‘Yes. I know. You’re right. But look, I can explain. I’ve sort of ended up coming out for dinner with that guy I was telling you about …’
‘Oh, I get it, honey. You’re giving me a taste of my own medicine.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I guess I deserve it. It’s exactly what I’ve done in the past. Gone out dancing and drinking champagne with some fellow who’s only going to break my heart, leaving a girlfriend sitting at home all on her own, with nothing but a pitcher of Manhattans and … say, did you ever see a show called The Only Way Is Essex?’
I swallow. ‘I feel terrible.’
Which I do. And not just because she’s had to endure multiple episodes of TOWIE.
It’s absurd, I know, because obviously it would have made no logical sense to have turned down an evening with real, live Dillon O’Hara just to hang out at my flat with a magical Marilyn Monroe. But didn’t I just tell myself, earlier today, that Marilyn needs a friend? A proper friend, the kind of friend I’ve always tried to be, who would never ditch her flatmate – not even if that flatmate didn’t really, anything more than metaphorically speaking, exist – for a man. After all, she’s right: I know only too well how it feels to be unimportant to a person that matters to you. And if there’s anyone likely to suffer, terribly, from a sense of abandonment, it’s Marilyn Monroe.
‘Don’t feel terrible,’ she says, now, in her little-girl voice. ‘I don’t. Well, not any more. That second pitcher of Manhattans probably helped …’
‘OK,’ I say. I’ve heard enough. ‘I’m coming back. Just hold tight, and I’ll be there in under an hour.’
‘Honey, it’s all right, you stay out and enjoy your evening with your beau. Did you take my advice? Did you stuff your bra with pantyhose?’
I ignore the question. ‘I’m on my way. And … don’t drink any more, Marilyn, all right?’
‘I don’t think I could if I tried, honey,’ she says, sadly. ‘I seem to have drunk it all.’
I end the call, slide out of the booth and head for the exit.
Bumping into Dillon – literally – as I open the door and step on to the street.
‘You’re ditching me?’ he asks, lightly but pointedly. ‘Way to make a guy feel good, Libs.’
‘No, I’m not ditching you.’
God, he really does look unnaturally gorgeous tonight.
And as for all those things he’s been saying about how much he fancies me, and how he’d like a second chance …
Not to mention that cheeky, throwaway comment he made earlier, that I can’t quite seem to shake from my mind, about being able to think of a few better ways for me to spend time on my hands and knees than scrubbing his floors.
I so, so want to go home with him tonight.
‘But I have to go,’ I tell him. ‘Something’s happened. I need to help … a friend.’
‘Oh. Well, let me come with you …’
‘You can’t.’
‘Is it Olly Walker?’
I blink at him. What an odd thing to say.
‘No. I just need to go. God, sorry, I should have left some cash for the drink …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can pay for your drink.’
He’s being sharp, which is unlike him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘For what? Abandoning me at dinner or turning down my advances?’
‘I haven’t turned down your advances.’ I look up at him. His eyes are fixed on mine. ‘I just need a bit of time to think about all the things you’ve said.’
‘Sure. That’s fair enough. But, Libby …’
‘Yes?’
He puts his hands on my waist, and pulls me ever-so-gently towards him.
‘Don’t just think about all the things I’ve said. Think about the things I’ve done, too. Or rather, the thing I’m about to do.’
The thing he’s about to do being to lean down, put his lips tantalizingly close to mine, and then, when I move closer, start to kiss me.
It’s just as wonderful as it was the last time I kissed him, in our hotel room in Miami.
No: it’s more wonderful. Because that time I wouldn’t have been able to shake off the bad feeling about him smiling a little too wickedly at the pretty pool attendant, or the weary sense that he was bound to be up for yet another big night of cocktails, cocaine, and chatting up the bar staff.
This time it feels as if I’m the only thing that matters to him in the world.
Ironically, it’s absolutely intoxicating.
