Читать книгу Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe - Lucy Holliday - Страница 14

We haven’t come to a sandwich bar, and we aren’t eating tuna baguettes. Or Wotsits, for that matter. And there’s not a can of Fanta in sight.

We’re in a posh hamburger joint in Clerkenwell, in the cosiest, most private booth available, eating huge and absurdly delicious hamburgers with perfect crunchy fries, and drinking – as you do with hamburgers, apparently, in Dillon World – a bottle of perfectly chilled Sauvignon.

And the best bit of all is that Dillon is flirting with me.

Of course, this sounds slightly more exciting than the reality, because in actual fact, he seems incapable of not flirting. He’s flirted with every single female we’ve encountered since we got out of the taxi: a pretty blonde walking her tiny dog past us on the street; the gorgeous redhead who greeted us as we entered the diner; the curvy Brazilian waitress who keeps finding excuses to come to our table and refill Dillon’s water glass, or offer more condiments, or find out if the burgers/fries/side salads/blobs of coleslaw have been prepared to our satisfaction.

And he’s only flirting in a ponytail-pulling sort of way. I’m not imagining that I’m about to become his One True Love, or anything. Or even one of his Many True Lusts, nice though this would be.

‘You see?’ he’s saying now, reaching over and swiping the largest and crunchiest-looking of the fries off my plate. ‘I told you I needed your protection from the slavering hordes so I could eat my lunch in peace. And look,’ he waves a chip-holding hand around the almost-empty restaurant, ‘nobody has bothered us.’

‘That’s because it’s gone three o’clock and everyone has finished their lunch already and gone home.’

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Fire Girl.’ He swipes another chip, and waggles it at me before popping it into his mouth. ‘I’ve been in empty restaurants in the past and, before you know it, word gets out, there’s a Twitter alert and people come running. But something about you is clearly keeping the peace.’ He sits back, folds his arms, and studies me intently for a moment. ‘You’ve got a sort of … air about you.’

‘Air?’

‘Mm. Cool. Elegant.’

I snort wine out of my nose.

‘Less so when you’re doing that, obviously,’ he adds.

I grab my napkin and attempt to dab away the worst of the wine in a ladylike fashion, just like Audrey Hepburn would do in the infinitesimally small likelihood that she ever did this herself. (And I don’t count the whole spilling-wine-over-Cary-Grant thing. Spilling is delightfully kooky; snorting is … well, not.)

But the compliment has knocked me for six. Because I’m not sure that anybody, in the history of the entire world, has ever called me either cool or elegant before.

‘Admittedly it also helps when you’re not running around with flames leaping out of your head.’ Dillon picks up the Sauvignon bottle. ‘More wine?’

‘God, yes. I mean, yes,’ I say, trying to sound cool and elegant instead of borderline alcoholic. ‘That would be lovely.’

He pours the dregs of the bottle into my glass (Christ, we got through that quickly) and turns round to grab the waitress’s attention. ‘Could you bring us another of the same, darling?’

Oh, dear. A light haze of alcohol is one thing, but if I plough into a second bottle, I risk getting giggly and silly, which isn’t going to do very much for this air of cool elegance that Dillon has mistakenly identified about me.

‘I’d better not,’ I say. ‘I don’t normally drink at lunchtime.’

‘Then I recommend that you start. It improves the afternoon no end. Now, isn’t this nicer,’ he says, settling back into the depths of his half of the booth and sending a dazzling smile across the table, ‘than that miserable tuna baguette you wanted for lunch?’

‘Weren’t you the one promising tuna baguettes?’

‘No, no, my dear Libby, that can’t have been me. When I take a lady out to lunch, I take her in style.’

Just for a moment, I remember that the lady he was hoping to take out to lunch today is Rhea Haverstock-Harley.

And I think he remembers, too, because he frowns for a moment and grabs the bottle of wine the Brazilian waitress has just brought over without bothering to smile flirtatiously up at her and say thank you.

