Name & Address Withheld

JANE SIGALOFF

was born in London and, despite brief trips into the countryside, she’s always been a city girl at heart. After studying history at Oxford University she entered the allegedly glamorous world of television, beginning her career as tea and coffee coordinator for Nickelodeon U.K. After she progressed to researcher and then to assistant producer, her contracts took her to MTV and finally to the BBC where she worked for over three years.

Since 2000, Jane has enjoyed a double life as a part-time P.A., which has given her more time to write and feel guilty about not going to the gym. She lives in London with her laptop and ever-expanding CD collection. She has never consulted an agony aunt.

Name & Address Withheld is her first novel.

Name & Address Withheld
Jane Sigaloff

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

You wouldn’t be holding this book if it wasn’t for the incredible support and encouragement I’ve received over the years, and I’d like to thank everyone who has stood by me through the thick (and not-so-thin) versions.

Naming a few names, special thanks and love must go to: Susie, Anthony, Peter, Paul and Omi—for years of unconditional love, support (emotional and financial), for believing in me and for never being disappointed that I didn’t get a real job. Carole Blake—for picking me out of the slush pile, continued encouragement and for never doubting it would happen (or not telling me if you did!). Also to Isobel and the whole team at Blake Friedmann. Sam Bell at Red Dress Ink—for seeing what the others didn’t and helping Matt realize his potential. Kate Patten—for all your invaluable advice on everything, for endless cups of tea, mutual appreciation and for such happy days at no.95. Charlotte Cameron—for spectacular sounding-board properties, wise words, SoCeLo, mix tapes and martinis. Louise Hooper—for high-energy positivity and fast-talking since 1979. Melissa Andrewes—for pedantic proofreading and for encouraging me to exercise. Alice and Stuart Morgan—for the temporary roof over my head and boundless enthusiasm. Chris Gore—for so much support at the outset and for almost as many pizzas as I got rejection letters.

Many thanks also to: Steve, Jan, Tanya, John and Tracy Arie, Gemma Brown, Elton Charles, Camilla and Sue Codrington, Sarah Cohen, Marten Foxon, Mary Ann Graziano, Mandy Key, Hilary Love, James Meikle, Fred Metcalf, Mandy Moore, Siobhan Mulholland, Patsy Newey, Notting Hill and Ealing High School, The Parises, Sandy Paterson, Chris, Lavender, Laura and Alice Patten, The Smails, Julia Stones, Annabelle Tym and Lizzie Tyrrell.

And finally, to the creators of Sex and the City and The West Wing—for making British winters a little less gray.

For Edward & Dora

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

chapter 1

Why is it that we always want what we can’t have? It doesn’t matter whether it’s that Prada bag, Nike’s latest offering to trainer culture, Jennifer Aniston’s hair, Jennifer Aniston’s husband, George Clooney or the senior school sweetheart; there are times in our lives when we think—no, we know—that life would be complete if only we had the item in question. By the same token it is a human failing that we rarely realise what we do have until it is no longer ours to keep. Both have happened to me more often than I would care to remember.

Mark was all I ever wanted between the ages of fifteen and sixteen. My school exercise books were littered with his name, hearts with our initials carved by my lust during double English and, most importantly, our percentage of compatibility which I once worked out to be eighty-four per cent. A miscalculation. I should have spent more time paying attention in maths. When he finally asked me out the week after my seventeenth birthday—because, I now fear, he had asked everyone else out already—I thought I was going to burst with pleasure. It was a match made in heaven—I had the soft-focus daydreams to prove it.

For five weeks it was the real hand-holding thing. My months of background research paid off and I had all the right answers to his questions and all the right cassettes in my collection. I was In Love. Then the object of my misplaced affection stole my virginity before chucking me publicly and unceremoniously just before the end of term. My life ended as quickly as it had begun. I wept and fasted, and wept and fasted some more. Then came the hunger and I ate like never before. My adolescence would certainly have been less traumatic without him, but I would have laughed in the face of anyone who’d tried to tell me at the time. Adult lesson # 1 learned; the hard way…

‘There you go, love. Have a nice evening.’

Lizzie looked up from the magazine. She’d been so busy checking her weekly column for mistakes that she’d momentarily been transported back to her teens. A fist of nerves settled in her stomach as she realised that she’d arrived at her destination.

Four hundred people were expected to celebrate Christmas and a successful first year in which City FM had been put on the radio map and, as the station controller Richard Drake liked to tell her, as their newest recruit she was an important part of that. Lizzie wished he was there to remind her just once more for the record as her self-confidence temporarily vanished and she fought an increasingly strong urge to melt into the Soho crowds and disappear. Just because it was a work do, it didn’t mean that it was supposed to feel like an assignment, and she couldn’t help feeling that anything referred to as a ‘do’ should always be a don’t. There was, of course, the develop-a-mysterious-24-hour-bug tactic, but from previous experience Lizzie knew that two painful hours at the office party were worth their weight in nights out on the beers for the rest of the year.

As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, having deposited its perfumed payload on the pavement, a familiar ringing noise caught her attention. Saved by the bell? She prayed it was an emergency. Nothing life-threatening, just party-threatening. Lizzie rummaged for her mobile, which for several rings eluded her grasp despite the smallness of her bag.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s nearly quarter to ten, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t you be paralytic by now?’

Lizzie smiled. It was Clare. Best friend, flatmate and chief party outfit adviser.

‘I’ve literally just got out of the cab.’

‘Well, hurry up and get yourself to that bar. It’s one thing being fashionably late, but if you leave it much longer no one will even remember you were there at all. Just remember you’re gorgeous, witty, intelligent, beautiful and sober…well, relatively…an inestimable advantage at this stage of the evening. You’ll be able to impress them all by still being capable of pronouncing words of more than one syllable. Leave your nerves in the cloakroom and get yourself a drink.’

‘Thanks. I will…’ A few ego-bolstering words of support and Lizzie’s attitude had done a U-turn. ‘And thanks for all your top fashion advice earlier. Thank God for you and your wardrobe.’

Way back, B.C. (before Clare), Lizzie had endured a couple of outfit faux pas. Now she was practically a D-list celebrity she couldn’t afford to rock any boats with her choice of partywear.

‘No problem. Couldn’t have you rocking up in pin-striped skintight stretch drainpipe jeans!’

‘Listen, you, that photo was taken in 1984. Anyone who was anyone had a pair. Probably even Madonna.’

Clare ignored her. Her job was done and, besides, she had a restaurant to run.

‘Lots of love…catch up with you in the morning for a debrief.’

Lizzie snapped her expensively compact mobile shut. Giving herself a sultry smile, she pulled her shoulders back, instantly adding breasts to her outfit, and despite the newness of her shoes managed to sashay the requisite twenty metres to the door retaining both her composure and the full use of both ankles.

‘Lizzie Ford.’

Sullenly the bouncer checked his list before slowly unhooking the rope that stood between her and the rest of the evening. While the stretch of red curtain tie-back cord at mid-calf level wouldn’t have stopped anything—with the exception, perhaps, of a stray sheep—from getting in if it really wanted to, it was all about the image of exclusivity. Judging by the relief Lizzie now felt at being on the right side, it was working.

She smiled amicably at a couple of semi-familiar faces as she swept—well, stepped—into the party, which was already in full swing. Parties had been much more fun when she could waltz up to people who knew nothing about her, might never see her again, and didn’t know where to find her. Now, with her own jingle and her own show, she had forfeited her right to anonymity.

Matt hated big work parties. Pressure to look good. Pressure to provide jocose and scintillating conversation even if the person you were talking to had nothing of interest to contribute. Pressure to network… It was no wonder that people ended up incredibly drunk, determined to start digging their own professional graves by discarding all tact and diplomacy and fraternising with people that they were normally—and often for good reason—intimidated by.

He spotted Lizzie the minute she walked into the busy bar. He knew who she was. Listener research showed that she was already one of their most popular presenters, and thanks to Lizzie Ford an agony aunt with sex appeal was no longer an oxymoron. The Agony and the Ecstasy was outstripping its rivals in the ratings, and she brought a unique blend of understanding, sympathy and the odd soft rock track to their airwaves. Rumour had it she was going to be a big star. Watching her work the room, he had no reason to doubt it.

What he really needed was a night in, a pint of Ribena, a balanced meal and a video. But instead he was pouring yet more beer and canapés down his iron-coated alimentary canal. To make matters worse the bloke opposite him had been boring him rigid for the last ten minutes.

Here was a graduate with high hopes who hadn’t yet had his enthusiasm dampened by a few years in the workplace, and Matt knew he should have been flattered by the attention. After all, he’d only wanted an insight into the ‘creative wizard’ that was Matt Baker. He’d never been called a wizard to his face before. Maybe it was time to invest in a pointy hat, or at least sew a couple of stars onto his Ted Baker shirt. Matt smiled to himself. Unfortunately this was interpreted by his co-conversationalist as a green light to continue. Matt was barely listening. His eyes were fixed but not focused.

Professionally it had been a good year. On the domestic front it was becoming easier and easier to forget that he had a wife. Five years down the line they shared a mortgage and a bathroom, but little else. He’d always known she craved success. Ambition was one of the things he’d found so attractive about her. A fiery determination, which he had no doubt would pay off, and a professional self-belief that could be incredibly intimidating whether you were her bank manager, her boss or just her husband. But now it felt as if he was irrelevant. Last season’s must-have accessory. Taking a swig of his beer, he willed his intoxication to move on to the wildly happy mad-dog phase. Alcoholic introspection was not conducive to the festive spirit.

Lizzie went through the motions and, her inhibitions soon buried at the bottom of a glass, worked her way round the room air-kissing, hand-shaking and nodding enthusiastically. Once she’d made contact with Richard Drake, done the small talk thing with the other big bosses, pretended to be interested in the station’s main advertisers and concentrated on saying the right things to the right people at the right time she made a beeline for her producer, Ben, and joined the rest of her production team—who were apparently intent on sweating away the remaining hours on the dance floor.

As the physical effects of her non-existent dinner, multiple G&T, high-heeled dancing evening started to kick in, to her relief she spotted a recently vacated leather sofa and, sinking into the cushions, still warm from their previous occupants, slipped her shoes to one side, flexing her aching arches.

The bar was packed with people in various states of alcoholic and narcotic distress. Several public displays of affection were taking place in what had earlier been considered the darker corners of the venue, but now, thanks to intermittent bursts of strobe lighting, their indiscretions were clearly visible, if a little disjointed, giving their liaisons a pop video feel. The thumping music was loud enough to create an atmosphere in that everyone almost had to shout to make themselves heard, and overall it was decadent enough to ensure that it would be described over e-mail on Monday as a great party. Those whose recollections were sketchy would probably go so far as to say it had been fantastic.

She was miles away when the drive-time DJ, Danny Vincent, slithered into her personal space, instantly activating her built-in quality control alarm by resting his arm along the couch behind her in a semi-territorial manner. He was reputedly as smooth as the voice that calmed many frayed tempers in traffic jams, and certainly at this too-close range Lizzie could see that his teeth were too white and too perfect to be his own and that his shiny designer satin jeans were at least one size too small.

‘So, what’s a beautiful, young, successful woman like you doing sitting alone in the corner?’

His voice was indeed a phenomenon. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. But it was the most interesting thing about him by a considerable margin. Lizzie wished she’d left before he’d gatecrashed her party.

‘Resting. People-watching. Taking a breather on my own.’ She pointedly left longer pauses than natural between the last three words to make her point. A cue for him to leave. But Danny was far too thick-skinned to notice.

‘But this is a party.’ He said it like ‘pardeee’. ‘A chance to meet new people, to road-test a few colleagues and get to know your new station family.’

Things were going from bad to worse. Lizzie was trapped in the corner with a station jock who was suggesting ‘road testing’ colleagues. Her stomach tensed involuntarily, but Danny was bankable talent with a long contract and way above her in the pecking order, so provided he kept his pecker to himself she would just have to be civil.

Twenty minutes later he’d barely paused for breath, peppering his egocentric monologue with innuendoes just to check Lizzie was listening and smiling in the right places. Lizzie couldn’t stand him, but, thanks to his body position, she couldn’t stand up either. He hadn’t even offered to buy her another drink, even though she’d made sure that she’d drained her glass dramatically three times in as many minutes. His eyes were glazed with self-love; hers with self-pity.

Lizzie started to pray to the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions while desperately looking for someone she knew to rescue her from drive-time hell. Not only was there no one familiar on the horizon, but as she gradually sank into a dark leather sofa abyss, her eyeline was currently at most people’s ribcages and rapidly falling to suspender level.

Matt was at the bar—again. As he picked his way back to his workmates he spotted Lizzie in the corner and, watching her as he distributed his round, he decided that her body language said, Help…Rescue me. Leaving his colleagues mid-sentence, he strode over to do the decent thing.

‘Lizzie Ford—Matt Baker. Pleased to meet you.’

His confidence was alcohol-assisted and, while she had never set eyes on him before, Lizzie stood up gratefully to shake his hand. Danny looked less than impressed at the interruption, especially as Matt obviously had no interest in talking to him or getting his autograph.

‘Matt?’

Lizzie smiled warmly and Matt grinned back, his tiredness forgotten. She really was very pretty. Her brown eyes seemed to radiate energy, and right now that was just what he needed.

Subconsciously he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t, Lizzie noted, self-consciously long enough to suggest that he was growing it to prove that he still could, nor was it so short as to suggest that it had been shorn to disguise a rapidly receding hairline. Illuminated by stray rays from the dance floor, there were times when it almost took on a Ready-Brek glow. Divine intervention.

‘Yup…I’m a copywriter, responsible for those unforgettable slogans advertising City FM that you see on buses and billboards.’

Lizzie thought for a moment before starting to reel them off. ‘“Because it’s hot in the City”. “Tune in to City life”. “The City that cares…” Wow, they actually pay someone to come up with those! It must be a full-time job…’

‘OK, so they don’t really work out loud, at a party, but research has shown that…’

Matt tailed off mid-sentence. Lizzie was smiling mischievously and now he regretted having been so defensive. One day he’d have a career that made a difference; until then copywriting would have to do.

Danny, no longer the centre of attention, sloped off. The coast was clear.

‘Thanks so much for coming over. I thought I was stuck with him for the rest of the evening.’

Matt adopted his best deep Barry White voiceover tone and faked an American accent. ‘Danny Vincent…loving himself…on City FM.’

Lizzie laughed as she imagined the new jingle being played in at the intro to his show. ‘I’m not sure he’ll go for it…’

‘Hmm…maybe it needs a bit more work… Anyway, I spotted you from the bar, and I was getting the SOS vibe, so I thought I’d better respond to the international distress call before you gave up the will to live.’

‘I owe you one.’ Lizzie was pleased that the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions had obviously been at tea with the god of Good-Looking Specimens when he’d received her distress call. No wedding ring either. ‘Can I start by getting you a drink? I’m gasping—not that motormouth noticed!’

Motormouth? Had anyone used that expression in conversation since the late seventies? Lizzie wished she could be a little bit more articulate when it mattered. In an attempt to distract Matt from her retro turn of phrase she turned her empty glass upside down to demonstrate the urgency and Matt—apparently undeterred by the motormouth moment—raised the bottle of beer which he’d barely started and nodded.