I give into it for as long as I can possibly handle, and then I turn away and start to hurry towards the tube.
But when I get back home to my flat, Marilyn has gone.
She still hasn’t returned.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon now, and there’s been absolutely no sign of her since I got back last night.
No cocktail shaker, no white mink coat, no scent of Chanel No. 5.
The only signs she was ever here at all are the Chesterfield and the TV, which are still on the other side of the partition door. Leaving me with the colossal headache of how to get them back to this side again.
Which is a neat addition to the actual colossal headache I’ve had all day, to be honest with you.
I shouldn’t have a headache at all, given that I only drank one glass of champagne last night, and given that I got into bed (my own) at a perfectly respectable hour.
But I couldn’t sleep a wink for worrying about Marilyn.
And rerunning that kiss with Dillon.
And then there’s the fact that I have spent all day cooped up indoors working on this business plan for Ben.
Or Benjamin Milne, CEO of Milne Equity Partners, as I need to start thinking of him. Head of a private equity fund that might be able to plough some much-needed capital into my business, rather than the man who’s ploughing my ex-boyfriend. Because I’ve Googled him (more than once) in the off-moments when I wasn’t getting on with work (and when I was trying to distract myself, last night, from the emptiness of the flat without Marilyn in it, and the horrible, stomach-churning guilt of knowing I’d let her down), and it turns out that he’s a bit of a big shot. Personally worth millions – and fond of giving those millions to all sorts of annoyingly good causes – things like dog shelters, and equine hospitals and, I don’t know, beauty salons for underappreciated cats; he also runs this investment fund that cherry-picks small, often fashion-related businesses, sets them up with capital and some specialist mentoring, and then watches them grow into … well, bigger, significantly more successful fashion-related businesses. He’s invested in these two shoemaking sisters from Utah, for example, who started out with $165 and the family shed as their workroom, and who now employ fifteen staff and have recently featured in a six-page spread in American Vogue. He’s invested in a tiny, family-run cashmere company based on the Isle of Arran, which now supplies fabric to the likes of Vivienne Westwood and Stella McCartney. He’s invested in another jewellery designer, some young guy from Brooklyn, whose website had 300,000 visitors last year, and who has now closed that website down because he’s been appointed head of design for Net-a-Porter’s new own-brand jewellery ‘department’.
Basically, you get the picture. A bit of a big shot, like I’ve already said.
So the fact that he’s even interested in me submitting a business plan is seriously, seriously exciting news.
Whether or not he’s going to want to take it any further … well, that’s up to me now, isn’t it?
Me, who’s spent most of the afternoon creating a neater, more professional-looking spreadsheet of the last six months’ net profit than I presented to the Clapham bank manager, and who is now trying to craft a short, succinct memo all about my sales pipeline.
Which is doubly tricky because I’m still not a hundred per cent sure what a sales pipeline actually is.
I really, really wish that Marilyn was still here.
Not that I expect she knows the first thing ab
out sales pipelines, either. And I’m fairly sure that if she were here, I wouldn’t be getting anywhere near as much done, with the TV blaring and with her near-constant stream of chatter, and with the pitchers of foul-tasting cocktails she’d probably keep producing for us to drink …
But I’d probably be able to focus better if I weren’t still feeling so bad about last night. And I’d have had the chance to explain more about the Dillon thing – not to mention to tell her how we’d ended up kissing. And I’d have liked her to see my new hair colour, to let her know I’d taken some of her advice to heart. It would have been … well, ‘swell’, as she’d have put it, to see what she thought.
Not to mention the fact that I can’t shake the feeling of unease that she left when she was annoyed with me. At least when Audrey Hepburn disappeared from my life, everything was good between us.
I’ve no idea if I’ll ever see Marilyn again. And the last thing I did, like everyone else she ever had in her life, was to let her down.
And now my buzzer’s going, so I’m going to have to haul myself up from in amongst my laptop and this scattered pile of invoices, and go and see who it is.
