by Pippa Wright
‘I’m sorry, Jemima, Camilla – I had no idea Randy was going to be there last night, and when he fell apart on stage, well, I just did what seemed right at the time.’ I can’t believe I’m having to defend myself, like it was my choice to be wrestled to the ground by a pissed and sobbing comedian.
‘I know you did, Lizzy,’ says Camilla. ‘No one knew Randy was going to be there; the absolute idiot checked himself out of rehab without telling anyone and went straight from Croydon to the Queen’s Arms. He’d been drinking there since four in the afternoon; Bryan spoke to the landlord this morning.’
‘I don’t care why it happened,’ says Jemima to me, ignoring Camilla completely. ‘I just care that when we are doing our best to persuade his American promoters that they can rely on Randy, that rehab has worked this time, that he’s not going to run out on his commitments, he is photographed drunkenly writhing on top of you on the floor of a public bar.’
‘He wasn’t writhing on top of me, Jemima. I was just . . . well . . . in the way when he fell off stage,’ I protest, looking at Camilla pleadingly. ‘Why am I being read the riot act here? None of this is my fault.’
‘It’s not about fault, Lizzy,’ Jemima says slowly, as if speaking to a very backward child. ‘It’s not about what happened, it’s about what it looks like. Are you so stupid that you don’t understand how public relations works after all this time?’
‘Now just hold on a minute, Jemima,’ says Camilla, stepping in at last. ‘I know you’re jolly cross, but shouting at Lizzy isn’t going to solve anything.’
Jemima glares at me. ‘Fine,’ she snaps. ‘Then let’s get on with it. Tell her the plan. She got us into this. Now she’s going to get us out of it.’
She points towards Camilla’s computer screen and the Hot Slebs website, which has the mobile phone pictures uploaded extra large. ‘Getting Busy with Lizzy!’ shrieks the headline.
‘Look at this first,’ she says, pushing me towards Camilla’s desk.
‘Oh God,’ I groan as she clicks into the site for more detail.
Reprobate Randy Jones escaped from rehab yesterday only to be captured on the run by this sensible-looking sort, also spotted leaving his house this morning. Our spies on the scene said Randy bellowed the name Lizzy from the stage at a comedy night until the lady in question appeared from the crowd. A tired and emotional Randy followed her home like a faithful puppy. Not your usual type, is she, Randy? Can this Buttoned-Up Blonde keep Randy on the straight and narrow where his usual buxom buddies have failed?
Are they calling me flat-chested?
‘Camilla, I’m so sorry – I don’t know what to say,’ I start again. Jemima tuts loudly behind me.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Camilla says, gesturing for me to sit back down. ‘Jemima and I have talked this through and we think this is just the angle we need to sort everything out. Randy does need someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. At least for a few weeks while we get him back on track.’
You’re telling me, I think. But who’d be mental enough to take that on?
‘And after last night,’ interrupts Jemima, ‘we’ve decided it’s going to be you.’
I laugh nervously, but Camilla doesn’t join in. She nods earnestly in agreement with Jemima.
I’d expect it of Jemima, but I can’t believe Camilla’s serious. For a moment I’m too surprised to answer, but my cheeks begin to burn.
‘I – I don’t know what you think happened between me and Randy last night,’ I stutter, furious, ‘but I can assure you both it was all strictly above board. I just helped to get him home. I mean, he isn’t even going to remember any of this when he wakes up, and he’s definitely not going to want me hanging around reminding him of what an idiot he’s been.’
‘Randy Jones doesn’t have the first clue what’s good for him,’ barks Jemima.
‘And you suppose I do?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Not yet, of course not,’ says Camilla, taking control of the conversation with a silencing glance at Jemima. ‘But I do. I mean goodness, of course I know you didn’t fool around with Randy, you’re far too sensible for that.’
God, even my boss thinks he wouldn’t shag me.
‘But right now you’re just what he needs,’ she continues. ‘The down-to-earth non-celebrity girlfriend who helps him turn his life around. I’ve spoken to Bryan and he thinks it’s going to work.’
