasty Italian white for her instead of the nasty Hungarian red. I grab a handful of paper napkins from the table and pass them to her.

  Jemima strides into the room in a structured metallic dress that might be incredibly fashionable but which, combined with her fiercely blunt bob, makes her seem even more like an emotionless automaton. ‘What’s this about afterwards?’ she barks.

  ‘Lizzy and I were just discussing the after-party at Savoy Street,’ lies Camilla, so smoothly that I almost forget that’s not what we were talking about at all. ‘Lizzy thinks that mini Yorkshire puddings with roast beef are hopelessly passé these days, but I don’t agree. What do you think?’

  ‘Canapés?’ snaps Jemima, swivelling her head between Camilla and me. ‘You were talking about canapés? Hmph.’

  She turns on her heel, strides to the table and pours herself a glass of red wine.

  ‘Jesus, what is this stuff?’ she says, grimacing.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ I say, swigging from my own glass. ‘We’re saving the good stuff for Savoy Street, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Jemima. ‘How many people are we expecting there?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty seven on the guest list,’ I say as she picks viciously at a plate of cold meats like an expensively dressed vulture.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Make that a hundred and sixty seven. I invited a few extra.�
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  I glance over at Camilla behind Jemima’s back. This is the first we’ve heard of any other guests.

  ‘Did you put their names down with the club secretary, Jemima?’ asks Camilla calmly. ‘You know it’s a private club so it’s named guests only.’

  ‘Why would I have done that?’ says Jemima, turning to face us. A piece of ham dangles threateningly from her talons as if she’s about to throw it at us. Can a flung slice of ham do much harm, I wonder? ‘That’s a job for a PA. Lizzy can sort it out, can’t you?’

  She stares at me challengingly.

  ‘Er, I’ll do my best,’ I say, looking at Camilla for confirmation.

  ‘I hope you do,’ says Jemima. ‘We’ll call it a little test, shall we? Of how things will go . . . afterwards.’ She stalks out of the hospitality suite and into the corridor where the artists’ dressing rooms are. I hear a door slam.

  ‘She’s probably gone in to speak to Mandy before he goes on,’ says Camilla as a burst of applause suggests that Declan’s set is over. ‘Look, I know Jemima can be difficult, but it’s not in your interests right now to get on the wrong side of her.’

  ‘But Camilla, it’s totally unreasonable! How am I going to get them on the guest list when I don’t even know who they are?’ I protest.

  ‘You’ll get there early, before Randy’s set is over, and speak to Rebecca Iveson,’ says Camilla, whose soothing tones are belied by an unmistakable clenching of her jaw. ‘In fact, call her first. She’s very reasonable and I’m sure you can think of some way to persuade her. Look, I need to make a phone call, so why don’t put your feet up for a bit and then go and watch Randy from the wings later? I’m sure he’d appreciate your support.’ She gets up and disappears off down the corridor herself, and I hear another door slam.

  I have absolutely no idea what’s going on between Camilla and Jemima now. What was once just an uncomfortable undercurrent in the office has progressed to open skirmishes. It can’t be long before we’re into a full offensive, and I’m still not sure what the stakes are. Or whether Camilla has any kind of battle plan. The fact that she’s letting Jemima walk all over me suggests not. God, I’m tired of this. I close my eyes on the sofa for a moment and take some deep breaths as taught by Mum. In through the nose, out through the nose.

  ‘Heavy breathing, are we, babe?’ says a voice. Randy is looming above me, blocking out the light with what appears to be a tricorne hat trimmed with ropes of gold braid. The frayed ends of a leopard-print scarf tickle my nose as it hangs from his neck over a loose white shirt. I can hardly see his skinny legs, covered up as they are by a pair of thigh-high black patent-leather boots. Underneath the boots he appears to be wearing . . . are they? Yes, they do appear to be horizontally striped leggings.

  ‘Well, shiver me timbers, Randy,’ I say, sitting up and rubbing at my eyes in case this is just an illusion. ‘You look fantastic.’

  ‘Rochelle calls it urban pirate,’ he says, shifting from foot to foot, eyes rapidly scanning the room despite the fact that we’re the only two people in here. He wipes the back of his hand under his nose and pulls it away with a disgusted expression. ‘God, I’m sweating already.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’ I ask, because this jumpy, edgy Randy is a new one to me. I guess it must be stage fright.

  ‘Nervous?’ he laughs, grabbing me into a hug. ‘Of course I’m nervous, my gorgeous girlfriend. Tell me I’m fabulous.’

  ‘You’re going to be wonderful, Randy, I know it,’ I say, flinging my arms around his neck. ‘The new material is amazing. You’ll blow them away. Don’t forget Barry and Nolan are to the right of the stage from where you’re standing. Give them a wave or something, won’t you? Just let them see you acknowledge them.’

  ‘All right, babe,’ says Randy with an annoyed little shrug. ‘Don’t forget I was doing this for quite a few years before I met you.’