‘Same again, please. Thanks.’

He really didn’t need another drink, but he didn’t want to go either. As far as he could remember from the press release he’d seen when she’d joined City, she wasn’t married and was a couple of years younger than him. Old enough, then, to remember the TV programmes and references to pop music that were wasted on the combat trouser-wearing members of his department…or cargo pants, as they seemed to be called these days.

As he watched his damsel, now distress-free, weave her way to the bar he checked his shirt buttons and flies automatically. All present and correct. Good. No reasons for her to stare at him unless she was interested in what he had to say. He, on the other hand, was overtly staring at her back when she suddenly turned unexpectedly, and quickly he jerked his head round and focused on something non-existent on the dance floor. He didn’t dare look back just in case she looked over and caught him staring again.

As Lizzie elbowed her way to the bar she glanced back at Matt, who was nodding his head in time to the beat, pretending to be absorbed by something happening on the dance floor in order to avoid the stigma of mateless party abandon. Very cute. She shoved a couple of drunken partygoers out of her way impatiently. She wanted to get back before he changed his mind and wandered off.

‘Here you go.’ Lizzie handed Matt two bottles of beer. ‘They were doing buy three, get one free, so I thought I’d join you. I’m sure we’ll get through two each.’

‘Thanks.’ Matt wished he hadn’t already had at least six already. How was he supposed to impress her if he was in danger of losing the ability to enunciate properly?

After a synchronised swig from their bottles they both started speaking at the same time.

‘So…’

‘So…’

‘You first…’

‘No, you…’

Another swig…

…and a smile.

He had very good teeth, she couldn’t help noticing. Her stepfather had been a dentist and had left a legacy of interest in incisors, canines and premolars for her to deal with. She’d always believed that clean nails and nice teeth were important indices of personal hygiene.

Matt, unaware that he was under observation, was off to a good start. He decided to break up the meaningful look competition and took charge.

‘Shall we find a table?’

‘We could stay on the sofa if you promise to protect me from Danny.’

‘Right.’ My pleasure, he thought. But thankfully for his credibility it remained unsaid.

As they sat down, Lizzie sighed with relief. ‘I’ve decided I hate office parties.’

‘Me too. Can’t stand them. You spend the whole evening pretending that everyone you work with is your best friend. The fact that you don’t have anything to say to them when you’re sober doesn’t seem to stand in your way…until the next day, when you realise that you’ve arranged to go to the cinema, to go on holiday with them or something equally unlikely—all because you drank too much the night before.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Or you spend the next working week trying to work out whether the member of senior management that you felt the need to be excruciatingly honest with remembers your conversation and is going to hold it against you.’ Words were tumbling from his mouth and it appeared that Matt was powerless to do anything about it. Alcohol had loosened his tongue. He closed his mouth in an attempt to reverse the process.

Lizzie giggled. He was right. ‘It’s even worse for me because, as an agony aunt, I’m somehow not supposed to be the person who takes her top off on the dance floor, who downs a pint the quickest or snogs people randomly. If you like, I’m the token parent at the party—and that, I must say, is one of the only disadvantages of my job.’

‘Probably saves you a lot of embarrassment in the long run.’

‘Maybe.’ Lizzie wasn’t interested in sensible conversation. She was flirting, obviously so subtly that Matt hadn’t noticed yet, but she was out of practice. Most people in advertising that she knew, including Clare’s ex-husband, were hooked on creating the right image, modelling themselves to fit whatever was considered to be of the moment. Matt, however, was a natural. He was charming without being smooth, boyish yet well worn, tall but not gangly and solid without being chunky. Lizzie wondered what the catch was. Maybe he wore briefs or Y-fronts?

‘So how does it feel to be on the up? This has been quite a year for you, hasn’t it?’

Oh, no. Now he’d thrown in a proper question while she’d been hypothesising about the state of his underwear drawer. The first test. And an answer that required a careful combination of articulacy and modesty—neither trait enhanced by a cocktail of gin, tonic and lager. Lizzie was bashful. This year had certainly marked a step in the right direction, but there were still plenty of boxes unchecked on her list of ambitions and, as far as City FM were concerned, she was still the new kid on the radio block.

‘It’s great. I’m loving doing the show…and my column…but it’s hardly brain surgery…’ Lizzie stopped herself. What exactly was the self-deprecation for? ‘So far so good. It’s quite a fresh approach, and the listeners seem to like it…radio awards here I come…’ Much better. Positive without being cocky. But now she was babbling so much that she had noticed Clare’s raised eyebrow even though she wasn’t even at this party. It was a side effect of beer. Probably something to do with the bubbles. She reined herself in. Clare would have been proud.

‘How about you?’ Masterfully done. The ball was back in his court now, and she was much less likely to bore him if he was the one doing the talking. She might have been trained to fill any silences on air, but she knew that silences in day-to-day conversation were not only natural but to be encouraged if you wanted to retain any close friends.

‘I’ve had a fantastic year professionally. My best ever. My slogans have even won a couple of awards.’ Matt silently chastised himself. Next he would be trying to impress her with his A-level results. What was the matter with him?

‘Really? So how did you get into copywriting?’ Another volley straight back. Lizzie was still trying her best to be flirtatious, but it didn’t seem to be working. She’d even bowed her head slightly, and had been trying to look at him out of the corner of her eye in what she had thought was a coy fashion. But what if he just thought she had a weak neck and a slight squint and was too polite to mention it? Seduction was bloody hard work. Matt clearly had no idea what she was up to.

‘Well, I had a one-liner for everything from a very early age.’

‘You must have been a precocious kid.’

‘How dare you?’ Matt put his hand on his hip in mock indignation before leaning closer to Lizzie in a pseudo-whisper. ‘But if the truth be known, I was—a bit.’ He smiled, amused that he was being so candid. In fact, he was really enjoying himself. ‘I was the youngest and my mother and father doted on me. Drama lessons. Music lessons. Tennis lessons. I had them all… But like most little boys I was happiest watching television. ITV was my channel of choice, and I always looked forward to the adverts—even though the best ones were always on at the cinema.’

‘Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…’ Lizzie, to her horror, had suddenly started singing the Pearl & Dean theme tune that had haunted the cinema trips of her youth. She was about ten seconds in before she realised what she was doing and stopped herself at once. Singing to a stranger in public. Certifiable behaviour. Lose ten points. It was too late. Matt had noticed and spontaneously finished off the tune for her.

He was thrilled. So Lizzie had been brainwashed by advertisers too. And what a relief to have met someone who was just comfortable with herself instead of being totally preoccupied with saying what she thought he wanted to hear.

‘I’d be that child singing jingles in the back of the car. I remember getting into trouble once for singing the telephone number of our local Ford dealer all the way to Devon, and I think my father was ready to strangle me with his bare hands when I finally moved on to the likes of the ever so catchy, ever so irritating “Transformers…robots in disguise” campaign… By then I was well into my teens.’

Lizzie smiled, genuinely entertained by the man beside her and desperately trying to put the Pearl & Dean moment behind her. Matt was very engaging and, while she knew it was pure cliché, his face really did light up when he spoke. She had better pull herself together before she allowed the moment to go all soft-focus around the edges. She decided that more questions were the best option. That way she could just look and listen.

‘So how did you get into it then?’

‘To my parents’ delight I left university with a degree in English…’

Which university? When? With what class of degree? Lizzie could feel the spirit of her mother tapping on her shoulder and chose to ignore it.

‘…but to their disappointment I had no real focus or motivation, and ironically I sort of fell into advertising by accident. Once I was there I was hooked. If you think about it, trends are always changing—and it’s my job not only to reflect what’s out there but to try to anticipate new ideas, or even fuse a couple to create fresh styles.’

He looked across. Lizzie seemed interested enough, but then again she made a living out of listening to other people. Matt decided to give her a ‘get out of jail free’ option just in case.

‘Promise you’ll just stop me when you get bored. Yawn, stand on my foot, stare at some bloke at the bar—that sort of thing. I don’t want to be a fate worse than Danny.’ But Matt knew that right now he had a lot to thank the king of slime-time for.

Lizzie glanced down at Matt’s legs. Relaxed-cut dark jeans. No stretch satin in sight. She looked up a little too quickly to be discreet and hoped Matt didn’t think she’d been staring at his lap. Their eyes locked.

‘It’s interesting. Really.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Lizzie looked away and pretended to rummage in her little bag for nothing in particular.

‘I guess I’m just trying to justify my existence. If only I was a heart surgeon and could gain instant respect. You know—just add boiling water and stir gently.’

‘Hmm?’

‘For instant respect…’

‘Oh—I get it.’ Lizzie did, but only a nanosecond after she’d said that she already had. ‘Anyway, justify away. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m bored…’

Matt hesitated. He wasn’t convinced.

‘…and I’ve still got a beer and a half to go.’

Lizzie was more than happy to let someone else do all the talking. It made a nice change.

‘Well, OK, then…if you’re sure you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure I’m sure.’

‘Remember, I did warn you…’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Lizzie was impressed that he’d even stopped to think about whether she was interested or not. Her recent experience had definitely indicated this was a dying trait.

‘Right…’

Matt’s whole intonation changed as he verbally rolled up his sleeves and prepared to address Lizzie as a student of his craft. He wasn’t being patronising. Just passionate. Lizzie was mesmerised, although if she was being honest she couldn’t only credit her interest to the topic under discussion.

‘If you just think about things in a different way you can see where we were at certain times in our lives, and where we are now, by what we eat, drink, wear and by the adverts that we see around us…’

He really was very desirable. Lizzie was glad that tonight had been a G-string occasion. She always felt at her most seductive and unnervingly saucy when she was wearing one. Irrationally so, really. Until her second or third drink she usually just felt as if her knickers had ridden up and got stuck between the cheeks of her bottom.

‘…most of it’s subliminal at the time, but looking back it’s all quite clear. Look at the minimalism of the late 1990s: less was more, everything was about stripping away the excesses, getting our autonomy and power back. Natural everything. Neutral plain colours. Cotton and cashmere, not nylon and polyester. In fact very little artificial anything—a reaction to the multicoloured, additive-laden 70s and 80s. Fashions change. Who in the late 1970s and 1980s would have thought that we’d be eating rocket salad…who even knew what rocket was…?’

Matt paused for effect and she snapped out of her daydream at once. Had he been talking about salad? Impossible. Bugger. Lizzie scolded herself. She really had to learn to pay attention when people strung more than two consecutive sentences together.

Not requiring a response to his rhetorical question, Matt continued unfazed, much to Lizzie’s relief. From now on she would treat everything he said as a listening comprehension.

‘You’d have dismissed it as faddish if anyone back then had suggested that we’d be drinking cranberry juice with vodka in bars—indeed, drinking cranberry juice in Britain at all, where cranberries have traditionally been teamed with turkey at this time of year. The world is becoming a smaller place. You only have to look in your kitchen cupboards: ginger, lemon grass, chilli, vanilla pods, couscous. But these new trends are only replacing the old. In the seventies it was frozen food. If you couldn’t freeze it, it wasn’t worth eating. In the late eighties it was microwaves and ultra-convenience. With our go-getting attitudes, the revolutions in micro-technology and generally higher standards of living why would we want to have spent any more than five or ten minutes cooking? In the nineties it was back to basics. Organic and fresh was best and cooking made a comeback, as did gardening. But fashions are left behind. They’re superseded by new choices and new theories on the way we should live our lives. Who now can even remember what disk cameras and Noodle Doodles looked like? Who in the late 1990s would have even have considered wearing a brown and powder-blue acrylic tank top—unless, of course, they were doing the whole Jarvis Cocker retro thing? But then maybe I’m just bitter because powder-blue isn’t my colour…it just doesn’t do anything for my skin tone…’

Matt feigned camp and Lizzie laughed. This time she had been listening and, while she could no longer claim objectivity, it certainly was a positive departure from discussing football teams, gym attendance, holidays and other people’s heartache.

‘So is what you’re saying that nothing happens by accident? We all choose to eat things, decorate our homes in a particular way, travel to certain places, because subliminally we’ve been told to?’

‘Precisely.’ Matt briefly wondered why it had taken him so long to say exactly that.

‘Isn’t that just a little bit frightening?’

‘I suppose a little. But we’re not all clones. Free will and independent spirit will always prevail—plus a natural rebellion against the norm, which will spin off new ideas for people like me… I mean look at this…’ Matt held up his bottle ‘“Ice” beer. Colder? Maybe. Smoother? Maybe. Better? Maybe. And “Light beer”. Less sugar and more alcohol? Or only because you wouldn’t get guys asking for a Diet Budweiser?

‘And to think there I was accusing you of just writing cheeseball slogans.’

Matt smiled, ‘Well, to be fair, nine times out of ten I’ll be poring over a computer screen as the client deadline approaches, desperately trying to come up with something innovative, witty, punchy and memorable. I’m not usually contributing to or capturing a moment in time. Shaping cultural history is for politicians and pop stars. And even they are just absorbing eclectic influences. It’s pretty much impossible to have a totally new idea.’

Lizzie concentrated on draining the last of her beer from the bottle in what she hoped was possibly an attractive fashion. Matt used the moment to round up.

‘Plus, I’ve been lucky. Doors have swung open at the right times and all that. Personally, it’s been a bit lonely, but I’m not sure that you can have everything. Something has to give… Oh, God…Lizzie…. are you OK?’

Lizzie nodded and blinked back a few tears as Matt reached over and gently rubbed her back. The dregs of her lager had frustratingly slipped down the wrong way and she’d been trying not to draw attention to it, but the more she had tried to disguise her discomfort the more she had felt her chest tightening. She’d been drowning in a mouthful. She coughed a few times, restoring a clear passage for air to reach her lungs, and did her best to smile and relax. Fucking hell. Thirty-two years old and she couldn’t even swallow properly.

‘Fine.’ She rasped her response and closed her mouth just in time to stop a stray burp escaping noisily. ‘Only choking.’ She smiled at her Christmas cracker level of humour and tried to ignore the fact that she could still feel his hand on her back—even though it was holding his beer bottle now.

Matt grinned. ‘I get the message. Lecture over.’ He quickly snuck in a question, just in case Lizzie was thinking about using her near-death experience as an excuse to move on. ‘What about you? How did you get into the whole agony aunt thing?’

Whenever Lizzie wasn’t looking directly at him, he stole a glance at the whole picture. Even without his beer goggles on she would’ve been very attractive.

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a planned career. Sure, like most girls under sixteen I pored over the problem pages in magazines at my desk at breaktime and between lessons, but I would have died of embarrassment if I’d had to say clitoris out loud, let alone to a total stranger on the radio in front of more than a million people.’

Matt laughed.

Lizzie could feel herself blushing under her foundation. Clitoris. Out loud. In conversation. With a man. A man that she found attractive. Nothing like building up her feminine mystique. Maybe she should issue him with a map to her G-spot while she was at it. It could only save time later. Honestly. She could have punched herself with frustration. She moved on quickly in a totally transparent attempt to change the subject.