‘So,’ he says, grabbing my glass and sloshing some wine into it before doing the same with his own, ‘tell me. What’s the plan, Libby?’

‘Plan?’

‘For you. Now that you’re freed from that piffling little job on … sorry, what’s the show called again?’

‘The Time Guardians. Seriously,’ I add, made bold by the Sauvignon, ‘don’t you think you should try to watch an episode or two before someone asks you about it in an interview, or something?’

It’s his turn to snort, though less unattractively. ‘That’ll be the day. All anybody ever wants to know when they interview me is who I’m shagging.’ He drains his glass and sloshes in some more wine. ‘Anyway, we were talking about you, weren’t we? About your big plans to set the acting world ablaze. No pun intended.’

‘But – er – I don’t have any plans to set the acting world ablaze.’

‘Oh, come on. Aren’t all you actresses consumed with ambition? Happy to stab your own grandmother in the back as long as it gets you the big part you want?’

I blame Big Blond Willi for the image that the words ‘big part’ have just conjured up in my head. Well, that and the Sauvignon. Well, that and the fact that it’s difficult to sit opposite Dillon and not have pretty much all your thoughts turn into naughty, bedroom-related ones. I shove in a couple more chips – at the very least, I can try to absorb some of the Sauvignon – and try, again, to summon up some more of that cool elegance Dillon mentioned earlier. All I have to do, really, is emulate my hallucination of Audrey from last night; it’s probably a good idea to stop shovelling these chips into my mouth, then, come to think of it.

‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘I’m not really an actress.’

‘If you’re not really an actress, darling, then what were you doing covered in zit-covered latex on the set of a TV show?’

‘No, I mean, I’ve just sort of … fallen into it.’ This sounds, I realize, a bit like I’m talking about a heap of dung. Though, come to think of it, a heap of dung isn’t a bad description of my entire acting career. ‘My sister is the real actress. Oh, shit!’ I clap a hand to my mouth. ‘Her nail polish! Her dry cleaning!’

‘Oh, Jesus, don’t tell me you’ve taken on a job as her assistant, or something?’

‘No, I’m just helping her out for this evening … or not helping her out, more like …’ I rootle frantically in my bag for my phone to see … ugh – seventeen missed calls. Ten are from Cass, the rest from Mum (obviously on Cass’s behalf) and as a coda to the whole thing there’s a CAPITAL LETTERS text message from Cass telling me, in misspelled text-speak, that Mum is going to have to go out and run all the errands instead and that I am no longer her sister.

I feel guilty now, not because Mum is running the errands (because if there’s a role Mum loves even more than armchair psychologist, it’s put-upon martyr), but because I love Cass, in spite of everything, and I want her to have a nice evening with all the gawping lechers at her party. But I’ve run errands for Cass a million times before, and no doubt will do again. Whereas this lunch with Dillon is a total one-off. If I abandon it early, just to get back in her good books with my sister, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes.’ I put the phone back in my bag. ‘She’ll live.’

‘She seems a bit … high-maintenance, your sister.’

‘Mm.’ It would be disloyal to Cass to say any more. But I can’t help adding, ‘Did you have a nice … chat with her? Yesterday, I mean?’

‘Nice enough.’ He shrugs, looking slightly confused by the question. ‘I meet quite a lot of girls like her when I’m out and about, that’s all.’

‘Maybe you should go out and about a bit less, then.’

A cheeky grin breaks across his face, as if he hasn’t expected it. ‘Maybe I should, Fire Girl.’ He tops both our glasses up with wine, again. ‘You do seem like chalk and cheese, though. You and your sister. Mind you, I’m nothing like a single one of my eleven brothers, so I can understand—’

‘You have eleven brothers?’

‘To be sure. There’s Paddy, and Seamus, and Brian, and Diarmuid, and Paddy … wait, have I already said Paddy?’

‘You don’t have eleven brothers,’ I say, ‘do you?’

