A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘OK, but just so we’re absolutely clear about this, I didn’t change my hair colour for you.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ he asks, with a cheeky eyebrow-raise. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Quite sure, Dillon, thanks for asking.’

  ‘Because if there’s one thing I learned in rehab, it’s that most of our actions are guided by our subconscious … so although you may think you weren’t changing your hair colour to impress me, in actual fact—’

  ‘Save me,’ I say, as witheringly as I know how, ‘the amateur psychology.’

  ‘All right, then. Why did you change your hair colour all of a sudden? When the closest you’ve ever come to dyeing your hair before now was wearing a bright red wig to your sister’s Disney Princess sixteenth birthday party, which you attended in the guise of Ariel from The Little Mermaid, because she was the only Disney Princess who didn’t make you want to throw up?’

  I’m so astounded by this revelation that all I can do is blink at him for a moment. ‘You … really remember me telling you about that?’

  He shrugs. ‘I wasn’t in an altered state for the entire relationship, darling.’

  Thank God the hopeless waiter is returning now, with my wine, because it’s a welcome distraction at an uncomfortable moment.

  This is the Dillon I struggle to be around, you see. The debonair, cocky, laugh-a-minute Dillon isn’t the problem. It’s this one, the one who lobs out these occasional glimpses of the real, lasting feelings he might actually have for me … this is the one that should have a sign around his neck, warning: HAZARDOUS TO HEALTH. DO NOT TOUCH WITH TEN-FOOT BARGEPOLE.

  ‘Here’s your champagne,’ the waiter says, rather breathlessly, putting a chilled glass of the stuff down on the table in front of me.

  I gaze at the champagne, and then up at the waiter, in astonishment.

  ‘Please,’ he says, fervently, ‘let me know if there’s anything else you want.’

  And then he’s gone again, before I can say that, actually, I’d quite like that glass of red wine we’d talked about.

  ‘Told you,’ says Dillon, ‘Junior’s got the hots for you. It’s making me a bit jealous, actually, Fire Girl.’

  ‘Fire Girl’ is what he sometimes used to call me, because of the fact that I set my hair on fire the first time he met me.

  To be more accurate, Fire Girl is what he used to call me when he was flirting with me.

  Fire Girl is what he always, always called me when we were in bed together.

  And, right at this moment, a couple walks past our table and then stops beside us.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ says Posh James Cadwalladr, looking down at us, ‘look who’s here.’

  Except he isn’t talking to me, he’s talking to Dillon.

  ‘Jamie fucking Cadwalladr,’ says Dillon, with a grin, as he gets to his feet and pulls Posh James in for a brief, manly hug. ‘And Lottie. Sweetheart.’

  ‘Dillon! How lovely to see you!’ Lottie gives him a kiss on either cheek before turning to me. ‘Hi, nice to meet you, I’m …’ She peers at me, then does (I’ve never seen one of these before in my life) an actual double-take. ‘Libby?’

  ‘Hi,’ I wave a sheepish hand. ‘Yep. It’s me.’

  ‘Oh, my God! You look … wow. I love the hair.’

  ‘You know each other?’ Dillon asks.

  Whichever way you look at this, my attempt to make Dillon think I’m still with Adam is a bit buggered, isn’t it?

  ‘I stock some of Libby’s jewellery,’ Lottie says, and then, just when I think I might have got away with it, she adds, ‘and of course we live next door to her … well, I presume, now, er, ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘Do we?’ Posh James is looking confused. And a bit bug-eyed, too, for some reason, because he’s staring at me in that exact same way that the hopeless waiter was just doing. And that Ned from Cass’s TV show was doing too, come to think of it. ‘Hi,’ he says, to me, leaning around Lottie and extending a hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve met …’

  ‘James, you bloody idiot! Of course you’ve met her! It’s Libby! From … the other night.’ Tactfully, presumably because she doesn’t know the status between me and Dillon, Lottie doesn’t mention the whole nearly-nude-and-stuck-in-a-dog’s-den thing. ‘You know. Adam’s house.’

