by Pippa Wright
If you’ve never seen someone famous have their photograph taken, it’s quite the education. There is an extraordinary amount of footwork involved in posing for a casual paparazzi snap: one foot always has to be in front, but with very little weight put on it so that it can be slightly bent. Then the same shoulder as the front leg should be turned towards the press pack for the most flattering angle. Naturally one knows from experience and media training whether to offer one’s right or left profile (just you try to see if you can find a single photograph of Mariah Carey’s left side). Head tilted, chin slightly dipped, mouth open just a touch, but not enough to look gormless. Minimize a double chin by pressing your tongue firmly on to the roof of your mouth. Keep smiling while you remember all of this, unless you are intentionally going for a moody smoulder, aka sexy face. But be careful if attempting a combination of sexy face and open mouth – the possibility of looking witless increases exponentially. If the photographers can be placed at a slightly higher level than you, then all the better – never, never let them take a photograph from below unless you fancy being foreshortened to Hobbit-like proportions. Tonight they’re all massed on the pavement and we’ll just have to take our chances.
Lulu has taken to posing as if she’s been practising her whole life. As a girl who, aged fifteen, rehearsed smoking while looking in the mirror to ensure she looked cool, I wouldn’t put it past her.
‘Lulu Miller!’ I hear her shout in answer to a call from the crowd. ‘M-I-L-L-E-R. It’s my birthday party! Well, how old do you think I am? It’s my brother’s birthday, too.’ She suddenly appears to realize that Dan and I aren’t actually next to her.
‘Dan! Lizzy! Get yourselves over here!’ She waves at us, beaming.
‘Come on then,’ says Dan. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘Urgh. I do hate having my photograph taken,’ I grumble as Dan guides me towards the mob.
He turns to me in surprise. ‘Lizzy, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You look beautiful. You really do.’
He takes up position next to Lulu and squares himself to the cameras, with nary a bended knee nor a flattering angle to be seen. Randy, seeing my approach, grabs my hand, pulling me in tight towards him.
‘Where did you get to, babe?’ He manoeuvres me into a tight groin-to-groin hold, and I try not to blink as the flashbulbs start up all over again.
By the time we get through the doors of the Old Brewery, every possible combination of Randy plus the three of us has been photographically exhausted: Randy and Lizzy! Randy and Lulu! Randy and Lizzy and Lulu! Randy and Dan and Lulu! Randy and Dan! Randy and Dan and Lulu and Lizzy! The photographers disperse happily, wishing us a good evening. At last we can get on with just enjoying the party.
As we enter the vast brick hall, Randy stops in the doorway and the chattering voices of Lulu and Dan’s guests fall silent. He’s perfectly still, both hands on the top of his cane, gazing off into the middle distance like a catalogue model; I half expect him to point at a nonexistent object, or bring a hand broodingly to his chin. It’s the first time since the comedy night in Balham that I’ve seen him in full superstar mode in front of a crowd, and I can’t deny he’s brilliant at it. He hasn’t said a word, he hasn’t made a noise; he’s just standing there. But every eye in the room is drawn to him. And a whisper begins to spread around the room. Oh my God. Is it . . .? Did you . . . ? Isn’t that . . . ? What the hell is he wearing?
I nudge Randy hard in the ribs.
‘Come on, you’re fading into the background tonight, remember?’ I hiss through my teeth.
‘I’m not doing anything, babe, just taking in the room,’ says Randy, offering his left profile to the guests for a moment. When he’s sure he’s been fully appreciated from both sides, he reaches for my arm. ‘Right, my gorgeous girlfriend, let’s show them how it’s done.’
We process through the tables, Randy waving beneficently like some sort of potentate accepting the good wishes of his subjects.
Lulu, just ahead of us, waves us over to a table at which her parents are already seated, her mother gently fussing over the table decorations, her father engaging Laurent in stilted conversation. It must have been years since Lulu last introduced them to one of her shortlived amours, and I can see the glint in her father’s eye that betrays a hope this might actually be the relationship that brings Lulu one step closer to matrimony.
‘Oh, Lizzy!’ exclaims Sue Miller, seeing us arrive. ‘You look just gorgeous, my love, and this young man must be . . .’
