by Pippa Wright
‘Sorry, someone’s sitting there,’ I say to another chair-stealing hopeful.
Lulu was right. I did need to lose control a bit to get out of the rut I’d accidentally fallen into. Randy was like electroshock therapy for the emotionally frozen – extreme and ridiculous and possibly essential. But over the last few weeks I’ve realized, as elements of my pre-Randy life have crept back, that being organized and a bit in control is just a part of me. I’m never going to be Lulu – as much as I would like to be the kind of girl who goes skinny-dipping in the Serpentine with the gorgeous twenty-four-year-old drama student in charge of the pedalos (Lulu’s Mr May), that just isn’t me – and that’s okay. It’s time I started being true to myself. I can open myself up to different experiences and still have a clean kitchen. I can adapt my routines, but there’s a part of me that will always need a bit of routine to feel secure. I’m not about to go investigating it with a shrink or anything – they’ll only make it all about my mother; they always do – I just know it’s true. I can be the kind of girl who orders her shoes by colour and have a boyfriend. Though a tidy one would be helpful, I’ve got to admit.
‘No, sorry, it’s taken.’ I smile a friendly but firm denial at yet another attempt to filch the chair. Where is Lulu?
And my life is already changing. I’m about to be really busy in my new job at African Vision – I start on Monday. Oh yes, I’m no longer going to be the sexy-nun charity worker. My idea of running away to an exotic environment felt much less attractive when I started to investigate it all. Let’s just say that there’s a time in one’s life when cold showers, hammocks and long-drop toilets are acceptable for months on end, and I believe that time is under the age of thirty. I allowed Camilla to believe that it was her powers of persuasion that changed my mind; she need never know that she shares this victory with the appeal of indoor plumbing.
‘I’m sorry, someone’s sitting there,’ I say for what feels like the fortieth time, but this particular chair-stealer is a bold one. He’s got his hand on it and he’s pulling it out from the table in a determined fashion.
‘Excuse me, I said—’ I say, looking up crossly.
‘Dan!’
‘Hi, Lizzy,’ he says, looking down at me with the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Can I sit down?’ His hand hovers over the chair.
‘Er, yes, of course you can,’ I splutter, entirely taken aback at his appearance. His appearance in the bar, I mean – he looks just the same as usual: work suit, check. Messy hair: check.
‘I mean, that’s to say,’ I continue, ‘I’m saving it for Lulu – she’s due here any minute. So you’ll have to give it back when she gets here.’
Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry, Lulu – don’t leave me here with your brother on my own. It’s all too weird. Or maybe he’s here to meet Emma, and I’m going to have to sit with the two of them while they passionately snog and paw at one another.
‘Lulu’s not coming,’ says Dan, hanging his coat on top of mine on the back of the chair. He slides himself into the seat, his shoulders hunched up in a way that makes him seem far too big for it and for the flimsy table that separates us.
‘But she never said—’ I say, picking up my phone to check it for messages.
‘I told her not to, Lizzy,’ says Dan with a look of grim resolution that rather frightens me. ‘I wanted to see you on your own.’
‘You’re not meeting Emma here?’ I ask nervously, expecting her to appear at any moment.
‘No,’ he says, his eyebrows knitting together in a frown. ‘That’s finished; it didn’t work out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Don’t be,’ he says, helping himself to the wine I’d already poured for Lulu. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here to talk to you.’
I wish I could say that this statement, and Dan’s unexpected appearance, fills me with a feeling of delirious happiness and a realization of true love; I know how this kind of story is supposed to end. The truth is I feel the same sickening dread as when I found myself standing on the top high-diving board at the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Centre circa 1987. On that occasion I was able to beat a shameful retreat back down the steps after being unable to jump. Here there is no escape – believe me, I have already surreptitiously checked out my potential exit routes, and the only possibility that doesn’t involve physically pushing past Dan is throwing myself down the trapdoor behind the bar and ending up in the wine cellar. As that would involve leaping across the bar in the manner of an Olympic high jumper, I have regretfully ruled it out. For now, at least.
‘Dan, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about Randy,’ I say as fast as I can, trying to get it over with quickly, like ripping off a plaster, before he can shout at me.
He just looks at me, saying nothing, twisting the stem of his wine glass round and round.
‘I – I just got myself into this stupid fake relationship,’ I continue, words tumbling out far too fast, ‘and I couldn’t tell anyone because I’d promised and, well, you were being so kind and protective to try and warn me off, and I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t tell you the truth. I mean – well, there’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Dan, I’m really sorry.’
He’s still looking at me silently, his lips pressed into a line. It’s impossible to tell if he’s trying to prevent himself from losing his temper, or from bursting out laughing.
‘I behaved really badly,’ I persevere doggedly. It seems he really does want me to crawl on my belly. ‘I should have been honest, Dan. I just lost sight of what was important, and . . .’
