A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘The lighting’s amazing.’

  ‘The colour of the walls?’

  ‘I love the colour of the walls,’ I say, but not quite loudly enough for Bogdan, who’s just climbing up a stepladder with a tray of paint and a roller in his hand, to hear me. (I’m still pissed off about the Greek salad comment, and I don’t want him to accidentally mistake a compliment about Olly’s choice of paint to be mistaken for a compliment about his decorating skills.) ‘Seriously, Ol, it’s looking fantastic. It looks like you’re pretty much all there for Friday night.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ He actually holds up two crossed fingers. It makes him look like a little boy; an even younger version of the teenage Olly who wrote that menu on the back of the napkin all those years ago. ‘The kitchen’s all up and running now, which is a bloody great relief, I can tell you … the chefs are starting to get things going in there right now, if you want to come and take a look?’

  ‘I’d love to! But, Olly, I don’t want to get in the way, or anything.’

  ‘You couldn’t if you tried. Follow me,’ he says, putting a hand, briefly, into the small of my back as he guides me, in my too-tight skirt and tippy-tappy heels, towards the swing door right at the back of the room. ‘I’ve got the waiting staff coming in later to start getting to grips with the ordering system,’ he goes on, sounding more like he’s running through a check-list to reassure himself than actually communicating all this stuff to me, ‘and hopefully they’ll all get the chance to sit down and try as much as possible from the menu so they know what they’re talking about when they take the orders from the customers.’

  I’m suddenly hit by noise and heat as we head into the kitchen: it’s pretty small in here, and there are five young, male chefs crammed in behind the newly fitted range, clattering pans and stirring things, and talking loudly over each other.

  ‘Don’t let us stop you, guys,’ Olly tells them. ‘I’m just bringing my friend Libby in for a sneak peek, to see where all the magic is going to happen.’

  The clattering, and the stirring, and the talking-over-each-other stop.

  I mean, they grind to a halt. Instantly.

  The five chefs have stopped what they’re doing and they’re staring at us.

  Correction: I don’t think they’re staring at Olly. They’re staring at me.

  My first thought is that more of my shirt buttons must have popped open … or that I’ve got a huge morsel of Frazzle stuck between my front teeth … or that during the ten seconds it’s taken us to walk back here from the front of house, I’ve unintentionally grown an extra head.

  ‘Oi,’ says Olly, with a bit of an edge to his voice, to the staring chefs. ‘I brought Libby back here so she could have a good look at the kitchen. Not so that you lot could all have a good look at her.’

  There are a few mutterings of ‘yes, chef’, ‘sorry, chef’, before the clattering and the stirring all start up again.

  ‘Sorry,’ Olly says to me, as we head back out through the swing door. ‘I didn’t mean to subject you to that.’

  ‘To – er – what?’

  ‘A bunch of sex-starved chefs lusting over you.’

  ‘Were they?’

  ‘Well, it was either that, or I really need to stop wearing this aftershave.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Of course they were lusting over you,’ he goes on. ‘You look … well, you look really great today, Lib.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

  Because it all feels a bit silly. I’m exactly the same person as I was yesterday – exactly the same person recently mistaken, by a national newspaper, for a housekeeper in her mid-forties. And now … what? A skirt a size too small, a pair of impractical shoes, oh, and a solid half-hour in front of the makeup mirror before I left the flat, and suddenly an entire kitchen full of chefs is rendered silent by my allure?

  Looks like Marilyn actually does know exactly what she’s talking about, after all.

  And really, when it comes to Marilyn Monroe, why on earth did I ever doubt it?

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, you always look great.’ Olly isn’t actually looking at me as he says this; he’s busying himself with a nearby dustpan and brush, stooping down to sweep up a pile of sawdust from near the bar. Which seems a bit of a pointless task to me, given that the carpenter is still creating sawdust like it’s going out of fashion, and that someone’s going to have to do a pretty mammoth job with a Hoover at some point later today. ‘Are you off somewhere smart?’ he adds. ‘After here, I mean.’

