you’re not loving all the attention that’s coming your way, oh sensible saviour of tortured comedian? Give me a break – you’re getting plenty out of this.’
‘Fuck you, Randy Jones, if you think I care about any of that stuff,’ I say, trembling with anger. ‘I’m here to save your sorry arse because I care about my boss’s sorry arse, and she’s in the shit because of you, but right now I’m sorry I ever set eyes on either of you.’
I spin on my heel and stomp out of the gym, attempting to slam the door behind me, but it turns out to be one of those concertinaed folding ones that shuts with a soft sigh. So I give it a vicious kick instead and go up to my room.
Well, I think, I have followed Lulu’s instructions to loosen up a bit and change my life. And where has it got me? Watching EastEnders alone in the spare bedroom of a famous comedian who barely speaks to me.
I don’t expect Randy to come up and apologize.
He doesn’t.
On my walk into work through Regent’s Park, I replay last night’s conversation over again, adding to it just a little here and there. By the time I march past the aviary at London Zoo, I have our conversation ending with Randy admitting the error of his ways, apologizing politely and suggesting dinner out, which I accept. As I approach the fountain in the middle of the park, I have him so distraught at his actions that he’s weeping on the floor of the gym in a foetal position. Hmm, maybe a bit too pathetic. When I finally push open the doors to the office, I’ve arrived at a satisfying scenario which ends with Randy falling off the treadmill and landing at my feet, begging for forgiveness. ‘I’ve used you appallingly, Lizzy. I’ve been rude and selfish and thoughtless, I see that now.’ In this scenario I am suddenly terrifyingly glamorous, and also about six feet tall, and I push him away with the pointy Louboutin stiletto at the end of my long, long leg. (Well, if you’re going to invent stuff, you might as well make it good stuff.)
‘Things are going to change around here, Randy,’ I say coolly as he pleads. ‘Now get up off the floor. You disgust me.’ Ha, yeah, Randy Jones, take that. I’m not your boring babysitter now, am I?
At least at work there’s some respite from it all. Camilla’s taken me off working on anything to do with Randy so there’s no conflict of interest, and it’s good to immerse myself in the lives of other people to escape my own. I’m trying to work out a calendar clash in Damien Elliott’s diary – how can we have booked him for the Venice Film Festival when we know he’ll be filming in Vancouver in September? – when Camilla comes in. No Bob the Builder rucksack, no obvious stains on her Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress; she’s carrying two Starbucks cups and looks totally calm and together. If I were nit-picking I’d point out that it’s nine-thirty, but that’s not too bad for her these days.
‘Morning, Lizzy, darling, double-shot cappuccino for you – that’s right, isn’t it?’ she beams, placing one of the cups on my desk.
‘Yes, lovely. Thanks, Camilla. What’s this in aid of?’
I’m instantly suspicious. It’s not that Camilla wouldn’t normally buy me a coffee, but she’s usually in such a frantic rush that it’s me who has to go out and get her one when I see she’s about to hit the wall halfway through the morning. After the Randy Jones relationship incident, I’m wary. Does this unexpected coffee have an agenda? I lift the lid and peer into the cup in case my latest challenge is written on the top in chocolate powder.
‘It’s not in aid of anything. Why would it be? I just thought you could do with one since you’ve got rather a lot on your plate at the moment.’ Camilla perches on the corner of my desk and sips at her own coffee, while I try to clear a space for her amongst the Post-its I’ve been using to sort out Damien’s calendar cock-up. ‘How are things going with Randy,
‘Fuck you, Randy Jones, if you think I care about any of that stuff,’ I say, trembling with anger. ‘I’m here to save your sorry arse because I care about my boss’s sorry arse, and she’s in the shit because of you, but right now I’m sorry I ever set eyes on either of you.’
I spin on my heel and stomp out of the gym, attempting to slam the door behind me, but it turns out to be one of those concertinaed folding ones that shuts with a soft sigh. So I give it a vicious kick instead and go up to my room.
Well, I think, I have followed Lulu’s instructions to loosen up a bit and change my life. And where has it got me? Watching EastEnders alone in the spare bedroom of a famous comedian who barely speaks to me.
I don’t expect Randy to come up and apologize.
He doesn’t.
On my walk into work through Regent’s Park, I replay last night’s conversation over again, adding to it just a little here and there. By the time I march past the aviary at London Zoo, I have our conversation ending with Randy admitting the error of his ways, apologizing politely and suggesting dinner out, which I accept. As I approach the fountain in the middle of the park, I have him so distraught at his actions that he’s weeping on the floor of the gym in a foetal position. Hmm, maybe a bit too pathetic. When I finally push open the doors to the office, I’ve arrived at a satisfying scenario which ends with Randy falling off the treadmill and landing at my feet, begging for forgiveness. ‘I’ve used you appallingly, Lizzy. I’ve been rude and selfish and thoughtless, I see that now.’ In this scenario I am suddenly terrifyingly glamorous, and also about six feet tall, and I push him away with the pointy Louboutin stiletto at the end of my long, long leg. (Well, if you’re going to invent stuff, you might as well make it good stuff.)
‘Things are going to change around here, Randy,’ I say coolly as he pleads. ‘Now get up off the floor. You disgust me.’ Ha, yeah, Randy Jones, take that. I’m not your boring babysitter now, am I?
At least at work there’s some respite from it all. Camilla’s taken me off working on anything to do with Randy so there’s no conflict of interest, and it’s good to immerse myself in the lives of other people to escape my own. I’m trying to work out a calendar clash in Damien Elliott’s diary – how can we have booked him for the Venice Film Festival when we know he’ll be filming in Vancouver in September? – when Camilla comes in. No Bob the Builder rucksack, no obvious stains on her Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress; she’s carrying two Starbucks cups and looks totally calm and together. If I were nit-picking I’d point out that it’s nine-thirty, but that’s not too bad for her these days.
‘Morning, Lizzy, darling, double-shot cappuccino for you – that’s right, isn’t it?’ she beams, placing one of the cups on my desk.
‘Yes, lovely. Thanks, Camilla. What’s this in aid of?’
I’m instantly suspicious. It’s not that Camilla wouldn’t normally buy me a coffee, but she’s usually in such a frantic rush that it’s me who has to go out and get her one when I see she’s about to hit the wall halfway through the morning. After the Randy Jones relationship incident, I’m wary. Does this unexpected coffee have an agenda? I lift the lid and peer into the cup in case my latest challenge is written on the top in chocolate powder.
‘It’s not in aid of anything. Why would it be? I just thought you could do with one since you’ve got rather a lot on your plate at the moment.’ Camilla perches on the corner of my desk and sips at her own coffee, while I try to clear a space for her amongst the Post-its I’ve been using to sort out Damien’s calendar cock-up. ‘How are things going with Randy,
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