Read Online Lizzy Harrison Loses Control by Pippa Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: Pippa Wright
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looked back at us in the mirror, at Randy comatose on the back seat. ‘Your friend better not be sick, lady.’ Then he flicked the radio on at full volume. Belinda Carlisle blasted out of the speakers courtesy of Magic FM, and I opened the window and looked out into the night, letting the cool air flow across my face the whole way across London.
Randy was not sick and, in fact, slept for the entire taxi ride to Belsize Park, where a weary Bryan met us with a set of keys. Together we got Randy undressed and into bed, where he curled himself up like a child, whispering, ‘Night, Mummy,’ as we shut the door on him.
Instead of taking another hour-long cab journey back home to Peckham, I let Bryan persuade me to stay the night at Randy’s. After all, there were three spare bedrooms, and I had to agree with Bryan that Randy shouldn’t be left alone in his current state. Quite why it couldn’t have been Bryan who stayed over I don’t know; I was too tired to argue.
I was woken by the sound of Randy’s housekeeper letting herself in at six-thirty this morning, and took my chance to make my escape. I did the best I could to tidy up my hair and wipe the mascara from under my eyes, but it was a distinctly ropey-looking secretary that looked back at me from the hallway mirror, and I despaired at my life.
Here you are, Lizzy Harrison , l thought, feeling like a horror and looking like one too. You have just spent the night with a man once voted Shagger of the Millennium, and he didn’t even try to lay a finger on you. Even though he hadn’t been in a fit state to lift a finger, let alone anything else, and even though I fancied Randy as much as I fancied hitting myself repeatedly on the head with a mallet, I felt as if it was a reflection on my man-repelling ways. If Randy, Mr Testosterone himself, hadn’t even had a go, my nun-like vibes must be super-strength. You are about to do the walk of shame without having anything to be ashamed of , I berated myself. But why do you actually feel ashamed of that? I was making my own head spin as I stepped out into the bright June morning.
So perhaps you can forgive me for looking rather forbidding and frowny in the paparazzi pictures of me descending the steps of Randy’s house emailed to Carter Morgan by a picture agency at eight a.m. Which is significantly better than the way I look in the mobile phone images from the same agency half an hour later, in which Randy seems to be groping me on the pub floor while a crowd of grinning people cheer us on. With my glasses, chignon and shocked expression, I look like a scandalized refugee from a librarian’s conference. But my uptight appearance is entirely at odds with the fact that my hands, in attempting to grab Randy as he falls, appear to be firmly and enthusiastically grasping his buttocks.
Of course I don’t manage to get to the office until ten, having had to get home, showered and back into town, which has given the staff of Carter Morgan plenty of time to study all the pictures in minute detail. Thankfully it has also given Lucy of Peter Stringfellow fame time to text me a brief warning:
Where are you???? Pix of you & Randy Jones all over the place this morning. What happened?? Jemima mental (more than usual). Proceed with caution.
‘Nice one, Lizzy,’ says Jemima’s PA, sneering as I pass her. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you. Randy Jones’s cock, that is.’
‘Morning, Mel,’ I reply as sunnily as possible. ‘How nice to see you here before ten-thirty for a change.’ It’s pathetic, but I can’t manage anything better.
By the time I’ve run the gauntlet of post-room boys, secretaries and account executives, I’m in no doubt that everyone, including the office cleaner, not only knows what’s happened, but has invented their own X-rated version of events. Lucy gives me a double thumbs-up from her office as I pass, but it’s clear from her sympathetic grimace that this is a sign of
Randy was not sick and, in fact, slept for the entire taxi ride to Belsize Park, where a weary Bryan met us with a set of keys. Together we got Randy undressed and into bed, where he curled himself up like a child, whispering, ‘Night, Mummy,’ as we shut the door on him.
Instead of taking another hour-long cab journey back home to Peckham, I let Bryan persuade me to stay the night at Randy’s. After all, there were three spare bedrooms, and I had to agree with Bryan that Randy shouldn’t be left alone in his current state. Quite why it couldn’t have been Bryan who stayed over I don’t know; I was too tired to argue.
I was woken by the sound of Randy’s housekeeper letting herself in at six-thirty this morning, and took my chance to make my escape. I did the best I could to tidy up my hair and wipe the mascara from under my eyes, but it was a distinctly ropey-looking secretary that looked back at me from the hallway mirror, and I despaired at my life.
Here you are, Lizzy Harrison , l thought, feeling like a horror and looking like one too. You have just spent the night with a man once voted Shagger of the Millennium, and he didn’t even try to lay a finger on you. Even though he hadn’t been in a fit state to lift a finger, let alone anything else, and even though I fancied Randy as much as I fancied hitting myself repeatedly on the head with a mallet, I felt as if it was a reflection on my man-repelling ways. If Randy, Mr Testosterone himself, hadn’t even had a go, my nun-like vibes must be super-strength. You are about to do the walk of shame without having anything to be ashamed of , I berated myself. But why do you actually feel ashamed of that? I was making my own head spin as I stepped out into the bright June morning.
So perhaps you can forgive me for looking rather forbidding and frowny in the paparazzi pictures of me descending the steps of Randy’s house emailed to Carter Morgan by a picture agency at eight a.m. Which is significantly better than the way I look in the mobile phone images from the same agency half an hour later, in which Randy seems to be groping me on the pub floor while a crowd of grinning people cheer us on. With my glasses, chignon and shocked expression, I look like a scandalized refugee from a librarian’s conference. But my uptight appearance is entirely at odds with the fact that my hands, in attempting to grab Randy as he falls, appear to be firmly and enthusiastically grasping his buttocks.
Of course I don’t manage to get to the office until ten, having had to get home, showered and back into town, which has given the staff of Carter Morgan plenty of time to study all the pictures in minute detail. Thankfully it has also given Lucy of Peter Stringfellow fame time to text me a brief warning:
Where are you???? Pix of you & Randy Jones all over the place this morning. What happened?? Jemima mental (more than usual). Proceed with caution.
‘Nice one, Lizzy,’ says Jemima’s PA, sneering as I pass her. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you. Randy Jones’s cock, that is.’
‘Morning, Mel,’ I reply as sunnily as possible. ‘How nice to see you here before ten-thirty for a change.’ It’s pathetic, but I can’t manage anything better.
By the time I’ve run the gauntlet of post-room boys, secretaries and account executives, I’m in no doubt that everyone, including the office cleaner, not only knows what’s happened, but has invented their own X-rated version of events. Lucy gives me a double thumbs-up from her office as I pass, but it’s clear from her sympathetic grimace that this is a sign of
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