Lizzy Harrison Loses Control
Read Lizzy Harrison Loses Control Online
Authors: Pippa Wright
PIPPA WRIGHT
PAN BOOKS
To Julia and Jo,
for everything
‘If you ask me, Mary,’ continued Flora, ‘I think I have much in common with Miss Austen. She liked everything to be tidy and pleasant and comfortable about her and so do I. You see, Mary,’ – and here Flora began to grow earnest and wave one finger about – ‘unless everything is tidy and pleasant and comfortable all about one, people cannot even begin to enjoy life. I cannot
endure messe
s.’Cold Comfort Farm
,Stella Gibbons
The train seems to have been stuck just outside Victoria station for ages, which gives me a chance to read my just-purchased copy of
Hot Slebs
in the half-inch of space that’s opened up under the armpit of a lanky tweed-suited commuter. (Tweed. In June. I ask you.)
Before you judge me for reading
Hot Slebs
at the relatively advanced age of thirty-three, may I point out that when you work in the world of celebrity PR, Wednesday morning is crunch time –
Hot Slebs
goes on sale and your clients had better be in it. And, crucially, in the right place – not with a big yellow arrow pointing to cellulite, wayward body hair or a mysterious bald patch; not on the ‘What Sort of Outfit Do You Call This?’ or ‘Who Wore It Worst?’ page. You want them to have been ‘accidentally’ caught at a children’s hospice on a secret visit, or spotted sneaking out of a rock star’s hotel room in the early hours, or carefully primped and flashing their veneered smiles on the red carpet. When I open my
Hot Slebs
, I’m just checking for any nasty surprises. It’s
work
, okay? (But have you
seen
the state of Jodie Marsh lately?)
Suddenly I realize that Mr Tweed seems to think I’m using
Hot Slebs
as an excuse to squeeze a little closer to him. He smiles encouragingly and winks at me from under a greasy hank of red hair that’s falling into his face. Trying to convey outraged indignation while not actually making eye contact with him, I wriggle into the space to my right, earning a venomous look from the large woman wedged up against the window. No chance to open the magazine now, but if I close one eye and squint, I can just about make out my horoscope in her paper.
Libra: you will become close to a tall stranger.
Translation:
Libra: you will find your body pressed against that of a lascivious tweed-suited commuter with a ginger comb-over.
The woman flicks the paper aggressively in my direction with a sharp tut, spotting that I have broken rule number forty-two of the commuter code: Thou shalt not be caught openly reading another’s literature.
Clearly I need to be more subtle as I crane my neck in the direction of the fat paperback novel being read by a blonde woman who is somehow managing to read avidly while listening to death metal at full volume. Judging by the swarthy model on the front, the book is a romance, which seems a little incongruous given the soundtrack. I don’t even try to read it over her shoulder. After all, romance is not exactly my strong suit these days, not even the fictional kind.
I mean, have you ever noticed that the modern romantic heroine can be, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit useless? Every book seems to open with an incident designed to show us just how adorably scatty she is. And how desperately appealing that is to all the men she encounters. Whoops, I dropped my overstuffed handbag on the pavement, and who should help me pick up the four hundred lipsticks and shoes that fell out but a gorgeous man who fell in love with me, the end. Oh no, I had to strip to my underwear in front of the dishy doctor and it turned out that I was wearing knickers that said ‘Tuesday’, but it was Friday! So mortifying! Then we got married. Uh-oh, the dreamy boss that I was hoping to impress with my business brain seems far more keen on my cleavage – if only I could stop my shirt buttons from popping open all the time, perhaps he wouldn’t fall so desperately in love with me.
Does this happen to you? Because when I drop my handbag, the only men who rush to pick it up are after the contents of my wallet rather than my hand in marriage. Granted, I do live in Peckham. I wear matching underwear every day, and not once has it made my doctor declare his undying love for me. But then, my doctor is a fifty-something Asian gentleman approximately four and a half feet high, so perhaps that is a good thing. And let’s establish right now that both of my bosses are women and that, if I was going to go there, I hope my standards would be considerably higher. Especially when it comes to Jemima.
I can’t help but wonder how being adorably scatty pays the mortgage. My bosses just want to know that I’ve booked the car with the blacked-out windows for Alice Mannering’s photo shoot at eleven; they don’t care how cute and winsome I was while arranging it. Tell me – how do these romantic heroines function in a world where bills must be paid, bosses must be placated, appointments must be kept? Does their laundry magic itself into the machine while they’re simpering elsewhere? Does their cat (they
always
have a cat, because they’re
single
, you see) feed itself? Pay its own vet’s bills? Sometimes just keeping on top of everyday life feels like a full-time job. How do these ridiculous child-women actually cope outside the pages of a book?
