Read Lizzy Harrison Loses Control for Free Online Page A

unexpected.
    ‘God, Dave, sorry,’ I mumble shamefacedly. ‘Bit hung-over this morning and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Are you really going to be on stage? Wow, that sounds great!’ Guilt makes me sound about three hundred times more excited than I feel.
    More silence. I think he’s torn between letting me know he’s upset and a longing to reveal all. Showbiz wins.
    ‘If you really think that, Lizzy, then why don’t you come along? Next Wednesday, comedy night at the Queen’s Arms in Balham. I’m the first on at seven.’
    I take a deep breath and prepare to decline politely, but there’s a note of plaintive hope in the voice of this man I’ve never met. My resistance is low. And I hear myself saying, ‘I’d love to, Dave, I really would. Thanks for the invitation and good for you. I’ll see you there.’
    I hang up, safe in the knowledge that Dave has no idea what I look like, no way of contacting me except on my work number, and can easily be fobbed off with an excuse. (‘I was there! At the back! Waving, didn’t you see me? Honestly, you were brilliant!’). There is no way on earth I actually mean it.
    And anyway, I always see Lulu on Wednesdays, and once she’s sobered up I know she’ll stop going on about this losing control rubbish and get back to downing the rosé as normal.

5
     
    I’ve been giving Lulu’s rant some thought over the last week and, in my weaker moments, I have to admit that she isn’t completely insane. While my friends are moving on, getting married, having children, getting brilliant new jobs, I am still exactly where I was two years ago, and not making any effort to change. Don’t get me wrong – I like my life; but will I still like it in another two years? Maybe I do need to shake things up a little – perhaps join an online dating agency? Attend a few singles nights? Hang out at gallery openings or other smart places to meet cultured, attractive single men? Imagining myself, champagne glass in hand, holding a group of gorgeous men spellbound with a witty anecdote, I am beginning to see that there might be something to be said for making a few changes to my well-ordered routine.
    But it’s a surprise to find myself standing on my own in a queue outside a suburban pub near the lower reaches of the Northern Line. For a Peckham girl like me, this neighbourhood holds no fears, but the situation itself fills me with dread. How have I let Lulu talk me into this? The evening that stretches out in front of me holds, of all things, the debut appearance of Dave the Comedy Courier.
    ‘But this is perfect!’ Lulu exclaimed when I called her for a Frenchman post-mortem (big nose, big hands, big everything, apparently) and made the tactical error of mentioning Dave’s comedy gig as a brief aside.
    ‘Have you ever met this man?’
    ‘Of course not, Lulu – he’s just some courier I talk to on the phone,’ I sighed, wishing I’d never raised it in the first place.
    ‘Then for all you know, the man of your dreams is at the end of that telephone line. You’re going. I was going to tell you that I can’t make Wednesday anyway, and this is the perfect way to get you out of your rut. You will go to a comedy evening and you will meet new people without me.’ She was all righteous decisiveness and bossiness. It was infuriating.
    ‘Without you? No way. If I’m going, you’re going too,’ I insisted, attempting to boss her back. ‘How else will you know if I’ve obeyed your command? And you can’t really make me go on my own, Lulu – come on.’
    ‘I will be working on improving European relations that evening, Harrison, specifically between the French and the English, but I can assure you I have spies everywhere, so don’t even think of piking out. You promised you’d make an effort: here’s your chance to prove it. My next appointment’s here – got to go.’ And the line went as dead as my hopes of a good night out.
    In an effort to look (a)