Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (25 page)

‘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?

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?

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.’

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.