Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (29 page)

‘I know, Mum, but she said I was too uptight and in control, and I think I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t. But then when I got involved with Randy, I kind of wanted to prove to
myself
that I wasn’t. So I let myself fall for him.’

‘And do you think he fell for you?’ she asks.

‘I thought he did, but now I look back, it was one of those relationships where nothing was actually said. I . . . I suppose I just filled in the silences with what I wanted to hear. It – it was all in my head.’ My voice starts to wobble.

‘Maybe you thought if you spoke to him properly you’d hear something you didn’t want to hear,’ says Mum thoughtfully as we walk on through the woods, our strides falling into a gentle rhythm. ‘Maybe by not talking about it, you kept the illusion that you had some control over where it was going.’

‘No, Mum, that was the point – I was
losing
control with Randy,’ I say; it’s like she’s misunderstanding me on purpose.

‘You weren’t, darling,’ says Mum firmly. ‘You thought this was a safe way of falling in love; one that you could be in charge of and, well, if it didn’t work out then it didn’t matter because it wasn’t real anyway.’

I can’t answer straightaway and Mum doesn’t press me. We walk on silently, listening to the sounds of the woods: the drill of a woodpecker, the dry rustle of leaves as an animal moves through the undergrowth. The branches of the trees meet over our heads, forming a leafy tunnel as the path climbs upwards.

‘So,’ I begin, ‘you think that I never really did risk anything with Randy?’

‘Only you know that, darling,’ says Mum. ‘It just sounds to me like you didn’t really risk yourself. What do you think?’

I leave a long pause before answering.

‘I think you’re probably right,’ I say slowly, knowing Mum will hug this small victory to herself for days. It’s so rare that Ben or I allow her to be the enlightened sage she tries to be.

‘The thing is, Lizzy, we can’t control the things that really matter. People die, people fall out of love with us, people go away, people let us down. But that’s all part of—’

‘Mum, if you make any kind of reference to “the rich tapestry of life”, I’m going to have to discount anything else you say,’ I warn her, laughing.

‘Stop it, you – I’m still your mother and you have to listen to me,’ Mum says, squeezing my arm. ‘All I mean is that real life, real love, means you have to risk yourself. Or it’s not worth anything. Would you rather never have known Daddy than to have lost him how we did?’

‘Of course not,’ I say, feeling my throat tighten. Even though it’s nearly twenty years since he died, sometimes it can feel, for a moment, as shocking and horrific as if it has only just happened.

The path opens out into a clearing at the top of the hill. A bench has been set against a row of beeches, and a small brass plaque tells us it’s dedicated to the memory of Bill, 1925–2003, who loved this place. We sit down, and Mum reaches to put her arm around my shoulders, even though she’s far shorter than me. I shuffle down in my seat to let her do it; I want to feel small and protected again.

‘I miss Daddy,’ I say.

‘So do I, darling,’ she says.

We sit like that for a long time.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for a bank holiday Monday – a further day of grace before facing the mess back in London. But on my way back to Peckham that night, unattractively attired in clothes borrowed from Jenny, I start thinking of my flat, dark, unwelcoming and unlived-in. And suddenly I realize that it is even more unwelcoming than I had feared, since my keys are still at Randy’s and I have no way of getting in, short of shinning up a drainpipe.

I decide to make a detour to Lulu’s, where my spare keys hang on a hook by the front door in case of emergencies. I’ve already spoken to her today and confessed everything, and I know she’s meant to be in tonight. But still, calling in unannounced is a riskier strategy than it may first appear. Everyone knows it’s not the done thing to just drop in on friends in London, not even your very best friends. Evenings together must, by common agreement, be decided upon by at least fifteen emails batting to and fro offering various dates at least three weeks in advance, and then, once a date is agreed, it is expected that one party will have to cancel at short notice. With such a carefully planned schedule of events, an unexpected ring on the doorbell in London is to be ignored, not welcomed – only the hopelessly socially inept or undesirable, such as Jehovah’s Witnesses or door-to-door salesmen, would visit without warning.

