Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (13 page)

‘Ah, right, Randy Jones,’ I say, playing for time. It never occurred to me that Ben and Jenny would have even heard of Randy Jones. The only television they ever watch is
CBeebies
or
Gardeners’ World
. When I babysit, it’s usually so they can go to dinner with someone from the garden centre to discuss horticultural fleeces and polytunnels. Randy seems so far removed from their world, and they from his, that hearing my brother speak his name is like hearing your granny tell you to chillax.

‘Yes, Randy Jones. I know, it’s ridiculous. So . . . obviously this is total rubbish, isn’t it?’ asks Ben.

‘Ha! Yeah, God, Ben, you know what the media’s like – you really shouldn’t believe everything you read, not even in trusty old
Woman’s Own
.’

‘I
knew
there was nothing going on,’ says Ben happily, and I hear him put his hand over the phone and hiss ‘I
told
you’, presumably to Jenny, who is probably poring through a copy of the
Guildford Advertiser
on the lookout for more scandalous revelations. ‘I said to Jenny, Lizzy’s far too sensible to get involved with someone like that.’

Instantly I bristle. My brother, married at twenty-three to the girl he’s been going out with since he was eighteen, father of one, wearer of Crocs, for God’s sake, thinks that
I
am the sensible one?

‘Well, that’s to say, it’s not quite
nothing
,’ I reply, stumbling over my words. ‘I mean, I’ve been out on a few dates with Randy, but there’s really nothing serious going on, despite what you might read. And, ha-ha, there’s some crazy rumour going round that we’re getting
married
, but I can promise you that one
is
total rubbish.’

‘Hang on a minute – what did you say?’ says Ben sharply. ‘You
are
going out with Randy Jones?’

‘It’s not a
going-out
going-out. That’s to say, we’re just
seeing
each other, taking things slowly, going on a few dates, that sort of thing,’ I bluster.

‘Was there any reason you didn’t tell us about this before?’ says Ben, sounding cross. I can hear Jenny’s voice in the background saying, ‘I
told
you, whisper-whisper . . .
Woman’s Own
.’

‘God, let’s not make a big deal of it,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I’ve only just started seeing him and I didn’t want to make some huge family announcement.’

I don’t know how I ever thought I was going to get away with this. I should have realized that Randy’s rampant love life is of far broader appeal than I’d imagined from within my metropolitan media bubble.

‘So you
are
going out with him then,’ says Ben firmly.

‘I am
seeing
him,’ I admit, attempting to clarify the terms of my fake relationship. I don’t know why I’m trying to make Ben understand the subtle difference between
going out with
someone (implying commitment, introduction to friends and family, future plans, calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend) and
seeing
someone (just hanging out and seeing where it takes you, no plans beyond next week, vehement denial of boyfriend/girlfriend status). He’s been with Jenny for so long he has no clue how it works out there these days. It wouldn’t surprise me if he asked how long Randy and I have been
courting
.

‘Look, I’m not saying you needed to make any grand announcement, Lizzy, but don’t you think you might have told us before we saw it somewhere else? Have you told Mum?’

‘Of course I haven’t told Mum, you lunatic, and don’t you dare even think of telling her,’ I snap.

It’s probably the saving grace of my so-called relationship with Randy that it coincides with my mother’s annual two-month stay at an ashram in the foothills of the Himalayas; however far Randy’s star has risen, he is surely not yet a household name on the subcontinent, and certainly not in an isolated ashram where five hours a day are spent in silent contemplation.

‘Well.’ Ben has put on his Head of the Family voice. ‘Lizzy, I’d never presume to tell you what you should be doing with your life.’ Which obviously means he is just about to. ‘But Mum has a right to know. I just hope you know what you’re doing getting involved with someone like Randy Jones.’

I try to ignore the irony of a professional public relations PA being lectured on celebrity relationships by a garden-centre manager, because I know he feels his older brother responsibilities keenly ever since our dad died.

‘I do know what I’m doing, Ben, and you’re sweet to worry, but it’s all very early days. I’m just having a bit of fun – you want me to have fun, don’t you?’