  ‘Smart? Well, that depends what you mean by smart. I’ve got to meet Mum at Paddington this afternoon, and take her to visit my sister. In her rehab clinic.’

  Now Olly looks at me again. ‘Your sister’s gone to rehab?’

  ‘Yep. To misquote Amy Winehouse, nobody tried to make her go to rehab – because she didn’t really have an addiction problem – but she said yes, yes, yes anyway.’

  ‘Right …’ He’s looking a bit confused. ‘I’m not sure that would have been quite as catchy a hook if Amy Winehouse had written it that way.’

  ‘It wouldn’t.’

  ‘But Cass is OK?’

  ‘Well, that might depend on your definition of OK. If it includes the category of “entirely morally bankrupt and without shame or scruple”, then yes, she’s absolutely fine.’

  Olly nods, appearing to Get It without me having to say much more. Which is, to be honest, the main reason I can tell him these kinds of things in the first place.

  ‘I’ll just put her down as an unlikely,’ he says, ‘for the party on Friday, shall I?’

  ‘I think that would be best, Olly, yes.’

  ‘And you’re OK?’ he adds. ‘I mean, I haven’t really seen you since … er … the other night.’

  ‘Let’s not speak of that,’ I say, hastily, ‘ever again.’

  ‘Right. OK. Just so long as you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m fine. And, like I told you at Dad’s wedding, I’m here for you this week, Olly, not the other way around.’ I clear my throat. ‘I mean, you have to tell me what I can do to help, whether it’s picking stuff up from your parents, or choosing art for the walls …’

  ‘Sure, Lib.’ He chews his lip for a moment, as if he’s debating whether to say anything or not. Then he says, ‘It’s just that you did say you’d call me and find out what I needed you to do. So when you didn’t call, I thought probably you’d just ended up too busy with work, and stuff. And your sister and this rehab stuff – I know, now. Obviously.’

  And Dillon.

  And Marilyn Monroe.

  ‘I’m really sorry. And you’re right. And that’s why I’m here, now, this morning. To help. I’ll do anything you want me to do, Olly. Anything at all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go around offering that, Lib,’ he says, lightly.

  ‘I’m serious. I’ve got two whole hours before I need to go to meet Mum.’

  ‘I know. But honestly, today’s a quiet day. Tash is picking up the stuff from my parents. Everything’s under control in the kitchen. Bogdan’s finishing up in the dining room itself, so it’s a bit too crowded for anyone to do anything practical in there … I tell you what, if you come over tomorrow, I could use your expert eye for hanging those pictures, and your expert tastebuds to help me settle on a house cocktail?’

  I shudder, inwardly, at the mere mention of the word ‘cocktail’. But obviously I’m not going to let Olly see this.

  ‘I’d love to.’ I reach out and squeeze his arm. ‘I’m just really proud of you, Olly. I mean, after all these years that you dreamed about your own place … Oh, that reminds me! You haven’t told me what it’s going to be called yet.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  It’s a statement, not a question.

  ‘So … er … you’re planning some sort of big reveal on Friday night?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it?’

  He shrugs. ‘I h
ope not.’

  ‘Well, I hope not. Oh, God, it’s not going to be one of the names Nora and I used to come up with for a laugh, is it? Like … The Ravishing Radish?’

  ‘I mostly remember The Amorous Aubergine. Or … what was that really ridiculous one about Stroganoff?’

  ‘BOGOF Stroganoff?’

  ‘That was the one!’

  ‘Nora’s favourite,’ I say. ‘I’d better give her a call, see how she’s feeling.’

  ‘Trust me, she’s fine. Anyway, she’s got Tash round mine to look after her.’

  ‘Of course. A fully qualified doctor.’

  ‘Exactly … oh, hang on a minute, mate,’ he’s suddenly saying, to Bogdan, who’s just moved his ladder over to the bar area in a purposeful manner and is about to set about the still-unpainted section of wall behind it. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind about the colour on that particular section of wall. Can you do it in the pure brilliant white you used on the walls in the loos, and not the jasmine white we’ve used everywhere else?’

  ‘If this is what you are wanting,’ Bogdan says, mutinously. ‘Is not what I would be doing. But is your memorial service.’

