A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘No! Now, look. Can you just stay on this side of the door while I go and get rid of him properly?’

  ‘Sure!’ Marilyn performs an adorable little military salute, which causes her mink to swing open. ‘Whoops!’ she giggles, half-heartedly clutching the revolting thing round her again, before turning back to the TV where – I was right – half a dozen drunk-looking Geordies are falling out of a nightclub and screaming at each other. ‘I Sky-Plussed a whole load of this show last night. Everyone’s kind of orange-coloured, and there’s a lot of yelling, but I don’t really understand what it is they’re yelling about … or why they’re all orange-coloured, for that matter.’

  It’s not the moment to ask how the hell she knows about Sky Plus.

  I open the partition door, slide back through it, and close it firmly behind me.

  Posh James isn’t anywhere near the partition door any more, thank goodness; he’s over by the entry phone instead. ‘Uh, sure, I guess,’ he’s saying into it. ‘Come on up.’

  ‘Who are you telling,’ I demand, more annoyed with him than ever, ‘to come on up? This is my bloody flat! You can’t just invite people in!’

  ‘Calm down,’ he tells me, with an eye-roll. ‘It was someone saying she was your sister. Well, she’s got a couple of other people with her. One of them might be called Ned?’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God …’ I run to the entry phone and start yelling, ‘No! No! Take your fucking camera crew somewhere else, Cass!’

  But it’s too late. I can already hear footsteps, several sets of them, coming up the stairs.

  ‘Camera crew?’ James is staring at me. ‘Why the hell would anyone’s sister turn up with a camera crew?’

  ‘Because she’s got her own reality TV show,’ I snap at him. ‘That’s why!’

  ‘But … I can’t …’ He’s turned extremely pale. ‘I can’t be found up here by a TV crew. I’m … married.’

  ‘A fact that probably ought to have occurred to you,’ I say, ‘before you turned up here with conveniently purchased wine and some pile of utter bollocks about ordering your wife a necklace.’

  ‘I’m serious! I don’t want footage of me in here! I’ll get a super-injunction! A brand-new one, I mean …’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want footage, I suggest you do what I’ve been trying to get you to do for the last five minutes …’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m on my way.’ He opens the front door, looking more stressed when he hears voices on their way up the stairs. ‘You don’t have another way out,’ he asks, ‘do you?’

  ‘Unless you count a freefall jump from a fourth-floor window?’

  ‘No. Right.’

  ‘Just pull your hood up,’ I suggest, suddenly taking pity on him, grabbing the empty pizza box and handing it over, ‘and take this. Keep your head down and they’ll think you’ve just delivered me a pizza.’

  He looks perturbed by this. ‘But why would I be taking a pizza box away? And to be honest with you, I don’t know if I can actually project a delivery guy kind of air …’

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ I tell him, ‘not an opportunity for Method Acting. Besides, if you can do Hamlet at the National Theatre with Sam Mendes, you can do anything.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, pulling his shoulders back – and then, conversely, hunching his shoulders forward to give himself a sort of stoop, pulling his hood up and starting to limp out of the door.

  I’ve no time to wonder why he’s made the creative decision to make his pizza delivery guy a dead ringer for the Hunchback of Notre Dame, because he’s only just set off down the stairs when Cass, Ned, Clipboard Woman, Boom Man and – of course – the man with the camera all pass him and begin to troop into my flat.

  It’s quite a slow troop, thanks to the fact that my flat, even without the Chesterfield in it, is so short on space. Cass, who has flown through the door first, all lip gloss and legs and tan knee-high Louboutins, has to pause in whatever dramatic opening line she was about to deliver because the man with the camera is stuck in the queue, and the heavily tattooed man with the boom is stuck in the door …

  ‘Did anyone else,’ Ned asks, filling Cass’s pause, ‘think that pizza delivery guy looked just like that posh actor from that detective show?’

  Which doesn’t bode all that well for Posh James’s performance as Hamlet at the National.

  ‘Because if the sister knows him, too, as well as Dillon O’Hara—’

  ‘Cass,’ I interrupt Ned, before he’s worked up a whole plot-line about me and my intimate knowledge of famous actors, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing a camera crew to my flat without my permission?’

