A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, well, nobody’s perfect. And what shall we eat? I don’t cook much, but I can put Velveeta on top of saltines, or make it kinda continental with a little piece of olive …’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry about food,’ I say, hastily, because if her cocktails are anything to go by, I dread to think what magical snacks will materialize themselves. ‘I’ll pick up a pizza on my way home later.’

  ‘Pizza’s good, honey! Isn’t this exciting? Is Daisy excited, too? You know what, honey, put her on the phone, I want to get to know her a little before she comes over tonight.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, firmly, ‘she’s busy right now.’ It’s neither the time nor place to get into a long explanation of why I won’t, in fact, be inviting Daisy round for pizza and a Real Housewives marathon tonight. ‘But I’ll see you later, OK?’

  ‘Sure thing, honey! Toodle-oo,’ Marilyn breathes, before hanging up.

  Daisy smiles at me as I slide the phone back into my bag.

  ‘I once had a flatmate a bit like that,’ she says, with an affectionate eye-roll.

  I seriously doubt this.

  But I nod and smile anyway.

  ‘It used to drive me nuts,’ she goes on. ‘All the long, pointless phone calls, and constantly badgering me to make plans with her … but then I realized one day, she was just sort of looking for a family.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My old flatmate. She didn’t really have a family. And she had a hard time making friends. I think it was why she kind of latched on to me so strongly. Is that the same way with your flatmate?’ Daisy asks.

  ‘Oh … er, yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’ I think about this for a moment. ‘I mean, she never really knew her father – didn’t know who he was, even – and her mum left her with a tonne of different foster families and then ended her days in a lunatic asylum.’

  Daisy is staring at me. ‘Oh, my God. That sounds awful.’

  ‘And she ended her own days,’ I go on, gazing at my foil-covered-hedgehog reflection in the mirror, ‘dying alone from a possibly deliberate overdose at the age of thirty-six after tragic affairs with all sorts of unsuitable men.’

  Now Daisy is looking at me in a manner that implies she’s seriously wondering about calling her manager over and saying she doesn’t want to finish my highlights any more.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, stopping myself just in time. My face is flaring. ‘I’m just … er … trying out the plot of a novel.’

  ‘Right.’ Daisy nods. ‘Er … OK! So, we’ll just get you finished up as soon as possible, shall we?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, please. Great.’

  We don’t talk much more while she finishes off covering me with foils, right up until the last one, when she suddenly says, ‘Marilyn Monroe.’

  I jolt in my seat and cast a sharp glance over each shoulder. ‘Where?’

  ‘No, I mean, that plot you were trying out. For your, er, novel. That sounded a lot like the life of Marilyn Monroe, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, silly me! So it did!’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Daisy sighs. ‘What a terrible waste of such a spectacular life.’

  There’s a sudden, extremely hard lump in my throat.

  Poor Marilyn and her inescapable demons.

  I mean, here’s me letting my own family make me feel rubbish – Dad with his shiny new stepdaughter; Mum with her flagrant favouritism – but I can’t possibly imagine how much Marilyn’s own hopeless excuse for a family must have dragged her down over the years. It’s small wonder, really, that she’s the needy, desperate-to-be-loved soul that she is. I think, while she’s here, that I should probably be taking care of her a bit more. Because she’s no Audrey Hepburn, floating through life with a steel backbone beneath all that grace and charm. To quote (sort of) Marilyn’s rumoured lover John F. Kennedy, I think I need to ask not what my magical Hollywood legend can do for me, but what I can do for my magical Hollywood legend.

  I’ll try to do just this when I go home for pizza and Real Housewives tonight. Return a bit of the advice Marilyn was giving me yesterday. Be a good friend to her the way she so clearly wants and needs.

  ‘Anyway!’ Dasiy adds, brightly. ‘Talking of hot blondes, let me leave you here for a bit with a pile of magazines, and then we can get you all washed out and blow-dried … and fabulous!’

  *

  Well, I don’t know about fabulous. But it certainly looks … good.

