A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘Yes, she has. In fact, that was one thing I was really hoping we could speak about today, Ben.’ We reach the living room; Elvira has gone on up to the next floor to source her urgent water from the kitchen. ‘I mean, I love having the showroom too, obviously, and it’s going to be fantastic for meetings with my bespoke clients and stuff … but I suppose what I’m still really hoping for, one day soon, is to actually start up my own shop premises. And I guess I’d really just like to be sure that that’s something you’d be supportive of, as well as the whole showroom thing, when the time—’

‘I thought you’d moved in.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I thought you’d moved in.’ Ben gestures around the living room. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’

‘Oh, right! This is all my stuff!’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No, no, I like to live with … er … a very minimalist aesthetic …’

‘You’re kidding,’ Ben repeats. He nods in the direction of the Chesterfield. ‘I mean, is that old thing part of your minimalist aesthetic?’

‘Well, no, but I like to mix minimalism with … vintage quirkiness.’

‘That’s vintage quirk, all right.’ Ben wanders over and peers, gingerly, at the sofa. ‘It doesn’t have mice, or anything, does it?’

I’m offended, on behalf of the Chesterfield, that this is the second time today someone has implied there are things living in it.

Or, more accurately, offended that it’s the second time someone has implied there are creepy-crawly, rodenty things living in it.

As opposed to the actual things living in it. Which are – and I’ll keep this ever so brief, because it makes me sound nuts, no matter how I put it – Hollywood screen legends.

And, to be honest, I don’t really think they live in the sofa, as such. It’s more just that they appear from it. Because the sofa itself is … magical? I mean, this is the best – in fact, pretty much the only – explanation I’ve been able to come up with myself.

I said I’d sound nuts, OK? But there’s honestly no other way for me to explain it.

‘No, it doesn’t have mice! Anyway, Ben, as I was saying, I’m really glad we’ve got this opportunity to have a bit of a chat about things, because—’

‘What’s going on down here?’ Elvira demands, as she reappears at the bottom of the stairs, having come down from the kitchen. ‘What are you two talking about?’

‘Well, I was just saying—’

‘I was asking Libby if she has mice in this old couch,’ Ben says. ‘I mean, did you ever see anything like it?’

‘I didn’t.’ Elvira gazes at the Chesterfield. ‘God, I kind of love it.’

I’m astonished by this. ‘Really? Everybody else I know hates it.’

‘Oh, well, nobody knows anything about vintage furniture, darling. Not unless they have an eye for this sort of thing.’

Her tone suggests that she herself does have an eye which, to be fair, she does, if that extraordinary feature in Elle Decor was anything to go by.

‘It’s an old film-set prop, actually,’ I say, relieved to have found something to bond with Elvira over, after months of our uncomfortable alliance. ‘From Pinewood Studios.’

‘No.’ Her eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘How did you get hold of something like that?’

‘I used to be an actress,’ I say, before adding, swiftly, ‘well, just an extra, really. But I was working on a show at Pinewood a couple of years ago when I first moved into my old flat, and a – uh – friend of mine who worked there too had an arrangement with the guy who ran the props warehouse. Anything they didn’t really want any more was fair game to take away.’

‘And nobody else wanted this?’ Elvira puts her Birkin down on one of the sofa’s cushions and runs a hand over the blowsy apricot-coloured fabric. ‘God, people are such idiots. This is a stunning piece!’

‘El, honey, you can’t be serious.’ Ben lets out a short bark of laughter. ‘This old heap of junk?’

‘Don’t be such a philistine. This must have so much history, I’m sure, if it was at Pinewood all those years.’

I can feel myself redden. We may be getting along the best we’ve ever managed, me and Elvira – practically besties ourselves, now, in comparison to our usual strained relations – but I don’t think we’re anywhere close to a situation where I might confide in her the full extent of my Chesterfield’s ‘history’.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘You know, darling, if you’d like to get it refurbished, I have some amazing furniture restorers on my speed-dial—’

‘God, no!’ I practically yelp. Because – and I’m very far from an expert here, trust me – even though I may not have seen a Hollywood legend appear from the sofa since Marilyn Monroe, almost exactly a year ago last June, I have a gut feeling that it’ll only ever work again if it stays exactly like this. So yes, it’s a bit grubby, and yes, that smell of moist dog still never quite fades, no matter how many times I open a window and fan fresh air in its direction with a tea-towel. But for all I know, even the merest squirt of Febreze is going to take away its remarkable powers for ever. I’m not going to risk it. ‘Thanks so much for the offer, Elvira,’ I continue, ‘but I kind of like it the way it is.’