‘Well, of course I don’t.’ He looks straight at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Does it work, though?’

‘Does what work?’

‘The whole Angela’s Ashes schtick. I’m up for a few acting jobs in the States, and my agent is desperate for me to get them. Wants me to big up my Irish background.’

‘There’s a bit of a difference,’ I feel compelled to point out, ‘between Bigging Up and Outright Lies.’

‘D’you know, that’s exactly what Our Paddy said when I mentioned it to him.’

‘Paddy the First or Paddy The Second?’

He laughs. ‘I do have a brother called Patrick, as it happens. But just the one. And I don’t think he’ll really help the Angela’s Ashes image. He’s a chartered accountant. In Clondalkin.’

‘That sounds nice,’ I say, even though I’ve never heard of Clondalkin.

‘Yeah, it’s all right. A bit light on the old amenities. Not like the urban thrills of Angel, where I live now. You can get a bit bored in Clondalkin, if you’re a jet-setting model type. You know, the kind of person with no appreciation for a quiet country pub, or a good old family Sunday roast. The kind of person,’ he adds, with sudden savagery, ‘who because they spend their entire life down the gym and the spa, primping and preening for their next photo-shoot or ridiculous showbiz party, has forgotten that it’s never going to be real life.’

There’s a rather long silence, during which Dillon empties a good third of the new bottle of wine into his glass and drinks it, and I try to work out how to steer the conversation away from Angry Thoughts About – I can only assume – Rhea and back to Flirty Banter With Libby.

‘On second thoughts,’ I say, ‘maybe you should spin the American casting agents the whole Angela’s Ashes thing after all. It’s a little bit more juicy than accountants in Clonmel.’

‘Clondalkin.’

‘There too.’

Dillon smiles. This time, it’s a big, genuine, warm smile, not his usual naughty grin or sexy smirk, and it makes him look, all of a sudden, very young and sweet and … actually, a little bit vulnerable.

‘What are you up to tonight?’ he suddenly asks.

‘Sorry?’

‘Tonight. What are you up to?’

‘Um, nothing much. Just hanging out with my friend Olly. Cooking stew.’

‘Call him.’ Dillon – cheeky so-and-so, actually reaches over the table and into my bag, to grab my phone. ‘And tell him you can’t, tonight.’

I fix him with a Look, as much for the instruction as for the handbag invasion. ‘Why would I tell him that?’

‘Because you’re going to a party with me instead.’

I blink at him.

‘Party?’

‘Yes. You see, what sometimes happens is that people gather together in a pre-arranged location, usually between roughly the hours of eight p.m. and midnight. Then food and beverages are served, often – but not necessarily – alcoholic ones, and quite often there’s also some music …’

‘I do know what a party is, thanks.’

My heart is hammering nineteen to the dozen in my chest, but I’m trying very, very hard to hang onto my Inner Audrey. And in this situation, I think we all know that Audrey wouldn’t be falling over herself to agree (yes, yes, Dillon, I’ll ditch my oldest friend to go to a party with you! Anything you ask for! And I do mean anything!). She’d remain soignée and refined, and let the man feel he was lucky even to be asking her.

Of course, if I were Audrey Hepburn, Dillon would be lucky just to be asking me, but I can’t get hung up on those kinds of details just now.

‘I might be able to rearrange my friend, I guess.’ I feel bad, even as I’m saying this, about letting down Olly, which is what makes me add, just so Dillon knows I’m not always such a rotten friend, ‘I mean, he has these really early-morning starts for work, so it’s a massive faff for him to come all the way to my flat on a weekday evening anyway, and I’m a rubbish cook …’

Dillon suddenly reaches over the table a second time, but this time he grabs my hand.

I let out a brief – but audible, and ever-so-slightly orgasmic – gasp.

‘The address,’ he says, producing a biro from his pocket with his other hand and scribbling on my palm.

