A Night In With Audrey Hepburn

by Lucy Holliday

  The buzzer goes for a third time.

  ‘I’m really sorry to be a pain,’ Ravinder goes on, when I pick up, ‘but the faster you could come down, the better. I’m going to have to go back to the van at least three times to bring you all your stuff, so …’

  ‘Go away!’ I yell down the entry phone at Ravinder, before somehow clawing back what’s left of my manners. ‘Sorry, sorry, Ravinder, but what I mean is that there’s been a mistake. I didn’t place any order. Or rather …’ My head is spinning. ‘I don’t know … I must have accidentally placed the order in my sleep, or something …’

  I mean, this is the only explanation, isn’t it? People do all kinds of things in their sleep, don’t they: walk, talk … place orders for two thousand pounds’ worth of designer ball gowns on upmarket internet fashion sites …?

  Because unlike the recent occasion when I cut my own hair (while hallucinating it was Audrey who was doing so) or overdid my own eye make-up (while hallucinating it was Audrey doing so), this time I didn’t have a hallucination of Audrey sitting there with my iPad, ordering up half my Net-a-Porter wish list.

  This time I’m just hallucinating her telling me about it, as something she did all by herself.

  But there’s just no way that my hallucination of Audrey Hepburn can have spilled over into real life. She only exists in my head, for fuck’s sake.

  The only way that this order could actually have ended up being placed – and it clearly has been placed; Ravinder, waiting downstairs with his overspilling van, is the proof of that – is if I was the one who placed it. In my sleep. Or while drunk at Dillon’s last night, perhaps. Maybe – although I have no memory of doing anything of the sort – I took out my iPhone in between Mind-Blowing Sex Session Two and Mind-Blowing Sex Session Three, and totted up a little online clothes order, just for kicks.

  I’d ask Dillon about it, if there were the slightest chance of me ever seeing him again.

  Whatever the (worrying, neurologically sinister?) explanation, I’m not going to sign for thousands of pounds’ worth of designer togs I can’t possibly afford.

  ‘Thanks, Ravinder, but I’m not going to accept the order. I’m really, really sorry,’ I add, before hanging up the entry phone.

  When I turn back to face Audrey again, she’s gazing at me, absolutely aghast.

  ‘But Libby, weren’t you saying only last night that you urgently needed a wardrobe update?’

  ‘Yes, but I meant clothes to wear to … to job interviews, and drinks with friends! Not exquisite ball gowns! From Net-a-Porter! When am I ever supposed to get the chance to wear anything like that, even supposing I could possibly afford it?’

  ‘Oh, well, if you’d seen them, darling, you wouldn’t be asking that question! They were so versatile! One a ravishing black silk, by my darling old friend Oscar de la Renta, and the other a rather elegant chiffon column by somebody called Victoria Beckham. I hadn’t heard of her before, so I looked her up on Wikipedia. Her dressmaking credentials may leave something to be desired, but I must say she does seem to have an extraordinarily handsome husband …’

  I sit down, heavily, on the Chesterfield, and place my head deep into my hands.

  ‘If I just close my eyes and relax,’ I mutter, ‘all this will go away … close my eyes and relax … close my eyes and relax …’

  There’s silence.

  I lift my head and open my eyes.

  ‘Darling?’ says Audrey Hepburn. ‘Are you feeling all right? Because if you’ve changed your mind about that cappuccino, it’s ever so easy for me to rustle one up.’

  ‘No!’ I yell, taking myself by surprise, as well as her. ‘I don’t want a bloody cappuccino! I want five minutes – just five minutes – to be left in peace in my flat! Without cappuccinos, or online orders, or ridiculous haircuts! Without you,’ I add, though in a slightly calmer voice, because she’s looking so startled by all the shouting, ‘whatever you are.’

  ‘Darling, I’m not a what, I’m a who! I’m Audrey Hep—’

  ‘Stop saying that! You’re not! You’re not real. You’re post-traumatic stress, or you’re a brain tumour, but whatever the hell you are, I really just wish you’d leave me alone!’

  There’s another silence. It’s longer than the last one, and a lot less comfortable.