‘Randy Jones,’ says Randy, grabbing Sue’s hand to kiss it with practised charm. ‘I thought Lizzy said we’d be sitting with Lulu and David’s mother but – you can’t be. I mean, surely you’re their sister?’
‘Oh, goodness, you flatterer!’ shrieks Sue delightedly, fanning herself with a name card from the table. ‘Their sister! Oooh, I can’t tell if I’m burning up from your silliness or from a hot flush.’
‘Hot flush,’ says Dennis Miller, standing up to introduce himself. ‘It’s like sleeping next to a furnace. Lizzy, my dear, you look wonderful. And this must be the famous Randy Jones.’ He looks Randy up and down with a completely unreadable expression on his face.
‘Mr Miller, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Randy bows low with a sweep of his arm. I get the feeling he’s channelling the courtly dandy a bit too strongly. What next? Will he drag me on to the dance floor for a series of gavottes?
‘Well, I’m delighted you’ve made it at last.’ Dennis looks pointedly at his watch. ‘Take your seats. I’m going to say a few words, and then we can get on with the party.’
Dennis points us towards the other side of the round table, where Dan is sitting with a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s a petite brunette whose ample bosom is spilling out of the top of her dull-gold strapless dress. Her dark curls are loose around her heart-shaped face and her big doe eyes are staring up at Dan in simple adoration, even though all he’s doing is offering her some water.
‘Sparkling, please,’ she says in a breathy whisper, and then reverently watches him pour it as if he’s enacting a deeply meaningful religious rite.
‘Ah, here you are,’ says Dan, looking up. ‘Can I introduce you to Emma? Emma, this is Lulu’s best friend, Lizzy Harrison.’ Her eyes flick over me dismissively. I hate her on sight.
‘And this,’ Dan continues, ‘is—’
‘Randy Jones!’ she says, so breathlessly that I wonder if she’s expelled all the air in her diaphragm with that far-too-tight bodice. She stands up to offer Randy her hand and I see his eyes irresistibly drawn towards her cleavage. To be honest, I can’t stop staring myself, just trying to work out how that dress is staying up when so much of her bosom is effectively on top of it instead of underneath it.
‘Ravishing, ravishing,’ says Randy, kissing her hand. Ravishing? Who does he think he is? The Prince Regent?
‘Oh, look,’ says Emma, looking up at Randy from under her long eyelashes. False, I bet. ‘We match!’ And it’s true – her dress is a far better match for Randy’s golden flamboyance than my understated accessories would ever be. Rochelle would be delighted with the picture they make.
‘So we do,’ says Randy, slowly looking her up and down. ‘So we do.’
‘Perhaps you could sit down?’ says Dan, pulling out a chair for me next to Laurent. Randy places himself on my other side, next to the supposedly ravishing Emma, who looks thrilled at her placement. Dan stands alongside his seat in between Lulu and Emma and, with a nod at his father, taps a knife on an empty wine glass to silence the room.
‘Hi, everyone,’ says Dan, and a cheer goes up. ‘You go, Windy!’ The rugby boys are here in force tonight.
‘Before my father says a few words, Lulu and I just wanted to thank you all for coming tonight. We’ve both been fortunate enough to be guests at many of your weddings,’ (another cheer) ‘your children’s christenings,’ (a collective aww) ‘and other family celebrations. So we thought, in the absence of anythin
g like a wedding from Lulu or me, we should repay the debt and entertain you all for a change.’ Everyone applauds politely, and Randy takes advantage of the break in the speech to quickly pour out some wine for us.
‘Should you?’ I mouth silently. Randy places a finger on my lips and, with my disapproval held safely at arm’s length, empties half his glass in one swallow.
‘And in addition,’ says Dan, ‘my father has been working on his father-of-the-bride speech for nearly fifteen years and has asked to be allowed to deliver a version of it before it’s too late. So may I ask you to raise your glasses to my father, Dennis Miller.’
‘Dennis Miller,’ the crowd murmurs, and after a brief shuffling and shifting of seats, all is silent as Lulu and Dan’s father stands up to speak.
