A Night In With Audrey Hepburn

by Lucy Holliday

  I haven’t left a message.

  Though if I wasn’t exactly in the partying mood when I started my journey this evening, I’m in even less of a partying mood as soon as I reach the end of it, and my destination: Depot, on Shoreditch High Street.

  Obviously it doesn’t exactly help that it’s a giant, windowless concrete bunker, not unlike the one Hitler spent his last days hiding in while Berlin was shelled to smithereens around him. Nor that the door is covered by a steel grille and manned by a stern-looking chap in a black suit and crew cut who could easily be Obelix’s larger brother.

  Oh, shit, I’m not going to be on the guest list, am I?

  And Obelix’s brother isn’t going to believe that I was invited by Dillon O’Hara, is he? It’s probably barely even worth me trying to tell him this, with his don’t-mess-with-me expression, and that huge, ham-like hand on the door handle, just waiting to block me from …

  Actually, the ham-like hand is pressing down on the door handle, and the other hand (also ham-like) is waving me through …

  ‘Have a good evening,’ he tells me, in a surprisingly pleasant voice.

  Well, perhaps I look as if I’m here in an official capacity – PR person; party planner – because there’s no way that Obelix’s brother could possibly have mistaken me for a Made Man Hundred Hottest. And this is not just me being modest, by the way. This is a statement of fact. Because the door to Depot has barely shut behind me before I’m struck, head-on, by the sheer amount of toned, tanned flesh on display. It’s wall-to-wall boobs and bums, as far as the eye can see, with enough blonde hair extensions to sink a battleship. Not that hair extensions could sink a battleship, I’d have thought, but you get my point.

  All this blonde hair and kumquat-coloured skin is reminding me that Cass will be here at some point this evening, if she isn’t already, and the last thing I want to do is bump into her before I’ve even got one nerve-steadying drink under my belt. I decide I’d better find a bar to get a cocktail, and then a secluded corner to sit in and drink it.

  Mind you, there’s probably no real need to worry, because Depot seems to be nothing but secluded corners.

  Whoever designed the inside was, sensibly enough, trying to avoid the whole ‘Nazi bunker’ look and plumped for an ‘opium-den-slash-brothel’ look instead. It’s all been divided up with chunks of retro Seventies glass wall and dimly lit with a slightly eerie red glow, through which I can see low, harem-style sofas and, in an extra-louche touch, several huge beds, most of which are covered with sprawling Made Man Hundred Hottest nominees, showing off all those boobs and bums I was talking about. There are even more hotties doing a weird kind of hula-hooping grind around the various poles which have been handily put up at various intervals for anyone who might fancy a light spot of erotic dancing, and small groups of men gathered around both these and the beds, looking like hungry Basset Hounds that haven’t eaten in weeks. Anyway, through all these exhaustingly sexy shenanigans, right at the very back of the club, I can just make out a long, long bar, so I put my head down and make a swift beeline for it.

  As I get closer, I can see that it’s staffed with dozens of barmen who are busily occupied making cocktail after cocktail with – nice touch – glow-in-the-dark cocktail shakers. It’s pretty heaving on the customer side of the bar, mostly with more of the hungry-looking men trying to rustle up cocktails for the scantily clad hotties, but – rather sweetly – a couple of them stand back to allow me to go ahead of them. I thank them, politely, before turning my attention to the (absurdly handsome) barman, who’s just asked me what I want to drink.

  ‘We’re doing fresh fruit Martinis,’ he adds, ‘if you want one of those?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be lovely.’

  ‘So what kind?’

  ‘Er …’ Every single sort of fresh fruit on the entire planet has suddenly slipped from my mind. ‘Kumquat?’ I blurt, presumably because the tanned flesh has brought it to the front of my mind.

  ‘Kumquat would make a revolting Martini.’ He looks unimpressed. ‘Anyway, we’re not doing kumquat. You can choose from santol, longan or langsat.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Now he sighs, really weary of me. ‘Santol, longan or langsat.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got absolutely no idea what any of those words mean …’

  ‘She’ll have the santol Martini,’ a voice behind me says.