‘I did a degree in sociology but always wanted to get into journalism, and I started writing for a magazine when I left college. When I moved to Out Loud, problems became my thing. Then about nine months ago my editor there put me in touch with these guys and I developed some pilots for a new type of phone-in show. The rest, as they say, is history. I still do my page and a weekly column and I’m amazed at the number of letters, calls and e-mails I get every week. It’s not like I have a perfect relationship track record…far from it.’

Lizzie stopped herself. She didn’t want to go into her relationship history. Fortunately, despite the fact he was nodding assiduously, Matt seemed to have zoned out of the conversation.

So he hadn’t been hanging on her every word? Hmm. But then again who was she to talk? Thanks to his tactical positioning on the sofa, Matt could see that Danny had returned to the bar and was now hovering dangerously close by, no doubt hoping to launch himself at Lizzie again and resume where they had left off. But Matt wasn’t even going to let him try. When they’d sat down he’d promised to protect her and he was taking his new role as chief of security very seriously. It was an emergency, and so he suggested something he rarely enjoyed.

‘Let’s dance.’

Matt was up on his feet and Lizzie, designer heels forgotten, leapt up to join him. She loved dancing. It wasn’t her greatest talent, but she was certainly an enthusiastic participant whether it was garage, disco, salsa or overly energetic rock ’n’ roll. She’d watched The kids from Fame, Footloose and Dirty Dancing more times than she would care to admit, and as she’d aged had learnt to forget about being self-conscious and just allowed the rhythm to take over. There was something so very exhilarating about two people communicating through music. It didn’t have to be over the top stuff. Just a few side steps or symmetrical arm movements as groups of people mirrored each other to bring them together. She didn’t understand people who just stood at the side and watched.

Matt was inspired by Lizzie’s ebullience on the dance floor. He was no Patrick Swayze, but here in the semi-darkness he was enjoying what was usually the worst part of any evening for him. Thankfully the thumping dance music was soon replaced by songs with words and a hint of a tune, and when they were both hot and tired, to their relief, the slow numbers kicked in. Matt pulled Lizzie in for a couple of close ones before she could think to protest, and to his delight halfway through the second song she relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder. He breathed deeply in an attempt to get his heart-rate down. He was sure that Lizzie must be able to hear the pounding in his chest and didn’t want her to think that he was geriatrically unfit or that she had landed the over-excited teenage virgin at the school disco.

At one-thirty someone with a twisted sense of humour turned all the lights on, illuminating what, seconds earlier, had been a den of iniquity as brightly as an operating theatre. Fortunately Matt was insisting on staying with her until she found a cab and, despite her self-assured protestations of independence, Lizzie was delighted that he hadn’t just wandered off when the music stopped.

They walked all the way to Trafalgar Square and then along the Strand until they reached the taxi queue now snaking across the cobbles and out of the gates at Charing Cross Station. Good old Brits. Drunk as everyone was, the queue was perfect.

By the time they finally reached the front Matt had decided that he’d share her cab. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether this was chivalrous or lecherous. She certainly hadn’t got coffee in mind, or waxed her bikini line in the last few months…but then it seemed that he really was just being friendly. Had she really lost her ability to give out the it’s-all-right-if-you-kiss-me vibes? She looked across at her fellow passenger who was staring resolutely out of the window. She couldn’t exactly ask him. Lizzie crossed her legs and sat back in the seat, hoping that tight cornering on the journey would send them sliding across the leather banquettes into each other.

Matt didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he couldn’t have left her in the West End taxi-hunting on her own, and it had seemed silly to risk another twenty minutes in the cold when they could easily share hers. That was all he was doing. Right. But he hadn’t had such a relaxed evening in one-to-one female company for years, and now he was feeling a frisson of excitement that he’d almost forgotten existed. He released his grip on the handle above the door and slipped back into his seat. Just at that moment Lizzie slid into the side of him as the driver took a corner Formula One style. He put his arm around her shoulder to steady her. And left it there.

As Lizzie directed the driver to her door Matt knew that, while he was still sailing on the crest of a lager wave, he really wanted to kiss her goodnight, and even with his rusty dating dial he knew that she wouldn’t resist him. As the taxi slowed to a pant Matt gave the cabbie the postcode for his onward journey before sliding the interconnecting window closed and turning to face Lizzie who, to his amusement, was taking ages to gather her non-existent belongings together before opening the door.

Taking her hand, he leant forward to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek and, to his delight, Lizzie moved her mouth to meet his. Like a couple of love-struck teenagers they kissed. His synapses buzzed with the excitement that passed between them as he felt her lips touch his, just lingering enough to be meaningful. In a moment she was gone, and for a second he’d never wanted anything more than to still be with her.

Matt’s mind was a mess as the driver pulled away from the kerb.

‘Where next, mate? Well done. She was lovely.’

Lizzie had come down off her cloud by the time she’d unlocked the front door. She shouldn’t have kissed him. True, she’d had a much better evening than she could have imagined, but he was a work colleague…sort of…and she’d had a lot to drink. Alcohol had diluted her inhibitions and now, sobering up at home, the self-justification process was starting in earnest. But no one was going to be having meetings with the advertising people until well into the New Year, by which time Matt might have forgotten all about it.

About what, exactly? They’d had a couple of beers, chatted, danced, chatted, and then, for about ten seconds, they’d kissed each other goodnight. If she’d been eighteen years old she would’ve just put it down as a good night out, so why, fourteen years later, was she torturing herself? Lizzie hated her carefully camouflaged romantic core. It caused nothing but trouble. That was why she’d made the decision to bow out of the relationship arena and focus on her career instead. Professionally she berated herself. What if he’d been hoping for a kiss and tell with a B-list—make that E-list—agony aunt? But then there wasn’t exactly anything to kiss and tell about, was there? She was single, pissed, and at an office party. Nothing scandalous about that.

She wished that the gland responsible for providing her with this level of adrenaline would take a break. All these hypotheticals were in danger of giving her a headache. Life was all about taking opportunities and seizing the moment, and tonight that moment had been hers. In fact, if she was totally honest with herself, part of her wished she’d taken a bit more.

Lizzie performed her ablutions noisily, and even gargled a couple of times with some vintage Listerine that she found on a shelf, hoping that Clare would wake up for a debrief. Wide awake, Lizzie climbed into bed. How could she possibly sleep now?

Across London Matt looked out of his kitchen window as he poured himself another pint of water from the filter jug which she insisted was better for them. He was disconcertingly sober. For the first time in his life he had been unfaithful: to his wife, to himself and to Lizzie.

He should’ve said something. It might only have been a kiss, but in his mind it was already a whole lot more. His marriage might be dead, but why should she believe him? It was the oldest line in the book. Now it was rapidly approaching 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and he was about to creep into bed claiming to have lost all track of time at the party. Hopefully she wouldn’t wake up. She was certainly unlikely to have missed him. If she had, it would be the first time in months. He picked up his glass and left the kitchen, confused.

chapter 2

Rachel rubbed her eyes and was appalled to feel that her incredibly expensive all-weather mascara was now crusty. As she swallowed and winced at the furry stale oral aftermath of her Shiraz Cabernet and Marlboro Lights session, fragments of her evening started to return to her memory. She must have drunk a lot to have been smoking. Enough to forget that she had given up last month. A token attempt to try and keep at least one of her vices under some sort of control. She cupped her hand and exhaled into it. Her breath smelt as bad as it tasted.

‘Bollocks.’

Now she was talking to herself. Not a good sign. She fell back onto the cushions. It had only been a few drinks with the team after work, but, coupled with a long boozy client lunch earlier in the day, it had obviously got a little out of hand. Now that she had a sofa in her office this was becoming an all too frequent occurrence.

Almost dizzy with the effort, Rachel rummaged in her capacious bag for some breath-freshening gum, paracetamol and her mobile. She held the display close to her face while her eyes refocused to inspect the small screen. No missed calls and no messages. Relieved or disappointed? She wasn’t sure. She could call and tell him that she was on her way, but phoning at this point would be tantamount to admitting she was in the wrong, not just at the office. Hopefully she’d manage to slip into bed undetected and be vague about the time of her return if he asked in the morning.

As she located her shoes, she shivered in the unfamiliar cold of the office. In two days she’d be here raising hell like she always did on a Monday morning when deadlines looked as if they weren’t going to be met, and tomorrow she’d be back to tie up a few loose ends and do the real work that was near impossible to achieve while she was playing hard at projecting the image of being in control.

Next week she would finally know whether she had won the account they’d all been working so hard for. She could already picture the banner headline in Campaign: ‘Anti-drugs offensive taken on by Clifton Dexter Harrison’, and her publicity shot alongside. It was high-profile, and a huge social concern, and once you’d made a name for yourself the industry didn’t forget. The account director on the last AIDS awareness campaign was running his own agency now. This could be her big break. The culmination of all the late nights and early mornings of the last few years. She’d sacrificed everything for this moment.

Rachel felt a pang of remorse. She’d always had a selfish streak—single-minded, she preferred to call it. But she couldn’t sit back and relax until she’d made a name for herself. Rachel was a here-and-now girl. Moments were for seizing and unwinding was for watches—all part of her ‘take now and pay later’ attitude to life. But this could be it—her very own meal ticket. Then she’d set about fixing her relationship. She was sure that with a bit of effort and a couple of surprise weekends away it could all be back to normal again. Rachel didn’t do failure. Fingers crossed, she would make her New Year strategy the anti-drugs offensive followed by a quick-fire campaign to save her marriage.

The issue addressed, her mind returned to rest and now focused on getting her some beauty sleep as soon as possible. By waving her arms as she locked her office Rachel managed to trigger enough motion sensors to illuminate her exit route from the building, and successfully startled the security guard who she suspected must have managed to nod off against the cold marble wall of their smart reception area. She wondered how much they were paying him to sleep in the upright position.

The house was pitch-black and, jaw clenched to prevent her teeth chattering, she tiptoed up the stairs. As she stared into the dark of the bedroom she could see that the curtains were still open and the bed was still made. He wasn’t back yet. Her concern was only momentary as her tired memory saw fit to remind her of a message she’d picked up when they’d left the bar. He had another Christmas party.

Relieved that she wasn’t going to have to explain her late return, have sex or yet another conversation about nothing in particular, Rachel flicked the lights on. She cleansed and toned in record time and was dead to the world when her slightly smoked and pickled husband collapsed into bed beside her. The room was quiet as their breathing patterns united and they lay beside each other, together but apart.

chapter 3

George Michael and Andrew Ridgely were crooning away on the radio for the umpteenth December in a row. It never seemed to be their Last Christmas.

Lizzie was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the cacophony of mushy sentiment and sleigh bells to come to an end. It was Saturday morning. Five days before Christmas. No wonder so many people found the festive period depressing. The contrast with the high of the night before was almost too much. But the evening had surpassed all her expectations and now the weekend was just the same as it would have been whether or not she had kissed Matt. It just felt worse. And it certainly wasn’t being helped by the hangover that was starting to roll in from somewhere behind her ears.

Clare must have been watching her from a hidden camera, as she chose this moment to wander in breezily with a cup of tea. As if she had just happened to be passing with a spare mug. Lizzie wondered how many times she had walked past her door in the last couple of hours, desperate for some sign of life.

‘Morning. How was last night, then?’

‘Great…’

It was a unique delivery. Lizzie’s voice rumbled and squeaked into action and her first syllable came out grudgingly. Her tones were definitely less dulcet than normal, and she could only just hear what she was saying. She must have done more shouting in smoky atmospheres than she had realised. She coughed a couple of times in an attempt to restore her more familiar range before continuing.

‘…a lot of fun, actually…’ Her voice was a unique tribute to Eartha Kitt.

‘Really?’ Clare’s voice was laced with expectation. Eager for details, she perched on the edge of Lizzie’s bed just as her flatmate leapt to her feet, impressively grabbing her towel from the chair in one single movement.

‘I’ll fill you in after my shower.’

Lizzie surprised herself with the buoyancy of her tone, especially as her whole body was wobbling with the effort of reaching a vertical position. Heart beating faster than normal, she half-walked, half-skipped to the bathroom just as Macy Gray’s ‘Winter Wonderland’ replaced Wham. She didn’t know why she hadn’t just confessed there and then. For some totally irrational reason she was suddenly embarrassed at her behaviour.

She was standing on the bath mat drying herself when Clare knocked.

‘For goodness’ sake. You never get up after ten on a Saturday. I’ve been pacing up and down in the kitchen, cleaning surfaces, just waiting for you to wake up—and then you decide to have a shower first. Since when have you been so obsessive about your cleanliness? Unless, of course, you’re washing a man right out of your hair…’

Lizzie refused to be goaded into a confession. All in good time. She swapped her now damp towel for her bathrobe, and as she opened the door Clare practically fell into the room. She must have been leaning right up against it.

‘Well, I spoke to all the bosses without saying anything incriminating, boogied the night away with Ben and the team, drank lots of alcohol and then got stuck in the corner with Danny Vincent—possibly the most self-centred, boring, slimy drive-time DJ in the history of broadcasting. It was terrible. To make matters worse my head feels too heavy for my body, and right now I’m not sure whether I’m going to make it through the next few hours without being sick…’ Lizzie didn’t remember being exceptionally drunk at any stage of the evening, but her body was telling a different story. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with something…’

‘Poor you…’ Clare empathised fervently.

This was why, Lizzie mused, she was her best friend.

‘…but I think you’ll find it’s just a good old-fashioned hangover. So, did he make a move?’

Lizzie shuddered at the thought of those whiter than white teeth and tighter than tight trousers.

‘No. Thankfully, just when I thought there was no way out, I was rescued by a different bloke who had spotted my predicament from the bar.’

‘I see.’

Lizzie was being so pseudo-offhand that Clare now knew there was a whole lot more to this than she was being told at the moment. This was typical Ford behaviour. Whenever Lizzie had anything interesting to divulge she just tossed it in ever so casually at the point in the conversation where you had as good as stopped listening. Clare decided to play it cool for now. She knew from experience that this coy moment couldn’t last long. Lizzie meanwhile, freshly energised by her shower, was just burbling on.

‘Anyway, just the usual, really. Lots of drinking, chatting and dancing, and then I got a taxi home. It must have been nearly 2:00 a.m. when we finally found one.’

‘We!’ Clare picked up on the discrepancy at once. Ha! Lizzie had let her guard down. Such a careless mistake. Amateurish, in fact.

Lizzie could have kicked herself. It had all been going so well. But Clare was her best friend. She was entitled to the full story—and besides, it wouldn’t feel real if Clare didn’t know. Yet now she felt sheepish. Since her divorce Clare had been so generally anti-men that Lizzie felt somehow she had let the side down.

‘OK. So I shared a cab with him.’ Lizzie looked at her feet awkwardly.

‘With…’

The intensity of Clare’s stare was currently boring a hole in the side of her head. Lizzie felt sure that Clare would be able to bend spoons if she put her mind to it.

‘With Matt.’ Lizzie looked up. She was going to take this on the chin. She had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t as if she met people every weekend. In fact she couldn’t remember the last time…

‘The guy who rescued you from the clutches of the delightful Danny?’ Clare grinned at her use of alliteration, just in case Lizzie had missed it.

‘Yeah.’

