A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  But times have moved on, and I’m a retro Hollywood jewellery designer now, and this piece I’m holding is pretty much the Holy Grail of all Golden Age Hollywood jewellery.

  I mean, it feels like my fingers might actually be glowing, Ready-Brek style, where they’re touching it.

  ‘See, honey? You know you want it!’

  ‘Well … if you’re really sure.’

  ‘I’m sure. It’ll be something to remember me by! You know, if I don’t make it back to visit for a while.’ Another of those fleeting expressions of sadness washes across her face. ‘I’m just awful busy for the next few months … I’m going to be shooting a movie with Robert Mitchum next, would you believe, and I have publicity to do for that little comedy I told you about, the one with Betty Grable. And I really need to be sure to spend more time with Joe, because he gets terribly jealous if I’m gallivanting all the time …’

  ‘Marilyn, it’s fine. I know you have a lot going on.’

  ‘Really? I mean, you’ll be OK? Can I lend you any money, or help you find somewhere a little bigger to live …? Or you could come and stay in a room near me at the Beverly Hills Hotel? You wouldn’t need to worry about the bill or anything – I could handle that.’

  My heart melts, a little bit.

  ‘Thank you, Marilyn. And the Beverly Hills Hotel sounds wonderful. But I’m really perfectly OK here. Or rather, I will be, once I sort my life out a bit.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, honey! I can’t tell you how much better I feel, now that I’m exactly where I always wanted to be. I mean, sure, I still sometimes feel blue about a lot of stuff … but everybody feels that way, right? And once I’ve finished shooting this next movie, I’m going to take a little time off, take a holiday with Joe, maybe try and see the world a little … oh, honey, did you think about what kind of shoe you’re gonna wear with the dress?’ she adds, meandering off the subject of her near future. ‘A cute peep-toe would be perfect, in white or yellow if you have them.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I own any white or yellow peep-toes,’ I say, tactfully. ‘But I think I might have a nice strappy sandal at the back here somewhere …’

  I delve to the very back of my tiny wardrobe, rifling through my (mostly black) shoe collection, until I eventually dig out the light tan sandals I’m thinking about.

  ‘What do you think of …?’

  But she’s pulled that disappearing act again. Where she was just occupying a Marilyn-shaped section of hot-pink coloured, Chanel-scented space, now she’s left it empty again.

  I’ve no idea whether this means she’ll be back, another day, in her Some Like It Hot sequin gown, or her Seven Year Itch white halterneck dress, or whether I’ll ever, in fact, see her again at all.

  But there isn’t time to dwell, or wonder, or hope. Because I’m not going to add insult to injury by being shamefully late for Olly’s all-important opening-night party.

  The sign above the restaurant door says Nibbles.

  This is what Olly has ended up calling it?

  It’s … not great.

  I mean, I know it’s a tapas place, so the precise idea is that you sit and nibble … but still, I sort of had in mind something a bit more exciting than that.

  I’m not going to say anything, though; I’m not going to be anything other than a hundred per cent positive about the entire evening.

  Which, to be fair, I don’t think is going to be a very difficult task. It’s all looking absolutely terrific. The plate-glass doors are all open on to the street, and there’s music filtering out, and there’s a (rather pretty) waitress standing by the main entrance with a plate of delicious-looking arancini-type things, offering them to interested passers-by. And if this weren’t enticing enough, there are all kinds of amazing aromas wafting out: fresh herbs, and grilling meat, and something sweet underlying it all that smells like peaches baking with vanilla …

  ‘Welcome to Libby’s!’ the waitress says.

  I must have misheard this; she must have said, Welcome, Libby. Though it’s a bit of a mystery how she knows my name.

  ‘Sorry!’ she goes on, screwing up her face and looking annoyed with herself. ‘Welcome to Nibbles. The name got changed at the last minute, and I keep saying the wrong one!’

  ‘You mean … the name was Libby’s?’

  She nods. ‘Right up until this afternoon. Such a last-minute thing, and he had to get the decorator to redo half the sign, and the manager had to run to the copy shop and reprint all the menus …’ She lowers her voice. ‘And don’t tell anyone I said so, but I quite liked the name before.’

