Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy HollidayЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Yeah, it was an accident.’ Dillon backs me up. ‘I mean, nobody would intentionally set light to themselves like that. Unless they were a Buddhist monk, or something. Which you’re not, are you?’
Before I can answer, there’s a collective wheeze of mirth from the watching crew members, and one of them starts up – oh, so hilariously – a chant of Om.
‘Ah, give her a break, guys.’ Dillon grins up at them and pats me on the shoulder. His hand stays there. I don’t breathe in case this alerts him and he decides to move it. ‘Poor girl’s had a nasty shock. You know, one of you baboons could make yourselves useful and get her a nice cup of sweet tea, instead of standing there taking the …’
His eyes suddenly flicker sideways.
Which is hardly surprising, given that my sister has just teetered into view.
Lord only knows what Mum texted her after seeing the selfie, but Cass has ramped up the sexiness by roughly one hundred degrees centigrade. She’s changed into her Cat Person costume, for the show, but with a few little tweaks that only a certifiable man-eater like Cass is truly capable of. She’s unzipped the front of the skintight jumpsuit down to a near-pornographic level, replaced the regulation black Dr Martens with – and I can only assume she either brought these with her this morning, or borrowed them from a streetwalker a little closer to King’s Cross – a thigh-high pair of stiletto-heeled boots, and coated her mouth in what is surely the entire contents of a tube of Nars Striptease lip gloss.
Part of me wants to applaud her for such brazen, no-holds-barred chutzpah.
A much larger part of me wants to rip off her thigh boots and beat her over the head with them.
Because Dillon’s hand has just dropped off my shoulder. And I’ve just dropped off his radar.
‘Oh, my God!’ Cass squeals, clasping her hands to her mouth and doing a pretty decent performance of Distraught Woman. ‘Libby! My darling sister! What happened?’
‘Your darling sister set fire to her fucking head,’ Vanessa snaps. ‘Costing me six hundred quid for a replacement costume in the process.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Cass says, again. (Her performance might be decent, but the script has its limits.) ‘And your hair, Libby! What have you done to your beautiful, beautiful hair!’
Which would be a nice thing for her to have said, if it weren’t for the fact that I suspect it’s just a vehicle for her next trick, which is to break down in melodramatic sobs and clutch a hand to her (ballooning) chest, as if she’s about to swoon.
‘Woah, there!’ Dillon slips an arm around her waist. ‘Let’s go and get you a hot, sweet cup of tea.’
The same hot, sweet cup of tea that he promised me a moment ago. And which, I can’t help but notice, the entire leering gang of crew members is practically leap-frogging each other off the bus to fetch for her.
‘I’m sorry!’ Cass gulps. ‘It’s just such a terrible shock …’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ Vanessa mutters, which actually makes me feel quite fond of her all of a sudden.
‘Of course it is, sweetheart,’ Dillon is saying, in a melted-dark-chocolate tone quite unlike the one he was using while he was chatting to me. ‘You just need that tea, and a nice sit-down …’
‘I do,’ Cass replies, dabbing prettily at dry cheeks. ‘I do need a lie-down.’
You have to give it to her (and Dillon, no doubt, will do exactly that), she’s good at this stuff. The Damsel in Distress act (when I’m the only one round here who’s got any reason to be in distress); the subtle hint that she’d rather be lying down than sitting …
‘I’m Dillon, by the way,’ Dillon is murmuring, putting a hand in the small of her back and steering her in the direction of the leap-frogging crew members on their way to Olly’s catering truck.
‘And I’m Cassidy …’
Vanessa and I watch them go, united – for once – in irritation.
‘Your fucking sister,’ says Vanessa.
To agree would be disloyal; to disagree would be rank hypocrisy. So I don’t say anything.
‘You’re all right?’ she asks, gesturing at my burnt hair. ‘Not actually injured or anything?’
‘No, I’m OK.’ I’m touched that she’s concerned. ‘But thanks, Vanessa, and I’m really sorry again about—’
‘Good,’ she says, briskly. ‘Then I don’t need to get the first-aid guys over before you leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘The shoot. The show, in fact.’
I stare at her. ‘You’re … firing me?’
‘Well, of course I fucking well am. You’re lucky I’m not also charging you for the costume you’ve just wrecked.’
‘But I … this was meant to be my big … I mean, I need the money for my rent … And my mother is going to …’
‘None of that is my problem.’ She turns on her heel. ‘Sorry, Libby,’ she adds, in a flat tone of no regret whatsoever. ‘But can you please just return the costume to Wardrobe and get off my set?’
There’s absolutely no point in arguing. All I can do now is do as she says and get out of here while I still have my dignity.
OK, while I still have a shred of dignity.
OK, before I annoy her any more and she decides to charge me six hundred quid into the bargain. Because, in all honesty, I think my dignity has pretty much gone the way of my hair. Along with the ability to pay the rent on my flat, and the long-awaited approval of my mother.
Still, at least the Om-chanting crew are no longer around to witness my walk of shame. I suppose I have to be grateful for small mercies.
I’m due to pick the keys up from my new landlord, Bogdan, at six o’clock this evening, but there are several things I need to get done before then.
The first, and let’s face it, most important, being to buy a hat.
This I accomplish by nipping in to the huge TK Maxx near Marble Arch tube, grabbing the largest straw sunhat I can find (thank God it’s a sunny day, so I have an obvious excuse to be wearing it) and taking off the label to wear it immediately after handing over the fiver it cost me.
And it’s a good thing it was reasonably cheap, because my next stop is at the cheese shop on New Quebec Street, where I’m due to collect forty quid’s worth of eye-wateringly expensive (and probably just eye-watering, ha-ha) cheese that I ordered a couple of days ago. It’s for Olly, as a thank-you gift for all his help with the move and the furniture. I racked my brains for quite a while to come up with something I knew he’d love – a sci-fi movie box-set, a kitchen-y gadget for messing about with when he’s cooking (for fun, staggeringly) at home – but in the end I thought some serious cheese was a great gift for someone who’s … well, as serious about cheese as Olly is.
As we both are, in fact. Cheese was one of the very first things we bonded over, and cheese has continued to play a front-and-centre role in our friendship ever since. We sometimes go to cheese-tasting evenings – right here, at Le Grand Fromage on New Quebec Street, or at Neal’s Yard Dairy in Covent Garden; we once went to an entire cheese festival, at some Nineties rock star’s country farm down in Somerset; when I was nineteen and he was turning twenty-one, we celebrated his significant birthday by taking the