‘Oh! Well, that’s up to you, I suppose.’ But she’s looking at me with a little more respect than usual. ‘I can understand you don’t want to take away from the soul of the piece.’

‘That’s exactly it.’ I beam at her. ‘And in fact,’ I go on, hoping to use this unexpected moment of positivity between us as a springboard to more important things, ‘talking of souls, I’d really love to have a conversation about the next phase of plans for Libby Goes To Hollywood.’

‘That’s exactly why we’re here,’ Elvira says. ‘I mean, now that you’ve got the new studio, obviously it’s time to start moving things forward.’

‘Great!’

I feel a rush of relief at how well this is all going for a change. Our previous meetings have all been so awkward and stilted. I’ve been intimidated by her gawky beauty, her ineffable style and her screaming poshness, and she’s probably been … well, not intimidated by a single thing about me. Visibly irritated, you’d probably have to say, by my all-too-apparent lack of screaming poshness. And now here we are, conversation (comparatively) flowing.

I take a deep breath, and begin the little pitch I’ve been practising in my head. ‘Well, I’ve been looking at the sales figures from the website, and they’re really on their way up over the last three months. So I’ve been thinking I’d like to—’

‘Oh, yeah, that’s what we wanted to speak about, too.’ Ben sits down on the Chesterfield, either forgetting or ignoring his concern about rodent inhabitants. ‘El and I were talking in the cab over here, and we both think it’s really time to wind up that side of the business, and focus your energies more on the bespoke commissions.’

‘Yeah,’ says Elvira although, because she’s so screamingly posh, this comes out as a yah. ‘Specifically the bridal commissions. After all, I think we can all agree that’s where your greatest talents lie, Libby.’

‘What? No. I mean … I don’t think we can agree that’s where my greatest talents lie.’ I stare at them both. ‘That might be where my biggest margins have come from these last few months, but if you have a look at the website sales, the charm bracelets and opal rings have been doing really, really well. And,’ I go on, remembering that I’m still holding a couple of my new bronze cuffs, ‘I’m really hoping this sort of thing is going to be a big seller, too, when I launch them on the website.’

Elvira glances at the cuff I’m holding out for her to inspect. ‘Pretty,’ she says, with a dismissive shrug, not even bothering to look properly at it. ‘But that’s not really the direction we see the business heading in, is it, Ben, darling?’

‘Nope, not really,’ Ben says. He’s taken out his phone, and is tapping away on the screen. ‘Listen to El, Libby. She knows what she’s talking about.’

‘Right, I’m sure, but I know what I’m talking about, too.’ I can’t quite believe I’m actually saying this to the pair of them – the de facto owner of my business, and someone as scary as Elvira – but needs must. Besides, after our moment of bonding over the sofa, I think she’ll respect me more if I stand my ground. ‘Look, it’s not that I don’t enjoy bridal commissions—’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ Elvira bestows me with a rare smile. ‘That piece in Brides has led to hundreds of enquiries, no? And – so far – dozens and dozens of actual orders.’

‘Sure, and like I say, it’s not that I don’t enjoy it.’ I take another deep breath. ‘It’s just that … well, the brides who’ve come to me after that article pretty much all want exactly the same thing.’

‘You mean the vintage-style tiara they featured in the magazine article Elvira arranged for you?’ Ben glances up from his phone. ‘The one,’ he adds, in a meaningful sort of way, ‘with the three hundred per cent margin?’

‘Yes, OK, I get that it’s good for profit.’ I stare, rather desperately, in Elvira’s direction, wanting to appeal to her sense of creativity. ‘I just really wanted to have a bit more say in the design process. Rather than just replicating the same thing over and over again.’

She looks back at me. ‘Well, I do get that,’ she says.

‘I knew you would!’ I can see a tiny little chink of light here, I really can. ‘Look, Elvira, perhaps if you could have a closer look at some of the pieces I’m working on at the moment, not just the cuffs, but also OH MY GOD, IT’S A RAT!’