‘Of course,’ I say, feeling like an idiot and hoping against hope that he’ll forget the gasp. (It’s exactly, come to think of it, what I did during the first conversation I ever had with Olly at the Wimbledon Theatre, when he grabbed my hand, I thought he was about to kiss me, and all he did was shove a cheese sandwich into it. Though it feels bizarre, now, thinking that I ever could have thought Olly, of all people, was going to kiss me at all.) ‘I’ll need that. So I know where I’m going.’

‘Yeah, that’s kind of the point of addresses.’ He’s picking up my phone now – honestly, does the man have no boundaries whatsoever? – and tapping at the screen. ‘Here’s my number as well, so you can call if you’re late, or lost, or something. Or if you need any further information about the way parties work.’

‘Ha, ha,’ I say, not very impressively, before realizing that actually, I do need one very important piece of information about this particular party. ‘Is there a dress code?’

‘A dress what?’

‘Code. You know …’ I feel hopelessly, embarrassingly uncool, and wish I’d never asked the question. ‘Black tie … er … white tie …?’

‘Well, that’s up to you, but if you do insist on showing up in a tie you might feel a tiny bit overdressed.’

‘No, no, I meant—’

‘I know what you meant. For Christ’s sake, woman, you really do think I grew up in a peat bog, don’t you? I should get you to come with me to my auditions, spin the whole begorrah leprechaun crap without me having to say a word.’ He snaps the lid back on the biro. ‘And no, there’s no dress code. Wear whatever the hell you like. You’ll look good in anything.’

The Brazilian waitress, who’s just come to our table (to refresh our napkins? to dust for crumbs?) shoots me a look that says, simultaneously, You lucky, lucky cow and, Good in anything? He’s being a bit generous, isn’t he?

‘More wine?’ she asks. ‘Dessert? We have an amazing raspberry-jam tart and fresh custard.’

‘Oh, well, I’m always partial to a bit of tart …’ Dillon is interrupted by a ping from his phone. He glances down at it and his eyes narrow. He gets to his feet. ‘I need to go. Can you bring us the bill, darling?’

‘I’m not sure I’ve got cash on me …’ I start to ferret for my wallet. ‘Can we split it between two cards?’

He stares at me. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Oh, God, I’m really sorry, would you prefer the cash?’ I’m mortified. ‘I can probably dash to a cashpoint, there must be one nearby …’

He stops me talking by, quite suddenly, leaning down and planting a very soft, very tender kiss right on the very top of my head.

‘Girls don’t usually offer to split the bill with me these days,’ he says, gently. His forehead puckers, as if he’s truly perplexed by what I’ve just done. ‘That’s … well, it’s extremely sweet of you, Fire Girl.’

Sweet? No!! Quarter of an hour ago, he thought I was cool and elegant! Sweet is all wrong!

(And what the hell was I thinking, anyway, blithering on about splitting the bill like that? That wasn’t very Audrey Hepburn.)

Dillon is taking three crisp fifties from his wallet and putting them down on the table.

‘That should cover it. So eight thirty tonight, yeah?’ he says, slipping his wallet and phone back into his jacket pocket.

‘Eight thirty it is! And I promise, I won’t be wearing a tie!’

‘What? Oh, yeah … right …’

And he’s off, heading for the door without turning back.

I watch him leave, and then I just sit for a moment or two, slightly stunned and woozily marinating in my Sauvignon fug.

Sauvignon that I now deeply, deeply regret. Because, let’s be honest, if I’m going out with Dillon O’Hara tonight, I should have started a detox diet and fitness regime … ooooh, let’s think … about ten years ago.

In fact, let’s just recap the most important part of that sentence: I’m going out with Dillon O’Hara tonight.

Unless I’ve just hallucinated the past two hours – I can’t have, can I? – then this is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exciting thing to happen to me since … well, pretty much since the dawn of time.

And now I’ve only got three or four hours to make myself presentable enough to go out for the evening with a man who usually goes out for the evening with Victoria’s Secret models.