  I mean, it suits me far more than I thought it would. And luckily Daisy was telling the truth when she reassured me that she wasn’t turning me into a peroxide blonde: the highlights she’s given me are actually pretty natural-looking, and span the spectrum of flattering tones from warm honey to light caramel. It seems to have brought a bit more softness to my face – and, we can but hope, knocked a few of those forty-odd years off me without the need to resort to plastic surgery and/or a paper bag over my head – and it doesn’t hurt, either, that Daisy finished it all off with a swishy, glamorous blow-dry that makes me feel as if I’ve lost that wretched half-stone in sheer weight of limp hair alone.

  And here’s a thing that I’ve noticed only twenty minutes into being blonde: men are suddenly an awful lot friendlier to you. Pathetic and cliché-ridden, yep. But from my (admittedly limited) findings, I can definitely confirm that this is the case. Two separate men stood up on the tube to offer me their seat on the way from Clapham North to Paddington, and I’m ninety per cent sure it wasn’t because they thought I was pregnant. Or, I suppose, an old-aged pensioner. And since I’ve been waiting at Paddington for Mum’s train to pull in, I’ve been smiled at by a passing policeman, winked at by a man driving one of those floor cleaners from one side of the station to the other, and sexually propositioned by a man selling copies of the Big Issue.

  Which was the only moment, so far, that I wished I’d stayed as a brunette, to be honest with you.

  I’ve still got ten minutes to kill before Mum’s train gets here, so I’m just wandering over to the AMT bar to get a coffee (and, in all honesty, to avoid the lurking Big Issue man, who looks as if he might be headed my way again) when a FaceTime call starts to ring on my phone.

  I know that Bogdan’s phone doesn’t do FaceTime, so this definitely can’t be Marilyn.

  I get almost as big a shock when I see who it actually is, though.

  It’s Dillon.

  For a split second, I think about not answering. To keep at least one of my Communications Bans alive, just to prove to myself, if nothing else, that I do have a fraction of steel in me.

  But then I remember the terrible pictures of me in the paper, looking like a 45-year-old housekeeper – pictures that I assume Dillon has seen, this morning, over his breakfast tea and toast – and the prospect of being able to undo a bit of that, by answering his FaceTime call with my glossy new hairdo …

  So nope. No steel. Just a big, fat, bottomless pit of neediness worthy of Marilyn Monroe herself.

  I slide the bar on the screen to take the call.

  And at least have the gratification, even if I am a spineless jellyfish, of seeing Dillon’s eyes widen in astonishment when he sees my face pop up on his screen.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he says.

  He’s looking as fresh-faced as he was when he left the clinic, wearing a blue T-shirt and, I can’t help but notice, the little plaited leather-cord necklace I made him after a random scavenge around my handbag while we watched, of all things, Some Like It Hot at his flat one evening.

  ‘Not Jesus, Mary or Joseph, I’m afraid,’ I reply. ‘Just me. Libby.’

  ‘Well, now, I’m not sure about that. The last time I saw Libby she was a very attractive brunette. Whereas the person I see on my screen before me is a stunning blonde.’

  I refuse to let myself get remotely excited by the fact that, in one breath, he’s just called me both very attractive and stunning. After all, this is Dillon we’re talking about. He’s such an inveterate charmer that
he probably compliments his kettle before he puts water into it, and butters up his favourite Manchester United coffee mug before taking a swig. Besides, I’ve never quite been able to shake the opinion that Dillon’s compliments are just as much about making him feel good (about being so goddamn charismatic and delightful) as they are about improving the day of the person (or kettle, or coffee mug) on the receiving end of them.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say, as airily as possible. ‘I just fancied a bit of a change, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bloody good change. Not that I didn’t think you looked fantastic before. But there’s just one thing I’m worried about …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it looks like it might be quite an expensive style to keep up. And I’ve already budgeted for my housekeeper’s salary for the year, and I’m afraid I can’t add any extra for a personal hairdressing allowance.’

  ‘You’ve seen the pictures, then?’ I sigh.

  ‘I have indeed.’ He grins. ‘Cheer up, Lib. I think we both look pretty spectacular.’

  ‘No, Dillon. You look spectacular. I look exactly like I’ve spent the majority of my forty-plus years down on my hands and knees scrubbing your grouting.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. Besides, if you were going to go down on your hands and knees, Libby, I can think of a lot more enjoyable ways for you to do so than scrubbing my grouting.’