I wasn’t planning on finishing the sentence this way, but then I wasn’t expecting to see an actual rodent, just the sort that Ben has been suspicious about, scurrying out from the Chesterfield’s squashy cushions.

I act, I think, with commendable speed under the circumstances – after all, it’s my sofa, so therefore my rat, and I want to be clear I’m taking full responsibility for the horror – by pulling back my right arm and hurling both bronze cuffs towards the rat’s head.

I mean, I’m an animal lover, so I’m not actually trying to kill the thing, just scare it off, or, I don’t know, knock it out.

But Elvira, the moment she sees the cuffs go loose, screams as if I’m about to accidentally injure a newborn infant.

‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ she screeches, diving into the cuffs’ trajectory, but too late. One of them has actually made contact with the rat – its tail end, I think, and not its head – and it has let out a little squeal.

I’m confused, for a moment, as to why a rat would make a noise like that, and – much more importantly – why on earth Elvira is calling it her baby.

But then Ben is on his feet too, hurrying over to help Elvira tend to the creature.

‘Is he all right?’ he demands. ‘Did it hit him?’

‘I think so! Oh, my poor baby!’ Elvira is actually gathering the rat up, into her arms, and raining kisses down on its head. ‘I think it got him on the leg! At the very least,’ she adds, turning to me with a look of murderous fury in her eyes, ‘he’s totally fucking traumatized!’

‘I don’t … sorry, but I honestly don’t think rats can feel trauma, can they?’

‘He’s not a rat! He’s a dog! My dog!’

My mouth falls open. ‘Oh, God, Elvira, I didn’t—’

‘He’s a Xoloitzcuintli,’ Ben says, gruffly.

I blink at him.

‘A miniature Mexican hairless!’ Elvira spits. ‘The Aztecs considered them sacred!’

All I can honestly think to this is: more fool the Aztecs. Because, seriously, this dog is a peculiar-looking beast. Well, obviously, given that I have just mistaken him for a large rat.

‘He’s only eight weeks old,’ Elvira is going on, continuing to examine and kiss the dog/rat in equal proportion. ‘He’s just a puppy! How could you attack him like that, Libby?’

‘Elvira, again, I’m so sorry. I didn’t attack him … well, OK, I threw the cuffs, but only because I thought he was … er … well, you know … and Ben had been saying he thought there might be mice or something in the sofa …’

‘He was in my bag!’ Elvira points a shaking hand at her Birkin bag, still on the Chesterfield, that the dog must have just crept out of. ‘And really, Libby, what did you think I wanted water for, when we got here?’

‘I’m sorry, I just assumed … is he OK?’ I add, taking a step closer, albeit a little bit gingerly, but Elvira jumps back as if I’m brandishing an entire arsenal of dog-injuring weaponry.

‘You’ve done enough,’ she snarls. ‘Ben, darling, can you get a cab? I want to get Tino straight to the vet.’

‘Of course, hon.’ Ben shoots a rather weary look in my direction as he heads back to the sofa to pick up his phone. ‘Jeez, Libby,’ he says. ‘What is it with you and other people’s dogs?’

This is a rather unfair reference to the first time he met me – a time that, until now, both of us have chosen never to reference again – when I accidentally got myself stuck in a dog safety gate in my underwear.

‘Honestly,’ I say, as Elvira shoots me another evil look to end all evil looks, ‘I’m an animal lover! I just thought—’

‘Yes, we know. You thought he was a rat,’ she spits. ‘You’ve made that perfectly clear already, thank you, Libby.’

‘But honestly, he looks OK,’ I go on, looking at Tino in a manner that I hope appears concerned rather than (I have to be honest) ever-so-slightly revolted. And this is true, because his little rodenty face looks relaxed enough, and there are no visible injuries on his equally rodenty body. If anything, he’s looking eager to leap out of Elvira’s tight embrace, and head for … well, he’s looking extremely longingly at the sofa, actually. He must be getting all those lovely doggy whiffs of canines past coming off it.

‘Oh, what the fuck would you know? You’re not a vet!’

‘Cab here in three minutes, El,’ Ben says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. ‘We’ll have to carry on this conversation another time, Libby, OK?’

