Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (33 page)

I post it that afternoon.

Two weeks pass. I don’t get a reply.

I’m sitting in the French bar on Dean Street, fending off all attempts from after-work drinkers to encroach on the space I’m saving for Lulu. I’ve hung my coat over the back of the empty chair and left a copy of the
Evening Standard
on the seat, but that doesn’t prevent hopeful table vultures from approaching every five minutes to ask, ‘I don’t suppose this chair . . . ?’ I shake my head politely – ‘Sorry’ – and pour red wine into the empty glass to bolster the illusion that someone is actually sitting here with me. Any minute now I’ll start conducting a conversation with my imaginary friend – that should put people off.

Although the Spinsters’ Social Club has officially disbanded since Lulu has become fully loved-up with Laurent – I admit I’m still a spinster, but there’s nothing social about being one by yourself – we’ve reinstated our Wednesday night drinks as of this evening.

It’s the first time I’ve been back to this place since the fateful evening Lulu told me I needed to lose control. I think we can safely say I fulfilled her remit beyond either of our hopes. I might be the sole remaining member of the Spinsters’ Social Club, but at least I’m no longer the accidental celibate of three months ago. So Randy turned out to be a bit of an idiot – I survived it. I’m not saying that if Randy walked in here right now I’d be thrilled, but when I saw in the latest issue of
Hot Slebs
that he has added Paris Hilton to his list of conquests, it made me smile rather than cry myself to sleep. And this whole experience is proof to myself that the end of a relationship doesn’t mean I’m destined to become a hideous sobbing wreck like I was after Joe left me. I can walk away from my relationship with Randy, despite its fakeness, despite its attendant humiliations, and still be fine. And still be me.

‘Sorry, someone’s sitting there,’ I say to another chair-stealing hopeful.

Lulu was right. I did need to lose control a bit to get out of the rut I’d accidentally fallen into. Randy was like electroshock therapy for the emotionally frozen – extreme and ridiculous and possibly essential. But over the last few weeks I’ve realized, as elements of my pre-Randy life have crept back, that being organized and a bit in control is just a part of me. I’m never going to be Lulu – as much as I would like to be the kind of girl who goes skinny-dipping in the Serpentine with the gorgeous twenty-four-year-old drama student in charge of the pedalos (Lulu’s Mr May), that just isn’t me – and that’s okay. It’s time I started being true to myself. I can open myself up to different experiences and still have a clean kitchen. I can adapt my routines, but there’s a part of me that will always need a bit of routine to feel secure. I’m not about to go investigating it with a shrink or anything – they’ll only make it all about my mother; they always do – I just know it’s true. I can be the kind of girl who orders her shoes by colour
and
have a boyfriend. Though a tidy one would be helpful, I’ve got to admit.

‘No, sorry, it’s taken.’ I smile a friendly but firm denial at yet another attempt to filch the chair. Where is Lulu?

And my life is already changing. I’m about to be really busy in my new job at African Vision – I start on Monday. Oh yes, I’m no longer going to be the sexy-nun charity worker. My idea of running away to an exotic environment felt much less attractive when I started to investigate it all. Let’s just say that there’s a time in one’s life when cold showers, hammocks and long-drop toilets are acceptable for months on end, and I believe that time is under the age of thirty. I allowed Camilla to believe that it was her powers of persuasion that changed my mind; she need never know that she shares this victory with the appeal of indoor plumbing.

‘I’m sorry, someone’s sitting there,’ I say for what feels like the fortieth time, but this particular chair-stealer is a bold one. He’s got his hand on it and he’s pulling it out from the table in a determined fashion.

‘Excuse me, I
said
—’ I say, looking up crossly.

‘Dan!’

‘Hi, Lizzy,’ he says, looking down at me with the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Can I sit down?’ His hand hovers over the chair.

‘Er, yes, of course you can,’ I splutter, entirely taken aback at his appearance. His appearance in the bar, I mean – he looks just the same as usual: work suit, check. Messy hair: check.