  ‘God, sorry – I didn’t mean . . . I just so want this to go well for you, Randy,’ I say, putting my hands either side of his face. ‘You’ve worked so hard.’

  He leans down and kisses me.

  ‘So come with me to the wings, my lucky charm, and watch me work a bit harder,’ he says, pulling me by the hand towards the stage. I feel like my stomach has taken up residence halfway up my throat. If this is stage fright by proxy, how is Randy not hurling into a bucket by now?

  ‘You again,’ says the exasperated rigger when he sees me. ‘I told you—’ but then he spots Randy. ‘Oh right. Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there. Manders is due off any minute. All good to go?’

  When Randy finally steps out on stage, there is no doubt that his public is ready to forgive him. There is a roar and the crowd leaps to its feet. I can see Barry and Nolan applauding from their box, and then looking approvingly at each other as the applause goes on and on and on. Randy stands in the centre of the stage, arms outstretched, eyes closed, absorbing it all.

  ‘So,’ says Randy, when the cheering and whooping stop. ‘A few things have changed in my life lately.’

  ‘You’re still gorgeous,’ shouts a voice from the audience.

  ‘Why thank you, darling – aren’t you delightful? And yes –’ he flexes an arm, which is hidden under his billowing shirt – ‘I have been working out, madam. Thank you for noticing. Yes, my lovely audience, you see before you the new, improved Randy Jones. Leaner and cleaner and meaner than ever.’

  The audience cheers and applauds. Barry and Nolan nod happily to each other: they’ve seen the drug tests to prove it.

  ‘I’ve even got a new girlfriend. Oi, Lizzy, give everyone a wave.’ He motions to me to come on stage, and I protest, shaking my head. This wasn’t part of the new material he showed me at home. Suddenly I’m shoved, hard, from behind, to stand like a lemon on the side of the stage. I give a small wave to the faceless mass and race back into the wings, where Rochelle, resplendent in leopardskin, is standing with an intent look of such innocence on her face that I know she must be the culprit.

  ‘Ahh, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’ says Randy from the stage. ‘I’m not used to dating a girl with a brain. Take my last girlfriend before rehab. We were talking about deductive reasoning, as you do when you’re in bed with a nineteen-year-old model from Estonia. Yeah, deductive reasoning. Well, you’ve got to pass the time somehow, haven’t you? So anyway, I asked her if she knew what a syllogism was. And do you know what she said? She said, “I know what jism is, Randy.”’

  The crowd screams its approval and I decide to retreat backstage for the rest of the gig. Rochelle raises a questioning eyebrow as I beat my retreat. It’s not that I don’t think Randy is brilliant – I do; but it’s clear his set is going according to plan, and I need to get that phone call in to Rebecca Iveson at Savoy Street. Now that I’ve thought about it, I can see a way forward. She’s wanted Randy as a member for years; their reputation is just a touch stuffy (a few too many purple-nosed over-fifties snoozing in chairs after lunch) and needs the oxygen that someone like Randy would bring. But so far he’s turned down all her offers of free membership. If I can get him to say yes tonight, and I’m sure I can, then surely she’ll turn a blind eye to a few extra guests at the party.

  In the hospitality suite, Camilla is deep in conversation with Jamie Welles, the director of African Vision. I decide it’s best to make my phone call elsewhere. The door to Declan Costelloe’s dressing room is open and it seems he’s holding an impromptu party: people are spilling out into the corridor and it’s altogether too noisy for any kind of serious phone call with Rebecca. Randy’s dressing-room door is firmly shut but when I try the handle it opens, thank God. I let myself in and close the door behind me, leaning against it. It’s perfect. Quiet, soundproof and empty. I flick my mobile open and dial Rebecca’s number.

  It rings and rings. Savoy Street has the dubious distinction of being the only members’ club in London that’s entirely underground. This is great if you want to get away from insistent mobiles and buzzing BlackBerrys as they simply don’t wo
rk there. But when you’re actually trying to get in touch with someone, it’s infuriating. While it rings, I wander around Randy’s dressing room which, if I didn’t know him better, I’d think had been ransacked while he was on stage.

  A suitcase lies abandoned on the floor, clothes piling out of it as if trying to escape in one tangled mass towards the bathroom; crushed under a pair of silver-buckled ankle boots I can see the gold lamé jacket Randy wore to the party last week. The preponderance of leopardskin – scarves, belts, hats, gloves, even tights – betrays Rochelle’s influence, and I assume hers, too, are the alligator platforms left abandoned by the armchair. That woman is not satisfied unless some part of her form is disguised as an exotic animal. I stuff the clothes and shoes back into the suitcase and close the lid; tempted as I am to fold everything up properly, I have to satisfy myself with getting them out of sight for now. I pick up an assortment of magazines and newspapers from the armchair in a corner of the room and rearrange them on the table so there will be somewhere to sit when Randy gets back. A sweep of my arm shunts a grubby collection of apple cores, peanut shells and cereal bar wrappers into the bin. I put the half-empty water bottles back in the mini-fridge.