‘Hello?’ I say, into the entry phone.
‘Libby?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s James Cadwalladr.’
‘Huh?’
‘Sorry to bother you. I hope it isn’t an inconvenient time. Can you buzz me up?’
‘Um … sure.’
Which I regret doing the moment I’ve done it. Because actually, it is an inconvenient time. Bloody inconvenient, what with the fact that I’ve got paperwork everywhere, and absolutely no refreshment to offer him apart from the half-drunk can of warmish Diet Coke that I’ve been using to sustain me all day, and the leftover crusts of the pizza I picked up on my way back last night, just in case Marilyn still wanted it …
And, anyway, convenient time or inconvenient time, what the fuck is he doing here?
It’s a question I ask, though a bit more politely than this, as soon as I open my front door and see him jogging round the last of the four landings with a broad smile on his abnormally handsome face.
‘James, hi. Er … this is a bit far from your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I wasn’t exactly just passing, no!’ He leans in and kisses me on either cheek then, in an over-familiar fashion that I’ve often noticed in posh men who went to posh boarding schools, closes my front door behind him. ‘Lottie gave me your address. Or, rather, I found your address in Lottie’s records. I didn’t want her to know I was coming here.’
This is a bit … alarming.
Was Dillon right about him fancying me, after all?
‘I want to commission you to make something for her,’ he goes on. ‘It’s her fortieth next month and I’d love to give her a really special necklace, or some earrings …’
‘Oh!’ I’m relieved. ‘Of course! I’d love to do that.’
‘Good.’ He’s looking around my flat with interest. (Or possibly superciliousness and condescension: it can be hard to tell from a face like his.) ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
(It can also be hard to tell, with the über-toff accent, if he’s being genuinely pleasant or downright sarcastic.)
‘Thanks. So, what sort of thing were you thinking, exactly?’
‘Sorry?’
‘For Lottie’s birthday. I mean, you said a necklace, or earrings, but can you be any more specific …? Is it something to wear for going out, or something a bit more ordinary, for everyday …?’
‘Oh, I haven’t really thought about any of that, yet.’
‘Right. Um, because it might help, if I had more to go on.’
‘I mean, my head’s off in the clouds half the time, Libby, what with thinking about the kids, and work … I’ve got this really exciting new project in the pipeline at the moment, actually. I’m in talks with Sam Mendes to play Hamlet at the National Theatre.’
He waits for my response to this earth-shattering piece of information.
Unfortunately the only reply I can think of is: ‘Talking of pipelines, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the sales kind, would you?’
But he’s an actor, not a business-school graduate, so I stop myself.
‘Wow,’ I manage to muster, instead. ‘Hamlet. At the National Theatre. With Sam Mendes. Amazing.’
It’s pretty much just parroting back the bare bones of the information he’s just given me about it, but it seems to satisfy him as a response, because he preens, visibly, just for a moment, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
‘Well, people have been going on and on about me playing Hamlet for so long now that eventually you feel almost a social obligation to do it, you know?’
‘Absolutely.’ I’m not really paying attention; all I’m trying to work out is how to persuade him to bugger off and leave me in peace to get on with my work. ‘A social obligation. Yes.’
‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s up there with providing clean drinking water!’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that …’
‘Thank you.’ He suddenly leans forward, from the counter, and seizes my hands. ‘Thank you for saying that, Libby. You’re one of the people who really gets it, aren’t you?’
‘Er … am I?’
‘Gets how important the arts really are? Gets that acting isn’t just a job, it’s a way to speak directly to the people? Of course you are, Libby. I could tell that right away about you, the very first time we met.’
I don’t want to say that the very first time we met the only way he could have shown less interest in me is if I’d been a lone and greying sock.
‘So, please,’ he goes on, not letting go of my hands. ‘Would you tell me more about performances of mine that you’ve enjoyed, Libby? I’d really love to get some feedback … hey, do you have a bottle of wine lurking around the place anywhere? It’s always a lot more enjoyable to hear excoriating reviews of my less-than-stellar performances when I’m getting pleasantly pissed!’