  I must look a bit shocked, because he adds, hastily, ‘Sorry. You set that one up. I couldn’t resist.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Adam’s not with you, is he? I don’t want to make your boyfriend angry with me.’

  ‘Er … no. He’s not with me. I’m just waiting for my mum, actually.’ In fact, I can see the Cardiff train pulling in at the platform ahead of me. ‘She’ll be here any minute, in fact, Dillon, so if there was something specific you wanted …?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. There was. Sorry, I just got sidetracked by your phenomenal new look there for a moment.’ He smiles at me again, a smile that wobbles ever so slightly when I don’t return it. ‘I was just wondering if you might happen to be free tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. For dinner.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Yes, it’s this meal people eat in the evenings, usually—’

  ‘Let’s not do all that again, Dillon,’ I say, because even though I might have found his stock-in-trade joke charming at first, it doesn’t stay quite so charming when you’ve been so badly let down by the person doing the joking. ‘Let’s just stipulate that I know what dinner is. And that I’m only expressing surprise because I don’t really know why you’re inviting me to eat it with you.’

  ‘Because I owe it to you. Remember? That posh meal you said you wanted?’

  ‘Er … I don’t think I said I wanted a posh meal.’

  ‘I said I’d planned to take you out for dinner, and a proper apology, and you said only a three-Michelin-star meal at the most expensive restaurant in town would do. With oysters, and foie gras, and vintage champagne. Well, I tried calling the most expensive restaurant in town, name-dropping as if it was going out of fashion, and still the bastards wouldn’t give me a table until three weeks on Tuesday—’

  ‘That must’ve made you feel good.’

  ‘And then I got my agent to call them, tell them they were calling on behalf of George and Amal Clooney, and – lo and behold – a table magically materialized for tonight …’

  ‘Dillon, my mum’s getting off the train. I really need to go.’

  ‘… and then I decided that any restaurant with that kind of shitty attitude didn’t deserve our custom. So I booked a table at a nice little Italian instead.’ He clears his throat. ‘Please, Libby. Will you let me take you there?’

  I don’t know what to say to this.

  Or rather, I know what I should say – thanks, Dillon, but no thanks – and what I want to say – tell me what time and I’ll meet you there.

  It’s just that the two things are totally incompatible with each other.

  Which, ironically, is pretty much the way it was for me and Dillon.

  ‘We’ll drink some wine … or rather, you’ll drink some wine … we’ll eat calamari … or rather, I’ll eat calamari, I know you’re always creeped out by the wierdy tentacles—’

  ‘Dillon. I need to go.’

  ‘Then just say yes. Just say you’ll meet me there. I can text you the address. I can send a taxi to pick you up. I can come in a taxi myself and pick you up. I can send a helicopter. I can fly a helicopter—’

  ‘OK, OK, OK. I’ll come and have dinner with you.’

  ‘Ace.’ He grins. ‘Calamari and a hot blonde Libby Lomax. All the ingredients for a magical evening.’

  I don’t point out that if it’s a magical evening he’s after, he could always just pop round to my flat. Because I’m pretty sure he’d get the wrong idea.

  ‘And just in case Adam’s worried about anything,’ Dillon goes on, ‘just assure him we’re only doing this as friends, yeah? So that I can give his girlfriend the proper apology she deserves.’

  ‘I don’t think Adam will be worried.’

  ‘Well, maybe Adam needs to develop a bit more of an imagination,’ Dillon says. Lightly, but with the merest hint of an edge. ‘Seven thirty this evening, then, darling, OK? I’ll send you the address.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you there.’

  And then I end the call, because Mum is coming through the barriers towards me.

  At least, I think it’s Mum. She’s shrouded in a huge black scarf and wearing enormous bug-eyed sunglasses, and looking fitfully around the station as if she’s expecting three dozen photographers to leap up from behind the Paddington Bear stall and start snapping her picture with huge Nikons.

  ‘Libby?’ she hisses, as she reaches me, in a tone of surprise and wonderment.

  ‘Yes, Mum. It’s me.’

  ‘You look very … glamorous.’

  It’s a bit of an accusation, so I’m not really sure how to respond, except to say, ‘Well, you did tell me to disguise myself.’