‘You shared a cab all the way to Putney? Does he live round here, then?’

Lizzie hesitated as she realised that she had no idea where he lived. She vaguely remembered Matt telling the driver where to go next, and she even remembered listening, but she had no recollection of what he’d said. Her mind had quite clearly been on other things.

‘I’m not sure…I got out of the cab first.’

‘So the taxi didn’t terminate here, then?’

Clare was now striding back and forth across the landing, casting a cursory glance at Lizzie from time to time. Lizzie attributed this increasingly irritating habit to the surfeit of dog-eared John Grisham novels on their bookshelves and one viewing too many of A Few Good Men, which seemed to be playing on a loop on one of their digital channels.

Clare adopted her best quasi legal tone.

‘Miss Ford, in the early hours of Saturday December twentieth did you, or did you not, bring a Mr Matt to 56 Oxford Road for a night of wild abandon?’

Lizzie was stalling. Nothing like building nothing into something. One kiss had become headline news in south-west London. They really had to get out more.

‘It’s a simple enough question. Did you bring a man back to our apartment last night? Yes? Or no?’

Apartment. She’d definitely been reading another American legal thriller.

‘No.’ All of a sudden Lizzie was feeling very self-conscious and very naked underneath her bathrobe.

‘But at any point on the night in question did you engage in the activity of kissing? Were salivary juices exchanged?’

Clare certainly knew how to make an ostensibly romantic moment seem very clinical. But the I-know-I’m-onto-something look now plastered all over on Clare’s face was making Lizzie laugh. She stopped fudging her answers and, between giggles, confessed.

‘Yes. Guilty as charged. We kissed in the cab. He left. Happy?’

Lizzie didn’t want to get on to the fact that she hadn’t got his number and didn’t know when, or even if, she would be seeing him again or, more interestingly, the fact that she knew she’d quite like to. Clare was bound to say something disparaging, plus it always seemed like tempting fate. It was time to move this conversation on. Lizzie was determined to develop her enigmatic side, and now was as good a time as any—plus, once she admitted that she liked someone things always seemed to go awry. However humorous Clare thought she was being, this was Lizzie’s life they were mocking, even if right now there was more material than normal.

‘I suppose I’d better get on with my day…’

Clare looked at her watch. ‘Your afternoon…’

‘Afternoon, then… God, you can be pedantic.’

‘Takes one to know one. You’ve taught me everything I know. Anyway, now you’re up I must just pop to the shops. Do you need anything? I shouldn’t be long but I don’t have to be at the restaurant until five…’ Clare waited for Lizzie to process the information. If she knew Lizzie as well as she thought she did, she’d offer to cook them some lunch. She could almost hear the cogs grinding into action.

‘Right… Why don’t I cook us some lunch? Take advantage of the fact that we’re both in the flat at the same time. Novel, I know. Spaghetti Bolognese OK for you?’

Bingo. Clare loved the way that Lizzie’s mind always worked the same way. It was one of the most male things about her personality.

‘Great. Is two o’clock too late for you?’

‘Perfect. I’m sure I can manage on tea and toast until then.’

‘Bit peckish, are you? Was your tongue sarnie not very filling?’

Lizzie was already on her way to her room. Thanks to Clare, though, she was smiling.

Clean, dressed, and well on her way to physical and emotional recovery, Lizzie headed down to her study. She wanted to at least start work before lunch, so that it would be easier to return to later, when the call of the shops would be strongest. Surrounded by her post, she switched on her computer and then, to order her thoughts, made one of her famous ‘to do’ lists. Scaring herself into action, she started by printing off her e-mails and adding them to the letters pile for immediate attention.

Her concentration was coming and going in waves but, focusing on the screen in front of her, she forced herself to keep typing. She had almost succeeded in blocking out her surroundings when the phone rang. The shrill electronic bleat cut through the silence and nearly prompted an instant coronary. Lizzie just stared at it. Could it be?

Caught up in the moment, she overlooked the fact that she hadn’t given him her home phone number, that she was ex-directory, and that there was no one in the office that morning to give it to him and so, after flicking her hair back with her hand, she answered in a semi-flirtatious fashion.

‘Heylo?’

‘Liz, it’s me…’

‘Me’ being Clare. Lizzie did her best not to actually sound disappointed.

‘Clare.’

‘I’m in Waitrose. Do you need me to pick up the stuff for our lunch?’

‘Yup, that would be great…’ In her hungover state Lizzie had completely forgotten about the whole needing ingredients in order to cook lunch thing. Thank goodness one of them was living in the real world today. ‘The usual…and don’t forget—’

Clare interrupted her. ‘Mushrooms and red peppers. I know.’

‘Thanks…’ Clare really was the perfect flatmate at times. ‘And a couple of tins of chopped tomatoes.’

‘No problem. See you in a bit.’

‘Bye.’

But Clare, anxious not to waste even a few seconds of her free call time, had already gone.

Lizzie was rereading her notes in an attempt to recall her train of thought when the phone rang for a second time. Again she leant back in her chair, ran her fingers through her hair, and, ever so casually, slightly slurred her greeting.

‘Heylo?’

‘Liz, it’s Mum. Can’t be long. I’m on the mobile in the Sainsbury’s car park.’

‘OK.’ What was this? The phone a friend from a supermarket half-hour?

‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anything…’

Chance would be a fine thing. ‘It’s fine, Mum. I’m working, but…’

‘On a Saturday? You are conscientious.’

A compliment. Only, the way she said it, almost an accusation.

‘What do you need?’ Lizzie could feel herself snapping without meaning to and pulled herself up. She’d always believed what goes around comes around, and didn’t want to jeopardise any chance of her and Matt getting together in the not too distant future by upsetting her mother now. It was perfectly clear female reasoning.

‘That Thai curry you were telling me about…’

‘Mmm…’

‘What was the fresh herb you needed?’

‘Coriander. Lots of it. Ignore the recipe and put loads in. If you buy too much you can always freeze it.’

‘Thanks, darling. It’s just I left the list at home.’

‘No problem.’

‘Listen, must go. This phone’s giving me a headache. I’ll call you soon. We haven’t had a proper chat in ages.’

‘OK. Speak to you later.’

‘Bye.’

Lizzie shouldn’t be allowed to cook when she was feeling hungry. While she might not be about to admit it, this mountain of pasta was comfort food. Clare knew her cravings for spaghetti, shepherd’s pie and lasagne all came on days when Lizzie was feeling vulnerable. It was as if the food of her youth represented a surrender of her adulthood. When things got really bad, butterscotch and chocolate Angel Delight would follow for dessert.

Clare tactfully kept the conversation away from parties and instead talked weekend turnover tactics. Union Jack’s was a restaurant that thrived on word of mouth. Its modern British cuisine was raved about by its regulars, but they were still a long way off becoming a household name or selling a tie-in cookbook. A few Evening Standard recommendations had helped to put it on the map, and occasional visits by celebrity local residents meant that other Londoners were happier to go out of their way just on the off-chance that they might eat alongside someone they had seen on TV or an album cover, but the challenge was to fill the place at weekends when, Clare imagined, most of their patrons visited friends in the country, jetted off for glamorous weekends or entertained in their interior designed, feng-shuied living spaces in fashionable West London.

They were strategising hard when the doorbell rang. Clare was mid-mouthful, so Lizzie drew the short straw. At 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday it could only be the tea towel and oven glove salesman, or possibly the Putney branch of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Lizzie whooped as she looked at the screen integral to their state-of-the-art intercom—essential security kit for two women living on their own and a sound investment made after being taken in by the persuasive sales patter of a not unattractive salesman at the Ideal Home Exhibition. This way they could hide from persistent exes, uninvited relatives and the aforementioned tea towel sellers without passing up any opportunities to flirt with cute delivery men or missing out on bona fide guests.

The cause of Lizzie’s excitement was a man on the doorstep. A least she thought she could see someone behind the huge bow and…what was it? Frustratingly, even with her eyeball almost resting on the screen, she couldn’t quite see. She took the stairs two at a time, arriving back in record time clutching a large wicker basket laden with all things wicked. Moist chocolate brownies, assorted mini-muffins and huge soft cookies were piled high on gingham napkins. Heart racing—along, Lizzie hoped, with her metabolic rate—she inhaled a couple of mouth-watering samples before tearing off the accompanying card.

‘Well…?’ Clare joined her on the sofa, licking her fingers as she tucked in. She couldn’t believe that Lizzie hadn’t read the card downstairs. This demonstration of will-power was very out of character. ‘What does it say?’ Clare leant up against her shoulder so that she could read the message simultaneously. Lizzie was being painfully slow and insisting on opening the envelope carefully so as not to tear it.

All the card said was ‘Call me,’ followed by two phone numbers. An 0207 number and a line of digits with more eights and sevens in it than were healthy. It looked long and confusing enough to be a mobile number.

Lizzie was beaming, and reprimanded herself silently for having doubted him earlier. How long should she wait before she called? As if she could read her mind, Clare decided to ask her outright.

‘So when are you going to call?’

Clare was scraping their now abandoned lunch into the bin. They had both already eaten more than enough to exceed their total recommended calorie intake until tomorrow lunchtime.

‘Mmm. In an hour or so?’ Lizzie feigned nonchalance. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with straight away, but she knew that Clare saw every man as a recipe for disaster. Lizzie, on the other hand, couldn’t help being an eternal optimist. One day she hoped to be rewarded for her dedication to an often disappointing cause.

‘So keen. You are, of course, assuming that they’re from Matt.’

‘Well, when Mum wants me to call she tends to use the phone rather than sending an edible carrier pigeon.’

‘Maybe they’re from Drive-Time Danny.’

Lizzie was hit by an instant wave of nausea totally unrelated to the amount of sugar she had just ingested, and for a few seconds her perfect moment evaporated. But Danny probably didn’t think he had to send anything to anyone—except perhaps a signed photo of himself. They had to be from Matt. Had to be.

Clare hadn’t meant to sound negative. And she had to admit sending cookies, muffins and brownies was a sweet—and sure-fire—way to Lizzie’s duvet.

‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving him a call this afternoon…’ Clare knew that Lizzie would do whatever she wanted to, but by giving Lizzie her endorsement she hoped she would be seen in a less negative, spoil-sporty light. She couldn’t help it if she had been let down one time too many. ‘Why don’t I make us a cup of coffee and then you can ring him? Or, if you’d rather wait until I go to work, I’ll be out of here by four-thirty.’

Lizzie had drained her mug long before Clare, and now had cold feet. Clare had been teaching her to live life without her heart on her sleeve and Lizzie admired her style. She was now inclined to leave it until Monday, but then she might have missed the moment altogether, and she couldn’t honestly see herself doing any work until she had got this out of the way. Besides, it was what she told her readers all the time. Be yourself and don’t play relationship games, because unless both parties know the rules you’ll lose every time.

Right. Time for her to take some of her own advice. She picked up their walkabout phone, dialling and wandering simultaneously, and tried the 0207 number first. It went straight to answer-phone. The voice on the message didn’t really sound like the one she remembered from last night, but it didn’t sound like Danny either. She left her name and number before hanging up, just in case it wasn’t his voicemail at all.

As she dialled the mobile number she prayed that the scribe at Muffin HQ wasn’t dyslexic or innumerate. All her nerves needed now was for this to be a wrong number. With each ring her heart edged a little bit closer to her mouth, until finally the phone rang out, irritatingly diverting to voicemail.

‘Hi, you’ve got through to Matt Baker…’

Lizzie could have jumped for joy at the relief that the delivery had definitely been from the right man.

‘…I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

Lizzie hung up and held the phone to her chest. What should she say? After a few moments of pacing she decided less was more and rang back, obediently leaving her name and number but no message. Now she would have to make sure that her phone was free to ring by not using it.

When it rang five minutes later both Lizzie and Clare nearly fell off the sofa. After a great deal of arm-waving on Lizzie’s part Clare answered it. Lizzie knew her behaviour was pure fifteen-year-old. Of course it wouldn’t be Matt. It was far too soon.

‘Annie. Hi. Yes, thanks…’

Her mother. Again.

‘I’ll just get her for you… Don’t keep her too long…’ Clare smiled mischievously ‘…only she’s waiting for an important call. I know… I know…’

What did she know?

OK. Yes, I’ll tell her. Fine. Thanks. Hope to see you soon. Right. Bye for now.’

Whose mother was she anyway?

‘She says you can call her later. Apparently you arranged to have a chat?’

Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘Hardly. I just said we’d speak later. You know—Some Time Later, not Within Three Hours.’ Her mother still didn’t understand that some adult children didn’t speak to their parents several times a week, a day or an afternoon. But Lizzie knew she got lonely on her own, especially at weekends.

Clare had barely put the phone down on the sofa next to her before it rang again.

‘Oh, well, maybe she’s forgotten something…’ Clare chucked the receiver, still ringing, at her flatmate. ‘She’s your mother…and I’ve got to get ready.’

‘Yup?’

‘Lizzie?’

Damn… She should have known. The one time today she hadn’t answered the phone with her ‘heylo’ hair-flick and it was him. Bloody typical.

‘Matt! Hi! Thanks so much for my food parcel. It’s wonderful.’

Too effusive? But Lizzie had never really been able to do ‘aloof’, and she wasn’t about to start now. She leapt to her feet, instinctively wandering out of earshot to her bedroom.

Clare turned the radio down and occupied herself with silent chores, listening out for any nuggets of information that might waft down the stairs. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she and Lizzie didn’t do the secrets thing and hearing it first hand would only save time later. As Clare strained to hear she was only managing to pick up the odd word, so she crept a bit closer to the stairwell which brought her instant rewards.

‘…oh, right… Are you feeling better…? Great… I know…I know. There seems to be a lot of it about.’

A lot of what? Clare wondered to herself. Syphilis? Flu? Office-party-related shagging? Now Lizzie was laughing. Now more talking. Clare paid closer attention.

‘Work in the morning…on a Sunday? Poor you. Mmm…yes…I see what you mean. Mind you, I’ve only got a hot date with my post bag…wild, crazy thing that I am.’

Clare balked. Sympathy with a hint of empathy. Lizzie was spiralling into the romantic quagmire as usual. She never was quite as hard to get as you would think from reading her column.

‘Lunch tomorrow? OK… Yup… Better than OK—great. Where shall we meet? …don’t mind…I eat everything…usually all at the same time…’ Lizzie laughed out loud again.

Clare smiled at Lizzie’s ‘joke’. Matt might think she was being witty and spontaneous, but if he stuck around for long enough he would discover that it was one of Lizzie’s standard lines.

‘OK. Perfect. See you at 1:00 p.m. Bye.’

Clare returned to the kitchen as quickly as she could without actually running, and faded the radio up while clattering pans together in the sink. She busied herself with scrubbing the Bolognese pan and waited for Lizzie to report back.

Lizzie rang off and would have flick-flacked to her study had she ever got higher than the shoulder-stand BAGA level of gymnastics. Instead she whistled her way there, and happily immersed herself in work.