Even so, I’m not expecting a reception quite as frosty as the one I get.

‘What are you doing here?’ asks Dan, frowning, when he opens the door on my third ring. His hair is even more tangled than usual, as if he hasn’t brushed it for days, and stubble shadows his jaw.

‘Hi, Dan,’ I say with an attempt at a smile, which he doesn’t return. ‘Is – um – is Lulu in?’

‘No,’ he says, keeping the door half closed across his body.

‘Right. Okay. Can I come in and wait for her?’ I ask, taking a step towards the door, but he doesn’t move. ‘It’s raining.’ I point upwards stupidly, as if he might have forgotten where rain comes from.

‘Look, now’s not a good time,’ he says with a backwards glance into the corridor.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realize—’ I say.

‘What do you want anyway?’ he interrupts, his eyes unfriendly.

‘I just – I’m locked out. I came to pick up my spare keys,’ I stammer uncertainly.

Without a word Dan reaches behind the door. He holds the keys out to me, pinched between his finger and thumb as if he might catch something from them; or me.

‘And – and I was hoping to see Lulu, too,’ I say, taking the keys and clutching at the door so he can’t close it on me. ‘Just to catch up.’

I’d never imagined that I would have to beg for entry to Dan and Lulu’s; I thought their door would always be open for me. It’s too weird to find myself standing on the doorstep, barred from coming in.

‘Yeah?’ he says mockingly. ‘Want to catch up on your latest fake relationship, do you? Who is it this time? Tom Cruise?’

‘Dan, that’s not fair—’ I start. He suddenly opens the door wider, and it crashes against the wall. With the hall light behind him, he seems hugely tall and intimidating – his broad shoulders tower over me.

‘Not fair?’ he hisses. ‘I’d say it’s not fair to take the piss out of your friends by lying about your relationships. Who are you to talk about what’s not fair?’

‘But Dan, I’m sorry,’ I protest, my voice choking on tears. ‘It’s not like you think.’

‘Why do you care what I think?’ Dan sneers. ‘Why don’t you just run off and cry your fake tears to your fake friends. I can’t believe anything you say any more.’

‘Dan, please,’ I say, extending my hand towards him, but he takes a step back into the hall, out of my reach.

I hear a woman’s voice call his name from inside the flat. Dan looks over his shoulder, and then back at me, eyes narrowed.

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll tell Lulu you called round.’

And he closes the door in my face.

I’m too shocked even to cry properly. How can this be the Dan I know? This big, angry, frightening man is like a stranger. I struggle to compose myself on the step, wiping my eyes and hoping that my tears might be disguised by the weather now that it’s properly raining. I entertain a slight hope that Dan might relent and open the door, but when I see the net curtains of a curious neighbour twitch for the second time, I turn to trudge down the road towards the bus stop for Peckham.

As I put the key in my front door, I hear a man’s voice shout, ‘Lizzy!’

My treacherous heart leaps into my mouth for a second – Dan? Randy?

As I turn, I’m hit by four sharp flashes from a powerful camera, and a man runs away down the street. I feel like I’ve been mugged on my doorstep and instantly burst into tears. On top of everything else, I come to the horrible realization that Randy and I remain a big enough news story for some paparazzo to bother hanging outside my house on a wet bank holiday Monday. Far from being over, this story has in some ways only just begun.

Hassan from the downstairs flat opens his door a crack as I shut the front door behind me, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Inside I can hear the noise of the television.

‘Okay?’ he asks.

‘Hi, Hassan – thanks for checking. I’m fine,’ I sniff, and give him a wobbly smile.

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Are you okay? How are the children?’

‘Okay.’ Most of our conversations go something like this; I’m not sure he knows more than a few words of English, but he, his wife and their four almond-eyed children always exchange shy, polite greetings with me in the hallway.

‘You been away?’ he asks. ‘Back now?’

‘Yes, that’s right, I’m back now. Back for good,’ I say, and let myself into my dark, cold flat.

