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Authors: Pippa Wright
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solidarity-in-shame rather than approval. Camilla is at her desk already, and Jemima hovers behind her chair while they both stare, stony-faced, at the screen of Camilla’s laptop.
I stand in the doorway of Camilla’s office.
‘I can explain,’ I offer feebly.
‘Close the door,’ snaps Jemima, stalking towards me on her spiky heels. ‘Close the door and sit down right now.’
‘Lizzy, don’t look so worried,’ says Camilla, looking at me with sympathy. ‘I’ve spoken to Bryan Ross and he’s told me what you did for Randy last night. Golly, it must have been awful. You did just the right thing, and Bryan and Randy are both very grateful to you.’
I’d be surprised if Randy is even out of bed yet, let alone aware that I dragged his sorry arse home from Balham, but it’s nice of Camilla to say so.
‘But the fact remains, Florence Fucking Nightingale,’ says Jemima, viciously flicking a strand of her black bob back into snap-on hair formation, ‘that these pictures of you and Randy are a total fucking PR disaster.’ Guess she’s not up for one of her cosy girls’ chats right now. It didn’t take much for that mask to slip.
‘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
I stand in the doorway of Camilla’s office.
‘I can explain,’ I offer feebly.
‘Close the door,’ snaps Jemima, stalking towards me on her spiky heels. ‘Close the door and sit down right now.’
‘Lizzy, don’t look so worried,’ says Camilla, looking at me with sympathy. ‘I’ve spoken to Bryan Ross and he’s told me what you did for Randy last night. Golly, it must have been awful. You did just the right thing, and Bryan and Randy are both very grateful to you.’
I’d be surprised if Randy is even out of bed yet, let alone aware that I dragged his sorry arse home from Balham, but it’s nice of Camilla to say so.
‘But the fact remains, Florence Fucking Nightingale,’ says Jemima, viciously flicking a strand of her black bob back into snap-on hair formation, ‘that these pictures of you and Randy are a total fucking PR disaster.’ Guess she’s not up for one of her cosy girls’ chats right now. It didn’t take much for that mask to slip.
‘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
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