Clare was happy for her. Just as long as Matt wasn’t going to let her down. The trouble was, despite the hundreds of letters she received each week alerting her to the contrary, Lizzie did have a tendency to look for the best in people. With a failed marriage behind her, Clare was more cynical. When your perfect husband is unfaithful six months after he says ‘I do’ it affects your perspective. Her rose-coloured spectacles definitely had a darker tint than most.

chapter 4

Thump… Thump… Thump…

Her pulse was currently reverberating around the inside of her cranium in Surround Sound. Her joints were aching and her eyeballs were hot and dry in their sockets. It wasn’t a hangover. That meant only one thing…but she couldn’t be ill. In thirteen years of schooling she’d only been absent for a handful of days, postponing any ailments for the lengthy holidays when she wouldn’t be missing out or overtaken by any of her classmates. She knew she was fiercely competitive—whether it was careers, gym attendance or just a Christmas game of Monopoly. It was in her DNA. As she struggled to the bathroom in an attempt to begin her daily routine and kickstart herself into action Rachel knew that today she would be forced to admit that she was human. It was a grand admission.

At least it was a Saturday. Work could wait twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t have official confirmation until Monday, but she was sure they’d won the account. Rachel smiled into the mirrored cabinet above the washbasin as she imagined telling the partners. She’d be walking on air.

It now appeared that all that air was in her eyelids; she’d never seen them looking quite so puffy. A quick prod of her neck and underarm area confirmed that her glands were up, and after sticking out her tongue and making the traditional self-diagnostic ‘aaaaah’ noise she searched the shelves for suitable drugs. Adding a couple of soluble aspirin to a glass of tepid basin tap water, she weakly swooshed the water round in the hope that the resultant whirlpool effect would speed up the fizzing process. It might only be 9:30 a.m. but the day already felt as if it was slipping away.

Rachel stared into the mirror, pawing in disbelief at the pallor which must have descended in the dead of night—along with the contrasting purple shadows which stretched under her eyes and shaded the sides of her nose. As she downed the grey aspirin suspension she grimaced at the nostalgic familiarity of the bitter bitty aftertaste. From the sad day that she had outgrown Calpol, aspirin had always been administered by her mother at the first hint of a temperature. Rachel shuffled back to bed and, teeth now chattering, crawled under the duvet, her breathing shallow to conserve heat.

She hadn’t had a sick day for at least a year, and had been working six-day weeks for almost as long. She simply didn’t do colds and minor afflictions. At least she was alone, free to doze in front of the television without interruptions. Her husband had left earlier, to tidy some things up in his office, and she knew where to find him—not that she did the needy wife thing very often. It wasn’t her style—although she did wonder whether he might prefer it if she was a little bit ditsy and less competent occasionally. This was the downside to a day in bed: too much time to think—and there was plenty in her personal life that merited attention. But she’d managed to dodge her problems for months, and she certainly didn’t want to face up to them when she was feeling as shitty as this.

After channel-surfing for over an hour, Rachel knew she must be seriously ill. Twenty minutes of morning television was usually enough to persuade even the most apathetic couch potato to rise from the cushions and do something with their life other than fantasise about remodelling their neighbour’s garden. Exhausted, she finally succumbed to unconsciousness, and when she next opened her eyes her body was on fire. Feverish strands of hair stuck to her scalp and her cheeks almost stung with the intensity.

Momentarily disorientated, she soon noticed a note on the floor. She craned her neck in search of the alarm clock: 14:07. Which day and which year she couldn’t be sure. Her brain was definitely lagging behind at the moment.

Rach

Didn’t want to wake you.

Thought these might help while away the afternoon. You might as well celebrate your temperature with an overdose of trash, fashion and recipes!

Off to Banbury to brainstorm with a client. Back later. You can get me on the mobile if you need me.

Beside the bed there was now a pile of magazines and a bottle of his cure-all—Lucozade. In all the years they’d been together she’d never once professed to like it, but she knew it was the thought that counted. Ironically, she didn’t appear to have the strength to open the bottle. It promised to be an energy provider—but only if you could get past the plastic seal.

Rachel’s palms were ribbed with the pattern on the cap when she finally heard the fizz and collapsed back into the pillows. Pathetically she sipped at the orange sticky solution and wrinkled her nose as she dramatically swallowed each mouthful as if it were her last. While she waited for the sugar to pervade her bloodstream she half-dozed while her mind wandered. He’d always been the thoughtful one, and she was always too busy to notice. Maybe she should book them a surprise holiday somewhere glamorous.

Rachel closed her eyes. She could do with a tan, and that feeling of the sun warming her skin as the sea breeze whipped over her bare tummy…

She’d barely seen him recently. Just the familiar shape of his back as she crawled into bed and the routine noises of his exercise bike, shower and toast ritual every morning. She hid behind her eyelids until he left for work at seven—that way she could focus on her day without having to make interested conversation while he brushed his teeth. She did love him in her own way, even if she had trouble demonstrating it.

Rachel pulled a face. The thought of physical intimacy was a total turn-off. She just had too much on her mind. Thank God she was married. At least there wasn’t pressure to be out there sleeping around and regaling the team with tales of random sex in unusual places. But there had been a time when they’d made love whenever their paths had crossed, day or night. Now they barely made cups of tea for each other.

In her fluey haze Rachel suddenly became preoccupied with the fact that he’d made it all the way to her side of the bed while she was asleep. In theory someone could have broken in and stolen everything from around her before pumping her full of bullets and she wouldn’t even have woken up. She really should stop watching Crimewatch. She’d always been terrified of being burgled when she was in the house, and this quality thinking time wasn’t helping. In a minute she’d have to get up and check the house for unlocked windows just in case. In a minute.

As another chill spread through her bones Rachel snuggled down in her now sweaty, fever-ridden T-shirt. Sport seemed to be dominating the television, and she turned it off assertively. Somehow her head couldn’t cope with the combined noise and bright light from the screen any more. Even on the lowest volume setting it felt as if everyone was shouting. Rachel realised that this could be turning into a whole weekend in bed. If anything she was feeling worse, not better. Just as long as she was back in the office on Monday morning… She might even manage a couple of hours tomorrow if she was feeling a little less wobbly…

Rachel flicked through the selection of magazines. This was a rare treat. She never actually had time to read the ones lying around the office, and they were only really there to monitor rival campaigns. She was impressed with his choice. Some of her favourite titles plus a selection of the newer British shelf-fillers. The fashion pages had always been one of Rachel’s must-read sections of a magazine, but as she leafed through next season’s essentials she observed that the models seemed to have got younger and thinner since she’d last looked… Thirty-six next birthday, yet it only seemed like yesterday that she had been celebrating her twenty-fifth. Now she was sounding old. She was starting to think things that she had heard her mother say years ago.

Rachel read the copy printed alongside the pictures. It would be far more useful for the reader if they could be just a fraction more honest: Cristalle—it was all about the name; you just didn’t get catwalk models called Joanna or Jane—wears a trench coat that you will never be able to afford and that will never look this good on you, probably because you won’t wear it over your best underwear to nip to the supermarket. Gypselle has been airbrushed to look good in that bikini. Petra pouts for Peckham in an outfit worth the GNP of a small developing country…

Half an hour of ludicrous fashion suggestions, a few potential new looks, an innovative way to apply eyeshadow and several irrelevant horoscopes later, Rachel found herself reading a problem page. They’d always been the most interesting part of a magazine when she’d been at school. Educational, voyeuristic and at times aspirational. All the girls had pored over the pages and learnt a great deal about G-spots, blow jobs and old wives’ tales—all stuff they’d claimed to have known about years before as they’d committed the information to memory before hurriedly stuffing the magazines into their desks at the first glimpse of a member of staff on the horizon.

Over twenty years later Rachel was still gripped. It appeared that agony aunts had come on leaps and bounds. Normal, humorous, down-to-earth and practical advice. Not evangelical or hypothetical. She squinted at the photo. This one wasn’t unattractive either, and, at a guess, was about her age. Rachel digested the page and accompanying column in minutes, before sitting back on the pillows. She didn’t need to pay a shrink to tell her that the reason she was so interested in other people’s problems was because she had several of her own.

For all her denial and self-justification, Rachel knew that every way you looked at it she was taking him for granted. But she simply didn’t have the energy to spoil him at the moment. She’d read the marriage repair articles, she knew it wasn’t about grand gestures but just about doing things together, but time was the one commodity that she couldn’t spare and it was impossible to fit a weekend away into a Sunday afternoon.

She was sure that in a few weeks things would calm down at work—but wasn’t that what she’d said in July? And now it was December. And if she was doing a bit more taking than giving at the moment surely she could make it up to him in the long term…wasn’t that what this lifelong partnership deal was all about? He’d tried to get them to ‘talk’. He’d said she didn’t listen. That everything was always on her terms. They’d laughed about that. But what if he’d given up?

Rachel shook her head. He adored her. Everyone said so. He’d always run to his work when things weren’t going well. She’d taught him to. Besides, if it kept him occupied what was the harm? At least if he was busy she didn’t feel quite as guilty.

Part of the problem was her lack of an available sounding board. Her mother would tell her to reassess her priorities, but then her mum could single-handedly set women’s emancipation back one hundred years in one afternoon with her traditional take on married life. Rachel knew she didn’t approve of her daughter’s lifestyle. And she adored her son-in-law. Their friends all saw them as some sort of golden couple and outsiders saw a good-looking, high-earning, well-dressed couple—people will excuse almost anything if you are aesthetically pleasing—out there getting what they wanted from life. It was a masterful deception. Rachel knew that she should swallow her pride and well-disguised insecurity streak and just call one of her older mates, but she couldn’t help but see it as a weakness that she couldn’t cope.

It must have been a combination of these reasons, coupled with her abnormally high temperature and a strange heaven-sent force, that drove Rachel to do something that she had never thought she would ever do. Taking the ‘Ask Lizzie’ column to her study, she wrapped herself in a blanket and flicked on her computer. It was as if an alien force had entered her body. She half expected Mulder and Scully to appear shouting in the doorway, just as it was too late to save her, but something compelled her to sit down at her computer and type out a letter.

It flooded onto the page. Rachel couldn’t get the sentences out fast enough. Seeing the words on the screen was cathartic, and much less expensive than hiring a therapist, and somehow it was a relief not to have to say any of it out loud. She could admit to herself that she was a bit of a selfish, self-centred control freak with workaholic tendencies who had taken her husband for granted via a keyboard, but actually vocalising it would be a whole different ballgame.

One long, convoluted paragraph later, Rachel looked up. There it was—her life in black and white. She added a few commas and full stops before signing it without thinking, then deleted her name and, remembering the problem page etiquette of her youth, typed ‘Desperate Matt Dillon fan, London’. Smiling, Rachel replaced the pseudonym with the more credible ‘Name and Address Withheld’ and pressed print quickly, before she lost her nerve.

Deleting the document from her hard drive, she held the only hard copy above the wastepaper basket for a few moments, resisting the urge to scrunch it into a ball, instead folding it and putting it in a self-seal envelope. She hadn’t enclosed her address. She didn’t really want or need an answer. But by sharing everything with a total stranger at least now she felt she’d been proactive. She addressed the envelope and slipped it into her briefcase. Maybe she’d post it. Then again she could always shred it tomorrow at the office if she changed her mind.

As she clambered back into bed Rachel closed her eyes and promised herself that she would make more of an effort. Five years of marriage were worth fighting for. She was far too young to be a divorcee. These agony aunts are fantastic, she mused. She felt tons better already.

chapter 5

Sunday morning dawned a little earlier than usual at 56 Oxford Road. Lizzie had been wide awake for a good half-hour, pinching and tensing various body parts and wondering whether it was physiologically possible that she had put on a visible amount of muffin-related weight since Friday night. If she concentrated hard she was sure she could feel a spot on her nose. Perfect timing. A first-date outbreak. She resisted the overwhelming urge to wipe her t-zone on the duvet cover and finally conceded that more sleep was out of the question. Time wasn’t going to tick by any slower if she got up.

Soon Lizzie was languishing in her second bath in twelve hours. Last night’s had promised to detoxify her and this morning’s foaming oil was supposed to be sensual, although it smelt more like a melted down throat lozenge than an aphrodisiac to Lizzie. Maybe that was where she’d been going wrong all these years.

A strange transformation was taking place. Over the last couple of years, via a gradual process of attrition, Clare had introduced a new dimension to Lizzie’s cleansing ritual. A quick splash with soap and water had been outlawed, and while at first she had complained about the complexity and expense of it all, Lizzie now secretly enjoyed her ablutions. Her brother might have taught her how to spit bathwater a very long way, but he hadn’t given her the inside track on exfoliation and soap-free cleansers. Thanks to Clare, Lizzie now had a beauty ‘routine’ of sorts.

Fifteen minutes ago she had decided to administer an amateur mini-facial to her over-cleansed pores in preparation for lunch. Only now, reading the small print on the back of the tube, it appeared she needed a muslin cloth. But where on earth did you get a muslin cloth before eleven on a Sunday? And what did you do with it the rest of the time? Her bathing idyll shattered, she hurriedly washed the mask into the bathwater and pulled the plug.

Once safely returned to dry land, she inspected her shins slowly to check she hadn’t missed any hairs on her earlier shaving spree while debating what to wear. At least if you met someone after work there was only so much you could do in a maximum of five minutes with mascara, a hairbrush and a hand towel in the Ladies’. Sunday lunch usually called for the ‘girl next door’ look, but this was proving difficult to plan as she didn’t know where Matt lived or where they were going. As Lizzie moisturised all over she couldn’t help wondering whether this was all a waste of time. The more effort she made, the more disappointing the date usually turned out to be. But the pampering was for herself. Honest.

Back in her bedroom, Lizzie stood in front of her chest of drawers, the towel tied round her waist gradually loosening itself, forcing her to gyrate her hips slowly as if trying to keep an invisible hoop aloft. Clare must have thought this was some sort of pre-date limbering up process when she chose that moment to bring Lizzie yet another cup of tea. Maybe it was a thinly disguised attempt at sabotage. Lizzie was sure that she had read somewhere that tea was bad for cellulite. The towel finally fell to the floor.

‘Great, Liz, he’ll love it. The nude look is really in this year. You might think about a few accessories though.’

Lizzie reclaimed the damp cold towel and tied it firmly round her body, using her armpits to clamp it in place before taking her tea from Clare.

‘Ha-ha…’ A slight edge of panic crept into her voice as she just stared into the open drawer. It might as well have been empty for all the inspiration its contents were currently emitting. ‘What on earth am I going to wear?’

‘Why don’t you start with underwear?’ Clare climbed into Lizzie’s bed to watch her getting ready. She’d given up on dating. She didn’t want to have to think about putting a loo seat down when she stumbled to the bathroom during the night, and her days of removing pubic hair embedded in the soap because Mr Shag didn’t believe in using a sponge were over. But if Lizzie was still determined to give men the benefit of the doubt then at least Clare could experience the first date build-up vicariously, and of course she was there to give Lizzie all the sartorial and moral support she needed.

He could do the justification. The fact he was entitled to a little bit of happiness. The fact he wasn’t having what most people would call a relationship with his wife these days. The fact that he’d found someone to have some fun with. The problem was that, whether it was in name only or not, he was married. Fact. No matter which angle you approached the situation from, he only came out of it one way. As a two-timing, unfaithful lowlife.