  Posh James’s eyes practically launch themselves off his forehead. ‘You’re that chick who got her kit off and got her head stuck in Fritz’s safety gate?’ he blurts, nowhere near as tactfully.

  I sneak a glance at Dillon across the table; he’s got one eyebrow raised himself.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say. ‘I’m that chick. Girl. Woman, in fact,’ I add, drawing myself up, as if trying to make a feminist case of this is going to draw Posh James into all the embarrassment, so that I’m not the only one dying here. ‘Good to see you again.’

  But Posh James doesn’t look embarrassed. He just carries on staring, those eyebrows still stuck up near his hairline, and murmurs, almost to himself, ‘The one we rubbed with argan oil …’

  ‘This is a story I have to hear,’ says Dillon, lightly.

  ‘Oh, I think it was sesame oil in the end, actually,’ I say, jovially, to try to bring about an end to the awkwardness. ‘I still wake up in a cold sweat dreaming that I’m being stir-fried!’

  Lottie laughs. ‘Well, we should leave you two to your … romantic dinner.’

  ‘It’s not romantic,’ I say, just as Dillon says, ‘Thanks, Lottie. We hear the calamari is spectacular.’

  ‘Do we?’ I ask, pointedly.

  ‘We certainly do. And Jamie, buddy – we should get together soon, yeah? I mean, obviously my hell-raising days are over …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ says Lottie, putting her arm through Posh James’s. ‘His hell-raising days are pretty much behind him, too.’

  ‘I can still raise hell,’ he replies, irritably, finally taking his eyes off me and looking at Lottie. ‘For Christ’s sake, I’m thirty-nine, not ninety-nine. I’m not completely past it.’

  ‘Well, you know what,’ Dillon says, clapping him on the shoulder, rather harder than when he greeted him, ‘we can compromise. We’ll go out, you can pick hell up with your little finger and then put it straight back down again. How’s about that?’

  Posh James doesn’t laugh. ‘It’d be good to catch up properly,’ he says, ungraciously, before starting to steer Lottie in the direction of their table, further along the restaurant. ‘Have a good night.’

  The moment they’re gone, I reach for my champagne glass and take a big, steadying gulp.

  Dillon sits back down again.

  ‘That guy,’ he says, in a voice that isn’t quite quiet enough, ‘is such a fucking tosspot.’

  I take another sip of champagne. ‘It looked like he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘We were at drama college together. Stayed friends for a few years afterwards. Christ knows why. Him a toffee-nosed git from Eton and me a simple Irish country boy …’

  ‘Spare me,’ I say, ‘the quaint fictionalization. There’ll be leprechauns joining us at the table before we know it.’

  ‘And very welcome they’d be, too. Besides, they could be an audience for you when you tell this story about … what was it again? Getting your kit off and letting James Cadwalladr rub you with olive oil?’

  ‘Sesame oil,’ I snap.

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘And it wasn’t remotely like he made it sound. It was just this … incident.’

  ‘At Adam’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your ex-boyfriend Adam’s house?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘So you’re not actually with him any more?’

  ‘No,’ I admit. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Right.’ Dillon takes a sip of his sparkling water. ‘He fancies you, you know.’

  ‘Who, Adam?’ I stare at him. ‘Er, no, which was precisely the—’

  ‘Jamie Cadwalladr.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! Accor
ding to you, everyone fancies me. James Cadwalladr, the waiter …’

  ‘Me.’

  He’s put his glass down, and is looking at me across the table. He isn’t wearing that devilish smile any more.

  ‘Dillon,’ I begin.

  ‘Fire Girl,’ he says.

  ‘I thought this dinner was just meant to be an apology.’

  ‘It was.’ His knee brushes mine. ‘Until you turned up looking like that.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s the blonde hair,’ I say. ‘That’s what it is. You’ve always had a thing for blonde hair.’