‘What? No! I mean,’ I go on, trying to sound more calm and collected than I feel, ‘I’ve been really looking forward to this meeting. There’s so much to discuss, and we don’t often get the opportunity to—’

‘Come on. It’s hardly the time.’

‘It’s certainly not.’ Elvira is stalking over to the Chesterfield to pick up her Birkin, all ready to place Tino tenderly inside it. But he’s evidently got other ideas, because he slips out of her grasp, and lurches down towards the sofa itself, where he starts to sort of … well, I don’t know what the technical term would be, but it does look very much as if he’s trying to pleasure himself against the chintzy, apricot-coloured fabric.

‘Huh,’ observes Ben, as we all gaze at Tino in a rather shocked silence for a moment. ‘Guess there must be the scent of quite a few old mutts on this thing, right?’

But I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think it’s that at all. Yes, the Chesterfield does have an aroma of dog – always has – but from the transfixed expression on Tino’s face, I think he’s picking up on something more than mere waft of long-gone Labrador, or past poodle.

I mean, animals have sixth senses, don’t they? Especially so, probably, if they’re the kind of animals that the Aztecs considered sacred.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Elvira, puce in the face now with embarrassment as well as anger, grabs Tino mid-rut and holds him firmly under her arm as she heads for the stairs. ‘We’ll discuss this incident another time, Libby,’ she tells me. ‘But suffice it to say I am Not Happy. Not Happy At All.’

Which is, to be fair, pretty much the impression I’ve got every other time I’ve met her. That she’s Not Happy about anything I have to offer. It’s just that there were those few minutes where we seemed to bond, ever so slightly, over the vintage sofa. And now it’s all gone backwards again. Actually, worse than backwards, because even if she has not been that impressed with me before now, at least I’d never tried, in her eyes, to assassinate her precious Mexican hairless dog.

‘Yeah,’ says Ben, already back on his phone again, as he follows her down the stairs towards their taxi. ‘We’ll be in touch, Libby. I’ll try to set something up, the next time I’m over.’

‘But Ben, I really—’

‘Bye, Libby,’ he says, with a wave of the hand, not even glancing back at me. ‘Oh, and try to keep up the orders for that vintage tiara, yeah? That thing’s your bread and butter. Your books are never gonna add up without it.’

The front door bangs shut behind them a couple of moments later, leaving me and my Chesterfield alone, together, in our accidentally minimalist new flat.

It’s truly excellent news, from the point of view of my morale, that I’m due to have dinner with my friend Olly tonight. After the disaster of a business meeting with Ben and Elvira (actually, even calling it a ‘business meeting’ is being generous, given the amount of time we spent discussing anything business-related), I might otherwise be tempted to retreat into my pyjamas and eat the contents of my biscuit stash in self-pity. But I’ve promised Olly that I’ll meet him over at the restaurant, and we see each other so rarely these days that I don’t want to go back on my promise.

The restaurant, by the way, being his own restaurant, over in Clapham.

Nibbles.

That’s what the restaurant is called.

It’s a bit unfortunate.

Not the name Nibbles itself, as such – although I still think it’s a name better suited to a twee seaside tearoom, rather than a tapas-style restaurant successful enough to have been nominated for all kinds of Best Newcomer awards recently – but more what the choice of name represents. I mean, it was a pretty last-minute decision to call it that, and—

Talking of last-minute decisions, a text has just popped up on my phone from Olly, literally as I approach the restaurant’s front door, asking if I can meet him two doors down in the little French bistro instead. We’ve ended up needing all the tables tonight, his text informs me, and anyway it’s been a knackering day and I just want to get out of the place!!! Will get bottle of red. See you there. O xxx

Which actually suits me pretty well, too, because the slight issue of having a meal with Olly at Nibbles is, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, the constant interruptions. Even on a night when he’s not officially working, he’s always working: there’s an issue that needs to be sorted out in the kitchen, or two of the waiting staff are threatening to kill each other, or a customer can’t live another moment without finding out the origin of his recipe for pea and mint arancini.