  ‘Well,’ Audrey says, after a moment. Her huge dark eyes are filling with tears, but her voice is steady. ‘I know you’ve had a late night, darling, and you’re upset about your Dillon fellow leaving you in the lurch. But it’s awfully bad manners, you know, to call somebody a brain tumour.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I look up at her, despairingly. ‘But I’ve no idea why else I keep seeing you like this. Or how I could possibly have ended up placing a massive internet order without even realizing.’

  ‘But you didn’t place the order, Libby. I’ve told you, it was me! Now, I know you’re rather cross with me about it, for some reason, but I was only trying to do something I thought might make you happy. You always seem so stressed out, and …’

  ‘I’m stressed out because I keep hallucinating you! Because you keep popping up out of nowhere! This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like, when I fantasized about you.’

  ‘You fantasized about me?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the way it sounds … I just used to have this dream that you and I were friends. Actually, come to think of it, you were more like a fairy godmother. And we’d hang out in New York, and Paris, not in my crummy flat, and we’d drink champagne, and go window-shopping, and on the way I’d tell you all the things that were bothering me. I mean, I actually used to have these imaginary conversations with you, where I’d tell you stuff about boys I liked, and my annoying mother, and … well, sometimes about my father. My stupid, selfish shit-bag of a father. But I was always imagining your side of the conversation as well, and you used to give me such good advice, or sometimes you’d just listen … but now I’m actually seeing you and hearing you, and you’re not giving me any advice at all! You don’t even appear at the right time, for crying out loud! I mean, where were you last night, when I wanted to ask your advice about the Dillon situation?’

  ‘Well, darling, I was here, of course … I’m so sorry I wasn’t around if you needed me, but next time you could just email! I’ve set up a little address on something called Gmail – the instructions were ever so easy to follow, and—’

  ‘You can’t have an email address! You’re not real!’

  But I’m prevented from saying any more by a sudden and extremely loud knocking on the other side of the partition wall.

  ‘Libby?’ comes Bogdan Son of Bogdan’s voice. ‘You are home?’

  ‘Yes, I’m home, Bogdan, but …’

  ‘You are standing next to wall?’

  ‘No, I’m on the sofa, but …’

  ‘Please be staying there for moment. Thank you,’ he adds.

  And then there’s a loud crash as, first, the business end of a sledgehammer and second, Bogdan Son of Bogdan’s face comes through the plasterboard.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I shriek.

  ‘Am shocking you? Am apologies.’

  ‘Yes, you’re shocking me!’

  I’m not quite shocked enough, however, to notice that Audrey Hepburn has disappeared. Or rather that, now Bogdan is here, the hallucination has been shattered, and I can’t see her any more.

  Well, either that, or she’s just cowering behind the back of the sofa.

  I do a hasty check …

  No cowering. No more Audrey.

  ‘What the hell,’ I ask Bogdan, as I come up from peering down the back of the sofa, ‘are you doing?’

  ‘Am standing up to father!’

  The fact that he’s saying this while still brandishing his sledgehammer is more than just a little alarming.

  ‘Am taking down,’ he declares, striking his chest with his non-hammer-wielding hand, in the manner of a freedom-fighting Berliner, ‘partition wall.’

  ‘Bogdan, that’s really nice
of you, but I’m actually getting used to the size of the apartment. And I don’t want you getting in any trouble with your father.’

  ‘Am not caring. Am not wanting life as a fib.’

  ‘Well, good for you!’ I’d sort of rather, though, that Bogdan Son of Bogdan’s desire not to live a lie didn’t look as if it had anything to do with me. ‘But it might have been a good idea to have checked with me first, Bogdan, before you just set about my wall with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘Am not thinking you are in until am hearing voices. Am assuming you are out because you are not signing for delivery. But don’t worry, Libby, am doing that for you.’

  My heart sinks as he holds up, through the hole in the wall, the largest carrier bag I’ve ever seen. With Net-a-Porter written on the side of it.

  ‘Are four more down in hallway. Am only bringing smallest one up.’

  ‘Oh, dear lord …’

  ‘You are suddenly winning lottery or something, Libby?’

  ‘No! It was a mistake.’ I’m already grabbing my phone from my bag on the worktop so that I can call the store straight back and tell them Ravinder needs to return and collect the clothes, pronto.