  ‘Oh, well!’ Cass tosses her hair. ‘If we’re talking about permission, why don’t you tell me why you thought it was OK to go blonde without asking me first?’

  ‘Why on earth would I have to ask you first?’

  ‘Because I’m the only blonde in this family!’

  ‘Mum’s a blonde.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t fucking count!’ she storms. ‘Mum’s fifty-nine! She’s past it!’

  ‘She’s fifty-seven.’

  ‘Potato, tomato.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what you fucking say,’ she snaps, ‘when the silly cow you’re talking to wants to correct every little thing you say all the fucking time!’

  I think I see the confusion.

  ‘I think you mean potay-to, potah-to.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Potah-to isn’t even a fucking word.’

  ‘Oh, this is good,’ I hear Ned breathe, as reverentially as a devout Catholic who’s just caught a glimpse of the Pope on a tour round the Vatican. ‘Are we getting this, guys?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Cass goes on, after a quick glance round to check that both the cameraman and the boom guy are now squeezed into the room, ‘that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean,’ she shakes back her hair, gazes into the middle distance and repeats, in her Acting Voice, ‘That’s Not Really What I Wanted To Talk To You About.’

  ‘Cass. I’m not doing this.’

  ‘I’m Really Worried About You, Sis.’

  ‘Sis? You never call me sis.’

  ‘After Everything You Put Me Through When Your Fling With Dillon Ended, Do You Really Want To Cause Me All That Stress Again?’

  ‘Everything I put you through?’ For a moment I forget that my only priority ought to be to get Cass and the crew out as fast as possible. ‘Seriously, Cass – what?’

  ‘The Endless Sobbing Phone Calls At Four In The Morning …’

  ‘Not one time did I call you at four in the morning, sobbing or otherwise. I might have texted you, once, at around six, asking when you were free for a chat.’

  ‘The Weight Gain … that’s you gaining weight,’ she adds, hastily, ‘not me.’

  ‘Heaven forbid. But Cass. Why on earth are you here to talk to me – with this delightful camera crew or otherwise – about Dillon? I’m not … seeing him again.’

  Cass lets out a gasp. (In fact, so does Ned, and so does Clipboard Woman, and even Boom Guy.)

  ‘Now You’re Lying About Him, Libby?’ She claps a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s Worse Than I Thought.’

  ‘Right, look, it’s really, really not a good time for any of this –’ it wouldn’t be, even if I weren’t conscious of the fact that Marilyn Monroe is still on the other side of that partition door – ‘and I haven’t actually agreed to be in this reality show at all, so if you could all just get your things and—’

  ‘I’ve Seen The Footage.’

  ‘Footage? What footage?’

  ‘You And Dillon. Outside That New Italian Restaurant Last Night. Kissing.’

  My mouth falls open.

  ‘How did you … sorry, you say there’s footage of this?’

  Cass nods, reaches into her shoulder bag (a brand-new actual Chanel 2.55 that I’ve never seen before; possibly her treat to herself for surviving her long and arduous stay in rehab, or possi
bly just a new wardrobe ‘essential’ for the show) and pulls out her phone.

  ‘Here!’ she declares, holding it up and pressing the screen.

  It is, indeed, slightly shaky, blurry video of (a very blonde-looking) me and Dillon standing outside the restaurant last night. Dillon is sliding his arms round my waist, and then leaning down, and I can actually feel the same wave of overwhelming desire wash over me once again as I watch him kiss me … and me kiss him back …

  And then I remember where I am, and that this is all an appalling violation of my privacy.

  ‘Was this these guys?’ I demand, jabbing a finger in the direction of Ned and co. ‘I never gave permission for them to stalk me like that!’

  ‘Nobody Stalked You, Libby. People Are Just Concerned For You. Me, Most Of All. And I Think You Need To Know,’ Cass adds, choking back an impressively convincing sob, ‘That This Is A Very Bad Time For Me To Be Dealing With Too Much Drama. What With Me Being In Recovery And All.’

  I take a very, very deep breath, willing myself to grip on to the last remaining threads of loyalty I might still retain for my sister, and not blurt out YOU’VE GOT NOTHING TO BE IN RECOVERY FROM, YOU SILLY COW in front of Ned and the crew.

  But before I can say anything at all, I hear a tap-tap-tap on the other side of the partition door.