Peace and quiet and privacy over red wine at the bistro sound just about perfect right now. Especially since I can’t actually remember the last time I had a quiet evening and a chat with Olly. Two months ago? Closer to three? Despite the fact we’ve been close friends ever since I was thirteen, and he was Nora’s worldly wise fifteen-year-old brother; despite the fact we used to get together to set the world to rights over a bite to eat and more than a sip to drink at least twice a week, we’ve drifted a bit of late. Probably something to do with the fact that he’s busy running his restaurant, and I’m busy running my business.

Oh, and probably quite a lot, too, to do with the fact that I’m a little bit in love with him.

Actually, I’ll rephrase that, because a little bit in love sounds like I have some girlish crush, or something.

It’s not a crush. I am passionately, desperately, fervently, and worst of all secretly in love with Olly. Who – worse even than that – just so happened to be secretly in love with me, too, for almost the entirety of our friendship, until a year ago when (not unreasonably, let’s be honest) he finally gave up on me and started going out with Tash, his now-girlfriend, who works with Nora up at Glasgow Royal Infirmary.

I mean, he’d planned to name the restaurant after me, and everything. Libby’s, it was meant to be called, not Nibbles. That was the last-minute decision I just told you about. I guess he’d always had this idea that he’d open a restaurant named after me one day, and that this would be the big declaration of love that he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, and that I’d finally realize the way he felt about me. But then I was messing around thinking I was in love with my ex, Dillon O’Hara, and Olly just got tired of waiting.

It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made without knowing I was even making it.

It’s why I end up avoiding him so much these days. (While still – illogically – at the same time, desperately wanting to find ways to spend time with him.) For one thing, it often just feels too painful to have to sit there and stare down the barrel of What Should Have Been. And, for another, I’m usually scared that I might not be able to disguise my own feelings. Might end up, horror to end all horrors, jumping the table and doing to him pretty much what Tino the Mexican hairless did to my Chesterfield earlier this afternoon.

Because just look at me now, coming to a wobbly-kneed standstill as soon as I enter the bistro and see him at a corner table. He’s just so incredibly, heart-breakingly gorgeous, with his hair all mussed up from his habit of rubbing his hands through it when he’s stressed, and his big brown eyes, so open and honest, and—

‘Lib!’

Those big brown eyes have alighted on me now, and he’s getting to his feet, a huge smile on his handsome face.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he says, coming over to put his arms around me in a huge bear hug. (I inhale, as surreptitiously as I can, his scent: the familiar, warm, kitcheny smell I’ve known inside out for the last couple of decades, coupled with something spicier and more masculine that I never used to notice, but must have always been there.) ‘Come and sit down and have some wine with me. Well, actually, I decided on a bottle of champagne. Your favourite kind. I mean, we’re celebrating your moving into the new flat, right?’

‘Oh, Olly. That’s … so nice of you.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s a big moment. You deserve to celebrate it!’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. I mean, I feel like I’ve already screwed things up with my new landlord.’

‘You mean the scary fashion woman who keeps trying to tell you what to do with your own business?’

‘I mean the scary fashion woman who keeps trying to tell me what to do with my own business.’ I smile up at him. ‘Wow. That was well remembered, Ol. I only told you about her in passing when I last saw you.’

‘I always remember the important stuff.’ He ushers me towards the table. ‘Now, I’ve ordered us a plate of charcuterie and a plate of cheese, but if there’s anything else you’d prefer, I can get them to give us a menu …’

‘No, no, I’m fine. I mean, that sounds perfect.’ I slide into the seat opposite him, and do my best to slow down my hammering heart. ‘Hi,’ I add, with a nervous laugh, that I immediately try to turn into a cough. ‘God, Olly, it’s been ages.’

‘Way too long. Here.’ He pours champagne into my glass. Quite a lot of champagne, and then the same sort of amount for himself. His hand is a bit shaky – exhaustion, I should think, given the hours he works – which is probably why it slips a bit and why he’s poured such big glasses. ‘You look like you need this. What happened with the scary fashion woman?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual … I mistook her beloved puppy for a rat and threw a large piece of solid metal at its head—’

‘Ah. Of course. The usual.’ He grins at me and lifts his glass. ‘Cheers, Lib. And congratulations. On the exciting new move, that is. Not the puppy-maiming. I need to be absolutely clear that, despite our long and happy friendship together, I can in no way condone that.’

‘And I’d never expect you to.’