I can hear Jenny’s voice in the background again and I can just make out the words ‘drug addict’, and ‘shagger’. Ben seems to be ignoring her.

‘Of course I do, sis – sorry if I’m being too big-brotherly. Of course you should have your fun – just take care of yourself,’ he says, though I’m sure I can hear Jenny protesting, ‘What about Graham?’ as if Randy’s relationship with me is going to corrupt an innocent suburban two-year-old.

But Ben persists. ‘And if it does turn more serious, you know you’re always welcome to bring him down to Guildford any time for lunch or something.’

He sounds hesitant at his own suggestion, and I feel mean as I choke back a burst of laughter, swiftly turning it into a cough. The idea of Randy with his guy-liner and blond highwayman ponytail sitting on my brother’s World of Leather sofa surrounded by Lego and gardening magazines is too ludicrous to contemplate. I don’t think I could put poor Ben through it, even if Randy could be dragged beyond the M25 without violent protest.

‘Aw, thanks, bro. You know you’ll be the first to meet him if we start going out properly.’

We say our goodbyes and I promise to visit soon, with or without my celebrity boyfriend. I feel bad lying to my brother when he’s being so sweet about everything, but I reassure myself that it’s not for long, and anyway, it’s good for him to realize I’m not always the sensible sister he imagines.

But I don’t have time to dwell on it, as the phone barely stops ringing all morning. I get some weird messages, including a furtive voicemail from Jazmeen Marie, perma-tanned scourge of the Premiership footballer and Chinawhite attendee, asking if I’d like to meet up to ‘compare notes’ on Randy. As I don’t think mine will match hers, I delete the message without answering. And I see right through Lulu’s faked call from
Hello!
magazine wishing to cover my wedding (‘We’ve room for a sumptuous feature right next to a photomontage of Prince Pavlos of Greece’). She redeems herself by inviting me over for supper on Saturday night, suggesting I bring along my
fiancé
(she doesn’t believe a word of it). Although Randy and I are getting on much better since our big chat, I’m not ready to introduce him to anyone yet, and somehow I can’t see him sitting round the battered Formica table in Lulu and Dan’s Brixton kitchen, passing the wine back and forth and playing stupid parlour games for hours.

I say I’ll check with him, though I have no intention of doing so. Saturday’s my night off – Randy can amuse himself.

Dinners at Lulu and Dan’s follow a standard pattern, and have done ever since they bought their flat in a terrace behind the Brixton Ritzy cinema five years ago. The first course is wine, and the second course is wine, and I have long ago learned that if I want to eat anything before nine-thirty I’d better bring it myself, so tonight I’ve arrived with a selection of toasted marcona almonds, olives and little balsamic-soaked pearl onions from the deli round the corner from Randy’s house. Randy helped me to choose them, in fact, and sent the normally charming and accommodating owner into paroxysms of agony by sticking his fingers into everything. But as Randy, for whom the grand gesture is the only gesture, bought an entire leg of Parma ham to take home, all was well in the end. Randy was surprisingly annoyed not to be invited to Dan and Lulu’s, especially as he’d not made any plans himself, but I’ve promised I’ll come back to his afterwards so we can do something public and obvious all day on Sunday, such as look meaningfully into the windows of estate agents as if hunting for a ‘love nest’.

Lulu is still perusing a cookbook when I arrive and hand over my deli haul.

‘Wow, check this out – you
have
gone up in the world lately, Harrison. This is definitely an improvement on your usual bag of mini-poppadums.’

I tip the baby onions into a blue and white dish that’s resting on the draining board and pass them to her.

‘Well, you know my hot celebrity lifestyle these days, Lulu – just
everybody
is eating pickled onions at the moment in glamorous North London, didn’t you know? Have you decided what we’re eating yet?’

I pull a bottle of cava out of my bag and start picking at the foil wrapper. Lulu passes me two sturdy Ikea tumblers, the previous set of wine glasses having met a sorry end at their annual Halloween party last year.