Thank God my hair is all right now, but I’m going to need to put in some serious effort on the make-up front, and find something to wear … Which is a minefield, because the sort of outfits that make me feel my most confident and pretty are probably not at all the sort of outfits that are going to make me fit in at …

Let’s just see where this party’s taking place, according to Dillon’s biro scrawl on my right hand.

Depot. 106 Shoreditch High Street.

‘Shit,’ I say, out loud.

It’s the Made Man party that Cass is going to.

‘Here’s your tart.’ This is the Brazilian waitress, coming over with a large bowl and plonking it down in front of me with a bit less ceremony than she was doing when Dillon was still at the table. ‘That was Dillon O’Hara, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s lovely.’

‘Yes.’

‘So do you work for him, or something?’ she asks, with the confused expression of someone who’s just spent the last hour trying to work out how someone like me (non-Amazonian, non-lingerie model) could possibly fit into the life of someone like Dillon O’Hara.

‘No. We’re just—’

‘Ooooh, are you going to Depot with him tonight?’ She’s caught sight of the scribble on my hand. ‘I’m dying to go there. It’s meant to be amazing.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, yeah. It’s impossible to get into, you know.’ She gives me the faintest hint of an up-and-down. ‘I hope you’ve got something good to wear.’

OK, that puts the tin lid on it.

I can’t go.

I mean, I just can’t, can I? It’s not just the lack of a decade’s worth of health and fitness. Or the fact that I have nothing – nothing – anywhere near good enough to wear. Or the fact that Cass is going to be there, and that it’s her big night, and that if I turn up, on her big night, with Dillon O’Hara, she’s going to kill me.

It’s all of these, combined.

Plus the fact that, now that the Sauvignon haze is starting to wear off a little bit, I’ve realized the truth of the matter: that me going out for the evening with Dillon O’Hara is just … well, it’s just as unreal as Audrey Hepburn was last night. It’s a hologram. A desert mirage. The idea can never, really, become reality.

I pick up my phone and scroll through to find where Dillon has put his number. I’m going to text him, immediately, to say I can’t go. Rip off the plaster cleanly and quickly, then just stop thinking about it.

Here it is, under D for Dillon.

He’s saved it, though, under the name Dillon Seamus Finlan Patrick Eoghan Diarmuid Patrick (again) Malachy O’Hara.

I let out a laugh. Followed, briefly, by a little, longing whimper.

But I can’t do it. I just can’t. Better, all round, for me to keep the memory of this perfect, albeit slightly bizarre, hamburger and wine lunch, and leave it there. Before sullying the golden perfection of this afternoon by turning up to the party badly dressed, poorly groomed, and slightly flabby.

And let’s face it, Dillon isn’t asking me there as his date. He has a sort-of-girlfriend (albeit one who cheats on him with huge naked Scandinavians). I’ll probably spend half the night trying to find him in a crowded sea of supermodels, before bankrupting myself with a taxi home and crying piteously into the doggy Chesterfield for the rest of the night.

I’m already reaching for my phone. I’ll be vague, but firm, and bow out of the invitation.

Really sorry, I text Dillon, can’t make this evening after all. Thanks anyway, would have been nice.

There. Vague, but firm. No spurious long-winded excuses or white lies.

It does sound a bit chilly, though.

PS, I add, if your middle names really are Seamus Finlan Patrick Eoghan Diarmuid Patrick (again) Malachy then you really don’t need my help Angela’s-Ashing yourself up for the US market.

Before I can change my mind, I press Send.

If Dillon texts immediately back, saying, Don’t be ridiculous, you’re coming out with me, and that’s final.

Well, then I’d reconsider, obviously.

He doesn’t text immediately back.

By the time I’ve nibbled a little bit of the jam tart and custard, put on my jacket, popped to the Ladies, come back and polished off the entire remaining bowl of jam tart and custard, he hasn’t texted back either.