  ‘It’s not just the blonde hair. It’s something else about you, Libby. You look like a proper … woman. Yeah, not now, mate,’ he adds, rather sharply, to the waiter, who has reappeared at the side of the table with a notepad and a hopeful expression. ‘Can you give us a minute?’

  ‘Look,’ I say, as the waiter slinks off again. ‘Whether or not you fancy me …’

  ‘I do fancy you.’

  ‘… isn’t really the point. The point is that obviously we can’t actually be together.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. Because clearly I’m the only one of the two of us sensible enough to do so.’

  ‘And what if I were to ask you for a second chance?’

  I stare at him.

  For a split second, it feels like it’s Christmas morning. And I’ve just opened the curtains to a winter wonderland of snow. And decent Christmas presents are waiting under the tree for me, not just box sets from Space NK that get Mum extra points on her reward card. And Dad has remembered to send me a text wishing me a Happy Christmas for once.

  But, thank God, that split second passes, and level-headedness (just) prevails.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even if I take some sort of lie-detector test to prove that I don’t plan to drink another drink, or do another line of coke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even if I promise to never leave you stranded in the path of a hurricane with no passport ever again?’

  ‘Dillon, come on. It wasn’t the drink or the drugs. It wasn’t even the hurricane …’

  ‘It was the women, wasn’t it?’

  I shrug, as casually as possible. ‘That certainly played its part.’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Would it convince you at all if I were to become a monk, say?’

  ‘Well, that would still be a barrier to us getting back together again,’ I say, ‘because I don’t think monks are allowed to have sex with women. Or, come to think of it, with men.’

  ‘Ah. So even the other monks would be off-limits, then.’

  ‘I think that’s probably down to the discretion of the individual monastery.’

  ‘And to the proclivities of the individual monk?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He laughs. ‘God, Fire Girl. I’ve missed you.’

  I don’t stop myself from saying, ‘Me too.’

  ‘But you still don’t believe that I’ve changed?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe that you’ve changed, Dillon. It’s that I’ll never believe you won’t change back. I mean, can you really see yourself settling down with just one woman? Having a few children …’

  ‘I love children. And children love me.’

  ‘… and staying up all night burping them instead of staying up all night knocking back vodka?’

  ‘Hold the phone. Children need burping? Oh, now, come on, Libby – next thing you’ll be telling me they’re incontinent, too.’

  I finish my glass of champagne.

  ‘I only wish someone had told me this,’ he goes on, ‘before I turned over a new leaf. I mean, if I’d known the lifestyle adjustments that come from deciding to settle down and start a family, I’d never have touched rehab with a bargepole.’

  I stare at him. ‘Have you decided to settle down and start a family?’

  ‘Well, one step at a time. Let’s just focus on the settling-down part first.’

  ‘Dillon. You’ve only been out of rehab for about twenty minutes. I think it’s probably a bit too soon to start making any major life decisions.’

  He leans across the table, picks up my hand, and holds it, gently, in his own.

  ‘If there’s one thing I learned in that place,’ he says, ‘it’s that the thing I’ve always been looking for is an anchor. Something to keep me rooted.’

  ‘Something,’ I say, ‘to weigh you down.’

  He shakes his head. ‘It wouldn’t be like that. I keep telling you, Libby, I’ve changed. I’ve grown up. I’ve done all the messing around that I’ll ever want to do. And quite a lot of messing around that I wish I’d never done in the first place. You’re the only girl I’ve ever met who’s ever meant more to me than that.’

  ‘That’s because you have terrible taste in girls.’

  ‘True. But it’s also,’ he says, ‘because it took me a very long time to find you.’

  All of a sudden, I feel like I can’t breathe.

  And not in a giddy, heady, sexy way, either. It feels a lot more like the time I got trapped between two very, very overweight men in a crush to get on a bus in Palermo. If it hadn’t been for Olly, who was there on holiday with me, practically crowd-surfing his way towards me to haul me out with his bare hands and a smattering of negligible Italian, I’m honestly pretty sure I’d never have made it out of there alive. Death by paunch.

  I can still remember, eight years on, the mushrooming sense of panic.