  Unfortunately, it isn’t Dillon.

  It’s a tall, slightly balding man with a blindingly white smile, an equally blinding wristwatch and – I can’t help but note, right away – an even more blinding wedding ring, and he is squeezing into the small space at the bar beside me.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, flashing me another of those Cheshire Cat smiles. ‘You’ll enjoy santol,’ he adds. ‘It tastes like really sharp apple. I eat it all the time in Mauritius.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Well, yes, I’ll try that one, then,’ I tell the barman, determined to order my own drink rather than have this guy take over and do it for me. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I add, politely, before fishing in my clutch bag for my phone so I can start composing my text to Dillon.

  Hey, I type into my phone, I managed to make it tonight after all. BTW this place is insane …

  ‘I’m Dave.’ My unwanted new mate leans in, propping one elbow on the bar. ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Libby,’ I say, continuing to text Dillon. U around? Yep: that’ll do. Short, practical, cool and confident. I press Send.

  ‘Libby. What a beautiful name. Is it short for anything?’

  ‘Liberty,’ I say, for the sake of politeness.

  ‘Liberty. What a beautiful name.’ Seeing as, this time, he can’t ask if it’s short for anything, he moves off the subject of names, beautiful or otherwise, and leans over to get the attention of the handsome barman (who’s currently measuring vodka and some sort of pale green juice into shot glasses with the concentration and precision of a Nobel-winning chemist). ‘I’ll have one of those too. And I’ll be paying for both.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, hastily, ‘but actually, I’ll get my own drink.’

  Hang on: it’s just occurred to me that I didn’t sign off that text to Dillon. And unless he’s saved my number under my name, he might not realize it’s me.

  I begin a second text: This is Libby, by the way. Just in case it wasn’t clear the first time! Lxx

  I press Send.

  And then immediately regret it, because it was neither cool nor confident.

  And what was I doing signing it with kisses, for crying out loud?

  ‘So, Liberty … if I can call you that …’ It’s Dave, again, flashing his implausibly white teeth. ‘What number are you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Made Man’s Hundred Hottest, of course.’ He laughs, patronizingly, as if I’m a muddled-headed idiot. ‘I’d put you in the …’ He looks at me, appraisingly, from head to toe. ‘… low eighties.’

  I’m not sure exactly what to say to this … compliment? insult? … but luckily I don’t need to say anything at all, because I’m distracted by my name suddenly being yelled from a little way along the bar.

  ‘Libby?’

  It’s a woman’s voice, and it sounds so angry that for a moment I think it can only be Cass, hurtling towards me in a fury that I’m gate-crashing her big night.

  But it isn’t Cass, and I realize as I crane round Dave’s shiny head, my name isn’t actually being yelled to me, so much as about me.

  It’s Rhea Haverstock-Harley, who must have just arrived at the bar, five or six hungry Basset Hound-men away. And she’s yelling in the direction of a mobile phone. Dillon’s mobile phone, I can only assume, because – if I crane around Dave’s shiny head, through the crowd of Basset Hound-men – I can see Dillon standing beside her.

  ‘Who the fuck,’ she goes on, ‘is Libby? And why the fuck is she texting you? With kisses, for crying out loud.’

  I knew I’d regret those kisses. I knew it.

&nb
sp; ‘So?’ Dave asks. ‘What are you? Eighty-one? Eighty-two?’

  ‘What? Oh, no, I’m not anything.’

  ‘You invited another girl here tonight?’ I can hear Rhea demanding, in an even louder voice – one that suggests she’s so sure that everyone around her is wildly interested in the details of her personal life that there’s no need for her to keep a lid on it. Which, to be fair, from the expressions on the face of the Basset Hound-men, is probably true. ‘When you knew I’d be here?’

  ‘Jesus, Rhea.’ This is Dillon. I can’t see him properly at all – bloody Dave and his shiny great head – and I have to strain to hear him because, unlike Rhea, he’s not raising his voice. (Oh, and also because the barman has finally finished his Nobel-prize-worthy chemistry experiment and has started to shake my Martini in his glow-in-the-dark shaker with what sounds like an entire igloo’s worth of ice.) ‘You said you weren’t coming. And anyway, I’m not sure what business it is of yours. I mean, you’re the one who dumped me this morning. By text message, charmingly enough. Or don’t you remember?’