‘So what is important?’ asks Dan suddenly, his head tilted slightly to one side as he awaits my answer.
I eye the height of the bar speculatively. Would it really hurt so much to propel myself over it and escape down the trapdoor? Might it not be less agonizing than this conversation?
‘Er, what’s important?’ I repeat, feeling butterflies start up in my stomach. What does he want, blood?
‘Yes. You said you lost sight of what was important,’ says Dan, unsmiling. ‘So what is important, then?’
‘Well,’ I begin, feeling like I’m at a job interview for which I’m entirely unprepared. ‘Er, friendship is important – our friendship, I mean – and being truthful.’
‘Yes?’ says Dan.
‘Umm, and being honest? Honest with myself as well as other people.’
‘Yes?’
‘Jesus, Dan, I don’t know what else to say!’ I protest in exasperation. ‘If you want me to wear a hair shirt, then just hand it over and I’ll put it on. I’m sorry and I’ve said so, and I don’t know what else to say.’
This whole apology thing is not going quite how I expected.
‘I’m afraid I’m all out of hair shirts,’ says Dan, his lips twisting into a wry smile.
‘Have you got a big stick for me to beat myself with then?’ I ask grumpily. ‘Maybe one with thorns on for maximum punishment?’
‘Nope, no sticks,’ he laughs.
‘Well, if you’re going to deny me any mortification of the flesh, Dan, then you’d better be prepared to forgive me without it,’ I say, looking at him hopefully. If he’s laughing then surely he can’t be too angry with me.
‘You don’t have to beat yourself up, Lizzy,’ says Dan. ‘Not with a big stick and not any other way. Of course I was angry with you – I didn’t like telling you about Randy. I thought it would really hurt you, but I thought it would hurt you more not to know.’
‘Dan—’ I start.
‘Just let me finish,’ he says, frowning and twisting his dark curls with one hand. ‘So discovering it was all some big joke, some huge set-up, it – it felt like you’d been laughing behind my back with that arsehole.’
‘Oh, Dan, no!’ I say. ‘I never, ever discussed you with Randy. I’d never laugh behind your back, not with him or with anyone else. But listen – this isn’t about him; it’s about us.’
‘About us?’ says Dan, his eyebrows rising in inter
est.
‘You know what I mean,’ I bluster, allowing my hair to fall over my face as I look down at the table top with great interest, as if there might be another escape route scratched there by a previous customer.
‘Do I?’ he asks, leaning forward on the table, which lurches alarmingly so that he has to grab his wobbling wine glass and sit back up.
‘I mean, Dan,’ I say, looking him in the eye as steadily as I can, which is not very, as my eyes keep being drawn down to his lips to see if he’s smiling or not, ‘that Randy is in the past—’
‘So’s his wardrobe,’ mutters Dan. ‘That fucking double denim . . .’
‘Dan! Stop talking!’ I lean across the table to push his arm for emphasis. ‘I mean that whatever happened between me and Randy is finished – over. I mean, our friendship – yours and mine – is far more important to me than anything that might have happened in the past. Okay?’
Dan smiles, his eyes crinkling in a way that I hope means forgiveness. He picks up his wine glass and lifts it towards me.
‘Here’s to friendship, Lizzy Harrison,’ he says, and reaches, with his other hand, for mine.
And suddenly, just like that, with the touch of his hand, I am back on the top diving board at the Guild-ford Spectrum Leisure Centre. Swooping dread and nervous excitement. A sense of terrifying anticipation. A dizzying feeling that the ground is far, far away. There is something there, something between us, and the fear of doing nothing about it has become bigger than the fear of doing something.
My heart pounds in my ears until I can hear nothing else. The room goes blurry around the still point of Dan’s face as he looks at me quizzically.
I’m going to jump.
I reach over the table, steadying it with both hands, and press my lips to his for one brief moment.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen – in fact, that’s the best thing about it: I didn’t weigh up the pros and cons, I didn’t worry about the consequences – but it’s safe to say I didn’t expect Dan to start laughing. So there we have it. I took a risk and look where it got me. I have just kissed my best friend’s brother and he thinks it’s all a huge joke. I feel as exposed and embarrassed as if I were sitting here in my underwear. How will I ever live this down? Laughter echoes round and round the bar, and although I know it’s just the general sound of people enjoying themselves (I hate them all), it feels to me as if everyone is joining Dan in ridiculing me.
‘Oh God – sorry, Dan,’ I say, blushing furiously. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘Lizzy Harrison, you’re a woman of surprises,’ says Dan, still smirking.
‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ I say, picking up my handbag from the banquette seat. It’s time for me to get out of here, and not via the trapdoor. ‘Sorry to embarrass you, I should go . . .’
‘Sit back down,’ says Dan, reaching over to push my bag back on to the seat.