  ‘Is pretty expensive mistake.’ Bogdan peers at me. ‘Libby, am not meaning to be personal, but you are not looking the greatest.’

  ‘Oh. Well, the black eye probably isn’t helping …’

  ‘Is not just black eye. Is whole of you. Eye make-up is very smudged. Is making you look like raccoon. On way to fancy-dress party. Dressed as Marilyn Manson.’

  He reconsiders this for a moment. ‘Or more likely, come to be thinking of it, Marilyn Manson on way to fancy-dress party dressed as raccoon …’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Bogdan, you’ve made your point …’

  Wait a moment.

  Something has just popped into my head.

  Something Bogdan said, shortly after he burst through the plasterboard wall a few moments ago.

  ‘Bogdan, did you say … voices?’

  ‘Begging pardon?’

  ‘Voices. You said you signed for the order because you didn’t think I was in. And you only knew I was in when you heard voices.’

  ‘Is true.’

  ‘Plural?’

  ‘What is this plural?’

  ‘More than one. More than one voice. Voices. Is that what you heard?’

  ‘But of course. Am hearing two voices, Libby. Your voice and friend’s voice. Friend is telling you about new Gmail address and you are telling her she is unreal. Am not dropping the eaves, Libby, you and friend are speaking loudly and wall is only plaster … What is problem, Libby? You are looking beyond the pale.’

  I’m sure I have turned pale.

  Because if Bogdan heard two voices, then there’s only one logical explanation.

  ‘Multiple personality disorder,’ I croak.

  ‘Begging pardon?’

  ‘I’ve read about it online … it’s like in Fight Club … or that creepy horror movie set in the motel …’

  ‘Psycho?’

  I was actually thinking of something significantly less classic: a slightly crappy John Cusack vehicle called Identity, as far as I remember, where one of the characters ends up bumping off all the other characters – who all turn out to be his alter egos – at a rain-soaked motel in Nevada.

  I feel as if I might throw up any second.

  ‘Bogdan,’ I croak, ‘I think you’d better stay away from me. I’m serious. There’s … there’s something very wrong with me. I’m not well. I’m not well at all.’

  ‘You are needing doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know. Actually, yes. Yes, I think I am needing doctor.’

  He’s already reaching into his dungarees pocket for his phone. ‘Don’t panic, Libby. Am calling six six six.’

  ‘Nine nine nine. But don’t do that, Bogdan!’ I yelp. ‘It’s not an emergency. I just think that maybe … well, my best friend is a doctor. I just really need to speak to her about this.’ Now I’m scrabbling for my phone. ‘I’ll be fine, Bogdan … but please, I think I need to be alone right now. I mean, I hope I can be alone right now …’

  Because I swear, if Audrey Hepburn pops up the minute Bogdan leaves, I’m going to lose it.

  ‘I am not wanting to be leaving you …’

  ‘I’m OK, Bogdan, I promise. I just need to get through to my friend on the phone.’

  ‘All right.’ He looks reluctant, but disappears from the hole, only to return a moment later. ‘Am able to get you anything from down the stairs? Takeaway coffee? Fish and chips? Chicken and ribs?’

  ‘Thanks, I’m really fine.’

  Except that I’m not.

  I press Nora’s name on my phone with a slightly shaking index finger, and am not at all surprised when it cuts straight to voicemail a moment later.

  ‘Nora. Hi. It’s me … look, I know you’re ridiculously busy, but there’s something very important I need to talk to you about. Well, quite a few important things, actually, because I’ve been doing all sorts of stupid things lately, like setting my head on fire, and sleeping with someone I think is called a modelizer, and … and falling out with Olly … and the only real live person I’ve got to talk to about any of this is this Moldovan hairdresser-slash-handyman, who’s ever so sweet, but who really isn’t medically equipped to deal with it all … anyway, I’m rambling,’ I say, hastily, as I realize that I’m rambling, ‘but if you have a moment to call me back, I’d really, really appreciate it. Oh, and if you have the chance to read up on multiple personality disorder, at all, before you call me, then that would probably be the most efficient use of your time. Thanks, Nora. Lots of love.’

