Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (9 page)

‘No,’ I said, feeling my post-yoga glow dissipating. ‘So what kind of man-attracting exercise are you going to have me take up instead? Football? Rugby? I mean, I see your logic – what man can resist a girl in a gum shield?’

‘You, Lizzy Harrison, have been signed up for a free trial class with British Army Bootcamp,’ said Lulu, triumphantly. ‘Wednesday night, Hyde Park, seven-thirty. You can’t say you’re not free because I know you’re supposed to be seeing me, but I am officially blowing you out. Don’t be late or they’ll make you suffer.’

Well, I wasn’t late (this is me we’re talking about), but I’m suffering all the same.

The half-man, half-bulldog has been making us run from tree to tree to tree in some kind of appalling competition – surely my first actual race since I was at school. I was wheezing by the third circuit and feeling distinctly nauseous by the fifth. The constant shouts of ‘Faster, number 72!’ are less encouraging than infuriating. So now I’m slowing myself down almost to a walk – I mean, respect your body’s limitations, right? – when suddenly Bulldog Man shouts ‘
Stoooooop
!’ Oh, thank God.

‘Blue Team, one of our number has stopped running. And that number is 72.’

The twenty other blue vest wearers groan and look at me with loathing. I have clearly done something very, very wrong.

‘What does it mean when someone stops following instructions?’ the instructor shouts, and I flinch away from the flecks of spittle.

My team members mutter something about burping; what are they on about?

‘You have it. Twenty burpees, right now, courtesy of number 72,’ barks Bulldog Man, the tendons on his neck standing out in fury.

Twenty what? Everyone around me throws themselves to the ground and starts doing an odd combination of squats and star-jumps.

‘Number 72! Get down there NOW or I’m making it fifty burpees for everyone!’ The instructor’s voice has gone so furiously high that the end of his sentence can probably only be heard by his canine brethren. I expect to see them come bounding out from behind the trees in response to his call.

Number 47, who’s leaping about next to me, grabs the leg of my tracksuit bottoms and physically drags me to the ground. ‘Do you want to kill us all?’ he groans. ‘Just do the fucking burpees, 72!’

My previous memories of Hyde Park are all sunshine and the Serpentine Gallery, lazing with Lulu in the deckchairs until being chased out by the attendants for not paying; watching the rollerbladers on a Sunday afternoon; feeding the ducks with my two-year-old nephew. The usual London park activities. I never imagined that I’d find myself voluntarily face down in the mud, hauling my own body weight from horizontal to vertical and back again more times than seems possible. I’m sure I remember hearing about two women who were struck by lightning in Hyde Park once, and I glance hopefully at the sky for deliverance, but it threatens no more than a gentle mist.

The instructor divides us into two groups and the man next to me pointedly moves himself into the group in which I am not. Well, screw you, number 84. Number 28 smiles at me sweetly. ‘First session?’ she asks.

‘That obvious?’ I reply, with my best attempt at a smile in return.

‘I threw up my first time, so you’re doing really well,’ she grins, pushing her fringe out of her face with her hand and leaving a streak of mud and grass on her forehead. ‘It gets better, honestly – everyone hates the first one.’

‘And they come back?’ I wheeze as we start running again.

‘Oh yes, it’s quite addictive – you’ll see!’ She sprints ahead with a wave, leaving me at the back with a surprisingly fit-looking man who appears to be struggling as badly as me.

‘First session?’ I wheeze, inspired by kindly number 28 – pay it forward, people.

‘First session back after a car accident,’ he says, breathing heavily. ‘I thought I’d be okay, but the cracked ribs are giving me a bit of trouble. I’m just hoping the press-ups won’t be too much for my wrist – the plaster only came off last week.’

‘Oh my God, poor you! Are you sure you should be doing this?’ I ask in horror.

‘Oh yes,’ he grins cheerily. ‘I can’t be doing with sitting on my arse all day, despite what the doctors say.’ And with that he overtakes me easily.

After that it seems churlish to complain in the slightest, so I keep running and leaping and trying not to cry at the back of the group, cursing Lulu all the while.

When the session finally finishes – how was that only an hour? It felt like a lifetime – I throw myself gratefully on to the grass, gulping huge breaths of air. My heart thuds not just in my chest but through my whole body; blood rushes in my eardrums. After a few minutes I feel able to sit up straight without seeing stars and, to my immense relief, I see a bottle of water being held out in my direction. I grab it with a muffled ‘Thanks’, and have gulped down half the bottle before I realize whoever gave it to me is still standing there expectantly. I squint into the drizzle.

