Read Lizzy Harrison Loses Control for Free Online Page B

unapproachable and (b) as if I have a legitimate reason for being at the comedy show alone and am not just a saddo with no friends, I have come in costume. Not like a giant bear or anything – be realistic, I’m looking for anonymity here. My long hair is twisted up into a chignon, and my only-on-a-contact-lens-free-Sunday glasses are perched on the end of my nose to give me a studious look. I’m carrying a small notebook and am attempting to give off an air of weary indifference as if I’m a jaded habituée of the comedy circuit, here to cast judgement on fresh blood. A pencil skirt, modest heels and a blouse complete the picture. I’m thinking efficient, businesslike and definitely in journalist/critic mode. My fellow queuers are evidently thinking ‘weirdo librarian’ and I’ve noticed a few odd looks. Like I care. I’m doing this to show Lulu that I can be as spontaneous as the next person, but she’s insane if she thinks I have any intention of actually speaking to anyone.
    We shuffle into the pub and, quite unexpectedly, it turns from unassuming boozer to cavernous theatre once inside. There’s a balcony running around the top of the room, and large tables are set up in front of a proper stage with floodlights and a microphone. I suddenly feel a pang of pride for Dave-the-courier; this is a real comedy showcase, not the two-bit suburban pub I’d imagined. Pride is swiftly followed by a rush of nerves on his behalf as I see the size of the audience: there have to be at least two hundred people here. And more are streaming in – big after-work gangs of suited men pushing to get to the tables at the front, while others head straight for the bar at the back where a harassed barmaid is pouring pint after pint into plastic glasses. A few girls seem to have come with boyfriends or husbands, but there aren’t many women here at all, and those that are have dressed up to the extent of putting on their best fleece and jeans, so I feel more conspicuous than ever. I’m just trying to work out where to hide when a voice in my ear slurs, ‘Exshelllent dishguise, Misshhh Moneypenny.’
    I roll my eyes as I turn round, looking as forbidding as possible.
    ‘I beg your pard – oh! Dan!’
    Lulu’s twin brother grins at me as he runs a hand through his black hair. You’d hardly believe the two of them were related, let alone twins. To Lulu’s intense annoyance, Dan got all the tall genes and towers over her (and me) at six foot two. Lulu believes, with irrational indignation, that if Dan hadn’t hogged all the available height in the womb, she might have been granted a crucial few extra inches. And while she changes her hair constantly, he’s had the same tousled curly mop since he was at school – not so much a style as a complete lack of one. Ever since she bought her first pair of haircutting scissors, Lulu has itched to give Dan a new look, but he has firmly resisted her every attempt. During our teenage years it was a source of great shame to Lulu and me to be seen in Dan’s uncoiffed company, but right now I’m so relieved to see someone I know that I’m beaming at him as if he’s George Clooney.
    Suddenly I remember Lulu’s email. ‘Ah, I seeeee . Lulu has spies everywhere and you’re it tonight, right?’
    Dan looks a little confused and starts looking around the pub. ‘Lulu? Is she here? I didn’t know she was coming tonight – I thought she was out with her new French bloke. I’m just here with the boys.’ He gestures over to a table of beery rugby-shirted men, exactly the people I’d have guessed he was with.
    I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Dan in anything other than a rugby shirt or sober work suit. Ever since Lulu and I first met, Dan has been in the background of our friendship, never-changing, rugby-shirted and style-free. When he left university, Lulu took it as a personal affront that he chose to pursue a career in corporate law. ‘Like he’s not square enough with the rugby and the