A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 11.42 a.m. To: Cass

No, Cass I can’t bring you back bulk order of Kiehls body lotion.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 11.46 a.m. To: Cass

Yes I do know it’s pounds for dollars.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 11.48 a.m. To: Cass

BECAUSE AM STUCK IN MIAMI WITH NO PASSPORT, NO HOTEL ROOM, 26 QUID IN MY CURRENT ACCOUNT, EXACTLY 17 DOLLARS IN MY WALLET AND HURRICANE APPROACHING.

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 6.53 p.m. To: Nora

Crisis averted!!! Am spending night bunking down inside Miami Dolphins Football Stadium.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 6.55 p.m. To: Nora

Is fine, honestly. Everyone being very friendly. Have met nice family from Arizona who have lent me sleeping bag and are cooking me hot dog on their portable bbq. Is actually all very jolly and Blitz-spirity at moment!

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 6.57 p.m. To: Nora

No. He’s still not answering his phone.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 7.01 p.m. To: Nora

The row? Nothing, really.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 7.06 p.m. To: Nora

Yes, all right. It was because he was flirting with another girl.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 7.08 p.m. To: Nora

Norwegian swimsuit model. But not sure that’s really important right now.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 8.44 p.m. To: Nora

OK, am getting small suspicion lovely family from Arizona may belong to fanatical doomsday cult into which they are trying to indoctrinate me.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 8.56 p.m. To: Nora

Yes, they definitely belong to fanatical doomsday cult into which they are trying to indoctrinate me.

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 21.22 p.m. To: Olly

Am OK. Have to admit is getting a tiny bit scary here now. Winds are starting to make a hell of a noise outside stadium. Also might have accidentally joined fanatical Doomsday cult. Seemed like small price to pay for sleeping bag and hot dog at the time, but am starting to have serious regrets.

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 22.23 p.m. To: Nora

Shit Nora this is getting scary now. Winds are getting up. People crying. Praying. Not just fanatical Doomsday cult but normal people too. Signal keeps cutting out. Will message as soon as I can. Love you. Sorry about all this. Lx

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 22.26 p.m. To: Cass

Cass. Am slap-bang in middle of worst hurricane to hit Florida in 2 decades. Don’t know when, if ever, will be getting out of here. So no. I won’t be able to meet you at Selfridges today to go shoe shopping.

WhatsApp message 9 Sept 22.29 p.m. To: Cass

No, Cass. It doesn’t even come close to qualifying as a disaster.

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WhatsApp message 9 Sept 22.31 p.m. To: Olly

I love you, Olly Lx

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(#ub576a2c4-fcb7-5472-93df-927fe1587185)

It was a big moment, last night, when my grandmother knocked on the door of my hotel room and handed me this box containing about seventeen layers of tissue and, beneath them all, her wedding veil.

A massive moment, actually.

She’s not the most warm and fuzzy of grandmothers – nobody on Dad’s side is warm and fuzzy; in fact, come to think of it, nobody on Mum’s side is all that warm and fuzzy either – but I’ve always worshipped her a little bit. For her to hand down her wedding veil to me … not to any of Dad’s brothers’ daughters, but me … well, it makes me feel special. Which is nice, for a change.

And all right, it would have made me feel even more special if she hadn’t added, as she watched me open the box, ‘I’d give you my wedding dress, too, Libby, darling, but I’m afraid you don’t have quite the tiny waist I did when I wore it.’

But still. A big moment. A symbol of my super-glamorous grandmother’s esteem.

And then there’s the fact that it’s absolutely stunning.

Seriously, there’s no way you could find anything like this in any bridal shop across the land: hand-stitched, palest ivory lace, with a gauzy elbow-length piece to cover your face at the front and an almost ten-foot drop at the back. (Grandmother only got married in a small village church in her native Shropshire, but she was modelling her entire wedding ‘look’ on her movie idol, Grace Kelly, hence the dramatically long veil, carried up the aisle by her – eight – bridesmaids.) It makes me look stunning, and not just because the gauzy lace covering my face is the equivalent of smearing a camera lens with Vaseline to blur out imperfections. Something about the way the veil hangs, the way my hair is half pulled back to accommodate it, the flattering ivory shade, perhaps … whatever the reason, I feel a bit ravishing, to be honest with you.

And now, looking soft-focus himself from behind all this lace, here comes Olly, striding towards me. He reaches out with both hands, folds back the veil so that he can see my face, and smiles down at me. His eyes look exceptionally soft, and he doesn’t speak for a moment.

‘What on earth,’ he says, when he finally speaks, ‘are you wearing this for?’

‘It’s Grandmother’s. She came round with it last night.’ I pull the veil back down, keen to retreat behind the Vaseline blur again, just for one blissful moment. ‘Does it suit me?’