  ‘Libby’s?’ I repeat. ‘That was what it was?’

  ‘Yeah. I liked that better. Still, Nibbles is good, too. Talking of which, would you like one?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A nibble! These are deep-fried rice balls, and they’re great. Some of them are stuffed with mozzarella, and some of them are filled with fresh peas … um … I’ve forgotten which are which, to be honest with you …’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll have something in a bit.’

  ‘Good plan. Get yourself a drink first, I would. The bar is serving Aperol spritzers, or there’s some pretty nice wine being circulated by my lovely colleagues.’

  ‘Wine,’ I blurt, clumsily. ‘God, yes.’

  ‘Er – right. Well, enjoy!’

  It’s all a bit of a blur as I walk past her and into the crowded restaurant, and not just because it’s filled with noise and people.

  Olly named the restaurant after me?

  And then … un-named it again?

  He must be even angrier with me than I thought.

  I can see him, over in the corner near the bar, chatting animatedly to Jesse, his former assistant chef, who is now in charge of all Olly’s location catering operations.

  Just for a moment, our eyes meet.

  He doesn’t smile.

  He simply waves, mouths a ‘Hello’, and performs a quick mime that I think means do you have a drink?

  He doesn’t wait for my response before he re-enters his animated conversation with Jesse.

  I need to go and talk to him, and apologize, profusely, for not turning up yesterday when I said I would. And then apologize even more profusely for not being around as much as I should have been for moral support these last few months. Apologize, frankly, as much as I need to. Because seriously: how pissed off with me must he have been to … remove my name from his restaurant?

  I mean, obviously there’s the other fact that I’m pretty much astounded he’d even have chosen me to name the restaurant after in the first place …

  I need to find Nora, somewhere in this crowd, and see if she knows anything about this. She’ll be tricky to locate, being so tiny, but I’m quite sure if I can spot Tash’s tall, blonde head, Nora won’t be too far behind.

  I’m just setting forth through the sea of people, eyes peeled, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  It’s Adam. Yep, my secretly gay ex-boyfriend.

  I suppose I should have realized that, as Olly’s major investor, he’d probably be invited tonight.

  ‘Adam,’ I say.

  ‘Libby!’ he replies, with a lot more enthusiasm, and leans in to kiss me on either cheek. ‘So good to see you … if it really is you under that blonde hair?’

  ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  ‘Well, it suits you! You look terrific. That dress,’ he sketches a hand at the pale yellow sundress I eventually decided to risk wearing, ‘is fabulous. And have you lost weight?’

  ‘Thank you, Adam.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not saying you were overweight before … you absolutely weren’t. Certainly not that I ever noticed, anyway. And before you accuse me of not paying attention, let me just say, Libby, that I always found you very attractive, even though …’

  ‘Even though you prefer men?’

  ‘Well, it’s not just about preferring … I mean, I’m not bi, if that’s what you were wondering. I don’t fancy women in the slightest.’ />
  ‘And yet,’ I point out, ‘you didn’t feel the need to mention that to me at all during the course of our two-month relationship.’

  ‘No.’ He looks a bit sheepish. ‘I get that I screwed up. But I’m trying to be nice here, Libby. I’m saying that even though I don’t find women attractive, I always thought that you were.’

  My head is reeling with all this. ‘Are you saying I look like a man?’

  ‘No! Christ, no. I’m just saying … look, you have a nice personality, Libby, OK? I found you an appealing person to be around. And just so you know, I really did see us having a future together!’

  ‘As what?’ I stare at him. ‘A future based on me making myself available for jaunts across the Atlantic whenever you had a family wedding or bar mitzvah to go to, and didn’t want to leap out of the closet just yet?’

  Adam turns rather pink. ‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, Libby, no … anyway, I’d have told you the truth eventually.’

  ‘I doubt that. Ben might have, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Ben.’ Adam looks relieved to be able to latch on to a way out of this uncomfortable conversation and, to be quite honest, I’m perfectly happy to give it to him. ‘He mentioned that he’d finally managed to speak to you. I’m telling you, Libby, he really loves your stuff. Wouldn’t it be terrific if he does decide to invest in Libby Goes To Hollywood? I mean, I’d just feel really good about bringing the two of you together …’

  You know what: I can’t be angry with him any longer.