I look him full in the face. I feel as if I could close my eyes and still remember every part of it. His navy blue eyes, so dark when he is angry or emotional. His stupid hair, always falling across his forehead in resolutely unstyled curls, a few silver hairs at his temples. The faint beginnings of stubble on his jaw. His gently mocking expression; one eyebrow raised.
‘Lizzy Harrison,’ he says, with great seriousness. ‘Are you putting the moves on me?’
I wish for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
‘Er, no, that was a mistake. My – my, erm, my face just fell on yours accidentally, Dan, ha-ha,’ I say, sitting on my hands to stop myself from physically writhing with shame. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Yeah, right, totally understandable,’ he says, leaning closer. ‘These things do happen.’
And then he reaches over and takes my face between both of his hands, twining his fingers in my hair. His lips fall on mine in a way that is not even slightly accidental. I feel as if all my bones have turned to spaghetti. I couldn’t move my limbs if I tried.
‘Whoops,’ he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he pulls away. ‘My mistake. Must have slipped.’
It seems like everything has gone into slow motion; that if I tried to speak my words would be all stretched out and slurred. I can’t stop myself from smiling in a manner that is actually beginning to make my cheeks hurt. Dan’s dark eyes meet mine with a force that feels like it should be visible, fizzing and sparking between us. His fingers are now laced with mine across the table. I can’t let go.
‘So,’ he says finally.
‘So,’ I murmur, hardly able to form an ‘o’ sound, so fixed is my ridiculous grin.
‘What next?’ Dan asks, squeezing my fingers with his.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Is that okay?’
‘You don’t know?’ teases Dan, throwing his head back in laughter. ‘Lizzy Harrison doesn’t have a plan? Surely you’ve at least booked a minicab to pick you up in five minutes?’
‘No minicab,’ I say softly. ‘No plan.’
Dan grins and kisses me again, pulling me close towards him. I distinctly hear someone next to us say ‘get a room’. Maybe we will.
I know I’m meant to tell you what happens next. But here’s the thing. I don’t know.
And it’s wonderful.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks and love to . . .
My sister Julia Nicholls, the first person to know I was writing a book, and the most encouraging voice of all. Thank you for support, friendship and twenty emails a day. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
My best friend Jo Paton for her endless patience and thoughtfulness. And for coining the ever-useful decision-making question, ‘What Would Mariella Frostrup Do?’ which always leads one in the right direction.
Cath Lovesey, for film premieres, fancy dress and your insistence on marking every possible book-related moment with celebratory cocktails. Most of all, thank you for the suggestion, when I was struggling with over-ambitious subplots, to ‘just be funny’. I hope you laughed.
Harrie Evans, Rebecca Folland and Liz Iveson. Fabulous friends through thick and thin (you’re the thinnest), thank you for huge support and reality checks as I descended from rational publishing professional into paranoid aspiring author.
Thank you to my agent Andrew Kidd, whose advice, encouragement, sense of humour and excellent gossip have made me grateful a thousand times over that he agreed to be my agent.
My whip-smart editor, Jenny Geras, who is mistress of walking that tricky line between confidence-boosting flattery and constructive criticism. Our shared references, from Heather Shimmer lipstick to Bagley’s nightclub in King’s Cross, have made working together a total pleasure.
Sally Riley at Aitken Alexander, for placing me with the crème de la crème of international publishing. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better list of foreign publishers.
Jane Southern, literary scout extraordinaire, for encouraging her publishers to buy my book, and then offering me a job. I’m enormously grateful for both.
Thank you, too, to Sophie Hopkin, Jo Roberts-Miller, Suzy McGrath, Nic Boddington and Lisa McCormack for being lovely friends, always.
Lots of people were amazingly kind and helpful when I lost my job in the middle of writing this book. Impossible to thank everyone, but especial gratitude to the following: Helen Manders, Lucy Vanderbilt, Sarah Ballard, Georgina Moore, Carly Cook, Sarah Hunt-Cooke, Kate Walwyn, Rachel Clements, Francoise Higson, Eugenie Furniss, Simon Trewin, Sheila Crowley, Frederika van Traa. And Dan at Smile Bank for extending my overdraft when the computer said no, and promising to buy the book for his girlfriend. I hope you did so she can see your name here!
And lastly thank you to my parents, Janet and Alan Wright, who may not have always agreed with my decisions, but have always supported them. Alan, remember this is a novel and not an autobiography, don’t read anything into Lizzy’s dad being dead. I swear I will try to write something with submarines in next time, just for you. Janet, I know you have never lived on a
n ashram, but you are still very wise.
Lizzy Harrison Loses Control
PIPPA WRIGHT lives in London and works in book publishing. You can find her on twitter at
www.twitter.com/troisverres
First published 2011 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-447-20066-6 PDF
ISBN 978-1-447-20065-9 EPUB
Copyright © Pippa Wright 2011
The right of Pippa Wright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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