‘You know I’d do anything to help you, Camilla,’ I splutter, ‘but I draw the line at being made to have a relationship with your lunatic client for the sake of his reputation. What about mine?’
‘Yo ur reputation?’ Jemima laughs, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. ‘You’re a single, thirty-three-year-old personal assistant! A failed journalist! A nobody! What reputation do you have to lose? Jesus, Camilla, I told you there was no point in even asking her.’
‘That’s enough,’ says Camilla, and there’s an edge to her voice that makes both Jemima and me flinch. I just got a glimpse of the old head-girl-in-charge. I instantly sit up straighter.
‘Remember what Jemima said, Lizzy. It’s not about what happened, it’s not about what’s actually going to happen. It’s about what it looks like. Randy needs to look like he’s making changes in his life, and you, Lizzy, can be a very visible sign that he’s moving on from the topless models and reality TV rejects. I’m not asking you to do anything other than be seen out with Randy, be photographed doing wholesome things: going to the zoo, having picnics in the park – all innocent larks, you see?’
I thought this crazy idea must be all Jemima’s, but now I can see that Camilla’s right behind her; I haven’t seen her this focused since before the twins were born.
‘Wh-what does Randy think about this?’ My final line of defence. Surely Randy, the Shagger of the Millennium, is not going to be up for this? He pretends to take his lothario reputation with a pinch of salt, but in fact he’s in deadly earnest. He’s going to hate being stuck with the sensible girlfriend type – even if it’s just in public – because in public is all that Randy really cares about.
‘Randy will do as he’s told,’ says Jemima in tones of steel. And I can hear, as clearly as if she’s said it out loud, what she also means: ‘And so will you.’
‘We’re not asking you to do this for long, Lizzy,’ says Camilla. ‘Just while we get Randy’s US tour back on track and get him some positive press for once.’ Then her eyes soften and she reaches across the table and grabs my hand. ‘Lizzy, try not to see this as a total disaster. You’ve been my PA for way too long; this isn’t exactly the promotion I had in mind for you, but it’s a step out of your usual role and I think you can do it. If you can handle something like this, then you can handle anything. Jemima and I were already talking about expanding your role once this is over.’
Oh, great. I wonder what my role will be expanding into after this. A threesome with Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee? Surrogate mother for Cilla Black?
I hesitate, wresting my hand out of Camilla’s and back into my lap.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, turning from Camilla to Jemima, who is pacing so vigorously behind me it’s as if she’s trying to punch a row of holes in the carpet with her spike heels. ‘I don’t want to be in the public eye like this. It’s not what I signed up for when I came to work at Carter Morgan. I like the behind-the-scenes stuff. I’m just not a front-of-house sort of girl.’
‘You can say that again,’ Jemima huffs, stopping mid-pace for a moment. ‘I told you she wouldn’t do it, Camilla. It was a stupid idea. I’m going to call Bryan and tell him we have to think again.’
Camilla’s shoulders droop and she takes a deep breath as she rests her palms on her desk. ‘It is a stupid idea. I’m sorry. I can’t expect it of you, Lizzy, and I shouldn’t have asked. I will call Bryan, thank you, Jemima. Randy is still my client, and I will find another way around this.’
Jemima folds her arms in front of her like bull bars, but her tone suddenly switches to swee
tness and light. ‘Oh, Cam. It’s too bad that Lizzy’s let you down like this. I know you thought this was the best way out. But now that’s not going to happen, don’t you think it’s about time you handed Randy over to me?’
Both Camilla and I start in our chairs, and Camilla’s face reddens as if she’s been slapped.
‘I mean, you’ve got so much else going on, especially at home, and Randy’s such a demanding client. I’m not saying that I’d have handled things any differently up to now, but isn’t it in Randy’s best interests to have someone who’s available to him at any time of night or day? And isn’t it in your best interests, too, darling?’ Jemima cocks her head to the side to convey sympathy, concern, compassion, but looks more like a snake fixing her gaze on her prey.
‘That is a low blow, Jemima,’ says Camilla in a quiet voice. Come on, I think, stand up! Have at her! It’s time you put her back in her box, with a heavy, heavy lid on.