  That might, I realize as I end the call, have been a slightly worrying message.

  But there’s no way I can delete it now.

  And anyway, I suddenly feel so very, very tired that all I want to do is lie down on the Chesterfield and close my eyes, and hope that I’m left in peace, by what now looks like my scary alter ego, to have a little sleep …

  I’m woken by a shrill, sharp buzzing noise.

  I roll over to the far edge of the Chesterfield and scrabble around in the dark – when did it get dark, for crying out loud? – for my phone.

  It’s only when I grab it, try to answer the call and realize that the buzzing noise is still buzzing that I cotton on: it’s not my phone ringing, it’s the front door.

  I stumble the three small steps to the entry phone and pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’ I mumble. (Actually it comes out sounding more like just lo, because my throat is too Sahara-dry to make an h sound.) ‘Who’s there?’ (Which comes out sounding more like zzzaaair.)

  ‘Libby?’ The voice sounds alarmed. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me.’ (Smee.)

  ‘It’s Nora! God, Libby, you sound awful! Let me up!’

  ‘Nora?’ I press the button to let her in, then just stand and stare through the confusing darkness at the entry phone for a few moments.

  I’m not exactly sure what the hell is going on.

  I was literally just talking to Nora on the phone … well, leaving that message on her voicemail, that is … and now all of a sudden she’s here? All the way down from Glasgow? And banging on my front door as though the Great Fire of Colliers Wood has just started to rage outside, and she’s my only chance of escaping alive …?

  I pull the door open.

  ‘Nora! What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Coming to make sure you’re bloody all right, that’s what!’ She looks terrible. Well, she looks wonderful, because she’s well groomed and glamorous and very, very pretty. But beneath the neat make-up and the smart blazer and that cloud of fluffy blonde hair, she looks abysmal. Pale and stressed and ever-so-slightly manic. ‘I mean, what the hell was that message you left me this morning? I got it at the end of my shift this lunchtime and I tried to call you back for two solid hours, until Mark suggested I’d better just get on a plane and come down here.’

  ‘You�
��ve just flown down from Glasgow?’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to say it like I took the nearest flying carpet. We do have aeroplanes up there, you know. And airports.’ She’s already undoing the buttons on her blazer, coming through the door and finding the light switch. ‘OK, let me have a look at you,’ she says, before shrieking, ‘Jesus, Libby! Who gave you that black eye?’

  ‘Oh, that was just Cass. She threw an icy cocktail in my face because she thought I was chatting up her boyfriend.’

  Nora, who – like Olly – knows Cass, obviously has an easier time believing this than Audrey Hepburn did.

  ‘OK,’ she says, taking my wrist in one hand to feel my pulse and putting the other on my forehead. ‘Have you been running a fever? Have you taken any drugs? When was the last time you ate something?’

  ‘No fever, of course no drugs, and … you know what, I don’t remember.’ I stare at her. ‘Oh, my God, Nora! Do you think it’s just hunger?’

  ‘Do I think what’s just hunger?’

  ‘This whole multiple personality thing! The hallucinations.’

  ‘OK, this is why I got on a plane.’ Nora has put her Doctor’s Face on now: calm, capable, and concerned on a merely professional level. ‘Sit down, Libby, and … Jesus, what the hell is this monstrosity?’

  She’s staring at my Chesterfield.

  ‘It’s my new sofa.’

  ‘But it’s taking up most of the space in here. Don’t you need, well, a bed and a table, and stuff like that?’

  ‘Yes, I thought so originally, but actually, you can do pretty much everything you need on this Chesterfield! You can eat on here, sleep on here …’

  ‘Theoretically, yes, but it doesn’t look like you’ve been doing much of either.’ She sits down on the sofa and pulls me down next to her, while reaching into the huge handbag she’s got slung in the crook of her arm for her case of doctor’s instruments. ‘Now, let me take your temperature, and then I’ll look in your eyes, and in the meantime you should just go on telling me about these … what did you call them? Hallucinations?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and did you get a chance to read up on multiple personality disorder? Because really, all I’d like to know is if it’s treatable. I don’t need to know all the scary details, but if there’s some nice easy medication I can take, I’m perfectly happy to do that.’