Read Lizzy Harrison Loses Control for Free Online

doorman at a karaoke bar on Poland Street. I look under the duvet at my right thigh. Oh yes: manoeuvre verified by an array of delightful bruises. I remember he refused to let us in, my gymnastic display notwithstanding. From there it’s getting blurry, so I resort to the last-ditch tactic of the truly obliterated of memory – reconstructing one’s evening via receipts. My handbag is on the floor by the side of my bed and I reach gingerly down for my purse. Contents: three twenties and a flurry of receipts.
    Cashpoint at 11.30 – £100. Ah yes – the stage in the evening when one feels generous and loaded, no matter that it’s the week before payday.
    One receipt from Kettner’s at midnight – a bottle of champagne? What were we celebrating?
    One taxi receipt. Thank God I retained enough self-preservation to get home safely.
    And one scrunched-up cocktail napkin wedged right down at the bottom of my bag. I unfold it and smooth it out on my pillow. Large, loopy handwriting – mine, I realize, with a combination of surprise and foreboding – spells out:
    I, Lizzy Harrison, do hereby agree with Lulu Miller that I need to lose control in future. Because I am way too uptight lately, and Lulu knows what is best for me.
     
    On closer inspection, that last line is in Lulu’s handwriting.
    It’s followed by my scrawled signature, slightly blotched by . . . champagne? Tears? And is accompanied by scratchier writing in a different hand at the bottom:
    Witnessed by: Laurent Martin.
     
    Laurent Who?
    The Frenchman from the bar? The Le Monde -reader whose lap Lulu fell into? How did he end up in Kettner’s with us? Try as I might, I can’t remember the very end of the evening. But hangover or no hangover, my morning routine is too firmly ingrained for me to deviate far from it, and I force myself out of bed. The early waking means I can get ahead of myself. Admittedly, my morning run is more a gentle stagger around Peckham Rye. With frequent stops. My usual egg-white omelette ends up being a bit closer to a fried egg sandwich. But I’m at my usual spot at the station on time, even if it’s taken a bottle of ginger beer to ensure I can get on the train without feeling sick.
    And I’m still at my desk at eight-thirty. But this morning Camilla’s to-do list comes second to emailing Lulu with one word.
    From: Lizzy Harrison
    To: Lulu Miller
    Laurent?
     
    As her salon doesn’t open until eleven and she spends most of her time on her feet instead of longing for distraction at a desk, Lulu is a rubbish email correspondent, so I’m not expecting an answer from her until much later in the morning. But her BlackBerry must be on as I get a reply straightaway.
    From: Lulu Miller
    To: Lizzy Harrison
    Honh-hi-honh. He’s still here, darling. Will call you later.
    Au revoir.
     
    At nine-thirty Camilla sweeps in, mobile clamped between ear and shoulder, on the phone to the nursery once again. ‘His violin? I’m so sorry, Mrs Paton – I realized as soon as I got to the office. I’ll get it to you straightaway. Thank you so much for letting me know.’
    She casts me an agonized look as she deposits a violin case on my desk, and, plus ça change , I’m straight on the phone to the courier company.
    ‘Morning, Lizzy – what’s young Master Ali mislaid this time?’
    ‘It’s a violin, Dave.’ I’m hung-over, tired and impatient.
    ‘Ooooh, I hope he won’t be threatening the other children with violins, Lizzy! Geddit, violins?’
    ‘Brilliant, Dave, quite brilliant,’ I snap rudely. ‘You should be on the stage. But seeing as you’re not, could you just get on with sending a bike, please.’
    There is a hurt silence at the end of the phone. God, why do I have to be such a bitch?
    ‘Actually, Lizzy, I am going to be on the stage. Bet you didn’t expect that, did you? No, you think I’m just some figure of fun on the end of the phone, counting out my days in a dead-end job. Well, thanks very much.’
    That was