‘I don’t mean to be harsh, darling,’ says Jemima. ‘You mustn’t take this personally. I’m just trying to put our client first, and I know that’s what you want to do, too, isn’t it? You know this makes sense.’
Camilla shakes her head slowly in disbelief, but I can see her beginning to weaken under Jemima’s basilisk stare. She’s probably been up half the night with the twins. There’s a smear of puréed food on her elbow and the bags under her eyes are a louring purple. She’s too tough to cry, but too tired to resist Jemima for long.
‘I’ll do it!’ I hear myself shout, in a voice that surprises me just as much as it does my bosses, whose heads whip round towards me as if on coiled springs.
Shit. What did I say that for?
Camilla leans forward on her desk, eyebrows practically buried in her hairline with surprise (her roots need doing – must remind her). ‘What? Are you absolutely sure, Lizzy? You don’t have to do this.’
I do.
‘I’m sure. I am absolutely positively sure,’ I say, sounding more confident than I feel. ‘You’re right, Jemima. We all need to put the client first, and it was selfish of me not to realize that from the start. You can count on me from now on.’
Jemima bares her teeth in an attempt at a smile. ‘Well. I’m glad I helped you to see sense.’
‘Oh, you bloody marvel,’ Camilla says, grinning at me gratefully. ‘Lizzy, you complete and utter marvel. What did I ever do to deserve you?’
Jemima rolls her eyes. ‘If I could just interrupt your love-in for one moment, we need to establish some parameters here.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, turning to face her with what I hope is a look of compliant obedience. ‘Fire away, Jemima.’
‘Well. Okay.’ Jemima is disarmed; nothing undermines a bully quite as much as agreeing with everything they say. ‘This relationship has to seem genuine for it to work. I hope that’s clear? One word to a single loudmouthed friend, or even to your mother, and we may as well give up on trying to save Randy’s career. Do you quite understand?’
‘I understand,’ I say, wondering how I’m ever going to get this past Lulu.
‘Jemima’s right, you know,’ says Camilla, suddenly all earnest. ‘As far as everyone outside this office is concerned, you are the new love of Randy Jones’s life and he is yours. No one else can know this isn’t true.’
And suddenly I think: what more visible sign can a girl give that she’s losing control than getting involved with a celebrity shagger? This is practically guaranteed to get Lulu off her ‘Lizzy Harrison needs to lose control’ bandwagon with no risk to myself – I mean, it’s not as if it’s real.
‘Absolutely. You can count on me,’ I say, and I mean it.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking – here we go, standard romantic novel plotline number three: heroine is forced into close proximity with man she claims to find unattractive. Her brittle defences overcome by his charm, she discovers she loves him, the end. We’ve all seen The Proposal. But let me remind you that I’m doing this for work reasons. I’m far too professional (okay, uptight) to consider getting into bed with a client in anything other than the metaphorical sense.
Besides, if I fail to live up to the romantic heroine role, Randy is hardly the classic romantic hero of every girl’s dreams either – I don’t recall Mr Darcy getting it on with a multitude of nubile Regency babes before settling down with Elizabeth Bennet. I mean, it’s one thing to know your boyfriend has put it about a bit in the past, and quite another to have seen his penchant for bondage and outdoor sex detailed in breathless prose in countless kiss-and-tell exposés in the national press.
Not to mention that if Mr Darcy had personal hygiene issues, Miss Austen forbore to mention them.
7
I am in the middle of Hyde Park, hair frizzing in the light mist, wearing, over my T-shirt and leggings, a distinctly BO-scented blue nylon vest with a large white 72 on it, jogging furiously on the spot while being shouted at by a small, squat half-man, half-bulldog whose neck is significantly wider than one of my thighs. Thank you, Lulu. Thank you so very much.
I had thought that out of everyone I had to lie to about Randy Jones, Lulu would be the one to see through it in an instant, but instead of questioning how I’d gone in the space of one night from accidental celibate to new girlfriend of the Shagger of the Millennium, she’d taken it as a personal triumph.
