‘Now, promise me you’re feeling a bit better this morning, Lib,’ Nora says, as we head into the station’s branch of WH Smith to buy magazines, mints and Minstrels for her journey. ‘After everything we went through last night?’
Everything we went through last night was Nora’s extremely thorough de-bunking, over some woefully under-fried plaice and a bucket of woefully dry fried chicken, of my whole multiple personality theory.
Nora being Nora, she wouldn’t rest until she’d presented as much cold, hard, scientific evidence as possible that my hallucinations are most likely caused by the combined stress of moving home, losing my job, and accidentally setting my head on fire in front of an entire TV crew.
Which, let’s face it, is pretty much what I thought the first time it happened.
And it has at least made me relax, quite a bit, about the possibility that I’m suffering a rare and terrifying identity disorder; one that might not even exist, anyway, according to Nora’s brief but thorough run-down of the most up-to-date psychological research. She was the perfect brisk, no-nonsense medical professional about Bogdan Son of Bogdan’s claim to have heard two voices the other day, too: ‘Honestly, Libby, the acoustics up here in this old attic are godawful, you know. It could perfectly easily sound as though two people were talking when in fact it was just one person and the reply of some seriously rickety plumbing.’
Which, seeing as the quality of the plumbing isn’t exactly up for debate, at least has some ring of truth about it.
‘And even though,’ she’s telling me now, as we wander towards the magazine racks in WH Smith, ‘the chances of any of this being caused by a brain tumour are extremely remote, so all you need to do is keep an eye out for any other symptoms – headaches, flashing lights, blurred vision. Give me a call and we’ll talk it all through some more. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ I tell her, squeezing her hand.
‘The most important thing you need to do to bring the hallucinations to an end is to eat proper food, get proper sleep, and most important of all – relax. Which ideally means no gadding about with gorgeous, unreliable actors.’
‘I don’t think gadding about with gorgeous, unreliable actors is an option,’ I tell her, ‘even if I wanted it to be.’
And then, before I can accidentally blurt out that – despite everything – I’m not sure I want to bring the hallucinations to an end, I tell her I’ll go and find the Polo mints and meet her at the checkout.
When I meet her at the head of the queue a couple of minutes later, she’s looking a bit peculiar.
‘Is everything OK, Nor? Do you need me to dash to Boots and buy you some emergency Tampax or something …?’
She shakes her head, takes the Polos from me and pays for them, and the stack of magazines under her arm, at the next free counter. It’s only when we get outside, onto the main concourse, that she speaks again.
‘I think you should probably have a look at this,’ she says, reaching into the thin plastic carrier-full of magazines, taking out this month’s copy of InStyle, and handing it over to me.
I stare down at – who else? – Kim Kardashian on the cover, trying to work out what it is Nora is looking so meaningful about.
‘The New Wedge – How High Can You Go?’
‘No.’
‘Compact Foundation: Tried and Tested?’
‘No! Here, Libby: look.’ She points at the strapline at the bottom left of the cover, nestling in the lower slopes of Kim Kardashian’s cleavage.
‘Golden Hollywood Uncovered?’
She nods. ‘Go to the Contents page.’
This is starting to feel a bit like one of those pointless obstacle courses I remember forever being made to do at primary school, and I’m half expecting Nora to chuck a saggy beanbag and a hula-hoop at me when, doing as she’s asked, I reach the Contents page.
The Golden Hollywood title leaps out again, in the Features section, and catches my eye immediately.
Page 123: Golden Hollywood Uncovered. Edward Lomax, author of the definitive new volume on Hollywood history, writes about the hidden lives of the leading ladies of Tinseltown’s golden era, from Ingrid Bergman’s complicated love life to Audrey Hepburn’s tragic relationship with her father.
Edward Lomax, author of the definitive new volume on Hollywood history – and, apparently, world expert on tragic relationships with fathers – is my dad.
Dad’s book has been published, and I didn’t even know about it.
‘Did you know …?’
‘No. We’re not in touch, Nora, I told you.’