  ‘True, darling, but I’m not sure you needed to take it quite this far. I mean, who are you meant to be? Grace Kelly? Doris Day?’

  ‘I’m … er … meant to be me. I’m just trying out a different look for myself.’

  ‘Was this something you did for your father’s wedding?’ She pulls off her sunglasses, her eyes narrowing. ‘Because I’ll tell you, Libby, you could have turned up in a Ku Klux Klan robe with a burning cross in your hand, and he wouldn’t have paid you any more attention than he has for the last twenty-odd years.’

  ‘Mum. Leave it.’

  ‘How was the wedding, anyway?’ she asks, curiously. ‘What’s the new wife like? Young? Pretty? A glutton for punishment?’

  ‘She seemed fine,’ I say, shortly, because I don’t discuss Dad with Mum. Ever. (My inner eight-year-old can’t take the emotional battering.) ‘Anyway, I just did my hair this afternoon. Not for the wedding.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if this is the most sensitive time to have done it. What with poor Cassidy being such a wreck, and all.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s just go and get a taxi, Mum, shall we?’

  ‘All right.’ She puts the handle of her wheelie suitcase into my hand, takes her heavy canvas bag off one shoulder and puts it over mine, and starts to lead the way towards the exit and taxi rank. ‘Anyway, I was right to tell you to disguise yourself, because they’re all over this story already! Heatworld, Popbitch, the 3AM Girls … I haven’t had the chance to look at any of the other newspapers, or their bloody websites, because my phone battery cut out on the train. Oh, maybe we can stop into WHSmith and get a few of the tabloids now!’

  ‘No, no,’ I say, firmly (while steering clear of the Big Issue man, who’s leering at me on our way out to the taxi rank). Because even though it’s inevitable that Mum will find out about the paparazzi pictures of me in the Mail (or maybe not, if she takes it at f
ace value that the person who looks an awful lot like me is, in fact, Dillon’s middle-aged housekeeper), I’d rather not be in her orbit when she does so. ‘Time for all that sort of thing later.’

  ‘I suppose …’

  We reach the front taxi in the rank, into which I’m all ready to start hauling Mum’s heavy bags until the driver leaps out and starts to do it for me.

  ‘Where to, darling?’ he asks.

  ‘Just Baker Street—’ I begin, before Mum interrupts me.

  ‘Actually we’re heading to Maida Vale instead.’

  I look at her. ‘We are?’

  ‘Cassidy’s left the clinic, darling. She sent me a message telling me so before my phone conked out. She wants us to meet her at her flat instead.’

  ‘She’s left the clinic? Already?’

  Mum nods, as the taxi starts to move off. ‘And I can’t tell you what a relief it is, darling, that I don’t have to go and visit her in that dreadful place.’

  ‘You mean the celebrity rehab clinic that was more like a five-star spa hotel?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care how comfortable it was!’ Mum reaches into her handbag and pulls out a little packet of the nuts and raisins she always buys when she travels, to prevent herself from buying, and snarfing, a family-sized bag of giant chocolate buttons instead. ‘I was a total nervous wreck about having to set foot in there. Facing down all the judgement, the disapproval …’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘The doctors,’ she spits, inadvertently sending a cashew nut ricocheting off the plastic dividing window, and making the driver glance round in alarm. ‘It all ends up being the mother’s fault, you know.’

  ‘What all ends up being the mother’s fault?’

  ‘Mental problems,’ Mum says, airily, in an un-PC fashion that might put even her namesake, the other Marilyn, to shame. ‘Anxiety. Depression. Addiction. I dread to think what sort of poison they were pouring in poor Cass’s ear while she was there. Were you breast-fed or bottle-fed? What age were you potty-trained?’

  ‘Er … sorry, are you asking me those questions …?’

  ‘No! For heaven’s sake, Liberty! I’m doing an impression of the doctors at the clinic!’ She looks annoyed that I didn’t get this. ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing they’ll be asking her. Trying to imply it was something I did. Especially if Cass told them that I’m in show business, too. There’s nothing more fascinating to a psychiatrist,’ she declaims, ‘than a mother who’s put her daughters on to the stage. It’s the sort of thing they write their doctoral theses about, you know.’