‘Seeeee!!! Seeeee??? Just one night away from the Spinsters’ Social Club and already you are seeing the benefits! You’re seeing Randy fucking Jones! You’re fucking Randy fucking Jones! Oh my God, I am quite, quite brilliant!’
‘Lulu! I’m not fucking him! Jesus! I spent the night with him, but in his spare room. Who do you think I am?’
‘Well, just get over your nun-like self!’ exclaimed Lulu. ‘I mean, there’s no escape for you now you’re seeing Randy Jones; it’s only a matter of time before he gets you into his bed. Get ready to say goodbye to your born-again virginity, Harrison! You can thank me later.’
So thrilled was she at this proof of her own wondrousness that she barely asked me a thing about it. Instead she was fired up with a crazed sense of her own power and influence, and on Monday night I got a call.
‘I have a treat in store for you,’ she crowed over the phone. ‘A new exercise regime!’
‘New exercise regime? Are you calling me unfit?’ I protested with all the defensiveness of one who was always picked last for teams at school. I might have been useless at anything involving balls flying at my face, as Lulu used to say, but since school I’d learned to love exercise. Especially the calming, meditative qualities of yoga, where you can feel the knots in your mind unravel and smooth themselves out over the course of a session. My slightly bonkers spiritual journeying mother had to be right about some things. The fact that it keeps my stomach flat is just a bonus.
‘We’ve already discussed this, or are you going to tell me your yoga class was miraculously full of attractive non-patchouli’d men tonight, Harrison?’
‘No,’ I said, feeling my post-yoga glow dissipating. ‘So what kind of man-attracting exercise are you going to have me take up instead? Football? Rugby? I mean, I see your logic – what man can resist a girl in a gum shield?’
‘You, Lizzy Harrison, have been signed up for a free trial class with British Army Bootcamp,’ said Lulu, triumphantly. ‘Wednesday night, Hyde Park, seven-thirty. You can’t say you’re not free because I know you’re supposed to be seeing me, but I am officially blowing you out. Don’t be late or they’ll make you suffer.’
Well, I wasn’t late (this is me we’re talking about), but I’m suffering all the same.
The half-man, half-bulldog has been making us run from tree to tree to tree in some kind of appalling competition – surely my first actual race since I was at school. I was wheezing by the third circuit and feeling distinctly nauseous by the fifth. The constant shouts of ‘Faster, number 72!’ are less encouraging than infuriating. So now I’m slowing myself down almost to a walk – I mean, respect your body’s limitations, r
ight? – when suddenly Bulldog Man shouts ‘Stoooooop!’ Oh, thank God.
‘Blue Team, one of our number has stopped running. And that number is 72.’
The twenty other blue vest wearers groan and look at me with loathing. I have clearly done something very, very wrong.
‘What does it mean when someone stops following instructions?’ the instructor shouts, and I flinch away from the flecks of spittle.
My team members mutter something about burping; what are they on about?
‘You have it. Twenty burpees, right now, courtesy of number 72,’ barks Bulldog Man, the tendons on his neck standing out in fury.
Twenty what? Everyone around me throws themselves to the ground and starts doing an odd combination of squats and star-jumps.
‘Number 72! Get down there NOW or I’m making it fifty burpees for everyone!’ The instructor’s voice has gone so furiously high that the end of his sentence can probably only be heard by his canine brethren. I expect to see them come bounding out from behind the trees in response to his call.
Number 47, who’s leaping about next to me, grabs the leg of my tracksuit bottoms and physically drags me to the ground. ‘Do you want to kill us all?’ he groans. ‘Just do the fucking burpees, 72!’
My previous memories of Hyde Park are all sunshine and the Serpentine Gallery, lazing with Lulu in the deckchairs until being chased out by the attendants for not paying; watching the rollerbladers on a Sunday afternoon; feeding the ducks with my two-year-old nephew. The usual London park activities. I never imagined that I’d find myself voluntarily face down in the mud, hauling my own body weight from horizontal to vertical and back again more times than seems possible. I’m sure I remember hearing about two women who were struck by lightning in Hyde Park once, and I glance hopefully at the sky for deliverance, but it threatens no more than a gentle mist.