‘Hi, Lizzy,’ says Dan. ‘I was hoping I’d bump into you.’

‘Dan?’ I stumble to my feet, tearing off my nylon 72 vest as if that’s suddenly going to make me look more presentable. ‘Dan, I’m so glad to see you. I meant to call you to apologize for the other night,’ I start. And then realization dawns. ‘Hang on. How did you know I was going to be here? You
are
bloody spying on me for your sister this time, aren’t you?’

‘Ha! Spying! As if!’ Dan laughs and good-naturedly pushes my arm in mock defence. I’m still feeling so ridiculously feeble that I’m forced into an ungainly stagger to keep my balance, like a cow with BSE. Oh yes, looking good. He catches hold of my arm to steady me and turns me to face him.

‘You can’t deny it, Dan. The only person who knows I’m here is your sister – she’s the one who got me into this in the first place.’ Despite my attempt at righteous anger, I could sob with relief to see a friendly face after running the gauntlet of the shouty instructor.

‘Okay, this time I knew you were going to be here, but Lulu only thought of making you do this because she’d heard about it from me. I come every week – can’t you tell?’ He flexes his biceps like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Mr Universe final.

‘I don’t know, Dan – you still appear to have a clearly defined neck,’ I say, looking over at the pumped-up instructor for comparison, ‘and you can actually put your arms down alongside your body instead of having them stick out to the side like Action Man’s. I’d say you’ve got a long way to go.’

‘How dare you?’ Dan grins, looking down at me. ‘My neck measurement’s been growing weekly – the instructor says it’s only a matter of months until it’s just one seamless line from ear to shoulder. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to call you to find out how you got on the other night, but Lulu said you were fine and I shouldn’t make a fuss about it. Did you get that wanker home okay?’

‘Er, didn’t Lulu say anything?’ I ask, feeling a flutter of nerves. I had kind of assumed that once I’d told her about Randy I wouldn’t have to tell anyone else. I thought the Mouth of the South would broadcast my ‘new boyfriend’ to everyone we knew and save me fluffing my lines or crumbling under questioning. And that the paparazzi pictures would take care of the rest. But I should have guessed that Dan wasn’t a
Hot Slebs
reader.

‘Well, yeah,’ says Dan. ‘She said everything was okay, but she didn’t say anything else. It
was
okay, wasn’t it? He didn’t try anything on with you, did he? Not that he looked in any fit state to.’

‘Oh, well, of course not. It’s more that – well – I just mean that Randy isn’t really a wanker. It’s just that he’s, umm . . . he’s a bit messed up. But you know, he’s a good guy really.’ I can’t quite look Dan in the eye.

‘Really?’ he says, his forehead creasing into a quizzical frown. ‘He seems like a total arse to me. I was worried about you. Lulu said you were coming along tonight, so I hoped we’d bump into each other. Why don’t we grab a quick drink? I know a good pub just round the corner.’

Perhaps it’s the effect of all the unaccustomed exercise, or maybe it’s Dan’s look of gentle concern making me come over all funny, or perhaps I am finally losing it and descending into complete and utter paranoia, but suddenly it seems as if everyone around us is picking up on our conversation. Am I imagining it or are we surrounded by people whispering RandyJonesRandyJonesRandyJones?

I’m not imagining it.

Cuban heels sinking into the turf, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a shiny gold leather jacket atop his usual tight denim strides, Randy Jones is prancing across the grass. And prancing with a definite purpose. Towards me.

‘What the—’ Dan swears under his breath.

‘Lizzy!’ shrieks Randy, breaking into a lolloping, girly run that would get him fifty press-ups from Half-Man Half-Bulldog, no questions asked.

‘Lizzy?’ says Dan, turning to look from Randy to me and back again.

‘Lizzy!’ shouts the photographer who leaps out from behind a tree. How the hell does he know my name?

‘Lizzy, as in the girl from
Hot Slebs
?’ says the girl behind me. Oh, Jesus.

‘Lizzy!’ shouts Randy again, as he swoops a leather-clad arm round my waist and swings me into a passionate embrace as if he is Rhett Butler and I am Scarlett O’Hara after she has rolled about in the mud for a bit with a nylon vest on. I feel my knees buckle obligingly into the semblance of a swoon to complete the picture – who knew I was such a ham? As he pulls me back upright, Randy whispers in my ear, ‘Camilla told me you’d be here. Play along.’