It may be a cliché, but Lizzie really was different. And when he’d woken up yesterday he’d felt fresh for the first time in months. He’d walked round London with his eyes wide open, invigorated by the smells of life and the sounds of the capital. Everything appeared to have more colour. Now he was sounding like some sort of love-struck teenager in a creative writing class. There really was no hope.

Matt knew he was being selfish, but being fair hadn’t worked that well for him so far. It wasn’t that he resented his wife’s success, her hours or her focus. Quite the reverse. He’d never done needy. And he’d been so proud of her. Objectively, he still was. He wouldn’t care if they barely saw each other if, when they did, it was special. Now it wasn’t even mediocre. And she wasn’t prepared to try. That was the problem. One-way traffic. Their relationship wouldn’t have passed even the most relaxed quality control.

Yet, even with all the excuses, devious just wasn’t his style. He was a nice guy, not some Lothario, and frustratingly he seemed to be at the mercy of his principles which apparently weren’t interested in keeping a low profile. He was going to tell Lizzie over lunch. She was an agony aunt; she knew life wasn’t perfect. He’d just have to trust her to understand. And hope she didn’t run a mile.

By the time the doorbell rang at nine minutes past one Lizzie had been pretending to read a magazine on the sofa for the last twenty minutes, but not a word had sunk in. Instead it appeared that the glossy pages were simply reflecting her nerves straight back at her. She didn’t know what she was worrying about, and it had been so long since she’d last been on an official ‘date’ that she couldn’t remember whether she’d always felt like this.

Clare had finally—and thankfully—gone to work just over an hour ago, but that had left Lizzie with nothing to do except sit, sit, sit, check her appearance in the mirror and then go to the loo again. Her clothes said relaxed and weekend but not scruffy, and she’d put enough effort into her accessories and eye make-up to signify effort without trying too hard. At least she was waiting at home and not pacing up and down in the cold, round the corner from where she had actually arranged to meet him, in order to try and be a couple of fashionable minutes late.

She left a few seconds after the buzzer went before sauntering over to the intercom while her stomach looped the loop a couple of times. There he was. Fantastic. She grabbed her keys and cast a quick glance over the radiators. All set for a possible post-lunch coffee. The sitting room was a knicker-free zone.

As she opened the door she wondered…to kiss or not to kiss? Awkward moment number one, and they hadn’t even said hello yet. Dating hell had begun. This was, she reminded herself, why recently she had opted for the being single option. That and the fact that there hadn’t been a long line of eligible or desirable suitors to hand…not even a short line.

‘Matt.’ She was bright, breezy, and hoped her choice of perfume wasn’t too overpowering. Nothing worse than burning your first date’s nasal hair within seconds of meeting. He seemed unfazed, and didn’t sneeze. All good signs. To her disappointment he resisted the urge to kiss either her cleansed and toned cheeks or her freshly moisturised and glossed lips. She pretended not to care.

‘Lizzie, hi…you look great.’ She really did. In actual fact ‘great’ really didn’t do her justice. Matt could feel his good intentions slipping away. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. I had to shoehorn my car into a tiny space up the road.’

He had driven. So he wouldn’t be drinking much. Lizzie wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.

‘What do you drive?’ Lizzie craned her neck to look at the row of wing mirrors jutting out into the pavement at waist height.

Matt resisted the urge to answer ‘a car’. Sometimes the oldest lines were not always the best.

‘A Karmann Ghia….’

‘Wow.’ Not Lizzie at her most articulate. But definitely one of her favourite classic cars of all time. Very stylish. A sign? An image of Clare shaking her head appeared. Of course not. Just a car.

‘It’s one of my weaknesses, I’m afraid. I spent my last bonus on having her resprayed.’

‘Convertible?’ Lizzie knew the answer before she’d even asked the question.

‘Of course. Vital for the approximately thirteen sunny days we have every year.’ He grinned, proud of his male logic.

Lizzie laughed. Excellent. He could tease himself, and hadn’t even tried to drop engine statistics into the conversation.

‘Such a great shape. Obviously designed when wind tunnels hadn’t been invented to ensure maximum fuel efficiency.’

Matt nodded. ‘We’ll have to go for a spin in it some time.’

A spin? A spin? Matt’s cool temporarily deserted him. No one had gone for a spin in forty years. Was embracing your parents’ vernacular all part of the ageing process?

‘That’d be great.’ Lizzie hadn’t registered ‘spin’ per se, only the allusion to a follow-up outing before they’d even left the doorstep. Excellent. ‘So where are we off to, then?’

Lizzie managed to sound much calmer and more offhand than she felt. She could feel her blood coursing through her veins and was trying to breathe deeply and slowly without it being apparent to anyone but herself. She didn’t want Matt to think she was about to break into an aria as they were walking along.

‘I’ve booked a table at that flash-looking restaurant on the river. I thought we could probably walk from here. It’s a perfect day.’

‘Fab.’ A man who felt happy eating somewhere that wasn’t a pub, a Café Rouge or a Pizza Express. And he was right, it was a perfect day. Lizzie inhaled deeply as they walked down the road. It smelt like December. That fresh, clear, cold and slightly smoky smell which even in London made you think of log fires and snow-covered copses.

Winter was probably Lizzie’s favourite season. On the days when the pale yellow sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky and frosty grass crunched underfoot, life was good. There was something ethereal about wrapping up in jumpers and fleeces and walking until the tips of her ears and toes froze only to be rewarded with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, or lunch with a mysterious new man…

Matt broke into her reverie. ‘I love days like this. All we need is a bit of snow and a few Alps…’

Yippee—same wavelength.

‘An open fire…logs crackling…and blankets.’ She had meant it innocently enough. Only out loud it had overtones, under-tones and double entendre at every turn. Matt fortunately hadn’t picked up on it. He was happily chatting about the positive effects of sunshine on the UV-challenged British public.

As they strolled down towards the river Lizzie sighed contentedly. It was at times like this that she felt the relief of finally being an adult without all the hang-ups and put-downs that had dominated almost every conversation on dates in her twenties. So her dates were further and fewer between these days—at least they had some potential when they did happen. A complete contrast to the grab-any-guy-to-prove-I’m-still-attractive approach that had kicked in after her last serious relationship crashed and burned. No one was going to tell her who she was and what she wanted any more. Love me, love my CD collection. Gone were the days of hiding The Best of Erasure in the depths of her underwear drawer. It might have taken a while, but it seemed she had finally learnt her lessons well.

Lizzie managed to eat her herb salad without splashing her face with balsamic vinegar or resorting to the Ermintrude display-a-leaf-between-your-lips approach, and didn’t spill anything on herself or the tablecloth during the other courses. From their table by the window they watched rowing crews glide past, a reminder of halcyon days when sportsmen hadn’t felt the need to don shiny sportswear plastered with the marks of their sponsors. The tranquillity was interrupted intermittently by the idiosyncratically speedy and noisy afterbirth of fibreglass bathtub launches and loudhailers as the coaches tried to keep up with their oarsmen.

The distraction was welcome as they hadn’t drunk nearly enough to move onto the searching questions round, and so their conversations were dominated by dissections of work and Friday night. Lizzie was doing her best to fill any silences, and it was due to this, coupled with an over-attentive head waiter who appeared silently to check on them at inopportune intervals, that Matt hadn’t got round to mentioning his marital status. He’d now decided to wait until there weren’t people sitting at tables only a few metres away desperate to eavesdrop on other people’s lives because their own were so dull. He didn’t feel the need to provide a floor show. Nor was he impatient to ruin the moment.

The light was fading rapidly by the time they’d finished their coffees, and it was Matt who suggested that they cross the bridge and go for a walk in Bishops Park. He took a deep breath as he followed Lizzie out of the restaurant. It was now or never.

He was just rehearsing his confession in his head when he realised that Lizzie must have asked him a question and was, as is customary in a conversation, now waiting for an answer. Her eyes were glistening, and to his amusement he noticed that perfect crimson circles had formed on her cheeks, which were now rosy in the style of Noddy Goes to Toytown. He smiled slowly, stalling. It was no good; he was going to have to admit that he had been thinking about something else instead of hanging on her every word.

‘Well?’ Lizzie was getting a little impatient.

‘Sorry, Liz… What did you ask me?’

‘I just wanted to know if you do this often.’

‘What?’ Matt wondered if the word had come out as defensively as he thought it had. Lizzie didn’t seem to have noticed anything strange. But then she didn’t have a guilty conscience screaming silently at her.

‘You know—pick up women on a Friday night, play the chivalrous man, whisk them home in a cab, send them a basket of cakes, and then do a Sunday lunch date?’

Matt laughed despite himself. Nerves had always had an unpredictable effect on his emotions. There must have been a short circuit somewhere that had permitted this particular reaction.

‘No, to be completely honest I’m a bit out of practice. This is the first date I’ve been on in years.’ Matt felt his chest tighten. It was about time he was completely honest about a few other things as well. He had just deftly dodged the perfect opportunity and he knew it.

‘Really?’ Lizzie was pleasantly surprised. So there were eligible men out there who could cope with being on their own… Just wait until she told Clare. Her afternoon was improving by the minute. As they came to the rail by the river Lizzie closed her eyes for a minute, savouring the moment and resting her eyes from the now biting wind. Matt stood behind her and she leant back, resting her head on his chest.

Matt was incredulous. It felt as if they had known each other for years. It couldn’t have been going any better. And the better the afternoon got, the less he wanted to spoil things. Why couldn’t he have mentioned his foundering marriage on Friday night? The longer he left it, the more calculating he appeared. And how on earth did you drop having a wife into conversation without ruining everything? You just didn’t see films where the guy got the girl after a ‘Hey, I’m married, but not happily…now kiss me before you think about it too much’ moment. And the last thing he wanted to do was upset her. Bit late now, he thought grimly. But maybe if he had a chance to explain… As he stood there, Lizzie’s head resting on his jacket, the chill wind burning his nostrils and filling his lungs with the floral scent of her freshly washed hair, luckily the icy gusts could take full responsibility for the water that had suddenly appeared in the corners of his eyes. How could his life have become so complicated in less than forty-eight hours? Matt wrapped his arms around Lizzie from behind her, in a reverse bear hug, and luckily couldn’t see the enormous grin on her face as they stood gazing at the river in silence.

Matt was desperately searching for the words to continue. Eventually he managed to produce something that resembled a voice, albeit not really his own.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Mmm.’

‘I’m having a lovely afternoon—you know that, don’t you…?’

‘Yes, I do…’ Lizzie felt a flush of pride ‘…and I’m having a great day too. I take it all back. Office parties are fabulous.’

She was effervescent in her enthusiasm. Matt’s heart plummeted to his stomach.

‘The thing is—look, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I should’ve mentioned it on Friday night, I suppose, but I just never got round to it.’

‘What is it?’ Lizzie tensed and turned urgently to face Matt.

His heart, now back in the right place but beating faster than normal, melted.

‘It’s just that…well…you’d be bound to find out sooner or later…I just wanted to tell you myself… It’s not very good timing, I’m afraid…’ Come on, Matt, he berated himself. Come on…

Lizzie was just staring at him. Aside from the wind that was whipping through her hair, animatedly fanning it out behind her, she was totally motionless. He couldn’t do it.

‘The thing is…I’m off skiing on Tuesday for two weeks, so I’m afraid I won’t be around after tomorrow until the middle of January. I guess that rules me out of the whole holiday season as far as you’re concerned. But, if you can wait, I’d love to see you when I get back.’

Lizzie shook her head in disbelief. Matt could see the tension in her face dissipate. Finally she smiled.

‘You are a funny one, Matt Baker. I thought you were going to tell me that you were married or gay or only had a couple of months to live or something…’ Relieved, she turned to face the river again. ‘Believe me, Christmas is overrated. You have to spend the day with close family on pain of death. You eat too much, try and wash it down with too much alcohol, and then top it off by watching a usually highly unsuitable film and having to pretend not to be looking when anyone shags or swears in case your parents or great-aunt are still awake on the sofa next to you. Alternatively, the evening is spent arguing over the annual game of Trivial Pursuit. I’m not sure what’s worse, actually. As for New Year’s Eve—well, that was obviously invented just to make everyone feel that they lead really dull lives. Year after year everyone feels that they are the only person who hasn’t been invited to the party of the season. I get hundreds of letters every January from disappointed people who are thoroughly depressed after the Christmas build-up turns out to be a load of old hype…’

Lizzie was rambling. And Matt wasn’t really listening. Lizzie might not be a weekly dater these days, but even she could tell that his eyes were now glazed. And she wasn’t even facing him. His muscles were locked and he was standing stock still. Maybe he had frozen solid.

She decided to test her theory…

‘I mean you’d be depressed if you were forced to spend three weeks every year on a beach in California, wouldn’t you?’

‘Mmm…’

It was an automatic response. Inserted at the first sign of a pause. He definitely wasn’t listening.

Sure enough, Matt was miles away. In a place where he was watching a slow motion replay of the conversation that had just happened. The one where he had failed to bite the bullet. Let the moment pass. It was playing on a loop. And with each repetition he felt more foolish. This was atypical behaviour. Not big. Not clever. Not good enough. It was a professionally executed lie, surprisingly easy—masterful, in fact, if lacking a little in the imagination department. A perfect demonstration of the use of tactical truth economics.

He was going skiing for a week with a few guys from work for New Year, so there was an element of truth in there somewhere. He could even send her a postcard… He shook his head silently. By the time he got back from his ‘fortnight’ on the slopes he would make sure that he could give Lizzie what she deserved or be honest and face the consequences. Maybe this was the impetus he needed.

Lizzie was looking at him expectantly again. This time she had folded her arms and was tapping her toe in a comedy fashion. Again he apologised, and again he had no clue what she had been saying. With a bit of luck she’d dump him in a minute for failing to pay attention to her. At least then he could feel sorry for himself. Right now he was busy hating himself to his core.

‘Well, quite frankly, Matt, I’m beginning to take it a wee bit personally. I mean, it can hardly be a great sign if I’m boring you already. It’s true, I do have a tendency to gabble—especially when I’m a bit over-excited. Clare, my flatmate—you know, the one who owns the restaurant that I was telling you about earlier…?’

Matt nodded. ‘The restaurant in Notting Hill…’ See—he had been listening most of the time. Lizzie acknowledged his response with a nod, but barely drew breath.

‘Well, she’s always telling me off for going on and on, and I’m trying to retrain myself, I’m really trying, but it’s a long drawn-out process. It doesn’t help that I get paid to ramble for a living. See, I’m doing it again. Right, that’s it. I’m stopping. Right…now.’

She pretended to zip up her mouth, and this time Matt was listening and ready with something to say.

‘Sorry, Liz. Please don’t take it personally. I’ve just had a really tough couple of days and I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

Lizzie stared at Matt blankly. He stared back. Now what? He was sure he had said that last bit out loud.

‘Permission to speak?’

‘Granted.’ Matt laughed and took her arm. ‘You’re barking, do you know that?’ Thirty-two going on twelve, he thought to himself. A vast improvement on the people he usually met, most of whom were far too busy taking themselves incredibly seriously to see the funny side of anything.