  This is very, very ominous indeed.

  ‘Look, just give me a minute,’ I say, pulling open the door, darting through it and shutting it behind me.

  Marilyn is standing right beside the door, her blue eyes wide open and staring at me.

  ‘Honey, did I hear right?’

  ‘Did you hear what right?’

  ‘The TV was a little loud, but … well, I swear I heard you say something about a reality TV show being filmed in our apartment.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘And I can hear a girl doing that terrible, stilted, kind-of acting …’

  ‘Yes. OK. It’s a reality TV show.’

  Marilyn gasps.

  ‘But look, it’s nothing to do with me. It’s just my sister. And I’m trying to get them to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ she hisses. ‘Honey, why on earth would you …?’

  ‘Libby?’ This is Cass now, shouting through the closed partition door. ‘What the fuck are you doing through there?’

  ‘I’m just dealing with something!’ I yell back.

  ‘Can we come through?’ comes Ned’s smooth, insistent voice. ‘Film whatever it is you’re dealing with?’

  ‘No, you fucking can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m … er … changing. I’m naked, in fact. So you can’t come in.’

  There’s a brief silence.

  ‘OK,’ I hear Ned say, sounding disappointed, though whether this is because he has to stop getting awesome footage for a minute, or because he doesn’t get to burst in and see me naked, I couldn’t say for sure. ‘Let’s do a piece to camera while we wait, Cassidy, shall we? Just tell us more about how worried you are for your sister and her tumultuous love life.’

  ‘OK, you gotta help me fix my hair, honey!’ Marilyn is saying, hurrying over to the Chesterfield, picking up the cocktail shaker, and holding it up to check out her reflection in its shiny chrome. ‘And tell me more about the show. Are there housewives? Orange people? Do I need to get in a fight with anybody?’

  ‘You can’t go through there.’

  ‘Oh! Should I try to get hold of a little dog from somewhere? You know, I think I’d feel a lot more confident if I had a little dog …’

  ‘Marilyn. I’m serious. You can’t be in the show.’

  ‘But honey, you know how much I want to be a reality TV star.’ She stops sorting out her hair in the shiny surface of the cocktail shaker, reaches into the pocket of her mink for a little bottle of Chanel No. 5, and spritzes it on. ‘This could be my big chance!’

  ‘I promise you, this isn’t your big chance.’

  ‘Don’t tell me things you don’t know!’

  ‘But I do know.’

  She ignores this and starts to push past me.

  I’ve honestly no idea what would happen if she opened that door. I’m nowhere near enough of an expert on metaphysical manifestations to be able to work it out. All I know is that, what with there being a fully operational camera crew on the other side, I don’t want to risk it.

  ‘Marilyn,’ I hiss, ‘I’m serious. I do know. I know for one hundred per cent certain. And if you do what I say, and stay right here for the next three minutes, I’ll tell you exactly how I know.’

  This, thank Christ, stops her in her tracks.

  She stares at me.

  ‘Three minutes?’ she asks.

  ‘Three minutes. While I get rid of them. And then I’ll tell you how I know this isn’t your big break. And if you don’t like my answer,’ I add, ‘I promise you, I’ll call my sister and her blasted crew right back and you can join in the show to your heart’s content. I’ll even pop down to the pet shop two blocks away and see if I can borrow you a little dog, all right?’

  Marilyn thinks about this for a moment. Really, really thinks, with her pretty nose slightly screwed up and a frown etched into her smooth forehead.

  ‘All right,’ she concedes. ‘I guess three minutes isn’t too much to ask.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be right back.’

  I open the partition door again, hurry through, and close it smartly behind me.

  Cass is perched on my minuscule kitchen counter, tanned legs sexily crossed in her mini-skirt and boots, intoning earnestly into the camera.

  ‘I Mean, Obviously I’ve Made A Few Mistakes In My Own Love Life, But It’s Just Really, Really Hard For Me To Watch My Sister Do Something As Silly As Start Shagging Dillon O’Hara All Over Again …’

  ‘OK. That’s enough,’ I say, briskly. ‘You all have to leave.’

  ‘I thought you were getting changed,’ says Ned, looking slightly disheartened that I’ve re-emerged wearing the same shorts and vest top as before, instead of whatever fabulous outfit he might have imagined I’d appear in. ‘Can we film the two of you having that chat now?’