Now I’m getting confused (and my hands, still swaddled in his, are getting warm and a little bit sweaty).
I mean, he started out saying he wanted to order a piece of jewellery for his wife, and now he’s asking me to tell him what I think of his acting, and using words like ‘excoriating’, and suggesting a bottle of wine …
‘No, I don’t have any wine, actually. In fact, James, I was just—’
‘Oh! Fucking idiot that I am!’ He’s sliding his canvas backpack off his shoulder. ‘I totally forgot, I stopped off at Waitrose on my way over here and picked up a few things for cooking later … I’ve got a nice bottle of red right here. Two of them, in fact!’
Oh, has he?
I may be a bit slow to get these things. But I’m not actually stupid.
‘I’m fine without any wine,’ I say, firmly. ‘And in fact, James, I think it would be better if you …’
I stop talking. Because I’ve just heard a noise from the other side of the partition door.
It’s the sound of the opening credits of Geordie Shore.
And it can only mean one thing: Marilyn is back.
‘… leave,’ I go on, more firmly even than before. ‘Right away.’
‘Do you have a flatmate or something?’ Posh James asks, obviously having heard the TV himself. ‘Because there’s plenty of wine to go round, if she’d like to join us … It is a she, right?’
‘Don’t go near that door!’ I yelp, as he takes a step towards it.
‘Oh, come on. I’m only being friendly.’
‘Well, I’d prefer it if you were friendly elsewhere. From the carriage of a northbound Northern Line train. Or the back of a taxi.’
‘Your flatmate doesn’t seem to agree.’
‘What?’ I jerk my head round just in time to see that the partition door, behind me, is opening a crack. ‘Stay there!’ I bark at Posh James, before grabbing the door handle, opening it a little more (though st
ill by as narrow a margin as I think I’ll be able to get through), squeezing myself through the gap and then closing it behind me.
I stand with my back pressed against it, just in case the deceitful philandering bastard on the other side of it can’t be trusted.
Marilyn is standing right in front of me, wearing – again – nothing but her white mink coat and an excited expression on her pretty, alabaster-white face.
‘Honey!’ she whispers. ‘Is that a man I heard on the other side of … oh! You went blonde!’
‘Yes,’ I hiss, ‘but Marilyn … look, I’m really glad you’re back, but actually this isn’t the time to …’
‘It looks swell, honey. And I was right, wasn’t I? I mean, here you are, a brand-new blonde, and lo and behold you’ve suddenly got a man back to the apartment! So is he the one?’ she goes on, gleefully. ‘You know, that made you feel like a graham cracker?’
‘No, he’s not. And I didn’t “get him back here” at all. He just turned up. And he’s married, and he’s a total creep.’
‘Oh.’ Her face falls for a moment. ‘Say, if you need me to take care of him, I’ll do that for you, honey. I mean, creepy married guys always seem to like me, for some reason. In fact, sometimes it seems like every man I ever meet is the creepy married sort.’
‘No! I don’t need you to take care of him, Marilyn … and anyway,’ I add, remembering my promise to myself that I’d try to be more of a friend to her, and relieved she’s back again for me to get a second chance to do so, ‘you’re worth more than just some creepy married guy, you know. Now, just let me get rid of this one, and then we can …’
‘Everything OK in there?’ comes Posh James’s voice through the door; worryingly close to the door, in fact.
‘Fine,’ I snap, ‘and, by the way, if you open this door, I will get on the phone to Lottie so fast …’
‘OK, OK, OK,’ he says, his voice moving away from the door. ‘No need to get all militant on me now.’
‘I know you say he’s creepy and married, but he sounds just wonderful,’ Marilyn breathes, with her customary shoulder-wriggle. ‘And what’s that accent? Is he Canadian, too?’
A Night In With Marilyn Monroe Page 18