‘But I just thought, if his book was finally being published … and it sounds quite a big deal, if he’s writing articles for InStyle off the back of it … I don’t know, maybe there was a launch party, or something …’
‘Maybe there was, but if so, I wasn’t invited.’
There’s a short, awkward silence.
‘Well, maybe if you’d even had the slightest inkling of this, it might have been the thing that triggered—’
‘Nora, for the last time, I didn’t know Dad’s book was out, and it’s nothing to do with my hallucinations!’
A passing train driver gives me a seriously funny look, and gives me a wide berth, so I think I’d better keep my voice down.
‘Honestly, this is brand-new information for me, Nora,’ I hiss. ‘And you’re making a bigger deal of it, anyway, than it really is.’
‘Libby, your dad left your mum in order to write that book … He once told you he’d had to make the decision between his life’s work and his daughter and that he was certain he’d made the right decision …’
‘Dad told me a lot of things,’ I say, abruptly. ‘Most of them utter crap.’
‘And now the book is done. And suddenly you’re having imaginary conversations with the very Hollywood legends he broke up his family in order to write about?’
‘Not Hollywood legends. Just Audrey Hepburn.’
Nora lets out a long – a very long – sigh.
‘OK. Well, I guess I need to be getting on one of these trains if I’m going to make it to the airport in time.’ She hoiks her bag up onto her shoulder. ‘Again, all I can say, Lib, is to call me if you need to talk. I promise, I’ll make more time for you than I have done these past few months. Work’s been crazy, and the wedding …’
‘I know. You don’t need to explain anything to me, Nora. I still can’t believe you flew all the way down here for me.’
She reaches over and gives me a short, rather violent hug.
‘Say hi to your mum and sister for me, won’t you?’
‘I will. And give Mark a big kiss from me.’
I watch as she walks towards the Heathrow Express platform, and wave goodbye as she gets onto the train, which starts to pull out of the station a moment later.
Right, well, I’m not going to read Dad’s article.
I’m certainly not going to read his book.
I’m just going to go and enjoy my spa day with Mum and Cass, through gritted teeth, if I have to, and banish all thought of Edward Lomax. And Hollywood Legends, while we’re at it.
I turn and head for the Circle Line, shoving InStyle magazine far down into my bag as I go.
*
The entrance to the FitLondon spa is, thank God, on Baker Street itself rather than in the plaza, so I don’t have to run the gauntlet of Pippa the ill-disposed receptionist on the main desk. In fact, the girl on the spa reception is terribly sweet, and all prepared to give me a tour of the facilities, from the steam room where my treatment will take place to the changing rooms where, apparently, a complimentary waffle robe and slippers await me.
As much as I love a waffle robe, the thing I really need right now is caffeine, so I just ask the receptionist to point me in the direction of the café.
‘Oh, well, we don’t have a café as such … we have a fabulous juice bar, serving freshly made raw juices and herbal teas, if you fancy that?’
I don’t, much,
but it’s obviously my best bet, so I follow her directions there in the hope that I might at least persuade someone to bung a couple of extra tea bags into my pot of camomile.
It’s actually a little area of tables and chairs by the side of the lavish, Roman-style swimming pool, mostly filled with women in waffle robes, one of whom is Cass.
She’s sitting at one of the tables closest to the bar itself, a tall glass of pink-tinged smoothie in front of her. Her waffle robe is merely draped, glamorously, over her shoulders, and beneath it she’s wearing nothing but an extremely sexy scarlet cut-out swimsuit that barely contains her ample breasts and, with her messy blonde extensions, makes her look a lot like Pamela Anderson in an old episode of Baywatch.
‘Oh, hi, Libby,’ she says, glancing up from her phone as I approach the table. ‘Why the shades? Are you massively hungover or something?’
I sit down opposite her, take off Dillon’s Ray-Bans, and look right at her.
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘That.’
‘That.’
‘It looks awful.’
‘Thanks. In case you’re wondering, it feels pretty awful, too.’
‘I might have some arnica in my bag,’ she says.