Dennis’s speech is charming and witty and full of ridiculous stories about Lulu and Dan’s youth (even I hadn’t heard about the time when, aged eight, the twins set fire to the living room while attempting to cremate their dead hamster on a homemade funeral pyre), but having Randy twitching and fussing next to me throughout makes me realize it’s of limited interest to those who don’t know the birthday twins. Or, at least, it’s of limited interest to Randy. I can feel his agitation as Dennis fails to build adequate suspense for a punchline, or allows a burst of laughter to drown out an aside. Randy, full of nerves and preparation for his gig next week, can’t help himself silently judging my friends’ father by the rigorous standards of the comedy circuit, and, naturally, finds him wanting. But Dennis has an appreciative audience in the rest of us, and Randy joins in the applause as he finishes, mostly, I think, from relief that it is over.
‘Great speech, Mr Miller,’ he says, leaning over the table. ‘I can see I’ve got some competition.’
Dennis smiles back politely; I can tell that, although he might be aware of Randy’s fame as an abstract concept, he has no real idea who he is or what sort of competition he is referring to. But I’m grateful to Randy for making the effort.
‘That’s sweet of you,’ I say, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. He places a hand on my knee and, in one swift movement, pushes my dress up towards the top of my thigh, knuckles grazing my knicker elastic.
‘Randy!’ I hiss, pushing it back down as I see Sue’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. She reddens and looks away.
‘Sorry, babe – you know I find it hard to keep my hands off you,’ he grins, thoroughly enjoying causing a little scene.
I whisper into his ear: ‘Just behave yourself tonight, Randy, and I promise you can misbehave as much as you like afterwards.’
‘As much as I like?’ he asks, leaning in towards me. ‘Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.’
Once the meal is over and toasts have been drunk to Millers past and present, we’re released from sitting at the tables. There is a sudden rush of guests towards Randy, emboldened by alcohol into grabbing their moment with him. Several giggling girls have their photographs taken with him by their unsmiling boyfriends, but Randy charms even these disgruntled swains with self-deprecating jokes about just being here as a plus-one tonight.
The rugby boys bundle over as one, and Randy, to his credit, pretends to remember them all from the night at the Queen’s Arms, even though he and I have long established that he recalls nothing at all from that first encounter. Johnno, Bodders and Bangers delight in reminding him that they were the ones who carried him to the minicab, while Dusty and Paddy are careful to make sure their own contribution (picking up Randy’s jacket and keys from the floor) doesn’t go unremarked. Randy greets them all as dear friends, and the boys return to wives and girlfriends with a certain swagger, and with autographed place cards clutched in their beefy fists. I give Randy a little wave over the heads of his fans and decide to leave him to it for the moment.
It doesn’t take more than a few brief conversations with other guests to realize that all anyone really wants to talk to me about is Randy. I can hardly recall some of the people from my youth who come up to remind me of our close friendship and to express a desire to catch up soon, perhaps with my new boyfriend? Even Sue Miller can’t resist dragging me over to meet her friends from the Jacob’s Well Amateur Dramatics Society, who whisper and giggle amongst themselves before admitting they hope I might bring Randy to the first night of their September production of Calendar Girls. I murmur politely to Linda (Miss April) about Randy’s existing commitment to his US tour before excusing myself.
I’ve seen a kind of bunting hung around the walls of the vast hall, and, as I wander over to inspect it, I discover that it’s entirely composed of photographs of Lulu and Dan throughout their childhood. Two tiny babies nestle in a brown tartan blanket; it’s impossible to tell which is which. Dennis Miller’s resplendent sideburns bristle in the upper left corner of the picture as he gazes at them adoringly, though it must have been hard for him to see anything over those vast wing collars. Here’s the infant Lulu, desperately earnest in a leotard and ballet shoes, one chubby leg extended in front of her, toes pointed. Here’s Dan, carrying a football in what must have been a momentary flirtation with the game. Ah, here he is looking far more comfortable with a rugby ball tucked under his arm, his stripy socks falling down and two front teeth missing. As I move along the lines of photographs, the years pass. School uniforms change. Dan is suddenly a foot taller than his sister. Oh God, here I am, lips liberally frosted with Rimmel’s Heather Shimmer lipstick while Lulu, already firmly on her career path, secures my hair in a side ponytail. Her own hair is, of course, far more adventurous – she must have hit hairdressing college by this time: the top of her Louise Brooks bob is peroxide blonde, while the bottom is raven black. It looks like a large bird has pooed on her head.