Dan takes a stride towards us. ‘Lizzy, what’s going on here?’

‘What’s going on here, my good man,’ says Randy, draping his arm possessively over my shoulders, ‘is that I am going to take my girlfriend off somewhere a bit more romantic. Aren’t I, babe?’ He grasps my rear firmly in a manner that is definitely not part of our agreement.

‘Girlfriend?’ says Dan, turning to me, his face flushed with surprise.

‘Er?’ I want to tell Dan everything, but all I can do is look at him and desperately try to convey through facial gestures alone that this is not all it seems. But now it’s his turn not to look me in the eye.

‘Yes, girlfriend,’ says Randy loudly, for the benefit of everyone listening. ‘Ready to go, babe?’ He squeezes my buttocks harder. I am really going to have to speak to him about that the second we are alone. But right now I have to play my part.

‘Of course, darling, let’s go,’ I say, smiling up at him like the adoring girlfriend I’ve promised to be. Randy leans down to kiss me again, and this time I feel his tongue push insistently between my lips, the cheeky bastard – this isn’t part of the deal at all. As we break apart, he stares so long and so deep into my eyes (waiting for the photographer to get his shot, I expect) that I feel my traitorous heart drop down to my stomach for a moment. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me like that, even if he’s just pretending. Then he flashes me a wink that no one else can see and spins us round to make our exit.

But of course our way is blocked by fifty nylon-vested fans mobbing him for an autograph, a photograph, a snatch of mobile phone footage, and who is Randy to disappoint his public? Half-Man Half-Bulldog turns out to be especially persistent, and is only persuaded to let us go when Randy has expressed great admiration for his rather unexpected tattoos of Eric Morecambe (left bicep) and Ernie Wise (right bicep) and has advised him on the best location for a Randy Jones tattoo, should Bulldog Man choose to add to his collection. (Don’t ask.)

It takes us fifteen minutes to leave, and in all that time Dan doesn’t come near us once.

We must make quite a picture striding through the park towards Notting Hill Gate – Randy the urban dandy with his blond hair tied back in a velvet ribbon that matches his gold leather jacket, and ruddy-faced me in tatty trainers, T-shirt and leggings. I try to tell myself that my unglamorous appearance can only help Camilla’s mission to make Randy seem more wholesome, but I’m shallow enough to wish I wasn’t wearing the T-shirt that proclaims ‘Seize the Day’, which I stopped wearing for anything other than exercise when Lulu helpfully pointed out that as ‘the day’ appeared in small lettering, the T-shirt appeared to invite passers-by to seize my breasts.

I beg Randy to let me get changed before we go out for dinner. Even though the work clothes in my bag are no match for his rock-star ensemble, anything’s got to be better than what I’m wearing right now. But he says it will be fine for me to sort myself out in the toilets of the restaurant when we get there. Which isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard – in fact it’s downright ungallant – but he strides ahead, deaf to my continued protests that I’m far too dishevelled to be seen in public.

‘Look, babe,’ he says, finally halting his stomp towards the busy road ahead. ‘Number one, you’ve already been photographed like this, so just deal with it, those pictures will be on their way to an agency already. Number two, no one’s going to be looking at you when you’re with me. I’m sorry but it’s true.’ I must be looking crushed because he softens his voice a little. ‘Number three, you do actually look quite cute all flushed and messed-up like this, so let’s have no more complaining, okay?’

Well that told me.

‘Now hold my hand,’ says Randy, ‘and look like you’re having a good time.’

I feel like half of London has stopped to point and stare at our ungainly procession through the park and down Kensington Church Street, so it’s a blessed relief when Randy stops at last in front of a small town house that’s been converted into a restaurant. He strides in confidently while I lurk behind him, trying to cover the ‘Seize’ written on my chest and pull the too-short T-shirt down over my bottom. The dining room is full of the kind of immaculately fragrant women who have probably had all their sweat glands Botoxed and last perspired in 1997, and I’m immensely self-conscious. Surely they won’t let me in dressed like this? But the mâitre d’ is all smiles, promising that of course it’s no problem to find a table at such short notice, and indeed they would be happy to accommodate sir in the discreet corner that he’s enjoyed before. Randy declines and indicates instead one of two small tables next to the window.