Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (26 page)

‘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 work 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.

I give up on Rebecca’s mobile and dial the reception desk at Savoy Street instead. It rings and rings again as they try to transfer me.

The dressing room already looks vastly improved by my little tidy-up, so I head into the bathroom to see what can be done there. As I expected, every surface is covered with some sort of beauty product. Randy is as obsessed with skincare as any one of my female friends, and can happily debate the merits of all the major brands with absolute authority. There’s Clarins Beauty Flash Balm, MAC Strobe Cream and Yves Saint Laurent Touche Éclat; there’s Laura Mercier Mineral Powder dusted all over the sink, into which a fat black brush has been dropped and is being dripped on by the tap. I move it on to the counter to dry out. Eyeshadows of every colour jostle up against six different kinds of black eyeliner and two eyelash curlers. A mascara wand is drying out underneath the glowing bulbs that surround the mirror. The open container must be somewhere around here, I think, grabbing a make-up bag to make a start on clearing this up. As I move it, something behind it catches my eye. It’s not make-up.

‘Rebecca Iveson,’ says a voice on the other end of the phone.

For a moment I can’t answer.

‘Rebecca, it’s Lizzy Harrison. Sorry, I’m going to have to call you back.’ I snap the phone shut and look again at the counter.

The distinctive remnants of two fat lines of coke are visible next to a rolled-up tenner. Randy’s credit card lies incriminatingly next to them.

I start to scrabble around – where’s the rest of it? There’s got to be a wrap here somewhere – he wouldn’t have done a whole gram at once. No wonder Randy was all sweaty and jumpy, the absolute little fucker. All I can do now is make sure he doesn’t do the rest of it tonight or he’s going to ruin everything.

But I can’t find it anywhere.

‘Oh, Lizzy, my dear, I
love
what you’ve done with him,’ says Barry, descending the stairs at Savoy Street in a cloud of Chanel Égoïste with a purple quilted man bag tucked under his arm.

‘Er, sorry?’ I say, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks. My head is so full of the party and the guest list and how to get between Randy and his coke at the soonest opportunity that I have no idea what Barry’s on about. Not to mention I think I’m getting a contact high from his aftershave.

‘With Randy, my dear. He was wonderful, just wonderful, and we hear it’s all your doing. Quite the vision of good health, and clearly he owes all that new material to your influence. You’re wasted as a PA, my dear. Nolan and I are quite agreed that you have found your new role as artist’s muse. Aren’t we, Nolan?’

‘Quite agreed, my dear,’ says Nolan. ‘And I hear we have you to thank for the divine doggie cookies for Whitman. You are marvellous.’ He leans over to bestow a paper-dry kiss on my cheek.

‘Now we need to celebrate Randy’s upcoming US tour, my dear, so let’s enjoy the party.’ Barry offers me his arm.

‘Really?’ I say, grabbing his arm with both hands. I have to hear him say that again. ‘You’re definitely going ahead with the tour?’

‘After tonight we’d be fools not to,’ says Nolan. ‘The boy is back on form.’

‘Oh, Barry, Nolan – that is so fantastic! Have you told Randy yet?’

‘Of course, my dear,’ says Barry. ‘He’s just on his way here with Camilla. He was busy signing autographs for his slavering fans when we left. Now come on, I need a drink.’

‘I’ll have to join you both later,’ I say with a shrug, indicating my door-Nazi clipboard. ‘I’m on duty for a bit. Just a few guest-list issues to sort out.’

‘But they can’t have Mrs Randy Jones on the door, my dear,’ says Barry, scandalized, hand flying to his throat. If he could have raised his eyebrows any higher, he would have. ‘You need to be at his side to share the triumph. Leave this with me.’ He pats my hand reassuringly.

He and Nolan process down a further flight of stairs towards the main room and I can hear, floating up the stairwell, cries of greeting. It’s only just gone ten and the room is already nearly full. Rebecca has kindly turned a blind eye to the extra guests, who are hoovering up canapés as if the party was being held entirely for their benefit. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else from Jemima’s friends. Jemima herself stalked in just ten minutes ago with Mel dutifully in tow like a pilot fish on the fin of a shark.

I scan the guest list. There are only nineteen names left to be ticked off, two of them Randy and Camilla’s. Normally I’d expect at least a third of the guest list to be no-shows, but Randy’s after-party has been the hot ticket all week. Jazmeen Marie’s voicemail messages to me have become ever more plaintive over the last few days – I guess she had her heart set on an invitation. But then so did everyone else. The photographers outside are gearing up for a bumper evening. I can hear them now, shouting as the door upstairs is opened.

‘Randy! Randy!’ The flashes illuminate the stairs as Randy trips down them in his thigh-high boots, tricorne hat in hand and Camilla following in his wake.

‘Lizzy Harrison!’ He grabs me and swings me off my feet. ‘I’m going to America!’

‘Randy, you superstar. I’m so proud of you!’

While I’m outwardly congratulating him, I’m also wriggling a little out of his grasp, trying to look properly into his eyes. Has he done more coke?

‘Jesus, Lizzy-Liz, that was amazing – did you hear the crowd at the end? Three times I had to go back for more applause – three times! Then the door was mobbed coming out – we had to get security to take us to the car, and even then they wouldn’t let us leave. Oh my God, they loved me. Randy Jones is back! Is everyone here? Enough people for me to make an entrance?’ He pushes his hair off his face three times before replacing the tricorne hat, eyes flicking from my face to the stairwell and back again, and again and again.

Er, yeah – I think I would say he has done more coke. But maybe he’s just high from coming off stage. It’s hard to tell. Hopefully everyone else will think it’s just exuberance, too. I feel like an undercover narcotics cop as I mentally scan his outfit for his hidden coke, but it’s not like he’s attempting to smuggle a kilo through customs. It’s probably just one tiny flat wrap and it could be anywhere. The band of his hat? The pocket of his shirt? Down his boots? Surely not secreted inside the skin-tight leggings, but I can’t discount it.

‘Definitely ready for your entrance,’ I say, continuing my surreptitious surveillance (hidden in the purple ring?) and waving the clipboard under Camilla’s nose so she can be primed as to who’s there already. She scans it swiftly and hands it back with a nod.