Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday
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actually really like it if I could take my imaginary Audrey to the party with me this evening.
‘Now, you must have a wonderful time! And don’t worry in the slightest about me,’ she adds. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right here on my own.’
‘You’re … er … staying here for the evening?’
‘Just for a little longer. If it’s all right with you?’
‘But don’t I actually need to be here in order for you to … You want to stay and play around with the Nespresso machine,’ I add, with a sigh, as I see her feline eyes wandering in the direction of the kitchen worktop, ‘don’t you?’
Audrey turns a delicate shade of pink. ‘Well, I did rather fancy trying the cappuccino frother.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ My brain isn’t capable of stretching to the limits of understanding this, so if my imaginary Audrey claims she’s going to spend a happy evening here with a jet of air and a pint of milk, that’s just something I’m going to have to accept. ‘Froth away all you like.’
Looking delighted, she leans forward in a L’Interdit cloud and gives me the lightest, gentlest peck: first on one cheek, and then the other. Then she picks up my trench-coat from where I’ve slung it on the arm of the sofa and drapes it, stylishly, over my shoulders.
‘I know you’ll have the most wonderful evening,’ she says.
And then somehow she’s managed to manhandle me to the door, opened it, given me a little shove out onto the landing, and then closed the door behind me.
I can hear a shriek of frothing-related delight as I tread my way carefully down the four flights of stairs to the bottom.
When I open the door to the street, there’s someone standing right outside it, their hand on the buzzer.
It’s Olly.
‘Sorry,’ he begins when I jump, ‘I was just about to ring up to my friend’s fl …’ He stops, and looks at me again. ‘Libby?’
‘Hi, Olly, I …’
‘But I thought … you look … aren’t you ill?’
Shit – I never should have put on all that face powder, should I?
And then I realize. He’s not telling me I look ill because my make-up is so unflattering. He’s telling me I’m meant to be ill, because that’s why I told him I couldn’t do dinner.
‘Yes. I am ill. Well, I was …’
‘And now you’re … off out?’
‘Mmm, I suddenly started to feel a lot better. And you know how it is, when you’ve been feeling ill, sometimes you just need to have a bit of fresh air, a walk around the block …’
‘You’re quite dressed up for a walk around the block.’
‘What?’ I try a laugh. He doesn’t join me in it. ‘This old thing?’
‘A cocktail dress and heels. And a pearl necklace.’
‘Oh, is it a cocktail dress?’ I glance down, trying to look surprised, as if I might have imagined myself to be in tracksuit bottoms and one of my myriad grey hoodies. ‘I just threw on the first thing I could pull out of the boxes …’
OK, I give up. I’m a crap liar. And I hate lying to Olly.
‘I’m going out,’ I admit. ‘And I’m really sorry, I should have told you the truth. Especially when I know you wouldn’t really have minded anyway.’
‘Who says I wouldn’t have minded?’
He looks annoyed. No, scratch that: it’s worse. He looks disappointed.
‘Come on, Olly, it was only eating badly made stew in my crappy flat. I’m sure you’ve got about a million better ways to spend an evening than that!’
He presses his lips together for a moment, then says, tightly, ‘I cancelled other plans with some friends to hang out with you this evening. Actually.’
‘Ol, you really, really shouldn’t have!’
‘So where are you off to,’ he asks, ‘anyway?’
‘Well, you won’t believe this, but I’m going to a party with Dillon O’Hara.’
‘Dillon O’Hara from the show?’
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