Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday
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quite finished it yet.’
She’s ignoring me, placing the necklace around my neck and doing up the clasp. ‘Like I thought,’ she says. ‘Wonderful.’
It does feel rather nice, I have to admit, with the cool weight of the diamanté charm against my skin, and the silky smoothness of the vintage pearl beads … Well, I’ll just have to justify it as a trial run for Nora’s special present: helping me decide whether the necklace should stay as it is, or if it needs that double layer of pearl beads after all.
‘Now, the right shoes, of course, always make or break any outfit. Do you have a nice simple pump?’ Audrey asks me. ‘Something with a kitten heel, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no. I’m not wearing a kitten heel. Not when I’m going to spend the evening with a bunch of six-foot-in-their-bare-feet models.’ I haven’t forgotten the way Rhea towered over me at FitLondon this morning; there might be all kinds of reasons why I feel small and insignificant at this party tonight, but I’m not about to let my shoes be one of them. ‘I’m wearing these,’ I say, delving back into the box and rooting around for the only pair of really glamorous shoes I own, a pair of silvery sandals with an ankle strap and a teetering platform heel.
This time Audrey actually looks ill.
‘But you could break your ankle in those! And surely … well, a kitten heel would be so much more chic …’
‘That’s what you said before you mangled my fringe last night,’ I tell her, glad of the fact that she only exists in my imagination, because I’m not sure this is an argument I’d feel confident having if I really were talking to one of the most ineffably stylish women that has ever existed. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t care less if they’re chic or not – they make me look five inches taller and half a stone lighter. I’m wearing them. Now, do you think I need any Spanx?’
‘Oh!’ Her hands fly to her cheeks, which are burning red all of a sudden. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s going to be entirely up to the proclivities of the gentleman you’re going out with this evening! And really, Libby, what you want to do in the privacy of the bedroom is really none of my—’
‘Spanx knickers!’ I say, even more mortified by the misunderstanding than she is. ‘It’s a kind of underwear … look, never mind. I really need to start getting ready.’
‘Of course.’ She looks relieved by the change of subject. ‘What time is he picking you up?’
‘He’s not. I’ll meet him at the party.’
‘Why on earth isn’t he coming to collect you?’
‘For one thing, because I told him I wasn’t coming. And for another thing, because it’s London. In the twenty-first century.’
‘That’s no excuse!’ She looks genuinely upset. ‘When a man takes you out for the evening, he should come to collect you at your door! With a bouquet of your favourite flowers!’
Again, I’m starting to see what life really is like if you’re a beautiful movie star.
‘Libby …’ She’s peering at me, curious now. ‘Has a man never brought you flowers before a date?’
‘No.’
I don’t add – because she’s a figment of my subconscious, and my subconscious already knows this – that I’ve never really been on a date before. That all my so-called relationships (Horrible Daniel, Unreliable Iain, Brief-but-Mistaken Martin) have started in the same fuzzy, ill-defined way that they went on and the same fuzzy, ill-defined way they all finally ended. A few too many drinks and a bit of a snog, followed by a few months (or in Martin’s case, thank heavens, only weeks) of not-that-satisfactory sex and introducing each other, uncomfortably, to our respective friends as ‘the person I’ve been seeing’. No dates. No flowers. No fun.
‘Then you’ve been treated very badly.’ Audrey Hepburn sounds quite cross. ‘And frankly, this Dillon fellow is going to have to wake his ideas up a bit if he’s lucky enough to be in with a chance of dating you.’
Now, this, right here, is why I always wanted Audrey Hepburn to be my best friend.
I know she’s a figment of my imagination; I know, therefore, that what she’s just ‘said’ is actually the equivalent of a positively affirming Post-it Note stuck on a bathroom mirror (‘You Look Thin And Beautiful Today!’). But still, the warm glow that’s spreading through me is no figment of my imagination. And it’s good, even if only for a moment, to believe that what she’s just said is true.
‘Now,’ she goes on, ‘you’d better be taking a nice long bubble bath, then when you get out I can help you with your make-up.’
‘Actually, there’s only a shower. But some help with my make-up afterwards would be lovely.’
Because make-up isn’t like a haircut, is it? Getting my hallucinated Audrey to help me put on some nice smoky eye make-up isn’t going to involve any setting about my head with a dangerous implement. The very worst that will happen is that, in (what I assume to be) my current dream-state, I jab myself in the eye with the mascara wand or something.
‘Then help I shall!’ She’s already setting off for the coffee machine. ‘Off you go and perform your ablutions, and I’ll make you a nice fortifying espresso to drink while we make you up. Some fluttery eyelashes, elegant red lips … we’ll pull out all the stops, darling! This Dillon fellow isn’t going to recognize you!’
*
OK, I’m not sure Dillon is going to recognize me.
The trouble is that there’s a very good chance he’s going to mistake me for a drag queen.
‘Are you quite sure,’ I ask Audrey Hepburn, as I look at myself in my little round mirror, ‘that this looks all right?’
‘You think one more layer of mascara? Another strip of eyelashes?’
‘No, no, Christ, no!’
‘More eyebrow pencil?’
‘Definitely no more eyebrow pencil.’
I’m regretting, in fact, that I ever dug around in the far reaches of my make-up bag to find an eyebrow pencil, an item I’ve never once used since it came Free With Purchase from No. 7 a few years ago. I was hoping I might be able to emulate Audrey’s trademark strong eyebrow, but I’m a little bit concerned that it actually looks like I’ve superglued two sunburned caterpillars over my eyes instead.
‘Well, I’ve already set your lipstick with powder, darling, so I don’t think I can go back and put more of that on …’
‘No, look, I’m not saying I want more of anything. In fact, I think maybe I ought to go with a bit less.’
‘But you look so glamorous! So ladylike! And really, Libby, that dress is so simple, it won’t look finished without proper make-up. This tinted moisturizer nonsense,’ she adds, regarding my tube of the stuff with almost as much horror as she looked at my shoes. ‘And whatever that fruity gloop is that you wanted to put on instead of a nice elegant lipstick …’
‘Juicy Tube.’
She shudders at the mere memory. ‘Darling, I’m telling you. You look like a proper grown-up woman. Doesn’t that give you the most wonderful feeling of confidence?’
Given that I’m fairly convinced that what I look like is a proper grown-up man, it doesn’t give me all that much confidence. But she’s so glowy with pride that I don’t feel I can just scrub it all off with a flannel and bung on the tinted moisturizer and lip-gloss I’d normally use. Anyway, let’s face it, on some level, I must want to look like I’ve run amok at the Estée Lauder counter, because it’s obviously really been me who’s trowelled it all on. Perhaps because the only way I feel brave enough to mingle with the Beautiful People at this