  ‘You can’t … say things like that,’ I croak.

  ‘I’m just trying to be honest, Libby. To explain. To let you know how I feel.’

  ‘Dillon, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t a therapy session at bloody rehab. You can’t just be honest, and explain, and let people know how you feel when you risk … hurting them. Again.’

  ‘I know how much I hurt you …’

  ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know what you did—’

  My phone is ringing.

  Saved – hallelujah – by the bell.

  Really, really saved, because I’m in danger of either bursting into tears all over Dillon and telling him just how hard I fell for him the first time, or in the even greater danger of flinging myself across the table and into his lap, kissing him until neither of us can breathe, then gasping that I’ll agree to any of his absurd suggestions if he just takes me back to his place right this minute and has wild, mind-blowing sex with me until the sun comes up.

  ‘I need to get this,’ I mumble.

  ‘Fine.’ Dillon is getting up out of the booth. ‘I think I need a breath of fresh air, anyway. I’ll give you a moment.’

  It’s so unlike him to walk off in what looks remarkably like a huff that I’m almost too surprised to actually pick up my phone for a moment.

  When I do, I don’t even have time to say the second syllable of the word ‘hello’ before an American man’s voice on the other end of the phone says, ‘Hallelujah! So there is life out there after all.’

  I know, without needing to ask, that it’s Ben. Adam’s boyfriend.

  I could – maybe should – hang up. But instead, I’m going to stand up for myself.

  ‘All right,’ I begin, ‘first off, I had absolutely no idea that Adam had a boyfriend. By which I mean that I had no idea that he was attached, and no idea that he was gay. Because if I’d known either of those things, I can assure you I would never—’

  ‘It’s Libby, right?’ he interrupts, brusquely. ‘I mean, that is your name, right?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Libby. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. This is nothing to do with, well, you having the wrong end of my boyfriend’s stick.’

  ‘Actually, I never did have his stick, wrong end or …’

  Not the time, Libby. Not the time.

  ‘So what is it to do with?’ I ask, cautiously.

  ‘I found your earrings on the floor in Adam’s kitchen,’ Ben says, ‘and I really liked them.’

  ‘R
ight … er … well, I could make you a pair …?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Libby, I’m a gay man, not a transvestite! And more than a gay man, I’m an investor. I put money into small businesses, in the hope that they’ll turn into bigger businesses. And quite a lot of them are fashion-based. I’ve had a look on your website, bought some things from those little boutiques you supply to … it’s good stuff. Original. Different.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to invest in you yet. So, look. I need to see a business plan.’

  ‘I … er –’ haven’t got a very good business plan – ‘can work something up for you, if you like …?’

  ‘That’d be a good place to start. Can you email something over by the weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’ If I spend the next forty-eight hours doing nothing but working on it. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘And please, don’t write me any long, teenage essays about your ideal customer, and how fulfilling you find your career, and where you see yourself in ten years. I just need the basics. Current profits. Turnover. Projected financials. Sales pipeline.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Sure. Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have my assistant call with the email address.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Ben, I really appreciate …’

  ‘Good to finally talk to you,’ he says.

  And that’s the end of the call.

  Bloody hell.

  Given that, only a few days ago, I was being sneered at by a bank manager in Clapham for asking for a small-business loan, the possibility that an investor wants to put money into Libby Goes To Hollywood is quite astounding.

  I don’t have more than a few seconds to sit and savour this turn of events, though, before my phone rings again.

  Bogdan.

  Or, rather, given that she’s using his phone: Marilyn.

  Which is the first time, since we spoke earlier, that I remember the plans I made with her for this evening. Our girls’ night in.

  Shit.

  I answer the call.

  ‘Marilyn, I’m so, so sorry.’

  There’s silence for a moment.

  ‘Did you forget about me?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I didn’t forget about you. I just … didn’t remember.’

  ‘Coming from someone who says she’s tired of always feeling second best,’ Marilyn says, softly, ‘it’s sort of ironic. Don’t you think?’