The train starts moving at last and inches along to stop at the platform, where we all spill out of the carriage on to the concourse. Because I carefully chose my spot on the platform and my place by the carriage doors, I’m at the ticket barrier before the mass of commuters catches up and clogs the machines. Would a dippy romantic heroine have planned ahead so wisely? No, she would not. As I glide efficiently through, I glance behind me at Blonde Romance-Reader. She is, of course, squashed in the middle of the crowd. The large newspaper-wielding woman pushes past her, Blondie drops her handbag, and the contents spill out over the platform. Four hundred lipsticks and a pair of shoes? Check. Mr Tweed races to her aid and she beams at him prettily. A conversation begins. Clearly the two of them are tragic lunatics. They deserve each other.
I’m always in the office by eight-thirty. Carter Morgan PR doesn’t officially open until nine, but I like to have time to get myself organized before the day begins. Computer on, phone messages checked, post opened, invitations responded to, list of tasks for the day drawn up ready for Camilla Carter’s arrival. The other PAs tend to swan in well after nine, clutching their temples, grimacing cheerfully about late nights and hangovers, and sneaking off to Pret in pairs to load up on stomach-settling tuna sandwiches, crisps and cokes. But this quiet time in the morning settles me for the chaos ahead. The stillness of the office is soothing – no phones ringing, no shouting across the partitions. I need this time to function like other people need a double espresso or three cups of PG Tips. To be honest, I could probably come in much later and still have half an hour before Camilla turns up, time-keeping not being one of her strengths these days, so I’m not expecting to see that there’s already someone in her office, head bent low, rummaging through the desk drawers.
I peer in through the door. With a skirt that short and legs that long, there’s no way it’s my boss, but I say, as loudly and sharply as I can, ‘Camilla?’
There’s a loud bang as someone hits their head hard against the underside of the desk. Good. It serves you right, Jemima Morgan.
‘Lizzy!’ she exclaims as if it’s a tremendous, nay delightful, surprise to see me. As if this is not the second time this week that I’ve caught Camilla’s business partner and so-called friend snooping in her office for no apparent reason.
She straightens herself up and smooths down her blow-dried helmet of glossy black hair. It’s so precisely blunt-cut it always reminds me of the snap-on hair of a Lego figurine, though I’m fairly sure that’s not the look she’s going for. I suppose you would have to say that she is technically attractive, in a tight, sinewy sort of way. One of our clients once referred to her as ‘stunning – like a kick in the bollocks’, and that is probably the best description I have ever heard of her somewhat aggressive looks.
‘Was there something I could help you with, Jemima?’ I ask. ‘Camilla won’t be here until nine-thirty. She’s got a breakfast meeting at the Wolseley.’
Between you and me, I’m fibbing here. The only breakfast meetings Camilla attends these days are with her three children and the nanny, but it’s best to set up an excuse now in advance of her inevitably late arrival. ‘I know where all her files are if you’re after something important.’
Jemima smiles with all the toothy warmth of a crocodile. ‘Really, it’s nothing. I was just after a nail file, and I’m sure Cam always keeps one about, doesn’t she?’
I look down at her immaculate manicure.
‘I wouldn’t know about that – sorry,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I could pop to Boots and get you one?’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t
dream
of asking you to do that – I can get Mel to do that when she gets in. Whenever
that
is. You know what she’s like.’ Jemima rolls her eyes and places a confiding hand on my arm. ‘If only she would take a leaf out of your book, Lizzy – you’re so wonderfully organized. I mean, poor old Cam simply wouldn’t be able to cope without you at the moment, would she?’
‘I’m sure she’d cope just fine,’ I mumble non-committally, as I suspect this is less a compliment to me than a dangling of bait to see if I’ll join in with a bit of Camilla-Carter’s-lost-the-plot-lately chat, Jemima’s specialist subject.
‘Well, we could all do with a loyal PA like you onside, Lizzy; I just hope she lets you know you’re appreciated. You’re behind her through thick and thin, aren’t you? Even when things are . . . well, even when things are . . . like they are.’ She casts a glance over the office as if the very sight of it is painful to her, but I know I’ve got nothing to worry about. Camilla’s in-tray is carefully sorted in clear plastic folders. Her diary is open at this week, and matches up to her electronic diary (she at least knows where she’s
meant
to be). The flowers on her desk are fresh. The magazines on her side table feature her clients prominently on the front covers. It’s calm, clean and serene. On the surface.
‘Everything’s just fine, Jemima – why wouldn’t it be?’ I ask, picking up papers from my desk and pretending to sort them in the hope that she’ll stop angling for me to lay into my boss.
‘Well, if you ever need a chat about . . . well, how you’re coping with poor Cam, you know where I am. Girl to girl. Just to get things off your chest. Confidential, of course. Camilla need never know.’
She gives my arm a final squeeze and totters out of the door on her five-inch heels. As if I’d confide in her about anything. I’d feel safer sticking my head in a lion’s mouth.
Jemima leans back into the office momentarily. ‘Do tell Camilla the planning meeting’s going to be in my office today.’
‘Okay, will do.’
‘By the way,’ she says casually as she leaves. ‘
Ghastly
about Randy Jones, isn’t it? Saw it in
Hot Slebs
, poor lamb.’