  ‘No. I’ve already told you. I’m not participating in this. Or rather,’ I go on, suddenly seeing the golden opportunity to get them to bugger off, ‘I might participate another day, if you all go away now and leave me to get on with some very important work. Oh, and as long as you never, ever film me like that without my consent again. Whether I’m having dinner with Dillon O’Hara or … or George and Amal Clooney, OK?’

  Ned is staring at me in that Pope-spotting way again. ‘Do you know George and Amal Clooney?’

  ‘Of course she fucking doesn’t,’ says Cass, sliding down off the kitchen counter and starting to head for the door. ‘Let’s go and leave Miss Boring-Pants to her work.’

  ‘Well, do you think they might agree to appear on the show?’ Ned is asking, as Clipboard Woman, thankfully retaining possession of her brain cells, takes his arm and hauls him after Cass. ‘Actually, not him maybe. I’m not sure he’s our target demographic. She’s great, though …’

  Boom Guy and Cameraman follow them, wordless as ever, until Boom Guy, who’s the last out, looks at me before he pulls the door shut behind them all.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he says, in a surprisingly soft voice for such a large and scarily tattooed man, ‘I’ve worked on a few shows with Dillon O’Hara in my time. Nicest guy in the world.’

  ‘Oh! Right. Er …’

  ‘But if he ever came after any daughter of mine, I’d castrate him first and ask questions later.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know. I mean, we’re not dating, as I’ve already tried to say. But … thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, and closes the door just as softly as he’s spoken.

  Which just leaves me and Marilyn. Alone again, thank heavens.

  I pick up one of the bottles of wine that posh James left behind – because my God, after the last fifteen minutes, I think I need it – and grab a couple of glasses from the cup
board. Then I open the partition door again.

  Marilyn is sitting on the Chesterfield, gazing at the television screen.

  Which is no longer showing shouting, orange Geordies, but the polar opposite of that, in fact. The polar opposite being Audrey Hepburn.

  It’s the opening credits of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and Audrey-as-Holly-Golightly, in a scene I know all too well, is gliding along Fifth Avenue sipping a coffee and nibbling a Danish pastry.

  ‘I got kinda tired of all those orange people, honey,’ Marilyn says, rather dreamily, ‘so I had a look at the movies you had on Sky Plus instead … Gee,’ she goes on, before I can express my renewed astonishment at how well she knows her way around my TV controls already, ‘the girl in the black dress is real pretty, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She is.’ I go and sit down on the sofa beside her, open the wine and pour each of us a glass. ‘In fact, she’s the one I’ve mentioned a few times. Audrey Hepburn.’

  ‘You know her?’ She turns to look at me. ‘Well, I wish you’d invite her to one of our girls’ nights. I’d love to get her to do that eye makeup on me.’

  ‘Well, she is a bit of a style icon …’

  ‘And then I’d persuade her to put some pantyhose down her bra,’ Marilyn goes on. ‘I mean, sure, she’s just about the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, but she could use a little help in the chest department.’

  Part of me would almost like to be around if that conversation ever happened; part of me would run like the wind.

  Either way, this isn’t the important thing right now.

  ‘The thing is, Marilyn,’ I say, ‘that my knowing Audrey Hepburn … well, it’s related to what I was going to talk to you about. You know: how I know for sure that everything turns out OK for you in the future. I mean,’ I correct myself, a little too late, ‘that your career all turns out OK for you in the future.’

  Marilyn draws her knees up to her chest, tucking her mink coat cosily around herself, and gives me one of her most excitable smiles. ‘I think I might have an idea how you know, actually.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Sure! You’re psychic, right?’

  I blink at her.

  ‘Oh, it’s OK, honey. You don’t have to feel embarrassed or anything! I’ve known psychic people before. One of my foster mothers was psychic, in fact. And she was into runestones, too, and tea leaves … say, you don’t work with tea leaves, do you? Because they were never very reliable with me in the past. The ones my foster mother kept reading for me were always saying I was going to marry a man who worked the land and have nine children.’ She pulls a face. ‘I mean, I guess I could still meet a farmer, but there aren’t all that many of them living in Hollywood, and as for the thought of nine children …’