  ‘I think he means it’s your funeral,’ I translate, in a whisper, as I go up on tiptoe to give Olly a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks for inviting me, Ol. I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and Bogdan,’ I call over to him, ‘give me a quick call if you’re in Colliers Wood later on today, will you? There’s … something very important that we need to talk about.’

  His eyes light up. ‘You are finally deciding that is time to do something drastical with your hair?’

  I’m about to say no when I realize that it would be simpler all round for me to just say yes. Partly because it will stop Bogdan from asking if the important thing to talk about is in fact the situation with Dillon. And partly because he could be right. Maybe I am finally deciding that is time to do something drastical with my hair.

  ‘Yes, Bogdan. That’s it.’

  ‘Is excellent news, Libby. I will be dropping everything for this.’

  ‘Yeah … could you maybe not drop everything,’ Olly asks, ‘until you’ve actually finished painting the restaurant that’s due to have its big opening party on Friday night?’

  Bogdan scowls at Olly but returns, mutinously, to his painting.

  And I totter out of the mystery-name restaurant, and head towards the High Street.

  Bogdan is going to kill me when he finds out what I’ve done.

  And I don’t use the phrase lightly: his father is a successful organized-crime overlord. Bogdan, I’m fairly sure, Knows People. It’s probably only a matter of a single phone call, and I’ll be found a few days from now, my legs encased in concrete, washed up on the banks of the River Wandle.

  Still, at least my hair will look good when they find me. Even if nothing else does.

  That is, I hope it will look good. It’s hard to believe it right now, what with all these bits of foil that are being folded into my hair, but Daisy, the very nice colourist at the Clapham branch of Headmasters, has assured me that she’s opting for nice subtle shades of honey and caramel, which are exactly what I requested when I walked in off the street and asked for a full head of highlights almost an hour ago.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never changed your hair colour before!’ Daisy is saying now, as she paints another section of my virgin hair with her pungent-smelling brush. ‘And then made a snap decision to go blonde like this! What made you suddenly take the plunge?’

  I’m not quite sure how to answer this. Because it’s not just that I can’t tell her that my new flatmate, who is none other than Marilyn Monroe, has strongly counselled me to do it.

  It’s also that I don’t quite know what suddenly made my mind up either.

  Because it isn’t just Marilyn. It isn’t just Bogdan, who’s been urging me to do this for months.

  It’s a lot to do with those photos, I suppose, in the Mail. They were a bit of a nasty wake-up call.

  And … well, it’s no more than that. At least, I don’t think it is.

  ‘It was just time for a change,’ I tell Daisy, before adding, nervously, ‘but you’re not going to make me look completely different, are you?’

  ‘Relax,’ Daisy says. ‘I know what I’m doing here. And we’re going for a very natural blonde. Sunkissed, that’s all. I’m not going to turn you into Marilyn Monroe or anything.’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ I laugh, noisily. ‘Of course not.’

  She puts her hands on my shoulders, and says, ‘I’m just going to get a few more foils. Be back with you in a minute. And you’re sure you don’t want tea, a coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  Anyway, my phone has just started to ring, so I’ll use the couple of minutes she’s gone to answer it. It’s probably Mum, announcing that her train has been delayed, or—

  Oh, hang on. It’s Bogdan.

  I toy with not answering, fearful that he’ll have some sort of hairdressing sixth sense and be able to tell, from the precise decibel-level and pitch of the background noise, that a BaByliss is blowing out somebody’s hair a few feet away from me. But actually, I think I should take this minute risk and answer the call, just in case he’s calling to tell me Olly’s seen those pictures in the Mail, or something.

  ‘Bogdan, hi, I’m just—’

  ‘Oh, hi, there, honey! I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.’

  ‘Marilyn?’

  It’s so much of a shock to hear her voice like this that I actually drop my iPhone, which falls with a clatter on to the floor beneath my swivel chair.

  ‘Whoops!’ says Daisy, coming back over with her foils and crouching down to get my phone for me. ‘Here you go, darling. I hope you didn’t lose your call!’