  For one thing, I’m not really angry with him any more. (I’m even, sort of, glad to see him, with his abnormally healthy complexion and his uncomfortable-looking casual wear.) But for another, I don’t really have the time to carry on the conversation, because I really, really want to go and find Nora.

  ‘Yes,’ I begin, distractedly, ‘and it’s been good to catch up, but actually, I should go and say hi to …’

  ‘Oh, now, that is a tall drink of water,’ Adam suddenly says, his attention already wandering off me and over my shoulder.

  I glance round to see who it is he’s talking about.

  It’s Bogdan, who’s just walked in through the door. When he sees me, he raises a huge hand in greeting, and then starts heading our way.

  ‘Isn’t he the one who came to cut you out of the gate the other night?’ Adam is hissing, in my ear. ‘You have to introduce me properly!’

  ‘You’re serious?’ I stare at him. Then I stare at Bogdan, who’s looking, well, unique this evening in (why?) pale orange denim dungarees that have more than just a hint of Guantanamo about them, and a Keep Calm And Love Harry Styles T-shirt. ‘Adam, you have a boyfriend!’

  ‘I’m not asking you for his inside-leg measurement!’ Adam squeaks. ‘I’d just like a chat … Adam Rosenfeld,’ he’s saying, extending a hand to Bogdan before I can even say anything. ‘We met the other evening. I don’t know if you remember …?’

  ‘Of course am remembering this. Am not being able to forget.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’re very kind …’

  ‘Image of Libby with head between iron bars and bum in air is grilling itself on brain for whole of eternity.’

  ‘I think you mean searing, Bogdan,’ I say. ‘But thanks for reminding us all about it, either way.’

  ‘Is no problem,’ Bogdan replies, affably. ‘Is good to be seeing you again, too,’ he tells Adam. ‘Am thinking about you a lot since first meeting.’

  ‘What an incredibly sweet thing to say,’ Adam breathes. ‘And in such an attractive accent, too … what is that? Russian? Hungarian?’

  ‘Am raining from Moldova.’

  ‘He means hailing,’ I translate, starting to feel a bit like one of those simultaneous interpreters at the UN. ‘Not raining.’

  ‘Am apologies,’ Bogdan hangs his head, humbly, ‘for bad English.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ says Adam. ‘Your English is a heck of a lot better than my Moldovan!’

  ‘Is nice,’ Bogdan says, shooting me a pointed look, ‘to hear somebody saying this.’

  ‘I mean, I do speak a few words of Russian; I don’t know if that’s similar at all …?’ And to prove a point, Adam drops into rather fluent-sounding Russian, ending whatever it is he’s said with a raised eyebrow in Bogdan’s direction.

  ‘Am very much liking you to be doing this for me,’ says Bogdan.

  Which is a little bit worrying (I mean, what has Adam actually said?), until Adam turns and heads off towards the bar. So I’m assuming that what Adam was suggesting, in Russian, is that he fetch Bogdan a drink.

  ‘This is very charming gentleman,’ Bogdan observes, the moment Adam’s out of earshot. ‘Is pleasurable treat for me to be treated like king for change.’

  ‘I’m happy for you, Bogdan, but you do remember that he has a boyfriend, don’t you?’

  ‘Am not assuming he is giving me measurement of the inner part of thigh,’ Bogdan says, rather primly. ‘Am just enjoying the conversing.’

  ‘Yes, well, I really need to converse with you, as it happens.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Did Olly really get you to change the restaurant sign at the last minute? To Nibbles instead of Libby’s?’

  ‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Yes. This is what Olly is having me to do.’

  I feel something sag, somewhere inside me.

  ‘Wow,’ I manage to say, after a moment. ‘He really must think I’m the shittiest friend in the world.’

  ‘Am not thinking is to do with your shitness as friend, Libby. Is more to do with the snogging of Dillon.’