‘I mean, that’s to say,’ I continue, ‘I’m saving it for Lulu – she’s due here any minute. So you’ll have to give it back when she gets here.’

Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry, Lulu – don’t leave me here with your brother on my own. It’s all too weird. Or maybe he’s here to meet Emma, and I’m going to have to sit with the two of them while they passionately snog and paw at one another.

‘Lulu’s not coming,’ says Dan, hanging his coat on top of mine on the back of the chair. He slides himself into the seat, his shoulders hunched up in a way that makes him seem far too big for it and for the flimsy table that separates us.

‘But she never said—’ I say, picking up my phone to check it for messages.

‘I told her not to, Lizzy,’ says Dan with a look of grim resolution that rather frightens me. ‘I wanted to see you on your own.’

‘You’re not meeting Emma here?’ I ask nervously, expecting her to appear at any moment.

‘No,’ he says, his eyebrows knitting together in a frown. ‘That’s finished; it didn’t work out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Don’t be,’ he says, helping himself to the wine I’d already poured for Lulu. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here to talk to you.’

I wish I could say that this statement, and Dan’s unexpected appearance, fills me with a feeling of delirious happiness and a realization of true love; I know how this kind of story is supposed to end. The truth is I feel the same sickening dread as when I found myself standing on the top high-diving board at the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Centre circa 1987. On that occasion I was able to beat a shameful retreat back down the steps after being unable to jump. Here there is no escape – believe me, I have already surreptitiously checked out my potential exit routes, and the only possibility that doesn’t involve physically pushing past Dan is throwing myself down the trapdoor behind the bar and ending up in the wine cellar. As that would involve leaping across the bar in the manner of an Olympic high jumper, I have regretfully ruled it out. For now, at least.

‘Dan, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about Randy,’ I say as fast as I can, trying to get it over with quickly, like ripping off a plaster, before he can shout at me.

He just looks at me, saying nothing, twisting the stem of his wine glass round and round.

‘I – I just got myself into this stupid fake relationship,’ I continue, words tumbling out far too fast, ‘and I couldn’t tell anyone because I’d promised and, well, you were being so kind and protective to try and warn me off, and I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t tell you the truth. I mean – well, there’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Dan, I’m really sorry.’

He’s still looking at me silently, his lips pressed into a line. It’s impossible to tell if he’s trying to prevent himself from losing his temper, or from bursting out laughing.

‘I behaved really badly,’ I persevere doggedly. It seems he really does want me to crawl on my belly. ‘I should have been honest, Dan. I just lost sight of what was important, and . . .’

‘So what is important?’ asks Dan suddenly, his head tilted slightly to one side as he awaits my answer.

I eye the height of the bar speculatively. Would it really hurt so much to propel myself over it and escape down the trapdoor? Might it not be less agonizing than this conversation?

‘Er, what’s important?’ I repeat, feeling butterflies start up in my stomach. What does he want, blood?

‘Yes. You said you lost sight of what was important,’ says Dan, unsmiling. ‘So what is important, then?’

‘Well,’ I begin, feeling like I’m at a job interview for which I’m entirely unprepared. ‘Er, friendship is important – our friendship, I mean – and being truthful.’

‘Yes?’ says Dan.

‘Umm, and being honest? Honest with myself as well as other people.’

‘Yes?’

‘Jesus, Dan, I don’t know what else to say!’ I protest in exasperation. ‘If you want me to wear a hair shirt, then just hand it over and I’ll put it on. I’m sorry and I’ve said so, and I don’t know what else to say.’

This whole apology thing is not going quite how I expected.

‘I’m afraid I’m all out of hair shirts,’ says Dan, his lips twisting into a wry smile.

‘Have you got a big stick for me to beat myself with then?’ I ask grumpily. ‘Maybe one with thorns on for maximum punishment?’