‘Weird how you can tell the year just by what Lulu’s hair was like,’ says a voice behind me. ‘It’s more accurate than carbon-dating.’
‘Jeez,’ I say, turning around to see Dan. ‘It’s completely terrifying to see all of these pictures – where did you dig them up from? And what did we think we looked like?’
‘Yeah, it was fun going through them all,’ says Dan as we walk slowly along the row of pictures. ‘Brought back lots of memories.’
‘Most of them hideous,’ I say, grimacing at a picture from the late Eighties. ‘Check out my turquoise and pink paisley dungarees in this one.’
‘I think you looked cute,’ laughs Dan.
‘Cute?’ I ask doubtfully. ‘Do you mean cute as in “looking like a colour-blind lesbian”?’
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘More cute like a blind colour-blind lesbian.’
‘Thanks, Dan,’ I say. ‘You sure know how to flatter a girl.’
It feels good to be back to normal with Dan – to shared jokes and teasing instead of that strange tension that’s come between us ever since I started seeing Randy. I realize I’ve missed him over the last few weeks.
I stop at a picture of Dan and me in the early Nineties. I’m giving it full grunge in a long black cardigan, shredded at the sleeves, worn over a floaty floral dress with ripped tights and eighteen-hole Doc Martens. My dark-lipsticked mouth grins uncertainly from between limp curtains of long, mousy-blonde hair – so far from the glorious curly mane of Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder to which I aspired (I still maintain that hair was wasted on a man). Dan looks tall and hearty and timeless in – what else? – a rugby shirt and jeans. There is a clear two feet of space between us, as if someone invisible were standing there and pushing us apart.
‘Dan, you know –’ I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder – ‘all those years of taking the piss out of you for always looking the same, and now I see your rationale.’
‘You do?’ he asks, eyes crinkling into a smile.
‘You look exactly the same in every single one of these pictures, you total bastard!’ I laugh. ‘Lulu and I go from ridiculous outfit to ridiculous outfit, but you – you haven’t changed one bit since you were sixteen. You’re unembarrassable. It’s so unfair.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ say
s Dan, shoving both hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. ‘I remember being pretty embarrassed in that picture.’ He nods his dark curls in the direction of my grunge-era shame.
‘Were you?’ I ask, peering at it. ‘Why? You don’t look any different now.’
‘Don’t you remember it being taken?’ He turns to look at me, raising a questioning eyebrow.
I look more closely at the photograph. ‘Well, I know where it is – your back garden. The blue shed gives it away. And I know from the clothes and hair that it’s before I went to university, so – early Nineties? But I don’t remember the actual picture being taken.’
‘I do,’ says Dan. ‘You and Lulu were going to a gig—’
‘We were? Who were we going to see?’ I ask, not getting any clues from my clothes. I never was the band T-shirt type.
‘Probably one of your bands with the stupid names – Carter the Unstoppable Dustbin or something.’
‘Sex Machine,’ I say automatically. ‘Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine.’
‘Whatever,’ says Dan, laughing. ‘I’d found you on your own in our kitchen . . .’
Now I do remember.
I’d been crying over some stupid bass player in a band who’d just dumped me after a hot and heavy three-week relationship, and once the tears had started, I’d found I couldn’t stop. I was crying about everything and nothing, about Dad and hormones and how life was just generally unfair and dreadful. I hadn’t wanted Lulu to see, so I’d snuck off downstairs to weep alone.
‘I remember,’ I say quietly, still looking at the photograph.
Dan had come into the kitchen and, without saying a word, had wrapped me in his arms. I hadn’t even known he was there until that moment. I’d cried into his shoulder for a full five minutes before I could get a hold of myself. Dan had kissed the top of my head and, as I’d turned my tear-streaked face up towards his, he’d very gently pressed his lips on to mine. Almost immediately we’d both heard the sound of Lulu thundering down the stairs.