‘I was thinking maybe some sort of pie,’ she replies. ‘Dan said he’d go to the market after rugby practice and pick up whatever looked good, so we’ll have to wait and see.’ She shrugs contentedly and slams the cookbook shut, pushing it along the counter to join a stack of others that are jumbled up with magazines, tea towels and what appears to be the postcard I sent them from New York in March. I pass her a fizzing glass of cava and glance up at the kitchen clock.

I truly cannot comprehend how Lulu can bear not knowing what she’s cooking for her guest by seven o’clock. When I invite people over for supper, I know within hours of their acceptance exactly what I’ll be making (having looked through my special file of recipes cut out from magazines), and when I’ll make time to get the ingredients (red asterisk on shopping list if they require a visit to any specialist shops like the Chinese supermarkets in Soho, or the Spanish suppliers in Borough Market), and what can be prepared in advance (pudding, always). I’ve even toyed with the idea of getting one of those grown-up lady’s entertaining books where you write down what you served to people and when, so you don’t give them the same dish twice in a row. But then I remember that I am not a 1950s housewife and I get a grip.

Lulu, on the other hand, is quite happy to freestyle it.

I’m a bit nervous about seeing Dan as we haven’t been in touch since Randy turned up at Hyde Park, but when he bursts through the front door, weighed down with bags, he kisses me warmly on the cheek as usual. Lulu falls on the bags and pulls everything out on to the counter.

‘Pasta, clams, tomatoes – spaghetti alle vongole? Parsley, garlic, French bread, butter – with garlic bread? Salad? Salad . . . ?’ Dan passes her a brown paper bag that’s fallen to the floor. ‘Aha, rocket – thanks. And special-bought puddings for afters. Brilliant. Thanks, Danny.’ She starts clattering in cupboards and drags out some saucepans, banging them heavily on to the gas hob.

‘Yeah, well, I was thinking Thai chicken curry, but if that’s what you think you can make with what I’ve bought, you do your best,’ Dan teases, pulling off his jumper and hanging it on a hook behind the kitchen door. Lulu rolls her eyes at me as she energetically chops onions. I’m quietly surprised to see that there’s not even a hint of the rugby shirt about Dan’s person today. The removal of his jumper has revealed a plain white T-shirt which, though you wouldn’t mistake it for high fashion, is mercifully free of the usual slogans declaring that the wearer ran the Reading Half Marathon 2004 or went On Tour for Johnno’s Stag. He looks . . . well, as if he’s made a bit of an effort. Though his hair is still as messy and sticking-up as ever. Some things never change.

‘Any wine on the go?’ he asks, grabbing a handful of olives from the table.

‘Is there any wine?’ scoffs Lulu. ‘Of course there’s wine. How else will we get Lizzy in a fit state to eat my cooking otherwise?’ She sloshes some cava into another tumbler and slams it on to the table, where Dan and I have comfortably settled to watch her cook.

‘Hey, I love your cooking, Lulu, you nutter,’ I protest.

‘Ah, you
think
you do, Harrison, because I always ensure my guests are pissed enough in advance to be grateful for whatever I put in front of them. Serve food late enough and people will eat anything and
love it
. Just a little tip you won’t pick up from Nigella.’ She takes a swig of cava.

‘I never knew it was a conscious strategy,’ I confess, reaching for a handful of almonds to keep me going until Lulu deems I’m drunk enough to eat. ‘But it definitely works.’

The doorbell rings and I look at Dan quizzically as Lulu rushes down the hallway. I didn’t know anyone else was joining us tonight. Dan elaborately mimes moust achetwirling, cigarette-smoking and other unidentifiable traits which leave me none the wiser until the nonsmoking and entirely moustache-free Laurent, the
Le Monde
-reading Frenchman from Soho, enters the room with Lulu on his arm. She seems quite sweetly smitten, blushing as he whispers in her ear before he strides across the linoleum to kiss both me and a rather surprised Dan on both cheeks. He’s clearly eaten chez Lulu before and produces a family-sized bag of Kettle Chips and a tub of taramasalata, which he dumps in the middle of the table.

I go over to Lulu by the sink, while Laurent and Dan tuck into the crisps. ‘I meet Laurent properly at last!’ I whisper. ‘I’d begun to think he was a figment of your imagination.’