  I take the phone and hold it to my ear.

  ‘How on earth,’ I whisper into it, ‘are you calling me?’

  ‘Oh, well, honey, I don’t know how it works in Canada, but in America we have these things called phone lines … now, I couldn’t tell you how they work exactly, because I’m not all that bright, but I think it’s something to do with—’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ I hiss, furtively, while Daisy gives me a slightly strange look in the mirror. ‘Are you using Bogdan’s mobile?’

  ‘You mean this little-bitty phone that looks like the one you were using last night? I sure am, honey! I guess he must have dropped it when he was helping me move the furniture.’ Her voice fades out for a moment, before coming back in at normal volume. ‘It says Samsung on the top, I don’t know if that’s his surname or something?’

  ‘No, it’s not … did you scroll through and find my number?’

  ‘Scroll? I don’t know about that, honey, I just jabbed the little screen a few times with my finger and your name came up … say, is there a little TV set on this thing, too? Because I thought this enormous TV set in the apartment was incredible enough … now you’re telling me there’s a TV set as small as the palm of my hand, too?’

  ‘Yes, it’s … sort of a TV set. But, Marilyn,’ I lower my voice, ‘is everything OK? Why are you calling?’

  ‘For a little chat, of course, honey!’

  ‘A chat?’

  ‘Well, honey, you were gone when I woke up this morning. Which was sort of a shame, because I had this real romantic dream about Burt Lancaster that I wanted to tell you all about … well, not all about,’ she giggles, breathlessly. ‘I mean, a girl’s gotta have some secrets, doesn’t she? Anyway, then I got up and went to look for some way to make a cup of coffee, but all I could find was this funny-looking machine, and I didn’t know how to work it …’

  ‘I really wouldn’t worry about getting that started,’ I say, hastily, because the last thing I need is Marilyn getting as obsessed with the Nespresso machine as Audrey Hepburn did. ‘There should be a jar of instant in one of the cupboards.’

  ‘Oh, I already found that, honey! And I found your secret stash of cookies, too, and now I’m just all
stretched out on the couch and I’m watching this terrific show about being a housewife in Beverly Hills, or something?’

  ‘Real Housewives of Beverly Hills?’

  ‘That’s the one! It looks like another of those reality TV shows you were telling me about, honey, is that right? I mean, it’s kind of hard to tell if they’re acting or not because their faces don’t seem to move.’

  ‘Ooooh, tell your friend to watch the Miami version,’ Daisy whispers, joining in the half of the conversation she can actually hear. ‘That’s the best one. I could spend my whole day off watching back-to-back episodes of that.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ Marilyn is continuing, ‘the woman with the huge house and the little dog is mad at the woman with the handsome husband and the drunk sister, because the woman with the handsome husband and the drunk sister didn’t invite the woman with the huge house to the cocktail party she was throwing. And then the woman with the famous actor husband started a fight with the woman with the—’

  ‘OK, OK, I get it. They’re all fighting.’

  ‘Of course they’re all fighting!’ Daisy tells me, excitedly. ‘That’s the whole point of the show!’

  ‘Oooh, who’s that you’re with, honey?’ Marilyn asks. ‘She sounds a fun gal! Maybe you should invite her over tonight!’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, honey, I was thinking we could have another girls’ night in! But a proper one this time, something we plan in advance. I could make us some cocktails—’

  ‘No!’ I yelp. ‘I mean … let’s have a bit of a break from cocktails tonight, shall we?’

  ‘And drink champagne, you mean?’

  ‘Er, I suppose so.’

  ‘Because I just adore champagne. It’ll be perfect! You, me, and … what’s that other girl’s name, the one you’re inviting over?’

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Yes?’ Daisy says.

  ‘No, no, sorry,’ I tell her, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘She sounds swell!’ Marilyn says, breathily. ‘And maybe she’ll want to watch some more of this Housewives stuff. I mean, it’s giving me all kinds of ideas for my own show. I think I just need to find a few more friends I can fall out with … preferably ones with little dogs … Daisy doesn’t have a little dog, does she?’