  ‘Hey! Liberty!’ It’s Dave, again, snapping his fingers in front of my face. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘What? No, I’m actually just—’

  ‘I asked if you were in it last year.’

  ‘In … sorry, what last year?’ I ask, hoping my exasperated tone will make him realize I’m not interested in having this conversation, that I’m far too busy eavesdropping – as is practically everyone else at the bar by now – on the blazing row developing behind him.

  ‘Made Man! Weren’t you number ninety-four? And have you put on a bit of weight since then? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it really suits you, but I’m just asking if …’

  ‘Oh, well, forgive me for being the one to do the dumping,’ Rhea is saying now. ‘I mean, God forbid I should even things out after you broke up with me the last eighty-seven million times!’

  ‘You’re saying you broke up with me to get your own back?’ (Dillon again, slightly louder this time.) ‘Well, good for you, Rhea. Nice maturity.’

  ‘You’re going to lecture me,’ Rhea shrieks, ‘about fucking maturity …?’

  ‘So are you on TV?’ Dave – damn him! – is moving ever closer. He’s blocking me off so effectively now that I can’t even see Rhea any more, despite her towering head and shoulders above most of the Basset Hound-men. ‘In fact, didn’t I see you on the last series of Celebrity MasterChef?’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘No. Look, I’m not on TV …’

  ‘In fact, fuck you, Dillon!’ This is Rhea, again, tossing her hair and spinning away from the bar towards the dance floor. ‘I’m going to have a dance.’

  Now I can see her properly I feel, of course, utterly inadequate. She’s wearing a scarlet strapless mini-dress that clings to her every yoga-whittled curve (and Willi-whittled, presumably, thanks to all the exertions she was putting in with him earlier) and her hair looks like she’s stepped off the set of a L’Oréal advert. Unsurprisingly, the eyes of every single one of the Basset Hound-men are fixated on her as she reaches the dance floor, struts to the very centre, and starts to dance.

  If, that is, you can describe what she’s doing as dancing.

  Because what she’s actually doing is … well, I’m not sure exactly what to call it.

  She’s standing rooted to the spot, as if her Louboutins have been fixed to the floor with superglue, gyrating her pelvis and tossing her abundant mane. All of which is making her look less like she’s dancing and more like she’s having sex with the Invisible Man, standing up, while simultaneously blow-drying her hair with an equally invisible Babyliss and starting to feel desperately in need of a trip to the toilet.

  I mean, I’m no Ginger Rogers, but at least I have the decency to realize it, and to stand meekly at the edge of dance floors doing a side-to-side sway and hoping nobody notices.

  I can’t see Dillon’s face because of Dave and his bloody head, but I can tell that he’s staring towards the dance floor.

  Is he looking appalled? Embarrassed?

  Turned on?

  Is he about to stride up there and join her, so that the two of them can publicly make up after their equally public row, and spend the rest of the night doing that weird, needing-the-toilet dance together, while I’m stuck here with Dave and a bizarrely named fruit Martini that I’m starting to think is almost as mythical as the mystery goat’s cheese, seeing as it still hasn’t actually materialized from the barman’s glow-in-the-dark shaker?

  ‘So, do you want to be on TV?’ Dave is asking. ‘Because I’m a talent manager, and I have to tell you, there might be an opening for someone like you on reality TV. You’ve got a great look. I mean, I’m not necessarily talking about anything as big as Geordie Shore or Made in Chelsea, but I’ve heard they’re looking for people for the next series of Mary Berry’s Cupcake-Off. You should really come to my office one day soon, and we can talk about it some more. Or, better yet, why don’t the two of us get out of here for a while and go and find somewhere a bit more private. You know, for a … chat.’