This is the closest she’s ever going to get to admitting that she’s sorry.
The thing is, though, that although my sister’s not the world’s greatest at apologies, at least she doesn’t generally sulk, or dwell, or brood. Whatever nonsense she might have thought, last night, about me chatting up her dreadful boyfriend, she’ll have let go already. Almost as quickly as she let go the cocktail shaker full of ice in my direction, in fact.
‘You look really rough, you know, Libby,’ she goes on, as I sit down at the table and put my bag down.
‘What, you mean apart from my black eye?’
She ignores this. ‘So is your new boyfriend not letting you sleep at all?’
‘My new …?’
‘Dillon O’Hara.’
‘He’s not my new boyfriend!’
‘Well, I know that, Libby.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m joking. Obviously.’
‘Oh. Right. Obviously.’
‘But everyone saw you leave the party together, by the way. And I mean everyone, including that annoying model he used to go out with. Regan or Rhesus, or whatever her name is.’
‘Rhea.’
‘That’s the one. You’d better hope you don’t ever run into her in a dark alley, Libby. She was spitting blood when she saw he’d left with you.’
I let out a laugh that’s meant to be devil-may-care and chock-full of bravado, but accidentally comes out sounding high-pitched and slightly unhinged.
‘So did he just walk you to the tube or something?’
I make a movement with my head that’s neither a nod nor a shake, thereby not committing myself to an answer of any sort. Not that Cass is all that interested; she’s already decided that walking me to the tube is all that Dillon could possibly have wanted to do with me, so an actual answer is irrelevant.
‘You know, I’ve decided,’ she goes on, ‘that actually there’s nothing so very special about Dillon O’Hara. I mean, he’s not even that good looking. And now that he’s pissed off Dave, by the way, his career is going to be, like, totally down the pan.’
‘Speaking of Dave,’ I say quickly, partly to change the subject and partly because it’s been on my mind, ‘I assume you’ve noticed that he wears a wedding ring?’
Cass flips her hair, with a hefty dose of the devil-may-care attitude I failed to nail a moment or two ago, and ignores the question.
‘I like that,’ she says instead, in a rather pointed tone, nodding at the pearl-and-orchid necklace that – having definitely decided against giving to Nora; I’ll make a start on a new necklace for her instead – I’m still wearing this morning. ‘Can you make my ruby one into something like that instead? I sort of messed up the clasp when I had to customize it all by myself the other night.’
‘Cass. Come on. I’m really serious.’
‘So when I go for my body firming experience,’ she tries a new topic, ‘should I ask them to concentrate on my bum and thighs or on my stomach and arms?’
‘Cass—’
‘Because seeing as I’ve got my audition for that Emily thing tomorrow morning, I really need to sort out my disgusting flabby bits, super-quick.’
‘Emily?’
‘You know, Libby! The thing for RTE. The show about Emily Blunt.’
‘Emily Brontë.’
‘Yeah, that’s the one, I think. Hang on: did she have sisters?’
‘A couple of them.’
‘Yep, it’s her then.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘So were they a bit like the Kardashians? Like, a medieval version?’
‘No! And they weren’t medieval, they were …’ Actually, you know what: I give up. ‘Look, Cass, please, can we just finish talking about Dave?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Libby, he’s not married.’ She rolls her eyes at me as if I’ve just said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. ‘Not properly. He and his wife are separated. Well, I mean, they still live in the same house and everything, but that’s only because he’s too nice a guy to upset the children.’
I feel, unexpectedly, a lump in my throat. ‘Oh, Cass …’
‘He’s an agent,’ she says, as though this brings an end to my concerns as firmly as if she’s just said, He’s a newly-beatified saint with a snazzy line in curing terminal illnesses by the laying-on of hands. ‘And I’ve been thinking, I really need to make the move to a proper agent, now that Mum’s going to be distracted by the stage school, and by all this shit with your dad.’
‘But Cass, if you want a proper agent, you could get one without needing to … What shit with my dad?’