The next morning I’m nearly at the door of the office when my phone buzzes with a message from Camilla asking me to meet her at a café in Sloane Square instead of at work. It’s not that I’m surprised she’d choose Sloane Square – this is Camilla we’re talking about, after all: her sisters are called Caroline and Sophie, and I know there’s more than one velvet headband in her wardrobe – but I don’t understand why she wants to see me out of the office. My stomach lurches with sick anticipation.

Until I received that message, I’d convinced myself I was clawing back some semblance of my old life. I’d welcomed my morning routine like an old friend after the weeks with Randy. Hello, morning run around Peckham Rye. Hello, Radio 4 in the background. Hello, own bathroom, own bedroom, own wardrobe. Shoving Jenny’s old clothes in the laundry basket, I’d dressed with great care, as if each item was a piece of bullet-proof clothing that would protect me from attack: studded strappy heels, a pencil skirt, a shoulder-padded blazer over my T-shirt, immaculate make-up. I’m not going to let anyone see this has got me down. I’ve replied to all the texts on my phone and declined kiss-and-tell offers from two national newspapers. The slate is clean. My life begins again today.

Camilla hasn’t arrived yet, so I order a cappuccino from the slick-haired young waiter and look around the room, which is tiled from floor to ceiling, making it feel like we’re all sitting at the bottom of a rather glamorous swimming pool. Three coltish schoolgirls giggle over their coffees by the window, flicking their blonde hair over their shoulders. Whatever are they doing up so early in the last week of the school holidays? An ancient lady with a Margaret Thatcher helmet of hair sips tea, staring into the distance as her black pug lies snoring under the table. She sees me looking and purses her red-lipsticked mouth. I smile at her and she inclines her head in gracious acknowledgement.

When Camilla arrives, I see immediately that she carries nothing with her other than her red patent-leather handbag. For some reason, this deviation from her normal pack-horse routine alarms me more than the meeting itself. As she allows the waiter to pull out her chair, I see she’s even had a manicure. Something is definitely up. With brisk efficiency, she takes out a small hot-pink leather notebook from her bag and pulls a silver pencil out of its spine. She opens the notebook and looks at me with a grave expression. I feel as if we’ve swapped roles but no one’s told me. Now she’s all organized and capable, while I’m the clueless bringer of chaos. Perhaps even now there is an undetected smear of baby food on my skirt.

‘So,’ she says finally. ‘Would you like to tell me precisely what’s been going on?’

‘Regarding . . . ?’ I say uncertainly. I seem to incriminate myself every time I open my mouth at the moment, so I’m not about to volunteer anything Camilla doesn’t know.

‘Let’s start with Randy Jones,’ says Camilla, reading from a scribbled list in the notebook. ‘Followed by kiwi fruits, Declan Costelloe, Jemima, and the fact that you ran out of Randy’s after-party on Saturday without a word to anyone.’

‘I’m sorry I ran out,’ I begin. ‘I just found myself in a situation I couldn’t handle. I’m afraid I panicked. I should have told you.’

‘Perhaps you should also have told me that you were having an affair with Randy?’ says Camilla, coolly sipping her coffee and replacing the cup in the saucer as I stare at her, open-mouthed.

‘Er, right – yes, I probably should have,’ I say, squirming in my seat with embarrassment.

‘Really, Lizzy,’ says Camilla briskly. ‘I thought much better of you than that. I thought you were a professional, not one of those silly girls who’d fall for Randy’s tired old lines. Let me guess – did he tell you that you were different from all the other girls?’

‘I, er . . .’ I stammer, allowing my hair to drop forward and hide my burning face.

‘And so you thought you’d have a little fun, did you? You thought you’d risk the company’s relationship with its star client just so you could get a big celebrity notch on your bedpost? I’d expect this of someone like Mel, but not of you, Lizzy.’

‘Camilla!’ I exclaim. ‘It wasn’t like that! I never jeopardized anything. You have no idea what I had to do to make sure Randy stayed in line.’

‘Oh, I have a pretty good idea what you did,’ says Camilla with a brittle laugh. ‘I thought I could trust you to behave appropriately, no matter what the situation. I’m very disappointed to find out that’s not true.’