fending off his lecherous advances every five minutes.
‘Gosh, well, I wouldn’t know about that, Nina,’ I bluster. ‘Where is Randy, anyway? In the gym?’
Randy has embraced his newly clean life with all the desperate fervour of a former addict, and these days spends hour after hour in his basement gym, either with his trainer or pounding relentlessly on the treadmill while watching DVDs of Richard Pryor and Bill Hicks on a loop.
‘Of course in gym, where else?’ says Nina with a shrug. ‘He gots muscles , now, Lizzy, isn’t it!’ She nudges me with her elbow, and I blush, which she takes as encouragement. ‘Go down to gym, Lizzy, feel the muscles! See that bad boy.’ She gives me a little push towards the stairs.
‘Great thinking, Nina, will do. Bye – thanks for the biscuits!’ I sing in my best attempt at the breezy style of one who has a totally uncomplicated relationship with a totally normal person who will be delighted to see their honest-to-goodness real girlfriend appear in their private gym at any moment.
I hear the front door close as I descend the steps and, sure enough, Bill Hicks is launching into his JFK routine while Randy sweats on the treadmill in just his shorts and trainers. Nina’s not wrong, I think – gone is the pasty, skinny boy of last month. The new Randy is toned, lean and wiry, and while he’d still look like a toothpick standing next to the Bulldog Man from army training, or even next to rugby-boy Dan, there’s no denying he looks pretty fit. His dirty blond hair is pulled back from his face, and for once he’s not wearing any make-up. Free of jewellery and leather and the ubiquitous denim, I see, for the first time, a hint of the attractiveness that has lured endless glamour models into his boudoir. I’m pretty sure he still stinks, though.
‘Hi,’ I say, hovering in the doorway. Randy turns from the treadmill for a second and grunts, ‘Hi,’ then turns his head back towards the screen.
‘Were you thinking that we’d go out for something to eat tonight?’ I ask, raising my voice above the din of the treadmill and the television.
‘Already eaten,’ says Randy, gesturing to a carton of protein shake that lies on the floor.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So, er, I’ll see you upstairs later?’
Rolling his eyes, Randy slows the treadmill down to a walk and puts the DVD on pause. ‘Look, I’ve got Bryan coming round in half an hour to talk about saving the US tour, and I want to be in bed by ten so I can see my trainer at seven. So I really don’t need babysitting tonight, okay? Just entertain yourself, would you?’
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I will. Again.’
‘What’s your problem?’ says Randy, stopping the treadmill completely and wiping his forehead with a towel. ‘Do I have to maintain our fake relationship in the privacy of my own fucking home?’
‘I’m not asking you to play boyfriend and girlfriend, Randy, I’m just saying that this isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs for me, you know, and maybe you could just try treating me with a bit of sodding courtesy.’
He raises his eyebrows superciliously, ‘Oh, right, so it’s discourteous of me to allow you free rein to treat my home as your own, is it? Discourteous to let you eat my food, sleep in my house, use anything you like without asking?’
‘I suppose you think it’s fun for me to sit in your house night after night while you act like I don’t exist? If you could just stop thinking about yourself for one second, you might realize that I’m only here to help you save your stupid reputation, and all I’m getting from you is grief.’
‘Oh really?’ snarls Randy, stepping off the treadmill and striding powerfully towards me. ‘You get nothing out of this? So you don’t get to tell your friends about how you’re hanging out with the famous Randy Jones all the time? So you don’t love being in the papers every day as the girl who’s saved Randy Jones from being such a total loser? So
‘Gosh, well, I wouldn’t know about that, Nina,’ I bluster. ‘Where is Randy, anyway? In the gym?’
Randy has embraced his newly clean life with all the desperate fervour of a former addict, and these days spends hour after hour in his basement gym, either with his trainer or pounding relentlessly on the treadmill while watching DVDs of Richard Pryor and Bill Hicks on a loop.
‘Of course in gym, where else?’ says Nina with a shrug. ‘He gots muscles , now, Lizzy, isn’t it!’ She nudges me with her elbow, and I blush, which she takes as encouragement. ‘Go down to gym, Lizzy, feel the muscles! See that bad boy.’ She gives me a little push towards the stairs.
‘Great thinking, Nina, will do. Bye – thanks for the biscuits!’ I sing in my best attempt at the breezy style of one who has a totally uncomplicated relationship with a totally normal person who will be delighted to see their honest-to-goodness real girlfriend appear in their private gym at any moment.
I hear the front door close as I descend the steps and, sure enough, Bill Hicks is launching into his JFK routine while Randy sweats on the treadmill in just his shorts and trainers. Nina’s not wrong, I think – gone is the pasty, skinny boy of last month. The new Randy is toned, lean and wiry, and while he’d still look like a toothpick standing next to the Bulldog Man from army training, or even next to rugby-boy Dan, there’s no denying he looks pretty fit. His dirty blond hair is pulled back from his face, and for once he’s not wearing any make-up. Free of jewellery and leather and the ubiquitous denim, I see, for the first time, a hint of the attractiveness that has lured endless glamour models into his boudoir. I’m pretty sure he still stinks, though.
‘Hi,’ I say, hovering in the doorway. Randy turns from the treadmill for a second and grunts, ‘Hi,’ then turns his head back towards the screen.
‘Were you thinking that we’d go out for something to eat tonight?’ I ask, raising my voice above the din of the treadmill and the television.
‘Already eaten,’ says Randy, gesturing to a carton of protein shake that lies on the floor.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So, er, I’ll see you upstairs later?’
Rolling his eyes, Randy slows the treadmill down to a walk and puts the DVD on pause. ‘Look, I’ve got Bryan coming round in half an hour to talk about saving the US tour, and I want to be in bed by ten so I can see my trainer at seven. So I really don’t need babysitting tonight, okay? Just entertain yourself, would you?’
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I will. Again.’
‘What’s your problem?’ says Randy, stopping the treadmill completely and wiping his forehead with a towel. ‘Do I have to maintain our fake relationship in the privacy of my own fucking home?’
‘I’m not asking you to play boyfriend and girlfriend, Randy, I’m just saying that this isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs for me, you know, and maybe you could just try treating me with a bit of sodding courtesy.’
He raises his eyebrows superciliously, ‘Oh, right, so it’s discourteous of me to allow you free rein to treat my home as your own, is it? Discourteous to let you eat my food, sleep in my house, use anything you like without asking?’
‘I suppose you think it’s fun for me to sit in your house night after night while you act like I don’t exist? If you could just stop thinking about yourself for one second, you might realize that I’m only here to help you save your stupid reputation, and all I’m getting from you is grief.’
‘Oh really?’ snarls Randy, stepping off the treadmill and striding powerfully towards me. ‘You get nothing out of this? So you don’t get to tell your friends about how you’re hanging out with the famous Randy Jones all the time? So you don’t love being in the papers every day as the girl who’s saved Randy Jones from being such a total loser? So
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