‘Uh, I’m not really sure? Something to do with the house …? Oh, you can ask her yourself. She’s on her way back from her anti-ageing facial now. Mum! Over here!’
For someone who’s just spent close to two hundred quid on an anti-ageing facial, Mum looks absolutely dreadful.
The wild, slightly matted hair extensions don’t help, but the main problem is that her eyes are puffy and her nose is red and shiny.
‘Mum?’ I half get to my feet and pull out a chair for her to collapse into. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘That bastard,’ she gasps.
OK, now I know it’s got something to do with Dad.
Mum is riffling through the pockets of her waffle robe and produces a slightly crinkled sheet of smart, cream-coloured paper, which she passes to me.
‘Read that,’ she chokes. ‘I need a bloody drink.’
‘Have my smoothie,’ Cass says, generously, pushing her barely touched glass over in Mum’s direction. ‘I’m going to ask them to do me a prune juice instead. It’s the only way I can think of to blast a couple of pounds out of me before the audition, if I’m going to look anything at all like Kim Kardashian.’
I unfold the sheet of paper.
It’s a typed, official-looking letter, from a place called Latymer Postlethwaite Karney: a solicitor’s firm.
Dear Ms Lomax, the letter reads.
We have been advised by our client, Mr Edward Lomax, that you have recently sold 21 Trevelyan Street, London, the property purchased by you and our client in 1985, and held in your joint names ever since. Mr Lomax has informed us that you have not yet sought to recompense him with his half of the proceeds from the sale of the house.
I glance up at Mum, who is gulping Cass’s unwanted smoothie as if it’s the strong G&T I know she’d much rather be drinking right now.
‘I don’t owe him a single fucking proceed from the sale of the house,’ she says when she puts the glass down. ‘Let alone half. Do you want to know what he’s contributed to the mortgage in the past twenty years? What princely sums he’s deigned to cough up? Absolutely fucking zero, that’s what.’
Which is, I know only too well, the truth.
I can remember overhearing enough tense phone calls
over the years to know that Mum is accurate when she says Dad didn’t pay a penny in mortgage payments. And hardly any child maintenance, for that matter.
We are therefore making contact, the solicitors’ letter continues, to request that you transfer Mr Lomax’s half of the proceeds of the sale of 21 Trevelyan Street into our client account within five working days of the receipt of this letter, or, regrettably, we will be compelled to take further action.
‘I’ve just spent fifteen grand on a stage-school franchise,’ Mum is wailing, a huge tear rolling down her cheeks and plopping into Cass’s smoothie. ‘And the lease for the premises is twelve thousand a year, and I’ve already spent five grand on advertising, and then there’s almost three thousand pounds already gone on my stage-school-principal wardrobe …’
‘Mum, this is ridiculous. You don’t have to give him a penny, OK? Now, we just need to get you a solicitor of your own and they can write straight back and tell these Latymer people that you were the only person paying the mortgage for the last twenty years. We’ll find you a good lawyer, OK?’ I put my hand on hers. ‘They’ll handle it all for you and you won’t have to have any contact with Dad at all.’
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I don’t want a lawyer! It’ll cost me a fortune. Besides, you can’t trust them. They’re all scheming back-stabbers, sleeping with their colleagues and embezzling their clients’ money.’
It’s just possible that Mum is basing her opinions of lawyers on John Grisham novels and episodes of Boston Legal.
‘You know, you could talk to him, Libby,’ she goes on. ‘Get him to understand that he’s being unreasonable. Get him to back off, without me having to use a lawyer at all.’
I smile, because I’m so certain she’s joking.
Mum doesn’t smile back.
‘You’re kidding,’ I say.
‘No, I’m serious, Libby! He’ll listen to you. He’s never been able to deny you anything …’
Mum breaks off, unable to continue with this absurd claim any longer.
‘Well, all right,’ she goes on, looking just the tiniest bit sheepish, and not quite meeting my eye, ‘but perhaps he might be in the mood for making it up to you, darling! For being such a terrible father all these years.’
A Night In With Audrey Hepburn Page 20