‘Nope, no sticks,’ he laughs.

‘Well, if you’re going to deny me any mortification of the flesh, Dan, then you’d better be prepared to forgive me without it,’ I say, looking at him hopefully. If he’s laughing then surely he can’t be too angry with me.

‘You don’t have to beat yourself up, Lizzy,’ says Dan. ‘Not with a big stick and not any other way. Of course I was angry with you – I didn’t like telling you about Randy. I thought it would really hurt you, but I thought it would hurt you more not to know.’

‘Dan—’ I start.

‘Just let me finish,’ he says, frowning and twisting his dark curls with one hand. ‘So discovering it was all some big joke, some huge set-up, it – it felt like you’d been laughing behind my back with that arsehole.’

‘Oh, Dan, no!’ I say. ‘I never, ever discussed you with Randy. I’d never laugh behind your back, not with him or with anyone else. But listen – this isn’t about him; it’s about us.’

‘About us?’ says Dan, his eyebrows rising in interest.

‘You know what I mean,’ I bluster, allowing my hair to fall over my face as I look down at the table top with great interest, as if there might be another escape route scratched there by a previous customer.

‘Do I?’ he asks, leaning forward on the table, which lurches alarmingly so that he has to grab his wobbling wine glass and sit back up.

‘I mean, Dan,’ I say, looking him in the eye as steadily as I can, which is not very, as my eyes keep being drawn down to his lips to see if he’s smiling or not, ‘that Randy is in the past—’

‘So’s his wardrobe,’ mutters Dan. ‘That fucking double denim . . .’

‘Dan! Stop talking!’ I lean across the table to push his arm for emphasis. ‘I mean that whatever happened between me and Randy is finished – over. I mean, our friendship – yours and mine – is far more important to me than anything that might have happened in the past. Okay?’

Dan smiles, his eyes crinkling in a way that I hope means forgiveness. He picks up his wine glass and lifts it towards me.

‘Here’s to friendship, Lizzy Harrison,’ he says, and reaches, with his other hand, for mine.

And suddenly, just like that, with the touch of his hand, I am back on the top diving board at the Guild-ford Spectrum Leisure Centre. Swooping dread and nervous excitement. A sense of terrifying anticipation. A dizzying feeling that the ground is far, far away. There is something there, something between us, and the fear of doing nothing about it has become bigger than the fear of doing something.

My heart pounds in my ears until I can hear nothing else. The room goes blurry around the still point of Dan’s face as he looks at me quizzically.

I’m going to jump.

I reach over the table, steadying it with both hands, and press my lips to his for one brief moment.

I don’t know what I was expecting to happen – in fact, that’s the best thing about it: I didn’t weigh up the pros and cons, I didn’t worry about the consequences – but it’s safe to say I didn’t expect Dan to start laughing. So there we have it. I took a risk and look where it got me. I have just kissed my best friend’s brother and he thinks it’s all a huge joke. I feel as exposed and embarrassed as if I were sitting here in my underwear. How will I ever live this down? Laughter echoes round and round the bar, and although I know it’s just the general sound of people enjoying themselves (I hate them all), it feels to me as if everyone is joining Dan in ridiculing me.

‘Oh God – sorry, Dan,’ I say, blushing furiously. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Lizzy Harrison, you’re a woman of surprises,’ says Dan, still smirking.

‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ I say, picking up my handbag from the banquette seat. It’s time for me to get out of here, and not via the trapdoor. ‘Sorry to embarrass you, I should go . . .’

‘Sit back down,’ says Dan, reaching over to push my bag back on to the seat.

I look him full in the face. I feel as if I could close my eyes and still remember every part of it. His navy blue eyes, so dark when he is angry or emotional. His stupid hair, always falling across his forehead in resolutely unstyled curls, a few silver hairs at his temples. The faint beginnings of stubble on his jaw. His gently mocking expression; one eyebrow raised.