‘I prefer eccentric. It conjures up fewer images of antiseptic bluey-grey linoleum corridors and men in white coats.’

‘Yup, more like monocles and dandruff…’

Lizzie poked his arm playfully.

‘Well, at least I don’t think up slogans for a living. I think that’s madder than what I do…at least I help people.’

‘I help them too. I help them remember which brand to buy. Imagine how stressful supermarket shopping would be and how long it would take if you had to weigh up the pros and cons of each item while you were standing there with your trolley before making a decision.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you’ve helped by brainwashing them into picking Ariel over Persil, Country Life over Anchor or vice versa?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Mmm…really helping. Shouldn’t be long before you find yourself on the New Year’s Honours List. Arise, Sir Matt— Lord of the Brand. Helper of the Decisions, Knight of the Supermarket Shopper… I can’t wait.’

Matt grabbed Lizzie’s arm and pretended to punch it amicably before linking it with his own.

They strolled back over the bridge very much together. It was truly a black and white Robert Doisneau photo moment. Had he been there with some film in his camera Lizzie felt sure that they would have adorned the walls of thousands of students in years to come. Immortalised arm in arm, the river behind them, eyes shining, in first-date heaven.

As they walked past the cinema Matt stopped at the ‘Showing Now’ poster selection. He didn’t want to head home just yet, but he didn’t want to have to do all the talking either. He checked the screening times with his watch. They were in luck.

‘Fancy an early film before we head back?’

‘Why not?’ Lizzie loved spontaneity, and she was in no hurry to say goodbye. Clare would be at work for ages yet, so there was no point in rushing home to report back. She’d only end up calling her mum, who would be bound to rush round for all the gossip before trying to set one date to meet Matt and another one for the wedding. Better not to invite the kiss of death into this relationship yet.

Lizzie panicked. What was she thinking? Relationship was far too strong a word. It was barely a first date, even if it did feel as if they had known each other for years.

They stood in silence reading the posters. Lizzie knew what she wanted to see. There was a romantic comedy that everyone else had been talking about for ages. You know the sort. Boy meets girl. She loves him. He hates her. He shags someone else and she pretends not to care before he realises that the first girl is the one he really loves by which time she, of course, has finally moved on, has shacked up with someone totally unsuitable and is trying to put him behind her. He pursues her until she finally succumbs to fate just before the final credits… Fate being that the two really good-looking, well-paid, A-list movie stars end up together. But there was a thriller on too. A stylish film, critically acclaimed, but not what Lizzie would have chosen for a Sunday afternoon. Still, she was sure that the man in the image business currently holding her hand would pick it.

‘Well, Liz, what do you think? I’m up for the romantic comedy if you are…or have you already seen it?’

For once Lizzie was speechless. He’d even referred to it as a romantic comedy and not as a ‘girlie film’.

‘I know the thriller’s supposed to be a cracker, but I’m not in the right mood now. Besides, I’ve always been a big fan of the everything-works-out-in-the-end genre…’ Matt’s conscience inserted a pause. He overrode it. ‘In fact I’ve learnt a lot from romantic comedies. Some of my best girlfriends have been picked up with lines that I’ve borrowed from Andrew McCarthy, Tom Cruise…even Tom Hanks… And girls love it even more when I quote Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan at them.’

Lizzie resisted the urge to propose there and then. A man who confessed to liking Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan vehicles was a rare find. Secretly she was impressed, but outwardly she played it down.

‘You smoothie, Matt Baker. Using “lines” to pick up girlfriends? But I suppose in the interests of you learning a few new ones I can probably force myself to sit through it. I’ve been meaning to see it for ages but never got round to it.’

‘Me too. It’s been out for weeks. We must be two of the only people who haven’t seen it yet. It’s a sign.’

‘A sign? It’s a sign? Don’t even try and go all spiritual on me. I can’t believe you just said that. The only sign is that neither of us go to the cinema enough.’

‘Lizzie Ford, a cynic…I’m not convinced. Secretly I think you love a good line. All women do!’

Lizzie smiled. Enigmatically or in a stupidly happy way? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

Between the trailers and the feature the cinema was momentarily plunged into total darkness, and to Lizzie’s delight Matt leant over and kissed her. She kissed him back and then, like teenagers, they snuggled up and watched the movie in silence. It was perfectly predictable, with a feel-good soundtrack to distract the viewer from the linear plot. Luckily the story-line was far from complex. Lizzie was only half watching and half wondering what might happen next…

As they turned into her road Lizzie looked at her watch for the first time since one o’clock. It was nearly seven.

‘Thanks, Lizzie. I’ve had a great afternoon.’

Had. Surely he wasn’t thinking of going home yet? Granted, they’d already spent six hours together, but it wasn’t as if either of them had Sunday night homework deadlines to meet. And besides, she’d tidied the flat especially.

‘Do you want to come in for a quick coffee before you head off?’ Was that too keen? After all he was only driving across the river, not embarking on a transglobe expedition. Lizzie wished she could remember what time Clare had said she’d be home. Not that it really mattered, but she didn’t want Matt to feel that this was a heavy ‘meet my best mate’ moment.

‘Well…’ Matt hesitated. ‘Only if it’s Nescafé.’

‘Kenco, I’m afraid.’

‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his brow in mock concern. ‘Well… I suppose I could make an exception on this occasion. Although I have to say I’m surprised at you. Everyone knows that Nescafé is the instant coffee of romantic comedy fans… I mean, their drinkers are always having close encounters of an intimate coffee breath nature…just look at their ad campaigns.’

‘My Kenco is the “really smooth” blend, though.’

‘But of course.’ Matt grinned.

‘And just because you work in clichés doesn’t mean you have to live in one.’

‘I’m just teasing. I said yes, didn’t I?’ He knew he should really be going, but he quite wanted to kiss her again before he left.

Lizzie smiled and rummaged in her bag for her door keys as Matt continued.

‘Don’t you think it’s strange that coffee is seen to be seductive? Personally, the aroma of instant coffee always makes me think of teachers in duffle coats standing around in wet playgrounds, their hands wrapped round those brown-tinted Pyrex coffee mugs.’

She knew exactly what he meant. The world according to Matt Baker was a familiar place. Lizzie could picture the scene now.

‘Not very romantic at all, in fact…’

‘I haven’t had a duffle coat for years,’ Lizzie added apropos of nothing as she unlocked the front door.

Matt’s train of thought hadn’t reached the next station yet. ‘Well, I think you’ll find that they drink the “primary and secondary” blend. I’ve heard good things about the “really smooth” option, though…’

Matt wandered into the kitchen while Lizzie was boiling the kettle and, having laughed a little too hard at the photo collage of Clare and Lizzie’s fashion and hairstyle retrospective in the clip frame on the wall, caught himself staring at her back as she stirred milk into their drinks. He stopped himself before she felt the intensity of his gaze and, sheepish at his behaviour, reverted to his preferred defence mechanism—humour. He didn’t have to look far for inspiration.

‘So which one of you is the smoker, then?’

Lizzie wheeled defensively, surprised at the line of questioning.

‘Neither of us. Why?’

Matt pointed at a box of Tampax which had been left lying on the kitchen table next to the box of matches she and Clare used to light their large candle collection.

Lizzie reddened in a very teenage ‘oooh-it’s-a-tampon’ fashion and distractedly shoved them into the utensil drawer out of sight. As old as she got, being blasé about Tampax in the presence of the opposite sex was still an effort. She must have missed the box during her earlier tidying frenzy. She and Clare didn’t even register things like tampons any more. They were no more unusual or scarce than Biros, and often turned up in just as many unexpected places.

She turned to offer an unnecessary apology but, seemingly unruffled by their sanitary tableware, Matt had taken their coffees over to the sofa and was now relaxing cross-legged, his head resting on the cushions, eyes closed. Lizzie sat down next to him and he opened his eyes and turned to face her. In perfect synchrony they both reached for their coffee, took a sip, and returned their mugs to the table.

Christmas was now in danger of becoming Lizzie’s favourite time of year. She stifled the urge she suddenly had to hum ‘White Christmas’ and instead allowed the silence, now laden with anticipation, to play havoc with her heart-strings.

Matt studied Lizzie’s face with real affection before leaning forward to kiss her. Their lips met for the third time in forty-eight hours and this time it was minutes before they prised themselves apart.

Lizzie was lost in another world. A world which was a hell of a lot more exciting than the last few months had been. As they fell back into the outsize cushions Lizzie relished the weight of his chest against hers. She could feel herself spiralling deliciously into a whirlwind of male musk and intensity.

As they started to shed a few layers Lizzie got the giggles. She felt like a Russian babushka doll. She’d been doing her utmost to be sultry, but so far, as Matt removed each layer from her top half, it was only to discover another one underneath. At her laugh Matt sat up and smiled sheepishly.

‘OK. What is this? Pass the parcel? How many layers are we talking, here?’

‘It’s all about layers in December. You’re nearly there now.’

‘Thank God,’ he muttered as he resumed his challenge.

It was only a few more moments before Lizzie was delighted to hear him murmur approvingly at her cleansed, toned, perfumed and moisturised chest and stomach. She mentally thanked her mother for her years of indoctrination in the there-is-no-such-thing-as-too-much-preparation approach to dates. She breathed in for good measure and shivered with sheer delight as his tongue explored the surface of her skin.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was all a bit soon. But, hey, he was off on holiday in a couple of days and why shouldn’t she give him something to remember her by? She knew his name. She had his mobile number. In Sex and the City the women had sex with totally random men all the time and didn’t seem to feel guilty. She was thirty-two, for goodness’ sake. She pushed her conscience to one side and indulged herself in the moment. As she watched Matt kissing her tummy she knew what was going to happen next. She decided to make the move to her bedroom just in case Clare came home early and didn’t fancy a floor show. From the way his hips were pushed up against her own, and the change in the fit of his jeans in the button fly area, she knew he wouldn’t say no.

chapter 6

It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before Matt was smoking his proverbial cigarette. While no one would argue against the fact she’d been having a great time a few moments earlier, she could also feel a little disappointment creeping in. Folding her arms across her chest, she rolled over, annoyed.

This never happened in films. The sex was always amazing. The guy was invariably a great lover with a comprehensive knowledge of innovative ways to drive you wild. It wasn’t as if Lizzie brought men home very often, and when she did, she expected the world to move. Unfortunately their first encounter wasn’t even going to register on her Richter Scale, even if he was just about to drift off with a smile on his face. In fact, thinking about it, Matt had been the first for…over a year. Not that she was counting. Over a year. That had just crept up on her. Not a statistic she was going to be shouting from the rooftops.

Matt groaned before rolling over to nestle behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder. ‘Sorry, Lizzie.’

He was going to have to do better than that.

He kissed her neck. Despite her crotchety mood, she could feel his lips on her skin long after they had left it.

‘Um…all a bit embarrassing, really. Couldn’t help myself. You were just too good. I couldn’t wait any longer.’

‘Hmph.’ It was cute. A nice try. But ten minutes was short by anyone’s standards. Especially for a first time. And the foreplay bit had been going so well.

‘I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll let me.’ There was a smile in his voice.

Matt had started stroking her tummy lightly and was now running his hands up and down the front of her thighs. Despite herself Lizzie could feel a whirlpool of excitement spreading through her. Maybe she would have to give him one more chance. It was only fair. Lizzie Ford, queen of self-sacrifice, she was not. She rolled over and turned to face Matt, and as she wrapped her arms and legs around him he picked her up and seemingly effortlessly sat her up on the edge of her bed. He must be stronger than he looked. Second time lucky…

He was forgiven. Especially as he was now encouraging pillow talk. Lizzie loved chatting as she drifted off to sleep. It brought back memories of the rebellion and companionship of sleepover parties. At the same time, though, it was strange. They had just consumed each other from head to toe and now they were comparing ages, star signs, backgrounds and ambitions. Either way, a total contrast to Lizzie’s normal bedtime ritual, when she drifted off to sleep alone and in silence, her mind racing to make ‘to do’ lists for the following day.

Lizzie felt naughtily saucy. She wasn’t normally a yes-on-the-first-proper-date kind of girl. But, curled up in his arms, she didn’t regret it at all. She hadn’t met someone with as much potential as Matt in years, and she was looking forward to helping him fulfil it.

Matt slowly moved his wrist to try and find an angle where he could catch enough light on his watch face to make out the time. 12:08. He watched Lizzie sleeping beside him. Totally naked and relaxed. Her musky smell lingered in the bedclothes around them. A lump formed in his throat. He had to leave. Gingerly pulling himself to the edge of the bed, and almost sliding out to avoid rippling the mattress, he picked up his pile of clothes, found one shoe, and eventually its partner, as he tiptoed to the bedroom door. He stood there for a moment. Everything was quiet. He held his breath and opened the door.

As he removed his hand from the handle there was a slight clunk and Lizzie stirred. Matt froze in his half-taken step. To his relief, after a little somnolent murmuring she slept on, leaving him free to creep off uninterrupted.

He was ashamed. Matt Baker was a fraud. A con artist of the highest calibre, a charlatan, and yet he wanted to do it all over again. It was Monday morning and he wasn’t at home. He’d have to pretend that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa at his office again. It had genuinely happened to him recently, but this time he would have to lie.

The frosty calm silence of nocturnal suburbia was instantly shattered as he turned his key in the ignition and the classic engine rumbled into action. It harked back to a time when cars made less of a purr and more of a roar, and Matt sank as low as he could into the seat, craving anonymity. As the heater melted the ice on the windscreen just enough for him to be able to see where he was going he disappeared into the night.

chapter 7

Lizzie woke up languidly and revelled in the feeling of her nakedness against the cool Egyptian cotton of her duvet cover. The all-pervading and unbeatable aroma of fresh toast teased her nostrils and, eyes still closed, she ran through the edited highlights of the last twenty-four hours.

It was only when she finally turned to gloat a little at her conquest that she discovered she was alone. Her pulse suddenly racing, she scoured the bedclothes and surrounding surfaces for a note. Nothing. Moreover, his clothes were no longer in a heap on the floor…unless he had something to do with the cooking smells that were wafting up the stairs.

Lizzie lay back on the pillows, removed the sleep from the corners of her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair a few times, removing her centre parting. She didn’t want to miss the breakfast in bed moment if it was just about to happen. She’d bet he was a cereal man. And his tipple? Peter-Pan-complex-Frosties? Real-men-eat-Shredded-Wheat? Or leave-those-love-handles-at-home muesli? Judging by the current state of affairs, maybe it was Cheerios.

While she was waiting Lizzie rummaged in her bedside debris for the remote control and, turning on the radio, was horrified to discover that it was just about time for the eleven o’clock news bulletin. By Lizzie’s standards this was a lie-in of gargantuan proportions. Disappointment lurked in the wings. Matt had gone from doting breakfast chef to typical male in less than sixty seconds. He must have left hours ago.

Hauling herself out of bed in an attempt to distract herself from the crap inevitability of it all, Lizzie busied herself with the emergency tidying to be done before Clare waltzed in.

In a whirlwind of light-headed activity, Lizzie found and folded her clothes, located all the bits of condom wrappers and pieced them together just to ensure there wouldn’t be any tell-tale Durex logos lurking on the carpet. This was the seedy aftermath of the night before and Lizzie collapsed back onto the bed feeling hot, bothered and decidedly unsexy.