  OK, this is starting to veer away from Unwelcome and heading firmly in the direction of Positively Creepy. And I’m not quite sure what to do, because I’m a bit stuck in this corner he’s backed me into and don’t see any way out without making a fuss. A fuss which might attract Dillon’s attention, which might in turn attract Rhea’s attention … But fortunately it’s a decision I don’t have to make, because the Basset Hound-men at the bar are starting to move away (having given up on ever getting a drink in this bloody place, probably) and, for the first time, there’s nobody standing in between me and Dillon any more.

  Dillon leans sideways to get the barman’s attention for a drink (he’ll be lucky) … and our eyes meet.

  ‘Hi,’ I mouth at him, with a little, hopefully not-too-desperate-looking, wave.

  ‘Who are you waving at?’ Dave turns round, and doesn’t look terribly pleased, on turning back to me, to see that it was another man I was greeting. ‘That’s not very nice,’ he tells me. ‘I’m the one buying your drink.’

  I ignore this, and make a move to step around him, but he blocks my way.

  ‘Don’t be a fucking bitch,’ he says, loudly.

  Which is when Dillon takes three strides in our direction and taps him on the shoulder.

  ‘D’you want to say that again?’ he’s asking Dave, in a dangerously pleasant tone of voice. ‘Or did you mean to say something else?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘When you called my friend a fucking bitch just now,’ Dillon explains. ‘It just seems a particularly unpleasant thing to say to a young lady. Which is why I suggest that the very next thing out of your mouth is a grovelling apology.’

  There’s silence for a moment, while Dave just stares at him.

  ‘Well!’ I say, brightly. ‘Let’s just—’

  Dillon doesn’t take his eyes off Dave. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve heard that grovelling apology.’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Dave takes a step towards Dillon and jabs him in the chest with a finger. ‘You’re Dillon O’Hara, right?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with the price of eggs,’ Dillon replies, with another of those dangerously pleasant smiles.

  ‘Do you know who I work for?’ Dave gives him another jab in the chest. ‘Donaldson and fucking Peake, that’s who.’

  Shit.

  Donaldson and Peake is one of the biggest agencies in the business. And, thanks to its size, is not just an agency for Z-list reality TV ‘stars’, but also for bona-fide musicians and actors as well.

  They’re incredibly well connected; they have huge offices in New York and Los Angeles, and you don’t want to piss off anyone who works for them.

  Not even Dave.

  ‘And what do you do there?’ Dillon enquires. ‘Are you the window cleaner? The guy who waters the plants in the front lobby? Or have you been brought in to head up t
heir brand-new Slimeball department?’

  ‘Dillon, for Christ’s sake …’ I step away from where I’m still boxed in by the wall, grab Dillon by the shirt sleeve and try pulling him in a non-Dave-erly direction, but he doesn’t budge.

  ‘You’re a funny guy,’ Dave tells him. ‘But you know what I think will be really funny? Talking to our LA office all about you, and your personality issues. That’ll be funny, won’t it, the next time you turn up for an audition over there, to find your reputation has preceded you?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, hoping that, even if I can’t actually drag Dillon away, I can take the temperature down a notch or two. Because if things get any more heated over here, there’s a good chance that Rhea will stop strutting her stuff and start noticing us. ‘Dillon didn’t mean any of that. He’s just … he’s drunk.’ This, at least, is a convincing explanation. ‘Aren’t you, Dillon?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  I give him a Look. ‘You are. You don’t know what you’re saying …’

  But all of a sudden, I’ve stopped caring about impending fisticuffs between Dave and Dillon.

  Because who should be heading towards me but my sister.

  I briefly have time to notice that – yep, just as reported – her dress does indeed sport a dangerously plunging neckline, and that she’s done something, Christ only knows what, with that pretty pendant so that the garnet cabochon is playing peekaboo from between her breasts. But her DIY job on my handiwork is the least of my worries. Because she’s looking absolutely wild, and not just because of the abundant hair extensions.

  ‘Cass, hi,’ I begin, taking a step towards her. ‘Look, I know you’ll be annoyed that I didn’t tell you I was coming tonight, but I didn’t get the—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit that you’re here. I give a shit that you’re here having a drink with my boyfriend.’

  For a bizarre moment, I think she’s talking about Dillon. And then I get it.