Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe

Well, I don’t tell many people this … in fact, I’ve never told anyone this, but I do sometimes have this … well, I don’t know what you’d call it. A daydream? A fantasy?

In which I imagine that I’m best friends with Audrey Hepburn; that she and I hang out together in amazing locations all over New York and Paris; that we window-shop on Fifth Avenue and take tea at the Ritz; and that, most of all, she’s always there to talk to me, to listen to me about stuff that’s going wrong in my life, to dispense calm and wise and perfectly judged advice, all the while looking breathtakingly chic in Givenchy couture and radiating her aura of gentle serenity.

Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now, but calmness and wisdom and gentle serenity aren’t things I have very much of in my real, non-fantasy life.

Or Givenchy couture, come to mention it.

And I know it might sound a bit weird – OK, I know it definitely sounds completely weird – but honestly, who wouldn’t want a best friend like Audrey Hepburn? Sweet, stylish, and utterly lovely in every imaginable way? Who better to ‘chat’ to, in your idle moments, about anything and everything that’s bothering you, from the unfortunate outbreak of zits along the entire length of your jawline the night before the end-of-term disco, to your mother’s refusal to accept that you might not be cut out for a career on the stage … to worrying, just occasionally, that your dad enjoys spending time in the company of long-dead movie stars more than he enjoys spending time with you …

‘Libby?’

Olly Walker is looking straight at me, a concerned expression on his face.

It’s a pretty good-looking face, now I come to notice it. He’s got these really interesting grey-coloured eyes, like pebbles on a Cornish beach, and his smile is sweet, and ever so slightly wonky, and – hang on, what’s going on here? – he’s reaching over the back of my seat, and taking my hand, and gently splaying out my fingers with his own, and …

Wrapping them around a large, freshly made cheese sandwich.

‘You look like you need this,’ he says, kindly.

Ridiculous of me. How could I ever have thought he was going to … what? Hold my hand? Kiss me?

‘Oh, no, no,’ I say, shoving the sandwich back in his direction. ‘You should have the first one!’

‘I’m all right. I’ll make another.’

And then Mum’s Nokia starts ringing, right at the bottom of my rucksack.

Annoyingly, I don’t get to the phone in time before it stops ringing.

‘You’ve got your own mobile phone?’ Olly Walker glances up from his sandwich-making, looking impressed.

‘God, no. This is my mum’s.’ I glance at the screen, which is displaying Dad’s number as the last caller. ‘I’d better call my dad back, if you don’t mind? He’s picking me up here after my audition.’

‘Of course. For your Audrey Hepburn retrospective.’

‘Yep. And,’ I add, because I’m getting the ever-so-slight impression that Olly Walker thinks the Audrey Hepburn retrospective is a little bit pompous, ‘to go for a meal in Chinatown.’

‘Hey, great, where?’ He’s looking a lot more interested in the Chinese meal than in the retrospective. ‘I know a couple of really amazing Chinese restaurants in Soho, if you’re interested? I did some work experience in a bistro in Soho last summer – I’m going to catering college when I leave school – and after we’d finished our shifts, all the kitchen staff would always head to this fantastic Chinese on Lisle Street …’

‘It’s OK. My dad’s booked his favourite place already. The Jade Dragon, on Gerrard Street. He’s a regular there.’

‘Oh, right.’ He looks a bit crushed, and it occurs to me, a moment too late, that – maybe? – he was trying to impress me with his work experience story. ‘Is it good?’ he asks me.

I can’t say whether it is or it isn’t, because I’ve never actually been to The Jade Dragon before. Dad’s planned to take me several times, but it’s never actually worked out. He’s been really, really busy over the last few months – well, years, I suppose – and a lot of our plans to go and have a nice meal together after a movie end up getting cancelled at the last minute.

Oh, the phone’s going again. I get to it quickly this time.

‘Marilyn, hi,’ comes Dad’s voice, as soon as I answer. ‘Look, you’re going to have to tell Libby I’m not going to make—’

‘Dad! Hi!’ (I remember, too late, that he prefers to be called by his first name, Eddie, rather than being boring old Dad.) ‘I mean, Eddie, sorry. It’s not Mum, it’s me.’

‘Libby!’ He sounds startled. ‘I didn’t expect you.’

‘No, Mum gave me her phone, I was meant to be calling you, actually, to remind you that you’re picking me up outside the theatre in Wimbledon. Not at the house.’

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m calling, sweetheart. I can’t make it.’

‘You can’t …’ I stop. I take a deep breath. ‘But I thought we were going to celebrate my birthday.’

‘Mm. That’s right. But we’ll do it another time, sweetheart, I promise.’

You said that, I almost say, the last time. And the time before that.

‘I’m just pushing really, really hard for this new deadline, and the college isn’t giving me any time off teaching like they said they were going to—’

‘That’s OK.’ I use my calmest, most mature voice, because I want Dad to know I’m not going to be a baby about this. ‘Obviously you need time and space to write, Dad. I mean, Eddie. It’s perfectly OK. We’ll do it another time, like you said.’

‘Exactly. I can always rely on you to understand, Libby. I’ll call with some dates, yeah?’

‘Well, I’m pretty free next weekend, and the weekend after that, or …’

‘Great. So I’ll call. And I’ll see you really soon, OK?’

‘OK, Eddie, just let me know wh—’

‘Bye, sweetheart.’

He’s gone.

I drop the phone, casually, back into my rucksack, and busy myself nibbling the outer edge of my sandwich. ‘It’s really good,’ I say. I don’t meet Olly Walker’s eye.

‘It’s your birthday?’ he asks, after a moment, in this weird voice – like, a super-gentle voice, all of a sudden, as if he thinks I might break or something.

‘No, no! My birthday was weeks ago. Well, months, actually, back in February.’

‘But you said, on the phone …’

‘Oh, that’s just because I didn’t get to see my dad on my actual birthday. He was … we were both really busy around then. So today was going to be a belated birthday thing. It’s no big deal. We’ll do it in a couple of weeks, or whenever.’

‘Right.’ He falls silent for a moment, then clears his throat and says, ‘Hey, you know, if you wanted to see a film and have dinner this evening anyway, I could always take you to The Matrix and a Chinese restaurant. If your mum would let you, I mean.’

‘Oh!’ I look at him properly now, startled. Is this … is a boy asking me on a date, for the first time ever?

‘I … I don’t—’

‘I’d get my sister Nora to come, too!’ he says, hastily, ‘so it wouldn’t just be, like, us two, or anything.’

Oh. Right. So it wasn’t a date, then. Of course it wasn’t.