Within nanoseconds she was back in the bolt upright position and rummaging through her make-up bag. This was when she was glad that she’d decided to stay on the Pill, even though she presently had sex less often than the England cricket team won a Test series. As she knew from her letters, condoms weren’t always to be trusted, and taking the Pill had become a habit. Somehow it made life a little easier and, although she knew she shouldn’t be popping hormones on a daily basis, it prevented her skin and monthly mood swings returning to their teenage ferocity. Anyway, it was one of the few things in life which was still free, and in the prolonged barren months between men it helped to remind her that some people had sex regularly.

Lizzie wrapped herself in a towel and set off for the bathroom to restore herself to her formerly feisty incarnation. On the bright side she’d had a great day and sex—twice. On the down side she didn’t like to think that he made a habit of this…

And to think that she’d already been thinking of it in relationship terms. Would it take a lobotomy for her to learn? She’d jinxed it all by herself by daring to think long term. Men definitely had a sixth sense about that sort of thing. Her instinct had said genuine last night, and she was usually quite a good judge of character, but then he was unlikely to have had ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ printed on his boxer shorts. For all she knew he was a serial sex-on-a-first-date merchant. Still, Lizzie had vowed in the past that she would no longer live with her heart on her sleeve. She could be pragmatic. Right. It was just sex. In which case everything was going according to plan. Well then. Much easier to deal with now.

Lizzie had barely put one carefully painted toenail over the threshold when she saw Clare standing at her bedroom door, a slice of half-eaten breakfast in her hand. The ‘phantom’ toast-maker was indeed at home. For once Lizzie wished her flatmate had a nine to five job. Clare’s knowing smile was making her feel like an attraction at a Victorian circus. Roll up. Roll up. Come and see the woman who had sex twice in an hour with the incredible disappearing man.

‘So I take it you had a good afternoon and evening with Mr Matt? Coffee too this time. What progress.’

Lizzie was beginning to wonder whether Clare had installed CCTV before she realised they had abandoned their mugs on the coffee table. There was no point denying anything.

‘Yup, we went to the cinema after lunch and he came back for a coffee before heading home. What time did you get in?’

‘Oh, not until half-one. I ended up drinking the world to rights with a few girlie mates…just for a change. You must have done your usual pass-out-on-the-sofa-before-staggering-to-bed trick. You left all the lights on. I know I’m a sad old nag, but we don’t need to leave the hall, landing and sitting room lights on while you’re in bed, so if you could just try and muster enough energy and co-ordination to hit a few switches as you stumble past I’d appreciate it.’

‘Sure. Sorry.’

Lizzie didn’t even remember turning the landing light on, and smiled esoterically when she realised that Matt had probably put and left it on when he got up to leave…which meant he must have left before Clare got back. Which meant—her smile evaporated—he hadn’t exactly hung around. Clearly she wasn’t as irresistible as she had previously thought. And to think that she’d entertained the possibility, albeit fleetingly, that he might be making her toast this morning…

Clare was quick to notice the split second when the corners of Lizzie’s mouth turned up.

‘Lizzie Ford. You…you…you pulled, didn’t you?’

Lizzie hated that word. It was so unromantic, and didn’t sound like anything she ever wanted to be involved in. She wished that for once Clare could be just a touch more tactful and a fraction less direct. She was feeling more than a little emotionally fragile this morning.

‘Well, isn’t Matt a lucky boy…?’

For the first time since she’d woken up Lizzie was glad that he wasn’t in her bed, listening to Clare going on and on…and on.

‘So…’ Lizzie was refusing to make eye contact. Clare couldn’t bear it any longer, and she couldn’t wait for Lizzie to tell her in her own time either. ‘Well…did you? Did he…? Is he…you know…? Well…?’

Lizzie wasn’t helping. It was going to have to be the direct approach and it was now or never. ‘Well…did you shag him?’

The pause that ensued was pregnant—with twins. Lizzie reddened, Clare had her answer and, despite her flatmate’s broad, almost proud smile, Lizzie felt a little cheap. About £4.99.

Clare decreased her volume for dramatic effect, bypassing her normal speaking tone in favour of a clipped half-whisper. She had just one more question.

‘In which case, where is he now?’

‘How would I know?’ Lizzie tried to sound flippant and failed miserably. Her presently folded arms indicated only one mood: defensive.

Clare knew that Lizzie was incapable of emotionally detaching herself from this sort of situation. Maybe she should have adopted a more softly-softly approach, but the trouble with that was that she never got any answers. Lizzie always started out trying to be coy about relationships. Clare usually only got the real truth after copious amounts of alcohol or after the final whistle had been blown on the whole thing.

‘Ahh. So he didn’t exactly say goodbye, then?’

‘No. I just woke up this morning and he had gone. No note. Nothing.’

Clare scolded herself for being so insensitive. She was seriously cross with Mr Matt. She changed her whole tone and demeanour at once, and replaced accusatory with sympathetic.

‘So that’s it, then?’ She went over and gave Lizzie a hug and stroked her cheek affectionately. ‘Just a one-night stand?’

‘Yup, that’s it. Just a bit of festive fun.’ It sounded logical to Lizzie, even if it didn’t feel fun right now. She wished Clare would stop being so nice. It was only making her feel tearful and crying wouldn’t achieve anything. If she was feeling hurt, it was her own fault for letting him get under her skin.

‘Was it worth it?’

Lizzie blushed. Clare had her answer. She could have told Lizzie that she should have waited, but it was a bit late now and no one needs a told-you-so, smart-arse flatmate at a time like this.

Lizzie was sitting in her study, staring at her computer screen trying to work, when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what time it was. The day had been doing its best to drag its heels since she’d got dressed.

‘I’ll get it!’ Clare shouted.

Fine with Lizzie. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The front door slammed and was shortly followed by a tentative knock at her study door.

‘Yes?’ She didn’t even look up. She wasn’t in the mood.

‘Liz. Good news…he obviously has shares in delivery services.’

‘Hmm… What?’

Lizzie looked over her shoulder. Clare was standing there with a huge bunch of flowers.

Her cloud of depression suddenly lifted and Lizzie gave Clare’s arm an excited squeeze as she took the bouquet and headed to the kitchen in search of a big vase and card-reading privacy. It was a tasteful arrangement, wrapped in expensive brown paper and tied with fashionable rope instead of pink ribbon, an interesting mixture of warm winter shades and, most importantly of all, not a carnation in sight. They were almost certainly the nicest flowers she had ever received—not that she was biased or anything. She dared to hope who they were from.

Darling Lizzie…

Woo-hoo.

Please forgive me for disappearing. Thanks for last night. Have a great Christmas and see you next year, when I get back from the slopes.

Lots of love, Matt xx

Darling! Some might say that was over the top, but Lizzie imagined Matt saying it and knew that it was perfect. She could feel herself blushing. She reread the card before pinning it onto the kitchen noticeboard and then looked up to see that her privacy had only been momentary. Clare reappeared, obviously about to leave for work, and glanced over to the card.

‘So, he’s a skier.’

‘Apparently so.’

‘But not a poseur.’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Right. Well I’m off, then… See you later—Darling Lizzie.’ Clare raised an eyebrow and smiled as Lizzie blushed for a second time. She had returned to her teens.

As she saw Clare off the premises Colin, the good-looking man who owned the garden flat, arrived home laden with Christmas shopping and Lizzie waved a hello. Lizzie and Clare knew Colin about as well as anyone in London knew the people that lived above, below and next door to them. They weren’t best friends, like Chandler, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Monica, just real-life neighbours stepping in to water the odd plant when their holidays didn’t coincide. A neighbourly alliance and general level of friendship which was certainly preferable to worrying about whether Hannibal Lecter rented the flat underneath theirs.

In the absence of a spare arm to wave with he tilted his head in recognition and helloed back.

Colin brought colour to the street. His steady stream of male visitors gave them plenty to gossip about and, in the summer months, provided plenty of eye-candy as they sunbathed in the tiniest of shorts. But right now she had a phone call to make and, taking the unilateral decision against going down for a gossip, gave Colin a huge grin so that he wouldn’t take her shutting the front door in any way personally.

All she wanted to do was wish Matt a good holiday. And in order to dodge any further questioning, she wanted to give herself the pleasure of phoning when she had the house to herself. She dialled his mobile before she’d even thought about what she might and might not, should and shouldn’t say. He answered after half a ring.

‘Matt… It’s me—Liz.’ Darling Lizzie, she thought to herself, and smiled. ‘Thank you so much for the flowers, you old smoothie.’

‘Hey, less of the old, if you don’t mind! It was a pleasure. I really enjoyed yesterday.’

Matt took a step out of the shop he was currently standing in. Trying to buy his wife a Christmas present when they’d barely had a conversation in months would have been hard enough. Trying to choose a present the day after he’d slept with someone else was pretty much impossible. He had no idea what she wanted any more. It was difficult to tell. Her moods were exhausting and he couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had a real laugh together, and certainly not when she was sober. She didn’t need new jewellery; she needed a new husband. A yes-man. Someone who didn’t want a soul mate.

‘Me too.’

There was now the briefest of pauses as their minds flashed back.

‘So, where did you slope off to in the middle of the night? I had visions of a lazy breakfast in bed this morning.’ Lizzie knew she should have gagged herself. He’d apologised on the card. That should have been enough for her, but, no, she had to ask him again. How to put a man off after one date…sound like a wife or mother… She was doing a great job so far.

‘I couldn’t sleep. You were snoring so loudly…’

Lizzie was mortified. ‘I wasn’t…was I?’ God, had she been? It’d been so long since she’d had overnight company that she might well have developed chronic nocturnal habits without realising.

Matt couldn’t help but laugh at her shocked tone. ‘OK, you win. You weren’t…’ Relief flooded through Lizzie’s veins. ‘I was just kidding. It was more of a distant rumble…’

‘Oi, you.’

‘I just woke up and decided that I’d be better off going home and getting an early start rather than being led astray by you in the morning. You, young lady, were fast asleep—beautifully silently, I might add—and so I crept off. Have you had a good day?’ Matt changed the subject as quickly as he could without inviting suspicion.

‘Not bad. Plenty of work to keep me out of trouble. Just thought I’d call to say thanks for the flowers…they’re great…and have a fantastic time skiing.’ Not too much pressure now, Liz, she reminded herself. Be fun. Do not under any circumstances be neurotic.

‘I’ll try. Snow, sunshine, schnapps…it’s a tough old life. I’ll give you a call when I get back. I’m home on sixth of Jan, I think.’

Morning? Afternoon? Evening? Lizzie wanted to ask but knew she absolutely couldn’t. So they’d had sex; it didn’t entitle her to a copy of his itinerary.

‘Great. Well, have a great time. Look after yourself, and I look forward to more adventures and romantic comedies in January.’

‘Me too. Take care.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

That was it. End of conversation. And while in the final analysis there were plenty of positives in there, Lizzie could have burst into tears as she hung up. Two weeks was nothing. But two weeks over Christmas and New Year was a mini-life-time. And considering they had only been dating for three days—if you were being generous—anything could happen—which was why, Lizzie reflected, life was much simpler, if at times less exciting in that reckless, rip your clothes off sort of a way, if the only person you had to worry about was yourself. Objectively her situation was very simple. Either she would see Matt again or she wouldn’t, in which case she had great sex, muffins and flowers to remember him by. From her postbag, she knew that was more than some people ever had.

The campaign was Rachel’s. There’d been champagne and plenty of back-slapping and now she was celebrating with a designer spending spree. Her fortunes were changing and, despite her cumulative exhaustion, there was a veritable spring in her step. She’d left the office early with every intention of doing her Christmas shopping, but then she’d popped into DKNY and Nicole Farhi on Bond Street and her agenda was shifting.

Two days to Christmas. Rachel almost felt a wave of dread at the imminence of the holiday season. There was no desk to hide behind at home. Four days of him and her mother. Just the three of them and the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. Time to be nice. Time to try. Besides, she thought as she admired her reflection in the changing room mirror, how could he possibly resist her? Next stop Agent Provocateur. Then a trip to the off-licence. Sex, satin and champagne—the trusted marriage repair kit. The season of goodwill was underway.

chapter 8

The Ford family had barely eaten a few mouthfuls of turkey before drifting towards the inevitable annual debate on when-and-where-Lizzie-might-find-a-nice-man-to-settle-down-with—a discussion in which she was not expected to take any real part—and then her mother decided to raise the stakes.

‘So, darling…rumour has it you were sent flowers this week.’

Rumour has it? How on earth had her mother found out?

‘Just a bunch.’

‘Really…?’ Annie paused for effect and looked round the table at her captive audience. ‘Clare said they were quite special.’

Clare. Great. It was fantastic that she was always willing to make polite conversation with her mother, but there were unwritten rules about divulging actual news.

‘He’s just a friend.’ Despite Lizzie’s attempt to keep her focus on her roast potatoes, she could feel her brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew staring.

‘Gran…?’

Lizzie still found it very weird when Jess and Josh called her mum ‘Gran’…it sounded so…so…set and blow-dry.

‘Yes, poppet?’

Poppet? For goodness’ sake. Jess had had the same name for all nine years of her life. Next her mother would be stashing crumpled Kleenex up her sleeve and wearing mauve.

‘You don’t usually send flowers to just friends, do you?’ Jessica shot Lizzie a look to indicate that she knew exactly what she was doing. Jonathan silently cast a sympathetic glance at his sister. Ford grillings were legendary, and it seemed that Jessica had honed the craft at a ridiculously early age.

‘Flowers, flowers…’ Josh had become a four-year-old parrot.

Lizzie gulped down her wine and wished she could be invisible. Just for an hour or two.

‘No, you don’t, darling…’

Annie might have been talking to Jessica but she was staring at Lizzie, and a smile slowly spread across her face as she sensed the discomfort of her second-born child. Lizzie decided to bombard them with information in the hope that they would retreat for analysis.

‘I met him at the City FM Christmas shindig and we’ve been on one proper date. He’s gone skiing for two weeks, during which time I hope he won’t go off me. He works in advertising. He’s a copywriter, which basically means that he comes up with slogans. I forgot to ask him what his parents do, where he was at school, his inside leg measurement or his net annual income.’

Lizzie beamed at her mother, who usually wanted far more detail than she could offer. Annie would have been happiest if any prospective sons-in-law filled out a five-page questionnaire…not that Matt was a prospective son-in-law yet in Lizzie’s eyes. In her mother’s eyes, when your daughter was thirty-two every male was a prospective son-in-law.

‘There’s no need to be so defensive, darling….’ Her sister-in-law and her mother exchanged knowing glances.

Who was being defensive? Lizzie had thought she was being funny. Clearly not.

‘What’s his name?’

Trust Alex to pick up on the crucial information she’d omitted. A natural at everything, and one of those mothers who could flit effortlessly between Play-Doh and Prada and still manage to fit in trips to the gym, Alex had a flat stomach which suggested that Jess and Josh had gestated in her handbag rather than her womb. Lizzie added interrogation to her mental checklist of Alex’s talents and filed it in her insecurity folder.

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