  Hang on …

  ‘My snogging of Dillon?’ I ask, in far too loud a voice, before going on, in a more discreet tone, ‘Sorry, how does Olly even know about the snogging of … about me kissing Dillon?’

  ‘Am here earlier when your sister is calling him …’

  ‘When Cass called Olly?’ I’m confused. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

  ‘She is letting him know that she is not making it for his big opening night party. She is on speakerphone. She has a bit of the nose of toffee, your sister. Am not sure why she is assuming is big deal whether she is coming to party or not.’

  ‘She is a bit toffee-nosed at times, yes,’ I say, ‘but her calling to bow out of the party still doesn’t explain how—’

  ‘Because she is telling Olly that if you are turning up to the party with Dillon as your date, he must be calling her and letting her know. This would be good reason for her to come to party after all, apparently.’

  ‘With her TV crew in tow,’ I murmur, the penny not just dropping, but thwunking down for a crash-landing, ‘for a ready-made moment of high drama.’

  ‘And Olly is looking a bit – how am I saying this? – blue in the fins?’

  ‘Green about the gills?’

  ‘This is how he is looking,’ Bogdan confirms. ‘And he is asking Cass why you would be bringing Dillon to the party when you are breaking up eight months ago. And Cass is telling him—’

  ‘That she has footage of me kissing Dillon from the other night.’

  ‘Something like this. Olly is going outside at this point, so am not being able to drop the eaves any longer.’

  Right. Well, this all makes perfect sense, now.

  I needn’t have worried about adding insult to injury by being late for Olly’s party: I’ve already added plenty of insult to injury by appearing to get involved, again, with the ex that Olly loathed.

  Still … to actually go to the lengths of taking my name off the restaurant …

  ‘Is making me feel bit worried,’ Bogdan is going on, ‘about Dillon coming to party this evening.’

  ‘Why on earth,’ I ask, ‘would Dillon be coming to the party this evening?’

  ‘Because I am mentioning this to him.’

  ‘Because you are mentioning what to him?’ I gaze at Bogdan, ominous dread spreading over me. ‘And when? I didn’t know you were … in touch with Dillon.’

  ‘He is dropping into salon for trim this aft
ernoon,’ Bogdan says, rather proudly. ‘He is still liking the way am doing his fringe.’

  ‘OK, this all stops, right now.’ If I had sleeves, I’d roll them up. ‘All this Chinese whispers, and people talking about me behind my back … I’m going to go and find Olly and tell him there’s nothing going on between me and Dillon, and that actually, it’s not really any of his concern whether there’s anything going on between me and Dillon …’ Because he can be as angry as he likes with me about being a rubbish friend: I’ll totally accept that. But to extend that same anger to the choices I make in my romantic life … now, that doesn’t seem completely fair. Does it? ‘And while I’m doing that, you’re going to call Dillon right now,’ I shove my phone at him, ‘and tell him under no circumstance is he to come here tonight.’

  (I might be a bit pissed off with Olly for his high-handed disapproval, but I’m not about to have his big night ruined by Dillon swanning in. Not to mention that we’re only feet away from a fully stocked professional kitchen, laden with more meat cleavers and cast-iron cookware than you can shake a stick at. I can’t let Dillon put himself in that sort of danger.)

  ‘Please,’ Bogdan says, in a low voice, as I start to walk away from him, ‘be taking your time with Olly. Am wanting opportunity for private chat with Adam … and tell him I am being single,’ he hisses, realizing I’m about to walk right past Adam on my way to the bar, which is where Olly is still standing. ‘And ready to be mingling …’

  I do nothing of the sort, because I honestly don’t think that either Adam or Bogdan need my help matchmaking the two of them tonight, and because I don’t want to be remotely complicit in any infidelity that Adam might be about to inflict on my (possible) investor.

  When I reach Olly, he’s just finished up his conversation with Jesse, and is going behind the bar to grab a couple of bottles of wine that the barman is opening up for him.

  I clear my throat. ‘Olly.’

  He glances over at me. ‘Oh, Libby. Hi.’

  Not the most prepossessing start, what with him talking in this strange, coolly pleasant manner.