avoiding paying close attention to the drooping geriatric genitals that I have captured instead in a vague impressionistic scribble.
The class finishes and we all sit around drinking tea for a while with the model, George, now attired in a natty little quilted dressing gown like a portly Hugh Hefner.
When the tea is finished and we’ve all admired each other’s sketches (I note I’m not the only one to have avoided precision in the region of George’s groin), I gather my things, say my goodbyes, and head off to spend the night with Randy Jones as I have done for the last three Wednesdays.
Sometimes he picks me up from work and we go back to Belsize Park together on the 68 bus; not quite the mode of transport you’d expect of a sleb, but ‘there’s no audience in a taxi, babe,’ says Randy, basking in the adulation of our fellow commuters. Once we walked all the way home through Regent’s Park holding hands the whole way, and that got us into the ‘Spotted’ section of New Stars magazine. But what they don’t spot is how quickly Randy drops my hand as soon as we’re in his vast white stuccoed house. In public I am adored and caressed and kissed and pampered, but once the door is closed and we’re at home (which we usually are), then it’s down to business, and I don’t mean dirty business.
To Randy, I’m the boring babysitter he has to tolerate to get his career back on track, but he’s not about to pay me any attention unless someone else is looking. The truth is, on my nights with Randy I’m more often to be found watching television alone while Randy writes in his study than out on the razzle.
Tonight I let myself in and wander into the kitchen, where Nina, Randy’s formidable Bulgarian housekeeper, is just putting her heavy woollen coat on to leave, even though it’s about thirty degrees outside. She often stays late so she can complain to me about Randy, and today is no exception. Before I’ve put my bag down she’s launched into a furious description of his latest outrage: a puritanical banning of all wheat and sugar from the house as part of his detox.
‘Like it is the sugar, Lizzy, what makes him inject himself, is it?’ She gestures me over to the larder and opens it a crack.
‘Don’t tell him, okay? Is for you and me only. He never come in here anyway.’
I peer in to see that an entire shelf is packed with biscuits of every variety, from posh Marks & Spencer’s tubs of chocolate-covered shortbreads and flapjacks to only-in-an-emergency Rich Teas. It would take us a year to get through them.
‘Wow, great, Nina. Thanks – what a treat,’ I say, allowing her to press a chocolate HobNob into my palm with the elaborate subterfuge of a spy passing on secret papers in Cold War Moscow.
‘Eat up, eat up. Serve him right for calling me Nina the Cleaner,’ says Nina, puffing herself up like an outraged hen. ‘I gots Cordon Bleu, Lizzy, Cordon Bleu . Not just cleaner.’
‘You are absolutely not just a cleaner, Nina. You know how Randy loves to tease you! He doesn’t mean a word of it – he’d be lost without you, and he knows it,’ I say, attempting to smooth her ruffled feathers.
‘You are good girl, Lizzy, very good girl. Randy is changed man since you arrive.’ Nina gives me a lascivious wink and I instantly feel paranoid. She must know that I don’t sleep in the same room as Randy when I stay over. After all, she’s the one who changes the sheets. What on earth does she think our relationship’s about if it’s not about sex?
‘You not like the other bad girls who stay here before.’ Nope, I am the boring babysitter who Randy would love to be shot of, I think, feeling irrationally jealous of the wild, beautiful girls who’ve trooped through the house before me. I doubt any of them spent more time with the housekeeper than with Randy. Not that I particularly want to spend time with Randy, the moody bastard, but somehow being beneath his notice is worse than if I was
The class finishes and we all sit around drinking tea for a while with the model, George, now attired in a natty little quilted dressing gown like a portly Hugh Hefner.
When the tea is finished and we’ve all admired each other’s sketches (I note I’m not the only one to have avoided precision in the region of George’s groin), I gather my things, say my goodbyes, and head off to spend the night with Randy Jones as I have done for the last three Wednesdays.
Sometimes he picks me up from work and we go back to Belsize Park together on the 68 bus; not quite the mode of transport you’d expect of a sleb, but ‘there’s no audience in a taxi, babe,’ says Randy, basking in the adulation of our fellow commuters. Once we walked all the way home through Regent’s Park holding hands the whole way, and that got us into the ‘Spotted’ section of New Stars magazine. But what they don’t spot is how quickly Randy drops my hand as soon as we’re in his vast white stuccoed house. In public I am adored and caressed and kissed and pampered, but once the door is closed and we’re at home (which we usually are), then it’s down to business, and I don’t mean dirty business.
To Randy, I’m the boring babysitter he has to tolerate to get his career back on track, but he’s not about to pay me any attention unless someone else is looking. The truth is, on my nights with Randy I’m more often to be found watching television alone while Randy writes in his study than out on the razzle.
Tonight I let myself in and wander into the kitchen, where Nina, Randy’s formidable Bulgarian housekeeper, is just putting her heavy woollen coat on to leave, even though it’s about thirty degrees outside. She often stays late so she can complain to me about Randy, and today is no exception. Before I’ve put my bag down she’s launched into a furious description of his latest outrage: a puritanical banning of all wheat and sugar from the house as part of his detox.
‘Like it is the sugar, Lizzy, what makes him inject himself, is it?’ She gestures me over to the larder and opens it a crack.
‘Don’t tell him, okay? Is for you and me only. He never come in here anyway.’
I peer in to see that an entire shelf is packed with biscuits of every variety, from posh Marks & Spencer’s tubs of chocolate-covered shortbreads and flapjacks to only-in-an-emergency Rich Teas. It would take us a year to get through them.
‘Wow, great, Nina. Thanks – what a treat,’ I say, allowing her to press a chocolate HobNob into my palm with the elaborate subterfuge of a spy passing on secret papers in Cold War Moscow.
‘Eat up, eat up. Serve him right for calling me Nina the Cleaner,’ says Nina, puffing herself up like an outraged hen. ‘I gots Cordon Bleu, Lizzy, Cordon Bleu . Not just cleaner.’
‘You are absolutely not just a cleaner, Nina. You know how Randy loves to tease you! He doesn’t mean a word of it – he’d be lost without you, and he knows it,’ I say, attempting to smooth her ruffled feathers.
‘You are good girl, Lizzy, very good girl. Randy is changed man since you arrive.’ Nina gives me a lascivious wink and I instantly feel paranoid. She must know that I don’t sleep in the same room as Randy when I stay over. After all, she’s the one who changes the sheets. What on earth does she think our relationship’s about if it’s not about sex?
‘You not like the other bad girls who stay here before.’ Nope, I am the boring babysitter who Randy would love to be shot of, I think, feeling irrationally jealous of the wild, beautiful girls who’ve trooped through the house before me. I doubt any of them spent more time with the housekeeper than with Randy. Not that I particularly want to spend time with Randy, the moody bastard, but somehow being beneath his notice is worse than if I was
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